Triangles (32 page)

“for a special dinner” with yet

another
I’m so sorry, Marissa.

I’ll never touch her again. Promise.

What he told me yesterday, after

Andrea made a necessary exit, was

that he’d already broken things off with Skye. Months ago, in fact.

The pictures suggest otherwise,

as she was definitely with him on

his last trip to New Orleans.
I’ll still
have to travel with her sometimes
, was his explanation.
The job right
now pretty much demands it. But
I swear we’ll always have separate
rooms. Skye understands that.

If you want, I won’t even sit next
to her on our flights. Please, Marissa,
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you have to believe me. His voice
was building toward hysteria, and

I let him go on without comment.

What could I say, anyway? All the lies!

So many years! It wasn’t just an affair.

It was a committed relationship, and his commitment to her—his love for

her—drew him far, far away from me.

How many of those nights when he

straggled into the guest room very

late did he come in wearing her

plastered to his skin? Did he shower her off? Did he fall asleep inhaling a drift of her? Did he dream of her?

Of them? Resignation gives way

to the gnaw of anger now. It grows

like a plant filmed in time-lapse,

shoots its vines through my body.

They wrap around every nerve ending, squeeze. “No!” The word escapes me

in a scream. “You fucking son of a whore.

How could you do this to me?”

To me. To his family. His home. To

the memory of what we were and never 622/881

can be again. An acid rain of tears falls, bitter against my skin. I hate him.

THE SMACK OF FOOTFALLS

In the hall reins me in. It’s Shane, running to see what happened to

me. I dry my eyes, but residual anger keeps them brimming. He measures

me with a single discerning glance.

What happened? What did he do?

I just shrug. Still don’t want Shane to know. What good would come of it?

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to hear anything. We had a fight is all.”
A fight about me. He states it matter-of-factly. Of course he’d think that.

“No, no. Not about you at all. About …” Shit. Now what do I say? “About a new SMA treatment I saw. Your dad doesn’t think it would be worth a try. But I do.” That seems to satisfy him.
Mom,
you probably don’t want to hear this,
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but I agree with Dad. He’s right. I didn’t
want to hear that.
I think you should let
the disease run its course. Shelby deserves
a dignified death. More treatment won’t
stop her from dying. But it will take away
her dignity. I don’t want to watch that,
and neither does Dad. And I don’t think
you should, either. He pauses, watches
a new thread of anger blossom.

“I can’t believe you said that! Where did you get such ideas?” Then it hits me. “From researching HIV? Is that how you feel about Alex, should he develop AIDS? That he deserves a dignified death?”
Yes, Mom. That’s exactly how I feel.

Once it becomes obvious he has no
choice but death, I pray it’s dignified.

I hope I’ll be there to help him through
it, but that will probably be many years
from now. I know the odds of us
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staying together that long aren’t good.

I mean, we’re both young and stupid.

He smiles, and that small burst of light somehow manages to make me smile too.

WE ARE STANDING HERE

Semi-smiling at each other when Christian comes in, loaded down with groceries.

He starts to say something, notices Shane’s body language. Looks at me

helplessly, certain I’ve told. But

I shake my head. “We’re talking about death.” Now his expression shifts

to one of bewilderment. “Dignified

death, actually. For people we love.”
I … uh … oh. Christian turns away,
puts the bags on the counter, begins to unload them.
I got steaks. Thought
we could barbecue. He spins back
around, says to Shane,
I bought an
extra one, in case you wanted to invite
Alex to join us. Whoa. Major gesture,
even if it is coming from a suspect place.
I’m sorry we fought yesterday.

Shane is stunned into momentary

speechlessness. He recovers quickly, though.
Alex and I will still both be gay.

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Christian nods.
That’s what I hear.

Guess I’ll have to get over it.

You’re still my son, Shane. I love you.

PUNGENT WORDS

Sharp with

apology. A bitter-

sweet entreaty for

reconnection, at least

if he is to be believed.

Shane looks

at me with some-

thing more than dis-

belief in his eyes. Can

what I find there be fear?

Christian waits

patiently for some

response. He’s never

been what you’d call good

at patience. This is a major test.

One of us

really has to

yield, but I don’t

think it should be me.

I’m totally idling in neutral.

Finally, Shane

reacts, in his usual

smart-ass way.
Action

speaks louder than words,

Dad. But steak is a good start.

Christian grins.

629/881

And rib-eye too.

Thought your mom

was looking a little anemic.

Wiseass. Like father, like son.

SHANE GOES TO CALL ALEX

And issue what will doubtless be

a very surprising invitation. When

it’s clear that he’s out of earshot, Christian pauses his pantry stocking.

You didn’t tell him, did you? Why not?

“What good would it do? Look, if

everything else still goes to shit, what just happened now was almost

worth it. Thank you for reaching out.” He shrugs.
I meant it. I do love him.

“I never doubted that, Christian. I just wasn’t sure you’d ever admit that love for him again. I’m glad you took

another look in your heart.”

I love you too. He starts toward me.

“Don’t.” The word stops him cold.

“Please don’t touch me. It will just make me think about you touching

her. Shane’s right. Words are cheap.”
But I thought I could move back into …

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“No! Are you kidding me? God,

Christian. That night, after the fireworks?

That night made me hope we could

put our lives back in order. Find

something resembling love again.

And then, nothing. Not a single kiss.

Not one kind word. In fact, you went straight back to her, didn’t you?”

No … Yes. But that night made me rethink …

“Whatever, Christian. Look. I’m not ready to talk about this right now.

I can’t stop thinking about you and her, and five fucking years of lies!” He hangs his head.
What are you going to do?

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“This is just so unfair. It would have been easier if you’d walked out on me.

Given me the chance to make a new life.”
How do you know a new life would be better?

Valid question. One I already have

the answer to, after much deliberation.

“If I knew without a doubt it would, you 632/881

wouldn’t be standing there right now.”
A NEW LIFE

Why do people ponder beginning

anew, abandoning one half-baked pie in favor of starting from scratch:

picking

weevils from stale flour,

forever missing a few;

sifting

through obstacles—lumps,

clots, and sea salt cement;

scraping

the Crisco can, praying shelf

life is longer than expected;

mixing

and kneading and shaping

and half baking it all again.

Oh, give me pastry, hot from the oven, flaky brown, the kind you must nibble lest you miss its melt upon your tongue: fruit,

coaxed ripe by northern sun,

sliced to translucency,

sugared

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just beyond tart, spiced

with cinnamon, grate of nutmeg, a

brandy

splash; everything wrapped

in toasted wheat, tossed with

honey

and butter, unsalted sweet,

still married to the cream.

Andrea

STILL MARRIED

The phrase applies to too many

people I know who shouldn’t

still be married. Mom and Dad,

sorry to say. Holly and Jace. Missy and the asshole. Thank God I had

enough sense to call it quits before a bad thing turned horrible. I mean, I know you have to factor in the kids.

With my parents, Miss and I would

have been relatively okay. We had no real expectations. Yeah, I know it’s easy to say now. And I know the not-exactly-a-revelation about my suspect heritage somehow managed to be

a blow to the gut. But putting it in perspective, what difference does it make? When it comes to my dear

friend Holly, three young lives hang 636/881

in the balance. Sometimes I want

to shake her, as a solid reminder

that parenting is more important

than having some guy-not-her-

husband tell her how sexy she

is. Not to mention, taking serious

advantage of that. But as much as

I like Holly, she isn’t my blood.

Whatever she does doesn’t much

affect me, not even when I have

to listen to her brag. Or whine.

Marissa, however, is my sister.

Despite our detachment of late,

she will always mean the world

to me. It wasn’t my mother who

taught me the facts of life—even

though evidence of the meaning

was often in easy view. Missy told me about menstruation, what to do for

it. What it meant re pregnancy.

When I got pregnant anyway, she

was there in the delivery room,

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coaching me through the pain. Kept

me sane, when no one else bothered.

MULLING OVER

What Chris did behind Missy’s back

while she waded through the septic

tank makes me want to kick his ass.

Listen to me—the pacifist. (Wuss.)

I don’t even like to raise my voice or defend myself when necessary.

But once in a while, something really pisses me off. Something like this.

God, here Miss is, full-time caregiver to a dying child (though she won’t

admit that Shelby is failing). A child that belongs to both of them, and yet Chris conveniently forgets that, while running around the world with some

other woman, leaving his wife to do all the dirty work—physical and emotional?

Does the man have no honor? No

feelings? No tiny shard of love left for Missy? No compassion for her

view of death hovering in the near

distance? Is it in the testosterone?

Chris. Dad. Steve. Geoff. Robin. If I 639/881

consider the men I’ve had relationships with, it would be easy enough to chalk it up to a “guy thing.” But then there’s Holly. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure all that flirtation has led to infidelity. Not that she’s admitted as much as a stray kiss to me.

But she’s got something going on

with this Bryan. When she talks

about him and his writing, the tenor of her voice changes. Goes totally

giddy. In fact, she sounds a lot

like Harley, gushing about Chad.

Has the world gone completely

mad? Whatever happened to

morality? To follow-through. To

“until the big D pries us apart.”

On the other side of things, what

ever happened to indignation?

To screaming fits and buckets

of tears. To kicking a philandering jackass straight to the curb.

Okay, I’ve got to stop obsessing.

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It’s not my call. Guess I’ll pull

Harley away from her PlayStation,

take her to Tahoe for a bike ride.

BUT BEFORE I DO

I think I’ll check my email.

There’s one from Mom:

CALIFORNIA HAS BEEN FUN.

MORE ON THAT WHEN I SEE

YOU. BURNING MAN LOOMS

IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS. OUR