I Am Having So Much Fun Without You (12 page)

“No?”

“She found the letters.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he breathed into the phone. “You idiot.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“So?”

“So, she's not talking to me. I'm exiled. But I can't—listen, the painting was no problem. Except that they were nuts.”

“So it wasn't Lisa, see? I told you.”

“Nope,” I mumbled, picking up what looked like a cracker crumb off the bed.

“But did you see her?”

“Yeah, no, Julien,” I said quietly, “I didn't
see
her while I was in London. Although I'm the only one who seems to be aware of it, I'm trying to be a decent guy again.”

“Then how'd Anne find the letters?”

“You know what?” I said. “I don't really want to go into that right now.”

“Okay,” he said. “I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure that the buyers weren't holding you captive.”

“Oh, they are, though,” I said, leaning against the wall. “Telepathically. They put nodes inside my head.”

Julien laughed, but not really. It was one of those uncomfortable laughs. A placeholder. A grunt.

“Listen, Richard. This might not be the time to tell you, but you got another letter.”

“You're serious,” I said. “From her?”

“Looks like it. Yeah.”

I sank my head into my hands. That made five. Americans certainly do have a curious way of signaling that the old regime is over.

“You know what?” I said. “Just read it. Read it, I don't care. Read it to me now.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said, “Go on.”

I heard him ripping paper.

“Okay,” he said. And began.

Dear Richard,

Yesterday, I passed a gallery and there was a photograph in it that made me think of something you might do. Or it made me think of you. I guess that's the same thing. I know you don't care much for photographs, but this was of a battered sailboat in a corn
field. There was a scarecrow in the boat. It didn't look composed either; it looked like the world had grown around this boat. It was in black-and-white. Beautiful. I wish we had seen it together so that I could have heard what you thought of it. So that we could have talked.

I suppose it's inevitable. Here it is: I miss you. Dave and I have set the date for our wedding: July 21. Now that it's set, though, it feels definitive. It makes me miss you. I'm sure you can understand this better than I can, as I've never been married. It feels like a good-bye. I mean, it
is
a good-bye, obviously, and it has been, it's just, what do I do with the missing part? What do I do with the part of me that does miss you, that falls asleep at night, sometimes dreaming of a parallel life?

“That's enough,” I said, my eyes closed. “Stop.”

“You sure?” said Julien, rustling a paper. “It goes on over the back page.”

“Yeah, no,” I said, standing. “This can't go on like this. It isn't right.”

“She sounds indecisive.”

“That isn't it,” I said. “She's selfish. Just throw it out, will you?” I asked. “Don't keep it.”

“You're serious?”

“I am. I've had enough. She's still getting me in trouble and we're not even involved anymore.” I fumbled in my breast pocket, wishing I still smoked. “I've got to do something. I have to . . . something big.”

“Well,” he said. “Like what?”

“I can't just apologize. My regime has got to change.”

“Well, I don't know what that constitutes in your world, but when I was with Alejandro, I started eating cilantro?”

“Right. Right. That's very helpful. I'll swing by when I get back.”

When I hung up, I regretted the phrasing. I should have said “if.”

 • • •

Back in the living room, my parents were still watching the telly. I sat down glumly on the couch and turned the camcorder back on.

“But I wanted to talk to Camille, dear!” said my mum, turning toward me. “My goodness, is that on again?”

“It wasn't Camille,” I said, zooming in on her. “And yes.”

“It's not going to be a very interesting video you're making,” said Dad. “Us watching the tube.”

“Excuse me,” I said, training the camera on my father. “But how do you make love last?”

“Honey, are you all right, dear?” asked my mother, reaching for the volume on the remote control.

I panned from my mother's face to my father's, and back again.

“No.”

“Sweetheart?” My mum got up from the couch and came and sat down next to me. I filmed her face, her hand. I filmed her moving a pillow out of the way so that she could put her arm around me.

“Would you put that thing down?”

My parents stared at me. The lights from the television flickered in the darkness.

“What do I do?” I asked, my voice strangled. “What have I done?”

My mother leaned her head against me. She didn't ask about what.

“You act before it's too late,” my dad said. “You stop just sitting here.”

My mother moved her hand in circles around my sweater. Around and around and around. From comforting, to broken, to back.

I turned the camera off.

 • • •

That night, I couldn't sleep again. I kept going over the ways that Anne and I had wronged each other, and how we'd gotten past it. In the beginning, our missteps were so small. A late arrival at an airport, a vacation cut short because Anne had to return to work. A wrong turn, a phone left in a taxi, a shirt shrunk in the dryer. But chocolates, tulips, weekends in quaint hotels, the old tools in the marital arsenal, none of that could help me now. I can only imagine the amount of time it will take to win back Anne's trust, and time, I just don't have.

All night I thought of options. A themed playlist, a filmed confession, something she couldn't interrupt or stop. I even thought about writing a poem, God help me. Somewhere around three in the morning, I wondered if I couldn't get Lisa to write a deposition confirming that I never replied to her letters, and it was around that point I realized I was getting nowhere, that I had to sleep.

My dreams were quick and scattered—bright moments here and there. The look on Anne's face the first time we peered into our newborn's diaper, so horrified by the tar-like excrement, we laughed. Her seated on the edge of our bed, rolling a stocking over her calf, standing to check her reflection before going to work. Anne nuzzling against my chest at night, telling me I smelled.

I woke early the next morning and sat up straight in bed. No
one else was awake yet. I stared at the opposite wall of my small bedroom, my lack of sleep tempered by the clarity of knowing what needed to be done.

Regime change. Regime change! I finally had a plan. In addition to the myriad of personality and behavioral adjustments I'd have to make to win Anne back, there was one thing in particular I could do to prove that I wished my past mistakes undone. Anne hadn't stopped me when I decided to put
The Blue Bear
up for sale instead of just exhibiting it. And I hadn't stopped myself with Lisa. Lisa had stopped me. But this former error, the loss of that one painting, I could stop. It didn't belong anywhere other than our house.

In the selling of that painting, I'd forgotten Anne-Laure, twice. Once in the arms of another woman, and once in my own mind. I would get that painting and bring it to her, and prove that I could do it: go back to first-love feelings, to comments without agendas, to youthfulness, to laughs. I could do it. I
was
doing it. In Anne's absence, I was falling for her. Falling back.

12

IT WAS
5:30 a.m.: I'd only slept two hours. After a shower, I assessed my sanity level and sent Julien a text.

I'm going back to get The Blue Bear. I'm sorry. I never should have sold it. I'll reimburse you/them. I'm sorry, but trust me. I need this to work out.

Then I turned off my cell phone so I wouldn't be deterred from my mission by a barrage of furious replies.

I left my sleeping parents a note, steeped some Irish breakfast, and pulled out of their driveway at six, making it to 5 Wells Rise an hour later. From my car, I considered phoning Dave and Dan to apprise them of my intentions, but weren't we supposed to be in cosmic touch? And besides. This was about me. Anne. Us.

I rang their doorbell and tried to focus on something other than the toxic mix of caffeine and incertitude inside my bowels. It would be all right. If there was anyone who could understand the cycle of mistakes and forgiveness, it was homosexual Continuists.

It was Dave who appeared in the doorway, looking bright-eyed in a pair of white Thai fisherman pants and a wrap sweater with nothing underneath it.

“Oh, my goodness,” he said. “Richard. This is a surprise.” His brow furrowed. “Da-an!” He called back into the house. “We have a
surprise
!”

Dave smiled with his lips together, but he didn't say anything further until Dan appeared.

“Oh, this
is
surprising,” said Dan, from the doorway.

“It's a bit difficult,” said Dave. “We haven't done Ashtanga yet.”

“I don't think this will take long,” I said, shifting my weight. “And again, I'm sorry, it's just—”

“No, no,” said Dave. “It's fine. Spontaneity is the cornerstone of creativity. We're just a bit more amenable to the creative forces when we've done our morning standing poses, but no matter, come in.”

I took my shoes off and followed them into the living room, and there it was,
The Blue Bear
, hanging right over a fainting couch on the left side of the room.

“She looks good, doesn't she?” asked Dan, following my gaze.

“Um, yeah,” I said. “It's just, that's the thing, actually.” I stuffed my hands into my pockets. “I need to buy it back.”

Dave gaped at his partner.

“I can explain, obviously. You see, I never meant to sell it.”

“Listen,” Dave said, shaking his head nervously. “I'm just going to do a quick
chaturanga
to counteract this tension.”

I watched as Dave dropped to the ground and went through some belly-downward nonsense before rising to face me with his hands in prayer.

“I need to buy the painting back,” I continued, unsure what
to do with my own arms and feet. “I know it's not professional, and I'll refund you for the trip over and so forth, but I never should have sold it. It's sentimental, and I really need it back.”

“This is so unsettling,” said Dave, closing his eyes. “I don't feel safe.”

“Guys,” I said. “Gentlemen. Can we just—you know, I made it all the way out here with this painting, and I get that you have an unorthodox way of doing things, and I'm fine with that. In fact, that's why I feel like you'll get—you'll respect—that I need it to come . . . home to me.” I was searching for “holistic”-sounding language. “That this isn't its right place.”

“Well, that isn't true, actually,” said Dave, bringing his hands down. “Amira's initial energy reading was very positive.”

“You know,” I continued, “I have a lot of other paintings. Ones not in the show! I can send on a catalog and photos when I'm back. I'll give you one of them. Any one you want.”

Dan and Dave exchanged a glance. “I'm afraid, Richard, that you're going to have to leave us alone for a little while.”

“Okay,” I replied, glancing toward the door. “But I'm not going to go far.”

They sat me down on the couch with a bowl of warm water and lemon juice, a mixture, they explained, meant to calm the personalities of those with too much fire.

The lemon tincture wasn't all that bad. It was having a curiously calming effect on my thoughts. Or maybe it was just the fact that I finally felt confident, felt
right
about something, after so many months. I'd made a mistake in selling the painting, and I was undoing that mistake. I was a man who could make bad things better. I slurped the tepid mixture and stared at my
Blue Bear
and I felt it in my belly. We were going to go home.

After about fifteen minutes, Dan and Dave came back. Dave
had put a shirt on under his wrap sweater, and Dan was carrying what looked like a heavy sculpture covered by a weathered Mexican blanket.

“So, we've talked about it,” Dave said, lugging the thing over to the couch. “And we respect and honor your sentiments, and your honesty in coming here. But we can't let you buy back your painting. It goes against all the tenets of Continuism.”

“We can't go backward,” said Dan, sitting down.

“No,” Dave said. “We can't.”

They fell silent. I tried not to look at whatever it was beside them.

“How about, would you be willing to recontract it as a gift? As a donation?” I asked, refusing to believe that they could be so stubborn. “I could make a donation myself, to any charity you want.”

“Well, that's very thoughtful of you,” said Dan. “But the
Bear
needs to stay here, Richard. It's the painting's course. It was just by chance that Dave was in Paris the night of your opening. There were signs. For the
Bear
to go back now, when it's only just arrived . . .” He looked down at his hands.

“Defeatist,” said Dave, shaking his head.

“Wrong,” added Dan.

I closed my eyes, certain that if I could break through the hippie rubbish to level with them as bipeds, I could get my way.

“What about a print of it, maybe? A photograph? I could even paint a copy.”

“Oh no,” said Dave. “Replicas don't work. The art has to be
honest.
True to self.”

“Speaking of truth,” said Dan, pulling the drug rug off of the thing beside him, “we were thinking as a
gesture
,
that we'd send you home with her.”

I stared in horror at the monstrosity in question. It was some
kind of folk-art cross between an African fertility sculpture, license-­plate art, and a totem pole. The wooden structure was in the shape of a woman with twelve gigantic breasts, each of which had a nipple ending in a bright burst of blue straw. Her elongated neck finished in a head with eyes that looked like they'd been made from the bottom of a green glass beer bottle, and she was wearing a crown made out of license plates from states in the American Midwest.

“This is
Ngendo
,” Dan continued. “A mother goddess.”

Dave nodded. “She will carry you home.”

“Right,” I said, putting down my lemon water. “She's not carrying me anywhere. I'm not going home with that. I need the painting.” I pointed to it. “
That
one. I'll pay you double for it. Or not, okay, not double, but listen. I'll do anything to get it back. I painted it for my wife and I was an idiot to sell it, and I need it back.”

The men stared at me with their moisturized lips pursed, their hands upon their knees.

“Um,” said Dan, at a loss for words. “I don't think you understand the symbolism of this gesture. Ngendo is a protector. She's a very powerful life force to have inside the house.”

“I'm not bringing my wife a fucking fertility sculpture,” I shouted. Then, quieter, “I'm sorry.” I looked down at my feet, trying to drive away the overtiredness and the helplessness and the scary feeling that I was going to fail.

“I painted this when my wife was pregnant with our first child. Our
only
child. Which is one of the reasons why a fertility sculpture—” I exhaled. “Please,” I said. “I'm begging you. I need to have it back.”

They continued to sit in silence. Dan reached for Dave's hand. They looked at each other, sharing some secret sentiment.

“It is so generous of you to share that with us,” began
Dave. “So vulnerable, and honest. But we've worked very hard to overcome our own demons, and the only way we've been able to do that is by charging forward in transparency with our truest selves, so to go back on something we feel strongly about because you've made a mistake . . .” He shook his head. While saying this, he reached out and rubbed Ngendo's head.

I felt my chin start to tremble.

“Guys,” I said. “Please.”

I looked wearily at the monstrous, wooden sculpture. Good God, if only Anne were with me, we'd be healed by the absurdity of it all. But without the painting I had nothing: no proof of my intentions, no proof that I'd even done it, made up my mind, decided to come back.

“Oh!” said Dan, jumping up. He ran into the kitchen and returned with a tiny plastic baggie filled with bright pink powder. “Kumkum! Just crush some on her head.”

“It's made from turmeric,” said Dan. “Do you have any food sensitivities?”

“I can't take this,” I said. “I can't take this thing home.”

“But you must.”

“Please.”
I could hear the echo of my voice—high-pitched, whining—reverberating in my head. They didn't budge.

When thirty seconds passed without a word from either one of them, I realized that it was time to hoist the white flag. Even if I tried to rip it off the wall, I couldn't get
The Blue Bear
out of the house without their tackling me. They were clearheaded, they had low cholesterol, and they seemed really awake.

I stood up. I looked at my painting. And then I looked at The Thing.

“So she's really supposed to heal things?” I asked, flicking one of my fingers against a license plate.

“Indeed!” said Dave, rising. “We'll help you get her to the car.”

While I got my shoes back on, they dragged Ngendo to the mudroom. Dan opened the door to help Dave out with her, and I saw I had a fresh yellow parking ticket on my car.

“Don't worry, Richard,” Dave said, putting his arm around me. “Things will get much better now that you have her.”

 • • •

Tarnation. Corrosion. Failure. Hell. What kind of people were they to botch my plan? It didn't mean a thing to them, that painting, whereas for me, it was the past proof of my goodness. The year I did the
Bear
.

I was not done yet with my mission. And this time, I wouldn't fail. With the four-foot-high Ngendo strapped under three seat belts in the backseat, I headed to number 17 Chalcot Road, the address that had accompanied all of Lisa's letters.

It was just a short drive to cross the park on Prince Albert Road.
Do you have Prince Albert in a can?
we used to torment the fellow who worked at the corner shop when we were little.
You better let him out!

My heart was racing and my hands stuck to the wheel with sweat. It wasn't over. If I could accomplish this next endeavor without breaking down entirely, I would be able to come up with a way out of this mess. Find my way back to sensibility. Write Dan and Dave a letter. There had to be some way that I could get the painting back.

In front of 17 Chalcot, I opened up the glove compartment and took out Lisa's letters. My hand was trembling. I hadn't called ahead here, either. I'd erased all traces of her number so that I never could.

I stared out of the windshield at their house. Or
his
. It was a town house, the bottom level painted teal. The other two floors
were brick. There was a fucking flower box in the downstairs window. With actual flowers. Just keep thinking this way, I told myself, grabbing the letters. She now grows things in dirt.

I caught a glimpse of the time before I shut off my car. Just after 8 a.m. She probably wasn't even up yet, the hedonist. I didn't care. I'd come to do something and I was going to go through with it. Like a Continuist, by God.

I swallowed. I felt nauseous. I forced myself out of the car.
You're doing this for Anne,
you dicknut.
You're doing this for your life.
I shut the door and straightened out my blazer, my wrinkled, rumpled shirt. I forced myself into walking. Forced myself not to care about my sweaty hands and shirt.

I punched my finger into the doorbell. I stared at the door, trying to ignore the pot of purple pansies by the steps. I hated purple pansies. Always had. I mean, in terms of mood, whose standard operating mode is neon purple? How could she come home to that each day?

I waited several moments, then rang the bell again. Finally, I heard footsteps. They were light. They were girlish. They were hers. I closed my eyes and steeled myself in place. If I could have disappeared right then into the pavement, I would have.

I watched as the peephole flicked open. Stayed open. Finally closed. My heart slammed against my rib cage. She was right behind the door. But the door didn't open. I rang the bell again. Again, the peephole opened. And again, it closed.

And then the door opened, and there she was: Lisa looking trip-over-yourself gorgeous even though she was clearly just out of bed. She had one of those waffled white robes on over something fussy and pink, and her hair was long and messy, and she still had those freckles. She looked stupidly adorable. She was wearing leopard-print slippers with two pom-poms hanging off the side.

She put her hand over her mouth. I watched her cheeks turn red.

“Richard,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly. “What are you doing here?”

I just stood there, her letters in my hand. “You can't . . .” she continued, looking behind her. “Why didn't you call?”