The Marriage of Sticks (12 page)

Sometimes odd things happened. Once a bird flew so low that it almost hit him. Once a child fell off its bike directly in front of us. Easy looked at me to see if these things were all right—if the world was still in order. I said, “It’s okay, nothing major,” and he went back to watching or sleeping with his head between his paws. Dogs are here to remind us life really is a simple thing. You eat, sleep, take walks, and pee when you must. That’s about all there is. They are quick to forgive trespasses and assume strangers will be kind.

After I heard that someone had poured gasoline over this dog and set it on fire, I realized I could no longer wait for you. These many years, your coming was the only thing I had left to hope for. I genuinely believed it would happen one day. Although I had no idea what would occur when we met, I’ve thought about it constantly. But after Easy was murdered I realized I had to finish this account as soon as possible because we might
not
meet before I die. Whether we do or not, this diary will be here to help you. To explain where you really came from. Perhaps that knowledge will save you from some of the awful experiences I have had because not knowing my own history ruined my life.

What is important about the death of a dog when so much else has happened over the years? I can only say it brought the realization it was no longer important whether I continued living or not. I’d thought that moment had come years ago, but I was wrong. Old age arrives like the first days of fall. One afternoon you look up, or smell something in the air, and know instinctively things have changed. I suppose the same thing is true about our own death. Suddenly it’s near enough that we can smell it.

Despite that, I must continue to tell this story. Whether I am still alive or not when you read it, you must know what really happened and
why.

Is it possible to properly describe the months right after Hugh and I first became lovers? That means describing happiness, and no words bear the weight of real joy. I can tell you about meals and weekend trips, conversations walking down a street on Block Island in August when the summer air was thick as breath because it was about to rain and the afternoon was suddenly purple everywhere.

Our hearts were always too full. But what does that mean? That each of us had our separate, impossible hopes, which we had brought along like secret extra suitcases.

His small touches on my arm, hair, hand always reminded me of a school of silvery fish that swam up, intensely curious, made contact, then fled at my slightest movement. But I was always moving
toward
Hugh, not away, and after a while when he touched me his hand would stay.

I have never felt so loved in my life. It made me suspicious at first. Like a turtle, I kept pulling my head back into my shell because I was certain a blow was imminent. But as our bond grew stronger, I left my head out and realized how much I had been missing my whole life.

The great surprise was how quickly we understood each other. Even in the best relationships I’d had, certain things were never communicated or understood. No matter how fluent you are in a language, situations arise that stump you for ways to express exactly what needs to be said. Being with Hugh gave me the words, which in turn helped me to know myself better. Trusting him, I opened up in an entirely new way.

Sexually he was marvelous because he had had so much experience. He admitted that for years women had drifted in and out of his life like incense. His wife knew about many of these affairs but they had come to a truce about them: so long as he was discreet and never brought home any part of these other relationships, Charlotte turned a blind eye. Was theirs then only a marriage of convenience? Did she have lovers too? No. She didn’t believe in affairs and no, the marriage was strong and important.

If
that was true, why had he allowed me to come into his apartment?

“Because I was already gone for you by then. Gone like never before. I would have done anything. I broke every one of my rules.”

“Why, Hugh? Why
me
after all those other women? The way you describe some of them, they were incredible.”

“There’s never a satisfying answer to that. No matter what I say, it won’t assure you or lessen your doubts. Love is like an autistic child when it comes to giving good explanations. Sometimes we love things in others they’re not even aware of. Or they think are ridiculous. I love your purse.”

“My
purse
? Why?”

“I’ve never seen a woman with such a Zen purse. You keep only the most necessary or beautiful things in there. It says so much about you, all of which I cherish and admire. I love the way you put your forehead against my neck when we sleep. And how you put your arm over my shoulder when we’re walking down the street. Like two pals.”

“You
are
my pal. My dearest pal. Whenever I write you a letter that’s how I’ll start it—Dearest Pal.”

What did I feel about his wife? What one would expect, made all the more difficult by a quality I liked very much in Hugh: he said only good things about Charlotte, no matter the context. From his description, she was a loving, generous woman who made life better for everyone.

Married people often feel compelled to deride their spouse to a new lover. I knew it from my friends, and particularly from Zoe’s accounts of ex-boyfriend Hector. It makes sense, but it’s neither honest nor brave. We have affairs because we’re greedy. Don’t blame that greed on someone else. People are brilliant at justifying their motives. It’s one of our ugliest talents. Hugh and I wanted each other and were willing to hurt others if it meant the survival of our relationship. There were other explanations and rationalizations, none of them true. We were simply greedy.

When did Charlotte find out about it? I think a couple of months on. Hugh never said, directly, “She knows,” but things came up in conversation that indicated she did. Strangely, the more involved we became, the more like her
I
became in not wanting to know about his other life. In the beginning I was fascinated to know what they did together. Or what kind of woman he was married to. But one day that stopped. As best I could, I tried to shut her out of my thoughts and ignore the fact she was there.

It worked for a time, but six months on I answered the ringing phone and almost threw up when the tranquil voice on the other end said, “This is Charlotte Oakley.”

“Hello.”

“I think you know why I’m calling.”

“Yes.” I wanted a composed voice too. One that said, I’m ready for this, ready for you; nothing you say will change how I feel.

“My husband told me he was in love with you. I said I was going to call you. He made me promise not to, but some things need to be said before this goes further. I think you should know them.

“He was very frank about your relationship. I don’t know you so I can only go on what he said. Hugh loves women and has had many lovers over the years.”

“He told me.” Was
this
the tack she was going to take? Try to humiliate me by making me feel like just another of his sweeties? Something inside lightened immediately. I pushed hair off my face that had fallen there a moment before, when I sat with it hanging down, like the guilty party.

“I’m sure he has. That’s Hugh’s way. Women love my husband because he is so honest. And funny and pays so much attention that you feel like he’s your alter ego.

“What you
don’t
know is his habit of choosing the same kind of woman again and again, Miranda. They’re always pretty and very intelligent. They have something to say. They do interesting things with their lives. But when you get down to the fine print in his job description, they must also be
needy.
Hugh wants to save you from your dragons. He’s a chivalrous man. I’m sure you need help and he’s here to give it.”

“I’m going to put the phone down.”

For the first time, her voice became cross. “I’m telling you something that will save
all
of us time and pain! If you are anything like his other girlfriends, you love him because you need him and not the other way around. You’ll fall into this relationship until you’re helpless without him. Maybe you already are. But I warn you, once it happens and he grows bored with your weakness, he’ll leave. He always has. That’s just his way. He’ll do it sweetly and it’ll seem he’s in so much pain that you’ll think it’s your fault, but it isn’t—”

“How can you say these things about your husband?”

She laughed and the tone scared me; it was relaxed,
knowing.
Here was a subject she knew a great deal about. Talking to me, the beginner, was amusing.

“Has he given you the Kazantzákis autobiography to read yet?
Report to Greco.
He will. There’s a line in there he loves: ‘They were sparrows and I wanted to make them eagles.’ ”

I hung up. I had never done that before in my life. I wanted to dismiss her but couldn’t because what she said was right: I
was
weak. I
did
need him.

For minutes afterward, I hated Hugh and myself equally. Why couldn’t it just be an affair? I would have been content with that. Why couldn’t we just have driven our car up to that point on the road and stopped? Whose fault was it that we had gone so far?

An hour later, I was still sitting in the same chair when he called. I told him about the talk with his wife and that I didn’t want to see him again.

“Wait! Wait, Miranda! Please, you have to know something else. Did she describe our whole conversation? Did she tell you how it happened? I told her I wanted to separate.”

“What?”

“I told her I was so in love with you that I wanted a separation.”

I took the receiver away from my ear and looked at it aghast, as if it were he. “What are you saying, Hugh? You never told me this!”

“Yes I did, but you didn’t believe it was true.”

“No, not like that you didn’t! I don’t know what’s going on. I
am
like your other girlfriends. Charlotte’s right: I’m another weak little bird in your fan club. Why do you want to leave her—”

“Because I love you!”

“You’ll leave a wife of twenty years and your kids and…

“Bullshit! I don’t want that responsibility. Or that guilt. I have to go.”

“No, please—” I put the phone down.

I tried to go back to life before Hugh Oakley and almost succeeded. You can create as much work for yourself as necessary. The problem is the time
between
things, when thoughts and memories burst out of your brain like shrapnel.

I took trips to California, Boston, and London. In a dreary secondhand bookstall near the Hayward Gallery I found one of the most valuable books I’d ever seen, selling for five pounds. Any other time, I would have done somersaults. This time, tears came to my eyes because the only person I wanted to show the treasure to was Hugh Oakley.

He called constantly. If I
was
home, I’d force myself to let the answering machine kick in. His messages ranged from quiet to tormented. He sent letters, flowers, and tender gifts that stopped my breath. What he
didn’t
do was show up at either my apartment or the store. I was grateful. The last thing I needed was to see him. He must have understood and accepted that, thank God.

I told both Zoe and Frances Hatch what had happened. They disagreed on what I should do. Zoe had had her share of married men and was even more skeptical than I about the possibility of Hugh’s leaving his wife.

“Forget it! They all say that till they know they have you back in their power. Then they get wiggly again. A married man wants the excitement and newness of a lover, combined with the comfort and peace of his family. It’s an impossible and
unfair
combination. How could you ever give him both when you’ve only been in his life a few months? Someone said the first wife breaks the man in, while the second gets all the goodies, but I don’t think that’s true. Just the opposite. Even if he leaves his wife, you’ll be carrying ten tons of his guilt around on the back of your relationship until the day you die.

“Do you know the joke about the man who goes to get a new suit made? The tailor measures him and says come back in two weeks. The guy does and puts on the suit. It looks terrible. The left cuff comes down five inches too long, the lapels are completely uneven, the crotch hangs like harem pants. It’s the worst suit in the world. The guy complains but the tailor says he’s seeing it all wrong: ‘What you’ve got to do is pull up the left sleeve and hold it there with your chin. Then ooch your right shoulder up five inches so the lapels are even, put your right hand in the pocket of the pants and pull up the crotch…’ You get the idea.

“So the man does all this and ends up looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. But when he looks in the mirror again the
suit
looks wonderful. The tailor says, ‘That’s the new style these days.’ So the jerk buys the suit and walks out of the store wearing it.

“He’s staggering down the street like Quasimodo and passes two men. They turn around and watch him limp away. The first guy says, ‘I feel so sorry for the handicapped.’ The other says, ‘Yeah, but what a fabulous
suit
!’

“It’s the best metaphor I’ve ever heard for how we try to make relationships like this work. Or what we do to ourselves to make
anything
important work. Don’t do it, Miranda. You’ve got so much going for you. You don’t need him, no matter how good you think it is,”

“But what if this is
it,
Zoe? What if I walk away and it turns out this was the most important relationship in my life? What if the memory’s too big and ends up crushing me?”

“If we’re lucky and find Mr. Right, seventy or eighty percent is there from the beginning. The other twenty you have to create yourself. This is a lot more than twenty percent, Miranda. But if you have to do it, then do. Just make sure to put on a helmet and learn to recognize the sound of incoming shells when they start dropping. Because they will, in
clusters
!”