#65 BEN'S DOUBLE DIP: PART II

While Janey sat in the window overlooking the busy street, waiting for breakfast, she did feel somewhat guilty for sleeping with her sister’s fiancé but guilt was an emotion she never experienced in any great degree. She thought she might not have a conscious. While in El Salvador she had felt many things that to her seemed like consciousness and often she went out of her way to go the extra mile for people whose situations were dire. Her supervisor told her she excelled at humanitarian-think. Janey began to imagine maybe she was not so bad after all, that she did have a soul; her mother was disappointed in her and thought living in Berkeley with her reprobate father had ruined her. Janey once overheard her say she was glad she had Emily because her other daughter had "gone to the dogs." Janey was very hurt by this and it gave her a complex. Like Ben, she too was slightly askew but it did not manifest itself in the same way. He was rendered silent and brooding; she acted out in a variety of reckless ways.

Now she'd slept with her sister's boyfriend less than forty-eight hours in the country. Why had she done it? If you had asked Janey, she would laugh and say that Ben was cute and sad and lonely and maybe her sister just didn't have enough warmth to give him. She would justify it by attacking Emily. That was her mode, one of the games she played. She was intuitive enough to know this and was going to make a very good psychologist one day.

"Okay, breakfast is ready," said Ben setting the small table in the kitchenette.
"I'm starving," she said. "How sweet you are Ben. Emily is lucky."
"Yeah, I'm not sure she'd agree with you on that," said a sullen Ben.
"Oh don't start with the guilt," said Janey. It's too early, I'm too hungry and you're too darling for words. I think I may be a little in love with you."
Oh God, thought Ben. But then he felt a little shiver go up his spine, a spine he'd never recognized before and chewed on a piece of bacon, for the first time without registering its taboo.

Janey ate with relish saying she hadn't had a real American breakfast for two years and how it was superior to what anyone else ate for breakfast. That he was a wonderful cook and she knew he had a plethora of underused talent she was sure Emily had no idea of. “Yes,” said Ben. “I sleep with her sister while she is at work earning money to pay for the kitchen we’re so greedily eating in as well as the food.” He was sure to suffer hell and damnation for this one. He began to realize the depth of deceit they'd participated in and his mood started to sink.

Janey too began to realize what she'd done and became quiet. After eating, they washed the dishes together and talked little. They then went into the living room and sat on the couch--very close together. She cuddled him and tried to bring out some humor which she succeeded at. Before long he was rubbing her thighs, still bare, and she laid her head in his lap and they smoked the rest of the joint from the day before. He thought she had fallen asleep but she began to talk in a low monotone, sounding more like Emily.

"My sister and I really are close, Ben. It's just that life with Dad was not exactly proper. He is an old radical and really quite unaware of what his young daughter was exposed to. As I said, Em was still playing with her dolls and thought going to a school dance was the height of adulthood. I was on a college campus hanging out with hippies and street people at twelve, smoking joints at thirteen, lost my virginity at fourteen, saw a homosexual act between my father's assistant and a visiting professor in our home at age fifteen. I kept trying to shock Dad but he is unshockable and his only concern seemed to be getting his students into bed. There was always one of them hanging around our house and Dad was oblivious. Em came one Christmas and after she saw a poli-sci major creeping out of his room after a pre-Christmas dinner she packed in a huff and took a taxi to the airport. She was so out of place and nervous she went home and informed our mother of all the sordid doings. Mother freaked out, naturally, and tried to get me to finish high school in Vermont, but by that time I was too rebellious to go along with her plans and she basically wrote me off as the "lost" daughter. Em never came back to California though I still went to Vermont in the summer but I could tell Mother thought I was a bad influence and I was hurt. Em was torn and so I stopped going. Just another clueless dysfunctional family. What is your family like, Ben? Are your parents still married?"
"Yes, they are but I often wonder why. There doesn't seem to be any warmth but then again, who knows what really goes on between couples, especially parents. They want me to become a lawyer, be a success on their terms and wish I was marrying a Jewish girl. I make them nervous and they return the favor."
"Well, mine were a disaster and we did know all about it."

Janey's voice had grown meek, her spunk had left her and her smile was replaced by a pensive look that belied the little girl she once was. Ben at first thought her sophisticated and daring but could now see she was not so different from Emily. They both had an inner sadness that played out differently. Emily was no-nonsense, aloof and driven: Janey was all nonsense, scandalous with a need for attention. Ben was thinking about this when he noticed Janey was asleep in his lap, which aroused him, in more than one way. He got up, lifting her head gently and covered her with a blanket and wondered how things would turn out: she was going to be with them for five more days. This thought was both thrilling and nerve-wracking. He went back to the abandoned VCR of yesterday--before life played a trick on him.

Emily had a long day. She was hung-over for sure, but there was something else she couldn't quite articulate even to herself. At four, she made an excuse and went home. Ben was studying at his desk and for this Emily was grateful. She did not want to walk in on another scene like the day before. The apartment was neat, the toilet had been fixed and something was cooking in the oven. Ben was a good cook. He had worked in a fine restaurant during law school and had a knack for chopping, dicing and filleting. It made him feel relaxed, a feeling he was always striving for. They rarely felt the need to go to a restaurant which saved money.
"I'm sorry I was so testy this morning, Ben," Emily said.
"That's okay. I knew how you were feeling," said Ben. He had a hard time looking her in the eye but was glad to see her calm.
"Where's Jane?"
"She went out to see your mother. I don't know when she's coming back but her suitcase is still here so I guess she will be coming back at some time," said Ben morosely.
"Why the doldrums? Was she a big pain all day?"
"No, not really. She slept a lot. The jet lag finally got to her I guess."
"Yeah, she was a live-wire yesterday. I'm glad she's calmed down, especially for Mother. We don’t have to let her stay here, you know."
"Yeah, well..." Ben was at a loss. "I'm making dinner in any case. Your favorite, roast chicken," he said, trying to quell the sickly remorse he was feeling.
"Thanks. Maybe food will glue my stomach together. I threw up at work. Can you believe that? I'm mortified because a colleague heard me and snickered.‘Too much partying,’ she said, and laughed on her way out of the ladies room. Fuck her anyway."
"I still don't understand why you never told me about her, Emily. This really bothers me. It makes me wonder what else you're hiding. Like I'll never really know you," said Ben.
"I said I was sorry, what more can I say? Sometimes I like to forget her. I spent my whole life thinking of her. Is she okay in California? Does she like me? Will she continue to make Mother sad? Once I got to college I tried to forget her a little. Not completely, she's my sister, but just to think of something else for a change. She caused us a lot of worry. And not only that, she visited me at school once and went out with a guy I had a crush on and after she left he kept saying 'I really like your sister, you're nothing alike, are you?' and it made me furious. So you see, we have 'issues.' I'm over it but when I came in and saw the two of you drinking in the afternoon and by the way, I know what else you were doing--smoking pot--which you told me you wouldn't do anymore, well, I felt threatened somehow. I know you wouldn't go for her, Ben. I know she's not your type but...well, let's forget about it. She's here until the weekend but I think she'll be busy with Mother. They're going shopping for a cell phone and some clothes so she won't have to wear my rejects that are too small."

Ben felt he had just dodged a bullet but remained in the kitchen, out of her sight and they had a quiet dinner. Janey came back in at nine and they watched TV until bedtime. Ben was torn up inside. When he got in bed, he made no advances to Emily even though he sensed she might be willing: it was Janey he longed for. He was surely going to burn in hell. That night he had a dream in which they were at a beach and Janey and his old roommate Doug were splashing naked in the waves while Emily was pulling him by one arm and his grandmother, who has been dead for ten years pulled his other arm shouting, "Stay away from the shiksa, you'll drown." Ben wanted desperately to get into that water.

The next morning Emily was in better spirits and invited Janey to meet her for lunch. Janey hugged her sister and they went through Emily's closet and drawers looking for things she could wear. After Emily left for work Janey threw a complicated dress over her head but the zipper got stuck in her hair and she called Ben to help her. Her arms were raised above her head and she was naked except for a ball of fabric that covered her face. Ben almost melted; felt a fire from his teeth to his toes. He got her hair released from the zipper and laid the dress on the bed. He rubbed her breasts, kissed her and they went back to bed for the rest of the morning. Ben could not get over that she was so uninhibited. He had complete access to her body as he'd never had with Emily's. At eleven-thirty Janey got up and tried the dress again, ready to meet Emily.

Ben sulked around the apartment, too jittery for any useful endeavor and went to the gym. Emily called at three sounding touchy and weepy. Ben thought of what Janey had said about feeling what each other felt. He wondered if Emily felt her sister's betrayal. Would Janey say anything? He thought not. What then were they going to do? One time was a lark, a mistake, anyone can lapse. But after day two, Ben began to take a different view. He was in a dilemma and knew this was going to be with him for awhile. Once Janey left he would calm down, he thought. Eventually, he would forget about her. He just had to hold on and not let Emily be hurt. This was a goal he could meet, he said to himself running as fast as the treadmill would go. They would be okay. His insides were roiling with anxiety.

Emily and Janey arrived home at six and once again Ben had dinner prepared.
"What a darling your boyfriend is," said Janey to Emily. “You do know that, don’t you?”
"Yes, he's a great, and more important, willing cook," said Emily. She gave Ben a rueful gaze that he couldn’t quite decipher and he dared not look to Janey for clarification.
“Silly, it’s not just his cooking…,” Janey started to say but shut up fast when she saw terror in Ben’s eyes. “I mean, he’s very sensitive,” she added, diffidently.

After that the conversation drifted and Ben and Emily took up the law books while Janey made phone calls, talked to both her mother and father and watched TV. They again went to bed early and at about three a.m. he awoke to find Janey in the bed next to Emily. While the bed was big enough for the three of them, Ben wasn't taking any chances. He moved to the couch. The next morning Emily again left early for work and Ben and Janey were alone. Both were a little more subdued and tried to avoid each other. Ben made breakfast and when Janey came to the table in just a t-shirt with nothing else on he was as scrambled as the eggs.

"Tell me something Janey, do you never wear underwear?"
She laughed and admitted she didn't have any. That it was so hot where she had come from and water so scarce she finally gave it up. "You have to understand how sweltering it was. None of the women wore bras. They couldn't afford them and they were considered a hindrance. They were always nursing anyway. So I got used to living the way they live. In any case, I rarely wore one in Berkeley until I was twenty. You will also be shocked to learn that I posed nude for an artist friend of my father's. And once I even posed for his figure-drawing class. I'm just not inhibited or ashamed of my body. My father took me to nude beaches along the coast when I was about eleven and ever since, I am a free spirit. My father believed it was healthy. My mother, needless to say, was mortified the first time I walked into her room naked. So is Emily. So are you, I can tell but you like it, don't you?"

Ben actually blushed. He couldn't deny it. "I'm not as much of a prude as you may think, Janey. I took figure-drawing in college. But there wasn't anything particularly sexual about it. It was an older woman with sagging skin and masses of pubic hair. And then we had a guy with a beer gut."
Janey laughed. "I didn't know you were an artist. But I did know you had hidden talents, didn't I? I said so the minute I met you. Would you like to draw me? I'd like to see how well you draw and how you will portray me," she said just a little flirtatiously.
"Maybe. After breakfast," said Ben.
"Ah, you're hesitating. You're inhibited," she added.
"Yeah, I haven't tried drawing for a long time. I might not be any good at it."
"Well, give it the old college try. We haven't got anything else to do and I know you don't want to sit with your nose in that textbook all day," she said.
"You've got that right," said Ben. "I'll be so glad when the exam is over and Emily can think of something else."
"You don't really care if you become a lawyer, do you?"
"I do and I don't. I've put a lot of time into it but I'm just not driven by it."
"Bah! What nonsense."
"Janey, it's what I went to school for. What my parents sacrificed for. I have to. Emily is expecting it and I can't let everyone down."
"Well, you know my thoughts on it. But it's not my life so I’ll say no more. Get out your pencils, boy, I want to see what you can do."

Ben dug an old sketchbook and some charcoal from a drawer in the storage bin. In it he found a drawing he'd done of Emily when they first met. She is sitting in the grass beneath an ancient oak tree on campus reading a book. It wasn't a great drawing, Ben admitted, but he saved it because it was Emily. Her face was not quite right but the pose was good.

Janey slipped out of the t-shirt without Ben’s request and stretched out on the couch in a classic pose. She put her arm behind her head and the other over her abdomen. Ben got into artist mode and began. He turned on the radio, they both relaxed and the time flew by. Ben captured her completely and this pleased him. When she looked at it tears came to her eyes. "That is so lovely, Ben. You do have talent. How can you be a lawyer? It's too ludicrous." He didn't know why she was crying but he felt moved himself and put his arms around her where they stood, saying nothing but just hugging with what seemed a small eternity.

Janey got dressed and went out. Ben sat and stewed for the rest of the day, occasionally looking at the drawing. It really was pretty good, he thought, before he put the sketchbook safely out of sight in a bottom drawer.

The week wore on. They went out a couple of nights, went to movies, had a friend of Janey's from San Francisco over for dinner, had various family get-togethers and went to a museum exhibit of architectural drawings that Janey and Ben loved but left Emily cold. “Too dry,” she said. “I’m more moved by literature and music. I also like ballet and modern dance a lot.” Janey said she loved painting, photography and jazz. Ben liked sculpture, architecture, furniture design and folk music. None of them liked opera but all were Bob Dylan fans even though he was so old. Emily liked the Beach Boys, Janey liked U2 and Ben liked Bruce Springsteen. Soon Janey would leave.

On her last day, they were discussing what to do though no one had any brilliant ideas. Ben wanted to go hiking so they all agreed. Emily said she would have to work at least for the morning but would meet them at noon. Ben was going to rent a car to get them out of town. When they picked up Emily outside her building she was with a man, introduced as Theo, a little older than they were but not much. He said he wanted to play hooky and come with them. Ben had never met this guy but he worked with Emily. He was a junior partner. He suspected that she brought him along for her sister because Janey had made a joke about being such a third wheel. Emily was good that way; always looking out for others.

The four of them stopped to buy picnic supplies even though it was going to be pretty cold. The day was brisk, not quite spring, but not quite winter. The sun was bright. They were all wearing down parkas and heavy boots. Ben tried not to look at Janey too much and once when he grabbed her hand while on the trail he dropped it and apologized saying he thought it was Emily and wasn't that funny? That was the second time that had happened. That morning he put his arm on her shoulder, jumped away guiltily, Emily thought, and mumbled, "Oh, I thought it was you, Em." Emily knew this was certainly possible but noted that he never really touched her in that familiar languid way. She tried not to think about it but would be glad when Janey went back to California.

They had an invigorating hike, a satisfying lunch in the outdoors and headed back to the city worn out and content. Janey was leaving the next morning on an early flight. Ben was keeping the car to take her to the airport. Emily said she couldn't go because she'd already taken too much time off that week. Ben told Janey he would miss her and made a joke about double the pleasure from the old TV ad. Emily ignored it but Janey was touched and hugged Ben and ruffled his hair. She told Emily again what a great guy she had found for herself. Emily ignored that too. She wanted to get Ben back into their routine and make up the time they spent not studying for the bar exam.

In the morning Janey made a great fuss over her suitcase again. She had an entirely new wardrobe including underwear that her mother supplied. In private, over their last breakfast Ben teased Janey about her new cotton briefs and no-nonsense bras. She promised to wear them. They kept away from the bedroom but did a little kissing in the living room. Both were feeling things neither of them knew what to make of. The ride to the airport was subdued though Janey tried to make jokes and tease. Ben felt he'd been sideswiped by a hurricane. His emotions were bubbling inside and his body was yearning. "Some habits will be hard to break," he said finally.
"Oh yeah, like what darling boy? Or should I call you brother?"
"Well, sex in the morning, baths, long breakfasts, fun, adventure...stuff."
"Maybe you'll have to visit me in California. There are wonderful hiking trails in and around Berkeley. Endless, really."
"Maybe if I ever get the bar exam over with."
"Have you thought about what you'll do if you don't pass it?"
"Are you kidding? Emily would kill me if I even thought it."
"You guys are too much."
"Thanks. And you're not?"
"Not what?"
"Too much. You my dear lady in the buff are definitely too much. Too much of a good thing."
"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."
"Well it's the truth, Janey. You're something special. I've had the best time of my life this last week." What was he saying? He had to forget this week ever happened--burn it from his brain, if necessary.

Janey thought she might cry so she didn't say anything for some time. Then they arrived at the airport and all was turbulence as airports usually are and there was no time for any more talk. He couldn't go to the boarding terminal so they said goodbye, kissed and Ben walked back to the car. Janey waited until he was out of sight before getting in line for her boarding pass. She was sadder than she'd ever been. She had meant it when she said she had fallen in love with Ben. In fact, she had fallen for him when he opened the door for her in those ridiculous glasses with the screwdriver in his hand. She intentionally seduced him; her own sister's fiancé and she had many contradictory emotions going on. But Ben was a lost soul. He still was. He needed some TLC and so did she. She wasn’t quite sure what Emily needed but Janey felt she was still untested; she shirked adventure, the unknown, a trait Janey thought not particularly valuable. What good was being bottled up? Janey was looking forward to studying psychology in more depth. She had a lot of questions.

She loved her sister. She was not in any competition with her but wanted the best for her. For some reason she didn't feel Ben was it. She sensed a disconnect between them and for both, she felt sorry. She wondered if they would eventually connect or fall apart. She wondered if she should tell Emily about sleeping with Ben before they got married but decided to wait and see how things played out. She wondered how she would be able to watch Ben marry her sister when the time came. And what she would find back home in Berkeley? Would her father still be seducing his students? What an old pervert, she thought fondly, looking forward to seeing him at the end of her flight. She had changed a lot over the past two years. She did not look at life the same way as she had. She knew how troubled parts of the world were and would never forget it. She would have to do her part for humanity, as small and insignificant as she was. She wasn't sure but thought she might be ready to grow up. And then wondered if she could be serious enough for such an undertaking. Time will tell, she thought. And then chided herself for one cliche after another.

Our story of Ben Weinberg, the watery, slim, slightly askew fellow with many talents is about to come to its conclusion. You will want to know if he passed the bar this time and the answer to that is he didn't even take it. He skipped out after smoking a joint on the way there thinking it would make him a little less nervous, a little bit smarter but when he arrived, he couldn't go in and instead hung out at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum looking at the empty frame where Vermeer’s “The Concert” had hung until the theft in 1990. He felt as vacant as the that ornate structure waiting for its raison de etre to show itself. He often daydreamed about finding the missing paintings in an abandoned garage or some other forlorn site. He thought about how it would feel to uncover the Rembrandts, seeing them haphazardly rolled up, left to the ravages of dirt and mildew; his pride as he returned them to the museum not accepting the reward, but only the recognition and thanks for his astute powers of observation, his knowing exactly what he had found and calling the FBI. Maybe he would be offered a job with the FBI. Emily was often impatient with him for daydreaming. “Snap out of it, Ben!” she’d bark, testily, when he had only been thinking of the way the shadow of a tree was filled with a multitude of colors when at first glance you see only gray.

Emily had planned a celebratory dinner and bought champagne but something told her it was not to be when Ben still wasn't home at seven. She waited nervously and when he came in and avoided her eyes she knew all was lost. She did not get mad; but she did not open the champagne or prepare the dinner and neither did Ben. He told her he did not take the test and she withdrew into the bedroom and did not come out all night. Ben slept on the couch that smelled like peaches--like Janey.

In the morning Emily went to work but when she came home she told Ben something he was not at all expecting. “You know Theo, who went hiking with us…well, I have been having a thing..affair, you might say, with him for the past month. I’ve been feeling really torn but didn’t want to say anything until you passed the bar.” She would not come near him and spoke in a cold, distant manner, playing with her hands. “Since you did not take the bar, I now feel free to say what is on my mind: I am going to move in with him, you can have this apartment.” She said she hoped he would find a nice Jewish girl for his mother's sake but doubted it because he was too moody, had no ambition and was immature. “And for the record, I found the drawing you did of Janey. I hope I never see either of you again, you have both betrayed me,” she hissed. He said nothing in response. That weekend she moved out.

Ben sat around the apartment for a week with no particular feeling at all. He knew he would have to get a real job if only to pay the rent--a whopping sum. He thought of joining the Marines, the Navy, the Peace Corps, the circus. He didn't see his parents and did not answer the phone when his mother called. He took apart and put together three watches and two clocks. The drawing of Janey was taped to the wall by the bed where they'd had so much fun. He had no idea of anything and walked around aimlessly each day. At night he slept on the couch no longer smelling of Janey.

Spring turned to summer and one day Janey called. She had heard about their breakup but did not say I told you so. She was conciliatory and gentle. She did not say anything about being right about the law profession or his hidden side. But she did invite him to come out to California. “Come on Ben, you sound so depressed. Get out of your head for awhile and try something new. We’ll have a great time; I’m telling you, California is made for the outdoors, it’ll blow you away. Make a move, lost boy, life is waiting for your participation.
“I’m not sure, Jane, what will I do there?”
“Duh. What wouldn’t you do here? Would it help if I told you I have a clock radio that is broken? Get packing. I‘ll see you next week, that’s an order.”

And so, that is the end of the story except to say that Ben and Janey fell into their old pattern immediately. Ben got a job as a landscaper and helped build a Japanese garden so at least one of his dreams came to fruition. He loves California and even consented to taking Janey to a nude beach where they are quite certain she became pregnant. Their daughter, Polly, will arrive in three months. Ben's parents are as happy as can be expected considering Janey is not Jewish but they are ecstatic about a granddaughter. They mourn the loss of another lawyer in the family but have made peace with a “black sheep” in the lineage and only hope he will make something of himself in time. “We are too old to deal with such a challenging son,” said Ben’s father.

Janey's father is a pain in the butt and fighting a sexual harassment suit but Ben finds him amusing nevertheless. Emily married Theo but Ben and Janey were not invited to the small private wedding, nor was their father.

In his spare time Ben has designed and built his daughter’s crib from Eucalyptus wood that plays music and rocks gently for a set time if wound properly. Janey will soon have her master’s and will begin studying for her doctorate in psychology. Ben is reassured by this: he needs all the counseling he can get to figure out who he is. Janey thinks who he is just about perfect. She thought so from the first moment they met and he's only gotten more so in her opinion. Ben is wiped out by love. He has trouble focusing at times because he is often in a swoon. If you see him on Telegraph Avenue you might say he is a little stoned, but he will promptly correct you by saying, “I no longer have to resort to artificial stimulants. I am on a natural high.”

And this is what is called a story with a happy ending.

#65 BEN’S DOUBLE DIP: PART I

Ben Weinberg, a thin, watery kind of guy, was always a little stoned so he seemed slightly askew, some might say adrift, but then he had always been that way so maybe being stoned was irrelevant to his demeanor.

Ben's father was set on Ben becoming a lawyer but when the time came for him to take the bar exam and he failed, worry set in for both Ben's father, Ben himself and his girlfriend Emily Harrington, who also took the bar exam and passed. That was a year ago and Emily and Ben were now living together and Emily had been hired by a prestigious law firm which surprised everyone because neither Ben nor Emily had any great connections. Emily did have a well-regarded professor at Harvard who was apparently a better reference than she had thought. Her path was seemingly paved while Ben's was a rocky slice of uprooted prickly weeds.

All this left Ben even more askew, and left on his own, he would have abandoned the law profession and gone into teaching, engineering or perhaps watch repair. Ben had been taking watches apart and putting them back together ever since he'd received his first watch for his fifth birthday from his grandfather. Over the years, he rebuilt them, redesigned them and eventually assembled his own line that he gave away as gifts. They were quirky like Ben and kept perfect time. The small precise nature of this task was what Ben needed to calm his mind and still his body. He was prone to nervousness and moods. Sometimes he’d buy a fake Rolex on the street and rebuild it to conform to the real thing. Mostly he saved the parts for future use. When his aunt Gwendolyn called him an artistic type at a family dinner when he was twelve, his father's only comment was, "Let's hope he grows out of it."

There are some families who consider law or medicine the only real professions to go into. Everything else is beneath them. Ben was a member of such a family; his older sister was a doctor and his brother was an attorney as was his father. His uncle owned a canning factory and made a lot of money but even he was suspect. If you happen to come from one of these families, you are not encouraged to be anything like a pilot, a mechanic, an industrial designer or an athlete even if you have an aptitude in these areas. Even if the field is less competitive and you can make a decent living doing something you are good at. No, it's lawyer or doctor and that is the narrow path you must follow if you want to please your family. This is old-fashioned thinking in the modern age with so many ways to make not only a living but a fortune but Ben's parents were old when he was born and so he lived with ancient dictates that no longer had any meaning except to those of a certain mindset. Ben excelled at a number of things; he had mechanical aptitude, was good with his hands, thoughtful and kind. He could draw, play the banjo and build grass huts. At summer camp he built his own canoe.

All this was of no concern to his father and once he failed the bar, Ben carried around with him a shame that left him distant and uncommunicative. That Emily was already launched on her career and looked upon him with pity did not go unnoticed by Ben. Nevertheless, she was tutoring him so that when he took it again he would certainly pass it.

Emily was a straightforward kind of girl. Attractive but without any real glamor or style. She wore her medium brown hair straight and long pulled back with a barrette or a headband. Sometimes she wore it up which Ben thought sexy but she didn't seem to care what he thought on these matters. She wore no makeup, small pearl earrings and flat shoes. She did not have a fashionable bone in her body but luckily she had good bones so it didn't matter. She looked like what she was; a brainy, down-to-earth, outdoorsy type. She loved hiking, rafting, cross-country skiing and boats of all types. This is where she and Ben most meshed. He also loved the outdoors. They both liked to fish. They both played tennis but not stringently. Emily knew the names of all wildflowers, trees and shrubs in New England. She grew up in rural Vermont. Ben grew up in a townhouse on the upper West Side in Manhattan and knew all the landmarks in the city. They both attended Harvard Law School. Neither one was from a rich family and earned scholarships to supplement their tuition. Sometimes they both felt like misfits in a school with so many upper-class over-achievers. Thanks to affirmative action, there were students with less posh backgrounds but both Emily and Ben were loners. Emily felt driven to succeed, Ben less so. Sometimes he questioned what it was all for.

Ben and Emily were living in a small one-bedroom apartment in Boston waiting for Ben to pass the bar and get a job so they could get married and begin planning their life. They wanted to live outside the city and have two or three children and several dogs. They wanted what everyone else wanted; they were not particularly original in their desires, were somewhat of a cliché Ben thought when he was in a mood. Money was tight but they did not have extravagant tastes or expectations. Emily would go to work on the bus, and three days a week Ben worked in a book store and the other four he was presumed to be studying for his second try at the bar exam which would take place in three weeks. In the evening they sat on the couch and Emily would go over everything he had studied that day. At times she was cross with him:
"I don't think you're taking this seriously enough," she'd say.
He would just glaze over. She did not want to harp on it; it would only make him moody. "I'm just not sure I'm cut out for the law," he'd reply then go into a dream-like state that made her nervous. As if on cue, she would question him;
"What are you cut out for, do you think?"
He'd think this over for a bit but never really answer. He'd occasionally have an idea but never spoke of it, it would not impress anyone and she would give him that look--that look his mother used to give him when he said something incomprehensible. He'd reopen the tome in his lap and they would continue and eventually go to bed in silence. Ben wished he could take her in his arms and confess all his longings and fears but knew she would not find this endearing. It would not break the ice or get her to respond to his body the way he truly wished she would. She held back and Ben resented this. She was making him pay for her insecurity. He didn't like this but did not say anything; this too embarrassed him. He wondered if she loved him and if not, what were they doing? He wondered if he just missed all the signals and if he would soon get it right, like the bar exam.

Ben might seem like a rebellious spirit. Literature is filled with this type but Ben knew he did not have the bravado to be a true rebel. He was a coward, he knew this and hoped know one else noticed. As a teenager he'd had fantasies about joining the military. When the ROTC came to his high school he'd listened to the recruiter's pitch and read the brochures. For three days he dreamt of the places he would see. He wondered if it would make him a man--less fearful, less unsure--but in the end, he would need his father's signature and he was afraid to approach him. He would say Jews are not soldiers. He'd heard his father say that at the dinner table once and he wondered if it were true and why not. Israel certainly trained their men to fight, in fact it was compulsory. Another anachronism, Ben thought. In the end, he forgot about the military, it evaporated like all of his dreams. Somehow he knew he had to join the real world. And then the real world brought him a new conundrum.

One day while Emily was at work and Ben was ostensibly studying for the bar, the doorbell rang. Ben assumed it was the landlord, Curly, who was doing some work in the bathroom per Emily's request. The one thing about Emily, she could bully recalcitrant landlords, taxi drivers, repair men of all types and waiters. It wasn't that she was a bitch or a ball-buster per se, but she had a way of looking at men with a steely eye that they couldn't deny. She never charmed or flirted with men; that would not be her style but she nevertheless got them to see things her way. She was verbally gifted Ben admitted. She could make a person do something they'd never thought of and make them think it was something they'd been going to do all along. Including me, thought Ben a little wearily. "She is going to be one hell of a lawyer," his father had said after meeting her. "Too bad she's not Jewish," was his mother's only reply.

Ben often felt a little deflated after an argument with Emily, not that they often argued. She was his first real girlfriend in college, the only one he'd brought home to meet his parents. After that he felt he was obliged to continue the relationship even though he was not sure he had the right sort of commitment to it. He was a loose thread in the institution called family. He knew it and wondered how a smart, shrewd girl like Emily missed it. He was nothing like his brother or sister who were as straight as the side of a building and about as interesting. Ben had a romantic side he felt compelled to hide. For instance, he wanted to fly a plane, build a Japanese garden and live in a foreign country. These were vague ideas, like the military, building the perfect timepiece and even more improbably, joining the CIA. Ben had a furtive side that longed for an outlet. Instead he would be a wily attorney--anything was possible, he thought.

Ben answered the bell with a Philips screwdriver in one hand and an instruction manual in the other, wearing his off-kilter magnifying glasses that he thought made him resemble a mad scientist but Emily thought a psychopath. He was fixing the rewind mechanism in the VCR that was jerky. He'd taken the thing apart and was reassembling it even though his instructions from Emily were to buy a DVD player and get rid of it but why do that when things were fixable? Ben never liked getting rid of things. He scorned the disposable society we've become. When the door opened he discovered Emily and a large suitcase but upon removing the glasses, saw it was not Emily at all but an exact look-a-like. For a moment he thought he'd lost his vision or entered a hallucinatory state so disconcerting was the image before him.

"Well, well a Mr. Fix-it. How convenient. You must be Ben, I'm Janey, obviously Emily's sister. Now don't look so startled, she must have mentioned me somewhere along the line. When one has a twin sister, it's not something you can hide. Oh, I see you’re shocked. Don't tell me she forgot to mention her evil twin. Well, here I am, an exact replica of your betrothed, well, pleased to meet you anyway, Ben. Is Emily home?" This was all said while she rolled in the suitcase, had a look around and inspected his repair project.

Ben shook her hand but could hardly manage a complete sentence. She was indeed an exact replica, but so exactly not. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse with bright embroidered flowers around the neckline and tight jeans rolled up to show her ankles and calves and some sort of handmade sandals. It was only March so this tropical dress was incongruent, not to mention a style never before seen on Emily who was a khaki, polo-shirt kind of girl. Ben gaped at her for longer than polite but it was too extraordinary. Where had she come from? "Nice to meet you too," was all he could mutter, unable to shape a more responsive greeting.

Okay, to be truthful, Emily did mention a sister in the Peace Corps but had implied that while Emily lived with her mother in Vermont after the divorce from Emily's father, a sister, vaguely defined, lived with their father who was a professor of art history at the University of California, Berkeley. “My God," Ben said," it's 'The Parent Trap' come to life.” That was the first coherent thing he'd been able to say. Why had Emily never uttered the word "twin?" Ben had thought she wasn't even a real sister, but a half-sister. It occurred to him that Emily was not very forthcoming about much in her past, but then neither was he. Both of them rarely talked about family as if to shake them off somehow. But not mentioning a twin was carrying things to an absurd extreme. An identical twin, at that. Ben was beside himself and for the first five minutes of Janey's presence unable to focus.

"Love the glasses. Cool. Do you always wear them?" She had a provocative laugh that was definitely not Emily's laugh. Everything from Janey's mouth was a flirtation. She had a wide easy smile that Emily lacked, a sort of sex-kitten appeal that Emily definitely lacked.

"Holy cow," he gasped.

"I guess you've had a cow," she teasingly said. "Is that law school-speak?"

"Sorry, I'm in shock," said Ben pulling off his glasses. "I didn't realize...it's too ridiculous...," he was fuming.

"My sister is a mystery, I believe. She likes to keep people in the dark about certain things. She get power from holding back and then watching the surprise. We all play games, and that's hers; don't tell anyone anything and then pretend she had all along told you but you are too indifferent to have heard. It's called passive-aggressive and she's a master at it if you haven't already learned. She's in the right profession in any case. What about you Ben? What's your game, Mr. Fix-it? Are you secretly hiding another persona no one knows about? I bet you are, and don't think I won't learn what it is before long. I'm was a psych major before I went off to save the world."

By now she was standing very close to Ben and talking close to his mouth or at least it seemed that way. In addition, her blouse kept falling forward and she was not wearing a bra. He stood there thinking that his Emily and been reborn as Sharon Stone and he was not entirely displeased about it. He noted that she had the exact same breasts as Emily but that so openly exposed they presented an entirely different arrangement. Emily's were always tightly encased in her Haines 32-C 100% cotton bras and although she took it off to sleep, she did not parade her assets quite so flagrantly, so without a care or a worry over rapists, sexual harassers, dirty old men or a horny boyfriend. How utterly free, he thought to himself while trying to direct his eyes elsewhere.

Elsewhere too was not without interest. Her hair had been highlighted with blond streaks, perhaps from the sun, she wore eye makeup and lip gloss. She had a small heart necklace at her throat and a pile of silver bracelets on her arm. Her toenails were painted coral and she wore a gold toe ring which was indescribably sexy to Ben. He'd had very little contact with this type of girl. He'd seen them at parties, in clubs and on the street but he would never have been able to chat casually with them. He was not cool enough, he was, in fact, a nerd even though Emily said he was growing out of it and was becoming attractive in his own way. Once a nerd, always a nerd, Ben thought. But this apparition here in his own domain, so early in the day was, he could only say to himself, delicious somehow, a word he had never had reason to use before, not even for fruit, which she smelled like. It was Emily in drag. It was Emily in a schizoid other-world.

"What brings you here? Where have you come from?" asked Ben.

"You, darling boy. I came to meet the guy who Em actually lets near her, actually inhabits the same abode, the same bed, if I may be so presumptuous. Does she take off her clothes? You're the first, you know," laughed Janey uproariously.

"Why do you find that so funny? Emily is a mature woman..." but once again he was gaping at her open neckline and noticed that her toenails matched the flowers on the blouse and wondered if it was a coincidence or planned. Women mystified him. His sister was so much older and his girlfriends had all been quiet types. He couldn't think of what he was trying to say to defend Emily who was not here to defend herself but he felt he should.

He remembered a girl he'd picked up in a bar in college who came home with him, shared his bed and then moved into his roommate Doug's bed where she woke up the next morning not sure where she was or how she'd gotten there. She walked around naked until she found her clothes in Ben's room. She figured in his fantasies long after that night but he never saw her again. Nor did Doug, though he looked. Ben had been both excited and annoyed: excited to watch her, annoyed that she ended up with Doug. It was too confusing and he went back to studious girls.

Anyway, Janey wasn't like that girl. She was vibrant and sophisticated. How had twins deviated from each other so fiercely? And why had Emily never said anything? This is not nothing. Ben thought he would be feeling pretty pissed off if Janey were not so diverting.

"You're really surprised," Janey said as if reading his mind. "I know, I know, we're the same but not the same. It's confusing. We get it all the time. Well you see, Ben darling, and you are darling you know, I was raised by wolves and she was raised by nuns, ha, ha, ha. No, I went to Berkeley with dear old Dad when I was ten and Emily stayed with Mother. It was not 'The Parent Trap' because we were given the choice, shared custody and all, and though we both stayed with Mother at first, I felt sorry for Dad and started to spend more time with him in California and then I decided I wanted to go to school there because I knew I could get away with murder with him and I liked the warm weather. So Emily and I decided I would go with Dad and she would stay with Mother. And we would spend summer's together in Vermont. Unlike the movie, our parents were not in love, they loathed each other and never got together for any reason if at all possible. And though Em and I were as close as twins are, she was more serious than I, our personalities weren't alike. But it was hard separating. They say twins feel the same things and it's true. I knew when Emily had a bicycle accident before I was told. I could feel it. But culture, they say, definitely figures in. And Dad's lifestyle was not Mother's. I became that happy specimen, the California girl, a stereotype to be sure but not completely. Em was still playing with her dolls when I was...well, Ben darling, that is a story for another time. I must take a bath. Can I?"

"Of course," said Ben. Then he remembered the landlord who happened to ring right at that moment and went through the same shock as Ben had over Janey and like Ben, had trouble diverting his eyes from her open blouse as she was bending over her suitcase on the floor. Ben had to make him leave and he insisted he would have to come back later that day; it could not wait. Ben was amused that it had been waiting for a month already but kept it to himself. He had enough to think about just then.

Janey had been with the Peace Corps in Central America for just over two years. Ben invited her to stay on their couch if she wanted to but wondered why she would not want to stay with her mother until she returned to California to do graduate work. But he figured Emily would straighten everything out and he went back to his VCR repair and Janey went into the bathroom. He could hear her splashing in the tub and he wondered if he should call Emily to report this news but decided he'd let her have a little jolt too. After all, she left him in the dark and this was his home. It then came as a jolt to himself when Janey called his name.

"Ben, honey, do you by any chance have a joint we could smoke? I'm so tensed up after the long flight and I really need to relax and get my head together to meet Mother later."

Ben had a moment of panic over that question. You see, he had told Emily he quit smoking dope when they moved in together. She said since it was not quite legal and both of them were about to be in the legal profession, they should not have pot on hand or be smoking it. He reluctantly agreed to this restriction although he did still smoke it at from time to time on the back porch while Emily was working. He justified it by saying he was not actually in the legal profession yet and it was his business what he did.

He deflected by asking, "Does Emily know you're here? She never said anything." He did vaguely remember her saying her mother would be in town and a possible surprise but it did not really register at the time. Her mother did not like him that much, he felt, and his mother was the same toward Emily. It was, he was sure, the Jewish thing again and neither Ben or Emily deigned to address it so it was left open and unanswered.

"Well not exactly, Ben. But we're sisters. Of course she'll be thrilled. I wanted to surprise her. I was supposed to stay at Aunt Jean's with Mother but I couldn't face them right off so I came here. I forgot she was working...why are you standing outside the door, come in here and talk to me? I'll tell you everything especially if you give me a joint. I know you have one. Emily told me you were a little pothead and she didn't approve. Now come on, light up with your future sister-in-law and let's talk it all out. I'm covered in bubbles, you have nothing to fear, you little prude."

Could any two sisters have a more different personality Ben thought? How can this be? How will Emily take this? His brain was spinning. Should he give her a joint? He did have one, only one, he was saving it, but he decided to offer it up and not be so uptight. Besides, it would be fun to watch her in the bathtub. Wrong, possibly, but not to be avoided. The one way these sisters were alike was the ability to get men to do what they wanted, of this Ben took careful note. They just used a very different strategy.

So they lit the joint, inhaled deeply and enjoyed a moment of silence. After a short time, she started giggling at a corny picture on the wall and then he giggled about the bathroom in general and the landlord's shock and then what Emily would say when she came in and on they went, laughing at this and that, and as the bubbles slowly disappeared they both pretended not to notice and Ben felt he had been completely seduced and then wondered if he even cared and for a brief moment wished he could get in the tub with her but thought not but enjoyed the view anyway. He was pretty high when she stood up and asked for a towel which he gave her even though he could not avert his eyes for very long. She wrapped the towel around her middle, leaving her top exposed and then walked to the living room, opened her suitcase, took out a bottle of wine and asked Ben to open it while she went into the bedroom to find something in Emily's closet to wear because she didn't have anything appropriate for Mother and Ben thought he had surely died and ended up in a French movie where women casually went topless and he felt warm all over.

That is until Emily walked through the door and saw Janey and Ben drinking wine, laughing and Janey wearing a dress that she had meant to give to Goodwill because it was too short for her workplace. She felt her stomach knot up and thought she might throw up but Ben came and put his arm around her and said,"Surprise!" Then he added, "And when were you going to tell me about a twin sister, at our wedding?" He felt guilty as sin so he put on the huff a little more than he normally might. He was breathing marijuana smoke and wine on her and she moved her head away.

"And what have you been up to all afternoon?" she asked in a snotty tone, Ben thought.

"Em, don't be mad at him...it's all my fault. I was so tense..." she had her arms around Emily now and the three of them stood there in a clutch and then Ben felt stupid and moved away and let the sisters reunite. They hugged and cried and were the picture of happiness in this slightly weird scenario that Ben could not quite fathom.

"But Jane, you were supposed to be at Aunt Jean's. Everyone was waiting for you. I took my lunch hour and went over there. Mother is there and she expected to have lunch with you. Why didn't you call? You will have to get a cell phone right away."

"I came here first because I wanted to see you. I forgot you were at work. Ben was here and we had such a good time talking. You should have seen the look on his face when he opened the door. Em, that was not nice to keep him in the dark about your sister. He was totally floored. I can't believe you never told him you have a twin. Jeez, Em, there's a limit to secrecy. I'm not the devil you know even if you think I'm bad. I'm not. I just spent two years taking care of people who have nothing, know nothing and well...you can't imagine how they live. You can't imagine what I've been through. But it was all good. I've gained a lot of insight and when I go back for my master's, I'll be a lot more in tune, if you will, I will have experienced things. I highly recommend the Peace Corps. I told Ben he should sign up instead of adding one more lawyer to the populace, as if we need any more. Sorry Em. But you know how I feel about that profession. Why you want to go into it, is beyond me. Is it just for money, or show or what...you have such a better conscious than that. And Ben does too. He's not a lawyer. It's all too ridiculous. Dad thinks so too."

Emily blanched at hearing this. She knew her sister and father's view; she just didn't agree with them. She found Ben's father's love of the profession a welcome relief from her own father's. But she was visibly offended at bringing Ben into the debate. He was going for the bar exam in three weeks and he didn't need this diatribe against the profession. She pulled away, stalked to the bedroom and when Ben followed her she told him to leave her alone to change and get ready for the dinner.

"Am I invited to this dinner?" asked Ben, "Or am I to be sidelined?"

"Of course you're invited. I was going to surprise you but that’s foiled. What do you think of her? Flaky, wouldn't you say?"

"She different from you, that's for sure but I wouldn't say flaky after two years in a third-world country trying to teach English and plumbing to indigents."

"Well, I just meant, she's a real hippie from Berkeley. She's got all sorts of dippy ideas that will take her exactly nowhere," said Emily with a little too much vehemence.

"Well, I think it's commendable what she's done. I wish I could do something worthwhile; something besides think of the bar exam," said Ben.

"Well, I think the law is a fine profession and I'm sorry you do not. I thought we were in agreement on it. You did go to law school you know. I didn't force you. It was your choice," said Emily.

"Yeah, I know. I'm just caught by surprise. You led me to believe she was something other than what she is."

"Which is?"

"A twin sister, for Christ's sake. Nobody has a twin and fails to mention it. What's with you, Emily?"

"I was waiting for you to meet her. She's been out of the country as you know. I was going to surprise you. I'm sorry. It was stupid. Childish. I'm sorry."

Ben left her to change and went back into the living room. Janey was channel surfing, laughing at something. “I haven’t watched TV for two years. How silly it all seems,” she said. “No wonder American culture is so hopeless. Is Em all right?"

"Yeah I guess. She's always peeved at something these days."

"What about you Ben? How are you these days?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, do you really care about the law profession? I mean, you don't exactly strike me as judicial material."

"You sound like my mother. Truthfully, I don't know. It's what my father is, my brother, I just try to please."

"Trying to please is not a good way to spend your life, Ben. Get a grip."

"Yeah, I know."

They had dinner in a expensive Italian restaurant with the twin's mother and aunt and then Emily, Janey and Ben went to a club. Janey wanted to party and seemed to have a gaggle of friends miraculously appear. Both Ben and Emily were quiet and watched Janey dance, cavort and end up doing a mock strip on a table. All Ben could think about was that she had no underwear on under that dress and several times it was high up on her thighs as she danced. Ben could hardly concentrate and had had too much to drink, too much excitement for one day and wished ...well, he wished many things but was too drunk to think clearly and just wanted to sleep. They eventually made it home, Janey passed out on the couch and Emily rejected his advances once again...what else was new? As Ben fell asleep, he thought that this was possibly the strangest, most amazing day in his life and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Tomorrow brought a hung-over Emily trying to put her clothing on for work while moaning and groaning and speaking in tongues. Ben was also hung over but made an effort to help her; brewing coffee, offering to take her to work but she just ignored him and left, catching her jacket on the door handle and nearly ripping it off. She used a few words she did not usually use but sometimes did. Janey never budged and when Ben looked at her on the couch she seemed completely at peace. After Emily left, he went back to bed but couldn't sleep. He laid there wondering what Janey had scheduled for the day; he'd heard her making many plans with various friends in the club. He did not have to wonder too long, as she appeared in the bedroom, wrapped loosely in a sheet and crawled into bed with him and went back to sleep.

Well, this is new, thought Ben. In bed with his girlfriend but not his girlfriend. He decided to get up but she stirred a little and told him to rub her back. Ben stood at the side of the bed not sure what to do. Surely she was kidding?

"Come on Ben. You know you want to," said Janey.

"God, Janey, what do you think I am?" he replied a bit put out.

"You're a darling boy in need of love and affection like the rest of us and I can tell you don't get it, if I may say so," she said.

"How do you know what I get?" said Ben.

"I can see it in your eyes. They're hungry," she said.

"Hungry, you can fucking see hungry, give me a break, Janey," said Ben a touch too defensive.

"Just rub my back, then you can make me breakfast, the breakfast Em turned down after she turned down the back rub," she said.

Jumping jeez, thought Ben. How was he supposed to deal with this? But in the end, he did as he was told, never having enough nerve to not do what he was told. He chastised himself for his lack of grit but rub her back he did. They were both silent for some time and when she turned over abruptly, his hands touched her breasts, she sighed and just what you'd expect to happen, did happen and though Ben was not proud of the fact, he had never felt quite so alive in his short life. They spent the morning in bed doing things he'd only dreamed of...things he wouldn't have tried with Emily. He knew everything would never be the same again. In what way, he could not tell you but a shift had taken place in Ben and he shivered as he lay by Janey's side breathing the smell of body heat and mangoes.

When things began to waver, he got out of bed and immediately started to fret. Janey laughed, demanded pancakes, and walked around in his old t-shirt, digging through her suitcase once again for what, anyone could guess. She continually produced the odd and unexpected from that suitcase covered in stickers with various messages and foreign symbols on them. What a marvel of dissemination, Ben thought. He dutifully went to the kitchen and began mixing batter as instructed. Guilt covered him like a gossamer film he knew he would never shake it in this lifetime. He had never felt so off-balance and fear would have brought him to his knees but he was too happy to pay it any attention.

END PART I

#64 PARKER’S WIFE

I did not kill my wife but as her coffin was being lowered into the ground, I thought maybe I had contributed to it by wishing her dead on more than one occasion. I’m not proud of this nor would I admit to it. She had a heart problem and would not heed the doctor’s warning, intent, as always on her own way. “What does he know?” she’d scoff, “He barely fits through the door of his office.” That was Janice; all advice was taken as a personal rebuke, even from a consciences doctor who was trying to keep her healthy. No matter that it wasn’t a competition, Janice looked at the world and all relations as a battle for predominance. She never really grew out of her teenage angst and at sixty-five it had become not only unnecessary, but irrational.

So no, I didn’t kill her but throughout the funeral, the burial and the gathering at my house afterward, my mind wandered to the last two years, since my retirement, when our marriage became a daily battle of wills, living together a torturous passage through a quarrelsome journey that in the end, led nowhere.

I had been looking forward to retirement, I was close to seventy and becoming obsolete in my own field. I founded and was part owner of a financial services business that had done very well over the years. I could have retired a decade earlier but felt young enough to continue indefinitely. My wife, Janice, retired from the city five years earlier with a healthy pension and the desire to stay at home after many years in the workplace. She thought she might like to take up hobbies, lunch with her friends who did not work and maybe redecorate our home that she said was in need of rejuvenation. I was happy for her and prepared to encourage her in her pursuits, whatever they might be.

I began this story with an admission that if said aloud could put me in some danger but I would never speak of anything so brash to another living person and these pages I write will never see the light of day. I will continue to play the grieving husband, suffering a loss, a widower, dignified, but I have little interest in carrying this too far. You’ll soon learn why.

For the world, Janice and I looked like one of those active retired couples who take cruises, sign up for French cooking classes, visit the Cayman Islands or buy a second home in the south of France or Belize. Well-to-do, ready to conquer new worlds, albeit, as long as it was enjoyable and kept us young. That is what I myself pictured when I contemplated retirement when the office was no longer my daily routine but I was ignoring the signals, the premonitions, the outright evidence that all was not well in our home or in our life together.

Over the long years of our marriage, forty years, Janice and I had, like many other couples, grown apart, physically and if I may say it, spiritually. I had, while in my fifties, an infatuation with another woman, Mary, and wanted to divorce and start anew. I was closer to Mary than I had ever been to my wife and hoped to grow old with her. I kept looking for an opening; I thought Janice too might like a new start; I based this on hints she would suddenly drop--odd remarks she would never fully explain. Our daughter, Amy, was still at home and our son, Paul, in college, at home during breaks and holidays. I felt they were mature enough to accept the split. While looking for an escape route for myself, our daughter, on the night of her junior prom, was killed in a car accident coming home from the dance with a driver who was not only drunk, but had only received his driver’s license the week before. It was his first time out with his father’s sports car, lent in good faith for the evening to be returned by one a.m. Needless to say, the car was not returned, both children instantly killed when an oncoming delivery truck could not veer out of the way fast enough of the reckless, inebriated teenage driver.

I give it to you bluntly. Forgive me. It may be relevant to the story but is not actually the story I am telling. I am unable to write this last paragraph without sliding into emotional torment, still so long after that night when I had to identify my beautiful daughter’s broken body, pieces of the pink dress she made herself pasted to her skin with blood. Janice, whom I expected would lapse into a frenzy of grief and rage, seemed to handle it better than I. Immobile and hollow, I wanted to hide myself and my anguish while she seemed to grow in strength. I don’t mean to imply that she was in any way unaffected; she was put on tranquilizers, started evening cocktails earlier than before and cried openly for a year after, unable to work. But she acquired a force of personality I had never noticed in her. I took a month off from business concerns and sat in my armchair brooding. I began to admire my wife's courage as she joined support groups, saw a therapist and participated in an online discussion group writing poignantly about the death of a child.

At the funeral, horrific in its tenor, she was reunited with an old boyfriend, Jim, from her hometown who had lost a son in a car accident involving drug use. They wrote daily to each other, I’d often hear her whispering to him on the phone into the night and I believe she once took a out-of-town trip to be with him. I did not interfere with what was becoming her one-man support group. She did not make an attempt to hide the nature of the relationship as it grew more intimate and time-consuming. He would come into the city and take her to dinner frequently. I said nothing.

I meanwhile, lost my Mary. She gracefully bowed out. This is how she put it: “I love you with all my heart and soul, Parker, but this is not the time to stir up more pain. I think you need to be there for your wife and son now and not thinking about me. I have to get on with my life somehow, this situation isn’t good for me. God bless you, dear, you have meant the world to me.” With tears and kisses, she vanished and I have lost all contact with her though I could find her if I wished to.

I am reminiscing about a painful time in my life but I really want to talk about the last two years. I don’t have the luxury of a therapist, I won't confess my feelings, I don’t wish to. I have always been a man to keep his thoughts to himself, I was raised that way as was most of my generation. I marvel at men on the television, celebrities mostly, confessing their innermost demons, admitting to various transgressions, assured they will be forgiven and still loved. I do not have such assurance. I suspect I would be scorned and denied forgiveness if I should break down and reveal my trespasses.

When I retired, two years ago, Janice as I said, had been at home for more than five years, queen of the castle, sovereign of the sofa. All of her planned activities did not amount to much. After the first rush of renewed friendship with her girlfriends, she gradually moved away from them but kept one close by for gossip and company. This was the one friend whose situation was shaky and Janice could feel superior to. Marge never had the life the rest of the group had with two failed marriages, one troublesome boy and never enough money. Janice always said, “I can’t give up on Marge, she’s such a poor thing. Those terrible husbands and a worthless son she still dotes on. I have to be on hand for guidance, don’t I? She has no one else.” They talked on the phone several times a day. They thrived on gossip and sarcasm. Janice seemed to change from the crisp businesswoman she’d been to someone rather thoughtless. Her tongue was growing sharp.

My business became one of tolerance. Well, I’d like to say I was tolerant but I became less so with time. Once I was home all day with Janice, things began to crumble. At first I thought we would reinvigorate our marriage, be that couple I earlier described. I wanted to take her to Europe at the very least. Instead, Janice was irritable and cranky with my presence and mostly tried to ignore me. She’d say, “Don’t you have somewhere you can go, Park? It unnerves me to have you underfoot all day. I’m used to my own space. I have my routine. Can’t you visit someone or walk in the park?” This started after the first three months of my retirement--the snide harping, the fervent desire to have me out of her way. I was peeved at first. This isn’t exactly what I planned for my retirement; enforced wandering, unenthusiastic visits to museums or libraries, sitting alone in a coffee shop reading the papers. I am a domestic man; I love my own home, my desk, sitting in my armchair by the west window in the afternoon sun, surrounded by my own things. It not only hurt my feelings to be pushed aside, but rankled more as time went by.

Since I’d disrupted my wife’s routine--I came to realize that most of her time was spent on the sofa, reading romance novels, watching soap operas and eating candy by the bagfuls--Janice decided it was time to begin the redecorating. Up to this point, she’d been lax in that area, unable to decide on color schemes, draperies, carpets. Now she began the entire process in one manic go. I tried to be a part of it, had an interest in the minutia of interior decoration and a few ideas of how I envisioned our home.

Apparently a husband and wife cannot do this sort of thing together, one has to give in. That would be me; Janice does not capitulate. This area of incompatibility she discovered online and would frantically post her annoyance trying to deal with the “husband” when everyone knows it is a woman’s territory. She would print out other posts attesting to this. I could do nothing but distance myself and leave her to it.

She ended up choosing everything, turning me away and including Marge in her excursions to the department stores, the furniture showrooms and the kitchen/bathroom mega stores. My opinion, my taste was entirely disregarded and I should have made my thoughts known on some of her choices but I knew I couldn’t override her. By not taking a stand, and at considerable expense to me, I ended up with a living room that looked like a boudoir for a nineteenth-century coquette, colors so unsettling, so unnatural, I winced when I walked into the rooms. The bedroom, previously so soothing, if shabby, now reeked of gay pride, as if Elton John was hired for the decorating. It was not a place a man could feel comfortable. I mean no offense to Mr. John. I simply use him as an example of over-the-top style, not quite right for a conservative man in his seventies coming from a different perspective.

Fortunately, my study remained off-limits, Janice never set foot in there if she could help it. “Much too dreary,” she’d say. I’d shrug, look around our living room and wonder when her taste had deteriorated so. I’d never noticed before but began to pay attention to her clothing, her television shows, the books she read, her hair color, her jewelry, her shoes, everything, as if I had woken up with a wife I no longer recognized. I would never have looked down on my wife’s taste if she hadn’t so thoroughly rammed it down my throat with our spectacularly awful rooms. Gaudy wallpaper, awkwardly plush, overtly feminine furniture, nervous rugs and unnecessary knickknacks, accessories they’re called now, that collected dust and took up space. There was little harmony and less utility. A large TV dominated the east end always on, adding to the jumbled feel.

But our troubles really took root in the kitchen: Our new kitchen was well-equipped, clean, with modern efficient appliances. The color scheme, well, I’ll let that go. It was the least of my problems until I ended up taking that French cooking class without Janice, she wouldn’t budge, and realized I should have chosen the counter tops and layout since I would be doing the cooking. Janice, formerly allergic to anything related to the kitchen was now underfoot every time I attempted my culinary experiments. She would insinuate herself in front of the stove or the refrigerator intent on blocking my path, slam cupboard doors, lower the heat on my sauces or turn them off completely, open and shut drawers or decide to rearrange a shelf, none of which she bothered with when I wasn’t at home or in my study. She could not give way even in an area she had no use for. I would be chopping garlic or onions, notice her fooling around with my burners, my timer or my recipe file and with a knife in hand, thought I might like to stab her on more than one occasion. Instead I would fill my wineglass and count to ten.

There, I said it. I wanted to kill her. Okay, so maybe it’s just a bad humor but no, I can truthfully say, I felt the urge. And that was just the beginning. I won’t let myself off.

If I were having morning coffee in the dining room, reading the newspaper, that is when she started the vacuum, an instrument formerly untouched by her hands. When we both worked we had a maid who did the cleaning and most of the cooking. After Janice retired, we kept her on part-time. Janice said she would take over the cooking, part of her campaign for a new kitchen. This worked out exactly as I expected: Dinner was never served, we either went out or she would phone me and say she didn’t want dinner and I was on my own. When I’d come home, she’d be watching television and her dinner had been something she micro-waved or sweets, sometimes fruit. Her eating habits became a loosely applied grazing method with no set beginning or end. When questioned, with something innocuous like, “Did you have your dinner, Jan?“ she would listlessly say, “Yeah, here and there. I eat when I’m hungry,” and would resume watching her television program.

In most everything during this time, her motivation would be to distance herself from me. That is unless I was doing something, then her desire was to disrupt it. She developed a willfulness, a need to assert herself whenever I could be found doing anything of a personal nature such as trying out a new recipe, listening to classical music on the radio, reading a book or looking over my coin collection. Anything that brought me any relaxation at all, she interrupted with a sudden wish to talk about bills, the yard work, plans for the weekend, our son’s life, or any piece of trivia she could manufacture to stop me from doing anything that looked like it might give me some small pleasure. When I was paying bills, doing yard work, or talking to our son, she was nowhere to be found. Or should I say, she was on the sofa or talking to Marge--careening with laughter amid whispers.

She was not subtle in any of this. Other forms of aggression perpetuated by her began to rile me. She would purposely bang into me entering a room. We have a very large house, plenty of space so it made no sense logistically. I say bang into me because there was a tinge of violence to it, as if she really wanted to slap me aside but couldn’t quite justify that so this violation of my personal space was the closest thing. She seemed to resent that I had any at all. It was confusing to me; our relationship had always been one of personal respect and at the very least, polite refrain from petty annoyance and disturbances. We’d always got on well. Now Janice had an ax to grind but when I would say something like, “Are you upset about anything?” her reply would be “Of course not, what do I have to be upset about?” Evasive and yet a belligerence that unnerved me. After about the third or forth time this happened I was caught off-guard one afternoon and instinctively pushed back at her. I shocked myself by the violence I felt in that moment. The look on her face I could only describe as one of satisfaction, gloating. She’d gotten to me and it was a victory for her. I vowed never to fall into that trap again but I was rattled and off-kilter. A part of me despised her and it took two hours in the garage to get it out of my system. Her mood, however, was considerably uplifted and she wanted to go out to dinner in the restaurant we frequent for celebrations. I refused, feeling manipulated. We ended up going to a hamburger joint, not a word spoken before, during or after.

In late May we were both were scheduled for our annual checkup and proceeded to the medical center on a fine morning with tentative plans for a picnic if the weather held. We were both fortunate to have robust health, were young for our respective ages and without trepidation we marched into our doctor’s office. I received the usual recommendations; more exercise, watch those high calorie French dishes, take vitamins, make sure to have my blood pressure checked regularly as it was a little high, nothing too serious, limit alcohol intake but enjoy a fine wine. This Doctor Hoffman said in good humor as we patronize the same wine seller and attend the monthly tastings.

As for Janice, her blood pressure was up more than a little and the doctor wanted to put her on heart medication, a restricted diet and a sound exercise program. He warned her that she would have to make some changes starting with diet and exercise. He said she would have to be monitored weekly and if things did not turn around with these modifications, she was a likely candidate for a heart operation. He recommended a cardiologist and offered to set up the appointment. He lectured her on the seriousness of her condition and sent her home with a list of foods to steer clear of and the name of a personal trainer who would help her with a light exercise routine. In addition, he said she needed to limit sweets. He was worried about the possible onset of Type II Diabetes. He made a point of telling her this in my presence which goaded her and she was in a snit all the way home, slammed the car door roughly, fuming under her breathe.

Once in the kitchen, hoping to quell her anger I said, “Well dear, we will have to look out for you better, we’ll have to eat lighter, on a regular schedule and you’ll want to remove the candy dish from the living room.” My desire to help her was genuine. I then made the mistake of saying, “We’re not as young as we once were, you know. This is to be expected. We’ll be fine, no doubt and a little exercise will be good for you, get you out of the house, moving around. I’ll go too.” I may as well have hit her so volatile was her reaction.

“Speak for yourself, old man. I’m considerably younger and if you think I’m going to live like an old relic along with you, you’ve got another thing coming. You watch your eating habits and I’ll watch mine, thank you very much. And as for that gym, I'll pass. I don‘t need to lose weight, my figure is the same as it was when I was in college. Doctor Hoffman is the one to lose weight, his gut isn’t hidden by that white tent he wears. A lot he knows about it.” She threw her coat down, tossed the papers aside and returned to the sofa where she remained for the rest of the day, not eating, but watching warily for any sign of cooking from the kitchen. I made us a light dinner of soup, sandwiches and a fruit salad and she ate perfunctorily and without enthusiasm. Later I saw her dipping into a box of chocolates with a defiant expression on her face, sardonically choosing between a caramel, a coconut cream or a chocolate truffle. She made a point of daintily putting one into her mouth as she waited for me to say something. I didn’t dare and went to the kitchen to plan menus for the week. I would go to the bookstore in the morning and buy the “heart smart” cookbook recommended by Doctor Hoffman. “She is afraid, that’s all,” I said to our son on the telephone. "She can be stubborn," he added. "But I don't suppose she wants to play fast and loose with her health."

Janice lasted at the gym for a week and then complained of headaches from pinched nerves. She ate what I put in front of her but scoffed if something was “too healthy.” She said it was fad food and I was a dupe. When we went out to dinner, she insisted on ordering her favorites and said she would tow the line at home but could not be expected to diet in a restaurant. She said if she can’t order dessert she would rather not come out at all. I continued to prepare healthy meals and found a great deal of satisfaction learning how to cook and eat without all the fats and sugars. I began inventing recipes and was even asked to teach a class in healthy cooking. I wasn’t that interested in doing this but figured it was a way to get out of the house, something Janice still requested. She had nothing good to say about my menus and continued to sneak candy, hidden under the sofa.

One day I came home and found all of my clothes in garbage bags in the foyer. I had an moment of absolute panic followed by a dangerous urge to strangle her. I calmed myself before looking for her, knowing things could get out of hand pretty fast if I gave in to the rage I was feeling. “Janice, where are you?” No answer. I called again. “Janice, where the hell are you?” I heard her voice answer from the kitchen, a feeble, slightly sickish tone say, “I’m in here, stop yelling.” She was drinking coffee, laden with cream and skimming through a magazine.

“What the hell are my clothes doing in bags?” I was trying desperately to stay calm but could feel my head about to implode, my nerves were jangling.

“I’m giving them away. You don’t need so many clothes, you never wear them anymore, I’m emptying out the closet, I can’t find anything with all of your stuff crowding things. Besides, it’s for a good cause that resale shop, whatever it is…you know the one next to the wine shop.”

I had just come from a sober meeting with my business partner and my mood was aggravated by recent events in the financial world. My fingers were tingling and flapping around, my breathe was shallow. I hoped with all my heart I would be able to maneuver through what was about to take place without losing my dignity or my sanity. I thoroughly wanted to thrash her.

“You have no right to do anything with my clothes, they are my clothes, not yours, it is not for you to decide if, what, when or to whom I will give them. What gives you the right?” I was hissing, not yelling but it was only by an acute attempt at self-control; I wanted to howl.

“Oh, get over it, why do you need to take over the entire closet? Your clothes are boring anyway. Old man clothes. Get some new things so you don’t look so out of it. I told you I wanted bigger closets in the bedroom that we should move into your precious study but you balked. Now live with it.” Her arrogance and disregard rocked my nervous sensibilities but looking back, they shouldn’t have.

I poured myself a glass of scotch, paced a bit and went back to the kitchen where she was still turning pages with an air of composure but if you had looked closer, you would have noticed an increased sense of well-being. She was smirking, I caught it before she knew I was back in the room and that smirk broke something in me. Instead of knocking her off the stool she was perched on--admittedly an alarming retaliation--I calmed myself and said, “Janice, would you like me to just move out altogether?”

She gave me a steely glance then a sneer. “Fat chance,” she said.

“No really, would you? Just tell me what it is you want. Why don’t you be honest for a change. Let it out.”

“Okay, you asked for it: It’s true I would love to have you out of my hair, I’ll be honest. You bug me. I can’t stand your concern, your goody-two-shoes attitude about everything.” Her voice was getting shrill. “I hate your funeral music on the radio, fucking Brahms, who gives a shit?--centuries-old irrelevant depressing crap--your crummy tasteless meals, your Wall Street Journals, your pressed shirts and creased pants, your boring C-Span, your carefully chosen bottles of wine. I hate you hanging around all day watching me, spying on me. I hate you...how about that?” she sputtered. She was at high pitch, threw the magazine in the trash and slammed her cup in the sink. She began to pace looking for the most hateful things she could lob at me. She was breathing hard, her face was red and I momentarily wondered about her heart. I was speechless and let her go on.

“You know what else? I purposely decorated these rooms to irritate you. Yes, I spent all that money, all that time thinking about what Parker would detest the most--what would really get his goat. You want to know something else? I put butter in the Smart Balance tub, put sugar in the Splenda box, I add salt to everything in the goddamn cupboards and refrigerator. And I told the receptionist at the gym that you are a voyeur, to watch you, how about that, Mr. Refinement? I have done everything I can think of to thwart you. I discarded mail I knew you were waiting for, oh yeah, threw away bills, didn’t give you phone messages, left your newspapers out in the rain. Oh boy, Park, I have had quite a time thinking up ways to mess with you. But you know what? You were either too dumb to notice or too polite to accuse me. All my effort and you didn’t react. It was a hollow victory if you didn’t react. So afraid of the ungentlemanly word, so afraid of hurting my feelings. That time you pushed me in self-defense almost sent you to a therapist, so guilty. And so remorseful because you questioned my taste, or should I say, my lack of taste. I admit it, Park, I have no taste. I like infantile music, trashy books, stupid movies, I watch junk TV. I’d rather drink Mountain Dew than any of your uppity stupid-ass Napa wines. I like microwave dinners. I don’t care about unbiased reporting. I like sordid politicians and root for them. I like my leaders to have illicit affairs and out-of-wedlock kids. I like tabloid papers. I loathe virtuous people, I long for their fall. And you know what else, Park? I don’t care about art, the environment, recycling, or reusing plastic bags. I don’t like neutral tasteful clothing or décor. I like artificial flowers better than real because they last and don’t drop petals. I dislike anything natural including your Whole Foods wholesome flipping virtuous products. Leave me with my candy and trash-talking TV!”

She was pitching the hate hard and fast, I could only listen in amazement. What brought this about? What clues did I miss? They must have been enormous.

“But I got to you today, didn’t I? All those expensive, tasteful clothes look pretty sad lying in trash bags on the floor. I knew that would get to you. That you wouldn’t be able to overlook such a violation against your personal self, your dignified self!” She was spewing and rubbed her mouth with her hand. She paced the length of the kitchen and kicked over the waste basket and the garbage flew over the newly installed gleaming tiles, an approximate statement of her bilious frame of mind.

“You still haven’t answered my question: Do you want me to move out? Obviously you do not like anything about me, you have made it impossible for me to like you, so what do you want?”

“I want to be left alone. I want not to have to look at you or talk to you. I want you to disappear. If you died tomorrow I would be unable to shed a tear. We should have divorced years ago, we would have if…I wanted someone else,” she said in a hushed voice. Then the tears flowed freely.

“Well now, you got it all out. No more passive-aggressive scheming. You should feel better. There’s just one little problem but not an insurmountable one: With the stock market crash, we are a little less inured to the forces of the economy. I haven’t said anything, but our portfolio has taken quite a hit and I know you can’t be bothered with the Wall Street Journal, or even the news unless it involves a celebrity, but housing prices are dropping significantly so we won’t be likely to sell for a decent price in the near future which we would have to do if I were to move. You see, dear, we cannot afford two homes right at this time. Your own position is shaky, your 401k is not quite where it was. You’ve lost considerably, I’m afraid to say. I’m also sorry we spent so much money on redecorating; especially if a new buyer is likely to flinch when walking through the front door. So you see, we are in a pickle. As far as giving my clothes away, I think I may need them for a few more years. I may have to go back to work. I certainly can’t afford new ones right at the moment, no matter how ancient they may be.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the financial business? Couldn’t you have prevented us being in the same boat with a bunch of other losers? Wasn’t that your job? To protect our investments? To make us rich for our old age? Come on, Mr. Prudent, what were you doing when the bubble was about to burst? She was heaving with animosity. Her words were coming in short bursts of crackling contempt though the pitch was lower.

“Yes, well, I didn’t see it coming, I admit. Many others also did not.” I was admitting this in a placid voice but I was embarrassed and frankly, losing momentum. When someone you have lived with for so many years lets you have it, in total honesty, your reactions are ranging over a vast uprooted territory. You don’t quite know which blow to address first. I had been troubled about our finances but did not want to worry Janice. I thought things might look up before long and she never seemed to have a glimmer of apprehension from television. I suppose she expected me to keep her abreast and she was right. Guilty, as charged.

“So, you spent your time worrying about our stupid meals, our pathetic blood pressure while Rome was burning? Thanks a lot, Parker. I’m sure Paul thanks you too.”

“Leave him out of this. He’s okay for the time being. What do you want to do? We don’t have the options we once had but we still need to think about it.”

“Forget about it. I don’t want to think about it right now. Leave me alone. I don’t care what you do. You’d better take the clothes to the guestroom and settle in for now.” She had released her pent-up fury and walked into the living room, turned on the TV and picked at her box of chocolates not bothering to hide them this time, as impenetrable as the flickering screen.

I swept up the garbage and poured another scotch, went to my study and sat looking out the window. Eventually I hauled myself to the cold guestroom and laid down on an uncomfortable just-for-show quilt and slept. In the morning we barely spoke and she went out with Marge for the afternoon. We lived in our house for several months, distant, at times awkward at others, antagonistic, then I put it on the market, planning to either buy a condo for each of us if it sold or rent an apartment for myself if it didn’t. Either way, our marriage was over.

We just started showing the house, got a few low-ball offers and together began to make financial plans for our separate futures when Janice’s heart gave out. She had not been seen by her cardiologist for two months but took the pills, still refusing any change of habit. She thought the pills replaced diet and exercise and I was too tired to argue with her. She and Marge ate lavish meals in restaurants, she made a point of telling me about them. She blithely went her own way and I mine. We had called a truce, waiting for the house to sell. Our animosity abated although she never sought my presence and truthfully, I didn’t want her company at all. I was looking forward to moving. She fainted in a department store Christmas shopping and was brought to the hospital in an ambulance where she died that afternoon of heart failure.

The burial took place in on a windy day in early December. Our friends and family were effusive in their expressions of sympathy, offering comfort. I appreciated the gestures but did not need sympathy per se. At one time I loved my wife, our early years were filled with laughter and unity. I never knew what caused Janice’s anger toward me; once she had her say, she clammed up and refused any of my attempts at further communication. I left her alone but spent a lot of time reliving our years together with our children. Amy--my pride and joy. Janice and I never talked about her. I often wanted to. I missed my daughter and talking about her would have helped. Whenever I brought up anything about her, how she loved banana popsicles, Black Jack gum and the color yellow or her plans to be a fashion designer, Janice willfully withdrew. Talking about Amy, just saying her name now and again, kept her alive, something I very much needed.

Janice and I dealt with her death in a contrasting way. We were, it seems, opposing inhabitants of the same marriage. This makes me sad as I bury her. I chastise myself for not realizing sooner that she was so unhappy. That she hated me more for what I was not than what I was; the man she really cared for. I won’t be able to forget the past two years, I’ll live with the memory of our wrath and never really understand it. May she rest in peace.

My son was with me for several days, the only solace I needed. We were in the garage tuning up his mother’s car that is now his. “You and Mom had a happy life, I think. Both of you so vibrant. You might be lonely, Dad.”

“I’ll be fine, Son. Don’t worry about me.” I will never be able to tell anyone just exactly what was under the hood of our marriage. This story has been difficult to write and I suspect not exactly joyous to read. Forgive me. I’m getting old, I’m disappointed and do not have the wherewithal to pretend otherwise.

#63 RIMBAUD’S GHOST

This story is a sequel to #24 EXISTENTIAL DESPAIR FOR THE UNEMPLOYED.

I had only been living in Paris for a month when I met Ingrid, somnolently sitting in a café, a seedy sort of place I would often go in the late afternoon, energy flagging after a day of either sightseeing, aimless wandering or hanging out in the Luxembourg Gardens. I started this Paris sojourn with a purpose; now I’m just killing time. After a month of constant solitude, I’m just beginning to take an interest in my immediate surroundings. Heretofore, I was too intent on subsistence, my own quandary, my invisible presence in Paris to pay attention to my fellow-beings--men or women.

The café had an old world charm that never failed to revive my spirit. It was not just a café but also a tabac and the air was filled with a delicious dark-roast coffee aroma, accentuated by the heady fragrance of pipe tobacco and cigars. There was a centuries-old smell and not everyone was in agreement about its appeal. Most people sat outside if a table was available and that is usually where you could find me, a non-smoker these days though I savored an occasional cigar. I have been trying to correct many bad habits taken up in the days when I felt I was invincible. I no longer have any notions of that sort, having been taken down precipitously in the previous year.

My café had no waiters, only Claude, the owner, a crusty, yet spontaneous man of about fifty who inherited the place from his father who inherited it from his. There was a plaque just inside the door that said “Founded in 1895 by Claude and Michel Auteuil.” The place had lost its cachet if it ever had any and there was no atmosphere to speak of. The chairs inside were filled with men of an older generation inhaling their preferred blend in their tried and tested pipes though much more numerous were the cigar smokers. Absolutely no food was served nor consumed within this cafe/tabac although if Claude liked you, you could ask for a glass of house wine or a little pastis and would be charged one or two Euros, depending on his mood.

Upon entering the establishment, taking in the smell, ordering a double espresso with a twist of lemon, no sugar, saying a few words to Claude, mangled phrases but he seemed appreciative, I would sit at one of the three outdoor tables on the narrow sidewalk, the traffic dangerously close--near enough to propel the napkins or a newspaper off the table as they whizzed by. I often wondered how many people had been injured sitting in such close proximity to the manic drivers in pursuit of whatever it is that causes French drivers to race at top speed at all hours of the day or night. It would only be a slight veer to the left to cause a fatality or two.

On this particular day, I was quick to note an anomaly within Claude’s. The blond caught my attention because as a rule, there were never any women customers inside the café. There were very few outside for that matter. Claude’s was a man’s domain. Its dark paneling, old wooden bins for loose tobacco, dreary lighting fixtures from the 1950s, signs with the paint peeling so that entire words were undecipherable, wobbly tables thick with either varnish or grime, a mishmash of unmatched chairs, an old sofa from the Victorian age, and don’t ask about the floor; definitely wood, but obscured by years of traffic and spills. The windows were a grayish yellow hue, layered with smoke and exhaust. The air in this establishment would take a year off your lifespan if you were a frequent customer. These were not surroundings conducive to feminine appeal.

But there was Ingrid, languishing in the front window, occasionally peering out as if expecting someone and then resolutely returning to her book as she chain-smoked and twisted a strand of her highly bleached hair with her un-manicured fingertips. She appeared to be oblivious to the bank of old men, all intent on her--this apparition in what to them was a private club, a sanctuary of sorts with Ingrid as out of place as a priest at a nude beach.

It was an lackluster day in February, the sky the color of overcooked oatmeal. I had no real desire to sit outside, it looked like rain, so I fumbled my way to the table adjacent to the blond, I did not yet know her name. Let me describe her. Caucasian, early thirties, wearing a fake-fur coat in a drab shade of ochre. In her possession was an antique train case, boxy, heavy and worn, covered with stickers from rock concerts. The Rolling Stones Licks World Tour 2002/03, The Rolling Stones A Bigger Bang, U2/Vertigo 2005 Tour were the more prominent, other lesser bands, or should I say bands whose name meant nothing to me having given up popular music sometime in the late '90s covered the sides. Nirvana was, in my opinion, the last authentic rock band. The genre is now moribund and only serves as nostalgia. But sacred cows die hard.

Obviously the blond was a fan of rock music, possibly a member of a band herself. She had that dehydrated, scrambled look that spoke of too many parties, too little sleep, lack of nourishment, life lived in transition, yet with a certain star appeal beneath the ragged exterior. All this was merely speculation and in this, I was hopelessly mistaken. I had not yet spoken to her and wasn’t particularly interested in what I might find out. That is, until I noticed the book she was reading. It was a collection of the poems of Arthur Rimbaud in English, the exact book I myself owned and had brought to Paris. Many rock devotees profess a love for Rimbaud’s wild, nihilistic prose, his fearlessness, his ruination--it’s almost a cliché; one of the many that sixty years of teenage angst has spawned. But I was surprised to see the same translation, by Paul Schmidt, whose interpretation rings with a modern vengeance and fury seething within and around each sentence.

I was in the mood to speak English with someone but not quite sure how to approach her especially with an audience. I sat forlornly at my table, sorry I hadn’t brought a newspaper when she took the initiative. “Would you happen to have a lighter, luv? Mine just quit.” She spoke with that trilling English lilt that sounds like a bell tapped with a deft touch to reach its highest pitch. I’d call it posh but I’m not sure what the Brits would call it. It is said the English can tell the background of a person within one sentence by their accent. If asked, I could only say she sounded like the girls in those English sixties movies. Open.

“Sorry, I don’t. I’m off cigarettes.” I looked around for matches and pointed to the counter.
“Good for you,” she said. “These bleepin’ things are going to kill me before anything else.”
“Ever thought of quitting?” I said it with a sarcastic twinge; another habit from my old life.
“No. Never. I love ‘em. Couldn’t live without ‘em. I’m smart enough to know that and not bore everyone with talk of quitting when it’s not in the stars. I accept the consequences.”

I again wished I had a newspaper to go back to. Nihilism was too retro for my current state of mind anyway. I’d gone past that form of expression. I gazed out of the window, decided to down the espresso and leave.

“Name’s Ingrid,” she said and put out her hand.
“Ah, Pete,” I said. Glad to meet you.” It’s funny how you say these banal things knowing you are not especially glad but maybe thinking you could be. “I see you’ve been reading the poet of the rabble.”

“Ah, Monsieur Rimbaud. I was given this book by a friend who said I would relate to it. I haven’t decided yet if I can or I can’t. He’s awfully angry. I never thought of myself as angry but maybe I put out an angry vibe. Perhaps I should be in a shrink’s office instead of roaming around Paris, lost.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of people into rock music like Rimbaud. Maybe that’s why your friend gave it to you.” I pointed to the stickers on the top of her traveling case.

“This isn’t mine. It’s my sister’s. She loaned it to me for my travels. Well, I say I’m traveling, but actually I’m just sitting here in Paris drinking coffee and trying to find my way around. I’m from the country. Paris is so confusing. I’m constantly off-course. I’m lost right now. I’m sitting in this place, whatever it is, because I don’t know how to find my way back to the flat I’m staying in. I forgot my map. I wish I had a compass. I’m tired of backtracking and asking people directions and then not being able to understand a thing they say. The weather's been lousy. I’d go home but don’t want to face my husband. I had to fight for this trip.”

“Why did you want to come?”

She hesitated before answering, “Well, because everyone wants to go to Paris once, don’t they? I mean, you’re obviously not French. Why are you here?”

“Well, I’m in hiding, sort of.”

“Ah, now that’s exciting. What are you hiding from? Or should I say, from whom are you hiding?”

“Myself, mostly.” I was being evasive, coy, saying the wrong thing. The thing that will require me to open up and I didn’t care to.

“Running from yourself. Now that’s an attempt at futility. You look a little brighter than that, Pete.”

“Looks aren’t everything.”

“You're just depressed. I can tell. That doesn't mean you’re not bright. Want to talk a little?”

For weeks I’d been wishing I had someone to talk to and now with this opportunity I found I had absolutely no desire to talk about myself at all. “Not really. It’s nothing that will excite you, just the same bullshit everyone in America is going through since the crash.”

“Lost your job, did you?”

“Lost my job, my wife, my apartment, my self-esteem, my purpose. When there was nothing left, I cashed in and here I am. No big project or enthusiasm for travel. Just little depleted me, on the run, avoiding family, avoiding creditors, avoiding a career choice that never really took off. You think you’re lost? Join the club.” She didn’t reply to this lament but starred with a solemnity that had a calming effect.

Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.

I quoted Rimbaud with a keen awareness as if I’d been waiting for this moment to bring him to life. I felt better almost immediately.

“You want a cigarette?” she laughed. How about a pack?

“No thanks. Gave them up. Too bad it wasn’t before I lost my wife. She hated them.”

“Yeah, my husband hates them too. It’s one of the things we fight about. He says it’s a form of rebellion keeps me puffing away.” She waved for another coffee. “I’ll get it,” I said. “Claude does not exactly desire to be of service.” I was glad to move from my cramped table. She was making room at hers by removing her traveling case and the overflowing ashtray.

When I joined her table, she said, “This is just as I imagined: I’d sit in a café in Paris and someone would recite French poetry from memory. Thank you. You’ve restored my faith in travel.”

“This is just what I wouldn’t have imagined: me sitting in a Paris café reciting any poetry from memory to a lady with a mysterious air. I’ve been a dull traveler with low expectations.”

“How bad is it? Your situation, I mean? How are you set up? Don’t mind my asking, I’m always prying, plowing in where I don’t belong. Like this hole. I do know how out of place I am here. I’m not daft, just astray. But what’s with you? Come on, I’m bored, it’s raining, tell me something interesting, let’s have a good story. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. In between you can recite poetry and I’ll smoke cigarettes.”

“We can let some wine flow, if you’re interested. Claude can furnish us with a dusky blend.”

“That would be great,” she said.

All eyes were on me as I went to the counter and requested a carafe of red wine. Some of the men gave me a raised eyebrow that said, way to go. One gave me the thumbs up. I smiled sheepishly not sure of my intent but ready for what would come my way, one month after landing in Paris to stalk my wife.

One evening I took Beauty in my arms and found her bitter and I insulted her.

I continued quoting the poet deploring my sudden desire to show off yet feeling compelled by a certain staleness within myself; as if I might find renewal.

We settled in, she shrugged out of her mangy coat, I placed glasses and the wine on the table along with a couple books of matches. She smiled profusely, something the other men surely made note of and I was at this time, able to impress at least a few garrulous old smokers and give them a show for a least an hour or so. Claude’s place did not exactly jump and jive, if you know what I mean. “So Ingrid, where are you from? Nothing like riveting dialogue to get things moving.

“Derbyshire, luv. Three hours from London. Prime country. Dull if you’re from there, quaint if you’re not. How about yourself? New York?

Yeah, how’d you guess? Never mind. I came to Paris from New York but I am originally from Detroit, Michigan. Dull if you’re from there, terrifying if you’re not.

“What brought you to Paris in the winter?”

“My wife.”

“Pete, you implied you were sans wife. Don’t tell me you are one of those men who forget they are married?”

“No, my ex-wife. Well, she’s divorcing me. But before she started divorcing me, we planned this trip--her father gave us the tickets; he was coming on business, then he wasn’t, meanwhile the tickets were booked and we sort of planned to use them, part of our new austerity program--out-of-season travel. When we separated I asked her if we’d still be coming to Paris and she said, “I am, but you aren’t.” A bug up her ass. Said she invited her girlfriend. I said, 'with my goddamn ticket?' I demanded it, it was a New Year’s present from her father, mind you, a throw-away gift from on high. I was just trying to goad her, I wasn't really planning on coming alone but I ended up getting on that plane after all, hoping for one last try in the romance capital. You want to know what the real kicker was? Found her on the plane not with a girlfriend, but with a male traveling companion. When I sat down next to them, she almost lost it. I smirked all the way here. I introduced myself to the guy, clueless bastard, I offered to get her a pillow, I pretended we were one happy threesome on our way to Paris. You should have seen her face. She was livid, beet-red. She didn’t dare make a scene and had to eat shit all the way here.”

“That is truly funny. What happened after you landed? Were you booked in the same hotel? Don’t tell me you’re all sharing a room?”

“No, we separated at the airport. Her boyfriend, Charles, shook my hand, wanted to know my hotel, have dinner later, be friends. The poor guy didn’t really know what was going on. My intention had been to follow her to her hotel, book a room, entertain the hell out of her; win her back. I’ve spent time here so I know my way around, she doesn’t. A daddy’s girl. Over-protected."

“So you showed up to win back your wife? How'd that work out for you?" She had a bemused grin on her face that gave her a beatific look that I hadn’t recognized before. Her complexion was the color of milky glass, translucent and reflective. I wondered what color her hair really was. Her eyes were aquamarine.

“Not great, thanks for asking. She refused to pick up her phone. I went to the hotel a couple of times but she told me to go away, stop stalking her. Charles looked really confused. Turns out he just met her at a party and thought it would be a lark to fly off to Paris with this madcap woman. Little did he bargain for her husband on the plane, staking out the hotel. He’s had his eyes opened, I’d say. Little Guinevere is not so transparent.”

“Her name is Guinevere? That’s hysterical. Who in America names their daughter Guinevere? Does that make you King Arthur?” She laughed a high sort of peal that was contagious and I laughed with her, possibly the first time in months. My jaw creaked, so unused were those particular muscles. I think my lip started bleeding from the strain. The old men looked on approvingly, especially as Ingrid smoked as if it were her lifeline. Claude had once said to me, “Women, they don’t like the smoke. They all against smoking as if they wake from a dream. Bah! Everyone smokes in Paris. It is one of the pleasures of life. Why we want to imitate the uptight Americans? Sorry, not you, man, you okay.”

It’s true I quit smoking; I come into Claude’s not just because my hotel is next door but because I think it has the best espresso in Paris. Maybe it’s the mix of tobacco, exotic spices and the finely roasted beans, but I am not the only one to feel this way. Claude has his regulars lining up for the coffee. Usually at about three in the afternoon, something draws me here. On Saturday I’ve taken to having a cigar with the regulars to put myself in good stead. After a month, I’ve established myself in the neighborhood and this café has been my base. “Guinevere and Charles are long gone,” I said. “Back to New York. I wonder if they’re still together? Guin can be a trip in herself, let me tell you.”

“But you want her back?”

There it was. “Yes, I want her back. Or I wanted her back. I suspect what I want is my old life. It was good, it was very good, Ingrid. You have no idea how much money you can earn working for a hedge fund. I had it all. Fantastic apartment overlooking the Hudson, a BMW and a Lexus, a private French chef to cater the dinner parties we gave weekly. We had use of a company plane, limited, but useful nevertheless, designer clothes, you would not believe to look at me, but I was usually seen in a Versace suit, Hermes tie, custom shoes, Armani this, Gucci that. We had flowers delivered daily, a growing wine collection, a grand piano, fuck all no one even played it. Exclusive memberships, high-flying nights on the town in all the best restaurants. You would not believe how much money I spent in one day. Growing up in Detroit I never dreamed life would be so extravagant. I expected to do well, that’s why I begged, borrowed and slaved my way through the University of Michigan and then Harvard. I planned big for myself, but this was of a quality undreamed of. Everyone was delirious. Six years out of college and living like this? Who knew? It was one grand party, I can tell you.”

With the silent leap of a sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy.

“Where does Lady Guinevere come into this, Sir Lancelot?” Her teasing encouraged me to go on. I found I wanted this audience, someone to help take the edge off. I wanted to look at my recent decline for what it was--the past. A joke to entertain my listeners with.

“When I married Guinevere, her father was a vice president in the firm I worked for. I met her at his house in Connecticut one weekend when we were all invited, or should I say, ordered to his place, or should I say palace? I didn’t want to go, I needed a break. I’d had a really rough week and planned to get some rest. Not to be. The old man dictated how we spent our weekend. That’s where I met Guin. I call her Guin but she is really not one for shortening, a real princess. I can honestly say, she made the play for me. I was a little older and intimidated by her father’s wealth.

After we married, a five-month courtship followed by a year planning a fucking wedding that drained the life out of me and her father, we were married to big fanfare with an all-expense-paid honeymoon to Cabo. Meanwhile we had spent months searching for the perfect apartment; it had to be perfect, God forbid we should have anything less. Three million minimum is what she said it would take. Can you imagine? She was in her fucking twenties. Oh the dejection when she learned the bank would only give a mortgage for a measly two million. That was going to mean three bathrooms instead of six. Oh, misery. So when the apartment was found, two point three mil--Daddy kicked in the rest, then came the decorators even though it was perfectly decorated when we bought it. I’m making it sound as if the princess ruled, she did, but I was right there going along with it all. I did have moments of shall we say, disquietude, but I was too busy, too full of myself to pay any attention. I would have been deemed insufficient if I even asked a simple question like, 'Where is all this taking us?' It was just a grab-bag of luxuries. One big piñata and we had to scramble for the treasures. Sometimes I wanted to say, 'What’s the rush?' But that would not have gone over well. It would indicate a slack worldview. Talk about your drunken boat.” I pointed to her book.

Ingrid still had that amused look on her face and was happily blowing smoke rings, sipping her wine, her feet propped up on her traveling case, settling in for the duration. She obviously appreciated a story. Not everyone does. Tell someone your troubles, your story and the ennui is palpable these days. We are all full of our own story.

“You haven't mentioned any kids.”

“When the apartment was finally selected, the decorator installed, with all the tension and stress only a New York princess can create, it was time to have kids. One year later, still no little ones and the rush was on to find out why. Once again, God forbid we should be deprived of anything. God forbid her father should be deprived of grandchildren, who by the way, is now up on charges of insider trading, money laundering and forgery. But before that, it was this doctor and that specialist and more irritation. Just when we started discussing 'our options,' possible procedures, the stock market went belly up. The feds took over, thousands of us were on the street in one day. Businesses evaporated overnight. Stocks tanked, layoffs were issued in bulk, equity extinguished, stock options worthless. New York was one wailing hellhole, let me tell you. You probably read all about it, watched the tragedy on TV. It wasn’t a joke. Women were hawking their Cartier, their Chanel, second homes were in foreclosure, add to that the biggest Ponzi scheme ever perpetrated, and you could hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth all the way out to Connecticut where we went to regroup in the immediate aftermath.

I steeled myself against justice. I fled. O witches, O misery, O hate, my treasure was left in your care!

“And not for a minute did she give way to any form of humor, not for a minute did she see any cosmic justice. It was hard to be ensconced with someone so seriously rattled. Of course, I took things that way too--at first. I mean, it was a revolting shock. We were in hock up to our eyeballs. Our precious apartment was losing value by the day. I wasn’t exactly rolling with mirth either. But hadn’t it all been a giant lark? Everyone had to know that. It couldn’t sustain itself. To be so naïve came to seem to me the height of dull-wittedness.” I was gulping the wine as if I were sipping a fine, smooth Bordeaux instead of a gut-wrenching local bottled by the gallon. I was on a roll. I had someone to tell my tale of woe to. I could tell by the rapt look on Ingrid’s face--she was utterly enthralled.

“I take it you did not altogether recover?

“Oh, not even partially. First of all, I could not get another job right away. There were no jobs in the immediate aftermath and when there was some semblance of the dust settling, it turns out the firm I was so proud to have been a part of, recently the subject of a glossy, over-hyped spread in the leading financial magazine, was under investigation so my glowing resume was now a chard of burnt pulp, worth nothing. My wife, so loving at first, so patient, so unwilling to believe the worst of the men in her life, went back to work in the meager hope of salvaging our apartment that was now unsellable until further notice. She had been an editor with a financial magazine but they knew her father was about to be big news so they declined her resume. A friend got her a job at a minor fashion magazine. Her salary wasn’t what it could have been if she hadn’t quit working to marry the 'big-shot hedge-fund broker,' as she so eloquently put it after reality set in. But she tried to put on a good face, I’ve got to give her credit. I was doing nothing but hitting a wall everywhere I went. The business recruiter was flooded with out-of- work drones in the financial sector and as I said, I was tainted goods”

I have withered within me all human hope. With the silent leap of a sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy.

“Crikey! What a mess. But it’s fascinating, Pete. I don’t mean to minimize what you went through but it really is just as interesting as anything I’ve ever heard. So then what happened?”

“Eventually I stopped looking for a job. I had a 'crisis', if you will. After my wife would shuttle off to work, I’d go back to bed. Oh, I pretended I had appointments, interviews, and at first I was hopeful but in time, I realized I was fooling myself. There wasn’t going to be a job in New York for some time to come and when I broached the subject of moving somewhere else, she shrieked with horror. Cried all night. Meanwhile my credit cards were maxed out, we couldn’t get a new mortgage because Guin’s salary alone wasn’t enough and both cars were repossessed. We were taking taxis until even that became too expensive and I had to take the subway. That’s when I’d hit the bars at noon. Do you know what it’s like to take the subway after the lifestyle we had? Unbelievable. I wanted to stay in bed all day but had to pretend for Guin who was becoming a shadow of her former self. She had to sell all of her jewelry, her clothes, oh the humiliation! I did too. We had a lot of stuff. Meaningless fucking junk in the end. All those baubles we thought were so necessary. Oh, how we shopped. Two giddy idiots running from store to store. I’m embarrassed to think about how trivial was our daily life. How utterly wasteful.”

I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their gun butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and blood.

“So you hit the skids, wife divorcing you and now you’re in Paris, hiding out? Interesting. But what I think is more interesting is what you will do. What are your plans, if I may ask? You don‘t strike me as someone who does nothing. Did you really start drinking?”

Unhappiness has been my god. I have lain down in the mud, and dried myself off in the crime-infested air. I have played the fool to the point of madness.

“For a short time. New York bars were full of depressed ex-millionaires all tanking in various ways. I’d come home blitzed, and I might add, obnoxious as hell, just as my wife arrived from her day in the salt mines. By the way, what does it strike you I will do? I’m curious. I’ve no idea, you see.”

“You will write a book.”

“Oh, that’s rich. And what will this book be on? What gems of truth do I carry within?”

“You will find your truth. Just wait and watch. It will come to you, Pete. I’m certain. Meanwhile, where are you staying? In the neighborhood? By the way, where are we, I really am lost?” She giggled and glanced out the window and seeing her reflection, put a few strands of hair in place.

“We’re on the border between the 5th and the 6th, close to the Luxembourg Gardens. I’m in the hotel right next door, to be exact. How about yourself?”

I’m in the 2nd. In a friend of my sister’s flat--tiny, dirty with many steps.”

I had been doing all the talking. It was time to reciprocate and get to Ingrid’s story. “Tell me about you. You mentioned a husband?”

“I have a husband who is a professor of mathematics at a small college, a daughter who is away at school. I am what is called a bored housewife. I am so bored, I pocketed money and came to Paris against my husband’s wishes. I had to get away. There is nothing more to my story than that. I’m a cliché. I married young, did not get to see much of anything, do much of anything and now I’m fed up, restless and dissatisfied. I'm jealous of my sister because she lives in London, is single, travels, follows rock bands around, goes to clubs, art gallery openings, the theatre and I’m positively green with envy. I think I might like to write a book but haven’t the foggiest notion of what my gems of truth might be only that someone told me to watch and wait and the idea would come. I pass that homily to you for what it’s worth. Use it how you will.”

“I am a bigger cliché, Ingrid. My story wreaks of predictability not to mention vanity. The fallen titan. Only I wasn’t any where near that stature though my poor father-in-law will have stories to tell. In court, unfortunately. Do you love your husband?”

“Do you love your wife?”

“Hard to say now.”

“That’s right. It’s hard to say. Life gets in the way and you get confused. I’ll leave the question unanswered, if you don’t mind. Would I like to come up to your room? Yes, I think I might, if you would ask me.”

And springtime brought me the frightful laugh of an idiot. Now recently, when I found myself ready to croak! I thought to seek the key to the banquet of old, where I might find an appetite again.

The wine had flowed, our hearts had been revealed. We left Claude’s and I took her to dinner at Polidor, founded in 1845, a place Rimbaud himself allegedly frequented. Ingrid stayed with me for the remainder of her visit, extended by a few days, and we had great fun exploring, eating, drinking and talking among other more torpid pastimes. I was sorry when she left. I drove her, her faux-fur, her sister’s traveling case, a larger suitcase and a carton of American cigarettes to the airport in a rented car, she wearing a jaunty blue hat I picked out for her on the Boulevard St. Michel.

We agreed to keep in touch. She never stopped talking about my future book, as a thing already complete. She said everything has already happened--it just takes time to show itself. She read books on metaphysics and was a fount of information on arcane matters I’d normally rebuff. She believes she was a disciple of Gurdjieff in her last life. I knew nothing of him but we visited a Middle-Eastern restaurant he held court in. She is herself something of a fallen angel and Claude never tires of asking about her. “You find a lady in Claude’s, I tell everyone. Ladies still come to Claude’s.” He was very proud of this. “Maybe she come back soon, No good to be lonely in Paris.”

“You will stay a hyena,...," shouts the demon who once crowned me with such pretty poppies. Ah! I've taken too much of that: - still, dear Satan, don't look so annoyed, I beg you!

I did write a book. It took two years of watching and waiting and working a job beneath my education and experience as a copy editor on the American desk of a financial journal here in Paris. I didn’t mind. I blew through my Euros pretty fast, then after the divorce, sold some tech stock that did better than anyone dreamed. Turned out my little cut of our worldly goods, paltry stocks Guinevere agreed to relinquish since she got everything else, turned out to be the better deal. She’s got an apartment too expensive to keep in a market too bearish to sell. I got stocks in a startup that dodged all the bullets and raced forward unexpectedly.

My little book, 'philosophical econ,' it was deemed in the press, was well received and made a little money due to its timeliness. I was never really cut out for the high life. I would have faltered eventually. My father-in-law once accused me of having an "inconvenient" moral streak incompatible with finance. My life is simple; a small apartment near Claude’s and a dog of unspecified pedigree. I’m reasonably content. Ingrid comes over every six months or when she can get away. She wrote a mystical story for children that is doing well but as she is wont to say, “It’s no Harry Potter.” She claims I was her muse. She loves reminding me how she saw my book before I did. She’s endlessly fascinated by the quirks of fate.

You see I have written my story with a happy ending, something I would never have expected that day sitting in Claude's with my ennui and loss: Happy endings are for Hollywood. Ingrid brought some immediate relief but my troubles continued and I do not confuse happiness with a lack of terror. I went back to New York, a more inhospitable place to be found, called to testify in my father-in-law's trial and under a great deal of pressure to not only remember, but remember to truthfulness, a commodity hard to fix. I could not recall much of what had gone on the year previous to the firm's demise--that manic, dreamlike last grasp at plunder where truth was considered bad form. I was threatened with jail-time for my vague and useless testimony.

Meanwhile, my ex-wife Guinevere thought I was a hero for protecting her father and let up with her divorce demands and settled things amicably. Despite giving her everything there was left to give, it had not been deemed enough. Her inability to face reality put me in the position of a court jester: I joked, I ridiculed, I scorned and then phoned Ingrid to anchor myself. This chapter in my life; courts, threats, lawyers, settlements, grievances...a year of my life taken from me, ended when I boarded a plane for Paris.

And while waiting for a few belated cowardices, since you value in a writer all lack of descriptive or didactic flair, I pass you these few foul pages from the diary of a Damned Soul.

Ah, Rimbaud. Are we all damned? I think not. Some of us survive despite our cowardice. The world passes through its cycles--its season in hell--and we live to see old age, shouting at demons. They say the economy is recovering, the stock market is making a rebound. The financiers are gleefully rubbing their hands with pride and the avarice. It all begins again.

Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed…