Bright Before Us (23 page)

Goddamnit,
I said, quietly enough that no one could hear me over the music. I turned toward the stairs to go salvage what I could, to at least find my keys. The alley was deserted. I put my beer can in a brown paper bag I found lying on the ground. My knees buckled and I leaned against the building. Suddenly I realized I had put my beer in the bag upside down: I had a paper bag full of loose beer, the can bobbing like a merry buoy. The paper gave, the bag bursting as I leaned over the pavement, my insides beginning to stage their escape.

 

I made it back into the apartment, and then to the bathroom. There, I unbuttoned my pants and collapsed on the toilet, confused. I had forgotten what was so urgent. Vertigo reset my vision every two seconds, my sight
jerking to the left, then snapping back like a typewriter beginning a new line: six inches of that bathroom on endless loop.
Francis,
you said through the door. I let all of it go on the white rug at my feet, belatedly picking up the garbage bin and holding it to my face. The papery wads from the trash attached to my wet mouth: someone's Kleenex. I dropped the bin and it clattered. The noise brought you into the bathroom.

Oh God,
you said.

It was the voice of someone tasting something bitter; it was distilled disappointment in crystal audio. Hearing you caused a sensation inside me like my diaphragm was shrinking. It was the kind of regret I really miss sometimes: hyper-present but soon forgotten—preferable to the kind that hums under the surface, refusing to die.

You don't do everything wrong,
I said.
I do.
I was sticky with sweat, reeking of spilled beer. My naked lap stared up at you.
Weren't you drunker than me?
I slurred.
I could have sworn you were totally—

I vomited again, into the sink this time, which was inches from the toilet. You smeared your hand across my forehead. I said it again—
I do everything wrong
—because I wasn't sure you had captured the statement's full impact: it included everything.
So if you want to live with me,
I said,
you're a fucking idiot.

You knelt and put your arms around my middle. I had the most comforting thought: She'll take me home. She'll drive me home the way I've driven her before; we'll turn down her street, pull into her driveway, and walk up her steps. Our steps. The house where we live. We'll wake up next to each other. She is in control.
Thank you,
I said in advance.

Greta's here,
you whispered, like we were siblings hiding from mom and dad.

My head was a hundred-pound weight. I leaned toward the sink again, gripped by a burning heave.
I can't care about this right now,
I choked.

Someone tapped shave and a haircut on the door.

Occupied,
you called.

Open up,
Greta said, muffled.
One of you open up, please.

Francis,
you whispered.
You've got a situation here.

The hell I do.
I wiped the sting from inside my nose.
What is there to say?

It smelled vicious in there. Your eyes were soft.

Greta knocked again.
Frank, I need to talk to you right now.

I forgot she calls you Frank,
you whispered.

You winced.
Hey, Greta. Francis is a little sick right now.

The voice beyond the door turned sour.
I've been a little sick lately myself.

Your eyes shot to the floor.

 

I don't remember the connecting scenes—between when Greta left me shaking in the hallway and when you and I headed home. It's a rare gap in my memory. I could attribute that missing piece to the booze, if I were being generous to myself. But the truth is, I would rather not recall.

I didn't have to tell you what Greta had said. Why else would she show up at my roommate's girlfriend's party—they disliked each other intensely—so confident, so certain I would listen? You knew that that kind of assurance, in her, could only
be born of necessity. You knew she had something to tell me—something compelling enough to get my attention.

What else could it have been.

 

What I do remember is that as you drove us home you were pretending not to cry.

Don't cry, Nora
, I said.

June 15,
I said.

I found your car keys,
you said.

I shoved them back into my pocket.
When did you go find them?

You sniffed.
I have the same birthday as Wade Boggs and Sam Giancana.

I dried the tear trails on your cheek.
I know this changes everything, but I still want to be with you, Nora.

I know,
you said flatly.

The sidewalks were clogged, the traffic apocalyptic, though the clock on the dash said it was close to three. A guy in a Groucho Marx costume darted in front of the car.
Fuck!
you shouted, flattening the brake pedal. You leaned back, eyes wide.
That asshole!

It's okay,
I said.

That fucking Groucho!
you hollered, starting to laugh. You wiped your nose with the back of your wrist.

I put my hand on your leg.
You know who was born on my birthday?

Yeah,
you said,
I looked you up too. Thurman Munson, for one. God, I can't believe he just ran out in front of me like that! And Tom Jones. But you know who the best one is? Seriously, you're so lucky.

Who?
I said.

I guess I am pretty lucky.
I emitted a clenching little laugh.
I'm about the luckiest guy I know.

Your face went dark. We turned onto your unlit street.
On the day you were born,
you said,
they opened Graceland to the public.

Can you see the bathroom where he died?
I said.

You pulled into the driveway and shut off the headlights.
That's the one thing they won't show you.

 

You had left the heater on in the house and the place was scorching.
We're in the desert,
you said.
We're sub-Saharan in here.

I blasted the air-conditioning, calling over my shoulder,
We'll make it freezing and it'll even out.

I'm right here,
you said, from behind me. I jumped. You put your arms around my middle, resting your head on my back. I held you in a backward hug, and then turned to kiss the bony part of your cheek. You didn't look me in the face. You were looking at my body.

I'll probably be a disappointment,
I said.

I'm kind of a virgin,
you said.

A beat passed.
Then I'll definitely be a disappointment.

Everything but,
you said.

I rested my chin on your head. The thermostat finally kicked over to cool, a frigid breeze rushing through the vent at our feet.
I anticipate freaking out,
I said.

You looked at our shoes.
Ditto.

You pinched me and said,
You won't.

 

I remember, from above you, my fingers grazing your stomach. I had lifted your top, soft as tissue, laying it on your rib cage. I said,
Your skin is so soft.
I said it with incredulity, as though nothing had ever been that soft: as though it were an illusion. We were still clothed. You said,
I won't turn you down,
the tendons in your hand taut as you gripped the mattress edge. I said,
I don't know if we should.
I was afraid for a million reasons. I said,
I'm afraid for a million reasons.
I stretched out beside you and lifted the elastic lip of your blue panties. My wristwatch caught against the stiff waistband of your jeans. Your hips were moving against my forearm. You whispered something and I stopped to hear it, saying,
What, I couldn't hear?
You said, smiling,
I said ‘Don't stop.'
I stopped, to put a finger in my mouth. I said into your shoulder,
I want to be inside you,
repeating it like a prayer. Everything felt inevitable: prefabricated, like the cosmos had snatched us by our necks and dropped us there. I said,
I just want ...
but couldn't finish my sentence. I thought, I wouldn't even need to move. I would be inside you, not moving, and I would bury my face in your neck and hide.
Are you going to take your glasses off?
you said, smiling. I was suddenly immobile. I could no longer make my arms move, my fingers. You said,
Don't think about anything else.
You said,
Where are you? Stay with me.
But I could only think about everything else.
I won't turn you down,
you said again, as the moment slipped through our hands.

I woke up in my clothes. On the opposite wall was a seascape in a filigreed frame. Where the larger waves crested there was a concentration of pale yellow, reflecting an absent sun. But the tips of the whitecaps were hypoxic, icy blue, as though the scene were between day and dark, lit simultaneously by sun and moonlight. Your head crushed my bicep, the hard part of your jaw pressing the skin. You were half-naked in your parents' bed. I willed you to open your eyes. When you did you pawed at your puffy face and grabbed my wrist. It took you a while to tell the time on my watch.

You sat up, covering yourself with an arm.
I guess City Hall is where you go to do this, right?

I leaned against the headboard.
You're serious.

You pulled your arm away, baring your body.

I squinted.
Do I?
I said.

You listen to me,
you said.

I can't help it,
I said.
I'm captivated by what you say.

Pretend for a moment that we don't get married. Pretend we decide
—you stood up, putting on your underwear—
that this isn't a good idea; that we shouldn't be together.
You scanned the floor for clothes.
We break up and it's over, we're not friends anymore. I can't do that.

No matter what happens,
I said,
I will never not know you.

You stepped into your pants.
That's an impossible promise.

The pitch of your voice rose.
Do you really think we'll find people we like better?

This is totally illogical,
I said.

I buried my face in a pillow.
Whose side of the bed was this? Your mom's?

My dad's,
you said.

No,
I said into the pillow.
I'll never like anybody as much.

As I lifted my face, you bent down and found your shirt, your hair falling over your eyes. You began to put the shirt over your head, your face hidden inside it as you said,
Put your shoes on.
You straightened up, smoothed your clothes, and pushed in the pockets of your jeans.
Put your shoes on if you want to marry me.

 

The sun outside was cheerful, bracing. We were on Van Ness, City Hall in dead sight, when you said,
I don't know about this, Francis.

I braked at a stop sign and closed my eyes, pausing long enough for the cars to begin honking behind us.

Go, Francis,
you said.
What're you doing?

I panicked, putting the car in park.
I don't care,
I said.
I don't care about Greta. Who knows if she's even pregnant? She could be lying. I want to marry you. Okay? People can get married when they're twenty-two.

You glanced at the swearing drivers behind us.

She could be lying,
I said.
She could be full of shit.

I'm just saying I don't want to get married here,
you said.
Because of Harvey Milk.
You pointed toward the
ridged rotunda, the severe, spiked steeple.
I just remembered he died in there. And Moscone. I can't get married in there.

A car pulled past us.
Asshole!
the driver shouted.

I smiled, relieved. I knew what I wanted, and it was what you wanted, and the day felt young. I hit the gas and flipped a U-turn in the intersection, a crescendo of horns rising like trumpets, heralding our good news.

I became aware of my wedding ring, silver and real on the hand holding the steering wheel, somewhere in Nevada. I could turn back now and still be able to explain, I thought. My suitcase contained no photographs, no mementos. I had brought only clothing, a toothbrush, and the meager contents of my wallet. The finer bureaucratic concerns—my birth certificate, past tax returns, account numbers—were left behind. Fuck them: they had brought me only grief. The silver pocket watch Greta had given me on our wedding day I had placed on the bureau we shared. I left no note. Carrying the suitcase, I had crept through our bedroom that morning, stepping toward my worn white car. Greta had been up early. I had come home the night before, had attempted an apology she was wise to ignore. When I left she was standing in the shower, eight to ten hours away from the moment, I imagine, that she began to worry—or, more
probably, that she cursed my name, understanding what I had done.