My American Unhappiness (25 page)

"Today I was going to go for six miles. The Arboretum loop. Have you run that?"

"Sure. Sure."

It's a little hard to run and talk.

She starts to pick up the pace again.

"You warm?" she says.

"Yes."

My ankles feel as if they may snap, and my heart is swollen with effort. I can feel it pounding in my rib cage.

Elizabeth gets a little farther ahead of me.

She hangs back, it seems, so I sprint to catch her and then blow by her. She runs faster. Soon we are laughing and racing through the Arboretum path, but then I fall over. I can't breathe.

"Oh, my God," Elizabeth says. I start to get up and stop when she stands over me and puts a hand on my back. "Are you okay?"

I am breathing very hard, but I manage a smile.

"I lied," I say. "I hate running."

She laughs so hard she nearly doubles over. "I thought so."

"See you tonight?" I wheeze.

"You bet," she says. "We'll celebrate. As of five thirty
P.M.
yesterday, I'm officially divorced!"

And then takes off running at a delirious speed, running so fast that she doesn't have time to turn around and see the delirious grin that spreads across my face.

I'm surprised by how much I like Elizabeth's sense of humor, which is something I hadn't really known about when she was just my married neighbor. In fact, I always had considered her somewhat humorless—she often looked tired and annoyed. When Rod would speak to me, small talk in the front yard, she always seemed impatient, as if the conversation was killing her. Perhaps she just was annoyed by her husband. Perhaps it had nothing to do with me.

Back home, I shower, taking a few extra moments to bask in a lustful fantasy of showering with my newly outgoing neighbor, and then I go off for my coffee meeting with poor H. M. Logan. Before I am about to ask people for money, I am flooded with many warm feelings toward them; I wonder, somehow, if this is an evolutionary trait, somewhat akin to the feelings dogs have for their masters just before breakfast.

I'm a bit late when I arrive at Starbucks, but H. M. is still waiting for me, a paper cup of coffee in front of him. He is wearing sunglasses, sitting at a corner table near the window, facing out toward the store. I wave to him, wave my index finger in the air to tell him I'll just be a minute, order a house blend with room for cream, and join H. M. at the table.

There must be thirty-five people in the Starbucks that morning, and the café is rich with the din of people hitting their caffeinated stride in the early hours of the weekend. Laughter, spirited discussions, exuberant exclamations into cell phones. It is quite uplifting.

I sit across from H. M. I do not like having my back to the rest of the café, mainly because there are so many beautiful women in trendy, neat apparel coming and going today, but I am late, and it would be bad fundraising form to ask to switch seats with H. M.

"Good morning," I say. "I'm sorry I'm a bit late."

"Look at me," H. M. says. He removes his sunglasses. Each of his eyes is bloodied and bruised, nearly swollen shut. He looks like a boxer after a tenth-round loss.

"My God," I say. "What happened?"

"I was beaten in the parking ramp last night, near the Hilton."

"Did you call the police? Who did this?"

"Zeke," he says. "What did you tell people? People are after me."

"Nothing, H. M. I asked you to have coffee so I could talk about finances. See, I need to hire somebody."

H. M. stands up and walks away from me, without a word. I watch him go out the front door. I hear a small clicking sound to my left, and I look, and suddenly, seated at the table next to me, is Farnsworth. Clipping his fingernails.

"Morning, Zeke," he says.

He slides the nail clippers into the pocket of his jacket.

"Are you behind that?" I ask. "What in the world are you after?"

"We're not violent people, Zeke," he says. "We would not ever do that."

"Why did he leave so suddenly then? He must have seen you."

"I'm offended that you would even suggest Mr. Logan was assaulted by somebody from the federal government. I think Mr. Logan has some other problems, much more substantial ones, than a bunch of midlevel Washington bureaucrats. Keep your eyes on the headlines."

"I have to go find him," I say. "He's probably outside sobbing. Look, don't drag him into this mess. The guy is an emotional cripple. Why wreck his life? What are you after?"

"Truth. Justice. The American Way," Farnsworth says. "So long, Zeke."

With that, he stands and heads for the door.

I notice the bulbous-nosed Clinton-esque figure in the proverbial opposite corner, scribbling away on a yellow legal pad. Before I leave, I stop by his table. I point at both my eyes and then point my two fingers at him, a gesture that I think means "I'm watching you, pal."

That afternoon, I'm unable to resist the impulse to make the drive out to the far west side Starbucks. But, alas, still no Minn in sight. Still no answer at her door. And just like that, my neighbor, Elizabeth Vandeweghe, becomes my number-one prospect.

A
T SIX O'CLOCK
on Saturday evening, Elizabeth and I walk up the street to a new Belgian bistro that has been open for several months, but that neither of us has tried yet. Inside, we find a dark, oaky interior and are led back to a small alcove, where we have all the privacy we could ever want. I am wearing blue jeans and a gray cotton half-zip pullover over a blue oxford. She is wearing jeans, very flattering jeans, and a tight sweater of red cashmere. She also has on a feminine-looking brown blazer. She has a wonderful collarbone and her sweater is considerably liberal in its exposure of cleavage. Her blond hair is styled as always, simply, tucked behind her ears, a part on the side. She wears earrings but otherwise doesn't look like a woman who is trying too hard, which is good.

"Geez," I say, after the host leaves to fetch us some water. "I feel like a mob boss. Could this table be any more private?"

"It's nice," she says. "I don't want to see any of the other Monroe Street mommies tonight and explain what I am doing with you."

"They know you're separated, right?"

"Yeah. Most people don't believe it. They all think Rod is great."

I smile.

"But I want to talk about something besides Rod. And kids. Okay?"

"Fine with me. Rod is a dick."

She laughs. "No. No, he's not."

"You should feel free to think so," I say. "You should feel free to move on with hate and bitterness. It's the only way!"

I like how she leans in and tells me I'm hilarious. "You crack me up," she says. "I don't think I know anybody else like you."

"Oh, I'm exceedingly common. But I'm going to try this beer I can't pronounce," I say. "It's thirteen dollars and I have to try a thirteen-dollar beer."

"Thirteen bucks?"

When the waiter comes by, I order two thirteen-dollar beers.

"Was that okay? That I ordered for you?"

"I actually prefer wine," she says. "But let me try this beer."

When the thirteen-dollar beer arrives, I find it delicious. As does Elizabeth.

Thirteen-dollar Belgian beers are quite potent, it turns out. Elizabeth and I walk, arm in arm, down Monroe Street and she suggests we walk to the lake. It's a cool night, and we huddle together out of both drunkenness and cold. The stars are out and when we get to the lake, she leaning in so close to me that I can feel her heartbeat, we sit on a bench and look up at the sky.

"I wish I knew the constellations better," she says. "I wish I had taken astronomy in college. I always was fascinated by the stars and planets."

"What did you major in?"

"French."

"Ah, the humanities!" I say.

"
Oui,
" she says.

"Well," I say, pointing to a star ahead of us, over the lake, "that star is called Cyberius, and he is the guard dog of those stars called the Daphnes."

"Wow. Cool."

"And that cluster over there?" I say. "That's Plebius and if you look closely, the constellation that he is a part of—the Magodons—looks like a dragon."

"Yeah?"

"And there is Honduras, god of mischief."

"You're making this up," she says. "You asshole."

I smile. We watch the stars for a moment, laughing.

She cuddles in closer.

"This is really weird, don't you think?" she says.

"What?"

She sits up.

"This," she says. "You and me. I mean, we've lived next door to each other for like five years."

I look at her. Quizzically. "Is something wrong with that?"

"Well, you've always been the friendly, sort of quirky guy next door. A loner. I mean, the kind of guy, Rod used to say, that people talk about on the news after some unspeakable tragedy occurs. You know,
Well, he was a nice man. Kind of quiet. Kept to himself.
"

"He said that?"

"Well, like you said, Zeke, he's kind of a dick."

"Do you think I'm a psychopath?"

"No. Not at all. It's just that I never thought of you much one way or another. I liked you. I thought you were good-looking, but, well, women are different. I don't think we imagine everyone as a potential mate the way men do. Men look at every woman as a potential sex object."

"I'm offended by that," I say, smiling.

"You never once considered what it might be like to, you know, be with me?"

"Well, sure," I say. "You're attractive. You dress well. You have six-pack abs."

"I don't."

"Close. I've seen you running."

"Ha."

"So, is this
too
weird?"

"Not at all," she says. "It's nice."

This is when we start to kiss. We kiss well. We kiss long. Her hands roam, against my chest, my thighs. My hands roam too. I kiss her neck. "Kiss my ears," she says.

I do and she sighs little moans into my ears. An ear woman. Ear women tend to be fairly easy to please, sexually, in my opinion. She runs her hands tantalizingly close to my rigid member. And this is when I whisper in her ear, "I want to fuck you outside."

She stops.

"What did you say?"

"I said I want to fuck you outside." She stops, shrinks back from me. "Why did you say that?"

"Because it's true."

"That's a weird thing to say. On a first date."

"I just, I just thought..."

She stands up. "Tell me the truth, Zeke. Why did you say that? Why did you say it like that?" I just look up at her. "Don't lie, Zeke." I can't tell her.

"You heard Rod and me fighting that night, you were listening, weren't you?"

"What?"

"You did," she says. She is sort of laughing now, in disbelief, so I decide, What the hell.

"Okay, I did. I heard you say, 'We've never fucked outside.'"

"And you tried to use that line on me? You thought that would have made me melt?"

I stop talking.

Elizabeth walks away. When I stand up, she kicks off her heeled boots and holds them in her hand. And then starts to run across the grass of Wingra Park, as fast as she can in jeans and no shoes.

I do try to knock on her door when I get back to Commonwealth Avenue, but she doesn't answer. I know my limits. I don't push it. I go home.

I wake up late on Sunday morning, hung-over yet again, and look out the window but see no sign of movement at the Vandeweghes'. I walk down to the independent neighborhood café for some coffee, but my triple-shot cappuccino is horribly done. The espresso tastes of ashes and there is far too much milk in my cup. I inform the assistant manager that Starbucks, of all places, knows how to make a cappuccino the right way, and perhaps they should consider going for training.

"Go fuck yourself," the manager says, which seems an overreaction to some constructive criticism. But, alas, it's a sensitive world, I suppose, more sensitive than I would ever imagine.

"This shit tastes like Kwik Trip shit," I say, and I open my coffee and dump it on the floor.

Exit Zeke.

The truth is, I thought Elizabeth would have taken my "fuck outside" comment as some sort of mystical confirmation from the universe that I was the soulmate she longed for—I really thought it was a winning play.

But, of course, it wasn't.

It's probably safe to say that I can move Elizabeth off my prospect list. This means that my other prospects require immediate attention. I hop the bus to Fitchburg.

Once again, Minn is not working at the Starbucks, but I sit and linger for a few hours, drinking a well-made cappuccino, picking at an overly sweet blueberry muffin, and reading the morning papers. I wait until three, wondering if Minn might come in for a late shift, but, alas, she still is absent. I finish my muffin and the last of my beverage, neatly refold the newspaper so it can be used by another customer, and then walk over to the drab, suburban apartment complex where Minn lives. I pick a random apartment number and buzz, receiving no answer. Then I buzz a second one, and a sleepy woman's voice answers. "I have a registered letter for you," I say, "from the Madison Police Department."

"What is it?" she asks.

"I don't know, ma'am. But you have to sign for it."

"Come on up," she says, and the security lock unlatches and I am inside the complex. Minn's apartment is on the third floor, and the woman I've buzzed is on the second floor, so I take the elevator, hoping not to be greeted by a sleepy woman expecting a letter. I knock on Minn's door with a gentle rasp. I wait thirty seconds and knock again. After my third knock, quite forceful, I break the door in with my shoulder, which is surprisingly easy. No deadbolt. And I discover that Minn's apartment is completely empty, except for a black garbage bag full of packing materials, and the random dross of a hurried move—magazine reply cards, scattered pennies, one stray gray sock.

M
ONDAY MORNING,
after a brief and uneventful stop at the Hospice Center—Mother was sleeping—I find that there is a memo from Lara taped to the computer monitor on my desk.