The Collected Stories of Lorrie Moore (27 page)

mack has moved
so much in his life that every phone number he comes across seems to him to be one he's had before. "I swear this used to be
my
number," he says, putting the car into park and pointing at the guidebook: 923-7368. The built-in cadence of a phone number always hits him the same personal way: like something familiar but lost, something momentous yet insignificant—like an act of love with a girl he used to date.

"Just call," says Quilty. They are off Route 55, at the first McDonald's outside of Chicago. They are on a vacation, a road trip, a "pile stuff in and go" kind of thing. Quilty has been singing movie themes all afternoon, has gotten fixated on "To Sir with Love," and he and Mack now seemed destined to make each other crazy: Mack passing buses too quickly while fumbling for more gum (chewing the sugar out fast, stick by stick), and Quilty, hunched over the glove compartment, in some purple-faced strain of emotion brought on by the line "Those schoolgirl days of telling tales and biting nails are gone."

"I would be a genius now," Quilty has said three times already, "if only I'd memorized Shakespeare instead of Lulu."

"If only," says Mack. Mack himself would be a genius now if only he had been born a completely different person. But what could you do? He'd read in a magazine once that geniuses were born only to women over thirty; his own mother had been twenty-nine. Damn! So fucking close!

"Let's just get a hotel reservation someplace and take a bath-oil bath," Quilty says now. "And don't dicker. You're always burning up lime trying to get a bargain."

"That's so wrong?"

Quilty grimaces. "I don't like what comes after 'dicker.'"

"What is that?"

Quilty sighs. "
Dickest
. I mean, really: it's not a contest!" Quilty turns to feel for Guapo, his Seeing Eye dog, a chocolate Lab too often left panting in the backseat of the car while they stop for coffee. "Good dog, good dog, yes." A "bath-oil bath" is Quilty's idea of how to end a good day as well as a bad. "Tomorrow, we'll head south, along the Mississippi, then to New Orleans, and then back up to the ducks at the Peabody Hotel at the end. Does that sound okay?"

"If that's what you want to do, fine," says Mack.

they had met
only two years ago at the Tapston, Indiana, Sobriety Society. Because he was new in town, recently up from some stupid quickie job painting high-voltage towers in the south of the state, and suddenly in need of a lawyer, Mack phoned Quilty the next day. "I was wondering if we could strike a deal," Mack had said. "One old drunk to another."

"Perhaps," said Quilty. He may have been blind and a recovering drinker, but with the help of his secretary, Martha, he had worked up a decent legal practice and did not give his services away for free. Good barter, however, he liked. It made life easier for a blind man. He was, after all, a practical person. Beneath all his eccentricities, he possessed a streak of pragmatism so sharp and deep that others mistook it for sanity.

"I got myself into a predicament," Mack explained. He told Quilty how difficult it was being a housepainter, new in town to boot, and how some of these damn finicky housewives could never be satisfied with what was true professional work, and how, well, he had a lawsuit on his hands. "I'm being sued for sloppy house painting, Mr. Stein. But the only way I can pay you is in more house painting. Do you have a house that needs painting?"

"Bad house painting as both the accusation and the retainer?" Quilty hooted. He loved a good hoot—it brought Guapo to his side. "That's like telling me you're wanted for counterfeiting but you can pay me in cash."

"I'm sorry," said Mack.

"It's all right," Quilty said. He took Mack's case, got him out of it as best he could—"the greatest art in the world," Quilty told the judge at the settlement hearing, "has been known to mumble at the edges"—then had Mack paint his house a clear, compensatory, cornflower blue. Or was it, suggested a neighbor, in certain streaky spots
delphinium
?. At lunchtime, Quilty came home from his office up the street and stopped in the driveway, Guapo heeled at his feet, Mack above them on the ladder humming some mournful Appalachian love song, or a jazzed-up version of "Taps." Why "Taps"? "It's the town we live in," Mack would later explain, "and it's the sound of your cane."

Day is done. Gone the sun.

"How we doing there, Mack?" asked Quilty. His dark hair was long and bristly as rope, and he often pulled on it while speaking. "The neighbors tell me my bushes are all blue."

"A little dripping couldn't be avoided," Mack said unhappily. He never used tarps, the way other painters did. He didn't even own any.

"Well, doesn't offend me," said Quilty, tapping meaningfully at his sunglasses.

But afterward, painting the side dormer, Mack kept hearing Quilty inside, on the phone with a friend, snorting in a loud horselaugh: "Hey, what do J know?
I
have blue bushes!"

Or "I'm having the shrubs dyed blue: the nouveau riche—look out—will always be with you."

When the house was almost finished, and oak leaves began to accumulate on the ground in gold-and-ruby piles the color of pears, and the evenings settled in quickly and disappeared into that long solvent that was the beginning of a winter night, Mack began to linger and stall—over coffee and tea, into dinner, then over coffee and tea again. He liked to watch Quilty move deftly about the kitchen, refusing Mack's help, fixing simple things—pasta, peas, salads, bread and butter. Mack liked talking with him about the Sobriety Society meetings, swapping stories about those few great benders that sat in their memories like gorgeous songs and those others that had just plain wrecked their lives. He watched Quilty's face as fatigue or fondness spilled and rippled across it. Quilty had been born blind and had never acquired the guise and camouflage of the sighted; his face remained unclenched, untrained, a clean canvas, transparent as a baby's gas, clear to the bottom of him. In a face so unguarded and unguarding, one saw one's own innocent self—and one sometimes recoiled.

But Mack found he could not go away—not entirely. Not really. He helped Quilty with his long hair, brushing it back for him and gathering it in a leather tie. He brought Quilty gifts lifted from secondhand stores downtown. A geography book in Braille. A sweater with a small coffee stain on the arm—was that too mean? Cork coasters for Quilty's endless cups of tea.

"I am gratefully beholden, my dear," Quilty had said each time, speaking, as he sometimes did, like a goddamn Victorian valentine and touching Mack's sleeve. "You are the kindest man I've ever had in my house."

And perhaps because what Quilty knew best were touch and words, or perhaps because Mack had gone through a pig's life of everything tearing at his feelings, or maybe because the earth had tilted into shadow and cold and the whole damned future seemed dipped in that bad ink, one night in the living room, after a kiss that took only Mack by surprise, and even then only slightly, Mack and Quilty became lovers.

Still, there were times it completely baffled Mack. How had he gotten here? What soft punch in the mouth had sent him reeling to this new place?

Uncertainty makes for shyness, and shyness, Quilty kept saying, is what keeps the world together. Or, rather, is what
used
to keep the world together, used to keep it from going mad with chaos. Now—now!—was a different story.

A different story? "I don't like stories," said Mack. "I like food. I like car keys." He paused. "I like pretzels."

"Okaaaay," said Quilty, tracing the outline of his own shoulder and then Mack's.

"You do this a lot, don't you?" asked Mack.

"Do what? Upgrade in the handyman department?"

"Bring into your bed some big straight guy you think's a little dumb."

"I never do that. Never have." He cocked his head to one side. "Before." With his flat almond-shaped fingertips, he played Mack's arm like a keyboard. "Never before. You are my big sexual experiment."

"But you see, you're
my
big sexual experiment," insisted Mack. In his life before Quilty, he could never have imagined being in bed with a skinny naked guy wearing sunglasses. "So how can that be?"

"Honey, it foes."

"But someone's got to be in charge. How can both of us survive on some big experimental adventure? Someone's got to be steering the ship."

"Oh, the ship be damned. We'll be fine. We are in this thing together. It's luck. It's God's will. It's synchronicity! Serendipity! Kismet! Camelot! Annie, honey, Get Your Fucking Gun!" Quilty was squealing.

"My ex-wife's name is Annie," said Mack.

"I know, I know. That's why I said it," said Quilty, trying now not to sigh. "Think of it this way: the blind leading the straight. It can work. It's not impossible."

In the mornings, the phone rang too much, and it sometimes annoyed Mack. Where were the pretzels and the car keys when you really needed them? He could see that Quilty knew the exact arm's distance to the receiver, picking it up in one swift pluck. "Are you
sans
or
avec?"
Quilty's friends would ask. They spoke loudly and theatrically—as if to a deaf person—and Mack could always hear.

"
Avec"
Quilty would say.

"Oooooh," they would coo. "And how
is
Mr. Avec today?"

"You should move your stuff in here," Quilty finally said to Mack one night.

"Is that what you want?" Mack found himself deferring in ways that were unfamiliar to him. He had never slept with a man before, that was probably it—though years ago there had been those nights when Annie'd put on so much makeup and leather, her gender seemed up for grabs: it had been oddly attractive to Mack, self-sufficient; it hadn't required him and so he'd wanted to get close, to get next to it, to learn it, make it need him, take it away, make it die. Those had been strange, bold nights, a starkness between them that was more like an ancient bone-deep brawl than a marriage. But ultimately, it all remained unreadable for him, though reading, he felt, was not a natural thing and should not be done to people. In general, people were not road maps. People were not hieroglyphs or books. They were not stories. A person was a collection of accidents. A person was an infinite pile of rocks with things growing underneath. In general, when you felt a longing for love, you took a woman and possessed her gingerly and not too hopefully until you finally let go, slept, woke up, and she eluded you once more. Then you started over. Or not.

Nothing about Quilty, however, seemed elusive.

"Is that what I want? Of course it's what I want. Aren't I a walking pamphlet for desire?" asked Quilty. "In Braille, of course, but still. Check it out. Move in. Take me."

"Okay," said Mack.

Mack had had a child with Annie, their boy, Lou, and just before the end, Mack had tried to think up words to say to Annie, to salvage things. He'd said "okay" a lot. He did not know how to raise a child, a toothless, trickless child, but he knew he had to protect it from the world a little; you could not just hand it over and let the world go at it. "There's something that with time grows between people," he said once, in an attempt to keep them together, keep Lou. If he lost Lou, he believed, it would wreck his life completely. "Something that grows whether you like it or not."

"Gunk," Annie said.

"What?"

"Gunk!" she shouted. "Gunk grows between people!"

He slammed the door, went drinking with his friends. The bar they all went to—Teem's Pub—quickly grew smoky and dull. Someone, Bob Bacon, maybe, suggested going to Visions and Sights, a strip joint out near the interstate. But Mack was already missing his wife. "Why would I want to go to a place like that," Mack said loudly to his friends, "when I've got a beautiful wife at home?"

"Well, then," Bob said, "let's go to
your
house."

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

And when they got there, Annie was already gone. She had packed fast, taken Lou, and fled.

now it is two
and a half years since Annie left, and here Mack is with Quilty, traveling: their plan is to head through Chicago and St. Louis and then south along the Mississippi. They will check into bed-and-breakfasts, tour the historic sights, like spouses. They have decided on this trip now in October in part because Mack is recuperating from a small procedure. He has had a small benign cyst razored from "an intimate place."

"The bathroom?" asked Quilty that first day after the surgery, and reached to feel Mack's thick black stitches, then sighed. "What's the unsexiest thing we can do for the next two weeks?"

"Go on a trip," Mack suggested.

Quilty hummed contentedly. He found the insides of Mack's wrists, where the veins were stiff cords, and caressed them with his thumbs. "Married men are always the best," he said. "They're so grateful and butch."

"Give me a break," said Mack.

The next day, they bought quart bottles of mineral water and packets of saltines, and drove out of town, out the speedway, with the Resurrection Park cemetery on one side and the Sunset Memories Park cemetery on the other—a route the cabbies called "the Bone Zone." When he'd first arrived in Tapston, Mack drove a cab for a week, and he'd gotten to know the layout of the town fast. "I'm in the Bone Zone," he used to have to say into the radio mouthpiece. "I'm in the Bone Zone." But he'd hated that damn phrase and hated waiting at the airport, all the lousy tips and heavy suitcases. And the names of things in Tapston—apartment buildings called Crestview Manor, treeless subdivisions called Arbor Valley, the cemeteries undisguised as Sunset Memories and Resurrection Park—all gave him the creeps.
Resurrection Park
! Jesus Christ. Every damn Hoosier twisted words right to death.

But cruising out the Bone Zone for a road trip in Quilty's car jazzed them both. They could once again escape all the unfortunateness of this town and its alarming resting places. "Farewell, you ole stiffs," Mack said.

"Good-bye, all my clients," cried Quilty when they passed the county jail. "Good-bye, good-bye!" Then he sank back blissfully in his seat as Mack sped the car toward the interstate, out into farm country, silver-topped silos gleaming like space-ships, the air grassy and thick with hog.