?
An El train catching orange hues of light rattled the tracks outside our window. I saw a blur of passengers on the train flickering by. They were packed in, standing room only, plugged into their headsets or looking blankly ahead. Rita and I sat there for a while talking. The late afternoon sunlight was filtering through a south-facing window throwing a trapezoid of light across the edge of the bed, lighting her lap, and falling across the floor. I sat in the shadows near a bureau looking at her and she was lovely, really, and vulnerable, and I could tell she knew as little about these things as I did. It was as if we sat there trying to assimilate not only to the reality of our new losses but to the reality of each other, to the reality of this new person right here in front of me; I was taking in this three-dimensional flesh and blood breathing human being who was stranded on the scabrous shoals of the planet just as I was and who still wanted to take a stab at what new adventures life might have in store.
She was a stranger really, and in some ways she has never stopped being a stranger to me, just as I must seem a perpetual stranger to her. She is some combination of signs and signals that I have never been fully able to interpret and understand. Even then I felt her frequency was tuned for a different receiver, and yet I felt it was incumbent upon me to discover that frequency nevertheless, and understand it as if what it were transmitting were meant for me, and not someone else.
We sat there in a not quite comfortable silence. I didn’t know what to say or do next. We had made it this far without thinking about it, but suddenly thought kicked in, and self-consciousness and worry, and that wonder that had gathered about us as we had sat on the tombstone sorting out our separate losses disappeared, and I felt tricked. Who was this person? Why were we here? Why should we do anything next? Why not just turn around and go back to our loss, where we belong, to the life we had before the moment we first saw each other on the tombstone?
Why not turn around and go back, I wanted to say. And I could tell as she sat there across from me that she wanted to say something of the sort as well. Something along the lines of, maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. Listen, we’re both adults here. We’ve already got plenty of water that has flowed beneath our respective bridges. No need worrying about saving face, no need worrying about admitting a mistake. Can we just say that this is probably not the right time to be doing this? Can we just part ways and say: thanks for lunch; it was nice meeting you? If you ever want to meet again, don’t hesitate to call.
Instead we just sat there. Our eyes diverted. I looked occasionally at her and felt an inexplicable sense of compassion for her. I wanted to hug her and say I was sorry for everything. If it were Adeleine, I would have said I was sorry for everything…
I’m sorry my dear.
Sorry for what, honey? I’m dead. I no longer care for sorry.
Sorry for everything. I am so goddamned sorry for everything in the world that I have ever done to you.
No need saying sorry for anything, Art. Really, you were wonderful. The light of my life. I don’t regret a thing.
?
So Rita and I just sat there not saying a word. And before I knew what I was doing, I walked over. I sat down next her and I put my arm around her shoulder. It was a bonier shoulder than Adeleine’s. She seemed made of bird bones by comparison—easily snappable. She sat there neither accommodating me nor disallowing me. So we sat a moment like this, and suddenly she turned her head into my shoulder and I brought her close to me in an embrace.
I’m sorry, I said to her, not knowing what else to do or say.
For what?
And it was true, she had a point. What could I possibly be sorry for? We were both consenting adults. We were both here of our own volition, and so I said: For your loss.
She said, very sweetly: I’m sorry for yours.
Thank you.
Now can you promise to do me a favor, Art?
Anything.
Whatever happens, never, don’t ever, say sorry again. Do you understand that?
Deal. With that she lifted her face to mine and we lay down together on the bed.
?
The first time Adeleine and I slept together happened years earlier. It was just after she graduated from Northwestern. We had met only days earlier at a party, and then we ran into each other unexpectedly again at a grocery store. We had coffee, and afterwards she told me to call her. I waited a day or two, and when I called, she picked up the phone, and without asking me how I was doing, merely suggested I come over to her house. She was still living with her parents in Winnetka. We were only twenty-two years old at the time. As old as Meg is now.
I was never one of those guys growing up who would bed his girlfriend at her parents’ house. I prided myself on having better options—like the car, or some place deep in the forest preserves on a blanket and a bed of leaves—but the house Adeleine grew up in was actually pretty nice. Her parents were out of town for the month, so there was no chance they would suddenly barge in on us. The house was a modernist box perched on a slight grade overlooking a precipitous ravine with woods and a little stream running along the bottom. They had modernist stuff on the walls, modernist furniture. Minimalist this and that. All clean lines. Off-white cream-colored walls, floors that disappeared into the night beyond the windows.
Like Cal, I was a guy who grew up in a bungalow on the northwest side, which, when growing up, was paradise enough for me. So I didn't envy her wealth at the time, and that probably meant something to her.
I enjoyed my life. I found if you liked your life it didn’t matter where you came from. Liking life was the key to success. So many people caught up in the chase for money—but it was terribly misdirected. Money never made anyone happy, but figuring out how to be happy and stay happy—this was success.
?
I had many conversations at the track with Cal about this.
What’s the best thing in the world? I would ask.
Pussy.
After pussy?
Tits.
After tits?
Beer.
After beer?
Money.
After money?
More pussy.
And around and around we went, but one day I asked Cal a different question.
What about the guy who is locked up in solitary confinement and he can’t get these things you’re talking about. What would be the best thing to him?
Pornography.
Come on, seriously.
A bit of light…
But if he didn’t have light?
A bit of food…
But if he didn’t have food?
A piece of chalk to scratch against the wall…
And if he didn’t have that?
Then he’d have to learn how to be happy with what he has—because he sure ain’t got a hell of a lot. Who is this guy, anyways? Someone you know doing solitary confinement?
It’s just a hypothetical question about happiness is all…
You want happiness Art?