All's Well(11)

That’s hard, she might offer.

Yes, I might say. But, I’d add, always meaning to end on something positive, to lighten the mood. But I’d just trail off into a silence neither of us filled.

She’d fill it by pouring me more wine.

Then last year, just before opening night of Romeo and Juliet, she told me my pain was all in my head. Not looking at me when she said it. Hands on the steering wheel of her SUV. Staring at the streaked windshield, the gray New England spring. I’d just had another round of useless steroid shots in my back. She was driving me home from the hospital.

I could take you, she’d said.

I really don’t want to trouble you, I’d said. I always said this.

It’s fine, she’d said. Both of us knowing there was no one else who could take me.

I’m happy to do it, she’d said. But she hadn’t looked happy at all.

Better now? she asked me when I hobbled out of outpatient surgery.

I won’t know for a few days, I told her.

Silence. On we drove.

Probably won’t work, I added. Nothing does, I said, and sort of half laughed, mainly for Grace’s sake, but the laugh came out dark and hollow. Then I felt the tears come. Spilling ridiculously, hotly down my face. And then, just like that, Grace pulled over to the shoulder of the road. Miranda, look, she said, though she wouldn’t look at me. I’m saying this for your own good. Have you ever considered that maybe…

And as she spoke, we both stared straight ahead at the gravelly shoulder of the road.

Since then? Since then, not so close. We’re still friendly, professional. We still get drinks after rehearsal out of habit, but things have shifted. She stares at me now from a distance. I want to tell her, You don’t have to do this anymore. Pretend to be interested like this. Pretend to care.

But I just say, “I appreciate it, I do. And you’re right, it’ll be fine in the end.”

“What’ll be fine?”

“The play.”

“Of course it’ll be fine. It’s just a play after all, Miranda.”

“Right. Of course it is. Just a play,” I lie.

“All right,” she says. “I’d better head out. You coming?”

I picture the limping walk back to my joke of a car. A black bug. Paul got it for me as a thirtieth birthday present. I still remember him smiling at me through the windshield as he pulled it into our driveway. He’d even filled the tiny plastic vase with daisies. That was back when I could climb into and out of a small, low-to-the-ground vehicle with grace. Back when getting out of a car, any car, wouldn’t fill me with dread. I can already feel the pain of lowering myself into the bug. The pain of driving. The pain of getting out of the bug. The pain of hobbling to the front door with a dead leg. My stoned super sitting on the icy front steps, drinking tequila straight from the bottle. Having to stand there with my body on the brink of collapse while she talks to me inanely about the weather. She was not expecting such snow! How I’ll force myself to respond. Force the joviality into my voice, the smile onto my face. I used to be such a good actress, trust me.

“No, you go on ahead. Think I’ll stay here for a bit. Have another drink. Listen to the bagpipe player.”

Grace looks at my empty glass. Then at me. A third drink? The bagpipe player? Am I fucking kidding? Also, what bagpipe player?

“The music?” I insist.

But there is no music. Only the drunk murmuring of drunk men at the bar. Only silent hockey.

“Karaoke is going to start soon,” I tell her.

Suddenly I’m weirdly eager for her to leave. The sound of Grace’s voice, the sight of Grace’s face, Grace wanting answers for my unusual behavior, all of it hurts. Hurts my body, my head most of all. I will her away. Can’t I will her away? No, she’s still sitting there. Looking worriedly at me.

“Miranda, you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” My voice is a pair of hands pushing her out the door.

“All right. Well, maybe we could do something this weekend. Go for a coffee or something?”

“Maybe. Sure. Yeah. I’ll see you.” I try to smile.



* * *



“I’ll Never Smile Again” swelling on the jukebox. How appropriate. Makes me misty. Makes me dreamy. Maybe just the pills, the alcohol. Wasn’t supposed to mix. Mixed anyway. Too late now, Miranda. Enjoy the ride in this misty, misty room with its dark red walls. Room suddenly seems redder somehow, is that possible? Lots of animal heads on the walls, I notice now. Stags. Black goats. Regarding me with their glassy black eyes that glint. Never noticed that before.

“Do you think someone actually shot those?” I ask Grace, and then I remember Grace is gone. I pushed her away with the hands of my voice. It’s just me here now. At this high table for two by the bar. My hands cupped around my empty drink like it’s a flame about to go out.

Lights dimming, are the lights dimming? Maybe they’re closing already. I look around the bar. I didn’t realize how huge this place is until now. The space just goes on and on and on. And I’m the only one in it, it seems. Except for a few lone men at the bar, it’s just me. Alone here. How did that happen? Where did everyone go? Hello? The song seems to have melted, shifted into a different tune. Just violin. I’ve heard this before. Haven’t I heard it before? Yes. A tune Paul used to play. Not on the violin, on the piano. He played the piano each night after work and for hours on the weekend, that was his release, his bliss. Like theater is for you. Whatever this particular tune is, it was one of my favorites. Sounds like soft rain, moonlight on moving water. I’d listen from wherever I was in the house. Sometimes I’d stand in the doorway of the living room, gazing at him bent at the piano, the back of his head. I could call Paul on the phone now. Not now. Don’t fuck him over with one of your pill-addled alcoholic phone calls. Don’t cry into the crackling vat of his phone silence. Don’t simper-hiss, I miss you; do you miss me? Probably having dinner with his new girlfriend in our old house, the one I hobbled away from like it was on actual fire. You were the one who hobbled away, remember?