Real Life(70)

“If you leave,” Brigit says, studying her ice-cream cone. “If you leave, I won’t know what to do with myself, and that’s the truth. But if staying is so awful for you, I want you to do that.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says, “and I don’t want to be a failure.”

“But you won’t be,” she says. “You won’t be a failure just because you leave. Especially if it makes you happy.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll have to get along without you,” she says, and she laughs again. “But I’ll be happy for you.”

“Let’s just run away together,” he says, perhaps more seriously than he would like to admit. “Let’s just go away and never look back.”

“That would be a dream,” she says, then, shaking her head, “but the thing about dreams is, you gotta wake up, Wally.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says, but the thought of a life with Brigit, simple and easy, predicated only on the notion of what would bring them happiness, seems irresistible. They could live in her tiny house on the East Side, with its garden, making jams and sauces and reading on lazy, sunny afternoons. They could live entirely among themselves, apart from everything and everyone.

They finish their ice cream and stand up, stiff and achy. Brigit hugs him firmly one last time, and he almost refuses to let her go.

“Stay,” he says. “Please.”

“Oh, Wally,” she says, and kisses his cheek. “You will be fine. Be safe, okay?” He walks her to the platform and waves good-bye to her. He watches her go, her white sweater moving away in the darkness. The other people are of little consequence to him. They do not matter. They do not matter. They do not matter.



* * *



? ? ?

WALLACE IS COMING UP the street to his apartment, tired and slow-headed. The sun has left him feeling warm and drowsy. He would like to draw a bath and sit in it for a long time, just dozing. He suddenly wishes he could teleport, but the walk is mercifully short. He walks along the tree-lined street, in the light of the white globe lamps. This time last night, he was across town with Miller. Just twenty-four hours ago—one rotation of the world, one displacement across space and time.

There is a theory that every moment of our lives is happening all the time, simultaneously. He thinks again of that line from To the Lighthouse: And all the lives we ever lived. Every moment. Both the night before, with Miller, and all those moments along the line of his life that have brought him to this moment; the man in the dark, his skeleton’s face coming toward Wallace, suspended there forever, and the sensation of being torn open, permanently, forever; that boy that Miller mauled, his blood gushing hot while Miller punched him again and again—all of it at the same time, coming down the line.

The sheer weight of it makes him pause. He presses his hand to the brick of his building, and vomits in the alley. A couple of thick boys coming down the sidewalk stop and look at him.

“Are you okay?” they ask in their flat Midwestern voices. “Buddy, you okay?”

Wallace waves them off, and they, needing no excuse, go on with their evening. In the street, people call out for their friends. People stand in line at the bar down the street, some of them smoking. The air smells like rain and cigarettes, beer and piss. Wallace wipes the corner of his mouth. His eyes are hot.

In his apartment, he slides back down into the tub again, like earlier. The water isn’t going to melt the skin off his bones this time, but it’s warm enough. He presses his head against the tile, lets the water level rise. His insides are on fire, churning. The tile is yellow, and the bright light has been blunted by a blue scarf he’s draped over the vanity at the risk of starting a fire, but he doesn’t plan on staying in the tub that long. What is Miller doing at this moment? He said he would call, but he hasn’t.

He is probably at home with Yngve and Lukas, maybe Emma and Thom, or Cole and Vincent, maybe all of them together. Wallace splashes the water on his face, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get above this feeling of uncertainty. It might have gone differently had he stayed in Miller’s bed this morning, might have gone another way.

But it’s pointless to think that now, to want things to be different from the way they are. When has that ever worked for him? When has that ever been his power, to shift the world based on his wants or needs? The world leaves him behind, streaks out ahead of him; he is not accustomed to being satisfied with the state of things. He rests his head against the side of the tub now, staring down at the brown rug and its bits of loose hair.

After a while, Wallace gets out of the water and stands in front of the mirror. He touches his stomach, which hangs down toward his thighs, and he brushes the other hand across the nub of his flaccid penis. He grips himself and tries to imagine a sexual scenario while staring at his own body. He tries to will himself erect, tries to find some spark or ember of desire buried deep inside him, but nothing will come, nothing will move within him. Something necessary has died, or is unwilling to engage. He cannot bring himself off, cannot get himself hard enough to jerk off. It’s a fleeting desire, and it’s dead before too long. He wraps a towel around himself and goes into his bedroom, where it is dark and cool.

The fan is going. He puts his head under the pillow and tries to sleep, tries to count backward from some enormous number, but he fails. Sleep will not meet him.