You Love Me(You #3)(64)
Phil isn’t Leonard Cohen and he isn’t Jeff Buckley but I’ve never moved in you the way he has, the way he does and it’s a cold and broken clock of a Hallelujah. I pour Woolite onto your favorite black sweater and I google “Layla” and “couples counseling” and “area code 206” and there she is in Poulsbo, your licensed sanity killer: Layla Twitchell. She’s your enabler, your enemy in plain sight, the woman who tries to save your marriage, the woman you pay to save your marriage. It’s tempting to get in the car and drive to Poulsbo and make Layla pay for her sin, but I’m not that guy anymore.
I’m a good fucking guy and your rat is passed out in his chair. You took a shower—I didn’t put cameras in your bathroom, I don’t need to see that—and now you’re in bed reading your Murakami, closing the book, writing in your journal, going back to your book. You are like my jeans in the washing machine and you need me to pull you out of that chamber and end this vicious cycle and you look into the lens and I zoom in and our eyes meet. Fuck it. Tomorrow, I will ask you to join me in RIP Kurt’s Meadow and tomorrow you will say yes.
23
You are skipping lunch to go to Poulsbo to see the dentist—nice lie, Mary Kay—and I am on the way to Sawatdy to pick up beef and broccoli. I pull into the strip mall—even Bainbridge isn’t perfect—and the island is turning against us. There was a death in the family and the restaurant is closed and I drive to Sawan but oh that’s right. The family that owns Sawatdy owns Sawan and that’s the problem with an island. There is no beef, no broccoli, and I can’t get it out of my fucking head.
I keep picturing you with that rat. You let him rip off your tights. You let him cum inside of you. But you don’t know that I know about that and good guys move forward. I won’t let one moment of weakness between you and your manipulative ball and chain get in the way of our family. I drive to Starbucks. I buy two lattes, one for you and one for me—Be the change you want to see in the world—and I blast Sam Cooke. Positive Joe! I drive to the library—remember when I thought I was moving to a walker’s paradise?—and I barge into the library with a big fat smile on my face, as if you didn’t permanently ruin Jeff Fucking Buckley for me.
I knock on your door. You look up and you don’t invite me in. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I did a mobile order and I got two by mistake. You want?”
You gulp. You want. “You should see if Ann wants that. She’s downstairs.”
I smile at you. “By the Red Bed?”
You do not smile at me. Too much. “Joe…”
“Sorry,” I say. “It was just a joke.”
You look so sad, and I bet Layla is on Phil’s side—maybe she’s fucking him too!—and you are getting it from all angles. Come on, Mary Kay. I know you’re in hell. Open up to me. Tell me about your no-good, very bad week. Tell me about Melanda. Tell me about Phil. Tell me about Layla. But you don’t. You just tell me that you’re so busy right now. Bullshit.
But I remain positive. Rosie Joe the Riveter. “So I might head up to the meadow and read.” You gulp and that was too much and too little. “Or who knows? Maybe I’ll finally go check out Fort Ward.”
“You should do that.”
“You wanna join?”
You look at Eddie Vedder and then you look at the clock. “You should head out early before it gets too dark. And the meadow’s probably a better idea. It’s closer.”
I inch closer. Closer. “Maybe you should cut out early and hit up the meadow. I can cover for you if that helps…”
“Joe…” Dot. Dot. Dot. “That sounds nice and I know we…” You can’t even finish the sentence. You just exhale. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
I catch your eye, which is no easy thing, the way you’re trying so hard to avoid me. “You know where to find me.”
You nod. “Have a good time up there.”
I walk out of your office and you know where I’m going and it’s my job to go there. But then I hear laughter in History. The hairs on my neck stand up. It’s Oliver and he sees me and I see him and he’s talking to a Mothball, as if he’s a resident, as if he’s allowed to check out books.
The Mothball distracts him—thank you, Mothball—and I get in my car and I drive to the forest because you said it.
It’s Closer.
I am on foot. Oliver wants an update and I snap a picture of the sign—Barn or House—and send it to him. Oliver is placated, for now, and I post my Barn or House photo on Instagram and twenty seconds later there it is.
@LadyMaryKay Likes your photo and she can’t wait to join you in the meadow.
I hike up the hill and I wait for you in the tall grass and the light in the sky won’t last forever. I hear noises. Humans. I pull on my sweater and no. It isn’t you. It’s my neighbor and your frenemy Nancy and her entire extended fecal-eyed family and they brought their large yellow Lab and she’s charging me and I let her kiss me.
“Flowerbed,” I say. “How you doing, girl?”
Flowerbed slobbers all over me—she knows I’m good—and I let her give me sloppy kisses. It’s an open display of affection and positive thinking is easier when there’s a dog wagging its tail for you. I know you’re on your way. You love me, you do. But then Papa calls—Flowerbed!—and he wants the dog to leave me and I want you to leave Phil and this whole fucking island is against us.