JUBILEE

By

Angela Boatright

Emergency Room, St. Cecilia’s Hospital 10 October

"Honey," the Wife called from the bedroom. "Did you bring in the paper? I can’t find it." Her voice drifted off, the sentences muffled as she roamed the room, head bobbing under the bed and darting into the closet. "No," I answered, then realized it was in my hand. "Jesus," I said,
"I’m losing it." Then I told her I had it, and we went downstairs to drink the usual coffee. The mugs were the same, as always. They had been wedding presents and each bore our names. By habit, she took mine and I hers. The kitchen table was the same…hell, the Wife before me was the same, and she was magnificent: over-thirty and still thin, attractive, intelligent, sensitive: the perfect trophy wife. She wasmore than that, of course, but…you know…she was what every man wanted, and she was mine. I loved her, but I wanted more from her than just this; I wanted….what?

"Let’s go to church," I said. The words surprised even me.

"Are you feeling all right?" She asked looking up, a small frown of concern creasing her forehead.

"Why? Do I look bad?" I fingered my scratchy face, not yet shaved, felt little beginnings of jowls. Damn.

"No. It’s just that you’ve never talked about going to church before."

I did a usual man-thing. I scratched my chin and the stubbly cheek. "It just seems like something I should do. I used to go as a child. I don’t feel right; I don’t feel like myself."

"My God, you’re not going to have a mid-life crisis, are you? I don’t think I’m up to it this morning."

"No…yes." I looked her square in the eye. "We need to change. I need to change. I miss the person I used to be."

"You mean schlepping around with the migrant farmers? I thought you had gotten over that long ago." She thumbed through the magazine section, not looking up. She sipped coffee.

"Not that, maybe. I don’t think I have the stamina for that. But I just have this vague feeling that I ought to be doing something other than the usual."

Now she was looking me squarely in the eye. "You are having a mid-life crisis. Cut if out."

"Maybe I should just go to the gym an hour earlier."

"That’s the ticket." She put her mug down. "You are getting a little thick around the waist, my love." She smiled, blew me a kiss across the table. She knew me so well.

The gym seemed more palatable than church; that word brought up images of clerics in collars that pinched. I had been an acolyte. I knew what those vestments could do to you. No; better to go to the gym. I did…and the exercise felt good. I went back daily for the next couple of months and got most of my old body back. The Wife looked at my progress and announced it was time to go dancing, which we did. She looked marvelous and so did I. That annoying feeling had passed.

"Guy, you look great," someone said, kissing air near me as I swirled the Wife around the floor. "Been exercising?" I smiled and we dipped another voice continued. "Ever hear from Frank?"

I nearly dropped the Wife. Frank had been a good friend in college. We hadn’t seen each other in 15 years, and I felt myself uncomfortably brought back to the last time we had. He had invited us to dinner. Actually, we cooked it. He was ill and at the last moment couldn’t face raw meat, but he greeted us warmly: gave the Wife a big, noisy kiss and me the usual bear hug. Frank had always been a big man, although now he had lost a lot of weight. I looked great, and I told him so. He had smiled then, rather oddly, but at the time I let it go. We chatted about this and that as the Wife and I put the meal together. Elegantly prepared, it was, presented on the best china and complemented by the best wine. What’s the occasion, we finally had asked in that slightly disinterested way people have when they don’t expect a really big answer in response. Actually, our minds were on a more pressing question: what would be for dessert.

"I’ve got AIDS," Frank said. "I’m dying. I want to enjoy my last days with my friends."

I’m not proud of our reaction. Right off, we both remembered that big kiss. The wife’s hand went up to her cheek automatically before, aghast, she slammed it back into her lap. I tried to remember if I had kissed her since then, and felt ashamed for wanting to separate myself from her possible bad fortune so quickly. I tried to remember just how one went about getting AIDS in the first place. Could a kiss do it? We cringed and looked at each other.

"My God, Frank. Don’t say that," the Wife managed to stammer. "Of course you’re not dying."

Frank put his glass down and answered quite matter-of-factly: "Yes, I am. It’s just a question of how soon. So, in the meantime, I’m going to live well and be merry. For tomorrow…you know." He had a little flourish with his hand. We did know, and a few months later, we went to his funeral. It was a small scale, very quiet affair. I watched the priest, a young man, perform the ceremony. I saw the earth being dropped on the coffin. I could hear the sound, hollow and final. The memory of Frank with his fading life, coming just then on the dance floor, ripped away something from my heart.

"Darling," I said to the Wife, "I have to go." She looked at me quickly, but didn’t argue. In the car, she said, "You want to tell me what’s going on? Are you thinking about Frank?"

"Not Frank, exactly, but…how I’m not connected anymore. I’ve lost myself."

"Oh, Lord," she muttered. "Mid-life again. Honey, I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but you have a good life. You don’t have to question yourself. You don’t have to suffer. You’ve worked hard, made good money been a good provider. You’re okay. Really. You’ve earned the right to be…well, very, very comfortable. Or is it that you want to conquer something else?"

"No," I said. "Not conquer…. Something else."

The next day, I decided to work at home. I couldn’t get anything done and ended up watching a talk show in the late afternoon. The topic was spirituality. I shuddered and channel surfed, but nothing else was on. I drank coffee and smoked a cigar as the host droned on about inner children and God. I thought it was all a waste of time until, two days later, I passed a bookstore, saw the photo of the author who’d been hawking the book on the show, and found myself purchasing it. God, what drivel, I thought… but I kept on reading.

In bed that night, I remarked to the Wife that all I needed to do was "get God in my life." That’s what the author had said.

"God is in your life," the Wife observed. "God has always been in your life. He just hasn’t been a real big presence." I thought that was true and slammed the book in the night table drawer, vowing to forget about things.

And I did, for a long time. The Wife and her friends took off for a few days in the Caymans and left me at home with the dogs. We ate steak and generally misbehaved. Then, feeling the need for some adventure, we took a long walk in unfamiliar territory. We strolled along, not thinking about much, as the neighborhood changed from glitzy shops with brass hangings to supermarkets, and then those expensive but junky convenience grocery stores. The dogs were delighted with the change in environment because there was so much more to sniff here. Bits of chicken bone and fruit were all over the sidewalk. They got into a wild frenzy over some leaving or another, and refused to budge. I yanked and called, but they ignored me. When I got over being indignant, I looked up and found myself standing adjacent to a soup kitchen line. Although I have been concerned with the poor and disadvantaged most of my life, it had been a long time since I had been close to them. Or talked with them, sat with them on purpose, or tried to personally help them. My days of idealism were very, very far away. Then, suddenly, there they were: The Poor.

"Do you mind? People are getting ready to eat here," someone said indignantly. I was caught up short, then realized what was the problem. My dogs had relieved themselves on the sidewalk. "Some people got no manners. No upbringing."

"I’m sorry," I stammered, feeling stupid. I searched my pockets for the newspaper I always bring to clean up, but found I hadn’t any. "I don’t seem to…" This was horrible. Here I was, rich, successful, middle-aged and quite well-intentioned, standing outside a church soup kitchen with two dogs who had defecated, and I was powerless to make good of the situation. Part of me said I shouldn’t be at all concerned; it wasn’t my fault. The other part was appalled.

"I don’t’ seem to have anything…"

"Here, " a woman said, shoving a Herald into my hand. I’ve always loathed that paper. I scooped up the mess, feeling all eyes on my back.

"I’m sorry," I murmured again. Then I yanked the dogs and hurried down the street. We rushed home after that. I had a scotch and told myself it meant nothing. But the next day, I went back, without the dogs. No, don’t ask. I don’t know why.

The church was closed, and I actually felt relief. Whatever it was I was supposed to do there could be put off for another day. Happily, I turned on my heel and started down the street toward home. A homeless man passed me. I reached into my pocket and gave him a coin. He didn’t say "thank you," and for a moment I was disappointed, but I let it go. Our hands had touched briefly; I looked down at mine, expecting it to be soiled or changed in some way, but it was still just my hand. That small touch had felt good, though, tingly, and that was troubling. I told myself to stop being crazy, go home and have a good stiff drink, and clean myself up a little before the Wife got home.

She looked glorious. Tanned just enough to still be healthy, rested. I had missed her. An hour or two after her arrival, as we lie in bed, I told her about the soup kitchen episode. As much as I wanted to ignore it, I couldn’t keep my mind away.

"….so there I was, with the dogs and no newspaper," I was telling her, "and I had this horrible feeling of inadequacy. No matter how much I reminded myself that I was worth a hell of a lot to the bank, I still felt that way. I told myself, these are just poor people I’d never see again in my life and certainly didn’t have to worry about offending, but I did worry about it, and I can’t stop worrying about it. Somehow, those people are important to me."

"They’re important to you."

"Yes."

"How?"

I really hadn’t a clue until the words were spoken: "They re going to help me get my life back." Yes!

"They are?"

"Yes!"

"How?"

"I don’t know." The euphoria of discovery faded almost instantly. Then, my wife, my exquisite Ella, solved the puzzle.

"Honey," she said. "You spend your life making business deals over the phone, or the computer. You’ve earned enough to distance yourself from any kind of work that isn’t intellectual. Your dealings with people are mostly surface-social, except, of course, for me. You’re cut off. Those people drew you back in, somehow. Woke you up. Made you see them. Maybe what you’ve been going through isn’t a mid-life crisis. Maybe it’s a spiritual thing."

I was amazed. In all the years we had been married, Ella had never spoken to me of those kinds of things. "What do you mean, a spiritual thing?"

"Remember when you were wanting to go to church and I told you to go to the gym? I thought you were just dissatisfied with yourself, feeling restless. But it’s not that. You’re… disconnected. We both are. Actually, I discovered almost the same thing about myself over the last few days." She looked over at me cautiously, turning on her side so she could see my reaction. I tried to look clam, but my heart was racing. We were onto something.

"I had been playing tennis with Freida, and she was going on about – I don’t know, something – and I decided to walk along the beach by myself. It was a clear day, with no wind. I was just standing there, looking out at the ocean, humming to myself, when I felt something brush against my cheek. Very softly, like a caress, but it had energy to it. My face tingled. I thought it was a strand of hair or something brushing against me, but there was nothing there." She paused, and I could think of nothing to say, so I just stroked her back. She continued: "My mother used to tell me about getting chills like that." She paused again. "She said it was God."

Well, I wasn’t quite ready for that, although I remembered a tingly feeling on my own hand when I’d given the man on the street some change. Ella had always been a good person. She’d been right there with me back in my teaching days, and she had never complained. She was good and caring. But she had never mentioned the "G" word to me in quite that way, and my sense was that she acted more out of a social consciousness than what they used to call "Christian charity." Those words, even now, make me shudder.

"You felt God?"

"I think so. This sounds nuts, doesn’t it?"

I had to tell her the truth. "Yes, it does. You don’t think we’re….you know…getting a little soft upstairs?"

"Maybe. Guy, I don’t want to think about this anymore." She rubbed her eyes, as if trying to rub the conversation away.

"Neither do I," I said, and we both buried our heads under the blanket and sought mutual comfort and solace in the usual way. Bless her heart, she actually giggled.

"I want to go back to the soup kitchen tonight, if they’re open."

She paused. I could hear her draw in breath. "What’re you going to do there?"

"I don’t know. Whatever they need, I guess. I haven’t the slightest idea." I wasn’t kidding. I really didn’t.

"I’m going with you." I could feel the relief surging through every muscle.

"I hoped you’d say that."

"Six o’clock?"

"Gotcha."

So we went. Ella went through a frenzy over what she was wearing. Did she look too dressed? Was she trying to dress down on purpose, and was that condescending? Finally, we decided to wear what we would usually wear if we were just hanging around the house. On the way, I wondered if my organizational skills might be of use. I knew how to put a company together; surely I could organize a bunch of homeless people. By the time we reached the church, I had convinced myself that Ella and I could bring order into the chaos that no doubt ensued. I felt comfortable with that role. I’d be helping, and I’d take charge. We opened the door, walked confidently down the steps and into the wrong line.

"Do you have an ID?"

"Me?… Well, a driver’s license, if you want that."

"Does it have your picture on it?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then I’ll take it." A toothless woman with buzz cut hair stuck her hand out at me, demanding my driver’s license. "Downsized?"

"What?"

"You. Downsized?" It dawned on me that she thought I was coming to get food. I was appalled. Then I was appalled that I was appalled.

"No, no. We’re here to volunteer. We want to help."

"Oh. Well, then you’re in the wrong line. You need to go over there and talk to Helen. But she may not need any extras tonight." It had never occurred to me that my help might not be needed. I turned to Ella, who didn’t seem to be upset by any of this. She was looking around, smiling at children. This was going down a lot easier with her and I wanted to know why.

"You seem right at home," I offered.

"It sort of reminds me of the places we worked in before."

"It doesn’t remind me of anything," I whispered. "I just feel uncomfortable."

"Why? Because you’re not running the show?"

"Why are you always so damned smart?"

"That’s my secret." She wandered over to Helen’s line, which was long. "We may never get to the end."

"I think we should leave," I said. "I feel awkward."

"Nobody’s looking at you."

"But I feel like they are."

"Nah. You’re cute, but not that cute. Anyway, they think you’re just some poor slob who lost his job."

"Now I feel much better."

"What did you expect?"

"I didn’t expect anything; except I did think my help would be wanted. They don’t seem to care or need me."

"So you came here to be needed?"

"Maybe."

"I need you all the time."

"I thought I could…you know…minister to the poor."

"Hold your horses. They may come up with something." We stood on life for a half hour before finally getting to speak to Helen. She was perky, polite, and not terribly pleased to see us. It turned out that we had no particular skill to offer that was needed. We didn’t know the social service system, so couldn’t help with referrals. We could serve behind tables, but all the slots were filled. We might have been useful sorting clothing donations, but they hadn’t received many that evening, and what they had were already folded up. There I stood, with my English degree and MBA and money in the bank, totally useless to humanity.

"Don’t take it so hard. We tried," Ella said. "This just wasn’t our niche. And it’s not the only soup kitchen in town." I nodded in agreement and we left. Back at the apartment, I decided to take the dogs for a walk while Ella soaked in the tub. I would have been perfectly happy to forget the whole deal except that the nagging feeling that I should be doing something was back again. I unleashed the dogs in the park and watched them run across the field. The summer evening was lovely.

"Go ahead and run. All you’ve got to worry about is being a dog," I muttered under my breath. "Nobody nags you about doing more o be more dog-like." I realized that what I was saying made absolutely no sense, told myself to be quiet, and leaned back on a bench. Diagonally across from me were several lumps of discarded clothing. Thinking that I might gather them up and take them to the soup kitchen – and prove myself useful after all, so there – I went over and reached for the nearest clump, which looked like a raincoat. I heard the knife being unsheathed, and hastily pulled my hand away. The blade barely missed my fingers.

"Hey! Get the hell away from me," a voice snarled from the heap.

"My God, you’re a person."

"My God, you’re a person," the clump mocked me. "Geez, the idiots that are out here."

I didn’t know what to say. For the second time that evening, I felt humiliated and stupid in the presence of a homeless person. "I’m sorry. I thought you were a bunch of clothes." Now that sounded really intelligent. "I mean… I thought someone had dropped clothing here and I was going to take them to the soup kitchen." That was reasonable, wasn’t it?

"I don’t go to those places."

"Why not?"

"Get better food hanging around the restaurants on the east side."

"Oh." What else could I say? "I didn’t mean to startle you."

"Fair enough." The clump moved again, and a hand appeared. "My name is Zach. You got a cigarette?"

"Actually, I have a cigar."

"Even better." He turned his hand, palm up. I saw myself placed a beloved Monte Cristo into his very grubby hand. It disappeared into the clump. The end of the cigar came flying out a second or two later. "Got a light?"

I’m ashamed to say that I hesitated bringing out my lighter. People steal things like that, you know, and this one had been a gift.

"I know you got a light. Come on. I won’t steal it."

"I wasn’t thinking that," I lied.

"Yeah, you were. It’s what any reasonable person would have thought in the situation. It’s what I would have thought in the situation."

Again, I didn’t know what to say. It was tiresome, being at a disadvantage like this. I handed over the lighter. He lit up and handed it back. "See? We’re not all thieves." He puffed a few times, didn’t cough, and sat up. For the first time, I saw a face and hair. He was not bad looking at all. An odor of something unpleasant but earthy emanated from the clothing and mingled with the cigar smoke. It was nauseating. He must have seen my face.

"Pretty ripe, huh?"

"What?"

"The fragrance. Essence of park. It’s my protection."

"Protection?"

"You wouldn’t want to sit near here, would you?"

I was embarrassed to answer. "Of course not, ya ninny," he said. "And, by the way, I was raised to offer my name when the other party has offered his."

He had a point. I extended my hand and told my name. I could feel the grit from his hand now on mine. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep myself from glancing down to see how dirty I was or if there was something crawling. I hope he didn’t notice.

"You’re kidding. You’re a guy named Guy."

"Yes."

"What kind of name is that?"

"My parents were French."

I could tell that he was about to say "ooh la-la," but resisted the impulse marvelously. "Well, Guy, it’s been nice talkin’ with ya, but I have things to do. And your dogs are halfway to Jersey by now."

I had forgotten about them. I looked around frantically. They were on a slope, not too far from me, but far enough to give concern. I called to them; they ignored me at first, then slowly made their way back.

"Good training."

"Paid dearly for it."

"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Got your money’s worth."
"I guess." I wondered if we could get back to speaking in full sentences. "This probably is going to sound strange, but I’m glad to have met you tonight." It was true, but almost immediately I wished I hadn’t said that.

"Are you, Guy?" Zach said. "And why is that, Guy? Were you longing to connect with the downtrodden sector of humanity? Were you eager to do good?"

"Yes, but when you put it that way, I sound very foolish." Zach looked at me for a moment and said, "You are very foolish."

That made me angry. "I don’t need this from you," I said, and went off to get the dogs. He may have been right, but I thought it was arrogant of him to say so.

"How would you feel if I’d done that to you," he shouted after me. "How about I go into your home to experience ‘the rich’ and shake your hand and pass out a cigar… not a very good one, either.." That made me angrier. It had been one of my best cigars. I leashed the dogs and came back.

"You bummed it off me. I didn’t offer it to you. I didn’t even want to give it to you."

"Then why did you?" Damn, he had a point. Again.

"I didn’t want to seem cheap."

"So you wanted to impress me."

"Of all the insufferable.."

"Then you didn’t want to impress me with how generous you were?"

I had to admit that he was right. I didn’t have to give him the cigar. I gave it because I felt I ought to be generous.

"Next time, if you don’t want to give something, don’t."

"I thought I was being generous."

"See what it got ya?" He laughed and went back into a huddle. His face disappeared among the folds.

"Zach?" I called out, but he didn’t answer. The audience was over.

There was the same clump of clothing. I sat down a few feet from it. This time, I had come with two cigars. I thought we might share a smoke. "Zach," I began awkwardly, "it’s Guy. I’m back. I have two cigars this time. I was thinking about what you said about not giving unless I wanted to, and you were right. That wasn’t giving; it was me trying to be good. And I did it grudgingly. I want to get it right this time. So I have two cigars here. One for me, the other for you, if you like. I’ll just put it on the bench. You can take it, if you feel like it. Fair enough?"

The clump of clothing never moved. I waited a moment, then forged ahead. "I also thought you were pretty arrogant. Just because you’re poor doesn’t give you the right to be offensive or rude. It’s not a privilege, being poor. You don’t have to be poor. I’m rich because I’ve worked hard for my money. Nobody gave it to me. Well, some was in a trust fund, but the rest I earned myself. I don’t have to share anything I have with you. I don’t. I just… want to."

"That’s a pretty good speech you’re giving to a pile of dirty clothes." I turned around, startled. There was Zach. I looked at the pile and sputtered.

"I thought it was you."

"Evidently." He pointed to himself. "This, however, is me. That," he pointed to the pile on the bench, "is my laundry."

"So you do laundry?"

"When the spirit moves me. Or the clothing moves itself."

"So did you hear any of that?"

"I heard all of that. Nice cigar. Don’t mind if I do." He broke off the tip, and poised it in his mouth for a light. "Go ahead. I know you got one."

I obliged, this time without misgivings. "Is this the part where we do some male bonding? I’m supposed to tell you the story of my life? How I fell on hard times? How I was abused as a child?"

"Only if you want to."

"Well, it wasn’t that way, and I don’t want to." He puffed contentedly. "So just exactly how much are you worth?"

I told him. It made me feel proud. People tend to be impressed.

"So, what do you do with all of that? Do you look at it every night?"

"Of course not. I don’t have it in bills. It’s tied up in real estate and some bonds and other investments. I almost don’t know it’s there."

"You don’t spend it?"

"No. It accumulates."

"Why?"

"To make more."

"Got kids?"

"No."

"Then what’re you going to do with it?"

"I don’t do anything with it. I re-invest it and it accumulates."

"What for?"

"What?"

"I mean, what are you accumulating it for? You ain’t got no kids. You seem to have everything you want. Why are you keeping the rest of it?"

"Because it’s mine. … and I can leave it to my wife, to relatives, to charities."

"After you’re dead."

"Yes, of course."

He looked at me carefully. "And about how long do you think it’ll take you to be dead?"

"Well, I’m not writing you into my will."

"Why not?"

"I don’t even know you."

Zach spread his hands out before him. "Well, then. That’s different. You can’t exactly give money to a person you’ve only seen twice. Better to give it to an organization. That’s much cleaner." He glanced down at my hands. "And you don’t get your hands dirty, either."

The man was infuriating. "Where did you pop up from, anyway?"

"I was over there, " he said, pointing to a car "That’s mine."

"You have a car?"

"No, I’m just showing you the car for fun. Yes, I have a car."

"But I thought you were homeless."

"I am. But not car-less. That is the one remnant from my working days."

"So you did have a job once"

"Sure. Place folded a few years ago. Never got the stride back. Live out of my car now."

"Speak in sentence fragments."

"Funny. Anyway, I liked the neighborhood and decided to stay." He puffed a few times. I decided to light up as well.

"Zach, why do you talk to me?" He stopped puffing and gave me a direct-in-the-face stare.

"Guy, I’ll tell ya. I don’t know. I mean, it’s not as if you’re enhancing my life overly, although the cigars are nice." I stifled a protest. "I guess somehow I just like you. You’re honest. Honestly a boob. You don’t know what you’re doing, and neither do I."

"Do you really want my money?"

"Of course I want your money. You think I’m crazy? I’d be crazy not to want your money."

"But it’s mine."

"But you got too much of it. Just give me some."

"This is a ridiculous conversation. I’m not going to continue it." I felt decidedly uncomfortable and got up to leave. "How could you even think such a thing."

"I think it because it would be a good idea. And if I don’t ask, I’ll never receive anything."

"Well, you’re not receiving any of my money." I stomped off with the dogs running to catch up with me. Later, I told Ella about the conversation.

"That’s bizarre, all right," she said, tossing a salad. "Are you going to give him any?"

"No. Of course not."

"Just asking," she said.

I took a sip of wine. "That’s almost exactly what he said… about asking, I mean. Are you sure you two haven’t met?"

"No, but I’d like to … I think. Does he usually smell? Not that I couldn’t get past it, but I’d like to know in advance so I could be prepared."

"Do you really want to meet him?"

"I don’t know. He sounds kind of interesting."

"Hmm." I thought it over. Where would the friendship go? Was I supposed to start inviting him over to dinner? Thanksgiving? Christmas? What exactly were we to each other, anyway?

"What are you thinking about?" Ella pulled me back to the present.

"How life would be if Zach were a regular part of it. I don’t think we want that," I said, settling the matter.

"We’ll see," Ella replied. I looked up, startled by the challenge but not wanting to pursue it. She’d change her mind soon enough. It was probably just a passing thought.

"Where?"

"That bunch of clothing."

"That’s a person?"

"Yes." She looked surprised and I felt gratified and savvy. "I had the same reaction. But that’s him. " Always the adventurous soul, she moved toward the clothes, peered in, and discreetly, sniffed.

"Hello," she ventured.
"Well, well," Zach’s voice emanated from the pile. "Who this, now?"

His head darted up and he saw me. "This must be the Missus." Ella extended a hand, gave her name.

"I must say," he said, turning towards me. "She has better manners than you did."

"Yes," I muttered. "She’s quite splendid." As they shook hands, she suddenly gave him an odd look, as if she’d recognized something.

"I’ve heard a lot about you." Zach grinned broadly.

"I’ll bet you did," she said easily. "Don’t worry. I won’t ask you to tell."

"Me and him been trying to figure out the mysteries of life together. So far, we’re not doing so good."

"I think you’re doing quite well. He enjoys your company."

"That’s kind to say." He turned toward me. "See? I can have a nice, civilized conversation when I want to." I made a face.

"Zach is the most exasperating man I have ever met, but we seem to need each other."

"I’m going to save your life," Zach said. "Just you wait and see."

I had had about enough of him at that point and made motions as if to leave. Ella got my hint and extended her hand. "It was nice meeting you," she said. Their hands touched and, again, she gave him that strange look.

"See you tomorrow, or something," I said. We got the dogs in hand and wandered to another part of the park.

"What was that look about?" I asked, cautiously, as we strolled.

"What look?" she said, predictably. I should have known better than to phrase it quite so bluntly.

"When you shook hands with Zach -- and, incidentally, did you have to do it twice? -- you gave each other a look."

"Did we?" She seemed to need a moment to think about it. "I felt a tingling in my hand. Both times. Like on my face in the Caymans. It was odd, that’s all. I guess he felt something, too."

"I don’t know if I like strange, homeless men giving my wife a tingle," I muttered, and felt foolish instantly.

"Darling, I only shook his hand. It was nothing."

"He’s not God, you know."

"Oh, darling, I know that. Stop being silly. Anyway, I’m in love with you, remember?"

"Well, of course…"

"And I could barely see what he looked like under all that clothing. I’m sure you’re a zillion times more attractive."

Oh, Ella really knew how to manage me. With that, I went merrily on, totally forgetting what she had said.

"Me, myself and I, we’re all in love with you…"

I asked her where that line came from, and she said it was from a Billie Holiday piece. She had been singing that song one night in the club…

"There was this guy who came and sat in the front. Big guy. In those days, I was a platinum blonde, with really nice… you know" – she motioned towards her bosom – "and the men always like to watch me. I think they also liked my singing, but mostly it was the other. I didn’t mind. I loved singing, and I was getting paid. So I was singing this song, and the man gets up and starts to move to the stage. I said, ‘hold on, lover boy. You know I can’t share my spotlight with anyone else. You’ve got to stay down there and let me sing.’ He wasn’t having it, though, and went right on up to the stage with me. Starting singing the song along with me, crooning and laughing. Couldn’t sing worth spit, and he was drunk. You could smell it every time he exhaled. I tried to play along. ‘Lover,’ I said, just as a joke, ‘you’ve got to try to stay on pitch. You dragging me down. You got to do better if you want to be in a duet with me.’ Why did I say that. Elvin came charging from the back of the room somewhere. I couldn’t really see him until he got close because of the spotlight in my eyes. He was shouting something about our being a duet and why was I calling him "lover." I tried to tell him I was just foolin’, playing along with this guy because he was so drunk and I didn’t want him to ruin my act. You know, all my life I’ve wanted to sing in a club and wear beautiful dresses like that, and this was my chance. I didn’t want to blow it. I’d only been there three weeks. Anyway, he wouldn’t listen. He started yelling and pushing at the guy. The poor drunk could barely stand up. Then I saw the bouncer coming towards the stage. All I could think was that I was gonna get fired. ‘Please, honey,’ I said, ‘let me handle this. It’ll be okay. He’s just had a little too much to drink.’ Then I realized that Elvin also had had a little too much to drink. He reached in his pocket and before I could duck, he threw something at me. I could feel it stinging my face and throat. I rubbed at it and my hand started stinging, too. It was acid. I could see where it had burned the skin on my hand, and I knew my face was worse. I screamed and screamed, and then I woke up in the hospital with bandages all over my face. My throat, too. For the longest time, I blamed the whole mess on that drunk guy, but later I realized that Elvin must have had that acid in his pocket all long. Maybe he had planned to burn me, and the drunk was just an excuse. Maybe he had always wanted to hurt me. I think about that, and then I can’t go on. I thought we were together, you know? I thought he loved me. Maybe he did love me. I don’t know…" The puzzle pushed her mind back into its safe cushion of fog. She started to sing again, "Me, myself and I, we’re all in love with you."

She drifted off down the road, dodging the falling leaves, singing to herself. And that was Ann’s story, just about the only story she could keep together in her head. She had lost her mind over the idea that the man shoe loved had wanted to hurt her. She must have cared very much. When I first heard her story, I had thought: aside from Ella, I’m not sure that I’ve ever cared that much about another person. And even with Ella, it’s not the same thing. If she left me – God forbid – but if she did, I would hurt, I’d be angry, but I wouldn’t lose myself; I would go on and eventually find someone else. I know I would find someone else, or one of our friends would fix me up. It would be more – well, the hell with that. I’m not sure which is the healthier attitude, or if either is healthy. Her dependence on that relationship unnerved me.

Floyd, on the other hand, never said much of anything to me. He was just someone I grew to realize existed as part of the gang. He hardly spoke to anyone, as far as I could tell; just quietly listened and nodded and drank and drank and drank. Someone told me he had been a prep school teacher once, but I don’t know if that was the truth. Imagine what might have been in his brain, what might still be lodged in there somewhere if he ever sobered up. Perhaps hundreds of students had sat listening to Floyd in a corduroy jacket with elbow patches teach them about…what? Great Expectations. I had loved that story. After awhile, I got used to just nodding in Floyd’s direction, then sitting down next to him. He had a comforting kind of presence. And that’s the thing that surprised me most. Although he never spoke to me, we did relate. I remember the first time he offered me a drink from his bottle. My face must have shown horror when he extended it in my direction, because he instantly pulled it back, rummaged through his pockets, produced a filthy handkerchief, and wiped the bottle neck "clean" for me. The thought of putting my mouth on that bottle was loathsome, but I had to do it; then as I took a drink, I prayed the alcohol would kill off any contamination. I needn’t have worried. Whatever we were drinking was about 200 proof. No germ had a chance. When I had taken a sip, Floyd nodded approvingly. Once he brought a bone for the dogs. Another time, he brought me a small wad of newspapers. When I didn’t understand their purpose, he gestured toward the dogs. I wondered if he had been at that soup kitchen, months before, when I had nothing…

"Floyd," I said one evening, "why don’t you talk anymore?" He had looked at me rather carefully, not at all sadly, and shook his head. Then he stretched his arms out in front of him as if to suggest that the world was self-explanatory. Or maybe that there weren’t enough words to explain the world. I’ll never know.

Zach used to watch me and kind of snicker as I got to know the others. I don’t know what he was thinking, and I never asked, but I caught him looking. Once he nodded -- I suppose with approval but I’m not sure – and often he shook his head as if I’d missed the point. Other than that, he just stood by and let me become part of the gang. We got into a regular routine. We came to expect each other. Maybe we even took each other for granted. With a kind of quiet eagerness I would leash the dogs and stroll down to the park, wondering what they were up to, savoring the thought of being amidst people who talked to me rather than my money. It took me a long time to realize that was what I enjoyed so much about them. No one cared whether I worked or not or made money or not. In the park, with Zach and Ann and Floyd, I could simply be Guy. It made me feel free. Summer sailed gradually into autumn, autumn swiftly shifted to winter. I pulled on a leather coat against the cold, called the dogs, and headed to our spot.

The benches were empty. Wind blew stray papers in tiny whirlwinds in the place Zach always used to be. I looked around for the usual clumps of clothing, but there were none. They all had vanished from sight. There was only the wind, a voice of thin silence.

I was horrified. The dogs wandered aimlessly around the benches, sniffing for clues. I shocked myself with my own disappointment. Why hadn’t they told me they were leaving? Or had the police chased them away or locked them up? Friends aren’t supposed to treat each other that way, I caught myself ranting, then realized what I had said: they were my friends. I was angry because they were my friends and had gone away without me.

My period of mourning did not last long, however. Ella and I packed up for the winter home and disappeared ourselves for several months. The first few days were sunny and fine. I ate extraordinary amounts of seafood, drank martinis, stared into perfect sunsets. There was beauty all around me, and there I sat, the ugliest emotions taking turns with me. Anger and betrayal, hurt, wounded pride…all these paraded themselves before me and refused to go away. I saw myself clearly for what I had become, and what I might be. Ella was right: I was disconnected from people and what Zach and the others had succeeded in doing was to bring me back. The best vacation money could buy was not enough to make me myself again.

It was the worst season of my life, except that I came to appreciate Ella more. It was as if I had bought a pearl and was discovering that there was an even finer diamond hidden inside. She understood my confusion over the loss of the gang; at times, she would come to me and simply take my hand, stroke it, or touch my face. "They’ll be back," she reassured me countless times, although I didn’t believe her. "I don’t care," I usually said. It felt childish and sounded even moreso. I was bored with myself. I was angry with myself. I heard all the conversations I’ve had over the years about Ella, and always I’d be calling her, "The Wife." Why did I do that? Even when I tried to compliment her, I described her as a jewel I’d purchased. Ella is a jewel, but she is more: she is my wife. Flesh of my flesh. Beloved. How could I have seen her as a trophy? The feeling of shame drenched me, then quickly turned into gratitude that I di, after all, have some time left to rectify things.

I did something silly one night on the veranda.

"Ella," I called to her softly as she sipped a drink and worked furiously at a crossword puzzle. She didn’t look up, but gave me her usual, "hmmm?" in response.

"Ella, I want you to marry me." No, I had said it all wrong. I tried again before she could speak. "What I mean is, would you marry me, again?"

"Why?"

"Because I don’t think I knew how fortunate I was the first time." She put her pencil down for that one.

"Guy, that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me. That anyone has ever said to me." She looked misty-eyed.

"It’s true. I knew you were a good catch when we married; I never know, however, how deep your waters ran. Or maybe I never gave you a chance to show me. If that’s the case, I’m sorry. But I’m awfully glad I finally found out."

Ella just stared at me. I thought she was going to turn me down; then I thought, how stupid. We’re already married.

"You’ve changed, and at the same time, you haven’t," she said. "In the past year, it’s almost as if you’ve been like Rip Van Winkle coming out of a long sleep. I wonder, sometimes, where it is you’ve been."

"I don’t know. Lost. Or sleep-walking. I don’t know. I’ve been living by a whole different set of rules than I did when I was young. And it’s only just become clear to me that these new rules, the ones I’ve lived by for the past thirty years or so just don’t work. They don’t make me happy. That’s the thing: I was cared for, pampered even, but never happy. Now, in the morning, I open my eyes and you are there, just as always. But also, I know that Zach and Ann are there. I know that Floyd is out there …somewhere. We have our other friends, of course, but those aren’t the same. Our friends know us because of who we are, except for a few. Most know us because of your committees or my business. These people knew me for me. They saw….well, they saw my soul. You see my soul, don’t you? Perhaps you always have." I stopped for a moment to catch a breath. Heaven only knew what I was saying. I kept grasping for words and finding them inadequate. Finally, I just sat there with my hands palm up on my knees, staring at Ella, shaking my head in confusion. I said: "I open my eyes and you are there, and I thank God…" and couldn’t say anything else. I just sat there, looking at her. Ella took my hand, squeezed it a little and said the words of the vow we had exchanged decades ago:

"With all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you." She let go of my hand.

"With all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you. And this is what I have," I said, giving her my opened hand. "This is all that I have in the world to give to you: myself."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Thank you, Guy." And then we were married again, for the rest of our lives.

"Zach," I yelled foolishly. "I have something to tell you. I want to give you the money. You were right. I don’t need it. I want you to have it. We’ll go to the bank together, right now. You don’t have to wait for me to die. Here – I’m coming." I took a step into the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cab approaching, not seeing me. And then I was face down on the street, oozing blood and staring idiotically into the wrapper of the Snickers bar. Soon, I saw a pair of feet.

"Guy, you idiot," Zach was saying. "Look at you. Look at what’s happened to you. Now I’m going to have to save your life." I managed to turn my head a bit so I could look up at him. There seemed to be a light around him. Maybe it was the bump on my head doing things to my vision. But Zach had a white light surrounding him as he spoke. "Zach," I started to say, but he cut me off. "No, don’t talk." He closed his eyes a moment, then reached out his hand and touched my head, my back, my arms, my legs. It happened so quickly. Shudders passed through my body. I wondered if these were the convulsions I’d heard accompany death. "My dogs….Zach. Do you see my dogs?"

Zach looked around, then moved out of my vision. "They’re under the car. And they’re safe," He said. "I’ll take them home. Listen, Guy," he knelt down and looked me in the eye. "Don’t tell anyone about me, or what I’ve just done, okay? It’ll be our little secret. Okay?"

"Tell them what?" I didn’t understand. Then there were all these people around me. Someone shouted, "that bum’s trying to rob him. I saw him patting him down. Hold him…someone call the police…hold him! He’s getting away…" Then I lost consciousness and awoke in the emergency room. I felt fine. The doctor was looking at me, puzzled.

"There’s nothing wrong with you. No cuts. No bruises. No broken bones. No concussion. Nothing. How did you do that?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"You’ve just been in a major collision. Police say the cab threw you three feet into the air. You landed on the hood, slid down to the fender, hit your head and your leg, wham, on the pavement, and nothing’s broken. Not even a scratch. There was blood at the scene, but none coming from you, apparently. Someone said there was a bum with you. Did he get hit?"

"No, he was across the street. And he’s not a bum. He was a friend of mine." I tried to sit up. He pushed me back down.

"Whatever. Well, I want you to stay here overnight, just in case, but it looks like you just got very lucky."

"I’ve always been lucky," I replied. And it was true.

- EPILOGUE -

And I am content.

January, 2000.