The Dictionary of Failed Relationships Read online

“I’ll let you know.” He reached over, his arm gently brushing me, and turned the CD up a little louder. “Here, listen to this. This song is amazing.”

  When we picked up the paint, I walked behind Seth back to the car. I studied the hair on the back of his neck that had caught in smooth tangles under his hat. I wanted to pull down just one of those dark curves and press it to my mouth, to taste the salty heat of his neck behind the smoothness of his hair, to take one of those narrow hands and hold it between my thighs. I’d make him leave his rings on so I could feel the silver pressing into my leg like a new part of my body, hard and shining.

  By the time we got home, the other painters were there. There were three of them, all about the same age as Seth. They all set to work like old pros, carefully putting drop cloths over all the hedges and amiably discussing the best place to put the ladder. I watched them setting up. They seemed so young and sure of what they were doing. I couldn’t remember ever feeling like that. I left them for a while, but I could hear their casual voices talking about this and that: some band that played downtown, this girl they knew, how long this job might take. As I lay on the sofa, reading in the late-morning light, I had the absurd thought that I would always remember this moment. The play of light on my legs, the young voices outside my window; it all seemed worth treasuring. I could feel Seth right through the walls.

  I’d never even looked at a white guy before. That was another thing my mother wasn’t having. From my first Jack-and-Jill meeting to my last class at Spelman, it was my people and my people only. But only those whom my mother thought were the right sort: light skinned (like us) with good hair (like us) and good jobs (like us). Her approval of John had surprised me a little because he’s so dark. But I guess the ’60s had some effect on her. I actually kind of liked Bruce Springsteen in college, but I didn’t dare to admit it. I’d have been laughed out of my dorm. The music Seth listened to was so, well, so loud, so unpretty and unmelodic. It scared me some—but it drew me in, too, the way you sometimes feel when you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. What would really happen if you jumped off?

  They were still painting when I went to pick Daniel and Janie up at school, but they were gone by the time I got back. I felt oddly sad when I saw that I had missed them. Without the paint-spattered drop cloths, the hedges looked naked.

  Daniel jumped out of the car and ran around the house, surveying it from all sides. The slightest change rattles him, but he covers it with a lot of bravado. I worry that when he gets older, people will mistake his bluster for true fearlessness, that he’ll get hurt a lot as he grows up.

  “I like this color, Mom. Can we leave the house half and half?”

  “No, silly. It’s all going to be one color.”

  “But if we left it half and half, it wouldn’t be like anybody else’s. It would be cool.”

  “Yeah, Mom. It would be cool,” Janie chimed in. Her fondest wish is to be Daniel, or failing that, for him to respect her. She visibly puffs up when he deigns to pay attention to her.

  “Well, someday, when you have your own house, you can paint it half and half,” I said, resting my hands lightly on Daniel’s shoulders. “Daddy and I are going to have this one all one color.”

  He looked put upon but agreed, shifting impatiently under my touch. Janie did her best to imitate his expression.

  I’ve always found it hard to keep my hands off my kids. I want to feel the softness of their hair all the time, to check the round, gently hard surfaces of their skulls. When they were smaller, they didn’t mind; but now that they’re eight and six, they’re growing more reluctant. Janie will still run to my arms for comfort, but she’s beginning to see that she can do things on her own. And Daniel is starting to make friends and to resist my hugs, the way that boys will. I miss it, that body closeness we used to have. My skin feels empty a lot of the time.

  The kids had their snacks and went upstairs to play. I started dinner, feeling like every woman since the beginning of time.

  John came home, kissed me on the cheek, and headed for a beer in the fridge. He then went directly to the television—do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. I followed him into the living room, something I didn’t usually do. “Hon? What’s up? How was your day?”

  He started, surprised that I had followed him. “Huh? Oh, it was all right. They’re sweating my department, as usual. But nothing special happened. How about you?”

  “It was good. The painters came.” The sports report started, and John’s eyes drifted longingly to the set. I sighed. There was always something blocking us; there never seemed a way to talk. “Nothing special happened here, either. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” I turned and left without another word.

  I wondered what Seth’s apartment was like. I imagined it would have CDs of bands that I’d never heard of scattered all over the floor. A Nerf football behind a thrift-store lamp, a heap of clothes on top of a tatty sofa. He’d probably come home and just shove the laundry out of the way and pick up his guitar, trying out a new song. Maybe he’d rehearse with the other guys in his band somewhere later, filling the walls with raw sound. After, he’d go out for dinner with a dark-haired, thin girl who’d be wearing a long, flowered dress. To someplace with candles in Chianti bottles. Maybe.

  I called everybody down to dinner, but I was still thinking about Seth. I was distracted until Daniel started telling an elaborate story about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: “See, then Michaelangelo was on top of this building, and he had to jump all the way across to the other one, and Donatello was over there waiting for him, and he almost didn’t make it, but then he, see, he grabbed onto the side of the building, and Donatello pulled him up.” He was in his best performance mode, assuming different voices for each turtle. I paid attention and asked lots of enthusiastic questions; John listened with vague politeness, the way he might have to a maiden aunt who was given to lengthy stories.

  Janie came into the kitchen after dinner and stood soberly watching me wash the dishes for a while. “What’s up, sugarfoot?” I finally asked her.

  “Is Daddy OK?”

  “Yes, honey. He just feels tired because sometimes his job is very hard.”

  “Do you think it would help if I gave him one of my Trolls?”

  “I think that would be very nice. Maybe tomorrow, though, huh? It’s already past your bedtime.”

  “OK.” She was quiet for another minute. “At dinner, he wasn’t here. I like him to be here with us.”

  “Yes, honey. I know.” My throat closed as she turned and walked upstairs.

  When John and I were getting ready for bed, I took his hand in mine and said, “I know sometimes it’s hard to come home from work and pay attention to the kids. It’s hard to even pay attention to me, I suppose. But it means so much to them. They can tell when you’re not listening. It hurts them.” I paused. “And it hurts me, too.”

  He sighed and scowled. He looked rather like Daniel does when he can’t find a favorite truck. “Suzanne, look. I’m here, aren’t I? Every night, you know I’m going to walk through that door, that I’m not going to vanish. Isn’t that enough?” He pulled his hand away and went to brush his teeth, leaving me sitting on the bed, sudden tears in my eyes.

  A couple weeks later, the painters finished the house. Seth and I had spoken only a few more times—mostly about paint—in the time that they’d been there. I noticed that he took his rings off whenever he was working, to avoid getting paint on them, I suppose. Sometimes I could feel him looking at me with great keenness, or maybe I just wanted him to be. On their last day, as the other three moved quickly around, pulling up drop cloths and putting away paintbrushes, Seth walked up to me, a copy of the Chicago Reader in his hand. He smelled more like turpentine than usual. “Listen, I said I’d tell you the next time we were playing. It’s this Wednesday, at the Rat. You should check it out.”

  I knew I should say, “Oh, thanks, Seth, but I really can’t make it this time. I hope you kids do wel
l.” But I said, “I’ll try to come.”

  I told John I was meeting my friend Sarah for dinner and a movie and wouldn’t be home until late. As I said it, I thought, This is the second time I’ve lied for this boy. I must be crazy, but I did it. John didn’t seem to care whether I might be lying or not. That made it easier. I felt like anything could happen as I drove into town, like I might just get on the freeway and keep going.

  The Rathskeller was the whole name of the club, but the Rat was more appropriate. It was dark inside; some blue lightbulbs gave everything an unearthly glow. It smelled of old beer and new cigarette smoke and sweat. Graffiti and band posters covered every inch of the walls. I was the oldest person there, and one of just a very few black people. Everyone but me seemed to be wearing black leather and to have pierced body parts. I felt unshakably suburban as I ordered a beer.

  It took a long time for anything to happen. Kids with hair hanging in their faces ran knowledgeably back and forth on the stage, turning knobs on complicated-looking machines and tapping on drums. A couple, a boy and a girl with shaved heads, kissed passionately against the wall.

  Finally, Triphammer came on, and the crowd shifted its attention to the stage. Seth walked out, carrying a guitar and wearing a faded Flintstones T-shirt and ripped jeans. His hair was down. It looked beautiful.

  When they started to play, I had that same feeling I’d had when I first looked at his hands. Ten times stronger maybe.

  Nothing could have prepared me for that sound. It was so loud that it made the legs of my jeans vibrate, so raw I thought I might weep. Seth roared into the mike with his hair obscuring his face, flipping it back occasionally, his eyes closed. I was terrified. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. My ears were ringing.

  When it was over, he pushed his hair back out of his face. He was lightly covered with sweat, but he had the same sweet, avid look on his face that he’d had when he first came to my house. But now he looked right at me without acknowledging me. I felt transparent, as if he knew every thought that I had, how I’d imagined his hands on me, his hair in my mouth. How I wanted him—not my children, not my husband, not my life. A girl stood at the foot of the stage, wearing an outfit almost like his, looking up at him with her eyes shining. I imagined them embracing, arms entangled, hair blending together, breathing. I couldn’t stand it. I got up and left.

  John was up watching a rerun of All in the Family when I got home. I watched him for a moment from the hall, thinking that he was not a bad man, not a bad husband. Maybe if I could just hang on to that. I wiped quickly at my eyes and went into the living room to sit next to him. “Did you have fun?” he said, without looking away from the screen. He didn’t notice that I’d been crying, or that my clothes stank of smoke.

  “Yeah, Sarah’s good.”

  “That’s good.” I leaned over to him. Everything seemed to be narrowing to this one point between us. Turning his face to mine, I kissed him, hard. He smiled slightly and said, “Babe, I’m really too tired. I’ll be up in a bit, all right?” Then he laughed as Archie Bunker gesticulated wildly at his son-in-law. I’ve always hated that show. I turned and went upstairs.

  I looked in at Daniel, then Janie. I stood in Janie’s room for a long time, stroking her hair, feeling the softness of her angel flesh under my hand. She stirred, moved her thumb toward her mouth, then stopped it; even in sleep, shied away. She was a big girl now. She was already learning to say no to what she wanted.

  LDR

  By Colleen Curran

  LDR el-’d-är noun [origin unknown] 1: acronym for “long-distance relationship.” 2: extraordinarily expensive, agonizing relationship. Usually leads to infidelity, gigantic phone bills, heartache, and breakups. Especially common when meeting partners over the Internet or at weddings. Often a consequence of relocating for graduate school or career moves. Often doomed.

  My boyfriend told me he won’t hold his breath for me. Like that’s a surprise. He’s in Chicago, I’m here in New York. It was not always this way. I said, “Oh, yeah, okay. That’s fine. That makes sense.” I hung up the phone and just stared at it. This doesn’t have to be so serious. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.

  I actually told him I wanted to marry him. Don’t ask me what I was thinking. I heard about girls doing that, on the third date spilling their guts about how their time’s running out and how they want a family and how they want a house and that they think this is love and how they never felt this way before and how you, sir, you are the one, you are the love story they’ve been waiting for all these years.

  I’ve never once blamed a guy for bolting. But not my boy, not two months into it, with my whispering in his ear during the middle of a movie, me saying this shit while his face is turned to the screen, watching him smile. Not Ben, who took my hand and held it, making me feel like it was more than okay, neither one of us really watching the movie.

  He tells me things I’ve been waiting to hear since braces. He says all that stuff girls live for. At night, when the long-distance rates drop, I call Ben. He says, “Crazy, crazy girl. Took my heart and ran. What’s wrong with you? Here I am, howling at the moon.” And then he howls at the moon. It sounds retarded, but this kind of thing? I die for it. I kick back and put my hands behind my head, I hold the receiver between my chin and neck. I let Ben say this stuff for hours over long distance. I see dollar signs in my head every hour, but I’ve been in this one-room apartment in New York for two months already, and I haven’t received a bill yet. I tell myself that I won’t have to pay for this. I tell myself, “This will never hurt.”

  I’ve got this contest running with my best friend, June. The Best-Breakup-Ever Contest. She’s got me beat with plain, dumb meanness. June, she’s got this thing with bugs. Junebug, everybody calls her when they want to get her goat.

  I learned this firsthand when we were roommates in college. We were catching some coffee in between classes at this dirty coffee bar on Michigan Avenue, when roaches started coming out of the cracks in the wall and running across the table. June scuttled right up and stood on her chair. Yips like hiccups came from her nose, and her hands did this wavy, palsied thing at her sides.

  That was before June moved to Cleveland for a hotel management job. Now we talk long distance.

  So in this story, June’s only in high school. She’s dating Leather Boy, who peddles dope at her school. She knows it’s stupid, but she thinks he’s dangerous because he wears a black leather jacket. Two weeks into it, June feels like she’s known Leather Boy for a millennium, and if she has to hear one more story that starts, “Dude, we were so wasted . . .” she’ll start screaming and pulling him by the hair. It’s just about this time that Leather Boy stops by her house, where she’s sitting on the front porch.

  “He starts ambling up to me, you know,” June says, long distance. “So slow and sexy, my Mr. Cool. We’re sitting there chatting, and Leather Boy picks a ladybug off my blouse. Now, a bug’s a bug, babe. I don’t care if it’s got a pretty name, it still carries shit-all around on its legs. So naturally, I go, ‘Get that thing away from me!’ And he says, ‘Okay,’ and flicks his wrist.

  “Then Leather Boy gets this stupid smile and puts a hand to his lower lip, like he’s thinking. Like he can.” June starts to giggle, and I know exactly what she looks like when she’s telling this story. I can just see her shoulders start to shake, her magenta bob swaying at her chin. “So he gives me this really nice long kiss. He steps back to look at me, and I feel this dirt, this speck in my mouth. I put my tongue out, and sure enough, that asshole, that creepy bastard, put a fucking bug in my mouth.” We laugh so hard that there’s big spaces of dead air eating up the long distance. It’s really our favorite game.

  Bad boyfriends run in my blood, so I can beat June with sheer volume. Me, I get dumped every time. These boys I date, they dump me at the beach, in their cars, in my bed. Neal, who I saw for a week, told me after he kissed me, “I don’t think this can work. You know, I prefer blonds. Or boys, som
etimes.” I was eighteen at the time, Neal was thirty with that almost-beard-thing happening. Adam told me he’d dated girls like me before, girls that do nothing for him. Normally, he’d give it a shot, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, that we should nip it in the bud. That’s all he said after we’d been dating for a year. Brett, who said he loved me, dumped me because I was twenty minutes late in picking him up for a party. He said, “Can’t you do anything right?” Then he said, “Look, do you mind? Dropping me back off at the party?” I get points for this stuff. I score big.

  For once in my life, I stopped racking up points. “Watch your step,” June said when I called her up and told her about Ben. She said, “No matter what you think, it’s always the same old story.”

  I put the Contest on hold for a few months. Instead of calling June and talking about our favorite kind of natural disasters, I called Ben and got him to pick me up in his old shockless Buick Riviera almost every night. I saved hundreds on my long-distance bill.

  In the beginning, I thought he was just some guy. A friend of a friend. He had all this crazy, curly hair down to his collar. And this weird, galloping way of walking. When I’d get into his car, he’d say, laughing, “Hot stuff, coming through.”

  We went to bars in Bucktown and sat at tables that had long, skinny legs. We drank cocktails that our bartender had set on fire. We talked till they told us to leave. “Get a room,” the bartender would say.

  Ben. What can I say? His hands were always dirty, the gray of lead pencils from his drawings under his fingers. He wanted to be an artist, a painter, a famous, rich guy. I thought I never wanted something like that, ever. I didn’t even think he was handsome until it was too late. He told me from the get go, “I’ve got this thing bad. You can take it or leave it. Anytime you want. I’ll probably be here.”

  I said, “Not now. I don’t think ever. I don’t like boys like you. I like boys who break my heart.” Still he kept calling. Still he picked me up in his big old terror of a car. These things, they can swell a girl’s head. They can get her before she even knows what’s happening.