My father always used to say, “Close only counts in horseshoes and golf.” What about life? In this weekend’s story, a man still in love with his ex-wife drops in on her at a bar. Except she has the last (and every) word. It’s a situation any man might find himself in, a confrontation with his past. And yet the characters here are wholly original, longing to live better than they think they deserve. –Matt Salesses, Good Men Project Fiction Editor
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I’m playing the Riviera in L.A., where my former wife still lives. She’s married to the chef. I make the cut on Friday, sign my card and head for the bar. There she is. We haven’t seen each other in five years.
Paparazzi snapped a long lens photo of two women dancing on a table in an adjoining suite my caddy booked. He’d left the door ajar going to refill the ice. Big noisy divorce, lots of drama. It came up in every interview. I joked to the press after my big year that I was the leading money winner on the tour and she came in second.
It’s seven o’clock. I’m slowly moving up the leader board. L.A. light streams through the blinds. I move toward her.
She looks up from the tour guide she’s reading, frowns, nods. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me. But she doesn’t offer her hand, and kissing is out. So I grab the stool next to her, drag it six inches farther away, and take a seat. She orders me a beer. Then she starts up.
She says I’ve caused her grief, a lifetime of heartache really, made her feel humiliated and ashamed. Isn’t that enough?
That’s her opener.
Your picture sucks. She taps the tour guide with one manicured fingernail. It’s hard to argue there. The picture was taken by my caddie, who was drunk. Tess never liked my caddies. That was an issue. A caddie’s like a work wife. Still, I see her point. And then the dancing girls.
But then you were into humiliation and betrayal early. She thinks a minute, or appears to think, then taps her head. No, she says, not at the beginning. Not when we first met. You were different then. You remember, Fred?
We met in college. She was the blonde at the end of a long hallway. Framed in the late Pacific light as I exited the Pepperdine Admissions office. They’d offered me a scholarship, sealed the deal at twilight, about this time of night, actually–and she was coming out of the cafeteria with friends when she saw me, looking. She stopped dead away in the hall and looked back.
You changed when you hit 35, you know that? Like a switch went off in your brain. You really started up then. You turned on me. You did it up good, didn’t you? Thought you were funny.
You and your idiot caddie. You must be proud of yourself. The two of you.
She says, I’d love to sock you.
We had hard times and I stayed by you. When you were coming up. You remember? Mr. Fancy Pants. Ramen noodles, all we had, and who cooked for you?
She tosses her hair. She still has the hair. Her color is up, and it’s thrilling in a way.
But what’s done is done. It is what it is. You’re the one who keeps giving these idiotic interviews.
I said some things to the Golf Digest interviewer, it’s true. Last issue. They sent a woman barely out of J-school. It broke my heart just to look at her. I said more than I should. About Tess, about those early years. I babbled on and on. Even cried. The girl took notes and smiled. It was the smile that did it.
Some high school kids walk across the bar. Two girls in shimmering pink and green taffeta gowns, with a guy between them in a black tux. The one girl a blonde, the other a brunette, the guy between them happy as a clam. Above their high heels the girls’ ankles flash brown to match their toned arms. In their swishing dresses they move by quickly, carrying it all.
You know something? I think you’re sick. I think you’re nutty as a fruitcake. You and your idiot caddy. Oh, you’ve got ‘em fooled, alright. The press, the sponsors. Nike would sponsor a rodent, toad scum, if it did any winning. You think that means anything? Listen, I could tell them a thing or two. They can come talk to me, they want to hear a story. Don’t get me started.
Tess somehow kept her head when the interviews came out. I always admired that. I don’t know where that comes from, that reserve. But make no mistake, here at the bar, I know I’m back in town.
Think of me as dead. I’m dead to you now, you get it? I just want to live in peace. A woman in her 40s, I’m entitled. Haven’t I had enough of your bullshit?
Some more prom kids cross through the bar going to their party, whatever it is. I pull my hat down and try not to look. Tess watches me and laughs. I smile, and then I laugh too.
She has the right to talk. I listen, aware of the time. The L.A. light is fading, in that way I remember. I try to find an opening. But she’s rolling.
I loved you so much. Once upon a time. Ha! Like a storybook. Like these poor prom girls you keep looking at, thinking they’re in a movie. My mother talked about love like that, my God, what we talked about! And sure, I believed it. I was willing, I’ll give you that. What else did I know? You swept in, with your boyish grin, like you’d never lost anything in your life.
She sweeps the hair out of her eyes. She looks at me hard, there at the bar, until I know I’ve been looked at. The bartender brings us another set of beers and turns away. There are no more kids passing.
We grew up together, for chrissake. I gave you everything I had, and now look. I’m an old woman. 40, 45. 55. 60. Who knows. You threw me away.
I was young then, and so were you. Maybe you were a better person then. I don’t know. You must have been or I would never have gone for you. I stood on a thousand fairways for you, a thousand greens. I wanted you more than anything. Imagine that! We were so close. We shared everything in those little bitty motel rooms, you remember that? Driving all over the country in that old green Thunderbird, come on, I know you remember that. Making love by the side of the road. We were intimate once upon a time, Fred. God, I could puke! I could never do that again with anyone else, how we were. You got all of that, all those years you got off me, and what did you do with it? Threw it all away, that’s what.
You were always lucky, though, I’ll give you that. But you remember the wrong things, in your shameful interviews. Let me tell you something, you don’t fool me, or any other half-sane woman in America. You hear me? I wonder if you feel any regret?
Regret is not something I feel. I don’t use the word, it’s been drilled out of me by swing coaches and sports psychologists. You can’t win with regrets. I never liked losing.
Don’t you have somewhere to go? Some big party, some main event somewhere?
She has a bridge of freckles across her nose. Right where I remember them. Her voice still rises then falls at the end of her sentences. Drops off into nothing.
No, I say. Then I say it again. No, I have nowhere to go. I don’t have any place I need to be. I don’t have anyone to go back to. An empty hotel room and a drunk caddie.
I reach over and take one of her hands in mine. It feels light and insubstantial. A girl’s hand. The hand is ring-less and smooth. I hold it to my sunburned face and feel the heat. She doesn’t draw away. She doesn’t move toward me.
I go to my knees. Right there at the bar, I drop down and hold her dress between my thumb and forefinger. I hold onto her hem like it’s the body of Christ.
She sits still for a minute. I’ve shut out the noise of the bar, the people looking at us. As if standing over a winning putt, with that degree of concentration.
But after a minute she says, It’s OK, get up stupid. What are you trying to prove? C’mon, get up, Fred. What are you doing down there? You are so dumb sometimes, I swear.
Look, I felt the need to vent, OK? I mean, I don’t see you for five years and you shooting off your mouth across America. What’d you expect?
For a while I was inconsolable. Put that word in your stupid yardage book! I was such a good girl, good, pretty and stupid. But anyway, I got over it. I have a life now. It may not be the same as your life, understand, but I like it. He is good to me. He’s home at night. He brings me organic bananas. He doesn’t send his idiot caddy to get me ridiculous presents, or to meet me at the restaurant when he’s running late.
She takes her time. I’m still down on the floor, slumped over and holding her hem for all I’m worth.
C’mon, get up. My husband will be coming in here soon to check on operations. How am I supposed to explain this? I know what you want. You want the magic words, don’t you? OK, look, Frederick, look at me. Look at me! I forgive you, OK? I don’t mind that you feel bad. Maybe a little bad, is OK. But sure, I forgive you. I absolve you. Like a good Catholic girl. You’re free now.
But I’m still there on the floor.
Did you hear what I said? Hey, dummy. You have to go now. C’mon, honey, I said I forgive you. You’ve got it made in the shade, you and your old lady. That’s it. Here, here’s your hat. Don’t forget your stupid hat, it’s probably worth millions.
Listen to me now. I want to tell you something. She pulls me by the shirt, right into where she sits with her feet hooked around the bar stool. She gets my face so it’s close to hers, then closer. Till she’s about three inches away. I take shallow breaths that I wonder if she can hear. I lean in for what she has to say. I wait there, in front of her.
You just keep doing what you’re doing. There’s nothing more to be done now. We’ve seen everything. You just go on and tell it like you have to. I guess I never expected anything less of you, and just forget about all the rest. It’s alright now. Really. I’m OK.
She walks me out. The white moon hangs sideways in the L.A. night. We are on the edge of the desert and the night air envelops us. I don’t think I have ever seen a moon like that. But I don’t trust my lips. I don’t know what might happen.
It was good of you to come. I know you don’t usually play this event. I know you came for me. Maybe you’ll come back some time, and maybe you won’t. It doesn’t matter. I’m happy here. But this that you’re feeling tonight will wear off, you understand me? Pretty soon you’ll start feeling the old way again, and you have to learn how to deal with that, see? You don’t have me to feel through anymore, to feel things for you. You have to get used to that, Fred.
I nod and say goodbye. That’s her last word on the matter. She looks at her hands, then moves them into a defeated wave. She goes back into the bar and I stare up at the moon.
A couple of kids get out of a car in the parking lot. The girl laughs and clutches at her white breast. Her date comes around the car with a long hatpin. His tux is awry. They look like they just got dressed. He finally gets the corsage pinned and they move into a long kiss. The moonlight frames them, just for an instant, and then they move off into the clubhouse. I watch them go.
—photo Flickr/Heike_Quosdorf
