Chapter Five
I was thankful I didn’t see him around again after that. And I stopped listening to his wall. By mistake, I fell asleep a few times on my living room floor instead of going to my bedroom.
I finally managed to tell Roop, nearly dying of embarrassment as I did. She couldn’t stop cackling and clapping her hands. She desperately wanted to see him. He was more her type than mine, certainly. She would usually just say the men I cast eyes on seemed “nice.” She liked well-maintained animals, and I thought she’d like his facial hair and height. She liked to be loomed over. I hated it. And she was sort of his type, I thought. Fit and dark haired with an exotic face. Jon always said I looked like a marriage portrait of European royalty. Which I knew he meant as a compliment. But to me, it always seemed to mean milk-skinned, lambent eyed and soft faced. And plain. I knew when men looked at me, it wasn’t for my face. It was for the sway of my hips, the jiggle of my bust line, the stilettos Jon both hated and loved.
“You could probably pick him up, honestly,” I said. Telling her that the two women I’d seen associated with him were dark haired and dark eyed. She wiggled her eyebrows meaningfully at me.
“And I can admit to some prurient curiosity if he’s actually as good as how he sounds,” I said.
“Are you pimping me out to your neighbor out of curiosity?” she cried, hitting me hard in the upper arm.
I grasped my hurt flesh.
“No! I mean, he sounds like he performs very well and is very giving and–” I said.
She groaned, falling backward onto the floor.
“You’re getting weird with this, Anna-banana,” she said. “Anyway, why don’t you fuck him? Huh? It doesn’t sound like he’s hard to trick into bed.”
“I’m not going to be fucking anyone,” I said. Feeling more firmly about this not fully thought-out celibacy plan. “That’s just a bad idea.”
“Well… I mean… nice little palette cleanser after Jon… If you just stop having sex at all, isn’t that like staying loyal to him? And he doesn’t deserve it… I don’t… I think it’s… Everyone ought to be thankful that you didn’t get all the way to the altar,” she said slowly.
Finally being all the way honest with me. I knew she didn’t like Jon, not really. They had a lot in common, interestingly. She had majored in economics and art history and fell into illustration. They agreed on basic fiscal policy and economic philosophies. They went to the same school, even, knew the same professors. Both of them were good conversationalists. Both of them liked peace and quiet. They both liked American food, watching baseball and playing tennis. But I knew, even if she’d never said a word in that direction, that she thought we were a bad match. And I knew she loved me and wouldn’t care a drop of spit if she never saw him again.
I sighed. There was a world of difference between knowing what she thought and hearing her say it.
“No men,” I said. “No sex. Especially no romance. Right now it’s just-Anna,” I said.
I was just falling asleep one night when a thunderous-seeming thud on my right wall shook me out of sleep. I sat up, listening. Worried about Matt for a moment. Noises heard in half-sleep though are louder than when you’re fully conscious. I hadn’t been sleeping well to begin with– too many changes, too much noise after years of sleeping in Jon’s silent house.
Then a knocking “Shave and a Haircut” on the wall. I knocked back the “two bits” part and then pushed my ear to the wall. Not hearing the sound of two bodies– but that wasn’t surprising. I didn’t think he’d alert me to the fact that he had a partner with him. In fact, I was still feeling a great deal of guilt about that anyway. I was about to fall back into my pillow when I heard a very low moan from him– more of a murmur, really. Heart hammering, I listened closer. Almost able to hear him panting, as though his mouth was against the drywall. He was masturbating! Imagining, at least, the sound of his hand.
I listened for another few minutes, and then he thwacked against the wall again. It sounded like the flat of his palm slapping right over where my ear was. Like we were exactly side by side, separated only by the wall.
I kicked off my leggings under the blanket, hesitantly knocked my knuckles into the wall and started touching myself. His sounds became more frequent, but shorter. So I guessed he was speeding up. He started panting out “oh”s and the fact that it was just blank afterward made me think of how he usually followed it with some pet name. But he was leaving it blank for me tonight.
He let loose that single, almost cymbal-clang ‘oh’ and I came right on the heels of it. I sighed, slumping deeply into my mattress. I heard a whickering shush against the wall, like he was swiping his palm against it. Then a softer “shave and a haircut” to which I responded in kind.
I was terrified he’d be out in the hallway, or in the stairwell or at the mailboxes the next morning. I would drop dead of embarrassment if I saw him face-to-face again after last night. Found out and pushed to misbehave further. I’d enjoyed myself immensely in the moment but regretted it after the fact. And worse, I knew I’d do it again as soon as the chance was presented to me again.
Luckily, I didn’t see him. Not for several days.
I was beginning to suffer my usual seasonal mood swing. It wasn’t even depression, exactly, but irritation. I hadn’t been raised with any happy holidays or by a particularly present or loving family. So hearing and seeing all that grated and annoyed. And I hated being cold, hated the late sunrise and early sunset. When I went to the office it was dark and when I left it was dark. That I no longer liked to leisurely stroll the city but instead rushed, chin into chest, to get from one indoor place to the next. It also made me less inclined to leave the house. Which was depressing and lonely. I wouldn’t just take a stroll to get breakfast, or go to the city park for a brisk walk and to read on the bench, nor to the library to pick up physical books, or go out to dance or have a soda at the bar. I just kind of rolled myself into blankets and lay on my living room floor, fussily reading on my laptop, trying to hem a pair of pants, wandering down to the laundry room and getting very little done.
When I grabbed my mail one morning, there was a heavy sage green envelope in it. As I was sorting my mail in the office later that day, I sighed, seeing it was from Newton. Slitting it open with my pinkie nail, I let it flop onto the desk. An open-house style invitation to Jon’s. “A celebration of family history” and a welcome to Jon’s new working space, apparently. The date set just about two weeks from now. Clearly, from the printer I usually used. I noticed he’d even stuck to the typeface I used for all of our house correspondence. At the very bottom I saw his angular all-caps print. His letters seemed to fall apart as his hand rushed forward on the page.
It would be nice if you could attend.
I shoved it into a pocket on my work tote and decided to forget about that for now.
When I got home I grabbed my laundry basket, and my gym bag and stomped into the basement. I hated the basement. The tenet “storage” was literally just put-up chicken wire and two-by-fours– the wire walls slumping into each other where some folks' things were overstuffed. All the lights were yellow, I’d seen a mouse once who scared me so badly I thought my heart would never settle back into place. And someone had once left wet laundry in the washing machine for so long the whole basement still smelt of cotton mold. It was also cold now– not insulated like the upper floor. Someone had put in a little plug-in space heater beside a plastic lawn chair. But turning it on made the whole basement smell dangerously of burning dust and melting electrical cords. I couldn’t actually imagine who hung out down here while they were doing their laundry, but it didn’t matter. The floor was also sticky under foot where soap and who knows what else had been leaked by the unawares.
But it was still cheaper and easier than going to the laundromat.
I was turning my gym bag upside down and shaking it violently into the washer. Having the bad habit of letting sweatbands, underwear and socks build up in the bottom and not emptying as often as I ought. I jumped about a foot high when someone came into the basement, but heading to the opposite wall where the storage was. I kept my face toward the washer. No one was unfriendly exactly, and we’d nod at each other in the shared spaces. But outside of Matt, I hadn’t exchanged names with anyone. Or even words. Just eye contact, acknowledgement and separation.
“Anna,” a voice said, so I turned. It was Matt, shoving a stack of books and what looked like a viola case into his haphazardly stacked cage.
“Don’t worry,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the case. “There’s not actually an instrument in there.”
I laughed. I wasn’t a musician, but I at least remembered from elementary school music lessons that instruments couldn’t just be stored willy-nilly. Humidity or cold or high heat would affect a stringed instrument, probably.
“I’m not the orchestra police,” I said.
It was impossible to make eye contact with him. The few times I saw him he was always wearing a white or black button up, black slacks and black boots. Today black jeans, a dark long-sleeved tee, quite raggedy. The other clothes must be work clothes. But all I could think about was whether he’d been nude when I last heard his voice.
“Hey,” he said, smiling, shrugging boyishly. “I’ve got some food coming and–”
“No,” I said firmly. And then gentler, “I mean, thank you for the offer but that just seems like a bad idea and I just got out of a thing and–”
“Literally, me too,” he said, glancing at his watch and then back up at me. “About twenty minutes ago, I got out of a thing.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Eh, it was going in that direction,” he said, still shrugging.
He started heading back up the stairs.
“Um, actually… Yeah. Just take-out?” I called up to him.
“Just take-out,” he agreed.
“Okay,” I said, dumping soap into the washer. He sat on the third step, waiting for me. I followed him back up the stairs to his apartment.
Our places were an exact mirror of each other’s. His of course seemed far more settled. But what was interesting is that he just had several random wooden chairs scattered around what would be the living room, with music stands beside most of them and instruments. A big stereo system and records, tapes and CDs neatly stacked all over the place. Lots of rugs and posters, enough that they were layered. He had something like egg cartons stuck to his walls. A very large television, muted but clearly playing some kind of older-looking horror movie.
He went into his similar hallway-of-a-kitchen and called back to me.
“Beer? Wine? Whiskey sour?” he called.
“No, thank you,” I laughed.
“Oh, good, because I don’t have any of those things,” he said, poking his head around the doorway of the kitchen and grinning at me as I stuck my fingers into the crannies of his egg cartons.
“I have uhh… grape flavor aid, water, Moxie or…” he said, while making jazz fingers, “If you care to join me in an orange-soda float?”
I laughed harder, set at ease, and liked this thing we had in common. Both of us with refrigerators filled with ‘kids’ drinks. I hadn’t had ice cream since… Before dating Jon, certainly.
“Yeah, I’ll join you,” I said.
He gestured toward the one place to sit that wasn’t a practice space– a very clearly vintage and second-hand love seat, set up opposite his television with a single tiny coffee table before it. Evidence that this was his frequent resting space– water glasses, empty bottles of soda, bottles of aspirin, pens and notes, a smashed papier mache of tickets.
I settled into it, curling my feet underneath my thighs. Jon used to always sigh and tap my knee when I did that. He thought it was ugly, kiddish and rude to sit like that, that feet should always be flat on the floor.
When Matt came back in, I quickly fwumpped my feet back down onto the rug as he set two tall glasses in front of us. Plunking an aluminum straw into each. A very hearty scoop of vanilla melting into the synthetic orange of the soda and looking delicious.
“Not much space to entertain,” I said, lifting my chin to the room.
“I’m rarely entertaining… I’m mostly heading straight to the bedroom,” he said. Flashing that tooth at me once more.
“But not with me though,” I said, smiling back.
“No, not with you,” he agreed.
He sat down beside me and I felt briefly nervous over how close he was. Not fearful, just very aware of his heat and weight beside me and who he was to me. Which was like my live sex show, or something. Definitely not just a neighbor nor was he a friend.
“I hate coming home alone and eating dinner alone and watching the same fucking movies alone,” he sighed.
“Me too,” I said. “Well. The home alone and eating alone… I haven’t watched a movie in… I don’t know, three years?”
“Holy shit, I watch like nine movies a week,” he laughed.
We both looked up at the screen then, watching a sudden gush of blood across the screen and laughed once more.
“Seriously though, thanks for joining me,” he said.
“Thanks for the invite, seriously,” I said.
The buzzer went off then, and he stepped out to grab the food.
He came back and started laying out food. Kebabs, several kinds, kofta and samosa. Too much for one person.
“I like to gorge and have leftovers,” he said, shrugging over the spread before us. I handed him a napkin as he flopped back and started making him a plate without thinking, handing it to him before starting my own. I heard him snort, but take it and sit back against the couch.
He turned up the television but very low. We talked about the food and finally started to branch out. Talking about the apartment complex, our neighbors, the city, where we liked to eat. It turned out he was a gig musician– playing at bars and restaurants and filling in for house bands who were missing an instrumentalist. Supplementing that with lessons and studio playing as well. Which explained his late nights. At first, I was embarrassed to do it, but he asked me to show him some design work, so I pulled out my phone to show him the train project, because I did find it thrilling. He was suitably impressed.
“That is wicked cool, but I’ll never be able to afford that,” he said, laughing.
“When we have our ‘maiden voyage’ maybe you can be my plus one,” I said, only half-joking.
The ‘maiden voyage’ was just a cocktail hour for the designers and a few other people before it actually went operational. A soft open for us and especially the dining car. I had floated it out to Roop, but she groaned. She hated “industry” parties. She said she’d come visit me the day before and let me give her a tour but nothing sounded worse to her than standing around with other artistes and letting cheap wine get warmed by your palm.
“I’ll have to get my shoes shined,” he said.
We laughed and moved on to music. Usually I was hesitant to talk music with music nerds– and he seemed especially nerdy. A multi-instrumentalist and always playing something different. Besides, I could see a snake of media everywhere so he was widely listened as well. But he was just kind, enthusiastically familiar with things but not making fun of my likes or non-depth of knowledge.
We talked about work and music and downtown. Our friends– he had a ton, I had my one. We didn’t talk about romantic entanglements, nor the ring turned wrong-way-round on my finger. We trooped back down to the basement briefly to swap over my laundry. Went back upstairs again. We talked about thrifting– he of course shopped for records, old cigarette advertisements, cameras and guitars. I could feel myself about to lecture about furniture and managed to reel it in. Apologizing for waxing lyrical about nothing. But he laughed and said, “I just like hearing people talk about what they love.”
I almost stumbled into explaining all the ‘right’ shopping I’d been doing for Jon’s house. It was a project I’d truly enjoyed. Trying to restore something. Not just the physicality of it but the feeling and context of it.
I knew everyone thought what I did was shallow, expensive for no reason and ultimately pointless. And most of the time I agreed. But the heart of it was building something that became meaningful. Design, at its core, ought to be about living. Making a space a home. Making things functional, making emptiness human. I was talking to him about how my favorite thing to do was ADA redesign. It made me think hard about things I didn’t think about. Made me listen to people and pause and consider things.
By this point we were just picking at food. A new movie had already begun. I was sitting cross-legged again. His knees were angled toward me, his arm stretched along the back of the love seat.
He drew parallels to The Grateful Dead’s wall of sound, how there were more interpreters at shows now, more thought to vibration and visuals. I nodded, I wasn’t aware of this, nor had I experienced any of it, but I liked it. And I liked how deeply he thought about things. I liked how he talked expansively, with his hands. Pausing to consider word choice. Listening without interrupting.
Occasionally he made me nervous once more, just because of his sheer closeness. He was a close talker, he liked eye contact, hands fluttering near me. His knee knocking mine, his thigh against mine. Not bad, just aware of his physical body in a way I wasn’t prepared to be. Because if I felt how warm he was, smelled his hair gel, his beard oil, felt the weight of his body pulling my body toward him, I’d have to think about him in that way.
Not that he was pushing me in that direction at all. He could cup my shoulder– his arm right on the back of the couch. He could lay a hand on my thigh. He could just turn his face a little to the left and be in kissing distance, but he didn’t. I also just got no sexual energy off of him. He genuinely seemed merely lonely, just wanting someone to talk to tonight. He had none of the digging flirtatiousness as when he teased about putting a face to the voice. He made no mention of our percussive and then groaning communiqués through the wall.
This was simultaneously a relief and a disappointment. If he should have pursued it, I would have rebuffed him. But it was weird to have been intimate with him in that way and then for it to not come up again.
He got up and I joined him. Cleaning up, putting leftovers away, tossing out empty boxes and bags and used napkins. He shook a box of powdered cocoa at me and I nodded.
We went back into the living room, cupping mugs and talking the whole time. He sat easier still, propping his feet up on the coffee table, arm still extended behind me. I scooped hot marshmallows into the hollow of my tongue while he talked.
We got into that late night too-personal kind of talking. He got into music because of the toxic church he was raised in. The only activity or way to have fun was in the church choir and band. I said I got into house design out of childhood deprivation. Growing up with non-present parents in poverty. I used to draw the rooms I wished I had, the home I wished to live in. Over and over. Larger and more beautiful all the time. Neither of us had siblings, or any real relationship with our parents. We both longed for stability and establishment. Laughing as we looked around the shithole that was our apartment building. Our total lack of either thing. When I was putting down my empty mug I gasped looking at my watch. It was late.
“I’m sorry, I kept you up,” he said.
“No, it’s fine. I haven’t been sleeping either… But also… I had a nice time,” I said.
“I had a great time,” he said, standing up.
He walked me to the door, glancing up and down the hallway briefly. I realized he was making sure we were alone. That my two-foot walk to my door was safe. I chuckled to myself about it, already digging out my keys.
“See you later,” I said. Wondering if he’d be knocking on my wall tonight.
I got into the shower. Thinking about his reconnaissance peek around. I knew how obvious I was– I liked men who took care. I’d been on my own for so long and taking care of myself even longer. And all I ever wanted was some soft, warm place to land. And Jon had been that for me for so long.
Matt’s little look-around reminded me of meeting Jon. I’d been working for Timothy, Jon had still been working for a wealth management group– he hadn’t hung out his own shingle yet. We met at a museum opening outside of Newton. He was there because he was a donor. I was there because Timothy and I had worked hand in hand with the collectors and the architects of the museum. Doing the lighting and signage and flow for the space.
Not my favorite kind of night. Catered snacks, bad mocktails, drunken rich people. My career had taken me to a place where most of my socializing and networking were with a certain ‘set’ of people, but I never grew accustomed to them. Their ignorance, their lack of focus, the time they could waste, their entitlement and their diffuse beliefs. I often felt that they saw through me. That my outlet designer was obvious. That it didn’t matter that I’d found a good tailor. That my obvious curves set me aside as ‘mistress’ never ‘wife.’ That no matter how polished or finished or precise I was someone would say “ah, the South Valley Trailer Court, right?” as they waved a finger of recognition at me.
I was standing toward the back of one of the rooms. The modern art collection, all donated by the same family– the Brewers. Hands knotted behind my back. Shoes starting to pinch, worried that my foundation was melting under the track lights. That I smeared my lipstick on my one lukewarm glass of water. Wondering when, exactly, I could duck out. Wondering where my coworkers were– at least I could cuddle up to them.
Suddenly there was a man standing by my side. I was startled but didn’t step away. He didn’t seem at all threatening.
“Are you a fan of the modern collection?” he asked.
I looked at him again, wondering if I knew him. But no. Though he was exactly my type. I’d just had a rather messy affair with a married man who looked similar to him, even. And unfortunately, it made me warm to him instantly. He was neat, tidy, and purposeful. His belt matched his shoes, he wore a pocket square and it was real. A black three-piece with a silver watch chain, silver watch. Graying hair swept back from his brow. Broad-shouldered, though not terribly tall. Still, I wasn’t sure of his intentions, so I fell to truth instead of cocktail hour dishonest small-talk.
“No. I’m more of a classics. You know, oil portraits and landscapes kind of girl,” I said.
“Agreed,” he said. “It made donating this that much easier.”
I glanced at him again, wondering if he was being truthful. Wondering if this was braggadocious, but it didn’t seem to be.
“Mr. Brewer?” I questioned.
Of course, I’d heard plenty of the name around here. Drive into Newton and everything was Brewer. Brewer Insurance, the Lord Brewer library, Brewer Lane, Brewer and Brewer Esquire… the list went on and on.
“Jon is better,” he said, sticking out his hand.
“Anna Tremblay,” I introduced, shaking his hand.
He felt good. And no wedding ring, I noticed.
We spent the next hour together. When they started walking with food, he made me a plate. He went and got me a refill on my soda water without asking. He sealed my growing infatuation by fending off a rather drunk man. Well into his fifties, too old to be behaving in the fashion he was. Having overindulged at the open bar, fairly obviously.
He bumped into me, and then did it again, brushing his fingers along my upper arm, making me shiver with how wormy he felt.
“Oof, sorry jiggles,” he said, winking heavily at me.
Jon reached out, righting the man’s loosened tie.
“That’s not the language we use with women,” he said, gently, turning the man around with a hand on his shoulder.
“All right, Miss. Tremblay?” Jon asked.
Of course, I was all right. Hardly shaken. But I liked that he thought I was so delicate that I needed to be shielded from “jiggles”– lord knows I’d heard far worse in far more dangerous situations. I liked that he felt that it was his responsibility to tell other people how to behave around me.
He eventually led me to sit on one of those huge round ottomans in the center of the statue room. Pushing more chocolate covered strawberries toward me. Remarking that he liked how I was wearing a pink dress with violet stilettos and accessories. I liked wearing contrasting brights together. I liked cultivating a sort of poisonous flower look in my fashion.
I was bold, giving him my number as the evening closed out. He smiled, pocketing it carefully in the breast of his jacket and patting it twice, as though making sure of its solidity.
He called me the next day to invite me to lunch, which I thought was delightfully old-fashioned of him. He asked me what I was thinking about ordering and then ordered it for me. Noticing I’d finished my drink and waving over the waiter. Walking me to my car and then leaning into my open window to ask me when he could take me to dinner.
We went back and forth frequently– I was still living downtown, he was living in a rented home in Newton. We were a little over an hour away from each other. We’d meet halfway for dinners or lunches. Drive in for events for each other. He had frequent charity dinners and the like, and he said he loved having a woman like me on his arm for such evenings. I had frequent art openings that I liked having such a put-together man with me for.
We didn’t sleep together for so long that I became both impatient and concerned. At least three months, and over twenty-five dates. He was in the city for an art show that I’d done the installations for. And we were leaving the museum late, and I hesitantly cleared my throat and asked for him to come home with me. He hadn’t said he was religious or anything, and now I was getting nervous about why we hadn’t had sex yet. We had kissed and gotten quite hot and heavy, but never slept over. He took my hand and kissed my forehead.
“I’d like that very much,” he said.
After that, we frequently had “sleepovers” and long weekends. He took me to several beds and breakfasts. His preferred kind of weekend was steak dinners, quiet, theater, backgammon and fireplaces. And being with him was like taking a deep breath away from work and the city.
He was my moment of silence. He was my smoke break. And nearly every time I saw him, he had a gift. Nothing enormous or pricey, necessarily. We both liked to read, so he almost always had a book in hand. If we were having one of our long weekends, often two. Because we’d read in bed or before the fireplace. About once a month he’d get something “bigger”– after we began to sleep together– jewelry, pajamas, art prints. He said perfume gave him a headache, but he’d buy me powder puffs or fancy soap in place of that.
I knew what his plan was when we started dating. He was working for someone but wanted to be his own boss. He was purchasing his grandfather’s home and was planning to refurbish it. And I liked it. I remembered when he showed me the old newspaper print of the house. It was from the front page of the Newton Gazette. His great-grandfather’s birthday or something. I ran my fingernail over it. Loving the people waving from the front law, the cascade of white roses up along the white brick walls. The ivy on the stone and iron fences. The dark front door, the gas lamps on either side.
“Oh, what a lovely place!” I said.
He sighed and pulled out his cellphone and showed me more contemporary pictures. It had clearly fallen into very heavy disrepair.
“This is a good project,” I said.
I watched sunshine cross his face then. As though he were surprised by lack of judgment or negativity.
It wasn’t long until he asked me to move in and asked me to work with him on this ‘good project.’ I did without question. And when we finished replacing the windows and awnings he proposed to me from the front step. I was up on the top step, about to head back in for iced tea for us when I saw him kneeling on the bottom step.
It took us over a year to even set a date and that was another two years after that. We wanted to finish the house and get his office up and running. That was the priority for both of us.
And everything was perfect. Until it wasn’t.
I finally stepped out of the shower. Began drying my hair. When I got to my face I just buried it into the handfuls of the towel and wept.
I took the ring carefully off and lay it on the outermost edge of the plate I had on my bathroom counter for jewelry. Setting it right side up, stone angled to pick up the overhead light.
Half in fear, half in desire I listened for Matt’s knock. It didn’t come tonight.