63. Luxor

 “Where do you want to go eat?” Thad asked in a forced upbeat voice.

“I don’t know. Where do you want to go eat?”

He screwed up his face and shrugged. “Well, it’s date night Saturday, so someplace nice?”

“Yeah,” I said noncommittally “That sounds good,” and walked into my Study.

It was four days later and I could still hardly look at him. After a monumental fight with him the night that I talked to Becky, I broke up with Thad in a grand and histrionic way that will surely be reproduced by Noh Theatre troops for years to come.  And we stayed broken-up for 55 hours- 55 horrible hours of no sleep and paranoia and rage and ennui. That is until I caved in last night, afraid I was overreacting, and called him back in a complete panic to make-up and to get back together.

So things had supposedly gotten better, as we were still a couple but then there was the problem that we were still a couple and that he was still an alcoholic who had  drunk and drove to the gay bars and got thrown in jail for it. And to top it off, after we got back together last night, he didn’t want to see me, instead he said he already had plans with Bettina, which left me glad we had made-up, but then livid and paranoid and jealous since I couldn’t see him immediately and that he had -again - chosen her over me.   

I had picked him up this morning, it now Saturday, and we had garage sailed some, but neither of us were into it. We just came back to the house and went to our separate corners, he to watch TV in the Den and me to brood over my computer in the Study. A home OU football raged outside, cars and people and crimson and creme everywhere.  

I had no idea what to do. I loved him and wanted to stay together, but this was big. He was an alcoholic. A big, nasty dumbass alcoholic and I was going to have to realize that there was nothing that could change that. He had been better, but I guess I was going to have to accept these falls, these terrible, terrible, crushing falls, as part of our life.   

But the drinking wasn’t even the worse of it. The worst of it was that he had gotten drunk and went to the gay bars. And I wanted to trust him, that nothing had happened, but I didn’t trust him because of all of our past, so that was that. And my paranoia was having a heyday imagining the Karma Sutra of sin he revealed in up there, all before his magnanimous fall to arrest.

Shame. Hatred. Scorn. Terror. Wrath. Vengeance.  

I heard him coming and tried to calm down.

“Hey!” he said sticking his head in the door. “Guess what?”

I wanted to say, ‘You are a completely horrible human being who doesn’t deserve me, and the only reason you’ve never committed suicide is because you are incapable of finishing anything.’ But I did not. Instead I said, “What?”

“Guess who Bettina is going on a date with next week?”      

“Who?” I said, trying to sound human.

“Oliver!”

“Really?” I said, actually caught off guard. And then to snap back, “That’s really stupid, he’s gay.”

“Yeah, I told her that, but she just wants a nice free meal, so she demanded Legend’s.”

“Well, I wish them the best.” I looked back to my computer.

“I’ll water the porch plants.” He said to no one in particular.

“Great, thanks,” I did not look back up.

He was trying; I just hated him for it. This was to be our day to get back into our groove, to get back to being us, but I just wasn’t feeling it. When we were breaking up the other day he had screamed at me, ‘I can’t live in your bubble. That’s your life-your expectations. Not mine!’ I had thought about this, but didn’t really know what he meant. I mean, my bubble was a good bubble, a good life. Why wouldn’t he want that? He just didn’t know he wanted it yet. He was at fault.

He exited the room silently.

Fifteen minutes later he walked back in to hand me the mail.

“Thanks,” I said not looking up. I wanted him to be punished for a long time, punished in a remarkably abstract kind of way that was illegal in seventeen states; that could feature in a Saw movie; that would even disturb the Marquis de Sade’s dreams. I wanted him punished like no other. Punished till he knew how bad I hurt inside.

He walked out and I fished through the mail to find junk and bills and a pink and gold post card. The picture on the front was of the Las Vegas Luxor hotel. My breath caught. I flipped it over and immediately recognized the slanted cursive handwriting of my father.  

Michael-

Hello. Got your letter. Glad to hear that you and Rebecca are well. Would like to talk to you both. I am sorry it’s been so long.

My phone number is: 702-798-5595. 

                                                          Love, Charles

         

I just sat there, stunned. What a day to get this! I could hardly focus but I made myself, rereading it. It was like my father was talking to me, just to me, there for the first time in 33 years. I could still hear his voice, or at least the voice I always remembered as his. The tears came quickly. My father wanted to be part of my life again, and I could not be happier. Tear for him and tears for how terrible Thad was came all at the same time.  

Thad stuck his head back in. I looked down, rubbing my eyes.  

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I just…” and then I remembered that I had not told him about the letter, about writing to Dad, and felt ashamed. Now who was the liar? But then I thought about it: he did not deserve it then and certainly not now. He did not need to be part of this now, not with what he had just done to me. “Nothing.” I slid the postcard away.

“Okay. You sure?” he said seriously.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you going to forgive me?”  Thad asked sternly, coming into the room. “Or are you just never going to let me in again?”

“What?” I feigned. “You know we’ve only been back together for a day. What you did was terrible.”

“I know and I apologized.”

“Again.”

“Yes.”

We stared at each other with pure unadulterated hate.

“I read the postcard,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I did- I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. But we are still a couple and I didn’t even know you had written your father, and now he’s writing you back and you’re not even going to tell me about it? You’re just going to push it away and not tell me?” It was Thad’s turn to tear-up, which never, ever happened, and sobered me right the Hell up.

“No, it’s just…” I started, looking down at the postcard half hidden under my keyboard, and then I just lost it. “I’m just so sad.”

“I know.” He said, coming over to put his hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry. I fucked up. It was a fluke. It really was.”

“And other than this you’ve been sober for this whole time?” I said, trying to regain my composure.

“Yes, I swear.”

“And nothing happened up in the City? There was no cheating?”

“No, God, no. I just went up there to dance. I was drunk, I wasn’t even thinking…”

“You know I can’t believe you, I can’t trust you at all because you’ve done exactly this before-and cheated on me…”

“I know,” He said wiping at his eyes, “I know. And I know that I’ve apologized for that before, but you have to believe me this time. I am telling the truth. I got drunk and drove up there and got arrested on the way back, but nothing else. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

He cried harder than I had seen him cry in years, and it god-damn melted my heart.

“You weren’t even going to tell me…” he sobbed, pointing at the postcard.

Rising, I hugged him.

“I’m sorry…” he sputtered.

“I know, I know, baby.”

“Mom is taking my car away.”

“You’re kidding!” I said, genuinely surprised. It had been impounded, and he had not gotten it back yet, but I just assumed it was on its way.

“Nope. She told me Wednesday. No more car. They can’t keep me on their insurance. Plus I might lose my license, anyway, what with the DUI.”

‘Serves you right, you know.”

“I know,” he wiped his eyes. “So I’m not going to have to be catching a ride with you for a while.”

“That’s fine. We can work it out.”

“It’ll suck.” He paused, and looked up at me. “I hate to cry. You know I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Wiping his eyes, he looked over at my desk. “Now, are you going to tell me about the postcard?”

So I did. I pulled it out and handed it to him and told him about writing to Dad. Thad and I talked about how exciting it was that I could call him now, and maybe see him sometime. And how happy that would make Becky, and also told him about Becky’s decision to kick Ray the Loser to the curb and keep Pablo, and Thad was happy for her for that.  

And as we sat and talked, we held hands and it felt good, now not great, but right, and I really, really wanted to believe him this time.