Drowning Lessons (22 page)

“I'm treating,” says Lloyd.

“I know,” I say. “It's just that I happen to like humble wines.”

“Humble?” says Lloyd. “And Barbera is arrogant?”

“I prefer something simple, that's all,” I say.

“What do you mean by simple? You mean void of character?”

“I mean simple. Honest and simple.”

“The Sangiovese is shit,” says Lloyd. “There's no comparison. If you're going to go for something basic, get the Chianti.”

“I prefer Sangiovese.”

“Shit,” says Lloyd.

“Why don't we order by the glass?” I suggest. “That way we can both get what we want.”

With a grimace Lloyd summons the waiter.

“The Barbera's fine,” I say, seeing I've gone too far. “Let's get a bottle.”

“You want your own glass, you'll get your own glass.”

The waiter arrives. Lloyd orders a glass of the Sangiovese for me, a bottle of Barbera for himself. I'm not even sure he's supposed to be drinking. Did they give him pills, medication? Just what did they do with him in that hospital for ten days besides pump his stomach? Read nursery rhymes? Flirt? Maybe with a glass or two of good wine in his pumped belly he'll finally get around to talking about it. Meanwhile, we have the menu to contend with. To make up for the wine I follow Lloyd's recommendations slavishly, ordering the fish stew although I like neither stew nor fish.

From there things don't go too badly. I'd even go as far as to say that things proceed cordially, with Lloyd sharing his wine after I've drained my glass dry, and the subject turning — for no good reason — to Paris, a place I've been to once, when I was eighteen, and about which I remember only sleeping in a railroad station and stealing uneaten croissants from café tables. “There's this wonderful two-star hotel near the Place des Vosges,” Lloyd tells me, “the most charming little hotel. Room no. 25, on the top floor. You can put two chairs out and sit on the balcony. That's where you should stay,” he says, tapping the tablecloth for emphasis, though I've no plans to go to Paris anytime soon. So far this year I've had three
group shows and sold one painting. If I make my rent, I'll be thrilled.

Lloyd is telling me the story of some woman he met in Paris, when he was on a Fulbright there, with whom he had a fling, about how comparatively natural Parisian women's attitudes toward casual sex are. “There it's considered a common courtesy,” he says, “you know, like offering a glass of water to someone who's thirsty.” He has just made this pronouncement when I notice him looking with horror toward the far end of the restaurant and turn to look that way myself. At the entrance a woman has just hung her coat on the rack. A well-built woman with an oval face and long, red hair.

“That's her,” says Lloyd, and I know who it is: the assistant professor with whom my brother allegedly misconducted himself. She came to his office in tears, overwhelmed. My brother assured her too demonstratively — a hug, so he describes it. The next day she filed charges of sexual harassment. The campus newspaper got hold of the story and published their two photographs, his with a one-word caption, “Accused.” The local
Herald
picked up and ran its own significantly different version, which Lisa read and gave credence to, prompting her to move into the neighbor's house. Days later my brother swallowed a dozen diazepam tablets with his favorite table wine.

She takes a seat at the bar.

“Why did she have to come here?” says Lloyd. “She knows I like to eat here. She's doing it on purpose. I know she is.” His face is red.

“Relax,” I say.

“I'm not supposed to be anywhere near her. I'm not supposed
to look at her. She'll say I'm harassing her. It'll cost me my job. Which is just what she wants. Bitch.”

“You were here first,” I say.

“It doesn't matter. The burden is all on me. She can do whatever the hell she wants. I had to sign a gag order. I can't even defend myself. That's how the system's designed, for her ‘protection.' It means she can smear my name across the face of the moon, and I can't say a thing since that would be ‘retaliation.' Nice, huh?”

“It's a tough spot to be in,” I say, thinking maybe
now
we'll talk. But Lloyd just sits there simmering, his face as ruddy as his wine. “Come on,” I say pointing to his entrée. “Don't let it ruin everything. Ignore her.”

“My dinner's already ruined,” says Lloyd tossing his napkin on his plate. “I can't eat with her here. Let's go.”

We hurry past the bar and out the door. The woman doesn't see us.

I go to sleep drunk and hungry.

In sixth grade my brother and I pulled the ol' switcheroo. Mr. Barnes, my regular teacher, was sick that day, and we had a new substitute. Due to overcrowding, class was held in a so-called portable unit, one of a dozen one-room buildings erected in the parking lot. As the substitute took roll, Lloyd sat at my desk. When my name was called, he got up, went to the window, opened it, and jumped out. The substitute was still recovering from this act of gross impertinence when she heard a knocking coming from the supply closet. She opened the door and I calmly stepped out. She ran off to get Mr. Cleary, the vice principal. We never saw her again.

This story represents one of the few moments when, instead of fighting each other, Lloyd and I pooled our resources to triumph over the outside world. Otherwise we were by no means the Doublemint twins. We did not walk around in matching sweaters with matching tennis rackets slung blithely over our shoulders. As far back as I can remember, we were adversaries, even in our mother's womb, where we fought for the oxygen and other nutrients in our briefly shared blood — a fight I lost, born second and anemic, the runt of the litter. From there my memories grow bleaker, like that of wrestling each other in Coach O'Leary's gym class, with everyone gathered around the mat to watch us go at it like trained cocks. I still have nightmares — terrible ones — with me looking up from the ground where I sit covered in blood and dirt at a ring of faces looking down, laughing and nodding, having just witnessed one of our Spartacus-like spectacles. My brother is nowhere in the dream; I'm alone under all those faces. The person I've beaten up is myself.

I smell bacon frying. Lloyd has cooked breakfast for us. Wearing a pair of his pajamas, I descend the spiral staircase woozily. He hands me a bowl of oatmeal: hand-ground, organic, the best oatmeal in the world, cooked in the microwave and served with a splash of milk and maple syrup. I hate oatmeal but force myself to eat it anyway. While I do, Lloyd adjusts the seat on one of his two bicycles. The kitchen table is strewn with bike parts: gears, seats, seat poles, derailleurs, spread out like surgical or torture implements, those gears especially, with their shiny, sharp teeth. That table is the one messy area of my brother's tidy home, the one area given over to a passion stronger than his obsession with domestic pomp and order.

Today we are to go riding together. I am not looking forward to it, am dreading it, in fact. He bangs at a lug nut. I ask him what he's doing.

“I'm adjusting this seat for you.”

“We're the same height,” I remind him.

He shakes his head. “Cycling stretches your legs. Since I've been cycling and you haven't, I'm probably a half inch taller than you.”

“We're the same height,” I repeat.

“Trust me,” says Lloyd.

After breakfast I walk through some brambles into the neighbor's yard. The neighbor: Polly, who makes costume jewelry and runs a little store in town. It is with her that Lisa, my brother's wife, has taken refuge. Unlike Lloyd's yard, Polly's is weed and dandelion strewn. My guess is she hasn't done a thing to it in years. The house fares no better. A Gothic Victorian similar to Lloyd's, it looks more like the house on
Green Acres
, with missing shutters, a sagging porch, rusting tin roof, and paint that looks like it's been blowtorched. Bird feeders everywhere. A motorcycle leans against the back porch. I am to speak to Lisa, convince her that my brother is a good egg, to come back home. Another unpleasant task my mother has put me up to. Wind chimes dangle limply by the door. There's no bell. I knock.

Polly, tattooed and smoking, answers.

“She doesn't want to see you.”

“You're mistaken,” I say.

“I'm not mistaken. She doesn't want to see you, Lloyd. You
know
that.”

“I'm not Lloyd, I'm his brother.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Would you please tell Lisa that Edward is here?”

“It's not working, Lloyd. I'm not falling for it.”

“Just tell her, okay?”

She gives me a “whatever” look, mashes the cigarette under a slipper. “Wait,” she says and goes back inside. A minute later Lisa, wearing a robe and a blank expression, takes her place. She has classically Waspy features: fair hair, freckles, a small nose with microscopic nostrils. She is usually soft-spoken and agreeable, meaning that she can't stand to argue and would just as soon tell you what you want to hear.

“Hi, Edward,” she says.

“May I come in?”

We sit in the breakfast nook having coffee while Polly bangs things around. The table is scattered with Lisa's vitae and job applications. She's got her degree in political science and has been trying to get a job with the state government. Her small eyes are thick with mascara. Sunlight swims in through the window, highlighting Lisa's already highlighted hair. The highlights flash around her head like a school of minnows. The robe parts delicately, revealing a splash of freckles between her breasts. She sits with both hands wrapped round her coffee mug, waiting.

“I'll give you three chances to guess why I'm here,” I say.

“I'm not going back,” she says.

“You're sure?”

“It's not as simple as it seems,” she says.

“What
is
?”

“He's in love with her.”

“Who?”

“Clarisse Dorfman.” The woman who has brought charges against him. “He denies it, but I know.”

“Anyone can have a crush,” I say, stupidly.

“Lloyd can't take no for an answer. You know that.” The way she says it implies that
I
can indeed take no for an answer. Lisa assumes I'm not like my brother, and she's right. I like to think that she would have preferred to marry me, except for my income. For the record, she's not my type.

“It seems more like he hates her,” I say. Lisa says nothing. “Think about it, Lisa. My brother's made a mistake, and I'm sure he knows it. You both love each other. And you've got a lovely home.”

“It's his home,” she says with a sigh. “He picked out every last piece of furniture, every vase and pillow. He doesn't even let me put my books on the shelves. My paperbacks. He says they don't fit in. I have to keep them on my own shelf in the guest bedroom.”

To which I can only shrug.

“He's not like you,” says Lisa. “You're much more … gentle.” A word chosen with utmost care in place of “wimpy.” I have always let others push me around, always. “Anyway,” she goes on, “I don't think our marriage would have worked even if that woman hadn't come into the picture. Lloyd and I haven't —” She is about to say that she and my brother have not had sex in (fill in the blank) months. She needn't; I can see it in her eyes. She does not love him, that much is clear. I doubt she ever really loved my brother. She married him because he is dean of the School of Liberal Arts and Sciences and because they both love antiques. But what do I know about love? My last girlfriend said I need to
see a shrink, that I have a “commitment disorder.” I'm not even sure that there is such a thing and yet am prepared to believe it. But for me a psychologist is out of the question, and has been ever since two of them threatened me with my own suicide. The first said I wouldn't see thirty-five; the second said forty. I am now forty-two and believe that I owe my survival to spiting the nasty fuckers.

“It was nice of you to come down here,” she says. “You're a good brother, Edward. I'm sorry he did what he did.”

“I'll survive, somehow,” I say, and realize too late that she probably meant that she was sorry for Lloyd, not for me. Whatever, I have stood up; I am leaving. I have fulfilled my brotherly obligations, more or less. Lloyd is a selfish bully, and Lisa is a poster child for passive-aggression. They're better off without each other. I kiss her on both freckled cheeks and let myself out into the scorching day to find Lloyd in his gravel driveway, mounting the two bicycles on the back of his Jeep Cherokee.

The last time I rode a bicycle was eight years ago, my last visit here, and then I swore I'd never, ever do it again. Lloyd fixes me up with a bright-colored jersey, cleated riding shoes, cap, fingerless gloves with Velcro straps. He gives me a special lineament to rub in the crotch padding of my riding breeches, says it helps prevent chafing. He pumps air into all four tires, then mounts his bike, four thousand bucks worth of brakes, gears, and other components made by Italian companies with three-syllable names ending in the letter
i
. In the parking lot of a Baptist church, as recorded bells spill their notes into the sky, he has me practice my dismount. “Twist your heel out, like this!” he shouts, showing me. “And always be pedaling when you change gears.”

He hands me my helmet and sunglasses. “You look good. Just try to keep your arms bent and your elbows down. And don't hold the handlebars like this,” he says demonstrating. “If you hold them like that, I'll have to ditch you out of embarrassment.”

“Don't,” I say.

“I'm
kidding
.”

“I mean it.”

“Jesus, Edward, when did you become so humorless?”

“Just don't ditch me,” I say.