The Ninth Wife (26 page)

peace, dao

Chapter Eighteen

R
ory surveys the rowdy crowd around him and wonders just what the hell he’s doing in Baltimore, four rows up from a flat-track Roller Derby all-female championship game. The better question, as he takes in the raunchy uniforms and gestures of the players, is what Sean is doing here with his eleven-year-old daughter, Katie.

“It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon, for God’s sake,” he says to Sean. He is sitting between Katie and her dad, shaking his head. “Your daughter should be at the zoo or, I don’t know, at a picnic.” He has to speak loudly to be heard over Heart’s “Barracuda,” blaring throughout the arena.

“I would argue this
is
a zoo,” says Sean, “and we’re having ourselves a fine picnic.” He toasts Rory with his plastic beer cup and offers him a nacho. Rory declines. The congealed orange cheese has an unnatural shine.

Rory is often amazed at how little Sean has changed in twenty-five years. Their friendship goes back to their days in Boston when Rory was fresh off the boat. Sean hadn’t been in the country much longer, but was a year older and had done some traveling before he settled down. Both fine musicians, they had an easy repartee on stage and off. Sean flirted with Maggie any chance he got until she walked out on Rory; he sided with Rory after that like a true friend and helped him land on his feet. When Rory married Carol, he and Sean slowly drifted apart, and when he left Boston, they lost contact. Many years later, when Rory moved to D.C., he came upon Sean playing at an Irish bar in Virginia. They settled in to an easy back-and-forth, reminiscing and catching up. It wasn’t long before they were friends again and musical partners, playing weddings and other gigs when they could get them.

A whistle blows, the announcer says they’re ready to rumble, and a pack of women in short skirts and helmets shoves off counterclockwise around the rink.

“Jammer on jammer action!” yells Katie. She’s got a skate painted on her cheek and a pom-pom in her hand that she’s waving above her head and into the motorcycle jacket of the guy in front of her.

“This isn’t right,” says Rory. “Does she even know what that means?”

Sean is laughing. “Do you?”

There is shoving and shouting and in seconds the jam is over. A point was scored, though Rory isn’t sure how. A skater named All Gore in a ripped tank top and black fishnet stockings skates by and flips up her skirt for the crowd. The number written on her forearm above her elbow pad is “4-Nick-8.” It takes Rory a minute to get it. The whistle blows, another jam begins.

“Booty block! Booty block!” yells Katie.

Rory turns to Katie. “Where you getting this stuff?”

“Babs taught me. We’ve been hanging out.” Babs is a recent divorcée who lives three doors down from Sean on Capitol Hill. Sean’s been trying to get up her skirt for months. He pointed her out to Rory when they first arrived at the rink—the tall blond with the alias Barbara Butch. Sean said above all else, he comes to watch her stretch at the hips.

“I
do
have other friends, you know,” says Katie.

For the last two years, Rory and Katie have had a special relationship. It started when he began hanging around Sean’s house, sometimes sleeping on his couch. He tickled her mercilessly, helped her with her math homework, babysat on the days Sean had custody of her but had clients to attend to through his real estate business. She developed a crush. Rory could do no wrong until his visits diminished because he was spending time with Bess. Katie didn’t like Bess when they met.
Competition
, Sean pointed out.

“That’s it, Babs! Bend your knees! Stay low! Oof!” The whistle blows, Sean jumps up and yells something at the ref, then sits back down. A large woman named Axe Alice gets sent to the penalty box for an illegal block amid a roar of shouting:
Go Axe Alice!
Go Axe Alice!
“Female anarchy,” says Sean. “Life just doesn’t get any better than this. Where’s Bess, by the way?”

“In Boston.” Rory catches Sean’s look. “For work,” he adds, defensively.

“Things okay?”

The players are off again. Rory is aware of the sound of rolling skates on a hard floor. “I asked her to marry me.”

Sean suddenly turns his body toward Rory, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Last weekend.”

“Bloody hell, McMillan. You’re not a hopeless romantic. You’re worse, you’re an embarrassment to our gender, man.” Sean wonks him on the head.

“Thanks.” Rory has shared enough details with Sean about his marriage history that Sean feels entitled, so he says, to offer his opinions any time opinions are called for, especially when “Perfectly Normal Guy Rory” has been taken over by “Bleeding Heart Pussy-Whipped Love-Struck Rory.”

“So what did she say?”

“She didn’t.”

“You mean she didn’t say no.”

“She didn’t say yes.”

The announcer’s voice is quickening and growing louder.
The pack’s speeding up. Twat’s half a lap behind.
Jane’s fixin’ to score, ducks around Romp, takes on Butch, sneaks by on the outside, Butch down!
Twat’s in trouble.
Jane slams Dish, she hits the ground hard!
YOWza!
What kind of person says
yowza
?

“Well,” says Sean, “at least you know it’s not because of your history.”

Rory stares straight ahead.

“You did tell her about your ex-wives?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“On your first date.”

“Not exactly then.”

“When?”

“After.”

“Okay, see that? That look. I know that look. I know your bullshit look, McMillan.”

“Yeah, McMillan,” says Katie, leaning in. “Even
I
know that look.”

“Okay you two, that’s enough. Katie, your dad’s going to watch his language from now on. Isn’t that right, Sean?”

“That’s right. Sorry, sweetheart. Yes! Nice work, Butch!” Sean is standing again. A skater falls in front of Babs, and Babs jumps over her in an impressive show of finesse and athleticism. “So,” he continues, sitting down in his seat and leaning back so Katie can’t hear, “you just told her.”

“Right after I proposed.”

Sean laughs. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? Did she flip out?”

“Not really. I told her the whole sordid story, beginning to end, in more detail, mind you, than I told the others, even to Dao. In fact she reminded me of Dao, the way she just listened, didn’t say much, only Dao was hard to read. I could never tell if Dao was listening to me. And she never really told me what she thought of my past. But then I told Dao all of it from the start; that was my mistake with Bess, I know.”

“Yes!” Sean yells at the rink. Then he turns back to Rory. “Sorry. Go on.”

“I’m just saying, Bess really listened, like she wanted to understand. But I could tell I lost her trust. It’s been a tense week.” In fact it had been a miserable week, Rory thinks. Bess made it clear she didn’t want to talk about it, so he was giving her space. But then everything within that space felt uncomfortable or forbidden—small talk, intimacy, sex, humor. He was glad she still agreed to see him, but she wasn’t the same whenever they got together and he didn’t know how to make it better. It was easier to wallow in self-reproach. What did he think was going to happen when he told her? Immediate sympathy and understanding, happy-ever-after? Has it ever been like that?

“Listen,” says Sean. “Do you love her?”

Rory has thought a lot about love his whole adult life with the conclusion that he absolutely hates trying to understand it, hates hearing people go on about it because chances are good they’re talking out of their asses. After all these years, Rory has learned to simply read the signs: when he needs a drink and/or he’s bored and/or he doesn’t want to share any stories and/or his right cheek is twitching, it’s not love. When he wants to be with her all the time (and not just sexually, though frequent erections are a good sign); when he can’t stop putting his foot in his mouth or trying to impress her with his stories; when he likes imagining her as grandma to his grandpa; when he feels deep down somewhat unworthy of her, well . . . that’s love in his book, pure and simple. He knows now he was never in love with Lorraine (boredom) or Fawn (alcoholism) or Olive Ann (cheek twitching). But he was in love with Maggie and he was in love with Dao, too.

A skater who looks a little like Bess rolls by and a sudden memory pops into Rory’s mind of an evening in Bess’s apartment, just before their weekend away. She had made him a delicious chicken dinner. They were drinking grappa, laughing a lot, debating the pros and cons of Porta Potties and waiting for Bess’s apple pie to come out of the oven so that the apartment smelled to Rory like home and family. At one point Bess said hold on and went into the bedroom and came out wearing her
gi
. She started performing a form for him in her living room, or at least trying to do the form, but she kept messing up and couldn’t keep a serious face, though not for lack of trying. Her beautiful dark hair swung down into her face. When she stuck her butt out to get into a low stance Rory’s interest turned from one of delight and a kind of mesmerized adoration of her animated determination to a lustful craving. He jumped up and carried her to the couch. She had nothing on under her
gi
, which was wildly exciting. Her skin was soft, her hair silky smooth, her thrusting a turn-on. Afterward, they ate pie washed down with big glasses of milk, he played the guitar for her, they made love again and then they read to each other in bed. It was, to Rory, as perfect a time as he’s ever had.
This
, he had said to her,
this is what I want out of life
.

“McMillan! Where’d you go? I asked you a question.”

“Sorry. Yes. I love her.”

Sean studies Rory’s face for a moment. “Even though you’ve known her for what, four seconds?”

“Aw, go on. Danny Murphy, you remember him? From Dorchester? He met Meg in February, married her in June and they’re about to celebrate their forty-first anniversary. So don’t give me that.”

“Right, but Danny wasn’t divorced before. And he was, what, twenty-five?”

“And I’m forty-five, for God’s sake. Bess is thirty-five. Times a-wastin’.”

“Well then, why not just move in together?” Sean is raising his voice to be heard over the announcer’s play-by-plays.

“That would have gone over well,” says Rory. “Bess, I love you, but I’ve been married eight times already, so sorry, I’ll never get married again. But hey, let’s live together!”

“There are plenty of women who wouldn’t have a problem with that.”

“I know, but I’m an old-fashioned guy.” Rory looks over at Katie. She is swinging her legs under her seat, looking at the program. Though Sean can seem cavalier about her sometimes, Rory has heard him say that she is the best thing that has ever happened to him.

The announcer calls the end of the first bout. Players skate over to their corner while the DJ plays Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation.” The announcer asks everyone to make noise for the winners. Some of the members of the audience are shuffling out of the rows.

“You really want to marry her?” says Sean. “For real?”

“I do.”

“No, listen to what I’m asking.” He is looking at Rory intently. “Do
you
want
to marry her? Not,
should
you marry her or does
she
want you to marry her. You have to want it for the right reasons. If you don’t, it’s never going to work.”

Rory throws up his hands. “What the hell are the right reasons to get married? Tell me that please, would you?”

Sean eases back into his usual relaxed state. “Fuck if I know. That’s what my divorce attorney told me. I figure she must know what she’s talking about.”

Rory turns to Katie, worried that she’s feeling left out. The atmosphere is loud and chaotic and in many ways overwhelming. “How’re you doing, penguin?”

“Okay.” Katie is braiding pieces of her hair, which is strawberry blond like her dad’s and long like her mom’s.

“You want something more to eat?”

“No, but can we go look at the merch?”

“The what?”

“The merch. Merchandise. You seriously need to get with it, McMillan.” Calling him by his last name the way Sean does is a new thing for Katie. Rory finds it amusing and kind of adorable.

“Ask your dad.”

“Go, you two,” says Sean. “I’m going to head off to the restroom. I’ll see you back here for the next bout.”

Katie and Rory take a walk. Katie sips from a water fountain, crossing her long spindly legs and holding her hair back as she drinks. Around the next bend they find the merch table. They crane their necks over and through the people looking at what’s for sale—key chains, buttons, bandanas, hats, bumper stickers, and T-shirts in all sizes, including tiny ones that tout “Skater Tots.” Finding a clearing, Katie reaches across the table to take one of the water bottles on display and accidentally knocks over twelve other bottles in the process. “Hey,” says a fat man behind the table, “careful.” Katie blushes and says, “Sorry sorry sorry” with her head way down. She backs up and walks quickly away. Rory runs to catch up to her. “Hey scout,” he says, finding her at a table in the food area, which smells like hot dogs. Katie is leaning over, her elbows on her knees, her fists lightly punching her cheeks. “I thought you wanted something,” he says. “C’mon, my treat.”

“I don’t want anything.”

Sometimes Katie reminds Rory of Cici. She was about Katie’s age when they first met. He has the same visceral feeling he did with Cici of wanting to protect her from the world. “What’s wrong?” he says.

“I’m a klutz.”

“You are not a klutz. The way they had those bottles? They were asking for it.”

“No, I am a klutz. I always have been.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mom. And some of the kids at school.”

Rory feels a hot flash of anger at Kelly, Katie’s mother, for putting such an idea in Katie’s head. Truth be told, Rory never liked Kelly. He’d met her a few times and always found her rather cold and stuck up. Someone should give her a talking-to about the dangers of giving a child a label like that. “Can I tell you something?” he says. “My father always used to call me a clown when I was a kid. I hated it. I mean, sure . . . I fooled around now and again, making people laugh, but I had a serious side, too, only no one seemed to remember that. I could hardly get anyone to take me seriously.”