Small Claims

“Good.”

  “Can you send me a picture of it?”

  “Are you coming home?”

  It’s his phrasing that stops me cold. Perhaps it was just an accident, the result of the mere ten years he’s been forming sentences, but the distinct lack of qualifiers in his questions makes me suddenly feel like I’m falling again. He did not ask me when. He asked me if.

  “Soon.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honestly. Two or three days, tops. I promise you. I just have a couple more things that I have to get done.”

  “Okay. You want to talk to Mom?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mom…”

  I hear Julie walk closer to the phone. The phone gets transferred between their hands. I want to tell her that I love her, that we can work this out, that we’ll find a way to make everything like it used to be, that I want to keep going forward with her. But all I hear is silence, and then the line goes dead.

  16. Forgive Us Our Eccentricities as We Forgive the Eccentricities of Others: Part Four

  This is the best passage in all of Forgive Us Our Eccentricities as We Forgive the Eccentricities of Others. It is the only part of the book that I still consider publishable. I think maybe I’ll try to write it as a short story. Or maybe just save it to slip into something new I haven’t even started yet. But the point, what I’m saying, all I’m saying, is that even in the massive misstep of a manuscript there are glimpses of beauty.

  Although I still can’t believe the fucking golf cart.

  Wazzä reached inside the cooler and pulled out an apple. It did not seem to merit the sense of occasion Wazzä commanded to introduce it.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s a nice apple.”

  “Look closer.”

  I looked closer, yet remained unmoved.

  “Look at it!”

  “I’m looking!”

  “It’s the perfect apple!”

  “Is it?”

  “The shade, the shape, the texture, the degree of ripeness—look at the way it just folds into my hand! Finding an apple this perfect isn’t just a matter of aesthetic appreciation, of having the eye. No! You have to actually be able to see not just the apple, but the future. This apple will remain perfect until…maybe noon? By evening, it won’t be perfect anymore. Do you understand? Such a slippery target, perfection! This apple, as perfect as it is, will only be so for the next three or four hours. It will only be the answer until lunchtime, tops.”

  Wazzä bit into the apple, the resulting crunch almost as loud as the previous night’s frogs. Still chewing, he took a second mouthful and then a third.

  “Today you have to find your perfect apple.”

  I got out of his golf cart. He drove away. At the top of the hill, Wazzä tossed the apple away, half-eaten.

  Without hesitation I crawled into the cottage, stuffed what little I’d unpacked back into my knapsack, and once again I stormed out of the orchard. I did not have time to waste on meaningless bullshit like hunting for goddamn apples! My head down, my pack digging into my shoulders, I followed the most recent golf cart-tracks in the dirt trail, stomping my heel onto every apple that my foot came near. Although I tried not to, a part of me couldn’t stop comparing each apple my boot squished into the dirt to the one that Wazzä had just called perfect. I was unable to stop rating the various shades of red, the degree to which their shapes were toothlike, how much each one resisted the downward motion of my boot.

  That’s all it took. First, I took off my pack. An hour later, I’d carried my pack back to the cottage. The rest of the morning I searched the ground. In the afternoon, I started climbing trees. For twelve hours, I looked for an apple that matched the one Wazzä had shown me. I didn’t find it, not even something close. I slept well that night. I got up early. I spent the next day searching for an apple just like Wazzä’s. I spent three days searching that orchard, obsessed.

  On the morning of the fourth day, I came out of the cottage, my back sore from searching the ground, my arms aching from climbing trees, the ends of my fingertips sandpapered raw from gripping bark. The golf cart was parked at the east end of the pond.

  “How’s it going?” Wazzä asked.

  “I can’t find it.” The defeat in my voice was strong. “I can’t find an apple that even remotely looks like the one you showed me.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

  “That’s what you told me to do!”

  “All this time? Three days? That’s what you’ve been doing?”

  “I’ve been working hard!”

  “What are you, some kind of idiot?”

  There just wasn’t any good way to respond to that. Wazzä took a cigar out of the inside pocket of his too-tight grey jacket. Using miniature scissors, after several long minutes Wazzä meticulously cut off the end of the cigar. Seemingly oblivious to the implications of the gesture, Wazzä put the cigar in his mouth and coated it with a thin layer of spit. By the time he’d lit the cigar, Wazzä seemed to have forgotten that he’d been on the verge of saying something. But he hadn’t. Several puffs later, his eyes went large and he leaned in toward me.

  “Don’t you realize that the perfect apple for you will look absolutely nothing like the perfect apple for me?”

  17. The CAVALRY Isn’t Coming

  At 10:19, eighteen minutes after the recess was supposed to end and the trial was slated to resume, the defendant, Michael, stands, rolls his shoulders in the manner of a boxer, and takes long overconfident strides toward the door of courtroom 310. He wears a black suit. His tie and shirt are both made of silk. Janice, the plaintiff, takes off her clear-rimmed glasses and replaces them with the blacked-rimmed pair that hangs from a chain around her neck. She twists in her chair, just in time to see Michael pull out his cellphone as the door closes behind him. Ninety seconds later, the court reporter comes in and notices that the defendant’s chair is empty.

  “Where’s he gone?” she asks Janice.

  “He went to call his wife,” Janice says.

  “Has he gone home to call his wife?” the court reporter says. Janice laughs a little louder than she needs to.

  Here’s everything you need to get you up to speed on this trial: Michael, the man who has just gone out into the hallway to call his wife, is the manager of the Golden Glow Spa. In 2008, Janice frequented his establishment and received a Botox injection. She claims that Dr. Fountane, the facility’s resident doctor, delegated her Botox injection to an employee, a woman who may or may not have been a registered nurse, and that woman botched it. Janice suffered bruises, swelling, and emotional trauma, which is why she’s suing the Golden Glow Spa for $25,000, the exact maximum small claims court allows. It should be noted that Janice was also suing Dr. Fountane, but that case has since been dismissed.

  Ten minutes pass before Michael comes back into the courtroom. The court reporter steps out, then ushers in Justice Glidden, a tall woman with perfect posture and long black hair in ringlets, whose practically regal presence captures the attention of everyone in the room. Taking long, graceful steps, she seems to glide to her chair, and we all rise without reluctance. Court resumes. In the previous session, Janice concluded her case. Which leaves Michael preparing to mount his defence, although you wouldn’t know it by looking at the empty chairs beside him or the single piece of paper he hands to the court reporter.

  “What is this?” Justice Glidden asks.

  “My witness isn’t coming. I have prepared this affidavit instead.”

  “You didn’t do your research. Court rules demand that such documents be submitted thirty days prior to trial. The court will not accept it. Now, who is this witness?”

  “Matilda Swinger.”

  “What’s she to you?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “We own the spa together.”

  “Where’s this wife?”

  “She’s looking after our children.”

  “
At your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “That will not do.”

  “My apologies.”

  “She’ll have to come down here. She’ll have to come down right now.”

  “She has to tend to our children.”

  “Then I suggest that she pack a laptop, some movies, headphones, snacks, the kids, and get herself down here.” Justice Glidden learns forward in her chair, creating an intimidation factor inversely proportional to her calming grace.

  “It’s impossible.”

  “We’re going to start at one o’clock. Either way, whether your wife is here or not, you’ll be mounting your defence.” And then, for the second time today, Justice Glidden puts the court into recess.

  Hey.

  Yes?

  I think we need to talk.

  I don’t.

  It all seems clear to me.

  Please?

  It’s important.

  What’s the point?

  Don’t you want to see me grovel?

  No grovelling then?

  Just talking?

  Please?

  I’ve already called my mom.

  She’s coming over to sit the kids.

  She’ll be there at 7:30.

  What did you tell her?

  Nothing.

  Just that we need a night out.

  Please?

  Peter Pan?

  8:00?

  I’ll be there.

  It is nine minutes after one when Michael enters courtroom 310 with his witness. He helps Matilda with her coat. Her hair is carefully braided, her clothes are pressed, and her makeup is perfect. It does not look like she was rushed. There are no children in tow. Matilda hands her husband a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her coat. Then she takes the stand, gets sworn in. Her husband unfolds the paper and flattens it out against the surface of the long wooden table. He then begins to read from it, raising his voice at the end so that the statements transform into questions.

  “How are you associated with the Golden Glow Spa?”

  “I manage it.”

  “What’s your relationship to Dr. Fountane?”

  “He rents a space from us.”

  “So he is not your employee?”

  “I am his landlord.”

  “So are you legally responsible for his actions?”

  “Not in any way.”

  “Thank you,” Michael says. He has no further questions. Janice quickly stands, then takes a long dramatic pause. She taps the top of the wooden table in a slow, winding-down rhythm. There is sustained eye contact between Janice and Matilda. Each seems determined not to look away first.

  “Where did you purchase your Botox?” Janice asks.

  “The doctor does that.”

  “Who’s Jack Alexander?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You told me he was one of the lawyers.” Janice’s voice is getting louder and higher in pitch.

  “I don’t know who he is.”

  “At any time, did I ask for or demand a refund?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “When?”

  “There was a message from Brett. To call you back.”

  “Do you remember me asking for help? Where should I go?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember suggesting that I see a doctor? Or see another clinic?”

  “No. Not that I recall.” Matilda’s voice is now as loud and high as Janice’s.

  “Do you remember banning me from the spa?”

  “I remember you harassing, with the calls. Several times.”

  “How many times is several?”

  “Twice that day. And two a day for a week! You were very rude!”

  “I’m very insulted that I’m being lied to!”

  “Madam!” Justice Glidden says. “I’ll determine who’s telling the truth.”

  It’s obvious that Matilda is lying. Janice knows it. Michael and Matilda know it. Justice Glidden knows it, too, but adherence to the rules of law means she has to pretend she doesn’t. What I’m witnessing is a quintessential example of the depths to which someone will fall in order to avoid admitting the truth, simply to win a victory, to keep from admitting they were wrong. No amount of energy, passion, confusion, or humility will be spared in these efforts. Even when our lie has been made obvious and everyone around us knows that we’re lying, even when we ourselves are perfectly aware that we’re not telling the truth, our default setting is to continue spinning facts and reinventing history. There is only one reason that could make us do all of this: the fear of losing love. I will do anything, absolutely anything, to keep from losing love.

  I am beginning to fear that this makes me unlovable.

  Janice takes a deep breath, slowly pushes it out. Her legal strategy seems to have rested entirely on cracking the witness, trying to break her down, elicit a big confession. But that’s a strategy that only works on TV. Janice takes off her glasses, sets the black-framed ones beside the clear-rimmed ones.

  “I don’t…I don’t have anything more,” Janice says.

  Matilda, still on the stand, twists so that her back is to the justice. Facing her husband, she winks.

  When I arrive, Julie is already there. The tables are mostly empty. A waitress leans on the bar, checking her phone. Julie sits at the table by the window, drinking red wine from a long-stemmed glass. I walk toward her, wondering how to manifest a greeting through physicality—a hug will be awkward, a kiss on the cheek too formal. There is no physical expression for the space we currently occupy, no agreed-upon gesture to convey that we are currently neither lovers nor friends, though we are husband and wife. So I just sit down, put the napkin over my lap, and turn in my chair, seeing if I can find the waiter’s attention.

  “I would have ordered you something, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

  “It won’t be the peppercorn steak.”

  Julie does not laugh. The waiter arrives. I order a beer. I regret this choice. I worry that I’ve disappointed Julie by this, that I should have ordered something classier, a Manhattan or a sidecar. The waiter returns, sets down menus. I open mine and find myself unable to make sense of the sentences. I’m reading the words, but my brain is running too fast to transform them into information. I realize it was a mistake not to have taken a little yellow pill.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say.

  “We have some things to work out.”

  This phrase makes me begin falling again, or floating upward, it’s difficult to tell which this is. I fear that we’re over, finally and forever beyond repair, that she’s here simply to demonstrate she can be, that she will be, civil, straightforward, but she’s already made the decision to leave me. I continue to fall/float, so shaken by the prospect of future years of split Christmases and long lonely nights spent in rooms illuminated by the bluish flicker of an unwatched television that I am suddenly not only able but compelled to speak from the heart. Although, it is in a rambling, barely coherent way.

  “Before, last week, maybe two weeks ago? God, I’m not even sure anymore. But you asked me why I was angry all the time. I didn’t give you an answer. I still don’t have one, not really, not a firm elevator pitch, not a well-constructed sentiment, a logical sequence explaining it all. But I have this, and this is all that I have. These are the things I can admit to. I know that a lot of this, my moods, my unhappiness, my quickness to anger, to take trivial, meaningless disagreements and transform them into opportunities to vent the frustration that continually boils, like lava, inside of me, is because of the distance between where I am and where I thought I would be. That my failure to live up to what could very possibly be my unrealistic expectations have made me sad and pathetic, have left me weak and whiny and troubled, and I am unable to see anything but the gap, the lack, the infinite list of what I don’t have, and I am unable to see the finite but very real, tangible, solid things I do.

  “I also acknowledge: who would want to fuck that? Who
could possibly find that sexy? Who could possibly sustain love based on the flimsy memory of its existence a decade ago, for the person I used to be? Who could live in continual hope that somehow something will fan the quickly diminishing embers and you will find a way to love again? No one can. I realize that where I am, in my current state, makes me impossible to love. And that now, now that you’ve seen me like this, the memory of this version of me will be impossible to unsee. I realize this. I acknowledge this. That you see this side of me so often that you’ve come to believe it’s all I am. And I get it—who would want to let that into their heart? I accept this. I know this is true. But I’m still so angry that you don’t even try!

  “Is my love for you the same as when we met? No. It isn’t. But the love between us is sixteen years old now. It doesn’t demand the same sort of intensity from us anymore. Does that mean it’s as strong? As powerful? I’m not sure. I really don’t know anymore. But I’m willing to try to figure it out. I want to try to figure it out with you.”

  Having finished, I put my hands on the table, very close to hers. It is easy for me to picture my heart sitting beside them, just to the right of the candles, beating quickly, staining the white tablecloth with its leaking red messiness. I feel proud of my rant, that I’ve finally articulated what our problem is. Then I look up at Julie, see the distance between her eyebrows and her eyelids, and it’s clear that she does not agree.

  “That’s not our problem at all.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Our problem is that we believe there’s a solution. The cavalry isn’t coming. We are not en route: we have arrived. None of these problems will ever be fixed. This is it. This is us. This is who we will always be. Either accept it, get on board with it, or don’t.”

  I am rendered silent. Not because her words have made me too angry, shocked, or fearful to reply, but because they need no improvement.

  “Are you coming home?”

  “I… Soon.”

  “Can you pick up the kids on Friday?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t forget about Friday?”

  “I won’t.”