“Yes,” he said. “I think you are right.” He laughed at my expression. “Come on. We’ll walk and you can compliment me. It’s a good plan.”
“I know your name,” I said as we left the park behind and moved toward Main Street and the poor neighborhoods that lined the tracks beyond.
“That right?”
“I just heard it around. Maxwell Creason, right?”
“Just Max.”
I held out my hand and he stopped, forcing me to stop alongside him. He held my eyes for an instant, then lifted up his hands to hold in front of my face. The fingers were broken and bent, twisted into claws, and I saw with horror that most of the nails had been ripped off.
“Jesus,” I said.
“You know my name,” he said. “And I don’t mean any offense when I say this, but let’s just leave it at that.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Look, I’m glad to talk to you—God knows, it’s been long enough—but I don’t reckon I know you well enough to talk about that.”
I stared down at his hands. They hung like deadwood at the ends of his arms.
“But . . .” I started.
“Why do you care?” he asked sharply.
“You interest me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Because you’re different.” I shrugged again, feeling the inadequacy of my words. “Because I believe you’ve never asked a person what he does for a living.”
“And that’s important to you?”
I thought about it. “I guess so.”
He began to shake his head.
“I want to know because you’re real.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I looked away from his face because there was a sudden nakedness there. “I’ve seen you, too, you know, here and there, walking. But I’ve never seen you with anybody else. I think there must be honesty in being that alone.”
“And you value that?”
I looked back at him. “I envy it.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because you don’t know me, I guess. Because for once I’d like to be honest, too—tell somebody that I’d just as soon shoot my wife as look at her again, and that I’d gladly run over her friends on the street just to hear the thump.” I shrugged again. “Because I don’t think you’d judge me.”
Max Creason was not looking at me; he had turned away. “Ain’t no priest,” he told me.
“Sometimes things just need to be said.”
He shrugged. “So do something different.”
“That’s it? That’s your advice? Do something different?”
“Yes,” the park walker said. “Stop being a pussy.”
The word hung there between us, and on the other side was his face, his very serious face; and in the echo of that blunt honesty, I laughed. I laughed so hard, I almost split myself open; and long before I finished, Max Creason joined me.
Three hours later, I walked up my driveway wearing a blue T-shirt with black letters that read DIG MY ROOT and holding the leash of a nine-week-old yellow Lab I’d decided to call Bone. The Johnsons told me he was the pick of the litter, and I believed them. He was very much like my old dog.
I walked Bone to the backyard and saw my wife through the bathroom window. She wore Sunday church clothes and was practicing smiles in the mirror. I watched for a minute, then gave Bone some water and went inside. It was 9:45.
I found Barbara in the bedroom, clipping on her earrings as she bustled about, looking at the ground as if to find her shoes or the patience to deal with me. She didn’t look up, but her voice was chipper.
“I’m going to church. Are you coming?”
This was an old trick. Barbara rarely went to church, and when she did, it was because she knew I’d never go. It was a guilt trip.
“Nope. I’ve got plans.”
“What plans?” She finally looked at me. No other questions. No reference to our fight or to my infidelity.
“Guy stuff,” I told her.
“That’s nice, Work.” She started from the room, then stopped. “That’s just perfect.” She stormed out.
I followed her through the house and watched her grab her pocketbook and her keys and slam the door behind her. I poured a cup of coffee and waited. It took about five seconds.
The door flew open and Barbara scrambled inside, locking the door behind her and turning, horrified, to me. I leaned against the sink and sipped my coffee.