Woke Up Lonely A Novel - By Fiona Maazel Page 0,55

was mutual, since Tyrone, whose wings had been clipped, took one look at Thurlow and thudded to the floor. Then went under the bed.

Wayne got on his knees. Thurlow looked at Deborah and asked for an umbrella. She looked at him, and the look was not nice.

Wayne said, “Come on, Ty, everyone loves you, just come out.”

Deborah said, “Wayne, please, you are being ridiculous. All you care about is this stupid bird.”

They carried on this way for some minutes. Thurlow didn’t understand much about what was going on. It was true their repartee had always featured what rankled most, only this bravado felt new.

Deborah went to the bathroom to change clothes. Wayne enticed Tyrone back into his cage. Then everyone returned to the living room.

“Son,” Wayne said, “the reason I was calling you is because Deborah and I, well, maybe it’s obvious, but we’re not getting along too well these days.”

Aha.

“What your father means is that we are ready for counseling. You’ve given us a wonderful life here, but it’s also a little strange and it’s put a strain on things and we think we need to talk to an outsider.”

Thurlow began to shake his head even as he tried to seem amenable. “Are you sure? Because I don’t think counseling is a proven science.”

Wayne snorted and stubbed his index finger on the table. He was about to slay Thurlow with evidence of how little he knew about marriage. “Maybe if you and what’s-her-name had tried counseling—”

Deborah cut him off, but she looked pleased. She lit up a Virginia extra-slim cigarette and brought it within inches of her lips. She had quit smoking years ago, and this was how.

Thurlow swatted the air to clear a path. “Okay, okay,” he said. “But leave it to me. I’ll find Ohio’s best,” which meant he would hire from within and they would never know.

04:25:32:08: A marriage counselor? Now? The universe laughs at me, but I can’t take a joke. Especially since my dad is right: I understand so little of love. Love and marriage. It’s as though all my experience ramped up to these days has taught me nothing. My first billow of desire? Fifth grade, improper fractions with Mr. Coombs, and to my left one Esme Haas in striped tee, navy-blue short shorts with white piping, and Tretorns, which she’d had the foresight to wear years before they were a fad. She’d been assigned to buddy me through class. She was older and adept in the augmenting of her self-esteem via charity; I was stupid and courting a one-and-seven-fourths chance of failing fifth grade. We sat at adjacent desks. In the tradition of another famous love capsized on food, I had an apple in class the day she showed. Every time Mr. Coombs wrote on the board, we’d pass this apple between us, our fingers mating in the relay of this fruit. I took to offering her an apple a day. But she stopped being interested. She had always been good at tiring of a thing the moment I realized it pleased her. Also, my grades were better; her work was done.

The years went by. We’d see each other in the halls. The summer before eighth grade, the rumor was that Esme had free passes to Disneyland because her dad understudied for Pecos Bill in The Golden Horseshoe Revue. She gave the passes out, and on my day, because I got winded quick and was not much for walking, I headed for the skyway funicular. There I found her on the floor, on a blanket, reading Steinbeck. We spanned the park, then walked for a while, but still, I never touched the ground.

Fast-forward to sophomore year of high school, Sunday in the market. Esme in a sleeveless denim vest and carmine mini. Bangles around her wrists, ankles, neck. Hair in a high ponytail, strafed green. Me beholding the cereals the way some people look at art. I was sixteen, and two years shy of a myocardial infarction because of my bad diet and weak heart. I listened to soft rock, had never kissed a girl; I did not know the president’s name. I was, essentially, an archetypal American boy growing up in the wealthiest, most enlightened country on earth, staring at Esme Haas, who had stalled in front of the cereals, too.

I got within a couple feet of her when she turned my way. And it was too late to be normal. I had no basket and no cart. I was backed