CHAPTER V. THE CONFESSIONAL

Your hero faces his doom.

“Anselm!” The party volume was set to hubbub. “Anselm!!” But a summons sliced through the festive ferment. “Anselm!!!” A mistress was calling her dog to heel. “Anselm!!!!” She must have her say, the stray will obey, but delay can sometimes find a way. Permit me a little digression.

Nothing stops the march of science. Legends lead the charge: Galileo in his tower, training a heretical telescope on the heavens; Darwin in his cabin, poring over the notes that will change the world; Curie in her laboratory, peering at the test-tube radium that will send her to an early grave. No corner of the world escapes the investigation, from the galaxy at light-years’ distance to the amoeba on microscope slide. We read the works in wonder, marveling at the motion of the planets, complexity of the brain, origin of the species, structure of the atom. Yet the edification falls foul of the flesh; bodily functions also demand their reason. Serving the implacable god of knowledge, our scientists must drop their inquiring eyes from the mountain to the dung heap, descend from celestial observatory to basement lavatory. Have you ever asked yourself, how exactly do we know? A dated edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica ($89.99, possibly open to negotiation) has long occupied a forlorn shelf in the store, where the prurient schoolboy can browse entries on fornication and feces, and find the following under flatulence: “Intestinal gas comes from either swallowed air (nitrogen and oxygen) or the fermentation by bacteria of poorly digested carbohydrates in the colon, yielding a mixture of carbon dioxide, hydrogen, and methane.” Science demands deliberate experiment—imagine the necessary research! With what device did our die-hard empiricists collect their material? A desperate professor up for tenure pressed his failing students into service, plying them with beans and beer and exposing their rears for the duration, securing a plastic bag around the orifice of inflation? Inquiring minds might further read, “All the common intestinal gases are odourless; about 1 percent of the flatus consists of a mixture of other gases that causes the distinctive odour.” Wait a minute, now! Chemistry counsels careful consideration, cannot rest content with conjecture. There is no escaping the conclusion: the introduction of the nostrils of science into that plastic bag. Does a public-sector salary offer adequate compensation?

Trust me here. Fine sensibilities may bristle at this levity, but the ambush serves a serious purpose. Let us pass from pure science to the application. First, I will confirm your suspicion: I am a proud lion of tradition, though like others of crusty temperament, selective of review. The old guard looks fondly on the past, but must grant some promise to the present. I revere the Brontës, consider their nineteenth-century acquaintances holders of the rarest privilege, yet the villagers of Haworth, West Yorkshire, the sisters’ home on the edge of the moor, suffered an open sewer to run down the main street, drank well water contaminated with human waste, and lost appalling numbers of infants to disease. Genteel Charlotte had to squat over a hole in a freezing outhouse. Post-industrial man disowns his excrement, no sooner freed than flushed, and we charge our engineers, trustees of modernity, visionary designers of svelte airliners and luxury automobiles, with dispatching our effluvia to their final resting place. You take the works for granted, the accomplishment coming to the attention only in the breach, when swimming offshore you find yourself negotiating a raft of raw sewage. Spare a thought then for the sanitation professional, wallowing in the mire that you might forget your business. Imagine spending hours in the fumes, wading the sludge, showering with prophylactic soap. Does some psychological abnormality preclude more social career, do the public servants talk shop in euphemism, are their mothers still proud? Who are these curious individuals?

I introduce my wife. All right, technically I should say ex-wife, but we still address him as Mr. President. Christine Caprese, she never took my name, earned her MS in Civil Engineering from Stanford in 1986. Adding further injury to a life of insult, she shortens her first—Chris and Annie, I need not recount the innuendo. You might picture a Soviet-era athlete of dubious entitlement to the women’s squad, so I will immediately disappoint the presumption. Christine of my sorrows was strawberry blonde, soft of voice, comfortably curved, if her wardrobe did favor the practical over the preen. And the pragmatic woman knew no embarrassment. An enviable self-possession allowed her to publicly hold forth on her employment, in uncompromising vocabulary, without the slightest blockage. Was the sewage sweet! The proper matron nodded, the hipster canned his cool, the wag would never dream.

—Walter Elliot, the conceit! You paraded in front of the mirror, condescended to the lower-born industrialists eclipsing the landed gentry. Little disposed to favour, you were not fond of the idea of your shrubberies being always approachable. But good sir, even you would admire her gift. The sanitary engineer was not shy, pronouncing on her profession like a genteel visitor to Miss Elliot’s flower garden praising the perfume of the roses.—

Another knew her love. And he came first, getting her into bed—with one of his books! No longer of this world, the old-school baseball coach never left her heart. The bereaved still saw his worn mitts on the bench, dusty volumes on the shelf, antique maps on the wall. And she married into a traditional bookstore. Though not the most avid reader, the practical woman rose to a challenge: straightening the merchandise, stopping the leak of patrons, preserving the memory of a father—the one man who could do no wrong.

I met an inspiring woman. I fell for a serious scientist. I married a dedicated professional. That was then. No stranger to emergency, the city engineer faced a crisis of no mechanical solution, the midlife examination. Anselm, you can’t complain, didn’t you change careers before we met? All right, but a bookstore is a serious undertaking! You might hope that a steady New Englander would follow my example, investing her inheritance in some solid venture. You would be disappointed. Pulling up those roots, the transplant found her bliss, unhappily. In rank perversion, the same woman who had uncompromising expectations of a husband was fully forgiving of a friend. Melody hails from Marin, but that isn’t the worst of it. The libertine held me in contempt, helped herself to my liquor, introduced my wife to the Zen Center, and before you could say Adbhutadharmaparyāyasūtra, Christine had converted a shuttered church of Christ the Redeemer into a wellness studio. Hatha Flow has washed up down the street, and the yoga mats blocking the sidewalk incite the scorn of our more worthy customers. At least they should. We were divorced in less than a year.

“Oh, it’s you.” I turned to face my doom. “What luck, my toilet is overflowing.”

“Anselm, that was never funny. Gloria told me you’d been drinking.”

“Isn’t this a party? At least I showed—”

“Looking like a homeless person.”

“I thought we were divorced! In any case, Savile Row won’t extend me any more credit.”

“You still maintain the other woman, I hear. If only the shop—”

“If only you felt for the finer things.”

“Some of us live in the real world.”

“I thought you moved on a more elevated plane.”

“My studio does solid business.”

“Okay, one member of the family is enjoying her little success. Unlike Don Caprese—”

“Anselm, please. I didn’t come over here for another fight.”

“Have you tried the steak tartare? Very tasty.” I was looking at her plate of mushroom crepes. She went full vegan in the waning days of the union, a ground I generously forswore in the proceedings.

“Oh dear.”

Gloria let me know. Annie, you are such a lucky man. And my wife’s best friend was wont to plant a seed. Was I good enough? All right, Christine is popular, accomplished, nice-looking, intelligent, well-educated, articulate, dignified, self-reliant, energetic, patient, generous, resourceful, trustworthy, helpful, sociable, solvent . . . But if a woman is so damn perfect, does she really have to puff? And don’t even talk about her insomnia; both occupants of the conjugal bunk have to suffer. The doctor’s news affected me as well, of course. But who headed for the door!

Bo cannot let go? That may well be, but the name is Merrywood, and a memoir has the mandate. I might still think about the marriage, occasionally. So what, I still think about the accident! The car was totaled, but the crash wasn’t really my fault, and we walked away without lasting injury. Gloria pretending post-divorce that she wouldn’t take sides, I opened her forwarded invitation with a sinking heart, could only decline on pain of proving the presumption. She had really no need to warn me. How many times must I say it? How much supposed sympathy must I take? Yes, my wife walked out, but I have fully recovered, trust me. I harbor no resentment, since you ask. I never dwell on the past, if you must know. I just ignore the reminders—what reminders anyway? Can we please change the subject? I have plenty of other things to worry about. I have no need to talk about it, really I don’t. I hardly think about her, to tell the honest truth. Let’s just move on, shall we? I rarely think about her at all.

“I was hoping you’d be here.” She could never take a hint. “I hear Betty was in the hospital. I do miss your mother. How is she?”

“The poor woman has no private life, apparently. I’m well, thank you for asking.”

“The lowest form of wit.” No sad piano accompanied her reproach. “I do care, you know.”

Therein lies the offense. The bride reneged on the vow to her husband but still minds his business. And she had come over unaccompanied, sparing me communication with the individual who presently shares her bed. She had left him with a clutch of nodding women, frantic for some fodder.

I will take the stand. No matter what my former partner says, I am not bereft of social grace. Visit me in the store, and we’ll have some conversation! The good soldier is not adverse to a party, but the battle-tested regular made the drive with some damp. I would face inquiry into the health of my business. I would run into a tedious classmate, of illustrious career. I would be expected to lament the lax morals of the English au pair. Returning guests would not forget that unfortunate scene with the young district attorney, reincarnation of Elizabeth I, virgin queen of England. It was just a rhetorical question! Can’t anyone take a joke?

“They thought Mother had a heart attack. False alarm, nothing too serious, apparently. They’re keeping her for observation.”

“I miss her. And how’s George?”

“Just turned eighty, and still a swinger. Though now he’s all titanium.”

“I used to play golf with my father. He never let me use the ladies’ tee.”

I removed her clothes. But private indulgence provides poor compensation. Though she has discarded a husband, the deserter has kept her looks . . . with some exception. The married woman wore a short bob, which complemented her features; the yoga instructor had grown her hair out, to less success. Should I remark to that effect, in a public spirit? A history of marital misunderstanding counseled precaution. Why don’t her confidantes offer the hint, Gloria far from timid? The self-explorer and the socialite were close, apple and orange enjoying a rapport that defies all reason—Christine feted her friend’s fandango while treading on my toots! And if I divulge a further development, please suppose no spleen. Rubens would consider her a picture. But I never judge the exhibition, trust me.

“I see the masseur has a fan club.” I nodded in the direction.

“Anselm, it really doesn’t bother me. Just to set the record straight, Moshe is not a masseur. He runs a holistic health practice, and he’s very well regarded. You know that already, whatever you pretend.”

“Maybe he’d give me a discount. Friends and family.”

“You don’t want to talk, that’s fine. Say hello to your folks.”

Lew might stew. But I’m not remotely jealous, trust me. The philosopher views life’s vicissitudes with calm detachment. I knew she would bring her boyfriend, Moshe of the piercing desert eyes—I overheard the unhinged remark, unfortunately. My slight indisposition owed nothing to his presence, trust me. Gloria’s affairs are a bog of affectation. Yes, partygoers were warming to him, saying how happy they seemed, but I’m indifferent to the insult, really I am. He might cut a figure, but can’t they see the chin? If he was creating a little stir, then good for him, I say. I’m no insecure teenager, for heaven’s sake. I still carry a torch? Please, nothing could be further . . . ! She has moved on and I’m on my own, for all the world to see. So what! Does the lone wolf not inspire?

A bray bested the babble. A different beast bullied through the bustle. The lawyer’s clock is ticking and rations the minutes he allows for each guest, whether old partner in crime or recent acquisition. I’m not insecure. I don’t feel entitled to his time. Anselm Merrywood is secure in his sneakers, I can assure you of that. But at their parties Bill competes with Gloria, and his self-importance crescendos to an intolerable pitch. The birthday boy modulates the boast only for superficial banter, the moral degradation of which he is insensible.

“Merrywuss!” Must he always? A squat figure approached, on an evident mission. The incoming missile sported a plain open-necked brown shirt and pants. I suspect that Gloria presses underwhelming attire on her spouse, the better to set off her splendor.

“Happy birthday, sir.” I am the taller, but possess no advantage. A bulldog’s presence belies its actual stature.

“Yeah, yeah, fifty years. Nothing to sing about, as we all know.” He patted his stocky frame.

“I’m still shy, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Your years haven’t treated you too bad, skinny bastard.” Unlike the lady of the house, Bill took no offense at a guest’s workaday togs, rude rags read reduced resources. “And we’ve laid on another treat”—the meat was on the cutting board—“your ex-wife!” The knowing cook has a sharp knife.

“Connor, I do thank thee. It’s always a pleasure to see Christine. And she can’t stay away from me. The woman has a genius for walking by the store when we happen to want for customers—”

“Can’t stay away from her boyfriend. Check it out, all over each other.”

“Oh, that’s who he is. I was thinking some party crasher was hitting on her. I was about to do you a favor and kick him out!”

“She does like men.”

“Christine?”

“Just saying!”

“Listen, pal.” The slanderer led me aside. “My wife has invited the whole fucking city, as you can see. I have instructions, talk to every bore she knows, la-di-da. Going to be a long day. Before I mosey, got an idea. Let’s take the boat out again.”

“I love it, when we’re cruising together.” I serenaded a startled salon. “So long as there’s no company.” The last time he made the offer I found myself marooned with the upper echelons of Hayward and Fremont and came close to emulating Davy Jones.

“Just the two of us. Get out of your creepy shop for once.”

The Connor consideration carries no conviction. I am his best friend, on Gloria’s rehearsal, an honor compromised by lack of other self-respecting claimants. He has but one gear, unrelenting personal advancement. A boat trip spells submission to his every controlling fancy, the inevitable cock-a-doodle-do. You’re a lucky guy, my friend, this baby cost big bucks, got me half the fucking world begging for a cruise. However, I must overrule my pride, set my stomach for a surfeit. I needed his help. Were he sober on the day, the request would fall on deaf ears, Scrooge as generous with his scrip as the Virgin Mary with her favors. But we sail with some provision, the only time he indulges. In a crowd of celebrants Bill’s forbearance stands out, a circumstance he mordantly brings to the attention. Until the family doctor intervened, he was no stranger to the liquor store, and Gloria would have an Oscar-worthy meltdown over our maritime indulgence.

“Bill, you bring the boat, I spring for the booze.”

“No skimping, now. I know you!”

“Yes, you are a lucky man.”

“I only drink top shelf.” The rooster left me in peace.

 The house was packed. The party was swinging. The bar was well stocked. But my post told a singular story, Gloria somehow failing to weave my threads into the fabric. I have the recurring nightmare, naked in a classroom, and now experienced a like exposure, second-guessing my clothing calculation. A saving Grace typically appeared at this juncture; I should forestall her rescue attempt. My ride was waiting outside.

Mike takes a hike? That is not beyond the realm of possibility, but Anselm is another animal; the critter is no quitter. And flight only draws attention, good manners mandating interminable goodbyes. An ulterior motive? You will have to wait and see! However, I had been foraging on my own for so long that joining the herd would bleat of desperation, belated engagement surrender my cool. The crowd was too dignified to supply the entertainment of a belligerent drunkard, kids were forbidden, and the musicians had played their encore. Christine and paramour merged on the other side of the room. I could not miss his pat to her rear. You might come to his defense, see no semaphore, and I praise your propensity to forgive. I also could not care less, trust me. The later mishap was a total accident, whatever you might think.