No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends. They were each too
territorial. Go was used to being the alpha girl in my life, Amy was
used to being the alpha girl in everyone's life. For two people who
lived in the same city – the same city twice: first New York, now here –
they barely knew each other. They flitted in and out of my life like
well-timed stage actors, one going out the door as the other came in,
and on the rare occasions when they both inhabited the same room, they
seemed somewhat bemused at the situation.
Before Amy and I got serious, got engaged, got married, I would get
glimpses of Go's thoughts in a sentence here or there. It's funny, I
can'd quite get a bead on her, like who she really is. And: You just
seem kind of not yourself with her. And: There's a difference between
really loving someone and loving the idea of her. And finally: The
important thing is she makes you really happy.
Back when Amy made me really happy.
Amy offered her own notions of Go: She's very … Missouri, isn'd she?
And: You just have to be in the right mood for her. And: She's a little
needy about you, but then I guess she doesn'd have anyone else.
I'd hoped when we all wound up back in Missouri, the two would let it
drop – agree to disagree, free to be you and me. Neither did. Go was
funnier than Amy, though, so it was a mismatched battle. Amy was clever,
withering, sarcastic. Amy could get me riled up, could make an
excellent, barbed point, but Go always made me laugh. It is dangerous to
laugh at your spouse.
"Go, I thought we agreed you'd never mention my genitalia again," I
said. "That within the bounds of our sibling relationship, I have no
genitalia."
The phone rang. Go took one more sip of her beer and answered, gave an
eyeroll and a smile. "He sure is here, one moment, please!" To me, she
mouthed: "Carl."
Carl Pelley lived across the street from me and Amy. Retired three
years. Divorced two years. Moved into our development right after. He'd
been a traveling salesman – children's party supplies – and I sensed
that after four decades of motel living, he wasn'd quite at home being
home. He showed up at the bar nearly every day with a pungent Hardee's
bag, complaining about his budget until he was offered a first drink on
the house. (This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in
The Bar – that he was a functioning but serious alcoholic.) He had the
good grace to accept whatever we were "trying to get rid of," and he
meant it: For one full month Carl drank nothing but dusty Zimas, circa
1992, that we'd discovered in the basement. When a hangover kept Carl
home, he'd find a reason to call: Your mailbox looks awfully full today,
Nicky, maybe a package came. Or: It's supposed to rain, you might want
to close your windows. The reasons were bogus. Carl just needed to hear
the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink being poured.
I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl could imagine his gin.
"Hey, Nicky," Carl's watery voice came over. "Sorry to bother you. I
just thought you should know … your door is wide open, and that cat of
yours is outside. It isn'd supposed to be, right?"
I gave a non-commital grunt.
"I'd go over and check, but I'm a little under the weather," Carl said heavily.
"Don'd worry," I said. "It's time for me to go home anyway."
It was a fifteen-minute drive, straight north along River Road. Driving
into our development occasionally makes me shiver, the sheer number of
gaping dark houses – homes that have never known inhabitants, or homes
that have known owners and seen them ejected, the house standing
triumphantly voided, humanless.
When Amy and I moved in, our only neighbors descended on us: one
middle-aged single mom of three, bearing a casserole; a young father of
triplets with a six-pack of beer (his wife left at home with the
triplets); an older Christian couple who lived a few houses down; and of
course, Carl from across the street. We sat out on our back deck and
watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero
percent interest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how
Amy and I were the only ones with river access, the only ones without
children. "Just the two of you? In this whole big house?" the single mom
asked, doling out a scrambled-egg something.
