The Withdrawal Method (29 page)

THAT THURSDAY, two days before Mike and Cheryl's wedding, Adriane announced to Womack that she would only be able to make it to the reception.

There's this Hot Yoga class starting on Saturday afternoons, she told him over a dinner of fish sticks and peas. If I don't go to the first one, they won't let me sign up.

Hot Yoga? said Womack, stabbing at a single pea with his fork. Ade, these are two of my best friends.

Really? When was the last time you talked to them? Halloween?

Whoa, said Womack. The pea rolled away; he put down his fork.

I'll he there for the reception - that's what matters. They won't even notice me missing at the ceremony. And you know how I feel about church and religion and all that.

I've cancelled volunteering for the day, Ade. You don't think you could just do your Hot Yoga some other time? He looked at her. What the fuck is Hot Yoga, anyway?

Sorry, she said, and reached across the table, unexpectedly, to squeeze Womack's hand. He felt something like warmth at this contact and hated himself for that.

At the wedding ceremony Womack sat at the end of a pew in the back of the church, the space beside him conspicuously empty. When Cheryl came up the aisle he turned with everyone else, beaming, trying to catch her eye. She stared ahead, some strange mix of terror and joy on her face, and walked deliberately through the middle of the congregation as though she were trying to ignore everyone there.

After the vows and photos and everything else, and the two hundred-person congregation had shifted to the community centre across town, Womack found his seat at a table with strangers, right near the front of the reception hall. The folded card on his plate read Womack + Guest. The room began to fill, and Womack kept asking the woman on the other side of the empty chair between them what time it was, before, finally, just as the head groomsman was about to give his speech, Adriane came breezing in. She was dressed in black pants and a black sweater, and her hair was still wet from the shower.

Thanks for showing up, whispered Womack as she sat down.

Adriane shook out her napkin and laid it across her lap. That was some hot yoga.

Right, said Womack, and pulled away.

The speeches began. They were long. Adriane sat there, her back to the stage, staring into space. Womack drank a few glasses of wine and began to feel disappointed that he hadn't been asked to speak. He would have been good. He was a writer, for fuck's sake.

Then the speeches were over and Cheryl was standing up at the front with a big white bouquet, back to the crowd, and a cluster of women were gathered jostling at the front of the hall. The deejay got on the microphone and everyone joined in the countdown, and at Zero! Cheryl launched the bouquet upwards over her head, and even before it landed, Womack could trace the trajectory, could see in horror that it was coming toward his table. When it smacked down on Adriane's plate he could only stare into all those flowers, the ivory gloss of them. He was aware vaguely of Adriane saying something like, Oh, fucking fantastic, and felt nothing when they got home later and her first move was to the kitchen, where she stuffed the entire bouquet into the trash underneath the sink.

AFTER THE Boy digests dinner it is time for his bath, and Womack fills the tub and strips the boy down and lifts him up and eases him into the water, which Womack takes great care to ensure is the right temperature. The water sloshes around and Womack struggles for a simile to describe it to himself in his head, but the boy is floundering about in the water and needs calming, so Womack abandons similes and instead attempts to soothe the boy by putting his hands over the boy's ears. The boy's thrashing subsides; he sinks down into the water with Womack's hands on his face, smiling, laughing. Then Womack sponges the boy down and shampoos his hair, and when the boy is pink and rosy and clean, Womack lifts him out of the tub and towels him off.

TWO WEEKS BEFORE Christmas Womack decided to buy a turkey. At the supermarket he scooped one from the deep freeze and brought it home on his bicycle in his backpack. When Adriane came home that evening from yoga, after she turned off his music and reappeared in the kitchen, Womack opened up the refrigerator door and displayed it to her, proudly, as if it were something he himself had constructed or laid.

Better keep it in the freezer, said Adriane.

Yeah?

Well, it's not going to keep in there forever.

Doesn't it look delicious?

Adriane eyed the turkey, a pinkish lump nestled between the milk and pickles. It looks like a dead bird, she said.

Womack slammed the fridge door. For fuck's sake, Ade.

What? She was laughing at him.

Can you get excited about anything?

A turkey? You want me to get excited about a turkey?

Well, something.

Adriane shook her head and went into the den. Womack followed her and stood in the doorway, watching her remove the Dictaphone from her pocket, place it softly on the coffee table, then pick up Southeast Asia on a Shoestring and start reading.

So when are we going? he asked.

Adriane laughed, turning the page. You think you could afford it?

Womack faltered. He could feel what was coming, knew it from so many bad TV shows, the script of The Couple's Fight.

What is this? he asked her finally.

What is what?

This. You. Never home. And when you are, acting like I don't exist - not talking, disappearing into that book, going to bed.

Don't you ever get tired of just sitting around? There was something tired and pleading in Adriane's eyes. Womack did his best not to read it as pity.

You want to take a vacation? he demanded. Take a vacation. Go. I'm not stopping you. I'll lend you an extra shoestring if you want.

Oh, put it in your novel, writer. Adriane sighed, closed the book, and flopped back on the couch. She was silent. Womack was silent. Then there was a loud click from the Dictaphone. They both looked down at it sitting almost guiltily on the coffee table.

What the hell? he asked, moving across the room.

Adriane stood. Don't, she said.

But Womack was already there, the recorder in his hand, hitting the Eject button, popping the cassette out of the recorder. What's this? You're taping our conversations?

Adriane was reaching toward him, a nervous expression on her face.

Give that to me.

Womack slid the cassette back into the Dictaphone, hit Rewind for a few seconds, then Play.

From the speaker, his own voice - tinny, but audible: Can you get excited about anything?

And then Adriane's: A turkey? You want me to get excited about a turkey?

His, more incredulous and desperate than he remembered: Well, something.

And so on, their voices, back and forth. Finally, Adriane's, Oh, put in your nov- was cut off, and the tape began to whine before snapping to a stop.

Womack stood for a moment, silent, gazing at the Dictaphone in his hand as if it might speak up and offer an explanation. Adriane sat down on the couch.

How long have you been doing this? Womack asked, his back to her.

Adriane said nothing.

He rewound the cassette, farther this time, letting the counter wind backwards a few hundred digits. He pressed Play.

Here he was: I guess so, yeah. This was followed by hiss, the odd clank of something metallic. Chewing. Womack watched the wheels of the cassette turn, waiting. Then, himself again: So, Southeast Asia.

Yep, she said.

Sounds fun.

A pause. Her: Something to read.

Just something to read?

Womack hit Stop. Christ, he said. You're messed up, you know that? He took the cassette out of the recorder, turned it over in his hands.

There was a sigh from the couch, but Womack refused to look over. He wiggled his finger into the empty space at the base of the cassette, hooked it under the tape, and began pulling, pulling - not angrily, but purposefully, the wheels spinning, however many of their recorded arguments unravelling into piles of glistening black ribbon at his feet.

AFTER BATHING THE boy, Womack has to get a diaper on him, which is always a struggle. With one hand Womack lifts the boy's legs and holds them together at the ankles, knees bent, while with the other he hoists up the boy's backside and attempts to wedge the diaper underneath. Occasionally the diaper ends up the wrong way on, but by then Womack is often so exhausted he says, Fuck it, to himself, and pulls the boy's pajamas on over the backward diaper and gives him some pills. The boy might at this point again be moaning. Womack does the hands-on-the-ears thing. It has become a reflex. The boy grins, gurgling, cooing. With his hands cupped over the boy's ears, Womack looks down at him, at the boy lying on the bed in his pajamas, something like delight on his face, and he tries not to think the expected thoughts of fortune and misfortune, chance and fate.

TWO NIGHTS AFTER the incident with the Dictaphone, Womack and Adriane had another argument that, with Adriane in bed and him sitting before his computer, filled Womack with shame and embarrassment. He recalled himself screaming things like, Will you think of someone other than yourself, for once? and Adriane crying and screaming back, When was the last time we did anything fun?

As Womack sat there, from behind the curtains in the bedroom came the light whistle of a snore, the creak of bedsprings as Adriane turned in her sleep. Womack pictured her, wrapped in the covers - but the image included him, lying next to her, staring into her face as she slept. A hard knot rose in his throat. Womack sighed deeply, rose from the uncomfortable chair, pushed through the curtains, and stood looking down at Adriane, her eyes closed, mouth half open, hair splayed across the pillow.

Hey, he said.

A pasty, smacking sound from her mouth.

He sat down on the bed, reached out, and prodded her with his fingertips. Hey.

Adriane rolled over. What time is it?

Ade, this isn't right. Us sleeping in the same bed.

What? She sat up.

Us, like this. I can't do it, act like nothing's wrong, lie down next to you. I can't sleep like that. Like, physically, I can't sleep.

Okay?

So maybe one of us should sleep on the couch. Like we could take turns, or whatever.

Look at you, she said. Her mouth was a crescent-shaped shadow in the dark.

Me?

Making decisions. I'm impressed.

What are you talking about?

I'm talking about you, actually doing something for a change. Not just sitting back and watching and then going to your computer and typing it all down.

I'm sorry?

You know, it's too bad you wrecked that tape I was making. I was planning on playing it back for you, so you could actually hear yourself. Like, for real, instead of the version you make up in your head.

What would you know about that?

Listen, she said, kicking the covers off. I think one of us sleeping on the couch is a great idea. And I volunteer myself. Seriously. No problem. The bed's all yours.

And then she ducked through the curtains and was gone. Womack looked down at the S-shaped indentation her body had imprinted on the mattress. Lying down, curling his own body to fill the shape, he could smell Adriane's hair on the pillow. He pulled the sheets around him and cocooned himself within the heat she had left behind.

WOMACK'S LAST TASK before he puts the boy to bed is to give him water. This is not as simple as running the tap into a cup and tipping it down the boy's throat; while pureed foods are not a problem, the boy chokes on liquids. Drinking is a complicated, almost medical procedure. The boy has been outfitted with a sort of valve above his belly button. It looks to Womack like a valve you might find on a pair of children's water wings: a little tube that juts out of the boy's stomach and a stopper on a flexible hinge that plugs and unplugs the opening of the tube. In the corner of the bedroom, Womack sits the boy down in his wheelchair, lifts his shirt to expose the valve, and attaches a tube connected to an iv bag hanging from the ceiling. Water from the bag drips along the tube and directly into the boy's stomach. Womack sits back, waiting, and watches the boy drink.

ONE OF THE last nights before Adriane moved out, Womack came home from volunteering and she was sleeping in the bed, the curtains open. The blankets on the couch were still there, crumpled in a woolly ball from where she had kicked them that morning. It was early, barely nine o'clock. Womack stood between the open curtains, looking down on her lying there, listening for the whistle of her breath. There was silence. Womack knew she was awake.

Hey, he said, getting into bed.

There was no reply, but Womack could feel her shifting, moving closer.

Hey, he said again.

Adriane turned over. Womack reached out and put his hand to her face, felt the wetness of tears on her cheek.

Just sleeping, right? said Adriane. No fooling around.

Womack nodded, avoided saying anything about old time's sake.

He slid one arm underneath her neck, another around her back, his thigh between her legs. Their faces were close. Her breath was salty and hot.

I miss you, he said.

Adriane sniffed.

He kissed her, then, felt her lips against his, but the kiss felt only like a gesture: a handshake, a nod, a wave goodbye. Then she turned and he curled tightly into her back and closed his eyes. After a few minutes like this, he felt her body relax as she fell asleep. Her breath came in deep, restful sighs.

Womack lay there, the tickle of Adriane's hair against his face. Sleepless minutes became an hour. An hour became two. He was hot. He kicked the covers off. Another hour passed. Womack thought, Sleep, sleep. He tried to match his breathing to hers. Eventually, he rolled away, releasing her, and sat up. Legs dangling off the bed, Womack looked at Adriane over his shoulder. Her face.

In the kitchen Womack filled a mug with milk and put it in the microwave, which whirred to life and cast a yellow glow in the dark kitchen. He leaned back on the counter in front of the refrigerator, smiled, then reached forward, opening the freezer. A cold blast of air, and there was the turkey, surrounded by ice-cube trays and Tv dinners and Tupperware.