Swim, Butterfly Chapter 24
Girlfriend of a Working Man
A few days later, I call Jimmy, "Hey! I'm coming up Friday evening."
Pause. "Uh, this Friday? Really? That's great! But, uh, okay. What's going on?"
"Pete and I had our blow out, melt down, whatever you wanna' call it. He's watching the kids this weekend and told me to go do whatever I gotta do before we figure out what's next. We need space right now, anyways."
Jimmy says nothing for a moment, then asks, "So, what are you going to do?"
"Take it one day at a time. Figure out why I cheated in the first place. Take care of the kids. Otherwise, nothing. I'm not going to do anything."
"Where are you staying when you come up?" he asks.
"What?" I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Is this really Jimmy on the line?
"Listen," he says, "I have to work Friday night so I won't be around, and I don't know if you'd feel comfortable staying here if I'm not in."
The man with the voice smooth as velvet sheets, the same man who invited me to stay with him if I ever got divorced, just told me I can't go to his place for a few nights?
He continues, "I mean, you're welcome to stay here. I didn't mean to make it sound otherwise, it's just, I really should see you if you're here, but I can't cancel this appointment. Sometimes someone else can fill-in, but everyone's busy this weekend."
"That's fine, so I'll see you in the morning, or in the afternoon, or whatever. I still worry about you. I mean, is there something else going on besides this, uh, marriage?"
Jimmy sighs, "Yeah, sometimes."
"Well, like what? Highs and lows?"
"Yeah. Just worried about the future sometimes, you know? That's all."
I chuckle, "I hear that. Do something for me?"
"What's that?"
"Stay safe until I get there on Friday."
"Yes, yes, I will. You do the same. And Caroline?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
***
I pack more than just a weekend bag, because, who knows? I don't really know if I'll get kicked out or not. Pete and I have no idea what we are going to do next. We hardly talk right now. Rudy and June watch us, but say nothing and keep their heads down much of the time. I've since moved into the den on the first floor, outfitted with the cluttered daybed for the guests we never have.
"Dad snores and I need sleep," I tell June one afternoon, as she watches me carry an armful of pajamas into the den.
Pete looks pale when we briefly discuss the details of my upcoming trip. I can't blame him. He knows where I'm going although I never specified. I simply said that we needed space. It must be repulsive to think that some other dick has been inside one's wife, but then I still wonder why more people don't cheat, or cheat more often, and that maybe marriage needs reconstruction to make room for three. Who was it that said,
"The chains of marriage are so heavy that it takes two to bear them, sometimes three."
? Alexandre Dumas? Geez. I mean, come on, there's birth control galore and longer life spans, and no one person can itch every scratch. Who wants to live with an un-itched scratch that ironically doesn't heal, but turns into an open sore?
Friday arrives after a long, sickly week. I kiss and hug the kids goodbye. Rudy asks, "Mom, are you going to that hotel with the pool?" No. I hope June doesn't mention 'Drew' while I'm gone. That would put Pete right. over. the. edge.
I wrap up a few chores around the house and try to make myself useful, as if extra sweeping and dusting will make up for cheating. I wish it were that easy, and I realize, in some relationships, maybe it is. Not mine. What's funny is, if I'd met Jim thirteen years ago, our love, if you can call it that, would have put nary a ripple on the pattern of my life, but nine years ago I alluded to a promise, a promise that feels like a boa constrictor anymore. I smile--thirteen years ago, Jimmy was only a few years out of high school.
3:10pm. Pete gets home from work. I leave. Two ships passing without so much as one horn-blast. No, just ghosts. I turn into a ghost as I leave.
***
Hitting the open road feels like a lurid, middle-aged adventure. Sorry, no rolling seas or verdant jungles or glistening, snow-capped peaks against blue skies. Nope. Congested, grimy route 130/76/155/168, whatever the hell this stretch of road is called. And I don't remember the train ride to New York. All I know is that it should have been a beautiful day, with late April's pretty flowers carrying into May's gentle climate.
I don't need a map this time to Jimmy's place as the route's familiar now, even in dusk's fading light. I arrive at his apartment around 7:15pm, let myself into the lobby, and board the cranky elevator.
Jimmy said he had a job tonight, but I don't know how late. I have keys, but knock anyway and wait. I hear a shuffle, then a gruff, "Who is it?"
"Duh, Jimmy, it's me," I speak to the door.
"Ah, I thought so." Wise ass.
The ticks and tocks of locks unlocking echo through the empty hallway, and he swings the door wide open. I don't think I've ever seen a happier face or received a bigger hug, "Whew, glad you got here when you did! I don't have to leave for a little while, so we got a few minutes to talk." Jimmy says. He squeezes the hell out of me, rocking back and forth. I drop my bag on the floor and hold him. He smells of soap and a touch of unfamiliar cologne, his bald head shiny and smooth.
"How are you?" he murmurs in my ear.
"Okay, I guess, considering." We hold each longer, then loosen our grips.
"Do June and Rudy know?"
"No, I didn't tell them anything. I don't think Pete did, either. They know something's wrong, though, just not what."
"Hmm."
Jimmy picks up my bag and takes my hand, leading me to his bed. I inhale deeply through my nose. His apartment's cool and cleaner than last time, but not spotless, like the first time. He sets my bag down in a corner and entreats me to sit on the bed.