Almost every boyfriend since the pothead she’d met in a bar, that’s what she told me. Because it was noisy, because they couldn’t hear her stutter, because then she was unafraid to be herself. It was true, she stuttered less when we met that night, and I could keep up with her conversation-wise. It was a lot of work, and I pulled out every trick in the book, but I did it. Back at her place we were silent as we groped and kissed. We never discussed or questioned what we were doing, not when we took off our clothes, dropped them into a sloppy pile on her floor next to an ashtray filthy with cigarettes, not when we rolled around on her mattress wedged in the corner of her bedroom, not when I held her arms high up behind her head, one hand holding two wrists, and kept going at her until at last, she hummed, just like anyone would. And when I finally came I let out a noise so loud and eager I, too, could have fooled anyone that I was perfectly normal.
But the next morning, in the silence of her bedroom, with only the occasional noise passing through—a bicycle rolling by as silent as a breeze except for the squeak of a chain, a bee trapped in between the window screen and frame, the growl of my stomach hungering for a hangover cure—when she spoke and broke through the quiet hum of morning sounds, when she stuttered, “I d-don’t really do this s-sort of thing, you know,” and listed off the handful of times it had happened before, it was like she was reading the Encyclopaedia Britannica, all the chapters, all at once. There was too much to process, and I became mute. Then she cried—“You think I’m a slut,” she moaned—but still I couldn’t get the words out. I got my clothes and headed out of her apartment, stopping only to stare at her sketches. She had faces all over the wall, portraits of folks around town, some of them I knew, some I didn’t. I wished I had known her long enough for her to draw me. I saw her again only a few times—it’s funny how you can hide in a small town—but it was always from far away, across the street, or passing by each other in traffic. Her face would flicker, a downturn of the lips, then head down and away. A year later, maybe two, she was gone. Good for her, I thought. This town isn’t for everyone.
These days I usually get stuck with chatty women. They don’t even stop to take a breath sometimes, that type. It seems like it would work out fine, but after a while you realize they talk so much because they don’t care what you have to say. And I don’t know, I think I’ve got something to say.
“So let me buy you a drink. One of mine.” I’m a brewer, I tell you. They carry my lager and ale in the bar, and a winter brew is coming out in a few weeks. If you can let go of that vodka tonic you’re gripping so tightly, I’d recommend the ale.
I’d be willing to bet I know more about beer than almost any man in the state, and that includes the beer snobs from up north who make it their business to try everything once, or the hobbyists in the suburbs, a sincere bunch of people who spend way too much time in their basements. My passion started in high school, where I spent a lot of time at parties drinking beer slowly as a way to pass the time during pauses. It wasn’t so much the getting drunk part I liked as much as it was an acceptable way to make people wait for you to speak. And then I began tasting the beer, noticing the difference between good and bad, and wondering what went into it. College, I knew it wasn’t going to be for me. I started out at the local brewery as an assistant, and then eventually I became the brewmaster. When the brewery went up for sale, I put some money together—my folks, Ricky, a few loans—and bought the place. Now it’s mine, all mine. Well, mine, my folks’, Ricky’s, and the bank’s.
I’ve got a small crew, and they work fast and quietly. Everyone knows what they’re doing, no need for too many questions. We play music all day long. Most of the guys are a little bit younger than I am, so they bring in CDs of the newer stuff, and I like that. Keeps me young, even though I’m not really that old. But sometimes we don’t play music at all; we just work quietly, side by side, getting the work done. Those days are my favorites, I think. There’s something to be said for silence.
“Sure I’ll have one of your beers.” You sound delighted. “I’ll try anything once.” You talk for a little bit about needing to try new things. That you want to do more hiking. That you’ve heard there were hot springs around here, is that true? And finally, how your husband wanted everything to stay the same. Once you got married it was like your lives were over. Everything was locked into place. How close-minded he was. I can imagine you criticizing him, down to every last cell in his body. I know some women, they like to sting.
I bet you kicked his ass. I bet you destroyed him. Did he deserve it? Does anyone deserve it? I can see that you’re merciless under that sweet, soft skin; that you can cut someone, that you leave scars. Did you fuck with him? Did you make him cry? I got it, lady. Now you get this: I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of anyone. I’d like to see you try it on me. I already forgive you. Whatever you were before you met me doesn’t matter, it only matters how you treat me now. Would you care that I left that poor girl alone in her apartment, all alone crying? Wailing. I could hear her down the hall. I could have stayed, I could have explained. I could have said something. I believe that we are the sum of all of the loves before us until we reach our one great love. Whatever you did before, whatever I did before, we can put it all behind us.