*
My introspecting must have paid off, because I started noticing patterns. As a for instance, Johanna might come into my office to hand me the cap of the toothpaste I’d forgotten to screw back on, and, later, that would cause me to say “Achtung!” when Johanna asked me to take out the recycling, which would get Johanna madder than a wet hen, and before you know it we’re fighting World War III.
In therapy, when Dr. Van der Jagt called on me to speak, I’d say, “On a positive note this week, I’m becoming more aware of our demon dialogues. I realize that’s our real enemy. Not each other. Our demon dialogues. It feels good to know that Johanna and I can unite against those patterns, now that we’re more cognizant.”
But it was easier said than done.
One weekend we had dinner with this couple. The gal, Terri, worked with Johanna over at Hyundai. The husband, name of Burton, was from out east.
Though you wouldn’t know it to look at me, I was born with a shy temperament. To relax in a social context, I like to throw back a few margaritas. I was feeling OK when the gal, Terri, put her elbows on the table and leaned toward my wife, gearing up for some girl talk.
“So how did you guys meet?” Terri said.
I was involved with Burton in a conversation about his wheat allergy.
“It was supposed to be a green-card marriage,” Johanna said.
“At first,” I said, butting in.
Johanna kept looking at Terri. “I was working at the radio station. My visa was running out. I knew Charlie a little. I thought he was a really nice guy. So, ja, we got married, I got a green card, and, you know, ja, ja.”
“That makes sense,” Burton said, looking from one of us to the other, and nodding, like he’d figured out a riddle.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Charlie, be nice,” Johanna said.
“I am being nice,” I said. “Do you think I’m not being nice, Burton?”
“I just meant your different nationalities. Had to be a story behind that.”
The next week at couples counseling was the first time I started the conversation.
“My issue is,” I said. “Hey, I’ve got an issue. Whenever people ask how we met, Johanna always says she married me for a green card. Like our marriage was just a piece of theater.”
“I do not,” Johanna said.
“You sure as shooting do.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“What I’m hearing from Charlie,” Dr. Van der Jagt said, “is that when you do that, even though you might feel that you are stating the facts, what it feels like, for Charlie, is that you are belittling your bond.”
“What am I supposed to say?” Johanna said. “Make up a story to say how we met?”
According to Hold Me Tight, what happened when Johanna told Terri about the green card was that my attachment bond was threatened. I felt like Johanna was pulling away, so that made me want to seek her out, by trying to have sex when we got home. Due to the fact that I hadn’t been all that nice to Johanna during our night out (due to I was mad about the green-card thing), she wasn’t exactly in the mood. I’d also had more than my fill of the friendly creature. In other words, it was a surly, drunken, secretly needy, and frightened life-mate who made the move across the memory foam. The memory foam being a point of contention in itself, because Johanna loves that mattress, while I’m convinced it’s responsible for my lower lumbar pain.
That was our pattern: Johanna fleeing, me bloodhounding her trail.
*
I was working hard on all this stuff, reading and thinking. After about three months of counseling, things started getting rosier around La Casa D. For one thing, Johanna got that promotion I mentioned, from local rep to regional. We made it a priority to have some together time together. I agreed to go easier on the sauce.
Around about this same time, Cheyenne, the little gal who babysat for us, showed up one night smelling like a pigpen. Turned out her father had kicked her out. She’d moved in with her brother, but there were too many drugs there, so she left. Every guy who offered her a place to stay only wanted one thing, so finally Cheyenne ended up sleeping in her Chevy. At that point Johanna, who’s a soft touch and throws her vote away on the Green Party, offered Cheyenne a room. What with Johanna traveling more, we needed extra help with the kids, anyway.
Every time Johanna came back from a trip, the two of them were like best friends, laughing and carrying on. Then Johanna’d leave and I’d find myself staring out the window while Cheyenne suntanned by the pool. I could count her every rib.
Plus, she liked the fire pit. Came down most every night.
“Care to meet my friend, Mr. George Dickel?” I said.
Cheyenne gave me a look like she could read my mind. “I ain’t legal, you know,” she said. “Drinking age.”
“You’re old enough to vote, ain’t you? You’re old enough to join the armed forces and defend your country.”
I poured her a glass.
Seemed like she’d had some before.
All those nights out by the fire with Cheyenne made me forget that I was me, Charlie D., covered with sunspots and the marks of a long life, and Cheyenne was Cheyenne, not much older than the girl John Wayne goes searching for in The Searchers.
I started texting her from work. Next thing I know I’m taking her shopping, buying her a shirt with a skull on it, or a fistful of thongs from Victoria’s Secret, or a new Android phone.
“I ain’t sure I should be accepting all this stuff from you,” Cheyenne said.
“Hey, it’s the least I can do. You’re helping me and Johanna out. It’s part of the job. Fair payment.”
I was half daddy, half sweetheart. At night by the fire we talked about our childhoods, mine unhappy long ago, hers unhappy in the present.
Johanna was gone half of each week. She came back hotel-pampered, expecting room service and the toilet paper folded in a V. Then she was gone again.
One night I was watching Monday Night. A Captain Morgan commercial came on—I get a kick out of those—put me in mind of having me a Captain Morgan and Coke, so I fixed myself one. Cheyenne wandered in.
“What you watching?” she asked.
“Football. Want a drink? Spiced rum.”
“No, thanks.”
“You know those thongs I bought you the other day? How they fit?”
“Real good.”
“You could be a Victoria’s Secret model, I swear, Cheyenne.”
“I could not!” She laughed, liking the idea.
“Why don’t you model one of them thongs for me. I’ll be the judge.”
Cheyenne turned toward me. All the kids were asleep. Fans were shouting on the TV. Staring straight into my eyes, Cheyenne undid the clasp of her cutoffs and let them fall to the floor.
I got down on my knees, prayerful-like. I mashed my face against Cheyenne’s hard little stomach, trying to breathe her in. I moved it lower.
In the middle of it all, Cheyenne lifted her leg, Captain Morgan style, and we busted up.