“I asked, ‘And when you’re back, were you thinking we’d live here or at your place?’ He said he was subletting his apartment during his hegira, and the lessee had signed on for six months, renewable verbally or by text in six-month intervals up to eighteen months.”
I didn’t tell Joel the rest, that we’d made farewell love in a new position that Stuart said he’d learned from kabbalah teachings, and in the morning, his departure documented with photos destined for Facebook and Instagram, he set out more or less west. I’d made him three cheese sandwiches and three peanut butter and honey ones on pita bread. He said he’d eat dropped fruit that he’d source from orchards along the way, so just an apple and a banana to start with.
After he left, I looked up hegira. I don’t think he knew that its dictionary definition was “a journey, especially when undertaken to escape from a dangerous or undesirable situation.” Over the next few weeks, I switched from red thread to string to yarn and back to string when the wool made my finger itch. The infirmary’s nurse questioned my needing hydrocortisone cream when I could simply remove the irritant. I called Stuart and told him of my dilemma.
I must have woken him. “Red thread?” he repeated, his voice a little thick. “Remind me.”
7
Halloween
I’D STAYED HOME, GIVING out generous amounts of candy to the mere half-dozen trick-or-treaters in the apartment complex. Between visitors, I was reading Stuart’s Facebook posts, noticing he was looking thinner, which didn’t worry me since he was walking the equivalent of a half marathon every day. His tan was deepening despite his safari hat, his SPF precautions, and the fact that it was late October. Though I made a point of “liking” all of his Facebook pictures, many I actually hated. He seemed to be running into old girlfriends and every female classmate from social work school; one might even have deduced that his route was not a spontaneous meander but a romantic scavenger hunt. I didn’t want to make an issue of his socializing with women he once dated, but each post unsettled me. I reminded myself that he chose me, committed himself to me; that I was the one with the red string around my finger. And only those closest to him—his parents and I—had our credit cards in his wallet.
I didn’t want to be seen as a jealous partner, and it was hard to argue with “Am I not supposed to see/talk to/have a drink with interesting and accomplished women just because I’m not dating them anymore?”
I didn’t quibble with the “accomplished” because he would judge me a snob. Stuart claimed to be unimpressed by fame or degrees or job titles, especially if the latter fell into categories he considered conventional. He once said that if he had to be on a desert island with only one person and the choices were a doctor or a nurse, he’d pick the latter. Or between a college professor and a kindergarten teacher? A football player or a cheerleader? In every case, he favored the less-lettered alternative.
Our engagement hadn’t gone public. Once I asked why, among all the signs he held up in photos, one never says LOVE YOU, FAITH! Or even just HI, FAITH? He said it was because the signs were a team-building tool. He had a public persona, and—as with actors and celebrities—being perceived as unattached helps with socializing, which may lead to cash contributions, a necessary evil along his journey.
I tried his cell. He said he couldn’t talk—he was with hair and makeup at a cable TV station in Terre Haute.
“While you’re there, charge your phone so when you call me back—”
“Babe, gotta go. Seriously.”
He did call back after the interview, but not immediately; in fact, he woke me up. His greeting was “I hit the jackpot! The TV station is putting me up at a Hilton Garden Inn! I’m calling from the tub!”
I said something I’d never said to him, or to anyone over the phone, ever, maybe now from some altered sleep state, “Are you naked?”
I was expecting his answer to be at least a little encouraging. Such as “Why do you ask?” or “What are you wearing?” But all he said was “I’m in the tub, dummy. Of course I’m naked.”
I said, “Oh. Just trying to get a picture.”
Another guy might have said, “Really? Want a picture? I can do that.” But what I heard was “I think I was pretty good tonight. The reporter was giving me the usual tests about my motive, about what I was trying to accomplish, and I told her I was in the business of seeking kindness. That it wasn’t just for myself, but what I’d discovered was that the dispensers of kindness or generosity or a thumb’s-up from behind the wheel or support in the form of cash came away feeling better about themselves. And she said, ‘So you’re giving forward?’ which was really a great takeaway. I said, ‘Exactly.’?”
I said, “Stuart? I’m in bed. I wish you were here.”
“Me, too, babe.”
“I’ve never had phone sex, but I can guess that one person in bed and another one in the bathtub would be a good start.”
I heard the slurp of the drain. “I can’t go there, babe. It’s been a really long day, and you wouldn’t believe how clean sheets and HBO appeal to me. And you know, of course, that the government constantly monitors cell phone conversations. There’s no such thing as privacy anymore.”
I said, “I have nothing to hide. And wouldn’t it be just some noises we made? I don’t think I’d be using actual words.”
He said, “I have another call. Gotta take this! It’s the producer from tonight!”
“Call me back—”
Maybe the station had gotten good feedback and possibly contributions. I left my bed and went to my laptop. His last blog entry had been posted at what he described as “twilight.”