Creative Writing from
Fairleigh Dickinson University

The Men

Laura Cherney

I put out my cigarette and shut the window. I turned away from the lights of the street below. I turned away from the lights that danced along my glass panes, teasing with their carefree glimmers. I picked up the phone from where it lay on the floor, it was still pulsating a green light as if to tell me not to forget I had a message. There's always a message. There's always somewhere to be, or somewhere to avoid, someone to be, someone to find, or someone to lose. There's always someone to love. Or not.
I tossed the phone back to its resting place on the floor. I looked one last time at the white lilies that sat next to a tiny spider plant on the windowsill. Making my way through the apartment to my bedroom, shedding left shoe, right shoe, black skirt, black top, in a trailing vine of formal attire all the way to the door of my room, I fought back tears. Crawling into bed, the cotton skimmed over my skin, and wrapped me in its comfort. I laid awake and I thought. I thought of him, I thought of where we used to live. I thought of the ones before him. I thought of all the towns I'd walked through. All the living rooms I'd decorated, all the doors I slammed when I walked out. I thought of the hellos, the goodbyes. I thought about the ones I'd loved, and the ones I didn't. I finally slept, listening to the familiar and comforting sounds of the South Side, the trains, and the cars rumbling through the winding back streets.

* * *
     We walked the warm dewy grasses, underneath the trees, by the flowers and the fountains. We talked about Europe, and wines, and dancing. For us it was just another night. Eddie was his name.
      We walked the hot streets by the harbor in July. The boats sidled up to the dock as if to push their way closer to company. We talked of the future, of dreams and hopes and fantasies. For us we had forever. We were young. Dan was his name.
      We walked through the shops at Pentagon City. The light glinted off the silver buttons of his dress grays, my gown swished around my ankles as we walked. We laughed as we talked of escaping that night's ball. We talked of our aspirations, we talked of our childhoods, and we talked far into the morning hours. We bubbled through the holiday season. We made it work for a while. Brian. His name was Brian.
     We walked up the path that led through the woods, by the stream that fed the river that flowed up ahead. We had packed sandwiches, and we talked of books, and critics and intellectual endeavors. His eyes crinkled when he laughed. I wanted to talk of the future. But we always talked of the past. I miss Ken. That was his name.
     We walked from the car to the door. Then up the steps to the tiny second floor apartment. The house the apartment was in was crowded in among the rest on the street. The dingy yellow paint shone a little brighter because of the streetlight that crackled above us. For us we didn't care about any other time but the right then and there time. Dave. Dave was his name.
     We walked around the airport lobby. That's where I'd see him the most. When he was coming or going, mostly going. We talked of getting married. Maybe I should've. But I didn't. Some days I miss it. Most days I don't. Mark.
     We loved. We met and we loved. We talked of the world inside us and the world around us. We talked of past and future and present, and all the spaces in between. We laughed. We cried. We grew. He was more than just a name.

* * *
      I woke up that next morning with puffy eyes. Pulling my worn blue robe around my body, I moved to the kitchen, where a chipped blue and white mug waited for my arrival. My coffee dripped in a steady rhythm as I filled a Dixie cup with water for the windowsill plants. The quiet enveloped me, as I sat with my coffee and my thoughts.

* * * Eddie* eight years ago

      “Don't go. I don't want to see you leave.” I sat across the table from him making patterns with my index finger in the condensation on my glass. Two bowls of pasta sat between us, and a bottle of Chianti to the side. The light flickered out of the red glass candleholder, casting a glow over the remains on the table. I looked up to see his dark eyes meet mine.
      “It's only a year.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and waved the waiter over. Not even bothering to look at the check he handed over a fifty-dollar bill without even looking up.
      “Ha. It's only a year. Eddie, it's Milan. You're moving to fucking Italy next week, and somehow it escaped your attention to tell me.” I downed what was left in my glass and looked through my bag for a cigarette.
      “Babe, come on. It wasn't like we'd last forever. You knew that from the start. We never cared about any of this before, why now?”
      “Why? Because you're already gone to me, you said you'd tell me everything straight. That's what we had. We don't have anything anymore. Don't even think we do.”
      We smoked our cigarettes one last time. We didn't wrap our leftovers. We left the restaurant as it was in our memories. The bartender gave a wave, and Eddie put his hand on the small of my back as I walked out.
      And then there we were. Eddie's was walking around somewhere in Milan. And I was in my apartment, looking out the window at the lights of New York City. Hoboken wasn't worse than Milan. It was just different. After he left, I didn't even see flowers anymore, unless they were the geraniums that were invariably dead in my window box.

* * * Dan* seven and a half years ago

      The restaurant was on the second level of the pavilion that looked out over the bay and the harbor. The tops of the sails of the ships that sat in the seaport waved back and forth dancing with the waves. The restaurant was shining glass and metal. We ate clams on the half shell and drank a local microbrew. It was when he started to rip apart his dinner roll that I knew the time had come.
      “I know. You don't have to say it.” There I said it. I tossed it out. The crucial information he didn't even know I had. I will not give him the satisfaction of this play. This is my game. “How long have you been trying to hide it? Did you think I didn't know?” I watched as he tugged off another piece of the dinner roll. “Would you fucking look at me?”
      “What do you want me to say? So I like her. I kissed her. Do you want me to apologize? Don't hold your breath, I ain't sorry.”
      And the boy caught in the trap takes a last stab at dignity.
      “You know what Dan. Be with her. Go be with her and be happy. Have my blessings. I hope one day you find what you're looking for, because I am obviously out of your league. Go back to tee ball baby. Get the check, will ya?” I got up from the table, in my black lace dress, and without looking back, I walked out.
     I won this round. Never mind that Dan had won the two before, and the time after this one. We were on and off and on and off. We fought and made up, and lived in our bubbles. It was nice when it was good. Sometimes I wish I had looked back at him that night. Just to see the look on his face. But walking out felt so good.
     The Baltimore Harbor just didn't have the same magic without him. But I stood well on my own two feet. My work was my joy. My geraniums bloomed. I just needed to find someone worthy to walk around with.

* * * Brian* seven years ago

      I looked out the window to the peach rose that lay quietly on the sidewalk outside the window of my apartment. I saw his shadow pass through the night. His voice crackled through the buzzer intercom.
      “Please come outside. Just once. Please.”
      I shook my head in disbelief. It was one in the morning. Never mind I had to work in the morning. Never mind that we'd already broken up three times this week. Never mind that he crossed state lines to lay a rose outside my building. I suppose I could walk outside for one last moment.
      We stood there. Face to face shivering in the cold March air that whipped through the D.C. Streets.
      “What are you doing here? It's late Brian. You drove from Richmond?”
      “I had to see you. I had to say goodbye to you face to face. You know I go back to the post in New York tomorrow.”
      “So Goodbye. Safe trip. Take care. What do you want from me?”
      “I just want a few more minutes of your time. I want you to listen.”
      And thus he proceeded. The karaoke goodbye. To the tune of “I'm leaving on a Jet plane.” There are few times I have ever been embarrassed not only for myself but for another at the same time. He finished the song, and I walked into the building.
      I didn't stay long in D.C. It was time to move on again. I packed up the apartment.
     I packed up the roses. I didn't look back. It had been nice while it lasted, but it was over.

* * *Ken* six years ago

      “But it's my birthday!” I cradled the phone as I threw my keys across the room.
      “But I have tickets to the world cup, and you know how much I wanted to go.”
     His voice came through like we hadn't been practically living together for 4 months.
     “I go away for a month, I come home to you, and you go to the world cup, on my birthday. It's my damn birthday. I'm taking the plants.” I hung up the phone and stalked through the hardwood-floored apartment. The arched windows let streams of light pour in; the high ceilings gave us ample wall space for my art as well as our collection of old and used books. I flipped the light on in the kitchen. Pulling down one of the glasses I'd shopped for, I filled it with water. I moved back through to the bedroom. I kicked off my shoes and let my feet sink into the light blue carpet, that coordinated with the blue plaid bed set we'd picked out before I left. Opening the closet I saw my khaki pants next to his, my Eddie Bauer button downs next to his, my brown leather loafers, next to his. I pulled out all of my things. I packed up the geraniums, and the roses and pulled down my books. It was all going back to my apartment; miles away from here, from him, from the walks and the streams and the lakes, and the picture perfect evenings with books and newspapers and bottles of Heineken. I was going back to the South Side, back to my non-committal artist lifestyle.
     The truth was I really didn't want to. I wanted this life. I wanted tiny brown haired book loving children. I wanted to be Mrs. Kenneth Miller. I wanted to entertain, and have people over, to view our art and read our books. I wanted to go hiking in the Adirondacks, and go visit his family in Virginia. I wanted to walk hand in hand with him, down the street, down the aisle, down the hallways of the school where he taught. I wanted to walk through life with him. But now I was just getting set to walk out again.

* * *
      The phone rang from the other room. Resting my head on the formica table top, I listened to the familiar voice streaming through the static of the answering machine.
      “Honey, it's mom. I just wanted to see how you were doing. I know these are tough days for you. I lit a candle. Call me if you need me.”
      The beep ended the call with an unfeeling squeal of high-pitched sound. There was a blinking light on the machine signaling I still had a message. I numbly pressed the button and listened to the next familiar voice.
      “It's me. Call me. I'll be around all day. Maybe you need distraction. You think?”
      The South Side was swirling with the morning buzz. I sat sipping coffee. Five years ago, coffee was a luxury. When I first met the voice on the machine. Life was a luxury. But love was cheap.

* * Dave* five years ago

     “Call me, I'll be up late tonight.” His voice rang through on my answering machine. A little bit raspy, a little bit rough, a whole lot smooth. I could picture him lounged out on the green sofa he stuffed into the little living room of the tiny walk up apartment. Leaning back in boxers and socks, reading something intelligent like Dostoevsky, while some silly television program blared on. The bed would be unmade in the other room, the brass rails of the headboard covered in his and hers fingerprints, tiny evidence of the night before and the morning of. The faucet would be dripping its steady rhythm, drip drop drop droppety drip drip. The whole place always smelled of mineral ice, Chinese takeout, lavender perfume, and old spice aftershave. The paint in the corner of the hallway (if you could call it that) was starting to peel, the layers of gray fade to white to green to blue back to gray. It was heaven for us.
      I didn't call him back. I didn't have to. That wasn't the way we worked. Tonight I wanted to lounge out in my place, surrounded by my jasmine incense and my tapestries. My paint wasn't peeling. My faucets didn't drip. That could be because my water got shut off two days ago. I have candles everywhere because I think they are pretty. That could also be because my electricity was shut off this morning. So business was bad. I had the beginnings of a geranium. The last petal fell off the bloom yesterday, so much for a bright spot. But I had Dave. And he had me. And we were nothing. And it was great.
     Time changes people, not situations. Time passed, and we became different. But we go up the stairs to his tiny apartment after a few margaritas at the bar across Fairfax Ave. or we go up the fire escape to my apartment on the South Side. I pay my rent these days. I suppose I could always move in with Dave. But that would mean some commitment. And one night has never meant the rest of my life. Plus, time will not change our situation. Sex will always be just sex. There will be no moving in. I'll get some water somehow for the geranium. I miss the look of it.

* * *
      I lifted my head up from its resting spot on the table next to the chipped coffee cup that was now nearing empty. I think I'll walk through town today. Outside would be good. No walls would be good. A walk would do me good. Down past the coffee shop, down the winding streets. Rising from the table I moved slowly through the apartment. Quietly picking out clothing that didn't have memories, I continued dressing, and I opened my jewelry box. I looked for my silver ring, while the light caught the cut of a diamond that I'd tried to block from my memory.

* * Mark* four years ago

     The stale smell of the airport lobby met me as I whooshed through the revolving door into the terminal. Messages about the blue zone, and watching your luggage swirled as I looked for Gate 22b. Secretly I hoped the plane would be late.
      “Southwest Airlines flight 2439 now arriving, Gate 22b.” As though my thoughts were just read by the woman stiffly announcing arrivals, she thwarted my dreams of a latte and some time. I tacked on my smile. Maybe it would be a good weekend. I hoped so. They hadn't been good for a while. Mark and I fought over silly things like socks. It irritated me that my girlfriends thought he was cute. All I saw was the crooked nose, the too-short hair, the tapered jeans, and the push down socks. I saw the man wearing the suit with the tennis shoes. I saw the patchy chest hair and the farmer tan. I saw the virtuous goody goody that didn't swear, or smoke, or make mistakes. I could guarantee the pale jeans, the brown boots, and the white button down shirt, all buttoned up and tucked in, belted and ironed. And here he came, swaggering his, “my dick is too big for my pants” walk. His duffel bag hung from one hand, and he had a book tucked under one arm. A leather bomber jacket was slung over his other shoulder. And he flashed a smile.
      I twisted my ruby and diamond ring, and looked back with a smile that I hoped looked genuine.
      “How's my sweetie? Have a told you I love you a whole bunch? Lots and lots and lots.” He kissed my forehead as he gave the greeting. I refrained from puking on his shoes, and just simply replied with,
      “I love you too, how was your flight?”
      That weekend solidified it for me. We bummed around my apartment on the South Side, and made dinner, and fought over dinner, and fought over going out. I had to get out. It wasn't for me. I put Mark on the plane on Sunday night. I called a week or two later, and we finally had the discussion that I couldn't do our relationship anymore. I kept the ring. He cried. We decided on friends. I never liked walking through the airport anyway. My geranium blooms fell off again. Damn stupid flowers.

* * *
      I shut the jewelry box on the memory. I carefully locked my door, and set off down the street. I had to go to the little shop on the corner, where coffee was there to ease the pain. I had to go. I had to step inside. I had to remember what I couldn't forget.

* * * Three years ago*

      I would hit the coffee shop on the corner of Main and 6th. They made a good latte. I would come laden with books and papers, and recipes and creations. I sat in the corner, so that I could watch the people come in and out. I'd sit and watch people come and go for hours.
      There were regulars. There were waitresses that knew my order. And there was Kevin. He sent me over a bagel and cream cheese one morning before a meeting. He knew I drank my coffee black after hearing me complain about it so much. We were regulars. But that's all we knew.
      After about six weeks of sitting across the shop from one another, and never seeing him leave before me, I wanted to talk to him more. He was always there when I came, and still there when I left. He was a good-looking guy. He was dark haired with a great smile.
      I pulled a chair up to his corner table and we started talking. We sat and laughed over pasts, and present. We grew up not far from each other, which was totally unexpected. We drank coffees and shared peanut butter pie. We traced the pattern on the draping tablecloth, whimsical designs of stars and flowers and moons.He really did have an amazing smile. We paid the bill, and I stood up to go. He just pushed away from the table and wheeled out from behind it.
      I hadn't even noticed that he was in a wheelchair. Six weeks and I never noticed. I am the queen of observation.
      “Oh yeah, I'm paralyzed from the waist down, I forgot to tell you.” He flashed his smile and said, “Wanna roll me out to my van?”
      I laughed a little and said sure. We wouldn't be walking anywhere, but I didn't want to walk away.
      We kept up this way for a few months. Sharing coffees, going to museums, he watched me work, I read his stories. We started to share more and more and more.

***Kevin two years ago**

      We were sitting in the coffee shop. We had lattes in our hands and papers strewn all over the table. His hair was falling over into his eye as he concentrated.
      “What are you working on?” I asked as I tried to lean in to see the paper. He swatted me away and continued with the pen and paper. “Come on let me see” Shaking his head he started to hide the smile that was forming. Laying down his pen he held up the piece of paper that he had drawn two hearts on. One heart had legs and arms and one heart had arms and wheels. Both had smiles.
      “Be mine”
      “What do I say?”
      “Just say yes.”
      “You know I don't want a husband”
      “So? I don't want a wife. Just be with me. Come be with me.”

      A year ago we moved away from the South Side. We let our apartments, and moved to the country. We found a fully accessible ranch house with a garden. I planted spider plants. They were Kevin's favorites. They grew. The geraniums still didn't. I gave up. We laughed a lot in that house. We loved a lot on those nights. We made our world within those walls. It was a good world. For a while.

* * *
      It was a Monday. We got the news on a Monday. Kevin had been sick for about a month. He had new tests run, and more blood taken. It was cancer. It was quiet. Hodgkin's disease. It was Monday. I raked the garden. All day. I made dinner. It was still Monday. Cancer. Chemo wasn't an option for Kevin. So it was just a matter of time. From Monday.
     Cancer. My Kevin had cancer.

* * *
      I turned the light out in the apartment, and with a deep breath locked the door and started to walk. I walked down the stairs and across the street. Down past the deli and the art gallery and the candle store. I walked past all the places where Kevin and I had wandered. And then I reached the corner.
      I walked to the windows of the coffee shop and pressed my hand to the glass. I didn't know these regulars. All I knew were my memories. My faded shadows. I see shadows of Kevin. I left our house in the country. I came back here to lease his apartment. Two days ago I left a spider plant on a fresh headstone in an old cemetery. Someday there will be love again.
     Someday I will wonder what another man is doing, or what happened to one from the past. Someday I'll leave fingerprints on someone else's bedrails. I suppose you can still fall in love and fall apart. It all works out.
     My hand slipped from the glass leaving its mark of memories and tears and heat and love. I turned from the window, from the strangers at the tables, from the familiar and the old, from the memories of love and I walked.