Love Creeps

Fifteen

For a while their existence was diminished and enhanced at the same time. The smallest elements of everyday life seemed heavenly compared to floating in the ocean. They were so appreciative of the slightest things, that they settled for small things. At home they each sat in bed, and the mere feel of the sheets against their skin (in Alan’s case, the rat’s fur against his cheek) was bliss. They felt they could live like this for fifty years and be perfectly content, need nothing else out of life. They slept a lot. And they enjoyed walking. Walking on the hard ground was practically orgasmic.

The stalking chain had dissolved in the ocean. The nuts were too tired to care about stalking each other. And when the tiredness faded, the prospect of stalking still seemed tiresome, repetitive, monotonous, a waste of time — not entirely unlike bobbing in the ocean. Life was too short for stalking.

Lynn wanted to forget her ocean experience and resume normal life as quickly and thoroughly as possible. She wanted to drench herself in normalcy and routine. If routine were a liquid, she’d love to take a bath in it. No, scratch that — too close to their ordeal.

She went to the hateful dinner she had been hoping to avoid through death, feeling self-conscious about her appearance. Her hair was dry and damaged from having soaked so long in the sea, and her skin didn’t look its freshest. But Ray had been right: The dreaded dinner wasn’t so bad compared to bobbing in the ocean for days. The host’s obsequiousness struck her as charming.

As for Ray, he continued working on his matchmaking business Chock Full O’Nuts, which was as successful as ever. He loved how his ocean ordeal had sensitized him to the pleasures of life and desensitized him to its discomforts and pitfalls and bad days. He was so excited about it, he could hardly contain himself and was certain that in a year or so he’d want to do it again. Life was too short not to — even though doing it might shorten it more.

Ray was glad that the nuts didn’t seem obsessed with each other anymore. His only disappointment was that because they no longer needed anything more than solid ground, they seemed a bit vacant, like shadows of their former selves. Maybe that was what sanity was — a less heightened self.

But that state didn’t last long. The divine perspective they had acquired thanks to the grueling ocean experience wore off soon enough, as it tragically always does. As they lost the perspective, their appetite for more than solid ground was reawakened. They did some of the things they’d told each other they’d do if they survived.

Alan purchased more pets. In addition to his rat, he now had a rabbit, a dog, and a ferret.

Roland went to France to visit his dad and ask him for a refill of cyanide. When his dad asked him what happened to the cyanide in his locket, Roland said he’d emptied his locket one day when policemen were searching everyone in a park where a crime had just been committed. His father told Roland he’d made the right decision, that one could get into a lot of trouble for carrying cyanide around. He gave his son a refill. Roland’s father had a small cyanide-filled chest that had been passed down for many generations, along with the lockets. It was useful when lockets were emptied for various reasons.

A month after her oceanic experience, Lynn was standing in line with Patricia at the local bakery when she heard, behind her, an attractive male voice uttering her secret, “real” name.

She could not get herself to turn around. She just grabbed Patricia’s arm and squeezed hard.

“What?” Patricia said.

Lynn didn’t answer, she let it pass and walked out of the bakery looking away from the voice. Lynn realized she would never know who it was. Perhaps that was better than being disappointed.

Later that afternoon, at the gallery, Patricia asked Lynn why she seemed so melancholy, and Lynn said it was because she had been within touching range of the man of her dreams, and not only had she not touched him, she hadn’t even looked at him.

“When?”

“In the bakery, when I grabbed your arm.”

“Which guy was it?”

“I don’t know, but I heard him behind us say to someone, ‘I love that scary elephant.’”

“That guy? I know who he is, Lynn. He’s your neighbor. If he’s the man of your dreams, you certainly haven’t lost him. In fact, you’ve probably seen him around. I’ve often meant to ask you what you thought of him, because he seemed like your type.”

“You know him?”

“Not really. But he’s cute.”

“Who is he?”

“He works at the flower shop, three doors down, but you never buy flowers, so maybe you’ve never seen him.”

Lynn ran out the door.

Lynn entered the flower shop. There was a man in a far corner, sitting on a chair, working with string and flowers. He was an average-looking man with a gray mustache. She approached him, looking at him gently, her head tilted sideways, her expression generous. He looked up and smiled at her.

Perhaps there was another man who worked in the store. She had to make sure she found the right one, the one who had uttered her real name, and not jump to any conclusions. She turned around and found herself face-to-face with another man who was standing there, right behind her, wearing a dark blue apron and holding a vase. In one moment, she had absorbed his face, a feat that usually took her many hours.

In a voice she recognized as the one that had uttered her real name in the bakery, he said, “May I help you?”

The charm of his smile was almost painful.

“What flowers do you recommend?” she asked.

“For what occasion?” he asked.

“For this occasion.”

“What is this occasion?” he asked, innocently, but his smile was more playful.

Since she could not possibly say, “The beginning of the rest of our lives,” she said instead, “My entering this store for the first time even though I’ve been working three doors down for six years.”

“Oh, really?” he said. “Well, then, for this wonderful occasion, I would recommend …” and he looked around, his hand on his chin. “I would recommend creamy roses. How do you feel about creamy roses?”

“Good.”

He picked out the roses and wrapped them in silence, while she watched his every move. He handed them to her.

“How much are they?” she asked.

“It was nice to finally meet you,” he answered.

“Yes, finally. How much?”

“Very much.”

“No, I mean, how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

“Really?”

“How about a coffee?”

Before she could answer, the other man, who had been sitting in the corner, addressed the man of her life with, “Hey, what do you think of this?”

The man of her life glanced back at the bouquet the other man had just finished composing, and gave him a thumbs-up. “Very elegant,” he said, before turning back to Lynn.

Lynn stared at him, baffled, and murmured, “You keep saying my name.”

“I do?” he asked, fascinated.

“Yes, my real name.”

He didn’t ask her what it was. He thought perhaps she meant it metaphorically.

“I have to go,” she said, rushing out.

“Shall we say six tomorrow?”

But she was gone.

That night, the nuts and the former bum had dinner. They still saw each other almost as frequently as ever. Now, instead of obsession, it was habit, grim mutual curiosity, and even a small degree of complicated friendship that drew them together.

Lynn brought Patricia. Midway through the dinner, the others noticed Lynn hadn’t spoken much, so they asked her how she was doing.

“I met the man of my dreams,” she replied.

“Really?” Ray said.

“Yes, he knows my name.”

“So do we,” said Roland.

“No you don’t. I have a secret name, a more real name.”

“Won’t you tell us?”

“It’s Airiella.”

“And he uttered it?” gasped Alan.

“Yes.”

“That’s quite something,” said Ray.

“What he uttered,” Patricia interjected, “was ‘scary elephant.’”

“Same thing,” Lynn retorted.

“Is it?” Roland said.

“Yes,” Lynn replied, and enunciated, “sc — airiella — phant.”

“Ah. A bit of a stretch,” said Roland.

“I don’t think so.”

“Clearly not,” said Ray, annoyed that despite his expertise in matchmaking, he hadn’t been able to provide Lynn with her ideal man. “What about hairy electrician?”

“What?”

“H — airiella — ctrician,” Ray repeated.

“Leave me alone.”

“We’re just concerned,” said Roland. “What about primary element? Oops,” he added, clasping his hand over his mouth, “I just uttered your real name. Prime — airiella — ment. This must mean I, too, am the man of your dreams.”

“Why are we trying to burst her bubble?” Alan said.

“It’s not a bubble,” Lynn corrected. “It’s real. He also said, ‘Very elegant.’”

“I hear it,” Alan said. “V — airiella — gant.”

“Lord,” said Roland.

“What is this nonsense, Lynn?” Ray said, as if talking indulgently to an unreasonable child. “We’ve just demonstrated to you that your secret name can be uttered very easily and very frequently by anyone.”

“Perhaps,” Lynn said. “But I never heard it before. I only hear it when he utters it.”

“And where did you get this secret name anyway?” Patricia asked Lynn.

“I was at a fancy birthday party when I was around six, and a fairy told me to think of a secret name for myself and that one day I would recognize the man of my dreams because I would hear him utter my secret name.”

“A fairy?” Roland asked.

“Yeah, Miss Tuttle, the birthday party fairy.”

“Miss Tuttle?” Alan asked, chills coursing through his body.

“Yeah,” Lynn said.

“Was she also a hairdresser?”

“Yes. You knew her? She was from Cross, actually. Miss Ann Tuttle.”

“You bet I knew her! Roland recently made me believe she was my childhood sexual abuser, but she was not,” Alan said, looking sternly at Roland. “I went to see her, and she had a mangofish in a fish tank in her house.”

In a blasé tone, Roland said, “That fish is probably a cover-up, a fish she bought to appease men who, over the years, have knocked on her door to confront her about having abused them as boys.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Alan said. “I hope it’s true. I kind of regretted finding out I hadn’t been abused.”

“You’re a sick son of a bitch,” Roland said.

“No. Abusers are like garbage cans. You can toss all your crap into them.”

“If you would like us to, I’m sure we could find someone to abuse you,” Roland said.

“It’s too late. I’m not little anymore.”

“You’re still pretty little.”

“Alan, I’m sure Miss Tuttle didn’t abuse you,” Lynn said. “I’m sure that mangofish in her house was not a cover-up. Miss Tuttle the fairy is responsible for my finding the man of my life. She’s a wonderful person. I owe her, if not my life, then my happiness, and I am categorically certain that she would never harm a child. She is divine, and I mean that literally.”

“Has anyone ever even heard of a mangofish?” Roland said. “I haven’t. Rest easy, my boy, you’ve been abused.” He patted Alan’s hand, and under the table he dropped a paper clip.

The following day, at six, the man of Lynn’s life was already there when she walked in the café. He had called her at the gallery and told her where to meet him.

He was sitting on a barstool at a high and little round table. He was not wearing an apron. She didn’t understand how she could have managed never to see him in the neighborhood, never to run into him on the street. He had sandy stubble around lovely full lips in whose lines a wonderful personality seemed evident. And his gestures were the furthest thing from superficial.

She sat on a stool across from him, leaned over the table, and said, “I don’t care about hairy electrician or primary element.”

“Neither do I,” he said.

They laughed.