On my way outside coming from the Life Café, I smooth my shirt down, readjusting to the world in which people's appearances matter. At least, they do to me. I was just distracted inside.
When I yelled "Check!", it wasn't because I wasn't secretly longing to jump on the tables with the rest of them. It was because, well, Mr. Gray was leaving, and I couldn't stand just sitting there and not joining in. Something told me, however, that if I did try to join them, they'd just scoff and insult me. Maureen and Roger in particular, though I'm sure there would be a dig from Mark about how I forget my roots until the wine is poured.
The only person, really, that I can trust not to harass me right now is Alison. With that thought in my head, my mind steers me away from the direction in which I was walking – did my feet almost turn as I passed Tenth Street? I hope not – and forces me into the street. I stick out my arm robotically, and a passing cab screeches to a halt at my feet.
"Merry Christmas," I grunt, and give him the address. I know how bitter he must be about having to do this today, when he should be with his family. Hell, so should I. What possessed me to go to see Maureen's protest on a night when I should have been home with my wife? Sure, Mr. Gray told me it would be ideal for me to help out with the protest, but what father encourages his son-in-law to forsake his wife on Christmas?
Who am I kidding? He wouldn't've minded one bit if I had stayed home with Alison. Maybe he would have even been pleased. It was just me, trying to formulate an excuse for leaving her temporarily. I hate admitting it, but she knows it and I know it: she depresses me.
Sometimes.
Then again, if a blind woman depresses me, why is it that I am just as depressed by watching former friends dance and celebrate life on chairs and tabletops? Should happy things make me as upset as sad things do? Should happy things make me sad at all? And Alison – should her blindness make me sad, or should I just accept it?
When I was about ten, my mother's sister died. I had never met her, but my entire family swore up and down that I had met her hundreds of times, and that I had been named after her. (Her name was Beatrice, and in my family, almost nobody has the same first initial.) At her funeral, since everyone seemed so sure that I'd known her, I was receiving a lot of "I'm sorry for your loss"-esque remarks. I was left awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, puzzled. I wondered what to do: stand mournfully, make myself cry, continue to insist that I'd never known her? Feigning sadness is treacherous territory, because one never knows how far to go.
As we reach my apartment building, I dig a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and hand it to the driver. "Keep the change," I instruct, and I feel that familiar little thrill at having money. Mark, Maureen, Mimi and Roger have no idea what they're missing. Not only can I pay for cabs, I can tip. It's more exciting than you think, I promise. As shitty as my Christmas has been so far, and as shitty as the driver's must have been, at least now he can stop somewhere on his way home and get something nice for him and his wife and kids.
Lucky bastard.
My feet mechanically bring me to the door, and as the doorman swings it open for me, I say goodbye to the fresh air and freezing temperature, stepping into the warmth and artificial light. In the lobby, I see women with poodles and shih tzus, men with coffee, and a girl who could be Maureen if her hair was a shade lighter and her skin slightly less tan. Who's tan in the winter, anyway? Come to think of it, who spends Christmas evening here, in the lobby, instead of in their apartments with their families?
I make my way to the elevators. Already, a woman is standing by them, her foot tapping, her finger hovering over the "up" button in case she decides to push it again. It is already lit. I want to press it, but restrain myself.
When the elevator finally comes, I step into the claustrophobia-inducing little box, jabbing the button that says "12." Alison and I live on the twelfth floor, directly above a woman who may have the city's record number of cats living in a single apartment (twenty-six), and directly below a man who brings home prostitutes every night. Needless to say, Alison prefers the tenants on our floor.
I don't know, though. I think the guy with the whores is fascinating, and he and I have shared a cigarette once or twice, sitting in his apartment, which is as thrillingly messy as Mark and Roger's apartment is. The woman with the cats? Well, she's something else entirely, and I can't say I've ever held up a conversation with her, but I have seen her in the elevator. She talks to herself. Ali does too, sometimes. She's quiet when she does it, and I would never mention it to her – I know she'd deny it, she so hates being perceived as abnormal – but, yes, I can hear her muttering softly to herself, speaking quietly of things she has to do and things she wishes she had the time for.
With a ding, the elevator comes to a halt at my floor. I glance at the other woman, whose destination is the seventeenth floor, before exiting. Mine and Ali's is the most anti-social apartment I have ever seen; it is located in the far back of the hall, the farthest one from the elevators. By the time I get there, I have passed every other apartment on our floor, and, as there are eight apartments per floor, have already passed seven different universes. Ours is the eighth, the last, and the least interesting.
As I twist my keys in the lock, I hear footsteps, and know that Alison is approaching the door to greet me as she always does. As far as I know, she has the path from the couch to the door memorized – either that, or she runs her hands across the walls. I don't know, and I don't want to, really. It makes me uncomfortable, like I'm not doing enough for her. As if I need to give her more, because she's blind and I'm only home for sex and whenever her father is here.
I feel stupid for not knowing enough about her condition. I feel uninformed and ignorant and all that, but I know I wouldn't be able to handle knowing about it. It would drive me crazy, and I would lie awake with questions – how, what, why? But as I walk in the door, there is Alison, and as she kisses me, all I can think about is the fact that her eyes are closed, the fact that I carry her into bed every night as if she were some sort of invalid.
"Ali," I begin as we separate, as I enter the kitchen, "can you see? At all?"
And I am embarrassed, because this is the sort of thing I should know. Everyone else knows this kind of thing. Am I stupid, or do I just not care about other people?
Alison raises a hand to my face and, as I look on in astonished silence, traces the lining of my left eye, then the right. She is smiling lightly. "I thought you would know that much," she tells me, the barest hint of a tease in her voice.
"As did I," I reply dryly. I notice that she is standing up straight, her posture one hundred percent perfect, just like Mimi's. Some people can stand up perfectly tall. I am not one of them, and have been being told that I slouch ever since kindergarten. I don't mind. True, it makes me seem even shorter than I am, but it is also remarkably comfortable.
She chuckles. "How was your day, baby?" she asks.
I do not answer her question. Instead, I persist with the questions about her vision. "How long?" I inquire. "How long have you been blind?"
She does not miss a beat. "Twelve years," she responds, thus meaning that she was fifteen when it happened. I shudder, and prepare to ask another question when she fires the answer to it right back at me. "It was a science experiment in my sophomore year. I refused to wear the goggles because they weren't 'cool' enough. My teacher didn't insist, because he thought it was cute that I was making a statement. He was fired."
"Obviously," I answer, but I am amazed at this new piece of information. I never would have guessed it. Then again, I have no idea what my guess would have been, had I not been informed. I've never been great at making predictions or handling information that is not known to be accurate. I like everything to be clear, so I know what's going on.
She smiles, and I am abruptly reminded of why I married her, other than for the contents of her bank account. I raise a finger to her face and tuck a strand of blond hair behind her ear. She kisses me, and when we pull away, she asks, "Any more questions?"
"Yes," I say, even though I don't really have one in mind. Quickly, I call one to the surface. "If you can see, why does it count as blind?"
It seems obvious. Obviously, she can't see well.
"I have legal blindness," she explains patiently, and I never knew she was smart enough to understand such terms. I'm impressed. "That means that, while I do have some vision, it's about a tenth as good as yours or my dad's or, you know, anyone who can see normally."
I nod. I know I am incapable of empathy, but I try to muster up some sympathy. It's close enough, right?
"Is that all?" she asks softly, and I kiss her to answer the question.
"Let's go to bed," I suggest.
She nods, and I wonder if this new information I now have is the reason that we walk side by side to the bedroom, rather than my carrying her.
We are both more comfortable, and I wonder if it is my imagination when I find the sex to be better than it's been in a long time.
And when we talk afterwards, and in the morning, that's a bonus.