Handicap

They had known each other little more than a week. Sheila said she wanted to take him to her favorite place in the world. After milling in an all-night restaurant for an hour, they wound up on the musty doorstep of a small bookshop in East Lansing.
“It’s closed.” He stared at her in the fine, misting rain. Her yellow dress lit like a soft halo from a car’s headlight somewhere down the block.
She leaned, whispered in his ear. “Look again.”
A glow floated in a barely visible back doorway of the shop. “What is it?” Remy asked, unsure yet if he cared or not. All he knew was the smell of her perfume, the soft fabric of her dress as a damp breeze brushed it against his trembling hand.
“Come with me,” she said, disappearing around the corner of the shop.
He followed her into the wet hedges that grew along the side of the building. They both flattened their bodies against the wall. “Are we breaking in?” he asked.
A window in front of them, shade only partly drawn. They peered through it and into the backroom of the shop. On tiptoe, they watched a man write furiously in a ledger, his left hand all the time pulling at his shaggy graying hair. “He’s not dying it anymore.” Sheila giggled.
“Oh god.” Remy hated superficial men.
“That’s Tom Mackey,” she said. “He used to teach high-school English. He was a frustrated writer.”
“Aren’t they all?” He wanted to say that, of all people, he thought writers should at least go out of their way to avoid stereotyping themselves. Instead, he asked whether Mackey had taught her.
“Everyone said he kept dozens of unfinished novels in his desk drawers. He became more and more irate that he wasn’t able to see one of his plotlines through. Eventually, he couldn’t be around books or teach classes anymore. There was an incident… a manuscript bonfire in the gym one day. The school asked him to leave.”
The scent of her perfume in the night began to pull on him. His face only inches from hers, Remy imagined her taste.
Sheila stared through the tiny opening in the shade. Mackey stopped playing with his hair. He put away the ledger and the day’s receipts. The former teacher went across the room to his bookcase. Slowly, with much thoughtfulness, he scoured the titles, his back to the voyeurs at his window. Then, armed with one, he retreated to an over-stuffed recliner in the furthest corner of the room. From this angle, only a length of right elbow was visible.
“I think he lives here.” Sheila turned away from the window. “Sometimes, I stay for more than an hour after he closes. He never leaves.”
“I don’t understand. You said he hated books.”
“An old friend of mine, her name was Darlene. We both had Mackey. Darlene’s younger sister said she’d heard rumors. For a few years he spent time in Belize, on the expat scene. No one knew what to make of it. But he came back and opened a bookstore. Now he spends some nights reading. Other nights, he has people over. They look like a poetry group. I think they critique each other’s work. It’s really quite something. It’s amazing what time can do.”
He shook his head. Sentimentality… schmaltz- these were things right up there on his list with superficiality. “Expat scene you say?” As they spoke, Remy gently took her elbow and led her away from the window. “I’ll tell you what happened. Down in Belize, Mr. English 101 got involved in the drug trade. That’s what enlightened his search for personal growth. Back here, these ‘writers’ you see him with are fellow criminals.” He grinned at her in the darkness. “They’re plotting the perfect crime. They plan to knock over the local library and steal one thousand dollars in dimes. And hundreds of those tiny pencils with no erasers.”
“I wonder what book he picked to read tonight,” she murmured.
Remy asked, “Have you spoken to him?”
The many folds of her dress had crumpled against the moisture in the wall, and the wetness in the overall air. She tugged at it, making his whole body ache.
“You haven’t, have you?” he said, after a moment. “You haven’t talked to the man since 10th grade.” He chuckled. Grabbing both her hands, he pulled her into a hug.
“I called the store once, but I hung up…”
Still laughing, his face buried in her hair, Remy finally let go of the breath had been holding. This imperfection of hers- this strangeness- it so relieved him because before now she had felt unreachable.
***
Weekends were their time together. She worked hard- he worked harder. He knew Sheila had a large network of friends, people important to her. It was for that reason he calmly accepted it when unexpected invitations or minor crises with so-and-so cropped up for her, as they often did.
But on Sunday mornings, he wanted breakfast to be perfect. Every time, he tried to finish cooking before Sheila awoke. He wanted to serve her in bed just once, but always, she was too quick for him.
Somewhere between garnishing the omelets and squeezing the orange juice, she materialized and slid into a chair at the table, wearing nothing but his black Ralph Lauren sweater. It was a game they played, and every week she found the sweater- no matter where he hid it. (Already, Remy imagined tucking an engagement ring into the sweater sleeve…)
Eggs in Spanish sauce, buttermilk biscuits, pecan waffles- every week he tried a new recipe, thirsting for her hunger, eager to see her satisfied. Every week it made him crazy when she only ate a quarter or half of what he put in front of her.
“This is good?” he asked. It was late fall.
Across the table, she licked her fingers and stared at him. Silence. After several seconds she nodded, a lock of hair fell across her face.
“Why don’t you ever finish?”
“Hmm.” Rolling an avocado crepe, she drenched it in sauce and wrapped her lips around it. She cradled the food in her mouth and smiled sloppily, wickedly. “It dalicious. Evryhing. Ahways.”
“Um, okay. I appreciate that.” He forced a chuckle. “So why do you never finish?”
Sheila threw her napkin at him.
He got up, started clearing the table. “We don’t have to… I mean, if-” He hoped she could sense what he was thinking.
“Why must you men always confuse quantity and quality? If you’re having more sex, it must be better sex. What about anticipation, enjoyment?”
“You’re right, you’re right,” he said quickly. Remy tossed the dishes into the sink and began filling it with water. The crash of silverware reminded him of his mother, a woman who in all her years never said a harsh word to his father. When they had disagreements, she scrambled tensely about the kitchen for hours, the clatter of pots and pans accompanying her- always a few broken wine glasses, a chorus of muttered profanities.
Remy shook his head. He narrowed his eyes at Sheila. “Why do people wear watches, anyway? All it does it help them keep track of hours they’ve wasted.”
Standing, she pulled at the sweater and enveloped herself in his aroma. Then, moving behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and whispered, “I want to say… thank you. All this is unnecessary, you know. I don’t need to be catered to. I’d come over here for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if I was starving and there wasn’t any food for a hundred miles.” She rested her cheek on his neck. “Let’s go back to bed.”
“I’ve got work I should look at today.” Turning, Remy untangled himself and kissed her firmly on the lips. He dried his hands on the dishtowel. “I’ll be there in a little while.”
“Hey, hey it’s Sunday.” Walking backward, moving slowly out of the room, she jutted her lower lip.
“I like my job,” he mumbled.

A few hours later, he found her asleep in his bed. On TV, a news show featured the latest group of talking heads.
Her hair was a mess. Her body faced the doorway, bare legs beckoned him. Inside the sheet covers, next to her, Remy found a little bag of pretzels, the snack she never went anywhere without.
He knew she never ate them. Sheila just rolled them over and over in her mouth, using her tongue to extricate every last piece of salt.
***
In the dream, he spins her on the dance floor. Faster and faster, their bodies move ahead of the sounds surrounding them. First, it is only a few seconds. Soon, however, they are strangely out of sync with the music. But he is not worried about what others are thinking or feeling or saying. All he knows is this- like a child on a theme park ride for the very first time, the thought of letting go, even for a moment, terrifies him.
She is a specter. Her body is there, in his arms, moving along with him to the sluggish pace of the music. Her face- she smiles at those around them. (Where are the other people? Who are they?)
Remy tugs her on the waist. He whispers a loving comment but even now- experiencing it, in the dream- it is as if he is watching it happen from a far off place. He cannot feel his feet moving, cannot hear himself talk. Neither, he realizes, can he hear the song that is playing. He sees only the effect of the music on himself. Shuddering, he tugs on her again and pulls her close. She stumbles a bit in response and scowls. He’s messed up her footing.
As they slow down to regain themselves, he determines to make eye contact with another partygoer, someone who can explain what’s happening to him. A wolf is at the first drink tray they pass. A British soldier in a black high-top hat guards the exit, expressionless…
It’s Remy’s recurring nightmare, whatever it means. He had stopped having it almost exactly two weeks ago, when she began planning their anniversary party. The other day, he considered for a moment that he longed for the dream, like an injury too well loved because of the memories it evokes.
He tried to talk to her about it. Not knowing where to begin, he finally asked if she would rather take a trip with him than throw a party to feed their many acquaintances.
“Where would we go?” She looked at him with a delicate smile.
He wanted to say Lansing, but by now, their beginnings seemed so far away. Instead, he asked her to trim the guest list. “Make it more intimate, meaningful,” he suggested.
Sheila started to speak, but she relented and took another breath. “You got it.”
The lab pup was whimpering at their feet. Remy jumped up and headed out of the house with the animal. He wanted to avoid the coming questions. Are the Ralston’s dispensable? How about the Joneses’?
Outside, he stuffed his hands in his pockets as the dog took off in circles around the dark yard. Broken Canadensis and a bitter wind stung Remy’s nostrils. Turning, he stared back at their brightly lit, living-room window. The color of the drapes matched the carpeting, matched the awnings of the house. She looked completely different to him now.
She was on their overstuffed leather sofa, a yellow #2 pencil stuck out both sides of her mouth. Her body curled over the glass coffee table, Sheila studied the list with a tired expression. Every so often a nod or a headshake, she said something to the air in front of her, and squinted at the ceiling. Another name crossed off. He knew she wouldn’t go to sleep until she had fully sorted the puzzle in front of her. Who to keep- who to throw away?
Remy exhaled a white puff of air. You don’t just go numb inside… Eyes squeezed shut, yellow light from the house still edged its way in.