Just Like Suicide pt. 14

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[cont.]
Lisa was directing the florist and the caterers and only gave him a brief nod. After the will was probated, the house was hers. Doris had mentioned the idea to him during the first round of hospitalizations. He didn’t need this much space, she pointed out to him, whereas a condo with a doorman would be perfect. He wondered if she knew about the one he already had for his trysts. Doormen are essential. Couldn’t have two lovers showing up at the same time, now could he?
He knew he should go over to Lisa and say something kind, but he was irritated with her, with her detachment. He didn’t like feeling invisible. He took his coffee and escaped the smell on the porch off the dining room with the pit for grilling. The outdoor furniture was slightly damp from the timed sprinkler system so he stood by the railing looking down at the rocks, the sprawling bougainvillea vines and the assorted pale succulents clinging to the cliff, laced around the once white PVC pipes which carried the irrigation water. He sighed and sipped his coffee. It wasn’t his usual Italian blend. He would have to find a condo near a good coffeehouse, not a coffee chain store or a plain café. A place that roasted their own beans religiously every morning. Any new condo he selected would also need a bigger bathroom, a better view than the one he had, more city lights to gaze upon or maybe a wider view the ocean. He really should move soon, before the probate, so Lisa could go ahead and fill the house with children and parties. He would show her he could be magnanimous. The decor here really wasn’t his style anyway.
He sipped his coffee with his back to the bustle behind him, staring off at the haze over the ocean. A practiced pose of thoughtfulness, perfect for a book jacket photo. When he realized no one was noticing him, he left the coffee cup on the table and marched up the stairs to the bedrooms. Doris’s was on the left; his on the right. He stood in her doorway, looking at the reds and oranges of the madras bedspread purchased on her last long trip, competing with the greys and blues of the Diebenkorn painting hanging over the mahogany headboard. His last novel sat on her bedside table, the bookmark visible midway through. He found himself going to her bed and sitting on the edge, staring vacantly at the art around the room. Even her bathroom was filled with art, mostly ceramic and glass. Doris loved Venetian glass and Chilhuly. More than one of his lovers had commented that she’d never seen so much art outside of a museum.
Doris’ bathrobe, a plush pink thing that made her look like one of their granddaughter’s stuffed animals, was still draped across the chair nearest the bed. He reached out to run his fingers across it. He so liked the feel of lace and satin and Doris liked flannel and this fuzzy synthetic. She had worn lace and satin when they were first married, to please him. And then, after Lisa was born, she stopped trying. He came home one night and found her in a flannel nightgown and never really touched her again.
Her boudoir door was open. From her bed he could see the row of small paintings he had purchased for her, could so clearly see her large smile light up when he presented them to her one at a time. She liked sitting in front of them those last few weeks.
By the time the guests began arriving, he had cleaned up and dressed in black. He looked good in black Doris had always told him. He preferred deep blues with touches of sea green. Women preferred blue. Strange, wasn’t it, that pink was supposed to be their color. Maybe pink was what men liked on women. Maybe it reminded them of untouched flesh and open labia. He, however, liked women in red, shiny red so they looked hot and wet, welcoming seduction. Yes, thick wet red lips lying in wait for him.
The rooms downstairs were mostly filled with women of a certain age. Two ages really, his wife’s and his daughter’s. It was the younger ones who held his hand and whispered condolences in his ear. His wife’s friends steered around him, as if he were contagious.
He overheard one old hag telling another who’d had the decency to get a facelift that Doris had put up with so much. Doris, Doris, Doris. Everyone loved Doris. He would miss her, of course. Without her around, he wouldn’t have such an easy excuse for getting out of needy relationships. Without her, he would have to fend for himself.
Most of his thoughts were bravado, pretending he didn’t care so that he could avoid the unpleasantness of grief. He knew that’s what he was doing and couldn’t stop himself. He told himself he wasn’t as narcissistic as he pretended to be.
Her photograph, taken before the cancer was first discovered, was on the mantle. She looked a bit tired, even then. All those wrinkles around her eyes were likely caused by disappointment. He would be the first to admit he wasn’t a good husband. It was his nature to tom cat around and when he didn’t, he was miserable. Tom cats. That reminded him of the big ginger cat. He hadn’t thought about that cat in years. Doris had had a cat, a long haired beast that shed on all his suits. She had the cat before they married and the cat lived twenty two years. The last few months it looked like it was the walking dead but she wouldn’t put it down because it purred when she held it and ate the food she offered. When the cat died, he found her crying. To him it was just a nuisance that threw up fur balls and left footprints on his car. To her it was the embodiment of the years before she met him, the years she was in love with him, the years of trying to get pregnant, the massive amounts of hormones culminating in three rounds of in vitro and finally the birth of her daughter. To her, the cat shared all of these moments and now the cat was dead. Standing there by the railing, holding a second cup of warm coffee in both hands, he knew exactly how she felt.
The shared history was gone. He alone now held all those memories.
He spent the afternoon standing or sitting on one side of the living room while Lisa greeted everyone on the other. Watching her graciously accept every inane, banal comment, he was sorry Doris wasn’t there to appreciate her good training. Doris would be so proud.
He really was going to miss Doris, her way of making everything lighthearted with that broad smile. He was a fool not to have appreciated that quality more. He was a fool to have treated her so shabbily. Quite unexpectedly, he began to cry.
The women talking in hushed tones around him stopped to look. Most registered surprise. Lisa didn’t even notice.


Return on Wednesday for the next chapters of Just Like Suicide.

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