Relax

May told me something, Sarah says.
My heart beats in stutters. Like I’m guilty.
What did she tell you?
I laughed. I shouldn’t have laughed.
What did she tell you?
It was her friend’s aunt. She died.
You laughed at that?
She died at her own forty-fifth birthday party.
Why did you laugh?
Sarah puts her head on my shoulder. I stroke her hair. The futon under us. Not exactly soft. Sarah moves closer to me. I rub down her back.
Mmmmm, she purrs. I can hear the blood in my brain. I’m worried she’ll leave me. I’m worried she’ll tell me something I don’t want to hear, reveal some truth about herself so horrible that I’ll want to leave her.
So … why did you laugh? I finally blurt.
I shouldn’t have. She starts giggling. Her body against me, spastic ripples.
I can see you feel bad about it.
I do!
Well?
It was her forty-fifth birthday. All her friends surprised her at a local pub. Her husband arranged it. Everything was going great. Until—
Sarah snorts back laughter.
Until she––she––ha!––ate a pickled egg.
What? I’m laughing, too. Pretending to laugh. She ate a pickled egg?
Sarah suddenly stops laughing. She choked on it.
On the egg?
With her husband watching.
Couldn’t they do the … the …
The Heimlich?
Ya.
It doesn’t work on pickled eggs. Too soft. They get stuck in the airway.
Really?
She died.
Sarah moves away. The warm spot where her body was.
I shouldn’t have laughed, she says.

Fall coming. I order bulbs from a company. I am going to plant them in the front. I charge them to my credit card.
Sarah doesn’t know.
I wait for them.
It will be a surprise.

Sarah comes home from work.
That bitch! She says.
Who?
You know.
Leila?
No. I like Leila.
Then who?
The new girl.
The new girl?
Julie.
Ah.
I take a sip of my beer.
She’s a blonde, Sarah says. You like blondes.
My shoulders tighten. I stir the sauce. I am making spaghetti.
Sarah opens the fridge. She squats down, starts spooning yesterday’s rice.
Hey! I’m making dinner.
I’m hungry.
You can’t wait ten minutes?
Sarah gobbles another spoonful. She stands up.
She stole my file. She took it. It was supposed to be my file and she took it. I offered to trade with her, but she wouldn’t. She said, I’ve already put work into this. I’ve already reviewed it.
Why wouldn’t she trade with you?
She’s a bitch.
I put pasta in boiling water.
She’s got big tits, Sarah says.
I look down at the roiling water.
Sarah cups her chest.

It’s Rosh Hashana, the Jewish new year. We go to synagogue with my parents. My parents frequent a makeshift synagogue in the basement of a Jewish old people’s home.
There is the small regular congregation, plus a motley conglomeration of balding oldsters equipped with an array of walkers and wheelchairs.
A partition separates men from women. I sit with my dad; Sarah sits with my mom.
The rabbi makes a rambling speech about salvation and being inscribed in the great book of life. So many old people in one room. Dust swirls and with every word from the rabbi it feels like the elderly are shifting closer, surrounding me. Sweat down the inside of my dress shirt. I stare at my shoes. Concentrate on breathing. Try not to let Dad see that I’m concentrating on breathing.
An old guy blows the shofar. Sounds like throat clearing amplified by microphone.

After, in the parking lot, Sarah and my mother giggle and laugh.
What’s so funny? I say.
My mother holds up the white paper doily that Sarah put on her hair to cover her head in the synagogue.
When we sat down, my mother says, The old woman behind us right away tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to see what she wanted. She said: Excuse me, she shouldn’t be wearing that. So I said, Why shouldn’t she? And you know what she said? She said: That’s only for married ladies.
Sarah and my mom look at each other and giggle again.
I make a confused face.
She thought I was sixteen, Sarah says proudly.
I exhale. Cold fall air.

I want to get a new bed, I say to Sarah. That futon is hard. It hurts my back.
What’s wrong with your back?
Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with my back.
Sarah looks down at her plate. She pushes her food around. Doesn’t eat.
I saw a kid today, she says. I think he’s borderline schizophrenic.
How can you be borderline schizophrenic? I take a big bite of chicken. I chew triumphantly. Swallow. You either are. Or you aren’t.

The hour before Sarah comes home from work is the worst. I pace from the kitchen to the living room. I sit down on the couch. Flip through the channels. Jump up again. Stir whatever I’ve just stirred. Toss the salad. Again.
As soon as she gets home I wrap her up in a huge hug. She pushes me away, laughing.

What about something like this? I say. I show Sarah a picture from the catalog.
Sarah looks at the catalog. Flips through the pictures. I can feel myself grinning. I break out into a sweat.
How much is it? she says.
I’ll buy it for you.
Is it more than a thousand?
Do you like it?
Sarah looks at her plate.
Goddammit! I grab the catalog out of her hands. I throw it at the floor. Forget it.

She just sits there, I tell Sarah. She doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t say anything?
She takes notes. She’s always taking notes.
Do you lie on a couch?
No. I say. It isn’t like the movies.
What do you talk about?
Sarah is getting dressed. She slips into a bra.
Do you talk about me?

My wife says: This time next year, I’ll be pregnant.
My doctor says: This isn’t like going to see a normal doctor. Here, we just talk.

My father is having trouble at work. Plus, he’s depressed.
It runs in the family, I say.
We are walking on a local nature path. Ahead of us, two overweight women in spandex march resolutely. One of the women––the fatter of the two––wears a belt around her bulging waist. Clipped to the belt like ammunition are twelve tiny plastic bottles of water.
What do you mean? Dad says.
I shrug.

Doctor, I say, sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.
The air is dry and scratchy in the doctor’s office.
Do you feel that way right now? she says.
I nod.

The doctor writes me a referral. To a place called the Relaxation Clinic.
At the Relaxation Clinic an elderly blind woman named Beatrice arranges us on a row of beds. We are in a dark room. She talks about our inner beauty. I close my eyes. The music is what you’d expect: organ, pan flute, something that sounds like running water.
We tense muscles. Then relax.
Breathe, Beatrice recommends. Take breath into your gorgeous souls.
I jerk up when hands touch my chest.
Just lie there, Beatrice soothes. She rubs in ovals.
An old lady touching my chest.
You’re breathing from your lungs. Try breathing from your belly.
Beatrice’s hands snake down to my stomach.
My eyes closed, I imagine it from her perspective: Caressing a stranger’s stomach, the entire scene shrouded in impenetrable gloom.
I fill up my abdomen with air. It swells, tightens.
Good, Beatrice says. Good.

I do her.
It hurts, she moans.
I keep doing her.

Sarah was friends with a retired man, married, in his late sixties. The man would send her his stories, librettos, little notes. Once a month, they would meet for lunch.
Then, out of the blue, a long letter arrived, announcing the man’s love for Sarah. Forbidden fruit, he called her.

So are we getting that bed, or not?
Sarah looks up from her book. Something about dreams and reality.
Does your back still hurt?

I practice what I’ve learned so far.
I tense my muscles. I “inflate my inner balloon.” I “show my medal.” I “do the swan.” I close my eyes and try to “imagine my special place.”
Open my eyes. Look at the clock.
Four minutes have passed.

Sarah and I are surveying our living room.
Sarah drags a finger along the top of the stereo, shows me her gray print.
Patti has a cleaner, Sarah says.
We could get a cleaner, I offer.
Sarah with smudges under her eyes. The greasy, waning light of late afternoon.
We can afford it, I say.
I know we can afford it
So why don’t we?
It just seems so … Sarah stares out the living room window, streaked with smears.
So … what?
I don’t know.
Bourgeois? I say. I spit a little as I throw out words. Ostentatious? Middle class? Suburban? Luxurious? Spoiled?
Sarah backs away from me.
Jewish, she says.

Sarah asks me if I think my treatment is helping.
I’m not sure, I say.
She fidgets with the remote. Law and Order: Special Victims Unit on mute.

Sarah comes home from work.
Did you jerk off today?
She knows I did.

Close your eyes and think about your special place, blind Beatrice advises.
I think about those bulbs. Sarah’s face in the spring.