for his distraction.
Brad is Trudyâs current project. (Iâm lost again. Is he the speedboat mechanic?) She likes to include him in their family activities. Lionel gets on with Brad. They are modern blokes. They take him to the kidsâ soccer games. They take him to the Eagles Reunion Tour concert and sing âHotel Californiaâ together. They buy him clothes (or rather Trudy does, because Lionel has no fashion sense and would wear the same T-shirt until it fell off him, thatâs just the kind of guy he is). Listening, I think this arrangement does not sound quite tickety-boo. It sounds more like a recipe for disaster. However, it is something I do not really want to know anything more about when all I want him to do is serve.
We are evenly matched. Sometimes the contest is tight. Deuce, deuce, deuce. Sometimes he thrashes me. Sometimes I thrash him. When we play, there is no time to think. Once, he beat me thirteen games to zero. I barely made double figures. In thirteen games! I despair that I might never win another game of ping-pong again. I grieve that this is symptomatic of all else that seems to be going wrong in my life. I do not mention this to Lionel for fear of the advice he might offer. I tell myself, itâs a confidence thing. In a spasm of shame it dawns on me that, because of my reticence, I have no one else that I can mention it to. It is probably a sad reflection on the emptiness of my own soul that I can expend so many words on the hitting of a little ball over a nylon net, although I acknowledge that plenty of souls before mine have probably been emptier.
One day, Lionel tells me, whether I want to hear this truth or not, that he has not had sex for over a year, he who has such a deep craving for physical affection.
âServe.â
Each night, after he has washed the dishes and checked that the dog has enough water and the house is locked, he enters the marital bedroom to find Trudy feigning sleep on the far edge of the mattress. If he touches her, she groans and shrugs him off. So he has learnt to keep his distance across the no-manâs land of the cold bed. Itâs a scene I can imagine with far too much alacrity.
He tells me, in comic exasperation, that Trudy has racked up a credit card debt of twenty-five thousand dollars, and he the only breadwinner. What do I think about that? I do not know what to say. I tell him it doesnât sound good. What does she buy? He doesnât know. Things for Bradâto cheer him up because heâs so depressed. Lionel laughs at how ludicrous this sounds. I see now that Lionel is the sort of chap who giggles under pressure; that is, he deals with tension by smiling. Thereâs a mixed message floating around here that Iâm too depressed to untangle for him.
âServe.â
I go through a winning patch. He cannot beat me. Itâs a confidence thing. Ace, ace, ace. My forehand smashes are unplayable. We analyse each game, where our strengths and weaknesses lie. Itâs like a dance. He tells me that, of the last eight nights, he has had only four hours sleep. What? He draws me a little equation: 0 + 0 + 2 + 0 + 1 + 0 + 1 + 0. (The two being because he took a sedative and half a bottle of red.)
âDo you think thatâs healthy?â he asks. I say it doesnât sound good. How is it possible, he wonders, someone can survive on so little sleep? This raises the question, so I have to ask it: âWhy?â
He explains that, while servicing his numerous computers at home he has discovered some strange email traffic between his wife and (it isnât hard to find out) their friend Bradâs computer. Investigating further, he finds there are dozens, if not hundreds. They are quite spicy. He tells me this as if I should be as surprised as he is; however, he does so in such a nonchalant, happy-go-lucky tone that it is hard to feel anything other than wryly amused. Itâs a joke, right? I make sympathetic
Brad is Trudyâs current project. (Iâm lost again. Is he the speedboat mechanic?) She likes to include him in their family activities. Lionel gets on with Brad. They are modern blokes. They take him to the kidsâ soccer games. They take him to the Eagles Reunion Tour concert and sing âHotel Californiaâ together. They buy him clothes (or rather Trudy does, because Lionel has no fashion sense and would wear the same T-shirt until it fell off him, thatâs just the kind of guy he is). Listening, I think this arrangement does not sound quite tickety-boo. It sounds more like a recipe for disaster. However, it is something I do not really want to know anything more about when all I want him to do is serve.
We are evenly matched. Sometimes the contest is tight. Deuce, deuce, deuce. Sometimes he thrashes me. Sometimes I thrash him. When we play, there is no time to think. Once, he beat me thirteen games to zero. I barely made double figures. In thirteen games! I despair that I might never win another game of ping-pong again. I grieve that this is symptomatic of all else that seems to be going wrong in my life. I do not mention this to Lionel for fear of the advice he might offer. I tell myself, itâs a confidence thing. In a spasm of shame it dawns on me that, because of my reticence, I have no one else that I can mention it to. It is probably a sad reflection on the emptiness of my own soul that I can expend so many words on the hitting of a little ball over a nylon net, although I acknowledge that plenty of souls before mine have probably been emptier.
One day, Lionel tells me, whether I want to hear this truth or not, that he has not had sex for over a year, he who has such a deep craving for physical affection.
âServe.â
Each night, after he has washed the dishes and checked that the dog has enough water and the house is locked, he enters the marital bedroom to find Trudy feigning sleep on the far edge of the mattress. If he touches her, she groans and shrugs him off. So he has learnt to keep his distance across the no-manâs land of the cold bed. Itâs a scene I can imagine with far too much alacrity.
He tells me, in comic exasperation, that Trudy has racked up a credit card debt of twenty-five thousand dollars, and he the only breadwinner. What do I think about that? I do not know what to say. I tell him it doesnât sound good. What does she buy? He doesnât know. Things for Bradâto cheer him up because heâs so depressed. Lionel laughs at how ludicrous this sounds. I see now that Lionel is the sort of chap who giggles under pressure; that is, he deals with tension by smiling. Thereâs a mixed message floating around here that Iâm too depressed to untangle for him.
âServe.â
I go through a winning patch. He cannot beat me. Itâs a confidence thing. Ace, ace, ace. My forehand smashes are unplayable. We analyse each game, where our strengths and weaknesses lie. Itâs like a dance. He tells me that, of the last eight nights, he has had only four hours sleep. What? He draws me a little equation: 0 + 0 + 2 + 0 + 1 + 0 + 1 + 0. (The two being because he took a sedative and half a bottle of red.)
âDo you think thatâs healthy?â he asks. I say it doesnât sound good. How is it possible, he wonders, someone can survive on so little sleep? This raises the question, so I have to ask it: âWhy?â
He explains that, while servicing his numerous computers at home he has discovered some strange email traffic between his wife and (it isnât hard to find out) their friend Bradâs computer. Investigating further, he finds there are dozens, if not hundreds. They are quite spicy. He tells me this as if I should be as surprised as he is; however, he does so in such a nonchalant, happy-go-lucky tone that it is hard to feel anything other than wryly amused. Itâs a joke, right? I make sympathetic
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