Bernice noticed the tumor before Stan did. “What is this squish?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll never have tits compared to yours.”
“It’s not your tits.”
The tumor spread up Stan’s chest and wrapped around his esophagus. Four times he checked into the hospital for what he called platinum milkshakes, which brought on vomiting, dry retching, then convulsions. The pain had to be worse than dying, he said. She hated him saying that. She promised him that after the treatments, only two more, all he’d have to swallow would be champagne.
“No more treatments,” he said. “I’m done. This is it.”
“Two more. The doctor insists.”
“The doctor’s killing me. The tumor’s gone.” He tapped his flat chest.
“It could come back.”
“What’s coming back is me. I’ve got to live.”
But when he returned to work at the bank, his boss let him go.
“Eric, come on, we’re friends! I’ve been down, but I’m back.”
“London cut your job, not me, Stan. They saw we got along fine without you. We’ll pay you another six months but not to work.”
They talked about selling the house they had built in Woluwe-Saint Pierre outside Brussels but didn’t sell it. They talked about economizing otherwise but didn’t do it. They talked about jobs he could pursue but didn’t pursue. He played golf and fished when there was sun and drank when there wasn’t. She could almost see his insecurities wrapped around him as the tumor had wrapped around his esophagus. He had children in the States he never spoke with. He shut down any mention of the past—not just his, hers, too. He was terrified, but in his compelling way, he was defiant. He had no patience when she tried to talk about life’s limits, its injustice, its mystery, the things that happened to everyone, the things you had to accept. He lectured her about what she didn’t know being twenty years younger, never having been divorced, never having had children.
One night he said that he would like to bed fuck Eric’s wife, Meg. They had never talked this way. Bernice didn’t like it.
“For revenge?”
“How could he fire a man just back from cancer? Frankly, she looks to me like she could use it.”
“You get vibes from her?”
“I’m sure I’m not the only one. Do you get vibes from Eric?”
“No.”
“I bet she doesn’t either.”
Despite the firing, Bernice had remained friends with Meg. They had lunch together every few weeks at a Vietnamese restaurant on Rue du Pont de la Carpe. Meg was uncomfortable about what Eric had done to Stan, but to be objective about it, she said she didn’t understand why Bernice fallen for him. He was a ne’er-do-well before the tumor. She said that was why Eric had him canned.
“You mean it wasn’t London’s decision?” Bernice asked.
“Oh, Bernie, come on. He disappeared on too many afternoons before the tumor. Was he seeing someone?”
“He was seeing me, ninny. We had a hotel we thought was fun.” She worked for the European Commission and could get away from the office whenever she wanted.
Meg’s light voice darkened. “Home wasn’t enough?”
“Home was never enough. He was no good as a lover when he was sick, but he’s back at it.” Meg criticizing Stan pissed her off. Bernice thought of what he’d said. “You should try him some time.”
Meg stared at her, caught up in the idea. “Really? How would that work?”
“I don’t know, but I could use the help. He’s at me all the time.”
They had talked about sex many times. Mostly about past escapades. Not about Eric and Stan. Now that changed.
“Eric’s virtually impotent,” Meg confessed. “Works too hard. Too tired.”
“He wouldn’t be if he hadn’t fired Stan.”
“No, he’s always been that way. I can hardly feel him.”
“Down there?”
“Yes, down there.”
They returned to the subject over their next lunch.
“Would I have to drink a bottle of champagne with him?” Meg asked.
“It’s what keeps him stiff long enough to enjoy it.”
“Ooh, a stiff prick. How nice.” But Meg drew a line. “I wouldn’t give you Eric in return.”
“I wouldn’t want him.”
“Why not?”
“No joie de vivre.”
This stung Meg, but it was true. “Maybe you could give him some of yours,” she said, amused by the thought of Eric bewildered with desire because he had the voluptuous Bernice in his arms, not his skinny wife.
“I don’t want Eric. You’re the one who’s sex-starved, not me.”
Meg said sex was so intimate, such a surrender. She had many thoughts on the matter. “I don’t think you can really know someone until you’re in bed with him.”
Bernice had a different view. “Or maybe until you watch him agonize in the hospital.”
Meg began to understand Bernice was serious. “I can’t believe Stan would want me. I’m a stick.”
“Sticks burn, too.”
“You’re not just saying you want help, you’re saying he wants me?”
“Yes.”
“To get back at Eric?”
“Eric doesn’t have to know. Do you have affairs?”
“Not in years.”
“Why not?”
“Who with? Where?”
“Our hotel, Fleur. It’s very discrete. They take care of everything.”
“That’s five stars. It must cost a fortune.”
“You could afford it if you really wanted it.”
“I guess I could, but do I really want it?”
“What if I told him I’d meet him there, but instead it will be you. He’ll go wild.”
“He’d have to drink a lot of champagne for me to turn him on.”
“He’s very good at drinking champagne.”
At the third lunch, they kept considering it.
“What if it broke up our marriages?” Meg asked.
“I told you Eric doesn’t have to know.”
“But I would know, Stan would know, you would know. Do you want to watch? Is that something you do?”
“God, no. If you don’t want to do it in Brussels, go to Bruges. There’s a hotel there we like. He’s desperate for you.”
“He is not.”
“I swear to you he is.”
In fact, Stan had come back to the idea. Once he’d asked Berenice to play Meg, but she had no idea how to play Meg. She didn’t even know how to play herself. She thought of all the nights in the hospital, trying to soothe him. What more did she have to give him? Nothing. She was empty.
Meg was having sweet corn pudding for dessert. She drew the spoon from between her lips. “Sorry, he can’t have me. I’d be too scared.”
“I’ve been scared since he was sick. I wish he had died.”
“Bernie, no.”
“I think about it all the time.”
“But you can’t!”
“I think about starting over by myself. I’m not afraid of it, but I just can’t do it to him with what he’s been through.”
When Bernice came home that night, Stan had lit a fire in the hearth and poured champagne. He suggested they sit on the sofa and look at the flames before they ate. She stared at them with him thinking that there are tracts of life where there is no need to say what you think and tracts where you have to speak before the fire is completely out and all that is left is the ashes.
She said, “Meg won’t sleep with you. Sorry, but I tried.”
He didn’t like hearing that. “You really did?”
“Didn’t you want me to?”
“I’m surprised you found it so easy to give me up.”
“It wasn’t easy. Nothing’s easy.”
“I only wanted to wake you up. Why would I want to fuck Meg?”
“Are you just saying that now?”
“No, I never wanted to fuck Meg. All I want is you.”
He put his arm over her shoulder and drew her closer to him. She stiffened. He ignored this. She kept her eyes on the flames.
— ROBERT EARLE
Robert Earle’s short fiction has appeared in scores of literary journals, including Mississippi Review, I-70 Review, Eclectica, december, Baltimore Review, Philadelphia Stories, Seattle Star, Florida English, Southwest Texas Literary Review, The Common, The Literary Review, Quarterly West, Inkwell, Main Street Rag, Ocotillo Review, Chiron Review, and many others. He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.