Straight Man

When I turn around, I see we
are
being followed, tailgated actually, by a red sports car, which jerks into the passing lane dangerously, roars by, darts back in again, forcing Teddyto hit the brakes. It’s Paul Rourke’s red Camaro, I realize, and when the car pulls over onto the shoulder, Teddy follows, red-faced with impotent fury. Rourke’s wife, the second Mrs. R., whose name I can never remember, is at the wheel, but she’s clearly acting on her husband’s instructions. Though she’s normally dreamy-eyed and laconic, something aggressive surfaces when she’s behind the wheel. According to Paul, who’s been married to the second Mrs. R. long enough to become disenchanted, it’s the only time she’s ever completely awake. She’s always roaring past me on this road to Allegheny Wells, and she always graces me with a long glance before looking away again, apparently disappointed. The bored expression on her face is always the same, unimpeded by recognition.
    “If a fight breaks out, she’s mine,” I tell Teddy, who’s still clutching the wheel hard.
    “What the—did you see—” he sputters. He’s looking over at me to verify events. Anger is one of several emotions Teddy’s never sure he’s entitled to, and he wants to make certain it’s justified in this instance.
    Rourke gets out languidly, bends back down, and leans into the car to say something to the second Mrs. R. Probably to stay put. This won’t take long. Which it wouldn’t, if a fight did break out. Paul Rourke is a big man, and the very idea of getting punched in my already mutilated nose fills me with nausea.
    It takes me a while to unfold myself out of Teddy’s Civic. Rourke waits patiently, holding the door for me. When I stand up straight, I’m taller than he is, so there’s something to be grateful for, even though it’s not something of consequence. This is the same man who, several years ago, threw me up against a wall at the department Christmas party, and what worries me today is that there’s no wall. If he tosses me now I’m going to end up in the ditch. The good news is he seems content to study my ruined nose and grin at me.
    Teddy has gotten out of the car and begun to sputter. “That was almost an accident,” he tells Rourke, who, so far, hasn’t even honored Teddy with a glance.
    “Hello, Reverend,” I say, friendly. As a younger man, before converting to atheism, Paul Rourke was a seminarian.
    “Does it hurt?” he wants to know, studying my schnoz.
    “Sure does, Paul,” I assure him, anxious to please.
    He nods knowingly. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”
    When he raises his hand, I step back, trying not to flinch. In his hand there’s a camera, an expensive one, and he gets off about eight automatic clicks before I can offer him my good side.
    “This is how I’ll remember you when you’re gone,” he tells me. He nods ever so slightly in Teddy’s direction. “Him, I’m just going to forget.”
    Then he returns to his Camaro, which lurches back onto the pavement, spraying small stones in his wake. “That
does
it,” Teddy says, convinced finally, now that it’s safe, that anger is indeed an emotion appropriate to this occasion. “I’m filing a grievance.”
    I laugh all the way up the winding road that leads to the house where Lily and I live. I have to dry my eyes on my coat sleeve. Teddy, I can tell, is sheepish and half angry at me for invalidating his emotions with mirth. “I
mean
it,” he assures me, and then I’m lost again.
    Lily comes out onto the back deck when she hears a strange car pull up. She’s in her jogging clothes and she looks flushed, like she’s just finished her run. She gives us a wave, and Teddy can’t wait to get out of the car so he can wave back. We’re too far away for her to see my ruined nose, but the pose my wife has struck, hands on her slender hips, suggests that she’s prepared for lunacy.
    “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Teddy hollers.
    As we approach, Lily looks us over critically, trying to discover what Teddy’s remark is in reference to. I’ve been coming home with minor wounds for twenty years, but they are usually below the neck—sprained ankle, swollen knee, stiff lower back, that sort of thing. Our Saturday morning departmental basketball games, back when we all still spoke to each other, frequently resulted in injury. Often courtesy of Paul Rourke, who seemed to keep a different kind of score from the rest of us.
    So what