Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

days—the days of the unsaved Irwin—when his terms of abasement were almost a form of intimacy. We might have been back in that dinghy at Lake Tibet looking for alligators in the dark.
    I smiled at him. “They had their wedding photos taken just across the square here.”
    “Who?”
    “Marilyn and Joe. At Saints Peter and Paul.”
    “Oh.”
    “They weren’t actually married there. They were married at City Hall.”
    Irwin nodded slowly. “Like you and Ben.”
    I grinned at him. “That wasn’t my point, but…yes…come to think of it. That’s pretty cool, actually.” I was touched that he’d made the connection.
    “You’re too old to be saying ‘cool,’ bro.”
    “You’re right. And fuck you.”
    He took another slug of his drink. “It don’t mean shit, anyway.”
    “What?”
    “Marriage. You give it all you got, and it blows up in your face. It’s nothing but heartache in the end.”
    Mama had said the very same thing when I’d told her about marrying Ben. She and Irwin had come to the same conclusion about the same moment of betrayal by the same two people. It made sense, in a way. Southern families are nothing if not close.
    “I can’t forgive her, Mikey. I can’t do it. I wouldn’t know how to start.”
    I shrugged. “Maybe you could forgive each other.”
    He frowned. “What have I got to be forgiven for?”
    Recognizing my cue, I reached into the pocket of my sports coat and removed the envelope I’d brought with me. I handed it to Irwin without a word. He hesitated a moment, then opened the envelope and removed the hand-tinted Victorian postcard I’d found in a Noe Valley shop earlier that afternoon. It depicted a naughty lady in a corset vamping on a saloon piano. On the back I’d written: “GOOD FOR ONE NIGHT OF FUN IN OLD FRISCO. Kearny and Broadway. Cressida.”
    “Cressida?” said Irwin. “What do I need with a car?”

24
    What Husbands Do
    I ’ve always had a thing for guys who work with wood: carpenters, lumberjacks, driftwood artists—you name it. It’s their hands, more than anything, rough and graceful all at once. I remember a counselor in the crafts hut at Camp Hemlock who could make my pubescent heart turn somersaults just by dragging a plane across a plank. And later, in the seventies (or was it the eighties?), there was that woodworker on Public TV. Remember him? The dude in suspendered jeans and Harry Reems mustache who seemed to be broadcasting from a log cabin in the wilderness? That was some fine craftsmanship.
    No wonder I like meeting Ben at work. His studios down on Norfolk Street are part office/part workshop, and more often than not he’ll be hunched over his computer. Sometimes, though, when the planets are properly aligned, I’ll find him in the shop, lit by the pearly light of the translucent fiberglass roof. He’ll be working shirtless in his leather apron, lightly sugared with maple dust, humming as he guides a hand-hewn tenon into a tight mortise.
    Anyway, that’s how it was on this particular day. Irwin had been back in Florida for almost a month, and the first signs of winter had arrived. Rain was coursing down the corrugation of the roof, and the shop was piquant with ozone and linseed oil.
    Ben looked up and smiled when he saw me.
    “Hey, husband.”
    “Hey, baby.” I kissed him on the mouth. “That is fucking gorgeous.” He was working on a sideboard—a long, narrow one, slightly Asian-looking.
    “Thanks.” He stroked the maple as if it were the flank of a beloved horse.
    “I heard from Irwin today.”
    “Oh, yeah? How are things with Lenore?”
    “Not bad, considering…they’re going to Cancún for Christmas. He arranged it himself.”
    “No shit.”
    “I don’t know what he said to her. Or what she said to him. But…it’s like it never happened.”
    “Maybe she told him your dad was a bum fuck.”
    “Eeeeyew.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I think Irwin needed a secret. And a guy he could share it with…even if it had to be me. Mama and Lenore had their own secret for eighteen years. He just needed to level the playing field.”
    “Tit for tat,” said Ben, smiling.
    “Or pussy for tat, as the case may be.”
    It was a lame joke, but I was trying to stay lighthearted for what had to come next: “Listen, sweetie. It’s time for me to go back. Mama’s close to checkin’ out.”
    Ben absorbed my euphemism, then stroked my arm. “You okay?”
    I nodded. “I called Patreese to see what he thought. He said she’s