Embarrassed, he looked out his window. Why did I wear the stupid thing? Because he was being efficient, he reminded himself. On the off chance the train was late, he wouldn’t have to rush to get ready. If he had to, he could haul his stuff to the church, skip the hotel check-in altogether. Like Scott, he didn’t like the idea of coming in the day of. He was punctual, typically, always left himself plenty of breathing room, but the alternative this weekend, chancing more run-ins with her – He couldn’t think about her. He looked at the girl again, reading her book, bouncing her leg. “The kilt,” he said. “It looks ridiculous, right?” She shrugged. “I’m going to a wedding. In New York. The groomsmen have to wear kilts.” Giving him a polite smile, she turned the page. With her eyes back on her book, he stole a moment to adjust his sporran, the leather pouch that substituted for pockets, a piece the salesman at the kilt shop had educated him on, like all the other pieces of the ensemble. The salesman, a Scotsman, took the outfit seriously. In addition to the sporran, there was the plaid, the piece of fabric that draped over the shoulder; the brooch that held the plaid in place; the belt; and a thick-shanked pin “for the outer apron only,” the salesman had sternly instructed. When the salesman, with his thick accent, asked him if he were going regimental, it took him a moment to understand what he was asking. He shook his head. Briefs were
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definitely going under the kilt, he’d told the salesman, who raised an eyebrow, as if to say he knew he wasn’t man enough to be Scottish. Not man enough to keep a marriage together either. “Are you going to New York?” he blurted. The girl said no without looking up from her book. She wanted to be left alone. That was clear. Squeezing his thighs, trying to focus on the coarse scratch of the kilt’s material against his skin, he took a deep breath. Why did
“Sticky moisture pooled where the kilt hugged his lower back. He sucked down another breath. Get a grip!” he agree to the wedding, to be in the wedding party? Why was it that not until he sat down in the train, not until it pulled away from the station that the severity of him not wanting to see Agnes hit him? The train. It was stuffy, too warm. He’d never been claustrophobic, but now, sweating, he turned in his seat, claiming more of the empty space next to him, eyeing the exits on either end of the narrow railcar. Sticky moisture pooled where the kilt hugged his lower back. He sucked down another breath. Get a grip! Closing his eyes, he concentrated
on the vibrations under his feet, the mechanical whirring and grumblings of the train. If he only had a date, he thought, slowly opening his eyes and glancing at the girl’s moving foot, someone to talk to, to keep him company on the trip, to distract him at the wedding, to maybe even make Agnes a little jealous. Okay, a lot jealous. This trip wouldn’t have been so bad then. He should have tried harder to get someone to go with him. He’d asked Darla, another lawyer at his firm, to be his date strictly as friends, but she shook her head. “Weddings,” she said, “are dangerous places for ‘just friends’.” He asked the secretary of one of the other partners. He knew better than to ask his own; he didn’t want to send the wrong message. And, well, his secretary wasn’t really jealousy material. But this secretary, Jill, was pretty, and fun to be around with the way she threw back her head when she gave her infectious laugh. Jill was flattered, she told him, laughing, when he’d asked, but she was in a relationship, and even though they’d be going as friends, she wasn’t sure how her girlfriend would take it. There was no one else to ask. He knew no one outside of work anymore. Panic scorched his chest. “Is that a good book?” The girl took a sharp breath. “Yes.” “What’s it about?” The girl didn’t respond. She glanced out her window, where a cemetery, grave markers of varying size, raced by. “When I was a kid,” he said, “I used to play in the cemetery in our town.”
She looked at him, and he blushed. “No one picked on me,” he said, even though she’d turned back to her book. “They were too scared to once I passed through the cemetery gates. There was just quiet.” An ignored confession. Embarrassment scalded his cheeks, his neck. His thighs, his crotch itched from sweat, but he didn’t dare scratch himself. He didn’t dare move. After several minutes, probably thinking he, the middle-aged fool, was done blabbering, the girl started bouncing her foot again. Watching her foot, he remembered Agnes’s feet, how she got a pedicure every month, her toes always dressed in purple. She loved purple, the deeper the better. Like the color of the sky just before the sun plunged into darkness. When she began to drift from him, when everything he did seemed to push her farther from him, he was plunged into darkness too. When she left, he fell right back into being that boy who’d hidden between headstones by creating, through his work, a cacophony of praise and accolades as dense as the silence that had consoled him in the cemetery. “BWI,” the train conductor announced. “Thurgood Marshall Airport is next.” The girl checked her phone. Agnes. Him showing up alone – what would she think? That she was right to leave? That no one could tolerate being with him? Why did I agree to go? Stupid. He really should have tried harder to find someone, anyone, to help him through the weekend.
The train stopped. People got off. Not as many people got on. “That book,” he said to the girl. “It must be really good.” She didn’t acknowledge him. He swiped at the sweat above his lip. A distraction, any distraction – that’s all he needed. “Hey,” he said. “You want to go to New York with me?” Stunned by his question– did I just say that? – he gripped his knees. What’s wrong with me! Biting her lip, she stared at her book. “Sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m joking around. I’m not trying to come on to you or anything. See, I’m just –” She put her book in her bag. Shut up! “Sorry,” he repeated. Avoiding eye contact with him, she stepped into the aisle. Then, out of nowhere, he heard himself say to her, “Last chance.” Not looking at him, she straightened her shoulders and moved to the next train car. Rubbing away the sweat that had broken over the dam of his eyebrows, that stung his eyes, he got up, the kilt heavy against his legs, and went to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with the nosy passengers nearby. He slid the door in place, locked it, and stood, fighting to catch his breath, trying to ignore the pungent scent of dried urine and the floral perfume of cheap hand soap. I’ve lost it. He splashed his face with water. I can’t do this. I can’t see her. Water dripped down his chin, spread across the front of his white shirt. So hot. He
unbuttoned his shirt collar. He thought about getting off at the next stop. What would it be? Baltimore? Wilmington? He could get off, get a ticket back to DC. He could avoid the wedding altogether. Don’t be stupid. I can’t do that to Scott. There was no choice. He had to go. Panicking about the wedding, mortified by his interactions with the girl – asking her to New York, last chance – his breathing became more rapid. Too hot. He reached under his kilt, then hesitated. Oh, who cares! He yanked down his briefs and stepped out of them. Wadding them up, shoving them in the garbage, he grabbed the edge of the sink to balance himself as the train rocked through a corner. Steadying himself, he became aware of how he was hanging now beneath the heavy fabric. No restriction. Completely free. A draft, cooling and relieving, wafted between his legs. He exhaled. His body swaying in time with the train, he took another breath. Breathing was easier now. His shoulders relaxed. Another rocky corner. Bracing himself, feeling himself swing, he couldn’t help it – he laughed – at his worry and anxiety, at himself. Still laughing, he thought about the salesman who’d helped him with this kilt, about how surprised he’d be to learn that he was man enough for this after all.
VOLUME 47
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