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Calliope (29 May 2005)

Your man Bobby was a good man, and you had trusted him. "He's completely devoted," you'd say to your girlfriends when the subject of infidelity came up. And it did, frequently, for they were a wicked bunch. "I'm the one who would cheat," you'd say. "But I wouldn't." And you hadn't, and so they'd sigh and twirl the straws around in their drinks, clinking the ice cubes together, making sex eyes across the bar at the Wall Street types.

He had been devoted, just not completely, just not only to you, and you find this out not from a nagging hunch or whispered phone conversation but at his funeral when a woman bursts into the church wild-eyed, swollen, weeping, screaming his name. "Bobby!" she cries, "Bob-eeeeeeeeeee!" His name sounds foreign from her mouth, primal, as though you had never heard it before, as though you yourself had never screamed it before, and you stare in disbelief as the woman runs down the aisle to fall before his casket, tearing at her breast and wailing. You have never been to a funeral before but see from the slack-jawed priest that this behavior is atypical. Perhaps, you think, she is at the wrong funeral. Maybe she has gotten her Bobbys confused.

The Woman was not at the viewing last night. You did not receive her in the line of hand-clasped I'm so sorry's and He was wonderful's, and you don't recall having seen her before in passing. But she is here just the same and suddenly she is the checkout clerk from Gristedes, the woman who cut his hair, his dental hygienist, and the waitress from the coffee shop. All at once she is everyone and you curse your memory.

Hers is not a striking face; it's a plain face, an ordinary face, but framed by dark curls falling down her back exactly like your own. You wonder if her hair had also gotten caught in his beard and if she had also laughed every time it happened and you reach up to touch your own hair, winding a long strand around your index finger slowly in a dark coil and you find your finger enveloped like a cocoon, resting over your heart which is beating madly.

She is still screaming his name BobbyBobbyBobby and pounding on the coffin lid now, as if to bring him back, like he would just sit up inside if he were missed enough. You imagine there will be several versions of this scandal recounted later for the benefit of those who missed it, including a particularly nasty one where The Woman actually climbs into the casket and attempts to resuscitate him. Unsure where she draws the strength to keep howling, you half expect her to turn and shout at you next but she never even looks your way, though everyone else is. His sister, sitting next to you, grabs your hand and whispers "honey, we didn't know" and you realize then that that she did know, that they had all probably known. The men must have been impressed, his seeing two women, though it must have been expensive they'd say, and risky, and the women must have held on a bit tighter to their own partners at night, tracing their sleeping faces with slow fingers, listening furtively for the late night phone call that meant they were next.

His friend from work- Jim? John?- walks up behind The Woman, plants his hands firmly on her shoulders, whispers to her. She collapses into his arms, allowing JimJohn to lead her to a seat in the row behind you, and you spin around to compare Bobbys. Did you fit together perfectly, you want to demand, standing with your forehead beneath his chin?! But you find your jaw locked, incapable of forming the words as you think, horrified, that maybe The Woman's Bobby was better. That maybe he had saved the best parts of himself for her instead, 'Cause tonight is the night that I'm feeling all right, we'll be making love the whole night throoough, so I'm saving all my love, yes, I'm saving all my love, yes, I'm saving all my loving, I'm saving all my love for you.' Face to face with her, all you can do is open and close your mouth uselessly, staring stupidly, blank as you had been upon first hearing, when the phone had slipped from your fingers and you had stood, disbelieving, gazing at the wall for several minutes before finally allowing yourself to cry, a long guttural moan that brought your roommate running to hold you up as you slipped down to the floor, rocking back and forth.

The sister squeezes your hand- she is still clutching it- and you look back down disgusted, jerk your hand from her sweaty grasp, and rub it hard on the seat until it hurts. The pain is distracting and real and so you dig your nails into your thighs next, feeling your nude stockings rip in protest, thinking of nothing but the heat of the hurt, dragging your nails along the full length of leg, scratching a long trail down until you draw blood. Surprised, afraid, you stare down at the deep runs in your stockings and slide your shaking hands under your bottom to restrain them.

And you begin to laugh, sudden inappropriate high school teenage giggles that you are unable to stop. Shoulders shaking violently, you rise, excuse yourself from the row, covering your face to disguise the laughter as tears, and then without warning you are crying, real tears burning hot tracks down your face as you trip outside into the light, blinking up into the sun, staring straight at it like you've been told not to.

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