#43. One Last Bowl

#43. One Last Bowl

Patrick dialed the phone.

“Howdy?” said Wendell’s voice.

“Hey. Wanna bowl?” Patrick asked.

“Um . . .” Silence. “Do I wanna bowl? Bowl? What day is this?”

“What, is Tuesday the only day they let you use the lanes?”

“Well no, I guess not,” Wendell said. “It’s just . . . weird, that’s all. Regular, non-cosmic bowling?” He sighed. “But, uh, sure.”

“Parents gone again?”

“Opera,” Wendell said, and made a choking sound. He laughed quietly at himself. “Sorry. Got some pretension caught in my throat.”

“All right. On my way,” Patrick said.

After almost an hour they were back in town from Wendell’s house and renting a lane in the full light of a regular night at the bowling alley. Wendell squinted at Patrick and both knew the other was thinking the same thing, that it was strange not to be bathed in black light and dazzled with lasers caught by artificial smoke. Wendell had been right; they both thought it was weird.

They didn’t need shoes. They had both bought bowling shoes long ago, after a couple of months faithfully coming to bowling night. Patrick thought he probably would have bought a ball too if they had kept on.

Wendell set up the computer.

“Hey,” Patrick said, looking at the screen. “What’s the deal?”

Wendell shrugged. “Thought you could go first for a change.”

Patrick nodded. He looked at Wendell thoughtfully.

“What?” Wendell said.

“I gotta talk to you about something.”

“Figured,” Wendell said. He leaned back and crossed his arms.

Patrick bowled. Nine pins, then the spare. He went back to his seat. “Susan quit.”

Wendell bowled. Strike. “I thought maybe you had a different subject in mind.”

“Surprised I’m talking about Susan?”

“Nope,” Wendell said, standing over Patrick.

Patrick walked past, grabbed his ball and bowled six, then three. “Damn,” he said, then turned. “I know what you think.”

“I know you know,” Wendell said. He walked up and bowled another strike. “I’m on fire,” he said. “Just try and stop me.”

Patrick sighed. “Hear me out a little bit, okay? Susan didn’t even say a word to me that she was leaving. She hardly told anybody at the office. I have no idea where she went.” He looked down at Wendell’s shoes. “We were friends.”

“Yeah, hardly,” Wendell scoffed. He put his hands on his head. “You’re out of your mind.”

Patrick took his turn. He swore when he fell nine, then picked up the spare. “I know it turned into a pretty crazy situation.”

“Uh-huh,” Wendell said, sitting down. “Just a little.”

“But I really – liked her. I mean, just as a person,” Patrick said. He shifted his weight. “I should have tried harder to be friends.”

Wendell shook his head dramatically, all across his neckline. “Nooooo,” he said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t said that yet, but I am. Apparently whatever you had to do to get yourself into a different area code – or better yet, hemisphere – was the right choice, and the advice you needed to hear. You should have just run away after all, and I’m the idiot who told you different.”

He stood to take his turn. “But now you’re the idiot.”

“Shut up,” Patrick said, taking Wendell’s place. “Go turkey.”

“Watch me,” Wendell said. He turned, bowled, and knocked down eight. It was a split, and it made Patrick feel better. Wendell didn’t look at him. Quietly he collected his ball, and methodically rolled a smooth curve out to the very left edge of the lane, sending one pin careening across to cut the other one down. He turned on his heel. “Well,” he said, walking toward Patrick. “Still whooping your ass.”

Patrick stood and looked past Wendell, at the pins. He knew he could get a strike, he was just warming up. He concentrated on what his hand and wrist were going to do, on the fluid motion he was about to make with his arm, on the gentle curve, and what the ball would look like colliding into the pocket to the right of the lead pin.

“You know you’ve got to tell April,” Wendell said. Patrick looked at him, then walked past to get his ball. He rolled. Strike, just as he’d pictured it. He turned, and Wendell watched him, unmoved. “You’re crazy if you don’t,” Wendell said.

Patrick nodded. “I’m a lunatic, yes. You don’t have to tell me that. Again.” He sat down.

“Fine,” Wendell said. “Then I’ll take her. And the baby.” He pointed at Patrick. “When your marriage falls apart, I’ll just pick up the pieces. Fine by me. April’s hot. I could hardly do better.” With that, he turned abruptly and took his ball.

Patrick shoved his balled fists into his pockets. “It’s a deal!” he shouted. Wendell didn’t falter for a second, and rolled another strike.

“You think I won’t call your bluff?” Patrick said as Wendell walked back. “You’re on, cowboy. You give married life a shot. You deal with all the shit, all the fighting about money and babies. About nothing, half the time. You get yourself in a situation where you can hurt somebody more than you ever thought possible. Then deal with how, hard as you might try to stop yourself, you’re still going to do some serious damage. Get yourself in a relationship where there’s more riding on it than anything ever in your life and you deal with the weight of it. Fine. She’s yours.”

Wendell spread his hands. “Don’t you think I’ve been trying? To get myself in that kind of relationship? What do I have to do?” He dropped his hands back to his sides. “You know, because I’m pretty sure you don’t actually want to give your wife away.”

Patrick stood. His head was hot, but he didn’t say anything.

“Ha,” Wendell said. “Now somebody else is calling somebody else’s bluff, isn’t that somebody?”

“I suppose she wouldn’t have you anyway,” Patrick said. “She thinks you’re too artsy-fartsy.”

“She’s right,” Wendell said. “I’m a whack-job.”

“How – hold on,” Patrick said. He took his ball and rolled a five, then four. He swore viciously, then turned back. “How do I tell her now? She’s pregnant. My wife is freaking pregnant, man. How do I do that? It was going to be hard enough before, now what? Is she going to miscarry over this? Am I going to kill my child? Answer me that!”

Wendell raised his eyebrows and stared at Patrick. “My goodness,” he said. “My stars – oh, my land’s sakes. You, my friend, have got to be the most melodramatic girl I know. Yet you have a penis nonetheless. I mean, I think so, anyway – what am I saying? You’d have to, with the whole baby thing – anywho, you are undoubtedly a little whiny schoolgirl, Pat. We’ve been friends a long time; have I not mentioned that before now?”

Patrick scowled. “Just bowl,” he said.

“Telling her what happened is not going to kill your unborn child,” Wendell said, taking his ball. “You’re just a wuss. That’s it.” He turned and rolled another strike.

Patrick stood with his arms crossed, brooding as Wendell approached. Wendell stopped in front of him and waited expectantly. “I’ve thought this through,” Patrick said. “I’m not going to tell her.”

Wendell’s eyes fell as Patrick stepped over to his ball. Patrick put his whole mind into the game, just like he had before. He knew this was going to be a strike. He could feel it as he walked forward, rolled . . . and then down they all went. All ten. Patrick took a deep breath of satisfaction.

“So you’re sure?” Wendell said from behind.

Patrick turned. “Yeah.”

“I’m surprised. I really didn’t think . . .” Wendell trailed off.

Patrick waited, then said, “It’s my marriage. I know how to be a husband, and you don’t. That’s it. No offense, that’s just it.”

Wendell looked at Patrick. “I guess so,” he said.

Patrick nodded. “It would hurt her too much. For no reason.”

“Yeah,” Wendell said.

The two stood in silence for a long, awkward moment, looking away from one another. Patrick leaned against the computer. Wendell stood frozen where he was.

“How about we don’t talk about it anymore?” Wendell said. He looked at Patrick. “I’m thinking that’s the only way I’m going to have fun tonight. That and beer. I think I’ll need beer.”

Patrick nodded slowly. “Sure,” he said.

Wendell took his turn and missed the spare for the first time that night. When he was done he turned and, without a word, walked past Patrick toward the bar.