Tough Day for the Army by John Warner Page B

fall asleep— because the lovemaking is like a very strenuous sport—we awake with a start, thrashing our arms, certain Not Schmitty has come with a pillow meant for our faces. Even as we draw back our titanium driver, ready to send a laser down the fairway, we are certain that Not Schmitty is behind us with a nine iron, waiting to cave in our skulls.
    We miss the days we lived with our brothers, when we were young and strong and not vulnerable, but invulnerable.
    We grow older. We buy boats. We buy boats we don’t use all that often, and we complain that boats are just bottomless holes you pour money into, which tells people that we not only own boats, but also have wealth enough not to worry about pouring money into them.
    Our guts grow past our ability to suck them in. Our bench press maxes drop toward the double digits. The more money we make, the less work we seem to do. Sixty-five percent of us vote Republican; the rest of us must be gay or poor or something. Recessions happen in which we’re barely touched. We see our children graduate high school and then college, things they achieve despite our suspicion that some of them are dumb or defective, though we love them anyway, which is an astounding thing. Our wives spread in places we wish they wouldn’t. We achieve all the trappings of success. We are helpful to each other in innumerable ways at this, business referrals, stock tips, sales leads, stock tips, football tickets, stock tips. This is what we were promised so many years ago by the brotherhood, and it has come true.
    When the kids leave the house for good we go to Europe.
    Why Europe? We don’t know. It’s just something we’re supposed to do. Some people it is Disneyland, others go to all-inclusive resorts in the Bahamas, we are supposed to go to Europe. It is as though we are trapped by this need, even though we have limited desire to go to Europe and are even a little afraid to go to Europe, the language barrier and all. When we go to Europe, in Europe in those European eyes we become what we know ourselves to be: rich, tacky, successful, fat.
    We have the trips of our lives, obviously, but are nonetheless happy to come home. It is evening, and the motion sensor snaps the light on as we approach, which always makes us freeze for a moment, like we are stealing our own luggage. There are ten steps from the flagstone walk to the portico, so that the house may loom over the yard, making its statement. Once inside, we have that sensation that someone has been here in our absence. The air-conditioning is too high. We smell popcorn. We whistle for the dog and then remember he is at the kennel until morning. Our wives go upstairs for a bath and we consider the possibility of joining them, something done in the past, but that past is awfully distant, and there is the matter of logistics in terms of fitting inside the tub, and so we discard the notion and feel sad that we can’t figure out how to make it work.
    We drink a whisky. It is expensive and bitter. The house is large, so our bathing wives can’t even be heard. These are the times when we listen to the creak of the wood floors for Not Schmitty’s approach. We hold ourselves upright, hands pressed to the kitchen granite and refuse to turn around. Perhaps Not Schmitty has already made short work of our wives, their blood pinking the bath mat, which is what we would do if we were Not Schmitty, if we wanted to deliver maximum hurt. Once we picture our wives’ blood swirling through the bath water we can’t stop this vision, but we resist rushing upstairs because what if Not Schmitty is there, waiting? What if he is waiting, holding an ax with a chip in the blade from use?
    What if he holds an ax above his head, an ax that glints in the blue light through the parted curtains and he will use it to smite us in two and there’s nothing we can do about it?
    But he’s not here, is he?
    Is he?

Second Careers
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