The rift between us, once opened, could never be completely sealed. We never actually made the decision to stop trying for another baby, but we never really committed to continuing the effort after the abortion.

I’m nursing my second, no, make that third drink, building a nice buzz as I sit alone at the Carousel, watching the clock on the wall. I’ve driven by here thousands of times; the place has been a notorious gathering place for “fairy nice guys” as long as I can remember. Father Matthew McGinley really got under my skin tonight, dredging up all these damn memories. Dreading the prospect of my first major holiday as a (disgraced) single man, I called my mother from the parking lot, pleading early holiday air-traffic delays (“Flight’s not due in until almost midnight. Yes, I remembered to call the psychiatrist to cancel.”) as if spending a few hours sitting in a gay bar still necessitated an elaborate alibi. Of course, the reality of the Carousel is far more benign than the sinful den of iniquity of my imagination. The owners haven’t redecorated since the heyday of The Brady Bunch, and the plaid carpet and faux paneling have all the charm of a suburban rec room. So much for the maxim that all gays have good taste.

“Where’s the jukebox?” I ask.

“Sorry, buddy, it’s broken,” the bartender apologizes. “But the deejay starts spinning in an hour.”

The bartender plops another beer in front of me; the guy at the end of the bar has bought me a drink. I turn toward my benefactor and offer a nod of appreciation without acquiescence. He raises his glass and smiles. He seems friendly enough, not bad-looking, a bit scruffy, my type, actually. He’d be a real possibility if it weren’t for my state of mind tonight. In the mood I’m in, he looks slightly ridiculous, a grown man in a Carolina Tar Heels Basketball hoodie.

“Tell him thanks,” I say to the barman.

“He says thanks, Harold,” he bellows.

“You’re welcome,” Harold shouts back.

I look away quickly before he reads an invitation to join me in my eyes.

It’s pushing toward eleven. The Carousel is starting to get crowded. Mr. Tar Heels Basketball is lingering at the end of the bar. Friends greet him and he laughs, too loudly, intending to get my attention. I understand the message being delivered. See? I’m not a freak, a criminal, a psycho. I’ve got friends who are happy to see me. Don’t be frightened. I’m a normal guy. Smile. Strike up a conversation. Protocol demands I buy him a beer if I order another drink. I’m thirsty. I don’t want to go home. Hey, bartender, one for the road, and send one to Hank-sorry, Harold-at the end of the bar.

“What’s your name?” Harold asks, challenged by his friends to walk over and introduce himself.

“Andy,” I say, trying to suppress my irritation at having my space invaded.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he says, contrite, his overture rewarded by my obvious lack of interest.

“That’s okay,” I say blandly so as not to encourage him.

“I just wanted to thank you for the beer. Have a nice Thanksgiving,” he says.

“You too,” I mutter, turning away.

The Carousel is starting to hop.

“So what do you think, Blue Eyes?”

The snaggletooth sitting next to me insists I join the debate.

“Streisand or Midler?”

“Streisand or Midler what?”

He rolls his eyes as if the question-and the answer-is obvious.

“You must be one of those queens who can’t think beyond Madonna,” the snaggletooth sneers, dismissing me from the conversation.

“Yeah, that’s me, all right,” I snarl, firing up a cigarette.

I wish I was still married.

It’s time to hit the road. I swallow the backwash in my beer bottle, preparing to do penance for my bad behavior. Harold’s back is toward me. I touch his shoulder, expecting he’ll turn and sneer, revenge, after all, being sweet.

“Sorry for being so rude earlier. It’s been a long week,” I apologize.

“No problem,” he says, smiling. “You come here often?”

“Not really.”

“We’ll try it again next time.” He laughs. “Gimme a kiss.”

Why not? I give him a friendly peck and slip out the door.

The temperature’s dropped quickly. Tomorrow morning a killer frost will blanket the lawns of Mecklenburg and Gaston Counties. I turn off the car radio; I’ve had enough crappy memories for one day.

I kept my promise, Alice. I never told you I stopped loving you because I never did.

You asked the wrong question.

You should have made me promise to tell you if I ever fell in love with someone else.

Meet the Wilkinses

“You’ll like them. I know it.”

I’ve never been a big one for socializing. Alice had to drag me out of the house kicking and screaming. This time she was insistent.

She was right. Why wouldn’t I like them? They were probably lovely people, great folks, exactly the type of neighbors we were hoping for when we bought this splashily designed, poorly constructed, and wildly expensive town house in the most exclusive gated community in the Triad.

“Give them a chance,” she said.

Alice wanted to cook dinner for them. No, I said, willing to give in only so far, we’ll meet at a restaurant. She wasn’t sure, wanting to avoid the awkward moment when the check was presented. No problem, I said, I’ll give my card in advance and, at the end of the evening, I’ll slip away from the table and discreetly sign. She finally conceded, knowing I really did not want to meet the Wilkinses.

I started to relax as the waiter uncorked the second bottle of wine. The evening was going well, better than expected. In fact, it was an unqualified success. The Wilkinses, unlike most of my professional acquaintances, gave every indication they knew how to read. There was plenty to talk about; there was a lot of laughter. Driving home, Alice asked what I’d thought of Nora. The question took me by surprise. I was having a hard time remembering her face.

“She seemed kind of quiet,” I said, assuming shyness was the explanation for her failure to make an impression on me.

“Andy.” Alice laughed. “She talked a blue streak all night!”

Hmmmmm.

“What did you think of Brian?” she asked.

I wondered if that was a trick question.

“Seems like a nice guy,” I said, cautiously.

“You two really seemed to hit it off.”

Did we? I felt a strange sensation in my chest. Good God, I thought, it sounds like an old cliché, but did my heart skip a beat?

“What did you talk about?” she asked.

“I dunno,” I said, suddenly becoming inarticulate.

What did we talk about? Work, obviously. Our wives, certainly. It was easier to remember what we didn’t talk about.

Golf.

Cars.

Power tools.

“Swimming,” I finally said.

“He’s a swimmer too?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You guys ought to swim together sometime.”

“Yeah, he mentioned something like that,” I said, sounding nonchalant and noncommittal. “He said he’d call to set something up.”

Two days later, she was slipping on her Levi’s while I cradled my foot, engrossed in a virgin blister on my heel. She asked if something was wrong. It must be the new shoes, I said. No, I don’t mean that, she said. I’d thought she was blissfully unaware of my barely concealed agitation, of the nervous twitch I’d developed whenever the phone rang, of my impatient interruptions to ask who was on the line, and of my disappointment when the call was not the one I was so anxiously awaiting.

Wednesday night was close, but no cigar.

“It’s Nora Wilkins,” she said. “She wants to know if we’re free for dinner Saturday night.” She expressed our regrets, telling Nora we were visiting my parents this weekend.

“Wait, wait one minute, Nora. Andy’s trying to tell me something.”