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Gypsies in the Twilight Zone

Bob Strother

    “Tell me again,” she said. “Who'd you say you are?” The words came out slurred, the suspicion in her voice palpable.
    “Kip Wayne,” he said into the telephone receiver. “We met at Bird's birthday party, remember?”
    They'd all gotten pleasantly stoned that evening, and when it was time to go, Kip managed to kiss each of the ladies goodnight. When he'd kissed her, she'd turned it into something a lot more than a peck on the lips. Her date had gotten pissed – Kip had been pleasantly surprised – and here he was, six months later, calling her.
    “I'm just asking,” she said, “because someone tried to break into my house last night. And now ... here's you – somebody whose name I don't even recall – calling me out of the blue.”
    Christ, he thought. How's that for timing? “Look, Jeanine, I had no idea ... I'm really sorry. I hope you're all right. Maybe I can call back again some other time.”
    “Okay,” she said. The line went dead in his hand.

    Kip had decided to call Jeanine somewhere between Tampa and the Georgia state line. At that time, he'd gone nineteen months, two weeks, and five days without having sex with his wife – the last three days in a subtropical paradise that should have guaranteed a renewed intimacy. She needed romance, she said. He'd tried everything he knew, to no avail. Her work kept her in Florida, and it was a ten-hour drive back to Atlanta – a lot of time to think. By the time Kip crossed over into Georgia, he'd figured her, and the relationship, for a lost cause. After ten years of marriage, he had only the vaguest idea of how to start cheating on his spouse. Jeanine had been his best – no, make that his only – hope.

    She called him back shortly before midnight. “I'm afraid,” she said. “I wasn't able to fix the door – where they tried to break in. You want to come over?”
    “Sure,” Kip said.
    Jeanine answered the door wearing a t-shirt and panties, and zoned out on something. She led him back to her bedroom. “Just hold me,” she said.
    He did – and spent the night there, wondering if his wife might try to call him at home. The next day, he had the glass re-glazed in her door. That night, they had sex.
    It became a routine. Kip would come over after work. They'd cook or go out for dinner, then watch rented movies and make love. He started spending most of his nights there. He bought an answering machine and thought up excuses he could tell his wife if she called and he wasn't home.
    Summer turned to fall. Kip's wife was spending even more time in Florida. He didn't mind – they'd become strangers. He took afternoons off from work and cleaned Jeanine's house. He replaced her carpet, washed her dishes, raked her leaves, stocked her bar, and filled her pantry.
    “You're my fall project,” he told her one day.
    She touched his cheek, her eyes growing moist. “Don't say that.”
    “Just kidding,” he said. “It's much more than that.”
    On weekends, she drank scotch, popped Xanax, and watched CMT. Kip would go home, rake his own leaves, clean his house, and then come back. The dog would be in the bed or on the couch – muddy paw prints all over everything. It bugged the shit out of him – but he was getting laid again. One afternoon, there was a car parked behind Jeanine's in the driveway. Kip waited across the street until the man left.
    An old boyfriend, she said. “He still had some of his stuff here.”
    Kip nodded, very understanding.
    “He still has a key,” she said, frowning. “I wish he didn't.”
    Kip replaced her locks the following day, but something about the episode made him uneasy. He began cruising her place at odd hours. One afternoon, while she was still at work, the boyfriend's car was again in the driveway.
    “You gave him a freaking key?” Kip asked that evening.
    “Uh-huh. He needed to come by and get the rest of his things.”

    Two weeks later, after a rare night at home, Kip drove by her house on his way to work. The old boyfriend's car windows were coated with a thick silver haze of morning dew. That afternoon, he left a note in her mailbox, along with his key to her house. Please don't call me or try to see me. We're done. Goodbye.
    She came to his house that night. They drank his scotch and made love. She spent the night that evening and began spending more time at Kip's house. One night, a week before Thanksgiving, they were in front of the fireplace, naked. The fire was blazing, the shades were drawn. There was a knock on the door. Kip looked through the peephole.
    The wife.
    He cracked the door and they stared at each other for a moment. “Give me a minute,” he said. He and Jeanine dressed, and she left. Afterward, as he and his wife sat on the sofa, she cried and said, “It's my fault. I don't blame you. I ... quit my job. I thought maybe we could try again.”
    And they did. It still didn't work, but, oddly, they became friends again. Turns out she'd found the romance she'd been looking for with a man in Florida. She'd been seeing him for almost two years. Kip had no idea. How gullible was that? Her decision to come home had been precipitated by a lover's quarrel. After a month at home, the spat was forgotten. He needed her, she said. Kip didn't. She ended up going back to Florida permanently.
    It was okay; she'd served her purpose.

    Jeanine called a week after Kip's wife left. “I've checked into a rehab center,” she said. “I have my own room and we do group therapy every night. No pills, no booze.”
    “That's good.”
    “I also found out what I am.”
    “What's that?”
    “An adult child of alcoholics.”
    “It's good to know what you are,” Kip said. “How long will you be there?”
    “As long as it takes, I guess. How's your wife?”
    “She's fine.”
    “We're like gypsies, aren't we, just passing through life, never knowing where we're going to end up?
    “That's for sure,” Kip said.
    “I ... the counselors say ... you might have been a co-dependent in our relationship. An enabler, you know?”
    “I know the term,” he said. “Guess I never really thought about it.”
    “Well... they only give us five minutes each for phone calls, and there's a line behind me, so...”
    “I wish you all the best, Jeanine.”
    There was a long pause, then she said, “We had some fun, didn't we, Kip?”
    “Yeah,” he said. “It was a trip.”

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