UC Riverside UC Riverside Electronic Theses and Dissertations Title The Withdrawal Permalink https://escholarship.org/uc/item/3zp264fm Author Wood, Douglas Publication Date 2015 Peer reviewed|Thesis/dissertation eScholarship.org Powered by the California Digital Library University of California UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE The Withdrawal A Thesis submitted in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts by Douglas William Wood June 2015 Thesis Committee: Professor Tod Goldberg, Co-Chairperson Professor Andrew Winer, Co-Chairperson Professor Mary Yukari Waters Copyright by Douglas William Wood 2015 The Thesis of Douglas William Wood is approved: Committee Co-chairperson Committee Co-chairperson University of California, Riverside Acknowledgements Thanks to all of the UCR Palm Desert teachers who inspired me and kept me on task. It was a privilege to work with and get to know you all, including, but not limited to: Elizabeth Crane, Gina Frangello, Tod Goldberg, Jill Alexander Essbaum Peng, Rob Roberge, and Mary Yukari Waters. My life is richer for having met the colleagues and friends who were in the program. Last, I would like to thank Ben and James. My heart. My soul. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter 1 1 Chapter 2 18 Chapter 3 26 Chapter 4 43 Chapter 5 58 Chapter 6 69 Chapter 7 82 Chapter 8 98 v Chapter 1 Clay steps inside his closet to search for a shirt that isn’t repulsive and discovers he’s left his body: a sensation neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but bewildering, definitely. Those hands, the fingers thin as paint-brushes, recognizably his, continue to sling hangers along the rail, but he observes the action from a close vantage, like the difference between the left and right eyes—that far away—an adjacent but distinct point of view. Dizzying, to watch yourself operate like normal, to function like someone who is in control when no one is in control. He can’t trust anything. The one with blue stripes? the black one with the trim? the checked one he got in Brooklyn, what about that? No. All are dispatched, their empty arms flap, the patterns blur. He sends them flying as if combining them with his tan jacket would prove fatal. God I wish I were dead, he thinks, comforted. He doesn’t want to kill himself, not right then, not in a serious way. But this bleak thought gives him a pinch, and Clay collects himself. The shirts sail by. It’s not so crazy. When you love someone you sometimes wear nice things for them, right? He can’t disappoint Mark. Mark, who deserves every good thing. It’s been weeks since Clay has left the house except to take their daughter to school. Mark and Aedon deserve better, someone who has his shit together; at a minimum, someone who can pick out a freaking shirt without turning it into Sophie’s Choice. The paisley Robert Graham? the Paul Smith with the tiny dots? the ecru Calvin Klein? Ich kann nicht wählen. His brutal, automatic hands decide: Too fussy. Too dressy. Too boring. If he gets it wrong, everything he loves will— 1 Mark fills the doorway, a sweet, infuriating grin buried in his silver-gray scruff. “Five fifteen. Shannon will be here any minute,” he says as if he’s being helpful instead of reminding Clay that he’s a failure. For their anniversary, Mark, who typically wears whatever t-shirt is on top of the pile, has put on the only decent suit that fits him—navy, John Varvatos—the suit Clay got him for his last birthday that hides his little tummy. Clay’s the one who knows how to pick clothes in the relationship. That’s his job, or was. God I wish I were dead. Clay makes his face smile. “I’ve just got to throw on a shirt, then we can go.” “Oh. You’re wearing the brown jacket?” “It’s tan. Yeah.” Mark examines shirts from the opposite end of the closet and offering opinions, giving options. He may never shut up. Clay’s most humiliating times in this humiliating year were those when Mark had to dress him, like he was a tantrum-prone three-year-old. Or worse, a tantrum prone ninety-three-year-old. Clay never needed diapers, but it was touch and go. The old meds had crapped out, the new ones hadn’t come on line yet. Mark was the clamp that kept Clay’s skull from exploding. Mark shouldn’t have to worry about him. A sudden, slight tremor begins in Clay’s hands as they do their sorting. A ten- finger rebellion. Ashamed, he clasps them behind his back. This isn’t going to work, this dinner. I thought I could but I can’t. Clay curses himself for having been overly optimistic—not a typical failing of his, to say the least. Mark’s eyes are raven-sharp and aimed at him. “You okay?” 2 Now Clay finds a smile as wide as it is false. “Fine. Better than fine. Great!” Those eyes soften. Clay softens as well. Mark says, “Come here.” Clay buries his face in his husband’s thick neck, tries not to feel irreparably damaged. His husband smells very, very good. His black hair is damp from the shower and Clay wants nothing more than to stay like this, smelling that clean smell all evening. But that is not an option. It’s their anniversary. Reservations have been made. “Give me ten minutes.” And like it’s no big deal, Clay grabs the green checked shirt from Brooklyn and sends Mark on his burly way. The color’s not perfect, but it might not be lethal. A tie? No. Life is too short for him to choose a tie. The doorbell. From her bedroom, Aedon goes tearing down the hall, punishing the stair treads with her stocking feet, shouting, “They’re here! They’re here!” like a little girl Paul Revere. Clay tenses, girds for a crash—a bumped picture shattering on the floor, one of the big vases in their nooks knocked onto the stairway, but there is none. The only sound is his daughter’s over-excited yelping at the front door, mixed with those of her pals who will be spending the night. Three sets of footsteps pound through the house, out toward the pool. Shannon’s disembodied voice: “Clay, Mark? Are you here? I’m coming up.” She gives a little knock at the half open door and comes straightaway into the bedroom. Clay’s shirt and jacket are on, but his pants are around his skinny thighs. It’s only Shannon—she’s has seen him all kinds of messed up lately. He tucks and zips. 3 “Ooh, look at you, handsome!” She pecks his cheek. Her knuckles brush the fabric on Clay’s upper arm. “You ordered the Boglioli jacket after all—fancy.” “Yeah. I don’t feel so fancy.” He sighs. “The light in the closet is weird. Is this green too blue?” “Honey, honey, honey… It’s perfect. You all right?” “No. I’m putting on a brave face. But hey, at least my brave face is functioning, so that’s an improvement. Baby steps.” “You’re going to have fun tonight.” She gives him a proper hug, both soft and strong, the exact bolstering he needs. “So tell me. Where’s Mark taking you for dinner?” “Borboleta in Beverly Hills.” “You don’t sound thrilled.” He shrugs. “Portuguese isn’t my favorite. But when Mark makes a plan, I follow. Path of least resistance.” Mark has come into the bedroom, behind. There’s a bit of an awkward pause, where Mark’s confused smile is frozen. “You like Portuguese. Remember?” He doesn’t look angry, but Mark is notoriously hard to read. Thankfully Shannon greets him and deflates the awkward moment. She reaches into her purse and playfully withdraws two small boxes, like parakeet coffins. “So it’s nothing much but… This one’s for Clay. Wait—No, this one’s for Clay. This one’s for Mark. Happy anniversary, to my two gorgeous guys!” 4 “Shannon! These are fantastic. How can I hate myself so much and still be so vain?” Clay puts on the Prada sunglasses and poses for the mirror. “Come on. You’ve got to admit, don’t I look impossibly handsome?” Mark smirks. “Possibly.” The sunglasses she gave Mark are vintage Gucci and probably one step more fashion forward than he feels comfortable in, which in Clay’s opinion makes them a perfect gift. Mark kisses Shannon on either cheek. “That’s so thoughtful. I think you spent more on our anniversary than I did.” “Not a chance. I got them free at the Grammy’s gifting suite.” She smiles, delighted with herself. “I saw Adam Levine grab the same pair you have, Clay. I need a picture.” The two men stand frozen with arms slung over the other’s shoulder, both turning on the model-glare. It was Mark, not Clay, who used to model twenty years and pounds ago, but he’s still got the glare down. Then they take another smiling shot with the three of them together. Clay says what a great photo it is, but he’s secretly shocked how old he’s grown. It’s as if the wax bust of how he truly looks has been left in a hot car. Maybe a tie would offset his disappearing jawline. God I wish I were dead.