Skin in the Game

I saw him again tonight. This was the third time he'd come alone, or at least it seemed like he was alone. I've tried to think back, tried to remember if I'd seen him more than just the last three performances, but if he was here, I didn't file that memory away.

As the theater patrons had grown more relaxed in their garb, he never faltered. At the very least, he wore a coat and tie. To the musicals he seemed less casual, in a jacket and slacks, but to the ballet - to the ballet, he wore a three-piece suit with tapered pants.

He sat in the same box, and took the same seat among the four available, always the back left corner. Was he hiding? From what?

I remember thinking his wife, or partner, or friend, or whomever must have just gone to the restroom and was waiting for the next act to come back in, but she or he never came back in. He was handsome and his hair fell just so above his thick dark eyebrows.

I began to watch him as he watched us, or them. I sat behind the black baby grand in the pit and created a host of narratives for him. He was married once, but she died young, very young, and he couldn't bear consider "replacing" her. Or perhaps he was a miser and a recluse who allowed himself this one indulgence. The performances continued and he continued to come alone, opera, dance, plays, and we played on beneath the stage, and my imagination played on between my ears.

Years went by and he came, alone. And I watched him as my fingers danced across the keys, alone. His hair grew thinner, and he started to get streaks of grey. He must have been thirty-six or maybe seven now. He was always in his seat thirty minutes before the curtain raised. He nursed a whiskey, just one the whole show, never stood during the ovation, sat for ten minutes after the curtain fell, then stood, buttoned his coat, placed the program at the bottom left corner of the table where it sat upon his arrival, and he exited. To where I didn't know.

So, on November 27, at 7:06 p.m., twenty-four minutes before I was to play Tchaikovsky's Overture for the who knows how many times, I went to his box.

"Hello, ahem," my voice cracked and came off a little mousey, though I wasn't all that nervous, "hello," I said again. He placed his whiskey down on the table and stood, as if adhering to old customs. I think he even bowed a little.

"Hello," his right extended gesturing to the open chair next to his, so I sat down.

I crossed my legs, having forgotten this particular little black dress was quite old and already had a small tear in the slit - it tore a little higher. I coughed as my heart began to beat faster. I had now grown nervous, but I couldn't explain why. "I'm Emogene, Emogene Stein, and, well, I've noticed you."

He smirked as he sat. A curl fell across his forehead, and he brushed it aside as he responded, "Emogene, that's lovely - no, it's more than that isn't it, it's classically beautiful - what a name." He was wearing a smart camel hair blazer with jet black creased slacks and a black vest.

"People just call me Genie."

"People may Ms. Stein, people, may. My name is Vincent Knotz, which is neither classic nor beautiful, but it does alright by me. And I have to ask, what does, you've noticed me, mean?"

"I play the piano here at the Metropolitan, so, well, I've seen you, for about four years, and you come to the great performances, dressed so very well, and no one is ever with you...and I am confused, because Mr. Knotz, I don't believe you're a serial killer, but it's the only answer I can come up with."

Vincent Knotz laughed loudly one time. "I have not killed enough to fit that definition," his eyebrows both went up and to a point as he bent his head toward me and quietly laughed. He looked at his watch, "You're about to be late Ms. Stein."

"Shit," I stood and thanked him, for what, I wasn't sure, then I turned and as I was about to exit the floor I heard from his box, "Emogene, I'll wait here after for a bit, if you'd like to finish the conversation over coffee, or better yet, French Toast!" I didn't turn around, or even stop, but I do remember a faint smile.

After the Sugar Plum Ferries danced their way into the hearts of little girls and grown women throughout the Met, I waited for the crowd to clear, grabbed my white puffer jacket and headed to the box I had left only two hours earlier. As I walked the 100 meters or so I thought, I wish I had worn makeup, why did I wear this ancient dress, why didn't I wear my red coat, why, and as I was working on another thought about how I wasn't enough, I heard Mr. Knotz's voice, "Ms. Stein, you're as beautiful as you played, it's like the music breathes through you." He extended his arm, and I involuntarily placed my hand on his biceps like I had seen in old movies.

We did go for French Toast that evening, and we drank hot chocolate with whipped cream, and two thirty-somethings with old souls somehow made each other feel like teenagers again.

"Emogene Stein, perhaps you'll do me the kindness of letting me call you."

I did let him call me. And we spoke often. He continued to come the performances and as time went by, we became Vincent and Emogene, instead of Vincent, and, Emogene, and it was nice. It wasn't perfect. Fireworks didn't go off when we kissed. The World didn't stop on its axis. But it would be fair to say I laughed more with him than anybody else, and sex was better with him than any other man I had been with. It would not be wrong for me to say we enjoyed each other and grew better because of one another. I think I can say, and shall say, we fell in love - not the kind of love that stirs you from a deep slumber or ignites the sky like lightning - no, the love we fell into was a constant simmer, an effervescent bubbling just below the surface, a pure, ever growing silent compassionate communication. Until of course, the communication verbalized itself, which sometimes happens even if we don't want it to.

"Vince, what are you scared of," I walked out of the closet and presented my back to him. He zipped my dress and clasped the hook without prompting.

"Um, I don't know, disappointment...I guess."

"You think I'll disappoint you?" I was staring at him in the mirror - looking into the reflection of his green eyes staring back at me.

"Quite the opposite Emogene, quite the opposite," he smiled and gave my shoulders a small single squeeze, then he kissed the nape of my neck, and even after two years of "being together" my body still reacted to his touch.

As we were driving to the theater, I had to reengage the same conversation, I don't know why I did it, but I had to, "How did your family handle failure when you were a kid?"

He turned his eyes from the windshield of the 1983 diesel Mercedes wagon he loved dearly and blinked three times fast. "I don't know...I suppose we didn't fail, or it wasn't an option. There were no repercussions for failure, it was simply unacceptable."

"But how was it defined then, failure?"

"Not being the best Ms. Stein. If we weren't the best, we failed, and then we disappointed someone, mom, dad, or perhaps no one was disappointed, but it sure felt like someone was. Then you grow and as you matriculate through societal norms you begin to realize no matter how hard you try, you will not be the best, not at everything anyway, or anything really. But the Catholic guilt and the crushing weight of disappointment are engrained in you, so you just keep expecting it from yourself, and I guess that's what has kept me from having anything other than a superficial relationship. It's easy to be a superficial hero, ya know." I'm not sure what struck him, or why, but he choked on his next few words as his eyes reddened and tears rolled out. "And I guess that's what I'm truly afraid of, not being the best husband, and not being the best father, and" he paused to breathe and try to stop the tears, "disappointing you." I held his hand and for the next two miles we drove in silence, but for the sound of raindrops on thirty-year-old steel.

He kissed me on the cheek, and before I went backstage, I whispered, "Knotzy, listen to me, if you aren't willing to risk something, then what's the point of playing this stupid game. We gotta put some skin on the table for any of this to matter, and at some point, it has to matter." I let go of his hands, turned, and walked down the stairs to sit at a piano, alone.

As I started playing the melody to O' What A Beautiful Morning for our resident cowboy, I looked to an empty box. No whisky glass, all the chairs perfectly placed beneath the table, the program untouched, and my gut dropped. That was it, two years, and he just ran away. I guess I knew what I was getting into. So, I played measure by measure until the crowd stood and clapped for Curly and crew. I went backstage, retrieved my red coat and clutch, and wondered where I was supposed to go now. I don't know why, but I wandered out into the theater confused, sad, and a little lost...

"Emogene Stein." I turned to the box where he now stood. "Emogene Stein," he walked up to me, rainwater dripping from his hair and navy jacket, "Emogene Stein," he went down to one knee holding a small white gold band crested with a pearl centered between two small black diamonds. "I'm going all in." The ring wasn't in a box of any kind, he was just holding it between two fingers. I didn't say anything, I didn't need to say anything. He slipped the ring onto my finger, and we went for it, because why the hell not.

Our marriage wasn't perfect. We disagreed over how to spend money and where to go on vacations, or more aptly, that we should go on more vacations. But we didn't fight, we discussed things and worked through them. We challenged each other and grew with one another. And then about a year and half after we said I do, a faint pink line showed up next to the bright blue line, and we began to dedicate our lives to something wholly different.

My pregnancy was normal-ish, although we were older at the time of conception than our generational counterparts. But we were healthy and excited. To be parents, to be a family, how lucky were we. He said that all the time. For nine months he would say it with a little flicker in his eye, "Emogene, how lucky are we," and he'd touch my growing belly as he smiled wide.

"Knotzy my man, I don't know if I'm more excited to be a mom, or to watch you be a dad, you're going to be amazing, I can't wait. Also, I want this alien out of me!" That was true, near the end I was ready for the goblin to get out. Incubating a tiny human is insane. I don't understand how God, or Mother Nature, or the Great Earth Spirit, or whatever it is that came up with gestation decided this was the way to go, but we take our licks and persevere - you know, for the kids (wink, wink). Seriously though, I was pumped and old Knotzy was beside himself.

After two bouts with Braxton-Higgs, my water broke on June 26 at 11:11 pm. I remember because as I was laying there soaked from the waist down, my loving husband literally winked at me and said, "11:11, make a wish!" I punched him in the shoulder, he grabbed the bag and we got in the diesel wagon to head to the hospital.

We never did the gender reveal thing. We decided to take a wait and see approach. Vince threw my own words back in my face on this one, saying what's the point if we don't take a little risk. I rolled my eyes and capitulated. Either way, we had the name picked out. Old man Knotz had a long family tradition of naming the first-born son Vincent. I changed the rules a bit and told him we'd go with Vincent either way, boy or girl, if it was a girl, we'd call her Vincey. Everything was ready.

I don't remember much after getting to the hospital. Pain, I do remember pain, and blood, or maybe I just heard the word blood, I don't think I saw the blood. I do remember thinking it was taking an awfully long time, and now that I'm thinking about it, I remember overhearing a conversation between the twenty-something doctor and Knotzy.

"She's losing too much blood; you have to make a choice."

Knotz turned his head to the white, unforgiving tile, and blinked five times fast, "a choice," he barely whispered, "a choice between what?"

"Mr. Knotz, I'm very sorry, we don't have a lot a of time, it's either the baby or your wife, we need to know, now."

"No, no, no, you can save them both, this is 2022, this isn't the frontier, you can save them both."

The doctor did not relent, "Mr. Knotz, we have less than three minutes to make this decision."

Knotz grabbed my hand and almost involuntarily said, "she'd choose the baby, she'd the choose the baby." With that Vincent Knotz was escorted out of the room and medical personnel worked feverishly to save the small child's life as my heart monitor flatlined to a single elongated tone.

Mr. Knotz was permitted to bring his newborn daughter into the room to say goodbye to his wife and her mother. Although I was already gone, at least I knew he wouldn't have to sit alone in that box anymore, and maybe it's not true, but I swear I heard the first words Knotz said to his newborn baby girl, "Vincey, finding love is one thing, but to live within that love for a lifetime is something wholly different."