The Bealcan

Robert learned what heartburn was at 12, not long after a dinner of pancakes and orange juice. It felt like a burp coming on but it seemed to jam halfway up. His chest grew crowded and hot. He kept opening his throat and moving his lower jaw forward, which usually brought up a belch. All he got were ear pops.

That was it. After that Robert had heartburn if he drank citrus juice. If he ate uncooked tomatoes. If he snacked before bed. It was as if some digestive part of him failed, that first night when he was 12, like a valve insufficiently closed or a hinge broke, making a place of vulnerability in him.

He was protective about it. He tended to curl around his stomach no matter what he was doing. He sat with his legs crossed at the knee, his arms folded over his chest. He stood with his shoulders curved forward. Acute observers thought him inhibited. He would have said it was gas.

Deborah had understood his problem. They’d always dined well but with limited spices, and they never snacked after supper. Which took off the ten pounds that had weighed on Deborah: the bulk like butter that crowded her lap and bounced independently when she danced. Living with Robert had clothing fitness benefits for Deborah, but other than that they were like their diet: well but not spicy, successful and bland.

Things were different with Jill. She was direct like Deborah had been, but much more forceful. He had described his reflux problem but that was awhile ago and on an intellectual level. It was another matter to feel the old burn while out to dinner with her.

He hadn’t expected it. The good thing about his heart attack scare, besides the reassurance he received after the full scan, was the prescription for Protonix.

He had been able to toss his Tums. He found he could even drink orange juice again. So he hadn’t expected a dining problem. He’d thought he could treat Jill to good food and fine conversation, and maybe try another kiss, later, after they pulled out of their customary hug. Now all he could imagine was the suppression he’d have to make not to burp in her face. The effort to resist relief.

Maybe his body was trying to tell him something.

“What would you like for dessert?” he asked. It was customary for them to share one. Robert would rather skip more food, and always before he would have been comfortable saying so, but something was different between them lately. Ever since their kiss fiasco. Not awkward, exactly: just less verbal.

“Want to share the pot de creme?” It was mocha flavored, which didn’t suit Jill as much as chocolate would have, but they ordered one.

They had finished dessert and were preparing to leave as Robert’s Protonix went to work. His hand lifted but made an inadequate barrier, and with all the vigor and embarrassment of a 13-year old, he belched across the table.

(to be continued next Wednesday)