“Good grief,” I said, and my face turned red.
“No need to be embarrassed. Your young and supple body was a lot more interesting than the cadaver they gave me in medical school.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear.” I giggled.
“Her name was Susie Q. We all named our cadavers. Would you like some more wine?”
“Thank you. Yes. And a straw.”
He refilled my goblet, I took a big sip, and then he took my glass away, putting it down on the kitchen counter.
“Dance with me.”
He took my hand and we danced slowly, moving together the same way we had in high school. It was lovely and I felt young and alive. And excited. I was falling in love with Jonathan again, wondering why I had wasted all those years with Wes. Jonathan and I were as perfectly designed for each other as two adult humans could ever be. When “It’s Not for Me to Say” played, he held me tighter; and by the time “Wonderful, Wonderful” came on, well, let’s just say Harlan’s den sofa got a hot and steamy workout and Miss JP was howling at the moon. We only relented and decided to have dinner when the shrill, insistent ringing of the oven timer had to be quelled.
“Johnny Mathis is dangerous,” he said.
“So are you, Dr. Ray.”
“I’m famished,” he said.
“I’m going to feed you like a king,” I said and laughed.
The dining room table looked gorgeous. Harlan’s celadon plates against the white fish mousse sliced over a bed of pink creamy lobster sauce and those tiny little potatoes all glistening with butter and sprinkled with parsley were a very pretty sight. I almost pulled out my phone and took a picture, but I decided it was better to appear cool. Oh yes, that was the new me, the coy one.
“This is delicious, Leslie. If I’d known you could cook like this, I’d have swept you away from Wesley years ago.”
“Thanks! And we’d both weigh nine hundred pounds by now.”
“Oh, this isn’t the low-cal version?”
“Um, no. Well, if you take out the cream and the butter and the egg yolks, it’s low fat. But listen, we don’t eat like this every day. Would you like some salad?”
“Yes, but first I want more fish. Should I just help myself?”
What did he do? Inhale it? I guess he liked my cooking.
“No, hon, I’ll get it for you. You sit.”
I’d left everything on the stove to keep it warm. I refilled his plate and came back to the table.
“You may address me as King Jonathan.”
“Your Majesty,” I said and put the plate in front of him. “Poor Wes. As much as I dread even the sound of his voice, I feel sorry for him. Cancer of any kind is very frightening.”
“Yeah, it is. So what are you going to do? Are you going to take a trip to Atlanta and see what you can do for him?”
“I don’t know. I guess I should, but I really don’t want to. What would you do if your ex-wife called you with something like this, asking for your help?”
He was quiet for a moment, clearly thinking of an answer. “I’d probably go see what I could do. I mean, she’s the mother of my children, you know? It would be weird, but I’d go.”
“And he’s the father of mine. Or the tyrant. Jonathan, I know I sound like a shrew, but I just don’t want to leave Charleston. And I don’t want to leave you.”
“Les, I’m not going anywhere, and neither is the Holy City. You go and do what you think you should do. But don’t be gone for too long.”
“I won’t. Can you watch Miss Jo?”
We looked under the table and there she was, asleep on Jonathan’s feet. She liked me well enough, but she adored him. So did I.
CHAPTER 16
Wes Is Scared
I was sitting in the family room watching television with my son, Bertie, who had grown dreadlocks. I couldn’t even look at him. I guess he thought his hair made him look like an artsy-fartsy photographer. I thought it made him look like a bum. I mean, if anybody ever interviewed with me that looked like him? Please. He’d never get past Human Resources in the first place, but if he did, I’d ask him kindly not to waste my time. And he wondered why the world didn’t take him seriously? Really? How about let’s start with some basic grooming, like a shower? Everything about him had this funny smell. Even Martha, after smelling his laundry, expressed her disgust in her native tongue and quit. Les wouldn’t be too happy about that, if she came back here to live that is.
Les should’ve arrived already. Maybe her flight was late. Who knew? But it was getting late. I had thought there for a while that she wasn’t going to come, but she relented in the end. I think the fact that she heard me choke up did the trick.
Charlotte was in her old room putting Holly to sleep. Yes, Charlotte had moved back in because business was so terrible she couldn’t make her rent. I really didn’t care too much because it was a little lonely being without Les and all, and I loved having little Holly’s arms around my neck. But in the long run I didn’t think it was the best situation.
It was after ten and I heard the front door open. Les was here. I got up to go greet her, which I thought was the right thing to do even though this was her house, and old Bertie, wiped out from his long flight, didn’t budge. Hadn’t seen his mother in a year and he couldn’t be bothered to get off the sofa. Nice. I felt like giving him a swift kick, but I ignored him and went out to the hall. You can’t go to war over everything.
“Hey! You’re here! How was your flight?”
“It was okay. How come no one picked me up at the airport?”
Oh, crap. Did we forget? Wait, I wasn’t going there.
“Because you never told me when your flight was.”
“Oh. I guess you’re right.”
She put her roll-on bag by the stairs and dropped her purse on the hall table where she always had. “So how are you?”
“Nervous. I have to be there at six thirty in the morning.”
“Oh, you’ll be just fine, Wes.”
“I can’t eat or drink after midnight.”
“That’s standard. Is Bertie here?”
“Yeah, he’s out back in the family room. Draped across the sofa, and don’t be too shocked when you see him. He’s got braided hair like a Rasta man. And his feet are encrusted with something—probably dirt.”
“Oh dear,” she said.
“And Charlotte’s moved back in. Can’t make the rent, it seems.”
She looked at me with that How could you allow something so impossibly stupid to happen? look of hers. I just shrugged my shoulders and kept walking toward the den.
“Bertie! Get up and say hello to your mother!” I said.
Bertie unfolded himself and stood, placed his hands together, and looked at his mother. “Namaste,” he said.
“Namaste, my ass,” I grumbled.
“Oh, Bertie,” she cried, like the Dalai Lama had dropped in for a slice of blueberry pie. “Come let me give my boy a hug!”
Then Bertie hugged Les like he hadn’t seen her in forever, and she hugged him back with all her might. I guess that old saying about mothers and their sons was true, although my mother never hugged me like that. But then, my father never believed in showing children too much affection. He said it made them weak. Maybe it was coincidence, but it appeared my father was at least partially right.
“How’s Nepal?” she said.
“Well, we didn’t find the Yeti yet. Ha! Ha!” Bertie said, just like the half-wit I suspected he was. “But Kathmandu is awesome. I took some pictures out in Pashupatinath last week I want to show you. Monkeys everywhere, even a funeral pyre. Really amazing.”
If I had a dime for every time he’s said awesome and amazing in the last twenty-four hours, I could buy Charlotte a two-bedroom condo. And furnish it.
“Oh, my sweet boy!” Les said, and her eyes actually filled with tears. “It’s just so wonderful to see you. My goodness! Look at your hair! Is this really your hair? It looks dusty!”
“I
t’s the dust of the Himalayas and a thousand bodhisattvas.”
“Boddis—who?”
“Saints, Mom. Hindu saints, enlightened ones.”
“My goodness, Bertie! I didn’t even know they had saints over there!”
“Awesome,” he said.
I thought for a moment Leslie had really come home to see Bertie and taking care of me was the price to pay. But then I said to myself, Why are you jealous of your own son? That’s stupid!
“Yeah. My hair. Pretty crazy, huh?”
“I imagine it’s normal in your realm,” Les said.
“Hey, Les,” I said, thinking, You can marvel over his dirty hair some other time, “why don’t you and I sit down for a moment? I just want to go over some things about tomorrow.”
“Sure. You want me to make a pot of coffee?”
“Nah, I gotta be asleep in an hour. Let’s get a nightcap, and then I’m gonna turn in.”
“Okay. Feel like a snack?”
“I ate. You didn’t get supper?” I went to my office to get my extraspecial twenty-five-year-old single malt whiskey, something worthy of this occasion. It cost me a pretty penny, let me tell you. I kept it under lock and key. Otherwise my daughter would be putting ice and diet soda in it. Sacrilege! No, no. Since Charlotte came home? I keep the bar stocked with an array of bargain-priced white wines and she’s not complaining.
“No. But I’m not famished. I’m just going to make a tomato sandwich unless you’re saving this one for something?”
Was she asking permission to take a tomato from her own kitchen? Why would she do that? Or maybe she didn’t feel like it was her kitchen anymore?
“Help yourself!” I called out and then rejoined her.
Before I could say another thing to her, here came Charlotte with Holly on her hip.
“Gammy!” she said and threw her arms out to Les. “I miss you!”
“Hey, Mom,” Charlotte said and gave Les a peck on the cheek. “She wouldn’t go to sleep until she got to give you a hug.”
It seemed to me that Les and Charlotte were a little chilly to each other and I wondered what that was about. Maybe I was imagining things. In my present state of mind, I mean with me facing the knife and all, anything was possible.
“Come here, you sweet little darlin’, and give me some sugar!”
Leslie took Holly in her arms and Holly threw her skinny little legs around Les’s waist and her arms around her neck, squeezing her as hard as she could.
“Now, you go to bed, young lady! It’s very, very late!” Les said.
Holly whimpered and hung on tighter. Charlotte pried her away, and Les and Holly blew kisses to each other until she was out of sight.
Les refocused on her lettuce and tomato sandwich, which was looking very good and I was thinking then that I might like one too.
“Sure you don’t want one?” she asked, reading my mind.
“Well, okay,” I said, “it might be my last. You want a glass of wine or something?”
“Sure. A glass of white wine would be nice.”
She put my sandwich together, sliced it in two big triangles and put it on a plate, sliding it across the table to where my drink waited. She sat in her old chair, and I put a glass of white wine in front of her. For a moment, it seemed like nothing was out of order, like she had never left. I sat down and raised my glass to her.
“Cheers!” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Cheers,” she said. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“Leslie, we have to talk.”
“About what?”
“I’ve had a premonition, Leslie. I have this horrible feeling that something is going to go wrong tomorrow and I’m going to die.”
“What’s the premonition? A bad dream or what?”
“No, it’s just a feeling. Leslie, I’m so scared.”
She looked at me with her most solemn face and said, “Wes, I think what you’re feeling is pretty normal. I really do. I mean, when’s the last time you were in a hospital?”
“When I took that stress test for the insurance company? But here’s the thing, they got me taking a statin for cholesterol, something else for blood pressure, an aspirin, a diuretic . . . what if those meds get mixed up with the anesthesia? I might have a stroke or something terrible. Actually, I quit taking my aspirin a week ago because it’s like a blood thinner and I might not clot. I mean, can you imagine how awful it would be to bleed out through the balls? What would my obituary say about that?”
“Wes? That’s gross, and it’s not going to happen. I’m going to drive you there in the morning and we’re going to fill out all the ten pounds of paperwork and then they’re going to put you to sleep . . .”
“Will you keep my wallet and my wristwatch?”
“Of course I will. And then I’m going to stay until you’re out of surgery and then I guess we’ll see what the doctors say. Either you’ll come home or you’ll stay overnight.”
“Listen, if the worst happens, the key to my files is taped under the center drawer of my desk. In my files are my will and all my insurance policies and everything you’d need to bury me.”
I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to leave this world! I still had so much to do!
In a moment of kindness, she reached across the table and put her hand over mine and squeezed.
“Come on, Wes. You’re going to be fine. They do this surgery all the time.”
I knew this was a stupid thing to say, but I said it anyway. “You know, Leslie, this is going to cut back my sperm production like crazy.”
“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you really want more kids? You’re kidding, right?”
And then we started to laugh, laugh like we had not laughed since college. Leslie had such a great sense of humor. Why did I always tell her it was lame?
“Oh, God! That was good, Les. Can you imagine more of them?”
“Seriously. I look at these families that have five kids or more and I just wonder how much the parents drink.”
“If there was ever anything that could drive you to the bottle, five children would do it.”
“No kidding. Can you imagine the laundry?”
“And the expense! Whew! I feel better. I do. Thanks. You’re funny, you know?”
“Good. Look, why don’t you get yourself upstairs to bed,” she said. “I’ll close up down here.”
“You’re a gem, Les. Thank you for everything. I’ll see you in a bit?”
“Wes, you just go on to bed and go to sleep. You don’t need me tossing and turning and kicking you if you snore. I’ll stay in the guest room tonight.”
And suddenly it hit me. She wasn’t coming home to be with me. She was doing this out of some sense of duty, not because she loved me. I’d lost her.
“You’re never coming back, are you?” I said.
Quiet hung in the room like something dark and terrible, and I really didn’t want to hear her answer.
“Oh, Wes, right now we’re going to take care of you. We can talk about us when this is all over.”
“Les, if I come through this, there’s someone I want us to go and see.”
“Let’s talk tomorrow.”
I realized then that everyone in the house had hugged and kissed her except me, yet it felt awkward for me to touch her.
I stood and put my glass and plate in the sink. “You’re probably right,” I said. “We can talk about everything later. Please say a prayer for me, Les.”
“You know I will, Wes. Now, stop worrying and go get your rest.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Les.”
“For what? The sandwich?”
“For everything.”
She got up and said, “Come on, you old bear, let’s have a hug.”
I felt so much better. It was awesome and amazing just how much better I felt.
CHAPTER 17
Les the Nurse
I woke up at five and dressed quickly. It wasn’t like I’d had the best n
ight’s sleep anyway. Every time I rolled over and realized I was back in Atlanta, sleeping in my own guest room no less, I felt my chest tighten with anxiety. For as determined as I was to be kind to Wes and our children, I was completely annoyed with them all. Forgive me if this sounds petty. It wasn’t just Wes who dropped his plate and glass in the sink, it was that Charlotte and Bertie too had been leaving their dirty dishes in there all day long. Now, did they not know that the dishwasher was strategically located exactly next to the sink? Just who was supposed to clean it all up? Had they left it for me? Obviously, they had.
Last night on the way upstairs with my bag that neither Wes nor Bertie had bothered to take up for me, I opened the door of the laundry room and immediately wished that I had not. There were wet towels, sheets, and clothes piled up to the sky. Who was supposed to wash, dry, and fold this mountain? Well, since Martha’s unfortunate departure, it was waiting for me! Was this to show me how much I was needed?
But it was a new day, and I had other priorities. I’d get Wes through his surgery and then I’d raise hell. I started a pot of coffee and began to empty the loaded dishwasher. As soon as I finished putting everything away, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went upstairs to wake Wes.
“Time to shake a leg, Wes.”
“Okay, thanks. How much time do I have?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
I went back downstairs, turned off the alarm, and went outside to see if the newspaper had arrived. It had not, so I walked around to my backyard to see how it was doing. It did not appear to have suffered very much from the heat or my neglect. Amazing. I had thought the July heat would have fried it to a crisp, but it looked pretty good. At least our landscaper had not jumped ship. The flowerpots looked a bit dry, and the edges of my hosta were brittle. If I had time I’d get out my shears and clean it all up. Then I thought, Why, this isn’t my garden anymore!
I heard the familiar slap of the newspaper as it slid across the bricks of our front walkway, so I went back around front and picked it up. The Wall Street Journal. No Atlanta Journal Constitution except on Sundays.
The Last Original Wife Page 19
