Man of the Year

by Caroline Louise Walker

  “That’s ridiculous.” I opened her door.

  She made sure every inch of red satin was tucked into the car before looking back up at me and saying, “It’s not.”

  It’s not.

  Luna Parks does, in fact, hate my wife. So do half the women who smiled at her tonight. They hate her for the same reason their husbands love her, which is that they all know what Elizabeth is capable of. She’s capable of adultery. I’m their proof. They know I’m capable of the same, of course. We’d both been married. We’d both cheated. What sets us apart is that we fell in love. We made it work. We were the rare exception to the rule, as evidenced by this marriage—ten years in October—far outlasting our previous marriages. My secretary, Simone, tells me that ten is the diamond anniversary, but Elizabeth insists that it’s aluminum. Pliability, she tells me, is the reference. Strong but flexible. That’s all well and good, but I’ll be damned if I give her Reynolds Wrap come autumn, so Simone is helping me find the perfect earrings. We’re zeroing in. None of that matters to our neighbors, though. Time and commitment can’t rewrite our origin story. Diamonds or tin, these Sag women remember, and they still hold a grudge, and they still hold their husbands close, because—I’m no fool—their horny husbands remember too.

  Leaving the Yacht Club tonight, I’d felt content. We all did, despite having been detained by Luna Parks for half an hour. Elizabeth unbuckled her shoes. The boys unwound in the backseat, loosening their ties and laughing about who knows what. Jonah interrogated Elizabeth about food in our fridge.

  “Do we have stuff for nachos?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Quesadillas?”

  “Sure.”

  “Margaritas?”

  “Jonah.”

  “Dessert?”

  The marina is only ten minutes from home, but we detoured for ice cream. When the ice cream shop was closed, Elizabeth sent Jonah and Nick into the supermarket for four pints of Ben & Jerry’s and four plastic spoons. We ate right there in the car because we couldn’t be bothered to put on shoes and step outside. We couldn’t wait. I opened the sunroof. We looked for stars. I spilled Phish Food on my tuxedo shirt, destroying it completely and not caring one bit. Elizabeth ate her mint chip from a spoon turned upside down, like she does. She looked so beautiful staring up at the moon—her bare feet propped on the dash, her gold toenail polish reflecting fluorescent light—sucking her spoon like a lollipop. It was a moment worthy of intrusive photographers lurking over my shoulder. It was a moment I would like to have captured.

  Things got melty. We came home. Jonah and I went upstairs to change out of our formalwear, but Elizabeth insisted upon first bringing fresh towels to the guesthouse. As for Nick, he was doing whatever it is he does. Brooding. Thinking deep thoughts. Accepting fresh towels from my wife.

  I assumed we would all end the night the same way it began: a family toast without fanfare—a toast to me for my once-in-a-lifetime honor. Was my expectation self-indulgent? Of course. Absolutely. But just for one night out of thousands and thousands in my life, that was sort of the point, wasn’t it? Usually I’m showing up for other people’s indulgent parties, or doing nice things for them, or taking care of them, even though that’s my job. I shouldn’t have needed to make a special request for it to end in peace. It should have been a sleepy coda. Eventless. Pleasant. I don’t believe that’s asking too much. I don’t believe in too much of a good thing, or in cups running over—or rather, that overflow is dangerous—but Elizabeth must, because she hacked a leak into my nice evening, and now we’re up here arguing in coarse whispers behind a closed door.

  “You’re acting crazy,” she tells me.

  “It was a perfectly reasonable reaction,” I reply.

  “It’s insane.”

  “Insane? Sort of a hysterical choice of words, don’t you think?”

  She huffs and abandons me to brush her teeth.

  I’m not acting crazy. Maybe I misunderstood, but my initial assessment was fair and reasonable. What I saw is what seemed crazy. I’d gone out to the guesthouse to find her. Plain and simple. I’d been waiting forever for our cozy debrief. Fifteen minutes at least, maybe more. Plenty of time to deliver the laundry. And yes, I opened the door without knocking, because the guesthouse is my property, but she didn’t need to jump when I caught her leaning close to Nick, whispering numbers and watching him enter them into his phone. She yelped when she saw me. She shouted my name.

  “Bobby!” She’d laughed. “You scared me.”

  “What’s there to be afraid of?” I’d asked.

  She told me Nick somehow never got the alarm code to the house, so she was making sure he had it. In case of an emergency. Well, he never got the code because no one ever gave it to him, mystery solved. But fine. It makes sense now. No big deal.

  On the other side of the wall, Elizabeth spits toothpaste and begins to gargle. I throw my tuxedo shirt into the garbage and do my best to hang the rest, cummerbund and all, while shaping my argument. When she comes back into the bedroom and crosses her arms tightly against her chest, I state my case: “All I’m saying is, you don’t have to be so defensive.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If it’s not a big deal, then why are you making it a big deal?”

  “It’s not any sort of deal,” she says. “I’m just sorry to see you so insecure.”

  Well, there it is. She has a knack. She knows my loudest nerves and how to strike them with ease and elegance. I want to drop it, honestly I do, but wanting and doing are at odds tonight. I end up saying, “I could ask the same of you.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. Seeking attention and validation from a college kid? C’mon, Elizabeth. It’s too soon for a midlife crisis.”

  She doesn’t flinch. We’re locked in a silent standoff. Four, five seconds at least. I win when she opens her mouth. “Why don’t you take the couch tonight.”

  I roll my eyes. “Because I don’t want to sleep on the couch. You’re being absurd.”

  “Just for tonight,” she says. “I love you. I am so proud of you. I really am, but I am not having a midlife crisis, and I am not doing this tonight.” She doesn’t even look mad, just tired.

  “You’re drunk,” I tell her.

  “I’m really not.”

  “He’s not some Dickens character, you know. He’s not Oliver Twist or whatever.”

  She thrusts sheets against my chest. “Good night, Bobby.”

  “This is stupid, Elizabeth. All I was saying is that if you’re going to start handing out our personal security codes, maybe you want to run it by me first. That’s all.”

  She shrugs, spiting me by not reacting, and because yes, I want her to engage—is that so bad?—I aim for guilt. “This was my night. Is it really that hard to just give me one night?”

  Elizabeth switches off her lamp, burrows under blankets, and curls up with her back turned to me. “Good night, Robert.”

  She gives me nothing. I take my leave.

  How did this happen? An hour ago, I was Man of the Year, and now I’m persona non grata, standing in the hallway hugging goose down in the dark, wondering if Elizabeth has lost her mind—or if she’s right. Am I being unreasonable? There really is nothing wrong with the boy, but there’s nothing wrong with communicating, either. She should have asked me before handing out the code. She should have delivered the laundry and returned to my side for one last toast.

  I carry my pillows, flat sheet, and silk fleece blanket down to my office and make up the couch. It’s a daybed, technically: nice for naps and domestic disputes. Had I known this piece of furniture would turn on me, I’d have left it on the floor at Restoration Hardware. I’m all worked up now, though, and hardly tired, so I head to the wet bar in the living room to fix myself a drink. Chivas and soda. Through a wall of windows, I watch the blurry silhouettes of my son and his friend, masked behind curtains and yellow light in the guesthouse across the yard. I step outside. Muffled music radiate
s from this little after-hours the boys have going.

  Bob Marley. Legend.

  The half-moon is electric tonight, and the air is warm, so I close the door and take a seat in a reclining pool chair. I wonder if I’m imagining the smell of pot coming from the guesthouse—if it’s my paternal projection born of experience, because I was once twenty, too—and decide that yes, I’m probably imagining it, and no, it isn’t my business anyway.

  “Three Little Birds” begins, and I relax. Across the yard and behind a door, my son and his friend laugh. Why would I hesitate to let Nick feel at home here? What kind of father would give Elizabeth’s hospitality a second thought? It’s true: Nick isn’t a stranger. He’s been coming around all year. Last summer, he and Jonah would go to the beach to watch girls, then come back to my house to eat all my food. He didn’t bother me then, nor does he bother me now, I just never got a feel for the boy. He never sent thank-you notes acknowledging our generosity. He never brought a houseplant or a box of pastries. Of course, I never expected thank-you notes from Jonah’s high school friends, who were far less gracious or considerate—splattering the kitchen with queso and Mountain Dew, blasting Call of Duty after midnight, sneaking girls over to skinny-dip in our pool when Jonah was asleep but I wasn’t—so maybe I should cut the kid some slack.

  Besides, Elizabeth’s assessment is dead-on. It’s been good for Jonah to have a friend, any friend. My son is making smart choices. He came home this summer to save money and take extra classes, for crying out loud—composition or something like it at Stony Brook, where Elizabeth teaches—and he’s staying with me, for once. Jonah’s not a screwup. He’s just hard to read, despite being my own flesh and blood, because even though he’s half me, Vanessa shifted his balance when she got custody. Primary custody. Adultery is good ammo, after all. She hated me, and she hated Elizabeth even more. She hates us both a little less now, though. And Jonah is a little less complicated these days. He has someone to hang out and listen to music with like a normal college kid. I should encourage this normalcy.

  The boys change records, shifting from reggae to funk. A cool breeze reminds me that I’m only wearing boxer shorts. Goose bumps travel across my arms and legs. I down the last of my drink and feel sleep calling, but before I can answer, the guesthouse door opens. A blast of volume disrupts the night’s calm. Great. The neighbors will call our HOA to complain in the morning.

  “Night, man,” Jonah says, and Nick replies with something I can’t hear beneath a rush of bass and horns. Then the door closes, muffling the music once again, and Jonah is shuffling through the grass with his head down. Even from my perch at the deep end of the pool, I smell pot as he passes the shallow end. He never looks up. He doesn’t see his old man sitting in the dark in his underwear, holding an empty highball glass, watching. He just goes inside and, mercifully, forgets to lock the door behind him, so I’ll be able to get back inside without making a scene. Lucky me.

  A George Clinton track ends. Earth, Wind & Fire begins. Through glass, I watch Jonah climb the stairs and disappear on the landing, and I allow a minute for him to brush his teeth and take a leak, then I head inside too.

  Jonah

  I brush my teeth, take a leak, and roll into bed. So that wasn’t a total disaster: the party, the small talk. I warned Nick that this night would fall somewhere between corny and mortifying, but the music wasn’t half bad, and those teriyaki skewers were legit; plus, Dad barely acknowledged me in his speech, which is a major upgrade from what I’d expected, which was that he’d embarrass the shit out of me, so that’s cool.

  My stupid headphones are downstairs, way too far at the moment, so I stomach silence and check my phone to make sure Kayla didn’t text.

  She didn’t. I mean, why would she? Except maybe she’s waiting for me to text her. But it’s two in the morning and what am I going to say? What’s up? That’s dumb.

  So whatever. I’ll wait.

  I don’t even have to close my eyes to picture the way her hair sort of lit up in the sun.

  I don’t even know why she’d text me, anyway.

  God, I’d kill for a teriyaki stick right now.

  My phone buzzes and my gut reaction is, Maybe it’s Kayla, which basically feels like my guts have been electrocuted, but then I look and it’s just Nick and I’m weirdly bummed—weird only because I didn’t explicitly ask her to text me (did I?)—and I have to remind myself to stop being an idiot.

  Nick’s text: “Nothing tmrw, right?”

  I text back: “Nada. You’re off the hook from here on out.” No more family parties, family photos, family commitments for a family that’s not his. We get a few days to chill before he has to peace out.

  He sends a thumbs-up.

  I plug my phone into its charger and roll onto my stomach to get some sleep. I’m not going to obsess about this girl tonight. I’m not even going to think about her, I promise myself, which basically guarantees she’s all I’ll think about. It’s so stupid. I hardly know her. I’d never even talked to her until—what was it? Four days ago? Five? It was the day Nick got here, which was Tuesday, so I guess five days ago now? Practically nothing.

  I mean, I knew about her, obviously. Everyone knows what happened between Kayla Scott and J.R. Voss. Plus, we went to high school together and everything, but she was a sophomore when I was a senior—not that age matters to her, considering what happened with Mr. Voss.

  On the day Nick got here, when we pulled into the parking lot by the beach and saw those guys shit-talking Kayla, I was shocked but not surprised to hear them calling her a cocktease and jailbait and a slut, but the really disturbing part was how Kayla was with her little sister. I mean, come on. That’s a little off-sides. The two of them were holding hands and had their heads down, just trying to cross the road, but those douche bags were blocking the exit and making stupid-ass porn sounds like a bunch of crazy cavemen. Nick doesn’t know anyone here, so he had nothing to lose by shouting at them, “Yo, what’s your problem?”

  They were high-school brats—maybe even Kayla’s classmates, now that I think about it—trying to act all tough, so then they came for us, like, “Who the fuck are you?” Behind them, Kayla gave me and Nick a nod like thanks and bolted across the road with her sister while I shouted at the punks, “Yeah, what’s your fucking problem?”

  The douche bags were all talk, though. They got in their fancy cars and peeled out of there, blasting shitty music from expensive speakers.

  Nick was like, “Do you know that girl?”

  And I was like, “Not really,” and told him all about Kayla and how she used to babysit for the Voss kids but then tried to blackmail Mr. Voss by saying he’d molested her or whatever, but so then Mr. Voss called her bluff and was like, Prove it, and all of a sudden she was like, Oops, my bad. That never happened.

  “Did it happen?” Nick asked me.

  “Dude, look at her,” I said. Kayla was all the way down near the water by then, but even from a distance it was obvious she’s all woman, not some helpless little girl.

  “I don’t even know what that means,” Nick said, “but that dude sounds shady.”

  Nick didn’t grow up here, so he wouldn’t understand, but J.R. Voss is like a pillar of our community or whatever. I mean, he’s not perfect. I even said to Nick, “They probably fucked and she thought he was going to leave his wife, and when he didn’t, she went psycho. Who knows. But, I mean, she basically ruined his life. She practically called him a child molester.”

  And Nick was like, “I don’t know, man. If the whole point was to get revenge, why would she ruin her own life too?”

  For real, though, I’d never thought about it like that. I’d only ever thought of it how Dad does, which is that the whole thing is a total disgrace. So I was like, “Good point. It’s all gossip anyway. Who knows what really happened.”

  “Who knows,” Nick said.

  Later on, Kayla came up to us when her sister was playing near the water and said, “Thanks for before
.”

  Nick was like, “Don’t thank us for being decent. Those guys are dicks. Sorry you have to deal with people like that,” which kind of annoyed me, because come on, dude. Laying it on a little thick. Except obviously he was right. I felt bad for Kayla then.

  She introduced herself and we did the same, and she nodded toward her sister and said, “I usually bring her out in the morning when it’s empty. Lesson learned, I guess. Anyway, nice to meet you guys.” And she left.

  I wasn’t surprised when Nick said later on, “Wanna hit up the beach again tomorrow? A little earlier, maybe?”

  I didn’t tell him I was thinking the same thing.

  So I guess it was, like, nine when we got there the next day. Nick went for a run and I was reading alone when I sensed someone walking toward me. I didn’t want to seem too eager, though, or like a stalker, so I pretended not to notice until she was standing over me saying, “Hey.”

  I made a show of pulling my earbuds out of my ears and acting like I hadn’t heard her before when I went, “Huh?”

  She said, “Hey,” again.

  I nodded.

  “Where’s your friend?”

  I jerked my head toward the far end of the beach. “Down there somewhere. Jogging.”

  “Ambitious,” she said, and she sat down next to me without asking.

  “You just graduated, right?” (I wanted to kill myself for admitting I knew who she was.)

  “Yeah, finally,” she said. “I can’t wait to get the hell out of here.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She laughed. “Didn’t you just get back for the summer?” (So, hey, she knows me too.)

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I get it. You going to school far away or something?”

  “No.” Her red hair fell in her face and kind of glowed from the sunlight. “I’m taking a year off. A gap year, as they say in Australia.” She said that last part in a really bad Aussie accent, which made us both laugh. “My grandma gave me an around-the-world ticket for graduation. She’s sort of my savior.”