Jonah’s already casting his vote. “Cheese for me.”
“Nick?” she asks.
“I’ll eat whatever.”
“Robert?”
I give in. What the hell. “Sausage and olive. I’ll pick it up.”
Elizabeth nods. “White with parsley for me.” She seems to be suggesting I should place the order, too. She hands me a corkscrew. “Would you crack open a red?”
I choose to interpret her requests as deference, not demand. She trusts my taste. She ought to. It’s hard to tell, though, if I’d have placed deference and demand on weighted scales if Nick weren’t here watching. There seems to be something about the extra set of eyes—his particular set of extra eyes—that rattles our resting state, as though we are all engaged in performance art, knowingly or otherwise. Subtle and reckless performance: improvisation directed by our guest, who doubles as an audience of one. There are things we can say without reproach when Nick’s in the room. Other things get cut from the scene. There’s this tone Elizabeth is taking—not just of authority, but of ownership, so resolute—that feels enhanced, amped up for show. Jonah’s reserve reads as swagger when Nick’s around, and somehow, I fetch things. I become not the man of the house, but its manservant. How strange.
Last night, in this very kitchen, we were straightening bow ties and raising martini glasses, preparing to attend a gala honoring me and only me. People sang my praises to thunderous applause. Twelve hours ago, I was giving my wife the best orgasm of her life. I’d like to think my loved ones weren’t just toasting me because the city deemed me special, that Elizabeth would want me even if she wasn’t obligated by matrimony. I’d like to believe we don’t need outside entities to validate our love or worth. We don’t need an audience to be our best.
And yet.
I observe the small adjustments being made on account of our guest. Jonah is setting the table without being asked. He’s setting it because Nick started it, and now Elizabeth is wiping down placemats we hardly ever use. I seem to be the only one immune to Nick’s charms. Charms, like magic. Maybe dark arts, maybe not. Either way, it isn’t cute, even though the table does look nice. Even though my wife and child are intoxicated and delighted. Even though. I feel like the only sober guy at the bar after midnight, watching people feel sexier and smarter and stronger than they are, right before the embarrassments begin.
Elizabeth waves her hand in front of my face and says, “Earth to Robert.”
I blink away the blur.
“Wine, please?” she asks with a smile.
• • •
The line at Bella Torta is obscene. I guess no one cooks on Sundays anymore. It takes fifteen minutes just to place my order for one regular pie and one with half sausage and olive, half white with parsley.
“We can only divide white pizzas with other white pizzas,” the cashier tells me.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” I lean toward her and say, “My wife can handle sauce.”
“Sir,” she drones on, “we can only divide white pizzas with other white pizzas.”
“I’ll pay extra. That’s fine.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to place an order for a pizza we make, or you’ll need to step aside and let this gentleman go.”
I turn around. The big guy invading my space says, “No worries, man. Take your time.” He sounds sincere, but the line threads through the door and along the front window, so I study a menu hanging overhead and settle on one white pie with parsley and a regular pie, half cheese, half sausage and olive. I decline the girl’s attempt to upsell me garlic knots and drinks.
Half an hour passes before the cook calls my name, so there’s no escape when Ben Walters targets me for small talk. He seems to think I care about what went down at the last homeowners’ association meeting, and about how he, as treasurer, proposed a revised landscaping budget that does not include Fraser firs.
When he finally takes a breath, I jump in. “Hey, quick heads-up. Jonah has a houseguest with volume control issues. If you guys get a noise complaint from our neighbors, just know that I’m already on it. Apologies in advance.”
“You talking about Nick?” Ben asks.
I unclench my jaw to say, “Yeah. Am I too late?”
“Nah,” he says. “Good kid. Met him at the market with Elizabeth the other day. He doesn’t seem like trouble.”
“It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” I say.
“Quiet or noisy, which is it?” Ben belly laughs and smacks my arm. “Don’t worry about it. Your stick-up-their-ass neighbors could use a little shake-up, frankly.” With that, Ben returns to his favorite subject: arborist fees. Only when the kitchen calls my name do I excuse myself to ask for extra Parmesan and red pepper flakes, fleeing with greasy boxes and insight into evergreen growth. By the time I pull into the driveway at home, a full hour has passed. Jonah’s truck isn’t on the street.
I enter the house unnoticed. The Beatles are blaring, so Elizabeth and Nick can’t hear me over “Norwegian Wood.” They don’t know to jump or squeal or separate themselves. They’re tangled up in each other, literally waltzing around the living room. She’s holding eye contact with Nick, who’s bobbing his head to the music’s tempo, going, “One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-now-twirl-two-three . . .”
They get jumbled, lose count, and laugh their heads off. I would slow clap if I wasn’t hand-delivering their dinner. Instead, I clear my throat and make a joke. “Well, well. I run out for pizza and look what happens.”
Nick, still laughing, offers to help me with the boxes.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
“Elizabeth was just teaching me how to dance. I’m not very good.”
“No,” I agree. “Not very.”
Elizabeth adjusts the stereo volume and catches her breath but doesn’t look my way.
“I was so awkward on the dance floor the other night,” Nick explains. “I thought I’d get some tips from a pro while I can.”
I laugh. “Yeah, Elizabeth is some pro.”
The front door opens and closes, and Jonah enters with a grocery bag full of fixings for banana splits: Reddi-wip, Magic Shell, crushed peanuts, M&Ms, bananas. He drops his bags and flips open the pizza boxes. “Really, Dad? Four pieces of cheese seemed like enough?”
“They couldn’t split white with sauce,” I try to explain—but Nick is quietly defending me by helping himself to Elizabeth’s pie.
“The cheese is all yours,” he tells Jonah. To me, he says, “My dad used to make white pizza. I love this stuff.”
We avoid acknowledging Nick’s dead dad, but Elizabeth does give Nick a tender smile.
We load up our plates and sit at the table to stuff our faces and talk with our mouths full. I try the white pizza just for kicks and hate to admit (to myself) that it’s the best of the three. We talk and tell stories, and when we’ve made ourselves sick to our stomachs, we stretch and sigh, then gnaw on crust to ensure our misery.
Nick finds us charming, I guess, because he suddenly gets precious about the dinner and the day. “You guys are lucky to have what you have. I never got to go fishing with my dad. I don’t even know if my mom ever fished.”
I can’t stand to ignore him again—to pretend like he’s not desperate to talk about them—so I ask, “And how did they die, Nick?”
Jonah drops his fork. Elizabeth closes her eyes.
Nick doesn’t do drama, though, which I respect. “My mom had ALS,” he tells me, matter-of-fact. “It was long. It was awful. Wore my dad down. He killed himself two months after she died.”
“Oh God,” Elizabeth says, bringing her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”
“Thanks,” he says. “In a way, it’s almost romantic, I guess. Maybe I just tell myself that to cope. But they really loved each other. I think they couldn’t live without each other.”
Elizabeth clutches Nick’s hand and keeps holding it on the table. When no one else takes the bait, I finally
ask. “How did he do it?”
“Jesus, Dad.”
“He put a gun in his mouth,” Nick tells me. “Shot himself in the head.”
“Oh, Nick. We don’t have to talk about this,” says Elizabeth. “I’m so sorry.”
I understand that my wife and son find me brash—their dirty looks make this obvious—but Nick has mentioned his dead parents so many times. He was practically begging to be asked. Plus, I’m trying to make an effort here. Isn’t that what Jonah and Elizabeth want? They have a point, too. It’s weird to have seen his face for so long without knowing him.
“Well, I’m sorry you had to go through that, Nick,” I say. “I’m sorry you lost them so early.”
“Me too,” he says.
Elizabeth lets go of Nick’s hands and clasps her own. She gets a bright idea and asks, “What are you doing for the rest of the summer?”
“I’m not sure,” Nick tells her. “Bum around campus, I guess. Still need to find a job, but I bet Parks and Rec. will take me back.”
Elizabeth shakes her head. “Why don’t you stay here? Give yourself a break, hang with Jonah, enjoy yourself.”
I chew harder.
“Yeah,” Jonah echoes. “Why don’t you?”
All eyes are on Nick, who shakes his head in a sheepish I couldn’t possibly sort of way. He holds up a finger and swallows his food before saying, “Oh my God. Thank you, but I’m afraid you’d get sick of me so fast.”
Elizabeth is on a tear. “No, we really wouldn’t. You’d keep the guesthouse. We all get our own space. It’s ideal.”
Nick wrinkles his face.
Jonah says, “Dude, do it.”
After a moment of apprehension, Nick asks, “Really?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth answers. She can’t stop. “You’d be doing us a favor. Really. We need someone to keep the cobwebs away, don’t we, Robert?”
I’m speechless, truly, because for starters, we already have someone to keep the cobwebs away, and she comes every Tuesday. Moreover, however, I am aghast at her gall. Didn’t we just argue about the importance of running joint decisions by each other? Handing out alarm codes is one thing. Handing out long-term invitations is another altogether.
“Awesome, Dad,” Jonah deadpans. “Thanks for the vote.”
I find my voice. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, Nick. These two drive a hard bargain.”
Elizabeth glares through her wineglass as she throws back its last sip.
“I don’t feel pressured at all,” Nick says. “I’m overwhelmed in a good way, actually.”
To this, Elizabeth lifts her brow and tilts her head as silent code for, See, Bobby?
“You’ve all been so generous,” Nick says. “Like, from the start, you’ve gone above and beyond. I hope you know how much I appreciate everything.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Jonah. “But are you staying?”
“If you really, really mean it, I would love to stay.”
Elizabeth grins. “We really do.”
Jonah says, “Right on.”
Nick looks to me now, waiting for my blessing, I guess. “Dr. Hart? You’re sure I wouldn’t be putting you out?”
My answer is coming, it really is, but Elizabeth gets there first. “Not another word, Nick,” she says. “We’re thrilled to have you. Aren’t we, Robert?” She digs her foot into mine under the table.
“Thrilled,” I say, wincing. “Just thrilled.”
Elizabeth is already up and clearing plates. “Who wants dessert?”
The boys rise to help her make sundaes and plans.
• • •
After dinner, once again, I’m read the riot act behind a closed door. Elizabeth takes a hot shower to cool off, but she’s still seething when she crawls into bed with a towel twisted around her head. I let her stir until she finally asks, “What the hell was that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“For Christ’s sake, Bobby. You just behaved abominably to a guest in our home, and you want to know what I’m talking about?”
“Yeah,” I demand, because there’s no backtracking now. “I do.”
“Everyone was uncomfortable—and I’d like to say, ‘except for you,’ or to believe you truly didn’t notice, but only an asshole could be so oblivious, so either you’re an asshole or you’re a jerk. Neither possibility is particularly appealing. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“You can’t turn my house into a hostel without including me in the decision, then expect me not to care.”
Her chill redirects our storm, pointing now to my bigger error—a mistake already expanding, already overtaking any sound argument I might have made tonight. One singular possessive pronoun, one little word misfired, and I’m screwed. “Your house?” she asks.
“You know what I meant.” But the damage is done.
“Well, I guess you meant your house, not ours.”
“Lizzie,” I say, “knock it off.”
“Don’t call me that.” She holds up her hands and steps away when I reach for her. “Don’t touch me, Robert.”
“It’s our house. It’s your house as much as mine, you know that.”
“Great. Then you won’t mind sharing our guesthouse with an orphan who happens to be your son’s best friend. The place will be empty all summer. Nobody’s using it. Did you not hear him say how much this means to him? Where is the problem?”
“Okay.” I aim low. “Do you want to know my problem with him?”
“I’m sure you’re going to—”
“I don’t like him bringing drugs into this house.”
Elizabeth laughs, dismissing me entirely. “What makes you think he brought drugs?”
“I saw them. I watched Jonah leave the guesthouse in a marijuana haze last night.”
With an unnatural calm, she asks, “What do you mean, you watched him?”
“I was sitting by the pool. I watched him stumble out of a hot-box and sneak inside.”
“You were spying on them?”
“No, Elizabeth. I wasn’t spying on them.”
“Did you say something to him? Did he know you were there?”
“No. I had nothing to say.”
“So you just sat there quietly watching him?”
“Actually, I was doing my own thing when he invaded my quiet—”
“You were spying on him.”
“No. Does it not bother you that he brought drugs into our home?” My intentional use of the plural possessive only agitates Elizabeth more.
“As if you never brought grass into the house, give me a break.”
“It’s not his house, Elizabeth.”
“What makes you so sure it wasn’t Jonah’s pot?”
“I can’t believe this,” I snap, and she shushes me, so I take a deep breath and lower my voice before asking, “Are you really protecting that boy, Elizabeth?”
“No. I’m just asking: How do you know?”
“Why are you so defensive of him?”
“Why are you so dismissive?”
“Because I don’t like the way he looks at you,” I say.
Elizabeth squints, tightens her lips and says, “Well I do,” then turns off the light and rolls over without saying good night.
6.
I hear white water rapids before opening my eyes, before realizing it’s only the shower, before realizing Elizabeth is in it. Her side of the bed is a knot of cold blankets. She never wakes up before I do. And didn’t she shower last night? And when did she get out of bed, anyway?
She’d want me to say good-bye, to shout that I love her, even if she’s shaving her legs or has shampoo in her eyes, but I’m not crazy about the way her vanishing acts outweigh mine these days, so I’ll reclaim balance where I can get it. I brush my teeth downstairs with a spare Sonicare, waiting for her to call my name, to wonder where I am for a change, but her water is still running upstairs when I’m done, so I exit without saying good-bye, flipping the switch to open our garage door
—but something stops me from leaving. It’s an urge, and the urge is ridiculous, but my instincts are screaming, telling me no harm could come from putting distance between Nick and Elizabeth today. He ought to have the freedom to flirt with someone his own age, and she needs the space to snap out of it, whatever it is. I recall my offer to drop Nick at the beach before work. He’d said that sounded great.
So I close the garage door and backtrack through the house, following my own footsteps past the pool, across the yard, and out to the guesthouse, where the muffled sounds of string instruments float through. I say, “Nick?” and knock three times, then three again. I allow a few moments, expecting a shadow to appear behind the glass, but he does not answer, no shadows emerge, and so I twist the doorknob. The entrance to a house on my property is unlocked. That’s permission enough. “Nick,” I repeat, “I’m coming in.”
Sunlight pours through sheer curtains, spinning a honey-colored womb around me. Violins trail off to silence. A public radio announcer details the anatomy of the next song—a fugue by some nineteenth-century German composer who never fully recovered from a childhood bout of scarlet fever, blah-blah-blah. I enter the room and assess the scene. Japanese picture books on his nightstand. Two empty water glasses.
Two glasses.
“Nick,” I say quietly. “You in here?”
The bed is unmade. Pillows on the floor. On the coffee table across the room, his laptop is closed and charging. Next to it are empty beer bottles and a wrinkled Outside magazine. The dishes are clean, balanced vertically in a wire rack. There are no crumbs on the Formica, no bad habits in plain sight. I call out again for Nick as I move toward the hall closet, cracking it just enough to scan the empty shelves, bare hangers, the T-shirts and plaid shirts spilling from an open duffle bag. The door at the end of the hall is closed. When I open it, a night-light sets the tile aglow.
The bathroom smells of fresh mold. The source is apparent: six glass cubes filled with white flowers—six vases full of cloudy water that’s already begun to stink—aligned along the countertop against the mirrored wall. Bruised and broken petals have started falling from sturdy stems. Elizabeth must have gifted him half of Luna’s expired arrangements.
Man of the Year Page 6
