Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “Sure, I guess, fine.”

  “And Alvin … and you know who?” Donny teases.

  “Ohhhhh.” A bellyache moan escapes me. We occasionally see Donny’s high school buddy, Alvin, and his wife, Michele. Alvin has a terrible stomach, probably caused by the ever-whiny Michele. The theory is he spends so much time in the bathroom to escape her.

  “To smoke or not to smoke—that is the question,” I say, putting our list making on pause. Our neighbors Norm and Sue, across the street, are a few years older and very conservative. Norm is the only person we know who admits he voted for Nixon. There is no way Norm has ever smoked a joint. And just a few doors down from them, fairly new on the block, are Jake and Ellen. Word travels fast in these parts, and the word is Jake’s got a nice little business going on the side. He’s been tagged The Man—the main supplier of “the good stuff.” Last summer, while making a deal for some of that good stuff, he was arrested in Harlem. Rumor had it that he was in the company of a young, gorgeous Spanish girl when the cops nabbed him. Two weeks and he was out, which made our neighborhood’s heads very happy.

  “Why not go for it?” Donny says, his head sinking deep into his pillow. “It’s best not to slight anyone. As a matter of fact, we should probably invite that couple,” he adds.

  “Ah, who?” I sometimes do this, even though I can usually predict what Donny is about to say. Am I so starved for adult conversation that I need to string him along?

  “Oh, you know, Charlie and his wife, Paula … we met them at Sophie’s, remember?”

  “Right, that’s an idea. Do you think they’d come?”

  “Hey, you wanted to make new friends … well, go ahead,” Donny’s voice sounds garbled as he slides down on his pillow.

  I can feel my face brighten as if someone’s shined a floodlight on me. Even though Paula Bell and I had exchanged numbers the night of Rob’s birthday bash, I put off calling her, what with fevers running rampant. It was my guess Paula would never be the first to call; she was either a snob or terribly insecure and needed to be pursued. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out. Though, it had been harder to forget her husband, Charlie Bell. I remember his warm eyes, bright and pressing, as if asking some young girl he liked to dance—expecting an enthusiastic response.

  Within seconds Donny’s mouth is wide open and he’s asleep, making little puffing noises. I’m too hyper to fall asleep; there must have been a heavy dose of MSG in the mushroom soup plus nine hundred milligrams of sodium. I rise and sip cool water from the bathroom faucet. Pacing the bedroom, I am already worried about the party with its weird concoction of people. A party, sure to be whispered about—by those I did not invite—for days down Aisle #8, alongside the Tidy Bowl rebate display.

  When I do fall asleep, I dream about competing in a nationwide event called the Gourmet Olympics, where women donning identical white aprons are stationed on an assembly line, cracking egg after egg, frantically beating hundreds of egg whites until they form a tall, frothy monumental peak. I awake a few hours later, hungrier than usual, and notice that on a pad, sometime in the night, I’d scribbled the words:

  My life … like batter swirling in a crepe pan … what to fill, fill, fill?

  The next evening, I give in to an impulse and do something I’ve never done before. After picking up another bottle of cough syrup at the drugstore, I take a different route home in order to drive past Charlie and Paula’s house. The streetlights help me make out the square wooden sign that reads Bell. At first, I feel excited I’ve found their house and surprised they live so close by. But then I notice a greenish glow coming from an upstairs window, most likely from their TV. I picture Charlie and Paula rolling around in their big brass bed, or their waterbed, making wild, carnivorous love. My jaw tightens. I’m flooded with green-eyed envy. I hate this feeling and myself for feeling it. Right then, I decide not to invite them to our goddamn party.

  I realize it’s too late to mail out invitations, so I have to call everyone on our guest list. I get our family out of the way first. Donny’s brother Bobby can’t make it. He is busy running the commune and taking care of Rainbow, the baby girl he and his girlfriend Melody delivered last year. My brother Marky and his fiancée also refuse. They have lots of preparations for their wedding, which is less than a year away. I’m guessing he figures that any party his older sister throws will be deadly boring and drug-free. Wrong!

  We also hadn’t figured that since Valentine’s Day falls during Presidents’ Week, some of our friends might be heading south. Norm and Sue are off with their girls to Puerto Rico, and Alvin, Michelle, and his stomach will be yachting with Alvin’s folks in the Bahamas. Positive that Rona and Hy are a yes, I forget to formally invite them. I mention the party while jabbering a week later on the telephone.

  “Alex, I’d told you we were going to visit Hy’s brother that weekend in Tampa!” Rona wails, maiming my eardrum.

  “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten. We just decided, Rona—completely spur of the moment. It’ll probably bomb since most of my guests have never even met.”

  “Damn! I had the perfect outfit to wear. Remember the stunning black velvet pantsuit we both bought at Annie Sez?”

  You bet. That day, last month, when we’d shopped together, Rona was faster than a crow in strewn trash as she pecked through the rack of discounted items. I had just admired the velvet outfit, said I loved it, when Rona scooped one up in her size and took it to the checkout counter without trying it on. Did she think I’d go anywhere with her dressed like the doublemint twins?

  “Yes, the velvet one.” Since Rona won’t be coming, the black velvet outfit with the red piping is exactly what I’ll wear.

  A few days later, while thinking about our shrinking guest list, I spot Paula Bell in the parking lot of a convenience store. I think this must be fate, and so follow her to her car, taking notice of her badly hunched shoulders—probably because she’s cold. As she leans to put a bag in her car, I tap her arm. Still she doesn’t move. I tap her again and clear my throat.

  “Paula, is that you?” She turns, looking slightly annoyed but mostly puzzled. I see an imprint of Alex Pearl register in her brain, slowly, like the credits rolling at the end of a film. Her neck strains to look around before returning to my face.

  “Alex … Alex Pearl. Miami and the Woodmans?” Like in charades, I cheat to help her along.

  “Oh sure, Alex, how are you?” A white cloud of air slips from Paula’s lips. She looks so cold I resist an urge to hug her.

  “Me? I’m dreaming of springtime. My girls are home with the sniffles,” I say, shifting from foot to foot, hands buried deep in the pockets of my grandmother’s black Persian jacket. “Our sitter is close by, so I’m able to get out for a while.”

  “My two are tough to handle now, so I leave them with my folks or not at all.” As if on cue, there is a bloodcurdling scream from the back seat of Paula’s station wagon. She throws her body over the seat and flails at the butts of two children who are wrapped up like Eskimos—two fluffy balls of earmuffs and snowsuits. Their faces are hardly visible except for their big white teeth, which now hold a firm grip on each other’s gloved fingers.

  “Cut it out, I’m warning both of you!” Like a boxing referee, Paula separates them. This is a much different woman from the one I’d met in Florida. Her aggression with the children surprises me. I watch with my mouth open, trying to peek in and get a look at them. There’s a little girl and a boy, I think, bundled up in snow gear, so it’s hard to distinguish them. Their faces are flushed; they shoot me sidelong glances filled with mistrust.

  “Sorry about that,” Paula says, her hair wild and full of static, the bold white streak blowing across her misty eyes. “When Charlie’s away, they are uncontrollable.”

  “Please do not apologize, it must be hard. How long has he been gone?”

  “Almost two weeks. He’s on trial.” Oh, so the other night, she was watching TV alone. A cool gust of relief slaps me gently on t
he face. And before I know it, words leave my mouth and fall like invisible snowflakes between us.

  “It’s crazy that we ran into each other. I was just about to call and invite you and your husband to a get-together a week from Saturday—you know, since it’s Valentine’s.”

  “Mom, let’s go!” the girl screams from the back seat. “I want to bash his ugly head in! Why do I have to have this stupid brother?”

  “Can I let you know this weekend?” Paula asks, her eyes shifting toward the back seat. “I’ll have to check with Charlie about his workload.”

  “Sure, whenever—last minute’s fine. Bye, bye kids.” Some handful there, I’m thinking while I act nonchalant about her kids’ behavior. Paula flashes me a weak smile and gets behind the wheel and revs up her car. As she backs out of her spot, she bangs into a shopping cart, sending it careening into a parked car. She doesn’t stop or turn around. Standing in the chill air, I watch her maneuver like a race-car driver, heedlessly and determined, straight out of the parking lot entrance, nearly colliding with the brown panel truck belonging to UPS.

  NINE

  Donny has taken the girls to his parents for the afternoon, allowing me to cook in peace with little interruption. I am so concentrated on my spinach-feta rolls that my body jumps when the phone rings.

  “Alex Pearl?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this really you?” he says. I recognize the deep, mellow voice immediately. His words intermingle with long, breezy breaths, and I’m surprised when I feel my heartbeat quicken. He states my name as if he had said it thousands of times, and yet I am instantly aware that this is the very first time. I tuck the receiver under my chin and button my pajama top. I’m so glad he can’t see me. Picking up the spatula, I turn a batch of sizzling crab croquettes that are starting to turn black.

  “Who’s this?” I lie. I am my mother’s daughter after all.

  “It’s Charlie, Charlie Bell. How are you, Mrs. Pearl? It’s been a long time.”

  “I’m great … and you? Are you home? I mean, in town? Whoops, sorry for all the questions.” Charlie laughs—a Jack-and-Jill-rolling-down-the-hill laugh.

  “I was home for the weekend but I’ll be leaving again tomorrow.”

  I’m so disappointed; I might burn the whole batch of croquettes.

  “However,” he continues, “if the invitation is still open, Paula and I would love to come to your shindig next Saturday night.”

  “Yes, sure—I’d love it. We’d love it!”

  “Can we bring anything? Wine, a bottle of scotch, gin?”

  “No, but thanks, we’re pretty much organized,” I say, thinking I sound really dumb. Miriam would have said, Please … just bring yourselves.

  “How’s Donny? Can I say a quick hello?”

  “Actually, he’s out with our girls visiting his folks, while I cook.”

  “You mean he left you all alone?” I hear Charlie, the sexy actor, asking: Do you want to play?

  “Actually, sometimes, I enjoy being alone so I can concentrate on just me,” I say, my heart now in gallop mode. I read that line when I glanced at the cover of Ms. magazine while checking out at the A&P.

  “I think I know what you mean,” Charlie says. “It’s certainly tough work, staying home and raising kids, plus I hear the pay is lousy.”

  “Most of the time I enjoy being home,” I answer. “Though there are other aspects of me that often get pushed aside.”

  “Hmm, like what? I’d really like to know.”

  “Oh, I paint … at least I did once upon a time. I’d studied art in college. Then there’s writing poetry, and believe it or not, cooking. I’m learning that I really love to cook. It’s the only thing that relaxes me.”

  “And I love to eat. I find that tremendously relaxing.” Charlie’s smiling, I can tell.

  “Well, if I don’t burn everything while talking to you, you’ll have a chance to sample my culinary arts.” Why did I do that? This conversation is over.

  “Sure, I’ll let you go, but just one more thing …”

  “What?” He’s making me nervous with such long pauses.

  “Is that David Gates in the background?”

  “Yes, Bread’s new album. You like them?”

  “I love the ballads—I find them very melodic and smooth.”

  Smooth. Right. Charlie Bell surely identifies with smooth. “Well then, guess we’ll see you Saturday. Got the address?”

  “Yep, I’d jotted it down on that little piece of paper … you know.”

  “What paper?”

  “The one you dropped with the big red X that made you my killer.”

  “Oh, sorry about that.” I feel myself blush.

  “Don’t be. I was flattered you chose me to knock off. It was quick and painless—a great way to go. I’ll see you soon, Alex Pearl.”

  “Yes. See you Saturday.”

  Standing beside the phone, I freeze like a mannequin. I play the words of our short conversation over and over, like a favorite cut on an album. I’m obsessed by simply the idea of something, the idea of someone I hardly know. Charlie. I can’t believe he saved the paper marked X as a memento from our first encounter. My body is over-heated, and I toss my pajama top on the floor, then slip out of the flannel bottoms. It is Sunday, and I am wearing ripped cotton panties that say Tuesday.

  The instant Donny returns from his folks, he begins a mini-tasting of my hors d’oeuvres. Gourmet states that presentation is everything, which is why I’ve left the misshapen ones on a plate until his return. He gobbles up a few and gives me a greasy kiss on the cheek, followed by a high sign. After it cools, I’ll pack everything in our basement freezer, but first I must spend time with Becky and Lana, who requested one of my stories about Benji—a sweet, but naughty, pink teddy bear who tries to behave but consistently gets into trouble. I imbed simple life lessons within these little tales, adding bits of humor to keep their attention. Tonight’s is a repeat about remembering to look left, right, left before crossing the street, but the girls, looking as tired as I feel, don’t seem to mind.

  I rush downstairs, after a sixty-second shower, to find Donny sprawled across the couch, his head peeking out of a thin red book, a book I recognize, instantly, as the same book he was intent on hiding from me on our last night at Marriage Mountain—the book I had tirelessly searched the house for but couldn’t find.

  Though surprised, I say nothing and head for the kitchen. Then, just as I begin wrapping shrimp rolls in shimmering sheets of foil, images of bleak darkness turn into flashing lights. My reliable memory returns with a bang, whether I like it or not, forcing me to see the burly guy, standing in the dingy hallway of the retreat, who hands Donny a thin red book, pitching his wares like Allstate. Yes, that guy: the happily married man, married to the same woman for twenty miraculous years.

  I recall our silly grappling for the book before Donny pinned me down. What followed was the so-so sex, Mother Mary—our witness on the wall, me on the edge or was it the ledge, desperately wanting to go home? Was it fear that stopped me from learning the secrets between the pages of this mysterious manual, and what, pray tell, does he want me to know right now?

  Back in the den, I collapse on the recliner beside him. How I’d love a massage. Testing, I whistle for Donny’s attention, but he is engrossed in the book, his brows peaked like rooftops.

  “Interesting?” I lean over, pretending to be as stupid as he needs me to be.

  “Quite the amazing read,” Donny says, placing the scarlet book across his chest and taking a deep, dramatic breath.

  “What’s the title?” I ask, stifling a yawn.

  “It’s called A Different Proposition, which describes how an entire community has existed in California for almost three years.”

  “Let me guess. Ah, is it a commune?” Tired, I don’t even try to hide my sarcasm.

  “It says here, couples are able to share each other’s mates and/or spouses in a nonthreatening environment, drawing on each
other’s strengths and weaknesses,” Donny recites aloud from a blurb on the book’s back cover.

  “Wait! Do you mean they screw everybody, and anybody, and no one ever gets jealous? Give me a break!”

  “From time to time I imagine there might be some problems.”

  “You better believe it. Throw that stupid book away, Donny, right now!”

  “It’s only a book, hon. Relax.”

  “Why are you so hopped up on this principle? Look at you, you’re drooling!” I toss a pillow at Donny, which knocks the book out of his hands. His childlike fascination with this concept has me wondering: Could it be he envies his brother’s unconventional life? In spite of all his screwing, screw-ups, protests, and experimental drugs, Bobby remains the son who took “the road less traveled,” securing the bulk of attention.

  Out of nowhere, I shriek a hyena-like sound.

  “What, what’s so funny?” Donny sits up taller.

  “Oh, I just imagined you—me, oh God, with Rona and Hy. I saw them running after us with mops and cans of Lysol. Me have sex with Hy? I would choke to death on his Mennen’s.”

  Donny can’t help but chuckle. “You’re right, pretty damn weird.”

  “Actually, I don’t find the thought of you and Rona sleeping together all that threatening,” I say.

  “See? That’s precisely the way I’d feel about you and Hy. I suppose that’s when the concept of sharing works best.”

  I notice that my outstretched hands have begun to tremble. “I think you’ve lost your mind, Donny. What exactly is the point? Variety? Marriage is the complete opposite of variety. It’s about compromise and acceptance.”

  “Sure, sure, but the book also talks about the arrangement being appropriate in certain economic situations. Let’s say someone loses their job. There’s another person bringing in the dough. And there are benefits for children, like exposing them to varied parental values.”