“Nah, not really, actually it was surprisingly warm.” We stare at each other for a few awkward seconds, waiting for the other to blink or turn away.
“Hey, by the way, great party, babe,” Donny says. “A really fun time had by all.”
The hateful clock broadcasts 4:00 a.m. and a slim ray of light bounces off Donny’s cheekbone. He sleeps soundly, his lips slightly parted. I trace my fingers lightly around his cheek, longing for him to awaken and pull me on top of him, hold me as if we’re floating in a gentle tide. The planning, the party, it all being over, has me a bit let down.
“Donny, are you awake?” He scratches his nose, missing my eager hands. I can’t stay in this bed another second. Slipping into my robe, I leave the drafty hallway and head downstairs. For the third time this evening, I check to see if all the doors are locked, and the oven knobs turned in the off position. I wrap my icy toes in an old crocheted throw and sit staring at the glow from the remaining embers in the fireplace. The den is drafty and cold. Just hours ago, it was steamy with laughter, warm food, and the friction of anxious bodies, each of them desperate to connect in some small, significant way.
With heavy lids, I scan the picture frames arranged perfectly on the mantle. Seven years of revelations, joys, and tired mistakes pulse in my head like a slideshow carousal, making me blink and blink. I take in the bookshelves, the scratched furniture, frayed rugs, and nicked walls, cramming now, wide-awake, as if there might be answers hidden deep between the fissures of the golden fieldstone. My sighs are deep, like some tired old hag. I rest my head on a couch pillow and slowly drift off. Spring will arrive before I know it, and in a few more weeks, I’ll turn thirty. Time to close the curtain on my pocket version of Godot—an elusive thing called happy.
“Are you happy, darling?” I can hear my grandmother’s sweet, faltering voice. I am fifteen years old and, though I don’t yet know it, she is quite ill, resting in my canopy bed, cuddled up close to me. As I touch the sleeve of her satiny gown, stroke the deep folds of her failing flesh, I breathe bouquets of her—lavender, lilac, a hint of Pond’s cream. “Yes, Nana,” I always lied. “Of course, I’m happy.”
TEN
“Happy birthday, darling, and many more happy returns of the day!”
While I ponder my mother’s standard yearly greeting, she yells for my father to pick up the phone. She slips in a quick inquiry about what the Pearls bought me for my thirtieth.
“Oh, a ’75 silver Maserati.”
“Really? How wonderful.”
“Mother, I’m joking! What they bought was a gift certificate from my local art supply store—Flax Pen and Paint.”
“Well, that’s thoughtful too. I didn’t know you were painting again, dear. That’s good, isn’t it, Natie? Nate, are you on?”
“Hey, happy birthday, kiddo. Wow the big 3 … 0,” my father says. He sounds melancholy or is it me?
“Thanks, Dad. I’m not actually painting, painting. It’s March and almost spring, so once again it’s T-shirt time,” I mock sing.
“Don’t knock it. You bought a lot of nice furnishings with that little hobby of yours.”
“Right, Dad. My hobby.” I bristle at my father’s words even though I know he means no harm. Making money, at anything, is his equivalent of success.
There was a time though when I actually called myself an artist, although the only people who hung my paintings were friends, my parents, and Ben and Louise. I once painted a watercolor of a young girl in a pinafore, playing the piano, a long-haired cat curled at her feet. I was sure when Louise redecorated, the painting would disappear, but she had it reframed, and placed on a wall—not far from an authentic Chagall of stained glass windows. A kind gesture I will never forget.
Yesterday, the March wind pummeled at my back, nearly lifting me off my feet in the parking lot behind Flax’s. I was eager to spend the one-hundred-dollar gift certificate. After picking up a fresh supply of permanent markers, I’d browsed the kaleidoscope of aisles, stopping to caress soft sable brushes like a starved lover, imagining the textures they might impart using shades like Kilimanjaro yellow and Parisian red. Then, as I headed to the cash register, I put most of the brushes back. I remembered how backed-up I am with T-shirt orders. And though there’s little time in my life for serious art, the yearning never leaves. It’s attached like an invisible body stocking that I wear and remove each night, only to pull on the very next morning.
“And what did Donny and the girls give you?” my mother asks. I imagine her jingling a set of measuring spoons, comparing, always comparing.
“Mom, I have no idea yet, I’m hoping for a new bathrobe. I’ve actually dropped some hints.”
“We must always drop those hints, dear, or we’d get nothing.” Did you hear that, Dad? That one’s for you. “Oh, if only I were thirty again,” my mother sighs before signing off. Dad clunks the phone down, leaving me with clear images of my thirty-year-old mother, tenable as a result of my lifelong fixation with our family’s home movies. The movies were mostly black and white, but there was one with her as a flaming redhead, her long wavy hair worn back in a snood. In one shot her long legs chase after me, as I maneuver my two-wheeler down her parents’ sloping driveway—here she is a vibrant, sensual woman running with open arms toward life and a bountiful future. There is not a trace of regret.
Rona calls next. It seems she can’t conceal her ecstasy that I’ve turned these digits before her. “I still have two years to prepare for it,” she reminds me, as if she’s talking about a famine. Before Rona’s call, I was almost happy about the watershed event. I’ve always looked at each decade as an adventure, writing a poem on every big birthday. This year’s creation was scribbled on the back of a grocery list at a traffic light. Seeping through the creased paper are the bold red letters listing the staples I needed at the A&P and my (thirty-second) poem:
Ode to the End
The beginning was nice
apples
yes, I admit
bananas
the pleasures seemed trite
eggs
but nevertheless we laughed
yogurt
the middle was stronger
margarine
as we tore off old ties
Oreos
and then the spring came
Ivory soap
Hold me, hold me
tissues
I’m falling into the future;
baby aspirin
will you be there
sugar
this time?
grape jelly
“So, would you like to hear my poem?” I can’t believe I’m taking this giant leap with Rona.
“I must tell you, Alex, I just don’t get poetry. Much too depressing, that stuff we were forced to read in high school, but sure, go ahead.”
I take a deep breath and recite my poem. Silence. I read again. Finally, I hear Rona’s voice, softer than usual.
“Alex, is everything all right with you and Donny?”
My stomach churns. What have I done?
“Oh, I can see why you’d ask, but I’m only expressing melancholy about the turning point, you know: the end of the decade. Goodbye to the twenties. Rona, are you still on?”
“Oh no, damn it!” she says.
“What Rona, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice. There’s a huge yellow mark on my marble countertop. Hy must be sneaking cigarettes again. Damn, this will never come out.”
“Try leaving some Comet on overnight,” I say, sounding exactly like her.
“That’s brilliant,” Rona says, hanging up before saying goodbye.
On a surprisingly warm, practically windless Sunday in March, we decide to meet up with Charlie, Paula, and their children at the Wheatley Heights Community Park less than a mile from each of our homes. This is the exact place where Rona and I met, two and a half years ago, while dumping soiled diapers into the garbage.
Paula has overdressed he
r children, a girl named Ricki, and her brother, Ross. They are bound by stiff jackets and hats, but it’s not my place to say anything. This is the first time I’m seeing Charlie Bell in broad daylight. His hair looks lighter in the sunshine—the color of chestnuts, and when there’s the slightest breeze, he appears self-conscious, quick to smooth it in place. We take turns introducing our children, who wait for us to finish before running helter-skelter to the swings and slides.
We, the parents, sit opposite one another on green wooden benches placed at the edge of the playground. This allows a good peripheral view of all our kids. I can’t help but think how different people seem as soon as they’re around their children. Instantly, all our senses are fine-tuned, our energies pumped up. No longer are we limited to two eyes, but like potatoes, we sprout them in all directions.
Becky watches Lana, who has learned to pump her legs on the swings, allowing her to swing longer than her usual sixty seconds. Yet, the serenity is broken when Ross angrily shrieks at his younger sister.
“Hey, move, stupid, or I’ll kill you!” Ricki stands Buddha-like at the bottom of the slide, blocking Ross so he can’t slide all the way down.
Paula runs to Ricki and ushers her away. Out of earshot, she crouches down to scold her, wagging a finger in front of Ricki’s impish face, which remains hidden under a red corduroy hat. Donny and I avert our eyes from the scene. It’s one of those weird moments when, not knowing people well, or not knowing what to say, you say nothing at all. The truth is most parents feel a bit relieved when it’s someone else’s kid misbehaving.
When Charlie catches my eye, he shrugs. He doesn’t seem to be embarrassed or frazzled by his kids’ behavior, and I imagine with all his traveling, Paula has become the one doling out the discipline. How exhausting it must be to tote that load solo. Donny shares some of that burden with me, although, at times, he’s pretty tough on Lana. Once, when she was going through the “terrible twos,” she lay on the kitchen floor kicking and screaming, and then holding her breath until her skin turned an iridescent blue. Donny tried to lift her, but because she resisted, he accidentally pulled her arm out of its socket. She sat up and told Donny she was broken: “Like Barbie.” Lana would know, having mutilated many of her dolls.
Paula plops down on the bench, reentering the world of adults. She manages a grin but her expression twists to a wild look bordering on fury.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, through clenched teeth, to Charlie. “They don’t stop fighting, not for a single minute.”
Charlie listens, his head cocked sideways. He lights his pipe with a blue plastic lighter and puffs swirls of gray smoke through his lips. The air is made calmer, sweeter by the aroma of his cherry tobacco. A halo of smoke floats over our heads as if it were a blessing.
“I’ll have a long talk with them, I promise,” he says softly, brushing Paula’s hand.
“Right,” she says, stealing back her hand and tucking it in her pocket. This has embarrassed him; I’m certain. When Charlie looks toward me, his face reddened, I turn away. I am uncomfortable, yet grateful, because Lana and Becky hardly ever fight. My guess, they’re saving it all for their teenage years.
During the droning silence, I notice Donny’s smug expression. I know him well enough to guess he likes having observed flaws in the Bells’ relationship: that maybe Charlie and Paula don’t see eye-to-eye on everything.
“Hey, is anyone hungry?” Donny shouts through funneled hands, breaking the remnants of tension.
“I am, Daddy,” Becky yells back. She’s swinging on the inner tube that’s suspended on heavy chains.
“Me, too,” Lana adds.
From their perch on top of the monkey bars, hanging upside down like orangutans, Ricki and Ross, the little Bells, wave their arms.
I’d picked up hero sandwiches at the deli, and Paula, wanting to contribute, said she’d bake brownies for dessert. Jingling the car keys in front of my face, perhaps noticing me gazing at Charlie, Donny announces, “I’ll be back in a few.”
“The picnic basket is under the blue blanket in the trunk. Donny, don’t forget we’ll need the beach blanket,” I say.
“Would you like me to help with the brownies?” Charlie asks Paula.
“No, I’d better carry them. They were still warm when I packed everything. Hey, wait up,” Paula calls out to Donny.
As I watch them jog together up the winding path, which leads to the parking lot, my stomach does a weird somersault. Still, I ignore the tiny voice urging me to go back to the car with Donny. I stand and sit again, aware of the warm body now next to me on the bench, and the leathery aroma of his jacket. The fact hits me with the unmistakable awareness of a bee sting. I’m alone with Charlie.
Rifling through my canvas tote, I drop a tampon on the ground before finding my sunglasses. I put them on even though we’re sitting in complete shade. Wordless, Charlie follows my motions like an easy connect-the-dots drawing. Feeling the penetration of his gaze, I try humor with a flash of a toothy smile. He leans in closer, an elbow on his knee, the pipe clenched in his mouth. I need air, the gap between us rapidly shrinking. Off the bench again, I try an overhead stretch while taking inventory of all the children. I run to Becky who needs some help rolling up the floppy sleeves of her sweater. When I turn back, the man is still beaming. His eyes dance like the flames of a campfire. As they burn through me, all my layers, I imagine a slow, erotic sizzle. Perhaps I’ll disintegrate, right here in this park, in front of my own children—“Like the Wicked Witch of the West,” Becky might say. If Donny and Paula don’t get here soon, they may find a smoldering pile of my clothing: clogs, jeans, and fishnet sweater. When did I ever receive this much attention from a man?
“What?” I pivot and ask Charlie, startling us both.
“Nothing,” he says, straightening his posture. “Your daughter Becky looks so much like you. Quite an amazing study in genetics.”
“Oh, my poor little kid.” I dig the dewy grass with my heel and sit down beside him on the shrinking bench.
“I was going to say she’s beautiful like her mother, but I was afraid of how that would sound.” There’s a fluttering within my stomach, like something trapped, begging for release, or maybe I’m just hungry.
“Actually, that might sound very nice.” I am surprised at my boldness but compelled to switch the subject. “Hey, so how’s your case progressing? I’d like to hear more about it.” This is my absolute most mature voice. The one I left, years ago, in the smoke-filled coffee shop of a small college town. The one lost in the daily rituals of this, my split-level life.
“You want to talk about my case, Alex, you sure?”
“Yep, I’m sure.”
“Well, it’s doubtful you’ll find this interesting. Are you ready?”
“Ready.” I say, mock bracing myself against the bench. What else might I like Charlie Bell to be? A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker?
“So, here goes: for the last few years I’ve been involved with this case having to do with the shutdowns of plants by several public utility companies, nuclear power plants, to be precise.” A long pause, and the pipe returns for a deep inhale. Oh, is he testing me? Should I raise my hand? I search his hot fudge eyes to see if he is telling me the truth.
“Well, that sounds like excellent news to me. The thought of all those power plants scattered throughout the country scares the hell out of me. I grew up in a house stocked, at all times, for nuclear disaster. My dad made sure there was a big supply of Sterno for cooking. We had cans of sardines, salmon, and some strange powdery drink.”
Charlie tosses his head back and laughs. “And, do you remember those frightening duck-and-cover drills when we’d have to crunch down under our desks?”
“Oh God, yes, we thought it was the bomb. I hated the sound of the siren and that awful image of the fallout—a charcoal mushroom spreading through the sky, enveloping everything. It still makes me shudder. As if crouching under a little pine de
sk could protect us from the consequences of such a disaster. So, I have to ask … you’re for the good guys, right? Those who want to shut the plants down?”
“Well now, Alex, I wouldn’t exactly call them the good guys. It’s more complicated than that.”
“Try me,” I say, already feeling nervous about his answer.
Charlie loses the pipe. “You see, first the power companies were going to build all these low-cost plants. Then, because of safety and environmental concerns, it became too costly, so they changed their minds. It’s because of this, the members of the community, the rate payers, lost huge amounts of money. So now they want to recoup their losses … therefore … the lawsuits.”
“So, you’re defending these power companies?”
“Yes, Alex, I am. After they reneged on the deals they made, they pissed a lot of people off.” Charlie picks up a small twig, snaps it, and throws it down. He looks up at me, waiting for some reaction. What to say? What to say?
“Well, I, for one, am happy to know there won’t be as many plants built in the future. That is the bottom line, right? Not to mention all that nuclear waste going into the soil, tainting our drinking water and poisoning our children!”
“Hey, it’s only a job. Don’t be angry with me,” Charlie says, while I struggle with a sinking disappointment over what he does for a living. I’d conjured up a different persona for him, something a lot more grassroots.
“Alex, do I look like a monster?” He crouches down near me and twists his face and neck grotesquely.
“What’s so funny, Mommy?” Lana asks, climbing into my lap, her little hands pulling strands of my hair over my mouth and nose.
“You’re funny,” I say, tickling her exposed belly.
Ricki and Ross race each other, heading in our direction. They bang into the back of the bench, sending me catapulting to the ground with Lana on my lap.
Split-Level Page 13
