I regain my composure and answer the doctor. “Nothing has changed, not a thing.” He assures me Lana’s bed-wetting is most likely a stage—a slight regression. Most children grow out of these “unpleasant” incidents without requiring further treatment. But his answer doesn’t offer insight on how to help Lana or to allay her fears that we’ll be angry with her for what she’s smart enough to label: her little accident. Accidents do happen is all that comes to mind.
I make a quick trip to our library, which I’m surprised to find is under complete renovation. The only usable area is an old stucco section, the size of a Carvel stand, and after researching through enuresis and bedwetting on microfilm, I discover a recent article from Psychology Today. It suggests explaining to the child in simple terms the parts of the anatomy and their function—kidney, bladder, and the storage of urine after digestion. I make a few copies and rush back home.
After bath time, I sit alone with Lana and try to explain that sometimes her tiny bladder can’t hold all the fluid in her body, but when she’s a bit older or bigger, it definitely will. And it is no big deal, because some kids, even twice her age, still wet their beds. I tell her a true story, which she loves so much I repeat it every night for a week:
When I was twelve, I had a friend named Jill, who had a ten-year-old sister, Kate, who wet her bed almost every single night. One evening, while I was at a sleepover at Jill’s house, lying next to her in Kate’s bed (Kate slept in the den that night), their father came home from a party and checked on both his daughters as usual. Having had a drink or two (the part I omit), he scooped me up from Kate’s bed, thinking I was her—Come here, my little girl—and carried me to the bathroom, hoping to ward off the usual accident. Not until the bathroom light glared in his foggy eyes did he realize the young girl he’d placed on the potty seat was not his precious little Kate. It was me, schnookims! Mommy! I was too stunned to utter a sound. Plus, I had to pee.
When I see Lana’s sparkly eyes anticipating the end of my story, how they brim with happy tears, for a moment the shroud of guilt slips from my shoulders. I almost convince myself that what’s happening in my marriage has had no effect on my children. And then what enters is this awful sinking sensation—a foreboding that looms over me like an out-of-reach cobweb. I am accustomed to managing my guilt in the form of superstition. If I expose a trace of joy, whisper its existence aloud, it will be snatched away like bait. It’s safer to walk around feeling guilty and mildly miserable.
It’s just past noon, and I am at the kitchen table wrapped in my new peach robe, protected by the calm, domestic hum of the clothes dryer in the background. My mind drifts to Charlie. I picture his eyes, how they capture finite specs of amber light. I’m getting used to the texture of him, his buttery soft skin, a strong jutting chin, and the salty taste of his lips. How when he smiles at me, I like the person he thinks he sees.
I’ve been busy for hours, tie-dyeing and drying piles of T-shirts, readying them for their design. The markers are spread across the table, some resting on my half-eaten bagel. I have already finished a Lucy on ice skates for a girl named Jessica, a silver moon and golden star design for Mia, and a Big Bird frolicking at the beach for someone’s infant girl, Jennifer. Before the day ends, I promise myself to make something new for Becky and Lana. In House and Garden, I’d found a beautiful rose, which I stenciled and saved as a pattern. This, I’ll make for myself on a blue shirt with lace trim around the neckline, to wear the next time I’m with Charlie. I imagine him fascinated by the way the skimpy garment clings—how the petals, deep red above my heart, expand with every breath. I catch myself daydreaming, my head and hand completely disconnected.
There are a dozen items to finish before Memorial Day, and if I don’t deliver on time I may lose the chance for several camp orders in June. Just last week Cleo dropped a hint when she said, batting her false lashes, “You know, Alex, there are so many of you gals selling these T-shirts now—so many more choices out there.”
“Yes, I realize that,” I said, taking time to gather my thoughts. “That’s why I choose to take only the higher-priced custom orders. Did you know, Cleo, that my markers are more expensive so colors won’t fade in the wash? Actually, I’ve been thinking of limiting the amount of work I take on or raising my prices.”
“Oh, I hope you’ll wait until the camp rush is over,” Cleo answered, immediately, pulling two twenties from the register to pay me for the work I had just delivered. I tucked the money in my pocket and headed for the door, aware of the pummeling inside my chest. I was energized by my deep dislike for this woman and proud of how I stood up to her. Why it took me this long, I really can’t say.
A rush of warmth levitates me, Ouija-style, from the kitchen chair. I stretch my arms out, move my legs up and down. I mimic a fighter about to enter the ring. Something electric propels me down the stairs and points me in the direction of the already primed canvas propped against the playroom wall. Yes, it is still there, waiting like an unmarked tomb. Until it is complete, the work will have no identity or meaning. My body keeps its momentum while I switch on the high-hat lights and begin randomly shaking cans of abandoned paint. They sit like orphans on the wooden workbench. “Choose me, choose me,” I hear each of them say. I think of the works which inspired me—the sprawling canvasses of Pollock and de Kooning and how their paintings bled with color, telling stories of elation or despair. It was as if they had cut a vein, dripped their own blood. Like the lives they lived, their paintings were compulsive—unforgivably wild. But I am just a housewife, I remind myself—a housewife painting in torn underwear, worn inside out.
I throw off my robe and grab the blue denim work shirt hanging on the back of the door. I’ve kept this ragged shirt since college—a promise to myself I’d never give up. It is faded around the collar and streaked with a rainbow of dried paint, a creation in itself—Rorschach in design.
My first pick is a can of yellow spray paint, a sunny and hopeful color. I shake the can murderously. And with the first burst of spray, within seconds, I enter a safe haven, as if I’ve walked through a vault into bright light. Taking a huge breath, I dip a wide bristle brush into a can of orchard green and splash color across the canvas past all unprotected margins. Rummaging through a tool box for nails, tacks, glue, I stick my finger but keep going. I clip pieces and pieces of waxed string and copper wire. Up and down the stairs, huffing and jubilant, I’m an eager scavenger collecting fragments of broken toys, fabric swatches, supermarket coupons, bank receipts, birthday cards, and photos. I am on a frantic hunt, not caring or knowing what will be captured. I paint for what feels like hours, days, years, moving farther and farther away from the outside edges of the canvas. The creation slowly evolves, and begins to resemble a muted web of my own existence. A one-armed stick figure that could be me is at its core, pushed far into the distance and swallowed up by the surroundings: domino houses, rosebushes, a lawn mower floating over a carpet of bluegrass, a barbeque pit on fire, marijuana plants with jagged edges sprouting from windowsills. There are televisions, telephones, and telephone poles. All represented by bold lines that I draw with a thick, black marker. There are fishbowls without fish—kissing garomis floating in pairs above nimbus clouds. My feet move constantly as I lunge toward the canvas, adding stroke after stroke. I am like a swordsman taunting the enemy and embracing his fear. Tears stream down my face. Sweat drips from my neck. When the phone rings, I don’t answer, but add another telephone to the canvas—a yellow wall phone with a cord that twists around the stick figure’s body. Her mouth is open. Is she calling for help? She is a strange apparition wearing a bibbed apron. Black smoke billows from a red-brick fireplace. What? What is burning?
The garage door rattles, announcing Donny. I quickly seal the paint cans and throw the brushes in the work sink as if I’m hiding a murder weapon. I scrub my hands, wipe them on my work shirt, and slip back into my robe. Damn! If Donny’s home, that means I was supposed to pick up the girls from Rona’s over a
n hour ago. It must have been she who phoned. I run upstairs and punch in Rona’s number. Breathless, I start to apologize, but she cuts me off.
“That’s okay,” Rona says in a slow drawl, making me wonder when she turned Southern. “The girls kept Ethan busy while I finished my spring cleaning. By the way, Lana had another little accident. I had to put her in Ethan’s Spider-Man underpants.”
“Oh, was she very upset?”
“No, I think it bothered her more that you weren’t here on time. She was waiting at the front door, looking for you. What’s up with you, Alex? You never even called to say you’d be late?”
“I know. I’m really sorry, but I started painting again today, Rona, really painting. It felt so amazing that I lost all track of time.”
“Alex, tell me, when are you not painting?”
“Never mind,” I answer, “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t bother with dinner, please have them ready.” I hang up hard. Why must she always find a way to attach a price to her good deeds? Or did I sound too buoyant for her to handle?
I yell up to Donny in the bedroom that I’m taking Becky and Lana to Friendly’s for fried chicken. I ask if he’d like me to bring him back dinner. The violet hue illuminating the hallway tells me the sun lamp is in use.
“Nope, I’m fine,” he yells back, not coming to the stairs. He’ll make himself something later. Great, I think. See how simple life can be after the fizzle is gone?
Friendly’s Cafe is anything but amicable. Instead it’s earsplitting loud, bustling with mostly mothers and kids, families where fathers work late, commute, or don’t live at home anymore.
Becky asks, “Mommy, why is your hair green?” I take out a hand mirror, and while I’m a bit disheveled, my skin is aglow. I want to say aloud to someone, “I think I may be happy.” Whatever this feeling is I’d like to have them wrap it up, so I can bring it home and freeze it in Tupperware. My wrists are caked with yellow paint and a piece of gold twine is glued between my thumb and index finger.
“Pull it,” I tell Lana, who is staring at me with such sweet curiosity. “Pull the string, angel, and you’ll get a prize.”
“What’s the prize?” Both girls are eager to know.
“Me, that’s what you get … your crazy old Mama.”
“Aw no fair,” Lana says, but she’s laughing, while ketchup dribbles from her little kitty mouth. “We already have you.”
The next day Donny calls from work to say he’s gotten the okay from his cousin George to use his summer place upstate for the upcoming Memorial Day weekend. This is a trip we only casually discussed with the Bells that now seems to be materializing.
“So, how many bedrooms are there?” I ask, already worrying about the communal aspect of this mini vacation.
“There’s one big bedroom and two smaller ones. I guess we can put all the kids in the large one—it’ll be fine,” Donny answers. I imagine the girls sharing a room with Ricki and Ross Bell, and the hairs on my arms stand at attention. “Oh, and we’re just a short walk down to the lake. George said we can use his old canoe if we like.”
“Uh-huh.” I fail to suppress my chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Remember when we lived in Boston, how we wanted to rent a canoe and take it out on the Charles River? We said that every weekend and then I got pregnant with Becky and was vomiting all the time.”
“Yeah, and I recall how you liked those hunky guys from Harvard’s rowing team, practicing when it was thirty or forty degrees out … Listen, I got to go. I’m being paged.”
I’m glad Donny cuts me off, bringing me back to reality and sparing me an extra stay on memory lane.
“Why don’t you call Paula and decide what you will need in the way of supplies. I have to run. Pop is as red as a lobster.”
I picture Ben’s crimson cheeks and figure it’s probably because Donny has spent much of his valuable work time arranging this little getaway. This idea for a multifamily vacation springs directly from the pages of Donny’s favorite read of the year. Just a few days ago, I found A Different Proposition in Donny’s night table where, since sharing its wisdom, he now keeps it. I noticed he’d made asterisks on several of the passages.
Opening the book to a random page, a childhood habit, I closed my eyes and pointed. My nail grazed the words marital discord, and I slammed the book shut. Fuck you, Donny! I could still decide my own fate, refusing to be guided by theories spouting the merits of communal living. I ran outside with the book and buried it in the garbage, but not our garbage. I shoved the red manifesto in our neighbors Norm and Sue’s tall vinyl pail in case our ruddy-faced garbage man just happened to find it, even read a few pages before mashing it in the compactor. Better he sneaks a peek at Sue and thinks: Whoa, that chick sure don’t look like one of those hippie-dippy types.
When I call Paula to fill her in about George’s Carmel house, that it’s surely a go, she interrupts me to say she already knows. I’m not surprised Donny and Paula speak during the day. What does surprise me is not a hair on my body stands at attention. There are a couple of hours left until school lets out, and Paula agrees to meet me at the coffee shop near the A&P, equidistant from both of our homes. While waiting, I prepare a list of things we’ll need for our trip. I try to concentrate on staples like peanut butter and grape jelly, but my mind drifts to lace panties, silky pajamas, and where is my bottle of Musk cologne?
Paula rushes through the door and plops down in the booth. She is out of breath, which makes her unusually vibrant. While she pats her fluffy hair with her fingers, I study Paula, pretending I’m a guy, a guy like Donny. Yes, she’s definitely pretty—thin, with small, perky breasts. But I bet she was one of those girls who hardly ever smiled, not even for her yearbook shot. I imagine her lips puckered, while her eyes held the icy stare of someone annoyed at having to concentrate—removing her from the habitual state of distraction.
We’re on our second cup of coffee when, feeling restless, I start firing away about Charlie: Is he always so funny and cheerful? My questions elicit such a sardonic laugh from Paula that I’m startled. What? “He has a temper, really?” Yet, everything she shares about him, even that once, when they were out of milk, he went bat shit, stirs me.
Our voices hush as we move into the area of finance. Territory I’ve shied away from with Rona. Paula says they are still paying off loans from law school. She then asks about Donny’s parents, whom she met last Sunday, at our house, when Louise and Ben made one of their unannounced visits. Thank God they have a frenetic social life, which keeps them from popping in Saturday nights.
I mention Donny’s desperation to please Ben and how working together often causes a burdensome strain on the relationship. Paula’s mouth turns down in quiet sympathy. She cares for Donny, I can tell. I expect to feel mildly possessive, but instead this revelation nudges me closer to her, like discovering the same affection for a particular piece of music or favorite childhood rhyme: Peter, Peter Pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her.
“How long have you been designing T-shirts?” Paula asks, breaking her own silence.
“I started about four years ago when we lived in Queens. I was pregnant with Lana, and home taking care of Becky. My grandmother used to lecture me that it was wise to keep a pushke: a bit of money stashed away for a rainy day. In her era, the money was used to buy food and clothing. Me, I buy paint supplies and stuff for our house, but my ten grand for the girls’ college fund stays intact.”
“Ten thousand! Isn’t that a lot of money to keep in a pushke?”
“Donny thinks we’ve only got five.” I realize I’ve taken a huge step with Paula. But it’s too late to take it back.
Paula’s face opens like a silk Japanese fan. “I’ve always taken care of the bills,” she says, “and there’s never any extra.”
“Didn’t you once work in the city?”
“Yes, for a small accounting firm downtown, but I quit right before Ross was born. When Cha
rlie began traveling, we thought one of us should stay home.”
I envision Paula adept with numbers and bottom lines, having the skills and concentration to be exact, something I’d fail at miserably.
We finish jotting down our list, and I stand to pay the check. “Come on,” I say, “let’s walk a little. I, for one, have been in the house too long.”
Together, we stroll past the stores of a small strip mall and pause in front of the bakery window. I inhale aromas of freshly baked bread, which brings back the memory of buying a challah for my mother on the way home from school on Fridays. Women pass and study us, some so blatantly curious they stop to stare as if troubled someone exists who they don’t know.
“We should bring some warmer things just in case. It can be chilly upstate, especially at night,” Paula says, out of the blue.
“So, you’re familiar with the area?”
“Not Carmel but farther up, in the Catskills.” Paula hesitates. “It’s where Charlie and I first met.”
“Ah, a resort, I bet.”
“Gillison’s in South Fallsburg. I was visiting a friend vacationing there, and Charlie was our waiter.”
Split-Level Page 17
