Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  Charlie squeezes on the edge of the bed. “Look at me, please,” he whispers. His head is next to mine, and the aroma of strong coffee is the only thing that seems real. “I’ll do whatever I have to do to know you, to have you in my life. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Donny’s plans—let him plan away. Some things just happen, Alex. I knew I wanted you the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “Well, I should have stopped the whole damn thing. I could have you know. All I had to do was say S-T-O-P!”

  “But you didn’t?” Charlie stares at me, coyly, allowing me time to study his rugged face, and all the sharp angles still so new. He’s the only man I have ever slept with besides Donny. Me, Alex Pearl, an almost, but not quite, virgin bride. I bet Charlie would be scared to know how important that little fact makes him, how I can’t take what’s happened between us lightly. And, as if I’ve done it a thousand times, I place my arms around his neck to straighten the collar of his denim shirt—a shirt his wife has, most likely, washed and ironed.

  FIFTEEN

  On the day I return from enrolling the girls in Miss Susannah’s Country Day Camp, Donny comes speeding around our cul-de-sac, jumps the Belgian block curb, and stops short, nearly mowing down all the hydrangeas on our lawn. A mound of sod sits piled up like an escalator, revealing the russet earth below.

  I shield my face from the flying dirt, as I rush to meet him. Sue, across the street, looks up from her pruning and waves, as though this were an ordinary occurrence: husbands driving over lawns in the middle of the afternoon. Having planned to finish another painting, I’d only just lifted two gallons of paint out of my trunk and carried them to the garage. I shudder, imagining what might have happened had Donny actually driven up our driveway with the same lack of control: HUSBAND NAILS WIFE AND CHILDREN TO GARAGE WALL WITH COMPANY CAR. ALL SPLATTERED IN BENJAMIN MOORE BUNGALOW BEIGE. MARIJUANA SUSPECTED!

  Becky and Lana come running out from the house.

  “Daddy’s home!” Lana squeals. They stop dead in their tracks. Their hands are glued to their cheeks, like little old ladies in disbelief.

  I thank God a hundred times. Just seconds before, I’d sent Becky and Lana into the house to wash their sticky hands. It was the first time I allowed them to eat Popsicles in the car. Why did I say yes this time and no dozens of times before?

  Donny’s early summer tan has faded to chartreuse. He paces our lawn with his hands folded on top of his head, inspecting and tabulating the damage.

  “You better sit down, Donny. Forget the stupid lawn.”

  “Hi, Daddy! We’re going to camp again, real soon.” Lana is jumping from leg to leg, like she has to use the bathroom.

  “Girls, please go inside. We’ll be right in.” I turn to Donny, looping my arm through his. “Are you okay?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know what the hell happened. My foot just slipped off the brake as I was making the turn.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sure this stuff can be laid back into place.”

  “Yeah, well, I certainly hope so, because the gardener might have to go. My division was closed down today.” While Donny stares at the disheveled grass, his words begin to register, first in my chest and then my brain.

  “Does that mean you’re fired? How can you be fired if your father owns the company?” I try not to show my fear, although there’s a part of me that wants to lie down on the ruined lawn and scream: Do we have to sell the house—are we now poor? Instead, what I finally say is: “Tell me what happened.”

  “I’ve been demoted, big time. Pop says we’re losing a shitload of money. After two years our catalogue business is still in the red.”

  Red’s bad, I remind myself. “But why now, why not give it some more time? Catalogues are big. We get dozens in the mail.”

  “To stay alive, we need to develop products that are less costly for the mass market. Women are tired of all that fancy lace, hard bones, and polyester. It’s become a thing of the past, like the corset. All the trades are saying that the demand is for natural fibers in all clothing, including lingerie. Women want only cotton,” Donny tells me, but I know his speech was coined by Ben. Overwhelmed with guilt, I bite my lower lip. I am wearing yellow cotton shorts with a striped cotton tee, and matching cotton socks. Underneath the tee is a stretchy, cotton bra I’d bought at JC Penney for $3.99. Actually, it’s one of those new “jogging” bras that are great under T-shirts.

  “So, did he or didn’t he fire you?”

  “No. And that would’ve been a blessing. Since Uncle Louie is retiring to Florida, I’ll be taking over his position in teen lingerie, which consists of a limited line of day-of-the-week panties, and a training bra we make in just two sizes: zero and the more hopeful, plus one.”

  “Well, that sounds okay, Donny, doesn’t it? I bet you’ll enjoy something new and different. Hey, maybe you can add your own signature sports bra to the line.”

  I envision Donny during the busy fall market week, among a bevy of shy, emaciated teenage models. He is pleasant and warm, eager to stop their shivering modesty, to put a smile on their pure, innocent faces. I glance down again at the damage to our lawn, feeling a fresh wave of annoyance.

  Donny’s face is pale, his eyes red-rimmed. “The company can’t afford to pay me what it did before.” These words, although anticipated, send my heart thundering. I think about the check I’d just written to Miss Susannah.

  “Maybe I can help out by teaching again, or I can try to pick up additional stores, sell higher-priced painted items. If we have to move, we’ll move,” I say in a whisper. My eyes scan the budding hydrangeas, the bees hovering over the purple wisteria vines that border the driveway.

  “Let’s shelve that discussion for now. It’s been a shitty day and now this,” Donny says, toeing a piece of the butchered grass. Across the street, Sue looks up from her gardening again. She’s weeding a patch of dandelions, my guess, hoping to pluck a clue or two from our conversation. Only last week, her even nosier husband, Norman, on his way to a fishing trip, saw us fly into our driveway at 4:00 a.m. As Norm crossed the road to greet us with fishing rod in hand, he reminded me of Moses on route to Sinai. Our garage door sealed in the nick of time, closing out Norman’s neighborly curiosity. What could I have possibly invented as an excuse to be out cruising at this hour? It was a trip to the emergency room. Really! We thought Donny was having a gall bladder attack. Turns out it was gas.

  “Camp starts next week!” I scream across the street, startling her. “Pain in the ass,” I whisper to Donny, which makes him grin. “Smile at Sue, Donny. Let her think everything’s fine,” I say, through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, Alex, don’t forget your paint can,” Sue yells back. I manage a limp thumbs-up.

  Before hearing Donny’s news, I’d been strangely euphoric, all day, while chauffeuring around Becky and Lana. Something intoxicating had been pumping through my veins, telling me I could do anything—learn an aria, dance the tarantella, fly a Piper Cub, hey, possibly start another painting. And of all days, today, I had the idea to drive over to the central district to enter my name into the pool of substitute teachers for Wheatley Heights and surrounding school districts. Though two permanent positions are opening up for an art teacher, one in the elementary level and one for junior high, subbing would be more manageable, what with Lana starting kindergarten come September.

  I wonder if any of my actions caused this bad luck for Donny. Could I have jinxed him? I wish I could focus on the positive aspect of doing something good for myself, but Donny stands before me shell-shocked. I used to be terrific at helping him, but my heart has forgotten how.

  “Come in, I’ll make some iced tea.” I curl my pinky around his and lead him inside as if he’s blindfolded. He sits down and stares at his hands, hands soiled from sewing machinery and the dark earth. The girls have gone out in the back; they are hanging upside down on the swing set like happy chimps.

  “Have you mentioned any of this to Paula?” Before he gets the chance to respond, I
give myself the litmus test for envy. But I’ve gotten used to their daily conversations, what Donny calls checking in.

  “Yes, she feels awful for us.”

  It’s the “us” in his answer that rattles me. Although Paula’s sleeping with Donny, she can easily separate when it serves her. Why should she worry about her lover’s finances? I wonder if she’s shared the details of Charlie’s big summer bonus with her lover. Knowing Donny, he’d want to hear every minute detail. Painful as it might be, he’d measure himself, drawing the conclusion that Charlie is on his way to becoming his own man—one of those terrifying creatures who sometimes haunt my husband in the middle of the night.

  We have established a queer ritual, the four of us. Whenever we gather, as we do now at the Bells, we sit and attempt ordinary conversation like most couples who have become good friends. Except no one sitting on this faded blue damask couch, with plastic army men stuck between the cushions, is another’s bosom buddy. We know why we’re here: each, going through the motions, aching for the small talk to end so we can break off into our new couple configuration. Ricki and Ross are visiting Paula’s parents for the weekend, and Donny and I have booked our sitter, Agnes, until Sunday morning.

  Tonight’s matter at hand is Donny’s business troubles. For now, we are properly paired beside our respective spouses, and I wonder if there’s something in these charades we play that ignites desire. Paula’s eyes are misty, deeply sympathetic, while Charlie’s are pensive and respectfully inattentive to mine. Why does everyone look so forlorn when I’m feeling high? I haven’t been concentrating on anything anyone is saying, even though they are talking about my life or, at the very least, my financial future. As I reach for my glass of wine, Charlie’s eyes shift to look at me. He leans over to wipe a drop of liquid on my chin. I can’t wait to be alone with him; words buzz around me, in and out, in and out. Oh, come on, I wish I could say. This chatter is one big stall—an attempt at expressing sincerity and friendship.

  “What I feel the worst about is that the catalogue division was wholly mine,” Donny finishes, staring at the linty carpet. Like me, Paula’s slacked off on her vacuuming.

  “Believe me, I understand how you feel,” Charlie says, removing his pipe. “It’s why I’ve always wanted to be a partner and not an associate. I’ve had nine years of people looking over my damn shoulder. It would be terrific, one day, to have a real piece of the pie.”

  “Donny, won’t the business eventually be yours anyway? I mean, you know, when it’s handed over to the next generation?” Paula interrupts, in her naturally soothing tone. It comes across like an ordinary question, not one rooted in power or money about Donny’s rightful inheritance—or his financial prospects for the future. Yet she sounds as if she’s given this some thought. I shake out of the haze, knowing it’s time to pay better attention.

  “What do you think, Alex?” Charlie asks, startling me.

  “Well, given the choice, I believe Donny would like to make his living some other way entirely,” I say, surprising myself above all. I direct my response to Paula, laying claim to Donny. She thinks she knows Donny, but she doesn’t. Not really. I’m the one with whom he’s shared his dreams, wishes, and every failed expectation for the past seven years. I lean back in the sofa cushions, breathing rapidly.

  Charlie squirms in his seat, but Donny looks long and hard at me. It’s such a weird moment. I feel as though I’m betraying someone but not sure whom it might be. There’s a hint of melancholy in Donny’s eyes that pains me. He jumps up and rubs his hands together, signaling he’s had enough of this conversation. Some tense moments pass, what I might remember decades from now, when I expect Donny to walk over and yank me off the couch. To say: You know, kiddo, it’s time for you and me to go home. But instead he glides shoeless into Paula’s kitchen, familiar turf, opens a cabinet, and fills an old jelly glass with water.

  “Would anyone like something to drink?” Paula asks, but I know she’s acting on cue, responding to Donny’s wide-eyed glance. Some deafening pause must be telling her he wants her near him. As if he’s sent a code: Let’s get to the fucking, already.

  It is Paula he needs now, not me. I disconnect once more, my brain ignoring the tugging inside my chest. Is this my designated time to choose? One final shot at carpe diem? I watch as Donny and Paula move about the kitchen. It has become their kitchen. I don’t budge. There is something so powerful in watching your life shift before your eyes, and the decision not to resist—a quiet resignation to sit back and let things evolve.

  Minutes after making love, I am staring up at the water-stained ceiling tiles in Charlie’s partially finished basement. A musty odor permeates the mismatched sheets and pillowcases on the sunken sofa bed, making me sneeze many times in a row. Try as I might, I can’t get used to the strangeness of this home—a home shaped and defined by the people living and breathing within these walls: a reticent and withdrawn wife and mother, a traveling father and part-time husband, which just might have something to do with the result of their unruly children. The colors here are not my colors. The aromas are not my aromas.

  Yet I lie here as if I no longer have a choice, as if someone has chained me to the torturous bed springs. I am waiting for the next set of rules, for someone to designate and give me an order. By nature, I am a prideful person, but I have long buried my pride. It feels like I’m living the life of a stowaway—adrift between two foreign lands. Never unpacking, I live out of an old, weathered trunk—a trunk missing its destination tag.

  A blast of air from the ceiling duct blows on my face, and I pull the damp sheet over my head. I try to imagine Charlie and me together in the waking hours, enjoying the small rituals that make up a day. But it is doubtful he will be taking me for a ride in his car anytime soon, or out for a neighborhood stroll.

  Soon I begin thinking of Donny’s problems at work, wondering if Louise will jump in as the buffer, making sure Ben’s decision to close Donny’s division won’t disintegrate the family. Next, in my head, I replay Rona’s call from yesterday, how she berated me for neglecting her. While she talked, I sat at the kitchen table thumbing through the photos from the trip to Carmel. I stopped to look long and hard at Donny’s best shot of Charlie and me: a sharp image of us sitting on the porch swing, the setting sun emblazoned in our faces—eyes squinting from its blinding glow. Charlie’s arm is around my shoulder, his cheek pressed against mine. What was Donny thinking when he snapped this picture? Did he wonder, even for an instant, if he’d lost me?

  I copy Charlie’s raspy and uneven breathing, hoping the rhythms will lull me to sleep. But right as I’m dozing off, I hear the unmistakable double flush from the bathroom directly above my head. Donny’s classy signal—it’s time for us, The Pearls, to go home. Hopping into my clothing, I ready myself for the five-minute road trip to my comfortable bed on Daisy Lane. I better move, I tell myself, or I’ll miss my ride.

  “I’m going now,” I whisper, brushing against Charlie’s warm cheek.

  “Hmm, kiss, please,” he says, eyes squeezed shut.

  A bird, most likely trapped, chirps in a wild frenzy against the casement window. I’m tempted to tuck myself inside Charlie’s furry warmth and pretend I’m a thousand miles away. But there’s this guy at the top of the stairs waiting for me to find my sandals. In his hand are the set of keys to our house. I hear the faint jingle, the impatient way he clears his throat, pressing me to hurry. And for reasons still vague to me, I let him lead me, once more, into the pitch darkness of the night.

  While Donny wipes dew off our car windows, I slump down in the passenger seat, not that anyone will see me. Who in their right mind strolls around at this hour? Donny belches a nasty odor, and I roll down my window without uttering a word. Glancing out, I notice an orangey glow in the sky hovering in the vicinity of our neighborhood. I blink, thinking my tired eyes are failing me. A new smell fills the car—the aroma of burning leaves, familiar and more pungent.

  “Donny, do you smell that?�
� My heart pounds while I think: No! It’s summer, there are leaves on every tree. Becky. Lana. God, oh, God.

  “Please hurry. Something’s wrong.”

  I lunge forward, my breastbone pressing into the dashboard. As we approach the turn onto Daisy, I hear a bunch of voices bellowing instructions—a chorus of commotion. Then I see the trucks: fire trucks lined up and blocking Daisy Lane, our street. I am out of the car, running like a rabid dog chasing its tail.

  There are obstacles like thick rubber hoses and puddles of water streaming alongside the curb. Donny abandons our car, and as he catches up to me, I hear him yell, “Alex, look, there they are! It’s okay, honey. They’re fine.”

  Standing on our front lawn, wrapped in pink summer quilts, are our two baby girls. They lean against Agnes’s knees, gazing up at the arc of light, what I’d first noticed in the sky. Donny and I scoop Becky and Lana into our arms and hold them tighter than anything we’ve held in our lives.

  From our spot on the soaked grass, we see an entire neighborhood lining the sidewalk, all engaged in rapid, high-pitched chatter. A few, known to be sourpusses, are actually laughing, which puts me at ease. Most folks are wearing bedclothes except for Donny and me, who look as if we’re on our way out for a lovely evening. Someone points toward Jake and Ellen’s, but their house is blocked so I can’t see a thing. The smell permeates the air as if the whole neighborhood is sampling the same putrid fertilizer.

  “It stinks, Mommy.” Lana’s fingers go back in her mouth, as she rests her head on my shoulder.

  “Everyone else in the world was sleeping, Mommy, where were you?” Becky pulls away from my side; her face puffy and tear-streaked. I can’t answer my own child. Agnes appears shaken, and I ask if she wants to go home.

  “I’m okay, just tired,” she says.

  “What happened? And why didn’t you call us?”

  “I was afraid to take the time. As soon as I heard the sirens and looked outside, I gathered up the girls.”