The outside lights click on, one by one, perfectly orchestrated like a line of long-legged chorus girls kicking higher and higher. No one has called out my name or peeked for me through the screen door. I assume they sent my cab driver home or I’ve chalked up quite a bill by now. I think of hopping in Donny’s car, sure that the keys are still in the ignition, as always.
The sky shuts down like a silent film fading to black, and I close my eyes, inviting only Charlie’s face. In this fantasy, it is difficult for him to speak, but he struggles, all the while, urging me to go home:
Go home, you must go, Alex.
Where, where is home? I have forgotten each and every familiar route.
“I’ll do it!” Donny announces. Instantly, Donny’s ruddy complexion fades to a yellowish tinge as he volunteers to make the call no one wants to make. While the rest of us, lowering our heads, pray, mumble, breathe hard and fast, Donny paces with the phone. He slams the receiver down, more than once, having been disconnected while waiting for confirmation. A stab of fear: Was it false hope or blind wishes making me think I saw Charlie’s broad shoulders moving swiftly, like oars, in the oil-slick waters of the river?
“His name is Bell, Charles Bell!” Donny yells into the phone. Again, and again, he is put on hold, and this waiting begins to bind us in a peculiar way, the simplicity of being on the same team, Charlie’s team. We walk in figure eights around the kitchen, as if at a pep rally performing a routine. In the moments when I imagine him gone, I feel ill, cold-blooded, nearly amphibious. Then I drift back to the past, forcing myself to remember human things: the warmth of Charlie’s eyes, the saltiness of his lips, the sharp ridges of his cheekbones.
“Yes, yes, he was traveling alone. What? One passenger, yes. Please don’t put me on hold again. His family is here with me now.” His family. Donny raises his index finger in the one-minute gesture, but his eyes are fixed on me, only me. Behind us, Ben munches on a carrot stick, and the tea kettle whistles, drowning out the percussion session deep inside my chest.
Seconds pass, then minutes. “Are you absolutely certain?” Donny asks.
Paula and I each grip one of Donny’s arms. He pulls free from us and rummages a hand through the thicket of his hair. Finally, he speaks. “Thank you, sir, yes, please, tell me everything you know.”
TWENTY
I will always remember the cracked parchment lampshade—how it was annoyingly tilted on this night, the night we decided to tell the girls Donny is moving out. Images of the scene, like the outline of bodies during a crime investigation, are stamped indelibly in my brain. I keep returning to the crooked lamp so to escape Becky’s and Lana’s dazed faces.
All the counsel in the world could not have prepared either one of us for what we have to say—the terrifying words that will sear the souls of our two innocent children. The therapist had cautioned me not to cry—“You don’t want to frighten them any more than they already are, and most importantly, Mrs. Pearl, you must tell your children, emphatically, that nothing they said or did caused this situation to happen.”
I drove home, thinking all I can do is try to keep calm and listen, minutes later, hours later, years later, while it all sinks in, when the girls finally realize their world was breakable, more fragile than the porcelain dolls that were kept, out of reach, high on a shelf.
And so now it is done. Yet, within seconds of the telling, Lana jumps from the couch with her hands planted firmly on her hips. “This is a family joke, Mommy, right? Ha!” As always, Lana eases some of the tension with her precious denial. I answer the best I can with my silence. Sucking furiously on her fingers, my baby girl lays her head against the arm of the couch and within seconds falls asleep.
“What about Passover?” Becky cries, lifting Donny’s drooping chin with both her hands.
“Of course,” I stammer, “we’ll have all our holidays, sweetie. That’ll never change.”
Becky’s voice trembles as she looks back and forth at us with begging eyes. I’m aware of a deep, sinking sensation as I realize there is a strong possibility that the Pearls and I might no longer share any holidays or celebrations.
Finally, I ignore the therapist’s last piece of advice, which suggested we all linger in the den together, perhaps play a board game, or complete a puzzle. We have just talked about us splitting apart. Working together to find the missing pieces of a crossword puzzle seems like such a lie.
Later, after tucking the girls in for the night, Donny packs up a cardboard box and fills it with record albums, favorite books, and some college paraphernalia. Noticing how meticulously he wraps these items—things that have given him comfort over the years—I feel a deep sadness for him, for us both. Then, as he is about to leave, Donny lifts the carved oak hat rack from the foyer wall. Stunned, I don’t say a word.
“I’ll come back tomorrow for more of my things. And we can talk about the house.”
“Sure, but I may need some time. I don’t know where I can go and not disrupt the girls.”
“Well, I can tell you it certainly won’t be here.”
Feeling faint, I remind myself that Donny’s style is to try intimidation whenever his pride is wounded. He still can’t believe I am actually going through with a legal separation. Is he holding out, waiting for me to change my mind? I was naïve to think the elation we shared over the news of Charlie’s survival would change how we interfaced, and that the destruction to both families might be inoculated with a resurgence of hope.
Trembling, I hold the screen door open for Donny and the mirrored hat rack—an anniversary gift from his parents. I lock our front door, using the deadbolt for the first time in over three years, since we moved to this quiet little cul-de-sac—Daisy Lane. And, after almost eight years together, our life, and what we once called family, ends with a hard slam of a door.
The next night Donny picks up Becky and Lana to take them out for an early dinner—to give them a sense that he will always be close and readily available. I point-blank ask Donny if he knows how Charlie is doing, and whether Paula has visited him in the DC hospital. He glares at me as if insulted, and I wonder if it’s crazy to think he might be envious of Charlie’s near- death experience.
“Yes, of course, Alex. It was the right thing to do,” Donny says.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. He has, after all, been all alone down there.”
“And she is still his wife. Did you forget?” Donny reminds me I’m no longer privy to any hints of Paula’s devotion toward Charlie, or any intrinsic claim to their relationship. He continues to wear his insecurity like a cloak of steel.
“So, what exactly is she to you, Don? I’m curious, that’s all.”
“Our relationship is now strictly platonic, if you must know. It’s one of moral support and mutually beneficial … particularly during this hard time.”
Though I smile, my face feels hot, and my heart pounds harder than I would have expected. Donny has become Paula’s white knight—wholly needed, respected, anything but a disappointment, in someone else’s eyes.
Trying to keep myself busy, the next day, I’m on the floor of our garage tying up a stack of old newspapers. Next, I’ll tackle the overstuffed garbage pails—the first rude awakening of Donny’s departure. For weeks, I’ve hoarded papers, reading everything printed about the plane crash and Charles Louis Bell, a thirty-three-year-old attorney, turned hero. Though, in reality, the Potomac crash is already old news, only a few lines wedged between stories of crooked politicians and rising gas prices.
From the pile of papers cradled in my arms, I spot a thumbnail photo of Charlie speaking into a microphone. He looks so much older, weary, and forlorn. I remember that look—his need to convince, desperately hoping to be understood. From day one, the news slant seemed focused on making Charlie an anti-hero: a New York hotshot attorney who just happened to risk his life to save the lives of three strangers. This was obviously the penance for his defending the shutdown of the nuclear reactors. For days, noisy acti
vist groups crawled from the woodwork to loiter outside his hospital. The signs they carried were a reminder of the threats of toxic waste—the dangers in by-products of all nuclear facilities. In this and other interviews, Charlie stressed he only did the job required of him; nobody gave a damn about his moral conflicts. I imagine him shrugging his shoulders, saying, “This is the price one pays when dealing with the big guys.” But then a shadow curtains his face, penetrating his fierce pride.
I tie the papers in a double knot, trying to remember Donny’s special method, but coupons and inserts keep sliding out all over the garage floor. The bundles should resemble a large cake box. Sweating, I kick the lopsided stack and twist my ankle. My palms are streaked charcoal and my cuticles bear remnants of purple dye from the T-shirts I’d made for the girls. This morning, when they waved from the driveway, I tried to believe their sweet, photogenic smiles meant they were happy. But I saw how they kept looking back at me, as if I might disintegrate in the doorway.
Sinking down on a mound of garbage bags, I inhale the rot of a week’s worth of discarded food. My face falls into my filthy hands while I hold back tears. Sobered by the sight of Donny’s windbreaker among a pile of clothing he’d forgotten, I reach for the jacket and wipe my face into its soft cotton lining. I have the strange impulse to toss his clothes in the wash. And as I’ve done hundreds of times in the past seven years, I empty all the pockets. There are golf tees, pennies, breath mints, a crinkled receipt, and ticket stubs. Bile races to my tongue. I shove three breath mints in my mouth before examining the stubs. They are for the movie Dog Day Afternoon—Donny and I haven’t been to the movies in ages. I lift myself off the stinking bags and limp to the kitchen to check the calendar. The twenty-third is circled like a bull’s eye—the day I’d watched Paula’s children—the scorching afternoon when she changed her mind.
Irritation invades all melancholy the instant I picture Paula and Donny relaxing in a cool theater, perhaps fresh from the doctor after she decided: Oh, what the hell, I’ll have the kid. Then, like troubled teens, they happily share a jumbo bag of buttered popcorn, a cup of Coke big enough to bathe in.
Pacing the kitchen, I see myself in the oven door and jump. I resemble a homeless orphan—my face muddied from a mix of ink and tears. I have looked in that oven door hundreds of times, but this is the first time I know who I see. I glance at the clock. Becky and Lana’s bus will drop them off in a matter of minutes.
“I can do this,” I say aloud. There’s not a soul left to answer to.
There’s a four-thirty shuttle to DC, which only takes an hour from Newark. I’ve memorized every departure, known them for a long time. Jumbled and insane elation has me calculating a time frame to have me back home by 11:00 p.m. That is, if I tell some white lies, and reach out for help. Rona? Really? But there is little time to think about pride or Rona’s appraisal of me—of anyone’s appraisal of me. It’s faster and cheaper to drive my Dart to the airport and drop Becky and Lana at Rona’s on the way.
“Mommy, you look so shiny,” Lana says, “and you smell like vanilla wafers.”
“Thank you, honey.” I check my face in the rearview mirror. Over my faint tan is a wild cherry blush spreading down to my chest. I touch my forehead with the back of my hand like my mother used to do when checking for fever.
“Where are you going?” Becky asks, eyeing me suspiciously. For a split second I see Donny’s mouth twisting up at the corners: Yeah, tell me another one.
“Hmm … where am I going?” I think aloud.
“Tell us, tell us, please.” Lana bounces on the floor of the back seat. “I can keep a secret, Mommy. I go to kindergarten now.”
“But it’s not a secret, angel. There’s something Mommy has to do … something good for me, and then I’m absolutely coming right home to you.”
“Tonight?” Becky asks.
“Yes, tonight, and don’t worry if I’m a little bit late. You can get into your jammies at Rona’s.”
“And what about this weekend … can we still go to Adventureland?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Can Daddy come with us?” Lana asks, as I pull into Rona’s driveway. Rona waves vigorously from her front porch, then tucks Ethan’s plaid shirt inside his new khakis—images from the back-to-school issue of Parents magazine.
I turn around in the car to face Becky and Lana, feeling the tug of fresh raw guilt.
“I bet Daddy would love to go, but we’ll have to ask him. Better not mention the Ferris wheel.”
“I know,” Lana giggles, “Daddy always gets the throw-ups.”
My mere speaking of Donny, just a few simple words of recognition, seems to soothe them. I watch their eyes haze over as if they’re already there, at the amusement park, with us, their mom and dad. Whether this is a good thing or bad, I have no idea. I will do anything to ease their aching hearts—anything, but return to a life with someone who didn’t love me like I needed to be loved. Only now, do I realize Donny might be saying the exact same thing. Maybe someday my girls will understand or maybe never.
Rona and I exchange tight little smiles. I think she knows it’s wise not to say too much. When I called her, only an hour ago, she’d asked if I knew what I was doing and pressed if I was certain it was over between Donny and me. She sounded like a divorce lawyer pushing for reconciliation. I didn’t mind her probing—it helped me validate everything I’ve known for a long time. What has happened to me must terrify someone like Rona. How in less than a year, a couple, living what appears to be an ordinary life, can suffer such upheaval.
I hand over the tote bag containing the girls’ pajamas and a large one-hundred-piece Sesame Street puzzle, which Rona will probably hide before allowing it to be spilled across her floor. I hug the girls so tightly I can count their ribs. They turn and wave, then run up the steps to the eager Ethan, the delicious only child who becomes buoyant in their presence.
“Thank you, Rona.” I sit up tall, straightening my shoulders.
“Be careful,” she says, pecking my cheek in the style of my mother. As I’m backing out of the driveway, Rona knocks on my window, startling me. I roll the glass down halfway, already tense and impatient in my rushing mode.
“I have to ask you something,” she says, leaning in closer.
“Quick, Rona, or I’ll miss my flight.”
“Alex, that top you’re wearing is absolutely stunning. Where did you find it?”
My mouth drops open. “You’re joking, right?”
Rona laughs, heartily, pulling me along. If I had time, I’d squeeze her, until all her phony layers peeled away, leaving what I see more clearly now: a kind young woman needing, much like me, to be needed. I turn the corner, leaving Rona waving, rigorously, from her lush garden, where rows of emerald boxwoods stand pruned in perfect, three-foot spheres.
I consider double-parking and leaving my car with the motor running, but then some angel pulls out of the one and only spot in Newark’s cramped overnight lot. I run to the gate like a zebra, the fastest I’ve moved my entire life, my breasts aching with each long stride. Their tenderness, coupled with a week of erratic mood swings, signals I’ll be bleeding before long. I am a barge of bloat craving relief from the salty fluids pressing into my brain and belly.
Terror strikes the moment I hear the last call for my flight. I block out the image of Paula already perched on the plane flipping through Baby Talk magazine and rush down the cool gray corridors leading to the gate. When I arrive, out of breath, an attendant looking like the mannequin from Annie Sez, uses a stiff arm and gestures me to slow down.
“We’re quite busy this afternoon, but you’re in luck. No seats left on the shuttle, but we’ve got one seat on our regular flight … first class.” She smiles, her lipstick clownish and curled above her mouth. I have an impulse to put a quarter in her hand, to have her emit a card predicting my fortune.
I pray that my credit card goes through and that Donny hasn’t already cancelled the account. My
habitual fear of flight is obliterated by the belief that another plane crash could not occur within two weeks—especially with DC as the final destination. Plus, I’ve run up quite the tab in the let’s make a deal and let me live department.
The stewardess, a friendlier mannequin, serves hot towels with tongs. I blot the perspiration from my neck and inhale the soothing lemony smell; dry flecks of skin peel off me, and I scrub until the towel is cool. A painful pressure grips my loins. I unbuckle the seat belt and lock myself in the tubular cubicle called a restroom. A tinge of pink appears on my panties. The tampon dispenser is empty, so I grab a wad of tissues to create my own protective shield. Then, in the foggy mirror, I give myself a silent pep talk. I force a pleasant smile and pinch my burning cheeks. It suddenly occurs to me there is no one left to pinch my cheeks, to say, Good for you, Alex.
I return to my seat, leaving my practiced face behind, saying goodbye to the pretense that often looked back at me from mirrors. All those years of quiet desperation—suitcases stuffed with lies.
At exactly 6:30 p.m. my cab pulls up the ramp of Bethesda Naval Hospital. Two burly security guards are parked at the curb, downing steamy slices of pizza. I get a few curious glances, and am struck by the need to duck past them. What would I say if I was questioned? Who is this frazzled blonde visiting Charlie Bell—a well-respected attorney, husband, and father of two or three, and flawless hero? My heart gallops as I approach the double glass doors. Automated, they part on their own, causing me to lunge forward, nearly toppling to the ground. Two blue-haired ladies are in the process of changing shifts at the information desk. As one walks away, I make a timid approach, hoping she’ll take pity on me and my goose-bumped arms.
“Sorry, that woman just told me the room number for Charles Bell. I think I heard wrong. Did she say 324?”
Split-Level Page 27
