Split-Level
Page 29
I arrive to find the park brimming with families enjoying the remnants of an early spring Sunday afternoon. A howling wind subsides, leaving the high-pitched squeals of frolicking children. I claim my favorite bench, the one always bathed in sun at the bottom of the hill. We sat on that bench once, together, and I can recall every detail of that day, that moment: how the air smelled of sweet cherry tobacco, the sharp squawk of a hovering crow, the roughness of his hand the first time it accidentally grazed mine. I stand and sit, stand and sit. I have an itch between my shoulders that is hard to reach. I get angry, euphoric, then terribly sad. It is ten past four, and as I start my ascent up the hill, back to my car, I spot him. Charlie Bell. He is carrying something bulky, wrapped in ordinary brown paper. I don’t know what is bigger, the package or his smile. Now, as I walk toward him, I am elevated by a familiar magnetism. Charlie props the package alongside the trunk of an old tree and holds out his arms. Warm, like a Papa, a Dad, a friend—the man he is, and likely will always be.
“Happy birthday, kiddo,” he whispers, sending chills down my back. I can’t believe he remembered, even I nearly forgot this one. Thirty-one seemed mediocre, except for the fact it will always be the age I was when I divorced.
Charlie seems nervous, as though he’s practicing restraint, trying not to clutch me hard. But it is me who folds easily into his outstretched arms. His fresh air aroma has not disappeared with time.
“Okay, so what’s that?” I ask, stepping back to balance myself against the sturdy oak.
“Well, why not open it and find out.” He hands over his tiny Hoffritz knife, warning me to be careful. His breathing is hard, while his body emanates a safe, familiar heat. I tear at the package, clumsily, having seen enough brown wrap in the past weeks to last a lifetime. Then right beneath a thin piece of foam core, I find my painting, the one I’d entitled Tangled.
I am shocked, yet thrilled, to see the work again—like a surprise reunion with a dear old friend. Secretly, I was glad to be able to visit Tangled whenever the girls and I visited the library, to watch people stop and scratch their heads, or wrinkle their noses, or smile with enlightenment before moving on.
“But this is my painting, Charlie. I don’t understand.”
“It was me. I’m the person who bought it from the library.”
“You? You were the mysterious client?”
Charlie beams. “I remembered this was the one you’d finished after a really long time. But, more than that, this painting represents you—it’s your self-portrait, Alex, like a blueprint of who you used to be. Did you really want some stranger to buy it to cover a plaster wall, or to coordinate your colors with their furnishings? Of course, I’m not saying whoever bought this wouldn’t have loved it. But, for so many reasons, I love it a whole lot more.”
This gesture renders me speechless, and I take a few seconds just to breathe. There’s a jumble of emotions swirling around me, all funicular and new. I understood that when I had given the canvas to the library so someone might purchase it, I no longer needed the work as hard evidence of my talent or ability. I’d already let it go.
“I’d like for you to keep it, Charlie,” I say, never surer of my words.
“I think we should both sit down and talk about this,” he says, lightly taking my hand, leading me back to one of the benches. We leave the painting propped against the tree but in full view. After about a minute, he speaks, though his voice is a bit shaky.
“Hey, how’s this? Why don’t you keep the work for me until I find a place of my own?” A request delivered without an ounce of pressure, and so instead of my usual hesitation or stalling gesture, I nod yes.
What follows is a long and peaceful stretch of silence, a chance to view one another in the bold starkness of just an ordinary day. We are no longer stowaways in the night, or pawns on a chess board of some crazy marital game. When I look at Charlie now, I see part of my past—my former self—an already lived life. I don’t know a damn thing about the future, except, I am ready to move on. The thought comes like a gust of wind, forcing me, just for a second, to close my eyes. In the background are sporadic bursts of children’s laughter and older voices delivering soft demands. I lean in to the bench, my shoulder grazing Charlie’s, and point upwards—to the swirling colors of the crisp March sky—an endless stream of pastel light.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
During the months and years while writing Split-Level, pausing to complete another book in between, I kept returning to my tale of a young woman lost in the mire of ideas others had conjured for her future. One day I realized how those expectations both contrasted and conflicted with what she wanted for herself, and once that became clear, the mighty pen took over.
I am forever grateful for the support of many writers’ groups over the years, which include the NYC’s Writer’s Voice, workshops and conferences at Marymount College, and The International Women’s Writers Guild, where I formed valuable relationships with teachers and writers, many which have continued for decades. A special thanks to my NYC writing group with talented authors: Beth Schorr Jaffe, Bridget Casey, and Carol Gaunt, early readers of Split-Level.
I owe much gratitude to Stonybrook Southampton College’s stellar MFA program, which encouraged writers, like myself, to follow lifelong dreams. Early readers who inspired me include Meg Wolitzer, Nahid Rachlin, Lou Ann Walker, Roger Rosenblatt, and the late Frank McCourt, who allowed me in his class even though I was writing fiction. To my dear friend, author Elizabeth McCourt, for her constant enthusiasm and warm support. Much gratitude to friend and editor, David Groff, for believing in this story and sharing his wisdom and honesty.
A huge thank you to the dedicated team at She Writes Press: led by my publisher, Brooke Warner, including Caitlyn Levin, Krissa Lagos, Samantha Strom, and amazing book designer Julie Metz for all their guidance and enthusiasm for this novel. And a special thanks to Liza Fleissig and Andrea Robinson for their early cheering!
Unceasing gratitude to my family who have bestowed my life’s truest blessings, and my proud and patient husband who urged me to push through whenever I threatened to return to gymnastics … (I joke). Last, but not least, in loving memory of Franny—the sister I never had, who I tell my stories to each and every day.
QUESTIONS FOR BOOK CLUBS
1. When we first meet Alex Pearl, she is having a phone conversation with her new best friend, Rona, who seems to have adjusted to suburbia successfully. What are the clues that Alex might be having a more difficult time making that same adjustment?
2. Early on, Alex receives a phone call that sends shockwaves into her essentially happy and organized domestic life. Do you think she handles the incident in the best possible way? How might you react in the same situation?
3. During the 1970s, many couples attended retreats hoping to improve communication in their marriages. Describe Alex and Donny’s experience at Marriage Mountain. What aspects did you find revealing? Sad or touching? Humorous? Have you ever attended a similar retreat?
4. Alex’s trip to Florida alone with her girls brings a few new surprises. What are some of the triggers that cause both malaise and mistrust in her marriage? How is she affected by her own parents’ relationship?
5. Meeting Charlie Bell and his wife initially serves Alex with an example of a marital relationship to compare against her own. How are they different as couples? What are some of the early danger signs in each marriage?
6. What is the pivotal point in the relationship between the two couples? How does that change Alex? Does her focus shift or remain the same? What does she hope for in the end? What might you see in her future?
7. It’s been said that many who marry in their twenties ultimately go through transitions that may cause them to desire more in their thirties. Discuss.
8. Which parts of Split-Level did you find most insightful?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For as long as she can remember, libraries have been Sande Boritz Berger’s safe haven and books her greatest joy. A
fter two decades as a scriptwriter and video producer for Fortune 500 companies, Sande returned to her other passion: writing fiction and nonfiction full-time. She completed an MFA in writing and literature at Stony Brook Southampton College, where she was awarded the Deborah Hecht Memorial prize for fiction. Her short stories have appeared in Epiphany, Tri-Quarterly, Confrontation, and The Southampton Review, as well as several anthologies, including Aunties: Thirty-Five Writers Celebrate Their Other Mother (Ballantine) and Ophelia’s Mom: Women Speak Out About Loving and Letting Go of Their Adolescent Daughters (Crown). She has written for the Huffington Post, Salon, and Psychology Today. Her debut novel, The Sweetness, was a Foreword Reviews IndieFab finalist for Book of the Year and was nominated for the Sophie Brody award from the ALA. Berger and her husband live in NYC and often escape to the quiet of Bridgehampton.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to
serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
The Geometry of Love by Jessica Levine. $16.95, 978-1-938314-62-9
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A hilarious spoof of academic intrigue that offers a zany glimpse of a small college at a crossroads—and of the societal turmoil and follies of the seventies.
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Appetite by Sheila Grinell. $16.95, 978-1-63152-022-8
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Beautiful Garbage by Jill DiDonato. $16.95, 978-1-938314-01-8
Talented but troubled young artist Jodi Plum leaves suburbia for the excitement of the city—and is soon swept up in the sexual politics and downtown art scene of 1980s New York.