Looker

by Laura Sims

  “Sorry?” I say. The neighborhood mom is asking me something. “What grade is your son in?” she asks, a slight edge to her voice. “Second,” I say, without missing a beat. Then I excuse myself and walk away.

  It happens by the food table. She hasn’t put out any offerings yet, so I’ve been lingering there, half-heartedly chatting now and then but mostly standing like a sentinel at the dessert end of the table, fourth—fifth?—beer bottle in hand, trying to look welcoming and self-sufficient all at once. I must be ready when she comes. I will be ready, I think, swigging my warm beer. Sure enough, she steps out of her house moments later with a large aluminum tray. I feel as though I’ve orchestrated this moment, as if I’ve attached myself to her via a thin silken cord, and given it a tender pull, so that she walks evenly toward me and stands there, open and amenable to further direction. Is this what her directors feel? Such power! “Would you mind moving that out of the way?” she asks, at last, gesturing to a plate of brownies. “Sure,” I say, smiling, and set my beer bottle down. I’ve pushed my sunglasses up over my head so my eyes are visible, and she’s done the same. We’re baring our faces to each other as we move the plates and trays and bowls around, creating space for her covered tray of food. She places her dish on the table and unveils it: stuffed shells, dressed with a light marinara sauce. “Looks delicious,” I say, and she smiles. “Did you make it?” I ask, not meaning to bear down so hard on the you. I feel my face get hot. She lets out a single syllable of laughter and holds my eyes. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Our chef made them—so they’ll be edible. More than edible—delicious. If I’d made them, I’d tell you to steer clear.” She touches my arm lightly as she says it. This is more than I asked for, more than I even dared to want: her touch! I close my eyes—just for a moment, so as not to seem outrageously weird—and let it fill me.

  When I open my eyes again, I notice her smile has slipped a little. The thread between us has gone slack; she’s going to walk away. “Does she cook all your meals?” I blurt out. “She cooks most of them, but not all. My husband cooks sometimes,” she says. I have her full attention now; the look on her face is one of gentle amusement. The other women on the block ask her things like What are those beads the baby is wearing? (A teething necklace.) Are the girls close? (Sometimes, but they fight a lot, too.) And so on . . . they try to connect on common maternal ground, but I’ve approached her like the outsider I am, and she likes it. It’s different. Refreshing, even. Her interest in our conversation has thickened—like the glue in one of those mousetraps. She’s going to stay.

  “Does the cook live with you?” I ask, sidling imperceptibly closer to her. I can smell her tasteful perfume. It’s delicately spicy, with a touch of musk. She stands with her shapely hands on her hips, opening herself to me, settling in. My arm still tingles where she touched it. “No,” she says. “She goes home at six p.m. every day. What about you, are you a good cook?” She’s trying to shift the focus to me. Such generosity! I rise to meet it, squaring my shoulders to say, “Yes, sometimes. When I’m in the mood, y’know?” She laughs lightly at this, as if she can’t imagine being in the “mood” to cook, because how could she? All she has to do is say, Jackie, we’ll have that scrumptious duck tonight, with the endive salad. No mood required. “Well,” she says, and her gaze shifts over my shoulder, toward the bouncy house, where her girls are still jumping around. “Do you have one of those?” she asks, pointing. “A bouncy house?” I ask, knowing exactly what she means, but going for the laugh. I get it. What a hearty, throaty laugh she has! I know it from her films, of course, but it’s an entirely other thing, out here in the wild. I can hardly believe she’s unleashed that glorious laugh in response to something I’ve said! “No,” she says, recovering. “A kid, do you have a kid?” She’s looking at me intently now. Careful now, careful. “No,” I say. “I don’t.” I try to say it lightly, breezily, like it doesn’t mean a thing, like it isn’t weighed down with the agony of years of trying, of my lost marriage, of the terrible emptiness of that extra room, but I fail. Sadness and the bitterness of failure lodge in the back of my throat, and I see that she has seen it. Sensed it. I panic. “But I do have an adorable cat,” I say, and she lets that laugh loose once again. This time it has an edge to it, like she’s indulging me a little, after my slip, but I don’t mind. She sighs then, the kind of sigh you give after having a good laugh with a friend, and then she peers over my shoulder. “It looks like I have to get my girls out of there now,” she says. The guy manning the bouncy house is trying, unsuccessfully, to get the kids inside to come out for a new shift of kids waiting in line. “Nice talking to you,” she says, touching my arm again, squeezing it lightly as she heads to the bouncy house. I turn and watch her drift away, all silk and goodness and light.

  It’s exactly what I’ve wanted, what I’ve longed for: everything has changed. I float like the actress herself for the rest of the day, smiling at everyone, even at the moms cuddling their babies in those ridiculous front chest packs, even at Mrs. H, even at the strange old man who can’t speak but nods and gesticulates when people pass by. I find it impossible to have conversations with anyone else, after talking to the actress, but I get a plate of food with samples from almost all the trays and everything tastes divine: the macaroni and cheese is rich and creamy, the beet salad is satisfyingly tart; the fried chicken is the perfect mix of tender and crisp. It’s as if the actress’s chef has made all the food today. I save her stuffed shells for last. They are the most divine: light and fluffy, each bite melts in the mouth. I want to tell her. I want to say, Your chef has made the most delicious pasta shells I’ve ever tasted! But she’s caught up in conversations now with the block moms, all that benign and banal chitchat about organic baby food and private preschools. I’m certain she’s longing to talk with me again, to that interesting, unusual woman. The special one. The one who surprised her, made her laugh.

  I’m standing there feeling peaceful and happily solitary when someone clears his throat behind me. I know that sound. I know that throat. I turn with wide eyes to see Nathan there, sardonic smile on his lips, manila envelope in his hand. He looks me up and down for a moment, taking in the dress, and shakes his head, like tsk tsk. “Hi there,” he says. Like he’s just back from his morning jog. Hi there. I stare at him some more. “Look, I don’t want to make a scene, but you won’t answer my calls or texts, or Sandy’s calls or texts, so it has to be this way. I had the block party on my calendar and knew you’d be here, so . . .” He’s trying to talk in a low voice—I think—but people are starting to glance our way, recognizing Nathan, realizing they haven’t seen him for a while, taking in my stricken face. Do something. You must do something. It’s like someone hissing in my ear. I take a long drink from my bottle of beer, tilting my head all the way back. When the bottle has been drained, I pretend I’m in the classroom, authoritative and calm, but that makes me think of Bernardo. Oh Christ, Bernardo. My face flushes. Nathan surely thinks it’s because of him. Not everything is about you! I want to shout. But that would make it even more about him than it already is.

  “Look, you can’t keep being unreasonable,” he says tensely. “You have to let me have Cat back. She’s mine.” “Not anymore,” I blurt out. “Really? You’re really going to keep playing this game?” he says, his voice rising, his face reddening. The looks from my (once our) neighbors become less surreptitious. One small group inches away from us so they can stare from a safe distance. Suddenly, the actress and her daughters are coming toward us from the bouncy house. I hold her eyes. She smiles, oblivious, and I can see she’s about to speak to me. Maybe she’ll ask about the shells she brought, or make a joke about me owning a bouncy house. Who knows! She could even say, We never exchanged names and numbers. You should come over sometime. That’s when Nathan practically screams, “Jesus Christ, pay attention! Can’t you listen to me for five fucking seconds?!” The actress’s eyes dart from me to him, from him to me. Her smile drops, her face goes blank, an
d she herds her daughters forward. Past the scary fighting couple. Past the ruined husk of a shared life. “Here,” Nathan says. His jaw is tight as he waves the envelope in the air. “These are the papers. The divorce papers,” he says, still loud, enunciating so that anyone within a twenty-foot radius—which is everyone on our block—can hear. “And if you want to fight over Cat, then be my guest. I thought we could resolve this like two adults, but you’re clearly incapable of that. So, I’ll see you in court.” He slaps the envelope against my chest; I can’t help grabbing it before it falls. Nathan, meanwhile, turns and wades through the groups of gawking families and couples and jogs away up the block. Leaving me here. Alone. Surrounded by curious, condescending onlookers. Clutching the envelope against my fine green dress and my strand of dark pearls.

  At first there is silence. Frozen, I wait for someone—anyone—to take me by the arm and lead me home, or down the block, or anywhere away from here. But it doesn’t happen—there is only that cavernous silence for a few beats, and then the neighborly chatter picks up around me. Slowly it grows to a low hum, surrounding and excluding me, expelling me, even, from its midst. One man laughs at a joke—softly at first, as if he knows it’s wrong, but then a moment later his laugh swells into an outright guffaw. He gives in to it, leaning back, his face in the air. I stare at his red face, at the beer in his hand, as he eats the air greedily. He doesn’t care. No one cares. No one even bothers to look my way now; now that the show is over, my so-called neighbors are moving on with their block party, on with their lives. What concern is it of theirs, if some lone renter among them has been humiliated and dumped on a city street?

  I go on standing there, unable to move, unwilling to flee. If I flee, they all win. Nathan, the neighbors, the lawyers: the lot of them. If I could, I would sink down to the pavement, my skirt billowing around me, and bawl like a baby. The neighborhood children would stream from the bouncy house and circle me, petting my head and shushing me just like their mothers do when they cry. I would stare up at them and smile valiantly through the tears. Instead, here I stand: red-faced and shaken. Not crying. Staring off above the heads of my neighbors, into the blankly reflective third-story window of a nearby brownstone.

  I think of the actress, skirting the scene and vanishing into her fantasy house, her fantasy life. At least I saw a touch of empathy on her face—though that could be from years of on-screen practice. But I forgive her. She is the only one I forgive. The desire to talk to her, to be in her presence again, wells up so strongly that tears prick my eyes. Lowering my gaze at last, I stare at her front door and will her to come out until . . . her door opens! She walks right out and rejoins the party. A miracle! I can breathe again—in through the nostrils, out through the mouth—and let my arms hang at my sides. The envelope drops from my hand to the pavement. I consider leaving it there for the partygoers to trample with their dirty shoes, but instead I reach down and grab it, march to my building, climb the steps, and shove it through the mail slot. Done. I take a deep breath and survey the scene from the top of my stoop. They’re just people. Who cares what they saw? What they think? I can handle them and their pitying glances. I’ll go back and have more beer and a damn good time and I will speak to the actress again. To hell with Nathan and all the rest of them.

  The actress is never alone, but I try to stay near her—within ten feet at all times—so I’ve wound up in myriad pointless conversations with myriad pointless people: namely, the darling neighbors who stood and stared when Nathan humiliated me an hour or so ago. They’re doing a great job now, as am I, of pretending that it never happened. The beer helps with this. Between the beer and the warm weather, I feel tipsy and okay with everything—even with the intensely curious looks Mrs. H has been shooting my way since Nathan stormed off. Before I know it, things are winding down. Parents are luring their kids out of the bouncy house and away from the face-painting table. I take some pleasure in watching the inevitable tantrums—the children I’ve wanted so badly are nothing more than spoiled brats! While I’m watching the family dramas, I spot the actress with Mrs. H. She has a soft spot for Mrs. H, as most people around here do. They see her as our very own grand dame—I’m the only one who thinks she’s just a nosy old bitch. I’m watching the two of them nod and talk, watching the actress touch the old lady’s arm just as she touched mine. I turn away from the sight and return to the table for yet another beer. Bottle number seven, I think? I’ve lost track.

  Someone comes up behind me. I sense a presence but don’t look. Sweating beer bottle in hand, hopes flagrantly raised, I straighten and turn. It’s Mrs. H. I must have conjured the old lady with my hateful thoughts. “Are you having a nice time?” she asks with narrowed eyes, like she’s waiting for my lie. I nod and smile. Looking over her head, I scan the crowd for the actress. I can’t find her anywhere—has she gone? Did she finish talking to the old bag and slip quietly away? Even the beer coursing through my blood can’t quell my rising panic. “She’s going home,” Mrs. H says, so softly that at first I think I’ve misheard her. “Huh?” I say. “You missed her,” Mrs. H says, pursing her lips like she’s holding back a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I spit out, slurring slightly. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. I’m the one who has to turn and walk away, which seems unfair. I hear her grunt quietly behind my back. What I wanted to say—to shout—is, Leave me the fuck alone! I go stand near the guys deflating the bouncy house—where none of my neighbors are—to cool down. I’m actually staring at my feet when someone says hello near my left ear, and I know at once it’s her.

  “Your salad was delicious,” she says, smiling. She’s standing there with a wineglass in hand—she must have popped into her house to get it. Mrs. H lied, I see with satisfaction, I didn’t miss her. I thank her for the compliment and stand there frozen, smiling. I can’t think what to say. “Clearly you have no need of a chef,” she says, almost shyly. It helps me recover, to see her a little vulnerable and working so hard to be nice. “Oh god, no, I do,” I say, rising up at last out of that woman to channel my teacher self—the confident professional woman who is heeded, respected, sometimes even adored. “It’s the one dish I can do really well, and it’s fun to cook for such a big group. I live alone now,” I add, inexplicably, before I can stop myself. The actress nods solemnly—of course she knows I live alone, after that scene with Nathan, and now the sad, rejected woman I had handily banished rises before her eyes again. Idiot! I would scream, if I could. I had her, I really had her, and now I’ve just lost her. We stand there smiling awkwardly at each other. Then she gives me a little wave—instead of touching me on the arm, as she did earlier, as she did a moment ago with Mrs. H. “I’m heading in with the girls,” she says. “Nice meeting you.” But we haven’t met, not properly! We haven’t even introduced ourselves! She turns and walks away. Leaving me here, dumbfounded and alone, returned to my original, forsaken, despairing, and despised self.

  FUCK YOU. When I get home I stare at the last line of Bernardo’s latest text. He sent it hours ago, before the block party, and the fact of it sitting there seems to erase the entire day, as if every good and golden moment, along with every shit-smeared one, were swallowed up in a hungry chasm that bears only one message for me: FUCK YOU. I’m drunk and disgusted with life, with my fucking a student and fucking up with the actress by exposing her to the garbage of my existence. How could I have tainted even that?

  *

  It hits me sometime later while I sit at my kitchen table, head spinning, taking sips of restorative tea: I know exactly what I have to do to put things right. Not with Bernardo. Fuck Bernardo. With renewed energy, I grab my wallet and keys and head to the store. I return with boxes of orzo, one small watermelon, feta cheese, and fresh basil. I walk right past the schmucks who signed up for clean-up duty on the way to and from the store. I don’t even bother to wave or shout a neighborly “Thanks!” as they fold and carry chairs, wipe down tables, and pick up paper plates and balled, dirty napkins
—all the refuse of the day. It makes me feel dirty just to look at them.

  For the first time in months, I feel the purpose and drive I used to have in the kitchen sometimes, whipping up one of Nathan’s favorite dishes or trying a challenging new recipe for the two of us. I boil, mix, measure, and taste with something like joy—even as the beer buzz fades, even as Bernardo’s message runs like ticker tape across the internal screen of my mind: FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU. When I take the first bite of my finished orzo salad, I close my eyes. The internal screen goes blank, and everything, every inch of my being, is engaged in the crisp, summery flavors. It’s a victory—it’s the taste of victory.

  I step outside wearing a casual-but-cute bright yellow sundress—one that I bought last year, inspired by her—to see all trace of the party gone, though the street remains cordoned off, silent and empty. It gives our block a desolate feel; at either end I see cars and pedestrians passing by, avoiding our block as if something unspeakable recently happened here. I shake off the hollow feeling it gives me and walk confidently down the front stoop like an actor stepping out from the wings of a stage. No neighbors are about, not even Mrs. H, which is just as well, though I like to imagine sets of eyes behind the shuttered and curtained brownstone windows, watching me as I walk down the street, a bright lemon-yellow figure bearing carefully a dish of orzo salad, stepping lightly, easily, breezily, all the way to number 202.