Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives
Page 8
“Believe me, I thought twice before I did. Who knew she was such a lunatic?” He shivers at the thought. “She rang the bell around nine-thirty. She said she wanted to apologize for any misimpressions she may have given me, that she really appreciated my friendship and hoped there were no hard feelings. In fact, she brought that stupid box over there”—he jerks his head, but shudders instead of looking at it—“it was supposed to be my birthday present. She insisted that I open it while she was still here. What was I supposed to say, no?”
“I guess not.” My last resort is to scrounge around on the floor. Just by chance, I happen to look in Lucky’s water bowl—
And that’s where I see a tiny black key. Triumphantly I snatch it up. “Hey, I think I found it! Gee, Harry, I’m guessing that was an awkward moment. I wonder what the hell she was thinking.”
Lucky follows me out, right on my heels. He must think it’s a dog biscuit, because he’s leaping to snatch it out of my hand.
“You and me both, Lyssa. It shocked the hell out of me at first. The only thing I could think of saying was ‘What’s this?’ How lame is that? She said that she had hoped I was as attracted to her as she was to me. That maybe this would be the start of a different kind of relationship. Or, as she put it, friends with benefits.” He sighs and looks at me pointedly. “Hey, do you mind?”
“What?” I’ve practically gotten Lucky to sit and beg. I just wish I had a reward for him—
“Lyssa, please! The key.” He rattles his shackle again.
“Oh! Of course!” I reach over and shove the key into the lock. It takes some jiggling, but finally the cuff springs open.
Harry’s groan is part pain, part gratitude. He massages his wrist, then his elbow.
I consider the absurdity of handcuffs wrapped in pink powder puffs before tossing them into the box. “Don’t stop now. What happened next?”
“Well . . . I laughed. But she didn’t laugh with me. She said she’d been fantasizing about me since the moment we met, that she thought there’d been an obvious attraction on both our parts, and she wasn’t above having it include a little sex on the side. Then the next thing I know, she’s backed me up against the stair and her tongue is down my throat!”
“She’s got nerve!” I’m truly livid. “How dare she! What a slut! What a—whore!”
Okay, maybe I’m overreacting. I have my answer from the quizzical look on Harry’s face. So that he can’t see how hot my cheeks are getting, I busy myself gathering up Tammy’s sex toys and stuffing them back in the box. “So, what did you do then?”
“Of course I shoved her off.” A sad look comes over his face. “Lyssa, it was like something out of high school. She just broke down. When she quit sobbing, she asked me what was wrong with her, why I didn’t find her desirable. I didn’t know what to say, so I told her that of course she was desirable, but that I wasn’t looking for an affair, just a friendship.”
He sits down on the stairs and shakes his head. “Then she started talking about how lonely it is to be in a neighborhood like this, where you can see all the love and the joy in the houses around you. How she likes to walk at night, when she can look through the big picture windows at the families gathered around the dining room table or watching TV together, and how she and Charlie have been trying so hard to have kids and can’t conceive. . . . Well, of course I felt sorry for her. I put my arm around her shoulders, and the next thing I know, she’s all over me again. I had to push her away. That’s when it dawned on me that she wanted me to be her personal sperm donor.”
“Wow, so she’s that desperate to have a kid!” I shake my head sadly. “But how did you get shackled to the banister?”
“At first she denied it, but she finally came around to admitting it. She said that Charlie refuses to consider adopting, or even a sperm donor. He insists on leaving it up to fate. You know—if it happens, great; if not, then it wasn’t meant to be. But she can’t live with that. She promised no one would ever know, and there would be no strings attached. She’d even sign an agreement relieving me of any legal responsibilities for the child. When I said I’d pass on that dubious honor, she got angry. Told me I was a fool not to take her up on her offer. Then she called me a selfish man-ho who had just been leading her on. By then I’d had enough. I told her she was too desperate and too horny to ever be my type.”
I wince when he says that. Considering Tammy’s pride, I can only imagine how much that must have hurt her.
“Well, then she called me a stuck-up prick and cast some pretty cruel aspersions on my manhood—none of which I feel like repeating right now. That was when I shoved all that stuff back into the box and told her to take it and get out.” He shook his head at the memory of it all. “She noticed I had my hand on the banister and, stupid me, I didn’t realize she still had those god-awful fuzzy cuffs in her hand. The next thing I know, my hand is shackled to the rail. I was yelling at her to let me go, but she just laughed and said, ‘Good luck explaining this to DeeDee and your kids.’ And that’s when Lucky bit her. Grabbed hold of her ankle and wouldn’t let go. I guess he realized I was angry with her, and that got him upset. The next thing I know, she’s hightailing it out of here.” He nods at Jake’s hockey stick, which is propped up against the banister. “For a good hour I didn’t notice it was within reach. I used it to knock my BlackBerry off the foyer table. It’s just long enough to do the trick, but it took me another hour to nudge it within reach. For once I’m happy Jake is too lazy to put his equipment in the garage.”
It’s funny, and yet so pathetic at the same time. Poor Tammy! It makes me sad to think of her twisted attempt to get pregnant by using Harry.
Suddenly Harry’s eyes go dark. “Oh, shit! What if she blabs about this and DeeDee gets wind of it? Tammy can spin this in such a way that I might never see my kids again—”
I shake my head. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Frankly, I don’t think Tammy would broadcast this and risk having Charlie dump her over it.”
“I see what you mean. And, of course, she’s betting I won’t say anything to anyone either. Because of my divorce.” As the fear drains from his face, sadness takes its place. “I guess my speech yesterday pushed her over the edge. I’d be angrier if her actions weren’t so—well, so pathetic.”
I tear up. “Listen, Harry, I’m sorry about all this. If I hadn’t introduced you to the other women—to Tammy—you wouldn’t have been hanging from this railing all night.”
“Yeah, really. So much for a nice quiet night at home. I wonder if Goodwill accepts sex toys.” A sly smile hits his lips. “Hey, I’ve got a better idea—why don’t you take them home with you? I saw the way you were eyeing those cuffs, and I’m sure you’d look great in that negligee. Just consider it a thank-you gift for coming to my rescue—”
“Ha-ha! Very funny. If you’re feeling comfortable enough to make a joke, I guess there’s no need for me to apologize.”
Suddenly he’s serious again. “You never need to apologize to me, Lyssa. I thought you knew that.”
Walking home, I pass the same windows in the same houses that hold the happy lives Tammy covets. There is no excuse for what she did to Harry. But I understand why she’d try.
Well, if he can forgive her, I guess I can too.
13
“All women are angels . . . as long as you are their god.”
—Leonid S. Sukhorukov
Thursday, 14 Nov., 3:13 p.m.
Mother has this saying, something she has uttered ominously albeit only occasionally since the day Dad walked out on us: “Well, kiddo, the honeymoon is oh-VAH.”
When she says this, the last syllable of that last word hurtles at warp speed, like a silver bullet, through the thin O of her lips, aimed, I presume, at the forehead of whoever has ruined her day. Or, in Dad’s case, her life.
After this declaration, as far as she’s concerned the culprit is Dead on Arrival. The issue: Finito. THE END.
I don’t know why I’m
thinking about this now, except that the unfathomable is happening: Brooke’s iPhone is whining—literally—in her elder son Marcus’s voice. Apparently the customized ringtone assigned to his cell number is his personal rendition of a classic P Diddy ditty: some gangsta-rap haiku incorporating ho, shizzle, booty, and mo-fo, though not necessarily in that order. It is proof positive that no offspring’s digitally preserved sound bite is too nasal, self-conscious, or raunchy for his mother’s delicate ears, and she should not hesitate to share it with anyone within hearing distance.
Still, there is a time and place for everything. And considering that Brooke, Tammy, and I are mid-pedicure—in other words, ankle-deep in warm, swirling footbaths of candlenut and coconut milk, our legs slathered in chocolate (me) and honey (them)—now is not the ideal moment for Brooke to hear from any of her kids.
Especially the one who, like my son Tanner, is supposedly being taxied to a very important cross-county basketball game by Harry.
Back when we were all childless, our cell phones would have been muted the moment we entered the Heights of Beauty Day Salon’s labia pink walls. But these days, me time is a guilty pleasure. Sneaking off for an afternoon mani-pedi with your gal pals is the mommy equivalent of the Burgundian mercenaries leaving the Beech Bottom Dyke unmanned during the Second Battle of St. Albans. (Okay, maybe not that bad, but you get the point.)
Marcus’s lament unleashes that most Pavlovian instinct of all: maternal. Without a second thought, Brooke plunges her hand into her Yves Saint Laurent suede Muse bag, paraffin dip be damned. Despite her fumbles and curses, the bag’s cell-phone pocket is too slippery to unzip with mitted hands.
Realizing that someone has to come to her rescue or we’ll all get booted out for upsetting the serenity of the other patrons, Tammy wrestles the purse into submission, and in the process smudges her freshly polished french tips.
To Harry, she’s a psycho rapist. To Brooke, she’s a friend in need.
“Jesus, Marcus! What is it? Not another front tooth!” Brooke’s face mask is cracking under the stress, a veritable San Andreas of organic egg white and coarse brown sugar. Her worst fear is that, once again, a collision with some rebounder’s elbow has turned Marcus’s picture-perfect smile into a gap-toothed grin.
Tammy and I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his indignant tone speaks volumes: Whoa, Mom, heck, don’t blame me, because this time it’s not my fault. . . .
Brooke’s face confirms this. Although petrified in meringue, like the moon during a lunar eclipse it moves oh-so-gradually through several phases of emotion: fear, relief, concern, disbelief, and then anger.
“What’s happened?” I hiss.
Brooke shushes me. With Marcus, though, she is as calm as a kindergarten teacher during a fire drill. Panic is something we mothers share with a priest, a shrink, or friends willing to feel our pain, but never with our kids. “Okay, listen. . . . Yes—yes, I know it’s a tournament game. . . . Honey, just call Coach Shriver and tell him to stall. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She hangs up.
Tammy can’t stand it any longer. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t they at the game?”
“Because Harry never picked them up from school, that’s why. Seems that he went into the city today instead.” As Brooke lunges toward the changing suite, her pedicure tub tips over and the milky mixture sloshes onto the floor. Tammy slips and slides as she chases after her. The honey that has her thighs practically glued together doesn’t help her forward momentum.
I shake my head in disbelief, but both of them are so far ahead of me that neither can see me. “But—but that’s not possible! When I reminded him this morning it was his turn to carpool the boys to their game, he told me how much he was looking forward to going.”
Okay, maybe those weren’t his exact words. But there is no way I’m going to tell them that his real response was an eye roll and a litany of curses: at his partners for scheduling an important meeting with one of his largest clients in the early afternoon, as opposed to sometime in the morning; at DeeDee and Bethany the Terminator for socking him with yet another court order demanding that he leave the premises and agree to her taking full custody of their children; and at himself for forgetting that Jake even had a ball game this afternoon, let alone that Temple now had to be covered too.
He’d saved his final curse for himself. “I’m some arrogant son of a bitch, aren’t I? I mean, really, who do I think I am, Superman? Hell, I can’t even bribe Temple to go to bed at a decent hour! Do you know what she tells me? That she’s worried about her mother sleeping alone.” Absentmindedly he ran his fingers through his hair. It was now somewhat shaggier than usual, but that was understandable. With his two worlds colliding, these days Harry rarely had time to shave, let alone hit a barbershop.
“Listen, because we thought you had us covered for middle-school carpool, Brooke and I were going to leave Olivia and Ben Junior with Colleen and her little McGuyver while we get mani-pedis. I’m sure she won’t mind looking after Temple too,” I told him.
“What? Hell, no, I wouldn’t do that to you—or Colleen either. Don’t worry about a thing. If the meeting starts on time, I’ll be home a good half hour before the boys get out of school. Temple can come with us. You and Brooke just do your thing, and don’t worry about me.”
He wasn’t going to come out and say it, but I knew why he didn’t want to call Colleen: because of his work emergencies, already Brooke and Colleen had subbed for him in carpool. If Harry ditched carpool duty yet again, brows would lift in consternation, and his worst fears would be realized:
The girls would have yet another reason to gossip about him behind his back.
“That’s just it. It’s not just the two of us anymore. Brooke told me Tammy is joining us.” Since the handcuff incident I’d been avoiding her like the plague. I guess I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to give her a piece of my mind. “Harry, seriously, I don’t mind bowing out. Particularly not after . . . well, you know.”
“Look, Lyssa, eventually you’ll have to converse with her. We both will, for that matter. You might as well get it over with. Just play it cool. Don’t let on that you know what happened, or she’ll feel obligated to cover it up. Then it will spread like wildfire, only I’ll be made out to be the bad guy. You know I can’t afford for that to happen.”
I went, for Harry’s sake.
Now I wish I’d followed my gut and stayed home with the kids.
Still sticky and pissed off, Brooke and Tammy run on ahead to the parking lot. While Tammy revs up her BlueTec, I toss my credit card at our mystified pedicurist and steel myself for the conversation sure to take place on the way to the boys’ school. In this group of frenemies, where snide suppositions are sharper than any surgeon’s scalpel, Harry’s character will be sliced and diced to tiny pieces.
Tammy’s remarks will be the sharpest.
Now it’s payback time.
Needless to say, the bloom on the rose that was once the Paradise Heights Women’s League board’s lopsided love affair with Harry is withering, one petal at a time.
3:38 p.m.
Harry must have pulled up to the school just a few moments before us, because the boys are about to get into his car—that is, if they aren’t run over first by Tammy, who careens to a stop in front of Harry’s sedan in such a way that it’s obvious she’s watched too many Law and Order episodes.
“Humph! Nice to see you were able to make it after all.” Brooke’s tone is snide enough to make Harry wince. Or maybe it’s seeing Tammy again that does that to him. In any case, he smiles and tries to wave us on.
But Brooke isn’t having it. “I guess you don’t care that this is a tournament game for the boys! Have you forgotten that they’re all starters? My God, Harry, if Paradise Heights loses, I hope you realize it’ll be all your fault.”
“Not to mention that our appointments are just as important as yours, Harry Wilder.” Tammy raises her smeared fingers to make her point.
All the color goes out of her face, but she keeps her mouth shut. Her passive-aggressive tendencies are quelled for the time being.
Still, I shudder to think how they’ll surface next, and against whom.
Although he’s not being attacked, Jake turns beet red. Just like every other teen in the world, he feels his parent is enough of an embarrassment on most days. Watching Harry being accused by a teammate’s mom of ruining their game is a fate worse than death.
“Jump in, guys. We’re late as it is.” Harry’s eyes are hard enough to cut diamonds. The kids know a showdown when they see one. I give Tanner a slight nod to let him know it’s okay by me.
Perplexed, Marcus glances at his mother for approval. Brooke pauses, unsure of what to do now. She has every right to be mad at Harry, and they both know it. At the same time, she honestly likes him. Her last-ditch effort to put him in his place is halfhearted at best. “Well, I mean . . . since we rushed over here, we might as well take them ourselves.”
“Nonsense! But, hey, that’s not a bad idea, you meeting us there. I’m sure the boys would love the support. If you think you can keep up, just follow me.” It’s more of a dare than an invitation, and he knows it. If Brooke and Tammy had their druthers, they’d much rather be back at the Heights of Beauty. But having been called out in this way, what else can they do?
Spurred on by Harry’s sharp nod, the boys, all lean limbs and tense energy, implode into his once-immaculate BMW 750Li. The tribulations of carpool duty during the rainy season have taken their toll on the car’s black napa leather.
Harry glances over at me and winks. That’s his way of telling me that he’s okay, but I know better. Harry isn’t used to fucking up, and this incident has shaken him to the core.