by Josie Brown
To himself. To Harry. To me.
Yes, I’m loving it. I am the prize.
It’s about damn time.
Tanner, too, drops out after fifteen minutes, not because he’s being outplayed but because there is no point in hanging in: Harry is also seeing red, and playing as if he’s on fire.
The ball goes back and forth, and so does the score. Within an hour, both men are huffing and puffing. As much as they’d like to pretend that pickup games happen every day of their lives, for the most part they’re a thing of the past for these desk jockeys.
That’s proven when Ted glances a shot off the backboard that pounds Harry in the face. Harry glares back at Ted, who shrugs with a smile. Not smart. Harry takes this as a slight and goes for payback: a ball to the gut.
This puts Ted on the ground. Even in pain, though, he has a few dirty tricks up his sleeve—or I should say, in his feet: he kicks Harry’s knees out from under him. Both men come up flailing. Olivia, alarmed, is now crying, and Mickey is jumping up and down—
Until he gets knocked over by two men who have forgotten that they are supposed to be setting a good example for my children, even as they fight for the right to . . .
To what? I can only go home with one of them: the one who now has a bloody nose, a busted lip, and two bum knees.
And a son who is bruised and sobbing. I wrap my arms around Mickey and usher him away from the killing fields. They say you can’t kick a good man when he’s down. I am tempted to kick two crazy ones, and at this point, I don’t think anyone would think any less of me.
11:12 p.m.
“Hey, hon, let’s kiss and make up.” Ted pats me on the rump.
I feel as if I’ve just been branded.
Despite the fact that my eyes are squeezed shut and I’m pretending to snore, he is not fooled. This is why I’ve given up my dream of becoming a soap star.
“Believe it or not, I’m just not in the mood.”
He processes that for a moment. Then, in my ear he whispers: “Gee, I guess you’re too tired, after spending the day with your boyfriend.”
My slap sends him reeling backward. Once again his nose is a gusher, red and slick. He groans in pain, then wipes the blood away with one hand, but pins me, face down, to the bed with the other.
Even as I struggle, my body responds to his hard, deep strokes, to his whispered curses and the smell of blood that suffocates me as he presses his cheek to mine.
Our climax is simultaneous. Afterward he drops over me, a dead weight holding me down in so many ways.
Finally he shoves me to one side, grunts himself up from the bed, and stumbles to the door.
“Where are you going?” The passion I’ve craved all these years—Ted’s—is a full-bodied elixir. I feel like coming and throwing up at the same time.
“The guest room. Oh, and by the way, I’ve decided I’m going in to the office tomorrow after all. So feel free to invite Loverboy over. For my leftovers.”
28
“Marriage is a mistake every man should make.”
—George Jessel
Friday, 29 Nov., 12:33 p.m.
My contribution to the potluck is turkey soup.
And grace.
Unlike Margot, I’ll be a benevolent winner. I won’t walk in as if I own the joint. I won’t gloat or preen. And I certainly won’t use this social gathering to proclaim the changes I plan to implement during my year as the Paradise Heights Women’s League president.
All in good time, dearie. All in good time.
Tomorrow, in fact, at the next board meeting. It can wait until then.
Humble is as humble looks. To that end, I’m dressed simply: dove gray cashmere turtleneck and slacks.
Another humble touch: a soup stain on my pants, which is what happens when you juggle a hot tureen with a large purse.
The kids have already jumped out of the car and rushed into the Paradise Heights clubhouse, so they miss hearing their mom curse like a sailor. But I can’t go home and change, since we’re already here. It’s against club rules to leave our children unattended.
Just then Harry pulls up. Temple spots Olivia at the door and runs in after her. But Harry is slow to get out of the car. Seeing me, he gives a hesitant wave, but turns back toward Jake, whose scowl is evidence that the conversation isn’t going so well.
When they finally emerge, they head in my direction. Harry is limping. After the way Ted kicked him, no surprise there.
So that I don’t put him on the spot, I turn to Jake first. “Hi, guy. I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.”
He nods, but looks just beyond me. “Yeah, I guess. Hey, listen, Mrs. Harper: I just want to apologize for the . . . you know, for the champagne. I made Tanner take it.”
“Thank you for that, Jake.” I put my hand on his shoulder to encourage him to look me in the eye. When he finally does, I reward him with a smile. “We all make stupid mistakes. That’s part of growing up. The goal is to learn from them.”
He nods uneasily. I look over at Harry. His forehead shows a bruise from where the basketball hit him. I resist the urge to reach out and touch it by shifting the tureen so that no more soup will leak out.
It does anyway, splashing onto one of my brand-new Lacroix flats. “Damn! Ah . . . sorry about that, Jake.”
To save me from myself, Harry grabs the tureen from me. Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize why I’ve got it wrapped in a towel: without it, the damn thing is too hot to hold. He scalds his hands, but has the wherewithal to keep his swearing sotto voce.
Instinctively I grab the tureen from him, but this only makes him shout out in pain.
He blows on one palm. “I bruised this hand when I fell.”
I shake my head furiously. “You mean, when Ted tripped you. He can be such an ass!” I give Harry a sidelong glance. “I should never have let you guys play ball.”
Jake looks from one of us to the other. “You made me go with Mom, and then you had dinner with Tanner? And then you guys played ball?” His eyes glass up. “I guess your own family doesn’t rate, huh?”
Harry turns to answer him, but Jake is already heading to the clubhouse. He disappears beyond the throng gathered at the door.
I’m now caught red-handed. “Ouch! Damn it, Harry! Look, give me the towel and go follow him in. I’ll be okay, I swear.”
“Jeez, sorry, Lyssa! No, I think he needs to do some cooling off.” He shakes his head. “I would have said something to him earlier, but you told me you and the kids were skipping this shindig.”
“Yeah, well, Ted and I aren’t speaking after yesterday.” I bite my bottom lip, if only to keep from cursing my scalded hands. “He thought it best to go in to work, and frankly, I’m glad.”
“Why do you say that?”
Because I need to clear the air between us. Not that I can say this to Harry.
“I think we need time to cool off too.” Noting his guilty look, I quickly add: “I mean, Ted and me.”
“You and—Ted? . . . Oh! Of course.”
Is he disappointed or relieved? Because he’s looking away, I can’t tell.
“Frankly, I don’t think you should be too hard on him,” he adds.
“But—but he was trying to kill you out there! He was acting like a boneheaded—”
“He was acting like a guy who felt threatened. Like a husband who suddenly realized how easy it is for another man to be attracted to his wife”—
Another man, meaning you, Harry. Are you attracted to me?
—“and he doesn’t want to lose you.” I feel exposed in his gaze. “I know I wouldn’t.”
I don’t know how to answer him, or if I should even try. It would be too hard to convince him that his illusions about Ted and me are far off base; that jealousy and lust—and certainly habit and convenience—aren’t the same as love.
Harry thinks he’s reading remorse in my face, but before I can set him straight about that, he beats me to the punch. “Look, Lyssa, I—”
&nb
sp; “Well, well, well, what have we here? I swear, if you two were standing any closer, you’d be well-advised to get a room!”
Tammy’s words may be sugar sweet, but her tone is anything but. I don’t know how long she’s been standing beside us. The fact that her cranberry-walnut-pineapple Jell-O mold still quivers from side to side gives me no hint, since everything about her (at least, from the waist up and the neck down) jiggles constantly, thanks to her propensity toward three-inch heels and balconette demi bras with straps too slender to cantilever her D-cup breasts.
“You’re a regular at the Holiday Inn, right? Can we use your quantity discount?” Harry murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, thank goodness. I swallow the urge to snicker.
“Excuse me? What did you say?” Tammy’s nostrils flare. Harry may not realize it, but she’s ready for open warfare.
“We were just talking about how wonderful the Heights can be, in the holiday season.” I muster an innocent smile.
“Yeah, well, that’s why we’re all here. It’s so warm and welcoming, yada yada. Ooooh, Lyssa, you know you have a stain on your pants, right? On cashmere, no less. What a shame! Hmmm, I don’t see Ted. Is he already inside?”
But of course Tammy knows the answer to that. If she hasn’t already gotten a play-by-play of yesterday’s basketball grudge match from some neighbor who caught it live, I’ve no doubt one of her early-bird scouts tonight has already texted her the full roster of attendees.
“He went in to work after all.” I could kick myself for making such a big deal of how we’d be skipping the potluck. Well, too late now. I try a tactic I use on the kids, with varying degrees of success: flattery. “Charlie will be leading the sing-along again this year, right? The children always look forward to that!”
It’s not often you hear a natural contralto; I say natural, but that’s only because I’ve never believed the ugly rumor that Tammy castrated him on their wedding night.
Until now.
Tammy nods reluctantly, but she’s still suspicious. No one pays compliments to her Charlie. That is a precedent she set when they first moved into the Heights.
Emasculation is a rare art form. And while it’s hard to admire, it’s certainly awe-inspiring.
By the way Harry holds her elbow and steers her toward the clubhouse, I’m guessing he feels the same way. It gives new meaning to the phrase “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
The clubhouse is buzzing with polite laughter and forced cheer. Everyone is there, even the Undesirables. What better way to elicit envy than to open the red velvet rope to the wannabes every now and then?
Crammed onto the tables in the center of the room are a myriad of leftovers, which are more than the sum total of a few carefully chosen, specifically measured ingredients. While these dishes are served up with pride, they are also leavened with memories both fond and wince-worthy.
I speak for myself. Yesterday left a bittersweet taste in my mouth.
I’m only here to eat up time until Ted and I can talk things out later this evening. Does he have reason to be jealous? Not on Harry’s account. I appreciate Harry’s friendship, and I know this feeling is reciprocated. But let’s face facts: he has never come on to me.
Okay, yeah, I’ll admit it. That disappoints me. It’s not that I’m looking for an affair. I wouldn’t trade the friendship and respect Harry and I share now for that.
But, hell, if Ted is going to accuse me of it anyway . . .
Not to mention Tammy and the others on the Women’s League board.
Just what the hell are they staring at, anyway? Seems they can’t keep their eyes off us.
But of course not. Because they want validation that what they suspect is true.
This is why they assess—make that obsess over—every move we make.
They take note of the way Harry hovers over me protectively. How his asides are addressed to me alone. How he scans my face appreciatively.
Then they wait for my reaction. I’m fully aware that, if I dare lean toward him, eyebrows will be raised. If I laugh out loud, they’ll poke each other knowingly. And heaven forfend I should allow my eyes to meet his! If that happened, rumors would race through the room almost as quickly as the children, who are hopped up on soda, pie, and ice cream.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Harry says this as if it is a joke, but the sadness in his eyes is proof he knows he’s right.
“Sure I have! You were—something about . . . Okay, sorry, I give up.” I force a smile onto my lips.
“Hey, if I’m boring you, feel free to play with your girlfriends. I won’t be jealous.” He flashes a knowing smile, but I rein in my urge to punch him in the arm for it. Instead, I shake my head. Anything more obvious will give them reason to presume they’re on to something:
That what we have is more than just wishful thinking on their parts.
And on mine.
“Go up to Margot and her court? Thanks, smart-ass, but I’ll pass on the honor.” Oddly, that thought is liberating.
“Eventually you’ll have to say something. In a month’s time, you’ll be their new queen. Won’t it help if you cozy up to Margot?”
“You know, I could say the same to you. Shouldn’t you two kiss and make up?”
His derisive guffaw has them all aflutter. “The price is too high.”
Yeah, well, I feel the same way.
“Go mingle. I’m going to see if I can take care of this stain.” I head off to the lavatory, but when I get there, I find the door locked. I hear a weird pounding on the other side, so I wait a few minutes before knocking again.
Finally it opens. Masha Shriver struts out. Her crass brass locks flare out from her head like Medusa’s snakes gone wild. Her winter white dress defies gravity. It’s strapless and boasts a neckline that plunges below her navel. Considering the amount of rain we’ve been getting, her deep tan is unexpected, not to mention unusual in color. (For the record, I am of the opinion that bruised papaya is not a good look.)
Masha is not alone. Despite his guilty look, I recognize the man who is still zipping up his pants as he maneuvers past me as one of our friendly neighborhood bankers.
Apparently the Shrivers’ account is paying off with some unexpected dividends.
“Oh—I’m sorry. I just needed to . . . You’re Masha, right? I’m Lyssa. I’m a friend of Pete’s.” At a loss for what to do next, I stick out my hand.
Very awkward. Pete’s name does not elicit the response I’d expected. Instead, she glares at me as if I’ve just cursed her firstborn. (Despite the hickey Tanner received the night of the poker game compliments of her daughter, Natassia, I don’t feel that would be necessary. It was bound to happen sooner or later.)
“Pete? Ah, LYZZA. Yez, I know of yooouuu!” I don’t know if it’s her Slavic accent or her vodka intake that has her slurring her words, but I’m willing to guess the latter. The fumes from her breath have me reeling. As she grabs me by the shoulders with both hands and hugs me to her chest, she whispers in my ear: “Streep poker, yez? Not to worry. I not mad. You see, I have ‘hobby’ too! But, hey, not one verd to my Pete, dah?” She pushes me away.
I stumble into the bathroom, bruised from where she gripped my shoulders. I’m sure I have two contusions on my chest that match whatever nipple armor she’s wearing.
I’ve been marked in another way: thanks to Masha’s spray-on tan, my brand-new sweater has been tagged with her fingerprints and a faint V that matches her neckline.
“Damn it! Damn it!” The soup has already dried into a dark, impenetrable shadow, while dabbing at the new stains only spreads them into a treacly Orangina.
My new outfit is ruined. Would it help if I banged my head against the wall? Nah. But if I died, they’d have an obvious clue for a murder suspect.
Then there’s the issue about Pete. He is a buddy, after all. If he were a girlfriend, of course I’d speak up. But what is the mancode about such things?
Ha
rry knows the code. And since I don’t need any more enigmas in my life, tag, he’s it.
I find Harry chatting up Biker Mom. When he sees me, he waves me over. Instinctively I glance around to see if Brooke is anywhere nearby. Oh, great, she’s glaring at him from across the room. Between this and my most recent introduction to a supposedly friendly face, I don’t need a frantic call later from Brooke, questioning our friendship.
Seeing my concern, Harry excuses himself and casually meanders over. “What, you’re not into making new friends?” As he plucks a cookie off a dessert tray, he does a double take at the new stains on my sweater. “She promised me a ride in her Maserati. I was going to ask if you could tag along, but now I don’t know. I mean, what if you stain her seats?”
“Forget the joyride, Andretti. We have bigger fish to fry. I just caught Masha in the ladies’ room with First National Bank of Paradise Heights.” I tilt my head in the direction of Masha’s boyfriend, who is now scurrying after her into the clubhouse’s coatroom. Even from where I’m standing, I can see a large orange streak on his sweater. He is a marked man. “What’s the protocol? Do we tell Pete?”
“Jesus.” Harry closes his eyes for a moment, and shakes his head. “Yeah, well, I’d want to know. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course!” Harry’s right. Yesterday’s tiff with Ted now seems silly. I can’t wait for him to come home.
Harry tosses the last crumb of cookie into his mouth and wipes his hands. “Well, when you tell him, be gentle—”
“Whoa, whoa, wait—who, me? Think again, Slick. You’re his closest friend.”
Harry groans. “If I remember correctly, that was your doing.” It takes a while, but he nods. “Okay, but I don’t think this is the time or the place.”
“I leave it to your discretion.” I give him a thumbs-up. “Oh, great, Brooke is coming over, I guess to call you a traitor.”
He laughs. “Is that better or worse than an Undesirable? I forget.”
“In your case, it’s one and the same.” I glance around the room for our salvation. It comes in the form of Cal, who is standing uncomfortably beside Bev. True to form, Bev is oblivious to this. She has trapped the Emersons in a corner. No doubt she’s giving them a pitch about a house she knows would be perfect for them, now that they’re pregnant again and will need the extra space.
