Act Three
13
“Listen to this,” Mindy said, coming into the bedroom. “‘Is sex really necessary?’”.
“Huh?” James said, looking up from his sock drawer.
“‘Is sex really necessary?’” Mindy repeated, reading from the printout of her blog. “‘We take the importance of sex as a given. Popular culture tells us it’s as essential to survival as eating or breathing. But if you really think about it, after a certain age, sex isn’t necessary at all…’”
James found two socks that matched and held them up. The only thing that wasn’t necessary, he thought, was Mindy’s blog.
“‘Once you’re past the age of reproduction, why bother?’” she continued reading. “‘Every day, on my way to my office, I pass at least five billboards advertising sex in the form of lacy lingerie…’”
Pulling on the socks, James imagined how Lola Fabrikant would look in lacy lingerie. “‘As if,’” Mindy continued, “‘lacy lingerie is the answer to our dissatisfactions with life.’” It might not be, James thought, but it couldn’t hurt. “‘I say,’” Mindy went on, “‘rip down the billboards. Burn the Victoria’s Secret shops. Think about how much we could accomplish as women if we didn’t have to worry about sex.’” She paused triumphantly and looked at James. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Please don’t write about me again,” James said.
“I’m not writing about you,” Mindy said. “Did you hear your name mentioned?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure it will be.”
“As a matter of fact, you’re not in this particular blog.”
“Any chance we can keep it that way in the future?”
“No,” Mindy said. “I’m married to you, and you’re my husband. The blog is about my life. Am I supposed to pretend you don’t exist?”
“Yes,” James said. It was a rhetorical answer, however. For reasons unfathomable to him, Mindy’s blog had become more and more popular—so popular, in fact, that she’d even had a meeting with a producer from The View, who was considering featuring Mindy on a regular basis.
Since then there had been no stopping her. Never mind that he had a book coming out, that he’d just landed a million-dollar advance, that he was finally about to become a success. It was still all about Mindy.
“Couldn’t you at least change my name?” he asked.
“How can I do that?” she said. “It’s too late. Everyone knows you’re my husband. Besides, we’re both writers. We understand how it works. Nothing in our lives is off-limits.”
Except, James thought, for their sex life. And that was only because they didn’t have one. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for dinner?” he said.
“I am ready,” Mindy said, indicating her woolly gray slacks and turtleneck sweater. “It’s only dinner in the neighborhood. At Knickerbocker. It’s ten degrees out. And I’m not going to dress up for some twenty-two-year-old chippy.”
“You don’t know that Lola Fabrikant is a chippy.”
“That is such a typical male remark,” Mindy said. “Neither you nor Philip Oakland can see the truth. Because you’re both thinking with your little heads.”
“I’m not,” James said innocently.
“Is that so?” Mindy said. “In that case, why are you wearing a tie?”
“I always wear ties.”
“You never wear ties.”
“Maybe it’s a new me,” James said. He shrugged, trying to make light of it.
Luckily, Mindy didn’t seem too concerned. “If you wear a tie with that V-neck sweater, you look like a dork,” she said.
James took off the sweater. Then he gave up and removed the tie.
“Why are we having this dinner again?” she asked for the fourth or fifth time that day.
“Oakland invited us. Remember? We’ve been living in the same building for ten years, and we’ve never gotten together. I thought it would be nice.”
“You like Oakland now,” Mindy said skeptically.
“He’s okay.”
“I thought you hated him. Because he never remembered who you were.”
Marriage, James thought. It really was a ball and chain, keeping you forever tethered to the past. “I never said that,” he said.
“You did,” Mindy said. “You said it all the time.”
James went into the bathroom to try to get away from Mindy and her questions. Mindy was right—he had lied to her about the circumstances of the dinner. Philip hadn’t asked them to dinner at all; indeed, for the first two weeks of January, he seemed to be trying to avoid the possibility by rushing past James when they passed in the lobby. But James had been insistent, and finally, Philip had to give in. James couldn’t stand Philip, but he could stand Lola. Ever since he’d met her in Paul Smith with Philip, James had nursed an irrational belief that she might be interested in him.
Reminding himself that in a few minutes, he’d be seeing the lovely Lola Fabrikant in the flesh, James took off his glasses and leaned in to the mirror. His eyes had a naked quality, as if they belonged to one of Plato’s cave dwellers who had yet to see the light. In between his eyes were two deep furrows, where the seeds of his life’s discontent had been planted so often they’d become permanent. He tugged on the skin, erasing the evidence of his unhappiness. He went to the bathroom door. “What’s that stuff?” he asked Mindy.
“What stuff?” Mindy said. She had taken off the slacks and was pulling on a pair of heavy black tights.
“That stuff that socialites use. To get rid of wrinkles.”
“Botox?” Mindy said. “What about it?”
“I was thinking I might get some.” On Mindy’s look of astonishment, he added: “Might be good for the book tour. Couldn’t hurt to look younger. Isn’t that what everyone says?”
Lola hated the Knickerbocker restaurant, which was filled with old people and Village locals—a motley crew, she thought, and not at all glamorous, with their pilled sweaters and reading glasses. If this turned out to be her life with Philip, she would kill herself. She consoled herself with the fact that they were having dinner with James Gooch, who had a book coming out that everyone was supposedly talking about, although Philip claimed he couldn’t understand why. James Gooch was a second-rate writer, he said. Even if he was, Lola still didn’t understand why Philip didn’t like James. James was sweet, she decided, and easily manipulated. He kept glancing over at her, catching her eye, and then looking away.
His wife, Mindy Gooch, was another story. Every time Mindy spoke, Lola felt her hackles rising. Mindy couldn’t be bothered to disguise the fact that she was deliberately behaving as if Lola were not sitting in the same booth right next to her. Mindy wouldn’t even turn her head to look at her, instead focusing all her attention on Philip. Not that Lola wanted to talk to Mindy anyway. Mindy was a little scary, with her eighties bob and her pointy nose and pale skin, and most mysterious of all, she acted as though she were pretty. It crossed Lola’s mind that perhaps a million years ago, when Mindy was eighteen, she was attractive. If so, her looks had faded quickly. Lola believed that any girl could be pretty at eighteen, but the real test of beauty came with age. Were you still pretty at twenty-two? Thirty? Even forty? This reminded her of Schiffer Diamond and how Philip claimed she was still a great beauty at forty-five. Lola had disagreed on principle. Philip claimed she was jealous. She denied this, insisting it was the reverse—other women were jealous of her. Philip didn’t buy it, and eventually, she’d had to concede that Schiffer Diamond was beautiful “for her age.”
With Mindy Gooch, there was no possibility of jealousy. Lola only wanted to stab her with a fork. “I’d like my steak well done,” Mindy was saying to the waiter. “With steamed vegetables. Steamed, not sautéed. If I see butter, I’ll send it back.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the waiter said.
If I ever turn out like Mindy Gooch, I will kill myself, Lola thought.
Apparently, Mindy was like this all the time, because
Philip and James were ignoring this exchange, caught up in their own one-upmanship. “What is the function of the artist in today’s society?” James was asking. “Sometimes I wonder if he really has a point anymore.”
“He?” Mindy interjected. “What about she?”
“He used to reflect man,” James continued. “The artist held up a mirror to society. He could show us the truth or inspire.”
“If it’s about reflecting society, we don’t need artists anymore,” Philip countered. “We have reality TV for that. And reality TV does it better.”
“Has anyone ever seen My Super Sweet 16?” Lola asked. “It’s really, really good.”
“I have,” James said.
“And what about The Hills?” Lola asked. “How great is that?”
“What the hell is The Hills?” Mindy grumbled. James caught Lola’s eye and smiled.
After the dinner, James found himself on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, alone with Lola. Mindy was in the bathroom, and Philip had run into some people he knew. Lola was buttoning her coat. James looked up and down the street, trying not to stare at her. “You must be cold,” he said.
“I don’t get cold,” she said.
“Really? My wife is always cold.”
“That’s too bad,” Lola said, not interested in discussing Mindy. “When does your book come out?”
“In six weeks. Exactly,” James said.
“You must be so excited. I can’t wait to read it.”
“Really?” James said in surprise, thinking about how interesting Lola was. Mindy was completely wrong. Lola wasn’t a little chippy at all. She was smart. “I could get you an advance copy,” he said.
“Sure,” she said with what James perceived as genuine enthusiasm.
“I can bring it upstairs. Tomorrow. Will you be home?”
“Come by at ten,” Lola said. “That’s when Philip goes to the gym. I’m always so bored in the mornings.”
“Ten o’clock,” James said. “Sure.”
She took a step closer. James saw that she was shivering. “Are you sure you’re not cold?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe a little.”
“Take my scarf.” He unwound the striped woolen scarf he’d purchased from a street vendor. Glancing into the restaurant and seeing neither Mindy nor Philip, he tenderly placed the scarf around Lola’s neck. “That’s better,” he said. “You can give it back to me tomorrow.”
“I may not give it back at all,” she said, looking up at him. “It’s not every day a girl gets a scarf from a famous author.”
“There you are,” Mindy said, coming out the door with Philip behind her.
“Anyone want a nightcap?” James asked.
“I’m beat,” Mindy said. “It’s only Tuesday, and I’ve got a long week ahead of me.”
“Might be fun,” James said to Philip.
“I’m done, too,” Philip said. He took Lola’s arm. “Some other time, maybe.”
“Sure,” James said. He felt crushed.
Lola and Philip strolled home a few feet ahead of him and Mindy. Lola walked with youthful energy, tugging on Philip’s arm. Every now and then, she’d look up at Philip and laugh. James wished he knew what was entertaining her. He longed to stroll down the sidewalk with a girl, having fun. Instead, he had Mindy next to him. She was, he knew, freezing, refusing to wear a hat because it messed up her hair, walking silently with her shoulders hunched and her arms crossed against the cold. When they reached the lobby of One Fifth, Philip and Lola went right up in the elevator with vague murmurings of doing dinner sometime again in the future. Mindy went into the bedroom and changed into flannel pajamas. James thought more about Lola and how he was going to see her the next day.
“Damn,” Mindy said. “I forgot about Skippy.”
“Don’t worry,” James said. “I’ll walk him.”
He took the dog into the cobblestone street of the Washington Mews next to the building. While Skippy did his business, James stared up at the top of the building, as if he might catch a glimpse of Lola hundreds of feet above his head. All he saw, however, was the imposing facade of gray stone, and when he returned to the apartment, Mindy was in bed, reading The New Yorker. She lowered the magazine when he came in. “What was that business, anyway?” she asked.
“What business?” he said, taking off his shoes and socks.
“About watching My Super Sweet 16.” Mindy turned off her light. “Sometimes I really do not get you. At all.”
James didn’t feel tired, so he left the room and went into his office. He sat at his desk, his feet bare, looking out the small window that framed the tiny courtyard. How many hours had he spent at this desk, looking out this window, and laboring on his book one word at a time? And for what? A lifetime of seconds wasted in front of his computer, endeavoring to re-create life when life was all around him.
Something’s got to change, he thought, remembering Lola.
He got into bed and lay stiffly next to his wife. “Mindy?” he said.
“Mmmm?” she asked sleepily.
“I do need sex,” he said. “By the way.”
“Fine, James,” she said into her pillow. “But you’re not getting it from me. Not tonight.”
Mindy fell asleep. James lay awake. Several pernicious sleepless seconds ticked by, then minutes and probably hours. James got up and went into Mindy’s bathroom. He rarely ventured there; if Mindy caught him in her bathroom, she would demand to know what he was “doing in there.” He’d better not be relieving himself, she would warn.
This time he did relieve himself, urinating carefully into the bowl without lifting the toilet seat. Searching for aspirin, he opened Mindy’s medicine cabinet. Like everything else in their lives, it hadn’t been cleaned out in years. There were three nearly empty tubes of toothpaste, a greasy bottle of baby oil, makeup in smudged containers, and a dozen bottles of prescription pills, including three bottles of the antibiotic Cipro dated October 2001—which Mindy had obviously hoarded for the family in case of an attack after 9/11—along with a bottle of malaria pills and antihistamines (for bites and rashes, the label read), and a container of sleeping pills, on which DANGER OF OVERDOSE was typed. Here was Mindy, he thought, prepared for any emergency, including the necessity of death. But not sex. He shook his head, then took one of the pills.
Back in his bed, James immediately fell into a brilliant Technicolor dream-filled sleep. He flew over the earth. He visited strange lands where everyone lived on boats. He swam across a warm salty sea. Then he had sex with a movie star. Just as he was about to come, he woke up.
“James?” Mindy said. She was already up, folding laundry before she went to the office. “Are you all right?”
“Sure,” James said.
“You were talking in your sleep. Moaning.”
“Ah,” James said. For a moment, he wished he could go back to his dream. Back to flying and swimming and having sex. But he was seeing Lola, he reminded himself, and got out of bed.
“What are you doing today?” Mindy demanded.
“Don’t know. Stuff,” he said.
“We need paper towels and Windex and garbage bags. And aluminum foil. And dog food for Skippy. The Eukanuba mini-chunks. Mini. It’s very important. He won’t eat the big chunks.”
“Can you make a list?” James asked.
“No, I cannot make a list,” Mindy said. “I’m done with doing everything and being everyone’s mama all the time. If you need a list, make it yourself.”
“But I’m the one doing the shopping,” James protested.
“Yes, and I appreciate it. But you need to do the whole job, not half of it.”
“Huh?” James said, thinking that this was yet another great beginning to a typical day in the life of James Gooch.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Mindy said. “As you know, writing my blog has made me examine things I haven’t wanted to confront.”
Perhaps it had, James thought, but it didn’t
appear to have made Mindy any more sensitive. She just went on and on, running people over.
“And I’ve come to the conclusion,” she continued, “that it’s crucial to be married to another adult.” Before he could respond, Mindy rushed out of the room. “Aha!” he heard her exclaim, indicating that she’d had a burst of inspiration about her blog.
“One of the joys of not having it all is not doing it all,” Mindy wrote. “This morning I had a Network epiphany. ‘I’m not going to take it anymore!’ The constant doing: the laundry, the shopping, the folding, the lists. The endless lists. We all know what that’s like. You make a list for your husband, and then you have to spend as much time making sure he follows the list as it would have taken you to do the job yourself. Well, those days are over. Not in my household! No more.”
Satisfied, she went back into the bedroom for another round of hounding James. “One more thing,” she said. “I know your book comes out in six weeks, but you need to start writing another one. Right away. If the book is a success, they’re going to want a new one. And if it’s a failure, you need to be working on another project.”
James looked up from his underwear drawer. “I thought you didn’t want to play mama anymore.”
Mindy smiled. “Touché. In that case, I’ll leave your future up to you. But in the meantime, don’t forget about the mini-chunks.”
After she left, James dressed carefully, changing his jeans and shirt several times, finally settling on an old black turtleneck cashmere sweater that had just the right amount of dash and writerly seriousness. Looking in the mirror, he was pleased with the result. Mindy might not be interested in him, but it didn’t mean other women weren’t.
On his way to the gym that morning, Philip ran into Schiffer Diamond in the deli. She’d been on his mind ever since her phone call on New Year’s Eve. He told himself that he hadn’t done anything wrong, and yet still felt a need to apologize—to explain. “I’ve been meaning to call,” he began.
One Fifth Avenue Page 28
