Having Everything

by John L'Heureux

  And so they got through lunch on the news about Cole and Emma, and the Med School budget cuts, and the new provost, and the possibility, the likelihood, of Philip becoming the new Dean. It was only after they parted that Beecher recalled she had not asked about Maggie’s course in theory. Could that, conceivably, be what she didn’t want to talk about? They would have to schedule another lunch.

  Maggie changed into her beige slacks for coffee with Dixie. She started to ask herself why she was bothering, what it meant, and then said, Fuck it, and changed anyway. The slacks made her look younger. There was nothing to analyze about that.

  Dixie was already seated at an outdoor table when Maggie arrived. Dixie was wearing white slacks and a blue and white shirt and she looked ready for a yachting trip. She had dark circles under her eyes.

  “A latte,” Maggie said to the waiter, “decaf, if you please.” She sat down opposite Dixie. “And how are you?” she said.

  “I’ve stopped drinking,” Dixie said, “but never mind that, how did your exam go?”

  “A breeze,” Maggie said. “It went very well.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. I’m so glad for you.”

  “Yes, well, I’m glad too. Tell me about this not-drinking business. You’re not drinking at all?”

  “No.”

  “Not anything?”

  “Well, coffee,” Dixie said, and lifted her cup.

  “Why?”

  “You told me I shouldn’t. You said, ‘You’ve got that slightly bloated look that drinkers sometimes get.’ You said that.”

  “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  “So I stopped. Also it helps me with … other problems.”

  Maggie thought about that.

  “And you asked me if I took pills. But I don’t. I never have.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And you asked me why I don’t leave my husband. And you told me to just do something.”

  “Good heavens. After all these terrible things I’ve said, I’m surprised you’re willing to talk to me, let alone meet me for coffee.”

  “I know.”

  Maggie laughed. It was all so preposterous.

  “But I like you. I like being with you.” She looked at her coffee cup. “I wish I could be you.”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “I do. You’re so beautiful and smart and you’ve got it all together. And you’re married to Philip.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish I could be you. I wish I could be you.”

  “Listen, Dixie, I’m going to tell you something you should know. It may help you, though I’ll probably hate myself for telling. Hell, I’ll probably hate you for knowing. But here goes: I didn’t do well in the theory exam. I didn’t even finish taking it. I walked out.”

  “But you said …”

  “I lied. It’s too humiliating to talk about, but I want you to know this: I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pass the course. I couldn’t even understand what the hell they’re all talking about. So when you’re thinking you’d like to be me, keep that in mind.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m giving you something. I’m being generous for once in my life.”

  “You didn’t pass the exam?”

  “I didn’t even finish the exam.”

  “What did Philip say?”

  “I didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know.”

  Dixie thought about this for a while, and then she said, “I’ll never tell. I’ll never tell anybody. Thank you for trusting me.”

  “I hope it will help when you’re feeling down.”

  “I’m not drinking anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’ve gone back to painting. I’m not very good, but I do it.”

  “Let’s have another coffee. Shall we have another coffee?”

  Maggie asked about the painting and she tried to sound enthusiastic, but already she had begun to feel sad. She had given away something—her weakness, her failure—and she could see that Dixie didn’t understand what it was or how to use it. She would regret telling this woman anything. It was a mistake and she would have to pay for it. Suddenly Maggie felt hollow inside, in her stomach, in her chest. Even the coffee tasted bitter. She wanted out. She wanted a drink. At Buck’s Neon Palace.

  Nonetheless she asked more and more about Dixie’s paintings and her art history study and when she might see the paintings. “Oh,” Dixie said, “I would never show them. They’re only realism.” And that was the end of that.

  Maggie looked at her watch. “I have to dash,” she said. “Dinner with Philip.”

  “Lucky you,” Dixie said.

  It was five o’clock by the time Maggie got home. She had left herself time for a long soak in the tub, but she was upset about her talk with Dixie—she must have been insane to tell her about that exam, that nightmare—so first she poured herself a scotch and washed down a Xanax with it, and then she ran the hot water for her bath. She had finished her drink by the time the tub was filled, but the bathwater was much too hot, so she went downstairs and got herself another drink, a stiff one. She lay in her bath sipping the scotch, and when she was done, instead of dressing she decided to lie down for just a minute or two to rest her eyes. When she opened them, Philip was standing over her, looking anxious and trying not to.

  “Taking a little nap?” he said.

  “A teeny tiny nap,” she said, and saw that he looked even more anxious. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Good for you,” he said. “A rest is good. Shall we get ready for dinner?”

  “Have a shower,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”

  While Philip was in the shower, she went downstairs and had another stiff drink, quickly, in three gulps. She was at her dressing table putting on lipstick when he came out of the bathroom holding the empty scotch glass she had left there. He crossed the room and put it down in front of her. She looked at him in the mirror.

  “So?”

  “I thought you’d wait and we could have a drink in the restaurant.”

  “We can.”

  He frowned and bit back what he was about to say.

  “Say it,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I just worry.”

  “Well, don’t worry about me. You’ve got plenty to worry about without worrying about me.”

  He looked at her in the mirror, searching out her gaze, but she was examining her makeup, avoiding him.

  “Let’s have a great meal,” he said, enthusiastic, “and a great evening.”

  In the restaurant they ordered drinks and Philip attempted small talk about the day. The budget-cutting was finally beginning to affect the staff. Everybody was grumpy. Everybody felt ill-used.

  “Everybody is ill-used,” Maggie said. “It’s the way of the world. Or at least the way of our cozy world here at the Medical Center,” and she waved the waiter over for another drink. Philip had barely touched his and said he didn’t want a second. “I’ll drink alone,” Maggie said. “I’m used to it.”

  The evening went on like this, a very long evening.

  Maggie was drunk by the time they got home and Philip helped her upstairs to bed. He sat beside her, looking, until she opened her eyes and muttered, “Go away.” Then he moved over to the chair by the window and sat in the dark, waiting.

  After a while he went downstairs and poured himself a drink. He would have to do something for her, something definitive, but whatever it was, it would have to wait till tomorrow. He started into the study, but for no reason at all except that he wanted some cool air, he opened the front door and stepped out. He inhaled. Mown grass. Roses. He raised his glass and drank and as he did so he saw that across the street and one house down there was a dark MG with someone in it.

  Quickly he went inside and closed the door. Then he went upstairs to bed.

  14

  “We’ve got to talk,” Philip said.

  “I know,” Maggie said.

/>   It was the next morning, a Saturday, and Philip had decided that desperate measures were required. Somehow he would have to get her to a psychiatrist. To McGuinn or to Fiori or, if necessary, even to that old fool Gaspard, but she had to see somebody, and right away.

  “Will you see somebody, Maggie, just to talk about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you do it soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “The kids will be here by the end of the week.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. To you. But I will see somebody.”

  “McGuinn is good, don’t you think?”

  She gave him a hard look.

  “How about IHOP for breakfast?” he asked.

  So Maggie went back to Leona Spitzer, her shrink.

  “Where did we leave off?” Maggie asked.

  “Begin anywhere,” the shrink said. “You know where we left off.”

  Maggie was silent for a while. They had left off with the pills and the booze and the self-destructiveness. And with her anger at Emma and at Philip and at herself. And they had gotten nowhere. And now she would have to tell her about flunking the course in theory.

  “Take your time.” Leona settled deeper into her chair. She was ready, if she must, to spend the hour in silence.

  “I’ve met a man,” Maggie said, astonished to hear herself saying this. “His name is Buck.”

  The hour went by very fast and when it was over, Maggie got in her car and drove past the airport to Revere and Buck’s Neon Palace. She wanted to check the accuracy of her description.

  The place was exactly as she remembered it: the neon haze shimmering over everything, a couple scraggly kids playing pool—four kids today—and Buck, solid and sexy behind the bar.

  “Yes, m’aam,” he said.

  “A diet Coke, please.” She blushed as she said it and rummaged in her handbag so as not to catch his eye.

  “One diet Coke,” he said, and pushed the glass across the bar to her. “And will there be anything else?”

  She shook her head. When she looked up, she was surprised and a little relieved to see he had walked to the other end of the bar. He was leaning there, watching the pool players. He had given no sign of recognition.

  She drank her Coke quickly, put a dollar on the bar, and left. She was beginning her new life.

  Maggie had not had a drink all week, and though she moped around the house during the day, she was pleasant and chatty when Philip got home each evening. He had still not asked her about her theory course, nor if she’d seen a shrink, nor how she was doing with the pills and booze. It was enough for him that something good had happened—she seemed happy, she seemed sober—and he didn’t need to know exactly what it was, though he supposed it was her visit to the shrink.

  On Thursday Philip was interviewed by the Dean’s Search Committee and the interview went very well. Philip was a finalist, one of three, the only inside candidate. Did he want the job? How did he see his role in the new, tougher, tighter Med School? How did his family feel about it? His wife? His colleagues? And then later, alone, Aspergarter asked him in confidence if there was anything he should know about Philip’s private life that could later become an embarrassment: any professional mishaps, for instance, any financial indiscretions, any personal problems? Sex? Drink? Certainly not drugs? He was sorry but he had to ask. A formality, but alas a necessary one, and totally, totally off the record. Philip assured him he had nothing to hide except … some time ago there was a … how to put it … a sexual indiscretion with a married woman. A one-time thing. It was past history, forgotten. Maggie knew and had forgiven him. Aspergarter pondered this. But it is over? Without repercussions? Absolutely. Absolutely. Aspergarter nodded and said yes, well, um, we all have one of those in our past, but just make sure it stays firmly in your past. A human weakness, probably not a bad thing. Finally he smiled. And how is the wife, how are the kids, young Cole and little Emma? Such great kids, so good-looking, so bright. The interview was over.

  Emma and Cole arrived together on Friday. Almost at once they went out to look up friends. There was so much to catch up on. At night Maggie went into Emma’s bedroom for a chat, but Emma told her she was too tired for a chat and, besides, what she did with Bubby was her own business. She did not want to talk about it, period. Cole got home long after everybody else was in bed.

  On Saturday they all played tennis—a foursome, a family—and in the evening they went out to dinner. Maggie and Emma didn’t drink, Philip and Cole had only a glass of wine with dinner. They talked about Cole’s blood research and Emma’s dirtsifting and each of them was careful to keep away from dangerous topics: Maggie’s theory course, Emma’s lover, Cole’s apartment mate. They talked about the possibility of Philip’s being Dean of the Medical School. They talked about books and movies. They laughed. They were a happy, good-looking, well-adjusted family.

  On Sunday, there was a garden party at the Kizers’—an end-of-summer celebration—and the whole department was invited. Philip said he wasn’t going because his kids were home and he wanted to spend time with them, but Cole and Emma insisted he had to go because of his position as Goldman Chair and potential Dean of the Med School, and Maggie said she’d do what everybody wanted to do if they’d just make up their minds, and so they all went together. Besides, everybody agreed it would be fun to get a look at the Kizers’ house.

  It was a catered party with bartenders at a huge drinks table and waiters in uniform passing canapes. The whole psychiatry gang was there, even old Gaspard, and a bunch of physicians as well. Hal Kizer was playing the genial host, urging everybody to drink up and fight the heat, and Dixie moved from group to group, smiling and apologizing for the warm weather. She wore a pale yellow sundress and her black hair had just been cut Dutch-boy style and she looked young and fresh and very pretty. Maggie introduced her to Emma and Cole.

  “I think you’re so lucky,” Dixie said to Emma, and to Cole she said, “Hello,” and lowered her eyes.

  Maggie couldn’t help laughing at this new, flirtatious Dixie Kizer.

  “Great haircut,” Cole said. “Sort of the twenties.” Dixie smiled, but did not look up at him. “It’s really … great.”

  Maggie stopped laughing. It was one thing for Dixie to flirt with him but quite another for Cole to respond to it.

  Beecher Stubbs appeared, talking. “My favorite people,” she said to Dixie, and then she told Maggie how well she looked and Cole that he was looking very handsome and Emma, who in fact was looking fattish in a tee shirt that said “I dig it,” that she wanted to hear every little last thing about her summer in Greece, it was too exciting, she simply had to know.

  Cole suppressed a smile and Dixie saw him do it. They exchanged a knowing look.

  “Let me get you a drink,” Cole said.

  “I don’t drink,” Dixie said. “I can’t.”

  “Really?”

  “I have a problem.”

  “Well, come sit and talk,” Cole said, and they walked down the garden past the drinks table to a wrought-iron bench. The bench was uncomfortable, but it was private and it gave them a view of the entire garden. “This is very nice,” Cole said. He saw his father look over at them from the drinks table and then, rather too quickly, turn away. Dixie saw him as well.

  “Is this bad?” she said. “Should we join the others?”

  “No, let’s be bad.”

  They laughed, and Dixie said, “You’re a lot like your father, I think. You’re funny.”

  He smiled.

  “And you’re handsome. And kind.”

  “Tell me about this problem you have,” Cole said. He was feeling handsome and funny and kind. “Go ahead. I’ll play shrink.”

  The party went on around them, and people drank more than they should have and laughed too loud and ate a lot of things they didn’t want. It was a big success and in a few hours it was over.

  The drive home was very quick and nobody said much of anything: the party was
nice, it was a bore, the food was marvelous.

  As soon as they reached home, Cole got his father alone in his study.

  “This is an outrage,” Cole said, “and I demand an explanation.”

  “I was about to say the same thing.”

  “Dixie Kizer told me—”

  “Dixie Kizer, exactly,” Philip said. “Have you any idea how you looked today? Sitting alone with that woman for the entire afternoon? Quite apart from the rudeness to her guests, do you have any idea how it looked?”

  “Please stick to the point,” Cole said. “Dixie Kizer told me what’s been going on here and I demand an explanation. I want to know why it is I have to learn from a perfect stranger that Mother flunked her theory course? That she never even finished the exam? That she walked out and she’s probably feeling destroyed and suicidal, for Christ’s sake, and you never even mentioned it to me? What are you doing about this? Are you doing anything about this?”

  “Stop shouting.”

  “It’s Mother’s life I’m talking about and I’ll shout if I want.”

  “I won’t continue this.”

  They stood looking at one another.

  “Are you doing anything about it?”

  “I didn’t know about it. She wouldn’t talk about it.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “She’s seeing a shrink. She’s doing well, Cole. She just can’t bring herself to talk about it. To me.”

  “To you she can’t. To Dixie Kizer she can. Explain that, if you please.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say to that.”

  Emma opened the door and put her head in. “What’s all the shouting?” she said. “Mother’s gonna hear you.”