Motherland

by Amy Sohn

  Over the two years since she and Stuart had spoken, she had gone from rage to longing to missing him so deeply that she imagined telling Theo the truth so they could divorce and she could marry Stuart. There had been one close call early on in her pregnancy, when Theo came home from work and announced that his firm, Black & Marden, had been hired to design Melora and Stuart’s condo in Palazzo Chupi. But Black & Marden was fired before the first meeting, replaced by a high-profile Midtown firm that had done all the West Village celebrity town houses.

  After Benny was born, Rebecca read that Maggie Gyllenhaal and not Melora would play the lead in Atlantic Yards. She wondered if they were having an affair. Later, the tabloids linked him with various starlets, including Kristen Bell and Aubrey Plaza. They ran shots of him dropping Orion off at Saint Ann’s in Brooklyn Heights, and she had brief thoughts of visiting Pierrepont Street with Benny just to see his reaction to the baby. Eventually, she decided that it was better not to read the magazines and blogs. Stuart had no interest in seeing her again, and if she tried to contact him, it would only bring her pain.

  She covered her face instinctively, as though adjusting her hair, but unable to stop herself, she peered in Stuart’s direction again. This time he saw her. “Oh God,” she said as Stuart and the woman approached.

  “Rebecca!” he said in his Australian accent. He gave her a hug.

  His red hair had grown to chin length, whether as role preparation or a style statement, Rebecca did not know, and his cheeks had the gaunt look that Hollywood men get when they are dieting for an upcoming movie or doing heroin. She cursed him silently for having power over her even two years later. “I thought that was Orion,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “We rented a place in Truro for the summer.”

  She wasn’t sure whether the “we” referred to the woman next to him. “Why Truro?”

  “Phil rents there, and the kids are friends.”

  “Phil?”

  “Hoffman,” he said, as though she was supposed to know they were friends.

  “Are you still living in New York?”

  “Yeah, Chelsea.” He seemed to remember the woman next to him and said, “Where are my manners? This is Christine, Orion’s nanny.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Rebecca introduced her friends, and so he wouldn’t suspect they knew of the affair, she said, “Stuart and I had a shift together at the Food Coop. I trained him.”

  “Yeah, she mocked me for my poor nut-bagging skills, even though I descend from a long line of manual laborers.” He was grinning at her, flirting openly.

  “The Unicorn Song” was over, and the kids raced down off the stage to their parents, jubilant from having performed. “You’re adorable,” Stuart said of Abbie. “How old are you?”

  “Three and a half,” Abbie said.

  “Three and a half, huh?” Stuart asked, turning to Rebecca. “You going to have any more?”

  “She already”—CC started to say, and then Marco, Rebecca silently blessed his soul, jumped in—“has her hands really full.”

  CC stopped midsentence as though not sure whether to correct him. She looked from Marco to Rebecca, and before the situation could get any more dangerous, Rebecca scooped up Abbie in a false energetic display and said, “You were so amazing! You did the motions perfectly!” CC stared at her oddly, having never seen her so ebullient as a mother.

  For the rest of square-dancing, Rebecca was forced to dance “YMCA,” “The Bunny Hop,” “The Virginia Reel,” and “The Electric Boogaloo” alongside her ex-lover, his nanny, and her two best friends. For “The Bunny Hop,” she wound up on the end of the line, wagging her fist behind her butt in a simulation of a cottontail as Stuart smirked.

  When the music ended, he put his hand on her arm and said, “It was really good to see you.” Rebecca and her entourage made their way toward their cars. Stuart, driving a Prius, cast a wave in their direction as he pulled out. “Oh my God,” CC said to Rebecca. “Are you breathing?”

  “Barely,” Rebecca said.

  “You handled it well,” Marco said.

  “I don’t know. I feel like I was a doddering idiot. I can’t believe he looks so good.”

  “He did look hot,” Marco said.

  “I wonder if he has a Japanese fetish,” CC said. “He looked like he was into that nanny.”

  “How do you know she’s Japanese?” Marco asked. “And not Korean or Chinese?”

  “Asians know the difference. It’s like Jews knowing nose jobs.” Stuart honked as his car pulled out of the lot. “Stuart fucking Ashby,” CC said. “There goes Wellfleet.”

  • • •

  On the car ride back to the cottage, Abbie and Sam talked excitedly about the dances and then grew quiet, blinking more slowly, their gazes glazed. “That was kind of odd,” CC said as they made their way toward Long Pond Road, “how you didn’t mention Benny.”

  “I just . . .” Rebecca said. “The whole thing was so uncomfortable. I wanted it to end as soon as possible.”

  “Yeah, but why wouldn’t you mention that you had another kid?”

  “Stuart was a dick to me. He doesn’t deserve to know anything about my life. It’s not his business.” She checked the rearview mirror. The kids had nodded off, exhausted from the dancing and the long night. Rebecca turned on the car radio. It was set to “CD” and Lead-belly came on, singing, “Ha ha this a-way, ha ha that a-way / ha ha this a-way, man oh man.” Rebecca switched to the Cape public radio station. A man who sounded like William Hurt told people to give money to the station.

  “Rebecca,” CC said. “When was your affair with him?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” she said.

  It was exhausting to keep a secret. You could forget about it for a while, and then you would remember it like a heavy bag on your shoulder, making you sore. Rebecca knew she might be opening a door by expanding the circle of people who knew, but it had been hard keeping a secret for two years, and isolating. That was the part she hadn’t anticipated, the loneliness that came from being hidden.

  “Is there something you want to tell me about Benny’s hair?” CC asked.

  “He’s Stuart’s,” Rebecca said, breathing out long and slow. “We met when Abbie was one and a half. I lied because I didn’t want you to figure it out.”

  “You only had sex with him twice, you told me. How did it even happen?”

  “He pulled out the second time, but not fast enough, I guess. When I told him, he was so cruel about it, I said I was getting an abortion. I thought I was going to. But it—it didn’t work out that way.”

  CC opened her mouth and then ran her hand down her face. “Oh my God. I’m sorry to say ‘Oh my God,’ but ‘Oh my God.’ ”

  Rebecca felt the relief of having told her friend, followed by terror at what CC would do. She explained how she had done it—how she’d told her OB/GYN the truth at the first visit. Because of doctor-patient confidentiality, Dr. Foy had been obligated to keep the paternity a secret. The timing of the pregnancy was off—Rebecca and Theo hadn’t been having sex when Benny was conceived—but then they did start having sex, and she doubted he would look too closely at her “last menstrual period” on the ultrasounds. In New York state, a married mother was legally obligated to put the name of her husband on the birth certificate anyway.

  “Lately, I’ve been thinking Theo knows,” Rebecca said, “subconsciously or something. He’s been making these weird comments like ‘That is not my son.’ ”

  “That doesn’t mean he knows!” CC said, laughing. “I say that every day.”

  They had arrived at the house. Rebecca turned off the engine. The children were asleep in the back, angelic, unaware. “Do you by any chance have anything equally dramatic to tell me so I can be sure you’ll keep my secret?” Rebecca asked.

  “I wish I did,” CC said, “but my biggest vice is smoking cigarettes on girls’ nights. I wash my hands and face really well before I get in bed because Got
tlieb can’t stand cigarettes.”

  “Please don’t tell him,” Rebecca said.

  “I won’t.”

  “How can I know?”

  “I tell him most things, you’re right. But I’m not going to mess up your life.”

  “I love you,” Rebecca said, leaning over to embrace CC. Her seat belt was still on so she had to unclip it.

  They carried the children silently into their bedrooms. Rebecca checked on Benny. Gottlieb had done a good job with him, put him in the dinosaur PJs that she liked. He was lost to the world, his arms raised by the sides of his head like a boxer.

  Rebecca went into her bedroom and decided to call Theo at the office. Black & Marden was combining one-bedrooms in the Richard Meier building at Grand Army Plaza into two-bedrooms because the small units weren’t selling. Theo’s voice mail picked up. She was surprised, because usually, he worked late when they were apart. She dialed the home number, and it rang a long time before he answered. “Hi,” she said breathily. “What took so long?”

  “Ah . . . the cordless was wedged under the cushion. How are you? Did you go square-dancing?”

  “Yeah, Abbie loved it. Gottlieb stayed home with the little ones.” She thought she heard a voice in the background. A woman’s voice. “What was that?”

  “The TV.”

  “It sounds like you’re with someone.”

  “It’s the TV. Jesus. What’s up with you?”

  She felt guilty for doubting him. It was all because she had seen Stuart. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m just stressed, being a single parent for the week and all. It’s harder than I thought. Even with the Gottliebs here. I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Did you think that woman at Dyer Pond was hot?”

  “Rebecca.”

  “Did you?”

  He sighed. “She was all right. It’s easy to look that good when you’re young.”

  “Do you wish I exercised more?”

  “Come on, honey. Not now.”

  She ran a hand over her breast through her blouse and closed her eyes, imagining Stuart’s mouth on it. She took out the guayabera shirt she’d stolen from Theo and threw it over her face. “Mmm,” she said, the cue she had used the night before when they’d had phone sex.

  “What?” Theo said, his tone businesslike.

  “I just thought—”

  “I have so much work. I love you. I’ll see you Friday, okay?”

  She clicked off without saying goodbye, an act that normally drove him crazy. Her phone rang, and she thought it would be Theo, but the number had a 310 area code. “I’m so glad I ran into you,” Stuart said. His Australian-accented voice was deep and slightly scratchy, and she could understand why he had gotten hired to do the voice-overs for Mercedes-Benz commercials. “I want to see you again. Can you come out?”

  “Tonight? It’s too late.” She started to say “My kids are sleeping” but instead said, “I can’t.”

  “I miss you,” Stuart said. “I kept your phone number all these years.”

  “It was on the SIM.”

  “Do you ever think about me?”

  “Of course I do.” Her voice sounded small and frightened even to her.

  “Can you meet me tomorrow night? We can go to Blackfish in Truro. You’ll love it. I want to talk to you. I want to look at you again.”

  “I’m staying with friends. I’d have to lie.”

  “I’m going to call you again.” She would have to ignore his calls. Eventually, he would give up. He knew where she lived but didn’t seem the type to stalk her. Celebs didn’t stalk civilians, only other celebs.

  After she hung up, she opened Midnights by Alec Wilkinson. She started to read but flipped back to the flap photo of twenty-five-year-old Alec Wilkinson. He looked handsome and fey, with the full hair of a man who had no idea that he might someday lose it, and one of those John Travolta clefts in his chin. He had healthy white teeth and a faint unibrow. She figured he was probably in his late fifties now. Was he still married to the same woman, his “wife in New York City”? Was his hair gray? Did he jerk off to Internet porn? How often did he have sex? Did he have kids, and were they all his wife’s?

  She flipped back to her page. In the book, Wilkinson the rookie cop had to go on a domestic-violence call. He arrived at the house expecting brutality only to find the estranged husband sitting on the bed watching TV. The man and woman had been divorced for years, and the ex-wife kept telling him to leave, but he wouldn’t. He just wanted to sit on that old bed.

  Marco

  Jason and Enrique were asleep. Marco was sitting on the sandy living room futon, which was always sliding off the frame, as he scrolled through screens of Grindr guys. It had taken him only a day of browsing to write a real profile. He had snapped a picture of himself in the bathroom, in front of the vanity mirror, his torso bare, neck to waist, flexing.

  38

  5'10"

  164

  Latino

  TOP, spin like

  Looking for the anti-drama prince

  So the age and height were off, but he figured everyone’s were. He tapped a guy named Jude, cute, twenties, ten miles away, clean-cut. Started a chat. “What are you up to?” Marco texted.

  After a minute the green speech bubble appeared. “Just chilling.”

  “Where are you?”

  “P-town. You?”

  “Wellfleet.”

  “Eew. Hate that place. Too SLOW. Why are you there?”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “Married?”

  Marco thought for a second. “No, not married. I have two kids. I adopted with my partner, but we broke up.” No answer. “You have a nice body,” he wrote, but after another minute, there was still no reply.

  On the bottom of the screen, a series of ads floated past—coffee tables, gym memberships, protein shakes, pillows. Gay men were a desirable marketing demographic, richer and more materialistic than lesbians. Marco smiled at the idea that some guy scrolling through pics of hot, available men might spot an ad for iPod docks and decide docks beat cocks.

  Green circles at the bottom of the Grindr photos indicated which guys were online. A few looked familiar—waiters from the local restaurants? Single guys on the beach? There was a blond boy with a Justin Bieber haircut, late twenties, face only. Handle: Cape Cock. Not the most inventive, but Grindr was not the realm for Pulitzer-level writing. Cape Cock’s tagline was “Versatile fun-seeker. No Asians, no offense.”

  Marco tapped the chat button. “Hi there.”

  “Nice pecs,” came the reply. “Which way is the beach? Ha ha.”

  “Since everyone shows their muscles on here, I figured I might as well flex. What’s your name, Cape Cock?”

  “Kyle.”

  “I’d like to defile you, Kyle.”

  “Good one.”

  He wondered how big Kyle was. Size was important to Marco. He liked to give head almost more than he liked to top. Something about the submission, the danger, since it was bareback.

  They exchanged some perfunctory texts about what they were doing on the Cape. Marco said he was a single father with two kids, even though they had made “Jude” disappear.

  Kyle lived in Somerville, Massachusetts, and he had come to Provincetown for Carnival and stayed. He asked Marco for a face photo, and he sent it over. There was nothing for a while, and Marco waited. Then the beautiful green thought bubble popped up. “Send me your address.”

  • • •

  Kyle turned out to be cute, skinny, and five-seven. When he pulled into the driveway in his Mini Cooper, the clamshell driveway cracking under the wheels of the car, Marco got a rush. The boys were sleeping. How, he wasn’t sure, but they were. He had straightened the cottage, put all the kid stuff in the master bedroom to get it out of sight.

  When the guy stepped out of his car, Marco’s heart pounded. He was just Marco’s type: Ryan Gosling before he got pumped. Kyle was WASPy, pale,
pretty, just like Jason.

  Marco opened the door. Kyle was in a white V-neck undershirt and cut-off Dickies with boat shoes. On one shoulder he had a tote bag that said El Cosmico. He removed a bottle of rum and a bottle of Bacardi piña colada mixer.

  “I don’t drink,” Marco said. He hated rum anyway.

  “You don’t?”

  “But I’m happy to make some for you.” Kyle looked at him hesitantly. “Here, let me take it.” Marco wanted the guy to think that he didn’t have trouble touching alcohol, just drinking it.

  Marco mixed a drink in the blender. He poured it in a plastic cup from the sixties with green flowers on it. He made himself a seltzer on ice so Kyle wouldn’t feel self-conscious about drinking alone. They sat on the couch and clinked cups. “This place has funky charm,” Kyle said, glancing around.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Marco said. “There’s nothing charming about it.”

  Kyle tossed back his drink and said, “Where are your kids?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Are they good sleepers?”

  “Champion.”

  Kyle put his hand on Marco’s face. This young generation wasn’t self-hating about being gay. It was off-putting. You needed to have a little fear when you were gay; people could kill you.

  “Thanks for coming to the boonies,” Marco said.

  “P-town gets a little tiring, actually. It’s just nonstop, you know? And I’m not into lesbians. Past couple summers the transmen have taken over. They gross me out.”

  “So how come you don’t like Asians?” Marco asked.

  “They don’t do it for me,” Kyle said. “What do you care? Are you, like, secretly Chinese?”

  “Puerto Rican.” They kissed for a while, and Kyle pulled off Marco’s shirt and then his own.

  “Mmm,” the boy said, running his hands over Marco’s chest.

  Then Marco was sucking him off, the kid was big and white and curved, it felt good; while he did it, the kid stroked him and said, “You’re big.” Then Kyle stopped him and said, “Show me some of that top spin.”

  Marco grabbed a blanket from the armchair and spread it out on the couch, and he was rolling on the rubber Kyle brought and getting on top. Cowboy, reverse, cowboy again. Marco felt lucky. This slender boy wanted Marco—even though his forty-two-year-old body was not as cut as it used to be, and his hair was receding. Marco felt like he still had it, had something, even if Todd didn’t know it, hadn’t known it for years.