The Middlesteins

by Jami Attenberg

  “He’s plenty of fun,” said Rachelle. “You should have seen him dancing tonight.”

  They all sat and ate, Benny barraging Emily and Josh with questions about their day, which sometimes they minded, and sometimes they didn’t. He made a real effort with those kids, which Rachelle appreciated. Her own father, miserable, overworked, uninspired by his job, his wife, his child, his life, the world, had ignored her through most of her childhood; he would sit, stony-faced, at the dinner table, and command quiet through angry glares at Rachelle and her mother. “Your father had a bad day,” her mother would whisper.

  There would be no silence at the dinner table in her own home.

  After dinner they all watched So You Think You Can Dance, and there was Pierre’s student, Victor Long, spiked hair, bright eyes, jumping in the air, both legs flying up and out to meet his hands, tumbling, bouncing, knees popping up and down, all to a dance track that was punctuated occasionally by an intriguing air-horn sound. Victor was athletic and graceful, which Rachelle admired, even if she would never choose to dance that way herself. Her children were in awe of him.

  “I’m never going to be that good,” said Emily mournfully. She crossed her arms and locked her thumbs under her armpits. “I’m going to look like an idiot in front of all my friends.”

  “You’re going to do the best that you can,” said Rachelle.

  “But what if my best totally sucks?” said Emily. She wiped away a tear, and another, and then got up and left the room, dragging Rachelle’s heart slowly with her.

  Later, out back, after the kids were tucked away in bed, Rachelle huddled in her winter coat with her husband in the backyard, both of them quietly puffing on a joint; this time she shared it with him. Benny needed it more than she. For him, it was something he earned at the end of a long day of work. For her, smoking pot was just for fun, usually, but following Edie that afternoon had saddened her, and she felt like she needed it, too, or even deserved it. Because what did she do all day anyway? She managed a household, and all their possessions. Drove her kids around, Pilates four times a week, an occasional Sisterhood meeting at the temple with all those old ladies who thought they knew everything about everything but only knew something about not much at all if you really wanted to get into it, got her hair done (regular bang trims, coloring once a month), her nails done, her toes, waxing, cooking, shopping. She read books. (She was in three book clubs but she only showed up if she liked the book they were reading.) If you asked her at the right time, she’d say, “Spend my husband’s money.” It was a joke. It was supposed to be funny. But it was true, too.

  “So they’re not getting any better?” he said.

  “Josh isn’t terrible,” she said. “Emily’s got no particular sense of rhythm as far as I can see.”

  “It’s only been a few weeks,” he said. He put his hand on her head. He messed up her hair.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “Did you just get it done?” He rubbed it back and forth and in her face. “Did you just get your pretty hair done?” He was completely high. He laughed. He ran his fingertips down her face and then stopped at her chin and squeezed it. “This is a good chin, here, this one.” And then he kissed her.

  She took the joint from his hand. “No more for you,” she said. She put another hand in his pocket and felt for his dick. Managing his possessions.

  He was in such a good mood that she didn’t want to bring up his mother, but then he did it anyway.

  “So did you see the other Mrs. Middlestein today?”

  “Mrs. Middlestein Senior?”

  “That’s the one.”

  * * *

  Here are the lies Rachelle had told her husband in the order she had told them:

  When they first met, she had not yet broken up with Craig Rossman, her boyfriend who went to Cornell, and it was a good month before that happened, but she wanted to wait to do it in person, over Christmas break, and she could not be blamed for that, Craig was a decent guy, and doing it over the phone seemed callous.

  When she was twenty-one and they first started dating, she said she was on the pill when she was not because she didn’t want him to think she was a total slut (this made no sense, she knew, everyone was on it, and at the least she could have said she did it to manage her cramps, but Benny thought she was an angel and she did not want him to think otherwise), and this led to her getting pregnant with the twins the night they graduated from college during a drunken, groping sexual rumble in a bathroom at a party at his frat house.

  She is not a fan of her engagement ring, that teeny, tiny chip, and she faked it like a queen when he, hands shaking which was ridiculous, because he already knew that the answer was going to be yes, it had to be yes, offered it to her in a teeny, tiny red velvet box over dinner at a steak house in Chicago.

  She lied when she said she thought his sister, Robin, was adorable the first time Rachelle met her. Robin was—and still is—miserable, moody, and weird, and Rachelle had never forgiven her for her inability to muster one decent smile for their wedding photos, not to mention the drinking—oh, the drinking! Was she the only one in the family who saw how much Robin drank?—and if she had her way she would cut Robin out of every single picture in the album.

  She lies once or twice a month about going to matinees during the day by herself because she thinks he might begrudge her that pleasure when he works so hard himself, and this lie necessitates a double lie, one when he asks what she did that day, and two when they go to see a movie she has already seen and she has to pretend she hasn’t seen it yet, which has led her husband to wonder if she has lost her sense of humor, or, in a more subtle way he has not been able to name yet, her capacity for joy, because she barely laughs at the jokes she already knows are coming.

  And finally, she doesn’t always love being a stay-at-home mom, but the other option, dealing with bosses and responsibilities and meetings in poorly lit rooms and office politics and all that other crap that Benny goes through (and she is grateful he does it) on a daily basis, sounds so appalling that she will gladly gush, “This is what I was born to do,” to anyone who might ask, her friends, his parents, her Pilates instructor, the women at the Sisterhood meetings, even if she suspects there might have been another option, if only she had not let Benny just put it in for a second because it felt so good and never made him take it out again before it was too late.

  And now this: No, she had not seen his mother. No one had been home.

  * * *

  “What’s going on over there?” he said, his late-night high disappearing into the winter air.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “They’re your parents. You know them better than I do.”

  “Where was she?”

  “Benny.”

  “What?” He ground something imaginary under his shoe.

  There were many moments when she suggested things to her husband, mostly in such a way that it seemed like it was his idea to begin with, and there were moments when she called him on his bullshit, usually while teasing him, so as to take away the sting, and then there were moments—and these moments were rare, because he was a good man, and Edie and Richard had done an excellent job of raising him to be a man and to take the right course of action—when she told him what to do.

  “You need to talk to your mother. Not me. You.”

  “I’ll call my dad,” he said.

  “Do whatever,” she said, and then she was done talking for the night.

  * * *

  The next morning, Rachelle and Benny watched as Emily and Josh stood out back near the pool, bundled up in winter coats, practicing their dance moves. A Black Eyed Peas song blared from a boom box perched on a deck chair. It was a lovely, crisp, winter day; the sun hung serenely in blue, windless skies. Emily counted off each beat out loud. Josh closed his eyes and concentrated. They were desperately trying to glide across the tiled patio.

  Emily pulled off her winter cap, and Josh unraveled his scarf. Emily walked o
ver to the boom box to restart the song, and in that quick moment Josh popped and locked in one beautiful, swift motion.

  Rachelle drew in her breath.

  “Did you see that?” said Benny.

  “I did,” she said.

  “Takes after his old man,” said Benny. He executed a wobbly moonwalk across the kitchen floor.

  “Right,” said Rachelle.

  The boom box began blasting the same song again. Rachelle was starting to hate that song.

  “So I was thinking I’d drive over to my folks’ house today,” he said. He barely looked at her. She had stiffed him in bed last night, curled up in the far corner, a pillow behind her to rebuff any approach.

  Rachelle did not know if he wanted her approval or not. If she gave her approval, it was as if she had commanded and he had followed, which, obviously, was what had happened, but she didn’t know if it was wise to wound him any further. If she didn’t acknowledge him, he might think she was still mad at him, which she wasn’t. In fact, she was more in love with him at that moment than in years. All of the recent stressors on their marriage, his slight disconnection from his mother’s multiple surgeries, his inability to prepare or even merely purchase a significantly healthy meal for his children for months now, all of that was washed away with just one appropriate, adult decision.

  She threw her arms around him and enmeshed her fingers in his hair and kissed him, hard, and for a while, long enough so that when their daughter looked up at them through the window, it inspired her to believe in love and the sanctity of marriage, if not for herself, at least for others.

  Later, in the parking lot of Old Orchard—there was a sale at Nordstrom’s, winter coats, 30 percent off—Rachelle began to plot how she would save her mother-in-law. It would require a commitment from her husband and obviously from Richard, more than anyone. They would all have to work together to get Edie back on track. Rachelle would happily prepare meals for her, healthy meals, and she knew a nutritionist who was affiliated with her Pilates studio. Or maybe she would just sign her up for Weight Watchers. Rachelle would drive her to the meetings herself, and sit with her if she felt it necessary. And Rachelle would give up her daytime matinees to go to the gym with Edie if it meant she would finally get some exercise. Hell, all she had to do was go for a walk every day! Even that little bit would help. But more than anything, it was really on Richard to make sure she wasn’t sneaking trips to the fast-food joints. If that meant he had to work less, then so be it. There was always time to make more money, but you only have one wife, and one life. And Benny would have to call his mother every single day and check in on her, and let her know that he loved her. A call from a son means everything to a mother. Rachelle knew she would want the same thing someday.

  They were all in this together, that was the most important thing. If everyone worked together, Edie had a shot.

  * * *

  At the dance studio, the kids were sweating and grinning; Emily, in particular, had a healthy glow to her.

  “Mom, we had a breakthrough moment,” she said.

  “They did,” said Pierre, and he put his arm around Emily. “They remembered all their steps without me having to remind them.”

  “I could feel the whole thing inside me,” said Josh. He touched his fingertips to his temples and then pressed hard, his eyes bugging out a bit. “Like I can see it all in my head.”

  “It’s magic when it clicks like that,” said Pierre.

  Rachelle drank in all their energy, she felt it ripple through her face and neck and chest, a warm, milky love, and it melted into the enthusiasm she already had for turning her mother-in-law’s life around. The kids were jumping up and down. Everyone was laughing. Rachelle pulled out her checkbook to pay Pierre for the month of classes. She asked him for a pen. He opened a desk drawer, and she saw inside at least a hundred different save-the-date magnets, all with different names on them. A pile of invitations. Of course everyone invited him. He was the most fabulous person ever. Rachelle blushed, and then felt a little nauseous. She wrote the amount incorrectly on the first check, and then tore it up, her hands trembling. This is so dumb, she thought. What do I care? I have a mother-in-law to save.

  * * *

  Benny returned just before dinner, sad creases worming their way around his forehead. He saw the kids and he smiled, and he hugged Emily, though over her head he gave a wary glance to Rachelle. Something began to tick inside her.

  They ate salmon, bright pink, flavorless, and Rachelle eyed everyone as they reached for a pinch of salt, anything to save this meal, and she whispered, “Not too much.” Brown rice. “Drink more water,” she commanded. Out-of-season strawberries and sugarless cookies that sucked the air out of their lives. There would be no fooling around with food on her watch.

  They bundled together in the living room, for the last night of So You Think You Can Dance, Rachelle on the sectional next to Emily. Rachelle stroked the top of her daughter’s head. Emily had showered before dinner, and smelled good; Rachelle could tell she had used her shampoo. Her son was on the floor below them, his knees hunched up to his chest, rapt excitement at the upcoming revelation. Her husband was on the settee, stretched out like a dead man, his hands clasped across his belly. Rachelle looked at his gut. Was he getting a gut? Was everyone going to have to go on a diet around here?

  During the final commercial break, Rachelle asked her husband, at last, how he was doing, and from across the room he let out a long, whiny, “Ehhh.”

  In the last moments of the show, the host announced Victor as the winner. The kids jumped up and down and screamed, and even Rachelle found herself clapping, while Benny did nothing but move his hands from his chest to behind his head. Confetti fell all around Victor as he hugged the host tightly. He swiped his thumbs under his eyes. He took the mike from the host and said, “I just want to thank everyone for making this happen. The viewers for all their support and for voting for me, my parents for believing in me, Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, and my first dance instructor, Pierre Gonzales, for making me into the man I am today.” And with that he gave a giant wink at the camera. A giant dirty wink? A giant wink. Rachelle didn’t know. “Huh,” she said. She looked over at her husband, who, for the first time that night, had cracked a smile.

  * * *

  Out back, under the stars, spring was so far away, months to go. Even longer till the kids had to get up in front of a roomful of people and pretend they were Victor Long for the night.

  “What happened today?” she asked her husband. The joint was thicker than usual, and he had been outside long before she got there. He sat on a deck chair, his head on one hand, twirling the joint in the other.

  “My father left my mother,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?” she said. That didn’t even make any sense.

  “He gave up on her,” he said. “He said he couldn’t take it anymore. He said he couldn’t watch her kill herself anymore. He said she’s a miserable woman and he couldn’t live with her another day. She’s having a meltdown.”

  He looked at his wife for help. He couldn’t do this alone, and maybe he wouldn’t even be able to do it with her help.

  “He can’t just leave,” she said. Who just leaves a sick person? Nobody.

  “He left,” he said. “He seems pretty set on it. He rented an apartment near the pharmacy.”

  Rachelle walked over to her husband and sat in his lap, she wrapped one arm around his chest, and another, loosely, around his neck. Then she told him that she didn’t want his father anywhere near her children. “Do you hear me?” she said. She said that any man who would abandon a sick woman was a filthy, horrible person and should not be allowed near a child. And he should be punished. And that is his punishment. He would have no access. He had gone insane, and he would have no access. Not her children. Not this man. Her husband argued briefly—who was in charge here anyway? was it him? did he even want to be?—but it was swift, and then it was over, because she rais
ed her voice, she raised it loud enough that Josh heard it through his window. Josh, who had been thinking about Victor Long intently at that moment, wondering what would happen if he decided someday that he didn’t want to be a doctor and wanted to be a dancer instead, if his parents would believe in him the same way, heard his mother screaming at his father, “I will not have him in my home! I will not have him in my life!” over and over until his father had no choice but to give her what she wanted.

  Edie, 160 Pounds

  They were supposed to meet for a burger at a folk-music club called the Earl of Old Town at 7:00 P.M., but then her father’s test results were scheduled to come in sometime that evening, maybe the next day—the unpredictability of the timing, of everything, driving Edie into knotted bursts of tears in the bathroom attached to her father’s hospital room—so she called her blind date and asked, nicely, if they could dine earlier in the evening and also somewhere near the hospital instead.

  “What a shame,” he said. “I heard that place was the place to go.”

  “For what?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “For fun.”

  “What does it matter where we eat?” she snapped.

  “I just wanted to try something new,” he said.

  “Look, I don’t even know you,” she said. “I don’t know what’s new or old for you.”

  “This is us, getting to know each other,” he said, and then he started laughing at her, and she was appalled, because nothing was funny in this world, in her life, nothing.

  Her mother had died the winter before, coldly, a stroke, a coma, and one day of lucidity where she faintly clung to her family members, smiling, speechless, and then she was gone. The view from the hospital room was of a parking lot, and it had snowed the night her mother had her stroke. Edie had watched an old man shovel snow the next morning, making small mountains around the edges of the lot. By the time her mother died, the snow piles were covered in filth.