by Juliette Fay
Nora pulled up in her little silver BMW and seemed to emerge almost before it had come to a complete stop. “God, it’s so great to be out!” she said as she clutched Dana against her. The buttery softness of her leather jacket smelled like the interior of a foreign car misted with perfume. She planted a light kiss on Dana’s cheek and steered her toward the door of Keeney’s.
Dana could feel the interest from the sparsely populated room as they entered. The volume of the general murmuring rose slightly, and she heard the word “wives” and a burst of laughter from a group of men at a booth by the windows who all seemed to have dressed from the same REI catalog.
Nora ignored it and told the bartender, “Two Amstels, please.” Turning to Dana, she asked, “That okay with you?” It was fine with Dana—beer was cheaper than wine and lasted longer.
They made their way to a booth away from the other patrons and chatted about their daughters’ plan for Halloween. Dana admitted she was sad not to have Morgan trick-or-treating in her own neighborhood for the first time. “Though I know she’ll have a great time with Kimmi up by your house,” she added.
“Oh, I know,” Nora sympathized. “A little piece of your heart tears loose when they start doing things on their own.”
Their conversation tumbled congenially over a variety of matters. There was the upcoming sixth-grade dance. And the confusing grading practices of the Spanish teacher. (“It’s not her fault,” said Dana. “I don’t think she speaks that much English.”) Then Kimmi’s insistence on getting a puppy for Christmas. (“Over my dead body,” said Nora. “There’s no smell I hate worse than a wet dog.”)
For Dana there was a delicious sense of having been admitted to an exclusive club, the membership fee waived by the club’s president. Dana could feel herself warming to the honor, her responses growing looser and more confident as they talked. Almost an hour had passed before she realized that their beers were empty, and it was her turn to get the next round.
Nora took a long sip from the new beer. “You know why I like this place?” she said. “It’s real. It’s a cruddy old tavern, and it’s not trying to be hipper or younger than it is. I’m so sick of that crap, aren’t you? You know, how everyone our age is starting to dress too young? You can get away with it in your thirties, but not once you cross that steel bridge into Fortyland.” She laughed humorlessly. “No way.”
Dana was stumped as to how to respond. While she didn’t think Nora dressed too young, she certainly seemed abreast of the latest fashions, with her cropped leather jacket and designer jeans. Also, Dana didn’t feel that “everyone” was doing it. Yes, there were a few women trying far too hard to present themselves as fresh and hip, and this was clear in the way they talked and dressed and entered every room as if it were some sort of stalled frat party where people were just waiting for them to arrive so the good times could roll. But most people responded to these women as if they were the main attraction. And if that’s what you said you were, and everyone seemed to agree, then what was the harm?
“It is kind of annoying. I just wish I could pull it off myself,” Dana joked, trying to inject a little levity.
“No you don’t—trust me.” Nora’s thumbnail worried the metallic edge of the beer bottle label. “It takes way too much effort, and it’s pathetic, and it doesn’t really work anyway. The husband still wants the newer model.”
She’s right, thought Dana, and a vague sense of futility began to lap at the edge of her newfound confidence. She looked down at her hands, resting idly on the table. Her skin was dry, scored with tiny white lines like threads across her knuckles.
“You know better than anyone,” Nora said, anger sparking in her tone. “It doesn’t even matter if they aren’t as pretty as you. It’s just that they’re new. And you’re not.” She scraped harder at the label until an edge peeled off. “And you can’t compete with that.”
So Nora knew about Kenneth’s infidelity. Polly must’ve told her, thought Dana, and the idea sent a prickle of anger across her skin. It doesn’t matter, Dana told herself, everyone knows. But Nora seemed to have some personal experience of it. Dana glanced up into her sullen gaze. “Carter . . . ?” she asked.
Nora looked out the window to the night-blackened surface of Nipmuc Pond. “Not that there’s any proof,” she said. “No satin thongs in his suit pockets or anything.”
“Then why do you think . . . ?”
“Because the guy’s a hound!” Nora said irritably. “He was a hound when I married him, and I was an idiot because I thought I was so all that, he’d never want anything else. He picked me. I won. I’m the lucky fucking winner of a hound.”
Dana’s hands felt cold; she slid them between her knees to warm them. And she was suddenly so tired. She wanted to lie down right there on the dusty floor of Keeney’s or walk out the door and into the murky waters of Nipmuc Pond and submerge herself in blackness. Nora’s anger and despair amplified her own. Men left. It had always been so in her life. Apparently it was a universal truth.
Nora patted the table to get Dana’s attention. “Hey,” she said. “I apologize. I just killed a nice evening. Two friends getting together for some girl time.”
“No, it just—”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah,” Dana admitted. “It does.”
“And that’s why women are as strong as they are and why we have such great friendships. Because we don’t fool around on each other.” Nora laughed, and the sound sent a breath of relief through Dana. “Well, that’s not true. There’s plenty of biatches in this town who’d be happy to stab you in the back. But not you.” Nora grinned. “Polly always says you have a pure heart.”
Dana laughed. “She does not!”
“Well, something like that anyway. True heart or true blue . . . grand ol’ flag . . . Halls of Montezuma.” Nora’s grin was so wide she could barely make her lips pucker around the rim of her beer bottle to take another gulp.
“Very funny,” said Dana, feeling her hands warm up again.
Nora finished her swig and let her bottle land heavily on the table. “You’re the Top Gun of friendship, that’s what you are!”
CHAPTER 23
WHEN THE ALARM WENT OFF AT SIX THE NEXT morning, Dana felt as if she were being defibrillated. Her body tensed against the attack, hand striking out to subdue the rogue appliance. It had been a late night.
Not all that late, she told herself. Eleven forty-five was only slightly beyond the point of tame, even for a school night. It was probably the third beer that had made her put her pajama top on backward when she got home—she noticed this as she rose and caught sight of herself in the mirror over the bureau. She knew she had not gotten drunk. Three beers was only one past her usual limit, though it was true that without Kenneth to accompany her to dinner parties or the occasional restaurant her opportunities for maintaining a respectable tolerance for alcohol had dwindled. She had gotten a little silly, maybe. Drunk, no. Definitely not.
She did remember laughing and telling Nora things about Kenneth that weren’t flattering, such as his love affair with his pillow. She had mimicked him in a child’s voice, calling it a “wittle piddow,” throwing Nora into such a fit of giggles that the group of men had looked over at them.
“Oh, turn around,” Nora had chided. “Haven’t you ever heard people laugh before?” Startled, the men had immediately looked away, causing another round of barely controlled snickering from the women.
Now, as Dana stood in the shower with the hot stream of water eroding her sluggishness, she remembered that her cell phone had rung twice during the later part of the evening—first it was Kenneth, then Jack. Both times Dana had checked to be sure it wasn’t a call from home, then made a show of silencing the ring, to Nora’s grinning approval. At the time it felt careless and wild. Now she wondered what they’d been calling about. She’d check messages on her way to work.
Once dressed, Dana went to see that the kids were up. Morgan was at her desk, back taut with
focus as she leaned over a textbook, scribbling into a spiral-bound notebook to her right.
“I thought you told me your homework was done before I let you watch TV last night.”
Morgan didn’t look up. Her hand continued to jerk across the notebook page. “It is. This is just social studies. There’s a test next week.”
“Okay, well, come down for breakfast soon—a real breakfast, not just plums, okay?”
Grady was still asleep, lying facedown on his bed, his mouth open, saliva darkening a spot on his pillow. When she called his name, his eyes flew open and he grunted, “Uh?”
“Time to get up, sweetie.”
Grady rolled off his bed, landing in a crouch on the carpet. Then he stood up and scratched his side. “Did Dad talk to you? Can I go?”
“Go where?”
“To his house to trick-or-treat.”
“I thought you were going with Farruk and Travis!”
Grady groaned and sat down on his bed. “He was supposed to talk to you!”
“Well, he may have called, but I was in the middle of something and couldn’t pick up.”
“In the middle of what?” Grady squinted at her suspiciously.
“Hold on,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “What happened to Farruk and Travis? Because you can’t just cancel on them for no good—”
“They canceled on me!”
“What? Why?”
“Because they’re BUTTHOLES! And I hate them, and I’m going to DAD’S!” Grady flopped backward onto his bed and pulled the Star Wars coverlet over his face, his muffled sobs fierce and desperate.
She knelt next to the bed. “Okay,” she soothed, patting his exposed stomach. He flinched away from her. “Grady? Can you come out of there so we can talk about this?”
“No!”
“Well, I’ve got a plan, but I can’t tell it to a bedspread, now, can I? I’m not talking to a Jedi about this plan—I need to talk to you.”
He peeked out from under the coverlet, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s wrinkled hand spread across his cheek. “What.”
“Here it is. While you’re at school, I’ll talk to Dad and we’ll sort everything out, okay?”
“I am NOT trick-or-treating with those buttholes, so don’t think you can make me!”
“Grady, I’m not thrilled about that word you keep using, so if you want my help, you’ll have to find some other way to say you don’t like them.”
“I HATE them!”
“What is this about? How come they canceled?”
“Just call Dad,” he grumbled, sitting up again. “I already told him everything.”
When Dana checked her cell-phone messages, she found that Jack hadn’t left one and she didn’t bother to listen to Kenneth’s. She had only a ten-minute drive to get a hold of him, and she knew his message would have no information. Kenneth hated voice mail, tended to say “Um” a lot, and got off as quickly as he could. He’d once admitted to her that it was his only shortcoming as a salesman—he could not leave a compelling message. Dana called his cell phone, assuming that he’d be on his way to work.
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice, tentatively, as if she were already regretting the decision to answer. Dana’s first instinct was to hang up and call Kenneth’s work number. But she needed to get to the bottom of this trick-or-treat problem quickly—in the next nine and a half minutes, if possible; otherwise she’d have to wait until her lunch break.
“Hello?” the woman’s voice came at her again. “Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” Dana retorted. “May I speak to Kenneth, please?”
“Yeah, uh . . . he’s in the men’s room. You want to hold on? Or he could call back when he’s done.”
Done? In some men’s room at seven forty-five in the morning? Where the heck was he anyway?
“I swear I’ll have him call you,” insisted the woman. “This is . . . this is Tina, by the way.”
You’re not “by the way,” thought Dana. You’re right in the middle of everything.
“Jeez, where is he?” muttered Tina. “He doesn’t usually take this long unless he’s—”
A snort of disgust erupted from Dana. Did this Tina actually think she didn’t know how long her husband of fifteen years took in the bathroom? Or that she’d care to discuss this personal and mildly revolting information with his mistress?
“Oh, ick. I’m sorry,” said Tina. “That was super inappropriate.”
Dana sat at the first traffic light, right hand gripping the wheel as if she might rip it from the steering column, left hand holding the cell phone a few inches from her ear. Okay, she counseled herself. Calm down and drive carefully. You can NOT afford another accident.
“Uh, Dana?” came the voice again, squeaky with worry. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, and personally, I can’t blame you. I’d be way pissed if I was you. But since Ken seems to have fallen in or something, do you want me to just tell you about the Grady thing?”
Damn straight she was pissed. The bimbo seemed to get that at least. “Yes, just tell me,” Dana snapped. “I have to get to work.”
“Okay, well, Grady’s been calling a lot. Sometimes he yells at Kenny and says mean stuff, like he’s cheap because he doesn’t coach any of Grady’s teams—which isn’t true, it’s just because it’s not baseball season, and you and I both know that’s the only sport Ken has any clue about. Or he’ll cry and say he hates school, and all the kids are buttholes, and why can’t he just go to work with Ken.” Tina let out a whispery sigh. She sounded perplexed, even concerned. “It’s like he’s not sure if he hates his dad or loves him, you know?”
The pain in Dana’s chest, growing steadily as Tina spoke, now pressed against her lungs. “Oh,” she said.
“I know it,” Tina said. “Poor little guy.”
An image emerged in Dana’s mind of Grady as a baby. He’d woken from a nap while she was vacuuming. She hadn’t heard him babbling to himself, nor had she heard the babbling turn plaintive, then desperate. By the time she’d turned off the vacuum, Grady’s screams were frantic. She’d rushed up the stairs, whisking him out of his crib, cuddling him and crooning her apology. But he had arched his back and refused to be consoled. He continued to yell at her, his little pink tongue quivering in his wide-open mouth. “It’s over,” she’d kept saying. “You’re safe now, sweetie. I’ve got you.”
But it wasn’t over for him until he determined it was over. Not then and not now.
“Um, Dana? It’s my turn, I gotta go. Just call back when you decide about tonight. I won’t answer, I promise. Kenny’s all broken up about this, by the way.”
Good, thought Dana, turning in to the office parking lot. I hope he hates himself for it. But before she could respond, Tina said, “The nurse is waiting. Bye.” And the call ended.
Dana sat behind the steering wheel, the engine silent now, Tina’s words echoing inside her chest. Oak leaves, brittle and lifeless, skittered across the parking lot, swept along by the late-October breeze.
Poor little guy.
Grady, her funny, unpredictable boy. She’d had no idea that Kenneth’s leaving had affected him so profoundly. How had she missed it?
It’s like he’s not sure if he hates his dad or loves him.
Dana slammed her hands against the steering wheel. Goddamn you, Kenneth! But goddamn him for what? For leaving, yes, but people left—Dana knew that all too well. Sometimes they left even though they continued to sit right there in the same room. Which was worse, in a way, because you had to watch them leaving you over and over every day.
If she agreed to let Grady have Halloween in Hartford with Kenneth (and how could she not?), she would be alone. Morgan would be with Kimmi, Alder would probably be off with that Jet, and Dana would be left to hand out candy and scare off teenagers from tossing toilet paper through the crabapple tree as they’d once done years ago. The very thought of it depressed her.
There was movement in the periphery of her vision—Tony walking t
oward the door of the building, his wide shoulders hunched against the cold. One side of the leather bomber jacket flapped out, and the wind pressed his blue scrubs against the slight protrusion of his stomach. He was about five feet six inches tall, she guessed.
He caught sight of her sitting in her minivan, gazed at her for a moment, and then cocked his head toward the glass door as if inviting her to join him. She got out of the car.
“And how’s my completely indispensable receptionist this morning?”
She tried to smile. “Hanging in there.”
“Yeah?” He unlocked the door and held it open for her. “Because for a minute there, I thought you might be planning to greet our patients in the parking lot today.”
“It’s a thought,” she said, shrugging off her jacket. “I could offer valet service.”
“I’m all for improving the patient experience,” he said, smiling, “but I prefer to have you in the building. Someone to call 911 in case I drill my hand or something.” He stopped before going into his office. “Seriously—everything okay?”
The bell on the glass door jingled. She nodded to him. “Thanks for asking.” And she went to her desk to greet the first patient.
Her cell phone rang around nine. It was Kenneth, but she didn’t answer. The waiting room was full of patients, and she knew it would be a tense conversation. Not because she’d have to give up Grady for Halloween; she’d reconciled herself to that. It was the call with Tina that had her feeling brittle and desiccated, as if she were made out of straw. Tina was real for her now, no longer Kenneth’s Imaginary Girlfriend. Before today she might as well have been Kenneth’s pillow—comforting, perhaps, but without any actual human qualities.
Dana accepted that she was someone’s ex-wife, the first Mrs. Stellgarten and not likely the last. But there was suddenly a clearer sense of her own obsolescence layered onto that. How would she talk to Kenneth, how would she even seem recognizable to herself, now that she was so obviously just a figment of his past?
At lunchtime she listened to the messages he’d left on her cell phone. The one from last night was short (despite being riddled with “um”s and “uh”s) and merely alluded to a situation they should discuss. The second message began with an intake of breath and then, “Dana,” as if he were confirming her name to some anonymous third party. “I didn’t mean for her to . . . uh . . . I should have told you myself that Grady was, um . . . and I apologize for that. So would you please call so we can discuss it? . . . This is Kenneth.”
