"All of this . . . life is too much," I say. "Artie's dying is too much. Can you call that off?"
She smiles sadly and shakes her head.
"I'm going upstairs to watch Artie breathe," I say. I want to know that his lungs are still pushing air.
She nods and watches me walk up the stairs.
*
Artie's room still smells faintly of cologne. I sit in an armchair, pull my knees to my chest. I don't know who else has taken a seat here today or what those women had to say to him or what he had to say to them. I could shove him awake and tell him that I ran into Springbird, and grill him about the brunette, but I decide not to think about that now.
His face is relaxed. He's breathing softly. The smoking jacket is nowhere in sight. I think about one of his notes to me—one of the ones shoved in my bedside table. I don't remember which number it was. It read: the way your soft lips sometimes touch and puff while you sleep. I don't remember watching Artie sleep when we were together, but he'd watched me. He has a depth of attention that comes with his love that is keen and sharp. Does he really love me? Could he love me and still have cheated on me? At the very least, I feel like he owes me more love to make up for his betrayal. He owes me.
And then I think of John Bessom in the car outside of the bar. Everyone should hear their own eulogies—but the notes, aren't they a kind of love song? And aren't the best eulogies a kind of love song? And what in the world will I say about Artie when the time comes?
Chapter Twenty
Don't Mistake Your Lover for a Savior
Every day is different, but still they begin to blur. Each of us finds a strange rhythm. There are often women in the living room, drinking coffee from the serving tray that Eleanor has supplied— and some homemade cookies my mother hasn't been able to restrain herself from baking; she can't resist an audience.
And, my, what an audience she has!
Artie's sweethearts have no pattern—no discernible pattern, at least. They run the gamut. Some are bimboesque and boisterous. Some are refined and elegant. There's shyness, breeziness, boldness. They wear cardigans and comfortable shoes. They wear belly shirts and high-heel slingbacks.
If you look at it in terms of the cookies alone, I can put it this way: some nibble the cookies politely. Some refuse and complain about a diet. More than one has eaten as many as they can, wrapping a few extras in a napkin and stuffing them in a pocketbook.
Bogie delights in them. Even ball-less, he waddles around the room, begging for cookie bits, licking bare legs, soliciting affection. Once he humped a handbag that was long and cylindrical in shape—not unlike a female dachshund.
And I'm relieved that Springbird came early and left. Now I don't have to search for her, though, I must say, I'm tempted to ask every one of the sweethearts how they feel about elevators.
There are a few I will never forget.
MRS. DUTTON
She is elderly. I mean really ancient. Her hair is creamy, her hands are knotted, and her lace-up shoes have thick rubber soles. But beneath the arthritic ointment, there's a hint of dangerous perfume.
I ask her a few questions. "So, how do you know Artie?"
"I was his high school algebra teacher," she says, introducing herself in a schoolteacherly way: "My name is Mrs. Dutton." I expect her to stand up and write it in large swirling letters on a chalkboard.
"Ah," I say. "Did you know him well?"
She smiles, patiently, and nods.
"Did you keep up with him over the years?"
"Not so much," she says. "My husband didn't care for him."
I assume the husband may be the reason why Mrs. Dutton's name has an X by it. Husbands can sometimes put a real strain on a romance. "I see," I say.
"I don't think you quite do," she says. "But that's okay." She pats my knee and gives me a wink.
MARZIE HOLDING THE MOTORCYCLE HELMET
Shortly after Mrs. Dutton leaves, a lesbian arrives. My mother is the one to answer the door, and she walks into the kitchen and whispers to Eleanor and me, "The next woman to see Artie is, well, she's a little butch. She's carrying a motorcycle helmet. Her man's shirt doesn't have any sleeves." My mother is so distressed, she has to wash her hands and sit down for a while.
I volunteer to bring out the cookies.
The woman is very friendly. Her name is Marzie. She's ridden in from Jersey. Artie hasn't seen her in a while. "I'm looking forward to surprising him," she tells me.
"Well, he's probably seen your name on the list," I tell her. "He's expecting you, I'm sure."
"I don't think he's really expecting me, though," she says with a laugh. "When I was dating Artie, I didn't know who I was. But he made me see the light."
"Artie helped you figure out who you really are?" I asked. "Do you mind me asking how, exactly, he did that?"
"How can I put this?" Marzie says, helping herself to cookies. "He set himself up as the ultimate man, you know what I mean?"
I nod. Artie charms himself sometimes.
"And when he really didn't do it for me, well, I figured that if the ultimate man isn't doing it for me, maybe men in general won't. Ever."
"Or maybe he overplayed his hand?" I say. "I mean, ultimate? Who's the ultimate?"
"It's all self-advertising, I guess. But that's all I had to go on. And he did nothing for me—you know, in bed. Nothing! At all!" Marzie reports all of this very happily. "So, I figured a few things out."
"If you don't mind," I tell Marzie, "I'd really like you to share all of that with Artie. I mean, it's really important for him to know, you know, how he did nothing for you, in bed . . . all of that." This is such a beautiful turn of events that I can barely contain myself. Artie has to hear about his sexual failings, how he turned a woman not only away from himself, but from all men. I couldn't have dreamed up a better scenario.
"Okay," she says. "My pleasure! I owe him, you know."
"Well, now's the time to really pay him back!"
JUNIOR
Later that same afternoon, a woman about my age shows up at the door. She looks like she's left a nine-to-five office job a little early. I introduce myself as Artie's wife. She grabs my hand and says, "I'm so sorry." But I'm not sure if she's sorry that Artie's dying or that I'm his wife or for being his lover.
"Take a seat," I tell her. "Have a cookie." I direct her to the living room, where another woman is already waiting, filing her nails. This woman is closer to Artie's age, maybe even a few years older.
When the apologetic nine-to-fiver steps into the living room and sees the older woman, she stops dead. "What in the hell are you doing here?"
The older woman stands, letting her pocketbook fall from her lap to the floor. "Oh, honey," she says. "Let me just explain."
"No!" the nine-to-fiver screams. "No, no, no! This is just so like you! I thought all of this was Artie's fault, but I guess not! Why have you always been so jealous of me! Why can't you just live your own life! Like a normal mother!"
I stand there, completely frozen to the spot.
The nine-to-fiver turns around swiftly and slams out the front door.
The older woman bends down to collect the things that have fallen out of her pocketbook. "What can I say?" She looks up at me and takes a seat. "She always was a very dramatic child." She shakes her head wearily. "And," she adds, "it really is mostly Artie's fault."
I'm not so sure, this time around.
THE NUN
Eleanor enjoys taking a position at the bottom of the stairs listening to the louder, more heated conversations. Sometimes she disappears upstairs and is stationed, less subtly, in the hallway. She jots things down from time to time, but I'm not sure what exactly. More than once I've heard her mutter curse words aimed at Artie.
Occasionally a woman will start yelling up there, her voice ringing throughout the house. There was a redhead who was so passionate that we all gathered.
She shouted, "I was a nun when I met you!"
Artie replied, "You
were playing a nun in a dog-and-pony version of The Sound of Music. That's not the same thing!"
There was a steely silence, and then the woman said, "How dare you. That was an Actors' Equity production."
WOMAN BEARING CASSEROLE DISH
Eleanor is the one to invite her in. I'm in the kitchen, not paying any attention. I don't even look up from some spreadsheets that Lindsay faxed to the house. But later I hear the part of the story that I wasn't present for. It went like this.
The visitor is rosy yet wearing just the right amount of concern on her face for the occasion of an impending death. She hands Eleanor the foil-wrapped lasagna.
"I went easy on the spices. I didn't know what kind of effect they'd have, you know." She glances at the women gathered in the living room, flipping through magazines.
"Well, this is unnecessary," Eleanor says.
"It's the least I could do," the woman says. "I was feeling quite useless."
"Okay, then. What's your name?"
"Jamie Petrie. I live up the street."
"Artie," Eleanor says, under her breath. "Well, I guess I wouldn't put anything past him at this point."
"Excuse me?" the woman says.
"I don't remember your name on the list," Eleanor says.
"What list?"
"Why don't you take a seat?"
"Is Lucy here? I'd like to see her."
Eleanor stares at the woman. "Lucy," she says. "We'll see. Just take a seat."
The woman moves toward Eleanor. "Who are all of these women?" she whispers.
"Artie's other sweethearts. You think you were the only one?"
"The only one?" The woman stiffens. "I'm a Party Candle representative!" she says, as if this explains everything.
"Wait one moment, please," Eleanor says, then she walks into the kitchen. She says to me, "Someone's trying to weasel her way in with a lasagna and no appointment. She also seems to want to talk to you."
"To me?" I say.
"Yes."
"I don't want to talk to any of them. Too much information. You know?"
"Well, this one may be of interest. She says she's a neighbor. A candle representative? What in the hell is that?"
I pause. My first thought is that I despise Artie Shoreman. A true and vivid hatred rises up inside me. Did he have an affair with one of our neighbors? My second thought is: a neighbor? No. Artie confessed to everything. He confessed to too much. A neighbor with a casserole? A candle representative?
"Oh no!" I say. "What did you tell her? No, no, no." I walk quickly to the living room and there is Jamie Petrie, my neighbor. The consummate Party Candle representative, she has taken this moment to hand out her business card to all the women in the living room. I've never liked Jamie Petrie, I can honestly say. She's overbearing. She brims too much with joy over things like her new line of autumnal scents—everything from amaretto to apple cider! Every time I see her she asks me to call her with any of my scented-candle needs! I've never had a scented-candle need.
"Please call me if you ever want to set up a party!" she's telling the women, who are staring at her in complete confusion.
"Jamie!" I say. "So good to see you! Thank you so much for coming by!"
"My pleasure," she says. "I was so worried. Here," she says, pulling a little white box with a purple ribbon out of her handbag. "It's lavender-scented. Great for healing."
"Thank you."
"Well, that's proof that there's a scented candle for every occasion!"
"Even death," I say.
"That's right!" She ignores the awkwardness and seizes the chance to make a sales pitch. She glances around the room of prospective clients. "I'm so glad that I chose this moment to show up. I always enjoy the opportunity to get together with women. It's important that we take time for each other and ourselves!"
"So true," I say. "Cookie?"
DENIAL, BARGAINING, AND, FINALLY, ELEANOR'S TAKE ON ALL OF THIS
Another woman walks down the stairs and makes her way gracefully to the front door. She stops short and then turns to the other women. "He denied cheating on me. Can you believe it? He said he just didn't remember it that way." She stares at the women. "Good luck to all of you." And she leaves.
Another woman, later that day, reports on the way out that Artie had tried to barter. " 'What would it take for you to forget what an asshole I was? What would I have to do?' " The woman grabs Eleanor's elbow. "I loved it," she says. " 'There's nothing you can do,' I said. And that was that."
Eleanor seems to relish this bit of information. She jots furiously on her clipboard and ushers the woman out. On her way back through the hallway, I stop her. "What are you writing down?" I ask.
"Not much," she says prudishly.
"You keep your clipboard pretty close to your chest," I say. "But it's only fair to share your information. What's all the scribbling?"
"Little insights, I suppose."
"Like what?"
She thinks for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to let me in. "Okay," she relents. "Artie is moving through the seven stages of grief."
"He is? Toward accepting his death?"
She looks at me wide-eyed, as if scandalized by my naivete. "Toward accepting his infidelity! Toward accepting the bastard he is!"
"Oh. I thought maybe he was accepting his own death."
"Well, that may be happening, too. But I can't chart that. What I do know is that he has denied cheating on that one woman, then he tried to bargain his way around it. He's been angry—you know, with that actress especially. Eventually he'll despair, and then accept."
"Do we want him to accept himself?" I don't want Artie to embrace his cheating self. That's for sure.
"Not the way he is," she says. "But accept what he's done, to become someone new."
"And you're charting all of this?" I ask, skeptical. How can you chart the inner workings of Artie's conscience?
She looks at her clipboard then presses it against her chest. "Yes," she says. "I am."
Chapter Twenty-one
Eavesdropping Is an Undervalued Life Skill
John Bessom has become a permanent fixture. He's still a little nervous in the house. There's something left over from his childhood, I guess, some desire to please his father. He flattens his shirt as if he's worried it's wrinkled. He puts his hands in his pockets, but in a way that makes you think he's just trying to look more at ease. When he sits down, waiting for one of the sweethearts to finish up, he jiggles his knees. It's touching, actually, poignant. After all these years, he's still invested, and despite all his arguments to the contrary, there is still something between Artie and him—something unfinished, something he wants and is now trying to sort out.
He and Artie hole up in the bedroom to talk each afternoon. But the first time he showed up for an appointment with Artie, I was stuck on the phone with Lindsay. She still calls, but is no longer panicked. She asks for advice. The small promotion and the nice jump in pay have given her confidence. She throws out offhanded, ballsy ideas. She doesn't sound like she's always in the middle of a full sprint.
I could hear John in the hallway. He was talking to Eleanor, who has maintained her professional facade and keeps everything moving with incredible punctuality. Lindsay was prattling a little.
"You're a pro," I said, trying to cut her short. "You've got it down." I could hear John and Eleanor on the stairs, and I needed to get off the phone. I had to eavesdrop; that's the awful truth.
But Lindsay was up on the SEC rulings and was briefing me, like a pro.
I was impressed. "That's great," I told her. "Can you write all of that out? I'll have to break it down for our clients."
Finally, I got off the phone, quickly passed a woman in the living room wrapping cookies in a napkin, and tiptoed upstairs. There I found Eleanor dusting a top ledge of the door frame across the hall from the bedroom and Elspa, who wasn't even faking a reason to be there, sitting cross-legged next to the door. My mother was out that morning,
talking to a funeral director—she doesn't bother me with these difficult details. If she weren't otherwise engaged, she would have been there, too. Eleanor and Elspa looked at me, caught.
I shook my head and whispered, "Too many of us. It's too obvious. Go on downstairs. I'll report back."
They were both obviously disappointed. Elspa picked herself up off the floor and slumped down the hall. Eleanor handed me her clipboard, pencil clamped to it. "Take notes," she said.
Once they were gone, I put my ear to the door. I'd already missed a good bit, which I blame on Lindsay. Their voices were soft, muffled, interrupted by laughter. It took me a few moments to start to understand the words.
"She lives out west now," John said.
"With a cowboy?" Artie asked.
"A rich cowboy."
"So it wasn't a bad childhood, was it?"
"I had a paper route and a dog. Sometimes she cut the crust off my sandwiches. She taught me to curse effectively and some minor-league forgery."
"Life skills," Artie said.
"That's what it was like, more or less—affection, a lot of noise."
"I learned to curse from my mother, too," Artie said. "So we have that in common."
There was a lull, and then Artie said, "I wanted to be there all along. Did she tell you that? I wanted to be a part of your life, but she wouldn't have it."
I wondered if John would tell him what he'd told me, that old line about how there was nothing between him and Artie now. It seemed like something John had told himself to survive, a strange mantra that I couldn't understand. I closed my eyes, held my breath, knowing that Artie needed to hear something else, a promise of some sort.
"But did you really try?" John asked.
"She told me that you hated me. She told me that I'd only mess things up and confuse you."
"I was plenty confused," John said. "It doesn't matter now anyway."
"I was there, though, anyway."
"What?" John asked.
"I saw you in that play about the princess on all of those mattresses."
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