"Too awful?"
"Have you been around lately? Have you noticed the outpouring of hate for me?"
"Did you dump Eleanor when you started seeing me?"
"I fell in love with you completely!" he says a little defensively. "That was actually a good move. I mean, it would have been worse to continue to see her, wouldn't it?"
I feel protective of Eleanor—even though I was the other woman in this case. I hate that he hurt her. I hate that his capacity to hurt her was part of his capacity to hurt me. "Let's go back to how awful you feel. I prefer that."
"Well, it's true. But I don't want to talk about it," he says. There's a long pause. "I feel pretty worthless."
I think of Eleanor's clipboard—the charting of Artie's seven stages of grief for his infidelities. "Are you feeling despair?"
The phone line is quiet. I watch Artie in the window. He covers his eyes with one hand. Is he crying? I wonder. And then there's an unmistakable sob. "I'm despairing," he says. "I'm not good at despair. It goes against my nature."
I can't look at him. I turn around and stare at the neighbor's well-trimmed hedgerow. "I think that may be good."
He clears his throat. "I know, I know," he says. "I think you may be right."
"And maybe it's better this way."
"What way?"
"Talking on the phone. I haven't done very well dealing with all of this in person. Maybe this way would work. We need to talk."
"I'll do it any way you want."
"I'll call you."
"That sounds good."
It strikes me that I'm leaving Artie again. It's different this time, but still I can't deny the fact of it and that it feels good, in a strange way, to be leaving, as if it's imprinted on my genes, the desire to leave. It is, of course. "Maybe I'm my father," I say.
"I don't think I would have married your father," Artie says. He's used to my occasionally abrupt changes in conversation.
"I'm leaving again." Maybe Artie isn't so much the Freudian version of my father, but I am. Maybe my subconscious didn't dupe me at all. "I'm leaving like my father."
"No," Artie says. "Not like your father. Because you're going to come back. Right?" There's a vulnerability in his voice that I've heard a few times since I've been home. It's new, having snuck in with the sickness.
"That's right," I tell him. "I'm coming back. Soon."
He pauses. "I love you."
"I don't know why I still love you. I guess I'm an absurdist on some level," I say, and I don't wait for a response. I'm shocked that I said that much. I snap the phone shut and walk to the car, get in, slam the door. Eleanor, my mother, and John follow suit, shutting the remaining three doors.
"Are you ready?" John asks.
For a moment, I'm disoriented. "For what?" I ask.
"To go," he says.
"We don't have to do this," Elspa says quietly. Perhaps she's having second thoughts.
"Let's go," I say. "We need to go."
Chapter Twenty-eight
Bribery Can Run in the Family
The trip from the outskirts of Philly to Baltimore should take two hours at the very most, but we hit traffic. Without the whir of tires, it seems like the air in the car has gone dead. John flips on the air-conditioning. I watch him surreptitiously. Does he think about the kiss? Has he wondered what it meant? Has he tried to reduce it to a dustpan in the corner of his brain?
He's the one to break the silence. "The car is full of Artie-ologists," John says. "You all should give me a crash course."
Eleanor grunts, but doesn't oppose the idea. She's won the front seat, a testament to her will and masterful ability to haggle in my mother's native tongue—the language of passive aggression. I'm sitting in the backseat with Elspa and my mother, who's been sulking.
Trying to keep things light, I put it this way—a challenge. "Okay," I say. "Let's see who can tell the best Artie story. John can judge."
"Okay," Elspa says.
"Turn up the air," my mother says, pulling off her hat and fanning her dolled-up face with it.
I go first, telling a story of Artie's great-great-great-grandfather, who came to this country as a prisoner, stole barrels of liquor, got caught, and didn't like his other option: getting hanged in England. "You come from thieving stock," I tell John.
"Thank God my mother's side is made up of Puritans," he says sarcastically.
"What is your mother like?" my mother asks, leaning forward between the seats.
"She's a character," John says with a sigh of resignation.
"What about the dog that bit him in the ass when he was a kid?" Elspa says. "Do you know that one?" she asks me.
"I do," I say. I should be over it by now, that Artie told Elspa stories, that they were close, even that they slept together. The only reason Artie would tell that story would be because of the scar. It's certain Elspa and I have both uttered the question, "How'd you get that scar?" I'm not over it, and Elspa can sense it. She catches herself. "You tell that one," she defers.
"No, it's your turn."
"That's it really. He was bit on the ass, and the dog was a terrier. It wouldn't let go. Artie spun around in circles, the dog swinging around behind him. He still has a fear of dogs because of it."
"I come from dog-spinning thieves," John says. "I'm taking mental notes."
"Eleanor?" I say, a little afraid of what story she might tell, but wanting to hear it, too. "Do you have a story?"
"Nothing anyone wants to hear," she says, fiddling with the silver clip holding back her hair.
"He needs to know the good and the bad," I say.
She pauses. "He took me dancing."
We all pause a moment. That isn't much of a story— good or bad. I look over at her, hoping there's more.
She says, "I don't dance. I've never danced." We're still waiting for more. She unfastens the silver clip as if it's been pinching her and rubs the back of her neck and goes on. "My leg, you know. I was born this way. So there weren't ever any ballet lessons. I sat through all my homecoming dances and proms. I should have danced, of course, but my mother had simply ruled it out. It never occurred to me. Artie took me dancing." She is staring out the window. Her hair is loose and full, cupping her face. "It was terrific."
"That's a beautiful story," Elspa says, and I'm glad she does, because I can't speak. The story is so simple but moving that my throat is cinched tight.
"But the beauty of it," Eleanor says, "well, that's how a beautiful moment comes to pain you later." She stiffens, draws herself up straight. "It's your turn, Joan," she says to my mother.
My mother says, without any real emotion, "I tried to bribe Artie not to marry Lucy."
"What?" I shout, swiveling sharply in my seat.
John, who's been inching along, slams on the brakes— a reaction to the news or my outburst or some actual driving issue; it's impossible to say. We all jerk forward and back again.
"Sorry, my fault," John says.
"He didn't take the bribe," my mother says, as if she's just announced delightful news.
"I can't imagine Artie taking a bribe for anything," Elspa says.
"Actually, I was married to someone very well off at the time," my mother explains, "and it was a very generous bribe as bribes go." We're all staring at her, even John, who's looking at her through the rearview mirror. My mother adds a little defensively, "This is a nice-Artie story," she says. "What are you all looking at?"
"It may go into the nice-Artie-story category, technically, but it isn't a nice-mother story," I explain, trying to be patient.
"Well," my mother says angrily, "I'm just trying to play the game. I didn't know there were such intricate rules!"
And then Eleanor starts laughing—just lightly at first—mumbling, " '. . . a very generous bribe as bribes go.' " She then becomes hysterical, her upper body shaking uncontrollably. Elspa laughs next, then John. And now my mother is smiling, like she's told a joke that people are finally getting. My mother tri
ed to bribe Artie—a very generous bribe, as bribes go. Finally I'm laughing, too. The whole car is loud, rattling with laughter.
Once we're on the other side of the Delaware Memorial Bridge, traffic lightens and we're making up some lost time. This is the moment my mother announces that she has to use the bathroom. We stop at a gas station off the highway. My mother takes out her cell phone as she swishes quickly to the restrooms, carrying Bogie. "I'll just call to check in with the nurse. Make sure all's well."
Before I can tell her that I'll call, she's already started dialing. And I feel like it's for the best. I've promised Artie a real conversation. As my mother and Eleanor head off to the restrooms, I load up on all things road-trip out of habit—tubes of chips, Lucky Stripe gum, Gatorade—and when I walk back toward the car, John is manning the pump. He's sweaty and squinting. He's put on a Red Sox baseball cap that's pulled down low on his head. I look for some bit of Artie in his posture, his face, his gaze, but I only see him, one hand in his pocket, his slightly wrinkled pants, his soft way of taking the world in. His nose is a little crooked, but that only seems to make him seem more genuine.
Elspa appears beside me. She says, "He isn't Artie, you know."
I'm surprised by the comment even though there isn't a mean edge to it, and I'm trying to figure out where it's coming from. "I know," I say, a little defensively.
"You can't make him into Artie."
"I wasn't planning to. Why would you even say that?"
"No reason," Elspa says. "I've been thinking. Artie has been a father figure for me in some ways, but maybe for both of us."
"He was a bad father figure for me. Like I needed to get betrayed by my real father and then again by a father figure of my own choosing." This is the first time I've put words to this feeling—exactly one of the reasons why Artie's betrayal hurts so much and so familiarly. "My father opted for another family. Like the board game Life—he just picked up his little blue plastic self and put it in another plastic car." I'm trying to sound joke-y, but there's still some emotion in my voice, some anger underneath that surprises me. I stop myself a moment. Elspa scares me sometimes—the way she can open things up so wide.
"What did Joan do?" Elspa asks.
"She replaced him with another little blue plastic figure and then another and then another. I'm not going to repeat her mistakes."
She looks at John, wiping down the windshield with a squeegee. "Artie was a good father figure for me. John's more like—he has the wonder of a little kid, I think."
"Is that good or bad?" I ask.
"Both, I guess. Our good sides are just the flip side of our bad sides. Like you."
"Like me?" I ask.
"You were sensitive. You felt too much. That was your strength and your weakness. You loved the bird."
"What bird?" I say, irritated.
"The one you opened the window for. You loved the bird and you loved Artie for being afraid of the bird. That made him real."
"What are Artie's flip sides?"
"He loves too much. He doesn't know how not to." She walks on to the car and gets in the backseat. I'm still standing there, confounded. For some reason I want to remind her that Artie's still alive, and I'm still his wife. But this would only come across like something I'm trying to convince myself of, not her.
Eleanor and my mother waltz past me, the wind flapping Bogie's ears.
"Artie's doing fine," my mother reports.
"Are you coming?" Eleanor asks.
"What's wrong?" my mother asks me.
"Nothing," I say. I don't know whether to be angry with Elspa or not.
John is finishing up at the pump. We're all gathering around the car, but don't want to pile in yet because Elspa is in the backseat, the door open, talking on her cell phone to her parents. "Right. It'll be nice," she says. "I don't know. A little. It's important. We'll be at the Radisson. I'll call when we get close." She's hunched into the phone and then she sits back. She can't get comfortable. "Yes, like I already told you, they're clean and sober." She looks up at me and rolls her eyes, but then smiles at me softly. Her eyes get a little teary. Her voice is different on the phone talking to her family, though. Smaller, more unsure and childlike. "They're good people. The best I've ever been friends with." She says this loudly enough so that all of us can hear it. Of course none of us mention the good people stuff, but when she hangs up, there's a new camaraderie. All the windows are cracked a bit. Bogie is on my mother's lap, nosing the crack. There's a breeze whipping around, ruffling our hair. These may be the best people I've ever been friends with, too—and it dawns on me that maybe I'm the best version of myself I've been in a while. And I want it to last.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Hives of Suburbia Are a Dangerous Place—Beware the Killer WASPs
To get to Elspa's parents' house, she directs us through a bleak section of Baltimore. Many of the row houses are boarded up with No Trespassing signs stapled to doors. The stoops are gray. A few children run up the sidewalk and disappear down a narrow passageway between two houses. Three young men have collected in front of a corner liquor store. An angry-looking old woman is standing just off the edge of the curb, searching in the pockets of her housedress for something.
My mother reaches up and locks her door. John and Eleanor do, too, but Elspa is leaning through the bucket seats to take it all in.
"I used to spend a lot of time in this part of town," Elspa says, suddenly agitated. "Slow down."
Eleanor moves her handbag from the foot well to her lap—instinctively, I think. My mother is using her hat to shade her face from view as if she's a celebrity.
As we approach a boarded-up, burned-out hull of a house on our right, Elspa leans close to the window and watches it pass as if it were a monument of some sort. She seems far away.
"Do your parents know what you're coming to ask them?" Eleanor asks, quite practically.
"About Rose? No. They'll assume the worst. That I'm coming for drug money."
"We'll be there with you, dear. I hope that we'll help," my mother says.
"She's right," I say. "Maybe you could offer a generous bribe, as bribes go."
Elspa nods. "Let's keep going."
The sections of Baltimore change more quickly than those in most big cities. Poor neighborhoods butted up against million-dollar homes, sometimes only divided by an intersection.
Elspa keeps directing. "Right here. Left at the next light. Not too far now."
We head into a secluded development. My mother comments on the handsomeness of someone's landscaping. Eleanor agrees, as if they're suddenly on a home and garden tour.
"That's it. There," Elspa says. She's pointing across the street to a really grand home—white with a huge, green lawn. Lush and expensive. Two Volvos sit in the driveway. A minivan is parked along the curb near a Saab convertible.
"Is there a party or something?" John asks.
"Sunday brunch with the whole family," Elspa says. "I hope you like crab crepes."
"Who doesn't like crab crepes?" my mother says. "Bogie loves crab crepes!" She pats his bony head.
"They turn my stomach," Elspa says.
John pulls up and parks behind the Saab. I'm not sure what to say so I don't say a word. We all climb out of the car and rearrange ourselves, pressing out wrinkles, straightening waistbands—all of us except Elspa, however.
I bend down and look inside. Elspa takes a deep breath. She puts her hand on the passenger door's handle. She opens the door, puts one foot on the ground, and stares up at the house.
"They're just people. Just folks," John says.
"With exquisite taste," I hear my mother murmur, which is no help.
I grab Elspa by her lapels, brush off the cardigan, push the sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. "This is my secret. I perfected it after I left Artie. Here it is: you have to cut yourself off emotionally. Just a little. Just temporarily. To get through this. If you don't need them, they're more likely to think they need yo
u." And then I punch Elspa's upper arm.
"Ouch," Elspa says.
"Wrong answer," I say. I punch her again.
She winces.
"Not good enough," I tell her. "You aren't supposed to react." I punch her again.
"That really hurts," she says. She rubs her arm.
"Um," John says, "how about you stop doing that?"
"Okay, forget it," I say. "Do the best you can."
We all walk to the front door. Elspa pushes the glasses up on top of her head, which spikes her hair back up a little. John reaches forward and rings the bell. "They're just folks," he says.
A tall, sporty woman with a gray bob answers the door—Elspa's mother. She looks at the five of us—giving a particularly hard glare to Bogie in his festive outfit. Her eyes fall back to her daughter. "The crepes have gone cold, the tonic flat. Come in, though. Come in." But before she moves back so we can come in, she looks at her daughter. She takes her by the arms. She glances again at the rest of us. "So," she says to Elspa, nodding toward me, "you borrowed her clothes. That was thoughtful." She ushers us in. "Who are your friends here? Introduce me."
"This is Lucy and John and Eleanor and Joan. This is my mother, Gail."
"Welcome," she says, waving us down the hall. "The crepes have gone cold, the tonic's flat!"
"I like a cold crepe, myself," John says.
The kitchen is a state-of-the-art affair with chrome appliances that belong in a high-end restaurant. There's an enormous and elderly St. Bernard asleep in the corner. It's a certain kind of wealthy person's dog of choice and it lays there like an expensive bearskin rug. I recall one of Artie's favorite quotes from my mother: a pet dog should never be larger than a handbag.
Gail starts pouring tall drinks. Elspa and I look out the window. I can see her brother and sister and their families gathered out on the back lawn. There's a man who I figure, by his age, is her father, sitting in an Adirondack chair. There's a gazebo in a back corner. Flowers hem the yard. Kids chase each other. And one, in the middle of it all, is a little three-year-old girl. I watch Elspa watch her. Rose is beautiful. She makes me ache in that way beautiful children do. I've wanted one of my own for so long. But I'm also aching for Elspa. Her eyes are so hungry for the child.
My Husband's Sweethearts Page 17
