My Ex-Life: A Novel

by Stephen McCauley

  “Why would you even ask that?” she said.

  “Not to upset you, that’s for sure,” he said. “I mean as a Plan B to have in your back pocket.”

  “I don’t want a Plan B. I want to make this work. I have over one hundred fifty thousand in retirement savings, and I hope the jewelry will make up the rest.”

  She wanted to think he was judging her unfairly, but in the evening light and with the breeze blowing in from the ocean, he looked kind and concerned. “But you’ll have to pay penalties on that if you take it out and you’ll have no reserves.”

  “I’ll build them up again. I’ll keep renting rooms and put money aside. I have good job security.” She wished she hadn’t taken a few hits of pot when they started the walk, not because having done so impaired her perceptions, but because she knew that to him, she must look like someone with impaired perceptions. “With the way the real estate market is going in this state, the house could be worth two million by the time I’m in my seventies. At that point, when I’m too gone to care, I can sell and go into a nice little assisted living facility.”

  “What worries me,” he said, “is that Henry might be trying to undermine you. Have you ever thought that it might have been him who told the mortgage broker you were doing short-term rentals?”

  This was a suspicion she’d ruled out shortly after she’d heard the bad news from Charles Phillips. Henry, she told David, was capable of being selfish and unkind, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe he was that cruel.

  “But what if it wasn’t a matter of cruelty?” David asked. “What if it’s desperation? In that case, he’s probably going to try to keep putting up roadblocks, right to the end. You can’t afford to assume anything. I made that mistake. I assumed I’d always have my deal-of-the-century in San Francisco, when I should have been making backup plans.”

  * * *

  She attended a final faculty meeting at school the next day, and as she was driving home from it, she found herself pulling off the highway and heading for Henry’s restaurant.

  You could see it from the off-ramp, a wooden building that looked something like an overgrown fishing shack and something like every other suburban restaurant in the world, floating in the middle of a vast parking lot. The fact that it was so close to the highway and that the back looked out to the green of salt marshes and, in the distance, the ocean, had made it seem like a surefire investment. And for a while, it had been. A short while.

  There were only a few cars in the lot, to be expected in midafternoon. Julie arranged herself in her mirror before getting out. Not that it mattered how she looked for Henry, but weirdly, now that they were divorcing, now that it truly didn’t matter anymore, she cared more about her appearance than she ever had when they were together. This was one of the many things that should have tipped her off about the marriage but hadn’t. She’d viewed their invisibility to each other, the annoyed glances she’d occasionally spot coming her way, the almost implausibly childish way she’d sometimes make faces at Henry when he turned his back, as a quirky, shared dynamic that held them together. The way alcoholism held some couples together or religion or affection for a sports team. Since moving to Boston all those years ago to teach at Crawford, she’d lost count of the number of couples she’d met whose relationships appeared to revolve around worship of the Red Sox, a neurotic obsession that involved T-shirts and hats and bumper stickers.

  The interior of the restaurant was gloomy, which was odd considering the massive windows that looked out to the marsh. Perhaps the dimness was for the best, because the carpet was grimy and the whole place smelled faintly of grease and fish and whatever cleaners were being used to hide same. Dark paneling? Paint it, Julie had suggested. Brighten it up. But Henry had an all-or-nothing attitude toward fixing the place that perfectly mirrored his all-or-nothing attitude toward her.

  There were two tables occupied by the windows, one by a solo male diner reading something on his phone, the other by a gray-haired, silent couple who might as well have been on their phones. What meal was this for these people? Lunch? Dinner? There had never been anything wrong with the food Julie had eaten here, but the problem was, there had never been anything right, either. Like so many restaurants in this part of the world, the dishes were unmemorable; after dinners Julie had had at the restaurant (and she’d had many in the years after Henry had purchased it), she’d forget she’d eaten by the time she got home and wonder what she was going to scrape together for a meal.

  It was well over a year since Julie had been here. Since then, the place seemed to have fallen into a depression of sorts. There was an air of defeat. The stale smells, the heavy, outdated rock maple tables, the heavy, outdated patrons silently and (one had to assume) joylessly eating. Inconveniently, the place made her feel bad for Henry, just as she was trying to steel her resolve to confront him. Maybe it was better to attempt the confrontation over the phone.

  She turned to go, but as she was leaving, Henry came out from his office in back.

  “A little early for dinner, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she said. “I’m almost at the early-bird-special stage of life.” He said nothing, as if he was agreeing with her—how dare he?—so she said, “I do think you should paint the paneling, Henry. It would brighten things up. At this time of day especially.”

  “I’m not going to do a paint job right before I renovate the whole place. And I’m guessing that’s not what you came here to talk about.”

  “No, obviously not.”

  They sat at the bar, another grim affair, brightened only by TV screens. Julie remembered a time when sitting in a bar or restaurant, taking a cab or an airplane, waiting in line at the grocery store did not involve watching TV. But those memories were vague. She imagined the renovation of the place would, inevitably, involve more TVs. The bartender was one of the dour, bloated ex-athletes in his early thirties Henry typically hired. Henry liked being associated with their competitor pasts and was unthreatened by their gone-to-seed presents. He handed them beers.

  Always begin with the good news. “I wanted to tell you that Mandy has been making great progress on the college front.”

  “Really? And how do you define ‘great progress’?”

  “She’s started working on her essays, and David has set up a whole seven-step plan for her. An action plan.” This was a phrase she’d heard somewhere.

  “And you’re overseeing all this, along with everything else?”

  “David came to work with her, so we’re overseeing it together.”

  “He’s here? Staying at the house?”

  “Of course he’s staying at the house. Why wouldn’t he be?”

  Henry took another drink from his bottle and put it down on the bar. He asked the bartender something about inventory and told him he’d like him to use the new cleaner on the chrome cases. This was all said in the tone of a boss, a move toward establishing further dominance over her. It was clear he was jealous and mildly upset that David was in the house. That made her happy even while she recognized it as petty, impotent happiness.

  When he spoke again, he’d lost some of his energetic righteousness. “I know you think I’m trying to make your life miserable, but I’m not. I’m just trying to make mine better. I’m trying to move forward. And if your idea of moving forward is hanging out with some guy you shouldn’t have married in the first place, go right ahead. You’re not a bad-looking woman, Julie.”

  “Gee, I’d almost forgotten what a suave flatterer you are.”

  “You could be dating if you wanted.”

  The word “dating” struck her as absurdly adolescent, but still, the image of Raymond Cross passed through her mind. He had texted her again yesterday. He hadn’t asked her for a date, but he’d said more than he’d said in his other texts, specifically, that he wanted to see her again.

  “Have you been trying to undermine me, Henry?”

  “If you expect an answer to that, you’ll have t
o be more specific.”

  “I know Richard didn’t come to you asking about the house. You went to him and told him it was for sale, or would be when I was unable to get the money together.”

  “How’s that going, by the way?”

  David’s question about Henry’s involvement in the mortgage proceedings came roaring back. “It was going better before you made sure I didn’t get the mortgage. Before you let the broker know I have a few people staying at the house once in a while.”

  He looked at the TV and said, “So you did get turned down?”

  “Stop drooling,” she said. “It doesn’t look good in a restaurant. Whether I got turned down or not, I’m buying the house. I have a Plan B.”

  “Oh, really? Is David Hedges giving you the money? Tell him he’d better hurry. You’ve only got another month and a half until our deadline.” And then, as if he regretted all his harsh words, his put his hand on her forearm and looked into her eyes. It was fascinating that someone whose touch had once thrilled her could now make her skin crawl. It was like waking up one day and discovering that chocolate actually doesn’t taste good after all. “My suggestion is to get a life, Julie. I can tell you from personal experience, it feels really good.”

  She yanked her arm from his hand, reached into her bag, and pulled out a few bills and some loose change that had been rattling around on the bottom. She spilled them onto the bar. “That should cover the beer,” she said. “And I have a life, Henry. I have a perfectly nice life. And since you’re the one who brought up dating, you’ll be happy to hear, I have a lover, too. And on August fourteenth, I’ll have the house.”

  20

  Raymond was most definitely not her lover. But …

  Good day, Miss Julie, he’d texted her yesterday. Guess what? Will be in your area again. Beverly Music Tent. Late July. Just to let you know.

  How nonchalantly she’d responded and how anti-nonchalant she’d felt. That’s exciting. Good venue! Should I reserve a room for you? Reserve a room. Sandra would be proud.

  I have to be closer. They’re putting us up in a hotel. Motel? I’ll have some free time. I’d love to see you again.

  He had arrived in early April. She’d recently begun renting rooms. She hadn’t heard him pull into the drive, hadn’t heard him knock on the door. She’d been upstairs and remembered that she’d left a kettle on in the kitchen and had run downstairs barefoot, and there he was, standing in the front hallway. She’d brushed the hair off her face and said she’d be right back, burned herself when she moved the kettle, and went into the hall again sucking her thumb. When she met his gaze, she felt something pass between them. It had been so long since she’d felt this kind of instant attraction and had felt it reciprocated, she tried to talk herself into believing she must be deluded. But even then, right at the start, she’d known she wasn’t. When she tried to describe to herself what it was, the best she was able to come up with was a look of recognition. Ah, you! You’ve come at last.

  He was tall and lean—a morning jogger, she’d later find out—and he had thin hair pulled back into a ponytail that looked absolutely natural on him, neither hipster nor hippie. He was wearing a T-shirt and cargo shorts, a pair of nerdy black eyeglasses, and beat-up sandals. He was part of a jazz ensemble that was playing at the Reese Music Hall in the middle of town that weekend, and he was carrying a canvas backpack and a saxophone case. She judged him to be her own age, or somewhere in that unfashionable district.

  “This house is fantastic,” he said.

  “Do you think so? It needs a little work, but…”

  “No, it’s terrific. The staircase, the woodwork? I almost stayed at a motel. I’m glad I found you at the last minute.”

  So am I, she didn’t say.

  He had a way of looking at her with what she took to be intense compassion. As if he understood that she was dealing with a lot, was out of her depth, in over her head, and yet wasn’t judging her. Maybe she was reading too much into it and his eyeglass prescription was merely out-of-date. She showed him to his room and asked about the performances at the hall. They were doing one each of the next two nights and then a matinee on Sunday. “You’re welcome to stay as late as you want on Sunday. There’s no one coming into your room on Monday. Where are the others in the group?”

  Two lived close enough to drive and the rest were staying at a hotel in Hammond. He wasn’t one of the long-term members of the group but was filling in for the usual saxophonist, who’d been sick. “I’m the outsider, but they were desperate,” he said. Naturally, she found this attractive, too. It made her feel closer to him, as if she and he had more of a connection already than he had with the people he played with. He lived in western Connecticut, not so far, but not close enough to drive home every night. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, she noticed, but it seemed implausible that he was single. She told him to make himself at home and please tell her if he needed anything, her standard welcome, but for the first time since she’d been doing this, she meant it.

  Musicians had always been mysterious to her. They looked like everyone else (leaving aside Mick Jagger) but they had within them an ability to produce sounds that cut straight to your emotions and could break your heart or make you soar.

  Mandy was off at Henry’s that weekend and although Julie had planned to go for a long walk, she decided instead to bake cookies. She wanted to be in a room he might happen into and she couldn’t think of anything else that would take as much time. Half an hour later, he did come into the kitchen and ask her directions to the concert hall.

  “Can I make you a sandwich?” she asked, and he told her, to her surprise, that although he usually ate after a performance, he wouldn’t mind a little something.

  “Do you go to many concerts?” he asked.

  She rarely went. She’d intend to go when she saw a list of upcoming events and then, unless someone else got the tickets, she’d forget. “I don’t go as often as I’d like,” she said.

  “It’s too convenient,” he said. “Most people don’t go out to things unless it’s inconvenient and they have to plan ahead. You’d think it would be the opposite.”

  She handed him a turkey sandwich and sat at the table with him, watching him eat.

  “I’ll leave a couple of tickets for you at the box office,” he said. “In case you want to go. But no pressure. It’s the least I can do, seeing as this is such a good deal.”

  After he’d left, she puttered around the house, nervously trying to decide if it would look too eager to go or rude to stay home. She called a couple of friends, but no one was interested. The concert hall itself was beautiful and a source of local pride. The events held there were another matter. “Experimental jazz? You can’t be serious.”

  In the end, she showered and changed and walked to the hall. The entire wall behind the stage was an immense window from which you could see the ocean washing against the rocky shore and, if you were lucky, the sunset. The ensemble apparently had a small cult following who came from all over to see them. They knew what they were in for. Julie hadn’t given much thought to it. The performance involved a lot of improvised noise. When someone scraped his chair on the floor or dropped a block of wood or quacked, the faithful followers laughed and applauded appreciatively. There were references and inside jokes she was missing entirely. It was like watching a Japanese film without subtitles. A noisy Japanese film.

  Somewhere toward the middle, Raymond played a solo. It had started off as disjointed as everything else she’d heard that night, but gradually evolved into a lush melodic line that touched her in an inexplicable way and almost brought tears to her eyes. The rest of the audience seemed uninterested in, even bored by, what she considered the only truly musical moment of the entire concert.

  She walked home trying to figure out what to say about the concert. It would be too obvious and embarrassing to say she only liked his performance, since that was about 2 percent of the whole.

  She arranged herself on a ch
air in the living room, somewhere he’d be likely to see her. But of course, he’d go out afterward for dinner or drinks. She’d taken a few hits of pot on the walk home and after fifteen minutes, she fell asleep. She was woken up by the front door. He came into the living room and sat across from her.

  “I should have warned you,” he said. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, as if he was worried he’d wake up another guest. But there were none. They were alone in the creaking house with a light April wind blowing against the windows.

  “About what?” she whispered back.

  “It’s an acquired taste. It took me a long time to acquire it, and I’m still on the fence.”

  “I liked what you played,” she said softly. “I was carried away by it. I don’t know if you could see, but the light behind you during that solo was beautiful. A cold, cobalt-blue sky.”

  “A bit of luck, I guess. Like finding you,” he said, gesturing to the room.

  She wanted to tell him that no one else was in the house, so there was no need to keep talking at that volume, but it would, she feared, sound too loaded. Like the other musicians, he was wearing a tuxedo, but wearing it ironically. The neck was too big and he still had on the sandals. She found this endearing.

  “I was hoping you’d like it,” he said. And then, not flirting but simply stating a fact, he said, “I played it for you. When I saw you’d come, I wanted to give you a few bars you’d enjoy.”

  “How did you know my tastes so well?” she asked. “We only talked for ten minutes or so.”

  “That’s when you find out everything you need to know about a person. The rest is embellishment, to fill in the gaps. Don’t you think?”

  In a sense, she did. It was what she’d felt the minute she saw him, as if she knew everything she needed to know. She wanted some of the embellishment but was certain it would include details she’d rather not know. A wife, children, those kinds of details.