The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  “Wait,” says Duck. “What about Mr. Nilsson?”

  She appears five minutes later with a picture of a monkey printed from the Bronx Zoo Web site, which we safety-pin to my turtleneck.

  The guests start to arrive, and I grab a chocolate lager, which, sadly, does not taste like a Hershey’s bar, and appreciate their costumes. Duck and Holt are coordinated wizards, with glittering pointy hats and wands and dramatic capes—hers purple and his dark blue. Two people are in full-fledged white furry bunny outfits, their ears stretched high above them, little poufy tails affixed to their bottoms. Several women have gone where I feared to tread. I see a slutty pirate maiden, slutty witch, slutty doctor, all wearing fishnets and showing remarkable cleavage.

  Holt’s New York–based fraternity brothers—a sloth of burly men all approaching forty and somehow, through a combination of divorces and Peter Pan syndrome, still single—are convincing Vikings, complete with horned hats, red shields, leather skirts and, Lord help us all, spears. I wonder if they took public transportation here and scared the bejeezus out of the other passengers.

  “Hey, Molly. Haven’t seen you in a while. Good Raggedy Ann costume,” the one the rest of them call Bigfoot says.

  “Oh, I’m Pippi Longstocking, actually.”

  He looks at me blankly.

  “Plucky little Swedish girl from the books and movie?”

  He shakes his head.

  “She has a monkey friend, superhuman strength, wacky exploits?”

  “Sounds like a fun chick. Hey, Luger,” he shouts to his fraternity brother heading over to the kitchen, where the drinks are. “Look who’s here.” He points to me exaggeratedly.

  Luger cups his hands over his mouth. “Orphan Annie! Howrya? Drink?”

  Orphan Annie? Oh, forget it. I hold up my beer to indicate no, not that Luger will think already having a beer is reason enough to decline another drink.

  I get into a conversation with Rico (dressed as a bonsai tree, with brown pants and turtleneck, hundreds of green pipe cleaners on his torso), Duck’s newly hired associate, fresh out of Pratt. He identifies me as Strawberry Shortcake and starts talking about the difficulties of the first postcollege year: getting used to a daily alarm clock, not having a bazillion weeks of vacation, having to answer the phone, regardless of whether you feel like talking. I feel his pain, remembering that sharp feeling as a first-year associate when, as I was walking to work on the first happy, hopeful, sunny day of spring, it hit me like an invisible wall that I couldn’t just take my reading to the Quad.

  Luger blusters over, intent on discussing the grossest things he’s ever seen on the subway. Although some involve small animals (rats, pigeons), most involve bodily fluid. He’s ending a horrific masturbating-commuter story when I spot Henry across the room, his head visible above the crowd.

  Duck insisted on inviting him. “We’ve had beers together,” she said. “It would be weird if I didn’t invite him.” She promised that it wasn’t an attempt to pair us off, but she’d seemed surprised when Henry checked the Evite box that said “Hell, yeah, wouldn’t miss it” and indicated that he’d be bringing along a guest.

  Henry and that guest—Julie, looking like a runway model—glide over to me in unison, like costumed ice-skaters, just as Luger shouts, “I mean, the hugest, hugest crap, biggest dump ever. Seriously.”

  Julie winces as Henry’s eyes widen. “Wow,” he says. “What are we interrupting?”

  “Trust me, it’s not an interruption. It’s a relief,” I say. “Better not to hear any more, especially if you ride the subway regularly. Good costumes.”

  I would’ve never pegged Henry as someone who would dress up for Halloween, but he has rallied as Han Solo, complete with the V-necked white shirt, tight dark pants, vest and badass holster. And Julie is of course Princess Leia, her glossy hair done up in resplendent coil buns, her perfect body dipped in a long clingy white dress that reminds me of an Oscar gown.

  Henry and I never talk about Julie, which I chalk up to his philosophy on compartmentalizing work life and home life. When we had drinks several weeks ago, Duck had plowed right through Henry’s obvious palpable reluctance, jackhammering him with questions about how long they’d been together and what was Julie like. All I learned was that Henry had met Julie through her brother, his friend from college, and that Julie liked the Hamptons.

  Henry gives me the once-over and busts out laughing. “Nice,” he finally says. “Good look for you.”

  “Yeah.” I give a little wave. “Apparently I’m a generic red-haired character.”

  “Who are you really? I Love Lucy, right?” Julie says.

  I bite my tongue to keep from replying Yes, I’m Lucille Ball during her crack-whore/hobo years.

  “She’s Pippi Longstocking—note the monkey friend carefully, um, assaulted with pins and stuck to her shirt,” says Henry, pointing to the picture. “Pippi, you better hope the ASPCA is not here.”

  “Little-known fact about Pippi—she’s got a bit of a sadistic edge,” I say, with an eyebrow arch, sipping my now flat beer.

  When Henry leaves to get drinks, I ask Julie what she does and she takes off running. She used to work for Rosenthal, the auction house, and that was totally great, oh, the stuff she got to just work around, just masterpieces—the Picasso, the Close, the Hirst. Now she’s with a smaller gallery, Krenshaw London, did I know it, no, see, that was totally her point, no one had heard of it, so, even though she did really, like, truly believe in the power of small boutique galleries as a way to showcase the right artist, it just wasn’t as important as her work at the house—they totally missed her there and the hours were better than her new hours, which were, well, nothing like poor Henry’s hours, which were nuts, just crazy, I mean I would not believe how hard poor Henry worked, at which I nod emphatically.

  “He works really hard,” I say.

  “Oh, you must be the one who works with him?”

  I nod. “We’re both in the matrimonial group at the firm.”

  “Oh my God. So you’ve seen the Miró? I swear I almost started to hyperventilate.”

  “Actually, I’ve never—”

  “Oh, you must be the one who introduced him to the hosts, um—Goose and—”

  “Duck and Holt. Yep, that’s me.”

  “We, like, never go to Brooklyn. And our friends back in the city are having a party tonight, so I was, like, totally shocked when Henry wanted to stop by here before our Halloween party. He must have really hit it off with them, right?”

  “Right,” I say, although I’m pretty sure that he’s only talked to Duck twice. “Well, I’m glad you guys showed up.”

  Henry returns with three margaritas in red plastic cups and hands one to Julie and one to me. There’s a moment of awkward silence that I chalk up to the out-of-place work-friend phenomenon. I look down at my feet. One is in my own sneaker and the other is in Duck’s fuzzy thong slipper. Not wanting to draw attention there, I quickly look up. “So, where’d you guys get the costumes?”

  “Oh, I spent weeks scouring the Internet until one of my network of costume sources—Yuri, I think, from Brighton Beach—tracked them down,” Henry says.

  I laugh. “Wow, it’s Loose Party Henry. Nice to meet you.”

  “No, it was all her. I had hoped to be a hardworking office drone and just come in business casual with a cup of coffee.”

  Julie rolls her eyes. “Hon, that would have been so boring. Thank God you have me to dress you up.” She puckers up her lips and pecks him on the mouth, making an exaggerated mwah sound.

  Gross. I hate when unmarried couples call each other hon. It always sounds phony to me, like they’re playing house. I gulp my margarita and consider excusing myself when I spot Caleb.

  He’s leaning against the wall, lazily sipping a beer, a half-interested expression on his face as he listens to someone tell a story. At first I wonder if he’s come dressed as his college self. He has the same half-present expression that he did the first ti
me I saw him at a party my freshman year, as though waiting for something or somebody. I had watched him smoke a cigarette, something I had until that moment found disgusting, and—in an impulse I still find bizarre—imagined myself tracing the contours of his chiseled face with my fingertips. I must have stared for some time, because my friend Olivia followed my gaze across the room and nodded knowingly. “Total sex appeal,” she said, her voice leaving no room for doubt. And then she had insisted on debating which celebrity he most resembled, emphatically chanting “Bradley Cooper. Bradley Cooper. Bradley Cooper,” as I lied that I just didn’t see it.

  I watch Caleb’s eyes drift, looking around the room. Look at me, look at me, look at me, I will, just as I did eleven years ago. He nods at someone, I can’t tell whom, and then, as if in direct response to my thoughts, looks right at me. He excuses himself and strides across the room.

  “Hey,” he says. He nods to Rico, who has been helping Duck redesign his office, and I introduce him to Henry and Julie.

  “Hats off to not dressing up. I admire your resolve,” says Henry with a smile.

  Caleb looks down at his plaid shirt and jeans, as though it’s occurring to him in this moment that he’s not wearing a costume. “Oh, yeah,” he says, expressionless.

  “So, how do you guys know each other?” Henry says.

  “Rico and Duck are almost finished designing Caleb’s office,” I say.

  Caleb looks at me and raises his eyebrows, as if he can’t believe that’s the extent of my introduction.

  “…and we all went to college together,” I say.

  Henry looks back and forth between us.

  “What?” I say, feeling my cheeks getting red.

  “Excuse us,” Caleb says, putting his hand in the small of my back and steering me over to the couch.

  He sits down and pats the cushion next to him.

  “It’s all over your face,” he says, his tone serious.

  “It’s supposed to be there. It’s makeup,” I say, but I wipe at my cheeks nonetheless.

  He gives me a deep look. “I’m talking about your expression. You’ve missed me too.”

  I look down at my hand and busy myself with smearing the makeup off with my thumb. “And you’re basing this on?”

  He doesn’t respond, so I look up. Caleb is staring right at me, unsmiling, a golden curl falling over his eyebrow. Without thinking, I brush it off his face and his smile lines crinkle, three tiny ridges that deepen for an instant and then don’t entirely recede.

  “Like I said. You miss me too. I know you.” He reaches around my right hand for a second, lacing his fingers through mine and then using them to pry away my empty beer bottle. “I’ll get you a refill. You might need it for the rest of our conversation.”

  “Seriously? You think you’ll do better if I’m drunk?”

  “Not drunk,” he says, shaking his head. “We just need to manage your inhibitions. Acting on what you really want has never been your strong suit.” He stands up and goes over to the bar.

  Henry approaches, jacket folded over his arm.

  “We’re leaving now.”

  I look around. “Where’s Julie?”

  He points. She’s wearing her coat, deep in conversation with Rico. “They’ve been talking about John Currin for ten minutes.”

  “So why don’t you guys stay?”

  “We have to get to our other party.”

  “Okay, well, I’m glad you came and it was really great to meet Julie.” I am lying. She’s kind of a bore, actually.

  Henry stands there, paused.

  “Who is that guy?” He nods toward Caleb, who’s in the process of opening two beers.

  “We used to date in college.” I feel my cheeks getting hot yet again. “A long time ago.”

  Henry looks at me for a moment.

  “So, see you Monday?” I finally say.

  “See you then.” I watch as he walks over to Julie and touches her shoulder; then she trails him out of the room.

  __________

  It’s bright, bright, bright. The sunlight slices through my closed eyelids and I force one open. My hair hurts. I reach up and tentatively touch it. Right: red wig, wire braids. I can tell without looking that I’m wearing only my robe, the blue cotton jersey one that always comes untied. I sit up in my bed and start to rake my hands through my hair, untangling the mess of red strands and wire, as I review the night.

  My bathroom door swings open. I sit up straight as Caleb saunters out and my robe falls open. He’s wearing striped boxer shorts and that’s pretty much it.

  Right. That was my night.

  “Morning,” he says, sitting down on the foot of the bed.

  Seeing Caleb, I am very aware of the horrible taste in my mouth. “Hold on a second,” I say, clutching my robe together as I scramble out of bed and into the bathroom.

  I look in the mirror. My Pippi wig is still on, a vibrant red fringe half-covering the blond. The remnants of my rosy red cheeks and fake freckles are smeared all over my face, making me look like Baby Jane after a hands-free cherry-pie-eating contest. I gulp down two Advil, bending my head under the faucet for water, brush my teeth for about five minutes, pick off my wig and scrub my face three times with an exfoliating cream. I tie back my hair in a sloppy bun, which feels as refreshing as it should after a night of suffocating my hair with a braided wig.

  When I finally emerge, straightening and tying my robe, Caleb is already dressed in his outfit from the night before.

  “So?” he says.

  “So…what?”

  “Any regrets?”

  “None.” It felt great to be with Caleb, a heady combination of familiar and electric. “Do you feel like the diner for breakfast?”

  He grimaces. “I have to be downtown in”—he looks at his watch—“an hour.”

  “Oh, okay.” I turn toward the closet.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he says, grabbing the belt of my robe. He pulls me toward him and in one fluid move, we’re directly in front of each other, close enough for him to drop the belt and slide his arms around my rib cage.

  I know it right before our lips lock. I’m hijacked: intoxicated by Caleb’s familiar smell (soap mingled with fresh tobacco) and the taste of his toothpaste-fresh mouth. It’s like no time has passed, all memories erased, and I’m nineteen again. Only this time, I get it. He likes kissing. He likes me. I wrap my arms around his neck and tug him closer, knowing just what this is and knowing it’s completely fine.

  25

  ____

  the devil wears hawaiian print

  When Fern calls my cell phone, I am lying on my bed, risking paper cuts by rubbing my wrist against a yellowed scent strip from a fashion magazine’s March issue. I should be working on a draft of the Wades agreement; instead, like a hopeless teenager, I sniff my wrist and wonder if Caleb would like the smell.

  “I am so sorry to bother you,” Fern says against the noise of sirens.

  “What’s going on?’

  “I hate to ask, but if you’re around, could you come meet us? I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine.” I hear another set of sirens. “Where are you?”

  Twenty minutes later, I walk into the pediatric emergency room at New York Presbyterian. Fern and her kids have camped out across a row of blue chairs that’s attached at the arms like a lineup of Rockette torsos. Anna is engrossed in a book with a frothy pink cover, her legs—in star-print tights—propped up on her chair. Connor sits next to Anna, entirely focused on eating an ice-cream cone, melted chocolate dripping down his hands and arm. Fern is holding an ice pack to Connor’s forehead. The three of them look like a family.

  Fern smiles when she sees me. “Oh, thanks for coming. I’m so grateful. I tried not to bother you, but my sister, Lolly, is in Pennsylvania this weekend and my friend Marie is meeting her boyfriend’s parents and for something like this, there was really no one else….”

  “No problem.” I nod toward Co
nnor. “He looks good.”

  “Yeah, I think he’s okay.”

  Fern leans over Connor, her hand still holding the ice pack. “Anna, this is my friend Molly.”

  “Hi, Anna, great to meet you. High five!” I say, too loudly and brightly. I always feel awkward with kids, as though I’m reading lines from the script of a hokey after-school special.

  Anna’s eyes widen, part disbelief, part alarm. Fern nods reassuringly and Anna quickly resumes reading, sticking a strand of her long brown hair in her mouth.

  Fern meets my eye, smiles and mouths “Shy,” although I am sure that she thinks Anna’s reaction was as much due to my vigorous greeting as anything else.

  “And this is Connor.”

  Subdued by my strikeout with Anna, I keep it simple. “Hi, Connor. You hurt your head?”

  “I gotta choclitt icecream! Choclitt! Ice! Cream!” is his response, as he continues to concentrate on inhaling the ice cream like he’s Mick Jagger and the sugar cone is a microphone. There is now chocolate in his curly brown hair, all over his chubby little cheeks and all over his red turtleneck shirt. He looks like a cherubic little pig in mud.

  “So, this was a playground incident?”

  “Yes, Connor was climbing the monkey bars”—over his head, she uses air quotes, indicating that whatever Connor was doing would not meet a technical description of monkey-bar climbing—“and doing a really great job, but he lost his grip and when he fell, he hit his head against the bars. The bleeding has mostly stopped, though.” Fern removes the ice pack and squints at the congealing cut. “And his pupils look normal too and he hasn’t gotten sick or anything, so he’s probably fine.”

  Anna looks up and rolls her eyes. “Of course he’s fine. Connor falls, like, all the time.”

  Fern nods. “I know, and I’m sure he’s okay, but he bumped his head, so we just want to make sure.”