by Jill Kargman
“Sorry. That sounds mean,” he caught himself. “I actually bear no ill will against her . . . just her Pilates instructor.”
“Oh, please, don’t worry!” I said. “My ex-husband speaks Assholese fluently.”
Elliot smiled. “Funny, I think my wife took that course at Berlitz.” He laughed. “That’s why I’m down with your Sesame Street values.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Elliot pointed out the window. “Check it out!”
We looked out the window at an approaching humongous hot-air Kermit and Miss Piggy side by side.
“It’s us!” I said. “Though those guys are technically Muppet Show and not Sesame Street.”
“Still Henson, though,” he remarked correctly. “But you are so not Miss Piggy.”
“Are you kidding? After this brunch?”
“Okay, well, you might have her appetite, but you have a much better metabolism.”
“Great,” I said sarcastically.
“That’s a good thing,” he said. “There’s nothing worse than a woman who eats a lettuce leaf and drinks Diet Coke.”
“Thanks, Kermit.”
“So what’s your son’s name? I remember when I saw you guys in the park that time he seemed like a sweet kid.”
It was a relief to talk to a guy and not have to drop the mom-bomb.
“Miles. He’s six.”
“Great name.”
“You have kids?”
“Nope, sadly.”
We talked about our respective splits and Miles’s shuttling back and forth, but it all felt cathartic; we were in the double-divorce safety zone of talking freely. Nearly two hours passed as the crush of the parade slowed to a meek trickle and finally the police barrier came down and Central Park West’s regular traffic resumed in lieu of giant Snoopy. I realized we’d been sitting there forever—and that Kiki had not emerged for a while. I looked around the apartment.
“Did Lyle do this all himself? It’s unreal.”
“No, he had this decorator, Sheila Davis. She does everything, stem to stern. And, uh . . . well. Never mind.”
“No, what?”
“She gets very close with her clients, let’s just say,” he replied diplomatically. I raised my eyebrow. “Okay,” he continued. “She doesn’t just install your bed. She climbs in it.”
“Aha, I get it. Daryl Hannah in Wall Street.”
“You got it.”
“So are your art collector clients mostly Gordon Gekko types?”
He paused. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to talk about his clients? Whoops, I hated to pry. “Some,” he said simply, with a cute knowing smirk. He stood up to go get a glass of hot spiced wine, and the door to the bedroom opened. Lyle and Kiki emerged looking shamelessly un-put together, all mussed hair, wrinkled clothes, and halogen smiles.
They put the “bed” in “bedraggled.” I shot Kiki an Oh, no, you di-in look and she did something I’d never seen her do: blush. To a rose hue. My ass-kicking, full-of-chutzpah, big-talkin’ pal was suddenly this Jane Austen maiden, radiant with joy, emitting contagious waves of besotted, girlish love.
“Holly, hon, I’m gonna stay here for a while, is that okay?”
“Sure!” I said, leaning in closer. “Enjoy,” I added teasingly. I thanked Lyle for a wonderful Thanksgiving, one that felt festive and fun at a crucial time.
“I’m headed out, too—I can put you in a cab,” Elliot offered.
“I’m on the East Side, just across the park; where are you going?”
“I have a grand commute,” he said. Meaning Staten Island? “Two blocks away.”
“Oh, I love the West Side,” I said. “All these creepy buildings with gargoyles and fancy names,” I added. “Like ‘the San Kenilthorp or whatever.’ ”
“Yes, it’s all very Ghostbusters,” he said.
We exited the grand lobby and went into the chilly air.
“These clouds look kind of ominous,” I said, noticing the dark gray that had eclipsed the sun of a few hours before.
“I know, I think it’s going to pour. But I’ll get you in a cab hopefully before it starts.”
No such luck. The second we stepped onto the curb from under the canopy, torrential rain began to pour.
The day had started so beautifully, neither of us had brought umbrellas. After a few minutes and zero cabs, I was starting to feel bad about his chivalrous gesture.
“Oh, no, you’re drenched,” I said, noticing his hair dripping with rain.
“I feel like Dan Aykroyd in Trading Places in the wet Santa suit!” said a soaked Elliot.
I paused. He likes movies. “I was thinking John Cusack in The Sure Thing when they’re stranded on the side of the road,” I said.
“Good one.” He smiled. His wet hair flopped on his face and his eyes looked bright against his rain-splattered red cheeks.
“You go, Elliot, please. I’m totally okay—”
“No, no, I’ll find you one.”
Sweet.
A few minutes later, sure enough, one cab’s lit-up medallion number was visible through the thick mist, and Elliot ran up a block to snag it just in time. He opened the door for me and I slid in, drenching the pleather seat. “Thank you so much!”
“It was Kermit’s pleasure. Happy Thanksgiving.”
33
“When two divorced people marry, four get into bed.”
—Jewish Proverb
After an afternoon braving midtown during the biggest shopping day of the year, I climbed into bed at 8:00, which I hadn’t done since The Muppet Show was on air in the eighties. I would pack in the morning for my minitrip to John’s house. I woke up refreshed and renewed, but as I lay in bed, the thought that flashed through my head was not about my upcoming weekend companion in Connecticut, but rather about Elliot. It had been fun talking to him. He didn’t exactly show interest in me, but I didn’t care. I felt 100 percent comfortable yapping beside him, which was new. The dating thing was so awkward and forced at times. But hey, if you don’t throw yourself in traffic, you won’t get hit.
The next afternoon John pulled up to my building and we began our drive to the country, two virtual strangers heading out of familiar territory of buildings and bustle. The noises petered out; the clogged streets were replaced by mellow meadows and stark trees set against an electric blue Tim Burton sky that darkened on our drive of twisting turns. John tuned the radio to WQXR, where classical music was punctuated by a soothing DJ whose voice was so relaxing, I thought he was born to read bedtime stories. With the icy air making the windows opaque with frost, it felt even cozier inside the car, a beat-up Volvo with piles of brushes and books shifting in the back, where I was used to having a car seat for Miles. I wondered if he would be able to relate to Miles if they ever met. After an hour or so, we pulled into a driveway set between two old stone pillars covered with frozen moss.
The place was beautiful but kind of run-down, in a shabby-chic, worn-in-by-love way. We settled in and unloaded the groceries John had fetched from Eli’s to make a nice dinner, and since there was no TV (for shame!), it was just us, the food, and the fire for entertainment. We were just in time; the second we unpacked the car, I heard an ear-piercing thunderclap and sheets of sleetlike rain started to hail down, making our warm indoor nest even cozier.
After a scrumptious mozzarella and tomato salad, we took the roasted chicken out of the oven and while I started to cut it, John turned me around and grabbed me for a kiss. I kissed him back but was kind of startled by the mid-dinner action and dislodged myself from his grasp to return to the bird.
“John—”
He took the knife out of my hand and threw it on the floor. I was shocked, but definitely turned on by his animalistic need to prey and chuck a sharp knife. I guess the pounds I’d gained from my Thanksgiving inhalation of a massive buffet were not a problem. We stumbled into the living room mid-make-out, fell onto the dusty couch. He grabbed me and ripped open my cardigan, making the buttons fly off, scattering in all directions
, hitting walls and the coffee table in a pitter-patter of falling plastic disks. Damn J.Crew. Though I supposed button-down sweaters were not exactly designed to be torn open.
“John—whoa, down, boy,” I said, laughing. But I was a tad weirded out. He didn’t smile. He grabbed me and kissed me harder, then bit my neck hard. Ow! Holy LeStat!
I was turned on, but was somewhat alarmed by his heated fervor and quasi-violent sexual aggression. I must admit, it’s great to feel so enticing that a man is drawn to animalistic pouncing, but it’s sort of another thing to be hickey-marked. I could feel him now, hard through his pants as he moved on top of me. I tried to calm him down with more soothing affectionate moves, my hand through his hair, my fingers slowly moving up and down his back as we kissed, but he was grunting with stormy anticipation, echoing the deluge outside. Lightning sizzled the sky as thunder clapped while he reached between my thighs. I was heated from the fevered kiss and caught in the spell of the moment, his fingers inside me as he unbuckled his belt with feverish intensity. He whipped his belt out of the loops and hurled it across the room. He took off his pants and lunged back toward the couch on top of me, and then he grabbed me so hard, it hurt my arms, and flipped me over, facedown. This was weird. I mean, doggie-style for our first time? Hot, sure, sometimes, but not now—not exactly romantic for our special intimate premiere. No, this was odd. Suddenly, I got a wave of awkwardness mingled with disgust; I felt that I could have been a blow-up doll, or Pam Anderson, or, as Andrew Dice Clay so eloquently said in the eighties, “two tits, a hole, and a heartbeat.” I did not want to have him inside me.
“John, you know what? I’m so sorry, I—let’s slow down—”
He didn’t. I felt him trying to go ahead as if he’d been given the green light, when I was clearly flashing yellow.
“John, c’mon. Stop.”
He didn’t listen. He was pushing harder, ignoring me. And then I got scared, really scared.
“STOP! STOP IT!”
Red light. As in, get the hell off me.
I got up and pushed him off.
“John, what the hell? I’m sorry, but this isn’t feeling right. I’m not ready! Why did you keep going?”
“Why did you come up here this weekend?” he said, enraged, eyes ablaze.
“What, I can’t come up and get to know you? I have to spread ’em before dinner?”
“You don’t go away with someone if you’re not going to get comfortable with them.”
“I’m sorry, is this getting comfy, being thrown onto your couch facedown and having my sweater ruined?”
I bent down to pick up the buttons that had flown off.
And then, I saw it: sheer, unbridled ire. He looked like he wanted to kill me. In fact, for a nanosecond, I thought he might. I’d be a headline. Miles would be motherless. The guy in Italy had turned out to be nice, but maybe John was the one who painted his canvases with blood. Holy shit.
“GET OUT!” he screamed venomously.
“What?” I said. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t be decapitated. But did he mean get out, like, leave?
“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT!”
I shook with fear and ran to grab my bag.
“GET OUT, YOU DICK TEASE! YOU BITCH! YOU WOMEN ARE ALL THE SAME!”
I was terrified and held back shocked tears as I ran to get my stuff in the kitchen. I had no idea what to say; he just kept yelling, red-faced and red-peckered, from the living room. I stuffed my boots back on, threw my weekend bag over my shoulder, and bolted out.
Into the torrential and freezing rain.
34
“Adam & Eve had the ideal marriage. He didn’t have to hear about all the men she’d been with, and she didn’t have to hear about how his mother cooked.”
The word “boonies” was an understatement. I was in the middle of nowhere. Some twisting route without double yellow lines. I’m talking back roads. Like the kind where a ski-masked maniac descends from the trees wielding a chain-saw. I was a dead woman. I could not have been more drenched. Even my bones were wet. Now I knew why everyone said I should get Miles his own cell phone; it was so I didn’t have to be in the Dark Ages without one. You’ve heard of up shit’s creek without a paddle? That was me. No boat, either. Just mired in shit. This SUCKED. Okay, Holly, calm down. Braveheart, Braveheart, Braveheart. This was no biggie. Sugar, yes it was. My veins were frozen. My blood must have had ice chips in it. There were no cars to be seen, it was 7:30 at night and I was a wet rat on the road’s shoulder, quivering with chills. Honestly, it was so hellaciously awful, it was almost funny. Except it wasn’t. A car came by and I tried to wave it down, but they kept going, exactly as I would have if a deranged-looking, drenched lady was hitchhiking, no doubt with a machete in her T. Anthony weekend tote.
I started panicking after ten minutes walking along the road. I didn’t think I could deal with this. I looked up at the dark gray clouds as if to beckon, “What else ya got for me?” Were it not for Miles, I would have prayed to be struck by lightning and just put out of my misery. Two more cars passed, their white lights turning red as I saw them from behind, driving away into the soaking night. A few minutes later a truck approached and slowed alongside me. Wait: What was I doing? This grizzled, flannel-shirt-wearing driver could be a headshot from Central Casting for a serial rapist or murderer. Not that John the supposedly sensitive artist was any better. I looked up into the trucker’s cab at the man’s weathered face. His beard was messy, his trucker hat askew. He was something out of Fargo. But I was freezing and soaked and desperate, so I smiled up at him.
“Hi, sir, I need to get back to the city. Do you have a phone I could use?”
“Hop in, Sunshine.”
And then boom-chicka-bow-wow porno music came on and I banged him in exchange for his help. Just lying.
His name was Mo (I swear) and he wasn’t going my way, but he kindly drove me to the train station, for free, where I found a pay phone. I must say, it’s always refreshing when someone is just plain nice for no reason. I was lucky; who knows what he could have done, and let’s just say after John, the Bach-blaring painter, clearly wanted to throttle me, I wasn’t exactly wise hopping into a tractor trailer with grizzled Mo. Thank God he didn’t beat me and hack me to pieces and then rape the pieces. My near-frostbitten finger dialed 1-800-COLLECT.
“Kiki?” I bleated through my hoarse throat.
“Holl? Where are you? I thought you were in Connecticut.”
I burst into tears and told her the whole series of events.
“Holy shit. Fuck that psycho asshole. I’m going to tell Lyle never to show him again. That guy is insane! Okay, stay there, I’m coming to get you.”
“No, Kiki, it’s fine, I think a train’s coming soon, so I’ll just go to Grand Central. Can I come over, though? What are you doing? Oh NO, you have your event tonight!”
“Of COURSE, you’re coming right over. It’s that benefit at South Street Seaport tonight. I was getting ready to go meet Lyle there, but fuck that, my girls are all there taking care of everything. Let’s just hang here! I’ll put you in a hot bath and pj’s and we’ll watch Molly Ringwald movies. You’re going to be fine. I’ll be here waiting.”
“No, Kiki, do not cancel your date.”
“Hey. I’m not Dicks over Chicks. Especially not you, Chiquita.”
She was the best. All I wanted to do was boil myself to warmth and pound hot chocolate. Luckily, the train pulled in minutes later and of course it was freezing and I got all kinds of looks from young suburban revelers cruising via Metro-North into the big city. I cried on the train about the mess my weekend had become, the mess my life had become. What had I done? Maybe I should have listened to Sherry Von and just stayed in my marriage so I wouldn’t have to be alone. Tim had his issues, sure (workaholic, an evil mom, sometimes getting a tad too hammered for our age, too-intense reverence for sports, extramarital bangings) but he had no skeletons like John-esque psychotic breaks. I was starting to realize it really was a jungle ou
t there. And with Tim, I didn’t have it so bad, minus the him-leading-a-double-life thing. I didn’t know if I could make it now. My whole body was so ice cold that the only thing that warmed me were hot tears as they fell down my cheeks. I closed my eyes and let the side-to-side rumble of the train lull me into a sad daze.
I got to Grand Central an hour later, my hair and clothes damply matted to my face, and when I arrived at Kiki’s, she opened the door holding a glass of red wine. Because I looked not unlike a sewer rodent, she started laughing when she saw me, but it quickly turned into a pity laugh as she relieved me of my drenched coat.
“Oh, come here, sweetie!” She hugged me and I had to smile, it was all too over-the-top awful and pathetic.
“Listen, Holly, this was all a heinous dream—you are going to be fine,” said Kiki. “Go in the bathroom, I have a relaxation tank for you.”
“Huh?”
“Get in the bath; just looking at you is making me fucking cold,” she ordered. I went into the large marble bathroom that Kiki called her “hotel bathroom” and was happily surprised. Kiki had drawn me a scalding bubble bath and surprised me with a candlelit tub. I was touched beyond measure.
“Take your time,” said Kiki, sipping her wine. “There’s a glass of pinot for you on the side of the tub. See how you feel when you get out.”
“I can’t believe this. Thank you!”
It was the first time since I’d lost my mom that I’d felt so mothered. I was so worried about Tim and Miles all these years, I’d barely ever stopped to pamper myself and was run ragged. In the burning hot lavender-and-lanolin pool, I washed away the last few hours’ debacle and enjoyed the simple, oft-taken-for-granted good fortune of searing hot water. The therapeutic heat made everything melt away, and aside from the soothing agua, I thought about how the best blessing was the girl outside.
While I kind of wanted to just be quiet and chow in front of Andrew McCarthy and the gang on TV, I also knew Kiki had worked her ass off on this benefit and my minivisit to hell shouldn’t stop her from going. At about 10:30 I emerged, ready.
