I find him at the back of another album in a photo from a surprise thirtieth birthday party Hannah threw for Eric. Skinny redheaded weasel. Phil. He’s sitting in an Adirondack chair at dusk, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette; it’s a moody picture. He looks like the kind of guy you tell your sister to avoid. Amy told me about him early on, during one of those romantic history conversations I could have done without. I’ve slept with barely a handful of women. Amy. My late first wife, Mary, who was also my high school and college sweetheart. The olive-skinned lifeguard who helped me pass the summer after I graduated from college when Mary decided we needed to play the field. Oh, and some drunken sympathy sex from my bookkeeper in the back of her Toyota Sequoia during my first Christmas without Mary. My sexual history. Amy’s feels more vivid to me.
What the hell was she doing with that guy last night? I would have felt better if they were talking or even laughing, but they were walking down the street in the familiarity of silence. Ridiculous. Just last week we were picking out baby names.
I slide off my parka, and the wallet thuds against the couch. My heart is pumping fast. I better hit the head. I need to get the hell away from this album and the wallet. Standing up too quickly, I step on the bag of Goldfish and relish the sound of the crackers crumbling under my boot.
Professional photos of Alec and Kaya line the hallway leading into the bathroom: various arrangements of the grinning kids whom Amy adores. I wash my hands and face with cold water. Feels good.
I start to dial Amy. She’ll clear this up. She’ll tell me that she bumped into Phil, that they were simply walking in the same direction, and then she ran into her friend Nadine, who treated her to dinner and ice cream — I found a crumpled Ben and Jerry’s napkin in her coat pocket — and the forty-dollar cab ride from the city back to our house, a mile up the road from here. I’ll apologize for hovering and acknowledge her need for time to herself, and tonight she’ll cuddle up against me and remind me that I get weird in January, and we’ll laugh about it all. I love Amy’s laugh: half cackle, half bleat. My body relaxes, then tenses again from my skull down to my toes.
I have never squatted in a client’s home. I grab my coat and pull out the wallet, still warm from my body, and go upstairs to scout the perfect spot to examine my spoils. First stop, Kaya’s room. I’m not going to sit on her bed. Bad idea. A computer occupies much of her desk, the rest of which she’s plastered with stickers of shiny teen idols with girlie haircuts. Next stop, Alec’s room; his bed is perfectly made, baseball trophies line his shelves. He’s not a good athlete, but according to Amy, these days you get some hardware for filling out a registration form. I don’t pry into Eric and Maggie’s bedroom.
Back downstairs, I decide on the kitchen table. I clear away this morning’s Washington Post and a cookbook opened to a recipe for tomato soup, and then I take a sponge and wipe three globs of jelly off the white surface. I dry it with a paper towel and place the wallet right in front of me.
My hands are shaking. When the phone rings, I practically shoot out of my chair like a pebble from a slingshot. The Goldfish are swimming up to my throat, every nerve in my body is vibrating, and I’m not sure this is a bad thing. In ten years of marriage to Mary, I never felt this scared or alive. When she died, I was overcome with a dull ache that I can still evoke if I stare too long at one of the few pictures of her I’ve kept, or if I catch a whiff of Vaseline Intensive Care, the kind that comes in the mint green bottle. Last year Amy dragged me to one of those sappy female movies, and I thought I heard Mary weeping two rows back. I didn’t turn around, but my heart stayed heavy through the pizza and sex that followed.
I touch the bumpy red leather. It’s a big wallet with room enough for a change purse, a checkbook, a calendar, and a plastic case for credit cards. I open the case first. Visa, Maryland driver’s license, Washington Sport and Health, Blockbuster, Aetna. I sort her forty dollars by denomination — a twenty, a ten, and two fives. Bringing order to her things gives me a slender sense of peace and the courage to look at her calendar.
My upper lip starts to twitch as I flip through it. Surprising that a graphic artist, someone who works with computers all day, would spurn a Blackberry, but Amy says she likes to see the whole month on one page. It’s late January, so I can see only a few weeks’ worth of past appointments and dates. I hate January.
Sunday, January 4. Dinner with Eric and Maggie to discuss my ideas for their house. Eric made a hearty beef stew — red, the color of Amy’s wallet. We dunked thick slabs of bread into our bowls, and I looked around the first floor musing about its possibilities. On the drive home, Amy squeezed my hand and told me that she likes my ability to see what’s not there. Was she trying to tell me that I was missing something happening right under my nose?
Tuesday, January 6, 13, and 20. Three late-afternoon appointments to treat her sciatica at the Women’s Acupuncture Center on Belmont and Columbia, Amy’s old neighborhood. I know she has client meetings on Tuesdays, and she came right home after the first two appointments. She couldn’t have seen Phil. I scour the squares for some code name for her secret lover, but I recognize all the names, and thank God, Phil’s isn’t one of them.
Friday, January 23. Blank. The anniversary of Mary’s death.
I’m breathing easier now, but I’m still not satisfied that there aren’t items in this wallet that might bite me. The house is so still that all I can hear is the hum of the fish tank, and then the sound of my hand unzipping the back compartment of the wallet. I take a deep breath before sticking my fingers into the small fold, where I find an airplane ticket stub. A memento of something. Maybe a trip she took with Phil to one of her conventions. Sweat trickles down my side, over the lump of flesh that I blame on Amy’s recent potato chip habit. I turn the ticket over. Midwest Express. May 2001. If I close my eyes, I can see us on that plane where we first met: Amy sitting beside me in her funeral clothes, her eyes puffy and red, her fingers thankfully ringless, a dark-green bra strap sliding down her lovely shoulder as she told me about her father’s unexpected death and the lake house they’d rented for their family reunion. Her father’s heart attack, sudden and lethal, reminded me of Mary’s aneurysm, so I tried to distract myself with a fantasy of Amy and me sitting in a fishing boat, face to face on that big blue lake, listening for a lucky splash. I cling to that moment and to the ones that followed, and to the ones ahead of us, which I no longer presume to plan or believe in despite Amy’s constant reassurances that she’s healthy.
I recognize the second piece of paper in the compartment. I lay the flimsy square on the table. This is Simon. We’re going to name him after Amy’s father. She could only open her heart to him after we met, after he was gone, she claims, although I don’t understand why. The blurry white looks like a spider web superimposed on a black chalkboard. I can see only his profile, but Amy insists that he has my forehead and nose. The sonographer agreed, and they’re not supposed to say things like that. Now that he’s getting bigger, he can’t fit into the frame. Amy and I are supposed to go for her twenty-four week sonogram next Thursday. She’ll need her Aetna card.
I bring the image of Simon to my lips, gingerly fold the paper in half, and slide it back into the wallet. I want to see Amy, to kiss her neck and rest my fingers on her belly and wait for our son to move. In my haste to put miles between this morning and my wish, I reach for the ticket stub, knocking over my Starbucks cup. The cold coffee spills onto Amy’s calendar, still splayed to reveal every week of January. I stop the flow with my sleeve, but half the dates, including yesterday’s, are soaked. The ink has bled, making Amy’s script illegible. The empty square marking the anniversary of Mary’s death remains unsullied, as do the sonogram appointment at the end of the month and all the days thereafter.
MOLLY FLANDERS
Molly Flanders, Summer 2006
The night Molly met Becca Coopersmith, it rained so hard that it sounded like someone was pelting her skylight with marbles. She seduced her husband, P
hil, his keys in hand, ready to drive to Chincoteague to shoot a film about the pony swim. Half naked, limbs intertwined, sweaty and breathless, they lay on the living room floor of their new house, where she clung to him like a war bride, more needy than embarrassed by her terror of thunderstorms and her dread of spending their first night apart. “I’ll call as soon as I get there,” he promised, zipping up his jeans.
A cold loneliness overtook Molly. Phil had been the only person to see inside of her. When he’d sent her a photo he’d taken of her at a wedding reception, she felt as though he’d understood her emptiness. She knew right then and there that she’d marry him. But because Phil could see the holes in her, it didn’t mean that he could fill them, not even when he was inside her. Every time he took out his camera, she hoped he’d snap another photo that would expose another flash of her essence.
Molly got dressed and settled on the couch to compose a thank-you note to her aunt Katherine for a place setting of wedding silver. She heard a loud boom, and then the room went black and the howl of hot summer winds replaced the hum of the air conditioner. Her first power outage alone. With each clap of thunder, she imagined a new structural defect plaguing their house. Danny Weiss, her realtor, who was related to half the people on this cul-de-sac, assured her that the house was solidly constructed.
She couldn’t remember which box contained their flashlights and candles, and the only neighbors she knew, Phil’s soundman Eric and his family, were out of town. They’d promised to throw a party for Molly and Phil to welcome them to the neighborhood.
The steady crackle of lightning further unmoored Molly as she sat on the couch contemplating the slender light flickering in the window of the cute house across the street. Strong winds shook the branches of the enormous oak tree in the neighbors’ front yard, rocking the swing where she’d spied one of their sons kissing his girlfriend the night before. When she could no longer tolerate the dark — even Hugo, the oversized, obnoxious dog next door, was barking in fear — she slipped on Phil’s rain jacket and mustered up the courage to walk the thirty yards to the front steps of their neighbors’ house.
She was just about to ring the bell when, through the screen door, she heard a woman chanting an ancient-sounding melody in a minor key. The guttural consonants, the gentle wailing, and the emotion embedded in every note transported Molly back twenty years to Nancy Cohen’s bat mitzvah: to the packed sanctuary where her friend recited with authority from a large scroll; to the rabbi blessing Nancy, his eyes closed, his fingertips resting on her newly straight hair; to the hora and Hava Negilah; to the toasts and the tears and the joy. She’d felt so purposeless compared to Nancy. Her parents had always told her that being a Flanders heir meant something. But what? What could possibly mean more than having a bat mitzvah?
“How was I, baby?” the woman called out, her speaking voice much huskier than her singing one.
“You’re still doing a little of the Joni Mitchell Blue thing,” a male voice responded in a teasing tone.
Molly smiled. She wasn’t much of a Joni Mitchell fan. Phil owned Blue on vinyl; he’d played it for her once early in their courtship, and she could indeed detect a bit of Joni in the woman’s chant as she stood on that soggy porch, flooded with her old ache to share Nancy’s heritage. Molly rang the bell firmly.
The woman appeared in the doorway carrying a fat purple candle that illuminated her strong cheekbones and jaw. She wore an ice-blue tank top and a choker, the beaded kind that hinted at exotic travels. She was one of those women who knew instinctively how to draw attention to her best features — in her case, her smooth, olive skin and pretty neck.
“Oh my God, come in. You just moved in, right? It’s awful out there. Have you been sitting in the dark?” She clucked.
Molly felt foolish about how long it had taken to talk herself into walking across the street. “Sorry to bother you. I came to ask if I could borrow some candles or a flashlight.”
“Come, come.” The woman placed a warm hand on the small of Molly’s back and escorted her into the musky-smelling living room. “I’m Becca Coopersmith.” She smiled, revealing a dimple that could house a whole dime.
“Molly Flanders.” Molly smiled back.
“My husband, Adam Kornfeld.” Becca nodded to a man not much taller than she was, with thick brownish-gray hair and a ready smile. He wore jean shorts and a faded T-shirt bearing a Bowdoin College insignia that was beginning to crack.
By the time Molly removed her jacket, she’d learned that Becca’s son Jason had become a vegetarian because of his extreme compassion for chickens, that her husband had just won an award for a social marketing campaign on recycling, that she had just started a new job as development consultant for a community health center, and that she grew her own greens because “everyone labels their produce organic these days.”
“Your basement is going to be a mess.” Adam had an authoritative yet cordial voice. “Give me your key. I’ll bail you out.”
She was a little flustered by his kindness, but she handed him her key anyway. “Are you sure?” she asked, her question followed by a loud crash from outside, where a sturdy branch had fallen from a tree, barely missing the hood of her Volkswagen. She wished Phil wasn’t driving in the storm.
Becca gave Molly’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s a mitzvah.” She smiled. “A good deed.”
Molly wasn’t used to people doing nice things for her unless she paid them. “Thank you.”
“Go.” Becca kissed Adam on the cheek and turned back to Molly.
“What a lovely piece.” Molly pointed to a wooden sculpture of a mother holding her baby to her breast.
Becca stroked the mother’s arm. “Olive wood. We got it in Jerusalem when I was pregnant with Isaac.”
“Beautiful.” Like the mezuzah necklace Nancy’s Israeli uncle gave her for her bat mitzvah. These memories of Nancy kept showing up like unwelcome houseguests, but Molly was far too happy with her life, with her Phil, to fret about her old, fierce spiritual yearnings.
Becca removed her hand from the sculpture and waved Molly into the kitchen. “Let’s eat ice cream by candlelight.” She winked.
Molly was sure that Becca was a wonderful mother, the type who could make a trip to the post office seem like a grand adventure. She fantasized about one day baking Christmas cookies with her toddler. No maid would swoop in to erase their messes. She inspected the distressed farm table where Becca had set a candle that cast a warm light on a vase of blue hydrangeas. Molly imagined that the Coopersmith-Kornfeld family had spent many a meal there teasing each other or fighting over the last tofu burger.
Becca plucked a carton of carob-chip ice cream from her freezer. “I really shouldn’t get near this stuff.” She patted her hips, camouflaged by a long black peasant skirt that barely covered a tattoo of a dove on her ankle.
Molly just nodded. She’d inherited the metabolism of a hummingbird. “I like these bowls.” They reminded her of the set she had shipped from Spain during her honeymoon.
“Pier One. I think they were three or four dollars apiece.”
“They always have such great sales.” Molly hadn’t made this kind of remark in a while, the kind that suggested that she had to cut corners like everyone else.
Becca placed a heaping bowl of ice cream in front of her and sat down with her own. “So tell me about you. What do you do to keep yourself busy?”
Molly was proud of the micro-enterprise programs she managed for the Flanders Philanthropic Fund, the result of long hours with little support from the foundation, but Becca was a fundraiser, and she didn’t want to open up that discussion. Once people found out that you had family money, they assumed that you hadn’t earned anything for yourself and started treating you with disdain, combined with just enough warmth to hit you up for something.
Before she could answer, Becca removed the spoon from her lips, closed her eyes, and let out a moan. “I need a cigarette.” She moaned again. “Too bad I quit.”
Molly laughed. It would be so easy to befriend Becca; she was just like Nancy, so funny and open and sure of who she was. They even shared the same dimple. God, she could practically feel Nancy with her in the room.
The rain started to slow down as Molly listened to Becca describe her sons’ letters about their Outward Bound adventures and confide how unsettling yet relaxing she found the new quiet of her house.
“You’re too good a listener, Molly.” She reached for a bottle of red wine on the table and pulled out the cork. They were on their second glass of wine when Molly got up the guts to ask about Becca’s chanting.
“I had an adult bat mitzvah a few years ago, and every year, I read my Torah portion on the anniversary of the date.”
“Adult bat mitzvah?” Molly’s stomach tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I figured you weren’t Jewish.” Becca smiled warmly.
“I went to a bat mitzvah once. My best friend in elementary school was Jewish,” Molly offered, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “Nancy Cohen.”
“I never had one, so I wanted to have this moment with God.”
Molly didn’t know how to respond; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d discussed anyone’s religion, much less so casually.
“This is something I do for myself.”
With no warning, Molly began to feel a humming in her body, the precursor to the pins and needles that had invaded her skin right before she’d reached into Nancy’s jewelry box. She held the cool silver of the mezuzah chain in her hand while Nancy waited for her to come watch The Partridge Family with her Israeli cousins in the den.
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