Men, Women & Children: A Novel

by Chad Kultgen

  Lauren said, “You’re just going to be like, ‘Hi, let’s hang out, and by the way, can I use your computer and be logged into Facebook the whole time?’ That’s a little weird.”

  Brandy said, “My laptop’s in my backpack. He won’t care.”

  Lauren said, “You can’t call from his house. Your mom won’t recognize the number.”

  Brandy said, “I’ll just tell her you got a new phone and I had to use yours because my battery died.”

  Lauren said, “But why would I change my number?”

  Brandy said, “I don’t know, you got a cheaper plan or something.”

  Lauren said, “Your mom will see right through that. What time are you coming here?”

  Brandy said, “Whenever I leave, I guess.”

  Lauren said, “Which is?”

  Brandy said, “I don’t know, midnight or something.”

  Lauren said, “Okay, I’ll leave my window open, just crawl in. I won’t be able to open the door without waking up my parents.”

  Brandy said, “Okay. Thanks for helping out.”

  Lauren said, “Whatever.”

  Brandy got on her bicycle and rode to Tim’s house, hoping that her mother wouldn’t call her cell phone but knowing that, in all likelihood, she would at some point.

  Dawn Clint had no interest in Kent Mooney meeting her mother on a first date, so she instructed him to send her a text message when he was at her house and she would come out. She received the text at 7:33 P.M. and said good-bye to her mother, Nicole, who said, “This one sounds nice. Don’t do anything stupid.” Dawn offered no response. She knew that Hannah was in her room doing something, so she didn’t bother to say good-bye. Dawn told her mother that she didn’t know how late she would be out and that she’d left money for pizza on the kitchen table. She checked her makeup one final time in the hallway mirror and left.

  Kent was standing near his car. She wondered why he wasn’t in the driver’s seat. As she approached, she said, “Why aren’t you in the car?” Kent said, “I was just getting the door for you,” as he opened the passenger’s side door. Dawn wondered if Kent might actually be a genuinely nice guy. When she left Los Angeles, she’d thought a move back to Middle America might yield a larger field of nice guys. To date, it hadn’t. She had almost given up hope of finding one, assuming she would have sexual relationships with whichever men were the most attractive to her until she was no longer desirable, and that by then, with luck, her daughter would have some kind of lucrative career in entertainment that she could manage, nullifying the need for a man in her life. Kent was the first nice guy she had met.

  Once in the car, she said, “So how have you been since our PATI meeting?”

  Kent said, “Pretty good, I guess. Just working and doing the usual stuff. You?”

  Dawn said, “Yeah, I guess pretty much the same thing.”

  Kent didn’t know how to continue the conversation, and after a few seconds of silence he began to fear the date was already going badly. Dawn assumed Kent was nervous and took it upon herself to forward the conversation. She said, “So where are we off to tonight?”

  Kent, realizing that his choice of restaurant might not be appealing to Dawn, said, “You know, I didn’t even think to ask if you like Indian food.”

  Dawn said, “I love it.”

  Kent said, “Okay, good. The Oven okay, then?”

  Dawn said, “Yeah, I love that place. Not that I go that often, but I’ve been, you know. It’s really good.”

  Kent said, “Yeah, I used to go all the time—” and stopped himself from finishing the sentence with what would have been with my wife. When selecting a location for their dinner, Kent had decided to make it a place that he and his wife used to frequent, in an effort to force himself to forget her, to make the things they held sacred become more meaningless to him, to rid his world of places that she held some sway over. It wasn’t fair to Kent that she got to move to a place where neither of them had ever lived or even visited. For her there were no taboo restaurants, no stores that conjured memories of them buying groceries together, no street corners that held phantoms of conversations they had in the rain because the keys were locked in the car. Kent needed to start taking the places in his town back, and the Oven was one of his favorite restaurants. He hadn’t been since Lydia left him.

  Once at the restaurant, they ordered a bottle of wine and several dishes to share. In the beginning, their conversation was light and innocuous. By the third bottle of wine, they were discussing things that carried slightly more weight. Dawn had recounted the entire story of her time in Los Angeles as an actress and how Hannah came to be conceived. Kent had divulged to Dawn that, until recently, he had fostered hopes of some reconciliation with his wife. It was this topic that prompted Dawn to say, “What made you start thinking differently about your ex-wife?”

  Kent said, “Honestly, I know this will probably sounds like a pickup line or something, or maybe it’s showing my hand a little too early, but . . . meeting you was kind of part of it. The night we met, I realized I was wasting my time on my ex-wife. Pretty much every night, up until that night, I’d sit in my living room watching TV and wondering what she was doing. That night, I wondered what you were doing.”

  Dawn wasn’t quite sure how to react. She felt it was sweet and trusting of Kent to tell her something that personal, but it also seemed to her that Kent might be placing too much importance on her and whatever relationship they might be about to begin. Then again, she thought, wasn’t she placing a similar amount of importance on him and the possibilities he held for her future?

  Kent took her lack of an immediate response as a bad sign and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, I mean, that was way too much wasn’t it?”

  Dawn said, “Uh, no, no,” and in that moment decided she was going to see where this relationship with Kent—with a nice guy—could go. She was going to choose to align herself with the possibility that what he was saying was genuine and heartfelt and not be scared by his willingness to be open with her. She continued, “It was actually about the most flattering thing a guy has ever said to me, believe it or not. I think it’s really sweet.”

  They shared a smile and the conversation turned to their children. Kent told Dawn about Tim’s decision to quit playing football and how disappointed he was in his son. Dawn told Kent about Hannah’s passion for acting and her plans to help her daughter in any way she could. She omitted any details about her daughter’s website, assuming that Kent, or any normal person, would find it strange or possibly morally negligent. Dawn went on to explain her living situation, how she and Hannah lived with her mother. She was embarrassed by it, to some degree, but she admitted that she didn’t see the scenario changing anytime soon. She had thought about moving back to Los Angeles at some point, but it seemed pointless unless she was moving there to help Hannah navigate the entertainment business when she was a little older.

  As they left the Oven, Kent considered it to have been a successful first date. He enjoyed Dawn’s company, and she seemed to have enjoyed his as well. Approaching Kent’s car, Dawn said, “You want to go get a drink somewhere? It’s still kind of early.” So they went to a bar a few minutes away, and at Dawn’s behest played a touch-screen game called Erotic Photo Hunt that was featured in a small monitor near the bar. It was fun. Kent realized, while touching a woman’s fake third nipple in the game, that he hadn’t had fun in a long time. He decided that he wouldn’t try to kiss Dawn at the end of the night, that he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the possibility of a second date with her.

  After the bar, Kent drove Dawn back to her house and walked her to the door. He said, “Well, thanks for coming out with me. I had a really good time tonight and if you’re up for it, I’d love to do it again sometime.”

  Dawn said, “There better be a date number two,” and then kissed him. They were both slightly inebriated, and they tasted alcohol on each other’s mouths as they kissed. Kent found Dawn to be a good ki
sser and Dawn found the same to be true of Kent. She was the first woman Kent had kissed since his wife. It was foreign but enjoyable. Even though he hadn’t kissed his wife in more than a year, he still vividly remembered every aspect of her technique and could easily compare it to Dawn’s. He found Dawn to be superior, more sexual somehow.

  The kiss concluded and Dawn said, “Call me tomorrow.” Kent said, “I will. Have a good night,” and then turned and walked back to his car. Dawn went inside and answered the standard questions from her mother and her daughter about how the date was and then went to her bedroom. She took out her cell phone and composed a text message thanking Kent for the date. She debated whether or not to press the send button. Her initial impulse was to delete the message, not wanting to seem overly enthusiastic and risk scaring him off. This is what she would have done with any other man with whom she’d gone on a first date. But, reminding herself that she was going to let herself get involved this time, that she was going to give in to her impulse to be open and allow herself to feel something for Kent, she overcame her inhibitions and sent the text message.

  Kent received it on his drive home. He liked Dawn. While driving, he replied to her text message with one that read, “Had fun, too. Sweet dreams tonight,” which made Dawn smile.

  Brandy Beltmeyer and Tim Mooney sat on his bed watching episodes of Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! that Tim had saved on his digital video recorder. Brandy’s laptop was powered up on the floor next to them, and she was logged into her Facebook page awaiting any message from Lauren about her mother having called.

  Tim and Brandy had yet to touch each other. Tim was unsure about how to escalate what he assumed Brandy assumed was a friendship to a level that would warrant any kind of touching. He didn’t necessarily have any intention of doing anything sexual with her. He had fantasized about Brandy laying her head on his chest as they watched television and stroking her hair or maybe kissing. Once again he conjured thoughts of “The Pale Blue Dot” and various other scientific essays, theories, and opinions about the nature of our universe that explained our insignificance and said, “You know, we could, uh, lay on my bed if you want.”

  Brandy said, “Okay,” and they did, still not touching. Brandy, too, was unsure about how to make the transition to any kind of physical contact. She had always been under the impression that it was the duty of the male to initiate anything in that direction. For her to act outside of this unspoken rule would seem awkward. But, then again, she reasoned, it was already awkward as they lay there side by side in his bed, not touching, actively maneuvering their bodies so that not even the slightest contact was made.

  Saying nothing, giving no warning, she reached out, took Tim’s arm, and moved it so that she could lay her head on his chest, putting his arm around her as she did. Tim, too, said nothing as it was happening, unsure of what it meant, of what he was supposed to do next. He opted to do nothing, to just enjoy her lying on his chest, as Tim Heidecker performed his character Spaghett on television. He smelled her hair and listened to her laugh at the show. This, Tim thought, was what it must be like to have a girlfriend. He wondered if she thought the same thing about him, and he wondered when or if that subject should even be brought up. So he remained where he was and watched television, content with exactly what was happening.

  Brandy, with her head on Tim’s chest, listened to his breathing and to his heart. She, too, thought that this was what having a boyfriend must be like. She, too, wondered when, or if, that subject should be talked about. Obviously they would at least have to kiss before there was any talk of becoming a couple, and she knew she wouldn’t be the initiator of their first kiss. So she remained where she was and watched television, content with exactly what was happening.

  After a few hours, Brandy raised her head and said, “I should probably go. I can’t even believe my mom hasn’t called me yet.”

  Tim said, “Okay. I’ll walk you to the door.”

  On Tim’s porch, he hugged her but did not kiss her, despite wanting to more than anything in that moment. He said, “Thanks for coming over.”

  Brandy said, “Yeah, no prob.”

  They both wanted to know when their next meeting would be, when they would hold hands, when they would share their first kiss, but neither said anything or initiated any movement toward these things. They were both too nervous, too unsure about the other’s response if they should ask or do something of that nature. Tim Mooney stood on his porch and watched Brandy Beltmeyer ride her bicycle off into the night, hoping that her mother hadn’t called her and that he would see her again outside of school very soon.

  Once Brandy was back at Lauren’s house, she checked her phone, only to find that her mother had never called. Brandy found this strange; she wondered if something was wrong with her phone. She thought about calling her mother to make sure everything was all right, but opted not to. She decided not to press her luck, not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Patricia sat in her daughter’s room at her daughter’s computer. She meticulously sifted through all of her e-mails, Facebook and Myspace messages, wall posts, and any other file on her daughter’s computer that might reveal anything incriminating. She had been doing this for hours when her husband, Ray, came in. Ray said, “You still in here?”

  Patricia said, “Yes, I am.”

  Ray said, “You’ve been at it for a few hours now.”

  Patricia said, “I know, and I haven’t been able to find anything. We’re lucky, Ray.”

  Ray said, “Then maybe you should take it easy on her a little bit.”

  Patricia said, “You’re right. I’ll just call her and check in to make sure everything’s okay at Lauren’s house and then I’ll come to bed.”

  Ray said, “Don’t call her.”

  Patricia said, “What?”

  Ray said, “You just went through her entire computer, doing whatever you do, and you said yourself—she’s clean as a whistle. Just let her be a teenager tonight. Show her you trust her. Let her grow up a little.”

  Ray sometimes initiated conversations with his wife about being less overbearing with their children. Patricia usually dismissed his arguments, but in this case he seemed to make sense. She looked at her phone as it sat on her daughter’s desk. Her daughter was becoming a young adult, and her husband was right. She deserved the space that she needed to grow on her own. Patricia tried hard not to take for granted how well-behaved her daughter was, and she believed that giving her a night away from home, without a phone call to check up on her, would strengthen their relationship. She found that she trusted her daughter.

  She said, “You’re right, honey.”

  Ray said, “Let’s go to bed.”

  Don parked his car further away from the front entrance of the Cornhusker Hotel than necessary, put a piece of gum in his mouth, and checked his hair in the rearview mirror. This was it—he was really doing this. He reached over into the passenger’s seat, took the envelope containing eight hundred dollars that he had gotten from the bank that afternoon, and tucked it inside his jacket pocket, questioning the decision to wear a jacket to this encounter as he did. The jacket had seemed like a good idea earlier in the day; it seemed like it might lend some importance to what he was doing, make it classier than it actually was. Now it just seemed like a failed and pathetic attempt to do those things.

  Don entered the Cornhusker, checked in at the front desk, got his room key, and then went to the bar. He was five minutes later than the time he and Angelique Ice had agreed upon. This was done on purpose. Don had no interest in waiting at the bar for her. He wanted to spend as little time in public as possible, on the off chance that someone he knew might spot him. There were no other patrons in the Cornhusker’s lounge, just Angelique Ice, who sat at the bar drinking a martini. Don recognized her immediately. She was slightly heavier in person than in her photos, but Don found her attractive nonetheless. She certainly wasn’t as soft and out of shape as his wife.

  He ap
proached her and said, “Angelique?”

  She said, “You must be Don. You’re cute.”

  Don saw this as part of her act. He knew she couldn’t actually find him attractive, or that, if she did, the circumstance of their meeting would render any genuine attraction she had for him null. Still, it was nice to be complimented, nice to have someone tell him she was attracted to him. His wife, Rachel, hadn’t called him anything remotely close to cute in longer than he could remember.

  Don said, “You’re not so bad yourself. So how does this work?”

  Angelique said, “Well, we have a drink and then we go on our date.”

  Don looked around and saw that no one else was in the place. His fear of being discovered hadn’t completely subsided, but he agreed to one drink, having some desire to get the full experience of a meeting with a prostitute. He also reasoned that a drink might not be a bad idea. He was more nervous than he wanted to be. He wanted to enjoy this. He ordered a shot of whiskey and drank it instantly, and then ordered another and did the same.

  Angelique said, “Is this really your first time? I know you said it was on the phone, but a lot of guys say that.”

  Don said, “You can’t tell?” as he ordered a final shot of whiskey.

  Angelique said, “Well, you seem like a nice guy and you’re pretty clearly nervous. Let’s continue our date in your room.”

  Don said, “Sounds good,” left some cash on the bar, and led Angelique Ice up to the room he had booked.

  They said nothing on the elevator up to the room. Once they were inside, Don said, “So how exactly does this work?”

  Angelique said, “Well, for a donation of eight hundred you get to have a standard date with me, which is full-service and lasts for an hour. For sixteen hundred you get the full GFE.”