by Nina Solomon
“Charles Andrews. Zach’s father.”
“Duncan Lebow.”
“This is bullshit!” Clarissa said. “You shouldn’t have married me if you weren’t over Emily.”
“I am over Emily.”
“If you’re not downstairs in five minutes, we’re done.”
Charles stared at the descending red numbers. Emily had never seen him so cowed. When the elevator came back up, he pushed past three squealing goblins to get inside. His green cape got stuck in the closing door. A less graceful exit was hard to imagine.
* * *
At Duncan’s insistence, and with a bit of ingenious contortion, Emily changed into the S & M costume. When she emerged, Duncan was sitting at her desk, flipping through her manuscript. “Mind if I take a gander?” he asked.
She nodded, trying to interpret the micro expressions flitting across his brow. “It’s got legs,” he said, after reading a page. “If you’d like some input, I’d be glad to give it a read.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.” The truth was, it felt too soon, in the same way that she’d kept Zach out of direct sunlight until he was six months old.
“Don’t mention it,” he said.
Red pen in hand, her ergonomic chair adjusted once again, he began scribbling furiously, crossing out lines, writing entire paragraphs in the margins.
“What do you think?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I’m ten pages in and there’s no story.” Across an entire page he’d scrawled, So what?!
“This is the first piece of fiction I’ve written since college,” she said.
“Look, if you want me to make nice, then you have the wrong guy. If I say that your writing makes me want to vomit, I’m just being honest.”
“But you’re not saying that, are you?”
“Are you a pro or are you an amateur? Because the way you’re acting makes me think I’m wasting my time.”
Emily crossed her arms, feeling exposed in the tight latex outfit.
“And the little French bon mots you throw in to give it authentic texture . . . Quel cauchemar? That’s not French! It’s another example of monolingual, xenophobic, ethnocentric people thinking that it suffices to translate idiomatic French literally.”
Obviously annoyed, Duncan put down his pen. He looked up, his scowl turning into a smile. “Now, finally, something I like.”
* * *
Around midnight, Emily heard the front door open and slam shut. She hoped Duncan hadn’t awakened, but not only was he awake, he was half-dressed and searching for his jeans, which had been flung somewhere in the heat of the moment, along with Emily’s S & M costume.
“Emily?” Charles called from the entryway.
“Whose apartment is this?” Duncan asked.
“Mine,” she said.
“Then I suggest you change the locks.”
Emily didn’t respond. She hadn’t changed the locks for reasons that wouldn’t make sense to anyone and right now, not even her. She decided it was also probably best not to tell him that he’d mistakenly put on her jeans instead of his. He left without another word. When he cooled off, he’d realize he’d overreacted. He might even find humor in the situation. She’d never dated a man who could fit into—let alone looked better than her in—her jeans.
Charles was in the kitchen eating the last of the granola bars she’d been saving for Zach’s lunch.
“What happened?” she asked. “The Green Giant couldn’t talk Cruella into taking him back?”
“You really picked a winner this time,” he said. “That guy’s every bit the jerk that Zach’s been telling me he is.”
“And Clarissa’s a prize?”
“Compared to Mr. Hyde she’s an angel. But you can turn any man into a monster.”
“I’m really glad you said that,” she said, turning to leave. “Because I was actually feeling sorry for you.”
* * *
Max waited outside Capitale for Hector to arrive. She wouldn’t have accepted Pam’s invitation to the Devil’s Debauchery Ball except that Hector said he was getting tired of seeing Max dragging her mopey ass around since Garrett had shown his true colors.
“Meow!” Hector said, trying to kiss her.
She turned away. “Two ninety-nine down the drain,” she said.
They’d agreed to go as “Cat and Dog,” like Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow at Truman Capote’s Black and White dance. It was easy and cheap. All they needed were two half-masks from the party store. Max was dressed all in white with a white cat mask. But Hector had made an executive decision. Instead of a tux and black dog mask, he was dressed as He-Man from Masters of the Universe. He said he’d rather defend the realm of Eternia than dress up like a singer his grandma used to swoon over. But the real reason was that Hector didn’t feel like himself unless his muscles were showing, and showing they were. He looked good, but it still pissed her off. Now she was only half a costume. A Cat without her Dog, just like Hector was a He-Man without his She-Ra.
The Venetian Ballroom was packed with all manner of angels and demons engaging in “debauchery” on the dance floor. The cavernous space was bathed in red light. The sixty-five-foot coved ceiling glistened like the honeycomb in Calvin’s beehive. Pam was in another of the many opulent ballrooms, surrounded by her usual coterie of “close” friends; i.e., anyone she’d known longer than a month and had something worthwhile to bring to the table, unlike Max and Hector, whose sole utility was to make Pam look good. She’d opted for a pornographic Little Red Riding Hood. Her “date” was dressed as Don Draper (the lazy man’s costume), lamenting that they hadn’t gone to Webster Hall after the Halloween parade in the Village.
“They’re having flying vampires and a virgin sacrifice,” he said.
“This is the place to be. Heidi Klum can’t be wrong,” Pam replied, pointing to a tall woman in an elaborate Cleopatra costume.
“That’s not Heidi Klum.”
“Don’t take my word for it; read Junebug tomorrow.”
Don Draper nearly choked on his black martini. “If that’s Heidi Klum, I’m Seal.”
Their table was ready. They followed a woman in a skintight alien costume up a flight of marble stairs to a catwalk overlooking the ballroom, through a small bar, and into a room with lilac banquettes, padded white leather panels, and an enormous half-moon window with wrought-iron bars, a vestige, like the underground vault, of the days when the building had been a bank.
They ordered transfusions. Max didn’t say anything when the waitress mistakenly placed one in front of her. She wrapped her fingers around the stem and twirled it like a flower, but didn’t lift it off the table. On the wall above them was a water-damaged mirror painted with the words: But past who can recall, or done undo?
“What kind of gibberish is that?” Don Draper asked when he saw her looking at it.
Calvin had read Paradise Lost to her every evening after dinner. Before kissing her goodnight, he’d tell her, Remember what they say: well-behaved women seldom make history.
Something brushed against her shoulder. She turned, though she didn’t need to. She knew it was Garrett standing behind her. He was wearing a tuxedo jacket and jeans, holding a peacock feather.
“You have to talk to me sometime,” he said, eyeing the fuchsia-colored drink in front of her.
“Fuck off, Garrett.”
“Five minutes,” he said. “That’s all I need.”
Max picked up her glass as if about to throw it on him. “Don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”
“So that’s it?”
Hector stood up. “You heard her, dude. Take a hike.”
Garrett looked at Hector as if trying to assess the nature of their relationship. “Okay,” he said, “I understand. I’ll respect your wishes.”
He leaned toward her as if about to kiss her. His breath brushed her ear. “Book Nine. The Argument.”
After he was gone, several people at the table began whispering a
nd pointing to Mr. and Mrs. Beetlejuice making out on the dance floor. Max stared up at the water-damaged mirror until Milton’s words swam in front of her eyes. She pushed her chair away from the table. Hector stood up to prevent her from leaving, but she put her hand on his shoulder.
“I might not be back,” she said.
“I thought you were different,” he said. “Not just another stupid girl.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
POT LUCK
SEAN TURNED OUT TO NOT ONLY BE GORGEOUS, but also everything in a man a father would want for his daughter. And the universe seemed to agree.
Before going to bed last night, Cathy sent one of her inspirational messages to her Flaubertian sisters, a quote by Neale Donald Walsch she’d once read on a tea bag: You cannot let go of anything if you cannot notice that you are holding it. Then, as she did every night, she placed The Love Book under her pillow for good vibrations. But in the morning, when she went to do her soul mate exercise for the day, it was gone. She searched high and low, in every cabinet and drawer, even the refrigerator (she’d once found the television remote in the butter dish), but the book had vanished without a trace.
Maybe it was the universe’s way of telling her she could stop looking. She’d found her soul mate. She and Sean had clicked on so many levels, she was sure they would in bed too, once the time was right. It wasn’t just that he thought she was sexy in her skunk scrubs, although that certainly didn’t hurt. It was the sense of comfort she felt when she was around him. He was like family, not in a creepy-cousin kind of way; she could trust him. But most importantly she’d learned that her soul mate wish list wasn’t carved in stone, commandment style—it was a guide, a blueprint, a scaffold in support of a relationship, sort of the way a modular closet could be reconfigured to suit anyone’s needs. So what if he had a beer or two or six in the evenings and sometimes in the morning? It was part of the fraternity or brotherhood, or whatever it was called between firefighters, a way to bond and relax, not an emotional crutch as it had been for her mother.
The other night Sean dropped by after work. Luckily, she was wearing a cute outfit and had an entire tray of stuffed shells in the freezer. Even though Cathy was 100 percent Polish with documentation all the way back to the Kosciuszko Uprising of 1794, he said it tasted exactly the way his Italian grandmother on his mother’s side used to make it. He asked if she had any wine, but the only liquor she had in the house was a bottle of Cointreau, a tablespoon of which she’d used to make the chocolate cloud cake for her cousin’s bridal shower. And though he’d drained the bottle, he didn’t seem the least bit impaired, probably a drop in the bucket for a six-foot-two, 180-pound hunk like Sean. And hunky he was. Eau de Barbie was child’s play compared to his intoxicating firefighting pheromones. He was Ken on steroids. And though they did some serious heavy petting and kissing, Sean said he wanted to make their first time special.
Tonight was the pot luck dinner at the firehouse. Sean was making his famous Texas chili. The theme was “Hot Stuff” so Cathy made brownies with a dash of cayenne and wore the red leather dress she’d bought at the mall last year but had never summoned the courage to wear. It had been a little on the tight side, but it was on sale, and now after just a week of dating Sean, it zipped up with no wiggling or coat hanger necessary. She didn’t realize until she was halfway to the firehouse that the full-length zipper worked both ways. This was definitely not a church dress. The whistle of approval from Sean silenced any residual doubts she was still harboring.
She sat next to her father at a long table in the firehouse kitchen while two firefighters retold the story of Sean carrying her out of her burning house. Pots were simmering on a six-burner stove. Two apple pies were baking in the oven. Sean brought over three bowls of chili.
“So, Mr. Baczkowski, does it meet with your approval?” he asked.
“Mighty good. Has a nice kick to it. Kind of sneaks up on you. Careful, son, when we Baczkowskis like something, we never want to let it go. You know that show Hoarders? That’s us. Still got all my old forty-fives and my children. So watch out.”
“My father’s only kidding,” Cathy said.
“Cathy’s right,” her father said. “For the right price, I might part with my princess.”
“Doesn’t scare me one bit,” Sean responded. “In fact, I kinda like the idea.”
“This one’s a keeper, Cathy.”
“Care for a game of billiards, Mr. Baczkowski?”
“Please, call me Jack. Get ready to be whooped, Mr. Fire Chief.”
While Sean and her father played pool, Cathy talked with a few of the other wives and girlfriends. Not that she was keeping track, but Sean was already on his seventh beer and they’d only played two games. It was the tiebreaker. Sean racked the balls and her father called stripes then took the break shot.
Cathy’s heart felt full. She hadn’t seen her father so happy in a long time. Maybe not since her mother died. All her worry over the “incident” in her mother’s sewing room now seemed inconsequential. The father she knew and loved was back.
* * *
As the night wore on, the party migrated outside. It was a beautiful night. The moon was full and there were fireflies, or so Cathy thought, until someone told her they were embers from the fire pit. Sean had one hand on her thigh, a beer in the other.
“I don’t want to break things up,” her father said, “but I think it’s time to call it a night.”
Sean wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up. “How would you like a ride home in the truck, Jack?”
“I’d love it, but then Cathy would have to drive home alone.”
She was relieved that her father had so graciously turned down Sean’s offer. Any other night, as long as no alcohol was involved, it would have been a very welcome gesture.
“I’ll make sure she gets home,” Sean said.
Her father zipped up his jacket. “Well, in that case, where do I buy my ticket?”
“I don’t mind driving you, Dad,” Cathy said.
“How often do you get a chance to ride in the cabin with the fire chief?” He kissed her on the forehead then walked toward the fire truck. “See you tomorrow at church.”
“Dad, wait.”
“Excuse me, Sean. My daughter’s just a little overprotective. You know, ever since her mother died, God rest her soul.” He walked over to where she was standing and put his hands on her shoulders. “Princess, everything’s fine. You want to begrudge your father some fun?”
“Why don’t I come along?” she said, as if her presence, like a St. Christopher Medal, would somehow protect him, the way she used to think if she waited by the window from the time her mother left the house until her car pulled into the driveway, she would be safe.
Sean stood at attention, one hand on his heart. “I promise to stop at every red light and never go above the speed limit. I’d just like some time alone with your dad.”
She knew she was probably worrying for nothing, but in her mind she saw flashing lights and a lifetime of regretting this moment. Cancel! Cancel! It was only two exits on the turnpike and Sean didn’t seem drunk. Her father pulled his arm away when she tried to help him into the fire truck. He looked smaller, less sturdy in his slightly rumpled Master Mason windbreaker with the square-and-compass crest. Sean turned on the flashing lights. Her father waved from the cabin. He was wearing a fire helmet. Cathy stood near the edge of the pavement on a strip of grass near the flagpole. They started to drive away.
“Dad! Stop!” she shouted.
Sean jumped out of the cab. He was smiling as he walked toward her. “Is there a problem, Kit Cat?”
“Yes,” she said, “it’s just that I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive after all those . . .”
Sean still had a smile on his face, but his posture had completely changed. His hands were clasped behind his back and his legs spread slightly, army style. “All those what?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
>
“No, I really don’t.”
“Sean, you’ve been drinking beer all night.”
“Cathy, I’m a firefighter.”
“And that’s my father you’re driving home.”
“Do you really think I would do something so irresponsible? Is that who you think I am?”
Her father came over to try to make things right. “Kitten, there’s no need to make such a fuss.” But Sean was already walking toward the firehouse.
“Dad, he was drinking.”
“Malarky! Sean wasn’t doing any such thing.”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” she said. “You tried to deny Mom’s drinking for all those years too.”
Her father took a deep breath then shook his head. “Don’t speak about your mother like that. Listen, Cathy, this isn’t just about Sean having a couple of beers. I guess this is my fault. I let it go on too long. But after your mother died . . . and now, well, I’m just worried if you don’t stop trying to control things you’re going to find yourself alone. Because nobody wants to be with a dictator. And I don’t want that for you.”
“I’m sorry, I was just trying to protect you,” she said after a long pause. She looked down. The two-way zipper on her dress was buckling like a misaligned train track.
A lump was forming in Cathy’s throat. Her father had never spoken to her this way before. She felt like she didn’t know him at all. Maybe he had been showing up all this time as the father she wanted him to be, just as she had been playing the role of the daughter she thought she was supposed to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TRUE NORTH
EMILY WAS IN THE VESTIBULE at the Belnord, about to ring Duncan’s doorbell for the third time, when the door swung open. A small girl wearing a blue pinafore looked at her expectantly. Her golden hair was swept off her face with a white ribbon.
“Astrid, ma chérie, who is it?” Duncan called from the other room.
“I don’t know, Papa.” The girl waited for Emily to introduce herself. “I think it’s one of your fillettes,” she said with a shrug, then retreated to the couch where she was playing with a Madame Alexander Anastasia doll dressed in a gray-belted coat and matching toque.
