“I want to polish you,” he said, pulling her to him. He kissed her, his hands starting to roam. He must have felt her stiffen. “Come on, Cass,” he murmured, sinking his mouth into her neck. “Come on, darlin’.” His hand slid down her thigh.
She just sat there. After touching her for a while he abruptly sat up. “This is a very big night for me,” he said, pulling her hand in his lap. He smiled. He whispered in her ear, “I’m like a city block long here, we really need to do something about this.”
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, taking her hand away.
He brought his head back to squint at her. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well, we know how to make that go away,” he said matter-of-factly, touching her breast.
“Please. No,” she said.
“Oh, criminy cripes, what’s wrong?” He said this as if they had been in marital bliss for the last ten years.
“It’s Thursday, Jack, aren’t you supposed to be going somewhere?”
“I’m spending tonight with you.”
“Oh, I see. Now all of a sudden I’m your Thursday night date.”
“Fine,” he said, flicking his hands as if to rid himself of any trace of her.
“You don’t get it, do you? A wife is not something you substitute your girlfriends with once in a while.”
“You’ve never been a substitute for anything or anybody, Cass, that’s why I married you. Because I love you.”
They’d only been through this about a hundred times over the last seven years, but now in the last year a new part had been added, which Cassy was now waiting for him to start.
“And you’re no dyke, Cass, that much we both know. How long you’re going to go on with this charade to get back at me, I don’t know—”
“You are a sex addict, Jack, we also both know that. A very happy sex addict.”
“So what if I took the cure?” he said suddenly, shifting in his seat. “I mean it! What if I go to one of those places, Cassy, and get my balls electrocuted or whatever it is they do? If I went, and I got cured—” he held his hands out “—then what happens?”
“We’ll talk about it after you go.”
“No, no, no, wait a minute,” he laughed. “I want to know now, before I go. Do we get to start over? Be newlyweds? Only be true to each other? Hmm?”
She didn’t say anything, but only looked at him.
He rapped on the glass divider. “Pull over when you can,” he told the driver. “Sorry it didn’t work out for us tonight,” he told Cassy. “You’re still mah wife, ya know. Lord knows how much I’d like to show you.” The car pulled over and Jackson flung the door open and got out. “Have fun, ’cause I intend to, darlin’,” he said before slamming the door.
After a moment, the driver asked, “To Riverside Drive, Mrs. Darenbrook?”
“Actually, no. Central Park West at Eightieth, The Roehampton. Then please drop this plaque off at West End. I’ll call ahead and tell the guard to expect it.”
28
Amanda Receives Unwelcomed News
WHEN TEDDY STARTED whining about why they couldn’t have an Xbox, Emily soon joined in, claiming everyone in their school had an Xbox except for them. When they had advanced as far as everyone in the whole universe had an Xbox, and that some people even played their Xboxes in the car, Amanda went downstairs to get a large box from the basement that immediately elicited groans from the children.
“Oh, Mom,” Emily said, covering her eyes. “Nobody else’s mother does this! It’s weird!”
“I want an Xbox, not that stupid box,” Teddy grumbled.
“Every time you complain about not having enough computers in our lives,” Amanda said, “it’s time for this box.”
“Dinner will be postponed for thirty minutes,” Amanda announced to Madame Moliere. Amanda had already covered the kitchen table with newspapers and was placing a large sheet of paper in front of Emily and one in front of Teddy. She gave each one of them an inkwell and then held out an array of feathers for them to choose from. Emily took a swan feather and Teddy took a gull feather. Amanda unscrewed the tops of their inkwells. “You are to write a list, please. I want you to write down five ways Abraham Lincoln amused himself at home, in the evening, with his family, when he was your age.”
Emily plunked her chin in her hand and sighed. “Who wants to do math on the back of a shovel?”
“They didn’t do anything in the olden days, Mom,” Teddy announced. “They were all very sad.”
Suppressing a smile, Amanda sat down and folded her arms to rest on the table. “Why were they sad?”
“Because there was nothing to do!” he expained, throwing his hands out.
“Think, Teddy. There was no electricity, no TV, no computers, no radios, no DVD players, but I promise you, oh, darling child of mine, people did amuse themselves.” Somehow Teddy had already gotten ink under his fingernails.
“Abraham Lincoln could carve things,” Emily said, carefully dipping the end of her feather into the inkwell.
Howard often wondered out loud when Amanda would graduate the children to at least metal pens but she said never. Looking for feathers gave the children something to do on their walks.
“Carve stuff?” Teddy read, craning his neck to see his sister’s paper. “Cool, a knife,” he said, looking back down at his blank sheet. Suddenly his hand shot up in the air. “Knife fights!” When he saw his mother’s expression he slowly brought his arm down and, discouraged, slumped in his chair.
“He could read books,” Emily said next, dipping her feather into the ink. She would have to do it several times, but she had the knack of it.
The whole process took almost an hour but Amanda finally received her lists. Emily had carefully penned:
carve things
read
tell stories
sing songs
shadow puppets
Teddy wrote:
catch spiders
arm wrestle [ressal]
play with dog
clean gun
scare sister
Howard called at seven and the children shared their lists with him on the speakerphone in the kitchen. Howard asked them what they had done to provoke their mother into bringing the dreaded box out. They told him about the Xbox.
“Darling, I need to speak to you a minute,” Howard said. His voice was gentle; it reminded Amanda of how he used to sound most of the time. Attentive, loving. The holidays had been so awful. Howard, when he was here, had been moody and distant. And Amanda was still sick with self-loathing. Thank God for the children because they gave them something to focus on besides each other.
“I love you so much, Howard,” Amanda found herself saying into the phone as she took it into the family room.
Clearly he was surprised by this sudden declaration. But that was how it felt, a sudden, overwhelming love and need that rushed up at the sound of his voice. His old voice.
“I love you and the children more than anything or anybody in the world and I think I would die without you,” she rushed on.
Pause. “Amanda—What’s going on out there?”
“I can’t stand the way things have been,” she said, tears starting to rise. “I miss us. I’m starting to hate it out here. Without you. I think we just could spend some more time together, Howard, somehow we can get past this—this abyss between us. That’s what it feels like.”
He was silent a moment. “If you feel comfortable leaving the children with Madame Moliere, then maybe you should come in, Amanda.”
“I’ll come in tomorrow.”
“The thing is, Amanda,” he began. “Mrs. Goldblum isn’t very well. I ran into Rosanne this afternoon and she asked me to call and tell you.”
Her heart sank. “It’s very bad, isn’t it, Howard?”
“I’m afraid so. But nothing’s going to happen right now. Rosanne thought you should know and Mrs. Goldblum would like to tell you about it herself.”
Pause. “But she wanted you to be prepared. There’s been a big change, apparently.”
“Oh, Howard,” she said, sinking down on the arm of the couch, holding her face in her hand. She couldn’t ignore the timing of this news. It was as if to remind her that whatever pain she could cause herself was nothing compared to what the world could offer.
“It’s supposed to snow tomorrow,” Howard continued. “Maybe you should take the train.”
“We already have three inches out here,” she said, looking out to the driveway. “If it’s too bad I’ll take the train.” She sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She felt a hand on her arm. It was Emily. She sensed Amanda’s sadness and slid her arms around her mother’s waist to comfort her.
29
Celia’s Parents Sit Her Down
“I DON’T THINK your mother’s going to be wild about me bringing you out in the bar car,” Celia’s father said, carefully balancing his beer cup against the rocking motion of the train.
“Call it the club car and she won’t mind so much,” Celia said, reaching for her beer in the holder. They were on their second and both were starting to unwind—as much as her father could unwind. While the other men in the bar car had loosened their ties, some altogether taking theirs off and stashing them in their suit pockets, her father’s remained firmly knotted and in place.
Since Celia had met her father at the gate in Grand Central she’d seen at least ten people she knew from Darien. There was a neighbor, friends of her parents and then, weirdly, like four kids she had gone to high school with who were now commuting to New York. Talking briefly to Chip, the art director at the ad agency, was okay; Suzy at Glamour magazine was okay, too, and even old Charles, their class buffoon, who was working at the Rockefeller Foundation, hadn’t bothered her, either. It was only when they ran into Bethie that Celia began to feel uncomfortable. Bethie had that whole Darien-to-Vassar-to-the-Upper-East-Side thing going, wearing a chic dress, jewelry and high heels and flashing a rock of an engagement ring. (So what if Celia wore jeans and a pirate’s bandana on her head every night to sling booze? She’d scored higher on the SATs than Bethie.) But it was Bethie’s announcement that she was working at Sotheby’s that killed Celia. The jealousy that swelled inside her was so violent she could barely speak. And then when Bethie, with a sigh and a casual wave of her diamond, said it was “just something to do until the wedding,” Celia practically choked on her anger.
So what? she told herself, her face ringing red as she followed her father through the Metro North cars. So what?
Even her father noticed Celia’s funk after they had crossed paths with Bethie. “You never liked her, did you?” he asked her when he had come back to their seats with their first cups of beer.
“Oh, she was all right,” Celia shrugged, refusing to get into it.
After a while her father leaned over. “Maybe you could see about her job when she leaves.”
The comment simultaneously surprised and enraged Celia. She was surprised her father thought she still had it in her, the ability, as her mother called it, “To clean up well.” And then she was enraged all over again because she could never do it. Her life was too much of a mess.
“You probably have to have your degree, though.” He sipped his beer, unfolding a fresh copy of the New York Post. (That was the drill: the New York Times on the way in and the Post on the way out.)
Celia spent the rest of the train ride trying not to let her unhappiness show. The train arrived on time and they walked down the long staircase and then under the railroad bridge on Leroy Avenue to reach the parking lot where her father left their old Toyota every morning at seven. (He kept his Lexus in the garage.) Celia’s mother drove a Mercedes SL now, instead of a Volvo wagon, because she didn’t have any kids at home anymore to carpool around. And after the Cavanaugh’s golden retriever finally died of old age, Celia’s parents had even downsized to a miniature Dachshund.
“Your brother wanted to come down from Providence,” her mother said, standing in the garage doorway to greet them, “but he got stuck at—” She stopped after her husband’s kiss hello. “Have you been drinking and driving, Hal?”
Her father mumbled something about “a beer” and continued into the kitchen.
“Hi, lovey,” Celia’s mother said, hugging her. She released her and stepped back. “Where’s your bag?”
“I can’t stay, Mom. I’ve got the lunch shift tomorrow.”
“Oh, Ceil,” her mother said, following her in.
Celia nearly tripped over the little dog. He still took a little getting used to. She put her purse on the kitchen table and squatted down. “Hi, there, little one,” she said, picking him up in her arms. He frantically licked her face, making her laugh.
“He’s been a little devil today,” her mother announced, waltzing over to the stove to lift the top off a pot and stir whatever was in it with a wooden spoon. “He dragged one of the pillows down off the living room couch and into the front hall closet.”
“Did you go to sleep-away camp?” Celia asked his little face. He gave her nose a happy lick.
“Do you want some wine?” Celia’s father asked, coming back into the kitchen. He had changed into corduroys, but still had his work shirt on and was rolling up the sleeves.
“Are you asking me or Celia?”
“Both of you.”
“White for me, please,” her mother said. “Celia, I made the seafood casserole you like.”
“That’s great, thanks,” she said, putting the dog back on the floor. “White for me, too, Dad.”
“White it is,” he said, going out to the bar area between the living room and dining room.
“So how are you, Mom?” Celia asked, leaning on the kitchen counter.
Her mother gave an answer that lasted nearly twenty minutes and included news about everyone, it seemed, Celia had ever known in Darien. They sat down in the dining room to what really was a great dinner—a casserole of crab and lobster in a cream sauce, over rice, and a salad with mandarin oranges and strawberries—but by the end of the meal Celia wished she was anywhere else. None of her answers to her mother’s questions were satisfactory. Her mother hated that she had dropped out of college, hated that she was a bartender, worried about Celia being a single woman alone in New York and couldn’t believe that Celia still didn’t have a boyfriend. (She had hated the-son-of-a-country-western-star.)
“So that’s it?” her mother finally said. “No parties? Rachel’s not up to anything?”
“She bought a new refrigerator,” Celia said, being sarcastic.
“Really, what kind?”
It was something in the way her mother said it, an innocent attempt to be interested in whatever Celia was willing to talk about, that made Celia start to cry. She bolted from the table and went to her old room, closing the door and throwing herself across the bed. Her mother gave her five minutes before knocking on the door and coming in.
Celia sat up and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
Her mother let go of the doorknob and came over to sit beside her on the bed. “What is it, angel? What is so wrong?”
“I just wish I were dead sometimes, Mom. It’s just everything sucks.”
Celia heard the clicking of her father’s knee—a college football injury—coming down the hall.
“We’d like to help if we can,” her mother said gently.
Her father came in, pawed pillows out of the upholstered arm chair onto the floor and dragged the chair over. Celia was amazed her mother didn’t yell at him about the pillows, which meant her mother was really worried. Which made Celia feel even worse because there wasn’t anything really wrong, she was just a screwup.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said, looking down. “I just can’t seem to get it together anymore.”
Her father reached over to hand her his handkerchief from his back pocket. “Try to explain what you’re feeling,” he said.
“Describe it, love
y.”
“I don’t know, I’m just dead inside,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I don’t feel like doing anything anymore.” She lowered the handkerchief. “I mean I can work, but that’s about it. I don’t want to go out anymore, I don’t want to do anything. I get upset about shit—Sorry.”
“When you say ‘go out,’” her father said, “do you mean socializing? Or going out for a job or something?”
She looked at him, sniffing. “Both.”
Her parents exchanged looks.
“Celia,” her mother said, covering Celia’s hand, “I don’t want you to be angry with her, but not long ago Rachel called us.”
Celia’s head whipped in her direction.
“She’s worried about you.” She paused. “And so are we.”
She looked to her father. He was nodding, trying to stop himself from cracking his knuckles, which is what he did when he was upset. “We think we might know what it is, too.”
“What what is?”
“Why you’re feeling like this.”
“Ceil,” her mother said, “Rachel said she found you crying the other day. In front of the TV.”
Celia remembered. It had been humiliating.
“She said you were crying while watching a commercial about a man asking a woman to marry him.”
Celia sighed. “I know. I don’t know why.”
Her parents were looking at each other again.
“Why do you guys keep looking at each other?”
Her father ran his hand back through his hair and sat forward again, still trying not to do the hand thing.
“We know you like to drink,” her mother said. “Obviously we do, too. But how does it make you feel?”
“Better,” she said without hesitation. And then she thought a minute. “And then worse sometimes.” She felt her throat tightening. Why were they making such a big deal out of this? It didn’t take a genius to see she was depressed because she was such a screwup in a family of superstars.
Riverside Park Page 21
