by Lise Haines
I tell him, —Where we’re going there will be a long beach with sparkling clean water, big soft lounge chairs with lots and lots of pillows to curl up in, and plenty of fresh fruit, and we can just listen to the waves and relax all day.
I have no idea what I’m talking about, maybe I just want a vacation. Thad seems to take this in and give it serious consideration. He tilts his head and his eyes get huge as if he’s finally understood something.
Then he cups his hands around my ear and whispers, —We’re going to the end of Mom’s rope.
Just then, a photographer on a motorcycle inches past us on the left like the witch peddling past Dorothy’s house, holding her camera out with one hand, shooting rapid fire as Allison moves us across the city.
Allison is looking a little trapped, definitely wobbly.
—I should have put my hair up, she says, popping open the mirror embedded in the visor and spreading out the wisps of her bangs along her forehead as she drives.
—Allison! I say to snap her attention back to the road.
Just then a Hummer—the model they make in case you have to take out three family cars at once instead of the usual one or two—slowly pulls up on our right. Inside, a gang of photographers lean from the windows, whistling and calling to us. Allison gets distracted by their snarking.
—I can’t believe how many are keeping up! she says over her shoulder in an almost buoyant voice. —Look at them. This is all about you, Lynie.
And I’m certain I hear a sense of loss under the elation, a regret that this isn’t all about her. Then I see where we’re headed.
—THE WALL! I scream.
She swings away, narrowly missing the underpass and almost hits the Hummer.
—Woo! Did you see that? she laughs, her manic side in full bloom.
I’d offer to take the wheel, I’d insist, but there’s no place to pull over. Besides, I don’t think she’d let me, she seems so empowered. She cuts the Hummer off when she shifts lanes suddenly. The horn on that thing has the power of a paint stripper.
When it gets blocked in by a slow-moving taxi, Allison pulls ahead and things get quiet for a little while and we listen to the sound of the tires bumping over the steel bands in the road, the rhythm working like a prayer on my scattered thoughts.
Emerging from the tunnel suddenly, we bear a quick left and then U-turn in traffic—completely ignoring the recalculations of the GPS—and I realize we’re driving to Tommy’s athletic club. We’re in the palm of the city, as she calls it. That place where gold freely changes hands. Allison loves Newbury Street. She pulls into the parking structure and swipes Tommy’s card. The gate goes up and we pull in without the paparazzi. We drive up a couple of levels, circling, circling, and she drops us at the entry on the third level.
—I’ll get a parking spot. You take Thad inside, she says.
I’ve only been to the club a couple of times. It has that postmodern suffocating-to-death-in-affluence-and-status feel to it. Lots of blue glass and steel, and in the women’s room the faucet handles are embedded in the mirror and the sinks look like delicate bowls ready to shatter if you drop a bottle of makeup the wrong way.
Caesar’s likes its top players to join this kind of club, invitation only, of course. So Tommy went along, though he was more comfortable in a Quonset hut with a bunch of iron pumpers—nothing but free weights—no music, no towels, water fountain busted, just a steady flow of sweat, the occasional grunt or life-affirming oof. But the good thing was he brought Thad down here a couple of times a week to build a little strength with a personal trainer, have a light massage and some lunch. Thad is crazy for all the televisions—the way they’re lined up, the images dancing together.
It seems our mother intends to carry on the tradition, at least until Caesar’s yanks the plug. I’m relieved when she walks through the entry. Not that I actually thought she’d drive away and leave us exactly. As she approaches, she wipes her fingers under her eyes to remove her melted eyeliner but she’s not quite getting it. I never know if I point this kind of thing out, if she’ll be grateful. So I let her go ahead and check in at the desk. She comes back to where I’m thumbing through W Magazine, cracking up over the way they keep adding gladiator items to their fall collections.
—Thad does his routine with a guy named Ira. He’s very nice. Young, sweet. You’ll see, she says.
The tension in her face is still there from the drive, the way Silly Putty holds a comic-strip image as long as it can.
Thad can’t sit still, he’s so happy to be here. I can tell because he paces by one of the ceiling-to-floor windows, looking down at the paparazzi—back and forth like a boy looking at lions in an arena. Then Ira comes out, shiny black hair, clear brown eyes, a small yin/yang tattoo placed on one shoulder. I think it’s a fake but no one’s perfect.
Ira greets us and starts talking about all the fun things he has planned for the afternoon. They’re going to hang upside down like monkeys and play on the balance beam and lift some two-pound weights, and pretty soon Thad has taken his hand and they’ve passed through the swinging doors of the men’s locker rooms. Of course no one has to convince me: exercise is sanity. It always calms Thad down, certainly does me, I wish Allison could find more time for it, though sometimes she gets on the elliptical trainer in our basement in long, intense spurts like she’s drunk for exercise and then I worry that she’ll never get off.
We take the back stairway, slip down an alley, and head out onto Newbury Street to shop. I really want to tell her about the dark smudges under her eyes, but now she’ll be really annoyed that I didn’t tell her right away, so I have to let it go. She puts her sunglasses on and lights up a cigarette.
It’s very humid out and the smoke clings to us in low clouds before it dissipates.
—I’ve talked with our accountant and Al—you remember Al, our family attorney? I’ve read through all the correspondence, the stuff Caesar’s has sent out since Tommy’s death.
—You’re scaring me, I say, as I try to catch up. She loves to cross on the red lights.
There’s something about the tone of her voice. She looks steadily at the shops now, devising her plan.
—There’s a semiprivate home we might be able to get Thad into, just until we get settled in a new place. It’s state funded but I’m told it’s cheery. There would be other kids his age.
The words catch like fish bones in her throat, which she tries to clear by taking another drag of her cigarette.
—We could visit him every day and he’d be with other kids. I guess I said that. You and I should be able to afford a studio apartment in our neighborhood for a year, maybe a little longer, after I sell anything we have left to sell. Which means you’ll be able to go to a regular university if you get scholarship money. We just have to get through this rough patch. You know what they say, no pain, no…
Her voice sounds like so much helium and I’m choking down tears and I’m trying to think of some way to dissuade her as we dodge and weave in the foot traffic.
—I’ll talk to Uber, she says. —I was the one to encourage things. I must have been out of my mind. Shock makes us… irrational. You understand that, don’t you? But if you think it would be better coming from you, I’d be happy to suggest some tactful ways to put things to him. I have the feeling he’s a rather sensitive young man. So we don’t want him to feel rejected.
—I intend to follow all of Caesar’s guidelines, she continues. —It is, after all, the life we’ve chosen, well… I’ve chosen for us. I know, maybe not the best decision in hindsight. If I tell you this in strict confidence, you can never tell anyone I’ve said this.
She lowers her voice. —I think what they’re asking of you is insane. I’m sorry I was in such a crazy place that I couldn’t see things clearly. I told myself Tommy could die, a million times over. But then when it happened… But I’ve talked with our accountant and our attorney—you remember Al. Did I already say that?
I grab her arm so s
he’ll stop walking.
—We can’t put Thad away.
—Of course not, she says. —Not away. They said it would be nothing like putting him away. You have to know how painful this is for me, Lynie. Thad’s my baby. But while he’s in a temporary living situation, just for a few months, I’ll be able to put our financial life together. I was thinking, and don’t trash this idea until you’ve heard the whole thing out, but I was thinking that I could start a consulting business. You know, for young Glad wives—how to dress, how to hold an interview, how to negotiate with non-Glads in the trades. I mean if there’s one thing I know…
I don’t say that if I reject Uber she will be shunned by those bright young GSA wives for all intents and purposes, because she knows this already. She just doesn’t want to accept the idea that the body she looks at in the plate glass windows is the one she inhabits. And I don’t remind her that her course list is right out of the curriculum of the ridiculous college she wanted me to go to in the fall, because she knows that as well.
—You wouldn’t be able to cope an hour if you institutionalized Thad—and you and I would never speak again. I hope you get that.
I see how small the corner is—the one she’s backed herself into. Her nose turns red and I’m afraid she’s started to cry under her Jackie O sunglasses. I know the next thing she’ll do is sit down on the steps to some fancy shop and tell me how sorry she is again. And then I’ll be up for nights worried about her. I want to tell her how much I love her even though I have to keep pulling away, but lately everything is jammed up inside me. So I say the only thing I can say at this point.
—I guess I didn’t tell you yet. I’m going to go on a date with Uber. To see.
CHAPTER 20
—To see? Allison asks cautiously, taking some tissue from her purse and blotting the lower rims of her glasses.
—If it would make any sense to spend some time with Uber. I’m not saying it would. It probably won’t. But I’ve decided to consider it. You know, objectively, I say.
Later I’ll make a call to Uber, of course, to see when he’s free, so she’ll never find out there wasn’t actually a date in the works.
—I guess it couldn’t hurt to give it a little objective thought, she says. —We could get Thad on a waiting list and hold off on actually placing him there until we see. But I’m still going to sketch out my business plans, get some input from Al. I really think I might be on to something.
I’m hoping her system won’t wind tighter until she springs into a real mood.
—You really need something new if you’re going out. And there’s a suit I was looking at. Right over there, she says, pointing to a boutique in an old brownstone across the way.
—Look, I don’t want you to feel any pressure here, she says as she holds her hand up in an effort to stop the traffic.
ah, no pressure.
—You’re just going out with him once maybe, she says as she bullies a limousine into stopping.
—You don’t have to see him again after that if you don’t want. You can even leave the date early if it’s insufferable. I’ll give you taxi money. This is your time, Lyn. It shouldn’t be about anyone else. That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I’ll do anything to put things right. How’s your head today?
—It still hurts, but not too bad.
She digs a bottle of Brain Freeze out of her purse and hands me two tablets.
—This morning I was looking at that TV station, she says.
—And they had a feature article about how young girls are suddenly shaving their heads and having initials tattooed into the backs of their skulls. You’ve started your first trend, she says, starting up the stairs to the shop. —Did I say I’m thinking about going on a diet? I don’t want to look wan, just lose five pounds. More than that would ruin my face. I was like you for years, you know. Always svelte. You’re such a beautiful girl. I hope you know that. I really do think I can get things right this time. For us. So I don’t want you to worry, if Uber… if you decide you don’t want to pursue this, she says, pausing at the landing.
Allison’s mind won’t stop running. She’s always been like that. Down the street, into the car, back up the stairs to see if Thad’s all right, out the door again to hand her husband the sword he left on the front hall table. If she could run after me all day to see what I get up to, she would.
—Are you going out to dinner? she asks.
—Too much conversation. Maybe the movies.
—The photographers might use their infrared cameras to track you. Remember Mabel Wong, Glaucous’s wife?
—I’m not sure.
—Glaucous wears blue chain mail. Anyway, the media planted a tiny camera in his wife’s popcorn when she went to the movies with a questionable male friend. They got a whole stream of intimate moments on film. But what they didn’t count on was her swallowing the camera. They had her on film down to her alimentary canal.
—You’re making that up.
—Well…
—You’re so bad.
At least manic brings out her sense of humor.
—You know he’s fighting a match in a couple of days.
—Uber? I thought his next match wasn’t until September.
—It’s a benefit for Children’s Hospital. I think you should go. You can raise some money for a good cause and it would give the media just enough, without giving them anything at all. Afterward, you could go out for a bite to eat with him.
Allison suggests I would make the more striking and photo-heavy statement if I arrived at the benefit match in simple black. So I let her tug me along, feeling like something fixed to the rear bumper of a car. Inside the shop, she goes to work.
—It should convey the right message, she says.
The message being that a woman can express grieving in good label stock.
I keep telling her I don’t care what I wear but she goes out of her mind about this stuff. I think she’s always found a way to contain the things she can’t talk about by fastening zippers, collars, cuffs, hooks and eyes, and belts.
I have to tell her several times that she doesn’t need to sit inside the dressing room with me to remove the dresses from the hangers. But she wants to be there, like I’m picking out my wedding dress or something. I’m going the limit to restrain myself and ride the mood.
In the eighth store, I lose it. The space is so small we knock knees when I pull my T-shirt over my head. Before she hands me the same dress I’m sure I’ve tried on in three different stores already—just like one she wore when she was twenty and turned heads—she checks the price tag. Allison makes a small but perceptible click with her tongue, which is, I know, her way of expressing weariness over the cost of a well-made outfit. And with this cost, the cost of everything else, because that’s the way it is with Allison. Things build exponentially and drop quickly. And though I understand, I understand, I understand, I can’t understand another minute.
—You have to stop! I yell. —You just have to stop! I don’t need your help. With anything!
As I try to take the dress off in that wedged space, all we can hear is the camera that’s mounted on the ceiling, moving back and forth, watching me undress. And when I finally get it over my head, I see that Allison looks as if she’s losing oxygen. She makes that face, like women in the other dressing rooms must be whispering about her. She stops removing dresses from hangers. She just lets the black fabric sit in her lap like a pet she doesn’t know what to do with.
Then she gets up and excuses herself, waiting outside the door until I finish dressing. Her mood shifts entirely. Like a funeral procession, we go back to the store where we had placed something on hold. When I think we finally have things sorted out, a dress bag in hand, she suggests we browse the makeup selection before heading back to the club—which is her way of normalizing, I guess.
—You really shouldn’t go alone, she says. —To Uber’s match.
I can hear it in her voice. A new panic has set in
about my personal safety. We hit on this one frequently. I rim my eyes in sample eyeliner, tilting the counter mirror. She begins to work that theme about things being a whole lot different than they were when she was my age—how we can’t just go about freely anymore. Maybe she wants me to take her on my date with Uber? I don’t ask.
The lines around my eyes thicken.
—I’ll be fine, I say.
She almost laughs and then she quickly speeds through a catalog of people who could harm me in this world.
—Rapists, arsonists, hackers—don’t laugh, I’m serious—identity thieves, murderers, for Christ’s sake, Ponzi artists, biographers.
—You have to calm down, I say. —No one’s writing my biography. And I can always take Mark along.
The clerk, who has been waiting for an opportunity to interrupt, steps over to us with an ingenuous smile and asks if she can show us anything.
—Cotton balls, I say, indicating my botched effort with the eye pencil.
All of my fingertips are blue with color. From a drawer this woman puts three cotton balls into a tiny plastic bag and says that will be a dollar. I give her a look but Allison pays out before I can stop her.
—You’re not the parent, she tells me when the woman has gone. —Don’t tell me to calm down like that in front of other people.
The lines around my eyes smear badly as I work away. But I catch something of Allison’s expression in my peripheral vision and know I better look at her.
It’s obvious that she’s doing her best to keep it together.
—This rule, that you can’t marry anyone else, it’s obscene, I say.
Not that I want another father, certainly not another gladiator.
—Uxor Totus, she says, almost in tears again.
—Do they just sit around someone’s back office down in New York and make this shit up by the hour? It’s probably botched Latin at best.
—It’s been harder lately, she says. —It’s been hard to believe I’ve made any good decisions at all. About anything.
—You’re fine, Allison.
