As Is

by Rachel Michael Arends

  It’s pathetic how much his saying the words I’m sorry means to me. I think they’re more powerful the less adequate to the damages they are, because they carry such pathos in them, such failure.

  “I’ll be moving back in two weeks. Can I call the kids tomorrow when they get home from school and tell them the news?”

  “Not unless you’re damn sure you’re coming.”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Positive, huh? Like you’d swear to it, like you’d make a vow?”

  “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. I don’t blame you for being angry and doubting me. I’ll call the kids tomorrow. I love you, Carrie.”

  I hang up the phone because I’ll be damned if I’ll let him hear me cry anymore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Armand

  I’m a hit!

  For a minute there I worried that the skeletons Trey dragged out of my closet had made me look like a confused floozy. So what if that’s exactly what I’ve been? I still don’t want everyone else to know! Nobody, not even the most fame-seeking rising star, not even teenage Madonna when she already wanted to rule the world but was still stuck in Bay City, Michigan, wants to tell every little thing. I don’t even like disclosing the secret ingredient which makes my soups simmer, let alone who I did what with, when, or how.

  I needn’t have worried. Trey called me up the day after the interview like we were best buddies. He said the focus groups loved me, and So Perfect had already gotten tons of “sympathetic” emails and phone calls about me. Maybe I should have been offended by that word choice, like I’m Tiny Tim, or Oliver Twist, or some other Dickensian sad sack. I’m not above wanting a little sympathy, though. Lord, no! I was relieved. I confess that I loved that spotlight shining down on me.

  On interview day, I’d had the time of my life getting my hair and make-up done in the star seat. I chose my clothes with the help of the cutest wardrobe guy on God’s green earth. I was the center of attention for once! When the cameras lit up, I did, too. I thought I could just stay right there on that elevated sofa looking out at my dining room audience forever. I’d have died happy if lightening had struck—I’m always on the lookout anyway.

  It hadn’t been all fun and games. There were moments when I could almost feel my mother’s judging eyes on me, watching from her ass-imprinted throne in Praiseville. When I was forced to traipse down memory lane, seeing clips of old lovers who said I should just come on out into the open, I kept thinking: Oh Gerald with your handsome smile, oh Mike always saying the right thing, oh Norman you bald hottie on the lookout for your next fifteen minutes of fame, and my dear Sam who I loved with all my heart for four solid weeks until your wife found out, I hope none of you ever run into my mama in a dark alley. Because there ain’t a single one of you that she couldn’t wallop but good, honey.

  I had been afraid that the reviews would be bad, that no one would like me, and that I’d never ever never get to have my hair and makeup done for cameras and fans again. I still prayed I wouldn’t have to give it up. The applause from that live audience…Oh! I got teary-eyed when I saw my old suburban Jen there, and touched that she’d brought along all the other Jens. She slipped me a photograph of their stylist Carl, and let’s just say I think I might be way overdue for some highlights.

  When everyone had gone and I walked through my Grand Dame of a house, I thought that might have been the best day I’d ever have. My big fear was that I’d wake up the next morning to find out the world decided I was terrible again.

  But I’m a hit!

  Along with Trey telling me that I am a hot commodity (something I’d always suspected despite his uptight corporate lip service), he said I could access some of my frozen stock options. I didn’t waste precious time that he could use to change his mind; I cashed out some stock dough and went off to St. Thomas.

  To tell you the truth, I was in hiding. Trey has always sat on one of my shoulders and whispered in my ear like a little devil, but with Gwendolyn gone I had no angel on the other side to balance him out. More interview offers poured in after the one I did with Stuart, and Trey was acting like he was my handler, telling me what I should or shouldn’t do, and how I should or shouldn’t do it.

  I don’t trust Trey to hold a ladder while I change a light bulb, let alone keep my career interests in mind if they don’t happen to align with his. So, right before I left for St. Thomas, I hired an agent. Josie reps some of my favorite decorating and cooking stars, and she promised to help me get a bigger piece of my own action. Josie’s first tasks as my advocate: tell Trey about her new role, and examine my So Perfect contract.

  I tanned and lounged, but I grew bored on the beach. I came home early.

  I haven’t been able to get Gwendolyn off my mind. She was on the cover of a tabloid I picked up for the flight home. I haven’t spoken to her since the interview aired, so I figure it’s time to dial her up.

  I stall. I guess I’ve been stalling about making the call all week. I haven’t watched the interview myself, and to tell you the truth my memory of it is kind of a blur. That interview was as fun and fast as a four-story waterslide, but I don’t remember every little twist and turn, just that I made a big splash. I decide it’s probably a good idea to remember exactly what I said before I talk to Gwendolyn.

  If this posh hotel suite had a proper kitchen, I’d make a batch of caramel corn. Cuing up the interview makes me think back to cozy times when Gwendolyn and I sat on the sofa and watched House Hunters. That show is fabulous! When you see a couple in their home, taking care of their cats and dogs, making dinner, and just living, it doesn’t matter if they’re gay or straight. They’re just people, same as anyone else. I love that show.

  I appear on the screen, waving and smiling. I couldn’t have been more nerved up, not even if my mother had been sitting in the front row, so it’s a nice surprise to see that I look cool and easy. I’m very relieved that I picked the right sweater. My jeans look good. I’m glad I wore those shoes.

  So far, so good. I like me!

  My smile gets a little smaller, and a little smaller, as the interview goes on though. It gets wiped right off my mouth when I think of Gwendolyn watching, with her slow loris eyes getting more giant and more slow loris-y by the second. Six days have gone by since the interview aired and I haven’t even called her. And she said she trusted me.

  I can see the interview was edited to make her look terrible. They kept anything I said that was mean and took away the sweet things I said about her, and of course I said lots, because the kid is sweet. I guess I’d never thought about how much impact editing could have, since I’d only seen it used to tighten up DIY segments. I didn’t know it could be so sinful.

  As my stomach continues to sink, I realize that I can’t blame it all on the editing. I still said what I said, and laughed when I laughed. I cover my eyes through parts of it. When it’s all over, I turn it off and hang my head.

  In retrospect, I know I acted terrible. But retrospect has never been a friend to me. It’s the bruised and banged up look Lenny Nelson gave me in math class the day after meeting with my mama’s broom handle. It’s the credit card bill in college I had no way of paying, jacked up sky high by the night I got drunk and bought the house three rounds. It’s the realization that I treated Gwendolyn so badly six nights ago, whether I knew it then or not.

  I gather up the courage to call her. I fear she’ll shout at me. She’ll say I’m an opportunist, like Norman did back in that NYC hotel room a month ago.

  “Hi, Armand.”

  Gwendolyn sounds like some of the air has been let out of her and she’s sort of thudding along like a half-flat bike tire, or a playground ball that renders a decent game of Four Square all but impossible.

  “I’m so sorry about the interview! I hadn’t watched it back until now. Just yell at me and get it over with,” I say.

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Come on now! Please tell me off.
I deserve it.”

  “Tell yourself off, if it makes you feel better. I don’t have much to say.” She sighs and I imagine her deflating even more.

  “Please yell at me. I’m so sorry.”

  She is quiet for a minute and I’m scared she’ll hang up. I feel like the pathetic girl in that demented After School Special I saw when I was a kid. The one who tries to impress her classmates, but she ends up scaring her pet bird to death instead. I think I was too young to follow the plot; all I remember is guilt, guilt, guilt.

  “Do you hate me?” I ask in a panic.

  “No.”

  “Then talk to me. Tell me three things and I’ll be satisfied.”

  “What things?”

  “Any things.”

  “Fine. One: heather blue is definitely your on-camera color.”

  Oh sweet relief; she’s still with me. “I agree with you there. Now tell me some bad ones. Two?”

  “You’re a natural when you’re allowed to ham it up for a live audience.”

  She’s so right! “You’re down to your last one so don’t give me another compliment. Be ruthless! I’m going to brace myself and take it like a man.”

  “I still love you,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh thank God! I’m so glad to hear you haven’t written me off. I’m going to send you out some baked goods and hair treatments right away.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “But you sound thin, and your hair sounds witchy.”

  “With the nice things I said to you, that’s what you choose to say to me?”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Are you all moved in yet?” I picture the cute house she fell in love with all emptied out and it gives me a tummy ache.

  “One more week.”

  “I want to buy you a present. How about living room furniture? Do you still have the measurements?”

  “Caroline helped me order some stuff online.”

  “Caroline? My little savant?” I remember her wearing gloves and a surgical mask and saying she was going to put her rancid new place together in three weeks. I knew it wasn’t possible, the poor thing.

  “The woman I bought the house from, yeah.”

  “What stuff did she help you order?”

  “Things I could afford. I’ll have dishes, a bed, a couch, and a lot more. She had it all on a list,” Gwendolyn says in that far-off way that makes me suspect she’s got a paintbrush in her hand at this very moment and is only half listening to me.

  “That was sweet of her,” I say loudly, just to be sure I’m heard.

  “She’s very nice, and resourceful.”

  “Is she? I hired an agent who’s fielding some offers. Do you think Caroline would want to be my assistant?”

  “I doubt it, but I can give her your number.”

  “Why do you doubt it?” I hear that I sound pouty, but I don’t blame myself.

  “She doesn’t really like you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think she liked your interview.”

  “Well let’s forget her for the moment then. Tell me about you and Walter.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Then tell me about the horror movie guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “At the airport I saw a picture of you with a guy they called Scar Face.”

  “Scar Face?” She sounds so sad that I’m sure her eyes cover up her whole head.

  “Who is he?”

  “Oh God… He’s a wonderful man, way too good to be dragged into my public stoning. I used to date him. He’s been in an accident since then.”

  I saw the guy’s picture, so I know it must have been a really rough accident to take him from being cute enough to date Gwendolyn to how he looks now. I mean wow. I’ve seen her hometown, though, and let’s just say it’s pretty small. I guess I wouldn’t be surprised if she has also dated her second cousin and her history teacher at some point in time.

  “You used to date him? Why’d you break up?” I ask.

  “My parents didn’t approve.” She sounds utterly flattened.

  “How are you spending your time?” I realize that’s a dumb question as soon as it’s out of my mouth. There’s only one thing Gwendolyn likes to do in her free time. I correct myself before she gets a chance to answer: “What have you been painting?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that with you.”

  I can almost see her looking up at me, with her scary hair, and her cheekbones too prominent because the poor kid doesn’t know how to feed herself properly.

  “I’m sorry I made that stupid comment in the interview, but I had just noticed the paint on the sofa. I didn’t mean it. I even said so right afterward, but they cut it out. You’re brilliant! The entire Met should be covered with your stuff.”

  “You suck,” she whispers.

  “Come on, I didn’t mean it.”

  “Well, just remember that paybacks are hell.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Maybe I’ll say something mean about you during my interview.”

  “You don’t have it in you to be mean. Wait. What interview are you talking about?”

  “Trey said if I do an interview, he’ll free up my stock options. He said if I don’t, he’ll sue me for breach of contract. I haven’t decided yet, but I’ll probably end up saying yes, as long as he releases me from the contract. I want all this behind me.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying not to panic on Gwendolyn’s behalf, but also feeling like panic is definitely in order. “When are you taping?”

  “In a week, if I agree. Stuart Bolder would come here to do it.”

  I noticed during my interview that Stuart’s dimples looked huge; I wondered if his makeup girl did something to make them stand out. His tie appeared to have been custom made to highlight his eyes. He’s been acting like this scandal’s the best thing that has ever happened to him. Now he’s the go-to guy for updates on the story for several national entertainment shows, and he and Trey are suddenly two peas in a pod.

  Though the idea of Gwendolyn being raked over the coals makes me scared and angry, I can’t help fearing what this could mean for me. Is it possible the tide of public opinion will turn and wash me out into the sea of has-beens, like a forgotten flip flop or a plastic shovel? They edited my answers to make Gwendolyn look her worst; will they have her throw cold water right back on me?

  No, I’m safe there. Gwendolyn doesn’t have an ounce of meanness in her. And that wouldn’t fit Trey’s spin on this—he’s been courting me so hard I’m worried he’s gonna propose soon. He’s been working diligently to make Gwendolyn into a laughing stock, trying to deflect attention from So Perfect’s deception by acting like it was all her fault and hers alone. No, I’m not in trouble, but they’ll be out to make the poor kid look as bad as possible.

  “We’ve got to get you all prettied up!” I say fiercely.

  “I couldn’t care less what I look like. I just want this over. I never want to be on television, or in a newspaper or tabloid, ever again.”

  “Do you have any skeletons in your closet there?” I ask.

  “No. Why?”

  “That reporter from Stuart’s station is tenacious. I don’t know how she managed to dig up my old beaus and get them on camera, but if you’ve got any secrets, she’ll find them.”

  Gwendolyn sighs. “You were my only secret.”

  “Hi there, Armand!” my new agent, Josie, says when I dial her up. “Are you tanned and ready to get your career in gear?”

  I love my agent. She’s my own personal cheerleader.

  “Yup, tanned and ready. Hey, I hear Gwendolyn Golden is doing an interview next week without me.”

  “Oh? Well that should mean some good opportunities for you. I’ll see what I can find out. I want to talk to you about the interesting proposals I’ve been fielding, too,
so let’s get together soon.”

  “Okay. Are you sure people still like me?”

  “Of course! They love you, Armand.”

  From personal cheerleader to righteous heckler… As I dial her number, I picture my mama sitting in her Praiseville shoebox.

  “Son? Is that you?”

  “Hello, ma’am. I’m just returning your calls.”

  “Armand, I read in one of those filthy tabloids that you’re in St. Thomas.”

  Not too filthy to read, I guess. I don’t say it though, I just think it.

  “I’m back again, ma’am.”

  “Oh. Well. I’ve never been to St. Thomas, you know.”

  “Did you want to go?” I ask, sort of high and strained.

  “You didn’t ask me, did you? So I guess it doesn’t matter if I would’ve wanted to go or not.”

  I imagine my mama in her white orthopedic shoes and one of her flower-printed tent dresses beside me in St. Thomas. I don’t think there’s a bathing suit in the whole world that could hold her.

  “It didn’t cross my mind,” I say.

  “I suppose being famous makes you too busy for me?”

  “Would you want to go on vacation with me sometime? I mean, would your church friends approve of that?” I ask, my curiosity overcoming my fear of a lecture full of insults.

  “I guess I could go sometime,” she says, like she’d be doing me a big favor. “You would have to wear clothes and not run around half naked, though. Gladdy Prinster said she did a Google search and saw pictures of you in St. Thomas wearing less than Jesus on the cross. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go around with you next time to make sure you behave yourself.”

  “That sounds like a lot of fun, ma’am,” I say, hiding my sarcasm the best I can.

  “Of course it would be better for you and your wife Gwendolyn to patch things up and take a trip together first. I don’t approve of her extramarital romancing at all, Armand. I wrote to your wife about it, you know.”

  “You wrote to Gwendolyn?”