by Bethany Ball
Marc opened the door of their bedroom and then quickly shut it behind him. Holy shit, it smells like Venice in here. Aren’t you supposed to be finishing your marketing presentation? He opened the windows in the room. You didn’t have all this pot when the police came, I hope.
No, Izaac’s guitar teacher gave it to me when he heard what happened to us. Wasn’t that nice of him?
Listen. You never told me you used to be a stripper. He reached for the jay and took a long drag.
Excuse me?
Your father told me just now downstairs.
Are the children asleep?
Marc shrugged. No.
Well, it’s not true. I can’t even think why my father would say such a thing, unless he was drunk?
That’s a possibility. He did drink all of my Blue Moons. He asked me to make him a martini. He told me after you moved to New York, you were surrounded by trust-fund kids, and you felt you deserved their lifestyle. You asked your parents for money and when they said no, you became a stripper. I guess it’s good we moved to LA, huh? You won’t meet any of your old clients.
No.
No what?
I was never a stripper. Carolyn reached for the joint and flicked off the ash and brushed it off the coverlet on the bed. The truth is, I was a prostitute.
Very funny.
No, really.
This your father failed to mention to me.
That’s because it didn’t happen. I’m lying. She stretched out alongside him and held his hand a moment, massaging the web of skin between his forefinger and thumb. But it turns you on, doesn’t it?
You’ll have something to fall back on, if things get really bad. If I go to jail. Listen, have you called your old boss back? I thought he really liked you.
The next day, Marc took the boys to Hebrew school, and her father joined them.
Carolyn stayed home hidden in her bedroom and got high.
For the next hour she was lost. She searched her house as though she’d never lived there before. She opened drawers and poked through her father’s things. She spaced out in the shower until the water ran cold, and then again standing in her closet with one leg in her jeans. Marc brought the kids home and she stole away upstairs again, locked the bedroom door, opened the windows, and took a lung-searing drag. She could hear her three boys shouting at one another downstairs—Don’t hit me! He hit me!—and she decided to hide out until Marc screamed back at them, or one of them got hurt, listening for the inevitable tears. She put the joint into the drawer of the antique table that held the television and then sat cross-legged on the floor. She could almost see the ocean through the trees. It was early November. The window was cracked open and the sea air chilled her collarbones. Her husband walked into the room.
What are you doing? Marc asked her.
I’m meditating, she told him. He gave her a queer look.
So, is it your day off or what? We need to get lunch on the table before the boys’ soccer practices. And your dad is downstairs and frankly, I’m tired of listening to him. I have enough on my mind. You can’t fall apart every time your father comes to visit. And you can’t fall apart on me when things are so difficult right now.
Right, she said. I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be better.
When I was young, I thought I’d done everything right, the art director had told Carolyn, six months earlier on the day she’d quit her job. He’d once made short films that had won awards in film festivals. He’d published a small book of poems with a tiny San Francisco press. Now he provided a good living for his family. He helped with the kids. When they were small, he’d given his wife weekend mornings off to sleep. And she doesn’t even work! he told Carolyn. They sat in his office, scattered with various industry awards. His elegant fingers drummed up and down the Formica desktop and Carolyn became transfixed by their rhythm. Tall and long-limbed, Christopher appeared a decade younger than his actual age. He wore thick black glasses and had blue, dogged eyes. He was the exact opposite physical type from her shorter, stockier, swarthier financier husband, who was right then texting her, demanding that she hurry up and get home before he killed someone. Marc was Mediterranean, hot-tempered and impatient. The desk clock read 7:00 p.m. She looked down at her phone. Six angry yellow faces marched across the screen.
Do you need to answer that? the art director asked. This is a long work day, I guess.
She shook her head. The dings and pings and, finally, ringing continued. Carolyn just wanted to sit and talk about art with the art director. Energy pulsed through her. She’d never felt better in her life.
Christopher lowered his head slightly and pushed her portfolio toward her. The folder stuffed with her drawings grazed her fingertips, almost like a caress. I love what you’ve shown me, he said.
Well. I worked hard, she said. Have to keep myself relevant.
Oh come on, really. You should see about getting a gallery opening.
Carolyn thought then about her coworkers, young kids newly minted from CalArts and UCLA. They lived night and day in the office and had time for their own art ambitions too. She thought about their Silver Lake houses, their rooms with no furniture and keg parties. Their downtown LA art gallery openings curated by kids born the year she graduated from high school. I’m too old for this, Carolyn said.
I don’t think so, he said. He swiveled around and glanced at his computer screen.
You think you’re too old for a comeback, she said. He had once been a rising star on the art scene.
I am.
Well, I’m much too old for a debut, then, don’t you think? Too old to be an ingénue. After all, women age more quickly than men.
Not true. Men die younger.
I’m not talking about dying, I’m talking about aging. You and I are the same age, roughly, right?
Forties, more or less. Okay mid. Mid to late.
As a fortyish man you’re young. As a fortyish woman I’m old. Think for a moment. You’ll see I’m right.
I think you look great. A vacuum droned in the hallway outside his closed door. And—I think this is going to be a great campaign. She glanced down again at her phone and he said, You probably need to be going.
No, she said. My babysitter has left already. My husband is holding down the fort.
Really? he said. My wife would get quite shrill whenever I was late getting home. Especially when my kids were small. Carolyn had met his wife at the Christmas holiday party. She looked like she had been created with a scalpel.
They sat quietly and an intimate, awkward moment passed between them. Carolyn thought, if he wants to kiss me, I’ll let him.
Carolyn. You know, I’ve always felt close to you, like I could really talk to you, really tell you what’s on my mind.
Carolyn nodded. Her throat had gone very, very dry.
He continued: I don’t even know how it happened! One minute she was making copies. It was late. No one else was in the office. I was grabbing my coat and the next thing I know I’m pressing her up against the machine and—
The intern. The one her best work friend called “tits on a stick.”
She’s a lovely girl, a really lovely girl. It’s like, it’s like she gets me, you know? I feel understood in a way I haven’t felt in years. I mean, you know how marriage is after a while. The kids, the work, the constant arguing, negotiating for sex. I feel younger than I’ve ever felt!
The waistband of Carolyn’s skirt tightened against her middle. Her carefully straightened hair was curling up at the fine sweat that had broken out at her temples.
It’s not just an office fling. I really feel there’s something more. The kids are all out of the house and . . . Sometimes I think my wife would just feel relief if I left her. Sometimes I get the feeling—
Yes, she said. I guess I do need to get going, as though he’d never spoken, as though he
weren’t in the middle of his sentence.
He had looked up at her then, surprised by her interruption. The air was thick with something she couldn’t name, a possibility, or a chance to be illuminated. When I was young, I was a stripper and a call girl, she said.
He shuffled the papers on his desk, gathered up her drawings and handed them back to her. He was embarrassed, his face flushed red. He didn’t meet her eyes. He mumbled something to Carolyn but she’d already stood up. She would never go back. That was six months ago.
She’d had enough.
After lunch, Carolyn went back upstairs and took a long shower. When she came downstairs, Marc was sitting with her father in the living room. She could see the pontificating look on her father’s face; he was holding his breath, waiting for his daughter and her husband to say hello to each other so that he could finish whatever it was he’d been saying. Can I make you a drink, Dad?
I’ll have an old-fashioned. Got any good whiskey? her father called out. He grabbed hold of her wrist as she swept through the room gathering toys and newspapers and soda cans. Her father smiled up at her, and then dropped her wrist and looked down at his lap. It’s good to switch it up with alcohol. That’s how you avoid becoming an alcoholic, he said.
Carolyn slipped down the hallway to the guest room en route to the kitchen. Her father’s Dopp kit of toiletries sat open on the dresser. Rummaging through it, she pulled out two amber bottles: sleeping pills and an old painkiller prescription of her mother’s. She hesitated a moment and then shoved several pills into the pocket of her pants. The source is limited, she thought to herself. He’ll leave and take his pills with him. It’s not like she could become addicted. She stood in the hallway between the guest room and the kitchen, listening to her father drone on and on. With a little Percocet, she could listen to her father all night. Marc’s hostility settled over her in waves. He must be so pissed, she thought.
She took one of the painkillers and bit off a tiny sliver. Swallowing it dry. Empty bottles of beer sat on the kitchen counter and Carolyn rinsed them and threw them into the recycling bin. She took out two lowball glasses, the good whiskey, and the sugar bowl. She would add lots of sugar. Her father loved sugar. She pulled a wooden muddler out of a drawer and crushed two of the sleeping pills into the bottom of one of the glasses.
Hello, Mommy. It was her six-year-old, the baby, Nicholas. The other two were upstairs playing Minecraft or Skyping with their cousin Joseph. He stood holding onto the counter. She kissed the top of his head.
Hello, love. Did you stay with Grandpa today?
Yes, but we mostly watched television. The boy pointed to the glass. What’s that? He started to reach for it but she swatted his hand away. Why are you crushing candy into that glass?
It most certainly is not candy.
Can you make me a snack?
You can watch an hour more of television and I’ll bring it to you.
She poured a generous shot over the crushed tablets and a less generous shot into the second glass, added water and ice and heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and carried the two glasses into the living room.
Here, Dad, she said.
He took it from her midsentence without a pause. She handed the second glass to Marc, who glanced at her and raised his eyebrows. She squatted on the ottoman by the fire. Nicholas called for his snack. I’ll get it, Marc said, and slipped away into the kitchen. Abba bah! he called out. Abba is coming.
When her father finished telling his story, he turned to Carolyn and said, I fixed a bottle opener for you, down in the basement. It’s nailed to the wall next to the refrigerator where you guys keep all that Mexican pop. I also replaced those light bulbs in the basement bathroom. Trying to pay my rent for my time here. He coughed nervously and then fell into silence. Worried about you guys, you know. Hope it’s not as bad as it sounds. Her father gestured to a framed poster on the wall. Is that a new print? he asked.
Yeah, from the Getty.
Who is it?
No one you’d know.
It’s nice. That’s an expensive frame. I guess Marc must have been doing well for himself. He drained his glass and rested it on his stomach. It’s a shame neither of us had any real talent. His eyes closed heavily.
Her father listed over onto the arm of the couch. Dad?
She stood and took the glass from his hand.
He half opened his eyes and waved her away. Remember at the Art Institute? In Chicago? I think you were a teenager. Your sister was still alive. High school, maybe. Remember the painting we saw? All that grotesque flesh of old people and ordinary people? The wrinkles, the sagging skin, and I was proud not to look that way. I never thought I would. At your age you never think you’ll get old. You never think you’ll die. You think you’ll be prepared when you finally do. You’ll be done with being young, but you never are. You’re never done being young. It’s not that I want to be immortal. I just want to go back to that time before I knew I would die. You know?
Yes, Carolyn thought, closing her eyes.
Smaller Than Tears Are the Little Blue Flowers, she said. That was the title of the painting.
He snapped his fingers. That’s it. Ivan Albright. Your mother thought it was hideous.
I thought it was beautiful.
His eyes widened. So did I. Isn’t that wonderful? His eyes focused on hers. Something burned between them. So did I.
I miss Mom, Carolyn said. I wish she were here through all this.
Do you? he said. I wondered if you did.
He nodded and rested his head on the top of the couch, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes. After a few moments, his eyes closed and he began to snore.
Carolyn sat across from him and watched him a moment. His skin was still firm with a high color. He had a full head of reddish-blond hair, shot through with white around the temples. His shoulders were broad from daily swimming at the university pool back in Cleveland, where he still taught art history. He refused to retire. But her mother, who had aged so much faster than her father, was gone forever. And her sister, killed in a car accident ten years ago—also gone forever. Her father snored on like that. His hands, which he held stiffly in his lap, relaxed and fell to his sides. It was too warm in the living room. Carolyn lowered the downstairs thermostat and headed upstairs to the bedroom.
Marc was downstairs in his office. Even through the thick walls of their house she could hear him yelling at someone in Hebrew. Probably one of his employees, one of the few who’d stuck around. Or maybe one of the lawyers. She lit up a joint and sank into the down pillows of her bed. Tomorrow she’d try and get her old job back. If not, she’d go downtown and see if she could find a job. Maybe they could move back to New York and she could go back to marketing. It wasn’t much money, but it would help. If things really went south, she’d be the breadwinner.
Chapter 6
The Firm
In his Los Angeles asset management firm’s office, Marc Solomon checks his email. Checks his stocks. Finds a song he likes on his playlist. His wife would laugh if she heard it. Why do all Israeli singers sound like Leonard Cohen? she would ask. Or Neil Diamond? Plaintive bleating.
He checks Facebook, which he has finally joined. His brother-in-law, Guy, looks to be doing well these days. He has a show in a gallery in Tiberias. His brother Dror still does not accept his friend request. His oldest brother, Ziv, is not on Facebook. He finds a friend request from Maya Frank. He accepts. They have several friends in common. She is married now five years. From the photos, she looks good. He’d heard from his mother of Maya’s troubles: her failures in Amsterdam, the suicide attempts, the near drowning. She was once a real cusit. She was the only girl in the kibbutz who swallowed.
That’s what he told his friends.
The myth was that every commando had a diamond under their zayin, between his balls, his baitsim. The trick was to keep fucking
until someone found it. Now he loves his wife. He loves his three boys. He is not going to contact Maya Frank. After all her troubles, she is married now. In fact, she is married to one of his old friends, another commando, Levi Cohen. In fact, Cohen is now the commanding officer of their old unit.
But Maya is also rumored to be sleeping with Shai Skymatsky—another commando and Marc’s best friend. If it’s true—and nothing surprises him anymore—then he will have nothing to do with her.
But then, there is the message she sent him. How she’d had some bad times and how all was well now. She was trying to remember who she was when she was happiest and, as a matter of fact, she was last happiest when she was with him. She shouldn’t have written that of course. Perhaps it was the wine that had gone to her head. She hoped he was well.
A cup of coffee next time he’s in Jerusalem would hurt no one. Or where does she live now? Tel Aviv?
Marc’s only real regret about leaving haaretz is that he misses the reserves and his buddies there. He misses the war games, the respect, a world without women. The soggy mess kits flooded with sea. Shai Skymatsky, who once held a wet schnitzel in his hands, wrung the seawater out into the sea, and devoured it in a single bite. Shai Skymatsky whose youngest brother, Tomer, now works in Marc’s firm.
Marc Solomon loves his wife. He loves his children. He signs out of Facebook. Goes back to Ynet. Reads the news and gossip there.
The men in Marc’s office throw down a few cognacs. They are a decade younger than Marc, most of them. Young, hungry men. They eye his assistant, Molly. They place their bets in an office pool. Marc hates the Lakers, though he respects Kobe Bryant. The Knicks are terrible. LeBron has left Miami and plays now for Cleveland. Marc is a lifelong fan of the Bulls. Tomer Skymatsky comes into his office. Nu? He asks. You betting? Marc shakes his head no. No thanks, man, Marc says. You know I don’t gamble.
Every day in the financial markets is a gamble, Tomer Skymatsky says. He smiles his slanted smile. Tomer makes a lot of money for the company. He has a lot of Orthodox friends who invest money. They invest their donations in Marc’s firm. Tomer is ambitious and wants to start a hedge fund. Hedge funds are where the money’s at, Tomer says. Go big or go home. When Tomer goes to visit the religious, he wears religious garb: a kippa on his head and tzitzit dangling from his waist. Tomer knows how to charm.
