Remember caring for that first baby? Remember utter fatigue? Same feeling, same recipe, but add loss. My girlfriend was on an overnight flight to London with her four-week-old baby boy, who wouldn’t stop crying. She sat in the dark, with her wailing baby. And prayed for the plane to crash.
Metaphorically, I’m not far from there. I’m scared as hell, and braced for impact as I lie wide awake, holding Ellie in my arms.
My brain switched on early this morning. The faintest light emerged shyly behind tall palm trees, which appeared like skinny old ladies wearing outlandish hats. Late September now. The air has changed. The Santa Anas are kicking in, tossing palm fronds and pinecones from the skies, leaving my lips parched, carrying the elusive promise of the Big One. Oh, how I pray for the Big One.
Soon, the sky is so clear, the outline of the palm trees against the blue is etched and almost painful to behold. The world is in HD, but I don’t want to see clearly. I need my fog. Bring it back, my mind says. Blur the lines of my reality until there’s nothing left to see, nothing at all.
The day John wandered into my life—wait, he was hopping on one leg—I was dogsitting. This is a story that ends well. Which is more than I can hope for me, now.
Jay has a dog. I’m using the term “dog” loosely because Ralph is not a “dog” to Jay. He is a child, a gift from God, the sole inheritor to his estate—if you call a restored craftsman near Main Street in Santa Monica an estate—which I do, by the way.
Ralph has all the attributes of a child—if that child has received every Snickers bar, every Grand Theft Auto game, every iTouch app his little mean heart desired—in a bichon frise body. Jay feeds him organic, grass-fed filet mignon and strains his morning mango juice. He sleeps with him on a hypoallergenic pillow. If you are reading this and you are a dog, quick, find a gay man to raise you.
Ralph has his own website, Twitter feed, YouTube videos, Facebook fan page. And book deal. Ralph is a horror film with a Swarovski collar.
Fool that I am, I agreed to babysit Ralph. I lost him after twenty minutes.
Ralph, the Paris Hilton of canines, was gone for two days. Fortunately, Jay was in Miami. There’s no reaching Jay once he hits South Beach. It’s fifty-fifty whether anyone will ever see him again. Jay falls deeply, madly, for-the-last-time-ever-I-mean-it in love about as often as Madonna changes identities. And sometimes, it seems, with the same men Madonna falls in love with.
Gay Cuban men are his Kryptonite. Who can resist a gorgeous man with a 28-inch waistline who can samba? I don’t want to meet the person who can.
I had five days to find Ralph. I put up flyers (next to “OLD DOG NEEDS ARTHRITIS MEDICINE” and “DECLAWED CAT,” oh, and the “TURTLE MISSING” flyer—how far could it possibly get?). I hired two pet detectives. One was a high school girl who dressed like an anime character. I fired her after fifteen minutes. The other was Sheila, a fashion-defiant lesbian (overalls) with a van and a jones for conspiracy theories. Sheila warned me that Ralph could have been dog-napped for ransom. (Ralph did have Internet stalkers.) Or, he had been eaten by coyotes.
“Coyotes don’t go where there are green tea soy lattes,” I said. “They know the rules.”
“Dude, they’re right on your street, at dusk,” Sheila answered, as we stood in my front yard. “You’d better find Ralph before they do.” Apparently, my safe, quiet, palm-tree-lined street was a molten river of teacup poodle blood (and Swarovski crystals).
In the midst of this discussion, a convertible VW pulled up in front of the house. “Hi,” a man said as he exited the car, then winced as he hopped toward us. “Are either of you 310-555-1314?”
In my head, Jay was saying, “This man is Shit Hot.”
Chloe would say he looks like he would be a good father.
Aimee? He’s too good-looking. Don’t trust him.
I had read a dozen relationship books while bathing in an Epsom salt bath, wearing a flowered shower cap. Sexy, huh? I was not exactly a cougar, or even a lemur. I read: Love Your Man Despite Everything, Seven Steps to Getting Him and its sister book Seven Steps to Keeping Him, and Lasting Relationships: Why You Won’t Have One. Different from my usual fare, Gabriel García Márquez, Philip Roth, Raymond Chandler. And that Churchill biography I’ve been meaning to crack. For ten years.
Apparently, when it came to men, I’d been doing everything wrong.
The books claimed I was too assertive. From forty on, I would not make the first move. Upon meeting an attractive man, I was not to speak first, under any circumstances (even a natural disaster). This would be my Kilimanjaro.
I was too loud. Now I would speak softly, and without a hint of sarcasm. I hoped I wouldn’t strain a neck muscle.
I tended to be overly enthusiastic. “Hi, I’m Hannah do you like scary movies I hate scary movies I’m not crazy about the Lakers I love the Dodgers I don’t understand jazz I hurt my wrist doing Pilates you want to go out sometime like tonight?” The men who found me attractive were most likely deaf in one ear. If I were to meet an attractive man, I was not to make suggestions on where to eat, what movie to see, or what the names of our children should be.
I WAS NOT TO SLEEP WITH A MAN ON THE FIRST DATE. Trust me, this needs to be in all caps. These books wanted me to wait not three dates, but three months.
No problem. I had not met anyone (schizophrenics spinning in their underwear at the Promenade don’t count) in six months and had not had sex in about seven. Or more. (Why are we arguing about this? Don’t be mean.) It was the longest dry spell of my adult life. I was in a race with the State of California for longest drought. Let’s just say, when John hopped into my life, he looked like a rib eye in faded jeans and a black cotton T-shirt.
But now I knew the rules. He’d have to speak first. Which he did. Sheila looked at me while I stared at John, the man who would impregnate me, marry me, and then, die on me.
“That’s her,” Sheila finally said.
“Ah, okay, I think I have her dog,” he addressed Sheila. God knows what he was thinking about the mute with the wild hair (that would be me).
“Ralph?” Sheila lit up.
“I think it’s Ralph,” the man said. “Honestly, it was hard for me to get him in the car. He bit my shin when I tried to pick him up.”
“Are you single—I mean, bleeding?” I snapped to, just in time to humiliate myself.
“I’m fine. I’m used to it. I grew up with a lot of cousins. Someone was always getting bit, usually me. I must taste good. Let me just get him out—”
He looked at me. “On second thought, you do it.”
I strutted to his car, channeling Naomi Campbell on her way to court. I worked it like RuPaul, sweetheart. Ralph was sitting on a folded towel in the backseat, assessing me imperiously. Every morning, like a prayer, I spritzed on L’Instant de Guerlain. It made me feel like a svelte Parisian without all the hard work, like sneering and dieting. John sneezed.
Great.
I picked up Ralph and took quick measure of John’s looks. Solid. Lush eyebrows. (I’m an eyebrow obsessor—if there were an eyebrow porn website, I’d be on it daily.) Thick dark hair, a few grays. Those serious hazel eyes.
“Nice house,” he said, looking at his future home. “You know, I’ve never met a dog that didn’t like me. Women, yes. Dogs, no.”
This nonassertive thing was getting exhausting. I’d need a nap if I kept it up.
“What was Ralph doing at the time he bit you?” I asked.
“I don’t know, nothing really. He was just sitting outside a sushi restaurant.”
“Interesting. Ralph loves sushi.” I looked at Mr. Gorgeous. “And how did you address him?”
“Uh, I said … hey, ah … hey, doggie. Hey, little doggie.”
“Oh, see. Ralph hates that. He finds it patronizing. First of all, he doesn’t think he’s a dog. Ralph, in fact, is larger than life. He has a website, thirty-three hundred Facebook friends. He tweets. He likes and expects recognition. Did you offer him a tuna roll
?”
Now it was John’s turn to be mute.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“The city.”
“I figured that. Manhattan.”
“Guilty.”
“Do you smoke or drink?”
“No … and …” (PLEASE GOD. Don’t make him an “I’m in recovery” guy. I always wonder if I’m supposed to look for scars.) “Yes.” (THANK YOU.)
“Own anything?” (At this point, a skateboard would do.)
“This car. No, scratch that—I lease it. Oh, wait, I have my saxophone—”
“Musician?”
“I wouldn’t call what I do music.”
“Jazz?” I scrunched up my nose. Three things I don’t understand: jazz, the Dallas Cowboys, and thick-bread sandwiches.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Drugs,” I concluded. It wasn’t a question.
“Advil.” He smiled. “I got it bad.” Ooh, that smile. He still had human teeth. Westsiders go to the cosmetic dentist for horses. I know women whose veneers make them look like Mr. Ed, but less attractive. If these toothy broads ask me a question, I answer by banging my foot on the floor, twice for yes, once for no.
“Gayish or straightish?” I asked. Better get this out of the way now, trust me. He laughed, showing off distinct crow’s-feet, which I had the sudden urge to lick. The perfect response. He was straight! Yay, me!
“Last meal?” The Final Test. L.A. men don’t eat. They’re all watching their waistlines. If I actually dated, I’d starve to death.
“Tie between Joe’s Stone Crab and a margarita or Baby Blues in Venice, washed down with a couple Red Labels. I’m a chef, so food is, I don’t know—let’s put it this way, my last girlfriend was jealous of all the attention I gave my meat loaf.”
My breath caught in my chest. “You’re a chef?”
“A private chef, but I’m thinking about writing a cookbook series.”
“What a coincidence,” I said, “I like to eat. You want to come in, see my doorknobs?”
“I usually don’t do that on the first date,” he said.
“This isn’t a date,” I said.
“But I brought you a dog.”
“That would be the worst thing to bring me on a date.”
John laughed. “This is never going to work out, you know.”
“You haven’t even seen my hardware.” I sashayed past Sheila.
“You need me to hang out?” Sheila asked, eyeballing John.
“It’s okay,” I said, watching John hop toward my house. “Unless he’s wearing La Perlas under those jeans, I’m going to keep him.”
“You don’t know him, dude,” Sheila said, grabbing my arm. I smelled patchouli on her, mixed with dog shampoo. Or is that the same thing? “He could be a dognapper. They’re all over the place. Along with the coyotes …”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said. John and I spent the afternoon admiring my door handles, restored cherrywood floors, and, yes, my office’s textured walls. We locked ourselves in the office, away from the demonic Ralph, to steal our first kiss. (I was talking. I don’t think I ever stopped the whole time we were together. Even when I slept. I just couldn’t believe I had found someone who loved me enough to listen.)
John took my face in his hands and kissed me.
“You just want me to shut up,” I said, coming up for air. Our foreheads touched, his eyelashes playing with mine.
“Yes,” he said. “Apparently, it didn’t work.”
So, he kissed me again. Oh, oh … oh.
“I’m never going to be quiet,” I said, after catching my breath, “if you keep that up.”
We made love. Well, furious, high-school-but-a-hundred-times-better sex. I’m surprised either of us survived. I threw out all my relationship books the next morning, when John went to get his things.
Dead bastard.
After John’s death, Jay sets up shop for me outside in the backyard, under our beloved avocado tree. Jay has a theory that the sun is good for me, that lying in my darkened bedroom with the shades drawn is, somehow, unhealthy. Tell that to mushrooms.
Chloe makes me chamomile tea. She feels I’m not ready for Starbucks, and she’s probably right. Aimee makes sure my patio chair is wiped of Santa Monica morning dew, which tends to hang around through the afternoon. She buys me little sandwiches and salads, which look perfect and delicious and as appealing to me as eating clay. Complete thoughts escape me. All I can think is one word: Why. Why? Why? Why.
“Why” is my mantra.
I say it so many times, that one night, as I sit under my avocado tree’s protective canopy, I hear an answer.
“Why not?”
It was the old lady’s voice again. Then … nothing.
The wind. A distant howl. Someone playing the new Mariah Carey CD two streets over.
But the words rang clear and true in my mind, and echoed in my soul. This simplest of answers gave me solace. That night was the first I’d slept longer than an hour since John left.
Why not.
One quiet Sunday night, Jay and I were sitting in the kitchen, when he asked me if I’d announced John’s death on Facebook. This was like asking in Latin if I knew Swedish. I am a techno-Luddite. I don’t know what uploading, downloading, or streaming is, but it sounds like farm porn.
“I’m not even on Facebook, you know that. I don’t Twitter, Linx, or Plaxo. What is a Plaxo?”
“John was on Facebook,” Jay said.
“Yes, I know,” I said, getting annoyed. Like I didn’t know everything about John. “He had a fan page. For his books.”
Jay pursed his lips.
“What’s that look?”
“That look says, ‘Do I tell my widowed best friend that her husband had a personal page on Facebook?’ ”
“I don’t like that look,” I said. “Where’s my laptop?”
“How are you going to get on his page?” Jay asked. “It’s not like he’s around to friend you.”
I found my laptop. “Go on your page,” I ordered. “You were Facebook friends, right?”
Jay gave me another look.
“That look says … ‘I’m not sure I want to be a party to this. It could ruin my night, or, at least, the ability to raid your refrigerator for limes whenever I need them,’ ” I said.
“You’re good,” Jay said. He logged on. Jay’s page came up. Jay’s profile picture? A half-naked photo of Jay, taken in Cabo over a fourteen-day weekend.
“Photoshop!” I said. Jay had great abs for a forty-something, but those were NOT his triceps. Somewhere, a twenty-five-year-old Cuban was missing his guns.
“Do I judge you for sending out the same eighteen-year-old photo to the trades whenever we get a new production deal? You look like an Aniston sibling, for Baby Jesus’s sake!”
“Okay, okay,” I said. I looked up John Bernal on Jay’s list of 1,438 friends.
“Where’d you find all these people?” I asked.
“Terrorists … trannies …,” he replied. “They just find me. I don’t friend chunky monkeys.”
“What if you get a terrorist who’s a fat tranny?”
“Then, I have a moral dilemma,” Jay said. “Okay, there’s John.”
John had posted a picture taken in our kitchen, grinning over a perfectly golden-brown deep-fried turkey.
“Thanksgiving …,” I whispered. Tears sprang to my eyes. I got that same sick feeling in my stomach, clawing its way into my throat. Would I be sad forever?
John’s “wall” was filled with sorrowful messages. An endless stream of “sorrys” and “sadness,” “sorrow,” “goodbye,” and “love” and memories old and recent.
I scrolled through older posts.
There he was, alive and cheerful. Virtual high fives and how are you doings? and how’s your family? Good to “see” you here! “Nice to meet you, too” …
Jay put his hands on my shoulders and whispered into my ear. “You okay, baby?” he asked. I just no
dded.
“You don’t think he had another family somewhere, right?” I asked Jay.
“God, no,” Jay said. “That’s only neo-conservatives and Charles Kuralt. That one surprised me. But you know, I always thought he was sexy. A total ‘bear.’ ”
“John’s ‘friends’ with Gwyneth Paltrow? He knows how I feel about those ‘I Am Africa’ posters! And those radio spots for Estée Lauder?”
“Estée Older?” Jay asked.
Jay shut the computer down. “Enough,” he said. “I’ve seen this movie … remember Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas in that airplane crash movie?”
“The one where they find out their spouses were screwing each other, and then they screw each other?”
“I black out when it comes to Harrison Ford French-kissing,” Jay said.
“We had no time to screw anyone else,” I said. “Jay, do you realize … for the rest of my life, I’m going to have to tell people about his death.”
“Remember this, pudding,” Jay said. He put his finger under my chin and gazed into my eyes. “When you feel sorry for yourself, that you are the bearer of this terrible news. Remember that you had the ultimate privilege. True love.”
I watched Jay tear up, and nodded, silent, as salty tears descended into the corners of my mouth. Salty? Who am I kidding? They tasted more like pinot.
“Don’t be jealous,” I said. “Someday you’ll love somebody with all your heart. And then, he’ll die on you, too.”
“If I’m very lucky,” Jay said, crossing his fingers.
On the long list of people to tell. You have to tell your child.
6
How to Tell Your Kid
(Pour yourself a drink, first.)
On second thought, pour two. You won’t be driving tonight. You got somewhere better to go? Go ahead. Pour another. Nobody’s carding.
The After Wife Page 4
