The Intermission

by Elyssa Friedland

  Until that point, she’d viewed their marriage like a car moving along a highway—some patches were rough, others smooth sailing, but still they forged onward with a definitive destination in mind. Driving forward as if getting off at any random exit and ditching the car was out of the question. Until, suddenly, it wasn’t. And she was all the way in California, a detour if there ever was one.

  Cass’s new place was in WeHo. She learned quickly, from the cabdriver who shuttled her from LAX to Alexi’s, that calling it West Hollywood marked her as an outsider. She wondered what other vernacular she needed to thrive in her new surroundings. In every aspect, her accommodations were a major downgrade from her place on East 75th. For starters, the bathroom she and Alexi were sharing. The white porcelain sink dripped all day and night, the tub’s oddly ornate faucets were crusted over with rust, and every time Cass flushed the toilet she felt like she was playing Russian roulette. The mismatched furniture had a definite dorm-room quality, glistening stripes of packing tape prolonging life. Worst of all was the refrigerator, which barked like an angry seal for a good five minutes each time it was opened and shut. But the rent was dirt cheap and she would be able to pay for the entire six-month stay with savings she had from before getting married.

  Finances hadn’t come up at all during their talk of the separation. Jonathan was surely too stunned to consider the economics of the break. But she cared about not draining her husband financially at the same time she was draining him emotionally. It might be wise for her to get used to more meager accommodations anyway. If she left Jonathan permanently, it would mean taking a big economic hit. Their prenup, vaulted in the offices of a stuffy Boston law firm that had been representing the Coynes for generations, decreed it so. She wouldn’t have fought them on it anyway. It would confirm everything the senior Coynes thought about her if she did. And while they may have been right about her at some point, they weren’t correct now. In fact, things had always been more gray than the way Jonathan’s parents saw them. She thought back to their first kiss in college and their first night together in New York City. There was nothing forced or pragmatic about that chemistry.

  Now she was on the 405 in a rented Camry with manual seat adjustment and a Christmas tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror, en route to meet Alexi at a photographer’s studio in Culver City. Cass’s willingness to shoulder the bulk of the rent had freed up enough cash for Alexi to redo her headshots. She asked Cass to accompany her, so after an unpleasant morning spent at Avis arranging a long-term rental, she found herself back in traffic heading to another part of town. She hoped Alexi didn’t broach her rationale for the separation again, as she was wont to do when they had any meaningful time together. The phrase, “But Jonathan seems like such a great guy,” had been uttered at least half a dozen times already and, when Cass couldn’t disagree, Alexi just looked even more perplexed. Even Dahlia, from whom she expected an outpouring of support, kept repeating “Really?” when Cass shared what she’d done. Her friends were plainly befuddled, unsure how to react. Were they supposed to take sides? Offer advice? Say “Wonderful!” or “I’m sorry”? If only Cass knew.

  Though her car proceeded at a glacial pace, she gripped the steering wheel with both hands at ten and two. She wasn’t used to driving after so many years in New York City, and even as a teenager in Hazel Park she didn’t get much practice. Donna never thought to lease her honor roll daughter a car when she turned sixteen. No, her mother only lent Cass her cheesy convertible (license plate NO1DONNA) when she needed shuttling to and from House of Shamrocks for ladies’ nights. Jonathan’s parents handed off their weathered Volvo to him the day he got his driver’s license and he still kept that car on the Vineyard, the glove compartment stuffed with mix tapes made by his old girlfriend Brett. When he popped one of them into the tape deck, his face would get this mellow, nostalgic half smile, and she could see the memories of his time with Brett envelop him like a beloved old comforter.

  Her hand stationed at two looked normal, but the hand at ten looked out of place, almost like a disembodied arm was steering that side of the wheel. It was the absence of her wedding bands, which she’d sentenced to darkness and neglect inside the wall safe that was bolted to her and Jonathan’s shared closet. The whiteness of the spot beneath where her rings used to sit made her hand look sickly, almost like she had a problem with circulation. It reminded her of the way Dahlia’s finger had looked to her at lunch: anemic. They should compare photos. In the California sun, hers would soon even out, but still. She moved her left hand down to seven, and when it was still in her sight line, down to her knee.

  Cass didn’t want to rub it in Jonathan’s face, the fact that she was leaving her rings behind. She hoped when he eventually found them he would take it as a positive that she was ensuring their safekeeping. Even though the rings would probably have fit if she shifted them over to her middle finger, it seemed wrong to demote them to being purely ornamental. Alexi’s apartment was unlikely to have a safe, and the Hazel Park girl in her just couldn’t take any chances with jewelry of a quality she never thought would adorn her body. Her mom’s various wedding and engagement rings were always cheap-looking, conjuring the image of a plastic egg cracking open. She kept the “collection” in the seashell-and-glitter-decorated box Cass had made for Donna in daycare a lifetime ago. The box moved with them from home to home, relationship to relationship. It was the only project of hers that Donna had saved, at least to Cass’s knowledge, and on her infrequent visits to Hazel Park she always looked for it with bated breath.

  Cass’s trio of bands was of a different order, with GIA certificates authenticating the value of each individual stone. Of all people, Betsy was the one who had helped Jonathan choose them. She knew a man in New York City with those curly things on the sides of his face and one of those silly black hats (her words, not Cass’s) who specialized in diamonds. They were supposed to be Tiffany’s quality at half the price. Even a blue blood like Betsy liked a bargain. One had to wonder where the family heirloom that Cass should have gotten was hiding. A family like the Coynes surely had an antique ring sitting in a safe-deposit box somewhere, waiting under lock and key for a more worthy spouse. Perhaps a racquet club girl from the East Coast with tan skin all year long and a PhD in sailing etiquette.

  After drinking nearly a bottle of Malbec while Jonathan was at work, she had set the rings carefully in their safe and scrawled “Thanks for understanding” on a sticky note. The alcohol had puffed her fingers so much she had to use cold water and a pat of butter to pry them off. Whatever symbolism there may have been in the struggle, she chose to ignore.

  When she reached her destination, Alexi was waiting outside for her on the stoop. The short stucco building housed multiple businesses, all entertainment-related: there were signs for an acting studio, a casting office, a production company, and their destination, Gavin Traynor Photography. Culver City was industrial-looking, not similar to any neighborhood she could think of in New York City. She was still getting her bearings around L.A., doing her best to figure out what the Manhattan equivalents of every neighborhood were. So far she’d come up with the following: Beverly Hills equaled the Upper East Side; West Hollywood equaled the West Village; Santa Monica equaled Tribeca. Many would probably scoff at her comparisons, and seeing as she’d only been stationed in L.A. for two weeks at this point, she had no plans to share them with anyone. Well, maybe Jonathan, the next time they had occasion to speak on the phone.

  Her obsession with breaking down the city stemmed from a fascination with belonging she’d had since early childhood. One thing she always knew for certain: she never belonged in Hazel Park. When she was single in New York and a friend would suggest a setup, she’d ask: “If he were a city, what city would he be?” The friend would respond with confusion, “You mean, where he is from?” “No,” Cass would say. “That’s definitely not what I mean.” Because in her mind, where you were from and where you
belong were, more often than not, quite different. The one notable exception that came to mind was Jonathan.

  Thinking of him, she glanced at her watch and did the calculation. He was likely ordering himself some dinner off a website, probably sushi. She reached for her cell to send off a quick text: Getting headshots. Alexi’s, not mine! Hope Luna’s been showing up. C. He didn’t respond right away, like he would have pre-intermission—what she’d come to think of as act one of their marriage. It was to be expected and she didn’t begrudge him his pride. She was well aware that her departure stripped him of a good part of the confidence that comes from believing that circumstances are as you perceive them to be. A classic the world is flat; no, actually it’s round scenario. Now she saw him slowly building himself back up, feeling shaky but remembering he still had the raw materials to forge ahead. How quickly would a woman come into the picture to help speed along his road to recovery? She’d only said they could see other people as a protective measure. So that if either of them slept with someone, it wouldn’t preclude them getting back together. A few dalliances with girls Jonathan met at hedge fund conferences (who hopefully lived in far-off cities), she could handle. Even a cheap one-night stand with a tarty chick from some nightclub would be okay. She knew the guys at Winstar would drag her husband out to party once they heard the news. But something more significant would be harder to swallow. Thank goodness it wasn’t likely to happen. Jonathan lived at the office, which didn’t leave much time for meeting and romancing someone new.

  “Finally,” Alexi said, hopping up. She slipped a string bean of an arm through Cass’s to guide her inside the studio and Cass felt a jolt from the skin-to-skin contact. “We’re almost done. Gavin just ran out for a green juice. I need you to help me choose my next outfit.” Alexi still had that pixie-ish quality from her college days, and no matter what ridiculously low weight Cass whittled down to or how short she cropped her hair, she could not begin to approximate it. Cass was just built more solidly, bones thick like Puddles’s chew toys. In her short-shorts and tank, Alexi looked almost prepubescent, and Cass felt uncomfortably like she was a stage mother chaperoning her daughter to a casting call.

  “I’m no expert,” Cass said, “but maybe something a bit more age appropriate?” She let her voice lilt upward and turned the corners of her mouth into a little smile, small moves intended to let Alexi know she wasn’t meaning to be hurtful.

  Alexi waved off her comment. “I need to get the point across that I can play anywhere from fifteen to forty. Come meet Gavin.”

  She beckoned a youngish guy, dressed in head-to-toe black with a camera dangling off each shoulder. He stood behind Alexi and started massaging her dainty shoulders. He was remarkably good-looking, though not really Cass’s taste. She noticed the tattoo on his biceps when he brushed aside some of Alexi’s hair. He looked like the cheesy guys in the porn she and Jonathan sometimes watched. She always wished for something a bit more upscale to get her in the mood. White-collar porn, like Goldman Sucks or B.J. Morgan.

  “You’re the friend who’s been holding up our last shot?” he said to Cass in a thick Australian accent, though he didn’t seem all that upset about having extra time with Alexi.

  “Guilty,” she said. “This city has a lot of traffic.”

  “Cass, Gavin. Gavin, Cass.” Alexi smiled and her precious chin cleft disappeared.

  Alexi lifted her tank over her shoulders, revealing a nude lacy bra strapped tightly across her narrow rib cage. She was maybe a 32A, could probably get away with a training bra or nothing. The jean shorts dropped to the ground and Alexi stood there, as comfortably as if she were fully clothed, in nothing more than a see-through bra and thong. It occurred to Cass suddenly that men other than Jonathan might see her in a similar state. They would hardly miss her bodily flaws, specifically the wavy pockets of cellulite under her ass and the cherry angiomas blooming on her back. Only Jonathan didn’t notice the gradual deterioration taking place. She barely noticed her husband’s worsening overbite (he should have worn his retainer, but who was there to police him in boarding school?) and the graying of his pubic hair. Now she would be scrutinized anew. Someone would see her thighs for what they were—baobab trees, thick in the trunk and disproportionate to the spindly branches. Someone would notice that her veins were creeping toward the surface of her skin, tinting everything bluish. She shuddered in place.

  Crocodile Dundee now approached with two different blue dresses: one structured, a wool crepe with a cap sleeve; the other a thin spaghetti strap number, made of silk. He held them up in front of Cass to assess.

  “The silk,” Cass said definitively.

  “Told ya,” Gavin said, jabbing at Alexi’s itty-bitty waist. She was like a dandelion that would blow over if he leaned too much weight into her. “The other one looks like something an accountant would wear.”

  “I have that dress,” Cass said, eyeing the crepe one.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” Gavin said.

  “I’m kidding.”

  “She’s funny, isn’t she?” Alexi said, and Cass realized they’d been talking about her before she arrived.

  “That she is,” Gavin said. He winked at Alexi. “Let’s get this picture done, love, before my next appointment comes in.” Alexi perched herself onto a stool in front of a white backdrop and cocked her head from side to side, twisting her mouth around into a thousand different types of smiles. She managed a full spectrum of emotions by simple adjustments of her eyebrows. It was no wonder Alexi stole the spotlight on stage while Cass retreated behind the scenes. Watching her pose reminded Cass of that song from Sunset Boulevard, “With One Look.” Her friend had serious talent, and Cass wished she could have borrowed Alexi’s expressiveness when she had dropped the bomb on Jonathan. What was the right look for pity me even though I’m being a jerk?

  “Got it,” Gavin said, rising from where he’d positioned himself on one knee. He went over to kiss Alexi on the cheek. “I’ll have your gallery posted by tomorrow. Cass, it was a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Los Angeles.” He came toward her and she thought he was about to give her a kiss too. Instead, he snapped a close-up.

  “Gorgeous,” he said, triumphantly looking at the little window of his digital camera.

  In the parking lot, Alexi took Cass by the elbow as they were about to part for their separate cars.

  “I’m sure he’s not your type, but I’d be withholding if I didn’t pass on the message that Gavin would like to call you. I told him your—um—situation and he was intrigued. What do you think? I mean, isn’t the whole point of separating from Jonathan so you can see if you’re happier with someone else?” Alexi looked at Cass expectantly.

  Cass was more than flattered. Undoubtedly Gavin had beautiful women traipsing through his studio regularly—aspiring actresses looking for affirmation that they were pretty enough, thin enough. Delicate girls with radiant skin like Alexi. Women without spouses. And he probably got pretty far with them just on his accent alone. But he wanted to go out with her, Cass, pretty, but with a body that was invariably described as “athletic,” a phrase that hovered in that gray space between backhanded compliment and insult.

  “You’re right, he’s not my type. But tell him I’m flattered.” She clicked open her locked car with a toot-toot. “I’ll see you back at home. You looked gorgeous in the pictures, by the way.”

  Once Alexi’s Prius was out of the parking lot, Cass turned the key in the ignition, flipping the radio from AM to FM. She settled on a station playing some happy tune, maybe Taylor Swift or Katy Perry. Bopping her head ever so slightly to the beat, she smiled the smile of a student walking out of his or her last exam, of a teenager finally kissing a crush . . . or, more aptly, of a married woman on the lam.

  12. JONATHAN

  SLOWLY, AS THOUGH he was working his way through a list of suspects, he crossed off the names of the people he had to tell about the separation.
Cass hadn’t returned within a few weeks, or even a month, as he’d expected, and so the proliferation of the news became unavoidable. The first had been Jerry, and he had responded with the invitation to shvitz at the club. Then came Jeff, Nate and Russell, who he told as a group when they were Ubering together to a colleague’s farewell gathering. He had deliberately hopped in the front seat to avoid looking at them when he dropped the news. They had responded, predictably, with calling Cass a fool and insisting on getting him wasted. It was only when they were pulling up to the restaurant that Russell added, “You know, Jonny. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Your wife basically gave you a hall pass.” These were the guys who made cracks about marriage being like a prison, wives like taskmasters, and they weren’t necessarily wrong. Jonathan didn’t think that way yet—and if he ever did, he felt more like he and Cass were sharing a cage at the zoo. There were rules, like they couldn’t go out and fraternize with the other animals, but at least they were put in the same cell, given shelter, food and security. People who peered into their cage thought they looked cute.

  “I guess,” Jonathan said. It wasn’t like that thought hadn’t occurred to him. Maybe in time he’d come to appreciate it, though one had to wonder what sort of women he could attract under these circumstances.

  He was circling the tables at the end of dinner to say his good-byes when Russell grabbed him.

  “We’re going out,” he said, putting his arm protectively around Jonathan. “I just got us on the list at Aura.”

  “Huh?” Jonathan asked.

  “Trust me, dude. Aura always has hot girls and they go crazy for hedge fund guys. You gotta have a little fun. Cass loosened your noose, man.” Nate and Jeff had joined their conversation and started egging him on, pushing him toward a waiting car that would whisk them to the trouble late night had to offer. He knew these guys thought he was a bore, the most vanilla dude in the group. They even teased him about his Big Brother commitments, so certain their colleague who was frequently rushing off to see his Little Brother was a saint in their midst.