Goodnight Beautiful

by Aimee Molloy

  My instinct was right: the two of them dated in high school. I found out during stop number two on my cultural scavenger hunt, the Free Library, where I discovered the shelf of Brookside High yearbooks, every issue since the school was built on a cornfield in 1968. (I googled it, by the way, and the closest brook is a good three miles away.) I almost missed noticing them above the magazines, the high school name printed on the spine in the year’s most popular font. I couldn’t resist taking an armful of yearbooks to a square wooden table, cramming myself onto a chair meant for a child, discovering photos of Sam’s dad, the ruggedly handsome math teacher; Margaret, the beloved secretary with the pretty smile; and then Sam himself, his first appearance on page fourteen of the 1995 edition, all chisel-cheeked and red-lipped.

  Stats. That’s what they called him, and it doesn’t take being voted Most Likely to Be in the CIA like Becky Westworth, class of ’95, to figure out that this refers to the number of girls Sam slept with—including, it appears, Sidney Pigeon née Martin. She was very much his type: short legs, mousy brown hair, a little chunky. (I’m kidding, of course. She was adorable and thin.)

  There’s smoke coming from her chimney, and a light’s on upstairs. I imagine her in the living room, watching the morning shows, folding laundry. I’m about to turn away when I notice the car in the driveway, parked behind Sam’s. A dark green Mini Cooper with a white racing stripe, which I’ve never seen here before.

  I hang up the towel and pull on the robe I found in Agatha Lawrence’s closet when I moved in (what can I say? It’s from the Neiman Marcus cashmere collection), knowing I should forget I ever saw that green Mini Cooper and keep with the plan: fresh sheets on my bed, West Wing episode six, two Oreos waiting patiently for me on the bedside table. But before I know it I’m dashing to the stairs, toward the study, moist footprints trailing behind me on the wood floors. Exactly what everyone around here needs.

  A new patient.

  * * *

  The cold air from the cracked window strikes me as soon as I open the door and head through the boxes toward the happy-face rug I ordered from Urban Outfitters. It was probably unnecessary, as Sam has no interest in what happens to this room, but then I read the description—Happy vibes all through your space with this plush smiley face area rug—and how could I not buy it to cover the vent?

  “What kind of things did it make you aware of?” Sam is asking.

  “How powerful I am.” Female with an accent. French. Possibly Italian. “You would think it’d be the opposite, right?”

  “What do you mean?” Sam asks.

  “I was seventeen years old, sleeping with the forty-year-old father I babysat for. He’s the one expected to wield the power in that dynamic, but I could have made him do anything.” Strong cheekbones, short brown hair. A French Natalie Portman. I do this sometimes, imagine what they look like and who’d play them in the movie based only on their voice. It usually takes me at least three sessions (I’m still deciding between Emma Thompson and Frances McDormand for Numb Nancy), but with this one it’s immediate. Dark Natalie Portman, Black Swan. “And now it’s second nature to me.”

  “What is, exactly?” Sam asks.

  “Manipulating men to do whatever I want,” she says. “You could call it my superpower. I should pitch it to Marvel, right? Put me in a red bodysuit and watch me find the weakness in men.”

  “I can already see the movie poster,” Sam says.

  They share a hearty chuckle, and I notice how relaxed he sounds. In fact, I’d say he’s more relaxed than he’s been in days.

  “I can’t imagine being with someone who I couldn’t control,” she says. “Men, at least. Women are an entirely different story.”

  “Are you currently seeing anyone?” he asks.

  “A few people,” she says. “But most of my time is for Chandler.” My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a laugh. Chandler? “He’s the real reason I wanted to start therapy.”

  “Tell me about him,” Sam says.

  She sighs. “I met him at the end of summer, at an opening in New York. The guy I was with is kind of a bore, and I noticed Chandler standing near the bar. He’s insanely sexy. You know, in that way older guys are?”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” Sam says. “How old is he?”

  “Forty-one.” She snickers. “Sorry if you’re offended by me saying forty-one is old.”

  “I’m not, but thank you,” Sam says.

  “Anyway, I went over and talked to him. Asked if he was enjoying the show. And my god, the way he looked at me . . .” She stops there.

  “How did he look at you?”

  “He drank me up. He was utterly unabashed about it, too.” Her voice is distant, and I imagine her on the sofa, languid, her eyes on the backyard. “I still masturbate to the thought of it.”

  I cringe, wondering what he must make of this girl.

  “His wife came over then and introduced herself. She’d curated the show, and we chatted a few minutes. He kept his eyes on me all night, and before I left I wrote my name and number in the guest book near the door.”

  “And?”

  “He texted me within the hour and came over that night.” She laughs softly. “Honest to god, best night of my life.”

  “Do I sense a but coming . . .”

  “Two days later I showed up for my studio class at the university, and he’s the professor. I had no idea, and neither one of us acknowledged it, but at the end of the class he asked me to stay behind.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did he have to say?”

  “Not one word. He locked the door and pushed me to the floor,” she says. “It’s now a ritual, at the end of every class. There’s four other students in that studio class, and I can’t even begin to tell you how incredible the tension is between us during that hour.” It’s silent then, and I picture Sam, in his chair, waiting for her to speak. “Are you appalled, Doctor?”

  “Appalled?”

  “Yes. An impressionable twenty-four-year-old woman, sleeping with her older, married professor. Certainly breaks a lot of rules.”

  “What do you think about that aspect of your relationship?”

  “I think it’s an incredible turn-on,” she says. “In fact, nothing turns me on more than crossing a boundary with a man.”

  “That’s something I would like to explore further,” Sam says. “But unfortunately, we’re nearly out of time.” I look at the clock: 2:44. Her appointment must have started at two. I take the notebook I’d hidden in one of Agatha Lawrence’s boxes and add her name to the list—“The French Girl”—as Sam shifts in his chair below me. “I’m curious how today felt for you,” he says. “You said in your message you’ve never gone to therapy before. I like to check in and see—”

  “It felt great,” she says. “You’re worth every cent.”

  “Would you like to make another appointment for later this week?”

  “You want me to come twice a week?”

  “It’s what I suggest for all new patients, at least in the beginning,” Sam says. I stop writing. No, he doesn’t. “Therapy is most useful to those who commit to it, Charlie.” Charlie, I jot down in the notebook.

  “Can I think about it?” she asks.

  “Of course.”

  They stand, and I hear Sam’s office door open. I wait for the outside door to slam shut and her footsteps to pass by the window before sliding the notebook into the box and easing toward the broken window for a peek. She’s wearing a hat with a fur rim and a long wool coat. I can’t make out her features as she opens the door and gets into the front seat of the green Mini Cooper. I step away from the window and replace the happy-face rug. Pulling my robe more tightly around me, I steal quietly out of the room, back upstairs, uneasy.

  He needs to watch out for that one.

  Chapter 11

  Sam runs hard and fast up the hill, rain-soaked, his lungs burning.

  Keep going, he tel
ls himself. Five more minutes to the top. It’s so quiet, the only sounds are his labored breathing and the soles of his new top-of-the-line running shoes slapping against the cold, wet asphalt, bringing back the memory of the first time he ran this road, the night his dad left. Sam left his mother at the dining room table, the barely touched coconut cake on the table between them. He bolted out of the house, down their cul-de-sac of shitty two-bedroom houses, up into the hills. Albemarle Road. Even the name sounded majestic, and he kept coming back, punishing his body, imagining what it would be like to own one of these big houses, skylights under a canopy of pines, six wooded acres. Rich people lived here. Intact families with two cars and a father who wasn’t fucking the girl on page twenty-four of the Talbots catalog.

  Annie knows something’s up. Of course she does, she’s not an idiot. He’s been acting weird since he went to the bank four days ago. Called her to cancel their date, made up a story about a patient in crisis, said he needed to make a few phone calls. He then sat in his car for four hours in the high school parking lot, trying to come up with a plan.

  Sam hears a car approaching and moves to the side of the road, toward the edge of the shallow ditch. He keeps going, his thighs burning, sprinting the last hundred feet to the top of the hill. He drops down to the ground, panting, his phone heavy in the front pocket of his running jacket.

  Do it, Sam. Do what you came up here to do. Call him.

  Sam unzips the pocket and pulls out his phone and the slip of paper where he wrote his father’s phone number, which he’d spent forty-five minutes digging through old cell phone bills to find. It’s going to be fine. He’ll tell his father what happened at the bank, and his father will fix everything. He takes a breath, dials.

  “Yeah, hello!” Ted Statler chirps on the first ring.

  “Hi Dad.”

  The line goes silent for a moment. “That you, Sammy?”

  “It’s me, all right,” he says through the lump in his throat. “Unless you have another kid I don’t know about.”

  His father laughs. “Well, how about that. How you doing, son?”

  “Good. I’m sorry we haven’t spoken—” There’s commotion on the other end.

  “Guess where I am,” Ted says.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Peter Angelos’s house. You know who that is?”

  Sam laughs. “Of course I know who that is. It’s the owner of the Baltimore Orioles.”

  “Right, Sammy! Nice work.” Teddy whistles. “He’s got a fountain. Anyway, how’s things, son? How’s New York treating you?”

  “I’m not in New York. Moved back home a few months ago.”

  “To Chestnut Hill?” Teddy laughs, incredulous. “Why would you do that?”

  “Mom’s sick,” Sam says, numb with cold.

  There’s a burst of laughter in the background. “What’d you say, Sammy?”

  “Mom’s sick,” he repeats, irritated that his father isn’t walking out of the room to find some place quieter to talk to his estranged son. “She needed help.”

  “Sorry to hear that, son.”

  “And I got married.”

  “Married! You’re kidding.” He whoops out a holler. “What’s her name? It is a her, right? Never can be too sure these days.”

  Sam forces a laugh, like he’s supposed to. “Her name’s Annie.”

  Sam hears muffled voices in the background. “Oh Jesus, Sammy. You’re never going to guess who’s here.”

  “Peter Angelos?” Sam offers.

  “No.” Teddy lowers his voice to a whisper. “Cal Ripken.”

  Heat floods Sam’s face. Cal Ripken, his all-time hero. The man who brought father and son together one hundred and sixty two evenings a year. Hearing his name, Sam is twelve years old again, his mom in the kitchen making homemade spaghetti sauce for Sunday dinner. The house smells like garlic bread, and his father’s face is tight with concentration, watching number 8, old Iron Man himself, take the field.

  “Should I talk to him?” his dad asks.

  “Are you kidding?” Sam stands up and begins pacing back and forth across the street. “Of course you should. It’s Cal fucking Ripken.”

  “Cal fucking Ripken,” his dad repeats.

  “Who’s he with?” Sam asks.

  “Can’t tell,” he says. “He’s surrounded.”

  “I bet he is. How’s he look?”

  “Good,” his dad says. “Still in great shape, too. Oh look. He’s with some old broad. That can’t be his wife.” Teddy chuckles. “You remember the day we watched him break Lou Gehrig’s record?”

  Sam stops pacing. “Yeah, Dad. I remember.” It was the day you met Phaedra, stupidest name in history.

  “That was a great day, wasn’t it, Sammy?”

  Sam laughs. “A great day? Are you kidding me?”

  “You all right, Sammy?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he snaps. Do it Sam, get it over with. “Listen, Dad. I’m calling about the money you deposited into Mom’s account. I went to the bank, and there was some discrepancy—” There’s more commotion and then loud music.

  “Things are starting here, Sammy. I have to go. Can I give you a call later?”

  “Later? No, Dad, I need—”

  “We’re getting ready to head off for the winter, down to one of Phaedra’s places in the Caribbean. Nice, huh?”

  Sam stops in the middle of the street. “We who?”

  “Me and the missus,” Ted says.

  “You and Phaedra are still married?”

  “What are you talking about? Of course we are. Better than ever, in fact.”

  “I thought you got divorced. You said in the letter—”

  “Letter? What letter?”

  “The letter about the money. On your stationery.”

  “No idea what stationery you’re talking about.”

  “Dad,” Sam says, stern. “The letters you’ve been sending me. Asking me to call.”

  “I’m sorry, Sammy, but are you drunk?”

  “Drunk? No—”

  “Hang on a minute,” Teddy says. “Phaedra wants to say hi.”

  “Sam!” Her voice is breathy, as stupid as her name. “I heard your dad say you got married, which is a real bummer. I opened a bridal veil store. I could have hooked you up. Next time you get married, send her our way.”

  Ted’s back on the line, laughing. “Real good hearing from you, son. You should come down. We got plenty of room. Gotta run. Take care.”

  The line goes dead in Sam’s hand, the realization crystallizing.

  His father’s not divorced.

  Which means there was no settlement.

  Which then means that—

  There is no money.

  “She made it all up.” Sam says the words out loud.

  His mother made it up.

  His father didn’t write that letter Sam found. And not only that, it appears from what he said that he didn’t write any of the letters. The stationery. The assurances that his father thought about him, that he loved him, always ending it with an invitation to call, which Sam never did. It was all her—Margaret—the whole time, desperate to make everything okay.

  His phone rings in his hand, and he closes his eyes again, allowing himself an absurd moment of hope that it’s Ted, calling back, apologizing for being a dick and asking if Sam’s got a pen. Realized I wrote the account number down wrong, Sammy!

  But it’s not him, it’s an unknown number. Again. The dude from the debt collection agency. He says his name is Connor, but there’s no way his name is Connor because he lives in India making two dollars a day and Sam can’t imagine many boys are called Connor there. He’s called twice today already, from the same unknown number.

  “Hello, Connor,” Sam spits into the phone. “It’s nice of you to call again. It’s been five hours and I’ve sort of missed you. Also, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a psychologist and I’d suggest you look hard at some of your life choices because honestly, this job y
ou have—”

  “Sam?” It’s a woman’s voice.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Sally French, from Rushing Waters.”

  “Hello, Mrs. French,” he says, clearing his throat, embarrassed. “How are you?”

  “I’m good, Sam. Thank you.” She pauses. “You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” No, I feel like I’m losing control. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Well, no,” she says. “James, our head of accounting, was going to call you, but I wanted to do it myself. The check you sent bounced.”

  “Is that right?” he mutters.

  “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding, and we’re hoping you can drop another one off tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Sure can.”

  “You’re behind, as you know, and—”

  “Yes,” he says. “I know. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Thank you, Sam.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. French.”

  The wind picks up and he begins to run again, telling himself it’s all going to be okay.

  Chapter 12

  I put the bag of Smartfood in my backpack, on top of my copy of Infinite Jest, determined to get to the slow and torturous end of chapter 3. I couldn’t resist ordering a used copy from Amazon for four dollars plus shipping. Skinny Jeans won’t stop yapping about how creatively inferior the book is making him feel, and rather than yelling at him through the vent to JUST STOP READING IT, I’m approaching it the way Dr. Sam Statler would. Empathetically.