Goodnight Beautiful

by Aimee Molloy

  Of course, Dr. Statler is showing exactly none of that to me. Between his persnickety mood and the box of letters I unearthed in Agatha Lawrence’s things, the tension in this house is enough to make me want to call in to my fake volunteer position and ask for extra shifts. The letters were in a sturdy box in the back of a file cabinet drawer. Hundreds of them, in pale yellow envelopes addressed to a person she referred to only as “Beautiful.” They’re heartbreaking—proclamations of devotion to a forbidden love, not one of the letters sent.

  I hunt impatiently for my keys, knowing that if I don’t hurry, I’m going to risk crossing paths with Sam. He has this hour free and likes to take himself out to lunch, and I am not in the mood to deal with his bad attitude. I take my jacket from the closet and am opening the front door when I hear a car heading up the hill toward the house. I step back inside. He must have scheduled someone for this hour. Who cares, I think, resolute. I need a break from this house. I’m going out.

  I wait until the footsteps pass by and Sam’s office door slams shut before stepping onto the porch. I’m wondering if I should try the new sushi place where the Mumble Twins recently celebrated their first anniversary, when I see the car parked next to Sam’s. The green Mini Cooper with the white racing stripe.

  The French Girl is back, two days after her last appointment.

  I turn around and walk back into the house. Consider me called-in-sick.

  * * *

  “I’m glad we could make this time work,” Sam says when we’re all settled in our places: Sam on his overpriced Eames executive office chair, the French Girl on the sofa, me upstairs at the vent.

  “Thank you for accommodating me,” she says. “Chestnut Hill seems like a place bursting with middle-aged women with things to complain about. I was sure you’d be booked.”

  Sam chuckles. “My practice here is a few months old,” he says, “I’m still building up a steady clientele.”

  “Where were you before you were here?” she asks.

  “New York for the last eighteen years.”

  “I love New York.”

  “Have you lived there?”

  “Yes. I came here from Paris to study sculpture at NYU.”

  I suppress an eye roll. The woman’s a walking cliché. I work in the nude, and on the weekends I like to drink whisky on my fire escape and date Ethan Hawke.

  “What drew you to sculpture as a medium?” Sam asks.

  “I like manipulating things with my hands,” she says. “It’s a lifelong passion. Yours is running, correct?”

  “Yes,” Sam says. “How did you know?”

  “I read about you in the newspaper. That little interview you gave. ‘Twenty Questions with Sam Statler.’”

  “The piece was a little more than I was expecting,” Sam says. “Not sure I’d do it again.”

  “Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” she says. “You come across quite charming.” It’s obvious she’s flirting, which is annoying, but I agree with her. That piece was very endearing.

  “Well, thank you, Charlie. That’s nice of you to say.” A moment of silence passes between them.

  “The article said that you were married, but nothing at all about your wife. How long have you been hitched?”

  “Can I ask why you’d like to know that?” Sam asks, as I expected he would. It’s what he says every time a client asks him something personal, his way of maintaining a boundary and keeping the attention on them.

  “I’m telling you the most intimate details of my life, Sam. I think you can manage sharing how long you’ve been married.”

  “Fair enough,” Sam says. “Fifteen weeks.”

  “Fifteen weeks?” she says. “Are we talking about a marriage or a newborn?”

  “My wife and I celebrate each week,” he says. “It’s a tradition.”

  “Sounds intense,” she says. “And a little needy.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “Is marriage something you can see for yourself?”

  She laughs. “That was a truly expert attempt to turn the attention back to me, Doctor. Your grad school professors would be proud.” She pauses. “No, marriage is not something I can see for myself. Committing to one person forever? Why would anyone want to do that?”

  Sam hesitates. “It does have its challenges, I suppose.”

  Oh, I get it. It’s a technique. He’s trying to show he relates to her, on a personal level, to build her trust and encourage her to commit to the work. Smart.

  “How long did it take you to know your wife was the one?” the French Girl asks.

  “I proposed after six months,” he says.

  She scoffs. “That was ballsy.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “So it happened for you, then. The when-you-know, you-know.”

  “Yes.” He pauses and I realize I’m holding my breath. “I suppose.”

  “Oh?” she murmurs. “You sound unsure.”

  “You said it yourself—committing to one person has its challenges.”

  “What are the challenges of your marriage?” she asks.

  A series of loud knocks obscures his response. At first I think it’s someone downstairs in his waiting room, pounding on his door, but then a doorbell rings, and I realize it’s not coming from downstairs but from up here. Someone’s at the front door.

  Annoyed, I slide the rug over the vent and steal out of the room.

  “Well, hello, neighbor!” It’s her, the Pigeon, standing on the porch. I wipe my palms on my jeans and open the door. “Did you hear?” she says. “We’re expecting a storm.”

  Of course I’ve heard. I’m not Amish, I watch the news. It’s the type of weather event local meteorologists like Irv Weinstein live for, and he’s been yelling about it at six p.m. for the last two evenings. Franklin Sheehy, Chestnut Hill’s trusty and long-employed police chief, was on the news this morning, explaining the importance of staying off the road and stocking up on groceries and bottled water. Storm Gilda, they’re calling it, and only an idiot wouldn’t have printed a list of emergency supplies to have on hand in a Category 2 storm expected to create a lot of mayhem and difficult travel conditions. “A storm in the middle of October,” the Pigeon says. “That’s unheard of.”

  “Climate change,” I say, impatient.

  “Exactly. I’ve been thinking about organizing a march. You know what Drew said when I told him that? ‘If there’s one thing that’s going to stop climate change, it’s a march of ten stay-at-home moms in Chestnut Hill, New York.’ Idiot. Anyway—” She smiles and holds up a Pyrex dish, like we’re on an episode of Desperate Housewives. “I made too much veggie chili and couldn’t bear to throw it out. You like chili?”

  “Are there people who don’t?” I ask, taking it from her. “That was nice, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And cool eyeglasses,” she says. “Where’d you get those?”

  I touch them—the bright blue frames I dug out of one of Agatha Lawrence’s boxes, a perfect match to my prescription. They belonged to the woman who died here, and I liked them. “The city,” I say. “Way back when.”

  “They look great,” she says, and then gestures at the two rocking chairs on the porch. “You should bring this all inside. Winds are going to be bad.”

  “Good idea. I’ll ask Sam to do it when he’s finished.” I hold up the tray. “Thanks again.”

  I go inside and place the dish in the refrigerator. Before heading down the hall to the vent, I pause, and then change my mind and turn toward the stairs. I think I’ve had all I can take of that French girl for one day.

  Chapter 13

  Sam lies on the bed, his laptop growing warm on his stomach, and rewinds the video again. “Bottom of the fifth, and you know what that means,” a fuzzy version of his dad announces from the screen.

  “Why yes I do, Dad,” Sam replies, mouthing the rest along with Ted. “It’s time for trivia with our friends Keyote and Frank Key.” Keyote and Frank Key, the Frederick Keys’ two mascots: a coyote
that looks like a regular dog and literally a white guy in colonial attire who someone felt was necessary to bring on a few years ago.

  “Okay, James from Columbia, are you ready?” Sam’s father asks as Sam reaches for the beer resting against Annie’s pillow. It’s a broadcast of a game on June 12, 2016, available on YouTube, and Sam has now watched the three minutes and sixteen seconds that his father appears on-screen seventeen times. Annie is visiting his mother at Rushing Waters, and he’s on his third beer; his father is standing on a pitcher’s mound with an oversize microphone and an arm draped around a pudgy guy in stone-washed jeans.

  Most serious announcers probably hate being forced to shill, but Sam can see how much Ted relishes this part of the job—emceeing the trivia game after inning five, introducing Tonight’s Special Guest before the first pitch. Of course he does. Gives ol’ Teddy from Freddy the chance to show off his many charms and get a turn in the spotlight, his preferred position in the world. “Get this right, and everyone in section six will go home with a coupon for a large pizza with a topping of their choice from our good friends at Capitol Pizza, where every night is family night. Okay, here we go.” Ted lifts the index card. “Where did Frank Key, our good friend and great mascot, get his name?”

  That’s a cinch. Even if Sam hadn’t heard this question seventeen times already, he’d expect people to know it’s Francis Scott Key, golden boy of Frederick, Maryland, who wrote “The Star-Spangled Banner.” But James from Columbia doesn’t know and nobody goes home with a free pizza and Sam closes his laptop, wondering what Annie’s going to say when he tells her about the debt.

  He’s going to do it when she gets home, any minute now. He’s been practicing what he’s going to say for the last hour. Easy: the truth. His mom made the whole thing up. His father’s divorce, the two million dollars, the letters on fancy stationery every year, letting Sam know he was loved . . . and oh yeah, guess what, there’s no money! He read the letter again, which he’d filed away in the drawer where he kept all of his “father’s” letters, understanding the depth of his mother’s delusion. I don’t think there’s been a day since I left that I haven’t thought about you, Maggie. I’ll always regret what I did.

  Sam will argue that he’s having a hard time deciding who’s more pathetic: Margaret, for pining away for the asshole for twenty-four years, or Sam for falling for it. He’ll explain the holes in his thinking, how he should have taken Annie’s advice and waited for the money to come before financing a shiny new Lexus RX 350 with leather interior and automatic ignition. If he had, maybe he would have realized how unlikely it was that the father who thought to call his son twice a year at most and each time only to talk about himself—“Can you believe it, Sam, you’re talking to a guy with a goddamn wine cellar!”—suddenly gave the family he abandoned $2 million because he cared about their happiness.

  Additionally, Sam will point out, it also probably would have been a good idea to consider the possibility that the letter wasn’t written by his father but by a woman with a rating of 2 on the Clinical Dementia Rating scale, the stage marked by a disorientation with respect to time and place, a lack of judgment, and a propensity for alternative realities such as, for example, that the selfish prick she married regretted ruining her life.

  Sam heads to the kitchen for another beer. He’s going to tell Annie as soon as she gets here, and she’s going to understand. Who knows? Maybe she won’t walk straight out the door and return to New York. Maybe she’ll forgive him. Hell, maybe she’ll even feel sorry for him. “I think you’re an idiot for spending money you didn’t have,” she’ll say. “But I get it. You wanted to believe the money was real because it meant getting the one thing you’d been searching for your whole life. Proof your dad loved you.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he’ll reply, relieved. “Classic case of wishful thinking, or, more technically, decision-making based on what is pleasing to imagine as opposed to what is rational.” It’s so obvious, Sam will have no choice but to smack himself in the head. “You’d think, given my training, I would have been smarter about the whole thing.”

  He takes the last beer from the refrigerator and hears a car pulling into the driveway. Annie’s home. He twists off the beer cap and takes a long pull. I can do this, he thinks, as his phone beeps on the counter.

  Hello Dr. S. It’s me. Charlie. Your favorite new patient. What are you doing?

  Charlie. He considers telling her the truth: Well, Charlie, I’m waiting for my wife to walk in so I can tell her I’m in a shitload of debt. What are you doing?

  Hi Charlie, he writes instead. Is everything okay?

  Yes. I want to thank you for the session yesterday. I have a whole new lease on life.

  I’m glad.

  It’s true what the women of Chestnut Hill are writing about you on Yelp. You’re very skilled.

  Annie’s engine quiets in the driveway. Thanks, he writes. That’s nice to hear. Would you like to set up a time to meet again?

  Yes, I would. Tomorrow.

  He glances out the window. The light is on in Annie’s car. I have some time in the morning, he writes.

  I mean tomorrow night.

  Annie’s car door slams. Tomorrow night? He hears Annie’s footsteps on the path outside as the porch light clicks on. “Hey handsome,” she says, stepping inside and bringing in a rush of cold air. He puts his phone in his pocket as she drops her bag on the counter. “How we doing?”

  “We’re doing fine.”

  She kisses him hello. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I stopped for takeout,” she says, reaching into her bag. “Thin mints and red wine. You hungry?”

  He hesitates, considering his options. He can sit down with his wife and tell her the truth, ruining his night, if not his entire life, or he can escape to the back room and talk to Charlie.

  “I have some work to finish,” he says, draining the beer. “Might jump in the shower and then tackle that.”

  “Okay,” Annie says. “But don’t expect any leftovers.” He kisses her forehead on the way down the hall to the bedroom, and into the master bath. He closes the door and pulls out his phone as a new message arrives.

  Yes, Dr. Statler, tomorrow night.

  I don’t understand, he writes.

  Of course you do, Sam. Would you like me to beg?

  He waits, riveted, as she types.

  Because I will if you want me to.

  He leans against the sink, the adrenaline rushing. Game on.

  Chapter 14

  “Welcome to Lowe’s. Can I help you?”

  The man is wearing a blue vest with ask me anything printed across his chest, and I consider asking him why Sam is being so distant and cold, but instead I ask him where I can find a four-pack of Everlite door silencers.

  I don’t get it. I’ve been trying my best to be understanding and patient, going back and forth between giving Sam space and trying to help him, but neither seems to be working. He’s still walking around with a long face.

  But it’s okay, because I’m going to make everything better. This evening, during a special happy hour, I’m going to confront him gently, ask him to talk. He has to be open to it—he has, after all, made an entire career of encouraging people to spend time in “the muck,” as I’ve heard him call it downstairs, and what better way for us to enter the muck than over a cocktail I designed myself? Spent two hours this morning experimenting with different concoctions from the liquor bottles I discovered in Agatha Lawrence’s pantry, settling on a spiced pear martini, going out of my way to poach three pears in star anise and half a bottle of brandy. (I’ve decided to name it the Gilda, after the impending storm.)

  “Here you go,” the guy in the blue smock says when we reach aisle 9J. He hands me the door silencers and I drop them in my cart, on top of the plant food and extra batteries. I smile and make my way toward the kitchen appliances, liking the energy of this place. Only in America can you buy a twelve-pack of Everlite
door silencers for $4.99 and a Craftsman Dual Hydrostatic zero-turn lawn mower for $2900. I stop to examine the machine. I should buy it. It’s something I’ve always wanted, ever since I first saw my neighbor across the street in Wayne, Indiana, Craig Parker, driving his lawn mower around his front yard.

  Mr. Parker was a lawyer, and Mrs. Parker volunteered in the cafeteria every Monday, selling milk and ice cream sandwiches for a quarter each, passing out gum to all of Jenny’s friends. That was their daughter—Jenny, a name I can’t say without whining. She was a cheerleader, one year ahead of me in school, and I’d stand in the window and watch her and her family sometimes. In the summer, Mr. Parker would drive his lawn mower up and down, making straight lines in the grass, while Mrs. Parker and Jenny wore matching hats and pulled weeds from the garden on the side of their house. They’d finish and disappear inside, where I imagined Jenny went to the refrigerator for a cold can of grape soda. (I know for a fact she drank grape soda. Six times I was inside their house, and each time I checked.) Theirs was the nicest and biggest house on the block, extravagant compared to the two-bedroom ranch my dad did not pay $42,000 for just to see my goddamn shoes in the middle of the living room floor.

  But even so, that’s no reason to buy this Craftsman Dual Hydrostatic lawn mower, and I pass by the display, heading toward the checkout. Unloading my cart, I watch the girl behind the register, hardly any enthusiasm at all for her job. She’s a local, I can tell by her skin, seeing the pretty girl she’d be if she’d been born somewhere with better schools and cleaner water.

  “That’ll be thirty-two dollars and six cents,” she says when she’s finished.

  “And this,” I say, snatching a bag of candy bars from a metal rack near the front of the belt. “Why not, right? I’m celebrating.”

  She obviously doesn’t believe she’s being paid to ask customers what it is they’re celebrating, but the fact of the matter is that Josh Lyman and Donna Moss finally kissed. West Wing, season 7, episode 13. I’ve been too mad at Sam to tell him I’ve made it to season 7, but I have, and I know that Donna left the Bartlet White House to work on a campaign, and she and Josh were both so happy with some new poll numbers that they made out inside Josh’s hotel room. It was tender but also exceedingly hot, the way everyone knew it was going to be, and if that isn’t a reason to splurge for a Kit Kat, I don’t know what is.