by Betsy Berne
Victor accepted my offer but warned me that it would mean clearing out twenty years of debris—although he was pretty sure he could find another shovel—and then he said, “That David Mendelsohn didn’t seem so bad, especially for a dealer.”
“I’m not sure he’s even gay,” my neighbor said. “I don’t know, I’ve done the nebbishy Jew so many times. I may be over it.”
“But you’ve never tried a French one,” I said.
“That might be worse.”
“Much worse,” said Victor.
When I got home I turned up the air conditioner and drew the curtains tighter. My favorite ten o’clock show was on. I wasn’t ordinarily a cop-show fan, but on this one I’d discovered a tortured Irish cop version of Joseph Pendleton. I was just settling in when the phone rang.
“Perry, what are you doing up so late?”
“Up late, up early, what exactly does that mean? I wouldn’t know. Who sleeps? You might recall, I am a delicate flower who was raised in a tropical hothouse, so I need my sleep. And I need a life.” She paused. “I vaguely remember life.” The next pause was more dramatic. “Of course, you wouldn’t understand. You’re carefree, you have your cherished solitude, no responsibilities . . .”
“For Christ’s sake, Perry, you wanted the baby, at least you pretended you did, and you have live-in help and a maid. If the baby cries, the nurse takes her. If the bottle spills, the maid cleans it up. You’re not even breast-feeding. It can’t be that bad, can it?” Condescending behavior from the new breed of parents was unpleasant at the best of times, and this was clearly not the best of times.
“It can be that bad,” Perry snapped. “I’ve lost my identity.”
“No, believe me, you haven’t. I’ve seen you twice since the miracle of her birth. You’re identical. You haven’t changed one bit.”
“I haven’t?” Her voice lost its hard edge and turned helplessly southern again. “You’re so kind, you’re so sweet. We’ve enjoyed your visits so, Melanie and I.”
“Perry, get to the point. My cop show is on.”
“Well, how was the party?”
“It was fine.”
“Poor dear Rachel, handling it all by her lonesome. Was I missed desperately?”
“I don’t think anyone even noticed, least of all Rachel.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, Perry, I’m sure I’ll think of someone who missed you, but can we talk in the morning? I know you’ll be up and I’m tired.”
“You don’t know what tired means.”
I had just enough time to watch the nasty cop get shot in the head and be attached to a respirator before Rachel called.
“You didn’t go to Deejay Night. Are you okay?”
“I wanted to watch my cop show. Why’s the party over so early?”
“I’m glad it’s over. Jean went home all bent out of shape—he hates these parties.”
“I’m not so keen on them either.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. What was there to say?”
“You should call him.”
“No.”
“You should call him. First thing in the morning.”
“No,” I repeated, and then I couldn’t resist. “Did you talk to him?”
“Well, yes. We’re supposed to get together next week to finalize some things. He said he’d picked up some new photos. I guess he was just in Chicago. What’s that guy’s name? You know, that saxophone player, really famous? John . . . you know his name—”
“Coltrane. Oh, thanks for introducing me to that collector. And thank Jean, too, for introducing me to David Mendelsohn. Was the party a success?”
“You should call him. He could have at least given you a sign.”
“Rachel, I can’t think straight right now.”
“You deserve to be treated with respect.”
“I don’t feel like talking about it right now, I’m sorry. Why don’t you call Perry? She can’t sleep.”
“One more thing. She came at the end—did he tell you she . . .”
“Rachel, I really have to go. Can I call you in the morning?”
It appeared that the nasty cop was going to survive, so I could rest easy on that front. I was rather proud of myself, no prying questions concerning her attributes, or perhaps her flaws. But pride is more debilitating than anything else, so I hid in the chilled sanctuary, slid under the down comforter, and pretended it was last winter, back when I was reasonably comfortably frozen.
Perhaps consideration or compassion are not among the guiding principles of adultery. Certainly Joseph Pendleton had made no promises and I had no expectations; I had no idea what to expect. I would have liked an idea of what to expect, if only a ballpark figure. Rachel always expected. At this very moment she was in the process of training Jean to be what she expected. I marveled at her skill. I never even knew you were supposed to train. I had grown up with male royalty—mama’s boys—who did not necessarily obey or serve, although they were full of good intentions and certainly trainable. I’m not saying the Jews had the market cornered on mama’s boys. No, they came in all colors and classes. I’d mentioned this to Victor recently. He became visibly agitated, a rarity, and offered a theory in such a low voice that I couldn’t hear it and I’m certain I wouldn’t have understood it even if I had.
When the phone rang much later, I didn’t answer. In the morning I listened to the machine and had no trouble recognizing the voice, the two weak hellos. And then the click.
C H A P T E R
11
TIME WENT BY faster than it had in a long while; there was no time to think. After Rachel’s party the calls stopped and time stopped. But I made sure there was still no time to think.
I painted doggedly and I researched grief. I attended concept meetings with the young filmmakers, where we got cozy trading caustic remarks. There were calls from Ditzgirl or calls to make to Ditzgirl; a promising studio visit with David Mendelsohn. I made plans for the evenings, although I couldn’t always execute them. On the evenings that I did I was home by a nine o’clock curfew set by wishes and dreams. From nine to eleven I sat on the couch, as alert as a cat listening to rats scuffling in the walls. At eleven I moved into the sanctuary with the phone and the air conditioner turned up and lay there bewildered but determined not to think.
I spent a stoical evening with Hank, who no doubt had his suspicions. He retaliated by observing strict date protocol, hoping against hope, I imagine, that the proper role-playing might vault us over the formidable wall that guarded the possibility of romance between us.
“Let’s have an adventure,” he decreed. “Let’s go to Chinatown.”
Chinatown had long since lost any sense of adventure for me. Chinatown meant crowds, narrow, sweaty streets, and loud gleaming restaurants with glaring lights. He ignored my pleas and it was pretty hopeless by the time we were seated. When he handed me the long, complicated menu, I tried to turn the tide by suggesting cheerfully that he order for us: Whatever he wanted was fine, since he knew me well enough to know that I didn’t really care about food, didn’t he? (Rachel admonished me later: Any accomplished dater knew to feign interest in food foreplay. Jack and I hadn’t needed it, I argued. We knew it was just a formality, a means to an end. She reminded me that Jack hadn’t been an accomplished dater either.) When Hank delivered a biting lecture on how my lack of interest in food was a serious “issue” that I should “deal” with, I didn’t bother to mount a defense. He had only just begun therapy, and really, I could have been any female sitting across the table in enemy position receiving any number of lectures. I tried valiantly to salvage the evening by devouring his carefully selected noodles and dumplings with the proper gusto, but it was no use. Once again, we accepted defeat in mutual maudlin silence.
•
“It’s Joseph returning your call.”
“Returning your call” was not a wa
rm greeting. Perhaps he was confusing me with a potential investor.
“Hi.”
“What a busy week. Excruciating. It’s been hellish, really.”
“Oh.”
“I just got back. I had to go to Chicago again, to deal with investors—no, to kiss their asses is more like it. We’re getting closer—the record company is going to happen, I think. I’ll know in a little—”
“You didn’t just get back.”
“Pardon me?”
“Well, Rachel said you two were having a meeting.”
The silence that followed made any mention of Rachel’s party moot. It was unfinished business that had been left out too long and grown rancid.
“Is that so? Your friend Rachel told you she and I were having a meeting?”
“I haven’t talked to her in a few days. I mean, she mentioned that she was going to see you, she didn’t tell me—”
“That I canceled our appointment? That this project is nothing but a nuisance, a regrettable obligation that’s just bullshit? I’ll bet she didn’t tell you that. But it doesn’t matter what she told you, now, does it? Because I’m telling you now. Yes, I have been back for a few days. I’ve also had friends from Paris here in town. Did Rachel tell you that? I’ve also had to be at the club every night. The big boys were playing, and I had to grease the wheels. They had to be baby-sat. Entertained in style. Dinners, parties. Only the best. Every night. Did she forget to mention that? Did she explain that this is the crush before everyone splits for the Fourth, or for the whole fucking summer, for that matter, and I’ve got to be a million places at once?” His voice was frigid with displaced shame.
“No, I guess she couldn’t get it all in.” My chuckle came out hoarse and shaky. “Well, anyway, I was just calling you back—you called the other night . . . that was you the other night on the phone . . .”
“What night are you referring to?”
“Um, the night of . . . ah, let’s see. Thursday night.”
“No, that wasn’t me. What time was it?”
“Oh, I don’t remember.” Twelve thirty-three on Thursday night, to be precise, but who cared what time it was or wasn’t, or what night it was or wasn’t, if it wasn’t him who called—or was it? We both knew the answer. I welcomed the complicity, our shortcut to intimacy. His lies were like gauzy curtains we could both hide behind, which helped maintain our alliance as casual, not so criminal.
“I guess there must be a Joseph Pendleton clone out there somewhere.” His voice became softer. “Now, that’s a scary thought.” It was his turn to force a laugh.
“Very scary.” There were midtown office sounds in the background: beeps and rings and buzzes. This call was unexpected, jarring, as long-expected calls always are when they finally come. “Well I guess that’s it, then.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it wasn’t you on the phone and you’ve been busy and you’re still busy. I get the picture.”
“So tell me what you’ve been doing.”
“Nothing. Painting. Trying to write another article. I told you. ‘Death of a Shoe Designer.’ ”
“Oh, right, I forgot.” A laugh that wasn’t forced at all. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“And what are your plans for the Fourth?”
“Which day is it?”
“It’s the day when people roast hot dogs, toast marshmallows, light firecrackers.”
“Come on. You know what I mean. What day are people in offices celebrating?” I was getting rattled.
“I’ve heard rumors that it’s going to be held on Friday this year. That’s what people in offices are saying. I’m told some people in offices will be taking Thursday off, too.”
“I’m going to that concert. I thought I told you about it,” I mumbled sullenly. “So I guess I’ll be here for the Fourth. And then I’m going away for a couple of days.”
“I forgot about that concert.”
I didn’t respond.
“The next few weeks are going to be crazy sewing up this deal,” he said. “I’m going upstate for the holiday, and then I’ve got business in Paris. But listen, I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Oh, sure.”
•
The call had come and gone so quickly and I didn’t know much more than I knew before. I knew he still wanted me trapped in the web of his life, but now I knew that the wanting was actually quite capricious and I should not expect inner-circle treatment all the time.
Technically, I could claim to have had a reasonable amount of busy city life myself, but not enough to fend off the delayed reaction that stabbed my empty gut or the longing that trickled in to close the wound.
But now I’d been given fair warning: I had a reprieve! I was on furlough until, at the very least, after the Fourth. The heat wave had abated; the tropical storms were less frequent. I opened the windows and waved away the dull ache. The new air felt fresh and clean.
When the phone rang, I knew it would be a mistake to answer.
“Your voice. Oh Jesus. What’s wrong with your voice?”
I had to think fast. “I’m sick.”
“You’re what?”
“Sick.”
“Spell it.”
“S-I-C-K.”
“Oh Mother of God. Why, honey? How could you get sick?”
“People get sick.”
“Oh, God in heaven, she’s sick.”
“It’s just a cold.”
“Oh, honey, have you taken the Tylenol?”
“I took one.”
“One? Son of a bitch. One? Why would she just take one?”
“I don’t know why I would even take one—it’s only a cold. I’m fine, really, I’m fine. How are you?”
“Oh, you know. Little Lord Fauntleroy’s neck is bad so he’s in traction and I can’t even get in there to make the bed. Yesterday it was the fucker’s lower back. And did I tell you Grandma’s gained nine pounds? She is the only one—I swear, I’ve done a poll—in the goddamn nursing home who’s not withering away. They tried to confiscate the chocolates I brought her, and I said, Hell no! Let her have a little pleasure. Elaine’s mother died last week, did I tell you? Do you realize I am the only one of my friends who still has a mother? What if I go first? I know you kids won’t take care of her. Honey, I can’t take much more.” She sighed. Then her voice became low and conspiratorial. “Well, we’ve done a pretty goddamn good job of holding back, haven’t we? What’s your verdict?”
“About what?”
“You haven’t heard? Oh, hell. I was sure he’d have told you by now. He’s turned into a snake in the grass, your brother.”
“Told me what? Oh, I did get a message from him, but I haven’t had time to call back yet.”
“Oh, boy. I’m screwed. Just screwed. You know you kids can always trust me, don’t you? You know you can tell me anything. Have I ever breathed a word? Of everyone in this family, who is it that you can trust? Who? Tell me. I was sure that sneak had told you. I said to myself, I wonder why I haven’t heard from her. I said to myself, Okay, maybe she’s busy—”
“Just tell me!”
“Aw, honey, I can’t. I promised.”
“I’ll pretend I don’t know. He was going to tell me anyway. What is it? Uh-oh. I think I know. He’s going to marry the foreigner.”
“Oh, honey, don’t call her the foreigner. I’m sure she’s a nice girl. Why don’t you like her? If she makes him happy, then who are we—”
“Oh, Christ. I like her, I like her. I’ve only met her once. Is she still with the cult?”
“Let’s not discuss the fucking cult. I don’t like to ask. We’re better off not knowing. Although I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“The foreigner’s coming to meet us. We’re all going to Florida. To get to know each other, to welcome her into the family.”
“We?”
“Yes, we.”
This was
unprecedented. My family did not get together to welcome interlopers into the fold. I guess at this point my mother was willing to do anything to procure one of her sons a reasonable facsimile of herself, even if it meant going to the condo in Florida that she loathed (“What the hell, honey, Daddy loves it—who am I to ruin his pleasure?”) to finalize the deal.
“What do you mean, ‘Oh, hell’? You vicious rat,” she said.
“Florida in the summer?”
“Don’t give me this ‘Florida in the summer’ shit. I hate when you get like this. You know who you remind me of when you get like this? Her.”
“Her?”
“You know goddamn well who ‘her’ is. His mother. The bitch of Buchenwald.”
“Oh, Mom, please. I like the foreigner. I’ll try to come. I just hate group get-togethers.”
“This isn’t a group! It’s your goddamn family!”
“It’s just that I have a lot of work to do, and I’m not feeling well. Remember? I’m sick.”
“What’s this ‘I’m not feeling well, I’m sick’? I’m not buying it. You liked the foreigner before. You were on his side. What is wrong with you? Oh, wait a minute. Wait, just a goddamn minute . . . oh, Jesus. She’s depressed.”
“No, I am not depressed. Do we have to go through this? I’ll come, I’ll come.”
“You are depressed. You’ve been depressed since the show, even before the show.”
“Okay, okay, I am a little depressed. Happy now?”
“Oh, honey, don’t make jokes. Is it the painting? Oh, Jesus, is it the writing?” The hysteria was mounting.
“No, it is not the painting. And no, it is not the writing. It’s sort of personal.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sakes, you know you can tell me anything. When have you ever ever not been able to tell me anything?”
“But I can’t. Really I can’t.”
“When? Tell me when! What have I done to deserve this?”
“Mom, I would if I could. I just can’t.”
“You vicious rat. I’m going to have to hang up now. King Faisal is calling from his fucking headquarters. If I have to lift him up with my own two hands, I’ll make that bed. Good-bye.”