As she spoke, she stood in front of the mirror, wiggling her fingers, admiring first one side of her profile, then the other.
“I don’t even have a hint of a sag under my chin. Do you know why?”’ She faced forward toward the mirror, a coquettish look on her face.
“Because Ken has enough money for plastic surgery.”
Her playful face hardened. “Whatever you’re given, be smart. Treasure it.”
“Does that include children, Mom?”
We stood, matched by height.
“That includes husbands, Isabelle. Stop thinking about some magazine article life you think you should have had, and be grateful for what you have.”
And then I lost it.
16
Myth: An affair is only about the couple involved.
Truth: The fallout from adultery settles on family, friends and even acquaintances.
“Don’t lecture me,” I screamed. “Don’t tell me how to live my life. Don’t—”
Diana rushed in, her hair wound in large rollers, wearing a full black slip. “Stop shouting. You’re upsetting Thomas.”
My mother put her hand, fingers spread and upright, on Diana’s shoulders. “We’re simply having a little mother-daughter dust-up.”
“A pretty loud one,” Diana said.
My mother dipped her head, giving a tinkling little laugh. “I only wanted to help with that bohemian costume Isabelle’s wearing and remind her to think a little harder about throwing Adam out after a little fling. Remember, girls, if you don’t watch yourselves, neither will they.”
“Enough, Mother.” I enunciated each syllable.
“If I don’t tell you, who will? Who do you think will help you out when you run out of money?” She moved closer to me. “Don’t hold out any hope for help from me. March back to Boston, hat in hand, and take that husband of yours back. Forget his little peccadillo. Boys will be boys.”
Platitudes were my mother’s version of wisdom. “With your motherhood record why would I come to you for help?”
Poor Diana stood there, opening and closing her mouth, trying to break into the catapult of words.
“Who put food on the table? Who bought you clothes? Because of you children, I had to work in that store for years. Do you want to end up behind a cash register?”
I dug my nails into my arms. Fuck me, if a single tear would leak out. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Molly and Henry will always be front and center.”
“You want to take care of them? Take Adam back. Swallow your pride.”
Diana stamped her foot. Her tension was so apparent I thought her head might snap off her neck. “Enough, Babs. Stop. You have it all wrong.”
I shot her a message to stay quiet. My mother sniffed weakness like a bear sensed food.
“What do you mean, Diana? Speak up, don’t stand there like a mute.”
Diana shrank before my mother, unaccustomed to being the target of a Babs assault. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“Something is being kept from me. Did you know Ken gave Isabelle ten thousand dollars?” She whirled on me. “Did you take it under pretense?”
I thought of the check, not a penny of it touched, the full amount sitting in the bank. “Consider it sent back. I never asked for it.”
“Don’t be crazy,” Diana said. “She doesn’t need it. You do.”
My mother gave an ugly laugh. “Not if she took her husband back.”
“Oh shut up, Mom. I didn’t throw Adam out. He left. I had the affair. Me.”
My words stained the ivory walls blood red. I felt like Carrie at the prom.
“What an ungrateful sneaky person you are. Painting yourself as the little victim and letting Ken give you that check.” My mother glared and marched out.
“I don’t know what to say.” Diana shook her head.
“Go. Get ready. Take care of you.” I put a hand on her back and led her to the door, trying to act far better than I felt. After enough deep breaths to face the mirror, I layered on thick makeup, lining my eyes using liquid and pencil, even adding Hollywood wings which could look sexy or trashy, but never Episcopalian. Then I balled up all the black clothing not draped on my body, threw it in the closet, re-pinned the Stevie Nicks scarf, and went downstairs.
My first stop was the appetizer table, where I scooped cheddar spread on a toast point. Diana moved from guest to guest, sneaking sad looks at me. Feeling unwanted as a rat slipping over puff pastry, I tried to appear thrilled, basking in the party glow.
My mother held court in the center of the room. Her throaty laugh floated my way as she gazed adoringly at a former senator. Ken stood at the outskirts of her circle, beaming at his aging Scarlett.
“Come here often?” A winter-tanned Don Juan smiled, showing gleaming white teeth, sporting precision-cut gray-blonde hair.
“Not as much as I should.” I turned up my lips. Any companionship was welcome.
“Why is that?”
“Thomas is my brother.”
“A pretty sister like you hiding in the corner?” He hovered over me, effectively making a prison by placing his hand on the wall behind my shoulder.
“I’m a little tired; I drove in from Boston yesterday.”
“Boston, huh? Exciting town?”
“I’m a bit outside the city.”
“Ah. A soccer mom.” He looked at my finger where my Tiffany set still marked me. “Where’s the husband?”
“With the children. What’s your connection to Diana and Thomas?”
He held out a manicured hand. “Graham. Diana’s cousin.”
I wondered if Law and Order played now. I’d learned there was rarely a moment where it didn’t show on some channel. Escaping with a plate of cheese and crackers sounded perfect.
“May I bring you a drink?” He gestured toward the bar.
Lone port in my storm time had arrived. “A wine, please.”
He headed towards the bar, and though I was still alone, I felt less pitiful having someone on a mission for me. Even if he was an inappropriate schmuck, I considered him family of a sort, someone to stand next to while waiting to be called to dinner.
Naturally, we were seated together. Maybe Diana snuck in and moved the seating cards around moments before, thinking it a kindness. More likely we were doomed from the beginning, filed in the unattached relations department. Diana and Thomas’s Chippendale dining room table had enough leaves to seat all twenty-four people.
Covering my wineglass a few times would be smart, but I let Graham refill it at will, wanting only to finish the night without embarrassing Thomas.
“How about a drink after the party?” Graham asked.
I held up my glass. “All set.”
He drew in close. Strong whiskey fumes came my way. I drew back. Diana glanced our way. Was she smiling? Dear lord, was she trying to fix us up?
“I meant going out for a drink,” he said with great big italicized emphasis. His smile promised much more than wine.
“I’m kaput, Graham. I’ve been up since dawn, helping Diana.”
“A dram of coffee, and you’ll be fine.”
“A gallon of caffeine and I’ll still fall asleep.”
“I heard your husband left.” He gave me a sideways glance. “You must be lonely.”
“With two kids? Never.”
He cocked his head, as though I flirted with him, and pressed his knee against mine, quickly following it with his hand.
“Please. Don’t.” We were in a room that looked like a miniature of one in Downton Abbey. It appeared as though I should be saying Unhand me, sir!
He drew away. “Hey, what’s up? You gave me signals all night.”
“I what?” Alcohol isn’t the best voice-modulating tool. Heads turned.
Thomas looked over, concerned. “Everything okay?”
“Fine, fine.” Graham beamed, all party cheer, and then dropped his voice to an unpleasant whisper. “Don’t make a scene.”
“A scene? I’m
not making a scene.” I attempted to lower my voice. “You call rebuffing an offer to go to bed a scene?”
My indignation amplified my attempts at quiet. Guests stared in well-mannered horror while drawing closer, as though we were the juicy highway accident provided for their entertainment.
Diana stood. “Please, join us in the other room where Peter will play a concerto.”
Everyone rose. Graham scuttled away. Sharp nails dug into my shoulder.
“Stop drinking and go to bed. Now.” My mother’s mouth was next to my ear. She appeared to be giving me a loving motherly embrace. “You’re embarrassing us.”
I peeled her skinny fingers from my arm. “I was protecting myself from that leech trying to get me into bed.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d mind that so terribly much,” she said between clenched teeth. “You walked this road before.”
Diana hustled everyone out, fanning her arms as though scattering chickens.
“Don’t you dare preach. I’m done with you cutting me down.”
“You’re acting ridiculous.” She shook her head. “You never could control your emotions. No wonder Adam left.”
Tears spilled despite my vows. My mother’s immobile mask didn’t budge.
“You’re a monster,” I said. “Why do I even bother seeing you?”
“Look at you. You’re a mess.”
Thomas handed me a white handkerchief. My mascaraed tears streaked it black.
Ken came over. Now we had the entire clan. “Let’s calm down.” He put an arm around my mother. “Sugar, you’re upset. Maybe this isn’t a good time for you and Isabelle to talk. You’re saying things you don’t mean.”
“Let’s quiet down.” Thomas placed a hand on my back as though I were an overwrought pony. “Nothing’s going to be solved at this moment. And, a reminder, this is our party.”
He gestured toward a silent Diana, back in the room. Seeing her stricken face, I grasped for sobriety. “Sorry, Diana.” I gave a little laugh and took her hand. “Can’t trust these emotional Jews, huh?”
“Stop with all that Jewish stuff, for goodness sake. You humiliate me with all talk,” my mother said.
“She was making a joke.” Diana again rose to my defense.
“I’m trying to help her.” My mother fingered her ornate choker.
“You may think so, but frankly, Babs, being mean isn’t the best way to help.”
My mother looked at Diana as though wings sprouted on her shoulders.
“Excuse me, please.” The caterer broke our family tableau. “Mrs. Rosenthal, there is a phone call for a Mrs. Gold from Adam Gold.”
The entire family stared as though frozen by Adam’s ghostly appearance. I ran upstairs two steps at a time, stumbling on my high heels, and answered the phone, panting and scared.
“Adam? Is everything alright?”
“We’re fine. Are you okay? A blizzard is coming down on the entire East Coast.”
I pressed my lips together, terrified what the alcohol soup might bring out.
“I was worried about you. Driving in this weather is too dangerous.”
I took three deep breaths, trying to cover my tears and inebriation. “How are you? How are the kids? Are you stuck?”
“This is Vermont. They clear the roads before Boston’s sent out the first plow. But we won’t be going anywhere tomorrow. And neither should you.” I covered the mouthpiece while I blew my nose. “Is? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I snuffled.
“Are you crying?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“I hear you crying. What’s wrong, honey?”
“Babs. We had a major blowout.”
“Oh, Is. I wish you could build some emotional armor against her.”
“And I guess I’m crying because you’re being nice to me.”
There were five beats of silence before he spoke. “I don’t want you driving tomorrow. Promise me. The kids were worried.”
“Can I talk to them?”
“They’re sleeping. In the morning, I’ll hug them for you.”
“Good. Good. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Well. Give my regards to Thomas and Diana. And Ken.”
“How about my mother?”
“Give her hell, Is.”
I lay on the bed, confused about the whole conversation.
Three hours later I woke to a silent house. A giant headache pounded, with nausea right behind it. I peeled off my party clothes and pulled on sweats. The thick washcloth I soaked in hot water was a benediction on my pounding head as I washed away my make-up. Aspirin, coke, and dry toast were my only hope.
The kitchen light was on. Diana hunched over the table stirring a cup of tea with slow circles. A snifter of brandy sat next to the teacup. An enormous half-eaten piece of chocolate velvet cake and three pastel petit fours lay on a gold-rimmed plate at her elbow.
“Isabelle. You startled me.”
“Sorry. Where do you keep the aspirin?”
“Headache?” She walked over to the cabinet over the stove.
“I think death is imminent.” I touched my middle. “Perhaps I drank too much.”
“No kidding. Here, take these.” She handed me two tablets. “Tylenol. You shouldn’t take aspirin when your stomach is iffy.”
“Thanks. Got any Coke?”
“You and Thomas both. The only thing he wants when he’s nauseous is Coke.”
“And it has to be Coca-Cola. Not Pepsi.”
“I know.” She twisted a tray of ice into a clean white dishcloth and crushed it with a few smacks, using a wooden rolling pin.
“Crushed ice activates the Coke faster,” she said.
“Where did you learn that?” I took the tall glass filled with fizzing coke she offered. “Thanks.”
“My hangovers taught me.” She sat back in her chair and forked up a piece of cake. “Want some?” She pointed at a silver cake plate on the counter. “I never enjoy the food until after everyone is gone.”
“Me either. But I think what I need is toast. To settle my stomach.”
Diana stood.
“No,” I said. “I can do it.”
“Sit.” She gestured for me to stay seated. Being served felt splendid.
“Why are you up? Hungry?” I asked.
“Sort of.” She opened a bag of bread and took out two pieces. “Emotionally hungry, I guess. Or so my shrink would say.”
“Your shrink?” Diana’s emotional life had always been a mystery. She sealed herself shut with good manners. Thomas, like most men, swam under his wife’s messier inner currents.
Diana folded a cloth napkin and placed it in front of me. Then she lifted her snifter and clinked the glass of Coke in my hand. “In vino veritas.”
“A drunk woman speaks a sober woman’s mind,” I toasted. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing a few thousand calories and a trip to Neiman’s won’t solve. Apparently, I also shop to avoid emotions.”
“What are you stuffing away?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing big. The usual. Why is my mother-in-law a bitch? Why do I need things to be perfect? Why do I drive my husband crazy when he’s such a doll? Why is my sister-in-law able to be so cute when she’s neurotic, while I come across as a rigid witch?” She jammed another fork of cake into her mouth.
“Cute? Are you nuts? All I do is wonder why I can’t stay nice and contained like you.” My toast popped up. I nixed the dry idea and slathered it with creamy butter.
“That looks good,” she said.
“Sometimes the simplest is the best.”
“Make me a piece, would you?”
I smiled and opened the bread bag.
At times, I wondered if I missed the gene for lightheartedness and if Jewish women were less whimsical than others, wearing a heavier cloth on their souls, like their Italian sisters. We were women who ripped clothes at funerals and shrieked at God. But seeing Diana shovel cake and bre
ad in her mouth warmed my soul. WASP women were the same as the rest of us, made crazy by men, and fat by butter and woe.
“So what did Adam want?”
“I wish I knew.” My nausea magically passed and I reached for the cake platter. “Supposedly, to tell me not to drive tomorrow.”
She looked out the window and laughed. “Unless he thinks you’re blind, I can’t believe that was the sole reason. Maybe he wants to tell you he’s worried.”
“I’m afraid to hope.” I unknotted and then re-twisted my bun. “What happened to Babs and Ken?”
“They left, despite Thomas’s urging them to stay.” She gave me the “men’” look. “I never heard her so vicious.”
“She saves her nastiest for me. Venom isn’t a company thing.”
“I don’t know how you take her,” she said.
“I always wonder why I can’t.”
17
Myth: Infidelity is the foremost cause of divorce.
Fact: A lack of investment in the marriage by one or both spouses is the cause of most divorce.
Today was the sixth of March, Henry’s ninth birthday. In the past twenty-four hours, I shared a trip to a video arcade, ate dinner at Burger King, and gorged on sundaes and cake with Henry, plus four of his most over-energized friends, all of whom also slept over with little sleeping. Handing them back to their parents was my happiest moment that month. Adam called as I finally relaxed into the welcome silence.
“You missed the great Henry Gold party exodus.”
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Exhausting.”
“Sorry you had to do all that work by yourself.”
It had been strange, celebrating without him. “You can make up for it this afternoon.” Cake and presents with the entire Gold family at Judith’s house was planned. Including me. Their idea, not mine. “I suppose, Judith will do everything.”
I used my foot to stomp down paper plates and cups overflowing the garbage can.
“You men are off-duty no matter whose house it is,” I continued. “Charlotte’s legacy: The next generation.”
Not even a chuckle.
19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella Page 11