And something about the tink of the silverware against Amanda's wedding china, or maybe the candle sheen on the wineglasses, seemed to loop time around a little and bring me close to some younger version of myself. As if a twenty-year-old me were within shouting distance, just on the other side of the swinging door, say, in her overalls with paint smudges on her fingers. I could almost feel her there, the way you can tongue the memory of the grit in the hot dogs you used to grill on the beach in childhood. That night, in Amanda's house, maybe for the first time, it hit me that I'd lost something since having kids—no matter how much I had also gained. I suddenly understood what it was, exactly, people longed for when they longed for their youth. And the bittersweet-ness of that longing. Sometimes it's worse to remember a thing than to forget it entirely.
When Grey and Amanda asked us about how we met, I listened to Peter tell the story of the time he had watched me spill a bowl of vegetable soup in the cafeteria.
“I never did that!” I said.
“You did,” he insisted. “Your hair was down, and you were wearing a T-shirt that said KISS ME. And after I saw you that day at lunch, I spent the rest of the day wondering if anybody had kissed you. Read that shirt and just walked up and done it.”
I didn't remember spilling the soup, but I did remember the shirt. I had gotten a couple of kisses from that shirt, actually. But only on the cheek. Nothing good.
“Was this before or after we bumped into each other in the library?”
Peter just looked at me.
“That day?” I prompted. “In the library? You were wearing your peacoat? You were with your girlfriend?”
Peter shook his head.
“You slammed into me!” I said. “You don't remember?”
“I just remember the soup,” Peter said. “And the shirt. And the fact that I decided if you ever wore it again, I was going to go up and kiss you. But you never did.”
“I think my roommate stole it,” I said. “Maybe you kissed her instead.”
“I'm pretty sure I could tell the difference,” Peter said. “It would have been a hell of a kiss.”
“I don't doubt it.”
Amanda stood up. “This is too cute,” she said. “You people are making me sick.” She headed to the kitchen to move the boys' clothes to the dryer, calling behind her, “I'll be back when I'm finished barfing. Please change the topic quickly.”
In the silence that followed, Grey knocked back the last of his wine, and in a voice much lower and darker than the entertaining voice he'd used all night, gave us this little non sequitur: “Amanda had to practically break my arm for that ring on her finger. But here we are.”
And at that moment, before I'd had time to prod Grey for a little more information that Amanda and I could've analyzed at the park the next day, we heard Alexander's voice from the top of the stairs.
“Mom?” he shouted.
“What it is, Alexander?” I answered, trying not to startle Baby Sam awake.
“Toby just grabbed a piece of his poop.”
Peter and I checked the panic in each other's faces to see if we'd both heard the same thing just as Amanda reappeared in the kitchen doorway and caught our strangled expressions. “What did he say?” she asked, looking nervous. But she got no answer, because Peter was already halfway up their staircase, and I was right behind him.
Working backward, we pieced the events together. Apparently Toby, wanting to be naked like Alexander, had taken off his diaper in the playroom. We found it in one of Gracin's doll beds. Then, it appeared, at some later point, Alexander had boasted to Gracin that he could open the gate on the playroom door, and, even though the gate latch was sold as “impossible” to figure out, our brilliant boy had applied himself to the task with remarkable patience until the latch came free. Then, with the upstairs as their oyster, the kids decided to go exploring. And, in a kind of grand finale, smack in the middle of Grey and Amanda's Seagrass-carpeted bedroom, our naked Toby had pooped a log for the Guinness Book, stepped in it with his bare feet, and then climbed up onto the white, hemstitched, starched-linen bedspread to lead, from all appearances, a marathon session of naked jumping.
Chapter 20
A few days later, Amanda showed up at the park with a white gift bag for me. She was late, and the coffee I'd brought her was already cold. She was wearing a white midriff top under her jacket, which was unbuttoned, and I could see the skin of her abs. She looked tan and smooth. My blue jeans and non-midriff T-shirt and sweater, in contrast, were covered in mud, spilled apple juice, and blackberry jam. Seeing Amanda walk up in all her stylish glory made me cringe again over what my kids had done to her home.
“We're paying to clean that carpet,” I insisted, for the tenth time, as she walked up.
“We needed to have it replaced anyway,” she said, waving the topic away. She didn't want to talk about the carpet. She didn't even want to talk about the gift bag in her hand. She had far more important news that took priority.
“I have to tell you something,” she said, sitting next to me on the bench and looking a little dazed.
“What?”
“I just saw Princess Diana.”
“On TV?”
“No. I just saw her.”
I frowned a little. “Saw her?”
“On the street! Just now!”
“You saw her?”
“Yes!”
I decided to go with the obvious. “Amanda, she's dead.”
“That's the thing,” Amanda said. “She's not.”
“She's not?”
“No,” Amanda said. “Because I just saw her on the street.” She shrugged. “She's dyed her hair brown, and she's gained some weight. But she looks good. She looks happy. She had a cashmere scarf.”
“Are you saying she staged that car crash?”
“Yes,” Amanda said.
“Why would she do that?”
“Because,” Amanda said. “Her marriage ruined her life. She was trapped. She wanted out. She wanted to start over and be free.”
I nodded.
“The fairy tale,” Amanda went on, “wasn't what she thought it would be.”
I shook my head. “Isn't that always the way.”
“So she staged the whole thing,” Amanda went on, “and then she disappeared. Only her boys know how to find her.”
“And she's living here in Cambridge?”
Amanda shrugged. “Who knows? She could just be visiting.”
I wasn't quite sure where to go from there. “I cried on the day she died,” I offered.
“Me, too,” Amanda said.
We watched the kids for a little bit. Then I went with the subject change. “What's in the bag?” I asked.
“Oh!” Amanda said, remembering. “A present.” She handed it to me.
“Why are you giving me a present?” I asked.
“Now that I know what your life with those kids is really like,” she said, “I think you could use one.”
The bag was stuffed with pink tissue paper and tied with an organza bow. Tucked into the tissue was a little card with Amanda's monogram that read, on the inside, in her handwriting: “Sex toys for beginners!”
“Oh, no,” I said.
“Oh, yes!” she said.
I pulled out the tissue and there, at the bottom, was a pile of kinky things that seemed somehow even kinkier here at a park filled with children: handcuffs, fruit-flavored body paints, stiletto heels, fishnet hose, lingerie so tiny it looked like it'd been made for Barbie, a little black whip with rhinestones, a DVD called A Hundred Naughty Ways to Spice Up Your Sex Life, and, of course, some crotchless panties.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said. My face must have been purple.
Amanda was literally bouncing up and down with excitement. “You guys have a DVD player, right?”
“I hope you didn't take Gracin with you to buy these,” I said.
“I left her with the nanny.”
Of course. They had a nanny.
I knew that. “You know,” I said, covering the stash inside the bag with the tissue paper. “I'm just not sure I'm a kinky sex kind of a girl.”
“Honey,” she said. “This isn't kinky. This isn't even close!”
I wrinkled my nose. “This stuff just doesn't appeal to me.”
“It's not for you,” she said. “It's for Peter.”
“I'm not sure it appeals to him, either.”
“I promise you,” she said, “it does.”
I hesitated.
“Take the bag home,” Amanda said. “Try the stuff out.”
I eyed the bag.
Amanda could not believe what a chicken I was. “Just take it,” she said, pushing it a little closer to me. “Give whatever you don't want to Goodwill.”
I frowned at the bag while Baby Sam, still on my hip, swiped at it and missed. I thought about all the different types of sex out there. Goofing-around-laughing sex. Just-went-to-Victoria's-Secret sex. Three-glasses-of-wine-on-a-dinner-date sex. We-were-up-all-night-with-the-baby-but-if-we-stay-focused-we-can-be-asleep-in-twenty-minutes sex. Sex that started out as a backrub. Sex that started out as a peck on the cheek. Sex to make a baby. Sex on a lunch hour. Hotel sex. Motel sex. Car sex. Picnic blanket sex. There were thousands, and each variety had its charms. But the truth was, the best kind was the hardest to come by.
“What?” Amanda said, watching me hesitate.
“I'm just looking for passion,” I said. “Not you-look-like-a-hot-hooker passion. More like I-want-to-consume-you passion.”
“Sure,” Amanda said. “Who isn't?”
“You don't think that kind of sex happens in real life?”
“I guess it does,” Amanda said. “Every few years or so.”
“You know what I want?” I said. “I want Peter to put his hand behind my head when we kiss.” I looked at her. “Do you know the kind of kiss I mean?”
She nodded, and then said, “Men don't kiss like that in real life. Have you ever had a kiss like that?”
I couldn't remember. I'd had some great kisses. But the architecture of them was starting to fade.
“I'm going to teach Peter how to kiss like that.”
“If you have to teach him,” Amanda said, “it won't be the same.”
That night, I skipped the photography lab and came straight home from the gym. Peter, who never stayed at the gym as long as I did, had already showered. I wanted to show him the bag Amanda had given me. I guessed he ‘d either think it was funny and we ‘d laugh at it together, or he'd find it inspiring and throw me down on the bed. Either way, I figured, it was win-win.
I arrived to find Josh and Nora watching Gandhi on our sofa—complete with cups of soda pop and a bowl of popcorn.
“I'd never seen it,” Nora said with a shrug.
This was, apparently, the inaugural night of Josh and Nora's new movie club. She had mentioned to him, the night before when he was fixing the stuck handle on my toilet, that she didn't really like movies.
“That's impossible,” Josh had said. “Everybody likes movies.”
“I don't hate them,” she explained. “I just don't like them.”
“You just haven't seen the right movies,” he said.
And so he was renting his top ten to show her. Gandhi was number one. Also on the list were The Godfather, Three Kings, Chinatown, Citizen Kane, Midnight Cowboy, and E.T. Josh had thrown in When Harry Met Sally as well, calling it “a little something for the ladies.” Nora had veto power, but she wasn't vetoing anything, as long as he stuck to her general guidelines: no serial killers, no war movies, and nothing about cancer.
They were sitting next to each other on the sofa that night, shoulders almost touching, when I walked in.
“Where's Peter?” I asked.
Nora pointed at his office. “Working.”
“He's supposed to be listening for the kids,” I said.
“I've got them,” she said. “I told him to go work.”
So Peter was working and I had every other person who lived in my building in my living room. It didn't seem like the best moment to bust out the crotchless panties. I took a shower instead and then watched the end of the movie with Nora and Josh.
Josh was absolutely lovelorn over Nora. It was palpable. When he was near her, he was practically panting. It had taken me awhile to figure it out, but now that I saw it, I could see nothing else.
“He's in love with her,” I said to Peter after they left.
Peter was at his keyboard, one headphone on. “In love with who?”
“Nora!”
“She's, like, twice his age,” Peter said.
“Part of the attraction,” I said.
“And she has a mean streak.”
“Part of the attraction.”
“And she still wears her dead husband's bathrobe.”
“Not anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying I think old Josh might have a shot.”
“No way,” Peter said. “No way.”
“I'm rooting for him.”
“Okay,” he said. “Then I'm rooting for her.”
“Rooting for him is rooting for her,” I said.
He was starting to eye his music again. It was pulling him back to the keyboard. But I didn't want to let him go.
“Peter,” I said, really just hoping to get his attention. “Did I ever tell you that Josh saw me naked one time?”
I could tell from Peter's face that I had not. I could also tell from his face that I had gotten his attention. He set his pencil down and looked at me. “When was this?”
I had thrown it out as a kind of fun little flirty thing. A way of trying to tickle a little jealousy out of him. But it was clear at this moment he wasn't tickled.
“Oh,” I said, changing gears and starting to downplay. “It was ages ago. The kids stole my towel while I was showering.”
“Why was Josh in the apartment when you were showering?”
“He wasn't!” I said. “He was outside painting.”
“That asshole,” Peter said, looking really kind of angry.
“It was an accident!” I said.
“Why are you telling me about this?”
“I don't know,” I said. “I just thought you'd think it was funny.”
“It's not funny.”
“I guess not.”
“Why didn't you tell me about it when it happened?”
I shrugged, and then I gave him the truest answer I had. “I was embarrassed.”
The flash of jealousy had surprised me. Peter was usually so laid-back.
I walked over to where he was sitting and started to kiss the back of his neck. After a minute, I could feel him relax. I pulled him up to face me so I could give him a real kiss—an apology for upsetting him.
Most of our kisses these days happened on the way to something else. Have-a-good-day kisses, or how-was-your-afternoon kisses or good-night kisses. But this kiss was an end in itself. It was something akin to delicious, and I let it last as long as I could before I tugged on his shirt, pulling him backward into the bedroom, toward the bed, until we fell back on it.
“Don't ever let Josh see you naked again,” Peter said. “Even by accident.”
“I won't,” I said, and we started to kiss again, this time with more purpose, unbuttoning buttons and untucking shirts. Peter was just working on my bra hook when we heard the bedroom door squeak open. We both froze and turned to look. It was Alexander.
“Mom?” he said.
“What is it, babe?” I said, playing it cool.
“I'm thirsty,” he said. “Could you just bring me a splash of water?”
When I got back to our room, Peter was in his pajamas already. He was moving slow and rubbing his forearms, which were always sore. The moment had been lost. And though I couldn't imagine this was actually true, I couldn't help but feel that our children had some kind of sixth sense for moments when Peter and I were focusing on each other. Even sleeping,
they could tell when we turned our thoughts, even momentarily, away from them. It was discouraging. And Peter looked discouraged, too.
“I keep thinking,” Peter said, as I put on my own pajamas, “about how they're here to replace us.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The next generation.”
I blinked at him.
“I just keep thinking that, as far as evolution is concerned, we're obsolete.”
“Well,” I said, sitting on the bed and taking one of his arms to massage. “We still have to raise them.”
“But it's not about us anymore. It's about them. We're supposed to give everything we have to them. We're supposed to empty ourselves out.”
“This is why we're too tired for sex?”
“This is why we're too tired for everything.”
It was true. If we didn't have children, Peter would be kicking ass in grad school. As it was, every minute he wasn't teaching or taking classes, he was with the kids. It must have been agony for a guy like Peter to be doing anything half-assed.
“Peter?” I said, deciding we needed a change of subject. “Do you know why I came home early?”
He hadn't noticed that I'd come home early.
“I have something I want to show you,” I said.
He leaned back against the pillow. “Okay,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
I went into the closet and grabbed Amanda's bag, walked over to him and pulled out the least silly thing in there, the thing I thought would most likely get his attention: the lingerie.
It did get his attention. His eyes, which had been almost closed, opened right up. “What is that?”
“Amanda gave it to me,” I said.
Everyone Is Beautiful Page 15