I’m surprised by a distorted reflection in the stainless oven door. Staring back from my own fun house mirror is a fiery pink, Modigliani face. I grab a frosty can of Fresca, press it to my lips, and gulp, trying to soothe my throat. A large sales slip escapes the refrigerator magnet and soars through the smoky air. It’s an order for several T-shirts I’m supposed to first tie-dye, then paint, and deliver to All Zee Kids, a local children’s boutique, before school begins in two weeks. One is for a child named Emily and shows a nearly naked girl running through a field of daisies, golden hair cascading down her back.
Hey, Missy, So, you call yourself a painter? It’s that nag again, inquiring about the five-foot canvas I abandoned a year ago after coating it with primer. Primed for what, I was never quite sure. Still, I take great solace in recalling the late-life career of Grandma Moses. Over and over I tell myself: Live first, Alex. Paint later.
The yellow minibus honks loudly in the driveway, stirring me from my trance. Pasting a smile on my face, I sprint out the front door to see my Lana, four and a half, cradled in the arms of a young counselor in training. She has fallen asleep on the bus ride home, and her russet curls are soaked with perspiration. Becky will be six in September. She dashes into my arms for a lift, circle swing, and hug. I lick her flushed cheeks and call her by her pet name—Vanilla Girl. She is pale blonde, her skin golden in summer. Becky’s inky blues squint up at me, scrutinizing my face.
“Mommy, are you sad today?” She startles me with her old lady observation.
“No, but I am very busy.”
“Oh no, what do I smell?” Becky sniffs my hands and looks up at me, wide-eyed.
“I burned our dinner, that’s all. Hey, cookie, what’s that you’re wearing around your neck?”
“It’s a lanyard for Daddy’s keys. We made them in arts and crafts.”
“I’m sure Daddy will love it. Will you teach me?”
“It’s pretty hard, Mommy, but I’ll try.”
I take Lana from the counselor’s arms and rock her gently. Lana has dolls that weigh more than she does. Her thick lashes begin to flutter as she sucks her two middle fingers. When I tickle her, I see her little smirk, but she pretends to be asleep. This one is a bundle of energy, a born actress named after my father’s mother, Layla, who lived long enough to bury three adoring husbands. Playing along, I carry Lana into the house while Becky runs ahead to hold open the door. “Heavy, heavy sack of potatoes,” I tease.
When I plop Lana on the den couch, she does a deliberate flip onto the shag carpeting, then jumps to her feet, wide-awake with outstretched arms, her own imitation of Shirley Temple.
“Mommy … hug!”
Usually, I’d wait for Donny to help get the girls bathed, but I need this time alone with them to quiet the engine roaring inside my head. After a snack of crackers, I usher Becky and Lana up the stairs and follow them, collecting the dirty socks and panties they drop along the way to the bathroom. Standing on either side of my crouched body, they rival two naked cherubs out of an ancient fresco. I pour bubble bath under the spigot; Lana squeals as bubbles escape in the air. She is already in the tub splashing, while Becky holds my arm until her chubby legs are firmly planted in the tub.
After a few cries of dread, they press washcloths to their eyes while I swiftly pour lukewarm water over their locks and rinse out the shampoo. I wrap them in one large beach towel and they collide, giggling as I inhale the phenomenon of their healing scent. For these few minutes, nothing in the world troubles me.
Downstairs again, at precisely five o’clock, Fred Rogers’s hypnotic voice fills the cozy, rustic den. Mesmerized by the hospitable gentleman inviting them on his daily journey, Lana and Becky sit squeezed together holding hands on Donny’s faux leather recliner. Their tiny pink tongues poke out and lick the dryness from their lips, and my heart aches with tenderness. Look, Nana, these are your great-granddaughters. Becky’s named for you. She has your long, beautiful fingers and straight silken hair. I have always maintained an open line to my maternal grandmother, who disappointed me only once, by dying.
The automatic garage door rumbles, and I swallow hard. This, the only sound the girls hear over the clanging of the trolley in Mr. Rogers’s neighborhood.
“Daddy’s home,” Lana announces before returning her fingers to her mouth.
I hear the familiar heavy shuffle of Donny’s feet as he walks through the doorway connecting our garage to the den. His wiry brows are knit together and his shoulders are hunched to his ears, hinting he’s had one rough day at the factory. Donny is no longer the aspiring musician his parents once bragged about. Since his father put him in charge of a new division at H. Pearl and Sons, he is an employee, capable of screwing up like all the others.
I cower behind the dining room wall like a cat that’s been shooed from the dinner table. Donny makes a pit stop into the powder room. I listen to his long, never-ending stream. Though he’s left the door wide open, I refrain from scolding. But as soon as he charges into the den and lifts Becky and Lana to give them rough nuzzles on their necks, I rush forward and tug at his shirtsleeve. I’ve never done this before. In fact, watching Donny with our girls has always filled me with immense pleasure, but now I need him separate—no fragile props like our children.
“Hi,” he says, his kiss missing my cheek as I pull back and stiffen. “What’s up? Okay, what did you burn?” He follows me into the kitchen, glancing at a few bills on the table and the blackened Pyrex dish soaking in the sink. He shoots a sympathetic grin. “I can pick up Chinese?”
“I’m not hungry. We need to talk. Let’s go sit in the living room.”
Becky and Lana, having abandoned their fish sticks, are slurping chocolate milk through straws. Their rapt attention is on Mr. Rogers, who has just zipped up his beige cardigan.
Donny’s concern is woven with impatience. He passes our white, spinet piano and lingers, hitting a C chord hard, like in a television drama. Looking at his watch, he plops down on the loveseat beside me. I wait while he removes his lenses. Here comes the ritual of rubbing his eyes. If only he could see me now, really see me; but without his “eyes” he’s close to legally blind. He hasn’t noticed my sunburn or the mascara smudged beneath my lashes.
“Shoot,” he says.
“I got a call this morning from Mrs. Byrnes.” He looks blank.
“Who’s that?”
“She’s the mother of Colleen … our sitter, remember, Don?” My voice cracks. I take a deep breath and rally to regain my composure. Donny leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He pushes his glossy, auburn hair back with his fingers, and I see his smooth profile, how uniquely handsome he is—how any teenage girl might confuse his intentions.
“Mrs. Byrnes said you drove Colleen to the high school parking lot late last night. Why didn’t you take her straight home? What the hell were you thinking?”
Donny turns mute, which only frightens me more. I wish he’d say something, anything. When I turn and look at him, he appears filmy through my tears. His jaw, once hidden by a scrawny goatee, sets firmly.
“I thought Mrs. Byrnes was lying, Donny—I screamed and hung up on the woman. But she wasn’t lying, was she? Was she?” Donny’s face is bloated as if it’s about to explode, but he grabs me and presses me hard against his chest. “Tell me why,” I say into his soiled work shirt, inhaling the dizzying aroma of sewing machine grease.
“I don’t know, Alex,” he answers somberly. “It was nothing, really. The kid said she was afraid to drive. I told her driving was a snap. All I did was ask if she wanted to try. She said yes. I swear! We were in the parking lot for ten minutes at the most.”
I try to wiggle away, afraid that I’ll scratch out Donny’s beautiful hazel eyes. He holds me tighter as if to say: Yes, do it if it’ll make you feel better, go ahead and hurt me back.
Maybe because I’m tired, I begin to picture the stupidity, even innocence in Donny’s act—a childish need of his to feel important. It was a t
rait I noticed from the get-go—something I hoped might dissipate, though clearly it never did. But what I can’t forget is that the incident occurred past midnight, and that Colleen Byrnes is in high school, and he might have been arrested, which may have ruined our lives.
One month before we were to be married, nearly seven years ago, Donny flew in from Boston to help with some last-minute details. We were spending a relaxing Sunday afternoon at his parents’ townhouse in Brooklyn: his father and I in the small, sunny backyard picking cherry tomatoes; his mother fussing in the kitchen, trying out a sausage and peppers dish from her bible, The Joy of Cooking. About to finish grad school for his MBA, Donny had been cramming for finals. Complaining all day of a headache, he chose to stay inside.
I carried a few ripened tomatoes indoors to Donny’s mother.
“Here, Mom, don’t these look great?” She’d insisted I call her Mom since our engagement last summer. “Where’s Donny?” I asked, opening the fridge to get some iced tea.
Louise shrugged, but the scowl on her face told me she was annoyed at someone, or something. I expected to find Donny sprawled on the living room couch listening to an album, or buried under a stack of books in the cozy den. Then I checked upstairs where he’d sleep later on that day after taking me back home—no Donny. Downstairs again, I entered the long hallway leading to the master bedroom, a guest room, and the bedroom that belonged to Ivy, Donny’s affable and popular thirteen-year-old sister. As I walked past her room, I heard high-pitched squealing—what you would expect to hear from any teenage girl’s room. But when I listened closely, I identified Donny’s hoarse voice interspersed with laughter. Pushing in the door just a few inches gave me a clear view of Donny propped against the lavender organdy pillows on his sister’s bed. While Ivy chatted on the phone without paying him much attention, Donny read passages aloud from Mad magazine to three of her giggling girlfriends. Flanking Ivy’s bed, two of them leaned on bent knees, eager as poodles begging treats. A third girl tucked herself cozily next to him, while his fingers occasionally reached out to tug her ropey braids, as if he were ringing a bell.
A tight smile stretched across Donny’s face, as though he were posed before an audience and had only just realized no one either heard or cared about anything he uttered. For an instant I thought about barging in the room, wondering what, if anything, my appearance might change. Instead, like an obedient servant, not wishing to intrude, I stepped backward into the darkened hallway and quietly shut the door. I felt embarrassed for Donny, but mostly for me—a stranger, roaming around the house of people I hardly knew. I was lost, not knowing where to put myself, or where, if anywhere, I belonged.
Donny trails behind me to the den where we discover Becky and Lana without their bathrobes; they are rolling around the shag carpet, gathering orange fuzz balls in their damp hair and on their buttocks. Donny bites the inside of his cheek, waiting for my reaction. Yes, they are adorable and funny, but how can I laugh? Nothing he can say will make me feel better.
Though, in the stillness of the next few minutes, I do begin to wonder if maybe, without knowing it, Colleen lured Donny into taking her to the parking lot. Perhaps later she was overcome with guilt and decided she could never look me in the face again—so it was easier to twist the truth, to fling her fanciful muddle onto Donny. The tightness in my chest slowly begins to loosen. I stand up and get busy. Busy always helps.
While I settle the girls upstairs, Donny insists on scrambling some onions and eggs—soothing, easy-to-go-down food. We don’t talk much; I have one-word answers and grunts. I take birdlike nibbles from my plate while the Moody Blues sing Nights in White Satin. It’s a little before eight, still light. There is a hint of autumn in the air, the slightest smell of ragweed. I sneeze loudly, surprising us both. “Well, God bless you,” Donny says, and I nod my thanks, thinking how often civility restores normalcy. I carry my coffee mug outside to the patio and sit down. Donny stands while he lights up a joint. We both stare at the pink marbled sky. He passes the joint to me; I hesitate but take a tiny drag.
“Hold it in,” he says, coaching me as usual. I imagine he hopes getting me stoned will tuck my angry thoughts away, but I’ve never felt safe enough to just let go.
“Enough! Take the stupid thing.” I blow the smoke out, but it’s already singed my nasal passages.
“Are you okay?” he asks, watching me recover. “Al, I meant to ask, what happened to the paper in the bathroom?” I watch him take a long, deep drag.
“The adhesive dried out. They’re coming back to repair it.” I only just realize I never got to make the call.
Donny shoots me his best piercing look: head cocked and eyes big as rain puddles. Is he waiting for me to crack wide-open, ooze like a farm fresh egg? I remember when I first took a shot at trusting him: how I’d offered my smooth upturned hand like an anxious child, hoping for sweets. He leans forward in the cold metal chair, and I put out my hand, automatically, as if accepting an invitation to dance. Standing, he takes it and pulls me to my feet. His breath is soft and smoky against my ear.
“Damn you, Donny, damn you.”
“I’m sorry, honey, really sorry.” His arms move up and down my hips while he kisses my face. Nervous, I look up to notice the sporadic dance of lights in all the surrounding houses. I hear sliding doors open, then close. There are people, people I hardly know, just yards away from us beyond the woven fence and the aphid-free roses. I smell the rich perfume of perennials, the charring of well-priced filets. Good fences make good neighbors. My mind has become a cafeteria serving up stored one-liners.
Back inside, Donny takes the kitchen phone off the hook and tosses it in the junk drawer. Smiling, he leads me to the powder room and locks the door behind us. I am braced against the wall, exactly where I’d yanked the section of silver wallpaper. He presses against me, his thin yet dexterous fingers moving up and down my body as if I were a keyboard—a place to feel at home. My arms reach for him, helping while he quickly unzips his jeans, and before I change my mind. This is the first time in months Donny’s been this excited, pulsing … hard. I give him all the control he wants.
I balance one leg on the dwarf-size commode while Donny pushes himself deep inside me. Like always, it hurts for only a second. Relax, relax. My fingers grasp and glide through the oily redness of his hair. And I am certain this is all that I want—what I have always wanted.
TWO
The next morning, when Donny leans over to kiss me goodbye, I feign sleep. His cool, minty breath tickles my neck, but I keep my eyes shut until I hear him fly down the stairs and slam the front door. An hour later, once I feed the girls and put them on the camp bus, I crawl back in bed and bury myself under the soft, eyelet covers. I dream weird, fragmented dreams. In one, Colleen’s mother is announcing over the PA system at the A&P: Customers, for one day only, Alex Pearl’s husband, Donald, will be giving free driving lessons in the parking lot. Followed by: For the next half hour, get 50 percent off on Boar’s Head bologna at the deli counter.
In one particular Jabberwocky scene, I’m Alice, not Alex, tumbling through the dark hole of my imagination. My teeth are chipped and blackened, and my pumpkin dyed hair stands stalk-like at the roots. Upon waking, I find my nightgown up to my belly button, soaked in sweat, but I’m not interested in figuring out the hidden meaning in dreams. All I want is to push Donny’s incident away, swallow it down as if it were a pungent dose of penicillin insuring no relapse. I need to trust him again so I won’t waste away the hours daydreaming and rehashing events. Yet, the truth is I feel humiliated and want to hide.
Out of bed around ten, I tackle two weeks of dirty laundry. While folding Donny’s boxer shorts, I wiggle my fingers through the convenient little opening, and scan the fabric for telltale stains. Though I find nothing, my heartbeat gallops through my eardrums. I try calming myself and choose rationalization over meditation; meditation has always made me nervous, like watching myself, watching myself.
Wait! Hey, of cours
e! Didn’t I have a humongous crush a couple of years ago on Becky and Lana’s pediatrician—a slightly balding, yet terribly sexy man I’d nicknamed Dr. Hot? I actually called his office once and lied, saying Lana was burning up with fever, when her temperature barely reached 100. All I wanted was to hear his soothing voice, his Okay, Alex, why don’t you bring her right in. So, what if he was so much older than me? When he strode into the examining cubicle and placed his stethoscope on Lana’s small quivering chest, I felt that God himself had descended upon the room. Once I leaned against the wall while he was examining Lana and accidentally hit the light switch. Though my poor baby wailed in fear, there were several moments charged with a weird sexual energy. Oh, and when I was often housebound in our cramped apartment in Brooklyn … yes, I remember now … there was this swarthy young guy, with amazing emerald eyes, who made greasy falafels at a Middle Eastern take-out place. I’m embarrassed to think that I’d once bundled up the girls to go out in snow flurries to feast on those eyes and strong, angular face—just to hear him say in his mysterious accent: Hi there, Sunshine. How you doing today? So, I wonder, why now this strong urge to play Brenda Starr?
I stuff Donny’s clothing back in his drawers and search for the shirt he wore the night he drove our babysitter home. I don’t want to think of her name. The mustard yellow, short-sleeved Lacoste is balled up on the floor of his closet. Down on my hands and knees, I sniff the garment like an anxious cocker spaniel but uncover no clues. Only Donny’s dried perspiration from three games of really lousy bowling. He did say I’d be sorry for beating him that night. Perhaps, I should have taken him seriously. Other images pervade, though I am a master of forgetting, especially when I am damn close to knowing what I’m too scared to know.
I met Donald Pearl when I was nineteen, technically a virgin, and positive I’d graduate college unattached, forcing me to live with my parents until they died. We were both counselors at The Weeping Willow Day Camp—me, working after my junior year of college, he, having dropped out of dental school to enter a music academy in Boston. When that escalated into enormous pressure because of fierce competition, Donny left, but soon after landed at a small business college where he finally felt like he belonged.
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