Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  I’d observed him during the summer, a few times nodding hello—taking note of the variety of Betty and Veronica counselor types he paired with, a different girl each week. Donny doubled as the music counselor, and when he played the beaten-up white baby grand propped across the camp’s stage, his head bobbed, rhythmically, reminding me of Paul McCartney. Maybe it was the spell of the upbeat music, or just being surrounded by the chaotic energy of two dozen admiring and adorable tots, but I felt an immediate tie to Donny—something unspoken, yet upbeat and lyrical, telling me he could be it. Though I wasn’t thrilled to learn it had a waistline two inches slimmer than mine. Donny camouflaged his boyishness and ruddy complexion by sporting a goatee and wearing his wavy auburn hair long and tucked behind his ears. Near the end of the camp season, our grins grew broader whenever we passed each other, an assortment of squinty-eyed campers trailing us like twitchy caterpillars. Once, I’d thought I was being nonchalant, but we both turned around to look back. We knew we were running out of time. Then one day after most of the minibuses left to return campers to their respective neighborhoods, Donny sauntered up to me and asked in a low, husky voice for me to hold out my hand. Taken aback, my heartbeat accelerated and I obeyed, as if it were perfectly natural for him to give me a command, as if he and I were already that well acquainted.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, giggling.

  “You’ll see,” he whispered. His eyelids were slightly droopy. Yes, just like my favorite Beatle, Paul. Donny leaned his head over my shaky outstretched hand and tugged on his eyelashes a few times until a moist contact lens popped into my palm. The little sphere tickled, and I held my arm out stiffly, afraid to move.

  “It was in wrong,” he said, wearing a lopsided grin. Then he peeled the nearly invisible lens from my hand and popped it inside his mouth.

  “Don’t do that, you’ll get an infection,” I said. Here I was having a hard time remembering his name, but I was already taking care of him. Had I just passed some test? I wondered if all of Donny’s girlfriends got to feel the warm wetness of his contact lenses swirling around in their open palm. He walked alongside me to the counselors’ parking lot, and as I slipped into my slightly dented, white Dodge Dart convertible, he leaned in and asked for my number.

  “What about … ?” I started to ask.

  “Betsy?”

  “Oh, so that’s her name.”

  “Betsy and I are just friends,” he said.

  I looked at him, coyly, tempted to say, Come on, do you think I’m an idiot?

  I guessed he was just another cute charmer and yet, I scribbled my number on a gasoline receipt and handed it to him. What the hell, there were only two weeks of camp left, and we’d both be heading back to school. He called me an hour later, and we went out that night, and every night after for the remainder of the summer.

  Each morning, when we lined up for roll call, Betsy and her junior counselor threw me murderous looks. I was sure one of them would sprinkle arsenic on my orange sherbet at lunchtime. Perhaps, Betsy had her own interpretation of what it meant to be Donny’s good friend.

  Then, on our third date, Donny brought me home to meet his folks: Louise and Benjamin Pearl, a charismatic couple, with whom I became enamored before falling for their son. They presented themselves as a united front in matters involving both family and business—a foundations firm started by Ben’s father in the late 1930s. I didn’t believe Donny when he announced his family was in ladies’ underwear. He’d said it with such a sweet, flirtatious grin that I thought he might be telling a bad joke. The truth is when first hearing foundations, I’d envisioned hard hats, cranes, even cement mixers. I was sure the Pearls were involved in building and construction and that foundation referred to basements, rather than a line of lacy, sexy, push-up bras. But, not ten minutes after the introduction, Donny mortified me by asking:

  “What do you think, Dad? I’d say she’s probably a full C.” Louise, noticing my jaw drop, assured me this was standard father-son shoptalk. She said that any woman, young or old, entering the Pearl household was immediately scrutinized, then mentally fitted with the proper brassiere. Because they were in the business of breast support, the Pearls felt it their duty.

  Later that evening we uncovered a huge coincidence, which may have sealed our fate. Our grandfathers had done business together decades before; mine owned Bliss on Lexington Avenue, a well-known wedding gown salon specializing in designer gowns and accessories at discount prices. For years, H. Pearl and Sons had been one of their steady suppliers and manufacturer of strapless-bra styles for that most memorable occasion in a young woman’s life.

  “Are you saying that standing before me now is Charlie Kane’s precious granddaughter?” Ben stretched out his arms to embrace me.

  “Louise! The girl’s practically family!”

  I stood shyly in front of the Pearls like a schoolgirl receiving kudos on her first A. Though I felt proud, I worried I might not live up to any future expectations. Something about these warm, gentle folks jolted me back to when I was a carefree and jubilant girl frolicking around my grandparents’ home. My senses were stirred by the aromas of baked chicken, mushrooms, and onions, as well as the soft flickering of Sabbath candles, and the melodic clinking of stemware in the china closet when anyone moved past—a familiarity melding my past and present, sending a tingling warmth throughout my bones.

  I couldn’t wait to get home to call my grandfather who, when hearing about this new boyfriend, boasted how he’d loaned Donny’s grandfather a “nice” sum of money during the Great Depression. As a Polish immigrant, who arrived in America with a suitcase and five bucks in his pocket, Papa was insanely proud.

  “Well, tell me, Papa,” I asked. “Did he repay you?”

  “Sure, sure, shaina maidel,” Papa answered. “It was a thousand bucks, and I crossed it off in my little black book.” Though relieved there’d be no bad blood between our families, it took some time before I felt comfortable enough to relay the story of my grandfather’s diligence in keeping track of what he had, so generously, loaned his cronies.

  Then, on the eve before we were both to return to school, after Thanksgiving, the Pearls insisted on taking us to dinner at The Quilted Giraffe in Manhattan, where they often entertained important customers. Dinner out, for my family, usually meant Sunday nights at Gam Wah’s Chinese Palace, written up once, not for its ambience, but the discovery of cat skeletons in the garbage bins. When it came to patisserie, we savored the weekly gift bestowed by my father, a box of Dunkin’ Donuts, but only if we’d completed our assigned chores and homework. So, when the slightly aloof French waiter, bent on one knee to offer something I recognized from the dessert wagon, an éclair, I sighed with relief. The truth was: fancy anything made me suspicious.

  Donny squeezed my hand under the table while his father, sipping Sambuca, told me that Donny wouldn’t stop talking about this “knock-out” he met at camp. I immediately asked if her name was Betsy, but he shook his head no.

  “Me?” I mustered the courage to ask, while Donny sat there grinning and enjoying a Singapore Sling.

  Ben circled the glass with his fingers. “My son said, ‘Dad, I’d like to ask her out, but I doubt she’ll give me a shot.’”

  “So, is this true?” I asked, leaning against Donny’s shoulder. He squirmed a bit in his chair and adjusted his tie to free his Adam’s apple. Louise’s smile looked a bit strained as she chewed the celery from a Bloody Mary. I truly liked Louise and hoped she didn’t mind the fuss her men were now making over me.

  “Of course, I say, ‘If you don’t call the girl tomorrow and ask her out, you are definitely not my son.’”

  “Well, I guess I should thank you then,” I said, leaning in and barely touching Ben’s sleeve. I hadn’t spent a great deal of time with older men other than my dad, grandfather, and an uncle or two, and was still unsure of the physical boundaries. Ben winked, and we raised our glasses. I gripped the skinny stem of my wineglass, wondering what
the Pearls might say if they knew I’d lost my virginity, just days before, in their enormous brass bed, on top of the four-hundred-thread-count, Porthault sheets—the same sheets I’d frantically scrubbed, afterwards, for an hour, because of one teensy speck of blood.

  My eyes met Ben’s and then landed on Donny. Maybe it was the champagne, but seconds later, my mood plummeted. I excused myself and found the ladies’ room. Leaning into the marble vanity, I splashed cold water on my wrists and dabbed at my face. Not then, but someday soon, I vowed to ask Donny who he was really trying to please when he made that very first call to ask me out.

  It is nearly noon before I realize the phone receiver spent the night trapped in the kitchen drawer. As always, Rona manages to be the first to get through to me.

  “Well, aren’t you the little chatterbox today,” she says, with an acidic hint of possessiveness that signals: it is definitely time to make new friends.

  “No, Rona, I took the phone off the hook and forgot about it. I’ve been in the bathroom all morning. It must’ve been the chopped meat. Donny and the girls ate spaghetti and they’re fine.”

  “Are you saying it was the chopped chuck from Fernando’s?”

  “Uh-huh, probably that order we split of frozen patties.”

  “Don’t tell me this, Alex. I just read in Family Circle that you can actually die from bacteria in spoiled meat!”

  I hear doors opening and closing, a frantic shuffle coming through the phone as Rona begins emptying her freezer. Like a seasoned cashier, she tabulates aloud: “That’s six filet mignons for forty-eight bucks, eight shoulder chops, twenty-five dollars, two prime ribs, thirty-five dollars, and a jumbo package of beef patties for fifteen dollars—in the garbage.”

  “But it might only be a little virus.” I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or come clean and tell Rona I had scrambled eggs, coffee, followed by a toke or two, and pretty decent sex against the bathroom wall.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” Rona says. Then I hear: “Hey, do you feel well enough to come over? I’ll fix you something light—tea, toast, and scrambled eggs. I’d come get you but Hy brought the car in for the five-thousand-mile check-up. So, maybe you’ll drive me there later so I can pick it up. Of course, only if you’re feeling up to it.”

  It serves me right. Though I’m full up on eggs, I agree to lunch in half an hour. Without going into details, over the phone, I mention the lovely babysitter, Colleen Byrnes, saying she is no longer under my employment. Rona gasps with the identical intensity she had demonstrated over the possibility of food poisoning.

  The Karls’ home is an immaculate split-level on the north side of town, “done” in muted tones of beige and mocha—reminiscent of a Danish modern furniture showroom and sterile as a dentist’s office. I often picture Rona and Hy sitting down to a Pillsbury-perfect dinner with their young son, Ethan—a sweet, nervous boy forbidden to tumble and soil his clothes. As their forks and spoons lift in unison, they appear futuristic and comically robotic. As part of her vows, I’d bet Rona has included a policy promising no crumbs, spilled milk, or indelible stains. Yet, secretly, I envy her strict dedication to order. She would have been the model daughter for my mother—the one she would have chosen had she been able to foretell the future. “Oh, Alex, how’s that darling friend of yours?” My mother never fails to ask this when she calls weekly from Florida, her question reminding me that I, too, was raised in a home where the pursuit for perfection was revered, and tidiness was the true religion.

  “I thought you and Donny loved your babysitter,” Rona says, daintily dabbing tuna salad from the corners of her mouth. I wouldn’t mind a taste of her tuna, but I’m stuck with the dry rye toast and gooey eggs. She stares me down with her thickly coated lashes. Here in Rona’s spotless Formica kitchen, there is no place to hide. I pretend to look for the dry-cleaning receipt in my bag, stalling to collect my thoughts.

  “Yes, we both liked her a lot”—my voice falters on both—“and she was great with the girls, but there’s this new boyfriend she met this summer. The thing is … she’s just not as dependable.”

  “I’m not surprised she has boyfriends. That kid is drop-dead gorgeous.”

  “You really think so? Personally, I think she’s too damn skinny.” Heat wraps around my collarbone. My teeth gnaw through a triangle of toast.

  “Well, maybe she is a bit thin, but I’d kill for her hair.”

  “But it’s red, Rona! How would you, of all people, manage all that wild red hair?”

  “Relax, Alex, take a breath. I see you’re upset, but you’ll find another sitter soon. There are zillions of homely teenage girls trolling the mall each weekend with nothing to do.”

  “That’s depressing as hell, plus I hate having to look for someone all over again.” Tears spring to my eyes. I’m on the brink of spilling the beans. It’s a struggle to keep everything inside.

  “Hey, all we are talking about is a few hours on a Saturday night, and an afternoon here and there. Alex, no big deal.”

  “You know, maybe you’re right. I’ll find someone even more competent and reliable.” I sit up straight and finish my slice of rye. The soggy scrambled eggs remain buried underneath my napkin.

  “I bet you’re feeling better already, right?” Rona asks, picking at her molars with a wooden toothpick.

  “Yes, I think so. Thanks. And thanks for the delicious lunch.”

  Rona glances at the chrome clock above her stove. “Come on, we’ve still got some time. Let’s get some shopping in while our little monsters are still in camp, and then you can drop me at the car dealer.”

  She stands and, in seconds, loads the dishwasher, grabs her handbag, dabs on her shimmery gloss, and is ready to go. I stare at her, amazed at how easily she analyzes any crisis, minor or major, produces a solution, and then ties it into a bundle like worn-out clothes to dump in the Goodwill bin. There is not a trace of sentimentality in deciding to let go. Finished. Done. Next! I am certain Rona and I live not only on the opposite sides of town, but on opposite poles of the earth. Still, since moving to Wheatley Heights, I am drawn to her like a piglet to teats, searching for any semblance of nourishment. The truth is: it’s much less lonely to sleepwalk alongside her.

  Later that afternoon, at Rona’s suggestion, I place an ad in the Wheatley Heights Tattler. By the following week, I have ten teenage girls scheduled for interviews. One of them is a fourteen-year-old named Agnes who lives half a mile away. She is ebullient in spite of severe acne and the silver fences imprisoning her teeth. I hire her on the spot.

  THREE

  Since camp has officially ended for the season, the days are no longer just mine. Gone are the blissful hours of planting my garden while the sun, a quiet but reliable lover, tenderly kisses my back. Gone are the warm, breezy nights, the girls spread across a blanket like paper dolls, gazing up to count the stars.

  Today, while Agnes babysits the girls, I drive to the drugstore to pick up a cream for Becky’s eczema before stopping at the shoemaker to have taps put on Lana’s first pair of tap shoes. Strolling past Fernando’s, I see that the sign advertising the blow-out sale remains pasted in the window, but for the first time there’s no need to take a number. Three butchers wave their bloody choppers in the air, anxious to serve me. I stare at the sawdust floor looking for footprints and wonder how many people Rona has already cautioned not to buy Fernando’s meat—how many heard about a woman named Alex Pearl, who resides on Daisy Lane, ate chopped chuck last week, and took violently ill?

  Mr. Fernando, a kind, jovial Sicilian with eight children, doubles as the fire chief of Wheatley Heights and is a very solid citizen. I’d feel personally responsible if his reputation was now tainted, forcing him to close up shop. I buy two farm fresh chickens and ask to have them cut up in eighths. It’s the least I can do.

  Back again in the car, I press my foot to the accelerator and soon realize I am chauffeuring raw poultry in eighty-degree heat, inside a car with a leaky air conditioner.


  Sweat dripping, I remember the other night’s fast and furious bathroom sex and ponder whether it had burgeoned out of Donny’s grit or guilt. I wish I could let it go, but I keep imagining him in the high school parking lot helping Colleen master her first parallel park.

  I make a sharp right into the A&P lot and, going too fast, I can’t stop in time to avoid a Chevy wagon backing out of a space. I clip the left rear bumper and watch the vehicle shimmy. Terrified, I jump from my car, hands clasped on top of my head like The Fugitive finally surrendering. This is my first “fender bender” and, although I sense the damage is minor, the sheer surprise of the impact, and loss of control, has me quaking with fear. Tears start in my throat and slide down my cheeks.

  A petite, delicate-looking young woman jumps from her station wagon and inspects her bumper. She looks up at me and shrugs. “Oh, please don’t fret, this car is a tank,” she says. “See all those battle scars? What’s one more?”

  “Oh, but look at you, you’re pregnant! Are you sure that you’re okay?”

  She deep sighs yes and runs her hand over a protruding belly, then steps forward to shake mine. It’s a small hand with the power of a tugboat. Her demeanor is tranquil and serene, something, which along with her pregnant belly, I can’t help but envy.

  “I guess I better move my car,” I say, dabbing my nose. “I’m blocking traffic.”

  “You can take this spot. You’ve more than claimed it.” She laughs.

  She is about to leave when I notice a bold, colorful emblem adorning the rear window of her wagon. The design is simple, two red hearts with wings floating atop a tall mountain. Across the middle are the words: Marriage Mountain.