Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “Marriage Mountain. I like that, it’s so intriguing.” I’m afraid to sound cheerful in case this is a serious deal, something related to drugs, alcohol, or spousal abuse. Her doe-like eyes turn wistful. “Oh, forgive me. Sometimes, I’m much too nosy.”

  “No, no, please. I’m glad you asked. Joe and I joined Marriage Mountain six months ago, and it’s made a huge difference in both our lives. There’s a sanctuary for married couples about thirty minutes from here—a weekend retreat, held in a monastery, run by the Jesuits,” she says, in a timbre as smooth and angelic as her face. I see a flash frame of Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby.

  “Uh-huh, I see.” I know little about the Jesuits except that they are priests. Perhaps, it would have served me better to take an elective in world religions instead of all those credits in oil painting and mixed media.

  “It’s totally non secular,” she says, as if reading the trepidation in my face. “The program is designed mostly to help couples of all faiths rededicate themselves to the relationship. After a while we all need to renew our marriage vows. You are married, I assume? Come on … how long?”

  “Um … almost seven years.” My voice sounds as tiny as a third grader’s. Maybe it’s her softness or the surprise impact made by our car bumpers, but because I feel she sees through me and how scared I am, I begin telling this complete stranger everything. I talk so fast I can hardly catch my breath. She observes me, quietly, and as I babble on, all she keeps saying is “breathe honey, breathe.”

  A gum-chewing, Brillo-haired woman pulls up in her sleek, shiny Corvette and honks. “Girls! Ya’ leavin’ ta-day or ta-morrow?”

  “In one minute!” my Marriage Mountain woman shouts back. Holding up her hand with the authority of a crossing guard, she takes her sweet-ass time. She fishes for a pen and paper in a suede-fringed shoulder bag and scribbles on a flyer. “Call me when you get home for all the information. By the way, what’s your name?”

  I glance around, then whisper, as if I’m Deep Throat exchanging life-altering information, “Alex, Alex Pearl.”

  “I’m Jillian. Today is your lucky day, Alex. You’ll see.” Jillian pivots around to the seething woman still waiting and smiles a Cheshire smile. “Sorry, my girlfriend, Alex, is taking my spot.”

  For the rest of the day I’m super-hyper, elated about the prospect of a weekend away with Donny and sold on the idea of forcing our intimacy in order to reinforce it. I’m determined to use Donny’s midnight ride with our babysitter as a turning point and fresh start.

  Alex, admit it, there have been plenty of times when you weren’t exactly the perfect mate. Tired or under stress, you can be hypercritical and a bit of a nag. If I’m the one responsible for pushing Donny away, then it’s up to me to find the way to tug him back. Split again, from what’s real or imagined, I must fix whatever needs fixing.

  I call Jillian before Donny gets home from work. She sounds surprised to hear from me. Practically bursts my eardrum with her, “Hi!” But doesn’t recall if I’m the woman she met at the dry cleaner, the car wash, or locked bumpers with in the parking lot. In the background, I hear dogs barking, playfully, and the warm tones of a man’s voice trying to still them. Again, I feel a pang of envy toward this stranger who seems to possess some secret marital code I have yet to figure out. Jillian gives me the phone number for Marriage Mountain, then mentions the total cost of $200. I’ve got at least that hidden under the bedroom carpet—money from my T-shirt painting that I’ve saved for new window treatments. The sliding Japanese panels for our den can wait.

  “If you mention my name when you register,” Jillian says, “you’ll get a twenty percent discount, and my husband and I get fifty percent off on the next brush-up weekend.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think we’d have to return. Doesn’t that get pretty costly?”

  “Alex, would you stop taking a lifesaving drug if it was working for you—showing evidence of a cure?”

  “Well no, of course not.” I spot my face in our mirrored armoire. My cheeks are brick red and blotchy.

  “So, basically you’re saying you’ll do anything to make your marriage work?”

  “Yes, I’d be foolish not to.”

  “Trust me, you’re already halfway there.” Jillian signs off before I can say thank you.

  The next morning, when I call the toll-free number for Marriage Mountain—1-800-FOR-LOVE—I’m informed the first available opening is the third weekend in October. “I’ll take it!” I shout to an automated-sounding operator, as if I’ve just garnered the last set of Ginsu knives in North America.

  “You are incredibly lucky, Mrs. Donald Pearl of Wheatley Heights, New Jersey, to have gotten a spot onboard,” the operator recites, “to be included among the many couples, seven hundred sixty in the fine state of New Jersey alone, selecting the same route for the same destination: a happy, healthier marriage.”

  Yes, I think, I am incredibly lucky, and Marriage Mountain sounds much less intimidating than a trip to marriage counseling.

  I drive the very manageable twenty-five minutes to Brooklyn so I can ask Donny’s mom if it’ll be okay to leave the girls that particular weekend of the retreat. Plus, I think it’s better to deliver this information in person. Louise is off from work today, waiting to meet with her decorator. Multi-textured fabric swatches are spread out in front of her, according to color scheme. I point to a group of soft, celery greens and nod an enthusiastic yes. I’m trying to be upbeat, but the instant I mumble the words “Marriage Mountain,” Louise digs at her temples, as if she’s locked in a vise, suffering from one of her debilitating migraines.

  “Oh no,” she says, mussing her fabric display, laying her upper body across the butcher-block cooking island. The exact same spot Ben usually carves the Thanksgiving turkey. “I knew it. I just knew something was wrong.”

  Hearing this, I’m struck, momentarily, with a sinking feeling. What does she know that I don’t know? What can she see that eludes me? Still, I continue to peddle enthusiasm. “No, no,” I assure her. “This is the biggest thing now. Young couples just like us, alone on a retreat, exploring their relationship, hoping to open the lines of communication.”

  “Your lines are closed already? You’re married what? Six, seven years?”

  “Mom, this is a positive thing. Hey, a bit like redecorating or sprucing up.” I point to the wide array of swatches, many of which have fallen on the floor.

  “Let me tell you something, Alex. In our day, Ben and I didn’t think of such things. We were too busy raising children, trying to scrape up enough dough to pay the rent. We worked hard at everything—together.”

  I’m waiting for the infamous mousetrap story: when Louise tells how, when they were first married and destitute, living in a basement apartment and not this renovated mini-mansion on Ocean Parkway, she and Ben had to pry the shriveled mice out of the mousetraps in order to use them again. Instead, she drags herself to the double-door freezer and pours a glass of Smirnoff on the rocks, which she chases down with Excedrin. Her hands shake lately; and I hold my breath as the glass dips like a sailboat on a wave, meeting her pale mouth for the first gulp. Few signs remain of the woman who proudly marched on Washington for civil rights over a decade ago. Though she complains she’s going through her changes, if I ask about it, she waves me off, fanning herself with spatulas, place mats, or any flexible aid within reach.

  “Sometimes, darling, it’s not wise to dig so deep—or you may uncover a fat, juicy worm.”

  “But what if things don’t feel right, and I’m already hurting?” Why mention the lovely teenage girl, whose flawless smile resides permanently behind my burning irises?

  “That’s marriage, my sweet. What, you think our lives have been completely unblemished? Ben’s a very fine man, and I love him dearly, but there are things that all women must learn to expect and accept within a marriage. That is what we do! Nothing is perfect, Alex, nothing.” Louise glances out the huge bay window, and the years roll backward in her e
yes, like numbers on a calculator. I reach up and place her cool hand in mine. If this were my mother pouring out her heart, I’d be shifting my feet, wanting to cover my ears and run from the room. No, Mother, don’t. I do not want to know! I was intent on learning about men through trial and error. Like most daughters I knew, I’d resisted the wisdom born out of my own mother’s experience. Feh! Why did I need to hear all the gory details?

  “So how are we to know that the one we ultimately choose will remain faithful?” my baby voice asks.

  “Ah, but you never really know, honey, unless you chain him to your leg.” Louise grabs a tissue from the counter. “There are some who eventually spill their guts, but you become the receptacle.”

  She puts down her glass and stretches out her arms. They are covered with freckles and dime-sized liver spots. “Of course, now they feel so much better while you remain in a constant state of queasy. And no matter how hard you try to forget, a vague picture of them follows you around like a cold draft—at work, in the car, the supermarket, at three in the morning, when you look over and he’s sleeping like an angel. Yes, that’s when, that’s when!” Louise’s voice builds to a crescendo.

  “What?” It’s as if we’re both looking into the same crystal ball.

  “You remember things down the hall—sharp objects shoved in the back of the utensil drawer. You lie awake, afraid if you let yourself fall asleep some maniacal rage will take over, forcing you from the bed into the kitchen.”

  The muddy dam collapses, and for the second time today, tears drip onto my cheeks and chin. I’d never focused on all the possible distractions from a marriage, the time when two people vowed to love one another forever. I feel like a complete idiot, a naïve teenage girl raised on films starring Doris Day and Debbie Reynolds, or maybe I’ve conveniently forgotten.

  “Oh darling, everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

  Louise clutches my hand and strokes it tenderly. I haven’t shared a thing, but I feel as if I’ve been inducted into some club, one she’s belonged to for years, where she keeps renewing her membership. Now visibly tired and wobbly on her heels, Louise turns and exits the room.

  A few minutes later, she returns, toting her Louis Vuitton satchel on both wrists, like a pair of handcuffs. She pulls two crisp hundred-dollar bills from a wad of cash held together with red rubber bands—a symbol of her meager beginnings.

  “Here, sweetheart,” she says, kissing my forehead, her red lips chilled. “Go, buy yourself a pretty new winter coat.

  I think of all the stunning coats sandwiched together in Louise’s closet, the several pairs of suede leather boots, not to mention the imported handbags and designer scarves. I stuff the bills deep into my jeans’ pocket. Groceries, I think. Yes, I will use this gift, this extra cash, for nourishment and buy my family food.

  FOUR

  Donny jokingly refers to Marriage Mountain as “The Treat of Retreat.” Sitting behind the wheel of our leaf-laden car, he tosses me his best half-mocking, half-flirtatious grin. Even now, minutes from our arrival, I can’t help wondering whether Donny’s incessant teasing isn’t substitution for a more vigilant restraint—a convenient cover for his inability to refuse to attend the weekend. Or perhaps he thinks this encounter will turn out to be one gigantic couples’ party with goody bags stuffed with Trojans, massage oil, and fun games like “pin the tail on the boobies.”

  Noting the whimsical pumpkins adorning porches in the surrounding neighborhood, I correct him: “Trick! And then retreat.”

  How long must I punish him for humiliating me?

  “Tricky Dick.” Donny laughs, missing the innuendo. “Can you imagine how many crazy people will be dressed as Nixon this Halloween?”

  “I guess politics and Halloween have a lot in common. But don’t you have to do something terribly notorious to wind up a caricature?”

  “Nah, you have to be scary, that’s all. Nixon? That’s scary.” Donny feigns shuddering.

  “It’s because he lied, of course, but how did he manage to get away with lying to an entire nation? Whatever happened to the principles held by Honest Abe?” I ask.

  Donny leans in and pats my thigh. Puffing on an imaginary cigar, he says, “Another century, my dear, another century.”

  “Well, I guess everyone lies from time to time, but our president went way overboard.” I could be trying to stir something up, but Donny’s either unaware or exercising extreme patience.

  “Hey, see that sign? The place is a half a mile down that winding road. Some nice spot these Jesuits have picked out. Did you know they’re considered a very hip order of priests?”

  “No, Donny.” I sigh. “I thought priests were priests.”

  “The Jesuits have founded over a thousand colleges around the world,” Donny recites as though reading from the World Book. Since learning about this weekend, he has asked every Christian we know to fill him in on the Jesuit order. When asked why he was interested, Donny concocted a story saying his brother, Bobby, was dating a girl whose brother had just become a Jesuit priest. I reminded him that Bobby lives on a commune near Woodstock where sex with multiple bed partners has replaced the ancient practice of monogamy. Dating is definitely not part of the agenda. A pinch of fear goes through me when I imagine Donny, so taken with the event, considering his abandonment of Judaism, traveling the country as a Marriage Mountain advocate and leader.

  The gravelly road dips and rises again, then stays up, until we feel like we’re climbing Everest. Donny shifts the car’s gears for the first time since we’ve lived on the mostly flat, former farmlands of Northern New Jersey. The car jolts, and surprisingly, we are level again, our heads upright. Wrapped in palatial splendor, before our eyes, is an ivy-covered monastery, turrets and all. This seems the antithesis of suburbia and all the cookie-cutter towns devoid of origin. Even the parking lot, with its bold yellow lines, appears comically out of place. Donny and I appear out of place. People should travel to somewhere as beautiful as this, only on foot. I picture myself adorned in a flowing, gossamer skirt, while Donny momentarily appears in a suede vest, a feathered hat, and tights. While he seems excited, his eyes owllike and alert, I’m steeped in trepidation. “Hey, Don, let’s leave our stuff in the car and walk a little. I’m guessing we’ll be indoors for most of the weekend.”

  “Sure, babe, whatever you want. You know I still can’t believe Ben gave me the afternoon off,” Donny says, locking the doors.

  I’m not surprised at all; Louise probably encouraged it, crying to Ben that the kids were in “Big, capital B, trouble.” I wrap my arm around Donny’s tiny waist as we stroll among the dense foliage. While our feet crunch through piles of curled, burnished leaves, we both become unusually quiet. Neither of us rushes to fill the silence. It would be nice to trap a patch of warm sun between our bodies to heal whatever hurt exists, to hold one another for a long time. But because I don’t make the move, and Donny doesn’t make the move, the moment slips away, disintegrates like the airy fuzz of a dandelion.

  Two noble-looking men, dressed in white robes with belts looped with crucifixes and medallions, greet us inside a colossal carved wooden door. Huge candles, like Roman pillars, emit smells of frankincense and myrrh, which I remember singing about in chorus. For the first time ever, I’m wishing I’d smoked a joint.

  “Hello, fathers,” Donny says, softly, like he’s said it a thousand times. I purse my lips and squeeze his ribs with my fingers.

  “You must be the Pearls,” says a rosy-cheeked man holding a roster. I have no idea how he knows this, and again I’m a tinge past queasy. “Now, if you would, please go right through those double doors. Brother Mac will help get you settled. Oh, and for dinner will you be ordering fish or broiled chicken?”

  “Chicken,” I answer.

  “It’s fish for me!” Donny says. “Friday, they always eat fish,” he whispers in my ear. “Remember, when in Rome, Alex …”

  We walk through the doors to a pleasant surprise. It turns out Brother Ma
c is Ricky Nelson adorable. He is sans the loose priestly garb, dressed in a navy crew neck and cords.

  “He must be what they call a novice,” Donny informs me while we wait our turn.

  “He doesn’t look like a novice.” For some strange reason, my nausea switches to giddy as hell. Donny whispers into my hair as we wait our turn to be greeted by Ricky.

  “Alex, you should know that a novice is a priest who hasn’t taken his vows.”

  “Oh, so he’s not yet celibate?” My eyes roll over Father Mac like a lint brush. “It must be so difficult to have to suddenly stop all … activity.” I wipe perspiration from my brow and move up in line. Grinning, I hand the father my overnight bag. I can swear he winks at me, right before he fixes a pink tag on the bag’s shoulder strap. Donny gets a tag that’s royal blue.

  “What’s this?” we both ask in a birdlike naïveté.

  “Your things will be delivered to your separate rooms in a different wing of the building.” Brother Mac says this so softly we both need to hear it again, and then once more. Turns out, the exuberant Jillian had left out this one tiny detail—we, too, are to be celibate for the entire weekend. It seems like such a waste to have Louise babysitting and not be able to fool around. The jumping on the bedsprings, make-noise kind of fooling around we abandoned after Becky and Lana were born. I was certain I had lost my libido in order to be primed for the difficult task of child-rearing. Yet, I had grand hopes for the future. That’s when I’d rushed out to buy my now stashed copy of A Sensuous Woman in 30 Days; I’d planned to be ready the instant our sex life returned.

  “Think how exciting it will be when we can finally do it,” Donny says; he seems to accept all the rules we hear without question, while I mash down persistent pangs of doubt. I’m surprised by how much I’m thinking about sex. I glance once more at Brother Mac, who is already helping the next couple. He reminds me of the guys I’d been attracted to in college—they drank beer Friday nights, stared at you across the bar, yet always left the hang-out alone. Or maybe they returned to another bar to meet up with their first choice.