Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “I thought you’d surprise me with the girls,” he says casually.

  “After midnight, are you crazy?”

  He retreats, looking hurt, but I continue, “I was going to bring them. We had a scene at dinner because you were going to be late—”

  “All right, all right, how’s business, son?” My father interjects, hoping to change the subject. Stuck now between him and my husband, I sit brooding like a ten-year-old. I left one and made a beeline to the other. Nothing has changed, as I am still reacting, always reacting to their words, actions, or inactions. Maybe they change, these men: they get to walk in and out of so many doors, some, if lucky, break through walls; yet too often they hide, and when it works for them—they lie.

  We lie in the dark like mimes, beating our pillows, trying to get comfortable in this torture chamber my parents call a high-riser. Before Donny’s arrival, I slept restfully across the large living room couch, having promised my mother I’d tuck sheets over her cut velvet cushions. Now on one of my super-dramatic flips onto my stomach, I notice Donny’s eyes are open, his mouth taut. My parents are asleep in the next bedroom, Dad’s snoring audible through the wall, and though I know it’s the worst time to pick a fight, I can’t help myself. Venom oozes from every pore of me like garlic.

  “I spoke to you twice the entire week. Don … I know you’re up.”

  “Not now, Al, I’m so tired.” He flips over and left jabs his pillow.

  “Oh, and I’m not, after being with the kids, running around, meals, baths, and bedtime!” There, now I can’t stop even if I want to.

  “I thought you were having a good time,” Donny says, crooked up on his elbow now, his head resting on his hand.

  “Sounds like you were the one having a ball!” I lean in so we are face-to-face, nose-to-nose.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? And why are you acting like a bitch ever since I got off the plane?”

  All of a sudden, Rob, all sweaty, wearing his palm tree shirt, pops into my head, and I think about telling Donny what I saw and heard from Sophie, but he’d probably say, “Oh, so that’s what this is about.” I don’t want to hear it, even if he’s right.

  “You know, I think you loved having us gone.”

  “That’s not true. Stop looking for things that don’t exist.” Donny turns on the bamboo lamp on his side of the bed. “Come here.”

  “No, I don’t want to.” I’m on the verge of crying, and I think I want Donny to hold me, but I can’t ask. I just can’t.

  “I’ll come to you then.” Instead of rolling toward me, Donny stands on the severely, dilapidated mattress and walks over my head. His stance is Mr. Clean, hands on hips. Looking up at his boxers, I have a telescopic view of his precious jewels. Though I plead with him to get down, he jumps up and down, trying to make me laugh. The sounds of the grinding metal are sure to awaken my parents, giving them the wrong idea. Because we are in their home and not ours, it will always be the wrong idea. But if we were making love, instead of bickering like adolescents, maybe I’d feel less like I’m afloat at sea—on one of those budget cruises to nowhere. Truth is it’s easier to spar with Donny than to expose any glimmer of sexual yearning. I grew up hearing hints of: good girls played hard to get, while really good girls learned to suppress desire.

  Donny plops back down on his side of the bed and yawns. I’ve never been much of a gambler, but I’m on the brink of anteing the entire pot by screaming: DO YOU FUCKING LOVE ME?

  “Come on, babe, give me a juicy one,” Donny says, puckering like a blowfish. I watch as his eyelids struggle before losing the fight. Within seconds, he is fast asleep.

  SEVEN

  Since tonight is Rob Woodman’s birthday bash, Donny has been working arduously on his George Hamilton tan—a golden glow he will preserve, back home, with several treatments under his number one favorite appliance—the sun lamp. Now he repositions his chaise so that the searing noon rays are directly overhead.

  I’m startled when my mother, like an eclipse, halts in front of my lounge and blocks out the sun. Dressed in skintight white capris and a lavender blouse, my mother practically lassoes us from our stakeout beside the kiddie pool. It is her intention, she says, hands on hips, to serve lunch “immediately” on the terrace. She then tugs the beach towel free from my chair and holds it bullfighter fashion for Becky and Lana. They are in the pool, kicking like tadpoles, tucked under my father’s arms.

  “Let’s dry-off my little girls,” Miriam sings with Debbie Reynolds glee. “Time for lunch.”

  “Don’t want yucky lunch, Nana. Watch me swim!” Lana shrieks.

  “Let’s go now, you’ll swim later.” Abruptly Miriam changes her tone, her voice deepening like a seasoned truck driver. She has no intention of waiting. When she spots her neighbors, “the decorator guys,” she waves wildly, her bangle bracelets jingling and capturing the sunlight. I watch her strike a pose for these trim, handsome men named Oscar and Giorgio, who she refuses to believe are lovers. They wave back from their chairs, and Oscar, wearing a gold bikini bottom, blows an exaggerated kiss in my mother’s direction. He has an enormous bulge in the crotch of his bathing suit that I surmise has little to do with my mother.

  “They’re both European and so very continental,” she mentions, at every sighting. And they simply love her, especially Oscar, who thinks she is absolutely stunning.

  “That’s so nice, Mom,” I say. “You are stunning. So how long have they been lovers?”

  “What? Alex, dear, you are so wrong. I can assure you they are not lovers.” Miriam laughs, hinting she knows their sexual proclivity from firsthand experience. She has been redecorating her bedroom for over a year now, much to my father’s chagrin. I feel a wave of embarrassment imagining her throwing herself into Oscar’s arms after he delivers the fantastically expensive Etoile bedspread with matching pillows.

  I nudge Donny to help gather the surplus of water toys, towels, and lotions scattered near the pool. “But we just got here, babe. These rays are the best.”

  “Donny, we haven’t had a meal together yet. Besides, look at you, your chest is purple.”

  “And yours is sizzling.” Donny reaches into my bikini top and cups my breast as if it wasn’t live flesh, like it was the breast on a plastic torso displaying lingerie in his showroom. I slap his arm as I might a junior high boy messing with me in the hallway. He thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. My mother flashes us a quick, disgusted look—a warning to behave on her turf. She has to know Manny Gluck has been peeking at me through the pages of his Miami Sun all morning.

  “Donny, why do you pick the most inopportune time to be, shall we say, sexual, or was this your attempt at being romantic?”

  “Call it whatever, babe.” Donny gathers up an arsenal of lotions and gives my father a hand with the tubes and pool toys. We walk several yards to my parents’ terrace on the ground floor, which has an expansive view of Biscayne Bay. The morning’s syrupy fog has lifted, revealing a horseshoe of high rise coral and aqua buildings along the shoreline. Today the water is a deep azure blue, calm except for the occasional ripples left by passing yachts. A smiling stranger waving from a bough shouts, “Hi folks, what’s for lunch?”

  Lana and Becky keep waving way after each yacht passes. They’re like miniature movie stars in sparkly sunglasses. Donny plops Lana into the wrought-iron loveseat, then finds himself a spot facing the sun.

  “Great day, heh kids?” my dad asks. He looks at the sky and scolds, “You better get the hell out of here!” For an instant, I think he’s spotted an intruder on the rooftop, or a swarm of palmettos, but no, Dad’s actually wagging his finger at a hovering, nimbus cloud—as though the sun is the remedy for all his problems.

  Six hours later, we arrive at Embers Steakhouse to find five couples already seated at a long rectangular table. For Rob’s party we’ve dressed in our finest cruise-wear ensembles: Donny in a navy Ban-Lon shirt worn over white ducks, and after changing three times, I decided on a faded-blue
denim jacket and torso-clinging white bell-bottoms. For the first time, in a long time, I am aware of my attractiveness, which I attribute to spending time outdoors, and a few dabs of terra cotta blush.

  Silver place cards, adorned with Rob’s baby picture, direct us to a rectangular table where we are each seated parallel to our spouses. Once settled, I wave to Donny, who looks as awkward as I feel, not knowing a soul except our hostess, Sophie, and her birthday boy, Rob. Introductions fly through the air despite pings of crystal glasses and the clatter of flatware. I try to remember names but become distracted by one woman’s Miss Piggy nose job, another’s diamond ring the size of Rockefeller Center’s skating rink, and a bold, silver streak threaded through the bangs of an unsmiling brunette.

  After a few gulps of wine, we learn, compared to most, Donny and I are practically newlyweds. Sophie, buoyant as usual, announces she and Rob have been together twelve “heavenly” years. I glance over at Rob to see him gaping at me and quickly turn away. Of course, he knows it was me the other night who whizzed by his house, driving Sophie’s little Targa. Guess Big Rob thinks he’s going to have himself some fun.

  Throughout this sumptuous steak dinner, we hear toasts by Rob’s friends, a tender love poem written and read aloud by Sophie, and lastly, a roast, alluding to Rob’s raucous side. There are blatant references to him being a slumlord, and to his charming the pants (someone yells “diapers”) off the elderly women residing at his hotels. A few of the guys howl when Rob’s golf course demeanor is described: temper tantrums ending with golf carts driven into ditches, and manicured greens machete-d by his putter. As proper guests, we merrily laugh along, but I can’t help but see Rob in a bold new light—living on the edge.

  Donny’s sporting his shy face, which, instinctively, makes me want to protect him. Tentative in the company of other men, he prefers talking about “us” to avoid talking about him. He gestures toward me while speaking to a very attractive man sitting beside him, who appears a bit older, almost fatherly. I catch myself staring more than a few times. The first time we lock eyes, my heart races. I look down, feigning interest in the floral pattern of the dishes. What’s in this wine anyway? The effects have slowly moved down my hips to settle in my groin. A minute later I look back. The guy’s face is angular, his cheekbones high, reflecting the glow from the candelabra above the table. Though he’s begun to lose his hair, it’s the older persona I find most appealing—that, and dark, deep-set brown eyes.

  It’s his turn to talk, and he looks as though he’s telling Donny a joke. I can tell from the rhythm he uses, the way his hands move in tiny circles as if juggling. When the punch line is delivered, his arm reaches over and rests on Donny’s shoulder. Donny, protective of his space, winces before he laughs. Perhaps relieved Donny got his joke, the guy laughs again. His warm eyes twinkle, and though I haven’t heard the joke or punch line, I find myself caught in its rippling effect. He looks up and sees me smiling at them—at him. The place is so noisy I can barely hear his name, even when he says it a second time. “Charlie,” he says, finally reaching over the table to take my hand in his firm grip. “Charlie Bell.”

  “That was my grandfather’s name,” I answer, as a hand automatically goes to my heart like I pledge allegiance to the flag.

  “Mine was Carl. Papa Carl,” he says, with a melancholy grin, hints of pride evident in his voice.

  “Mine was a Papa, too,” I shout over the racket of voices and colliding dinner plates.

  “Oh my Papa, to me he was so wonderful … by … ?” Charlie asks.

  “Eddie Fisher!” I answer, having sung the sappy song as a girl eager to entertain her grandfather.

  “Give that girl a trip to the Bahamas!” Charlie toasts me with his wineglass held high. Come on, ask me another tune, I want to say.

  The woman beside me with the silver streak has not spoken a word to me. She’s been in deep conversation with the woman next to her, whose arm must throb from carrying her skating rink–size diamond ring. Noticing me chatting with Charlie, she now turns to stare at me. And because I’m already nervous, I speak first.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot your name,” I say.

  “Paula. Paula Bell.”

  “I’m Alex. It’s short for Alexandra.” I haven’t referred to myself this way since signing my marriage certificate.

  Her pale hand motions vaguely across the table. “He’s my husband.”

  “Oh, right!” I just then realize Charlie and Paula must be the couple Sophie and Rob had wanted us to meet. Maybe we should make some new friends, something that seemed so much easier to do when I was single. Now I have to worry if Donny will like the husband. In the name of diplomacy, I’ve limited my socializing to before dusk sets in. “Sophie and Rob thought we might be neighbors,” I say. “We live in Wheatley Heights, New Jersey.”

  “Ah, yes,” Paula says, without enthusiasm, as if she knew, “so do we.”

  I wonder why I’ve never seen her before back home, but couldn’t she say the same about me? I turn back to my food; a few slices of coagulated filet mignon on top of soggy onion rings. Glancing over at Paula’s plate, I notice she’s hardly eaten a thing. She pushes her food around, carefully separating her double-baked potato from her meat. And, as if he knew this as a given, Charlie, her handsome, quizmaster husband, reaches over with his fork to stab a huge chunk of red rare meat.

  Sophie jumps up and clinks a spoon against her wineglass to get everyone’s attention. Wearing her signature mischievous grin, she announces we’ll be going back to her house for a special dessert and “munchies.” I predict, as the evening’s finale, most of the people at this table will soon be stoned. I, for one, am not thrilled at the idea of using an illegal drug with my parents only two miles away, especially while watching our children. My mother once shunned me for a month when I took Becky out into a cool summer evening with a slight fever. I can only imagine what she might do if I was part of a drug bust. Don’t drug busts happen all the time in Miami?

  Lifting my glass, I take a dainty sip, then gulp the rest to the bottom. I look up thinking I’ve caught Charlie admiring his wife, then turn away, flushed. There’s a throbbing beat of pure excitement when I realize he’s been studying me.

  We are gathered in the Woodmans’ newly renovated den, renamed the entertainment center. Where a northerner anticipating cold winters might have put a fireplace, Sophie and Rob have placed a magnificent Steinway—an ebony baby grand that is making Donny drool. When we were first married, he played almost every evening. He diligently practiced Beethoven sonatas when he should have been studying. Music, not people, has always provided safety for Donny, so I’m not surprised when he pulls out the bench and sits down to play.

  As the first joint is passed, a few people join Donny around the piano. A book of Christmas carols sits propped on the music stand, and before long, we are caroling our hearts out, performing like kids in a holiday assembly.

  When Sophie gives a tour, Rob saunters over to the piano. Beads of sweat drip down his face like melted ice cream, while steam rises from his entire body. He is singing—no, screaming—the loudest. I feel his clammy hand reach under my jacket, inches from my bra closure. Donny begins “Oh, Holy Night” and perhaps it’s the sacredness of the melody that causes Rob to release his grip on my spine.

  “So, Alex, how’d you like driving Sophie’s car?” Rob whispers, pressing into my hipbone. I think that’s what he said, but the wine and grass has rendered me unreliable. At that very moment, Sophie and Miss Piggy, who makes me grateful I’d nixed that nose job, carry in an enormous cake and place it on what looks like a steel table. Devilish Sophie has used those trick candles that keep relighting, and Rob plays along, struggling to blow them out. I make a mental note not to eat the cake after his spittle flies through the air and lands on the icing.

  “Enough of this shit!” Rob starts pulling them out, not caring who or what he burns in the process. A candle falls on the plush beige carpeting, yet Sophie hardly blinks. I
get a weird, masochistic pang for Rona. If she were here, which is a real stretch of the imagination, she’d be the first to stomp it out.

  The guests move in to get a better look at the cake: a huge rectangle colorfully frosted to show a young man with a baby face who truly resembles Rob. In profile, he’s pointing what appears to be his member toward the golf green while peeing—displayed with curls of lemon icing. The lettering reads “Happy Birthday Rob, You Little Pisser.” Donny, still at the piano, bangs out a jazzy version of “Happy Birthday.”

  “Donny, come have some cake!” Sophie yells, but he is caught up in the happy childhood melody, his eyes fixed on the ivory keys.

  Rob’s golf buddies howl, having seen him in action on many golf courses. The women roll their eyes, sharing that boys will be boys look, part of the silent code of a universal society. The laughing subsides, stealing with it the energy in the room. One by one, we settle into the deep furniture. Furniture you can live in for a day or two at least. Beanbag chairs in wild-animal prints are scattered among three couches. A wall of travertine built-ins house stereo equipment, and the largest television I’ve ever seen. Rob turns up the volume on Cat Steven’s “Tea for the Tillerman,” making me ponder for the hundredth time: What the heck is a tillerman? I’m more than a tiny bit stoned and hope it doesn’t show. I hate that shit-eating grin some get after a few tokes. Once I became totally paranoid when my ex-neighbor Ellie baked a batch of brownies that we devoured on the way to tennis. While serving, I felt the court closing in, as if the net was wrapped around my body like seaweed on an ocean floor.

  Sophie announces, “Everyone—listen up!” These people, vibrant and colorful at dinner, have now taken on the muted tones of the room. Paula and the woman I learn is her sister-in-law continue their sidebar chatter. They ignore my smiles and attempt at small talk. Sophie once told me that while she personally isn’t intimidated by anyone, she was certain some women would find me threatening.