Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “Okay then, so I’ll tell you. Do you know what it feels like to think that you’re missing some vital, intrinsic element in your personality that will make your mate love you, truly love you? And that, day after day, no matter how hard you try, you are just not good enough?”

  Donny stares ahead into the blinding taillights leading us back home. Immediately, I wish I could take back the question. Why does honesty have to be so demanding?

  “Yes, Alex, I think I do,” he answers. I shrink back into the cold leather cushion and close my eyes.

  The next morning, I awaken after Donny has left for the factory, feeling slightly disoriented. There are no familiar sounds like the children’s nasal breathing heard down the hall. I’d forgotten I left Becky and Lana with Louise. I rub my eyes and the ensemble of silver frames on my dresser comes into focus. There’s Donny and me, prideful and rigid as a young bride and groom, and Becky, swollen and bruised, a one-day-old prizefighter. And a cherished picture of Lana on her first birthday, cheeks coated in vanilla frosting. I’d always paid attention to the minute details of each and every passing day. How then did seven years rocket past me? It’s as though I’ve been catapulted from a cannon and missed the billboards advertising a life—one, which, coincidently, belongs to me.

  I drag myself out of bed, knowing if I fall back to sleep, I’ll awaken dry-mouthed and logy. I brew fresh coffee and scramble up some eggs. Without the girls running around under my feet, I take my time, actually eat sitting down. I pry open a jar of apricot preserves and spread some on a toasted English muffin. It is so quiet I notice my sighs between each crunchy bite. I look around the kitchen like a nosy unwelcome guest checking for fingermarks and neglected crumbs. The sun beats through the picture window, enveloping my body like a heated cloak. And then there’s a familiar guilty pang—an aching disconnection. I look toward the rosebushes for a sign, wondering if my future is as predictable as the buds beginning to sprout in our garden.

  I use this leisure time to work on back orders of T-shirts. In between I take a few breaks, lie across the shaggy rug, and stretch. I brace myself against the sliding glass door and try a headstand. I move my knees and legs slowly upward until I’m stick-straight. My brain fills with blood until I no longer feel my limbs. Actually, I don’t feel anything except a strange pressure in my skull. Could this be an embolism? The phone rings five times before I answer.

  “Alex, I’m so glad I caught you,” my mother says, sounding out of breath.

  I’d failed to reach her for a couple of days and felt awful that she and my father had no place to celebrate Passover. They settled on a seder for ten bucks a head at their local JCC. I visualized them dining in a pungent-smelling room, packed with ailing and aging strangers eyeing one another, all slightly humiliated that some child or relative hadn’t recued them. Now, I take the dour tone of her voice as an attempt to manipulate me for having a poster-perfect life without her. But then I hear a fissure in her speech, a holding back—not true to Miriam’s style.

  “I’m sitting here stunned,” she continues. My heart does an unexpected drum roll.

  “What’s happened, Mom? Is Daddy okay?” I hear myself yell, as if saving a child from a speeding truck.

  “Your father’s fine. He’s out buying extra copies of the Herald.”

  “Why? Why extras?”

  My mother finally releases her grip. “Rob Woodman dropped dead last night … a heart attack.”

  “Oh God, no, I don’t believe it. He was only …”

  “Thirty-five.”

  There’s a throbbing in my neck that shoots directly to my throat. I begin pacing the room, looking for my image in every reflective surface.

  “Poor Sophie, and the kids. He was crazy over those kids.”

  “Yes, honey, it’s a horrible tragedy, and everyone here is shocked. Dad and I saw Rob at a condo meeting two days ago. And now he’s laid out in a box down the road at Kronick’s Chapel on Lincoln Road.”

  I imagine Rob squeezed into a plain pine box, his head and neck distorted. He’s wearing his palm tree shirt, the one he wore the night I saw him in his driveway with the tall, skinny girl. His eyes are open—the color of swirled aqua marbles. Rob wouldn’t want to miss a thing. But for some weird reason he appears happy. Come to think of it, Rob laughed all the time, either with you or about you. And now he is a was. In an instant, anyone is capable of becoming past tense.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Rumors are spreading through the building faster than mildew.” My mother clears her throat and whispers, “The housekeeper told our doorman he was with the nanny. Supposedly, the girl was so terrified she ran into the street, wrapped up like a cocoon, wearing only a sheet.”

  “But where were Sophie and the kids?”

  “In the Bahamas for spring break … obviously, without their nanny.”

  I conjure up my car ride in Sophie’s jazzy Targa, and how I nearly crashed into a barrier of privet after spotting Rob and the waiflike figure in the driveway.

  “Is there news yet about his funeral?”

  “With the holidays, I imagine the family will wait before they can, you know, put him in the ground.”

  I’m immediately reminded of my lack of religious training, all rituals involving birth and death. “That’s horrible having to drag the thing out. I’ll try to make arrangements to come down. It’s only right.”

  “No, dear, don’t put yourself through that. People will understand. You, too, have small children who depend on you.”

  Talk of death, any death, sends me scuttling back to infancy. My mother is well aware of this. While growing up, an event like this rarely invaded my parentally controlled, sterilized life. If it did, the result would be many sleepless nights and fears of any recurring trauma.

  “Call Sophie when you can and what you say is this: ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear of your tragic loss.’”

  These are words my mother has written in perfect calligraphy, dozens of times, on custom-designed note cards, painstakingly selected for acquaintances, friends, and family members, including the wives of heads of state. In her dining room, on display, is a gold-framed thank-you note from “Jackie” sent soon after JFK’s assassination.

  “Thank goodness, dear, you can’t afford one of those live-in nannies,” my mother says, jarring me. Right then, she validates the decision I made, in August, not to tell her about Donny’s midnight ride with the babysitter. Fury sinks back in, like the dull ache from an old fracture. I try shaking it off, but notice I’ve left a Sharpie resting on a pale blue shirt. The ruby ink spreads bloodily through the back of the shirt, leaving its mark on the surface of our kitchen table.

  “Mom, I have to go. Call when you hear more.”

  “But dear, you didn’t tell me. How was Louise’s dinner last night?” I hear the envy in “Louise’s dinner,” not to mention how my mother shifts gears faster than anyone I know.

  “Fine, Mom, it was fine. Everyone loved your ambrosia recipe. But I must try and catch Donny. He’ll be leaving the factory any minute.”

  “Don’t tell him now, honey. Let him drive home with a clear head,” Miriam says, protecting her son-in-law, which, to my recollection, she has never done before.

  I call, but Donny’s already left work. Filled with an overabundance of nervous energy, I must call someone and punch in Paula’s number, which I’d glanced at once and memorized. The connection seems perfectly clear: if it weren’t for Sophie and Rob, the Pearls and the Bells might never have met. I almost hang up when I hear her low, struggling—“Hello.”

  “Paula, it’s Alex.” I don’t presume she recognizes my voice, although hers is unmistakable.

  “Oh hi, Alex, how was your holiday?” Paula had mentioned her mother was Italian, and her father a nonpracticing Jew. She and Charlie were married in a judge’s chambers—no church, no synagogue. Religion? No big deal.

  “Yes, our holidays were fine.” Even though we were almost two hours late. “Donny told me
Charlie had to rush back to DC. That’s too bad.”

  “It was okay. My folks took the kids for the weekend, so I got the chance to do some spring cleaning.”

  “Oh, so, they weren’t home to witness the unfortunate demise of your fish?” My heart’s a locomotive picking up speed and puffing out invisible smoke.

  “No, and thanks to Donny, they’ll never have to know. Wasn’t his idea to drive to Pet Land for a replacement, clever?”

  I rush through the stale silence before I puke. “Yes, well, Donny’s very inventive that way.” I smother the revelation that while I was sitting home and waiting to go to his parents, Donny was fish-hunting with Paula. I think of strangling him and then remember Rob.

  “Paula, I have some very sad news. Rob Woodman died last night.”

  She responds in that London foggy way of hers, as if this happened years ago, and she’d forgotten.

  “Oh my, this is awful. How?”

  “He suffered a massive heart attack.”

  “Gosh, that’s so frightening. I think Peter and Cheryl were out with them just last weekend. I’m surprised they haven’t called us.”

  “Maybe they tried Charlie. Is he back in town?” I’m already wondering how Charlie Bell reacts to terrible news.

  “Actually, he’s flying home right now, hopefully in time for dinner.”

  I envision Charlie walking through the door, throwing down his bulky lit bag, and dipping Paula in his arms. Ravenous, he searches for something to eat. Tiptoeing toward him, Paula presents an ornate sterling-silver well-and-tree platter full of bloody roast beef.

  “Listen, why don’t the two of you come over tonight, say around eight? I haven’t mentioned this to Donny yet, but I know he’ll be happy to see you both.”

  “Um, I guess that would be fine, if Charlie’s not too tired.”

  Tired is nothing! Tired isn’t dead. “I thought it might be good if we got together. You know, for Sophie and Rob.”

  “They were certainly a very unusual couple or maybe you didn’t know,” Paula says flatly.

  “Know what?”

  “For one thing, they have, I mean had, a crazy relationship—some call it an open marriage.”

  Have I been entombed, residing here on Daisy Lane? So, even Paula knew what I failed to completely digest. I let her words settle in while trying to stay focused on the facts of Rob’s death, rather than rumors of his extramarital activities. No need to share with her now that I’d witnessed one in the making. As Paula dreamily singsongs, I recollect thoughts about Sophie and Rob: His late-night business meeting, which he attended in shorts. Her mentioning his chauffeuring their au pair to rock concerts, malls, and movies. Sophie had said over and over again, smiling that devilish smile of hers, “You’ve got to keep them happy, Alex, or they will pick up and leave.”

  I was certain she meant the nanny.

  TWELVE

  When Donny walks in and greets me an hour later, I make a point of not looking at him. I sit at the table, buffing my nails, hoping to hide the fuchsia dye stains. A sidelong glance tells me he’s wearing his usual ridiculous smirk, which only half admits to being a fool. It’s hard not to fold when I see that look. This is how we’ve always shown our connection—it’s our native dance, the one we have choreographed into the intricate pattern that became our marriage. Usually, I find comfort knowing I can expect this, but a sudden change, like a rip tide, warns me: it just isn’t enough.

  “Donny, I’ve got something to tell you. You better sit down.” He pulls out the captain’s chair and glances out the window, needing a few seconds to settle in. It’s challenging, this game we play, but I don’t dare laugh when I’m about to tell him something horrible, even though I’m fighting off a strange, nervous grin.

  “Rob Woodman had a heart attack last night.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “Bad enough—he’s dead.” I sneak a peek at Donny’s reflection in the windowpane. He runs his fingers through his hair, then grips my hand.

  “Holy shit!” he says. “Holy, fucking shit. I bet it was drugs; maybe he was coked-up.”

  “Maybe it was strenuous sex. My mother said he was with their nanny when it happened. Sophie was with the kids in the Islands.” My new contralto voice reverberates through the kitchen. Warning, warning: this is what happens to selfish, indulgent men who fool around.

  Donny looks at me, his head cocked to one side. There is genuine fear in his eyes, the purest look I’ve seen from him in years.

  “I know it’s hard to believe. We just watched him blow out thirty-five birthday candles,” I say. Donny just sits staring into space. “Oh, by the way, you might want to freshen up, we may be having company. I’ve invited Paula and Charlie over.”

  “Tonight? Why tonight?”

  “Especially tonight with Rob gone and all. If it weren’t for Rob, we might never have met Charlie and Paula. I thought you’d be happy. Don’t you like them? Aren’t they the perfect couple, you know, as couples go?”

  Donny pushes his chair back, stands, then sits back down. He lets me get it all out, but there’s a trace of loathing in the way he looks at me. It hurts to see his disgust, yet it makes me persist. Why worry about limits now? I’m in, whether I understand the rules or not. That’s what he wants. That’s what he’ll get.

  Donny stares out the window. A light crystal rain streaks the panes.

  “Alex, I know how much you despise games. I’ve always respected that about you.”

  I can feel myself starting to back down; here comes the about-face. Is it a perpetual rash? “So why are you toying with your own version of follow-the-leader?”

  “No one is making you do anything. It’s all in that pretty head of yours.” Donny gives the top of my skull a gentle knock, knock as he leaves the table to go wash up. I think of saying, “Who’s there?” Or, who are you? Are you my husband or an adolescent son concocting a noxious potion with your chemistry set—something to blow us into smithereens?

  While Donny showers, I do a quick fix on my hair and makeup. My eyes stop me when I pass the bathroom mirror. Have they always been this feral? Tonight, they are greener, what happens when I weep, and I can’t stop crying about Rob, even though I was far from his biggest fan. It’s the children my heart breaks for, the memory of them riding his broad shoulders, Rob patiently teaching them to play croquet on a burnt patch of condo grass.

  I choose my tightest-fitting jeans, which I must lie down flat across the bed in order to zip. There’s this bulge protruding from my belly like dough rising in a cupcake pan—an extra five pounds from hibernating.

  I glance at Donny while he rigorously dries himself off. I’m waiting for some electrical twinge that will raise the hairs on my neck. You’d think that with his weekly sunlamp treatments, he’d have a wrinkle or two, but his skin is flawless. Donny is actually pretty. Our eyes meet, and again that smirk—a look that takes the place of hours, days, and weeks of conversations we have not had. I can’t help but think we may be out of time. Someone our age has passed away, a shocking reminder that we can run from almost anything, anyplace, but not from fate.

  Downstairs, we go about our host and hostess activities, blanketed in stubborn silence. He opens a bottle of Canei. I stir Lipton’s onion soup mix into sour cream. He says it’s too warm to build a fire. To create an atmosphere of respect, what one might find at a vigil, I light an array of scented candles on the mantle, surprised by the knot in my throat.

  The Bells arrive and we peck each other’s cheeks, making a tense and comical round of it. Charlie kisses me twice. Changing to the more appropriate somber mood, each of us mumbles our reflection on Rob’s death:

  “So crazy, yeah.”

  “Hard to believe, uh-huh.”

  “Those poor little kids.”

  “Who could imagine?”

  Paula and Donny make no eye contact, and I can’t help but think it’s deliberate. Whenever Donny speaks, she stares down at her feet, a weak smile stamped on her face. I c
an tell she’s spent time on her hair, flipped the long ends back and off her cheeks. The frosted pink lipstick makes her appear younger and mod. And so, it’s the first time in her presence that I feel a twinge of competition. In this corner, folks, we’ve got the fair, perky streaked blonde, and here’s the dark mysterious brunette.

  Donny leans in to hear Paula speak. His eyes offer genuine sympathy for the difficulty she has expressing herself.

  “Oh, I wanted to say something. Shoot, I’ve forgotten, oh well,” Paula stammers. Charlie seems tense, as if he were socially responsible for her, the way I sometimes act with Donny.

  “Let’s go inside,” I suggest, heading for the den.

  Charlie and Paula sit side by side on our burlap-fabric sofa, and before long their fingers fumble like spiders to find one another. Envy shoots a BB through my gut.

  We drag two vinyl beanbags over and sit facing the Bells. Between us is a toy-damaged, highly distressed teak table on which I’ve placed a platter of cheese and dip, kosher for Passover Tam Tam crackers, cut-up veggies, and seedless grapes.

  “It’s not much, sorry. I hope you’ve eaten.”

  “It’s fine. We had leftover roast beef,” Paula says, still pensive.

  “Roast beef! Oh, good,” I say, instead of I knew it! I am certain that I’ve acquired clairvoyant powers. Donny pours the wine; it’s bubbly and goes down easily like ginger ale. When Charlie reaches for some chips, I’m fascinated by the spread of his hands, and how they push like a steam shovel in and out of the bowl.

  “To Rob,” Donny toasts, “a guy who sure knew how to have a good time.”

  I glance at Paula for some small validation of our afternoon conversation. She sips her wine while scanning the glowing candles on the mantle.

  “I didn’t know Rob well, but he seemed a bit too fearless at times,” Charlie says. “You should have seen him on the golf course. Pretty crazy.”

  “How crazy?” I ask, wanting to hear him speak some more.