Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “If he wasn’t doing well, Rob would become a one-man excavation team, swinging his club like a maniac, making divots everywhere. Peter said—you remember my brother Peter, right?” Charlie asks.

  Donny and I both nod yes like two polite hosts.

  “Peter thought some of Rob’s dealings were a bit shady. He avoided handling many of his legal affairs for that reason. But Rob managed to get what he wanted.”

  “Yeah, well now he’s a dead guy, and two children are without a dad,” I answer.

  Quiet fills the room with the serenity of a prayer service. Funny, I think, that no one mentions the nanny. I’m learning that men, most men, will run from the room rather than knock a member of their species—especially if the subject has been caught with his “slacks in the sewer,” as my grandfather was fond of saying, and which now I understand.

  We decide to send a Harry and David premier fruit basket from the four of us, and our prattle about Rob ends abruptly. Donny flashes the new Bread album for our approval and stacks a pile of records on the turntable. When he finishes, instead of returning to the beanbag, he stretches out on the recliner, his foot, a shoe sole from Paula’s crossed knees. Through the amber streaks of candlelight, I see her skin tone deepen, yet her expression remains grim. I think of the famed Mona Lisa, and the first time Mr. LeBlanc had shown a slide of the painting in freshman art class. Yes, I had this same vague disappointment. When he’d gone to the blackboard to mark out the actual size of the renowned masterpiece that hung in the Louvre, I’d thought he was joking. Perhaps Rona is right. Am I inventing a persona for Paula that doesn’t exist? Yet, why I would do this is unclear.

  I shift my gaze to Donny. He knows damn well I’m looking at him. Donny has become my own personal cartoon show. Except cartoons are supposed to be funny. He takes a joint from his breast pocket, lights it, and passes it to Paula. They lock eyes for a second, right before her fingers graze lightly over his. I don’t like watching this, but I’m fascinated. I should just excuse myself and go upstairs and take a bubble bath. I’m as malleable as all the melting candles, wicks suddenly ablaze. Donny preens when Paula takes a long deep toke of the joint. He’s like a music master with a new protégé. Ah, so that’s what he sees in her: an unresisting Eliza to his Henry Higgins. What has my Dr. Higgins taught her so far? My brain is performing acrobatics. One second, I’m viciously jealous and the next, I don’t give a rat’s ass.

  I try pouring myself a second glass of wine, and Charlie takes the bottle from my shaky hands. “Here, let me do it.” I hold my breath, watching the liquid nearly overflow. “Whoops,” Charlie says. I lift the delicate glass with both hands. My head moves slowly to the brim, but I take too large a gulp. I start to choke. The bubbly liquid has gone down my windpipe. This is how I will end, dying in front of people I hardly know, and yes, even my own husband, who is about to play footsy with another man’s wife. Charlie leaps from the couch and, with one hand grasping a joint, he pats my back.

  “You okay?” All ask in unison.

  I lift a finger to signal wait, but when I try to speak, I sound raspy, like an old witch on her deathbed. “Gee, I hate when that happens, thanks for saving me.”

  “Oh, a small payback,” he says, smiling broadly, reminding me of the first time we’d met. Charlie had looked so manly the night of Rob’s party while he stood talking to his brother, making Donny appear more boyish than usual. Now sitting catty-corner to Paula, my husband appears more self-assured and in control.

  Donny and Paula sit, side by side, reading the cover of our new special edition Beatles album. This was one of my gifts to Donny on his thirtieth birthday after moving into our house, a time when we often fantasized we were Linda and Paul—Donny delivering a Liverpool accent while he banged on the keys, our heads touching in many strained attempts at harmony.

  Charlie offers me his hand as I struggle to rise from the beanbag chair, but I lose my footing on my platform clogs and collapse against his chest. I grip his upper arms to regain my balance. Through his shirt I feel the rock hardness of his muscles. His skin smells musky and fresh, like the aroma you inhale when walking into a steamy Laundromat—the anticipation that everything will come out clean. I’d like to linger here awhile and feel hopeful again. He holds me at arm’s length, and we gape at each other, not saying a word. Tossed in with his obvious fatigue from traveling is his warm flannel sexiness.

  I decline the last toke that Donny shoves under my nose. Is he trying to momentarily distract me? Charlie trails after me into the kitchen, carrying the empty bowl of dip. He looks a bit comical, slightly clumsy in this domestic role, but I don’t dare laugh.

  “So?” I say, rummaging through the cracker box, stuffing one in my mouth automatically.

  “So?” Charlie answers. He’s leaning against the kitchen sink, his feet crossed in front of him. I take a swig of my remaining wine. “Careful, pretty. Don’t hurt yourself.” I hear the heartiness in his laugh, before it winds down to a light chuckle. Our spouses, who I’ve temporarily forgotten, glance in our direction before resuming their whispery conversation. Here I go again, splitting in half. One half, watching and worrying about Donny—the other, craving this pleasure, the attention Charlie’s paying me. He glances toward the den, and I wonder if he, too, is denying possessive thoughts. I open my fridge to check the date on a container of milk, then lift open the fruit bin, as if buried among the fuzzy, month-old strawberries I’ll find clues to what happens next.

  “Come here, you.” Charlie’s words send chills shooting through my scalp. His hand slides down my shoulder and arm until it clasps my cool, damp fingers. Instinctively, I look back to the den. In the fading candlelight, I see Donny moving onto the couch, taking Charlie’s spot. One arm is already draped over Paula’s shoulder. I know exactly what I see. It is as clear to me as a sheet of shimmering glass, and perhaps for that reason I don’t falter or unlatch my fingers from Charlie’s firm hold. He leads me, as if I were blind, from the kitchen through the dining room, to the adjoining living room. A room rarely used, sparsely decorated with the piano, a white ceramic cocktail table, and two loveseats—one of which I am now sitting on, staring into the soft caramel eyes of Charlie Bell.

  I slip off my clogs and cross my legs Indian-style. I’m waiting for Charlie to say something. The numbing effects of the hashish Donny ground through my flour sifter earlier are still with me. Charlie strains to hear the groaning sounds of Barry White, the lyrics barely audible. Listening to Barry’s deep baritone is embarrassing, like eavesdropping on some lascivious sexual act. I peek out of the corner of my eye at Charlie. His eyes are closed. Again, I study his hands. Rough hands—the hands of a laborer, not a lawyer. The phonograph changes abruptly to another album. While I’m pondering what other tunes Donny has prepared for our listening enjoyment, the hallway light dims. The only light in the living room emanates from a yellow lamppost outside. It filters through the pattern of the drapes, creating interesting shapes around the loveseats, leaving the rest of the room inky black.

  The feathery stubble along Charlie’s jaw is captured by the light, and I resist the temptation to reach out and touch him. His hands move up to his tired face to rub both eyes, massaging them, probing hard. Opening his eyes wide, he stares at me, as if surprised.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he says, and in the quiet laughter, he manages to rest his hand on my kneecap. How many times would I have peeled or bent back fingers I had not wanted to touch me? I take “one giant step,” placing my hand over his. There are tiny bristles on his knuckles. The comparison is startling. Donny’s hands are softer; his fingers long—piano hands meant to slide across keyboards, not bases.

  “If a picture paints a thousand words then why can’t I paint you?” The ballad is seriously romantic, and I am aware of my organs in the following order: my heart pirouetting within my ribs, my bowels squeezed into a pulsing vise, and my brain vacillating between projecting blame and sweet exaltation.

  Charlie pitches his head towar
d mine, stopping an inch from my upturned face, his hand still clamped to my knee. I shut my eyes as all the dancing shadows fall into place. His kiss, though soft, is infused with a mysterious brilliance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see sparks but realize it’s only static. Charlie taunts me, pulls away, and begs to be kissed back. Taking the deepest breath, I plunge willingly into the night with this stranger, memorizing all particles of light, smell, sound, and touch.

  I drift away to a time, half a lifetime ago, when I learned how erotic kissing could be, how primitive in its stirrings. I was with Jonathan Tanner in the boiler room of his friend Jerry’s house, at a “gathering”—what we called random get-togethers on Friday nights. After days of listening to my pleading, my father agreed to drop me off with the cold-eyed warning he’d be back to get me in exactly two hours. And sure enough, when I wasn’t waiting at the front door for him (I’d lost track of time), I had to suffer the humiliation of having my father march, like a member of the KGB, through the door of Jerry’s parentless home. There he encountered a sweaty couple pressed against an oven door, others sprawled like puppies on the floor, and the hasty hiding of beer cans behind closed drapes. Silent and only a little bit scared, Jonathan claimed me. He took my hand and walked me to my father’s idling car. Turning me away, blocking me completely, he kissed me, first deeply, then tenderly.

  “Hey, it’s okay, relax,” Charlie says, putting his arm around me.

  “I am,” I lie.

  We are nose to nose, and I have the impression Charlie is waiting for my reaction, perhaps my rating on his kiss. I guess he’s used to kudos, but, being old-fashioned, I’m used to playing hard-to-get. As his lips travel down my neck, I grip the tasseled pillow on the loveseat. He is leaning into me now, and it is all up to me. If I lie back against the loveseat’s arm, he is sure to climb upon me, and I might not say no. I’m aware of a throbbing deep within my jeans—a warm, gentle current flowing inward. Saved by the abrupt click of the turntable shutting off in the den, I am scared to leave the room. I envision Donny and Paula sprawled Sumo-style upon the orange shag carpeting.

  “What’s the matter?” Charlie asks.

  “This is much too weird,” I say, searching for my clogs.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, Alex. But you know that, don’t you?”

  “Shh! Not now. I can’t handle this.” I unravel my legs to stand, and switch on the Stiffel lamp on top of the piano. The first thing I notice is the lamp’s brass finial of a monkey covering its eyes as in: see no evil. Charlie’s eyes, however, are like hot coals searing my back.

  The hallway seems brighter, and there’s the clatter of glasses being placed in the sink, my sink. Donny clears his throat. The toilet flushes, and I picture Paula sitting on the cushiony seat, admiring my wallpaper. With Charlie close behind, I rush into the kitchen, squinting from the harshness of fluorescent lights.

  “We’re here!” I announce. I’m like a guest entering my own home.

  “Hi, guys,” Donny says. But I don’t dare look at him. I don’t want him to see my face when I don’t know what it reveals. I open the dishwasher and begin unloading a batch of soiled dishes. Paula walks out of the bathroom and, when seeing us, freezes like a child in a game of “statues.” Her cheeks are blotchy, the blotchy from a bad case of beard-burn. Maybe I have it too. My eyes scan every inch of her. I am looking for something invisible, some mysterious quality that would make her desirable—first to Charlie, and now, Donny. Paula smiles a weak, innocent smile, and I realize she doesn’t care as much about me, as I do about her. There is no measuring tape afloat in Paula’s eyes.

  “Charlie,” she says, looking up and over me at our sunflower of a clock, “we’ve really got to go. It’s late, and my folks are bringing the kids back in the morning.” I think of Becky and Lana sleeping peacefully at Louise and Ben’s.

  “Are you sure I can’t make us all some coffee?” Donny asks no one in particular. I throw him an are you out of your mind kind of look. I’ve had enough for one evening. With eyes shut, I give Paula a peck on her cheek, noting Donny’s citrus cologne lingering in her hair. While Donny escorts Paula to the front door, Charlie hangs back in the kitchen. He looks like he’d like to pull out a chair and stay forever.

  “I’ll miss you,” he says.

  “Don’t say that! You’re not supposed to miss me.”

  He runs his fingers through my hair and whispers: “Sister Golden Hair Surprise.” Who is this guy? At times he seems older, as if he’s lived a hundred lives, and then I see past the quiet, settled demeanor—a sweet, insecure boy.

  “Charlie, please!” Paula yells from our front door. Maybe she, too, has had enough, and wishes to flee.

  I can hardly wait for Donny to walk back into the kitchen after locking the front door. Here he is, taking out his lenses and rubbing his eyes, a small ritual that’s bought him much time over the years.

  “Donny, did you consider that Charlie might have wanted to punch you out tonight?” Funny, but the shame pinching me, just minutes ago, is suddenly gone.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Tell me you didn’t orchestrate the entire evening so you could make a move on his wife? Like in the music you selected, where you sat, how we divided so conveniently: Donny and Paula, Charlie and me.”

  “Oh, so I guess you had nothing to do with this? May I remind you darlin’, it was you who’d invited them over tonight, not me.” Donny performs a tap step on the kitchen tile and ends with his arms out. “Gotcha!”

  “That was because of Rob … him being dead … and you … when were you going to tell me about your pilgrimage with Paula to the pet store?”

  “I was only being helpful.”

  “Not your job, Donny.”

  “Alex, why not enjoy the fact that Charlie’s flipped for you. He couldn’t care less what his wife was doing with me.”

  Hearing this evening’s summary delivered by Donny feels incredibly strange. How am I to respond? The validation of his words causes an explosion in my head. I am glad to hear the news, though furious at the messenger.

  “Anyone might have flipped watching you and little Miss Helpless-When-It-Serves-Me. Did you expect me to just hang out and watch your Casanova routine? I truly didn’t know where to put myself.”

  “Oh right, Alex. When did anyone force you into anything?”

  “Well, I didn’t do anything!”

  “Did you kiss him? Come on, come on, I bet you kissed him.” Donny sticks his face closer under my chin. Needing air, I turn to open the cafe curtains, but all I see is a sprinkling of stars above the blackness in the backyard. Familiar shadows of our sleepy neighborhood have vanished from view.

  Donny’s voice is somber. “It was great, babe, wasn’t it? I bet you heard harp strings and everything.” My husband of nearly seven years stands beside me, appearing anxious for my answer. All he is missing is a pad and pencil to jot down some notes. This, the same man who kept a precise log of my contractions for each of my deliveries wants to know how much I enjoyed making out with another man. So, this is it, I guess. These are the words he has chosen to let me go or let go of me. They are stronger than anything Donny’s ever said to me. In using them, he has abandoned all claims to me and the principle of—us. Is it true? My husband wishes to trade me in.

  “You know what, Don? I won’t talk to you about any of this,” I say, wiping my hands on the legs of my jeans.

  “I want you to be happy, Alex, and I believe Charlie Bell is what you need.”

  “Please, can you just leave me alone now?”

  Fragments of the evening and Donny’s words march in my head as he follows me through the hallway and up the stairs to our bedroom. We struggle on the way. He grabs my leg, and I jab him in the ribs. I mumble for him to fuck off. Once upstairs he tackles me, pushing me down on the bed that still has garments strewn across it. The room is much too light. I’m able to see Donny’s weird expression; it’s a rare peek at lust. At first, I’m shy and embarr
assed, and then this sudden strangeness between us excites me. He pushes himself inside me, hard, almost angry, as if he’s hitting a car horn in rush hour traffic. I am able to separate completely as if engaged in a crucial stage of metamorphosis. Inside my head an imaginary paintbrush transforms all the contours of Donny’s face. I raise his cheekbones, deepen his eyes, and thicken the vertical cords of his neck. The image appears so real I worry I might call out his name. Charlie. Charlie Bell. It takes only minutes, this exercise in mutual fulfillment. Donny rolls off me, pants bunched at the ankles, and for several minutes we lie on our backs, side by side.

  As I sometimes do, I begin counting the holes in the ceiling—ugly black nail heads that pop through the plasterboard. When I’d first learned the cracks and holes were caused by our house finally settling into the foundation, I felt overjoyed. What good news, I’d thought, how enormously comforting.

  THIRTEEN

  An unusual calm permeates our home. Words are suspended like dust trapped in a ray of sunlight. Donny and I are extremely polite with each other, acting like you might with the people in your life you often see, yet never get to know: the gardener, the cleaner, the neighbor on the corner whose name you forgot, but who never fails to wave. People whose faces you see perfectly when you close your eyes: a splattering of freckles, an intrusive mole, the slight overlap of a front tooth. But you may never get to touch their hand, or glimpse inside their troubled heads.

  And, as if barometers of our internal weather, Becky and Lana command a bit more attention. Lana has begun wetting her bed again—the first time in over a year. When I call to consult with Dr. Carner, he asks if anything out of the ordinary has been going on.

  “No!” I bellow into the receiver. My mouth goes dry when I scan the den and notice two empty wineglasses perched on the mantle above the fireplace. They have been there since Saturday night, or maybe the Saturday night before, or the one before that, which were spent in the company of the Bells—scheduled get-togethers during which the four of us first relax, chat, smoke, and eventually break off: splitting with the other’s spouse to either the darkened den or living room to neck feverishly. The raw excitement of all of this seems to mimic our younger years—a time seeped in the sweet juices of unrequited love. Like then, we have imposed certain guidelines on ourselves as individuals—first base, second base—and on our foursome, a word we are yet to utter aloud. Never is any one couple to enter a bedroom; without discussion, bedrooms remain off-limits. We are to meet in the kitchen at eleven o’clock sharp to say our sheepish good nights. Donny and I check on the children, and then crawl into bed, where little is said. Yet I lie awake, all night, reliving the last hours—wondering if, perhaps, I might be losing my mind.