Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “Watch out for sharks,” I yell, instantly sorry when I see the worried look on Ross’s face. Donny shoots me his scornful look, but Charlie doesn’t seem frazzled. He lets Ross have a go at rowing, which plants a huge smile on the boy’s face.

  Knee-deep in a dense field covered with Queen Anne’s lace, Becky and Lana wave from their spot on the hill. The sun’s rays blur the edges of their delicate bodies. I should be sketching them now—this precious moment of their young sisterhood. I imagine them in pastel shades, lines barely defined, like in the paintings of Mary Cassatt. Dandelions stick out from behind their ears, and their shirts, stretched out in front of them, cradle their collection.

  Ross’s and Ricki’s voices echo over the lake, cutting the silence shared with the distant knock, knock of a woodpecker.

  “I bet they’ll sleep well tonight,” I say.

  Paula stands to look after the rowboat. A cool breeze sweeps over us from the lake, a reminder the day is slipping by. I’m looking forward to the evening, but I’m scared as well. I daydream a snapshot of the four of us, a blurred image of us laughing together, then quickly becoming silent, as if struck with an awareness of a powerful allure. I can’t hide the fact that the moment our car turned into the driveway, and I heard the sound of crunching pebbles, I had the piercing thought that, after this weekend, nothing might ever be the same.

  The children are asleep in the largest bedroom, all exhausted from a day of exploring and discovery. The girls on two single beds; Ricki and her brother, Ross, on the floor in sleeping bags. Using several batik pillows, they’ve constructed a barrier, which Becky and Lana dare not cross.

  Outside, Charlie leans against the porch’s railing to face us, while Donny sits squeezed between Paula and me on a wooden swing. I’m uncomfortable sitting on the swing with Paula and Donny and resist the natural urge to lean in to Donny. Charlie pauses, deeply inhales a joint, and hands it to Donny.

  I notice a healthy tinge of pink clinging to Charlie’s cheekbones. I think he’s trying not to look at me. The night air is crisp and the evening sky illuminates with a creamy streak of stars forecasting another beautiful day. Charlie hands the joint to me but I shake my head no. I am too jumpy to smoke.

  “You sure?” he asks, his voice hoarse while smoke escapes his lips. I nod and he passes the joint to Donny. We have been talking about our childhood—sharing like kids do at Show and Tell. It’s Charlie’s turn. He looks around, shuffles his feet, and takes a dramatic deep breath before speaking.

  “Yeah, well my father, unfortunately, dropped dead at forty-nine—two days before my college graduation.” There’s a block of silence, out of respect, or not knowing what to say.

  “That must have been tough on all of you,” I respond.

  “Yes, but it was hardest on my little sister. She was only five, and my folks had just split up.”

  “How did your mother handle being alone with a small child?” I ask. Paula sighs deeply as if slightly bored. I wonder how often she’s heard this story.

  “Her parents moved in with us. They were very supportive.”

  “Oh, was that your Papa Carl?” I recall Charlie’s fondness for his grandfather.

  Charlie’s mood changes and he smiles brightly. “Yes, he took care of everything from then on. Carl was a tough, stand-up, stand-in kind of guy.”

  “Was it a bitter divorce?” Donny asks, taking it in, stirring ingredients in his invisible cauldron.

  “Ugly, if another woman is involved,” Charlie says, “especially when there’s not enough cash to go around.”

  “It’s getting chilly,” Paula mumbles. And we stare at her, having already forgotten her presence. Without hesitating, Donny pulls off his fisherman’s sweater, the one I’d knitted during the winter. I decided not to be superstitious and gave it to Donny, instead of keeping it for myself. Now, he, accidentally, jabs my ribs as he places the sweater around Paula’s shoulders.

  Charlie stares at me. “Alex? Are you cold?”

  “Actually yes, I think I’ll go inside. I better put the dishes in the washer before they attract bugs. This is the country, right?”

  “Come on, let me help. Hey, you guys need anything?” Charlie asks, holding the screen door for me.

  “Nope, everything’s fine.” Donny slides closer to Paula. In the mustard glow of the porch light, they look like boy-girl hillbilly dolls with their denim legs bent, dangling from the swing. Once inside, Charlie’s close at my heels, making me shaky. He tries to distract me by going after a horsefly buzzing noisily around my head. I jerk backward to avoid the fly, and fall into Charlie, nearly slamming into his face.

  “Steady girl,” he says, grabbing my shoulders.

  “There, there he is, get him, get him.” I’m about to give Charlie the fly swatter when his hand shoots like a rocket in the air, then clamps around the unfortunate insect. He opens his hand to show me the carnage before flinging the mangled fly in the garbage.

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Something I picked up from Papa Carl, who had the fastest hands in the Bronx.”

  “Oh?”

  “Once I saw him grab a rat with his bare hands and smash him against the basement wall.” Charlie appears sweet and boyish as he pantomimes the act while washing his hands.

  “Please, not another word. I’m terrified of rodents. We’d be sitting and eating dinner when suddenly there’d be this loud snap. My brothers ran from the table to peek under the stove, but I’d already disappeared to my room.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s change the subject. How about this? Alex, do you realize there isn’t a dishwasher anywhere in this kitchen?” Charlie has seen me opening and closing cabinets, assuming Cousin George’s summer home was modernly equipped. I close my eyes and lean against the sink and giggle. I haven’t smoked; maybe I have a contact high.

  Charlie grabs a dish towel, does that man thing—the annoying snap—and begins to dry.

  “You wash. Paula complains I leave the dishes grungy.”

  “Well, I heard you were once a terrific waiter—how you charmed her when you first met.”

  “Did she mention how my friends and I treated the people who nudged us all summer long, asking for more bread, extra slices of cake, or the end cut of a prime rib?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.” I’m fascinated watching Charlie’s animated face. Yes, he’s an actor, but I’m truly enjoying the show.

  Charlie takes the damp dish towel and puts it over his arm, imitating a waiter. He pushes me, his only audience, gently into a ladder-back chair.

  “Ma’am, is there anything else you’d like this evening? Perhaps a piece of pickled herring?”

  “Oh no, no, I just couldn’t,” I answer.

  “And Mr. Pearl,” Charlie says to an empty chair, “let me tell you how nice it has been serving you and your hubbie this summer, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Charlie pauses. “Then the guy would hand me an envelope. I’d run to the kitchen and tear it open because I had loans up the wazoo. Our tips were supposed to offset the lousy wages we received. Tips were everything!”

  “And what happened if this Mr. Pearl, with the beautiful wife, happened to be less than generous in the tip department?”

  “Glad you asked,” Charlie says, pulling up the chair and sitting so close I can smell the dizzying smoke on his breath. “It was usually the last night of the season, so none of us cared. We’d smile a wide, Cheshire grin, like this, and say, ‘Oh, Mr. Pearl, fuck you very much!’ We said it quickly. You know, as if speaking in Chinese: Fuck you very much, fuck you very much.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Absolutely, and they’d say ‘Charlie, ah, what was that you said?’ We then leaned over really close to their face to enunciate, ‘Thank you very much.’ But the wives, they figured you’d been stiffed. Some tried to make up for their stingy men by slipping us extra cash. To this day, when I have lunch with my friend, Ivan, now a successful anti-trust attorney who’d also wa
ited tables, and our waiter starts thanking us, profusely, we can’t help but crack up. We know exactly what the other is thinking.”

  Charlie finishes his story, then lifts a strand of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. I turn away, but he tilts my chin, forcing me to look directly in his eyes. I’m aware of the deep quiet, and then I hear the squeaking of the porch swing just a few yards away. What is Donny doing now? Is he having a warm, lovely chat? Charlie takes my hands, rubs the palms, places them together, and sandwiches them between his own. I wonder what would happen if I screamed. All it might take is a loud, witchy shriek to end whatever it is that has begun. I picture all the wineglasses shattering and the children waking and rubbing their eyes. I see Charlie and Paula gathering their belongings, including Ricki and Ross, the children who hate my children, who my children hate more, and everyone running out of this house into the mothy, chill evening.

  My heart is throbbing as if red balloons are trapped in my chest. Can he hear it, I wonder, the slow hiss as they deflate, one by one, to float to him? Charlie reaches for my face. His soft lips brush my eyelids and move to my mouth. My jaw relaxes, and I feel the tip of his tongue gently play with mine. Then, harder, it darts in and out of my mouth, tickling my palate, sliding over my teeth. He is holding my head so gently, his hands covering my ears.

  “I want to hold you closer,” he says. But, I can barely hear him.

  “I’m frightened,” I say, all of me quaking. “This isn’t right.”

  “Can’t you see what’s been going on? It’s not just us.” Charlie looks over his shoulder and gestures toward the porch.

  “What’s that?” I ask, hearing the sound of a car’s ignition turning over. Through the screen door I watch as Donny backs out of the driveway. The dark silhouette of Paula sits stiffly beside him. I think of waving goodbye. Have a great time, you two, and don’t forget to write. “Where the hell are they going?” I ask, my teeth chattering.

  “I’d guess somewhere to be alone. Why? Does that bother you?”

  I shake my head no. But I’m not sure I mean it. Anger, fear, and worry are rolled up in a hard ball, pressing against my belly. Am I a participant or onlooker? I am not used to going along with things, especially important things—things of multilayered consequence. But I came here, didn’t I? I am not exactly Saint Alex.

  Charlie locks the front door, making the house instantly our house.

  “Follow me,” he says, leading me by the hand. We walk silently down the hallway past the bedroom where the sounds of children’s nasal breathing rise and fall like fluttering moths outside the window. I hesitate before entering a small alcove that’s barely a room, appearing larger than its size because of the sloping skylight cut like a piece of pie into the beamed ceiling. I hear the faint click of Charlie locking the door.

  Below the enveloping white light of a full crystal moon, we stand together as hopeful as a young bride and groom. As Charlie draws me closer, I glance up at the moon, its face a kind but imposing deity, and ask permission for what I am about to do.

  “I’m not good at this,” he whispers, fumbling with the tiny seed buttons on my blouse.

  “Neither am I,” I stammer. A button pops off and my eyes follow while it rolls lazily across the floor. Am I innocent because I’ve been taken by surprise, and not planned easier clothes? I finish unbuttoning while his soft lips cover my neck and the blouse slips from my shoulders. So, this is how it happens, not difficult at all, not once you begin. My breasts throb as he kisses them; my nipples rubber hard against the silky fabric of Charlie’s shirt. Like ice skaters we glide to the darkest corner of the room, both of us shy and hovering. In seconds Charlie stands before me naked, his arms loose and long beside his hips. He is so angular, so manly. I can see the outline of his body hair and, even in the darkness, how the moonlight clings to his shoulders. He steps forward and reaches for me. I balance myself on my toes and toss my panties into a corner. Aware of my dampness, I’m shy when his searching fingers touch me. I guide him with my hand, feeling him pulsate and thicken. We are still standing, and it is nearly perfect except for my nerves—totally electrified.

  “Alex.” To hear him say my name is startling. I have the anxious thought that he’s moving too quickly. I want to hold him here as long as possible. I need to think some more, to decide this for myself.

  “Wait,” I say. But Charlie lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, my back braced against the rough pine wall. Every part of me that touches Charlie springs to life, each lonely spot he kisses—the side of my neck, underneath my shaggy hair. I will never, ever cut my hair. I start to cry, a whimper really, realizing how certain I’d been that I’d never feel anything like this again. The free spirit in me, my sexuality, has not vanished as I had thought.

  “It’s okay, don’t cry.”

  “I want you,” I say, shocked at my words, so guttural I don’t recognize the sound. I am lost memorizing the saltiness that drips from Charlie’s cheeks to mine. “Now,” I breathe into his neck. I am all wanting. Then some distraction, a glint of light off a shooting star, stops me, makes me shiver. Charlie pulls back, then collapses into me, his hands braced against the wall. There’s that familiar feeling of emptiness, rushing in, when I cease feeling human and more like a machine. He cradles me, still hard, pressing against the curve of my hip. His fingers brush my mouth, and I smell us both—the warm musky scent of our lovemaking. I face the wall pressing my buttocks against him. With one hand Charlie cups my breast, the other moves between my damp thighs, until we slump to the floor like tired marionettes. We crawl to the middle of the room, the straw rug skinning our knees, to find that one pure patch of light, all the promise in the face of a grand and watchful moon on this—our first night.

  I open my eyes the next morning to find Donny sitting at the edge of my bed with a ridiculous grin pasted across his face. He reminds me of my favorite children’s show of the ’50s—Howdy Doody. Donny is dressed in his shiny Ban-Lon shirt, the gift bestowed on him by Paula, which I’d forgotten to pack for Charlie. I’m thrilled now that these two men in my life won’t be matching.

  “Where’s Charlie?” I ask, sitting up so fast that I’m lightheaded. He shrugs. It’s not important. He doesn’t care. I back into the metal headboard, trying to get farther away from Donny. All I have on is my rumpled blouse and panties. I’m bombarded by thoughts of last night. Donny leaving, Charlie and I walking down the hall, Charlie’s lips on my neck, Charlie falling asleep inside me. I pull the scratchy Americana quilt up to my chin, feeling enormous modesty with Donny. “Where are the children?”

  “Playing outside. Paula’s watching them while I fix breakfast.” He sees me bristle; he knows I’d never leave the girls alone, especially with Paula, who left Ross sitting outside a public bathroom on the turnpike. Donny leans over and kisses my forehead. My eyes shrink from his. I see my jeans on the back of a chair and remember that Charlie and I moved into this bedroom before falling asleep.

  “So, tell me, how was it?” Donny tries to look pleasant, but he’s scrutinizing like a doctor checking for symptoms. “I mean, you know—did you hear harps and all that crap?” I expected he’d ask if I was feeling okay. This is so crazy that part of me wants to laugh in his face.

  “I have a small question of my own.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where did you and Paula go last night?”

  “Just down the road. There’s this little place, a dump really, but I thought it might be better if, you know, both couples got the chance to be alone.”

  “That was very thoughtful.”

  “Yeah, I think it made things a lot less awkward. So, come on … share … how’d it go?”

  “I won’t talk to you about this, Donny, so please don’t ask. From now on, it’s private—at least to me.”

  “Well, I guess you’re right, but I’d tell you anything you wanted to know about Paula and me. Anything. Frankly, I was a little—”

  “No! That’s okay.” My hand goes
up to stop him. I turn and stare at a red-framed print of American Gothic tilted on the wall, which is both comical and soothing.

  There’s a knock at the bedroom door. Charlie, smiling broadly, walks in, offering me a steamy mug of coffee. His expression changes and his eyes turn darker as they settle upon Donny’s curved back, his hand claiming ownership of my bare kneecap.

  “Hey, we’re talking,” Donny says, raising an arm to block him. But Charlie ignores him and walks over and kisses me full on the lips. I can’t look at Donny. I need to open a window and get some air. Instead, I gulp hot coffee.

  “How’d you sleep?” Charlie asks. There’s an awkward silence. Donny waits while Charlie and I look at each other. Our fingers clasp together naturally, as if they were north and south magnets.

  “Better get back to my omelets,” Donny says. He walks out and closes the door behind him.

  Charlie kisses me again; this time tenderly. But with daylight comes the reality of four children and their parents. We have each taken a step toward someplace not on the map, and the destination remains unclear.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks.

  “That’s a loaded question. Did you know they went to a motel last night?”

  “I won’t lie to you. Yes, I knew Donny made plans, but it was never a definite thing. I told him weeks ago I wasn’t about to force myself on you. We’d talked once or twice about the stirrings that were obvious among all of us. And when he pressed for an answer, I was open about my deep attraction for you.”

  “So, it was a setup and prearranged, part of Donny’s house of games. It all feels so … so clinical, so by the book.” I fling the blanket off me, then, realizing I’m nearly naked, I cover up again. Charlie grins at my sudden display of modesty.

  “Alex, this, you, me—no one could have planned.”