Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  I grab Agnes close to me and kiss the top of her head. “Yes, yes, of course, you did the right thing. Thank you!”

  Donny runs back from across the street after talking to Norm. If anyone would hound out the details, it would be Norm.

  “There was a fire at Jake and Ellen’s,” Donny says, “and big trouble.”

  “What? Are they okay?”

  “Better bring the girls inside,” he says.

  As if on cue, Agnes begins leading the girls back inside our house. The girls clasp Agnes’s hands and push their bodies into her hips. All I can think is my fourteen-year-old babysitter is more responsible than me.

  “Jake’s kids got into their stuff,” Donny says, moving closer.

  “The stuff?”

  “They’re saying they got their hands on a cigarette lighter and lit up Jake’s entire supply.”

  “I can’t believe it. Are his kids all right?” I ask.

  “They are all in shock, but luckily no one was hurt. Norm says their downstairs is totally wrecked, and one more thing … the police have taken Jake in for questioning.”

  “I bet Norm had a smile on his face when he told you that.”

  “Actually, he did, but I think Norm’s one of the many feeling a contact high. Look at these people. They’re stoned and don’t know it. Jake did have an awful lot of stash. He’s lucky it went up in smoke, better than getting busted,” Donny says.

  “But he was busted, Donny. His own kids busted him.”

  I can’t get Becky’s scolding words out of my head, nor the censorious look on her six-year-old face. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most.

  Two hours later Lana cries out, having soaked her sheets and comforter. I dash to her room, but she is already standing in my doorway, stroking her pink blankie.

  “I want Daddy to change me,” Lana says, surprising me.

  “Wait here, pumpkin.” I wake up Donny and remind him to make sure he tells Lana, “It’s no big deal. This happens to all children once in a while. Soon it’ll stop, she’ll see.” He carries her to our bed so she can kiss me again. She has the sweetest devilish smile plastered to her face, proud she’s stolen moments alone with both her mother and father. For the first time in months, I feel safe and content, as if I have everything I have ever wanted.

  Only later, when I start to drift back to sleep, do I realize that Agnes, asleep downstairs in our den, never heard Lana’s last cry, which could have awakened the dead.

  Since all the changes at work, Donny seems more reticent and withdrawn. We hardly speak at all, except about the children. He’s been getting home earlier and earlier. Today’s excuse is: “The air-conditioning broke down in the factory, and besides, tomorrow starts the three-day July Fourth weekend.” But he doesn’t hang around for long. Donny has two wives now—Paula Bell and me. The cool blue bleakness of Paula’s living room has become one of his refuges. After barbequing our dinner and playing a distracted game of Old Maid with Becky, he hops in the shower and, before long, he’s gone. Donny’s like a fly that favors a certain spot on the screen but flees as soon as the window is open.

  I’m brushing my hair up in a ponytail when he steps out of the shower, wraps himself in a towel, and sits at the edge of our bed. His chest is red and blotchy, his auburn hair glistening. As if it were winter and not July, Donny blows into both hands, then moans. Is he too tired for tonight’s trip to Paula’s? Maybe he’s worn himself out from marathon whiffle ball with Ricki and Ross. With Charlie traveling so much, Donny has taken on extra responsibility, evolving into a type of surrogate father. He’s convinced he can teach the Bells’ kids to fight without using their limbs. I’ve mentioned it is not his job.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, putting on a fresh coat of peachy lipstick.

  “No, actually, I feel like crap.”

  I sit down on the edge of our bed next to Donny, smelling his soapy flesh. I notice his stomach bulging over the bath towel. He turns his face toward me, his eyes sunken and red. Tears cling to his lashes like miniature icicles. And my hand reaches out, as if to catch them, ready to shore up the dam.

  “Pop made Karl the new plant manager today. I’m a division manager now, that’s it.”

  My arm automatically drapes around Donny’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I know how bad you must feel.”

  “Yeah, it sucks,” he says, through quivering lips. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him cry—in fact, not since Becky’s birth. I run my fingers through his rusty hair. We sit quietly for a few minutes until we hear Lana and Becky arguing, tripping up the stairs, heading for our room. And somehow I know this is a scene that I will always remember—the two of us, sitting here like this, together on our marital bed, the same mattress we’d tested years ago at Macy’s, both of us giggling while faking sleep. The moment comes starkly, like a downpour from a blackened summer sky: I realize I had once wholly loved him—both the boy and the man.

  “You don’t have to go, Donny. Stay with us now, if you’d like.”

  “I promised I’d teach Ross how to fly his new kite. They’re expecting me.” Donny stands and walks to his closet, where he grabs a pair of faded jeans.

  “What about the things you’ve promised Becky and Lana?” I try hard to say this softly, and without accusation.

  “I better go while it’s light outside,” he says, zipping his jeans and turning away from me, what he’s never done before.

  “Right, just go.” I jump up from the edge of the bed. I don’t want to sit here and watch Donny dress, something from which I once derived pleasure.

  In the hallway I find the girls crouched on the floor, sharing a snack-sized bag of Cheetos, their hands and mouths smudged orange. I usher them to the bathroom and fill the tub, watching a stream of bubbles spill over and onto the tile.

  “Is Daddy going out again, Mommy?” Lana asks.

  “Don’t ask that question,” Becky says. “It will make Mommy mad.”

  SIXTEEN

  We are together in our den listening to the new album by Queen. The music resounds, full and majestic, making me strangely jubilant. I take the green glass bong from Charlie and gulp a blast of cotton candy air—the grass, part of a hefty supply from Jake, which we plan to demolish immediately. Even though Jake got lucky when all but a few ounces went up in smoke, his one prior arrest has him, once again, under investigation. Charlie, terrified what a drug arrest might do to his career, suggested we all clean house, and fast. Having promised to do my share, I ingest more of the stuff than I can handle.

  Standing on top of our club chair, I raise my arms and begin conducting the last song. Charlie is the only one who responds. He removes his brown loafers and uses them to bang out beats on the frame of the couch. Donny forces an envious smile, but as Charlie bangs louder and louder, Paula looks away. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or just annoyed. There is definitely some tension brewing between her and Donny. I’ve noticed it once or twice before, but who am I to intervene? Besides, I can’t imagine what might happen if they decide they’ve had enough. If one of them said: Okay, kids, time to stop the whole shebang. What would I do? Return to the safety of our family cave? How could I? The solidity, once relied upon, has quickly eroded into a pile of pebbles. Donny and I are down to the last fragile layers, our marriage, chipped away like shale.

  The record makes a dreadful screech with one of my exuberant jumps, which causes the turntable to stall. Everyone freezes.

  “We’ll be back at midnight,” Donny says, reaching for Paula’s hand. Yet Paula seems reluctant to leave. He announces they are going to Paula’s house, and I wonder what her sitter will think when she marches through the door with a strange man. This is a first—our splitting apart and retreating to separate houses. But since the unexpected bonfire at Jake and Ellen’s, I refuse to leave the girls alone in the middle of the night with Agnes. We are determined to be more cautious and responsible, yet we remain night crawlers—The Bells and The Pearls, slipping out of each other’s
beds as darkness is pinched by the morning light. No one in this love square questions our actions aloud, perhaps fearing a corner may fold or disappear.

  Cautious around the children, we show no outward signs of affection; we lock all the doors and listen for footsteps. In order to be together, to stay together, we rationalize everything we do is fine. Before this, I never understood the power of addiction—how you can trick yourself into believing you are not at all responsible.

  The instant the garage door bangs shut, meaning Donny and Paula have gone, Charlie turns to me and widens his eyes.

  “Hey, ladybug … why don’t we go outside?”

  A great idea! Together, under the stars, instead of hiding in the bleakness of my bedroom. I turn off the outside lights and follow Charlie. I am heady from the pot, nervous until he reaches for my hand. The patio is so dark I stumble over a tin watering can and make a racket. A fragrance of freshly watered roses fills the night air, as thick and sweet as whipped cream. They climb wildly along the cedar fence separating us from our neighbor’s yard. Muffled television voices from a second-story window next door intrude. I hear a duet of crickets, the rumbling of cars; a few doors down, someone scolds a child to get back to bed. This last sound fills me with sadness.

  Charlie sprawls across the lounge chair, never once letting go of me. Our heads are sealed together while we stare at the sapphire sky. I’m aware of my trembling, always, as if his physical closeness has occurred for the very first time. One sudden Scarlett O’Hara sigh buys me time, while Charlie laughs a deep, from the belly, sound.

  “Hmm, you smell so good,” Charlie says.

  “It must be the roses.”

  “No, this is your smell … like a warm summer day after it rains, when all the aromas are mingling outside.”

  I can’t help but giggle. “Well, that’s pretty poetic coming from a lawyer, Charlie.”

  “Hey, I’m a mushy guy.” He leans closer and kisses me hard, like rapids thrashing over jagged rocks, reminding me of every possible danger. Tongues move in and out, circling our teeth, pushing against the invisible dam. Our hips shift and my leg coils around one of his. Charlie takes a deep breath and pulls his head back to look into my eyes; he looks upset.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “You’re wearing your mask of tragedy.”

  “My brother knows everything,” Charlie says. “I told him last night.”

  Though I’ve gathered how close Charlie is to his older brother, Peter, I am startled that he’d share something so personal, something which involves other people, that involves me. I uncoil my legs and sit up straight, arms tucked like a pretzel.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “He said you were a crazy, irresponsible fool.”

  “Nope, worse, he called me a moron. Peter can be a real pompous ass.”

  “You brought it up, Charlie, so shoot. I want to hear it all.”

  “He said, ‘Now that you’ve had your fun, Charlie boy, it’s time to end it—Cheryl and I went through the same scenario, two years ago, but we got our act together, and so can you.’”

  Scenario? Peter’s words make me feel like filth, like we made a porn film.

  “Thanks, for sharing. Oh, I meant to say dumping.”

  “I know I’m a jerk for telling you.” Charlie rotates his body around to face mine. “Alex, look at me, please.”

  “Go away. Did you feel better laying off all your guilty little pleasures? Sorry to be part of the crap you stuff down each day.”

  It’s the first time Charlie’s seen me really pissed. The first time I’m not floating on air by being in his presence. He takes my face in his hands, but I squirm away. Aware that my neighbors are in earshot, I keep my voice low. “I need time to think.”

  “Alex, I told Peter this was different. I wanted him to know I’m falling in love with you, that, for me, it’s not a game.”

  In the slivers of fading light, I see Charlie searching my face. The sweet, mellow high I was enjoying minutes ago has been replaced by a rush of paranoia. Do I want this? The pressure and effort our being lovers might ultimately demand of me? At first, I’d gone along for the ride. Donny’s ride. But at some point, I saddled up, and this became mine as well.

  “Alex, I know you’re mad. It’s okay, I can wait.”

  I stall and stall. I have no place else to go. His hands begin massaging the small of my back; tiny hairs rise at the nape of my neck. I lift my head so I’m staring into his soft, pleading eyes.

  “Wait? Wait for what? This has to end, and we both know it,” I say, surprising myself, clinging to the notion if you say certain things aloud they may or may not come true.

  On the hottest day of the summer, a record-breaking ninety-nine degrees, we sit in the Bells’ living room, drinking vodka and pink lemonade. The children are in the backyard running through the circular sprinkler, their high-pitched squeals competing with the dull hum of the failing, Fedders air-conditioning unit. Donny and I take turns going to the dining room window, our cheerful waves reassuring them.

  Charlie, home for an entire week, is more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. We can’t pass each other without touching: arms, hands, grabbing a pinky, the sneaky bump of our hips as we walk through a room. We’ve been together almost every day and night, taking more chances than we’d ever imagined we would. Diving deeper and deeper into this whirlpool, we never come up for air, never stick out a hand to check the climate above the surface.

  Today, the heat having perhaps parboiled his brain, Donny jumps up and announces: “You know, guys, I think it’s time all our parents know about us. It’ll take some of the pressure off.”

  “Oh God, Donny, why? Maybe Louise and Ben expect to see all their children adopting avant-garde lifestyles, but as you well know, my parents are clearly a different story.” There is just so much I can tell my parents without paying the price—their gift-wrapped biased opinions. I’d been warned once by my college roommate, Barbara, a fiery, red-headed Irish Catholic raised in New York City. “What is it about you scaredy-cat Jewish girls?” she’d asked. “Why must you always run home and report to Mommy and Daddy? This way you’re giving them a firm hold on you forever.” At the time, I thought Barb was jealous of me, what I boasted to be my family’s closeness. But now I clearly see what she meant: we tell them what we need to tell them, hoping for their admonishment—the Judaic version of confession. We make our parents part of our daily checks and balances.

  “How long do you think we can hide what’s been going on?” Donny asks. “I never mentioned this, but my father has been suspicious for quite some time. He called me into his office right after we came back from Cousin George’s house in May.”

  “And why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?” I ask. There’s a squirmy silence, and a weird look tossed between Donny and Paula.

  “It’s probably my fault,” Paula says, looking at a finger-smudged wall, as if a movie were projected there. “After visiting my folks, I stopped by to ask if Donny wanted to go to lunch. I had the kids with me—I thought it would be okay.”

  I imagine Louise rising from her desk, leaning over to peck Paula’s pallid cheek. I am seized with a deep sense of possessiveness, surprised this feeling still exists.

  “Well, I guess the fact that my mother-in-law has never mentioned it to me shows you made a big impression,” I answer. My foot begins to jiggle uncontrollably.

  “Oh, no, she wasn’t at work that day. Donny’s father was really nice though. He took all of us out to lunch. He was terrific with Ricki and Ross.”

  This jolts me, flashing a moving picture with frames hard to put into focus: Paula, her kids, Donny, and Ben breaking bread together in the middle of the work day.

  “Anything else I should know before we decide to share and share alike?” I ask.

  “Alex is right,” Charlie says. “You two can’t be running around town, making your own rules. We need to trust each other and agree not to do anything that’s going to hurt or confuse the children.
”

  “Ah, I’d say it’s a tad late for that.” There’s a smile on my face, though I’m far from happy. Something sucks all the air out of the room. It’s as quiet as a synagogue on the High Holy days. I’ve said what no one wants to hear. And still, nobody, not a single one of us, yells STOP.

  I stand and stretch, it being my turn to check on all the kids. It’s as if I’d been forewarned. Looking out the dining room window, I see Ricki Bell, the little angel, tying our Lana against a tree, while Ross and Becky look on. I tear down the steps, which lead to the Bells’ backyard, and the sight of me makes the children scatter, all except Lana, of course, whose tiny body is bound at the ankles to a sappy tree by a frayed and filthy jump rope.

  “Are you okay, cookie?” I find the knot and slowly unravel the rope from Lana’s feet. There are reddish-blue marks already spreading around her knees where Ricki Bell has pulled the rope the tightest. What shocks me most is Lana’s theatrical smile, perhaps a denial of pain, but nevertheless a nearly cherubic and happy demeanor.

  “Mommy, you know what you just did? You ruined our game.”

  “Your game? What kind of a game is this supposed to be sweetie … you tied up with a yucky, wet rope?”

  “We were playing house, Mommy. Becky is supposed to be you, and because my hair is the darkest, I’m the pretend Paula.”

  My mouth goes dry in the suffocating heat.

  “Oh, I see. And who was Ricki, tying you against this tree?”

  “You didn’t see her kissing me, Mommy. She was kissing me all over from my head to my toes.” Lana shoves her two middle fingers in her mouth and refuses to answer.

  Donny has four Fernando’s shell steaks grilling on the pit. After the fire at Jake’s house, I rushed to Fernando’s and doubled my meat supply. Plus, I wanted to thank Mr. Fernando personally for his dedication, and volunteering, as fire chief of Wheatley Heights, but he was on vacation in Atlantic City.