The Good Life

by Susan Kietzman

  For a while, Ann had tried a few “No Fail” options described in a Valentine’s Day article in a women’s magazine: watching sports on TV with him, giving him back rubs, calling him at work to tell him she was thinking about him. Shower him with your affection, and he will shower you with his (Suggestion #6). He seemed to appreciate these efforts, especially the back rubs, but they didn’t change his behavior. In his defense, he had always been that way. He had never been the suitor with a bouquet of red roses, offering instead a post-hockey game freshly showered body and a six-pack of beer. And Ann had fallen just the same.

  While Mike groaned, Ann decided what she was going to wear to dinner. After, Mike lay on his side, looking at his wife’s naked body. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “About last year’s fourth quarter,” said Mike.

  “Well,” said Ann. “There’s an honest answer.”

  “And?”

  “It’s okay to be satisfied, Mike. To linger in the moment rather than launch yourself into the last or the next business quarter.”

  “Because you’re basking in postcoital bliss right now? Tell me you weren’t just deciding which shoes you’re going to wear to dinner.” Ann wrapped her robe around her and sat on the edge of the bed. Mike reached out, his long arm just an inch or two short of touching her. “Hey,” he said, gently. “We’re on vacation. Just relax.”

  Ann rubbed her temples. The light buzz from the wine circulating earlier had settled there, threatening, a storm cloud on the horizon. “I’m going to take a bath,” she said, reaching for her wineglass, looking for the on switch. “Then we should probably get ready for dinner.”

  “I’ll get you some,” said Mike, sitting up and taking the glass from his wife. “Go get in the tub.”

  Mike got out of bed and walked naked to the wet bar, where he poured himself a scotch. He took a sip, concentrating on the warmth of the liquid as it traveled from his mouth, down his throat, and into his gut. One of the best things about vacation was the freedom to drink whatever and whenever he chose. He’d had a martini at lunch and a beer after tennis and it didn’t matter to anyone. He had no meetings scheduled. He had no phone calls to make until tomorrow. He had nothing and no one except his uptight but very sexy wife to attend to. Pleasing her was no less challenging than satisfying his stockholders.

  Her demands were different now that they were approaching middle age. She examined her face every night in the bathroom mirror, lamenting the inevitable “aging process” and rubbing expensive cream into the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth before yanking the occasional gray hair from her scalp. Her obsession with being thin had burgeoned over the last few years, with exercise and diet knocking everything else off her priority list. And the children, as teenagers, didn’t need or want her in their lives.

  When Nate and Lauren were young, they defined her mission, perhaps even more than other mothers because getting pregnant had been difficult with Ann’s endometriosis. And as a mother of young children, Ann had been playful, silly even, like she was in college when they first met. She was competitive and determined as well, capable of outdoing and outshining those who challenged her. And it was this trait that Mike most admired, that drew him to her, and made him choose her over the girls who wilted in this presence.

  She was drifting now, his stalwart wife, searching for what mattered. And he could not help her, either define it or acquire it. She would find her ground, but she would do it as she did most things, on her terms and by herself.

  Mike took another sip of scotch; his thoughts switched to work and the juxtaposition of where he was that moment and what he was usually doing. The pressures on him were continual, like the chemicals running through a pipeline in one of his manufacturing plants, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He poured Ann a half glass of wine. And there was certainly no room for drinks in that design. At business lunches, he sipped mineral water. Those who chose less wisely quickly lost the thread of the conversation, nodding their heads in false comprehension while he steered the discussion. Mike walked Ann’s wine into the bathroom, where he found her sitting in a bubble bath, surrounded by candles. He handed her the glass, wrapped a fresh towel around his waist, and then sat down on the pink marble steps leading up to the tub.

  “Did you drink the other half?” she asked.

  “There is plenty more where that came from, Ann. Pace yourself.”

  “We’re on vacation, remember?”

  “Which means you can drink yourself into a stupor?”

  “No,” said Ann. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “If you’re going to play Alcohol Cop, I can’t stop you.”

  “Somebody’s got to,” he said, drinking his scotch. “At some point you need to realize that she who drinks the most wine and champagne does not necessarily win.”

  “Win what?”

  “Exactly,” said Mike.

  “Can we stop now?”

  “Yes,” he said, knowing her overindulgence with alcohol was part of her search. Yet whether or not this dependency would fade was far more troublesome to him than her excessive exercise and shopping. Her drinking was escalating in spite of, or perhaps due to, his periodic lectures.

  They sat in silence.

  “Thank you for taking me away,” Mike said, changing a tired subject. “I’m enjoying this immensely.”

  Ann took a sip of her wine, then set the glass down on the edge of the tub. “We really have to do this more often.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  “You say that,” said Ann, “but you don’t mean it.”

  “I do mean it,” said Mike. “This life looks pretty good compared to working my ass off.”

  “Retire,” said Ann impulsively.

  “At forty-six?”

  “It’s not like we need the money,” said Ann, reaching for her glass.

  “The way you spend it,” said Mike, smiling, “we could always use more money. And as much as work is constant, it is rewarding. I work with a great bunch of guys and I’d miss that. What would we do with ourselves?”

  “Travel the world,” said Ann.

  “You’ve seen quite a bit of the world already.”

  “The world’s a big place.”

  “And we’ve got lots of time. The kids will both be out of the house in a few years and then we’ll have no ties whatsoever.”

  “God, I dream about that,” said Ann. “A quiet, clean house— no fighting, no talking back, no lying. Of course, we’d have that already if you’d just said yes to boarding school.”

  Mike stood and stretched his arms over his head. “And we’ve had this conversation a thousand times,” he said. “No go.”

  “We could send them to the best schools in the country,” said Ann.

  “I know that,” said Mike, looking into the mirror behind the tub and wondering if he should shave again.

  “And?” asked Ann.

  “As you already know, I spent my entire childhood at boarding school,” said Mike, rubbing his chin to assess the stubble. “I won’t do that to my kids. End of discussion.”

  Ann took another sip of her wine. “Fine then,” she said. Mike glanced down at her. “You definitely need to shave,” she said, sinking lower into the tub.

  “Okay,” said Mike, dropping his towel to the heated floor. “I’m going to take a quick shower, then dress for dinner. What’s the drill for tonight?”

  “Formal,” said Ann. “Wear your tux. I got you a new tie and cummerbund.”

  “Not floral,” he said, turning on the shower.

  “MacAndrews plaid,” said Ann. “You’ll look fabulous.”

  At dinner, they sat with the same three couples as the previous night. Ann had requested major league players at their table and she was not disappointed. Then again, most of the people who stayed in five-star resorts didn’t have their money in 529 college funds—like most Dilloway people at home. Those Mi
dwestern wives had absolutely no fashion sense, thinking Talbots was an upscale place to buy clothes and jewelry. Sometimes three or four showed up to the same company dinner in their new faux pearl earring and necklace sets. Awkward in social situations above them, they blushed frequently and seldom talked. When one did speak, it was often a failed attempt to sound up-to-date on current politics or an ignorant compliment on Ann’s outfit. And their husbands were, in some ways, harder to take. They spent the evening trying to outdo one another in the presence of the big boss. “You know Mike,” one would say, before launching into a supposedly impromptu economic theory that everyone within earshot knew he’d rehearsed at home. Ann had to resist the urge to shoo such people away like fruit flies from ripe bananas. This crowd wasn’t like that. They all had money and power, although by Ann’s quick calculations, not quite as much as she and Mike, the Big Cheeses.

  After dinner, they all danced to Tunes by Taylor, a fabulous deejay who played music from the 1970s through the 1990s. Ann had always been an avid fan of eighties pop. Duran Duran, Boy George, Fine Young Cannibals, the Bangles—she could shake her bones to anything with a beat. Again and again, she pulled Mike away from business conversation with the boys to romp and stomp on the dance floor. She sang the words, clapped her hands over her head, and let the champagne she’d drunk at dinner work its magic. The disco ball hung from the ceiling sent circles of colored light spinning around the room, while Mike, a capable dancer, spun Ann around the floor.

  Back at the table, they had brandy. Everyone was in a good mood, such a good mood that Ann decided to share some bawdy stories from college. She had them all in stitches with her favorite—Pencil Dick—when the first wave of nausea hit. She stopped abruptly and looked at Mike. He said something to her that she couldn’t understand. When the second wave came, she stood up. Excusing herself, she walked as fast as she could around tables and people to the nearest exit. Gagging, she threw herself through the French doors out onto the terrace where they’d had cocktails several hours earlier. Across the flagstones and out onto the grass, Ann ran with her hand over her mouth. She ducked behind a hedge just as the evening’s festivities roared out of her like water released from an uncapped fire hydrant. Falling to her knees, she retched again and again, into the bushes. A few minutes later, Mike found her, picked her up, and carried her through a back hallway and up two flights of stairs to their room. Closing the door behind them with his foot, he walked her to the bed and set her down gently. “Where is everyone?” asked Ann sleepily.

  “Still at the table, I would presume,” said Mike, undoing his tie. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m drunk,” said Ann.

  “Well, yes,” said Mike. “I think everyone knows that.”

  “How do they know?” asked Ann, shielding her eyes from the light when Mike turned on the bedside table lamp.

  “Pencil Dick’s a pretty good barometer for that sort of thing,” he said.

  “Oh shit,” said Ann, rolling over and hiding her face in the pillows. “How will I face them again?”

  “I told them you were on medication,” said Mike. “They all seemed to understand completely.”

  “Why did you let me drink so much?”

  “I think you did it all by yourself,” said Mike, helping Ann out of her dress.

  “I was having such a good time,” said Ann. “Until I threw up.”

  “Well, yes,” said Mike.

  “What time is it?” asked Ann as Mike pulled back the duvet for her.

  Mike looked at his watch. “It’s time for bed.”

  Ann awoke early the next morning with a hazy, hot, throbbing head that felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. With her eyes still shut, she lifted it off the pillow, making it pulsate. She slowly put it back down. “Oh God.”

  Mike rolled over to face her.

  “I think I’m going to die,” she whispered.

  “I would imagine you do,” said Mike, getting out of bed and walking into the bathroom. “How many do you need?”

  “Four.”

  Mike returned with a glass of water and four Advil. He handed them to Ann, who put them in her mouth and swallowed them. She then drank the water.

  “Thank God for hangovers,” said Mike.

  “That’s mean.”

  “No, Ann, that’s justice. You’ve got to learn when to stop,” he said. “And it’s not my job, it’s yours.”

  “But I’ve been so good.”

  “You have been okay. Since your parents arrived, you’ve been a bit better about watching your intake.”

  “I just let loose last night, Mike,” said Ann. “You have to give me a longer leash when I’m away from home.”

  “Your leash is as long as you make it,” he said. “I cannot be your babysitter.”

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you, Ann. I am simply frustrated by your lack of control. Because you decided to let loose last night, I will have breakfast without you, and our final vacation day will be spent with your hangover concerns.”

  Ann rolled over, away from Mike. “Are we done?”

  “For now,” said Mike. “But we aren’t really done until you’re done.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll never drink again.”

  Mike smiled. “You’ll have a glass of wine in your hand by five o’clock today.”

  Ann rolled over and looked at him out of one eye. “You don’t think I can go one day?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Ann’s gut tightened. “What’s riding on it?” she asked.

  “A blow job,” said Mike. “The blow job you promised to give me this morning.”

  Ann searched her disconnected brain for the section that controlled memory. Had she said that? She licked her dry lips. “And what do I get if I win?”

  “New shoes,” said Mike, “from Paris. And you can fly there to find the perfect pair.”

  “You’re on,” said Ann, picturing the strappy gold sandals she had seen on a Hollywood actress at a gala. She then told Mike she desperately needed a bubble bath and room service. There was no bad hangover a white cheddar cheese, egg white omelette and a toasted English muffin with sugar-free strawberry jam couldn’t cure, even though the idea of eating that much fat came close to making Ann sick again. Since she’d lost her dinner the night before, however, Ann figured she could eat whatever she wanted this morning and not gain more than eight ounces. And that she could easily shed tomorrow at the gym if she did a double session.

  Mike called room service, then started Ann’s bath, squirting in the organic bubble bath she’d bought at the spa the day before. He looked at his watch and debated going to breakfast with the group. There was some talk the night before about meeting at 9:30, which would give Mike thirty minutes to shower. Maybe it was best to just leave it alone. The only one he was really interested in seeing was Paul Rosenberg’s wife, Sharon, and Mike knew better than to pursue that idea. He grabbed his bathrobe and walked back into the bedroom, where Ann was sitting up.

  “Your tub’s ready,” he said, “and your eggs are on the way. I’m going to get a Coke.”

  “Don’t we have some in the fridge?”

  “I drank them.”

  “You could call room service.”

  “Yes, but I want it now,” said Mike, “not forty-five minutes from now. There’s a Coke machine down the hall.”

  “You’re going like that?”

  “There are only four rooms on this floor,” said Mike, opening the door. “What are the chances I’ll see anyone?” Mike walked around the corner and down the hall. He took six quarters out of his pocket and put them into the Coke machine. He bent down to get the can, and then turned around to find Sharon Rosenberg standing in front of him. “Hello,” he said, smiling.

  “Aren’t we two peas in a pod,” said Sharon, wearing the same hotel-supplied bathrobe.

  “Yes, we seem to be,” said Mike.

  “I had fun last night,” she said, running her
fingers through her long red hair. “You’re a fabulous dancer.”

  “You’re kind,” said Mike.

  “Are you going to breakfast?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Mike. “Ann isn’t feeling well this morning.”

  Sharon laughed. “I imagine not.”

  “Can I buy you a Coke?” asked Mike.

  “Sure,” said Sharon.

  Mike took more quarters from his own pocket and put them into the machine. “Regular or diet?” he asked.

  “Do I look like I need diet?” asked Sharon playfully.

  “Absolutely not,” said Mike, pushing the button and sending a can of regular crashing into the receptacle. He turned to give the can to Sharon and immediately noticed the tie to her bathrobe was undone. The sides of her robe, moments ago cinched tightly around her small waist, were now slightly parted, allowing Mike an inch glimpse of her tanned tummy. She smiled at him and reached for the can, parting her robe even farther. Mike knew he should turn from her and walk away, but he didn’t.

  “Paul’s at a tennis lesson,” offered Sharon.

  “That’s an early lesson,” said Mike, using every bit of strength he had to look at her face and not her visible breasts.

  “No one’s in the room,” said Sharon, fingers on her chest. “It’s just down the hall. Would you like to see it?”

  “Very much,” said Mike, before he could stop himself. “But I’ve got to get back to Ann.”