Coming Clean

by Sue Margolis

  Ben turns to Amy. “You’d look really weird that shape.”

  “Oh, shuddup, Ben. You smell.”

  “Schlemiel!”

  Fighting back the laughter, I just about manage to pull off a stern: “Ben, don’t use that word. It’s not nice.” I take the plastic liner over to the back door. Greg can take it out when we get back.

  “Granddad says it.”

  “I don’t care what Granddad says. I don’t want you saying it.”

  “Mum doesn’t want you using it,” Amy chips in, “because it means penis.”

  “What’s wrong with penis?”

  Just then the front door opens. Klaudia is back from her English class.

  “What’s taking your dad so long?” I mutter. “We need to get going in case there’s traffic.”

  “But will somebody please explain what’s supposed to be wrong with penis?”

  I tell Ben that there’s nothing wrong with penis per se, but people tend not to respond well to being called one.

  I kiss the kids good night and remind them about having baths and washing their hair. “And for the last time,” I say, “will the pair of you please stop trying to convince Klaudia that Starbursts are part of your five veggies a day.”

  Just then Greg reappears wearing a pair of crumpled chino shorts that he’s clearly just pulled out of the dirty-laundry basket. Over the top he’s wearing a white T-shirt. This is clean at least, and unless you’re standing inches from his chest, you can barely read the DUNDER MIFFLIN PAPER COMPANY logo.

  “So,” I say, looking him up and down. “You’re going out in those shorts, are you?”

  “I couldn’t find a clean pair. If you’re too embarrassed to be seen with me, don’t come. But it’s eighty degrees outside and there’s no way I’m wearing jeans.”

  I’m about to say that I suppose I should be grateful he’s not wearing socks with his sandals, when I notice that he is staring at Amy. “Amy, are you wearing eye shadow?”

  “Yeah, great, isn’t it?” She flutters her eyelids to show off the wobbly turquoise eye frosting. “It was Klaudia’s, but she didn’t want it anymore. And she gave me nail polish, too.”

  Amy presents her newly painted fingernails. It’s her very first effort and she’s got pink glittery polish all over her fingers. I think she looks so cute—not that I’d allow her out in the eye shadow. I’m reminded that my first baby is growing up and that a few years from now she’ll be wearing makeup and nail polish for real. Part of me wants her to be ten forever, but at the same time I can’t wait for us to start bonding at the MAC counter.

  Amy takes one look at her father’s expression. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You’re ten. That’s what’s wrong with it.”

  “At least I’m not going out with Mum in dirty, crumpled old shorts. And anyway, all the girls in my class practice putting on makeup and painting their nails.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to.”

  I tug Greg’s T-shirt and remind him that time’s getting on. He gives his daughter a look as if to say, “This discussion isn’t over,” and then heads into the hall. Before following him, I whisper to Amy that she looks fab and that she should leave her father to me.

  “He’s such a schlemiel,” she mutters.

  “Mum, Amy said ‘schlemiel.’”

  “Shut up, Ben,” Amy says.

  I tell my son to be quiet, pick up my handbag along with my large canvas tote and decide to leave the situation.

  Klaudia comes flip-flopping down the hall in her yellow Havaianas. Her blond hair is swept back into a giant claw clip. A few wenchlike wisps hang around her face.

  Klaudia is twenty and for a moment I want to be her—sexy, confident, sun-kissed Klaudia, her life barely begun, her head full of plans and possibilities.

  She says hi to both of us and apologizes for being late. “Zey cut bus,” she announces. Despite nine months of English lessons, her Polish accent is as pronounced as ever.

  I tell her it’s not a problem, adding that the kids have eaten and require baths and hair washes.

  “We should be back by half ten.”

  “No prob-lyem.” Klaudia smiles. “You take time.”

  No sooner has Klaudia closed the front door behind us than I can hear Amy and Ben shrieking for her to come quick. Apparently a mouse is scratching its way out of the trash can liner.

  I look at Greg. “I told you we had mice. You wouldn’t listen.”

  “Great, so it’s my fault as usual.”

  “I think we should go back.”

  “Klaudia will be fine. She was raised on a farm. A mouse isn’t going to faze her.”

  We keep walking and I make a mental note to call in a pest control company.

  “Do you fancy Klaudia?” I blurt.

  “What? Where did that come from? She’s practically a child.”

  “She’s twenty.”

  “Whatever. I can barely tell her apart from Amy’s friends. And anyway, she’s got a boyfriend back in Warsaw.”

  “So what? That wouldn’t stop you feeling tempted.”

  “Oh, please.” He looks genuinely appalled.

  “And these Saturdays, when you go to Sussex … you are spending them with the tank, aren’t you?” It strikes me that these are odd questions, bearing in mind that I’ve just told Annie I’m not sure my marriage has a future. Surely I shouldn’t care if Greg’s having an affair—or if he fancies Klaudia. But part of me clearly does.

  My suspicions seem to amuse Greg. He starts laughing. “Sophie, do you honestly think I’ve got the energy for extracurricular sex? I mean, for starters, having an affair takes a great deal of organization, not to mention expense. There are the secret rendezvous to book, cool trendy adultery clothes to buy.”

  “Of course, because you wouldn’t want her to see you in dirty, creased shorts. Whereas I don’t matter.”

  “Absolutely. And I’d have to start working out. Then there’s the stress of making sure you didn’t find out. The moment I booked a hotel room I’d be worrying about you finding my credit card statement. On top of that, I’d need constant alibis, a secret cell phone and e-mail address. Then there’s all the guilt. That alone would be enough to ensure I couldn’t get it up. I swear that all I do on a Saturday is go to Pete’s. We work on the tank, have a pub lunch and then I come home. Ask him … ask the pub landlord.”

  “OK, I get it. I just wanted to be sure, that’s all. Bearing in mind everything we’re going through, nobody would think it strange if one of us had an affair.”

  We head towards the car, which is parked a few yards down the street. Greg says he’ll drive. What is it about men—even supposed feminists like Greg—insisting on driving when they’re out with their wives and girlfriends? Would their testicles fall off if they let a woman get behind the wheel?

  “OK, so what about you?” he says as we climb in.

  “What about me?”

  “You could be having an affair just as easily as me.”

  “Greg, I go to work. I come home. I eat, attempt to have something resembling quality time with the kids and go to bed. The last time I went away overnight, Gordon Brown was prime minister.”

  Greg turns the key in the ignition and we pull away. “So I take it we’re speaking again,” he says.

  I shrug. “I guess. Look, I’m sorry if I didn’t communicate properly, but I was sure I told you the right day.”

  “Maybe you did and I got confused. Can we just agree that our wires got crossed? I absolutely did not set out to sabotage our date.”

  “OK, whatever. Let’s just forget it.”

  “Good.”

  We drive in silence for a minute or so.

  “It was nice,” I say eventually, “watching you and Amy laughing together.”

  He nods. “It’s funny how kids drive you mad most of the time and then you have these moments when you’re so overcome with love for them that it brings tears to your eyes.”

  “I know.”
I tell him about Ben wanting to go back in time so that he can be friends with us when we were children.

  He gives a slow shake of his head, clearly touched. “God … sometimes you just don’t want them to grow up.”

  “Particularly Amy?”

  “Look, I know she’s on the verge of puberty, but she’s ten. I can’t bear the way young girls are sexualized these days.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a bit of eye shadow and sparkly nail polish. She’s having fun experimenting. I did the same when I was her age. You make it sound like she was cavorting in a Wonderbra and suspenders.”

  Greg grimaces. “I just want her to carry on being my little girl.”

  “Same here, but the reality is that a few years from now she’ll be a teenager. If you’re always on her case, she’ll pull away and your relationship with her will really suffer.”

  “I know,” he says with a sigh. “You’re right. I need to back off.”

  I’m aware that Greg and I are having a rare “moment.” We’re actually connecting. I wonder if he’s feeling it, too. This has to be a positive sign. Maybe this isn’t the endgame after all. I can’t wait to tell Virginia Pruitt.

  And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid: “The kids love you so much. I wish you’d spend more time with them.”

  “I don’t believe this. Sophie, you’ve just lectured me about not getting on Amy’s case, but you’re on mine the entire time. Do you realize that you never, ever stop nagging? I can’t take it anymore. I do my best with the kids, like I do with stuff around the house. Now just back the fuck off.”

  “Actually, you know what? I’m not going to back the fuck off. If you want our marriage to work, then you need to start upping your game.”

  “And if you want our marriage to work, you have to stop telling me what it is I need to do.”

  Our “moment” is well and truly over.

  • • •

  It’s only when we pull up outside Virginia Pruitt’s house that I realize we haven’t come up with an excuse for not doing our homework. Since it wasn’t a written assignment, we can hardly say the dog ate it. While I’m trying to work out what to say, Greg is still irritable and interrogating me as to why I’m carrying the canvas tote as well as my handbag. I tell him there are things in the tote that I might need.

  “In our therapy session.”

  I shrug. He doesn’t push it.

  Of course our homework is the first thing Virginia Pruitt mentions.

  “So, how did the date go?” Her expression is wide-eyed and hopeful.

  “It didn’t. There was a mix-up. We got the days confused.”

  Virginia Pruitt seems disappointed, but not surprised. My mind goes back to last week. I remember sensing that she had qualms about giving us this homework. I think she half expected it to go tits up.

  “I see, so you both chose to sabotage it?” she says.

  I’m taken aback. It never occurred to me that I might have had a hand—albeit a subconscious one—in our “mix-up.”

  “So you’ve had no Greg and Sophie time this week?”

  We shrug like a pair of naughty kids up before the school principal. But she lets it go. There’s no telling off. No punishment. Her lack of a rebuke makes me feel guilty. I feel like we’ve let her down.

  She says she wants to spend the session asking about our childhoods. I describe mine as your average angsty Jewish upbringing, from which I emerged unscathed, apart from a fear of raw egg products (cause salmonella, possible death), squeezing zits (causes blood poisoning, possible death), silk (flammable, catches fire, possible death), motorcycles (no explanation required, certain death). Virginia Pruitt actually laughs.

  “And now my parents are moving to Florida—to live with my brother, Phil, and his wife and their two teenage boys. They’re getting on and we all thought the climate would do them good. Plus Phil’s a doctor and his wife’s a nurse, so they’re going to be well looked after.”

  “And how do you feel about them going?”

  I find myself admitting to my feelings of abandonment. “I think I’d be coping better if Greg and I were OK.”

  “Do your parents know how things are between you?”

  I shake my head. “Like I said, they’re elderly. They’ve got enough to worry about with the move. It would be too much for them to cope with.”

  “That must be a strain—keeping it bottled up.”

  “I guess.”

  Greg looks at me. “So, go on … say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That since you found out your parents were moving, I haven’t exactly been the supportive husband.”

  “Well, you haven’t. When your dad died, I was so there for you.”

  “You were and I was very grateful, but he died. Your parents are still alive.”

  “I know, but they won’t be in my life the way they used to be and I’m really going to miss them. I know we can visit, but I find myself wondering how many times I’ll get to see them before they die. The kids keep telling me they’re going to miss them, too, but it hasn’t even occurred to you to ask them how they’re feeling.”

  “Great. Something else to blame me for. OK, I’m sorry I haven’t been very sympathetic towards you and I will speak to the kids. How’s that?”

  “Don’t knock yourself out.”

  Virginia Pruitt says that this issue is something we can pick up in our next session, but for now she wants to stay focused on our childhoods. She wants to find out more about Greg’s early years. Greg often talks about his upbringing, so I know that he’s not about to tell Virginia Pruitt anything that he hasn’t told me.

  He begins by explaining that he isn’t Jewish. “So significantly less emoting and fretting went on in our house compared to Sophie’s. For example, my mum and dad tended not to call the dermatologist if somebody had a paper cut.”

  I’m straight back at him. “On the other hand, your father did die of heartburn.”

  Virginia Pruitt looks puzzled. Greg explains that his workaholic father ignored his symptoms for years on the grounds that a) he didn’t have time to get them checked out and b) nobody ever died of heartburn. “When he finally saw a doctor, it was too late. Stomach acid had eroded his esophagus and it had become cancerous. He’s been gone two years.”

  I wonder if he’s going to tell Virginia Pruitt the Connect Four story, but he doesn’t. “When she was young, my mother was a legal secretary, but she stopped working to raise my younger brother and me. I guess she fussed over us rather a lot.” Virginia Pruitt presses him for details. Before he has a chance to say anything, I hear myself butt in.

  “Val thinks all human beings in possession of a penis are totally helpless. Even now, she cuts the crusts of his bread.”

  “OK,” Greg says, red with embarrassment. “I admit that I was pretty cosseted and that I still have a few bad habits.”

  “A few? That’s a laugh.”

  Greg glares at me.

  Virginia Pruitt suggests that Val babied her two sons in order to prevent them from growing up.

  “Possibly,” Greg says with a shrug. “But what I know for certain is that my mother taught me and my brother about the things that really matter in life. Mum might have spoiled my brother and me, but she had another side to her personality. She did charity work. She thought about the world. She went back to school and got a degree. Most of all, she never got het up about the house being a bit grubby or untidy. She certainly didn’t nag and yell because there were a few dirty dishes in the sink.”

  “And you wish that Sophie would stop nagging and be a bit more like your mother?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I turn on him. “I can’t believe you just said that. How dare you set your mother up as some kind of gold standard. This is the woman who takes a drooling greyhound to bed with her and lets it sleep under the duvet. This is the woman who goes on holiday leaving a stack of filthy dishes in the sink and comes back to a kitchen full of maggots. Every
time we visit with the kids, I think they’re going to come back with salmonella. But worse than any of that, this is the woman who would still bloody breast-feed you if she could.”

  Greg is grimacing. “Thank you for that last image.”

  “You’re welcome. The thing is, all you ever do is sing your mother’s praises. Meanwhile, here I am trying to run a career, two kids and a home and what thanks do I get?”

  “What do you mean, what thanks do you get? I’m always thanking you.”

  “In your dreams. OK, when was the last time you thanked me for unblocking the toilet or digging hair out of the drain?”

  “I dunno. You want actual dates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. I thank you all the time, but, being a martyr, you choose not to hear it. And anyway, what about me? What about the career I’m trying to run? The people I’ve got on my back? The worries I have? The exhaustion I feel? Do you thank me for taking all that on my shoulders?”

  “Actually, yes, I do. Frequently.”

  “Bollocks. You take me completely for granted. This whole thing has only ever been about you and your neurotic obsession with the state of the house. It has to stop.”

  I’m practically weeping with frustration. He’s called me neurotic once too often. I want to ask him if it’s neurotic to yearn for a clean, tidy adult space where, after the kids have gone to bed, we can sit and have a glass of wine, read a book or listen to music … and practice “connecting” again. But I can’t get the words out. I’m way too angry.

  That’s when that I do it. I wasn’t intending to put my plan into action so soon into our therapy. It was meant as a last resort—when I felt that talking had failed. I hoped the moment would never come, but it has. I open my large canvas tote, pull out a plastic carrier bag and tip the contents into Greg’s lap.

  Greg sits blinking. “What the fuck?”

  “That, Greg, is a week’s worth of your smelly, crusty underpants and socks. All of which I have picked up off the bedroom floor.” I’m not done. I produce a small freezer bag and dangle it in front of his face. It contains a load of toe and fingernail clippings. There are also several earbuds thick with orange earwax. I tip the lot onto the pants and socks. Then comes the coup de grâce. “And in here,” I say, waving a second freezer bag, “is a load of your pubic hair.” I open the bag and shake the contents onto the rest of the pile.