There's a Word for That

by Sloane Tanen

  “Only because we’re always the same age inside.”

  “Yes!” she said. “That’s exactly it. Well put.”

  “You can thank Gertrude Stein. She said it.”

  Bunny was annoyed, even after all these years, at Martin’s erudition. It had always taken her by surprise when they were married, though she’d hated to admit it. She felt she should have been the better educated one.

  “That’s my problem, anyway,” he went on. “It’s like I wake up every morning thinking, Today I’ll be the person I used to be, but I never am. I’m just an angry old guy pissed off that nobody gives a shit anymore.”

  “Mm. I don’t have that problem.”

  “No,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t think so.” He broke a bread stick in two. “You always did think you were smarter than everyone else in the room. Turned out you were right.”

  Bunny smiled, not sure if Martin was giving her a compliment or a jab. She decided not to dwell on it. She didn’t care either way. “So tell me what you’ve been doing. I followed your career for a while—it was hard not to—but then you just sort of vanished.”

  “I probably retired too early,” he said. “I wanted to exit gracefully before I was pushed offstage. I don’t know why that was so damn important to me. But it was.”

  “Well, having been married to you was almost something to brag about. Six Academy Award nominations,” she said, smiling. “Well done.”

  “Nine. Not that I’m counting. Anyway,” he said, as if shrugging off an unpleasant memory, “I’ve got a couple of great daughters.” He pulled out his phone, which Directions had wiped clean of everything other than the approved contacts and photographs. He showed Bunny a few pictures.

  “Pretty!” Bunny said, taking the phone and scrolling past a mousy brunette before zooming in on a good-looking blonde. “Is she married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “What a shame,” she lied. She thought the woman looked just the thing for Henry. “What does she do?”

  “Amanda? She’s a drama teacher,” Martin said. “Well known, actually. She’s got two terrific daughters in high school. Twins.”

  “Lovely,” Bunny said, nodding with approval.

  “I guess so,” he said, as if he were surprised. He looked melancholy. “My older girl has had a harder go of things. Depression, social anxiety. I’m sure I’m to blame. They just sort of tear your heart out.”

  “Oh, I know,” Bunny said. “My son’s half the reason I’m here. He thinks I drink too much. You? What are you in for, Martin? Alcohol, marijuana, cocaine?”

  “Heroin.”

  Bunny rolled her eyes. “Such a wit, Martin.”

  “I’m not kidding. I wish I were.”

  “Christ.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Back pain that led to pills that led to needing something stronger. It’s not really an issue. I manage it, you know. But Gail thinks it’s a problem, so—”

  “Gail?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  “Ah.”

  “And you? You still married?”

  “God, no. Relationships,” she said, waving the word away like a gnat. “I’m off them. Especially now that I’m so goddamn old. You know, I can admit it now—I never went in for that sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Sex.”

  He laughed. “You never went in for sex? With anyone?”

  “It certainly wasn’t ever my idea of a good time. I never initiated it.” She paused for a moment, looking for the right way to put it. “It’s a bit like washing the floors. I never wanted to do it beforehand, sort of enjoyed it while it was happening, and was quite pleased when it was all over.”

  “You never washed a floor in your life,” he said.

  “That’s not true. Don’t you remember Beatrice?”

  “Your mother,” he said, as pleased as if he’d answered correctly on a quiz show. “Hard to imagine you were a street urchin,” he said. “I forgot.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” She looked around to make sure nobody was listening. “But God knows I’ve done enough…floor-washing, both real and metaphorical, to last a lifetime.”

  “Well,” Martin said. “That’s good. I thought it was just me that you didn’t want to be with.” He paused. “In that way.”

  “No.” She began folding the edges of her napkin in her lap. “Never fancied it. It wasn’t my cup of tea.”

  “What about your second husband?” he asked, taking a sip of water.

  “I didn’t like that tea either.”

  He laughed hard, nearly spitting out his water.

  “Most women don’t like it, you know,” she said in a whisper.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, maybe when they’re young. When they’re puffed up with hormones, foolish enough to confuse objectification with passion. When a compliment about your ass seems a solid foundation to build a life on.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I’m serious. Past a certain age, women would rather do almost anything else. It’s a real bore. Trust me. Especially with the same man, week after week, year after year.”

  “I got it, I got it,” he said. “How do you weave all these romantic notions into your teenage claptrap?”

  “I have a stellar imagination.”

  “You might want to sprinkle some of that imagination over your relationships. They might work out better.”

  “Like yours?” she asked.

  “Touché,” he said, raising his glass again.

  Bunny wished she had a gin to toast all these revelations. Had she ever told anyone the way she felt about sex? Of course she liked being desired—who didn’t?—but she’d always wished the men in her life could take care of their business elsewhere and come back around when it was time for dinner and a show. She hadn’t minded at all when Sam had his little dalliances, so long as he was discreet (which he was).

  “Anyway, what do I know?” she asked. “It’s just what I think. But if sleeping with a man is essential to staying married, no, thank you.”

  “Yes, I’ve really missed you,” he said. “It’s all coming back to me now how much of a laugh you were.”

  Bunny smiled. It was too much fun teasing Martin. He was so easily ruffled and then smoothed.

  They ordered dinner and settled into an easy silence.

  “You’re probably right about women and sex,” he said, relaxing. “Every one of my relationships—all those women were just in it for the money.”

  “Well, don’t get to feeling sorry for yourself. You’re good company.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Call Marty for a good time and a prepaid mortgage too.”

  “Have you got a mortgage on your house?” she asked, appalled. The idea of being in debt, of being a borrower, horrified Bunny.

  “No.” He hissed into his water glass. “Not on mine. But I have about three on various ex-wives’ and girlfriends’ homes.”

  “But why?”

  “If you pay their bills monthly, they remember they’re on the payroll. They’re waiting on your goodwill. Otherwise they forget.”

  “What’s the point in being remembered that way?”

  “I guess it makes me feel more alive.”

  “You mean more important?”

  “Who knows?” His face colored again.

  “What happens when you die?” she asked.

  “Is that a philosophical question?”

  “With the mortgages?”

  He clapped his hands together and grimaced. “This is very cheerful. This is a nice conversation.”

  “I’m desperately curious, Martin. It’s all so, so…”

  “Operational?”

  “Yes!”

  “The houses get paid off.”

  “In full?”

  He nodded, broke another bread stick in half.

  “So you do have the money?” Bunny asked with relief.

  “I have it, but I’
d rather keep it in the bank. I live off the interest.”

  “But when you die?”

  “Whatever I owe comes out of whatever’s left.”

  “It comes from your estate?” Bunny said, aghast. “But that’s for your girls.”

  Martin leaned forward and took a noisy sip from his almost empty water glass through a straw, like a boy. “All of them, unfortunately.”

  “How could you be so stupid, Martin? Do you even care about these women? Surely they’re capable of looking after themselves. They managed to convince you to give them a lifetime of free rent. They sound like absolute geniuses to me.”

  “They all have problems,” he said, trying to end the conversation.

  “I think you’re underestimating their ability to survive without your largesse.”

  “I think you’re underestimating how difficult it is to be a middle-aged woman in Los Angeles.”

  “Ah! Middle-aged women are a charity now? And you’re their benefactor?”

  “Let’s just say it gives me something to be angry about when a more pressing issue isn’t waiting for me to fix it.”

  “But why is their well-being your responsibility?”

  “Well, I’m beholden to the ex-wife by law, one of the ex-girlfriends would probably be homeless if I didn’t help, and the other one had me sign a contract.”

  “A contract? What sort of contract?”

  “I don’t want to get into it.”

  Bunny was staring at Martin.

  “She was looking out for her family. You can’t fault her for that.”

  “Quite the contrary. I applaud her ingenuity. Why would anybody get a job when they have you? Explain to me how it works, Martin.”

  “How what works?”

  “The contract.”

  “Her lawyer sends it over to my lawyer, my lawyer tells me I’m an asshole, and we sign.”

  “That’s brilliant. I’m sure your daughters were delighted.”

  “They don’t know anything about it. It’s got nothing to do with them.”

  “It’s got everything to do with them. And your girlfriend?”

  “Gail’s got her own money,” Martin said quickly. He obviously didn’t want Bunny to think his only allure was his pathetic bank account. “Can we please change the subject? Rehashing my mortality and romantic prospects isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I agreed to have dinner. Let’s get back to you.”

  “There’s nothing to say. I like a drink. But I’m certainly not an alcoholic. Everyone’s just concerned that I haven’t been as productive as usual. They’re worried the old cash cow’s gone out to pasture.”

  “Or to the bar.”

  “I don’t go to bars, for God’s sake.”

  The waiter came and placed a naked chicken breast with a wedge of lemon and a side of broccoli in front of Bunny. Martin had tomato soup and a grilled cheese with chips. Sometimes Bunny hated being a woman. It wasn’t that she was on a diet, but she’d committed herself to getting into better shape at Directions so at least she’d have something to show for all the money she was spending.

  “You go to a lot of cocktail parties and dinners?” Martin asked, raising his eyebrows before taking a small bite of his sandwich.

  “Some,” she lied. Bunny hated parties. She hated dinners out. Everybody knew that. “I have a drink at home now and again,” she admitted. “Is that a crime? I wasn’t aware I was breaking any laws. I am of age, you know.”

  “‘The other day I got invited to a party,’” Martin sang, drumming on the table. He crooned the entire song, obviously tickled that he’d remembered all the words to the national anthem of drinking alone. Bunny busied herself cutting her chicken into tiny cubes as he came to the end.

  “Charming. Are you quite finished?”

  “I’ve always said there’s nothing so unattractive as a drunk woman,” he said.

  “Yes, I remember your sentiments on the subject. An octogenarian with a heroin habit, however? That’s a very sexy article.”

  “I’m not an octogenarian.”

  “Yet.” She smiled, then popped a bite of chicken into her mouth. “Tell me, Martin,” she said, putting down her fork. “Is drugging something you do at parties or alone?”

  “It’s not a social habit. A bump here and there gets me through the days. I might have overdone it a few times. But all this,” he said, pointing to the Buddha and the oval dining room, “all this isn’t going to change anything. Sometimes my life needs more color. So I give it some.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she said. She was irritated by Martin’s insinuation that she had a problem while he merely had a habit. “I’m taking this California getaway as an opportunity to shape up, drop a few kilos, maybe. I’ve no intention of giving up drinking for good.” She eyed Martin’s chips. “That would be preposterous and a bore. But if a show of abstinence is required to appease these people, so be it. It’s not hard for me to abstain. Not in the least. Alcohol is just a luxury. And I’ve lived without luxuries.”

  “A long time ago,” Martin reminded her. “I don’t get the sense you take kindly to the word no these days.”

  “My son loves telling me no,” she said.

  “That’s parenting,” Martin said. “You give, they take, gratitude not included.”

  “The funny thing is,” she went on, “he doesn’t even want anything from me. I’m richer than Croesus, and what’s it all for?”

  “I’m not familiar with that particular problem.”

  “No.” She nodded. “It doesn’t sound as if you are.”

  “Get married again,” he suggested. “That’ll get his attention. Or give it all to a charity. They pretend not to care about your money until they think you’re giving it to someone else.”

  “I could never do that,” she said. “Can I have a chip?” she asked, reaching for his plate. Martin blocked her hand.

  “I thought you were on a diet.”

  “I am, but just one. I just want to try them.”

  “No.” Martin shook his head. “Eat your broccoli.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, give me a chip. You haven’t touched them.”

  “No, Bunny. I don’t want to enable you. I’d like to support you. I could be your french fry sponsor.”

  “Piss off.”

  She stood up and reached for his chips. Martin pushed them farther away. She made a dive for them, but he got up and blocked her. As he lunged for the plate, his bad ankle gave way, and he fell onto the table; Bunny lost her balance and collapsed on top of him, which made the table wobble, sending Martin, Bunny, the food, and the water glasses all toppling to the floor with a loud crash.

  In the moment before Bunny started guffawing, before the frantic Directions waitstaff made their way to the table, before Martin could overcome the shock of ice-cold water soaking through his briefs, they both knew that neither of them had had that many laughs in a very long time.

  After dinner, Martin walked her back to her room. “That was great fun,” Bunny said as she stood in the doorway. “Thank you.” She put her hand on Martin’s arm.

  He flinched and Bunny moved her hand away. Did he think she was making a pass at him? She wasn’t! She was just having fun. Or was she? Had she? Either way, his response felt like a reprimand.

  “Do relax, Martin. I didn’t mean anything by it. Obviously!” She went into her room and slammed the door in his face.

  Henry

  Directions was big on the cathartic effects of “activity-based family bonding.” Mitchell suggested they give hiking a try. His mother had gotten hold of what Henry thought were ridiculously large trekking poles, the kind you’d use to scale Mount Fuji, not walk a horse trail.

  “How was your dinner?” Henry asked, wondering why his mother was being so uncharacteristically quiet. He had plenty of papers to grade but he was there, for her sake, and if he was spending his time at Directions rather than at work, he expected at least a little conversation. Bunny stopped and looked up at hi
m, confused. She was gasping for air, leaning heavily on one of her poles. “With the not-dead ex-husband?” he clarified.

  “Fine. We had a nice time.” Then, narrowing her eyes: “Why do you look so cheerful?”

  “Do I?” he asked. “I don’t know.” He started walking again.

  Henry’s evening with Janine had been spectacular. She was so smart and well educated, which was shocking, considering she’d primarily had only tutors as a child. He found her curiosity about everything exciting. He was thrown by how easily they had fallen into bed, but one can hardly complain about such happy accidents. Her face was almost childlike: soft pale skin stretched over rounded cheekbones, big, curious brown eyes, and a small mouth that surprised him with its generosity when she smiled. And her hair! The clean sweep of bangs across her forehead. The impish points at her ears. He’d never been to bed with a woman with short hair. The nakedness of her smooth throat and the small bones rising up the back of her neck fascinated him.

  “Well, I’ve got something else to cheer you up,” Bunny said with satisfaction. She stopped short and launched into a sales pitch for some woman called Amanda, her ex-husband’s very pretty, very single daughter. She was a high-school drama teacher, she explained, with twin girls well out of nappies. Martin’s other daughter was plain, but Amanda, Bunny assured him, was just the ticket. There were more details, but Henry stopped listening. He’d have to tread carefully. His mother didn’t like any form of refusal.

  “I’m going to pass, Mother. Being set up with your confined ex-husband’s newly divorced daughter sounds like a bad idea all around.”

  “But why?”

  “I can find my own dates, thank you.”

  “You’re doing such a good job of it too.” She laughed.

  “The truth is, I met someone.”

  “Met someone? When? Ten minutes ago?”

  “We met here, actually. And then I ran into her at the YMCA pool. Quite a coincidence.”

  “I’ll say!” Bunny shouted, waving her pole close enough to Henry’s face to make him worry about losing an eye.

  “Hey, be careful with that thing!” He stepped back to avoid injury. “She’s kind, even offered to pick me up from the hospital after my surgery next week.”