Plus One

by Christopher Noxon

  As he clicked on the link on the message, he cringed at the subject line—“A sip and a dip with Kate & Huck”—quickly concluding this was probably just an invite to a cutesy charity event, the kind of thing where you pay $1,000 for the privilege of milling around in the backyard of a fancy house. (Please use the Honey Wagons by the guesthouse! Thanks so much!) But as the invitation loaded into his browser, he saw that he and Figgy were the only recipients. And while the message had come from Katherine Pool’s account, it had clearly been prepared by the man of the house. “I’m doing dry-rub short ribs,” Huck wrote. “Get your skinny-jeans-ass over here. Bring the kiddies.”

  “Might be fun?” Alex wrote, forwarding the invite to Figgy. She and Katherine Pool weren’t on the best terms—they communicated mostly through agents and intermediaries and had started the second season in a cordial but simmering standoff. Alex figured he’d have to employ some major diplomacy to convince Figgy to go.

  It turned out, however, that Figgy needed no convincing. She’d been dying, in fact, to get inside Katherine Pool’s house, a six-bedroom Hancock Park spread that had been lavishly covered in the StarHomes.com celebrity real estate blog. “I heard they did an insane remodel,” she said.

  As they walked up the curved flagstone path on the appointed morning, lugging a sack of bathing suits and a box of pastries, Alex shook his head at the sight of the Sherman-Zicklin clan. Somehow, the kids had gotten the message they were going somewhere fancy. While this wasn’t enough to get Sylvie to comb her hair, which was its usual chaotic tangle, she’d insisted on wearing a frilly yellow party dress, which was already smudged with chocolate croissant. Sam was in a button-down shirt two sizes too big and a paisley patterned vest, his hair slicked back with homemade Sammy’s Salves Styling Mousse. He stood primly on the stoop with hands folded at his chest, radiating a look Alex scanned as Seedy Mormon.

  “Figgy, sweetie!” The door had swung open and there was Katherine. She looked just like she did on TV but more so, with the big moony face, long tapering neck, and huge hazel eyes unblinking over a fluorescent stroke of coral lipstick. She pulled Figgy into a tight embrace and held it for a good five or six seconds, emitting a long mmmm. “Soooo glad you could make it.”

  Katherine showed them through the door. “Kids—we’ll all jump in the pool later,” she said. “For now we’ve got a trampoline and art stuff outside. And Alex, I think Huck needs you.”

  She trailed off on the introduction once they’d arrived in the kitchen. Alex stopped cold. The room was the size of a gymnasium and had the spare, strictly accessorized feel of a Nancy Meyers movie set. The whiteness was overwhelming—white glass-front cabinets, white leather barstools, a white honed-marble island so large it qualified as a continent. Every visible surface was smooth, stainless, gleaming.

  “Oh my,” Alex said, suddenly picturing his own kitchen piled high with mismatched kitchenware, banged-up appliances, and unopened mail. “So this is what they call a great room.”

  “We redid everything last year before moving in,” Katherine said, twirling around near the sink. “Or rather, Huck redid everything. He was here with the contractor every single day. He hammered. He plastered. He caulked!”

  “I’m known for my huge caulk,” Huck called from the cutting board, his voice echoing off the cathedral ceiling. Alex went over and gave him a one-armed embrace. He wore a short-sleeved polo underneath some sort of black nylon cover that snapped at the back. It took Alex a second to realize what it was.

  “Dude, is that a man apron?”

  “Got it at Malcolm’s,” Huck said, giving himself a quick brush-off. “Separate pockets for utensils. Keep my best ceramic carving knife right here,” he said, reaching down and then twirling a white blade around like a pistol.

  “Your place,” Alex said. “It’s incredible. You did the remodel?”

  Huck motioned toward a cutting board near Alex. “Ton of work, but we got there. You can’t let those contractors get comfortable. Dudes will rob you blind.”

  Alex picked up a mound of scallions and got to chopping. As they worked, Huck monologued about the awesomeness of his tube-amp record player setup, the awesomeness of his jujitsu trainer Sensei Rick, and the awesomeness of his urologist, Dr. Finkelstein. “I went in for the ol’ snip-snip last month,” he said proudly, thrusting his hips forward. “Changed my life. Finkelstein’s a total rock star. You barely feel it—then you get two days watching TV with some Vicodin and a bag of frozen peas.”

  Alex offered an appreciative murmur here and there, but it was clear his participation in the conversation was not required. His only job was to bear witness to the utter excellence of Huck’s life.

  Out the sliding glass doors, Alex watched the kids frolicking across a rolling green lawn. Sylvie and the raven-haired Penelope were running circles around a pair of easels while Sam and Bingwen attempted somersaults on a trampoline sunk to grass-level. The ladies had pulled up seats at the island and were halfway into a pitcher of Bloody Marys. From his station near the stove, Huck motioned majestically at the scene and touched Alex on the shoulder.

  “It just gets better, am I right?”

  Alex swallowed hard, stifling a gag. He wanted so much to like Huck, but declarations like this made it hard. Huck seemed blissfully unaware of Katherine’s contribution, or for that matter any of the nannies, nutritionists, contractors, beauticians, trainers, life coaches, and metaphysical therapists that kept the show going. It seemed to Alex that Huck had made a deal with himself. If househusbandry made him a pussy, then he’d be the most capable and involved and commanding pussy ever to don a man apron: the alpha pussy.

  Huck turned to get a tray from the stove, and Alex headed over to the ladies, who were deep into a conversation about schools (this, along with vacation plans and dietary regimens, seemed to be the sole topics up for discussion in their social circles of late). Figgy was halfway into a complaint about the neighborhood elementary school where the kids had been enrolled since kindergarten. “We’ve got to get out of there,” she said, shaking her head. “Seriously, you can bake all the vegan muffins you like, but when you’ve got thirty-five kids in a trailer they call a classroom, you’re pretty much screwed. Her teacher can’t even spell the signs on the reading wall. I had to rip down a sign that said A-M-I-N-A-L.”

  Alex nodded and made a sympathetic grunt. He’d given up defending their local public school. He loved how close it was and how they could, in theory anyway, walk the four blocks from their house. He loved the school’s squat, solid, geometric architecture, the comforting beige of the walls, and the heavy metal desks. He even kind of liked the crazy mix of Spanish, Farsi, and Armenian on the schoolyard. But Figgy was right: The overcrowding was ridiculous, and the teaching was uninspired. The whole place was, when he thought about it now, downright raunchy. He could feel his staunch commitment to public education wilting by the second.

  “Oh, you’ve got to come look at the Pines,” Katherine said.

  So they were Pines people—of course. The Pines was a progressive private school that would, for $32K a year, teach your kids calculus and Mandarin without ever forcing them to wear a collared shirt. It was something like the K-12, co-op Freeschool he’d attended in Ojai, except with an endowment and actual academic standards. Pines people were famously loyal. Cultish even.

  “Penelope is thriving in the music program—you should hear her on the trombone!” Katherine said. “You know, trombone is basically a free pass into the Ivies. It’s crazy, I know—but you’ve got to keep these things in mind. Saves a whole lot of worry down the line.” Alex looked out the window at the girls. Penelope was peering at a half-complete pointillist landscape, while his own daughter was slumped on the grass, one hand busy adjusting her underpants and the other lodged up a nostril.

  Alex sucked in a breath, suddenly registering a delicious odor, a mix of warm dough and melting cheese. Huck came over with a basket of cheddar muffins. The four of them lurched forward and began stu
ffing themselves. He watched Katherine tip her face back in orgasmic pleasure. “Oh hon,” she said. “You are a god. A cheese-muffin god. Never leave me and never stop making these.”

  Alex took a big bite and looked out at the kids. “The Pines?” he said. “Definitely on our list.”

  • • •

  Figgy had a conference call with the network when they got home—episode two needed a stronger third act or ramped-up stakes or smash-cut or blow-out, Alex couldn’t keep the lingo straight—so he was put in charge of the nightly ritual of bath, books, and bed. He hustled Sam in and out of the shower and got him settled without much fuss, but he ran into trouble with Sylvie and her bath.

  Sylvie had been fighting a mysterious, stubborn urinary infection for the past month. Alex had finally broken down and taken her to the pediatrician the day she woke up shrieking and scratching. Thankfully, it seemed to be clearing up after a dose of antibiotics, a talk about the importance of wiping correctly, and the regular use of a special soap Sylvie called her “gi-gi soap.”

  All things gi-gi-related were usually Figgy’s department, but she was on her call, so Alex was left to handle it. He knelt next to the tub and shampooed her hair, wiping streaks of paint off her face and arms and then picking up the medicated soap.

  “You okay, hon?” Alex said, rubbing up a lather in the washcloth and lowering it into the steaming water.

  Sylvie was busy with a rubber duck with devil horns and sunglasses. “I’m fine.”

  Alex soaped up her stomach first, and then, as gently as he could, worked his way down. Sylvie released the duck and appeared to tense up.

  “Oh honey, does that hurt? Does that feel okay?”

  Sylvie closed her eyes.

  “No, Daddy,” she said, her voice husky. “That feels fantastic.”

  Alex pulled the washcloth out of the bathwater and placed it in her hand. “Here, honey. You finish up.”

  • • •

  “I think it’s probably a good idea for you to do Sylvie’s bath from now on, okay?”

  The notes call was done, the kids were down, and the two of them were plopped back on the sofa, Figgy with a Sudoku book and Alex half watching the Nature Channel.

  Figgy snapped her puzzle book closed. “You can’t give her a simple bath? I had to take that call—”

  “No, Fig—not that. I’m just saying… it got weird with the washing up.”

  “Weird how?”

  Alex paused, unsure how to put it. “Girl loves her gi-gi soap.”

  “Oh.” Figgy smiled, going back to her puzzle. “Can’t blame her for that.”

  Alex settled back and tried to concentrate on the screen. A dull throb pulsed from his neck; he’d tweaked it in the pool that afternoon. Huck had been excited to show him the zip line he’d strung up in the backyard—it extended from the upper branches of a cypress, over the patio, and to the pool. Huck had rigged it up so you could let go from the halfway point and splash down in the deep end. It was a good fifteen-foot drop. When Alex went to join the guys, Figgy had grabbed him by the wrist. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “What happens if your timing is off?”

  Alex shook her off and headed for the ladder. “I got this,” he said. He wasn’t entirely convinced he did, but Huck had made the leap three times, and there was no way Alex was going to sit back with Sam and the ladies while watching one magnificent synchronized drop after another.

  And it was fun, at least the part where he scaled the tree trunk in his bare feet, grabbed onto the bar, and hoisted himself into position. Then he stepped off the branch and accelerated through the air, high over the women and children and letting out a squealing whoop as he released his grasp and fell, arms flapping, a safe distance away from the concrete lip of the pool. No problem. Perfecto. It would have been a complete success if Alex hadn’t bent back just before touching down, bringing the flatness of his back level with the surface and producing a thunderous clap that echoed across the backyard.

  “Oooooooo.”

  When he surfaced, Huck and Sam and the ladies and kids were focused on him, fists balled in empathetic anguish.

  “I’m okay,” he gargled, his back a mottled red under the surface. “Fine! Fine!”

  Now he reached back and pressed down on a hard knot in the crux between his neck and back. The spot had the firmness of a baseball.

  “I think I might have whiplash.”

  “Oh, honey,” Figgy said. “That was quite the flop.”

  She moved over and began rubbing. She immediately honed in on the spot. Alex closed his eyes and let out a moan. “God bless you.”

  “You stupid, stupid man.”

  “That would be me.”

  Figgy kept working. He sighed and tried to isolate the tension and let it go. He reached over and gave her leg a tug. They were good, like this, alone together. Always were. It was when they separated and went out on their own—that’s when he couldn’t be sure.

  He slouched forward and moaned. “Let’s never leave this couch, okay?”

  She patted his shoulder. “Could you believe that house? It was so done. Every inch. Done.”

  Alex kept quiet, opening his eyes and focusing on the TV. The Australian star of Wildman was fashioning a fishhook and spear out of a piece of bamboo. It looked easy enough, but it was one of those things Alex knew he himself could never pull off. He could barely clear a clogged toilet. He felt a sudden wave of resentment for his mom. Weren’t lesbians supposed to be good with tools and home maintenance? How come he got all the self-righteous touchy-feely baggage of a dyke mom and none of the handiness?

  Figgy whispered in his ear. “Huck did an amazing job, didn’t he?” Then, when he didn’t respond: “Would you ever want to take on a big remodel like that?”

  The house was amazing, obviously. And Huck was clearly impressive in the domestic department. But for reasons Alex couldn’t quite explain, there was no way in hell he could acknowledge that out loud. “It was all just a little Pottery Barn for me.”

  “Did you get a look inside that fridge?” Figgy continued. “Did you see the perfect symmetrical rows of Oranginas and Perriers? It was like the best minibar ever.”

  “Exactly,” Alex said. “Like a hotel. You want to live in a hotel?”

  “Did you see the icemaker?” she went on. “It made those little square cubes—just like a hotel. And that sauna? Katherine was going on and on about their house manager. Everything is handled by this lady in the guesthouse out back. Ukrainian. Klara someone. I’m supposed to email her about setting up a play date for Sam.”

  “Their house manager handles play dates? When is Sam going over?”

  “He’s not,” Figgy said. “They’re meeting up online. In that game that Sam plays with the igloos and penguins and whatever.”

  “So Klara the Ukrainian house manager… is arranging a play date for our boys… on Club Penguin?”

  “Yup.”

  “Fuck me.”

  Alex rubbed his eyes and felt a shudder roll through him, simultaneously overcome by a sludgy mix of revulsion and envy. All that giving over—to house managers and private schools and nannies… he knew on one hand that Katherine and Huck’s life was objectively nice. More than nice: It was spacious and easy and cushioned in a way he’d never ever felt. At the same time, the way Huck and Katherine lived felt offensive—nauseating even. The punk in him felt sure that they were to be if not reviled, definitely belittled.

  “We could get some help, too, you know,” Figgy said. “Someone to help with the kids and the house. Could be nice, right?”

  Alex sat up and rubbed his face. He pictured himself interviewing applicants with a notepad and a jug of iced tea, holding court at the kitchen table with a procession of bright, attentive, eager young women. One might be Catholic, the eldest from a huge, happy family from the Midwest, looking for work while she pursued a teaching credential. Another might be grandmotherly and Jamaican, a career caretaker with references from here to Kingston. One migh
t even be a guy. Alex was cool with a manny—he pictured a cheerful jock, a Kyle or a Tony, tossing perfect spiral football passes to Sam in the backyard as Sylvie looked on adoringly. Man, woman, old, young, white, black, brown—he was open! The point was, their nanny would be fully vetted, fairly compensated, and not in any way representative of the L.A. underclass that well-to-do families hired to do the work they were too lazy or spoiled to do themselves.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “I could call some agencies.”

  “What about Rosa?” Figgy said. Rosa was the nice lady from El Salvador who came in once a week to clean the bathrooms and do laundry.

  Alex made a face. “Actually, I was thinking more in terms of a professional.”

  “A professional? Fancy.”

  “Come on,” he said. “With everything going on right now, shouldn’t we do this right? On the up and up? Rosa barely speaks English. The only time she ever babysat, she just turned on the TV and fed the kids crap. Do you know what I found in the trash? A container from Yoshinoya Beef Bowl. Do you have any idea what they put in Yoshinoya Beef Bowl?”

  “Meat?”

  “Hooves, maybe, but definitely no actual meat.”

  “The kids adore Rosa,” Figgy said. “She’s comforting. She’s got those big, soft El Salvadoran arms. Don’t you want to crawl up in those arms? Take a nap in them? Let them enfold you?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “She’s perfect, then. Because no way am I going to leave you at home with some hot Australian with those ropy yoga arms. Besides, production is starting and I do not have time to find and train and get comfortable with a whole new person. I know Rosa. The kids know Rosa. Done.”

  Alex started to protest, then stopped. Figgy had clearly made up her mind—she wanted Rosa, and he was in no real position to object. Not with production starting and his position at home still tenuous. She tapped him on the shoulder with her pen. “Besides, have you seen Rosa chop an onion? Senora has some serious knife skills. She can be your sous! Now that you’re done with the day job, aren’t you getting busy in the kitchen?”