Plus One

by Christopher Noxon

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bamper—thank you thank you,” Sam said, relief spreading across his face. “It was horrible. The jellyfish… all those penises… Oh God.”

  • • •

  The rash remained, but the pain was relieved instantly—though Sam seemed so grateful to be out of shooting range of the two dads that Alex suspected a slab of pickled spam would have provided equally miraculous relief. Alex thanked Helen again and again, gushing over her magic bag of supplies.

  “What else have you got in there?” he said. “Xanax?”

  Helen considered it. “I’ve got Ambien back at the room. Cary snores.”

  Cary gave Sam a thumbs up and Alex a firm clap on the back. “I usually have to buy a guy dinner to get his dick out.”

  Alex grinned sheepishly, wary of this new bond between them. “Thank God for Helen here is all I’m saying. Neither one of us was exactly gushing—”

  “Whoa, buddy,” Cary said, rearing back in mock offense. “I was about to give your boy a full and proper baptism!”

  Alex helped Sam to his feet, and the group began trudging back toward the hotel. As they got closer, Alex saw Figgy heading down the steps toward the sand. Something in her hunched shoulders, the way her hand was held stiffly over her brow as she looked up and down the beach… something was wrong. He hurried over.

  “Have you got Sylvie?” she said.

  “What?” Alex said. “No. I’ve been dealing with Sam—”

  “She’s not by the pool or in the room,” she said. “I thought she was with you.”

  “She was with me by the Jacuzzi a few minutes ago—did you check the bar?” he said. “She’s probably downing piña coladas with that girl from Tucson. Don’t worry.”

  Figgy shook her head definitively. “The Tucson girl hasn’t seen her. I checked everywhere. She’s gone.”

  Alex puffed out his cheeks. “Fuck. Okay. I’ll go look.”

  Alex took off in the direction of the hotel, jogging past other guests and peering into bunches of children for Sylvie’s yellow polka-dot bathing suit. He checked the cabaña, the pool, the Jacuzzi, the croquet field, the indoor and outdoor bars, the store, the teen lounge. No Sylvie. At the counter of the spa, he asked a curly-haired, middle-age desk clerk to check the women’s locker area—maybe she’d hit the sauna? That would be like her.

  “Sorry,” the clerk said. “No one in there.”

  Breathing hard, Alex put his hands on his knees, trying to tamp down the scenarios now blasting in his head. Sylvie was awfully cute. And she had no trouble talking to adults. He could see her wandering away on the beach with a childless Hawaiian woman. Or innocently following a pockmark-cheeked Slavic guy through the lobby to the driveway, where she’d be tossed through the side doors of a black van.

  Heart racing, he put his hands on his knees and shook his head. “Call security. We can’t find my daughter. We’ve checked everywhere. Please.”

  The clerk picked up the phone and punched a button. “It’s Tara at the spa. We have a gentleman here who seems to have lost his daughter. Seven years old. One-piece bathing suit, yellow polka dots. Okay, sure. I’ll send him down.”

  The clerk held up a finger to Alex and frowned, waiting. Alex closed his eyes tight and tried to think.

  A terrible thought flashed across his mind; it sent him spinning around and through the glass doors, across the courtyard, and toward the beach. Now at full sprint, he reached the sand in a few seconds and continued to the water’s edge. The waves were ragged and formless, kicked up by the afternoon breeze. Alex squinted into the warm glare, looking past the snorkelers and men on paddleboards. If Sylvie was out there, could he see her? Would she be floating? Or would she have been pulled too far out by now?

  A minute passed, maybe five. Figgy and the Bampers divided up into groups of two and began double-checking the hotel. Walkie-talkies crackled as hotel staff joined the hunt. Alex stayed on the shore, marching back and forth in the surf and squinting into the distance, looking for a speck of bathing suit or a flash of skin, his stomach turning circles.

  “Alex! Alex!”

  It was Cary, waving him over to a beach attendant with a walkie-talkie. He raised a fist into the air and smiled. “We’ve got her! She’s fine.”

  Alex let out a heavy sigh. “What? Where?”

  The attendant lowered his walkie-talkie. “Off campus,” he said. “Shuttle bus driver spotted her at the supermarket over in town. He’s bringing her back now. She was at some barbecue place? Says she couldn’t stand another chicken finger.”

  • • •

  The whole group waited for Sylvie at the front desk, rushing toward the orange hotel bus when it pulled up to the curb. She popped out with a big smile, emerging like a returning dignitary, cheeks smeared in sauce. Alex took her by the shoulders, hugged her tight. Then he put his face up to hers and demanded: How could she just wander off like that? Why didn’t she tell someone? And where did she even get the money?

  “From your schmearing wad,” she whimpered. “You left it on the dresser. Real Hawaiian food, remember? I was bringing you some!”

  Figgy shot Alex a look. “So you left the hotel and went running into town by yourself—for Daddy?”

  Sylvie stepped toward Alex and held up a foil to-go bag. “Here,” she said. “This pork? It’s crazy good, Dad. It was going to be a surprise.”

  Alex took the bag and brought it to his face, sniffing it. Figgy raised a hand up and turned away, a percussive “bah” sound exploding from her mouth.

  “What?” Alex said.

  Helen moved in and cupped Sylvie on the shoulder. “We’re just all glad you’re safe,” she said. “Why don’t I take you to the bathroom and get you cleaned up. Your dad and mom have been so worried—they should have some time to relax.”

  Alex started to object, but Figgy was already nodding in agreement and sending Helen and Sylvie on their way. Alex watched as Sylvie happily skipped alongside Helen and her boys, down the wide marble stairs and out of sight. He didn’t move. He felt woozy and lightheaded, like he’d been punched in the gut.

  “You realize that she’ll literally do anything to please you,” she said, pivoting toward the elevators.

  Alex tailed behind her. “Honey, she’s seven!” he called after her. “I didn’t ask her to go anywhere! This is so not my fault.”

  “You were supposed to have her. You know I’ve got work to do. And if you hadn’t gotten her so worked up about authentic Hawaiian food—”

  Alex turned her around. “So I’m to blame—because I made her hate chicken fingers? I don’t even know what to say. I was with Sam on the beach—and where were you? Napping?”

  The elevator doors slid open. They got in, taking a moment while the doors closed and they were alone.

  “You knew the deal with this trip,” she said. “I’m wiped out. I need rest. I’ve been carrying the load all year long—I just need a break. Why can’t you give that to me?”

  The elevator jolted upward. So this is what Helen Bamper meant the night before, about making things easy. Was that really his job now? He crossed his arms. “Look—I thought this was a family vacation. I didn’t realize I’m just here as help.”

  They rode in silence for a floor before she exhaled and turned to him. “Of course you’re not help.” She slouched against the wall, the fight draining out of her. “I’m not saying this was your fault. I was just so scared. I’m crazy when I’m ovulating.”

  Alex sucked in a breath.

  “Wait—you’re what?”

  “All the hormones,” she said. “I get nuts.”

  He blinked, the obvious finally hitting him. This afternoon in the hotel room, when he’d headed out the door, Figgy was still balled up in bed, rocking back and forth like an automatic paint mixer. Modified plow my ass.

  “Wait—so you’re… off the pill?”

  She said nothing, her shoulder rising in a small shrug. Alex felt his head throb as what she was saying sank in.

&nb
sp; “You… pulled the goalie? Without any discussion—”

  “We’ve talked about it,” she said.

  “Barely!” Alex blinked hard, his chest swelling. “This isn’t a good time, Fig—how could you think it is? It’s not like before with Sam and Sylvie—you were home, remember?”

  “And you’re home now,” she said. “Look, I’m going to be forty in a few weeks—I can’t wait for a good time. There’s never a good time. Didn’t you see Helen and her kids today on the lawn? I want that—don’t you want that? A whole crew? I’ll put in a nursery at the studio. I’ll get a work nanny, breastfeed in the room—it’ll be fine.”

  So this is how it was, Alex thought—she’d gone into steamroller mode. This is how she was with her career, with the house, with everything she wanted—singular, unwavering. She wanted a third kid and she was going to get it—no matter how he felt about it. “You’re kidding, right?” Alex was hollering now. “Do you realize we almost lost one today? Two, if you count the thing with the jellyfish?”

  Figgy started to respond, then stopped short. She reared back, eyes glassy with tears. “Sam looks pretty rough,” she said. “Oh God. I’m so sorry—I’m just so tired.”

  She collapsed into his chest, arms slack at her side, sobbing. “I’m failing everyone. I’m exhausted at work. The kids barely know me and now you hate me. I’m doing everything wrong. The only thing I do well is get pregnant. And I guess I figure getting knocked up will force me to slow down at work—I’ll finally have an excuse to take some time.”

  Alex shook his head. He lifted a hand and stroked her hair. “Oh, stop,” he said softly, following the script he knew would end the fight. “We’ll figure it out. I don’t hate you.”

  The elevator doors slid open again. Figgy ran the back of her hand across her cheek and moved past them into the hallway. Alex followed behind. By the time they’d reached their room and Figgy stood back so Alex could swipe the key card, a plan had taken form. For the first time in a long time, he knew exactly what he needed to do. He’d take care of Figgy and the kids for the remaining days of the trip. He’d play the part of caretaker, big daddy, point man. He’d keep a close eye on Sylvie and schmear the bellboy and no one would know the difference. And the day they got home, he’d call Dr. Finkelstein.

  Eleven

  Aside from four square blocks of Santa Monica, most of Venice, and the noodle shops on Sawtelle, Alex couldn’t stand the westside. As far as he was concerned, the westside was responsible for all the worst L.A. stereotypes—the Porsche-driving agents and insufferable spiritualists, the health-club megaplexes and whole industries devoted to Botox injecting, teeth whitening, and vagina rejuvenating. But even Alex had to accept that the westside had one thing the east just didn’t: All the good doctors.

  Which is why his whole day was wrecked because of a Thursday 4 p.m. consult with Dr. Lewis Finkelstein of Century City. He’d sent Rosa to get the kids from school and made a vague mention to Figgy about an errand that would take him most of the day. Now here he was, jerking through worsening traffic on the fringes of Koreatown. With each successive block west, he felt as if he was probing deeper into a hostile nation-state. “Proceed on the highlighted route,” the GPS purred as he crossed over Doheny, in that silky, ever-confident way of hers, as if there was nothing at all alarming about the horror show unspooling out his windshield. Ten days in Hawaii had soured him on L.A.—he marveled at its deep and extravagant ugliness, its hot mess of poor planning.

  Alex recognized a familiar black glass office tower looming on the horizon. The sight of it sent him scrambling for his cell.

  “Huck,” he said when the call connected. “Brotherman. Talk to me. I’m about to meet Finkelstein.”

  “The wizard?” Huck said.

  “The very one,” Alex said.

  There was a silence, then: “Is Figgy making you?”

  “No—she doesn’t actually know. Keeping this on the DL.”

  “Sneaky,” Huck said. “Props. Manning up.”

  There it was again—why’d everyone have to keeping using that phrase? He plowed on: “But I did a very bad thing. I got on Google last night. One guy—his testes blew up into bowling balls. This other guy got snipped and then peed blood every time he came.”

  Huck made a horrified croak.

  “Am I gonna be that guy?” Alex continued. “I know I want to do this, it’s the right decision… but I really do not want to be the guy who pees blood every time he comes.”

  “Calm yourself,” Huck said. “Finkelstein’s a pro—dude snips a dozen balls a day. Premium balls too—guy does half the Lakers. And I heard he just did the new state rep. Congressional balls!”

  “I just need to know. Did you have any problems at all? I mean, after? You know—function? Sensation? Operation?”

  “All good. I’m telling you, whole thing actually makes sex sexier. None of that meddlesome reproductive business getting in the way of you and the pussay.”

  Finkelstein’s office was now just a block away. Alex got into the right lane and slowed way down. “I think I’m going to throw up,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m voluntarily getting snipped.”

  “Wrong,” Huck said. “You’re getting clipped. He uses these tiny little titanium thingies—clamps ’em right down on your tube.”

  “Nice,” Alex said. “I’m about to lose you in a garage—so listen, did you get the invite? For Figgy’s thing?”

  Alex had spent the last two weeks toggling between obsessing about his vasectomy and worrying about Figgy’s birthday. Her fortieth was coming up on Saturday, and he’d left the party planning to the last minute. Figgy herself had been maddeningly vague about what she wanted—all she’d say is how much she hated that an arbitrary round number was forcing her to make a big deal… and that whatever they did should include a Hansen’s cake with buttercream frosting. Alex understood that as the husband, he needed to plan something big, thoughtful—and expensive. The occasion, he knew, called for bling. But the prospect of buying her jewelry in their current circumstances made him intensely nervous. He’d be spending, after all, money he hadn’t made. If he spent too much, she’d think he was a schmuck, wasteful and disrespectful of all she’d done to earn it. Not enough and she’d think he thought she wasn’t worth it. He’d tried to explain the dilemma to Huck last week.

  “Homes—relax,” Huck had said. “Not a problem. You need to make some sort of gesture, obviously. But you don’t necessarily need to spend bank. Remember the golden rule: free for those who can afford it. My boy Les has a whole guest room full of crap he gets in goody bags and luxury lounges. Coupons for African safaris, helicopter rides—they just sit there, piling up. I know he’s got a few from jewelers. He keeps telling me to come take whatever I want.”

  Alex took this in. “So I can get birthday jewelry with… a coupon?”

  “Not exactly. It’s all non-transferrable—they don’t hand out luxury goods to maids and assistants and whatever. They ask for your ID when you cash it in. Which is why I went down to MacArthur Park and got myself a fake ID with my picture and Lester Sychak’s name on it.”

  Alex flashed on Huck idling his Audi wagon, slowing along the curb and signaling to a guy on the street that he’d trade cash for “mica.” “So… you’ve got a driver’s license that guys use for buying beer or working construction—for luxury-lounge coupons?”

  “Genius, right? Wanna cash one in?”

  It didn’t sound exactly legal, but Alex figured there wasn’t any harm in acquiring a celebrity freebie that would otherwise go unclaimed. Most importantly, Figgy would get her bling and he’d neatly sidestep the question of whose-money-it-was. The next day he and Huck paid a visit to the Beverly Hills jeweler Daniel Frick, who took one look at the coupon and handed over a chunky silver necklace with a single ruby. “It’s part of our celebrity collection, Mr. Sychak,” said the jeweler, his clipped British accent a tart mix of privilege and suspicion.

  Beyond the bling, Alex knew h
e needed to arrange some sort of event. He’d had a meeting with a ginger-haired, pink-lipsticked party planner named Alice, and they’d traded an increasingly frustrating chain of emails. He’d considered, then rejected, an elegant dinner party (too conventional), a hot air balloon ride (Figgy got motion sickness), and a lavish blowout at home (parties made her anxious).

  The truth was, Alex felt conflicted about any sort of grand gesture. It felt vulgar. His standard-issue liberal guilt was mixed with something else—was it hostility? Or resentment? Every time he checked in with Figgy at work, she was being fussed over, fetched for, and otherwise feted. Planning for her birthday made him feel like just another fawning attendant. Even sex had become a bizarre sort of combat. She claimed to be back on the pill, and Alex claimed to believe her, but he now made it a point to keep track of her ovulation schedule and pull out before the moment of truth.

  “Just being tidy,” he’d said last night.

  She’d responded by turning onto her side and making a motion with her hand that looked suspiciously like a scoop and dip. Was she actually trying to inseminate herself with his spillover? Was she so committed to getting one past him?

  All of which probably had something to do with why he’d gotten so excited when his mother came up with the idea for “a totally unique, unforgettable, socially conscious” surprise birthday party. It was risky—Figgy might very well hate it—but for sure she’d be surprised. And wasn’t she always zigging when everyone else zagged? They’d keep it real. He signed off and got Alice the party planner going on the particulars. The invites had gone out yesterday.

  “So we meet at your house at nine?” Huck said now.

  “Yup—just don’t dress up,” Alex said. “Super casual.”

  “Fine—but you’ve got to help me out with something,” he said. “Please do not invite Kate—the only way I can deal with this thing is if I can bring Sydney.”

  “Sydney?”

  “The waitress at Interlingua?” Huck said. “With the calves and the blouses? It is on. I’m telling you, divorce—it’s catnip, dude. I casually dropped a mention of the separation over coffee and she followed me home like a schnauzer in heat. And I’m telling you homes, these younger ones, they’re dirty. Internet porn is a wonderful thing, my friend. I haven’t had this much play since college.”