Confessions of a Falling Woman

by Debra Dean

  ROMANCE MANUAL

  After a blizzard in New Haven, three slushy weeks in Pittsburgh, and more of the same in Cleveland, the sudden flush of heat in Sarasota is unreal. So far as I can tell, though, this is the only draw here, the tropical sun. Other points of interest: Sarasota is the winter home of the Ringling Brothers Circus. Period. The streets are empty except for a few old folks riding golf carts and oversized tricycles. Pelicans waddle across the docks and flop into the cobalt water. Clown Paradise. Even the theater we’re playing is painted a ridiculous purple.

  I waste the afternoon alone by the motel pool, reading a romance novel. It’s hard to believe someone actually gets paid to write this shit. I could do better. Take my own life for instance: make an adjustment here and there (edit out Pittsburgh, lose Akron) and presto, every hausfrau’s fantasy.

  (It was a glamorous theatrical tour. Each new city beckoned with promises, whispered of romance, drew her name in its lights.)

  I’m waiting for Pavel, taking a flier that he might show up for a swim, but the place feels abandoned, deservedly so. The bottom of the pool is mottled with dead leaves, and rickety aluminum chairs creak in the breeze. Another Holiday Inn hell, courtesy of the tour managers back in New York. But when I close my eyes, the heat on my skin feels the same as Tahiti, like Fiji or Bali or Bora-Bora.

  (She was alone in an unspoiled paradise, the beach as fresh as white linen, not a footprint but hers in the sparkling sand.)

  I haven’t been to any of those places, but I expect they never live up to the fantasy. After my old college roommate caught her husband bonking one of his clients, they went on a second honeymoon to St. Bart’s. A fresh start and all that. A postcard turned up in my mail showing an incredible beach fringed with palms trees and lapped by an improbably sapphire sea. On the back was a phony-looking postmark and my friend’s cryptic comments on the rain. They were divorced four months later.

  (She picked a conch shell off the beach and held it to her ear. She thought she heard low laughter, and when she looked up, she saw a handsome stranger.)

  When I wake, my knees are shrimp-colored. Before I go to the theater I rub myself with ice cubes. By curtain call, my skin is aflame.

  The others have scouted out a joint that serves cheap margaritas and plates of alligator fingers. Pavel will be there. I gingerly slip off my third-act costume; the brocade scratches like sandpaper. I peel away my eyelashes, smear off my face with cold cream, pull pins out of my hair. In the glare of the caged bulbs ringing the mirror, I look like Bozo’s girlfriend: red and puffy, with clownish white triangles over my eyes, my crotch, and each tit. Never in my life have I managed a tan, only freckles and burns. I carefully reline my eyes and mouth and thank the gods that cocktail lounges are dark.

  (His eyes searched the smoky café, looking for the mysterious redhead who had so captivated him that afternoon on the beach.)

  When I packed my trunk in New York, the only heat was spitting out of a radiator, but even so, how much foresight would it have taken to tuck in something slinky and cool? I change into black leggings and a “Virginia Is For Lovers” T-shirt, and stand back from the mirror. The reflection is not what one would hope for—I look like a tourist signed up for the wrong package. I add a red chiffon scarf, knotting it around my hips to draw attention to one of my better features. Not subtle, but if you want to catch a fish, use the shiny lure.

  (In the far corner he spotted her, as cool and alluring as a mirage.)

  I am determined not to go to bed alone tonight. Not that finding someone to fuck is a challenge; on the road, it’s much easier than getting room service or extra towels, but, when possible, I prefer the semblance of romance. Romance requires more patience, laying the groundwork. I’ve been working on this one for weeks, creating opportunities to be swept away. I can’t speak for the reality, but I like the illusion of falling in love.

  Romance is always a gamble and, frankly, the odds are against you. But if you gamble long enough, you develop certain strategies: bluffing, waiting out the bad deals, trusting your intuition when it comes, whatever you think will shorten those odds. I picked out Pavel back in Cleveland. His name gave him a decided advantage over the rest of the males in the company. Pavel Milov. It’s a Czech name, docked of all the extra k’s and z’s when he became an actor, but still exotic, a quality I prize highly. Sounds like a freedom fighter or an expatriate poet. Scratch the surface and they’re all the same, but you learn not to scratch.

  As it happens, the surface of Pavel is gorgeous. Not tall, but very sculpted, with a languid smile and eyes the green of beach glass. Maybe gorgeous is too much; he is definitely short and his nose is a tad beakish. He is also married, but I can overlook that. In fact, sometimes that can work in your favor. If you lose, they go back to their wives and you can tell yourself truthfully it was no reflection on you.

  (When she stepped through the stage door, the perfume of bougainvillea and saltwater drifted out of the lush dark. The surf was as quiet and rhythmic as breathing.)

  The door behind me screeches and thuds shut. It’s Pavel. I don’t believe in luck; I believe that people get what they deserve. I say “pretty night” like an invitation, and smile. I’m not going anywhere, got no plans. I brush an imaginary hair away from my cheek. His eyes dart back and forth, then he grabs my elbow and yanks me down a step, out of the light.

  (His handsome features betrayed no emotion, but something in his manner hinted at danger.)

  He says, “Let’s go for a walk.” I’ll admit this is easier than I’d expected.

  We slip around the back side of the theater and walk past the loading dock, toward the sound of the ocean. At the far corner of the building, he slows his pace and then stops.

  “Come here,” he says. He pulls me through a thicket of bushes and presses my back against the concrete wall. I feel his hands push up under my T-shirt and knead my sunburned flesh. I whimper, but it sounds convincingly like passion.

  (When they kissed, her blood rose like warm water over her head.)

  I’m not about to get laid in the bushes, so I loosen his grip on my tits and pull away ever so slightly, catching my breath. “I like the way you walk.”

  “Okay, we’ll walk. It’s a good mile back to the motel. I’ve got a pint of scotch in my room.”

  “Don’t you think they’ll miss us?” Like I care.

  “I told them I had to get back and call home.”

  The dead palm fronds that litter the sidewalk rustle like paper in the warm breeze. Between blinding sweeps of headlights, the sky is black overhead and dusty with stars. I’m feeling helium-light, my feet almost skipping. I kick at an empty beer can, sending it clattering on ahead. I want to throw out my arms and twirl, to make the stars spin.

  (He swept her up in his strong arms. They whirled across the dance floor, and out onto the starlit balcony.)

  You have to squint hard to endow the Sand Drift Motel with charm. It is a sagging pink stucco, parked on the main drag to pick off weary motorists. From a distance it looks vaguely festive, but up close the neon vacancy sign lurches drunkenly and the orange-lit plaster fountain is dry and caked with algae. When Pavel unlocks his door and snaps on the overhead light, any last fragments of illusion shrivel.

  He quickly pulls shut the flimsy curtains. I make a beeline for the ceramic lamp and then turn off the switch at the door. He is moving toward me, already fiddling with a button on his shirt. So I say, “How about that drink you promised me?” I don’t like to be rushed.

  I fetch two water glasses from the top of the toilet tank and unwrap them while he rummages through the suitcase spread open on one of the beds. I sit on the edge of the unmade bed and feign interest in a tourist guide put out by the local Chamber of Commerce. He fills my glass, stretches out next to me and we drink.

  “Say something to me in Czech.”

  He laughs. “Oh God, you’re kidding. I don’t speak a word. I mean, a phrase or two, but nothing…”

  “Whatev
er.”

  “Whatever. Okay. ‘Jdi do prdele.’”

  “That’s beautiful. What does it mean?”

  “‘Fuck off.’ All I can remember are the obscenities. The others are worse; my grandfather was a randy guy.”

  Pavel is off on some story his grandfather told him about a prostitute. I settle back against the headboard and drink steadily until my body feels boneless and airy. Through the open window, there is splashing in the pool. The curtains billow slightly, ballooning the faded cotton orchids and making the hula girls sway. I swallow another mouthful of the scotch and follow its heat threading down my middle, out my limbs.

  My voice sounds far away. “Do you do this all the time?”

  “He says this to a nine-year-old kid.” Pavel is still rattling on about grandpa. “What’s that?”

  “Do you do this all the time? Seduce women up to your room.”

  “Oh.” He smiles. “Only the beautiful ones.”

  “And have there been a lot of beautiful women?”

  “Not like you.”

  I’m not beautiful, but it doesn’t matter. We will pretend that I am. One arm slides around me and the other clicks off the lamp on the nightstand. Blue light from the pool ripples across the walls.

  At first I watch myself from a distance, guiding my hands, tilting my throat back, scoring like music the gasps and the moans. But gradually I fall under the spell of my own acting or the rhythm of the act, it doesn’t matter which. I have forgotten myself for a while.

  (The passion they had hidden exploded like a volcano and swept them along in its current. She had never imagined it could feel like this.)

  We lie in the blue shadows, stretched out across the rubble of chlorine-smelling sheets and gritty bits of sand. Pavel gets up and goes into the bathroom, and I can hear him taking a leak. When he comes back to the bed, he passes me his water glass with its half-inch of warm scotch and I drain it. I run my fingers across the mat of damp curls on his chest.

  I turn my face away from his and let my eyes fill with water. I have landed more than one part because I can produce real tears on cue. If the scene is well written, it happens on its own, like stepping out of my life and becoming the vision. If not, I think of my mother backing the station wagon over our cat, Buster, when I was nine. Tonight I’m on a roll and the tears feel genuine.

  I wait for Pavel to feel the silence in the room, and then I inhale jaggedly. He lifts my chin in his hand, turns my face toward his, and asks me what’s the matter. Nothing, I tell him, but he persists. Finally I say, in a shattered whisper, that I’m afraid I could get too attached to him. He is surprised, but I can tell he doesn’t doubt for a minute that this is possible. His drowsy eyes focus sharp, and tiny fissures crinkle across his brow.

  It’s risky to suggest consequences. They can panic, suddenly flash on the wife and kiddies back home and start backpedaling. On the other hand, feeling desired, even loved, is a powerful aphrodisiac. Who doesn’t want that fantasy?

  (He took her in his strong arms and whispered her name like a prayer. What they felt might be crazy, he said, but love was like that.)

  “Well, I could get pretty attached to you, too. Especially if you keep doing that with your hand.”

  I’m drifting off when the phone rings, loud as an alarm. Pavel stretches out lazily for the receiver and cradles it against his shoulder while he lights a cigarette.

  “No, I just walked in the door a few minutes ago.” He snaps on the lamp, and I curl away from the light.

  “Oh, not bad tonight. We had a full house. Pretty lively old farts, too. Better than the stiffs in Cleveland.”

  I draw a damp tangle of sheet up over my naked back and lie perfectly still. I’m listening for a nervous tremor or a false note in his voice, but it isn’t there.

  (He hated all this, the lies and deceptions. It tore him up inside to see her unhappy. But it would be different soon.)

  “Well, maybe we should get somebody else to do it and deduct it from the rent. They’ve been dinking around…”

  I lie there like a lump for a while, and then I go into the bathroom and sit. The john faces a mirror; in the fluorescent light my sunburn looks freshly slapped. My shoulders are starting to peel away in patches. I shift onto the tile floor. From this angle, the shower stall seems to tilt precariously over me. I count blooms of mildew up on the ceiling. The sickening light and the glare off the white tiles remind me of the places they put nutcases.

  I tell myself that they’re talking about plumbing, for God’s sake, the kind of business you transact with a wife. This has nothing to do with me, with us. When he gets her off the phone, I’ll suggest a dip in the pool.

  (How could he forget that night in Sarasota when they swam naked and unashamed, watched only by the stars overhead?)

  The door is ajar; through the slit I can make out his profile, the Roman nose, half a drowsy smile, the green eye gazing far away. He is still talking. “It was eighty-two today…. Just went to the beach for a while. Remember at Nag’s Head, all the old guys lined up fishing blues off the pier? I think they come down here for the winter…. That was good, wasn’t it?” A long pause. “Me too, babe. Good night.”

  The phone clicks into the receiver. I hear him yawn, and then he shuts off the lamp.

  He’s forgotten I’m here.

  I wait a few moments, unsure of my next move, then decide that the best course of action is to act as though nothing has happened. I emerge from the bathroom, spraying an arc of light across the bed that catches Pavel like a deer in headlights. One hand sneaks over his flaccid genitals.

  “Home?” I ask brightly.

  He nods, blinking against the light.

  “So, how about a swim?” I suggest.

  “It’s kind of late. Maybe tomorrow, huh?”

  “Tomorrow we go to Tulsa.”

  “Yeah. Well…” His eyes shift away, to the door. “It’s kind of late.”

  When I was eleven, my family went on vacation to Lincoln City on the Oregon coast. I met a boy, Jeff was his name, and we spent long days on the beach, daring each other into the chill green surf, feeling the pull of the undertow slide around our ankles as we raced back out. Lying side by side on beach towels, we would talk and pretend not to notice when the tips of our fingers brushed the other’s skin. Our families teased us, said it was puppy love. On the morning my family was leaving, Jeff led me by the hand into a dune behind the motel parking lot, and he kissed me. We were as solemn as penitents taking communion. Then he said that he loved me and would not forget me, not ever. All the way back to Sacramento, I kept my face pressed to the car window, feeling the chrysalis of my heart crack open, a strange lush ache. I pretended it was carsickness, but my mother knew. There will be others, she told me.

  Meanwhile, tomorrow we go to Tulsa. I pick up my T-shirt, puddled on the carpet, and pull it over my head. I drag on my pants, stuff my underwear in a pocket. My scarf is nowhere to be seen, but so what, I’ve lost things before. At the door, I turn and smile brightly at him.

  “Sweet dreams, lover.”

  THE BEST MAN

  Mike follows a trail of bright pink spots. They lead into the living room, across the carpet, and to the off-white couch he and Rachel bought before they became parents. There lies his son, sucking on his sippy cup, blissful as a junkie. Somehow, Noah has managed to spill juice out of the cup, something the manufacturer claims is impossible but which Noah accomplishes with astonishing regularity.

  “Shit, Noah.” Mike is yelling. “Is it too much to ask to leave us one fucking”—he corrects himself—“one frigging room?”

  His son stares at him, stricken, his wide eyes already brimming with tears.

  “Just give me that.” Mike takes the plastic cup, and Noah lets out a wail.

  “We’ve talked about this. No juice in the living room.” He tries reasoning, but the boy is inconsolable, lost in his grief. “Okay, c’mon, we can finish it in the kitchen.” Mike starts to pick up his son, but th
e pitch of the squall rises. Walk away, Mike tells himself. Just walk away. He goes into the kitchen and returns again with spot remover and a sponge. Mike tries to ignore his son’s sobs as he scrubs at the carpet. It is unendurable.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you show me how your new fire truck works. What do you say?” Mike is almost pleading.

  Noah stops howling and appraises Mike warily. The boy’s cheeks are still slick with tears and snot, but the storm is already over. He trots toward his bedroom, and when Mike catches up, Noah is waiting to demonstrate how the ladder raises and lowers, how the red light flashes, how the truck can scale the bookcase and walls of his room. Just like that, another twenty minutes have passed.

  Mike leaves his son herding plastic farm animals up the ladder of the toy fire truck, and checks again the slow progress of his wife’s dressing. The babysitter is fifteen minutes late and Rachel is still half-dressed, sifting through a heap of panty hose on the bed. She runs her hand through each leg and holds it up to the light, appraising the nylon with the concentration of a jeweler looking for flaws.

  She is wearing a lace bra and matching panties, less familiar than the cotton underthings she usually wears. Her breasts and buttocks billow out of the skimpy lace, and Mike can almost feel in his fingertips the swells and hollows of her flesh. It feels like the itch of a missing limb. Now’s a bad time for this train of thought, he tells himself. Now usually is. They had a hard time conceiving Noah, and the three years of calendars and thermometers and injections left the hardened imprint of obligation on their lovemaking. Even after the triumph of their son’s birth, they approach each other measuredly.

  Mike checks his watch: 2:35.

  “Why don’t you throw them out if they have runs in them?”

  “Not runs, snags. If I threw out a pair of panty hose every time they had a snag, I’d wear them once.”