Then very early morning in October, suddenly, Louise was back. Her maddening sister was following her around again with her caustic comments. Why now? Had she been biding her time till Billie’s life calmed, emptied? Or till Billie could no longer do without her? Heavens to Betsy, it hardly mattered. And it certainly didn’t matter that Louise was just a manifestation of Billie’s own desperate need, because the relief of her was so very…relieving.
Louise had been forty-one when she disappeared with Coffee Enema Bob, but she seemed to be about twenty now. At dawn, and later at breakfast, it was just her voice – her spirited younger voice intruding into Billie’s thoughts. Just little grunts of agreement or dispute, sometimes a comment on the way her sons were changing. On how Billie was raising them. Sometimes she just grunted her approval. Then she got louder and louder until, while Billie was in the shower, Louise contradicted her in person. Billie dropped her soap.
I should have worn micro-minis and fishnets, Billie had been thinking. Shouldn’t have been such a prude. Should have learned how to give a decent blow job. What a stupid thing to call it, anyway. No blowing involved at all, sadly – blowing would have been easy. But if I’d been serious, and really loved Jack properly…
Don’t be stupid! Stop blaming yourself! Louise was on the other side of the shower curtain, sitting on the toilet, lazily filing her nails. You are such a sissy, Billie. You always were. Time to buck up, gal.
Louise was full to the brim of encouragement, in her bullying way. And Billie’s heart didn’t skip a beat, seeing her sister when she knew for a fact she must be hallucinating. It was too wonderful to worry about, and the ache in her abdomen dissolved. But after a few days, Louise became annoying in the old way.
‘You’re not really here, Loulou,’ reminded Billie politely. She said this out loud. She always talked to Louise out loud when she was on her own, or with just Willy. He never noticed because he often chattered away to his imaginary friend, a four-foot squirrel called Alfredo. Louise was her Alfredo. ‘You’re a figment of my imagination.’
Your point?
‘And anyway, Jack’s leaving is partially your fault. I forgot all about being a wife, after you left and your boys moved in. It was all I could do, to keep…’
Louise yawned, and for a second was her ten-year-old self. It was that kind of wholehearted melodramatic yawn.
Uh-huh. Blame it on me, if it helps.
‘It’s true, though. I took my eyes off the ball, and whoop! In walked cute Colette.’
Colette Schmet! What a pretentious loser name. Collettey Spaghetti.
‘That’s how I talk.’
Your point?
Then one morning, Billie was woken by Louise sitting on her bed; in fact, right on top of her feet, which now had pins and needles. They’d shared a bed growing up, so in her first waking moments this felt entirely normal.
‘Gee, Loulou. What is it now? What do you want? It’s not getting-up time yet.’ She whispered, because all the kids were still asleep. It was hours before get up time.
I was thinking, when you are you going to get rid of all his stuff?
Billie shrugged, avoiding eye contact. Then she got up and went to the kitchen to eat a yoghurt. She often did this because yoghurt seemed to make her sleepy again. She glanced around the dim living room, and down the hall with the bedroom doors shut. The house felt full of kids, in a muffled way. Adolescent boy sweat and the cotton-candy-scented hairspray Elisabeth used on her back-combed hair. (Ratted hair, she called it.)
Jack had taken a suitcase, a few grocery bags full of clothes and shoes, a pile of manuscripts, his file of important papers and his two work briefcases. He’d not expressed interest in claiming anything else. Not even his collection of hardback Everyman Library novels, or his Glen Miller albums. Evidence of Jack was still everywhere she looked, as if he intended to keep his territory well marked.
As she finished the yoghurt, she pictured packing all his things up. She smiled a little. But what about everything else? Each piece of furniture was soaked with Jack memories. Even the wallpaper (grass) and the kitchen tiles (terracotta). Even the pair of slippers she was wearing right now. They belonged to her, but they were not completely devoid of Jack. They’d argued over the blank checkbook stub which should have said slippers – Macy’s 9/10.
Ditch it. Ditch it all. You’re a divorced woman now, said Louise. She appeared suddenly, perched on the kitchen counter, reading the fashion section of the Chronicle.
‘Louise Molinelli! I am not divorced!’ she whispered.
Hey, it’s not a dirty word.
‘Says you. Anyway, easy for you to say. Jack’s stuff is all mixed up with my stuff. It’s our stuff.’
Is it? Either a thing is yours or his. Nothing belongs to you both any more. Looks to me like you’re hoping he’s going to walk back in that door one day.
Louise was briefly her much older self, chewing her fingernails, then reverted to her unlined younger self. She got out her compact and preened in the mirror. Billie bristled. Louise could be so smug, it made her want to spit. To flounce out and slam the door. ‘No, I do not! And if he did, why, I’d tell him to…to just get lost. Git, I’d say. Take your suitcase right out of here, and go back to Miss Slutsville.’
A pause, as she noted the photograph above the phone, from that trip to Disneyland just before Willy. The kids had been too old to admit to having fun with their parents, and they were not smiling. And yet, now she thought of it, they really had been happy that day. She was convinced of it.
‘Jack is not welcome in this house any more. Unless he’s here to visit the kids, of course. Which he has to do. Which I want him to do. But let him try and move back, well, no siree!’
Uh-huh, said Louise, then she squinted at her sister. Hey, you going to do something with your hair?
‘What’s wrong with my hair?’
And your face. You look like death.
‘You can talk. You keep morphing.’
Billie yawned, threw the empty yoghurt pot in the garbage bag and walked back to her bedroom. It was strangely comforting to bicker with Louise. Since Jack left, she really missed arguing.
Men are all cheating lying bastards, said Louise in a reasonable tone, as she followed Billie down the hall. You know Mom always considered Dad a prime example of bastardly-ness. Of course Jack was going to be one too.
‘How dare you lump Jack in with Dad.’ Billie slipped back between the sheets.
Oh, come on. You still think he’s different?
‘Of course.’
Billie Molinelli. You always did think you were special.
‘My name is Mrs Jack MacAlister,’ she whispered, adjusting the quilt around her toes.
La di fucking da.
‘Anyway, anyone can be special, Loulou. Nothing special about being special, it’s just that not many people really want to be. You could have been special, if you’d wanted.’
Who says I’m not? I just don’t think you are, not as much as you think you are.
‘Goodnight.’
Listen, Billie. I’ve got an idea. Who needs a man? Get a puppy!
‘Are you nuts?’
Remember Sally? You loved Sally. She was your shadow all through high school, that mutt.
‘Jack hates dogs.’
Jack Schmack, said Louise.
Then Louise was gone and Billie could hear blue jays, and other birds she didn’t know the names of, and a dog was barking to be let out for a pee. A puppy popped into her mind. One puppy in particular, and this changed from labrador to spaniel several times as she pictured the way it would follow her around the house, toenails clicking on the wood floor. It would curl up at her feet wherever she sat, and she’d make new friends. Dog people. She let her head fall back on the pillow. It was still too early to get up and she felt her being, made up of whatever it is that made her Billie and not anyone else, drift away from her body. She wondered if this was what dying felt like. If so, then it wasn’t so bad after
all. This lifting sensation, this liberating of her truest self from everything that…everything that fretted it. And darling little Charlie – well, what separated her from him didn’t feel so very substantial after all.
No Jack! she’d been crying into her pillow for more than a year. In fear, sadness, regret. No Jack! she silently sang now as she went back into sleep, puppies bouncing around in a pink clouded backyard. For a second, she pictured a Louise-like guardian angel hovering over her, edging her drowsy heart in the direction of joy.
When Billie woke again, she felt odd. Almost drug-sedated. Was something wrong with her? Should she go to the doctor? She smiled, imagining that. Of course, she wouldn’t go to the doctor. She’d find a puppy! She slowly rose, put on her robe and walked down the hall to check on Willy. Still sound asleep, bum in the air, thumb planted in mouth. The room smelled of pee and Johnson’s talcum powder. In the kitchen, she asked her teenagers the questions she did every weekday morning. Had they done their homework, remembered to put it in their school bags, did they need lunch money? None replied further than the reflex: ‘Yeah, yeah.’ And: ‘Nah.’
‘Elisabeth, is that my cashmere sweater you’re wearing?’
‘You said I could have it if I wanted. Don’t you remember anything? Pathetic.’
‘Danny, you need a haircut again. Take a tenner out of my bag. Go to Supercuts.’
‘Mom, I told you I’m growing my hair, remember?’
‘Donald, that shirt needs to be ironed. Take it off, I can do it right now.’
‘It’s supposed to look like that, Aunt.’ He said aunt in his new sarcastic way, as if he was making little quote marks in the air with his fingers. Was he going to mock her for the rest of his life?
‘Sam, those jeans are way too long, the hem’s all frayed. Why you don’t trip over, I’ve no idea. And listen, what time are you coming home? I need you to be home when you say you’ll be home.’
He’d been late every day this week, and she felt the need to exert some authority over at least one child. He complied with a long mumble. Impossible to decipher, but this didn’t bother her. In fact, it pretty much met her expectations. More mumbling, arguing, shuffling up and down the hall. Then, in dribs and drabs over ten minutes, they all took turns slamming the front door on their way out, and each time Billie said:
‘Shush! Willy is still asleep! Have a nice day at school!’ Then she made herself some toast, whistling softly and perfectly in tune. Outside it rained the thin warm rain of October, and the drum of it on the roof gave her peace, not the usual agitation. She considered phoning someone – perhaps Irene? Willy might like to play with her son. The edge of loneliness that might impel her was absent, but nevertheless it was good to know Irene was available if needed. Like a loaf of bread in the freezer, poised for defrosting. Billie leafed through the new Sunset magazine, aware that Louise was loitering nearby, plucking her eyebrows again. Jiminy cricket, life was sweet when your vanished sister had begun hanging around and you were on the verge of a puppy.
She’d spend the day puppy-hunting with Willy. He’d adore a dog. They all would. A dog would distract them, bring them closer, might make home a place to love again. She looked at her watch. Six hours and twenty-two minutes till the older children poured back through the front door, smelling of hormones and cheap deodorant.
Better get a move on, lazy bones, said Louise, passing by and going out the door without opening or closing it. She was about seventeen today.
Willy woke. He came into the kitchen, pyjamas drooping, yawning, scratching his head, fine hair all fluffed up above his sleepy blue eyes.
‘Hey Willy Wonka. Hungry?’
He smiled but said nothing. A toddler of few words. He pulled off his diaper in the kitchen, dumped it on the floor and trundled to the bathroom. While Billie listened to the steady stream, she poured him a bowl of Lucky Charms. Lucky boy indeed – his siblings had grown up eating lumpy oatmeal every morning. Somehow, worrying about junk food had tailed off. After he’d finished eating, she decided that instead of her usual quick shower, they could take a bath together. Willy loved baths. She put on a record, Sounds of Silence, and filled the bath while Willy tossed his bath toys in. She added bubble bath, then cold water till it was just right. She undressed them both, lifted him up and they both sank into the water. His skin was smooth, slipping against her own skin. She soaped him gently, washed his hair, rinsed it by tipping his head back over her chest and scooping water over it. Normally Willy hated having his hair washed, but today he just chuckled. Then she lifted him out of the bath, got out herself and towelled him dry. She pulled clean clothes on his wriggling body, popped a bottle into his mouth, grabbed his bunny and his blanket just in time for Mister Roger’s Neighbourhood. It’s a beautiful day in the neighbourhood, a beautiful day for a neighbour, would you be mine? Could you be mine? Willy sat on the beanbag and sucked, trancelike.
Well? You call this looking for a puppy?
‘Shut up, Loulou. Loads of time.’
Billie sat on the sofa, still wrapped in her robe, and attempted to imagine Mister Rogers being married. Or even kissing. The more she looked at him the more he seemed like an overgrown sexless child. She’d bundle Willy into the car after the show and head to the pet store. Lots of puppy ads on the bulletin board there.
A knock on the door, damn it! She looked around – she could see the door from the sofa. She tightened her robe around her, but before she could get to the door, it opened. And there he stood. Jeff, from number 23.
‘Hey, Billie.’ That embarrassed smile he always seemed to have these days. ‘Sorry, it’s so early – didn’t mean to…want me to come back?’
‘That’s okay, Jeff. Just having a lazy morning. Want some coffee?’
Why are you encouraging him? hissed Louise. You don’t even like him, do you?
‘Well, sure,’ said Jeff. ‘That would be great.’
‘Let’s have it on the back deck. Willy’s addicted to Mister Rogers, he’ll be fine for another twenty minutes.’
‘It’s raining.’
‘We can sit under the sun shade. I love to sit there when it’s raining.’
‘Oh, me too,’ he replied seriously in a low voice, as if they’d both confessed to a strange and intimate affinity. ‘In fact, I was just thinking we could talk about that decking repair you mentioned needing.’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said nonchalantly, while yawning. Oh! To have a man flirt with you even before you brushed your hair or put on your lipstick! Also, his wife, Shirley, was so superior, with her tiny waist and university degree, lording it over all the other moms at the PTA. Billie felt a little thrill, imagining Jeff preferring her uneducated self.
‘Let’s have lemonade instead of coffee,’ she said softly, smiling.
‘Jack! Why are you drinking lemonade? I bought more gin yesterday. And tonic. And green olives and vermouth.’
‘Did you?’
He was only seventeen miles from his old home, but it was not raining here. He was sitting by the pool, enjoying Indian summer and reading a John le Carré. Jack and Billie lived in different universes. He lived in Colette’s clutter-free beige house with three bathrooms (each with a shower that worked), a colour television, and a record player with two speakers (stereo!). Which reminded him. He needed space to put his records and books, and they’d need another dresser. And more shelves. And maybe he could take over one of those spare rooms as an office. And the room with the big windows could be his studio, for painting.
‘Yes,’ said Colette. ‘Why not have a drink? You’re on vacation.’
‘Silly me.’
He was sick of getting drunk in the morning. What’s more, he was sick of getting drunk with her. But she was standing in the doorway in her bikini, smoking a cigarette with that pout, so he repeated:
‘Silly me. Limes? Did you get more limes?’
‘Of course, honey pie.’
This was wrong too. Honey pie belonged to Billie. Colette used to call him l
over, sex God, hottie. But how could he complain? He didn’t pay rent, and she offered him amazing sex any time he wanted it. Even better, she offered decent conversation about politics, literature, life in general. There were no awkward silences or sulky ones either. They were soulmates and life was good. No nagging, no sneaking around, no guilt.
Ernie had been wrong-wrong-wrong yesterday. They’d been eating pastrami sandwiches on the deck of Ernie’s sailboat. Not out in the bay, just a lazy lunch at the dock. Since he and Bernice had finally moved to Marin six months ago, this had become a weekly ritual. Always on the boat, away from wives and girlfriends. After the third beer, Ernie had burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You. You’re so funny, Jack. I mean, Colette’s nice, but look at you. Forty-two years old and you’re acting like a kid. Why didn’t you get all this hanky-panky stuff out of your system when you were young?’
‘Well. I’m a late bloomer. What’s wrong with that?’
‘But why, Jack? Why bother at all? I mean, your wife’s gorgeous. And sweet natured.’
‘I know.’
‘She doesn’t smoke or drink. Take my Bernice, now. She gets so she can hardly walk to the bedroom. You’re lucky.’
‘Huh.’
‘Billie doesn’t even flirt. Bernice flirts with other men all the time. It drives me a bit crazy, to be honest. But Billie, well. You have a wife you can count on, there. She’s got eyes for no one else.’
Wait For Me Jack Page 17