knotting as he comes to a gradual stop. I wipe the tears and sweat from his face, and after a short while, I see in the dim light that his eyes are now open.
“You there?” I say.
“Yeah,” he grunts, his voice thick with spit. His eyes roam the room in quick, nervous jerks.
“She’s gone,” I say.
He closes his eyes. “And with a great story for her friends.”
“We should page your doctor,” I say.
Horry shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. Sex can bring it on. Elevated heart rate, endorphins, adrenaline. Something.”
“Aren’t there meds you can take?”
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“You can’t get hard on the meds.”
“Well then, I hope she was worth it.”
He looks up at me. The whites of his eyes are vaguely pink, like something ran in the wash. “I wish I could remember.”
After another few minutes, he rolls over and onto his knees. He ig
nores my proff ered hand and stands up on his own, the blanket falling away from him.
“Well, you have some nice fingernail scratches on your ass,” I say.
“Always a good sign.”
He smiles weakly and bends down to wrap the blanket around his waist. Horry’s got the kind of abs you want, the kind that ripple and fl ex effortlessly under his skin. Looking at him, you can’t help but be re
minded of who he used to be, who he should be now. We all start out so damn sure, thinking we’ve got the world on a string. If we ever stopped to think about the infinite number of ways we could be undone, we’d never leave our bedrooms.
“Don’t say anything to Wendy, okay?”
“You got it.” It’s not clear to me which part of this he wants kept from her, but it’s not a talk I’d want to have with her anyway.
“Thanks.” He rolls his head around on his neck, stretching out the kinks, and breathes deeply. “I can still smell her on me.”
For some reason, I don’t think he means the girl who just left. 7:40 a.m.
Alice is perched on the edge of my bed when I come out of the shower. She’s wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and the forlorn expression of an abandoned puppy.
“Alice . . . ,” I say.
“I know.”
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Water drips down my legs to my heels, leaving a trail of wet foot
prints behind me.
She furrows her brow and looks away from me. “I just wanted to apologize for . . . the other day.”
“It’s okay.” It isn’t, but it’s what you say, right?
“I got a little crazy. I’m sorry.” She offers up a lame, hollow grin. “It’s all these hormones I’m taking.”
“Okay.”
“Things don’t have to get all weird between us.”
“Okay.”
“Can you say something besides ‘okay’?”
“Fine.”
“Come on, Judd. Throw me a bone.”
“Get out of here, Alice.”
“Please, Judd. You won’t even look at me.”
“Can you blame me?”
“No. I guess not.” Alice looks down at her clasped fi ngers like she’s kneeling in prayer and then back up at me. “The thing is, you’re having a baby by accident. Wendy squirts her kids out at will and doesn’t even seem to particularly like them. I’ve been trying for so long, and it just doesn’t seem fair.”
She sits there on the edge of the bed, pretty, sad, and tragically re
signed. I remember how she ran to help Paul when he hurt his shoulder yesterday, and I feel a powerful urge to kick her teeth in.
“You have a good marriage,” I say.
“What?”
“You and Paul. You love each other, don’t you?”
Her face turns red, and her eyes grow wide, like she’s about to cry.
“Yes. We do.”
“That’s a lot harder than having a baby. It’s damn near impossible, really. And you’re putting it at risk.”
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Alice thinks about that for a moment and then nods her head.
“You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“I mean, any asshole can have a baby, right?”
“I can’t.”
There is no talking to her. And now the tears come, just like that. Where have all the happy, well-adjusted women gone? Every one I talk to these days is one wrong word away from a crying fi t.
“Alice . . .” I have no idea what to say anymore.
“No,” she says, sniffling. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She wipes her tears with her wrist and shakes her head. “I put you in a terrible position. I understand that. I just need to know that things are okay between us.”
At this point, I just want her out of here. “They’re not, but they will be.”
“You promise?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.” She stands up, still crying, and gives me a hug. I accept it, but my hands stay firmly at my waist, keeping my towel up.
“Okay. I guess I’d better let you put some clothing on.”
“That would be great.”
“Thanks for understanding, Judd,” she says, and she must be joking, because, Alice, honey, I would travel to the ends of the earth, kill or die, just to find one single thing that I could understand. Chapter 44
10:15 a.m.
You never saw a sorrier bunch of mourners. Paul’s arm is tied up in a sling. The back of Phillip’s hand is black and blue and looks like an inflated glove, to the point that his knuckles have disappeared. My lip is swollen and split. Picture us there in the living room, crouched uncomfortably in our low chairs on this sixth day of shiva, hungover and fuzzy from the prescription painkillers Mom doled out like candy this morning. We squint in the daylight, which seems aggressive and spitefully bright today. Wendy is exhausted because Serena hasn’t slept through the night since she got here, and Mom is ragged and moody. There’s been no sign of Linda since their argument yesterday. According to the informational pamphlet Boner left on the piano, this is the last full day of shiva. Tomorrow morning he will come and lead us in a small closing ceremony, snuff out the shiva candle, and then we’ll part ways, back to the flaming wrecks of our individual lives. In my case, I have no idea what that even means. My rented basement feels to me like a bad movie I saw and forgot.
None of us makes eye contact. We have pretty much had it with each other. We are injured and angry, scared and sad. Some families, like some couples, become toxic to each other after prolonged exposure. Mom runs three weekly postpartum therapy groups in her living room, where young mothers come to share tips on colic remedies and
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toilet training while venting their frustration about lack of sleep, worth
less husbands, and how the last bits of pregnancy fat have taken up per
manent residency in their asses. When we were kids, we called these women the Sad Mommies and viewed them with a mixture of awe and pity, spying from the top rungs of the staircase to watch actual grownups cry. Some of those ladies could really wail, in a way that sent us scurrying back to our bedrooms to laugh hysterically into our pillows. Today, through a phone chain, or, more likely, through a Sad Mommies e-mail distribution, a number of them have all arranged to come pay their respects at the same time. This happens a lot, I’ve noticed. People form shiva alliances, arriving together to eliminate the risk of a one-on
one with the bereaved. Some of the Sad Mommies sit with infants strapped to their milk-laden chests in little knapsacks, vibrating uncon
sciously in their seats to keep the kids asleep.
“Don’t rock them,” Mom insists hoarsely. “You rock them now, you’ll be rocking them for the next four years. You’re robbing them of their natural abi
lity to put themselves to sleep.” This is why they pay Mom the big bucks.
“Did you rock us?” Wendy says.
“Just you,” Mom says. “I learned the hard way. The rest of you learned to put yourselves to sleep.”
“I’d like to go practice right now,” Phillip says, resting his head on my shoulder. I think of Tracy and shrug it off maybe a little more violently than I meant to, and Phillip practically falls off his chair.
“What the hell?” he demands under his breath.
“Sorry.”
There are seven mothers, three of whom have left their babies home with the help. They are making a day of it. Brunch, shiva call, pedicures, and then a quick trip to the mall. “Good for you,” Mom says. “Any excuse to take care of yourself is a good one.”
An ad hoc therapy session breaks out. Paul, Phillip, and I listen in 300
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amazement as the women speak of all the injustices they endure, the sacrifices they make to propagate our species. Mom eggs them on, of
fers suggestions, wisdom, and absolution, which, when you get right down to it, is what they’re really paying for. Among Mom’s gems:
“Children crave discipline.”
“Don’t shield your child from anger; this business of saying ‘Mommy is sad’ when you’re angry is just a bunch of new age crap. If he pissed you off, let him know it.”
“One way or another, start having orgasms again. Restore your bal
ance as a woman.”
“Love them to pieces, but demand their respect.”
The Sad Mommies share stories and offer harried grins, looking tired and put-upon as they discuss their marriages. One of them, bonethin with the sad eyes of a puppy, says, “Having kids changes everything.”
“Not having kids changes everything too,” I say. The mommies look at me with guarded respect, as if I’ve just said something complex and pro
found. Mom beams and nods, proud of her emotionally damaged son. A blond mommy with dark roots and a floral skirt casually unbut
tons her blouse and unsheathes a large, pendulous breast to feed her baby. Her belligerent gaze darts around the room like sonar, daring any
one to have a problem with it. I’ve never fully understood the agenda of angry breast-feeders.
“That was once a tit,” Phillip mutters.
Wendy smacks the back of his head, but without any real conviction. 11:30 a.m.
Say what you will about the Sad Mommies, but they don’t overstay their welcome. They have schedules to keep, nap times and feedings to
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coordinate, manicure/pedicure appointments, and grocery shopping to get done. They rise as one, pulling up the low-riding jeans they really shouldn’t be wearing at this particular juncture, offering harried condo
lences as they shoulder their designer diaper bags, fumbling for minivan keys, thoughtlessly slipping orthodontic pacifiers like corks into the mouths of their restive babies. Their heels click down the hall like jazz rim shots, leaving a palpable silence in their perfumed wake. A number of the regulars are back, women mostly, friends and neighbors who have to have their morning coffee somewhere anyway, and those husbands who are retired. Peter Applebaum is back again, and you have to admire his tenacity. He’s playing it a bit cooler this time, but he watches Mom intently, waiting for the right moment to pounce. I feel a surge of empathy for him. You can do everything right and still end up alone, watching time run off the clock.
Horry comes by to bring Paul some papers he requested. He shows no ill effects from this morning’s seizure, taking a seat in front of Wendy to talk to her. They run out of conversation pretty quickly, self-conscious around the rest of us, but he makes no move to leave, and she seems happy to have him there.
The women are talking about a dangerous intersection in town. There’s a short light and no left-turn lane, and there was another crash there just last week. Someone should do something about it. Th is leads
to car crash stories, to speeding tickets, to the Paleys’ lawsuit against the city over the maple tree that fell through their roof in the last rainstorm, to the new, ostentatious houses that are being built around the neigh
borhood in defiance of the zoning laws, to the Elmsbrook courthouse, to the mall they were building behind the courthouse but the project stalled when the bottom fell out of the real estate market and now it’s a hangout for skateboarders and drug dealers, and someone should do something about it. The conversation unfurls through endless random 302
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associations, never lingering for very long on any one subject. No one asks questions or really even listens to anyone else, but just waits for them to finish so they can jump in with their own entry to the canon. And it is right in the middle of this conversational jamboree that Mom suddenly stands up and looks over the crowd of visitors toward the front hall. We follow her gaze to see Linda closing the front door behind her, rubbing her shoes vigorously on the mat. Mom’s smile is small and tentative, completely out of character for her. Linda looks up at Mom and grins a wry apology. Mom moves through the chairs, pick
ing up speed as she goes, hits the hall at a slow jog, and runs into Linda’s arms. They embrace fiercely for a moment and then press their fore
heads together, whispering to each other, tears flowing. Mom takes Linda’s face in her hands and, with great tenderness, plants a soft, lin
gering kiss on her mouth. Then she takes her by the arm and they walk out the front door, leaving the rest of us to figure out how to breathe in a room in which the oxygen supply has suddenly, inexplicably been depleted.
Peter Applebaum is the fi rst to react. He clears his throat and rises to his feet. “Well,” he says. “That was unexpected.” He turns and walks sadly to the door, his head bowed in defeat. He was up for the challenge, maybe even invigorated by it, but this . . . he is too old for this. I get up and catch him at the front door.
“Mr. Applebaum.”
He turns around, surprised. “Peter.”
“Peter. You didn’t need that kind of headache anyway.”
He shakes his head and smiles faintly. “I’m seventy-two years old. I drink my coffee alone every morning, and I fall asleep with the TV on every night.” He smiles. “There are headaches, and there are headaches.”
“There will be other widows. I mean, have you seen some of these husbands?”
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He has clear blue eyes and the wry smile of a much younger man.
“Your mouth to God’s ear.”
“They’ll be dropping like flies, I’m telling you.”
He laughs a little, then pats my cheek. “Don’t get old, kid. Th at was
where I went wrong.” I watch him as he heads somberly down the street. At seventy-two years old, women can still run roughshod over your heart. That’s something that never occurred to me, and I find it terrify
ing, but oddly reassuring.
Chapter 45
My parents had an active and noisy sex life. Years of Dad’s put
tering in our walls had rendered them porous and poorly insu
lated, and we could hear them, as we lay in our beds at night: the steady bump of their headboard, Dad’s low grunts, Mom’s over-the-top porn star cries. We tuned it out like all the other noises a house makes: the clanging of the old steam radiators, the creak of the stairs, the hum of the refrigerator compressor, the plumbing gurgling in the walls. Dad never talked to us about sex. I guess he figured we’d pick it up through osmosis.
I was six years old when I walked in on them. I had woken up with a headache and padded down the hall to their room, the attached slip
pers of my pajamas whispering against the wood floor. Mom was on top, her back to me, rocking up and down, and I thought she must be exer
cising. Sometimes
she exercised in front of the television, in tights and leg warmers that made her look like a cat. “I’m trying to look as good as her,” she explained, nodding her head at the woman on the screen, who, like Mom, was on all fours, raising her leg behind her like a dog about to pee.
“She looks like a dog,” I said.
“That’s Jane Fonda, and she is no dog.”
Jane Fonda had her hair piled up in a headband, which made her
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look like Mrs. Davenport, my kindergarten teacher. Mom, in her high ponytail and sports bra, looked like the genie in I Dream of Jeannie, whom I considered to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and whom I intended to marry one day. We would live in her blue bottle, which would stay on a shelf in Mom’s kitchen, so we could emerge in a funnel of smoke every evening to have dinner with my family. When we were done Jeannie would blink and all the dishes would be done.
“You’re prettier than Jane Fonda,” I told Mom.
“Of course I am, sugar,” she said, grunting as she lifted her leg. “But she has a better butt.”
I laughed at the notion of a better butt. “But no one can see your butt.”
“Women like to have nice butts even if no one sees them.”
“Th
at’s silly.”
“Isn’t it?”
On the TV, Jane lifted her other leg. When it became apparent that she wasn’t going to pee, I lost interest.
Mom was moving up and down on her bed, but there was no Jane Fonda on the television, just a steady panting. Also, she was naked. I looked at her butt and wondered if it was as nice as Jane Fonda’s.
“Mommy?”
When she turned to see me, I saw my father’s disembodied head, crammed awkwardly against the headboard, his hair mussed, his fore
head dripping with sweat. He looked like he’d been buried up to his neck in the sand.
“Hey, Judd,” Mom said, still rocking slightly, each breast bouncing lightly to a diff erent rhythm.
“Are you exercising?”
“No, sweetie. We’re making love.”
“Jesus, Hill,” my father said, trying to get her to cover up. 306
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