"Did she leave a name?"
"I asked her, but she said, 'Does it really matter what my name is?' And I said that I thought it did, but she just hung up on me."
"Sorry about that," I say, knowing that this is my fault, in part. I put my coffee on the tray and head upstairs, wondering what I'll tell Artie exactly. So, none of the women have volunteered for a deathbed time and one wants him to rot in hell.
*
When the bedroom door creaks, Artie opens his eyes. He's too weak to sit up, though. He peers at me with his quick blue eyes and smiles, but doesn't really move. "What happened to Marie?"
"She said you weren't her type."
"What? She likes the living? If she's going to have those kinds of standards. . . ."
"Women! They have such high expectations," I say with mock exasperation and more than a little ire. "Are you able to sit up?"
I put down the tray as he pushes himself up. I plump a few pillows behind his back. I pop out the tray's short legs and position it over his lap. He stares into the little paper cups, disgusted, and picks up his fork wearily.
"When were you organized enough to come up with a system of red dots?" I ask.
"I have some secretarial skills."
"Skills with secretaries is a different thing." This isn't really fair. I don't know that Artie's ever been with one of his secretaries.
But he takes it. He pushes around some applesauce on his plate. "So you looked through the book?"
I nod.
"Did you find Bessom?"
"I saw his information."
"Are you going to call?"
"Why don't you?"
"Do you think I just abandoned him?"
"I have no idea."
"She never wanted me to see the boy. Her parents didn't either. Just send the checks, they said. I've written pleading letters over the years, and when John turned eighteen, I sent a letter to him, telling him my side of things, but he never wrote back. He's taken up the family's standard response: no response. He's mine, but he isn't." He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back to his pillow.
"Why didn't you tell me all of this?"
"I don't know." He shakes his head. "I didn't want you to think I was like your father. One of those types. Loveless, a disappearing act. I'm not. I would have loved that boy with everything I had—if they'd have let me."
"I wouldn't have thought you were like my father," I say. "I wouldn't have put that on you."
"I didn't want to risk it. I know how much your father hurt you. I didn't want you to put me in the same bad-father category as him. That would have broken my heart."
I'm not sure what to think anymore. Artie has secret lives. He has compartments—his past, his sweethearts, his sorrows and failings. "I didn't call him but I did make some other calls."
"You did?" He raises his eyebrows.
"You don't know me as well as you think you do. Sometimes, in fact, you confuse me with other women."
He looks at me. His eyes are tired. He hasn't actually put any of the food in his mouth. "I love you. No matter what."
This doesn't seem fair. I know that I should see this declaration the way that my assistant, Lindsay, could—as pure, without any manipulation, as love, but I can't. I can't trust Artie. I walk the edges of the room. "None of them are coming. Oh, two had messages for you, but I doubt you want to hear them."
"Before you found out, you used to overflow with feelings. You were so uncontrollably alive. Do you remember that?"
I do, barely, vaguely. "Not really," I say. I feel like that person was stolen from me. Sometimes I don't miss Artie and me and our relationship as much as I miss the person I used to be. And I miss that Artie, too, the one I used to get mad at for such simple things—driving the car around with the gas warning light on, putting back the empty orange juice container, wanting to bear-hug me when I was in a foul mood. Oh, these were such minuscule annoyances. I long for them.
Artie coughs. It's a ragged cough, from somewhere deep inside him. When he's quieted, I say, "It's just you and me—in this together."
"That's what I want," he says.
And it's a reflex. I can't help myself: "Since when?"
Artie pushes his tray away from his chest, brushes his hair off his forehead. "Do you think you'll ever be able to forgive me? Your mother was here the other day and said that I should be forgiven, that I was put on the earth this way."
"My mother's advice on men is highly suspect. She doesn't have a perfect track record."
"I would forgive you," he says.
"I wouldn't want you to." I feel suddenly very tired now under the weight of all these emotions. I sit down on the side of the bed. Maybe I do want to forgive Artie, if forgiving him means that I can forget everything. I turn and look at him.
He reaches out and touches a freckle on my chest and then another and another. I know that he's looking for Elvis. This is the silent intimate language of memory between us. Nothing needs to be said. I want to tell him that he's not allowed to die, that I forbid it.
Then he becomes perfectly still. He stares at me. "I will forgive you."
"For what?"
"When I'm dead, you're going to regret a lot of things. And I want you to know that I forgive you."
I stand up. I'm caught off guard. I nearly say, How gracious—the thought of Artie forgiving me! But there's something more deeply unsettling here. Artie is planning to die. He's seeing into the future and trying to set things straight, and I know he's right. It strikes me that there are so many things that I will miss about him—not just his grand gestures, his incredible charm, but I'll even miss the things that I've always found most irritating—the way he sipped his coffee and sometimes grunted when sitting down as if it were some kind of effort; the way he fished the olives out of his martinis with his fingers and walked around while he was brushing his teeth—the nomadic brusher, I always called him. And I know that I will find plenty of things to regret. I may even wish I had been the bigger person.
My eyes tear up as I leave the room. I turn quickly down the hall and then feel light-headed. I steady myself with one hand on the wall, then lean against it, let my head press against the coolness.
There's a knock at the front door below. It vibrates up into the house. I can't move, though, not yet. I assume it's my mother, having already buzzed through her to-do list, here to see if I'm up and about, if I've eaten breakfast. I'm fine, I'll say. Look at me! Holding up! Good as new! I'd like to fake it for a while so that I can avoid more selfreflection— just for a little while. I jog down the stairs, faking peppy, and swing open the door.
"I'm doing fine!" I say happily.
But it isn't my mother. It's a young woman with deep purple hair, jaggedly cut in a pixie. She's heavily pierced— all the way up both ears, a dainty diamond stud in her nose, and a ring on her bottom lip that gives her an extra pout. She's wearing a sleeveless black concert T-shirt for a band I've never heard of— Balls-Out—at least I think it's a band. She has a wreath tattoo around her biceps—a muscular biceps—and she's carrying what looks to be an army-issue duffel bag.
"I'm Elspa," she says. "I'm here to take my shift."
Chapter Seven
Hope Sometimes Knocks on the Door, Walks into the House, and Puts Down Her Duffel Bag—as if Here to Stay Awhile
You're here to take your shift?" I ask. Oddly enough all of Elspa's piercings and the tattoo and the hair color remind me of my mother—all of that makeup to disorient the viewer. Actually, though, all the extra stuff doesn't distract me for very long. It's evident that this Elspa is very pretty— almost breathtakingly so. She has full lips and dark brown eyes with thick lashes and a small nose and great cheekbones. She isn't wearing a bit of makeup. I'm still so caught off guard by all of it—the conversation with Artie, the fact that this isn't my mother—that I'm completely baffled. I manage to say, "Did the nursing agency send you?"
I'm not guarding the door. It's wide open because I was expecting
my mother to breeze in. I'm standing back, actually, almost welcoming her in. Almost. And that's all she needs. She walks past me, duffel bag and all, right into the hallway. She has a real sense of urgency. She's nervous, or more specifically, shaken. Her eyes dart around the house. "No, I'm not from the nursing agency."
"That's a relief, actually."
Elspa ignores the comment. She looks at me directly. "You called me."
"I did?"
"I came to take my turn at Artie's deathbed. That's what you said you wanted. Right?"
"Oh. Yes. And the duffel bag?" I'm a little unnerved by the duffel bag—it has a kind of I'm-here-to-stay-awhile vibe. This is one of Artie's sweethearts? She's a little younger than I imagined— twenty-six, tops?
"I drove in from Jersey as soon as I could. I had a class this morning, but left right after. I already worked out an incomplete with the professor," she says, as if this explains everything. She's too old to be an undergrad. She puts her bag down. "Where is he?"
"You can't stay here." Is this one of Artie's sweethearts during our marriage—one of his flings, dalliances? Is it possible she's old enough to have known Artie before we were married? I mean, Artie and I had been married four years when I left, and we only dated a year before we got married—a whirlwind, in retrospect. Was he dating a twenty-one-year-old before me?
"I'll just crash on the sofa. I won't be any trouble. Is he in a lot of pain?"
"Look," I tell her. "I was drunk. I was kidding. I didn't think anyone would take me seriously."
Elspa spins around. Her eyes are wide. She looks like a little kid, overly hopeful. "What?" She regains some of her jadedness. "Look. Is Artie dying or not?"
I get the sense that she has a lot riding on this visit. There's a lot at stake for her. I want to lie to her, to tell her that Artie's fine and to go home, but I can't. I think she may actually love Artie, or need him. I can't tell. "He is. He's dying."
"Then I want to help however I can. He was good to me."
"He was?"
"He saved my life." And she says this not in the way that someone talks about a lover, but a saint.
The burly male nurse walks by, up the stairs. Elspa watches him.
"Is he up there?"
I nod.
"Can I?" she asks, pointing to the stairs.
I'm stunned by her desperation. "Go ahead."
And so Elspa, this complete stranger—saved by Artie Shoreman, the saint—runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Chapter Eight
Everyone Is Selling Something, So Be Your Own Pimp
I stand in the hallway, not sure what to do now. I look up the stairs. Elspa. What does she have to say to Artie? Did I say she could sleep on the couch? I'm tired of not knowing Artie's secrets, tired of tripping into the cordoned-off areas of his life. I go to the guest bedroom, pick up the address book. I grab my keys off the lowboy and walk out the door. There's a rusty Toyota parked on the street.
I hope it will be gone by the time I get back.
My car is in the driveway. I haven't driven in six months. I climb into the front seat. It's all adjusted to Artie, and I'm glad he's not dead yet. I'm sure I would have jumped out of the car if he were dead, too unsettled the seat and mirrors all adjusted his way. But Artie's not dead, and I take my time adjusting everything to fit me. I should do this with other stuff around the house. I can think about this logically—Artie's death. I can prepare for it intellectually before it hits. I can take precautions—as I would while preparing for a new audit at work.
Bessom's Bedding Boutique is in an older part of town, one that's supposed to be turning over—going plush. Every fourth storefront is being redesigned. I find the cross street I'm looking for and turn left, pull into a parking spot. Bessom's Bedding Boutique. Since when did everything go boutique? I don't care for the alliteration. It's a pet peeve of mine, Klassy Kuts, or Kitchen Kutlery. For God's sake, spell the damn words correctly! I walk up to the shop and see my reflection in the whited windows. I'm surprised to find myself here. I look tired. My eyes are puffed, the skin under them tinged blue. My lips are chapped. My hair is unkempt. I tuck a strand behind my ears and lick my lips, and quickly look away.
I push the door open and hear the archaic chime: bing-bong. The place is a parking lot of beds, like an entire hotel collapsed and the tightly made beds all ended up in the basement—but a swank basement. There is even some avant-garde art, and sleek bedside tables, and the walls are one of those nouveau colors: something lime-inspired? The carpet is plush wall to wall. The beds are beautifully made-up with throw pillows galore. There are no other customers in the store, no Muzak playing. All I hear are the muted street noises behind me and the empty tocks of a retro silver sixties wall clock—the kind that looks like grade-school science projects of the solar system.
I want to steal something. This is my first instinct. I don't know why. My second instinct is no better: I want to run across the plane of beds. I picture myself running down the beds all the way to the back of the store.
And that's when I notice that there's a lump in the covers of an elegantly made four-poster near the back. With no other salespeople around, I assume this must be the straight-C-plus college student who's been left in charge. I'm not sure whether to wake this loafer or not, but I do feel a little protective of Bessom's Bedding Boutique—for no good reason.
I walk over to the bed. "Excuse me."
It's a full-grown man—in his late twenties, early thirties. I'm surprised that he doesn't jerk himself upright and launch into some ingrained sales pitch that occupies his shallow subconscious. Instead, he opens his eyes slowly, looks at me, and then smiles lazily. He stretches and flattens down his blond hair. He's good-looking and I can easily imagine him shirtless, barefoot, wearing only pajama bottoms—someone John Bessom hired onto his sales team for his looks, and is unaware that he sleeps on the merchandise while the boss is out. I decide that when I find Bessom, I'll have to report this salesman.
"I'm looking for a mattress, um, heavy-duty, firm. You know, a good, solid, dependable mattress. Do you know where I can find John Bessom?" He looks at me, a little mussy and sexy, sleepy-eyed.
"We don't sell dependability, firmness, heavy dutiness, solidity," he says in a half-yawn.
"You do sell mattresses here, don't you?" I smile at him and cock my head. I feel like I've wandered into a word game where I don't know the rules. I like word games and I'm good at them.
"No, we don't really sell mattresses. Not exactly."
"What do you sell?" I ask.
He smiles flirtatiously. I've taken his bait. He's come out of his nap selling. It just didn't look like what I thought it would. "I sell a lot of things. I sell sleep, for one. I sell dreams."
"Sleep and dreams?" I say.
"Exactly." He hasn't gotten out of bed, just propped his head on his hand, and now I'm convinced that Bessom has made a fantastic hire in this kid. I feel like buying a bed. And then he says, "I sell high-end premium real estate for love."
This comment stops me in my tracks. I hold up one finger. I retrace the conversation in my head. I notice that he's stopped saying "We sell" and has started saying "I sell." I look at the plate-glass window, the lettering of Bessom's Bedding Boutique spelled out in reverse. There is something so purely Artie about " high-end premium real estate for love" that I feel frozen for a moment. This guy doesn't look like Artie at all, except for maybe a tiny bit in the jawline, but he's inherited his father's flirtatious genes nonetheless.
"Are you John Bessom?"
"In the flesh. How can I help you today?"
I just stare at him a bit more—still looking for Artie. I tilt my head. Part of me was expecting the boss of Bessom's Bedding Boutique and part of me, I admit it, was expecting someone more sonlike, more kiddie-pool, more summer camp, more Little League.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." I glance around the store. "Well, unfortunately I only need a mattress."
"Who could live day in and day out only selling mattresses?" He sits up and swings his feet to the floor. He's wearing suede bucks. "It would be too bleak."
"Right. I get that," I say. I'm suddenly not sure what I'm here for. Am I going to tell him that his father is dying? Is that my place? If he wanted to talk to Artie, he could have years ago. I start to walk to the door.
He stands up then. "Look," he says, "wait. I'm sorry. I've had a bad week. I've had an even worse year. I get like that." He points back to the bed. "I flirt. It's a coping mechanism. I'm working on it. What I mean to say is, I'd love to sell you a mattress. I'd prefer to sell you something a little more abstract, but I'll settle for a mattress."
I stiffen—like I'm a little drunk, like my austerity is eroding, and I'm in my stilt-walking mode. I draw up my toughness. I wonder if my brow is knotted. Is this toughness, this austerity, going to cost me wrinkles? Botox? I have no choice at present but to be tough. That's all I have to offer. "Next time I need an abstraction, I'll know where to come," I say, and I walk out the door.
Chapter Nine
Sometimes the Stranger Says the Thing You Need to Hear
I pull into my driveway and note that the rusty Toyota is still parked on the street. It's a jagged, lopsided parking job, to boot.
Walking into the house, I spot Elspa's duffel bag, which sits in the hallway where she dropped it. As I put my keys in the bowl on the lowboy, I feel like a stranger— a polite burglar, someone who's breaking and entering but only to rummage through the crackers, pop some bonbons, and maybe make herself a gin and tonic.
I'm not sure what to do. I stand in the hallway. Stockstill. I peer into the living room. Everything is so hushed, so still. On the mantel, a massive flower bouquet in a grand vase is falling over itself. I walk over and pull out the little card from its plastic stake. It reads: #58: the way you came home, you came back. The way part of you, some tiny, deep down part, might still love me? I'm not sure what to do with this. He's right. Some part of me still loves him, of course, and sometimes it's the part that wells up and fills me to the brimming top of my soul. Maybe I should tell him that. Maybe it's something he should know.
My Husband's Sweethearts Page 5