"You shouldn't smoke in here," Elspa says, regaining her composure a little.
She smiles at Elspa as if she's just said something thoughtful but unimportant. "I barely ever smoke. This is an emergency cigarette. Only that." And then she turns to me. "I think my being here may have upset him," she says, with a small—delighted?—sigh.
"You think so?" Artie roars from the bed.
"Your mother had to call 911," Eleanor says calmly. "I may have upset her, too."
"Did you try to kill him or something?" I ask.
"Oh, no," the woman says with a wry smile. She raises her voice so that Artie can hear her perfectly well. "Killing Artie would elevate me to a leading role in his life. He would never pay me that kind of respect."
Eleanor, I say to myself. I kind of like her.
*
I tell Artie that I'll be back in a few minutes. The male nurse says that he'll stay and get Artie ready for bed. I usher Elspa and Eleanor downstairs quickly. I notice that Eleanor walks with a limp, an uneven rhythm, though she's still wearing a pair of heels. It's a deeply embedded limp, not the kind from a blister or a tender ankle.
"Why don't you sit here for a minute?" I tell Eleanor, pointing to the breakfast nook chairs. "Pour yourself a drink."
"I prefer to be sober."
"Okay then."
She sits down, elegantly, crossing her ankles.
I guide Elspa outside to the backyard by the pool. I tell her to wait here, that I'll come back for her. She's still sobbing off and on, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, her back hunched. I'm not sure she knows where she is, or whether she can hear what I'm saying.
Ignoring Eleanor for the moment, I walk swiftly back through the house with the urgency that accompanies a minor emergency—a fire in the oven or a party that's taken a bad turn. Artie must be the guest of honor, but if I'm the hostess I have to tend to my needy guests. I walk out the front door. One of the EMTs is packing up. The neighbors' house across the street is lit up. The Biddles— Jill and Brad—shift behind their bay windows, watching. The next-door neighbor, Mr. Harshorn, is bolder. He's standing in his front yard, his arms crossed against his chest. He waves to get my attention, but I ignore him.
My mother is still standing there next to John Bessom, but neither is speaking.
When I approach them, I can tell that my mother's been crying. Her makeup has shifted to a blurry version of what it normally is, but John is stoic.
"I'm the son," he says, "in the father's deathbed scene?"
My mother looks at John and then at me with the same expression—pained sympathy. "One of the paramedics told us he's alive."
"Yes, he's alive. It was a false alarm." I'm not sure if John's angry or not. I don't know how to read him. "I wanted you and Artie to talk. He's dying to see—" I stop myself short.
"I'm very sorry about your husband," he says, shaking his head. "But I don't need to get to know Artie Shoreman."
"Okay," I say, "I understand," even though I don't.
"I'll call a cab. I'll have someone come back for the mattress tomorrow."
"I'll pay you for the mattress."
"You still want it?"
"No, but we can't return it. We've strapped it to a car. It's damaged goods. I insist on paying."
"I couldn't accept your money. Someone will come and take it away tomorrow."
"I'll call. I'll keep you updated on Artie, if you want . . ."
"I'm sure he's a good person." He shrugs, shoves one hand in his pocket, almost smiles. We stand there awkwardly for a moment. He pulls out his cell phone. "I'm going to call a cab." He hesitates. "Artie Shoreman was always good to us financially. And I'm thankful for that, but there isn't anything else between us. It wouldn't be right to . . . Well, I'm not sure what to say." He's beautifully sad. A gust of wind ruffles his shirt, his hair.
"I'm not sure what to say either," I tell him.
"I'm glad it was a false alarm," he says. "In the car, you said you weren't finished. I don't know what wasn't finished, but maybe now there's time—for you and Artie?"
I'd forgotten I'd said this. I didn't want Artie to die so soon—we still have so much to sort through. "You're right," I say. "Things are complicated between us. And there's time for you and Artie, too, to get to be together."
"I didn't know him, really, other than a name on a check, and I don't know that I need to now," he says, and he walks toward the sidewalk and flips open the phone, which lights up, a blue glow in his hands.
*
My mother follows me back to the porch. "Are you okay?"
"Everything's fine!" I say, but my tone is overly cavalier. I barely believe myself. I grab my mother by the elbow before we head inside. "Did you let some woman named Eleanor into the house?"
"Don't get me started on Eleanor," my mother says as if she has known the woman all her life. "She has to go."
"Really?" I say. Eleanor's take on Artie runs through my mind. I hear her say: Wouldn't it be wonderful if Artie were able to make peace with his past—all of it—before he died? And how there was something menacing, but ultimately true, about that.
As my mother and I head into the house, my mother says, "I'll get rid of Eleanor. Don't worry."
We walk into the kitchen and Eleanor is gone. "Well, there you go," I say. "She's found her way out."
My mother walks to the French doors that open to the pool patio and points. "Not so lucky."
There's Elspa, sitting on a lounge chair, and there, sitting across from her, is Eleanor. She's listening intently. They seem deep in conversation—about what? I can't imagine these two have much common ground. Would they discuss, for example, the blue abstract sculpture of Artie's prick? Maybe. What do I know about Eleanor anyway?
"What are we going to do?" I ask my mother, both of us staring through the glass door.
"I don't know," she says, nervously zipping up her velour sweat-suit jacket. "I think that we may end up inheriting Elspa, tattoos, piercings, and all. You should check if she's in Artie's will."
This startles me—maybe because it seems so likely.
We both step out on the stone patio. Neatly trimmed grass spreads beyond the pool, which glows from its underwater recessed lighting.
"Elspa?"
She doesn't turn around.
Eleanor waves to us. "Sit, sit," she says, with an urgent tenderness. "This is important." And then she turns to Elspa. "Go on. Tell us."
My mother and I glance at each other and then approach slowly. We sit where Eleanor told us. She's the kind of person you obey instinctively.
Elspa starts talking. "He broke down my apartment door to save me. There was a parade and the streets were blocked off. He picked me up and carried me to the emergency room, arm wrapped in a bloody towel. I remember the balloons bobbing in the sky and his breathlessness and how I could feel his heart beating in his chest more than I could feel my own. And he just kept saying, Don't close your eyes. Don't close your eyes."
I don't know what to say, what to do with my hands even. I look to my mother, like I'm a child, really, and I want to know what the appropriate affect is for a situation like this. What is this situation? Consoling your husband's ex-, too-young girlfriend on the night he almost died? My mother leans forward. Her hair ruffles stiffly in the breeze. I'm jealous of her makeup for, perhaps, the first time ever. Her real emotions can be hidden somewhere underneath the complexities of color and design.
Elspa says, "I'm alive because of him. And now he's going to die. What will I do without him?" She is rubbing her left wrist. She pulls up her sleeve and shows us the fine scars. "I was completely out of it. I did a sloppy job."
Eleanor, who seemed so cold and austere before, touches her shoulder. Elspa tucks her delicate chin to her chest and squeezes her eyes shut.
Neither my mother nor I know what to say. We aren't prepared for such honesty and tenderness.
It's Eleanor who leans toward her and whispers, "Don't close your eyes."
&nb
sp; Elspa opens her eyes slowly, raises her head, and looks at Eleanor and then my mother and me. And although her face is streaked with tears, she smiles—just with the corners of her lips.
I've found my way back to the bedroom doorway. The EMTs are gone. The male nurse has packed up for the night. I can hear him backing out of the driveway. I've left Elpsa, Eleanor, and my mother talking in the dark, outside, beside the pool.
Artie shifts in the bed and then looks up at me as if he sensed me there—or perhaps he only sensed someone. It could be any of the women in this house. I can't take it so personally, I suppose. His eyelids are heavy.
"False alarm," I say. The only light in the room is the bit thrown in from the streetlamp.
"When I suggested you call up my sweethearts, I should have told you to skip Eleanor."
"You didn't think I'd do it."
He smiles at me. "For once, I underestimated you."
"I have to say, I like Eleanor. She's . . . complicated."
"She's a royal pain in the ass."
"She's smart."
"She's here to torture me."
"Maybe that's what I like about her the most. When were you two an item?"
"An item? If you were your mother, I'd have to tell you that people don't use that term anymore."
"When did you two date?"
"I don't know. Not too long before I met you. It didn't end well."
"Why?"
"Because Eleanor is Eleanor."
"And how old was Elspa when you two dated?"
"Elspa," he says with a gentle sigh. "She needed me. I didn't have a choice." I want to ask more questions, but he looks exhausted. He closes his eyes. "I want you to talk to Reyer." This is Artie's accountant. "I want him to explain things. There are things you should know."
Artie and I have always kept separate accounts. We both came to the marriage with professions of our own. I insisted that we go halvsies on everything, and our money never mingled.
"I was going to have him talk to you after I'm gone, but I thought, this way, I could at least answer questions."
"Will there be a lot of questions? A formal inquiry? I hope not. I charge a lot of money for formal inquiries."
He doesn't respond to my auditor banter—people usually don't. "Will you talk to him?"
"I will."
"I'm tired."
"Go to sleep," I say, leaning against the door frame.
His breathing quickly becomes heavy and rhythmic. We're not finished, I say to myself. We have some time, but not much. The light from the window is falling on him. I walk over and see Eleanor heading to her car. Her uneven gait is quick. She's parked up the street a bit. After she unlocks the door, she looks up. It's dark. I know she can't see me, and yet I feel like she knows I'm here. For some odd reason, I think I might need her in some way. She stares a moment and then gets into her car and drives away.
I pull the curtains together and turn to look at Artie. The sheets are rising and falling with his breaths. I lie down on the bed, lightly, so as not to wake him—my body curled toward his body. I take in the dark outline of his face.
And then his eyes slowly open and I'm embarrassed to have been caught like this, so close to him. I sit up. He says, very softly. "It wasn't a false alarm."
"It wasn't?"
"It was a rehearsal." Artie shouldn't be dying. It's unreal—a misunderstanding, a bureaucratic mix-up— something that could be cleared up with a few phone calls. I know that I haven't done much with my role as wife, but it still seems like Artie's impending death should be run by me first. I'd like to explain to someone in the Department of Untimely Deaths that I did not sign off on this. This sounds ridiculous, I know. But this is how my mind is working at present.
"Are you afraid?" I ask.
He closes his eyes, shakes his head no. "That's putting it too mildly."
I hadn't thought he'd be so honest. I wonder if he's being worn down into some purer version of himself—like soap smoothed down until eventually it disappears. I decide to switch gears. "Trivet," I say, "for a boy, and Spatula, for a girl. I've kept collecting." This is from our old game of naming our imaginary babies as ridiculously as possible. Telling Artie that I've kept playing the game is a huge confession.
He understands. He looks at me tenderly, gracious. Our babies—the ones we'll never have. We both know that there was a small window when I could have gotten pregnant—two months that now seem like such a tiny, fragile bit of our relationship that they barely existed. And then I found out about the infidelities and I was gone— unable to deal with anything real, not the paperwork to start a divorce, not another honest conversation with Artie about betrayal. Now our babies will only be imaginary. I still think about them. I miss them. I miss that version of Artie that was going to be a daddy. This is dangerous territory—but I want to give Artie something now, after almost losing him.
"Caliper," he says. "Argyle. For either gender, really. And for one of those babies who's born looking like an old man: Curb. Good ole Curb Shoreman."
"I like Flinch for the old-man baby," I say. "My top two right now, though, are Hearth and Irony."
"Hearth Irony Shoreman," he says. "I like that." He smiles at me with so much love, with the weight of all our history together, that I'm scared, suddenly, that I've given in too much. I want things to be clear. I almost tell him that lying there like that next to him, it didn't mean that all's forgiven.
But I decide against it. Not now. He's afraid. He's maybe even terrified. I touch his cheek with the back of my hand and then stand and walk to the chair by the window. "Get some rest," I say. "Close your eyes."
Chapter Twelve
You Can't Always Eat Your Way Out of a Problem—but If You Want to Try, Begin with Chocolate
It's morning. Blurry light collects at the edges of the bedroom curtains as if these simple bedroom curtains have been framed, glowingly, and taken on some holy stature. Artie is asleep, one arm draped over an extra pillow. I stand up and quickly walk out of the room. Although I know it's all wrong, I don't want to get caught having slept here all night—by Artie or my mother or Elspa. It would be too much of an admission of tenderness.
When I walk downstairs, I know immediately that my mother slept here again last night. There's the smell of bacon and eggs . . . and chocolate? She's felt the near-miss of losing Artie and now she's having a cooking seizure—as if, in some old-fashioned way, we can eat our way out of this.
As I make my way through the living room, I stop and stare at the sofa. Elspa. She isn't there. I wonder if she's gone. I'm surprised by a feeling of sadness—an ache of missing her. But then I spot her duffel bag in the corner, and on top of it, a set of my folded sheets and blankets. No, she's still here. My mother is taking care of our meals. My mother is in charge.
I walk back to the guest bedroom and get dressed— jeans, a T-shirt. I brush my teeth, wash my face. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm wearing all this strain. My expression is pained. There's a tightness, a rigidity, in my cheeks and my neck, and yet a weary looseness around my eyes. I wonder if this is what grief will look like.
I walk into the kitchen and there she is—in all her frenzied glory. My mother. She's putting a tray of wobbly pale uncooked biscuits into the oven. Her homemade chocolate sauce is simmering on the burner, which means that this is serious, a situation that has gotten so dire that maybe only chocolate will haul us to safety. She seems to know that I'm there without even glancing in my direction.
"I've been thinking about everything," my mother says. "I know that things are going to start coming at you very quickly. And I want to protect you from as much as possible." The biscuits safely in, she sets a timer and turns to me—seeing me for the first time. "Okay. Listen to me. I've been through this. You should get most of the logistical stuff done beforehand."
I notice Bogie sprawled out on the floor. He isn't wearing one of his jockstraps and has the air of a man on vacation. "Bogie's naked," I tell her.
"I
knew I was coming here and the tile floor in your kitchen is very, well, glideable."
"I guess so," I say.
"Listen," she says. "There is logistical stuff to be done beforehand. Do you hear me?"
"Logistical stuff . . ."
"Last night made me realize that there are actual things that need to be handled." She sighs and then goes on. "Some young woman from your work keeps calling. I haven't told her anything, but she's very, well . . ."
"Anxious?" I kneel down and pet Bogie. He has soft fur and tiny crooked teeth that look like they've been freshly polished.
"Yes. You should call her."
"Lindsay's always anxious."
"And your accountant called. He had a conversation with Artie yesterday and found out you were back in town. He wants to discuss details with you—sooner rather than later. He said that you could stop by whenever you want." I remember now that I've promised Artie I'd talk to Reyer, though I have no desire to do anything that remotely resembles going over the books. "There are endless details. It's best to get them done in advance. Has Artie mentioned any preferences?"
"No," I say, realizing how little Artie and I have talked about death, funerals, all of those practicalities. I don't particularly want to start talking about it now. "I don't think I could say the word funeral in front of him."
My mother walks over to me. She holds me by the shoulders. She knows what's ahead for me. She's buried husbands before. I know that she's trying to infuse me with her own strength. Then one of her hands cups my face for a moment. Normally—since the breakup—I wouldn't have been able to handle this kind of tenderness, but it feels good to be looked at this way.
"Where's Elspa?" I ask.
"She's still shaken. She said she was planning on spending some time with Artie this morning."
"And Eleanor? What did she say when she left? Is she coming back?"
"We're going out for coffee and getting our hair done together at four-thirty." Eleanor and my mother, side by side, at Starbucks, at the salon? This is hard to imagine. Is Eleanor a regular now? My mother walks over to the counter and pulls a paper towel off a plate of bacon. "Do you want to eat?"
My Husband's Sweethearts Page 7