My Ex-Life: A Novel

by Stephen McCauley

  It had been drilled into her since birth that unless it was uttered by one of her parents while both of them were present, the word “secret” was radioactive. It probably shouldn’t have been a compliment, but it felt like one.

  “I don’t have any secrets to keep.”

  He winked at her again, the first really unattractive thing she’d seen him do. “I don’t know about that. I’d say you’ve got one now.”

  He pulled onto a dirt track that led off the road and parked in the shadow of the water tower. He yanked up the emergency brake and leaned his back against the door with his elbow out the window. He grinned, expecting something, though she had no idea what.

  From here, there was what her father would call a “big view.” The restaurant he and his business partner owned three towns away also had a “big view.” Unfortunately, what it didn’t have was “good food.” The water below was a dark sprawling blue that seemed to go on forever. Lobster boats were headed into the harbor after a day of hauling traps. There was something sad about the small boats and the men who made a living off them. In her lifetime, this profession would probably become extinct, and the lobstermen had to know this, too. A lot of things would become extinct in her lifetime—frogs, rain, winter, lobsters, humans. Humans would definitely be the least tragic loss.

  Craig reached into a cooler behind the front seat, and as he stretched, she smelled his sweat. His T-shirt lifted and exposed the taut, smooth skin around the waistband of his pants. He had smooth and tanned arms, too, one of the things she’d heard girls swooning about at school and had, therefore, decided to find unattractive. Up close, there wasn’t much of anything unattractive about Craig Crespo. His long, curly hair, held back in the headband, was greasy, but even this made him look natural and comfortable with himself. He had a face that was technically ugly with a lot of big features fighting each other for attention. But when you put it together, all that imperfection added up to a weird beauty that she recognized as being “hot,” a word she hated when unrelated to weather but that was the only one appropriate in this case.

  He twisted the cap off the beer. “I’d offer you one,” he said, “but the drinking age in this state is nineteen.”

  “It’s twenty-one pretty much everywhere.”

  “In that case, do you want one?”

  The smell of the hops was skunky but appealing, a little like her mother’s pot. On top of that, the van was getting warm, and she was thirsty. But she’d only had a few sips of beer a few times, and she needed to be in control. “I’m good,” she said.

  She’d never thought about a physical type she was attracted to. It had always seemed irrelevant since she imagined it would be more practical to wait until someone was attracted to her and then invest her energy in convincing herself she liked his looks and personality. That appeared to be the definition of “happy marriage.” But Craig was probably everyone’s type. There was that dark, flawless skin, the long hair, the arms that were muscular but not overblown. The way he stretched back and exposed his stomach wasn’t asking her to admire him, more like telling her she could if she wanted.

  “So why did you move back to Hammond after the army?” she asked.

  Naturally, he didn’t answer. He touched one of the straps of her overalls and said, “So why do you always wear overalls?”

  She felt herself grow hot and start to tremble. Another warning signal flashed, but while everyone else was gossiping about Craig, he’d been looking at her at least enough to know what she always wore. That was currency.

  “They’re comfortable,” she said.

  He smirked. He had nice teeth, which, for some reason, made her feel safer. How likely was it that mass murderers flossed?

  “You know what else they are?” he asked.

  “All cotton?”

  “Easy to take off.”

  The shadow of the tower had moved and the sun was now blazing against the side of the van, and even though the windows were rolled down, it was getting stifling. She hoped she wasn’t sweating too much. She felt her lips twitching with nerves, but she took some consolation in remembering that her public-speaking teacher had said stage fright is less obvious to the audience than the performer thinks.

  “Actually,” she said, “they’re pretty hard to get off.”

  “Yeah?” He set the beer bottle on the dashboard and it rocked. As he leaned toward her and shifted his body, the seat beneath him creaked, an intimate sound in the silent van. She knew it was something she’d remember for days. He reached out and, without touching her body, fiddled with the hooks on her straps. The bib of her overalls fell to her waist. She had on a jersey and underneath that, a tight, sleeveless T-shirt, so it wasn’t as if it was a big deal. Still, she felt naked.

  “That wasn’t hard at all,” he said.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “You tell me.”

  Instead of waiting for an answer, he leaned in and slipped his hand behind her neck and pulled her head closer to him and kissed her on the lips. His lips were chapped and warm, but his tongue, which he almost immediately worked into her mouth, was cool. She knew there was something sloppy about his move, even though she’d never been kissed before. Like he was doing it for a reason other than because he liked her.

  “You taste like beer,” she said.

  “I wonder why. You know what you taste like? Bubble gum.”

  “I don’t chew gum. I stopped when I got braces at twelve.”

  “I didn’t mean it literally. I meant you taste like a teenager.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Are you surprised? Don’t you think I’m a little creepy? You don’t have to answer. But I’m not going to try anything, so don’t worry.”

  He kissed her again, but not as long and deep this time. He leaned back against the window with the beer bottle in his hand.

  “I’m not worried,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I am.”

  “About what?”

  “My investments.”

  He finished the beer without taking his eyes off her and threw the bottle out the window. It hit the ground and bounced. This struck her as the worst thing he’d done all afternoon. Worse than keeping her waiting, kissing her, or saying she tasted like a teenager. She got out of the van, picked it up, went to his window, and handed it to him.

  “I don’t recycle,” he said.

  “You should start.”

  He took the bottle. “Yes, ma’am.”

  When she got back into the van, he started the engine. She couldn’t tell if he was annoyed with her or pleased, but either way, she was glad she’d done it. It made her feel more like they were equals, even though she knew they weren’t.

  “I’m going to message you about doing some work for me this summer,” he said.

  “I told you…”

  “Yeah, the job. I remember. Believe me, this is way better. More fun, and you’d make a ton of money.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Just being you. That’s the best part. Wouldn’t it be nice to get paid for just being you?”

  She felt that there was something wrong with this turn in the conversation, but she didn’t know what.

  He released the emergency brake. “If anyone asks you, remember, nothing happened today.”

  It was a ridiculous thing to say. Who would ask her? And more to the point, something definitely had happened.

  12

  As Julie was cleaning up after lunch, she heard a car pull into the drive and called to David. He came inside, and they went to the window above the sink to watch Sandra’s arrival. The car was one of those small, oddly shaped boxes that seem designed for grabbing attention more than practicality, like asymmetrical hemlines. Sandra emerged from it slowly. She was a large woman, probably six feet tall, and so big-boned, it was hard to imagine her fitting into the little sedan. This was not what Julie had been expecting, based on her dainty voice.

  She was wearing a floral s
kirt that came to just above her ankles and a silky peach top. Her pixie hairdo struck Julie as odd on someone so large. When she opened the hatchback on the car, Julie saw stacks of cartons, yellowed newspapers, and shopping bags stuffed with more paper. Definitely a B—at least—on the ABCD Scale.

  “Isn’t this a lovely house,” she enthused as Julie led her in. “And the location. My goodness. You can’t beat the location. We call this a ‘million-dollar location’ in the trade. You’ll always have guests clamoring to stay, with a location like this. If I had a location like this, I’d be driving a Mercedes. I’m going to help you make a lot of money, Julie Fiske, so isn’t it good I didn’t allow you to cancel? And as I told you when we made the appointment days ago, I prefer to be paid the balance owed me for the consultation in full, immediately upon arrival.”

  Since this had been mentioned three times during that phone call, Julie had a check ready and handed it to Sandra. She caught a whiff of powder as Sandra took the check and began to settle down at the kitchen table. She removed papers and a clipboard, a tin of Altoids, and a large thermos from her bag. Also, paper clips, pens, a bottle of Wite-Out, and a stapler. She stamped PAID on a bill and clipped the check to it, all the while asking who David was and what he was doing here. “I thought you said your husband had moved out.”

  “David’s an old friend. He’s staying for a week to help with a few things.”

  Sandra looked up from her paperwork and examined David over the top of a pair of half-glasses. “Isn’t that nice. Are we giving him a discount, Julie?”

  “He’s a friend, as I said.”

  “And if you were running a shop, would you let ‘friends’ come in and walk out with half the merchandise? If you ran a car dealership, would you let him come in and drive off the lot in a new Mercedes?”

  “I’d prefer a Tesla,” David said.

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny, David, but business is business and as I understand it, Julie is desperate.”

  “I’m not sure I said I was desperate.”

  “You didn’t have to. I’ve got eyes.” Changing her tone again, she said, “And isn’t this a quirky kitchen! Dark, outdated, practically depressing by today’s standards, but quirky. Remember, Julie, ‘quirky’ is one of those subjective terms you can use on your owner page to describe anything. We’ll get to the owner page later.”

  She took a drink from her thermos and made careful piles of papers.

  After all, “desperate” might be the most accurate if least flattering way to describe her situation. There was something a little off about Sandra, the high, childlike voice and hulking body, the swift shifts in tone. But Julie was clinging to hopes, even if she suspected Sandra was selling snake oil. Maybe she was just quirky. “I’m grateful you came,” Julie said warily, trying to convince herself that she was.

  “Gratitude doesn’t come into it. When my guests tell me they’re grateful to me for sharing my lovely Victorian mansion, I remind them that gratitude is free and my rooms are not. You remember that, too, David.”

  “Duly noted,” he said. He was leaning against the sink and raised his eyes at Julie, more amused than insulted.

  “Good. And I’d love a tall glass of water,” Sandra said. “With crushed ice and a slice of lemon.”

  Julie eyed Sandra’s thermos, but went to get a glass.

  “You’re making a mistake already, Julie. You’re going to get so much out of this consultation, I can tell you right now.” Sandra chuckled, though without much humor. “I should have charged you more.”

  The three-hundred-dollar fee had struck Julie as plenty high already.

  “To ask for a glass of water is reasonable, but to specify the size of the glass is not. To ask for ice that’s crushed is ridiculous, and the lemon slice crosses the line completely.” She’d finished arranging the papers in front of her, checked the watch buried in the flesh of her wrist, and noted the time on the corner of a page. “You’re eager to please, Julie. It’s touching.”

  Sandra had oddly small eyes, but Julie felt for a moment that she was seeing through her.

  “You never refuse a guest anything, Julie. You apologize and offer them an alternative. An unlikely alternative. ‘Gee, Sandra, I’m so sorry, but I’m fresh out of lemons and crushed ice. I have some carrots, if you’d like one of those in your tap water.’ ‘Gee, Sandra, I don’t have any memory-foam mattress covers right at this moment. Can I offer you a beach towel?’ You see the point?”

  “Isn’t it better to make them happy?” David said.

  Sandra lowered her glasses and gazed at him. “Making people happy is the psychotherapist’s job. And last time I checked, there are no guarantees on the outcome there, despite paying her $175 per hour for six months.” She took another drink. “‘Oh, I’ve got all the answers, Sandra. Write me another check, Sandra. I can save your marriage, Sandra. Just another two grand, Sandra.’”

  She gave them each a stack of papers. These turned out to be carefully organized checklists of items for the rooms, ranging from lighting and cleanliness to hand sanitizers and, of course, toss pillows. Each one was ranked from one to five. You couldn’t fault her on professionalism.

  There was a whole new layer to the economy that was made up of rogue businesses like room rentals and car services and pop-up trucks, businesses made possible by the internet and social media. Julie supposed it was a good thing—people were making money and providing services; David’s career fell into this category somewhere—but it was hard to imagine they’d exist if there was a robust manufacturing sector or strong, respected labor unions. Sometimes Julie wondered if these enterprises weren’t just ways to keep people busy and distracted while villains dismantled the middle class.

  “We’ll start in the living room,” Sandra said, pushing herself up from the table wearily. “Is he coming along?”

  “I’d like to, if you don’t mind,” David said. “I’m sure I’ll find it interesting.”

  Maybe that was true, but Julie knew he was going along to protect her. It had been a long time since she’d felt protected, and for a moment, she thought she might weep.

  “I don’t mind,” Sandra said. She took a long drink from her thermos. “But if I find you’re trying to piggyback off Julie for a freebie, I’m sending you a bill. I’ll need your address later. Let’s get this show going.”

  As she walked past, Julie got a whiff of something acrid mixed in with Sandra’s powdery smell. Gin? She glanced at the thermos.

  Sandra’s main point was that the living room needed less of everything. Less furniture, fewer books, end tables, and footstools. Fewer scatter rugs that people could trip on and fewer small items. “Some of them like to steal small things. You never accuse them, you sit in wait until you catch them in the act. Then you pounce.”

  Predictably, the one thing Sandra advised more of was toss pillows.

  “I’d like to see four or five times the number you currently have. It doesn’t look as if you’ve been reading the blog closely, Julie. You can pick them up for pennies at bargain stores, thrift shops, even pharmacies.”

  “Won’t that make the room look cluttered?” David asked.

  Sandra sighed and shook her head in disapproval. “People associate toss pillows with well-run short-term rentals. Nothing makes a room, a whole house, more welcoming and relaxing. You literally cannot have too many. And if you have a sofa you don’t want anyone to sit on—probably not a problem here—you add even more. You create a welcoming atmosphere, but in practical terms, the sofa is impossible to use. I don’t see any hand sanitizers here.”

  “In the living room?” David asked.

  “We have a lot of opinions for someone who isn’t paying rent, don’t we? People want germ-free environments, David. They don’t want to stay in someone’s house and think about all the DNA and fecal matter on every surface. You put out a bunch of hand sanitizers and they plant a suggestion that everything is clean. End of story. I’m sorry, Julie, but I can only gi
ve this room a three. And to be honest, that’s generous.”

  As the tour went on, Sandra became more persistent and, if not quite hostile, less and less friendly. “Ever hear of a vacuum cleaner, Julie?” she asked at one point.

  At the bottom of the staircase, David pulled her aside and let Sandra get ahead of them. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said. “I think she might have some problems with anger management.”

  “I was thinking alcohol,” Julie whispered. “I’m getting a smell of gin from that thermos.”

  “You could call it off. I don’t see much good coming out of this.”

  “I doubt she’d give a refund, and she does have some advice.”

  “All I’m hearing is pillows and feces. If you’re worried about telling her to leave, I’m happy to do it for you.”

  “Let’s just finish.”

  In the bedrooms, Sandra tested mattresses, chairs, and lamps. She made note of the number of hangers in each closet, and scolded Julie about the absence of toss pillows on the beds.

  “Do you hear people through the walls?” she asked.

  Julie looked at David and then back at Sandra. “Sometimes, I suppose. Some voices.”

  “No, Julie, I mean do you hear people. Couples.”

  The suggestive tone—part revulsion, part drunken titillation—made Julie uncomfortable. “It hasn’t been a problem.”

  “Then you must not have been paying attention. I went to an entire seminar on this topic at our annual convention. It’s a huge problem nationwide. You’re letting people into your space. I’m doing a post on it soon, all the ways you can make your home as inappropriate for sexual activity as possible, to discourage people before it starts. Heavy valances and window curtains, potpourris in the bedrooms, floral slipcovers on the chairs, quilted bedspreads.”

  David stepped forward and put a hand on Sandra’s shoulder. “We appreciate this,” he said, “but I think we get the general idea.”

  “I came to do a job, and I plan to finish it,” she said. She turned to Julie and said, “Where do you sleep?”

  “Third floor,” Julie said. “My daughter and I have rooms there, but we don’t rent on the top floor, so it’s not relevant.”