by Maggie Marr
I think Phil and I both thought that he was straight. I always had a crush on him and even told him once at Stanford, but he said no way. He just wasn’t interested.”
“Talk about latent homosexuality.”
“I know he loves you. He just didn’t know how to tell you.”
“How about ‘Hi, Jess. By the way, I’m sleeping with Len’?”
“I know it sounds simple.”
Jessica glanced out the kitchen window. “My cab’s out front. I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my flight. Tell him I’ll ship his stuff here. He really doesn’t have much left at my place.” She stood and grabbed her Vuitton overnight bag. “Send pictures. An invite to the wedding. I’ll send a gift.”
“I know he’ll want to talk to you. When everything is a little calmer.”
“I’m pretty calm.” Jessica walked toward the front door. “Len.” She turned to face her gay ex-fiancé’s lover. “Tell Phil this one thing. Tell him thank you. He always used a condom with me. I used to bitch and bitch about it, but he always did. For that, tell him I say thank you.”
“You got it, Jess. Take care of yourself.” Len reached out and hugged her.
“You two are going to be very happy. I know it.” Jessica turned away and walked outside. She waved toward the driver, who bounded up the brownstone steps and grabbed the overnight case. Then she heard the front door open behind her.
“Jess, wait,” Phil said, stepping out onto the small porch.
She wanted to be angry—she really did—but she wasn’t. She wasn’t even disappointed. In fact, surprisingly, the emotion she felt was something akin to relief.
“Phil.” Jessica sighed, “I don’t have much to say… .”
“This was not how I wanted you to find out. I wanted to tell you, planned on telling you, but I just couldn’t find—I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. I mean, I should have known, guessed, I don’t know, something. I hadn’t realized how completely disconnected we’ve become.”
“It’s your work,” Phil said.
“What?” Jessica bristled.
“No, not what caused it, but maybe why you didn’t notice. I mean, Jess, you’re completely consumed.”
“Obviously, I don’t have much else to care about.” Yes, work was important to her, but wasn’t work important to all successful people? You couldn’t win without sacrificing something.
“Jess, please, I’m not judging, I am the last person who should judge. You are brilliant at what you do and I know you love it. I just … it’s my fault and I’m sorry. Please know that; please accept my apology.”
Jessica’s face softened. She didn’t hate Phil. She now realized he’d been an easy fit into her complex lifestyle.
“Yes, I accept it,” Jessica said as the cabbie honked the horn. “Listen, I need to go. I told Len I’ll ship your things.” She didn’t know whether she should hug Phil or shake his hand.
Phil grabbed her and pulled her into a bear hug. “Thank you, Jess, for being so understanding. I feel so guilty about what I’ve done.”
“Don’t.” The cab beeped again. Jessica bolted down the steps. “You’ll be very happy, I know it,” Jessica yelled to Phil.
She climbed into the backseat and looked back at the house. She’d be fine without Phil. Losing him didn’t make her sad. No, what saddened Jessica—perhaps even terrified her—was the thought that Phil had been the easy solution to a difficult personal problem. She was drugging herself with her work, using her constant pursuit of success to mask any personal pain. That problem, Jessica thought, is a much more difficult one to solve.
Chapter 16
Mary Anne and the Minnesota Stride Rites
Mary Anne’s mother had to fly back to Minnesota immediately or Mary Anne would kill her. For six weeks Mitsy Meyers had stayed with Mary Anne, and already Mitsy had managed to repaint two rooms, wallpaper a bathroom, clean out Mary Anne’s closet, reseed the front lawn, and make plaid curtains (not Burberry plaid but a garish red-and-yellow Scottish plaid) for the guest room.
After the Koi incident, Lydia had called Mitsy to let her know that Mary Anne was in the hospital. Had Mary Anne been lucid, she would have begged Lydia to hold off ever calling Mitsy about anything other than funeral preparations or an organ transplant.
But Mitsy, being the ever-dutiful Minnesota mommy, had purchased a plane ticket within minutes and landed in L.A. the next day. And upon her arrival, Mitsy, the Methodist and PTA homeroom mother for her children’s second, fourth, sixth, and eighth-grade classrooms, methodically began making Mary Anne’s new Hollywood home into a Minnesota microcosm.
Mary Anne looked around her writing room, as yet untouched by her maniacal mother (but Mary Anne didn’t know for how long she could keep Mitsy at bay). Already Mitsy had moved in on Mary Anne’s bedroom, organizing her walk-in closet and hanging silver-framed pictures of Mary Anne’s niece and two nephews. It wasn’t that Mary Anne wasn’t grateful; she was. But her hand had healed, she didn’t have a concussion, and her mother had worn out her welcome.
Mary Anne wasn’t sure why Mitsy was driving her nuts as they hardly saw each other. Mary Anne left for set most days at seven A.M. (except Sunday and the occasional day she wrote at home), staying sometimes until nine P.M. Mitsy retired early and was always in bed when Mary Anne returned home (having, of course, fixed dinner and left Mary Anne a plate in the microwave). And when they did see each other in the morning, Mitsy always offered to fix Mary Anne breakfast.
Maybe it was the Post-it notes Mitsy left on Mary Anne’s bathroom mirror (letting Mary Anne know who called or simply writing I love you, punctuated with a smiley face). Maybe it was Mitsy alphabetizing her canned goods or sorting Mary Anne’s shirts by color and type in her closet (not that Mary Anne didn’t wish that she was more organized). Or maybe, just maybe, it was the guilt that Mary Anne felt required to carry for all these “great” things Mitsy did without being asked.
Mary Anne stood up from her desk. She’d avoided it for days, but it was time to have “the conversation” with her mom. Mary Anne knew where Mitsy was—where she always was—when she wasn’t organizing closets or sewing hems—Mitsy was in the kitchen.
“Mom?” Mary Anne walked into her Spanish-tiled open-air kitchen.
“Down here.”
A pair of soft-soled Stride Rites stuck out from the lower cabinet (which seemed to have swallowed Mitsy’s body whole) next to the stove. Mitsy crawled backward out of the cabinet and sat on her sensible shoes.
“I wanted to clean these out before I painted them and put in new contact paper.”
“Mom, you don’t have to do that. Flora cleans once a week.”
“I know, dear, but that is surface cleaning. This, what I’m doing, is deep cleaning. I mean, look at what I found in there.” Mitsy turned the paper towel she was holding so that Mary Anne could have a look. “Mouse turds. Disgusting. After lunch I’m getting some traps. You know, you might want to think about getting yourself a cat. We never had mice because of Mr. Fur.”
“Mom—”
“And I think the hardware store has mouse traps that—”
“Mom.”
“—will fit. Maybe you should go buy one of those Pet Rescue cats. Tabbies are best because—”
“Mother!”
“What, dear? I’m standing right here. There is really no need to raise your voice.”
Mary Anne inhaled. “I’m sorry. Mom, will you sit? I need to talk to you.”
“You know, honey, there really is quite a bit left for me to get done.”
“I know. But it’ll just take a minute.”
Mitsy moved toward the kitchen table. “I’m just doing this for you. Trying to help. I want to turn this big house into a home for you. I mean, God knows you’ll have to sell it eventually, because what man is going to want to live in his wife’s house? I mean, really, when you think about it, maybe you should have waited to buy. I know your accountant said you needed it for your taxes, but s
till, if you’d waited until you were married or at least engaged, then your hus—”
“Mom, I’m not even seeing anyone.”
“Well, there is always Steve. I liked Steve,” Mitsy said, and sat.
Mary Anne looked at her mother. “I know, Mother, that you liked Steve. You’ve mentioned that a number of times. Unfortunately, Steve liked a lot of people. Do you want some tea?”
“I can get it, dear.” Mitsy started to stand.
“Stop. Sit. I will get it.”
“Okay, but plain for me. None of the green or ginseng tea. They give me a headache.”
“Sure.” Mary Anne grabbed the kettle off the stove and walked toward the sink.
“Oh, don’t use the tap water, dear. You never know about that. There’s water in the pantry. I signed you up for a delivery service.”
“What?”
“Two years. The third year’s free.”
“Really, Mom, I wish you would’ve checked with me first.”
“Just thinking of your health. Important during your reproductive years. And since you seem to be stretching those as far as they’ll go, very important you look out for environmental toxins. You know, you’re born with all your eggs. They get old, too.”
Count to ten. Mary Anne walked to the pantry and filled the kettle from her new toxin-free water supply. She’d wanted a water service for months, just hadn’t found the time to call. But that wasn’t the point! The point was- it was Mary Anne’s house, her pantry, her kitchen, and her water service to call or not call. She walked back toward the stove. Mary Anne cared little if a ticket to Minnesota cost ten grand; she’d pay it. Mitsy had to go home.
“I seem to remember when you brought Steve home that one time, he said he wanted children. A large family, I think,” Mitsy remarked.
“Yeah, how many wives did he want? Did he mention that, too?”
“Mary Anne, I don’t see why you’re so upset. It’s not like you were married to him. Forgive and forget. Get on with it.”
Mary Anne couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re kidding, right? We were living together. I came home from work early and he was fucking our neighbor.”
“There is no reason to use coarse language,” Mitsy sniffed.
Mary Anne set the kettle on the stove. How did Mitsy do this to her every time? No matter how old she got, how much therapy she sat through, her mother drove her bonkers.
Mary Anne exhaled and walked to the table. Mitsy rummaged through her purse.
“Mom, I wanted to talk to you about Minnesota.”
“Here it is,” Mitsy said, pulling out a paper, then putting on her glasses. “Now, what is your day like tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? Saturday? Well, I’m meant to go to set, but not until five. We have night shoots for the next seven days.”
“Well, that is ideal. My flight leaves at twelve-ten P.M. Can you drop me off, or do I need to call for a car?”
“Your flight?”
“Dear, you didn’t think I was going to stay forever, did you? I do have a life in St. Paul. It might not be as fast and glamorous as movies and celebrities’ but it is mine, and I do like it.”
“Right. Tomorrow. Of course I can take you to the airport.”
“Now, tonight I made dinner reservations for us.”
“Reservations?”
“Yes, I was in your office. I was measuring for carpet—that hardwood in there feels so cold to me—and I got on your computer and found a restaurant I wanted to try. It’s called Lucques. Have you heard of it?”
“You? You wanted to try Lucques?”
“Well, yes, dear. I’ve been cooped up in this house for almost six weeks now. I would like to go to dinner at least once. And Lydia said—”
“Lydia?”
“Your producer friend. She said Lucques was the best place to see movie stars on the weekend. Now, I called, and they were very rude to me when I tried to get a reservation.”
“At Lucques on a Friday night?”
“Yes. So then I spoke to Kim in Jessica’s office.”
“Kim?”
“Your agent’s assistant. Very nice girl and smart. Did you know she has a joint MBA and law degree from UCLA? Anyway, Kim called Lucques and got us a reservation for eight tonight. The car will pick us up at seven.”
“The car?”
“Well, we can’t drive, can we? I mean, you’ll drink and I’ll drink, so who will drive? The car will take us home. I don’t want you ending up on the cover of some tabloid. That’s just what I need, one of the ladies from my canasta group seeing a picture of you in some trashy magazine in the checkout line. So that’s okay, then. You’ll be ready by seven?”
“Sure,” Mary Anne said, a bit dazed.
“Dear, the kettle is whistling. Really, Mary Anne, I worry about you. Sometimes I don’t know where your head is.”
*
Mary Anne glanced at the table to her right. There sat Angie and Brad. Across the room Michael and Catherine dined with their agents. Although growing accustomed to being around “stars” (she even had a couple she might call friends), Mary Anne still fought the urge to stare at the celestial bodies descended from the heavens. She sucked on the straw of her third Grey Goose and tonic. The liquor tasted smooth, the alcohol going down easy, dulling the sharp sound of Mitsy’s voice. Mary Anne wanted cabernet next. She needed to keep drinking—there were less than twenty-four hours to go with Mitsy.
“Well. You must have a wooden leg,” Mitsy nursed her first strawberry daiquiri. “You know, dear, a drunk woman isn’t a very attractive woman—at least not to the type of man that wants to have children. You should keep that in mind while you’re out here.”
Where did Mitsy find these rules? Were they in some book handed out to mothers with their firstborn? Did she find them at a store? And why, no matter how old or successful Mary Anne became, did Mitsy insist on sharing the rules?
“Mother, I don’t think I want to get married.”
“Don’t be silly. I still think Steve is the right one for you.”
“Yeah, if I want an open marriage. I’m surprised at you, Mom. I’d think you of all people would believe that monogamy was one of the most important parts of marriage,” Mary Anne said and dug her finger into the ice in her glass, looking for the lime.
“It’s important. But not everything. Besides, since women don’t really enjoy sex and men do, once you’ve had the children, what’s wrong with a man satisfying his needs?”
Mary Anne pulled her eyes away from the lime and stared at Mitsy. “Mom, did you just say that women don’t enjoy sex?”
“Mary Anne, everyone knows that. They may pretend but they don’t enjoy it. And an orgasm? What is that? I don’t believe it. I’ve never had one. Your father has, but I haven’t, and look, we have the ideal marriage.”
“You know, I think I need to go to the bathroom.” Mary Anne reached for her purse, then paused. “Wait. Ideal? Are you saying that Dad …”
“What?”
“If your marriage is ideal and you don’t like sex and Dad still has needs, then he …”
“Sleeps with other women? Well, of course he does. I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out.”
Mary Anne felt as if she’d been kicked in the chest. “What?”
“Nancy MacIntosh. His secretary. They’ve been at it for years. I think since I was pregnant with you, after the twins. I’m not sure of the exact date. I usually track their anniversary by when he goes out of town for his Caribbean conference. That’s when he takes Nancy on their yearly trip.”
“Wait. This has been going on for over thirty years? And you’re still married?”
“Why would I leave? It’s perfect. I have three great children, a house I love, enough money and credit cards to take care of my needs, and I don’t have to do any of the nasty stuff.”
“Okay. This is way too much for me. Do Michael and Michelle know?”
“Michelle does. I don’t think your brother care
s. And neither do I.”
Mary Anne looked up as their waitress passed by the table. “May I have another vodka and tonic, please?”
“If I were you, I’d marry that Steve boy. At least he was trying to be helpful. I mean, who wants the mess? The inconvenience? And the smell—”
“Okay, Mom. You have to stop. Most women like sex. I love sex. I can’t be with a man who wants to have sex with other women.”
“Well, they all want to have sex with other women.”
“That is probably true. But I can’t be with a man who does have sex with other women.”
“Suit yourself. But I think it’s ideal. I have to use the ladies’ room. Do you still need to go?”
“No.”
Mary Anne watched her walk away, the Stride Rites beating a steady path to the ladies’ room. She could not believe this conversation. Thirty years? Her father ,had had a mistress for thirty years? Mary Anne thought her parents’ marriage was perfect … and so, apparently, did Mitsy. This couldn’t be happening. Wasn’t happening. Their waitress stopped back with the appetizer they’d ordered.
“Your drink is on its way,” she said. “May I get you anything else?”
“A red-eye ticket to Minnesota?”
The waitress gave Mary Anne a befuddled look. “Can’t help you there, but I have crab cakes.” She set the platter in the center of the table.
Mary Anne’s tongue wallowed about her mouth, her ability to articulate her words was always the first to go when she was drunk. Not her ability to think up words or put them together to make a story—those abilities never left. Just her ability to say words. Well, and her vision. Mary Anne couldn’t determine if there were three or five crab cakes on the plate. Good thing Mitsy insisted on the car. Mary Anne glanced at her watch; just fifteen hours until Mitsy was safely winging her way back to Minnesota. But why did she want to go back to that marriage? And what else didn’t Mary Anne know?
“Mary Anne, guess who I found!” Mitsy called.
Mary Anne spit the ice cube back into her drink and glanced up at her mother. Her fingers tingled and her heart pitter-pattered fast in her chest. Not only did she see extra crab cakes, she also saw—