Woman No. 17

by Edan Lepucki

  A day after Michael began following me, I ventured a tweet from the front lines of my bathroom: Why does it feel so good to tweeze my nipples? Within a minute, he had liked it. The South Dakotan lawyer, that leering bed hogger: what a lecher. He had imagined my nipples and their wiry black hairs and then he had liked them with that little red heart icon. He’d turned me into a bot. I dropped my phone in disgust, sending it bouncing across the floor

  Before I put on my clothes I blocked him from seeing any more of my tweets and, once dressed, I went downstairs to ask S if I could cradle her bunny for a few minutes. She must have thought writing had me down, and I guess, in a way, that was true.

  I hadn’t worked on my book in days, not since Kit had stolen my bubbly. I tried not to think about how much I was paying S to look after Devin while I did nothing but tweet and wander the aisles of Bristol Farms, aghast at their high prices while nevertheless filling my cart.

  The pages I’d written about Seth’s school no longer interested me, nor did the paragraph I’d begun about Marco: I was devastated when he left us, but I couldn’t let Seth see my pain. I had to be strong for the both of us.

  It was fiction. Seth had, in fact, witnessed my weaknesses for months on end: how I didn’t eat anything but cans of condensed milk and cereal; the time we went to see a private eye about tracking Marco down (without success); the time I blared Iggy Pop and refused to turn it off even after Seth’s bedtime. Or how, years later, the day before Seth entered the seventh grade, I told him his grandmother had paid his father to abandon us. I tried to soften the blow by inflating the amount to $15,000.

  My dear Seth had reared back, as if I’d tried to hit him.

  “What an ass, right?” I said. “But watch.”

  I lifted my index finger as if to say, Excuse me, and then folded it back into my fist. Then I let the fist fall and shook my hand limply.

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead to us, so is my mom. Shake it off.”

  I brought up my index finger again and this time little seventh-grader-Seth mirrored me, tucking his finger back to his fist exactly as I did. And then he was shaking his hand, but just barely, as if he couldn’t be bothered. Shake it off.

  23.

  I was supposed to meet Karl for our weekly dinner—a now inaccurate term since we hadn’t seen each other since Paul Feldman’s. I was pretty sure I still had a salt hangover from our previous meal, and so when he emailed suggesting we meet there again, I didn’t reply.

  Where had Karl’s imagination gone? When we were first together, he would take me and Seth on all-day adventures: sushi for lunch, then a trip to a liquor store that sold a startling assortment of sodas, followed by Chinese foot massages, and ending with a quick stop at some place he’d read about that sold marshmallows and only marshmallows by young people who were extremely devoted to the artisanal marshmallow cause. On one of our early dinner dates, just the two of us, he picked me up from work with a bag of cheeseburgers balancing on the console. We ate those burgers as he drove east on Pico, the shredded lettuce gathering on our laps, Karl waxing poetic about the Mexican party store we were headed to. He’d been right: the piñatas were magnificent.

  When he finally called, I told him Paul Feldman’s was a boring choice.

  “Where would you rather go?”

  I had expected my comment to offend him, and that he’d want to prove me wrong by suggesting a restaurant that graced half a dozen “best of” lists. We’d eat tiny birds, three ways, topped with tobacco-infused espuma. We’d done that once.

  “Let’s just do coffee. How’s Monday?”

  “I get it,” he said. I didn’t know what it was he got. “How about that place on Fairfax by Melrose?” he asked. “The one with the Dickensian baristas.”

  “Dickensian?”

  “They wear suspenders and jaunty little caps.”

  I laughed.

  “Maybe this living apart thing is working,” he said.

  “It is?”

  “My jokes. They’re fresher.”

  —

  The heavy glass door of the coffee bar was as fogged as a bathroom mirror. The heat had returned, but muggier this time, and the whole city had the dank funk of a teenage boy’s room; Karl and I called it the “hot back” smell. I wanted to be cold so that I could drink my coffee hot; I didn’t want to see Karl sweat.

  He was standing by the sugar-and-cream station, sipping an espresso, wearing shorts and a golf shirt.

  “Wow,” I said. “Casual.”

  He had been leaning forward, maybe to give me a kiss on the cheek, but now he backed away. “It’s a holiday. It’s Labor Day.”

  “It is? Thank goodness Tiny Tim’s isn’t closed.” I cocked my head at the blond guy behind the counter. “Is that a waistcoat he’s wearing?”

  “Did no one invite you to a barbecue? Dammit, S probably worked today, didn’t she?”

  “Who do you think has Devin right now? Let’s pray she doesn’t call her union!”

  I felt the Karl twinkle: it was the physical manifestation of his pride. He practically levitated whenever I said something clever.

  “God, it’s hot,” I said. If I was banal, he’d settle down. “Why did you order already? You couldn’t wait for me?”

  “I wanted some coffee before I ordered an iced herbal tisane and I didn’t think you’d stay long enough for me to drink both.”

  “I’m not that rude, am I?”

  “You didn’t email me back. You’re always upstairs when I pick up and drop off Dev. I texted you yesterday and it took you five hours to answer.”

  “Let’s order first, okay?”

  He shrugged and downed the rest of his drink. He didn’t set down the cup carefully and I liked the brusqueness.

  “Did you get invited to any barbecues?” I asked.

  “A few. I’m going to Catie’s later.”

  Catie was the hostess of the housewarming party. “I suppose she’s already gone ahead and given us custody of events.”

  That joke got no Karl twinkle. It was probably too sad.

  I insisted I pay for my own drink even though we both knew it was his money I was spending. All the tables inside were filled by youngsters and their computers, plus one older woman doing her bills. Why was there always someone doing their bills in places like this? That’d make a good tweet, I thought.

  I took a deep breath as I opened the door to the outside seating area.

  “At least it’s a wet heat,” Karl said.

  “Ha. Tell Seth to tweet that.”

  After we were sitting, Karl said, “We never discussed S.”

  “I should have done the background check, I know. I’m sorry. But she went to the CPR class last Wednesday night. So that’s settled. And she’s really great, don’t you think?”

  “Even with the drinking and the rabbit?”

  “The drinking?”

  “Seth said the recycling bin is damning.”

  “When did he turn so Puritan? And why’s he checking the trash? S and I had two bottles of sparkling wine when Devin was with you. But that was a few weekends ago.”

  “There’s been vodka.”

  “That’s mine,” I lied. My bottle was still in the freezer, halfway full. “And even if it wasn’t, I don’t think it’s a problem. She’s of age. What’s it to Seth, anyway?”

  “I tried Googling Esther Fowler, couldn’t find anyone that sounds like it’s her.”

  “Boring name.”

  “The background check revealed nothing? No red flags?”

  “Just that felony charge. Come on, you’re being crazy. You know she’s great.” I prayed he’d drop the whole background-check thing altogether.

  “Everything okay then?” he asked. “I miss you.”

  “I was hoping you’d wear the linen shirt today. The gray one.”

  He smiled. “Oh yeah?”

  “I miss it.”

  “You can miss my shirt.” He winked. “That’s good enough for me.” He took a
sip of his iced tea. His tisane. “Look, Lady, Kit wants me to call your bluff and ask if you’d like me to contact a divorce lawyer.”

  “Call my bluff? Of course your sister is convinced I’m playing games.”

  “It certainly seems like you are. You ask me to move out after a single argument about Seth and his old girlfriend—”

  “So you admit it—Tanya was his girlfriend!”

  “I never said she wasn’t.”

  “You said it was never serious!”

  “It wasn’t. They’re teenagers, Lady. They weren’t going to get married.” He tried to reach for my hand but I pulled it away. “You’re right,” he said. “I should have told you they were spending time together, about their relationship. But Seth liked her, and we both knew you’d flip out.”

  “ ‘Flip out’?” I repeated. “I can just see you two, colluding. You probably reveled in it.”

  “Give me a break, he’s my stepson!” Karl realized he’d raised his voice, and took a moment. I watched him collect himself: sip his drink, straighten his shirt.

  “Do you really want to get into this here?” he asked, his voice calmer now. “Look, we had this fight, we’re having it yet again. I moved out because…who knows why, because you really seemed to need space to think. And I can understand your anger about how I’ve sided with Seth on certain issues.”

  I tried to interject but he held up a hand and kept talking. “But you’ve been avoiding not only me but the whole issue of this separation, giving me the runaround, and now you’re flirting like this is a first date.”

  “If we were on a first date, I doubt you’d suggest this place.”

  “I met you for the first time at a coffee shop.”

  “That wasn’t a date.”

  “Is that what you want? A first date? You want me to woo you back. Fight for you. Have you ever considered that you might have to fight for me?”

  “Kitty’s words sure do sound awkward coming out of your mouth,” I said. “Anyway, it wasn’t our argument that did it.”

  “Now I know you’re bluffing. That’s what set you off, you can’t hide from me, Lady. Look, Tanya is a nice girl, and her mom isn’t as cracked as you think she is, she just wants to keep her daughter safe. Anyway, I don’t know why this keeps coming up. I told you, Tanya and Seth broke up before Devin could even walk.”

  “I didn’t even know they were together!” I hadn’t meant to raise my voice. A woman who was as flawless as a model, but who was probably a jewelry-designer, gave her boyfriend a look like: Check out the harridan with the latte. I brought my voice to a whisper: “I can’t believe you let them continue their little relationship even after their ridiculous sleepover, even after her mother chewed me out. And why? What for? Tanya’s like Temple Grandin without the animals! What would Seth want with her?”

  “Jesus, Lady. Will you listen to yourself? Tanya is different, sure. But so is Seth. They liked each other. They’re teenagers, disabilities aside.”

  “Disabilities?”

  He sighed. “Yes, disabilities. Your son has one.”

  “But why would you encourage them—and without telling me? While I was busy raising your son, breastfeeding him and changing his diaper, you were trying to get mine laid? What are you, a pimp?”

  Karl looked like he was about to walk out on me. I needed to keep him there so that I could say every mean thing in my brain, every brutal, toxic thought. Now I knew what people meant by “let them have it.” I opened my mouth, but Karl raised his palm.

  “Devin’s your son too.”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘raising your son’ as if Devin isn’t yours.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Lady, do you want to curse me out just so you feel better? I can take one for the team. Go ahead, shoot that mouth off.”

  He waited. I thought about telling him that I knew he had learned at least one of the special signs. That I’d seen Seth flash him Shake it off when they thought I wasn’t around. Like that wasn’t one of our most important special signs. I had asked Karl to leave those be. They weren’t made for him. I couldn’t blame Seth for sharing them, he was only a kid, but Karl had no excuse for going behind my back and he knew it. But I would keep that reveal for another day when I had no more ammunition. For now, I said nothing.

  “I thought Tanya was more normal than the other one,” he said finally. “What’s her name? The ancient Egypt fan?”

  “Marisol.”

  “That’s right, Marisol. Frankly, I’m glad she and Seth broke up soon after I came around.”

  “They were just buddies.”

  Karl looked like a condolences card made human. “They were more than that. Way more. How did you not see it?” He opened the lid of his cup and scooped out an ice cube. I watched him chew. He swallowed. “I think you need to sit down with Seth.”

  “I don’t want to have a discussion with him about the birds and the bees!” I hadn’t brought up the topic when he was younger because I wasn’t sure how to. I was scared and, honestly, I didn’t think he’d be able to get a date if he couldn’t even speak. Maybe I hoped as much. And now—no. It would be too awkward. “I can’t,” I said.

  “That’s good because it’s a little too late for that anyway.”

  “My God, please, that’s gross. Stop it.”

  “It’s not that. He’s been asking me a lot of stuff, about Mark.”

  Mark was Marco. Neither Karl nor Seth knew his real name.

  “Seth wants to find him,” Karl said.

  “Mark’s dead to us.”

  “Maybe to you. But not to Seth. I can help, if you want.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t stop it.”

  “Please don’t get involved,” I said. “This time, it’s not about some girl.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t. Just, please, talk to him about it. Help him find his dad.”

  “He asked you to meet me to discuss this, didn’t he?”

  “I offered before he could ask.”

  He walked me to my car. He checked to see if I had any more money in the meter, and satisfied that there was still time, he opened his arms for a hug. That’s when I remembered the parking ticket in my purse.

  “This was on your dresser,” I said. “Do you want me to pay it?”

  He dropped his arms and reached for it. “I’ll handle it. Thanks.” He turned it over, squinting. “Looks like Seth wrote on it.” He held the ticket away from him to read the words and I came to his side. This close, Karl smelled of soap and the musky smack of his sweat, and I wished I’d accepted the hug while I still had the chance; I knew he wouldn’t offer another.

  The ticket read: Santa Monica at Rexford. An inch below were the words: ASK HER.

  I was used to Seth’s scrawl. Before the iPhone and tablet, he’d scribble in a reporter’s notebook he kept in his pocket. There were still notepads and pens in drawers all over the house and in the glove compartment of my car. Just in case. I used to love coming upon one of Seth’s notes. I loved imagining what might have been said in response. Whatever was spoken aloud had long disappeared, but Seth’s words remained.

  “What were you two talking about?” Karl asked now. “Beverly Hills City Hall?”

  “Yep. City Hall.” The lie was like bile and it rose in my throat. I swallowed it down. “It’s a long story, not even worth telling. Sorry he wrote on that!”

  24.

  I was a harridan turned griffin, flying west on Melrose in her Jetta. When the cop pulled me over, I was also a griffin who wasn’t wearing her seat belt. I must have looked sufficiently upset for him to ask if I needed help.

  “My son,” I said, and then my voice gave out like a bum knee. He told me I needed to put on my seat belt and he watched me as I stretched it across my body.

  “You take care now,” he said, but only after the buckle clicked.

  Everything—everyone!—I didn’t know filled the car and sucked out all the air
. I could barely breathe; I was squawking.

  Where to begin? That Marisol and Seth had been more than friends, supposedly fucking, perhaps as early as the seventh grade? Or that Seth had been stalking the trash like J. Edgar Hoover, looking for evidence that S wasn’t a good nanny. And that he might be correct, considering the vodka consumption. Or that Seth had been in my room, writing notes to someone. The ticket wasn’t that old and Devin couldn’t read, which only left S and Kit. Speaking of Kit: she wanted Karl to call an attorney already. Speaking of Karl: he would never apologize for knowing about Seth and Tanya, for helping them meet in secret. He probably wouldn’t be contrite about learning the special signs either. Even as I sorted through all of these problems, I knew there was one that most worried me, whether it—he—warranted my concern or not.

  Mark.

  I didn’t want Seth to find him. Marco’s last name, Green, was so nondescript that when I altered his first to Mark I had adequately hidden his true identity. And maybe the name change was a twisted homage to my mother, who was a coward for keeping me from her ex. Unlike Marco, my father had wanted to see his child, if rarely. Every six months is more than not at all, and my mother had made even those visits impossible.

  I wasn’t proud of my lie, but my shame had never overcome my desire to protect my son. I suppose I was like my own mother in that way. I’d spent half my life trying to keep Seth safe from harm. Harm being synonymous with her and Marco, though I was certain the latter would never seek us out. All phone numbers and contact information remained unlisted, all social media settings either private or pseudonymous. I needed to keep us from their poison.

  I was eager to change my last name to Daniels when Karl and I got married. I wouldn’t have published without its shelter. After the Real Simple article came out, I waited for someone from my past to come forward, or for Seth to tell me that some woman named Simone had sent him a message on Facebook, but nothing happened. I was elated when Seth too asked to be a Daniels.

  Not since my last visit to the detective’s had I actively tried to find Marco. Thank God Seth was too young to remember Smith Tatzko, PI, with his wood-paneled office and the giant microfiche machine on the desk behind him. His office was above a liquor store in Santa Monica, and an anchor knocker was attached to his door. The only Marco Green he could find had last been living in Alaska, but that had been six months previous. There were no other leads.