Still, I am happy she has found her place, her tribe. Merry, content. God knows it has taken long enough, those myriad lost years of searching for the thing, some essence to hold on to for dear life.
I want her to be happy. I have always wanted only this. Merry’s happiness is like my happiness. It is enough for us both.
Merry
At the lake in the late-afternoon sun, I stole a look at her body. Frank is like always, toned and tanned, long and graceful limbs, curved and smooth and soft all at once. The body other women wish for. The body she must work at, long and hard. Her breasts are incredibly perky. She has no wrinkles around the eyes.
I wonder if she has started already with the first of the nips and needles, the staving off of age and decay. She would have learned well from my mother. Frank always seemed an eager student.
Yes. She is striking. Intoxicating. Frank the seductress, a woman who looks like she’s aching for it, is how Sam described her once. She has never struggled to attract the attention of men. Still, it’s never been quite enough to seal the deal. To make them stay. How that must enrage her. How that must remind her of her failure. And it is a failure, as a woman.
That and a barren womb. Poor Elsa, I thought. A cat at home with nine lives to spare; nine babies without one living to draw breath. Life can be cruel.
I smiled, or smirked. The familiar thrill, the pleasure of knowing that Frank will never get what she wants. In middle school, she was the first of the girls to allow a boy to finger her; soon after she was the girl who’d let them go all the way. Behind the stage in the drama room, that’s where she lurked and waited. She thought they’d love her, but all they did was laugh and call her names. The other girls and I would snicker. Skanky Frankie, I think I might have started that one myself.
Oh, there are endless tales of Frank’s thwarted happiness, not a few related to me.
I took Sam’s hand. I lifted the baby into my arms.
Come, the loves of my life, I said. Let’s go and take a little dip.
I could feel Frank’s eyes on me. The longing. The hate.
Yes, I thought.
This is it.
This is what I have missed. This is just what I need.
The water was bracing to the skin as I waded in, too cold, even in high summer. Underfoot, the smooth algae-slicked pebbles shifted under my weight. I kissed the baby and handed him to Sam. I’m going under, I said.
I was feeling bold. Clear somehow. I looked back, Frank small and alone on the towel. My best friend. My other half. My measure of reality, of years and time and achievement.
I gave a little wave. Filled my lungs and sank myself under, relishing the sting of ice water on skin. I could feel every part of my body, in and out, flesh and organs, teeth and bone.
You don’t need her. You don’t need her in your life. Sometimes I have said these words to myself.
But they are not true.
I do need her. We do need each other. Sam tells me who I am. And Frank is my proof that what he tells me is real.
Why else would she envy me so?
I came to the surface and opened my eyes. Sam and Conor were on the towel with Frank. And I was alone in the water.
Frank
I opened and shut kitchen cabinets and drawers, looking for what I needed. Everything is alarmingly neat—equally spaced, arranged in tidy rows—not a jar or a tea cup out of place, as though everything has an invisible line around it, keeping it within its parameters. She is a meticulous housewife, my friend.
I set a little spoon for honey down on the tray and took it into Merry’s bedroom.
Tea and toast and honey, I said.
Honey toast, she said, smiling. I remember that from your mom.
Yes, I said. Old Carol and her stash of home remedies. I passed Merry the tea. How are you feeling?
She made a face. She’s been laid up in bed for days now, struck down with a vicious flu. Of course she can’t be around the baby in her state, so I’ve stepped in. Conor doesn’t seem to mind his substitute mother. He’s a terrific boy, a bundle of smiles and drooly kisses for his Aunt Frank.
Aunt Frank! I love it. I think it fits. And I do adore him so. Those fat cheeks and dimples, his chubby thighs, always kicking at something. He loves having kisses blown onto his belly, and if I pretend to gobble him up, he’s just in absolute hysterics.
You’re so great with him, Sam said earlier. I can’t get over what a natural you are.
I was feeding him breakfast, choo-choo-ing trainloads of porridge into his open mouth.
Oh, he’s just the best child, I said. I’m absolutely in love.
Yes. It is true.
I handed Merry a pile of vitamins. Go on, I said.
Just when I thought we were too old to play doctors and nurses, she said.
I laughed. Oh, I remember those days! But really we just wanted to be housewives, didn’t we. Married with two kids each.
I can see us clearly, two girls playing dress-up, taking turns to wear the single pair of high heels that my mother had in her possession—unfashionable silver peep-toes with a little strap across the ankle. We’d sit at the dining room table, drinking soda from coffee mugs and pretending they were cappuccinos.
We always brought notepads along as our daily planners. We’d sit and schedule manicures and PTA meetings and appointments with interior decorators.
Such were the lives we imagined lay ahead.
Merry swallowed and sank back down against the pillow. I’m going back to sleep now, she said. Thanks for looking after me.
I touched a hand to her forehead. She was burning up.
Come on, Sam said when I emerged from the room. No sense in all of us being cooped up today. I’ll take you to another one of the lakes.
It was a splendid afternoon. Sam, Conor, and I, lying out on the soft grass in the twinkling sun. Taking long dips in the cool water. I slipped off my dress and watched as Sam’s eyes worked their way down, surveying my body. Just his type, I suspect.
I smiled.
He shook his head, seemed to laugh at himself.
He lifted Conor and we waded together into the lake. Other families played and napped in the sun; as they passed us by, they smiled and said hello. We must have looked like a little family ourselves.
I liked that idea. I liked it a whole lot.
My cheeks were warm. There was a sense of lightness in my blood.
What a day, I said.
Well, you have to seize them, Sam said. Blink and the summer’s gone. Only drawback.
We’d stopped at a market along the way to pick up some bread and cheese and fruit for our lunch. Sam had brought along baby food for Conor, which I fed him while he sat snug in my lap. At one point he took a hand to my bikini top and pulled on it. It shifted, exposing me. Sam pretended to cover his eyes while I readjusted the fabric to cover myself.
Nothing I haven’t seen before, he said.
Oh, stop, I teased.
After lunch, Conor fell asleep, curled up against my side, breath warm and delicious against my skin. I lay myself down next to him and shivered with the pleasure of it. The longing.
Probably not the sabbatical you imagined, Sam said, all this childcare.
Better than I could have imagined, I said.
He laughed. Don’t push it.
I’m serious, I protested. This place. I see why you’re so happy here.
I rested a hand lightly against Conor’s cheek. And this guy.
Sam stood up to go back into the water. I looked at his body. Solid. Strong. His shorts sat low. I could see the thickening of hair, the way it would get thicker still. I’d glimpsed him once before, naked, out of the shower one summer when we’d rented a place together in Maine, Merry and Sam, myself and Simon. I remember how Sam had looked at me then, looking at him, knowing, smiling. The look of a man who likes to play.
The look he’s given me all day long. Twinkle in the eye, mischief in the smile.
It wasn’t
long after that vacation that Simon broke off our engagement. I didn’t understand; I was devastated. A few days later, Merry announced that she was going to marry Sam.
But you said you were having doubts about him, I’d sobbed.
She’d laughed, oblivious to my tears and heartbreak. Or fueled by it.
No, she said, not anymore.
I suppose she cannot help the way she is.
Frank
Life and fortune really can change in an instant. I suppose this must have been what my father believed in—what he bet on—sitting for days straight at the casino, refusing to accept that his luck couldn’t turn, even when he’d lost it all. The house, the cars, my college fund. Gone in a single night. He didn’t even apologize, just shrugged his shoulders and said, That’s how it goes.
But the point is, I can see it. How the picture can always change, often in the blink of an eye. How just like that, it can reveal a whole new set of possibilities.
Oh, breathe, Frank, breathe! I’m really quite giddy.
It’s been a wonderful few days. Merry in bed, hot and sticky in the sheets, sweating out her fever. Sam and Conor and I, making the most of the glorious Swedish summer. Together. Just us. It is heady pleasure. The best tonic I could have hoped for. I feel better than I have in absolute months.
Sam took me for a walk through the forest and back down to the lake for another chilly swim. We picked vegetables from the garden and he showed me his film reels in the studio.
You’re so talented, I said, and watched him beam. Reminds me a little of Herzog, how you work with character. Very compassionate, and yet quite obviously involved. Is that the intention? I asked.
Well, he just about passed out cold.
I cook and help him shop and straighten the pillows on the couch. I think I’ve embraced more domesticity in the last few days than I have in my entire life. I am lapping it up. I cannot get enough.
I take Merry glasses of water and lemon tea, trays of easily digestible food and vitamins doled out in a glass dish. For the first time in my life, I am my mother. The quintessence of a housewife, making and baking and doing. She’d never believe it was me, just as I never imagined she enjoyed it, all that service. Now I see how there is joy to be found in it all. It can be just the trick.
Get better, I say to Merry, but secretly I wish she would never leave the bed.
Oh, wicked me! I mustn’t be cruel. But I am just enjoying this all too much. The beautiful house and garden, the fresh country air. Conor in my arms or at my feet, babbling and smiling and sweet; darling child, dear little boy. Luminous eyes, those strange deep eyes of his that lap up the world. He is so easy to make laugh, and to love. Oh, the love that pours from him—a fountain of joy and delight.
This must be unconditional love, the love for a child. The love a child gives back, so freely, with such unimaginable generosity. Why do we lose this ability, and when? Why do we cut love out and set it to so many conditions?
I won’t lie. I am enjoying Sam, too. Too much, perhaps. It is treachery, isn’t it? That golden rule of friendship: stay away from the man. But, but. I can feel his eyes on me. I watch how he laughs at my jokes, how he enjoys my conversation—starved as he is of intelligent company, as he says—how he smiles at my sweetness in caring for his son. This most of all is what astounds him.
We eat our dinners outside under the still-light sky. This evening I made an Ethiopian dish, a stew atop homemade injera, after Sam mentioned in passing a week spent at a conference in Addis Ababa and the sublime food they ate every night.
He was delighted. We broke off the bread with our hands and scooped up the steaming stew. We talked about art and politics and culture—or he talked, and I mostly listened, but either way.
You’re a stimulating woman, Frank. He grinned.
Yes, stimulating. I smiled back, a little too tipsy, a little too fresh.
We stayed out past eleven o’clock, after the sky turned slowly dark. The stars blanketed the blackness along with the yellow half-moon, and in the reflection of the windows, I stole a quick glance. My best friend’s husband. I cringed just a little. Because you could not miss it. We cut a handsome pair, he and I.
We make a good fit.
Merry
I find myself woken from a fever dream. No, I think I’ve awoken in the middle of one. My eyes are blurry. I wipe them. I try to clear the picture.
My house. My husband. My baby. But what’s wrong with the picture?
The answer is everything.
Scratch that.
The answer is Frank.
Oh, look who’s up!
She was draped on the couch, Sam beside her, blanket covering their knees. Two glasses of wine, an empty bottle on the coffee table, another on the kitchen counter. Dead of night. The sleeping hour. The witching hour.
What are you two doing? I asked.
Sam laughed. Frank was regaling me with tales of the corporate life. The wicked world of high-flying consultants. She’s navigating million-dollar projects and the CEO is playing Angry Birds on an iPad. Ha! Can you imagine?
She laughed too, waved her hand. Anyway, we were just having a laugh.
They looked at each other, a smile, a wink. A private joke just for two.
Great, I said. I stood there in the doorway, not sure where to place myself in the house.
You feeling better? Sam asked.
I think so, I said.
Well, Frank here has been a terrific stand-in wife, he said with a grin, his hand on her knee, easy and familiar. She’s taken care of everything.
Has she, I said. Lucky us.
Frank was smiling at me. Pleasure was all mine, she said. Truly.
I guess I’ll go back to bed, I said.
Sam did not join me.
In the morning, I wrapped myself in my robe and went out to the kitchen.
Frank had the baby in his high chair, expertly spooning food into his mouth. He was laughing, generous with his smiles for her. Affectionate and responsive. Mirroring, I suppose. There were several pots atop the stove, busily simmering away.
Oh, look who’s here, Frank cooed. The baby looked at me but did not smile.
Want to come uppy? Frank said, and the baby lifted his small fat arms to her. She rubbed her nose against his round belly and he roared with giddy laughter.
Ooh, Aunt Frank could eat you up, she said. Just eat you up.
Aunt Frank. I see they are good friends, Aunt Frank and the baby. She held him loosely on her hip, confident, motherly, entirely at ease. He sat snug in her arms, a cozy pouch made just for him.
Want to go to Mama? she sang into his ear. The baby turned away. Frank shrugged and laughed and kissed his cheek. A reward to him for playing along.
Who’s my best guy? Who’s my little prince? she cooed.
Where’s Sam? I asked. I felt hot and sticky and irritable. My head ached.
Sam is in the studio today, Frank said. It’s probably best if you don’t disturb him. He’s working on a big pitch for this week. Some massive NGO project.
She lifted a lid off one of the pots. The smell of wine and garlic filled the air.
Dinner, she said. Boeuf bourguignon.
Sam’s favorite, she added, as though I might not know.
I tried to smile. I drank a glass of water and watched her move about the kitchen, my kitchen; saw the way she opened and closed cupboards and found things in the refrigerator. The way she was holding the baby. The way she was giving me instructions about my husband.
Coffee, she offered me.
Please, I said, and she poured. She is using the mugs I had packed away in a bottom cupboard. She has moved the bowls and glasses to different shelves.
Look at you, I said, nodding toward the baby so nonchalantly slung over her hip. Didn’t take you long to get into the swing of things.
To take over, is what I wanted to say. Because this is Frank. This is what she does. She seeps in, like a very dangerous gas leak; she finds a way to lodge he
rself where she is not wanted. Roots herself so deep she cannot be excised.
Memories came in a flood. Snapshots of thirty years of friendship, or whatever this might be called. A confusion of lives and homes, me in hers, her in mine. Ponytails snipped off with garden shears, dolls stolen, tales told to get the other in trouble.
We brought out the worst in each other. Envy, anger, deceit. It’s only later when you learn to hold the impulse to hurt with your fists. You discover words and silences are the real killer. The withdrawal of affection, the sly planting of rumors and half-truths, the deft salting of the wounds you know cut the deepest. This is where the power is. A different kind of violence.
But she’s my friend. But I saw him first. Your clothes always look so cheap.
There were no rules. There are still none. I don’t know who did what or worse. It was all interchangeable parts. Love and hate. So entwined you can’t tell one from the other.
I watched as Frank twirled the baby in the air, whooshed him about like a kite, like a bird.
I love this little bundle, she said, just love him to bits. Her face was flushed, glowing, in fact. Maybe this was it. A mother’s love. It looked good on her, anyone could see.
Yes, some women have it, don’t they.
Sam emerged from the studio, coffee mug in hand. He gave the baby’s cheek a pinch and put his arm loosely around Frank’s waist to give her a squeeze. He loves you right back, he said, and all the lights in her face went on at once.
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