Husbands and Other Sharp Objects

by Marilyn Simon Rothstein

  “Let’s talk about this,” I finally said.

  He shook his head. He turned on the radio, loud.

  I scrunched against the passenger door, feeling awful, trying not to cry, worried that I had lost him and that we would be over, done, kaput. I didn’t want it to be over. It couldn’t be over.

  I hoped he would still head for Portland, despite what he had said on the beach. But he turned right, toward New Hampshire, toward Massachusetts, toward home.

  We didn’t speak until I asked him to stop at a rest area in Massachusetts so I could go to the ladies’ room. As soon as I was out of his sight, I began sobbing. When I composed myself, I went to the ladies’ room, and then I called Candy.

  “I told him he wasn’t welcome at the wedding,” I sniffled.

  “What did he say?”

  “He was very hurt. Then he wanted to know why I hadn’t seen a divorce lawyer.”

  “But you did. You saw Grace Greene, way back when Harvey told you about the baby. You didn’t like her. You decided you would wait until Harvey filed first.”

  “I didn’t say that to him.” I sniffled again.

  “Pull it together, Marcy.”

  “I will.”

  “This isn’t exactly cancer.”

  I couldn’t believe I had been crass enough to cry to her about my problems.

  “Believe me, I know.”

  As I put away my cell phone, I watched a couple walk out of the rest area. He wore a brown bomber jacket and cuffed khakis, a loose fit. He rubbed her back. She grabbed his sagging ass.

  I wanted to be part of a couple. I wanted to be a part of Jon’s couple.

  When I returned to the car, I placed my hand over Jon’s as he turned the key in the ignition. “I want you to know that I consulted a lawyer months ago. Her name was Grace Greene. Everyone recommended her. But Greene didn’t just want the shirt off Harvey’s back. She wanted his back. Besides, I wasn’t ready to divorce him. I had only seen a lawyer because Dana insisted.”

  He was silent.

  “Jon?”

  “Okay, well, maybe it’s time to find another lawyer, one you feel comfortable with.”

  “But I have this thing in my head. I want Harvey to file first—he left first, he files first. I didn’t fail. He failed. None of this was my idea, and I want everyone to know it.”

  “Marcy, you could wait a lifetime for him to file. You could be in a nursing home, playing bingo, by the time Harvey decides to make a move. Maybe it’s less expensive for him to remain married. Who knows?”

  I certainly didn’t.

  “You’re right,” I said, nodding. “I’ll call my accountant and ask him for the name of a lawyer.”

  “That’s a good place to start,” Jon said, but he continued driving home.

  On Monday, I called Parker Whitman, who was Candy’s first cousin. Candy had recommended him when it became apparent I could no longer depend on Feldman.

  “I feel so lucky to catch you in the office,” I said when the receptionist with the clipped voice put him on the line.

  “How can I help you, Marcy?”

  “I need a lawyer.”

  “What kind of lawyer?” he asked.

  “A divorce attorney.”

  “Grace Greene,” Whitman said.

  “I saw Grace Greene right after Harvey left. The woman made Stonewall Jackson look like putty. She was ready to pummel Harvey and destroy my relationship with my kids to ensure I came out on top. If Grace Greene were a tool, she’d be a sledgehammer. She’s a little mad dog for me.”

  “You want a puppy, Marcy?”

  “Of course not. But I don’t want to wind up not speaking to Harvey. I’ve worked so hard to keep everything copacetic, and in the middle of that, my daughter decided to get married, and we are making a wedding together. I feel like Al Pacino.”

  “You feel like Al Pacino?”

  “In The Godfather. No matter how I try to get out, they keep pulling me back in.”

  “Take my advice. Hire Grace Greene before your husband does.”

  “She’s not Harvey’s type. She’s doesn’t need a bra.”

  “Marcy, you’re Candy’s best friend, and Candy is the only remaining cousin I would have a vodka martini with, so I am advising you as though you were a member of my family. And please don’t become weak and even think of mediation. He has his own business. This is complicated. He could be hiding money almost anywhere. His dealings must be looked into by a first-class forensic team.”

  I needed an entire team? I imagined accountants in football uniforms and clutching calculators and briefcases, wearing eyeshades instead of helmets.

  When I called Greene’s office, the receptionist remembered me. She said Attorney Greene was busier than ever. She had nothing open for three months, until the New Year. Perfect—after the wedding. She added that if there was a cancellation, she would call me. No need to do that, I thought. But I didn’t say it. I would leave this to fate.

  That done, I condemned myself for my insensitivity. What a prize fool I had been for blubbering to Candy. I wondered what I would do if I were in her situation. Would I just crumble, staring vacantly at cable news all day? Or would I summon my strength, battling on with relentless optimism? Who was I kidding? I had never had an optimistic thought in my life. I would need someone to pull me up. And I knew Candy would be the person I’d lean on. She wouldn’t ask if there was something she could do to help. She would jump into action and help.

  I tried to think of something I could do for her. A new day spa had opened in town. I decided to treat her to a massage. When I arrived at her house to present the gift certificate, she was on her way out for a walk.

  When she opened the envelope, she thanked me. “It’s just what I need.”

  “I put a lot of research into this. The reason it says ‘Massage with Clyde’ is because Clyde is their best-looking masseur.”

  “Perfect.”

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Honestly, I’m worried.”

  “How worried?”

  “I started going to church.”

  “That’s great if it helps,” I said, relieved that she was seeking support.

  “Maybe I should go to a mosque and a synagogue too.”

  “Can’t hurt to cover all the bases.”

  She filed the gift certificate in her pocket. “Want to go walking?”

  “Do I have to?” I said.

  She knew I was kidding. She smiled and pulled me along.

  I was in touch with Candy every day. I absolutely had to check in. I phoned every morning, and I texted her from work. When a friend is suffering and you call regularly, you chatter about the minutiae of life, as though illness is the last thing of concern on the list. It’s not “How are you?” It’s “How are your tulips?” On the other hand, when you call just every so often, you’re left with awkward conversation. “Seen any good MRIs lately?” Some days, Candy went on about the picture book she was working on or talked about Ellison. Other times, she got off the phone quickly, and I knew she was suffering from her treatment.

  One Saturday morning in October, the kind of clear day when New England foliage is at its best, I stopped by her house to bring her healthy snacks.

  She had taken to eating nuts, which a nurse had recommended. Being Candy, she counted them out, consuming five at a time. I bought four kinds—macadamia, almonds, cashews, and walnuts.

  When I arrived, she was sitting with her legs crossed on her all-white sofa in her all-white living room, which had vibrant and colorful images on every wall. She had been buying art since she had sold her first picture book. She was just like the room. She was dressed in white, with a scarf around her neck that reminded me of a painting by Jackson Pollock.

  “I want to know one thing,” I said. “How do you wear a scarf when you don’t feel well?”

  “It makes me feel better.”

  I joked. “If I put a scarf around my neck on a bad day, I’d use it to kil
l myself.”

  “How are we friends?” she asked, touching the scarf lightly at her neck.

  I sat next to her. “How is it going?” I asked quietly.

  “I just hope the radiation is working,” she said.

  “It’s working. You look radiant.” I picked up a pillow and hit her knee with it.

  “Jumper is coming home from boarding school for the weekend. I am taking him into the city.”

  “Are you sure you should schlep into Manhattan?”

  “I have to. He doesn’t know I am ill.”

  She had to be kidding. “But he’s a teenager. You can tell him.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said.

  “But how will he learn how to deal with life, how to help, if you shield him from reality?” I said, remembering that Jumper had not been at Candy’s father’s funeral.

  “I want to get through all of this without him knowing a thing. I will not upset him.”

  Candy had so many family secrets that it was amazing her family had anything to talk about at all.

  When I was driving home, Amanda called.

  “Mom, I need an opinion.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I’m not inviting Uncle Max.”

  “So you ask for an opinion by giving an ultimatum?” I said. Max was my younger brother. After my mother’s funeral, he drove off in her car. I hadn’t heard from him since, but I heard the skies rumble—my mother insisting he be invited.

  “You can’t do that. Grandma won’t allow it.”

  “Grandma is not here, Mom.”

  Oh, she’s here all right. She’s here in my head.

  “But he’s such an airhead. He won’t return the RSVP card, and then you’ll have to call him.”

  Now she was getting to me. “I wouldn’t have to call him. You would have to call him.”

  “He’s your brother.”

  “I’m not calling him.”

  “By the way, what do you think of plus ones?”

  “Whose plus one?”

  “Anyone’s. Like if someone is dating, there should be a plus one, but I think they have to be living together.”

  “I have an etiquette book right here,” I teased. “It says that you need to be leasing an apartment under both names to be invited with a plus one. Proof of residence is required.”

  “No really, Mom. Like my friend has been seeing this guy for one month. Do I have to invite her plus one?”

  “It’s not a big deal. Just invite her with a date.”

  “But if she breaks up with him, he will be in all the pictures.”

  “And if she divorces him thirty or more years later, he’ll be in a lot more pictures.”

  “Oh, and about a hair stylist. I’m planning to fly Jessica in, the stylist who owns the salon I went to when I lived in Seattle.”

  Fly in a stylist? Did she think she was a rock star? Clearly, she was getting carried away. Harvey was rich, but he wasn’t Bank of America.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “The hotel will get you a perfectly wonderful stylist. All you have to do is call and speak to her about what you want in advance. The Seascape is a five-star resort. Anyone they recommend will be fabulous.”

  “Really? You think?”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  Apparently, I had given her the wrong answer, because she said, “Maybe I should ask Elisabeth for her opinion.”

  “Believe me, she will absolutely agree.”

  We were getting along so well on the phone that I decided to ask her again about Jon coming to the wedding.

  “What about Jon?”

  “What about him?”

  “We were discussing plus ones.”

  There was a moment of stony silence, like in a World War II movie, right before the enemy attacks, then the soldiers suddenly rush, and the machine guns go rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat.

  “Look, Mom, you’re not even divorced, and you want to bring this man, this Jon? It’s inappropriate. I don’t want him there. I can’t deal with him glaring while you and Dad walk me down the aisle. But now there’s more. After we talked about this in New York, I discussed the whole situation, top to bottom, with Jake. He is apprehensive and concerned that his parents would be embarrassed if you brought a date.”

  I would embarrass a woman who stole tampons?

  “She steals,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Mug or Cup or whatever her name is.”

  “What did she steal?” Amanda said in a voice that was as good as saying, “You’re ridiculous, Mom.”

  “Tampons.”

  “I know,” Amanda said, laughing.

  “You know?”

  “Yes, of course. She gave them to me. It was sort of sweet.”

  Sweet? Amanda really was in love. No point telling her about the tip for the restroom attendant.

  “By the way, since Jake’s parents are so old-fashioned, how do they feel about your father having a child with someone besides me?”

  “They don’t know. Jake thought it was better not to tell them.” I could hear her deep breath. “Mom, this is extremely difficult.”

  “For everyone,” I said. “But we have to accept what has happened. Don’t you think I wish we weren’t having this conversation? I never envisioned this. It never even occurred to me.”

  “Mom, I am really sorry, but I do not want Jon at the wedding.”

  I wanted to holler at her as though she were small, to command her to go to her room, to tell her that maybe I had an inconvenient boyfriend, but her father had an even more inconvenient baby. To inform her that even her siblings did not want to hear one more selfish, shallow word about her wedding. I wanted to throw my iPhone across the office. And damn Apple. I wanted it to break.

  Instead, I said a weak good-bye so she wouldn’t think I had hung up.

  Chapter 21

  Cheyenne and I were discussing the signage for our annual fund-raiser, Art Explosion, when we suddenly heard a baby screaming in the hall.

  “Wow! Some woman has her hands full,” I said to Cheyenne.

  “Maybe it’s a man who has his hands full.”

  “Like anyone has ever seen a man with a crying baby in an office. Actually, now that I think of it, my husband used to bring infants to his office all the time. Then he had a baby with one of them.”

  “Do something,” Dana said as she stood in our doorway with Wolfgang in her hands. She was holding him like he was something she really wanted to give away.

  “Dana? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

  “I know I somehow brought up three children, but being responsible for my grandchild is different. I shudder at the thought of something happening. I put the baby in the car to go for a ride. He starts screaming. I stop the car. I notice he has a rash on his neck. I’m not giving this baby back to Moxie with a rash.”

  “Calm down, Dana. You’re losing it for nothing,” I said.

  Cheyenne looked at the baby’s neck. “That’s not a rash. Probably, you had the car seat strap too tight.”

  “Oh no, I could have strangled him! Then what would Moxie say?”

  “It’s nothing. It will go away on its own,” Cheyenne said.

  Dana handed her the baby. “I was great at this when I had my own kids.”

  I nodded. She certainly was.

  “But this baby thing is no longer for me. I want to take care of him, but I could land five new accounts with the energy it takes to care for one baby.”

  Cheyenne was tickling Wolfgang. He was laughing now. She hoisted him in the air. “Sky-high baby!” she shouted.

  “You really like kids,” I said.

  “Love them. I watch kids all the time. The mothers in my neighborhood call me Super Sitter. They say it the way you would say ‘Superman.’”

  Dana perked up. And it wasn’t from the coffee.

  “Also, I think we should take off one of these sweaters,” Cheyenne suggested. “He may be warm.”

  “Wh
ere do you live?” Dana asked.

  “Twelve Oaks.”

  “We’re practically neighbors.”

  Cheyenne placed Wolfgang on the floor. Then she sat down next to him, and they played with the office keys and then some paper coffee cups. Although Cheyenne was doing nothing more than rolling the cups, Dana was mesmerized.

  “Would you be interested in watching my grandson?”

  “Of course. He’s adorable. I love chubby babies.”

  Uh-oh, I thought.

  “He’s not chubby,” Dana said.

  “She meant healthy,” I said.

  “When are you going out?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Oh, it wouldn’t be for when I go out.”

  Really? What would it be for?

  “It would be for when I watch him.”

  I leaned back against the office wall and crossed my legs in front of me, just waiting for the ultimate Dana.

  “I don’t understand,” Cheyenne said.

  “Well, I babysit about once a week, usually on Saturday. You could come over, play with him, feed him, and bathe him. The usual.”

  “Okay,” Cheyenne said, looking at Dana strangely. “Where would you be?”

  “In the house, of course. I want to watch him, but . . . you know. Anyway, my daughter-in-law comes to Connecticut on Saturdays and drops him off at ten and picks him up at about six. So you would need to come at ten after ten and leave by, let’s say, ten of six.”

  “She comes after Moxie and leaves before Moxie returns?” I asked.

  “Exactly. That way, Moxie won’t know I have a babysitter.”

  “So I wouldn’t be Super Sitter. I’d be Secret Sitter.”

  “No. You would be both,” I said.

  Just then, Candy stopped in, carrying a small basket of fruit. It reminded me of the day I had met her in the hospital when our parents were ill, and she had brought a platter of cookies for the staff.

  “Hi, Candy. What’s with the fruit?” Dana said.

  “I’m between treatments. I feel okay. I knew Marcy was working Saturdays, and I felt like doing something nice for someone.”

  I smiled. “I hope that feeling doesn’t pass.”

  “Are there many more treatments?” Dana asked.

  “I’ll be done in time for the wedding,” she said curtly, being Candy and not inclined to discuss her medical condition. “How about some fruit?” she said, holding up the basket.