Steve left me a message that he’d caught a flight home a day early and was headed over to my place to swim some laps; he’d pick up dinner. He’d had a great time with Eric and Anna. Eric had left a message that they approved of Steve, even after he’d taken them to Chinatown for cooked chicken feet, not something you see every day in La Jolla.
I was looking forward to seeing Steve, happy that he was back so I could stop thinking about what had happened, and rededicate myself to getting on with my life and his education. I walked in the front door to him sitting in the chair Stroud and I had rocked the night before, drinking a Mexican beer.
“Welcome home,” I said. “Did you swim yet?”
I went over to give him a kiss but he held his arm out to keep me away.
“You drink bad Mexican beer now?” he asked.
“A friend stopped by, he brought it.”
“A friend?”
“Well, not a friend really.”
I started the story of Grandma’s hearse, but he cut me off.
“Eric and Anna told me about it.”
I shrugged, “So you know. He came into town and I took him to dinner. I felt like I owed him that much.”
“What else did you owe him?”
“What do you mean?”
Cold guilt was making my lungs contract. I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t imagine Eric and Anna being anything but polite and discrete.
“You just couldn’t wait could you?”
“Wait for what?”
“Until we figured things out.”
He got up and put his empty bottle on the counter next to a take-out bag. He didn’t look at me again.
“You should take out your trash.” He walked out the door.
I watched him walk up the steps and out the gate. Take out the trash? I didn’t know what he was talking about. I looked in the kitchen trash. There was nothing but take out containers and a few empty beer bottles. I went in the bathroom. The trashcan had a half dozen empty and crinkled up condom wrappers and the empty box folded flat. I saw a flash of Stroud doing that after he had emptied the rest of them in the top drawer of the nightstand. I sat down on the toilet seat and stared at the image. I tried to imagine how Steve had felt. I don’t know what I would have done were it me. Thrown it at him maybe, but probably not. Presbyterians don’t throw things. I felt sick to have done that to him.
There was no way to undo it. I couldn’t think of one thing I could say to him that could put a dent in the picture he was carrying around. I got my phone to call Karin and sat down in the chair. I couldn’t punch in her number; I couldn’t talk. I was barely breathing. My throat felt swollen shut. My skin itched like I was breaking out in hives.
I searched under the bed where I found two more wrappers. There was one under the chair. I wondered if he’d noticed that. I emptied all the trashcans, and carried the bags outside to the big can.
I swam laps, breathing on both sides; it’s like a meditation. I pushed myself harder every time thoughts of Stroud, and of Steve holding that vision, tried to insinuate themselves into my brain. I stopped, my heart slammed. Despite the cool air, my face felt on fire like a shameful blush. My core systems were beating their drums while my brain went off to war with itself. I floated under the starless sky, my mind trapped in circles of thought that led nowhere. It was engaged in feints and skirmishes to avoid feeling hollow shame and futility. I’d felt this when I was married. One of the only things that got me through those days and nights was telling myself that it wouldn’t always be like this. At the moment, all these years out, all I could hear was that it would. It would always be like this.
I went to bed. I hadn’t changed the sheets; they were steeped in the dense odor of us. The bed pulsed with lust and fresh humiliation. My stomach was in a knot. I stripped it down and put on clean sheets. I had to get up a second time and throw the pile outside. Even across the room, I could smell us. I finally stopped trying to sleep at 5:00 a.m. and booted up my computer. Eric had sent pictures that someone had taken of them all eating in New York. There was one of the three of them in the back of a cab; the driver had taken it from a crazy angle. They all looked happy, and grown up, and like they knew what they were doing.
I made coffee and ate a banana so I could take a painkiller. I had terrible cramps. My mother said having a baby had put an end to those for her. I’d always been plagued by stomach clutching, couch writhing cramps. Not the best reason to have a baby, but on these days, it hit the top of the chart.
It was hours before I needed to be at work, so I went to the car wash. I paged through a soggy year-old People about people who make a living airing out their tawdry shit in public. I over-tipped the man with the silver-capped teeth who dried my car. I got to the set so early the catering people were just setting up. I started in dismantling Vampire Chick’s set; I felt a special tenderness for her. Karin arrived on time and found me working.
She looked at my face. “It will pass. When does Steve come home?”
“Steve’s back. He came home a day early.”
She sat down on the couch and looked off into space while I told her the story.
“I feel like I got you into this,” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, I got myself into this.”
“But I kept going on about calling him and hot sex.”
“I’d love to blame you, believe me. But as my last therapist said, if I blame you then you’re in control of my life.”
“She was talking about your mother.”
“Okay fine. It’s your fault.”
“What a clusterfuck,” she said.
“That pretty much covers both bases.”
She glanced at me over that remark. I wasn’t completely gone.
“Are you going to call Steve?”
“And say what? Why’d you come home early and look in my trash? I can’t imagine how that must have felt.”
“I can. He wouldn’t take your call anyway.”
We spent a subdued afternoon working. I was pounding down painkillers.
I spent the evening cleaning house. I washed the sheets again, scrubbed the bathroom, and vacuumed and mopped up every trace of dog hair and ash. I opened the windows and burned sage. I cleaned out the fireplace and even the refrigerator. I drank beer and listened to Vivaldi traverse the four seasons in endless cycles. It sounded neutral, even though Steve and I had heard a chamber quartet perform it under the blue vaulted and gold starred ceiling of the Chapel of St. Chappell in Paris. The stone floors had been cold but I’d insisted on wearing a skirt with new curvy-heeled silk shoes. I knew he liked the look. I had caught a cold. I took a shower and opened a second beer; it helped pry loose the fingers dug in and squeezing my belly.
I got on-line and deleted all the jokes, inspirational angel crap and cute puppies. I dumped the it’s-a-beautiful-world slideshow with Japanese subtitles, bad dissolves and sappy music. Out went my most ardent suitor, a guy in Nigeria who still wanted to give me sic million dolars US$ if I’d just send him a few bucks. I was left with nothing but pictures of smiling, well-adjusted grown-ups eating chicken feet.
I recognized the shrill place I was sliding toward. I’d been there after my divorce. Even a bad relationship leaves the yawning void. I could end up like a bird that accidentally flies into the house and, frantic to get away, keeps banging against the window, injuring itself on the promise of freedom. It’s the place where you cut off your hair, exhaust your friends with second-guessing, and try to force the passage of time by taking up short-lived hobbies, drinking too much at parties, and no joy fucking random, ideally unavailable, men. I would call Margaret first thing in the morning and get busy with work and India. Maybe I could short circuit the impulse to take up wood burning.
Our work would be finished in a week and I couldn’t afford to spend time unemployed. I had rent to pay and a staggering repair bill for a car I hated. The last thing I wanted now was to lose my home base. Despite the Stroud debacle, home still fel
t safe. I’d sublet so I wouldn’t have to give it up.
Everyone had talked at lunch about where they were headed for their winter break. I still wanted to go to Hawaii. Might as well pull the scab off my Visa bill along with the rest of my life. I did a quick search on the off chance I could find something. Nope, not at that late date.
The next day we jammed all morning. I called Margaret over lunch to tell her my decision about India.
“How’s Steve taking it?” she asked.
“Steve and I broke up.”
“We didn’t think he’d take it well.”
“We didn’t break up over India. I strayed off the path.”
“We wondered about that too.”
“You wondered if I was straying? I only took a few steps. I barely knew it.”
“We wondered if it was enough. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it. I’m so happy you’ll be with us. What an adventure.”
Ed was going with us. He’d started going with Margaret after he retired from production at one of the networks. He found a hobby in every location. He cooked for us. He entertained visiting family and friends who never understood we really were working. He kept the home fires burning, so to speak. Margaret was in her mid-70s; it would probably be her last big foreign country work. They were going to New York for the holidays and then we would put in a month working in L.A. before heading to Delhi. I needed to contact the production office to set up the logistics.
“I’m still thinking about going to Hawaii,” I said. “Might as well make my pauper status official.”
“Good for you,” she said. “It will all work out.”
“Do men only like kittens?”
Margaret chuckled her experienced broad sound.
“Your mother. Men like any feline that shows up and acts interested. That’s never been your problem. It’s your choice of tomcats that gets you into trouble. Someone will come, maybe a nice Indian man; that could be interesting. Which reminds me; don’t worry about packing a lot. We should buy clothes when we get there if we want to look like we know what we’re doing. Ed plans to live in their man pajamas. Go have fun in Hawaii.”
An Indian man? Talk about geographically undesirable. Steve had left a voice message to call him. I didn’t want a workday fight; my ex-husband loved those. He’d even call me at work at the six-month mark to ask for a divorce. He was, if nothing else, consistently full of shit.
I ignored Steve and went back to putting the last stuff in boxes. A few hours later he texted: call me hannah.
I figured I’d call when I got home, but at 4:00 there was another text: stop fucking around & call me.
Okay okay. I called him.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I work.”
“We need to talk about this.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else there is to say. It happened.”
“Meet me for a drink later.”
“I don’t want to drag this out.”
“Me either, just meet me.”
We agreed to meet at Musso and Franks after work. I told Karin and she just shook her head.
“Nothing good can come of this,” she said.
“You sound like Shakespeare or somebody. We’re having a drink at Musso’s so he can tell me what a deceitful bitch I am. I owe him that.”
She rolled her eyes just like Binky.
“Your guilt. Are you sure you’re not Jewish? Has he ever been rough with you?”
”Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
I found Steve at the bar. I ordered a martini straight up. We sipped in quiet, looking at each other in the mirror behind the bar. It struck me that I looked much younger than Steve, even though he was only a few years older. His face was taking on angles that would soon be called craggy. A producer and his wife whom he knew came by; they said hello before going to their table. He didn’t introduce me. I felt tired like a person does when they’ve been boing boinging around in different dimensions. I finished my drink and Steve indicated two more to the bartender.
“I’m not going to just sit here and get drunk,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
He turned on his stool and looked at me. It was a strange look, like he was seeing me for the first time, and not seeing me at all. The bartender put drinks in front of us.
“I’m so pissed about this,” he said. “I can’t think about anything else.”
I don’t know what sadistic punishment is hidden in the cheerful sounding words ‘face the music’, probably suffering through a full bugle rendition of taps before being delivered by gun fire. I hoped the second martini would dull the bullets about to thud into my body.
“I know we never said we’re exclusive. I met someone in New York, a lawyer. Our parents are friends.”
“But you had dinner with my brother.”
“I like your brother and Anna. That’s why I came back early.”
“They liked you too, even with the chicken feet.”
We were back looking past bottles and glasses at each other‘s reflection in the bar mirror. People were happy in the background.
“So it worked out anyway,” I said.
“A truck driver?”
“Would a lawyer make it okay?”
“Nothing happened with her.”
“Me either,” I said.
“Yeah, right.”
“I should go,” I said.
“You can’t drive.”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“Stay, we’ll have dinner, it’ll be okay.” He indicated that we were moving to a table where a red-coated waiter resettled our drinks and left menus.
“Tomorrow is our last day,” I said.
“Then what? Visit San Diego?”
“I’m going to Kauai. Then India.”
We ate in silence; it was so tense I had trouble swallowing. The couple stopped by to say goodnight; they looked at me. Steve ignored an introduction. We had coffee to wait out the full-blast of the martinis, and then walked out to the parking lot in back. He gave the valet both our tickets and tipped him when the cars appeared idling behind us.
“You can have the Maui place. My plans changed, we’re going to Baja.”
“No thanks, I like Kauai better anyway.”
I made it home.
Karin came in for coffee the next morning. She was glad it hadn’t turned into the gruesome showdown she had envisioned. He wouldn’t do that in public anyway. We ran down to the studio and did our final mop up and check out on the project. It’s nice when it ends, but it’s also like getting a divorce. It leaves a hole.
Karin dropped me back home and I swam laps. I got out of the shower to a message from Mom. She wanted to talk about a dress for a New Year gala. I could remember her dressing for parties. My father always sat in one of their bedroom chairs, sipping a cocktail and watching her while they kidded back and forth. I reminded her to get some comfortable shoes so she could actually dance.
“Arthur will never replace your father.”
“Do you feel guilty about seeing Arthur? It’s been a long time.”
“He had an affair.”
“Arthur? I don’t think you can really consider it an affair so soon, Mom.”
“Your father. We had settled it between us a week before he crashed. I hadn’t really forgiven him though. And now I don’t know if I ever will.”
“It doesn’t matter to him.”
“It matters to me. I’ve been mad at him all these years.”
“That’s a heavy burden, Mom.”
“What if he was distracted about her?”
“Are you jealous that he might have been thinking about her when he crashed?”
“He felt he needed to get home, it was still so raw. I was still accusing him of seeing her, even though he said it was over. He was going to wait for daylight, but I told him I needed him to come home that night. He tried. He wanted to reassure me.”
“There’s no way you will ever know.”
; “You don’t understand, Hannah.”
“I understand you can’t possibly know what he was thinking when he hit that mountain.”
“Except, Oh Jesus.”
“Atta girl, Mom. You should just enjoy Arthur. He’s standing right in front of you.”
“I didn’t expect love advice from my daughter.”
“It’s not love advice. I wouldn’t take love advice from me if I were you. Send pictures.”
What a reversal. I remember my mother as the towering woman, at least when she was sober, issuing edicts from atop her high heels, the force of her mother’s coal mine stories at her back. I was incredibly proud of myself for not stoking her fire with questions about my father’s affair. What the fuck? I speed dialed my brother.
“We had a great time with Steve.”
“I heard. We had dinner last night. When he wasn’t with you, he was doing, quote nothing, with a Jewish lawyer his parents fixed him up with.”
“Oh.”
“Did you know daddy had an affair?”
“Who told you?”
“Mom.”
“Was she slurring or had she hit maudlin?”
“She sounded cold sober. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It didn’t matter. I didn’t want to make him look bad.”
“It did matter, Eric. I’ve spent twenty years thinking he was a saint.”
“What difference does it make? He was a decent man.”
“It makes a big difference. I needed to know that.”
“I was seventeen.”
“You haven’t been seventeen for twenty years. Mom’s been mad at him for twenty years. She thinks he was distracted thinking about the other woman when he crashed.”
Mary Ellen Courtney - Hannah Spring 01 - Wild Nights Page 9