Shake Down the Stars

by Renee Swindle

  “I told you, this was the only time she could meet!”

  “So what?!”

  I shot out of bed, telling him it was his turn to take Hailey to school, like it or not. That was when he said Melinda was already at the café waiting for him. He then said something about how I always got my way, and this time he wasn’t going to give in. I snapped back that if I always got my way, he wouldn’t be e-mailing “Dr. Green” so often and going on so many “coffee dates”—the implication, along with the quotation marks that stayed suspended in the air, irreparably pitting us one side against the other.

  That was when he carefully closed the bedroom door, signaling that whatever he was about to tell me should not be overheard. I crossed my arms and waited.

  “What the hell are you trying to say, Piper?”

  “I’m not trying to say anything.”

  “Yes, you are. Are you implying something here? ’Cause if you are, I think you should spit it out.”

  “I’m not implying anything, Spencer.”

  “The hell you’re not. I can’t believe that you would cheapen us like this. Listen to yourself. Is this what you want us to turn into? We’re talking about you and me here, Piper. Is this the kind of marriage you want? Huh? Is it?”

  “Maybe you’re innocent, but I bet she’s not.”

  “She’s married.”

  “I know she is, Spencer. That’s why they call it cheating.”

  I’d never seen him look at me with such disdain. He locked his eyes with mine, his breath labored with anger. “Maybe you don’t remember that I already told you because you had too much wine that night.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I had one glass. How many did you have?”

  “What are you now, the wine police?”

  He cut his gaze and walked to the door. “Stop thinking about yourself for once and take our daughter to school. I’m not your fucking servant.”

  And I did.

  I took our daughter to school.

  And it seemed for the duration of the morning, I could not snap, yell, or pick on Hailey enough. She was doing some kind of dance in the backseat as we drove to school, and I yelled and told her to stop playing around and keep her butt still. I said this right before we hit the truck.

  After she died, I couldn’t push Spence away far enough or fast enough. I accused him of cheating on me daily; I told him if he hadn’t been messing around with Melinda, writing some paper no one would ever read, our daughter’s death could have been avoided.

  Eventually, my rages became more acute, and I began demanding a divorce. Spence, entombed in despondency and depression, finally agreed.

  • • •

  I walk into the kitchen, pour a double scotch, and toss it back. After my body relaxes with a resounding “Thank-you,” I make another double for myself and a shot of whisky and water for Spence, then join him on the couch. Since the divorce, almost two years ago now, we’ve become exactly like the Cosbys, except we have no children, drink too much, and lack a general optimistic outlook on life.

  On TV a pack of hyenas watches a herd of grazing zebras. “Uh-oh,” I say.

  Sure enough, we watch as they chase down the zebras. A slower zebra is caught at the leg and down he goes. The shot cuts to three vultures overhead. They greedily eye the spectacle below with napkins tucked under their chins and knives and forks poised.

  Soon, I feel the nice tug-of-war between the Ambien and the scotch, and I rest my head in Spencer’s lap. We’re divorced and we’re fucked-up, but we’re slowly making our way back to each other. Once, after we read Chekov’s The Lady with the Pet Dog in class, one of my students said, “Anna and Dmitri are tight like that; you know what I’m sayin’, Miss Nelson? Things are complicated, but they get each other. You know what I’m sayin’? Ain’t nobody coming between those two. Anna is Dmitri’s boo.” That’s how it is with Spence and me. No matter what has gone on between us. We get each other. He’s my boo.

  • • •

  I feel a warm circular object pressing against my cheek. It’s not hot enough to make me jump or scream, but it does get me to open my eyes. I wait for my brain to tell me what’s going on. My clues: a framed poster of Hitchcock’s Vertigo and a hideous red leather recliner, both purchased while Spence was on one of his buying splurges.

  My hand dangles off the side of the bed, but as soon as the smell of coffee reaches my nose, I use what energy I have to reach up and blindly touch Spence’s arm, then wrist, then fingers, and finally the mug of coffee.

  “Here.” He takes the mug from my cheek and places it in my hand.

  “Hangover,” I moan.

  “Yeah,” he says, giving me two aspirin.

  He waits while I swallow the aspirin, then walks to the doorway and pauses. He wears a sweater over loose-fitting jeans. From what I can tell, he’s already shaved. “Oatmeal is on the stove. You should get going after you eat.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not us. You. You have school today.”

  “School? Today’s Sunday.” From the look on his face, I gather that I might be mistaken. “Isn’t it?”

  “P, it’s Monday.”

  “Monday? What happened to Sunday?”

  He doesn’t bother responding and leaves.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I call after him. I wait for a response but only hear him knocking around in the kitchen. “Spence?! Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” he calls out. “It’s Monday.”

  I force myself to sit up. Monday. How can it be Monday when—What the hell happened to Sunday? I sip my coffee and begin retracing my steps. Engagement party. Selwyn. Spence . . . Sunday. I try again. Engagement party. Selwyn. Spence . . . A blip of a memory flashes: jazz documentary and a tall bottle of Grey Goose. Followed by a second blip: William Churchill taking a picture with Roosevelt and Stalin. More Grey Goose.

  Right. Sunday.

  I call out: “I think I remember now. We watched documentaries on Louis Armstrong and Churchill yesterday. Vodka was involved?”

  “You got it. You passed out before the Blitz.”

  I moan and make my way out of bed. It’s six twenty. At least I have plenty of time to get ready. I start looking for the T-shirt I’ve been wearing for the last two days.

  Spence says from the kitchen, “I forgot to mention that my mom called. She’s on her way.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding and this is all a bad dream.”

  “I’m kidding and this is all a bad dream!”

  I mutter more than a few curse words under my breath. Forgetting all else, I start looking for my purse and car keys so that I can get the hell out of the house before my former mother-in-law shows up. I start tossing clothes this way and that. Spence appears in the doorway, holding a wooden spoon, his hand devoured by an oven mitt made to look like a cow’s head.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Car keys.”

  “Stay and have some oatmeal. It’ll make you strong.”

  “I don’t want to be strong. I just wanna get the hell out of here.” I start tossing clothes again. “Where are my keys?”

  “I think you’ve forgotten—you have no car.”

  “Shit!” I slap my hand against my forehead and sit on the edge of the bed, defeated. “My car is back at the mansion.”

  “That’s the story I was told.”

  “Would you give me a ride home?”

  “Not now.”

  “Please?”

  “Nope. Mom is on the way. I’ll give you a ride after we eat.”

  “Pretty please?”

  “P.” He glances down at my bra and the pair of boxers I’m wearing—his. “Get dressed.”

  “But—”

  Just then there’s the disti
nct sound of the front door clicking open, followed by a bright and cheery “Hello! Anybody home?”

  Spence’s eyebrows shoot up. “What do you know, she’s already here.”

  “I thought you said she just called!” I whisper through gritted teeth.

  “She did. She was probably calling from around the corner.”

  “It’s six fucking thirty in the morning. Why is she here so early?”

  “You know Mom—rise and shine and all that. She wanted to surprise me with a good breakfast.”

  “Hello! Where’s my handsome boy?”

  Spence keeps his eyes locked with mine. “I’m in here, Mom. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I grumble. “First I have to find out it’s Monday, and now your mom shows up?”

  “Stop whining, P. She’s my mother.”

  I switch tactics and wrap my arms around his waist. “Will you take me to get my car?”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Drive me home, then. Please? Tell her I need to get to work and you’ll be right back.” I figure I’ll take a taxi to my car later. The high school where I teach is only a twenty-minute walk from my apartment, and footing it won’t be a problem, especially now that I know the ex-mother-in-law is here.

  But my begging is of no use. “You have plenty of time,” he says, unhooking my arms. He then points the oven mitt at my nose. “Get dressed.”

  The sunlight cuts through the kitchen blinds like a saber, forcing me to wince and duck as I make my way to the table. Elaine, the former mother-in-law, stands at the counter stirring gruel in a huge black cauldron. Her skin is a fine lime green and she wears her usual black pointy hat, black dress, and black pointy shoes. Her broom is just off to the left.

  Thanks to my hangover, the bacon sizzling in the skillet sounds more like gunfire. I recognize fruit and bagels from the deli up the street. Spence’s oatmeal has been relegated to the corner of the stove.

  Spence greets me. “Morning,” he says, his coffee mug poised at his lips, eyes glued to his laptop.

  “Good morning,” I mumble in return. I found a pair of jeans and a sweater to wear. I’ve washed my face and have managed a semblance of a ponytail but not much else. My head pounds.

  Elaine glances over her shoulder as she whips eggs at top-notch speed. “Hello,” she mutters, and goes straight back to whipping.

  When Spencer introduced me to the family, Elaine told me that she looked forward to getting to know me better, but our relationship remained strained at best. We’re too different. Elaine became a homemaker soon after graduating from Sarah Lawrence and marrying Spencer’s father, a judge. She spent her life creating a perfect home for her elder son, Howard, and later for Spencer. I, on the other hand, tend to avoid the kitchen at all cost, and to Elaine’s horror, went back to work after Hailey turned six months old. Our relationship was made none the better after the accident. I know she blames me for the loss of her youngest grandchild. I suppose this is the one thing we do agree on: I blame me for that, too.

  Elaine gives the eggs a final beating, then dumps them into the hot skillet. She’s found me here twice within the last month, and I can tell she’s none too pleased.

  “Can I help with anything?” I offer.

  “I’ve got everything taken care of. You just sit and relax. Spencer, would you put out the butter?”

  “Sure thing.”

  She adds, “And either pull your pants up or put on a belt.”

  “This is the style, Mom,” Spence says, giving her a peck on the cheek. He tends to revert back to being her baby boy when she’s around, and Elaine, naturally, relishes her role as Mother Supreme.

  Once breakfast is served, she chats it up with Spence briefly, but after she has fired a couple of sharp glances my way, it’s obvious that her mood has darkened. Passive-aggressive woman that she is, she won’t spit it out and only grows increasingly silent. I’m sure Spence can tell her mood has changed, but he doesn’t take the bait, and we all continue eating with the dark spell she’s cast above our heads.

  She clears her throat a couple of times, but we ignore her. Finally, not being able to stand that no one is asking her what’s wrong, she folds her hands on the table and clears her throat in a way that says she’s finally ready to speak up. “I have something I need to say, and I’m afraid I’ll need your attention.”

  Spence stops squirting ketchup over his eggs and sets the bottle down. I place my spoon on the edge of my plate. I’m almost grateful that my hangover is keeping most of my thoughts in a fog.

  She takes a breath and looks at Spence. “I didn’t come here with the intention of starting anything, but seeing that you have company at this hour, I feel it’s time I stop holding my tongue.”

  “Mom.” Spence sighs.

  “To be honest, Spencer, I’m worried about you.”

  “Mom,” he moans. “Not now. Can we just eat?”

  A perennial argument during our marriage was that Spence never stood up to Elaine as he should. I’d tell him time and again that it was his responsibility to put her in her place; but he never really said anything, leaving Elaine and me to battle it out over issues such as whether she should be allowed in the house when we weren’t home or how she needed to keep her advice about the raising of our daughter to herself.

  “Divorce means people go their separate ways; yet I keep having to find her here. It’s not right, Spencer. You two are divorced.”

  “Yes, we are,” Spencer says. “But Piper and I are adults, and what we do is our business, and you know that.”

  I raise my brows as I take a sip of coffee. “Hear, hear.”

  “But it’s my business when you’re being dragged into something that’s doing you harm.”

  “Dragged?” I blurt. “It’s not like I’m forcing myself on anybody. Spence wants to see me as much as I want to see him.”

  “But you can’t say what you two are doing is emotionally healthy.”

  Spence says, “I appreciate the thought, Mom, but what P and I do together is our business.”

  Elaine turns her attention my way. “I know it’s difficult to find a good man these days, but you need to let Spencer get on with his life. You’ve both proven that you’re not good for each other, and frankly, you asked for the divorce, so you should be the one to move on.”

  “Mom,” Spence warns.

  “You have to get it together, Spencer. I’ll be the first to admit that what has happened to you—to both of you—is the worst thing that can possibly happen, but Spencer, you have a lot going for you, professionally and otherwise, and I don’t want you to lose ground. You could have your life back. It won’t be the same, but you don’t have to live like this.” She looks over at me, her gaze moving down to the sweater I’m wearing—Spencer’s sweater. She holds her gaze, then slowly looks up, her mouth drawn tight. “I don’t understand. You wanted the divorce, but you won’t let him go.”

  “He’s a grown man,” I say.

  “That may be so, but he can’t move on with you practically shacking up with him years later.”

  “Mom.”

  “I’m sorry, Spencer, but I’m tired of finding her here and tired of holding my opinion. I’ve had enough. What you both have faced is unimagin—” Her voice cracks and she stops. She appears startled, as though she’s hiccupped or burped in polite company. She clears her throat and continues. “What happened to you both is unimaginable, but you can’t continue to live like this. She’s a bad influence on you, Spencer.”

  “Mom.”

  Elaine shoots me a look. “Well, she is. She doesn’t even know how to mourn properly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “You know exactly what it means.” She glares hard, as though she can see right through me. I know she’s referring to the fact that I’m sti
ll sleeping with Spencer, but her stare is so incriminating, I briefly wonder if she knows about the other men as well.

  Spencer says, “We all have our own ways of dealing with what happened.”

  “I know what’s right,” she says. Her hands are balled into fists, but she’s already shaking at the shoulders and teary. “Don’t you think I miss her? There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t remember something about her. I miss my grandbaby every single day.” Embarrassed by a sudden flash of tears, she stands abruptly and goes to the sink.

  Spence and I exchange glances before he joins her. “Mom.”

  It’s true. While Elaine never liked me, she loved Hailey and doted on her. She constantly bought her presents and babysat more than we needed. And she made her Halloween costume by hand every year. When she was a one-year-old, for instance, Hailey went dressed as an heirloom tomato, Elaine stitching the word heirloom on her green felt hat, which served as the stem. Hailey loved her right back, too. I can still see her running down the hall to greet her. “Granny!”

  Spence takes Elaine in his arms.

  “I have every right to worry.”

  “I know,” he says.

  She sniffles a few times. Just when it seems she’s calmed down, she breaks from Spencer’s hug and goes for a napkin and blows her nose. She then looks at us both, determined again. “You two are still young, and you can’t allow yourselves to self-destruct. Think of what you can do if you go your separate ways. You can focus on yourselves and rebuild your lives. You two are divorced.”

  When we don’t respond, she finds her purse and sweater.

  “You don’t have to leave, Mom,” Spence says gently. “Stay. Finish your breakfast.”

  “No, I can’t say I feel comfortable staying. I prefer to leave.”

  “Stay, Elaine,” I say.

  “I don’t think so. I’m not one to take on the role of hypocrite. Spencer, I’ll visit again when I know you’re alone.”

  Spence shoots me a look after she leaves and shrugs his shoulders. He then shakes his head sadly and follows. This is the story of our marriage.