Lost in His Eyes

by Andrew Neiderman

  She was home before me and up in her room. I had stopped to do two more things before coming home: the drugstore to pick up more toothpaste and the Kwik Stop shop to pick up a quart of milk. I heard her coming down the stairs almost as soon as I ended my call from Lancaster.

  ‘Who called?’ she asked. She had heard the house phone.

  ‘Your father.’

  ‘He’s supposed to help me with a paper I’m doing for business class. He promised to be my interview. I hope he remembers.’

  ‘In all the excitement, he must have forgotten,’ I said.

  ‘What excitement?’

  ‘You don’t know? Of course, you don’t know. You weren’t home last night or this morning,’ I said, more to myself than to her.

  ‘What?’ she asked, impatient with my detective work.

  ‘Your father was given a promotion with a significant salary increase.’

  ‘Really? Wow. Now he would be even better for the interview.’

  ‘Except he was also given a surprise gift today – box seat tickets to a Laker’s ball game. Which is where he is tonight,’ I added.

  ‘Oh.’ She thought a moment and then shrugged. ‘I guess one more day won’t matter.’

  ‘You didn’t leave it for the last minute, did you?’

  ‘Almost,’ she said, with that cutesy little smile of hers that bent rules and got her things Ronnie would normally never get her. ‘I work better under pressure.’

  ‘You’ll do well in business or politics,’ I said. ‘You have the right answers. All the time.’

  She shrugged again. She obviously never thought deeply about something she did so naturally, as naturally as breathing: avoiding reality until it was absolutely necessary to face it. Was it just her or her entire generation? Had they all become Scarlett O’Haras, deciding they would worry about it tomorrow?

  ‘So what’s for dinner?’

  ‘Why don’t you order a pizza? I’m going out.’

  ‘You’re going out, too? Without Dad?’ she asked, her eyes widening like the eyes of a cartoon character.

  ‘We’ve been known to do it, Kelly.’

  ‘Where? With who?’

  ‘With whom? Or don’t object pronouns matter anymore?’

  ‘You mean they once did?’

  ‘During the Middle Ages in America. I’m meeting an old girlfriend for dinner. Reconnecting. I have to shower and change,’ I said, heading quickly for the stairs.

  ‘Do I know her?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She was before your time.’

  ‘And you’re reconnecting after so long?’

  ‘It’s been known to happen, Kelly. It will happen to you, I’m sure,’ I said. And then I wondered. Would it? Would she end up in the place I was when she was my age? Would she peel off friends like peeling an orange and discard them? Is everything in this world temporary now? Was it always?

  She still looked confused. I was tired of the fabricating. It was actually easier most of the time simply to tell the truth.

  ‘Invite one of your friends over to share the pizza,’ I told her.

  She brightened.

  ‘I should tell you one more thing,’ I said, turning again on the stairway.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to go back to work for an attorney, part-time at first, but it could develop into a full-time job.’

  ‘Wow. Ch-ch-changes,’ she sang, and then smiled and said, ‘David Bowie.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said and continued up, smiling to myself. I knew that was a David Bowie song and I did feel like a teenager again.

  Maybe because of that, I went at my nails and makeup more intensely. I couldn’t recall when I had spent more time on myself with more interest and care. It took me nearly twenty minutes to decide on what to wear. I was undecided until I moved a few garments and saw the black dress I had bought nearly a year and a half ago for what was to be a special anniversary dinner. Ronnie thought it would please me to have two other couples with us to celebrate. As often happens when we go out to dinner with other couples, the men talked to the men and the women talked to the women. We might as well have been at separate tables. It certainly hadn’t had the ring of something special, like an anniversary.

  The dress was a form-fitted column style. It had a boat neck and a deep scooped back. I had bought my nearly knee-high black webber glazed nappa boots just to match the dress. I thought I looked great in it back then, but even better now. My DVD exercise program had delivered on tightening my rear and my thighs. I never gained weight on my stomach or waist, something that constantly amazed Ronnie who was always fighting the bulge. He told me I should be checked for tapeworm. I think he was hoping it was true so he could justify his own failure to keep his figure.

  I decided not to wear any jewelry beside my watch and a pair of matching black opal ball earrings. I was happy now that I had kept my hair appointment last week and had the stylistic cut. I almost had canceled it because I hadn’t felt the need to look pretty for some time. I was settling on a ‘this will do for now’ attitude, not only about my hair and my makeup, but my clothes, and even the way I was taking care of the house and shopping for food. One might even say I was down for the count just before I was rescued.

  When I looked at myself in the mirror this time, I felt a ripple of excitement reminiscent of my youth and my first serious dates. I was a competitor again, for I always believed that all women competed for all men. It was part of our DNA, with origins clearly established during the caveman days. Were we really that far from them? Sexual aggressiveness was simply more subtle, but if they could ply us with alcohol or drugs, they would, and then drag us back into some cave. The goal of the pursuit hadn’t changed. Of course not; why should it?

  I laughed at myself being so giddy. One would think I was going to my first prom or something. I scooped up my black silk cape with wide tubular sleeves and hurried out of the bedroom, practically bouncing down the stairs. When Kelly stepped out of the living room and saw me, her jaw collapsed, just as Ronnie’s did when he wanted to exaggerate his surprise.

  ‘Wow,’ she remarked.

  I paused at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you look this good for some time, Mom. This must be some very cherished old girlfriend.’

  For a moment I felt discovered, but my rationalization sprouted instantly.

  ‘Don’t you know how we women are when we reconnect or go to class reunions?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘We try to outdo one another and look so good that the others think, “What happened to me? What did she do right and what did I do wrong?” It helps our ego.’

  She smiled and shrugged, unable, I’m sure, to imagine this sort of a future for herself. In her mind, just like it had been in mine, she was young forever.

  ‘Waverly’s coming over,’ she said.

  ‘Try not to make too much of a mess.’

  I started for the garage.

  ‘Does Dad know you’re going out?’ she asked, following me.

  I paused at the door.

  ‘No. This happened after he called and he was on his way, but I’m sure I’ll be home before he will.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me where you’re going? You always make me do that.’

  ‘You can reach me on my cell phone, Kelly,’ I replied. I knew immediately that it wasn’t the sort of answer I would have tolerated. ‘I’m going to Gianni’s in Fullerton.’

  ‘So far?’

  ‘It’s midway for her and for me.’

  Her face was still crinkled with confusion and even – did I imagine it? – suspicion.

  She stood there watching me leave. When I got into my car, I sat for a moment, thinking about her. There has always been this belief that a mother has more of a unique connection to her children because they were part of her body. She can sense things about them that their fathers or siblings can’t. If that were so, why couldn�
�t it be true in reverse? How well did Kelly read me? Was she old enough to understand whatever signals she was receiving? Did it frighten her? Did it make her more curious or didn’t she care?

  I was suddenly hit with waves of guilt. My friends, even some relatives and my own mother often accused me of not being selfish enough. The charge was that I was guilty of sacrificing my own wishes and desires for the wishes and desires of my husband and daughter. Their needs always came first. However, no matter what was said to me about it, I didn’t change. Frankly, when it came to friends and relatives, even my own mother, I thought I was selfish enough; it was they who were too selfish. Many of my friends had broken or fragile marriages because of this attitude, and most had much bigger and more serious problems with their children than Ronnie and I had with Kelly. I always thought that a marriage should be a team effort, and team efforts by their very nature meant that individual desires had to undergo some compromise. Of course, the complaint about me that my girlfriends wave in my face was that I didn’t demand enough compromise from Ronnie.

  I hated putting the brakes on my new energy and excitement, but Kelly’s face and the tone of her questions just now were doing exactly that. I had never wavered from the belief that my first obligation was to my daughter and her welfare. Now that I thought about it all, it amazed me that this consideration hadn’t arisen until now. If I had thought about it, I wouldn’t have been so excited and enthusiastic about going out tonight. I would have downplayed it so as not to raise any suspicions.

  No matter how well we did as a family, how successful Ronnie was and what we could provide for Kelly, I always had the sense that she was fragile. I hadn’t intended that she would be an only child, and I did consider some of the medical procedures to increase the possibilities of my becoming pregnant again, but I was terrified of the chance of anything odd occurring and causing me to give birth to a mentally or physically challenged child. I’d much rather leave it up to what would happen naturally. Nothing did. Both of us were tested for potency. Ronnie’s results weren’t terrible, but they weren’t what they should be. I knew how devastating it would be to him to have that pointed up, so I settled – we settled – on leaving it be. If Kelly was going to be an only child, that would be it. Get used to it.

  What this did, however, was make me even more unselfish than I had been. What was I doing now? Was I finally overcoming that? Were my needs demanding to be addressed, no matter what the potential risk? Was it my time? Did all adulterers go through a similar self-analysis or didn’t they give it a second thought? It was certainly easier not to think about it. Could I do that? Could I avoid imagining Kelly’s reaction when or if she found out?

  Because of the traffic, it took a good thirty more minutes than I had anticipated to get to the restaurant. I chastised myself for taking too long to prepare. Ronnie would have been moaning and groaning, crying that we would be late. I arrived nearly twenty minutes late.

  Gianni’s was one of those Italian restaurants that really reminded you of an Italian restaurant in a small Italian village. The pinkish stone building itself was modeled on the traditional architecture, with its small balcony, mostly for show, cantilevered eaves and arcaded portico.

  I had forgotten how much I had enjoyed it when we were here, usually on the way home from somewhere. For one thing, it was small, so it gave you the impression it was truly a family-run operation with a Mamma Mia in the kitchen, creating sauces and recipes handed down through the generations. The walls in the restaurant didn’t have fancy pictures in fancy frames. They had actual family photographs that were in frames meant to hang on house walls, not restaurant walls. The tables had cotton tablecloths, so it didn’t look like some pizzeria in a mall. There were candles lit in small glasses by now, but what hit you immediately on entering were the aromas of garlic and peppers, meatballs and onions. All the pasta was truly homemade.

  It was in the bar that the owners had done the most to appeal to a wider clientele. It was almost as long and as wide as the restaurant area. Here, there were a half-dozen smaller tables without any tablecloths, cloth or paper. The walls were a dark-maple paneling with posters of Italian opera stars and famous Italian movies like Fellini’s La Dolce Vita and Sophia Loren in Marriage Italian Style.

  The bar itself had the look of something handmade by an Old World craftsman. There was great care in the columns and raised panels of dark oak. A dozen or so red-cushioned stools with backs were nearly filled. I paused. The men and women sitting there all seemed to turn on cue toward me. He wasn’t one of them and he wasn’t sitting at any table. Oh no, I thought. He didn’t think I was coming because I was so late. Or maybe he’s just as late as I am. He could have hit the same slow traffic. I decided to take a seat at one of the small tables.

  The bar waitress, a girl who didn’t look much older than Kelly, came over immediately, as if it was an unwritten rule never to leave an unescorted woman unattended in this bar for more than twenty seconds. I thought she approached me the way someone might approach a celebrity – tentative, her eyes full of excitement and interest. Everything about her demeanor underwent a metamorphosing as she stepped up to the table. Her posture improved and she quickly brushed off the front of her white blouse. She was wearing a light pink, mid-calf skirt, and her light brown hair was cut closely in a boyish style, but there was nothing boyish about her full figure. When she walked, she was followed by an entourage of male eyes.

  I couldn’t help thinking that Kelly could have a part-time job in a place like this someday, maybe helping to earn money for her college education, and could walk up to a woman like me alone at a table and be thinking, when she saw her wedding ring, that she might be having an affair. Ronnie and I were not regulars at this restaurant. No one knew us. This would be an ideal place to meet my secret lover. But both this girl and Kelly would try to be sophisticated about it and do nothing to make me or any other married woman feel uncomfortable, even discovered.

  Ever since I had met Lancaster, it was easier to envision myself in romantic scenarios. I was getting so that I could even hear that movie background music. We’d be on that beach, kissing, with the waves rushing over us. Soon, I thought, I’ll become like Ronnie and hum the themes of famous films. For me, beside From Here to Eternity, it might be Picnic or An Affair to Remember. I used to be so intolerant of the way my girlfriends fantasized and here I was doing it. There was that David Bowie again, singing ch-ch-changes.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘What would you like?’

  She set down a napkin.

  ‘I’d like a glass of chardonnay. Do you have Cakebread?’

  ‘No. We have Beringer.’

  ‘OK, fine.’

  ‘Do you want me to bring a bar menu?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone,’ I said. ‘We’ll probably go to the dining room.’

  I thought she almost curtsied before turning to the bar. Most of the customers were back to talking among themselves, but one woman held her gaze on me, a weak smile on her face. I didn’t smile back. Make no friends here, I told myself. Come and go like some unremarkable shadow.

  There was music. Pavarotti. Unlike most restaurants, it wasn’t simply a subtle background sound; it was clear and loud enough to appreciate. I closed my eyes for a moment. The beautiful music made me feel more philosophical. How did I get here? Was this as destined to happen as any incubating disease that was there at birth?

  When your marriage is young and you’re building a home, having children, solidifying friendships and developing careers, you don’t seem to have time to pause and build on fantasies. It takes someone with far less familial glue to separate him or herself from his or her spouse and children, and give free rein to the lust. He or she has to be dissatisfied not only with his or her partner, but with him or herself. He or she wasn’t what he or she had dreamed to be. In fact, either woke up one morning and began to blame the marriage itself as if the institution was naturally a trap. They should have waited, bu
t when people say that, what do they mean? Do they mean wait until the wanderlust dies in you? Until you’re less selfish? Wait until you believe you’re lucky to get whom you have? Does any of that ever happen?

  The waitress brought my drink. She stood there for a moment, waiting for me to take a sip and approve of it.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said.

  ‘I love your dress,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you get it around here?’

  ‘No. Actually, I got it in Los Angeles. Beverly Hills,’ I said.

  Her eyes widened and she nodded as if I had confirmed a suspicion she had about me.

  ‘I knew you weren’t from here.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  She shrugged. ‘You look like someone from Beverly Hills,’ she said, but it didn’t sound pretentious or derogatory. It sounded like mere fact.

  ‘Do I?’

  She nodded. ‘Do you want anything else? I can bring a dish of peanuts.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I said.

  She nodded and returned to her other customers. I watched her hold conversations with others and smiled to myself. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one, I thought, a young twenty-one, but most her age were young for their ages. Ronnie was always complaining about that. Whenever the company hired any young people, he complained that they were immature and as impatient as teenagers when it came to getting promotions or getting to their vacations.

  ‘I hate to think of the future of this country when we’re gone,’ he would say, and I would think, But what about the future you and your contemporaries are creating now?

  I looked to the doorway when I heard someone entering, but it was two couples arriving for dinner. They were followed by two more and then a single couple and another couple with a teenage boy. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly eight. If he had been detained, he couldn’t be much longer. I had just about finished my wine, but I wasn’t going to order another without him. The aromas of various shrimp, eggplant and chicken dishes had turned my stomach into a grinder, too.