by Jon Methven
Russ’s second occupation began as a weed dealer to friends. One of the nannies was a customer, which is how word spread. He supplies pharmaceuticals for other parents in the Gopa community, a few teachers, even Heather Pace—the head of school—is a regular client and occasional sexual liaison, a detail Russ spilled over beers. OxyContin, Adderall, Klonopin, Ritalin for parents who do not want the paper trail, the newest drugs awaiting FDA approval. I do not ask where he gets the stuff nor do I care. Although I will care in another month, when my supply runs out—me and the rest of the Gopa dependents.
Once Sunday arrives I like to put my mind on cruise control until about Wednesday. Every other Monday is when our group’s investment club meets and Harry updates us on progress. Tuesday I pick up Gus, and Iliza if she’ll allow it, and have a father-kids dinner. Wednesday means the weekend is in sight, which is when I feel I can be at my best. Not that I am my best at this stage in life. But if I am able to overcome some general flaws, weekends in the backyard will be my glorious time. Unfortunately, my domestic situation prevents me from overlooking Sunday, when we meet to strategize marriage with the McClutchens.
I have been reluctant to rage about what is happening between Ray McClutchen and Laura, mostly because they have been so upfront about it, so goddamned honorable and thoughtful. If they snuck around I would have cause for jealousy. Ray being the bigger person, and relying on his pop psychobabble to be forthcoming, when my wife and neighbor were discovered, they sat down Olivia and me and explained how it could work. They even brought in Devin Brenner, a Manhattan counselor who both Gus and I see biweekly, to proctor our sessions.
Devin calls it a Cooperative Marriage, a polite, sophisticated, politically correct term for what used to be referred to as swingers. We are so PC that in the first meeting I was bullied into admitting it was okay, in this age, for wives to initiate affairs, and to believe otherwise painted me as a misogynist. When members of two families fall in lust, rather than get a costly divorce that causes anxiety in children, they can all agree on a Cooperative Marriage. Instead of leaping into the sex, we phase-in the affair. Once a week, Tuesdays in our case, Ray and Laura get together for dinner and whatever else. Olivia is fine with it, happy to share Ray with another woman, wanting never to have sex with him again. Like a marathoner’s knee tissue that becomes eroded to the bone, Olivia’s sex drive is neutered, having heard more inspirational talk than any sane person can absorb in a lifetime. She is eager to spend the money from his books and lectures without having to fellate him a few times each year.
Me, I am in love with my wife, something I realized just after I was informed about the Coop. But the alternative is divorce, and I would never put my kids through it. Studies show—and the Gopa message boards are rife with data—that children raised in a single parent home, or in separate households, grow up with higher addictions to alcohol, drugs, pornography, and typically blame the father for their failure as adults.
Laura is in agreement. Like many of the Gopa moms, she has become addicted to self-help manuals and whatever the daily horoscope thinks about marriage. “Namaste momming,” we call it. She has read all of Ray’s books. She will not leave me because she worries about the karma. I paid for her graduate school. I supported us when she had no job and in the early going I funded Standcake. We have two wonderful children. Always determined and confident, her zest for life faltered with home ownership and parenting and waiting for me to be better. If spending time with Ray makes her happy, I am on board. Another reason to have Devin Brenner in attendance: we are reluctantly trying for a third kid so that Gus and Iliza will be accepting of their blood-related brother, Abraham—we already named it, this child of a strange wedlock, born of artificial insemination because his parents have not made love in two years.
There is no agenda at these Sunday meetings. Todd, the McClutchens’ son, is upstairs with Gus because Iliza locks herself in her room, refusing to entertain her classmate. They left Maddie home with a nanny. Devin Brenner begins by reminding the group each week to go easy on Olivia and I, that we are making a mature decision about complicated emotional matters, that we deserve recognition for our presence. We sip prosecco and discuss whichever topics arise organically. Tonight we have done the weather. We grouse through the political spectrum. We discuss Gopa and I refill glasses, mostly my own, opening two more bottles and washing down a pill. I notice that Devin Brenner and I are the only ones drinking, despite my flu. Ray never touches his. Laura has tea. Olivia gives up after a sip. Suddenly everyone laughs and enjoys the banter, I believe sex is the topic, and I realize I have sat down holding the bottle of prosecco, without my glass.
“What about you, Tom?” Devin asks.
It is my turn to talk. Laura knows from the dumb pant of my expression that I have drifted again. She watches with deprecation and fear, wondering what stupidity will seep out of my mouth. “Olivia caught Todd masturbating,” she says, updating me on the conversation.
“Ah, yes.” I pretend to care about stupid Todd McClutchen’s hermetic sex life. Todd is on the lacrosse team because his parents made him. Shy and homely, he will never touch a teenage breast with that attitude, reduced to wanking it in the privacy of his bedroom where his parents should damn well leave him be. “Embarrassing for sure. We’ve all been there.”
This irks Olivia, who explains in perfect Indian royalty, “No, Pisser.” Pissah. “We have not all been there.”
“I think what Tom is trying to say is that he’s familiar with Todd’s emotional response from his own experiences of being caught.” This excites everyone. Had I been paying attention, I would have understood we were not sharing experiences, rather critiquing the ritual of masturbation via forced loneliness as a response to paternalistic oppression. I do not know how much the McClutchens and Devin Brenner know about my sex life, but it is all masturbation at this point. And not out of enjoyment. We are doomsday preppers stockpiling semen for marital Armageddon. I am the resident expert on the topic. “Care to share your views?” Devin asks.
“It’s disgusting.” Olivia generally vents disgust, her emotional constant.
“From my understanding, it’s probably a shameful moment,” Ray says. “Is that about it, Pisser?”
“Not really, Clutchster. I’ve never experienced shame because there’s nothing shameful about it, whereas there is something tremendously upsetting about you dating my wife.” The phrase “getting caught” is subjective. Laura leaves me chore lists, reminding me to drop off my sample at the cryobank, which is the same thing as reminding me to masturbate. Has she caught me? She has walked through the room while I was crossing items off my chore list. “It’s efficient sex,” I conclude. “Better Todd take care of things in his room than forcing himself on an unwilling girl.”
“That’ll be all of that,” Ray says.
“You really are an asshole,” Olivia points out. Osshole.
“Are you a magazine or video man?” Devin asks, genuinely interested. He has a pad of paper and a pencil.
“Strictly video.” I have a nasty cold and just want to be in bed, which is why I am dressed in sweatpants and a bathrobe, medicating with prosecco. I uncross my legs, get into the spirit of the evening, and begin lying about matters I know will bother my neighbor. “I was thinking the other day during a video segment: you know who would like this? Olivia McClutchen would like this. It’s unemotional, fake props, detached existence. The men have large penises, which Olivia has never experienced.”
Ray settles his shoulders as if I hit him in the sternum. Laura smiles, but then catches herself and rolls her eyes at my immature barb. Olivia abruptly inches forward on the couch, stares at Ray, and then Devin. “Is that even allowed? I don’t want Pisser thinking about me while he’s doing…that.”
Devin starts to speak, and Laura interrupts, and they have a dignified discussion about the rules of pleasuring oneself. Can we, in fact, masturbate to each other, or
do we need permission, or is that a Cooperative Marriage boundary we should all respect? I mention that every heterosexual Gopa father has masturbated to Allie Sedlock, but no one listens to me during these discussions, which I enjoy. Ray says it does not bother him who masturbates to him, so long as it is not me, and Laura conceals a chuckle. In other times she and I would wait until we were alone and relive the best moments of this absurdity, but now we are on separate couches.
Olivia is near tears, sans accent, explaining how this is a violation of their agreement, that she did not expect to be masturbated to during the Cooperative Marriage. Devin calms her and Ray moves to sit next to her and no one pays attention when I speak.
“I’d like to rip off Olivia’s head and punt it into the kitchen. What would you all think if I stood up and did just that?” I am trying to explain, in my own way, that a tribe of miscreants has invaded my terrain and we do not harbor feelings for Olivia and would never involve her in our imaginings. During the course of the discussion, I have developed a violent erection, a product of the Luderica. “I would never fuck Olivia. Unless she was headless, and I was responsible for the headless-ness. The blood stains would go well with the new kismet throw rug.”
Devin takes over, a calm voice and soft lips I would like to bludgeon with a tire iron, suggesting it is my aggressiveness that upsets Olivia, that if I had introduced the prospect of passionate feelings for Olivia in a gentler manner it might have been less dramatic.
“But I don’t feel passion toward her.” Now I am the insulted. “I totally get why Ray is sick of fucking her.”
“See?” Olivia is shouting. “It’s the same with the chipmunks.”
“Fuck, Olivia,” Laura says. Along with the erection, I feel a grin. “Again with the chipmunks?”
Olivia places a hand on her chest and tries to talk down to Laura who is not having it. “I feel Pisser’s solution for everything is aggression. Why does he have to murder sentient creatures? Why does he own a gun?”
“It’s the cat that’s the bigger concern,” Ray says. “Went after a golfer yesterday. That won’t fly with the homeowners association, Pisser, I can tell you right now.”
“Dad?”
When did the gun appear? Olivia is yelling and I am pointing the gun and explaining why the weapon is a necessity. I am at war, I hear myself shout. Sure, it is a war against designer chipmunks, but a war all the same, and it is a violation of my second amendment rights to suggest I disarm. If the chipmunks knew we were not permitted to arm ourselves, they would behave any way they damn well pleased.
“Our children play in this neighborhood and he’s walking around with a loaded weapon. I just don’t feel I need to be part of his sexual fantasies. I’ve been very collaborative through all this. Haven’t I been collaborative?”
“You’ve been a true adult,” Ray says, patting her knee.
“You’ve been wonderful,” Devin adds, patting the other knee.
“That’s my one request. That Pisser not wank off to me.” She laughs, crazy. “Is that what it’s called—wanking off?” The size of my erection right now, the gun’s handle. They all wait for me to address it. “Look at him. He thinks this is a big joke.”
I cannot do anything about the smile, like drool to an invalid, the hardness and humor and dry mouth and blackouts. Sex with Olivia and the chipmunks and Clint Eastwood hunting golfers in their plaid pants and collared shirts—it has all formed a treasure chest of playful imagery. This is what Laura wants, what Whitman at work has asked for: a man who can face hardship and find the playful, sappy center. Devin is saying something about giving him the weapon and my head is shaking no, which is hilariously making Olivia weep and laugh harder and Laura hide her face in her hands. They do not know I have a backup BB gun hidden in my upstairs closet, nor the crossbow that was accidentally delivered to the Hendersons and then the Jays, and now sits securely in my shed.
“Dad?”
“What’s up, kiddo?” It’s Gus, rescuing me. He has been standing there for several minutes. Dressed in a floral housecoat we picked up at the thrift shop, he walks with a cane fashioned out of a lacrosse stick. It’s a hilarious costume. Not so much if your thirteen-year-old son is planning to wear it to school in the morning.
“There’s an officer at the door,” he says.
Olivia smiles. Laura’s eyes are wide, though I cannot decipher if she is upset or trying to convey strategy. Ray snickers. “Bill’s outside?” I ask.
Bill Chuck runs security for the Slancy community, quiet and decent and possibly mean if provoked, retired NYPD officer forced to take this job because it pays better than bank security and he’s too old to guard celebrities. I often wonder how Bill Chuck feels, after patrolling the city for so long, that his retirement career finds him protecting a gated, predominantly white community. He likes to talk to me about the weather and professional wrestling and I think we enjoy each other.
“Not just Mister Chuck,” Gus says. “The man from school is with him.”
Lieutenant Misch
The two men on my front stoop take a look at Gus and I and assume they have interrupted a game, which distracts them from the bulge in my pants. They are too decent to address my son’s outfit, or that I am dressed exactly the same. Devin and the others eavesdrop: why would the head of Gopa’s security detail travel out to Slancy on a Sunday? I escort the officers to the den.
“Sorry to bother you, Tom. You know Lieutenant Misch, I believe.”
His name is Reginald Misch. Everyone calls him Lieutenant. Like Bill Chuck, he is former NYPD and now oversees the small band of mercenaries who protect our children through daily education. I run through the arsenal of infractions that might render me onto his radar: Toby, chipmunks, Clint Eastwood, the BB gun uncomfortably shoved into my waistband above my fleeting erection.
I jangle my wrists, a horrible sense of humor when nervous. “You got me. Go ahead and cuff me.”
Bill laughs, I laugh, Lieutenant Misch does not. He has an intimidating lack of facial hair, a man who respects detail. He does not want to be here, a tiredness to him that reaches back years. If he recognizes me from the lobby, he is not impressed. “You’re familiar with a Russ Haverly?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I was notified he hasn’t been to lacrosse practice since Tuesday.”
The two men stare. I shake my head. “It’s awful. This waiting.”
“What happened to your face?”
“Yardwork,” I say. “Accident.”
He stares at my outfit. “You have a cold?”
“The flu maybe.” Paranoia strikes. “What does that have to do with Russ?”
“Your nose,” Misch says. “It’s running into your mouth.”
I wipe the back of my hand across my face and rub that into the bathrobe, suddenly aware of how hot my skin is.
“Anything you can tell us, Mister Pistilini.”
“Call me, Tom.”
“I’m better with last names.” Misch checks a notebook, looks at my face, sighs. “You golfed with him on Tuesday.”
“Let me think.” We do not always golf this time of year, but there’s a driving range where some of the locals hit balls into huge nets, an excuse to drink beer and avoid home. It was cold on Tuesday. “I don’t recall.”
“This past Tuesday, Mister Pistilini. Days ago. Can you tell us where you were?”
“Tuesday.” The word seems exotic. I was at work. I forgot to pick up the kids and had to call Laura. It was her night to have dinner with Ray, but they canceled and retrieved Iliza and Gus. I drank a few beers at the clubhouse. I wandered through backyards, smashing out security cameras. I drove out to Brooklyn to kidnap a feral cat from a cemetery, failed miserably, my face scratched to hell.
“You were last seen leaving the clubhouse bar with Mister Haverly.”
The accusation embarrasses Bi
ll, who monitors the island by camera and provided this information to his colleague. I have seen enough police shows to understand this is trouble. “You think I did it?”
“Did what exactly?” Misch’s hairless face is crinkling and red, a small animal burrowing. His eyes should be on my eyes, staring me down, but they wander across my face and clothes and lies.
“I don’t think I like your tone.” I turn to Bill. “I don’t like his tone.”
“This is a school matter,” Misch says. “No one’s accusing you of anything.”
“Settle down, Tom. Whole thing has folks spooked. Mischy just has a few questions.” Mischy. These two are pals. Bill pats my shoulder. “Russ has a boat I’ve seen a few times. That’s gone as well. Thought you could tell us if he left in the boat Tuesday.”
I am rattled and nervous, which triggers the anxiety, the giggles, my head so hot. I am one bad moment away from blacking out, struggling to remember. “He would have taken the boat out here on Tuesday,” I say. “There were other people in the clubhouse. And, like I said, I didn’t golf on Tuesday.”
“You didn’t say that, Mister Pistilini. You said you couldn’t recall.”
“It snowed on Tuesday.” The voice comes from behind me. I turn to Laura, arms crossed, frowning. “Tom wouldn’t have golfed in the snow because he isn’t an idiot. He’s a weatherman.”
“I’m aware of your husband’s occupation, ma’am. We spoke to his employer. But he was at the clubhouse Tuesday. So was Mister Haverly.”
“Along with dozens of other members,” Laura says.
“Your husband was seen leaving with Mister Haverly”—he checks the notebook, the two discussing me like I’m no longer present—“between seven and nine o’clock.”