Spa

by Olivia De Grove

  He slid onto the one empty seat at the bar and ordered a scotch. The bartender, who had three blenders all whirring away at once, looked disappointed. He asked Harry if he preferred single malt or blended, Scottish, English, or Canadian. And when Harry shrugged his indifference and stated “just scotch,” he thought the bartender was going to burst into tears.

  Harry tried to appease him by asking for a dish of bar snacks. But when it arrived, he decided that the pieces of shredded coconut and dried banana chips wouldn’t go with his drink, and pushed the dish outside.

  “Haven’t you got anything with salt on it?”

  The bartender shook his head. “Salt is very bad for the blood pressure,” he said didactically, and walked away to serve the “real” customers at the other end of the bar.

  Harry was in no mood for a lecture on the evils of salt. He was starving, and he was still ticked off that Joyce had been out running around the night before, probably with that actor, instead of getting on with her story. It hadn’t occurred to him yet that it might not be the editor who was ticked off, but the man.

  A cold gust of wind announced the arrival of more customers, and Harry turned to see if one of them was Bradley. But he couldn’t see his son among the crowd of five or six expensively dressed young people who had just come through the door, so he turned back to the bar and resignedly sipped his scotch.

  “Dad?”

  Harry felt a tap on his left shoulder and turned around. There stood a young man who had been part of the crowd at the door. He looked a little like John Kennedy, Jr. Nice grey sports jacket, black slacks, white button-down shirt.

  “Bradley?”

  The young face broke into a smile. “Didn’t recognize me, eh?”

  “No.… Of course I.… Weil.…” Harry had a closer look. “Didn’t you used to have blue hair?”

  “Nor for the last couple of weeks, Dad. I guess you haven’t been around enough lately to keep up with me. Besides, that stuff is all past tense now. Conservative is in.” He leaned against the bar next to Harry and nibbled at the banana chips.

  “Conservative, eh? Well, I can’t argue with that. At least you look like a human being now. Want a drink?”

  “Yeah, that’d be fine.”

  Harry signaled the bartender. “I’ll have another scotch and my son will have.…?” he turned to Bradley.

  “I’ll have a peach schnapps and orange juice. Thank you.”

  The bartender broke into a smile. Peach schnapps was the drink. He looked smugly at Harry and hurried away to fulfill his mission.

  For a few minutes, silence settled awkwardly between them while they waited for the drinks. Then Harry spoke.

  “So, how’ve you been?”

  “Fine, Dad. Fine. And you?”

  “Good. Good. Busy.” Harry took a long pull on the scotch. “How’s school?”

  “I graduated last semester, Dad.”

  “Right, right. History, wasn’t it?”

  “Philosophy.”

  “Right, Philosophy.” Harry nodded and stared ahead, thinking how out of touch he had become with his son. “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Well, Dad, that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about this afternoon. I was glad when you called. I didn’t want to do it without telling you, and I haven’t been able to talk to Mom about it. She’s kind of off on her own cloud lately, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Bradley. But you go ahead and tell me your news first.”

  Harry wasn’t looking forward to telling his son that his mother wanted to divorce his father. Especially when the two of them had always been so close. Bradley had always been his mother’s kid. He even looked more like her.

  “O.K.” Bradley cleared his throat. “I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this, Dad, but here goes. You remember Janie?”

  “Janie?”

  “The girl I’ve been going out with for the last year or so.”

  “Oh, that Janie. Sure, I remember her. Tall girl. Nice ti …, I mean, good figure.”

  “Well, I’m going to move in with her.”

  “You’re going to live together!” Harry raised his voice above the thrumming of the glass-washer. “How can you live with a girl when you haven’t even got a job? You haven’t got a job, have you?”

  Bradley shook his head. “No, Dad, but let me finish. Janie has her own company. She graduated in business administration from Columbia last year. After she got out, she could see that the opportunities for women weren’t what they should be, and she’s got this entrepreneurial thing, so she started her own company.”

  “Just like that? Her own company? That’s a pretty big step. What does she do, design clothes, make jewellery? What?”

  “She gives parties.” Bradley began to fidget. He knew his father would find this amusing.

  “Parties? What kind of parties? Nobody gives parties for a living, unless you mean she’s a caterer. She a caterer, that it?”

  Bradley hedged a little. “Well that’s part of it. Certainly part of it.” He took a long sip of the drink. “Actually Dad, the name of her company is Pet Parties Inc. She gives parties for pets.” There, it was out. He waited for the older man’s reaction.

  “Parties for pets. You mean like cats, dogs.…” Harry spoke slowly, trying to digest the idea.

  “Yeah, cats, dogs, gerbils, birds, snakes … whatever.”

  Harry grinned. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  Bradley shook his head.

  Harry’s grin faded. “You mean you are actually planning to go and live with a girl who makes a living helping animals to socialize?”

  “Dad, don’t put it down. Janie says that pets are an eight-billion-dollar-a-year business in this country. All she’s doing is carving out a share of that. You know how people feel about their pets? Pet Parties Inc. is already booked solid until August. This is big business, believe me.”

  “Booked until August, you say?” Harry was thinking about the demented little turd of a cat that Joyce had, Fredo—the refrigerated kitty. He wouldn’t mind giving a party for old Fredo alright—a bon voyage party. He wondered if Joyce would go for it. Then his mind skipped a few spaces and he was thinking about what she might have been doing last night with the actor. Would she do that? Well they weren’t playing tiddly winks, that was for sure.

  “Dad?”

  “Huh?” he muttered glumly, still thinking about Joyce and the actor.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think the whole world’s going to hell in a handcart, that’s what I think.” He pushed the thought of Joyce aside, it was only making him miserable, and tried to concentrate on Bradley’s announcement. “But, if you want to be with this girl, then I guess you should be with her. Life’s too short to waste on being with people you don’t care about.” He made a parental hesitation. “No point in my asking if you’re going to marry her, is there?”

  Bradley shook his head. “Marriage isn’t part of the scenario at the moment, Dad. We’re still trying to sort out the dynamics of our relationship. Find out if we’re compatible.”

  “Compatible? What’s compatible? You both like sushi? What?”

  “You sound just like Mom. We just want to see if we like living with each other first, before we go for the big “M.” A lot of couples are doing that, these days. Marriage isn’t something to be taken lightly.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Harry flatly. “Anyway, what is your part in all this pet stuff? She gonna make you a partner or something?”

  “No, Dad, I’m not exactly going to be part of the business. Although I will be helping out when she needs a hand.” Bradley squirmed uncomfortably. “I’m going to be staying at home, basically looking after Janie and the apartment. You know, like Mom does.”

  “Bradley, Bradley,” Harry shook his head and gave a deep sigh, “just answer me one question. Yes or no, and I promise that I won’t ask it ever again.”<
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  “Go ahead.”

  “Are you a fairy?”

  “What?”

  “Do you like guys?”

  “No, of course not! Just because I’m going to be a househusband doesn’t mean I don’t have perfectly normal sexual feelings. Anymore than Janie’s running her own business means that she is less of a woman. Dad, times have changed. You have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Catching up? I’m forty-nine years old. I’m not sure I can catch up. I’m not sure I even want to.”

  “Come on Dad, life is full of change. Your problem is that you’re stuck in a rut. You and Mom should get a divorce. Start over. Find new lives. Open yourselves up to new experiences.” He finished off his drink and picked a piece of orange pulp off his upper lip. “By the way, what did you want to talk to me about anyway?”

  “Funny you should mention it. I’ve been having a hell of a time trying to decide how to tell you this. I didn’t want it to color your view of getting married. I had a whole speech worked out about how sometimes marriages just wear out and how just because a marriage doesn’t last forever doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good marriage. And a whole bunch of other stuff.” He shook his head wearily from side to side. “But it looks like you just beat me to it. Your mother’s gone off to “open herself up to new experiences,” and I’m going down to see her tomorrow. I think she wants a divorce.”

  “A divorce? That’s great, Dad. You guys should have done it years ago. You’ll have a great time.”

  “Bradley, I’m talking about divorcing your mother, not spending a week at Club Med.”

  “I know that, Dad. What I meant was, a man your age, you’ll have a great time with the ladies. There’s a lot of women out there who really dig grey hair. Really. And there’s no point in being miserable all your life, that’s what I say. Wait till I tell Janie. Her mother’s been divorced three times!” He looked at his watch.

  “Wow! it’s already two thirty! I gotta go, Dad. Promised I’d help Janie with this baby shower she’s giving for a pregnant persian this afternoon.”

  “No lunch?” Harry didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He had seen some of the food being delivered to nearby tables. He didn’t recognize any of it.

  “No time.” Bradley slapped his father on the back. “Thanks anyway, Dad.” He moved away from the bar and then came back.

  “If you ever need to talk to anybody, you know, man to man, about the divorce, I’ll be home most days. Just come over and I’ll make us a nice lunch.”

  “Thanks, son. I might take you up on that.”

  Harry watched Bradley until he had gone out the front door and then turned back to finish his scotch.

  “My son the househusband is gonna make me a nice lunch.” He said softly under his breath, trying to decipher his reaction to the news. “I guess that was something else he inherited from his mother.”

  He reached for a handful of banana chips, paid the bill, and went outside to flag a cab.

  Chapter 33

  After lunch—if you could call it that—Joyce presented herself on the patio by the pool. She eyed the long wooden table in front of her with some misgivings. Ever since the incident with the wax she had been reluctant to offer herself up for possible encasement in any substance which was likely to immobilize her. But now it looked as though she had little choice. Gretel, the esthetician, took her card, ticked off “Mud Pack,” and patted the table with one gigantic hand.

  “Up ve jump,” she boomed, and Joyce obediently hopped onto the table.

  “Ze bathing zuit vill haf to go.”

  Joyce shook her head. “Uh uh. The suit stays. It’s a two-piece, there’s plenty of flesh for you to work on. Don’t think for one minute that I’m going to lay here in public, in the nude.” Joyce lay back and Gretel shook her massive head.

  “Ach! You American vimmen are zo …” she was searching for a word, “zo tied up.”

  “You mean uptight?” said Joyce, pulling up the straps of her bathing suit.

  “Yah. Das is it. Uptight. You spend a vortune on your botties to make them beautiful. Zen you are afraid that zomeone vill look at you.” She shook her head again, puzzled by it all. “Zere is notink wrong with ze human botty. It is a vork of art, not zomezing to be hidden away behind ze bathing zuit.”

  “You may have something there, Gretel,” said Joyce, adjusting herself more comfortably on the table. “But I’m not about to be a pioneer on the nudity frontier, so could we get on with this, please.”

  “Yah, yah. Ve get on with it. Maybe ven you are all coveret up you vill feel betta. Nobotty vill be able to zee your botty for the mud.”

  Gretel gave a laugh that was somewhere between a cackle and a guffaw, and slapped a handful of warm stickiness onto Joyce’s bare stomach. She smeared it around and around until it covered the exposed skin, and then scooped up another handful and began slathering it down her legs and thighs. Joyce lay there, thinking of lobster being drizzled with drawn butter, and then moved onto visions of cakes being iced, as Gretel’s strong hands massaged the goo into every inch of the exposed skin. Lately, food was everything.

  After a few minutes, she was finished. “Zere, you are all coveret up. Now ve vait for the zun to do its vork.” Gretel looked at her watch. “Half an hour, maybe forty minutes. I vill come back, undt you vill be nice undt hard. Your botty vill be cleansed of all the garbage.”

  Gretel departed, and Joyce turned her head slightly to see if anybody else was around the pool, but the patio was empty. She closed her eyes and concentrated on feeling the sun baking the mud onto her skin, pulling it tighter and tighter, squeezing all the “garbage” out. It felt like her skin was shrinking. At this rate, she wouldn’t have a toxin left in her whole body. There wouldn’t be room for one. She began to feel sleepy.

  After a few minutes, the sound of approaching footsteps roused her. She opened her eyes. It was Cliff.

  “You look like a giant gingerbread man. Good enough to eat.”

  Ignoring the implication, she waved a rapidly crusting hand at him. “Could you move over a bit? You’re blocking my rays, and I’m supposed to be hardening. The sooner I harden, the sooner I can get out of this earthenware overcoat.”

  He moved to the side, shading his eyes with the back of his hand, now that the sun was right in front of him.

  “About last night.…”

  “Ah yes. Last night.” She cut him off. “We must do it again, sometime. Perhaps we could hold a yearly reunion. Every year on the same day we could all get together and you could have a good time while I get stuck playing Sigmund Freud.”

  “My, we are testy today, aren’t we?”

  “You really put me on the spot last night with Cathy. You could have stuck around and helped me out. It’s tough when somebody pours out their heart to you. I mean, what was I supposed to say to her? Divorce the prick, or stay with him and let him browbeat you for the rest of your life ’cause that’s all there is, baby? What do I know about marriage, except how to avoid it?”

  “Was she O.K.?”

  “She was fine. I’m the basket case.”

  “You can’t help it if you have a kind face.”

  “Right, the kind that says “O.K., dump on me.”

  “I think you should be flattered that she trusted you enough to let it all out. It’s a big gift to be able to make people feel that they can trust you, be secure with you, confide in you. Don’t knock it.”

  “A gift, you say? Well, in that case, can I return it for something else? Have you any idea how depressed I felt when I finished with Cathy?”

  He smiled and the sunlight glinted off his caps. “Look, Joyce, there’s something I wanted.…”

  “Unless it’s topsoil, forget it.”

  “… to ask you. Would you like to have a little picnic supper down on the beach? I still owe you a date for last night, you know.”

  “On the beach? I am the beach.” She tried to blow a flake of mud from the end of her nose.
“How many people are coming along this time?”

  “Just us. I’ll try and scrounge up some food. You just be there at five o’clock. O.K.? We’ll have a little swim, and, uh, see what comes up, as they say.” He moved out of her line of vision. “Oh, and Joyce, don’t bother to shower. I’ve always had this thing about gingerbread.”

  “Very funny. Have you ever thought about guest-hosting for Carson?” she called after him.

  She heard him walk away and closed her eyes, thinking. What was going on here? Why did he keep trying? Why did she keep letting him? Was all this just so he could have a perfect score—a hundred pitches, a hundred hits? Did she really want to go to bed with him, or was it just the game she was enjoying? Or was that his motive? Men were so complicated. Even worse than cats.

  After a few minutes, another set of approaching feet stirred her out of her reverie.

  “Joyce, are you sleeping?” whispered Cathy.

  “No, I’m detoxifying.” Joyce didn’t open her eyes.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Do I look like I’m going anywhere?” She sighed and blinked against the strong sunlight.

  “No, I guess not.” Cathy took a deep breath. “O.K. about last night. I just wanted you to know that I really, really, really, appreciate what you did for me. You know, letting me get it all off my chest. I’ve never had anybody I could say all those things to before. You don’t know what it meant to me. And I … I wanted to say that I am really sorry if I spoiled your evening. I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know you didn’t, Cathy. And I’m glad that you feel better. I hope you can get things sorted out.” And Joyce realized that, in spite of what she had said to Cliff, she meant it.

  “Oh, I will. I know I will. I have another session with the doctor this afternoon. But you know something? Half the battle was admitting to myself how I feel. Always before, when I would start feeling like that, I would think how disloyal and ungrateful I was being to Michael, and I would push those feelings back down inside me and go and get something to eat. But last night, I let them all out, and now I know that all I have to do is deal with them. You made me realize that. You also made me realize that there’s nothing wrong with putting what you want first. There’s nothing wrong with working on your own needs as well as everybody else’s.”