“Any of his other circas worth listening to?”
“ ‘Cowboys and Angels,’ ” I said, “you’re playing it over and over, aren’t you?”
“No,” Jay said, sitting next to me. “Of course not. I intersperse it with ‘I Can’t Make You Love Me’… I just can’t get Hidalgo out of my head.”
“So when are you killing yourself?”
“About an hour. I have to highlight my hair first. I’m a hot mess. Sweet Baby Jesus, save me.”
My BlackBerry started buzzing.
“Please get an iPhone. BlackBerrys are uncivilized,” he said.
“You’re pretty judgmental for a potential suicide,” I said, then answered. “Hello?”
“Emergency,” Aimee said.
“Are you okay? I’m with Jay—”
“Oh, that,” she said. “Promise me you won’t tell him anything.”
“But you haven’t told me anything.”
“The reason I didn’t pass the physical?” she said. “I’m pregnant.”
I straightened up and looked at Jay.
“What?” Jay said.
“You’re joking,” I said.
“Why would I joke about something as horrible as that?” Aimee said.
“How do you know?”
“Holy Mother of Oh My God,” Jay said. “That old witch is pregnant?”
“Don’t tell him!” Aimee screeched.
“He knows,” I said, as Jay tried to wrestle the phone from me, settling for listening in by pressing his head against mine.
“I can’t tell you who the father is,” she said.
“Translation: The girl doesn’t know,” Jay said. “Are we keeping it?”
“No,” Aimee said. “Where would I put it?”
I was gripped by maternal longing. “You must keep this baby.”
“Hannah, I kill everything I touch, you know that.”
“Have you told the father?”
“He wants to get married,” Aimee said.
“My God, what a scumbag,” Jay said facetiously.
“That’s sweet,” I said. “Do I know him?”
“I’ve lived alone for twenty-five years. Do you know what that does to a person?”
“It makes them a selfish bitch?” Jay offered. “I don’t believe this. I can’t get married, and she won’t get married.”
“Hannah, Jay, please, I need your support,” Aimee said.
“We can raise the baby. Together,” I said.
“I’m a selfish bitch. Even Jay said so.”
“Full disclosure,” Jay said. “I may have been talking about myself.”
“Where are you right now?” I asked Aimee.
“I can’t be a mother,” Aimee said, pacing my kitchen. “Mothers have to do things, like take care of a child.”
The four of us, including Chloe, who’d brought over pastries and was serving them with tea for our baby-or-no-baby discussion, had gathered around my kitchen table. Ellie would dance through every so often, as a gentle, extremely cute reminder of what could be.
“You take care of Ellie when I need you,” I said. “You’ve taught her things.”
“Like what?”
“Like …” I looked around for help.
“Always put vodka in the freezer?” Chloe said.
“You do know you can’t do Botox during the pregnancy?” Jay said.
Aimee looked as though someone had punched her in the mouth.
“Why would you say that to her?” I asked, grabbing Aimee’s hand.
“I can’t have this baby,” Aimee said. “I need to schedule an appointment right now. Today.”
“Not being able to get Botox injections is hardly an acceptable reason to have an abortion,” Chloe said.
“Okay, then. What about fillers?” Aimee asked, sounding like a wounded child.
“Jury’s out,” Jay said.
“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked.
“At one point, I was looking for a surrogate to carry Hidalgo’s and my child,” Jay said. “I looked through a million pictures. One came close, until I noticed the cankles. Ankles are so important in life, don’t you think?”
“I’m about to break up with you again,” I said.
“Please don’t. Those were the worst three days in my history.”
“I can’t do this,” Aimee said. “I was supposed to get the biggest role of my life.”
The four of us sat in silence. You’ve gotten to know us—you know what it must take for us to sit in silence.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” I finally said, “that there is no bigger role than being a mother?”
Aimee shut her eyes. I wanted to take her uterus from her, put it into a uterus-holder inside a terrarium, and feed the baby until he, or she, was ready to be born. It sounded like a story line out of Nip/Tuck: The Later Years.
“Just yesterday, my sweet little Lorraine told me that God doesn’t make mistakes,” Chloe said. “If you believe in God, or fate, or universal energy … Aimee, this pregnancy, this baby, is meant to be.”
Chloe to the rescue.
“God picked a selfish, middle-aged actress for this role?” Aimee said. “He really has a problem casting parts.”
Jay kneeled down before Aimee and took her hands in his. “Nonsense, honey. I was a selfish bitch until I had Ralph, and then Ellie. You’re going to be a great mom.”
The light in my kitchen dimmed as clouds moved across the sun. Construction noise outside had ceased. All was silent, but for the light touch of a wind chime.
Aimee started to cry.
I watched as Jay wiped her tears, as Chloe hugged her and kissed her cheek. I watched as Aimee’s grandfather flickered in and out, the grief that had been etched on his face replaced by something greater: hope.
To recover from his breakup with Hidalgo, Jay had taken on a new workout routine. The old workout routines of the eighties (coke), nineties (Ecstasy), the new millennium (HGH and 5-hour Energy Drink) wouldn’t work anymore. I needed his advice, but the only way I could catch him was to pin him down at “the Stairs.”
Starting before six A.M, dozens of scantily clad pros and non-pros (celebs and civilians), hot and wannabe-hot, singles and swingers, trudge up over 180 concrete stairs off 4th Street down to Entrada and up again for their daily workout, sweating, heaving, grunting, and smirking all the way. The bluffside views from the top of the stairs are breathtaking—you can see the wide Pacific, the Santa Monica Mountains, and the sumptuous homes of rich folk who have to contend with boot camps taking place on their front lawns.
I feel about these stairs the same way I feel about brussels sprouts; namely, they shouldn’t exist.
“I have to have the talk with John,” I said, my chest heaving as I climbed the narrow stairway, hoping one of these Stair Maniacs knew CPR, and would be willing to administer it on a person with a BMI of more than 2. Jay’s perky ass served as my tracking device—as long as I kept it in view, I would live.
“How do you tell a dead husband you’ve slept with someone else?” Jay said, as he skipped a step. “It’s just going to hurt his feelings.”
“I’d feel dishonest if I don’t,” I said.
“So you’re going to rub it in his face,” Jay said, between deep breaths. “Wait. Does he have a face?”
“Yes. I can see his features. He’s matured, now,” I wheezed. “Is there an end to these stairs? Where’s civilization?”
A shirtless Stair Master in running shorts came up behind me, breathing down my neck. He finally ran past me, spraying me with his bodily fluids. I prayed I wouldn’t get sick.
“Like, only thirty more … This is so Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Remember the movie? I had such a crush on Rex Harrison. I’ve spent decades looking for my Henry Higgins.”
I stopped, catching my breath, as a tight sixty-year-old woman skipped past me.
“What are you doing?” Jay said. “There’s no stopping on the stairs! You can’t hold up the line. It’s like
a Liverpool soccer match—you’ll get trampled.”
“Can we get back to me breaking up with my dead husband, please?” After glancing at my phone, I resumed my snail’s pace. Tom had texted me, checking in, ending in a smiley face emoticon. Why did that make me feel giddy instead of creeped out?
“Don’t tell John,” Jay said. “It will only upset him. And who wants an angry ghost?”
“We still love each other,” I said. “I wouldn’t want him to find out some other way.”
“You mean, like from another ghost?”
“Dead people love gossip,” I sputtered. I saw daylight. We were almost at the top. I felt a kinship with the Chilean miners.
“Oh my God. What do you do if you’re banging Tom and some dead person pops up?”
I took three more steps.
“I haven’t gotten there yet.” I shuddered. Was it possible? “I have to come up with a set of rules. Dead people are like toddlers—always testing the boundaries. They need discipline and structure.”
We reached the top. I felt like vomiting. At least thirty people were standing around, stretching, waiting their turns. Both private expansive lawns and the grassy meridian on 4th were filled with people working out with weights, doing sit-ups, push-ups, and most of all, pick-ups.
“Let’s go over there,” Jay said, regarding the grassy area. “That’s where all the mancandies are handing out their headshots.”
As he kept talking, I followed him as best I could, on legs that felt like Jell-O.
“Hey, you could write your own line of books: Raising Your Dead Person; All the Best People Are Dead; The Dead, They’re Just Like Us, Only, You Know, Dead.”
We crossed to where the Young and Sweaty were stretching their quads, and sat down in the grass. Jay started doing sit-ups, while I watched.
“Hold my ankles,” Jay said. I complied. “Now. Words, please? What do you say to your dearly departed?”
He sat up, touched his elbows to his knees, and went back down again.
“Honey, I love you, but I’m only human—the live version,” I said. “And I slept with someone else.”
“Good luck with that,” Jay said, as he repeated the sequence. “That certainly never worked for me.”
“So, what do you say, instead?”
“Nothing,” Jay said, lying back. “Sometimes, dishonesty is the best policy.”
Brandon had asked to take a couple days off. He looked so distracted, I could hardly say no. What’s harder than being a forty-something? How about being a twenty-something? Meanwhile, I was feeling more grounded, no longer convinced that anyone I loved might die at any minute. Ellie would keep breathing, even without me hovering over her. Jay could cross the street alone. Chloe might survive her husband, her kids, her paramedics, and her dogs. Aimee, well, Aimee, I wasn’t so sure of. Was it time or Grief Sex that was calming me down?
I put Ellie to bed, poured a glass of pinot, and went outside, savoring the clean air, the darkening sky shadowed by clouds.
“Star light, star bright,” I said. “The first star I see tonight …” I took a deep breath. “I wish I may, I wish I might …”
“Your wish is my command, fair lady,” John said.
“I missed you.” Because I did, I always would. People always talk about closure in death, in tragedy, in disappointment. Instead of closure, all I had was lingering.
“I was just thinking about the first meal I ever cooked for you,” John said.
“Lemon chicken,” I said.
“Lemon chicken?”
“Yeah … it was lemon chicken,” I said. “Remember? Olive oil and lemon juice—”
“That wasn’t our first meal.”
“It was the first meal you cooked for me,” I said.
“Was it?” he said. “I was thinking it was the turkey lasagna—”
“No, no, that came later.”
“I think you’re wrong, I have to say.”
“You dipped that Bay Cities bread in the sauce, and shoved it in my mouth. Then we fucked for hours.”
“Days.”
“Weeks.”
“Years.”
“Years,” I said quietly. Tell him, I thought, tell him tell him tell him.
“I wish I could hold you,” he said.
“Oh, John.”
“What do you want to tell me?” John asked. “There’s something wrong. I mean, it’s all wrong, but there’s another layer of wrong.”
“John, I did something …”
“Hannah? Are you breaking up with me?”
“No,” I said. “But hey, you’re dead. You’re not exactly a great catch.”
“I figured,” John said. “Oh God. I knew this would happen eventually—”
“Do you want to know about it?”
“Not really,” John said. “Was he any good?”
“John—”
“C’mon, tell me,” John said. “I’ve got to know.”
“Jesus,” I grumbled.
“I met him, you know—Jesus, I mean,” John said. “Not shy that one. You know what? I don’t want to hear the details about your liaison—about his penis size, or anything.”
Beat.
“I said, please don’t tell me the size of his penis,” John said.
“I’m not discussing penises with you,” I said.
“Are you in love?” John asked.
“No.” I wasn’t in love. Not yet. I could see the possibility, though, shimmering like a coin at the bottom of a fountain.
“Good. That I got over him. I can’t still make you come eight times a night, I mean, with Isaac Hayes’s help, but I still have your heart.”
“John,” I said, “someday you’re going to have to share it.”
“But I can keep a piece of it. Forever.”
“Yes.”
“Like if your heart’s a pie, I get a nice big piece, right?”
“The biggest piece, next to Ellie’s.”
“Hannah?” John said.
“Average. He was average-sized, okay?”
“Ha! I knew it!”
“For God’s sake,” I said. “You’d think dying would make you a bit more mature!”
“He’s average he’s average he’s average!” John said, and laughed. I laughed with him.
21
Valentime’s Day
As Mr. Barry White once said, “Happy Valentime’s, my dear.” I woke up, remembering how John loved saying that to me, in his best (which was the worst) Mr. White timbre.
Tom had asked me to go to dinner at that new Italian restaurant on 26th. Even though we’d slept together a few times since that fateful tree-hugging morning, I was still surprised that he’d asked me out for Valentine’s.
“You do know that Tuesday night is Valentine’s,” I’d said to him.
“Hannah, I know,” he’d answered. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
The phone in my bedroom rang, just as I was thinking about what dress to wear that night (with Jay’s approval), and I picked up.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Jay said, too eagerly. This could only mean trouble. Jay hated to be alone on Valentine’s Day.
“Happy V-Day,” I said. “Don’t make me do brunch.”
“Never,” he said, “we’re going Rollerblading. It’s the perfect day for it.”
“Rollerblading?” I asked. “Should I bring my leg warmers and tube top?”
“Chloe’s in, since Billy’s still away at boot camp. She’ll celebrate Valentine’s later, with a nine-one-one call. Anyway, she promised not to bring the dogs. See you at Ray’s on the boardwalk in an hour.”
An hour later, there was Jay, Chloe, the dogs she promised not to bring, and me, looking like a Heffalump on wheels. Dozens of happy couples had the same idea as us, judging from the crowded bike path. I had rolled, stopped, rolled, stopped about five feet when Dee Dee Pickler, holding hands with a much older man, hurtled toward us on Rollerblades, heading north toward Malibu. Or the nearest Houston’s.
“Hi, kids!” Dee Dee said, as she rolled past us, then stopped.
“Wow,” I said to Jay. “He’s old.”
“Which side was he on in the Spanish Civil War?” Jay said.
“I’m so glad I ran into you,” Dee Dee said.
“Who’s that?” I asked. The man had let go of her hand, and was on his knees, wheezing.
“He’s cute, right?” Dee Dee said. “I thought I’d try something different.”
“Where’d you find him?” Jay asked. “The cemetery?”
“Aren’t you a clever boy?” Dee Dee asked. “How did you know?”
“You found him where?” Chloe asked, rolling up on the conversation. Chloe had been a champion ice skater in junior high. She can do tricks on skates. I don’t hate her for this, but sometimes I do pray to the God of Tripping and Falling on Your Ass.
“I’m not telling you,” Dee Dee said. “You’re single-adjacent. You’ll try to horn in on my action, you little minx.”
“I must hear this,” I said. “Please.”
“Okay. You know who the wealthiest five percent of the country are?” Dee Dee asked, beaming. “I can’t believe no one’s ever figured this out!”
“Who?”
“Widowers,” she said. “And widows—though I’m not prepared to go there. I hung out at the cemetery near some fresh grave sites, and voilà,” Dee Dee said. “I got myself a prize. Goodbye SoMo, hello Bel Air Country Club! He’s a lifetime member, holla!”
“I’m not sure what I’m most offended by,” Jay said, “the grave-robbing thing or the fact that you just said ‘holla’ without irony.”
“Irony would have changed everything,” I agreed.
“Who cares?” Dee Dee said. “I’m going to be spending the rest of my life drowning in Arnold Palmers and tennis pro cock.”
“I never thought I’d say this,” Jay muttered, “but I could have done without that cock visual.”
“Oh, Hannah, I forgot to tell you,” Dee Dee said. “The Turk is out of the picture.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had an outside offer. Someone outbid him,” she said. “I found the Turk a lovingly restored Spanish Colonial built in the twenties. He’s tearing it down next week.”
“Who outbid him?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you,” Dee Dee said. “He made me promise to keep it a secret. NoMo Widower must really like you. People are so nutty, huh?”
The After Wife Page 25