by Baby Grand
Wham.
The question caught Jamie off guard. Without knowing it, Bailino had hurt her very core, and she let out a reluctant sniffle.
He turned on the light and looked at her. "That rat bastard," he said.
"No." Jamie inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to keep her composure. "It was the opposite."
"The opposite?" he asked incredulously. "You didn't want children?"
"He ... we both wanted children," Jamie said, "and I couldn't have them."
There was a long pause. "Oh," he said finally, turning the light off again, as if he were trying to give her a little privacy. Jamie felt him worm his way back under the blanket, but then the questions started again. "Did you think about adoption?"
All the time. "He wouldn't," she said, shaking her head, as if the movement itself would repel Bailino's questions.
"What exactly was wrong?"
"The doctor said it was an unexplained fertility issue."
"Did you get a second opinion?"
"Yes, but the second doctor said the same thing. My bro..." Jamie hesitated.
"Your brother?" Bailino finished. "Edward?"
"Yeah. He said that I should get another opinion, but after two, I just didn't have it in me."
"Maybe it was his fault, your husband's."
"Ha!" The sound came out louder than Jamie had meant it to. She remembered the look on Bob's face when Jamie had suggested that very same thing. "He said that was impossible. He claims he had a girlfriend in high school who he'd gotten pregnant."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. She had an abortion."
"Do we have confirmation of that?"
Jamie didn't answer. She was thinking about Bob's face as he described the story of the conception. In his basement. How uninhibited she was, the girl—a crack, Jamie knew, at her—and how it had been the most exciting sexual time of his life. When recalling his past sexual exploits, Jamie half-expected Bob to rip open his shirt and beat his chest like a gorilla.
"Sweetheart?"
Jamie was startled. "I'm sorry?"
"Did you ask her?"
"Ask her?" Jamie repeated. "Who? Bob's girlfriend? I don't even know her."
"Maybe someone else knocked her up."
Jamie smiled thinking about the insinuation. Even suggesting something like that would be viewed by Bob as an attempt to take away his mojo. "It doesn't matter anyway." Jamie didn't want to talk anymore and closed her eyes. "It's for the best."
Bailino rustled a little under the blankets and then his hand was on her shoulder.
"Why did you marry someone you didn't love?" he asked.
Jamie's eyes opened wide. One way or another, it was going to be a long night.
***
Under normal circumstances, college senior Robert Scott never would have given sophomore Jamie Carter the time of day. With his sights set on a legal career and having just been accepted to New York University's School of Law, he was plotting his impending takeover of the world—one case, and woman, at a time. Who among him could boast a 3.96 GPA—a ranking that had landed him the number two spot in his graduating class of 1,200 students—while never, once, having missed a happy hour in four years? Being interviewed for the school newspaper, The Chronicle, for being one of only two students in the state to be named a Bankman Charles fellow, the recipient of a prestigious public service fellowship, was only the beginning of what Bob knew would be a long line of media accolades.
Jamie, student affairs reporter for The Chronicle, despised Bob the moment she'd met him. He was arrogant and boorish, commenting on what great legs she had the moment they'd shaken hands, followed by the requisite wink and nudge of the elbow that Jamie would learn was a Bob Scott trademark. Noticing the camera hanging around her neck, Bob had somehow finagled her to take five photos of him at various angles, including one with Jamie herself: "You can say, 'I knew him when…,'" he said with a wink and a nudge.
Afterwards, they were sitting at the student center for an interview that Jamie had surmised would take about ten minutes; they were there for nearly forty-five. After a half hour of detailing his "working class" upbringing in upscale Dix Hills and ignoring Jamie's questions, he finally wrapped things up with his life philosophies. "It's all about the people," he'd said. "Devoting my life to those who can't understand the legal system, providing a voice for those who can't fight for themselves..." Jamie had stopped listening after Bob had said "intensive purposes" instead of "intents and purposes."
Jamie hadn't taken her tape recorder with her—something that had disappointed Bob immensely—because not much space was being given to the story, which was running on the Student Stars page with five similar articles. In fact, the article was considered pretty cursory—the editor sent Jamie out on these assignments as a feel-good effort to flatter the high-achieving students, but after meeting Bob, Jamie realized that such a token was unnecessary. There wasn't much more hot air a human head could tolerate.
"You know, my brother is studying prelaw here too," she said, putting her notebook into her backpack.
"Really?" Bob said, uninterested, chewing the rest of his Hostess cupcake. "Maybe I know him. What's his name?"
"Edward. Edward Carter."
Bob stopped chewing. "Edward Carter..." he said, half to himself. "Hmmm... the name rings a bell. I think we might have a few classes together."
"Oh, yeah. Well, nice meeting you," Jamie said, sticking out her hand.
Bob took it, but instead of shaking it, he bent down and kissed it.
"The pleasure was all mine," he said. "Perhaps we'll run into each other again."
"Perhaps." Jamie pulled her hand away and left the student center.
As Bob watched her go, the name Edward Carter hung over him like a shroud. He knew the name very well. Edward Carter, who had interned at Weng Felter in DC last summer and had turned down a full scholarship to Georgetown so he could continue his studies locally and care for his sick mother. Edward Carter, who'd Heimliched Mrs. Phelps, the old legal secretary in Compton Hall, two semesters ago and prevented her from choking on a chicken bone. His picture still hung on the admissions-office wall. Edward Carter, GPA 3.98. Edward Carter, class valedictorian.
***
"He pursued me like he did those fellowships," Jamie said. "He and Edward both went to NYU and somehow he started hanging around more. And he..."
"Won you over?" Bailino asked.
"No, not really. It's just that my mother was sick... She'd had a round of chemo while Edward and I were at Hofstra, and then she seemed to get better, or maybe we just wanted her to get better, but for a few years things were pretty good. That was at the time Bob was hanging around."
"Your mother wanted you to marry him?"
"No, the ironic thing is my mom didn't even like Bob. But as she began to get sick again a year or two later, Bob asked me to marry him. Why he asked, I'm not even sure. We had become, you know, friendly, but marriage? I wasn't doing much socializing at the time, and he was just... there." Jamie adjusted herself under the blanket. "I hadn't really given it much thought, but when I mentioned it to my mother, I saw a gleam in her eye. She loved weddings. Always had. I thought a wedding would get her mind off things and help her to be happy, and I could worry about the divorce later. I don't really care much about weddings and all that."
"I thought it was every girl's dream to have a big wedding."
"Not mine." Jamie remembered standing there on the altar feeling miserable and like a fraud before her friends and family and how when the priest had asked if there was "anyone here who had any reason why these two should not wed," she had caught Edward's eye for just the briefest of moments, but neither one of them made a peep.
"Truth is, I'd be happy getting married in Vegas with an Elvis impersonator as my witness. But I knew that my mom would love the planning of a big wedding and getting all pretty and dressed up. And it worked for a while. She was getting better..."
Jamie let out a tiny sniffle
. After eight years, the wounds associated with her mother's death had never healed.
"It's okay. You don't have to say anymore."
But the words seemed to be pouring out in a rush. "She died of lung cancer," Jamie said. "She never smoked a day in her life. Underwent chemo. Lost her hair. Underwent it again. Radiation. The whole thing. Dragging her into Sloan-Kettering when all she wanted to do was sleep. And when she died, I couldn't breathe. Edward and I had to clean out her apartment. Her bedroom closet had tons of dresses in it that she had bought over the years for a special day. They still had the tags on them. She died three weeks before the wedding. Bob was there, and I latched onto him, onto something... someone familiar. I still married him, why? I don't know. To do something. To finish what I'd started. To prove that I was okay. To make my mother happy, because she was always worried about me. To move forward, even if it was in the wrong direction. It really was... never about Bob. Or maybe it was never about me."
Jamie took a deep breath. "We tried hard to have kids, but it just didn't happen. I blamed myself, the fact that I didn't love him. And the more it didn't happen, the angrier and more distant Bob got until our marriage became a... Not that it ever was..." She wiped a tear. "I became a fixture at my brother's house. Trish was just popping out kids, one after the other. With ease. They weren't even trying. Then I lost my job, and he left, and I went back to live with my brother. In the apartment downstairs, where my mom... Well, I'm starting over again. Or at least I'm trying to."
"Why didn't you leave him? Bob? If that had been the plan?"
"I don't know." Jamie had the sensation that she had been floating underwater and was suddenly coming up for air. It was as if Bailino had opened a dam that had been holding back years of repressed memories, and she had gotten swept up in the flood. She felt embarrassed, and disoriented.
"You really don't know?" Bailino asked. Jamie felt him inching closer in the darkness.
She thought of Bob in those weeks after her mother had died, of how he had enjoyed being the knight in shining armor, comforting Jamie in her hour of need, how he relished his role as Jamie's protector, her hero. Jamie breathed deeply and turned toward Bailino.
"Because I'm weak. Because I was scared. Because I felt old and used up. Maybe because, after all those years," she paused, "I didn't think anyone else would want me."
"Because you're loyal."
Bailino stroked her cheek and pulled Jamie toward him as his hand slipped under her shirt.
"You're not wearing a bra," he said. "Good girl."
Chapter 43
Reynaldo's small iron mailbox was crammed with mail, and it took several minutes to worm his finger inside and yank out a thick, plastic-wrapped magazine that had been jammed in by the mail carrier. He looked at the glossy—it was the May issue of Penthouse addressed to Pedro Rodriguez—and then pulled out the rest of the mail and went into his house.
The worn, musty smell overpowered him as he entered the living room and tossed his keys on the hall table. Had he had more time, he would run the house fan for a while to circulate the stale air, but he promised his Aunt Ro that he would hurry back. He had wanted to take her with him, but she preferred to stay home and rest. He hated leaving her alone, but he needed to get some clothing and personal items so he could stay with her until Friday when his cousins would arrive. He surveyed the room. It looked as weathered and old looking as Aunt Ro's place. I live like an old woman, he thought. A light film of dust covered all the high shelves and knickknacks, and there was a long pull in the brown carpeting, over by the television, that seemed to get longer every time he vacuumed. The faded brown wall paneling near the light switch was still cracked where Ricardo had jammed it with his fist after a fight with his father ten years ago. Reynaldo had meant to fix it over the years—he had meant to take care of a lot of things—but forgot to or lost interest. The truth was, he hardly noticed them anymore—as each day passed, they blended more and more into the background of his life. And Reynaldo often felt like he was disappearing along with them.
A quiet tap, tap, tap that sounded like a small rodent came from the kitchen. Reynaldo peeked in the direction of the noise coming from the ceiling. An orange latex balloon was floating across the room near the window, blown ever so gently by what must have been a soft draft coming in through a crack in the window seal. Written on the balloon in Sharpie was "Happy Birthday, Rey."
Reynaldo had brought the balloon home last Friday from the garage following a small party his brothers had thrown for him to celebrate his forty-second birthday. He had hoped the day would just pass by without any fanfare, as he did all his birthdays, but Pedro told him that Aunt Ro would not allow it. The balloon bobbed up and down along the corner of the ceiling as if it were trying to escape through a vent. Reynaldo was surprised that there was enough helium to keep it afloat all this time. He had meant to pop it or release it to the clouds, but couldn't bring himself to do it. It was nice to have movement in the house other than his own. On Monday, he had awoken to a string dangling above his nose. Monday night, when he got home from work, the balloon had been in the bathroom, near the showerhead. Now it was in the kitchen. Reynaldo thought of his mother, floating around the house, watching over him.
There was a knock at the door. When Reynaldo opened it, Mrs. Lapinski was standing there, although it took Reynaldo a moment to place her. She was wearing tight spandex bike shorts and a cotton tank top, the loose kind that exposes a woman's bra straps on the side, and she held a water bottle in her hand. A bicycle was leaning against the wooden fence.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi." Reynaldo looked at the bicycle. "Is there something wrong with your car?"
"No, the car's fine," she said. "You did a great job with it, as always. I was looking for you this evening at the garage, but your brothers said you hadn't been there all day. I just wanted to stop by and... see if you wanted to join me for a bike ride. May I come in?"
"Actually, I..."
Mrs. Lapinski walked into the house. She looked around the living room and waved her hand in front of her face. "Gee, Rey, it's so stuffy in here." She stepped into the kitchen and turned on the sink faucet, placing her hand under the water stream and then picking up the back of her hair to wet her neck. The orange balloon floated over her, and its string grazed her ear—she swatted at it without looking up, thinking it was an insect.
"I haven't been home... Listen, how did you know where I live?"
"C'mon, Rey. We talked about it last year when I brought the car in for the flat. Remember? We both know Connie who lives around the block."
"Oh, that's right," he said. "But I don't remember giving you the house number."
"Yeah, well, that Connie..." Mrs. Lapinski dried her wet hands on her shirt, leaving handprint marks on the fabric over her breasts.
"Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but you can't stay," Reynaldo said. "I have to go. There's a family emergency."
"What's the emergency?" Mrs. Lapinski reached up and pulled a loose thread from Reynaldo's shirt.
"My aunt is waiting for me..."
"Is she sick?"
"No."
"Dying."
"No."
"Has she fallen on the floor and can't get up?"
"No," Reynaldo said and then, from Mrs. Lapinski's expression, realized he had missed some kind of joke.
"C'mon, Rey, let's not play games. We're not kids. We're both in our early forties. You're single. I'm divorced. What's wrong with having a little fun?" She slipped her hand under Rey's shirt. "Oh... I love a man who's man enough not to shave his chest."
Reynaldo pulled her hand out and held it there.
"So strong..." She said, leaning in.
"Enough. I don't know how else to say this." Reynaldo walked back toward the front door, pulling her along. "I think you should start taking your car to another service station."
"You gotta be kidding me?" Mrs. Lapinski ripped her hand from Reynaldo's hold.
"I'm
not," he said.
"What? What's the problem, Rey? Am I too much woman for you?"
As Reynaldo opened the door, Pedro came walking up the front porch steps.
"Maybe you are," Reynaldo said.
Reynaldo didn't know if her face was flushed because of embarrassment, anger, or because it really was stuffy, but Mrs. Lapinski looked as if she were about to burst into flames. She picked up her water bottle and headed toward the door, stopping in front of Reynaldo. "You really are gay, aren't you, Rey?"
"Please leave," he said.
Reynaldo and Pedro watched Mrs. Lapinski hop on her bike, the tires bubbling beneath her weight, and disappear down the block. Reynaldo went inside.
"Rey, what are you doing?" Pedro followed his brother into the house.
"What am I doing, Pedro?" Reynaldo picked up the mail and flipped through it.
"You know what I mean, hermano. C'mon. You don't want Nada, you don't want her." He pointed down the block in the direction of Mrs. Lapinski. "You are a man. Act like one."
Reynaldo picked up the issue of Penthouse and threw it at Pedro. "Here's your mail, hermano. Why don't you be man enough to have it delivered to your house?" Rey walked into the bedroom and pulled a suitcase out from the closet and placed it on his bed. Pedro followed behind.
"That woman is really into you. Qué es tu problema?"
Rey threw a pair of blue briefs into the suitcase. "That's just it, Pedro. There's no problem."
"Bullshit."
"Why don't you go for Mrs. Lapinski, if you're so interested?"
"Ewwww. Old." Pedro contorted his face as if he'd just eaten a lemon.
"Oh, so, she's good for me, eh?"
"Rey... listen... Rey?" Reynaldo was opening drawers and pulling out pairs of jeans and T-shirts. Pedro sat on Reynaldo's suitcase to get his attention. "Why don't you take a vacation? I will stay with Aunt Ro."
"A vacation?"
"Yeah, you know, go someplace that you want to go. When was the last time you had a vacation. Or had fun, real fun?"