And now Sam was escorting Will out the door as he blathered on—
“And don’t worry about Cricket,” Will said. “Miss Parents Magazine is downstairs, passed out on the couch.”
And Sam closed the door.
He turned back to Gracie, who was about to apologize for her friend—
Sam moved toward her, put his finger on her mouth with as little weight as needed, and then he kissed her again.
“When you’re right, you’re right,” Gracie said as she came up for air and rolled on top of him and kissed him as though she had never kissed before in her life, had never lived before this moment.
GRACIE HAD HEARD, and believed, that life was made up of moments. She had believed this primarily after giving birth (being cut open) to Jaden. She could think of so many moments as a mother that made up her life—so many that they crowded out earlier moments—losing her virginity, getting married, the first time she had a book published.
But her first kiss with Sam would definitely make it into the top five.
The top five being:
▪ Jaden’s first smile, which happened to be at Gracie’s breast.
▪ Jaden’s first laugh.
▪ Jaden’s first step.
The first time Jaden said “Mama.”
▪ The first time Sam and Gracie kissed.
“But did you sleep with him?” Will asked, first thing in the morning. “Did you do the deed? Did you make the beast with two backs?”
“I didn’t,” Gracie said as she scooted around the kitchen, making coffee and generally floating somewhere two feet above the ground.
“Quel horror! I don’t understand,” Will said. “As a gay man, your foot is always on the accelerator.”
“I liked it,” Gracie said. “I don’t think either of us were prepared for the first kiss,much less the feature presentation.”
“Strange,” Will said. “I will never understand the Way of the Breeder.”
“Well, thank God you don’t need to,” Gracie said.
Cricket walked into the kitchen, holding her head as though it were a vase that had been thrown on the floor—
“Since when does pot give you a hangover?” Cricket asked.
“Since it’s mixed with five shots of tequila and a tab of Ecstasy,” Will replied.
“I don’t do drugs!” Cricket said. “Please don’t tell my children!”
“Cricket, your kids can barely talk,” Will said.
Cricket looked at him, squinting her eyes against the bright sunlight. “The sun wants to kill me,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen windows.
“If you’re going to be an over-forty single mother, you’re going to have to get used to these kinds of things,” Will said. “Hangovers, drug talks with your three-year-old …”
“Who says you’re going to be a single mom?” Gracie asked. “What have you done?”
“You didn’t tell her?” Cricket asked Will.
Will shook his head as he went to take coffee mugs down from a cabinet. “Number one, it’s too personal, and I thought you should be the one to say something, and number two, it totally slipped my mind. How did that happen?”
“You’re off your game,” Gracie said.
“It’s all because I saw Brad Pitt last night,” Will admitted. “I’m off-kilter. My systems are down—it’s like I’m a fuse box—I saw his face, and BOOM! No more lights on in the house!”
“Did I see him?” Cricket asked.
“Not in the sense that your eyes could focus,” Will said. “But you bumped into him and he said ‘Excuse me,’ and you said, I’m paraphrasing, ‘Watch it, pretty boy’—”
Cricket covered her mouth with her hand and squealed. “I was rude to Brad Pitt?”
“She was rude to Brad Pitt?” Gracie asked.
“It was one of the proudest moments of my life—I’ll probably flash on it in my dying hours. It was that important.”
Cricket sat down on the floor and put her head in her hands.
“Can we talk about this ‘single mother’ insanity?” Gracie said. “I need to know what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is that Jorge and I are getting a divorce,” Cricket announced. “That’s why I was out all night, drinking and being rude to movie stars.” And then she burst into tears, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.
“Are those my pajamas?” Gracie asked.
“Well, they’re not mine,” Will said. “I don’t believe in flannel as concept or actuality.”
“Cricket, you don’t have to get divorced just because I’m getting divorced,” Gracie said, ignoring Will’s harangue against her beloved, defenseless flannel.
“It’s not about you. I can’t take the deception anymore,” Cricket said.
“Jorge does not cheat on you,” Gracie said.
“Not now,” Cricket said, “but someday!”
Will started pouring the coffee. “Far be it from me to say, but do you really believe in preemptive divorce? Isn’t that like not having sex so you don’t have sex?”
“This is crazy,” Gracie said. “Seriously, Cricket, you’re scaring me.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Cricket said. “You were never really happy with Kenny—it’s not like you lost your best friend.”
“But I was happy with Kenny,” Gracie said.
Her friends looked at her.
“Well, I thought I was. For a while,” Gracie said. “Early on. The first few years.” She looked at them. “Days?”
Will yawned and shook his head.
“Hours?” Gracie amended. Always revising.
“Digging a hole you can stumble into?” Will asked.
“The truth is, we were good together,” Gracie said. “We were like a well-oiled machine.”
“That’s so exciting!” Will said. “Please, God, let me be a part of a well-oiled machine someday!”
“Jorge is younger than me,” Cricket suddenly said.
“So far so good,” Gracie said.
“He has more energy than I do, he has … needs,” Cricket said.
“Go on,” Will said. “But let me sit down and get a clearer picture.” Will had always had a mini-crush on Jorge, the kind that only homosexual men have for straight men—rare, fleeting, but impactful.
He sat down on a Shabby Chic chair, put his feet up on the glass coffee table, and closed his eyes, with his hands at his temple.
“Ready,” he said.
“He wants sex,” Cricket said. “A lot. Sometimes twice a day.”
Gracie grabbed her heart and moaned.
Will stood up and applauded. “Finally, a straight man who speaks Homo.” And then sat down.
“It’s not funny,” Cricket said. “I can’t keep up with him. I have three kids under four and a half years. It’s impossible— Gracie, you understand.”
“You must get a divorce,” Gracie said. “There’s no other way. It’s a deal-breaker.”
Cricket looked at her, her long, beautiful face sinking.
“Really?”
“No!” Gracie said. “But maybe you can rent him out to friends?”
“Does he masturbate?” Will asked. His eyes were closed again.
Cricket wrinkled her unwrinkled forehead. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never actually seen him …”
Will jumped up. “I’m a genius!” he yelled.
Gracie looked at him. “Yes, yes. The Madame Curie of decorators.”
“Not a bad moniker for a drag queen,” he said, “but wait—one patient at a time.”
He walked over to Cricket and placed his hand on her forehead in a dramatic manner, as though he were a healer and she that poor little girl onstage with braces around her legs.
“Repeat after me,” he said. “Masturbation …”
“What? I can’t—”Cricket replied.
“Do it!” he yelled. “Masturbation!”
“Masturbation!” Cricket yelled back.
“Is the key!�
� Will yelled again. Gracie was thankful Jaden had not awakened yet.
“Is the key!” Cricket yelled.
“To hap-piness!” Will yelled, accenting the second and third syllables so that the word came out like “ha-penis!”
Cricket repeated the phrase, syllable for syllable. And finally, her face broke into a smile.
“My God, Professor Higgins,” Gracie said, “I think she’s got it.”
“Do you really think it’ll work?” Cricket said.
“Not only will it work,” Will said, “you may never actually have to have sex again.”
“Liar!” she said. Her face was beaming. Gracie was fearful she would burst into tears again—but this time, tears of happiness.
“Swear!” he yelled back.
“We don’t own any porn,” Cricket said apologetically.
“Do I have to draw you a map?” Will said. “Run. Drop by your local adult video store and pick up, I don’t know, something cheesy—Girls Gone Wild or something.”
“What am I doing?” Cricket said, suddenly up on her feet. “I’ve got work to do—I’ve got a husband on a steep learning curve.”
“Steep but swift,” Will said.
Cricket smiled and kissed Will all over his face. “Please,” Will said, pushing her away. “I don’t even like my mother kissing me.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Cricket called as she ran out the door, clutching her purse and smoky clothes to her chest.
Gracie looked at Will after she’d gone.
“Do you think I’ll ever get those pajamas back?” Gracie asked.
“No,” Will said, shaking his head. “But please, if you’re planning on getting laid by men with unusually symbolic names for the rest of your life, you will never settle for flannel again.”
“But they’re Oprah’s favorite,” Gracie said.
“So save them for when you sleep with Oprah.”
Gracie thought for a moment, sipping her coffee, which tasted especially good since her sexual awakening the night before. How, she thought, did groping affect one’s taste buds? Is this why teenagers ate so much?
She looked at Will.
“Do you think you could have saved my marriage to Kenny?” she asked.
“Honey, your marriage was doomed from day one,” Will said. “That’s what you get for marrying a man who insists on displaying his high school baseball trophies in the living room.”
Gracie nodded, a little sad.
“I bet he used to wear his collars up, right?” Will asked, flipping his collar up so the lapel hit his cheeks.
“Just all the time,” Gracie said.
“Oh, honey, you are so much better off without him,” Will said. “Just stick to this Sam person. At least until I know his particulars.”
At that moment, the front door opened. Will and Gracie looked at each other.
“She’s bringing back the pajamas,” Gracie said.
“I’m throwing myself in front of her body—” Will said, getting up.
Instead, standing in front of them was Joan, lugging two Louis Vuitton suitcases. (Gracie, after ten years, had learned to recognize the logo. But only after ten years.)
Her sunglasses were on top of her head. She looked thin. Her face was pale behind the clusters of freckles. Her hair had seen better days.
“Joan!” Will yelled. “Thank God!”
He ran over to her, lifting her up and spinning her around.
“Joan?” Gracie asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Gracie,” Joan said in an unfamiliar, quivering voice. Joan didn’t quiver, Gracie thought. Joan proclaimed.
“Lou,” she said.
Again with the quiver.
WIFE NUMBER EIGHT
Found out that her television-network-chief husband was cheating on her with a supermodel one morning. Who told her?
Page Six.
19
DEATH OF THE KING
GRACIE HAD totally forgotten about Lou’s imminent planned demise. And who could blame her? She was a middle-aged woman who only just recorded the best make-out session of her life the night before.
“Gracie?” Joan asked. “Did you hear me? Are you okay?”
“He’s dead,” Gracie said.
“Drowned,” Joan said. “Last night. He left his clothes right out on the beach—and walked into the water, and …”
She groped for a chair and sat down.
“Not the new Prada sandals, I hope,” Will said.
“Shut up, Will,” Joan said. “Don’t you have any respect at all?”
“I’m not good at tragedy,” he admitted. “I’m more like a … fair-weather boy.”
Gracie stood there, unable to comfort Joan or admonish Will. She didn’t know what to do—Lou had placed her in a terrible position—should she tell them that Lou was alive? That rumors of his demise were premature and greatly exaggerated?
Instead, Gracie said, “I just can’t believe it.”
“Do you think he killed himself?” Joan asked. “Why would he kill himself?”
“Too much young pussy?” Will asked.
Gracie and Joan looked at him.
“Is this really a time to be joking?” Joan asked.
“Eight o’clock in the morning?” Will asked, looking at his watch.
That comment made Joan smile.
“I knew I could get you,” Will said. “Tragedy is comedy plus twenty minutes. Or the inverse.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the inverse,” Gracie said.
“You knew him well, right, Gracie?” Joan asked.
“She not only knew him,” Will said, “she went on a date with him last weekend.”
“Not a date,” Gracie corrected. “Just a friendly dinner.”
“Friendly with tongue served on the side,” Will said.
“No tongue,” Gracie corrected. “Not even a real kiss. Just here.” She pointed to her cheek.
Joan was staring at her.
“How did you know?” she asked Gracie. “How did you know he was dead?”
Gracie stammered. “It wasn’t very difficult,” she replied. “First of all, you look like someone ran over your dog, if you had one.”
Joan nodded, not following her windy trail of logic.
“Secondly,” Gracie said, “the way you said his name. I’m very intuitive. You know that.”
“No, you’re not,” said Will.
“No, you’re not,” Joan said. “You seem very calm about his death. Are you all right? Are you on something?” She turned to Will. “Did you give her something?”
“Do I look like a dealer?” Will asked, looking from Joan to Gracie. “I couldn’t hang out on corners—too drafty.” He looked at Joan. “Gracie came this close,” he said, pinching his forefinger and thumb together, “to getting laid last night.”
Joan screamed and clapped her hands. “Who?!” she demanded. “Get this,” Will said, “his name is—”
“Not for public consumption! Yet!” Gracie said, turning to Joan. “What happened to France? What happened to the Du Cap and boatloads of Haut-Brion?”
Joan looked at her. “You’re never going to believe this,” she said.
“Hold on,” Will said, “I have to check myself. I may just be on gossip overload. It’s never happened before, but …” He stood there for a moment, thinking. Finally he said, “Okay, I think I can handle it.”
“It’s Pappy,” Joan said.
“Not Pappy!” Will yelled. “Dear God, please don’t take our Pappy! Where will we stay on the weekends?”
“He’s not dead,” Joan said. “Unfortunately.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Gracie said.
“He wants a divorce,” Joan said.
“Grampa wants a divorce?!” Will asked.
Joan just shook her head. “He met someone.”
Will and Gracie exchanged a look that lasted not more than one-tenth of a second but was overflowing with opinions of a par
ticularly cynical bearing.
“Oh, honey,” Gracie said, going to Joan and wrapping her arms around her shoulders.
“Who knew? Pappy is a chick magnet,” Will said.
“Someone older,” Joan said, choking.
“How much older?” Gracie asked.
“She’s seventy,” Joan said. “How’m I supposed to compete with that?”
Joan cried soft tears as Gracie held her and admonished Will with a look so severe it would have stopped Genghis Khan in his tracks.
Will zipped his lip but appeared dangerously close to exploding.
“Will,” Gracie said, “you can probably go now. I’ll handle everything from here.”
Will nodded his relief. “Thank you,” he said, mouthing the words.
Gracie thought she heard him guffaw at twenty paces.
GRACIE WALKED Joan upstairs and then went down to make her a cup of tea, which she brought back upstairs on a platter, with a couple pieces of toast and jam.
Joan was all tucked in by the time Gracie had made it back upstairs, her body turned toward the picture window.
“Bird shit is good luck, right?” Joan asked. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
Gracie looked at the window, streaked at the top with white and green bird poop stalactites.
“So why don’t I feel very lucky?” Joan asked.
She turned back to face Gracie, who was still thinking about whether bird shit could be construed as good luck.
“I think it’s good luck if it’s on your shoulder,” Gracie said in conclusion.
“Ah,” Joan said. “I guess I am lucky. I have you, don’t I?”
Gracie sat down. “Eat,” she said.
“One step at a time,” Joan said. “The first step is I can stand to look at food without throwing up.”
Gracie nodded. She understood. “The divorce diet,” she said. “I don’t know why someone hasn’t written a book.”
“It’s much better than South Beach,” Joan said. “But maybe not as lasting as the Zone.”
They sat for a moment. Joan slid her hand over to Gracie’s and held it.
“Distract me. Tell me about him,” Joan said. “Your mystery man.”
“It’s not important,” Gracie said. And then she smiled. “Except that I think I’m in love.”
“Madly?” Joan asked.
“Mama’s got it bad,” Gracie admitted.
The Starter Wife Page 22