“What?” Jeff interrupted. She heard noise in the background. Sounded like lots of people walking in a circle around Jeff and telling him things. “Recover? Recover from what? Were you in an accident?”
“I wasn’t.” Julie paused to light her cigarette.
“Oh thank God!” Jeff addressed someone with him. He made no effort to mute his voice, inviting her to eavesdrop. “We’re about to get on a plane and I thought she was telling me she was in an accident. I swear I wouldn’t get on, Grace. I would not get on this plane if she told me she’d been in an accident. It’s a bad juju.” He returned to Julie, so loudly she moved the receiver away from her ear. “You mean you were grief-stricken. You had to recover from being grief-stricken.”
“Grief-stricken?” Julie repeated, puzzled. She exhaled a thin stream of smoke at the open window and repeated, “Grief-stricken?” Over Rydel and Klein?
“From losing your parents. What’s it been? Five years since you lost your father?”
“Nine,” Julie said.
“Nine! I’m old. Well, don’t be embarrassed by it taking a long time. Your parents were great. Your mother was really great. Smart, witty, and holy shit, what a great cook. I can still remember her rugelach. She was somebody to grieve. Not like my mother.” (“You’re terrible!” a woman chided in the background, followed by laughter.) “I’m terrible,” Jeff informed Julie, and then answered his companion (or companions—Julie heard several people in the background). “She knows what I’m talking about. This is my first cousin Julie. She knows what a horror I grew up with. The reason Julie and I didn’t see each other outside of funerals for thirty years is because of my horror of a mother, the compulsive liar.” To Julie, he commented, “Isn’t that right, Jules? The family quarrel was all my mother’s fault?”
This bravado he was displaying, glibly summing up the painful truth about his mother with easy mockery, was that a bluff? Had Jeff really learned to embrace his past in public hallways? Was Julie the straggler, a little girl stuck in her pathetic closet of shame? “Uh, well, I think, my father was also a little to blame—” Julie stammered.
“You don’t have to be nice. I remember that about you, Julie. You’re very nice. Well, I’m not nice. How could I be? I was raised by Eva Braun. So, what’s up? If nobody’s dead, what’s up?”
Julie’s stomach grumbled. She took a long draw on the cigarette to calm herself. She exhaled away from her cell, then chose to start with the most cowardly of her alternatives. “My husband, Gary, a lawyer, I don’t know if you know, is also a TV legal analyst and columnist and he’s been investigating the Rydel story—”
“Are you smoking?” Jeff interrupted. “Are you still smoking? I’m talking to a white middle-class mother who is smoking,” he commented to the others. “You are a mother, right?”
“Yes, I have a son. Zack. He’s fifteen.”
“Wow. Fifteen. Wow. I have four kids, you know that, right? Oldest is sixteen, the baby just one. And you’re smoking? How did you get away with it? You don’t live in LA, that’s how. They’d shoot you in LA.” (His audience enjoyed that; there was a chorus of laughter.) “They would.” Jeff milked the joke. “A mother who smokes? They would shoot you. No, I’m sorry. I’m wrong. First, they would take away your illegal Nicaraguan nanny and then they would shoot you.” (The female laughter got raucous; someone called, “Jeff, you’re hilarious.”) “I’m on my way home to LA now,” Jeff continued. “We just tested in Houston. Can you believe it? Houston fucking Texas. In fact, I have to get off, we’re about to board. So, can I call you back? What were you calling about, anyway?”
“I was calling because my husband tells me it’s not going to stop with Sam. It’s going to come out about . . .” She was about to say “your cousin,” but Jeff was talking nervously over her: “You said something about your son. What’s his name? I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“Not my son. His name is Zack.”
“Zack, that’s a good Jewish name.” (A woman giggled and said in a southern accent, “He’s terrible, he’s god-awful terrible.”)
“Actually, his father’s not Jewish,” Julie said.
“Really. Married a goy, eh, Jules? Smart move. Jewish men are too much work.” (“You can say that again,” a woman with a baritone voice called out.) “Look, I have to turn the phone off because I’m about to board a plane with the most powerful scumbag in Hollywood.” (She heard a man grumble, then laugh.) “And he expects me to hold his hand during takeoff. Actually for the entire flight. Can I call you back after I land in LA?”
She should say no; she had promised Gary.
Like Gary, Jeff didn’t wait for her to agree. “Glad nobody’s dead. After we land in LA, I’ll call you. That is, if we land.” (“Don’t say that!” the deep-voiced woman said. “That’s real bad juju.”) “Talk to you later, bubelah.”
When the line went dead, it felt to her that not an individual but an entire world had disappeared. Despite his bitter jokes, he was full of confidence—that certainly was a contrast to her. Was this the true value of being world famous: no more shame, no more guilt? She shivered at a gust off the Hudson, pressed out a second this-is-my-last cigarette, and decided to confess to Gary that she was smoking. And to Zack. How could she expect them to quit (Gary has quit, she reminded herself) if she continued in secret? Besides, she knew that only by removing the guilty pleasure of the secrecy would she be able to surrender the narcotic.
The front door banged. She slammed the window shut, a fleck of paint flying off. “Honey!” Gary called. She tossed the pack of American Spirits into her pocketbook while his feet tramped in the hall, heading her way. She dashed into the bathroom and shut the door. “Honey! You here? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Gary called as he entered the bedroom. She turned on the faucets, grabbed her toothbrush and the tube of Colgate. She squeezed the container too hard—shooting out a two-inch stream of blue and white striped goo that vaulted over the bristles and onto the mirror, adhering to the glass like a dying worm.
“I’ll be right out!” Julie called, trying to scoop up the creature with her toothbrush.
The door opened. Gary opened the door! She was in the bathroom and he brazenly came in as if she had no right to privacy. “Did you reach—?” Gary paused as he took in the spectacle of his wife scraping Colgate off the mirror. “What are you doing?”
She pushed past him into the bedroom, had a wild thought of fleeing from him, running out of the apartment and never coming back. But that was nonsense—abandon Zack?
Gary appeared, squawking at her like an outraged duck, “What the fuck is going on? You haven’t called, right? Is that why you’re hiding from me?”
She needed one now, she couldn’t wait. She reached blindly into her pocketbook, perched on the night table. In her haste to remove one American Spirit yellow she crushed the pack, but at least she didn’t destroy the cigarette selected. She put it between her lips, dry with fear, and moved at Gary while opening a book of matches. He gaped at her while she lit up. She inhaled deep and exhaled fully, walking through the cloud she had created. “I’m smoking, you self-centered motherfucker,” she informed him.
For once, he was silenced.
“I’m smoking,” she repeated, ready to cry. She took another draw and blew in his direction. Tears subsided. Her head throbbed. She didn’t want the cigarette anymore.
The smoke between them had dissipated by the time he walked straight at her, eyes narrowed with rage.
She back away until she whacked into the wall. “Gary . . .” she pleaded for mercy.
He pressed flush against her and enveloped her lips with his, tongue pushing all the way in. He ran a hand roughly down over her breast, squashing it as if he were performing a mammogram. He pushed a thigh between her legs, quadriceps on pelvic bone. He mumbled over her lips, “I can taste it.” He turned his head to search for her hand with the cigarette. He took hold of her wrist and moved her hand toward his mouth, lips parting in anticipation of the
filter’s arrival.
“No.” She fought to keep the cigarette at arm’s length.
“Gimme,” he pleaded.
“No, I’m quitting.”
He kissed her again, slobbering, not his usual firm peck. His lips were a stranger’s, greedy, hostile. He jerked away, perhaps also feeling her lips to be alien, and buried his head in her neck. He licked from her collarbone to earlobe, a hot wet sensation that tickled. She arched away, head thudding against the wall. “I can taste it on you,” he croaked. He buried his head in the cleavage of her sweater and inhaled with noisy satisfaction.
“I’m quitting.” She pushed free, into the bathroom. She tossed the half-smoked cigarette in the toilet and flushed. Deciding to take a shower, she pulled up her sweater. As her head emerged from the wool blindfold, she discovered Gary had once again entered without respect for her privacy. He took her right hand, raised it to his nose, sniffing her fingers, kissing their smoky tips.
“I’m taking a shower,” she said, trying to pull free.
“No.” He pulled her out of the bathroom, toward their bed for a few struggling steps, finally flinging her at it. He pulled his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned from the bottom up. His swollen belly appeared, covered with swirling black hairs. “How long?” he asked.
“How long?” she repeated, wondering with horror if he meant how long he could fuck her, for that was obviously what he intended as he proceeded to lower his corduroy pants, revealing the full splendor of his belly’s overhang, a cantilevering so severe that his underpants were obscured by its shadow.
He kicked out of his shoes and dove at her, still wearing black socks. The bed sagged when he landed beside her. “How long have you been smoking?” he said as he pulled her blouse out of her skirt. He sniffed the collar while undoing her buttons and watched the unclothing of her body with a hunger she hadn’t seen for two decades.
“A few weeks,” she lied for some unfathomable reason.
“You bitch,” he said with an admiring smile. He cupped her right breast, encased in the satin support of her wire bra. “I love you,” he said. He pecked at the outline of her nipple, sniffing as he did. He pushed her down gently, but firmly, and ran his tongue the length of her exposed midriff.
Her head lolled back, eyes wandering to the open window, blackout shades up, curtains pulled back. She was wet. All of New Jersey could see her, loose and fluid and helpless. She was so wet. How long? How long since her body was young like this? “Gary,” she called.
“Mmm,” he answered while plump fingers crawled between her back and the bedspread to unhook her bra.
“I love you,” she lied.
White Lies
April 1966
RICHARD KLEIN UNBUTTONED and rebuttoned his blazer while he surveyed the roomful of children. “How about we all go for some good deli? Hot dogs, pastrami, knishes—what do you say, kids?”
Noah scrambled up from the floor and cheered, arms aloft.
Klein smiled at the sight of the excited boy on tiptoe, back arched to reach as high as he could. Brian studied that smile as if it were a Rosetta stone to the urgent mystery of Richard Klein: puffy cheeks raised, mouth parting to show small, evenly spaced teeth, as he enjoyed the spectacle of Noah. All Brian could decipher in the smile was the benign delight of a grandparent. He concluded, not for the first time, that what happened in the NBC bathroom had been unique, because of something about Brian or the circumstances: the violation of the set, the potted plant spilling, his penis’s keen reaction when it was touched. Even Klein had noticed that: “You like it when I touch you there, don’t you?” But how did he know in advance that Brian would like it?
“Come on!” Noah grabbed his sister’s hand. Julie allowed herself to be towed to the door. “Come on!” Noah called to Jeff and Brian.
Brian tried to catch Jeff’s eye, to signal they needed to confer. Brian wanted to tell him they had to skip lunch and deal with the secret recording—which was true enough—plus it was a convenient excuse for Brian avoiding being with Richard Klein without telling Jeff why he wanted to avoid him. Unluckily, Jeff’s eyes remained down while he trudged after the group gathered near the door.
“I can’t,” Brian blurted out.
They all turned his way, except for Klein. He shoved his hands in his pockets, noisily jiggling change while he peered at his highly polished black loafers.
“You can’t?” Sam said.
“We’re gonna have hot dogs! Hot dogs, hot dogs!” Noah chanted.
“Noah,” Julie warned.
Brian pointedly moved his eyes to the tape recorder on the twin bed, then back to Jeff. He repeated the signal twice, so blatantly he felt fortunate that Sam didn’t pick it up. Unfortunately Jeff didn’t either. He stared hopelessly at nothing.
Brian said, “I gotta have lunch with my mom,” which made no sense but was exactly what he felt.
“Okay, Brian can’t come,” Richard Klein took his hands out of his pockets. The cold indifference in his voice amazed Brian. Maybe he was angry. Maybe Klein thought what happened in the NBC bathroom was Brian’s fault. Maybe it was. “Come on, kids,” Klein said. “Let’s have hot dogs!” He swallowed little Noah’s hand in his chubby palm and led the way out. The rest followed.
Brian was left alone with his confusion. He heard Klein say, “We’re going to lunch, honey. We’ll be back soon!” as the group passed Harriet’s door. “Hot dogs, hot dogs!” Noah chanted, fainter and fainter, until the front door slammed shut and there was silence.
Brian felt tremendous relief at the absence of people (his preference for being alone would last a lifetime) until he heard Harriet sigh, a surprisingly loud sound considering that it had to travel the distance from her bed and down the intervening hallway. Harriet sighed a second time and exclaimed, “What a cheap son of a bitch!”
Brian froze, dumbstruck by the stupidity of what he had done. He was trapped. Harriet assumed he had gone with the others. She would be angry that he hadn’t; she had asked him to help Jeff entertain his cousins. Brian listened to her furious dialing of the phone’s rotary, unable to hear what she was mumbling bitterly to herself.
Go! he urged himself. Go while she’s distracted. He crept down the hallway toward her room, hoping to get there before she made her connection.
“Saul,” Harriet said as Brian’s nose reached the edge of her doorframe. She invariably talked on the phone with her head on pillows propped against the headrest, maintaining a constant surveillance of the hall, preventing him from escaping the apartment unobserved. “You can’t call me back, Saul, I have to talk to you right now. Hy’s not there yet, is he? I have to talk to you before your brother gets there.”
Brian smelled the peculiar dank odor of Harriet’s lair: a blend of perspiration and potatoes, a stew smell like Grandma Maggie’s cooking, but not of beef and vegetables, a boiling off of Harriet, an evaporation of her persona.
“Forget about your customer. Let Billy deal with a customer for once in his life. Now listen, Hy’s on his way to you. I talked to him about the money. Because I had to! He brought it up. Yes, I’m telling you, he brought it up. Why would I bring it up? I don’t remember how. Saul, will you stop arguing and listen to me. Of course you’re arguing. I told him I have a lump in my breast. Yes, I told him I have breast cancer. No, not benign. I told him it was malignant. Calm down. Saul, calm down. Calm down and listen!” she shouted furiously, which was strange to Brian considering the subject was her death. Her raging made him cringe. Everything about her terrified him, especially her illness. “Listen to me, Saul!” she yelled. “Will you listen to me! Do you want to lose the store? Is that what you want? Fine. You tell him I don’t have breast cancer and you’ll lose everything and Jeff will grow up to be a shmendrek salesman while your brother’s bratty little kids will live like kings. The thought of that little shit Noah becoming a doctor, driving a Cadillac, living on Park Avenue while my Jeff has to kiss his tuchus every High Holiday. It makes me sick. I’d rat
her be dead than see my Jeff humiliated.”
Brian, appalled and confused by Harriet’s reason for lying, was also profoundly relieved that she wasn’t dying, at least for Jeff’s sake. But what preoccupied him above all was an inspiration that came to him during Harriet’s weird speech about Noah’s future. It occurred to him that a relatively short time had elapsed since the others passed Harriet’s door to go to lunch. What if he had stayed behind to use Jeff’s bathroom and was supposed to meet them at the deli? Then his sudden appearance, dashing out in a hurry to catch up, would make sense.
He settled on that plan while Harriet continued to shout at Saul, describing a bizarre future in which Julie married a rich man and gave Hy beautiful grandchildren while Jeff remained unmarried, lost his hair, and worked in a pool hall. (Why a pool hall? Brian wondered.) Brian stepped on the floorboards nearest to the wall, believing they creaked less readily there, and ducked into the hall bathroom. He flushed the toilet, and while the rushing water was at its peak he ran as if propelled by the explosive sound, dashing past Harriet’s door—“Who’s that!” she shouted. “My God, who’s that?”—turned the corner into the main hall—“Brian? Is that you—”
He called out, “I’m late!” as he reached the foyer, opened the front door, exited into the building’s hallway, and hustled down the stairs so recklessly that he missed a step as the staircase turned a corner, whacked into the wall, and ended up sprawled on the landing, unhurt, breathless, and full of triumph. He was free. He was safe.
No one answered the bell at his apartment. His mother must have gone out shopping and his father was probably rehearsing too loudly in the bedroom to hear his ring. He had been told to make sure to ring before using his key, something about a scary story of some kid he didn’t know who had been followed home by a robber—it didn’t really make sense to him. He let himself in and called, “I’m home!”
No response. He glanced in the kitchen and living room on his way to the hall to his and his parents’ bedrooms. Their door was open. No one was in there. “Dad?” he called. When he turned, he saw the door to the bathroom at the end of hall was shut.
The Wisdom of Perversity Page 11