The Intermission

by Elyssa Friedland

  “Anyway,” Dahlia continued, “what would I get married again for?”

  “Because—” Cass started to say, but stomped on the rest of the sentence. For the kidney, she continued the thought in her head.

  Sometimes, when Cass was up in the middle of the night and looked over at her sleeping, snoring husband, she would think: No matter what, at least he has to give me his kidney. Because they were married, and the willingness to part with a vital organ for a spouse was one of the unwritten rules. Being married without kids placed the Coynes in an odd position. Not for the first two years, or even three. But after a while, when the Sunday strolls got old and they’d been invited to more brises and sip ’n’ sees than weddings lately, the childless married state had started to feel off. Questions arose in her head, like: What are we doing this for? Why did Jonathan’s parents plunk down a few hundred grand for a legal distinction? For the promise of grandchildren, Cass supposed. That justified their expense, but what about her own commitment? Was it, in fact, for the promise of an organ if she were ever in dire straits? Or to have someone other than her parents to write down in the space on forms that require an emergency contact? If the answer was yes, she wasn’t even sure that was something to be ashamed of. She didn’t know if that made her an outlier or just like everyone else.

  This limbo state was temporary for them, of course. Once she got pregnant, their union would make all the sense in the world. Little Coynes would dot the beaches of Martha’s Vineyard. Their weekends would be jam-packed with birthday parties; their apartment a receptacle for Diapers.com boxes. And Jonathan wouldn’t just be the guy obligated to give her a kidney or some of his bone marrow, if, God forbid, she ever needed it.

  “You’re right,” Cass said, because it was always easiest to stand in solidarity with a friend. This didn’t feel like the right time to play devil’s advocate. “So have you told anyone else?”

  “You’re the first friend I’ve voluntarily told. But I can assure you all the moms at Scarsdale elementary and Beth Israel Preschool are buzzing. I’m going to call Alexi and fill her in sometime in the next few days.”

  Alexi was Dahlia’s other best friend from college, godmother to Dahlia’s younger son, and someone Cass knew pretty well from theater classes. She was a working actress in Los Angeles, having come a long way from the musical version of The Vagina Monologues in which she’d made her theatrical debut at Brown. Alexi was really good in it, actually. The director deserved all the blame—and lots of scorn—for that failed production.

  “How are you and Jonathan doing?” Dahlia asked. “I’ve just been going on and on about myself.”

  “Really good, thanks,” Cass answered, hoping her straightforward and quick answer sounded convincing. It was the truth, but for some reason when she said it, it had the ring of a cover-up. They were really good. About-to-start-a-family good. So what if she felt light-headed and sweaty because she couldn’t stop thinking about how and why she first pursued her husband? Everyone had secrets, and anyway, didn’t the deep and genuine love she now felt for her husband override the artificial nature of their courtship?

  The lie wasn’t something she was proud of, but in the grand scheme of falsehoods, she didn’t think it was completely unforgivable. The problem, as Cass saw it, was that she had waited far too long to confess. Secrets had a funny habit of snowballing, and what may have been a minor infraction on Day One had morphed into something monumental as time ticked on. Maybe that’s why she let their five-year anniversary pass without any fanfare. She couldn’t bear to acknowledge just how long she’d held her tongue about their origin story. She sank her teeth into the sourdough again.

  “Well, that’s great. Let’s get some wine. We need to toast my divorce and your marriage,” Dahlia said. “Plus I need some alcohol before I have to face the bitches at Toby’s pickup.”

  “I’m on it,” Cass said, signaling to the waitress. “And D, I’m here for you. Anytime you need me. Text me and I will get my ass to Scarsdale stat. And, of course, anything the boys need, I’ll be there in a flash.”

  * * *

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “DAHLIA’S A LESBIAN,” Cass whispered, almost as though if she said it louder her cell phone would explode in her hand. She’d had a weird pit in her stomach since lunch with Dahlia, the source of which she couldn’t quite comprehend. She hoped calling Alexi to discuss the shocking news would settle her. This was news that needed to be picked over with someone else who knew Dahlia as well as she did.

  “No way,” Alexi said, over the crackle of the Bluetooth. “That’s insane.” Cass heard a few honks and the zoom of a motorcycle in the background.

  “I know. I can’t get over it. She’s planning to tell you herself soon, but I just couldn’t wait.”

  “Well, I’m glad you called because I could use the preparation. And you caught me at the perfect time. I just left an audition. Speaking of auditions, what happened to the LA-PAC interview? Weren’t you supposed to be out here by now?”

  “It didn’t work out,” Cass said quickly, without elaborating further. Her interview with the Los Angeles Performing Arts Center was originally scheduled to take place a week earlier, but she’d called to cancel last minute. On a whim after leaving PZA, Cass had circulated her résumé to a few theater friends, asking that they keep her in mind if good opportunities came up. She wasn’t planning to pursue any leads in the near term. It would be a classically bad move to start a new job at the same time as getting pregnant. There’d be too many long hours at the office, maybe even international trips if her shows went on tour—things that weren’t compatible with morning sickness and the first few months of motherhood. And she didn’t think it would be an issue anyway. It would probably take a very long time to find something worthwhile in her small and highly competitive field. So she was totally shocked when, out of the blue and almost immediately, she received a call from the biggest performing arts theater in Los Angeles. They wanted to know if she would fly out to interview for the head of marketing and sales position. It was definitely a bigger job than she’d had at PZA, and she’d called Alexi to ask her what she knew about the theater. They’d agreed to get together when Cass was out west meeting with the LA-PAC board. One person she never told about the opportunity was Jonathan. His life was in New York City. He’d built a burgeoning career outside of the shadow of his family’s success and making equity partner at Winstar was on the near horizon for him. Not the time to discuss a cross-country move. Which meant she should never have spoken with anyone at LA-PAC at all, except to say, “I’m flattered, but no thank you.” So why Cass had bothered to set up an in-person interview was a mystery, even to herself.

  “What was the audition for? Jonathan told me he saw you on Law & Order again.”

  “Everyone’s on L&O. You know that. This was for a budget Halloween horror movie, and my next stop is a commercial for a herpes medication. How terrible is it that I’m going to be the face of Abreva? Actually, what’s worse is that I’m only just hoping to become the face of Abreva. No choice, though, it’s a national commercial, and I need money for new headshots. Can we go back to Dahlia, though? How does she seem? What about Harris?”

  “They’ve already started divorce proceedings. She seems happy, but also anxious. Very worried about the kids, of course, and Harris is being a prick. She thinks he’s hiding assets. Aah, and I didn’t even mention the clincher. Her girlfriend is Brady’s assistant principal. Scarsdale hasn’t had a scandal like this in decades and Dahlia said it’s been like one constant orgasm for the soccer moms since this happened.”

  “Jesus. Good for Dahlia, though. It’s really brave of her.”

  “It is brave of her, isn’t it?” Cass said, and it was like a lightbulb switched on in her brain. Dahlia’s courage was making Cass feel less than. She didn’t want a divorce from Jonathan—of course not. But somehow Dahlia’s bid for freedom and self-fulfillment made Cas
s green with envy. Her friend was finally coming clean, and her life would be better off for it. Since lunch started, Cass’s emotions had gone from nervousness to shock to relief and now jealousy—the worst feeling of all.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear about the job not working out. Maybe you should think about coming for a visit anyway.”

  “I’d love to. I haven’t been to L.A. since Percy and I flew out to film those promos for the Grammys a couple of years ago.”

  “Well, it’s settled then. You’ll take a vacation out here before you and Jonathan have some gorgeous baby that exhausts the hell out of you and precludes any travel for at least a year.”

  Maybe Alexi was right—maybe she should go to California and relax for a few days. It would be a bit strange to hang with Alexi without Dahlia for any meaningful amount of time—she was definitely the link between them—but it could be fun to have a little getaway, especially to a warm climate. And there was no reason Cass and Alexi weren’t closer. No good one, anyway.

  Alexi Williams was physical perfection packed into a five-foot-three frame, defying the logic of her petite stature with her swan neck and longish limbs. She had that ballerina quality that made it seem like at any moment she’d get en pointe and pirouette around the room. Add in some white-blond hair, flawless skin and wide-set doe eyes, and Alexi was the rare person who could make Cass feel insecure about her looks. Cass had been dealt many disadvantages in life, so she didn’t feel the least bit guilty trading on the one advantage she’d not been spared. So being around Alexi, feeling the power of her prettiness slip through her fingers like sand, well, it made her uneasy.

  But there was something else too—a deeper jealousy that made Cass want to keep Alexi at a distance.

  Cass had always been tempted by the theater, and she loved the big biannual shows sponsored by the drama club at her massive public high school. Still, she never bothered to try out for anything because there was no one to pick her up from rehearsals or chip in with the other parents for cast parties and costumes. Then she got to Brown, where she didn’t have to worry anymore about what Donna and Dick might fail to do. From the moment she stepped foot on campus, Cass secretly hoped that theater would become her “thing,” and she auditioned for the first production she saw advertised. The play was Death of a Salesman, her favorite, and it felt like a sign when she won the small part of Letta. But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t find a way to get comfortable in the role. The problem was that Cass was already playing a part in her real life: the girl who belongs at Brown. She stepped into character each morning before greeting her roommate or even brushing her teeth, and she didn’t step out until she closed her eyes each night. It was too difficult, too confusing, to add another layer of artifice on top of the mask she already wore during all her waking hours. She was a good actress, but not that good.

  In contrast, Alexi had no such hurdles to overcome in the fitting-in department at school. She was a double legacy at Brown—her parents lived in a rambling mansion in a suburb of Providence that Cass had once been invited to during college. It had a wraparound porch with swinging benches and the inside featured a double-height library with towers of books that looked like they’d actually been read. And while Alexi struggled financially in California, it was only because her parents, both medical doctors, were withholding funds until she “came to her senses” about a career in entertainment. Alexi was cast as Linda Loman in the same Salesman production, where she glided seamlessly in and out of character without a hitch.

  Over time, Cass found her own place in the theater behind the scenes, working as a stage manager, lighting designer, director and de facto marketer. She had a particular genius for the promotional side, and since that was the job that eventually led her to Percy, she tried not to look back.

  “I just might come,” Cass said finally to Alexi, realizing a trip to California might be just what the doctor ordered. Vitamin D in noncapsule form. Plus, immersion in a city of shiny, happy people who didn’t waste hours each day thinking in what-ifs like neurotic New Yorkers.

  Her thoughts returned to what Alexi had said earlier . . . a gorgeous baby. Jonathan had a lot of strong, enviable WASP genes to pass on to their hybrid offspring. She’d made sure of that. A well-proportioned jaw, a six-foot-one stature that would hopefully average out her own modest contribution (height was such an easy way to establish gravitas) and a head of hair that was hanging around him longer than many other men his age who were forced into comb-overs or premature head shaves. Cass certainly didn’t go weak at the knees at the sight of him anymore, but she appreciated his good looks in a more enduring way. She especially liked walking into a room and seeing the approving glances.

  She was a year older than Jonathan. Eight months actually, but it translated into them being a school year apart. It bothered her. She had planned to be a few years younger than her spouse, as much as one can “plan” these things—and if anyone could, it was her—but instead she and Jonathan were growing up together. All things being equal, it’d be better to have your spouse grow up first and then tell you all the mistakes to avoid—unlike her parents, who were both young and dumb about everything, the blind leading the blind. She tried to focus on the positives of growing old with her husband, instead of playing catch-up. They could go together for his and her colonoscopies, share a subscription to AARP. Still, the matter of Jonathan’s age was made even more irritating by the fact that Cass was starting to show hers and he was not. It was just the normal course of female deterioration outpacing male, but it worried her. Glycolic acid peels could only do so much and she wasn’t ready to take any steps that involved needles or “recovery time,” cough cough. She wasn’t a spring chicken anymore—it wasn’t the time to risk what she had. Maybe back when her face was still line-free, before cellulite formed those gelatinous blobs that dimpled her thighs. Now she had to play it safe. If she ever were to seek out a new partner—like if Jonathan were to get hit by a bus or discover he had glioblastoma—she’d make sure it was someone comfortably older than her who would appreciate her youth simply as a relative matter. What was wrong with her for even thinking such thoughts? She wondered if Jonathan ever imagined what his life would be like if she were suddenly wiped off the earth.

  “Are you still seeing that director, by the way?” Cass asked. “Dahlia mentioned something about that at lunch.”

  “No, no. He was way too intense. On to the next. Not all of us are as lucky as you—literally bumping into Mr. Perfect. So I’m waiting for my Jonathan and trying to have a good time until he shows up.”

  “Make a left turn on La Brea Boulevard.” Cass heard Arnold Schwarzenegger suddenly in the background.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Oh, that’s just Waze. See the things you’re missing out on in New York?”

  “We have traffic here too. You’ve been to the Hamptons. I didn’t realize the Terminator was doing voice-overs. What’s next, cold sore commercials?”

  “Very funny. I have to go. Arnold just told me there’s an accident ahead. I need to detour.”

  “Drive safely. You just may be picking me up from the airport soon. Stay tuned.”

  8. JONATHAN

  AFTER YEARS OF trying to avoid pregnancy, it would definitely be weird to have sex with the opposite goal. All the worry about having an accident in high school and college was now suddenly converted by the forces of life and age into pressure. Would his boys swim? He had no reason to think they wouldn’t. They’d swum once before. It’d be better anyway if it took a while for Cass to get pregnant. More guaranteed sex.

  In the past five years, Nate, Jeff and even Russell had all gotten married. Nate and Jeff were already fathers and Jerry and Ginny had four grown children. He was ready to join the club—frankly, he never expected his dopey cronies to get there before him. Nate and Jeff had both married girls without serious professional aspirations. Technically they
had jobs, PR-this and fashion-that, but nothing that rose to the level of career status. They were primed for baby-making, according to Cass, from the minute they got someone to put a ring on it. Attractive incubators, he thought she may have called them one night when she was feeling particularly uncharitable. Cass was different, which is not to say that she wasn’t maternal. One look at Cass with Henry and Jemima’s twins or seeing the way she agonized over what to send Dahlia’s kid for his birthday, not to mention the excitement he gathered from catching glimpses of the bookmarked sites on her computer when they had been expecting—the ones where the size of the fetus is compared to various fruits (Cass still couldn’t eat blueberries anymore)—and it was obvious she’d make an attentive and loving mother. But her career mattered to her deeply, and she had wanted to reach a certain place before a string of maternity leaves (he hoped three) would make advancement more difficult. At this point in time, with “creative director” at PZA on her résumé, when she was ready to go back, Cass would be snapped up immediately by any number of firms. By all accounts and interested parties, the timing was right.

  After a fist bump to the doorman and a solitary elevator ride to the sixteenth floor, he turned the key in the door, surprised to find Cass had lit candles and tuned their never-touched Sonos system to a jazz station. They had texted a bit back and forth during the day, somewhat suggestively. They both knew that tonight would be their first night of trying. The day Cass came home from Dr. Levin’s office she’d added an event to her Google calendar three months from the day of her appointment and sent him an invite. She titled it “Baby-Making” and inserted heart and baby bottle emojis. He’d accepted the calendar invite immediately: Jonathan Coyne has accepted your invitation for “Baby-Making” at 9:00 p.m., location (home).