The Intermission

by Elyssa Friedland

  The truth was that Puddles didn’t seem to notice Cass’s absence all that much. He sniffed at a few of her sweaters the first few nights but had cozied up instantly to Maurice, probably because Jonathan had instructed him to give Puddles as many treats as he wanted, like he was a child of divorce who could be mollified with spoiling. If only Cass’s parents had done that, maybe she wouldn’t be the victim-of-divorce poster child she was. Puddles wasn’t the brightest canine, which Betsy was quick to point out, along with a hint, hint “You should have used the family breeder,” and in fact their dog had earned his nickname because of his inability to avoid any pool of water on the ground. It was Cass who started calling Montgomery by the more suitable name Puddles, and it stuck. So the idea of Puddles having any type of career in the movies was laughable. The simplest instructions, like sit, quiet or fetch, threw their poor pet into a tailspin, and Jonathan couldn’t resist making the joke to Cass, even though he was loath to make an overture of intimacy to her. It could make him seem desperate. Or worse, in denial. Some poor sap unaware of what was happening right under his nose.

  Of course. Assuming they don’t mind him humping the tripods and boom mic, she texted back. Puddles was also unduly amorous.

  It seemed Cass was less concerned with employing their shared jokes. There was so much that only they could appreciate—private jokes, knowing glances, a secret language they used in public places where they would only say the first syllable of words and totally get each other’s meaning. It wasn’t necessarily enough to sustain a marriage losing its luster, but it was something. A foundation, at least.

  In six days, Jonathan would meet Cass at LAX to hand over Puddles for his month in California. He got to keep him much longer than his originally allotted four weeks because Cass was getting settled at Alexi’s and figuring out logistics, which he later learned meant bribing Alexi’s landlord to overlook the building’s no-pet policy. Their custodial arrangement was going to be exhausting, not to mention absurdly expensive, but spending significant time away from Puddles wasn’t a concession either of them was willing to make. So he agreed to exchange Puddles every month even though he knew he’d be paying for these bicoastal flights. The funding of their separation was never articulated and he’d just assumed, chump that he was, that a portion of his hard-earned money would facilitate the intermission of his marriage. He made about six times what Cass made back when she was working, and it felt petty to bring up the money, like he was trying to make it seem as though she was financially required to stay with him. To his surprise, he hadn’t seen any withdrawals for rent or other expenses from their bank account since Cass had left. It turned out his wife was paying for her crazy intermission all by herself. In retrospect, he wasn’t totally surprised. She was a survivor, self-taught from a young age how to get on by herself.

  A part of Jonathan suspected that if he’d pressed harder on keeping Puddles for longer stretches, he might have succeeded in convincing Cass to stay. But that felt not only too manipulative but also like a hollow victory. And if they couldn’t be amicable about a dog, what type of precedent would that set? He wanted to show himself as reasonable, and besides, this way he was sure he’d see Cass at least once a month. On any given occasion, he could just buy her a one-way ticket to New York and he’d transport both Cass and Puddles back to their apartment, to the status quo, to before their relationship fractured like a child’s tibia bone. His younger brother Wallace was studying to be a pediatric orthopedist and analogized everything in life to anatomy, a habit that Jonathan was picking up. Something else Cass had pointed out, like his snoring.

  After he caught a short nap on the ferry ride, he was back on the familiar streets of his childhood summers. All at once, the ghost of Cass drifted away and thoughts of Brett flooded his head. He couldn’t displace the most recent Facebook image he’d seen of her with her son, who now came up to her elbow. Brett was girl-next-door pretty, kindhearted, easy to get along with, the sort of woman that, if they’d met at a different point in his life, he’d have had the brains to marry. That wasn’t to say she was simple, but her complexity wasn’t the nefarious kind. So while he’d known for a long time that Brett was settled and raising a family, seeing it reflected back at him in colorful photographs with seventy-nine comments of the “Adorable!” variety was a different story, especially given his current situation.

  Past South Beach and Katama Farm Institute, he pulled into the parking lot of the Winnetu. With Cass gone, he was more grateful than ever to have been given a dispensation to stay out of the family house for the weekend. He checked into his hotel room and found an elaborate welcome basket waiting for him on the desk next to the king-sized bed. Puddles trotted over to it, sensing there might be something in there for him.

  “Hang on, buddy,” he said. “There’s a card here for us. Let’s read it before we attack the snacks.”

  Dear Cass and Jonathan,

  This weekend wouldn’t be as special without you. We love you and can’t wait to celebrate many happy occasions together!

  XOXO,

  Jordyn and Michael

  Even the precise Jordyn with her endless checklists and fancy wedding planner from the Back Bay hadn’t remembered to change the card on the welcome basket. He tugged at the heavy lavender ribbon, rescued a granola bar from beneath mounds of tissue paper for Puddles and helped himself to a mini bottle of Mount Gay, which had been repackaged with a label bearing Jordyn and Michael’s monogram and their wedding date.

  He knew that for girls like Jordyn, weddings were the culmination of a lifetime of fantasizing. No vows were too cheesy, no flower arrangement too fussy and no wedding accoutrement which couldn’t benefit from some personalization and a thematic tie-in. Not so for the Casses of the world, who thought fighting about color schemes and petit four varieties was too juvenile to even bother getting in the ring. Originally, this surprised him, given her creative job and attention to detail. Later he learned that it was only after the party hoopla that things got interesting for his wife, tolling the bell for the psychological warfare, where no decision was too small to skip negotiations and no concessions were made that went unnoticed. Until then, you could have your cake any flavor you wanted! He unscrewed the cap of the liquor bottle and let the full contents slide down his throat. Soon enough it would rise back to his head and give his mind a much-needed rest.

  Lying on the bed, waiting for the booze to kick in, he reconsidered. What right did he have to complain about Cass? He’d signed up for life with her. Jordyns had presented themselves to him in spades. But then where would he be? Exactly in the same place he grew up, under Betsy’s thumb, living the life that was expected of him. He needed some separation from his upbringing, to branch out from the land of embroidered shorts and sunglass tans and trust funds. He’d run to Cass with eyes wide open. The only bait and switch of which he could accuse her was that she pretended to like sushi on their third date and didn’t confess her true feelings until after they were married. How could you not love someone with such a big heart, willing to gulp down the abundant raw fish on the omakase menu so he didn’t feel bad? He’d scored a table at Masa, then almost impossible to get into without connections and deep pockets. He’d gone casual on the first few dates, but then it became time to let Cass see a bit more what a rising tide she had stumbled upon. She didn’t seem the type to care—her theater job probably paid peanuts, and she had been more than happy to chow down greasy food on their first date and pop on bowling shoes for date two. But he wanted to show off a little, and he’d liked watching the expression on her face as she appreciatively cleaned her numerous small plates, complimented the famous chef and told him how excited she was to eat there. A year later, when they were newly married and Cass was drunk and naked from the waist down after their umpteenth screw on the living room couch, she’d said out of nowhere: “Remember Masa? When I ate all that toro? I actually hate sushi.” That was the only outright lie of hers
that he could think of, and that felt pretty good. She had been awfully convincing though that night, taking second helpings, and that was enough to keep him on his toes.

  * * *

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THURSDAY NIGHT DRINKS for those guests who’d arrived early were at a casual favorite lobster roll stop that Michael and Jordyn had rented out for the night. As a kid he used to frequent the place with his siblings, knocking their bicycles against the beat-up picket fencing and charging in for lunch. As he got older, he started going at night, and fortunately the summer staff was a mix of college kids and disengaged lifers who couldn’t care less that he was underage and that just two years earlier he had been paying for his food with allowance money strapped into a canvas Star Wars wallet.

  Mercifully, Betsy had decided the Thursday night event was for the youngsters only, so he wouldn’t have to face his parents until the next day. He slipped into his Vineyard gear, essentially a carbon copy of what Jordyn had requested for the next night: reddish pink pants and a pique polo shirt. He added a braided belt and sockless loafers and stepped into the cool, dry air. Five minutes later he arrived and spotted Jordyn and Michael huddled outside the restaurant, near the kitchen’s back door. A third person, a woman in jean shorts and a tank top, stood with them. He approached, tapping his younger brother on the shoulder.

  “Bro!” Michael exclaimed, embracing him in a tight hug.

  “Everything okay?” Jonathan asked, noting Jordyn’s look of abject panic. Despite the calamity of the moment, the bride was visual perfection in her strapless sundress, gauzy scarf and flip-flops, the look of the Vineyard nailed down perfectly in a way only someone who’d been coming here all their life could achieve. Jonathan could always tell who had the Vineyard in their blood and who was a transplant or a tourist. It made Cass furious when he pointed it out, though she’d taken to doing the same thing in New York.

  “Hi, Jonathan,” Jordyn clipped, meeting his gaze for a split second. “We’re having a menu crisis.” Then, obviously remembering his situation, she looked back at him to add, “I know it’s my wedding weekend, but I am totally available to talk to you whenever you need.”

  Really? Because I could really use your advice now, Jonathan was tempted to say. Then he’d see how quickly she was willing to drop everything. He shouldn’t be faulting the bride for his ill temper, though. It was her wedding after all—a once-in-a-life occasion (for most)—and he’d promised himself that he’d keep cynicism at bay for the weekend. Like most brides, Jordyn wanted a flawless affair. The one detail she couldn’t control—the weather—had apparently been giving her nightmares for weeks.

  Michael pulled Jonathan a few feet away back toward the parking lot.

  “Don’t ask. Jordyn’s flipping out because the hors d’oeuvres are too big to eat or something and they don’t have the mini lobster rolls she wanted. And there was a tip jar on the bar that maybe like two people saw before she swiped it away, but she’s still mortified. Brides, right? How you doing, man? I caught dribs and drabs from Mom. Didn’t you get my texts?”

  “I’m all right. I don’t want you to think about me for a minute. Just enjoy this weekend.”

  “No, I want to be here for you. You can tell me, seriously.” Worry washed over Michael’s face and Jonathan was heartened by his brother’s concern. Whatever coldness coursed through Betsy’s veins, at least she hadn’t passed it on to his siblings.

  “I swear, I’m fine. We’re going to work everything out.”

  Michael relaxed into a half smile.

  “Guess now’s not the best time to ask you for marriage advice? It’s hard not to have some cold feet when your soon-to-be wife is crying over the diameter of a slider. At least it’s not raining.”

  “No, I’m probably not the best person, but let me give it some thought.” Jonathan slapped his brother on the back, offered a salute to Jordyn and headed inside.

  Three rum and Cokes later, he was still ruminating about what advice he would give his little brother, even hypothetically. Something about not ignoring the little things because they snowball quickly? Or was it about being a better listener? Maybe it was sex-related, but what? He couldn’t think straight anymore. It seemed someone had thoughtfully spread the word about him and Cass before his arrival because nobody who came over to him to say hello asked him where his wife was. Well, that was a pleasant surprise. He’d rehearsed a little one-liner on the drive to the Vineyard, though it was long forgotten by now.

  “Can I sit here?” a familiar voice asked. Jonathan swiveled around on his bar stool, dizzy at the sight of Brett waiting for an answer.

  “Br—Brett!” he exclaimed, hobbling off the stool to give her a hug. He lost his footing a bit and crashed into her, sending the contents of the cocktail she was clutching onto her dress.

  “Sorry,” he belted out, grasping for napkins that he swatted at her chest.

  “It’s fine,” she said, smiling at him with a kindness intimating she understood everything he was going through. Or was it the fuzz of the alcohol creating the outline of a halo over her head? “Let’s sit.”

  “I was just so surprised to see you here,” he said. “You look amazing.” He shifted his head back and then returned it to proper alignment, capturing her like a zooming camera lens. She looked similar to the way he remembered her, though crow’s-feet had nestled into the skin around her green eyes and the tan she’d spent her entire adolescence chasing had weathered her to some degree. Her body, though, looked miraculously unchanged from what he could tell. Despite birthing a child, she had the same lithe figure from her high school track days.

  “You’re too kind. I ran into Jordyn at the nail salon two days ago. I hadn’t seen her in ages and she invited me to come tonight. I’m visiting my parents and figured I could use a little time by myself. They’re watching my son.”

  “A son?” he asked, feigning surprise.

  “Yes, Lars. He’s seven.”

  “That’s great. It really is so good to see you.”

  “You too. Where’s your wife? I ran into your mom a while back and she told me you were married and living in New York.”

  Apparently word hadn’t spread to everyone.

  “We’re separated, actually. Cass, that’s her name, is living in L.A. for the time being.”

  It was hard to judge Brett’s reaction. She seemed intrigued, with her wide eyes and slightly opened mouth, like he was telling her about a fascinating article he’d read in the paper. Nervous, he reached into the bowl of monogrammed M&M’s on the bar and popped a handful in his mouth. While chewing he added, “I suggested the break to Cass and she agreed. Luckily, it’s very civil.”

  Brett nodded, something like approval, maybe.

  “I’m recently divorced myself,” she said.

  “Sorry to hear that,” he said, though he did feel the tiniest bit happy. He hoped he didn’t smile. The truth was that he couldn’t feel his face. Who knows why he reacted gleefully to her news anyway? It could be a dormant schadenfreude or more simply an expression of misery loving company. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Brett still had those amazing legs, toned, tan and stretching out before him for days.

  “It’s fine, truly. I have a beautiful son.”

  “Cheers to that. Should we get another drink?” he asked, noticing just how much of her cocktail he’d emptied on her pale dress, now stained like a Rorschach test. He spun around to get the bartender’s attention, knocking over the M&M’s, which scattered across the counter like marbles.

  He felt the color drain from his face.

  “On second thought, maybe I’ve had enough. I should probably head home. It was so nice seeing you.” He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, nearly missing her face entirely.

  “Not sure you should be driving,” she said. “Let me give you a lift.”

  He nodded appreciatively and followed h
er to the parking lot, trying his best to walk in a straight line. She clicked something on her keys and headlights on a navy blue Subaru lit up.

  “You’re right next to me,” he said, pointing toward the Bugatti, which looked wildly out of place among the low-key station wagons and Jeeps with their “MV” and “The Black Dog” stickers on the back windshields.

  “Wow,” she sputtered, but it was definitely not meant as a compliment.

  It’s not mine, he wanted to protest, but forming complete sentences was suddenly beyond him. He slumped into Brett’s passenger seat and closed his eyes.

  15. CASS

  WHAT DID PEOPLE wear on first dates in Los Angeles? What did people wear on dates? Cass hated that she had to be flush with insecurity all over again, but then again she also loved it. Because she honestly couldn’t recall the last time she had had this kind of nervous anticipation. At Burger Joint with Jonathan, maybe.

  People got married largely so they never had to go on another date again. At least that’s what she and Jonathan would joke whenever they were seated next to a pair on a first date trying desperately to make conversation. Just eavesdropping, feeling the waves of secondhand sympathy, could be excruciating. And what followed was often more painful—the agonizing waiting by the phone, the sophomoric interpretations of text messages, the self-scrutiny—these acts of masochism could make even the most commitment-phobic person settle down. But the mind is a tricky beast, because here she was, actively craving the anxiety of dating. And she couldn’t be the only one. The divorce rate would be much lower if she was singular in her desire to risk rejection, objectify herself, frantically go through the motions of sex with a new partner and, quite frankly, take more than one selfie to assess her appearance, all in the hopes of feeling a spark again. She’d read once in some random Facebook post that people would rather electroshock themselves than sit quietly with their own thoughts. If that didn’t show desperation to feel something, what did?