White Elephant

by Julie Langsdorf

“I’m against them,” Suzanne said.

  “A little gaming won’t kill him.” Nina fiddled with the controls for a while. Nothing. Then she unplugged a cable and plugged it in again. Finally Adam pushed a button on the remote control. Cartoon sword fighters appeared on the television screen accompanied by heroic music. The women cheered. Adam pushed more buttons, but the sword fighters remained poised, ready for battle, yet unable to fight. Adam lay on the rug, facedown.

  “Let’s get going. I have to get to yoga.” Nina sat on the couch.

  “Not you too,” Suzanne said.

  “Hot yoga. Not the religious kind, are you kidding me?” Nina rested her elbow on the armrest, held up her chin and turned on her smile for the camera. “It’s intense. Relaxing in spite of itself, if you know what I mean. You’d love it.”

  “Suzanne’s not a yoga girl.”

  “She’d like Bikram.”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” Allison said.

  “She would. You sell a house to someone, you learn a thing or two about them.”

  “It’s not her,” Allison said.

  Suzanne laughed. “I’m right here, folks.”

  “Want to come?” Nina said.

  “Stop moving, Nina.” Allison zoomed in on Nina’s teeth, on her too-big smile, on the bleached hairs above her lips. She focused on her mascara, crumbling around her eyes. She could make her look horrible if she wanted to, but that wasn’t what she was being paid for. She zoomed out, into safer terrain.

  “Seriously,” Nina said. “It’s like doing yoga in a tin shack on the beach. You sweat. Do you ever.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a sport for a pregnant woman,” Suzanne said.

  “So don’t do it when you’re pregnant.”

  “Too late,” Suzanne said.

  “You’re not!”

  “See my bump?” She turned sideways, revealing a faint bump.

  “Mine’s bigger,” Allison said, pressing her shirt against her pooch. No one laughed. Valeria would have laughed.

  “Congratulations,” Nina cooed.

  “I used to be a runner,” Suzanne said.

  “Me too—till I broke my ankle. I tripped over a curb in the Marine Corps Marathon.”

  “I blew out my knee in New York!” Suzanne said.

  They clutched hands like long-lost sisters.

  “Let’s get going here!” Allison snapped. Suzanne and Nina looked at her. “Sorry, I mean. Well, we want to get you to yoga, don’t we, Nina?”

  Allison clicked away, wanting to end the photo session quickly, wanting to go backward in time, so she could say it all again without the edge. What was the matter with her? She reviewed the photos on the camera. Nina looked frighteningly similar every time, as though she were made of wax. “It’s a wrap,” Allison said.

  “So, are you coming?” Nina said, rising from the couch.

  “To Bikram?” Allison said with a scornful laugh.

  “We can still make it.” Nina’s eyes were on Suzanne. Of course she meant Suzanne.

  “I can’t,” Suzanne said.

  “Just sit on a mat and check it out. It’ll be like taking a sauna. A sauna won’t hurt.”

  “I’ve got Adam.”

  “Can’t he go to school?” Nina said. “Most children do.”

  “He’s not feeling well.”

  “What about Allison? You’re not doing anything, are you, Allison? Allison can watch him.”

  “Wow. Could you?” Suzanne said.

  Allison nearly said no—but Suzanne, who’d looked so glum all morning, suddenly looked happy. “I suppose . . .”

  “You’re a gem,” Suzanne said.

  “Not at all,” Allison said reflexively. What a sucker she was. Sucker, sucker, sucker. Then she remembered that giving Suzanne time for herself had been one of her mentoring dreams. She packed Adam back in the car, and took him home.

  Adam stopped to study something invisible on the walkway to her house. “Come on, sweetie,” she said.

  “That’s a termite,” he said.

  “Hopefully an ant.”

  “No. It doesn’t have a pinched waist.”

  “I better call the exterminator then.”

  “Don’t kill it!”

  It was going to be a long afternoon. But then the evening would arrive. Tonight!

  Candy wagged through the window as Allison climbed the porch steps. “Candy’s excited to see you.”

  Adam caught up to Allison. “I like you,” he said.

  “You do?” She stopped turning the key in the lock, and looked at him, wanting to hear more. It was pathetic, but right now, validation from anyone would suffice.

  “You remind me of my grammy.”

  “Oh. Your grammy.”

  “She’s my best person yet.” He put his hand in hers. It felt as soft and warm as a fresh bun.

  ALLISON LAY ON THE BED IN A LACY, CREAM-COLORED TEDDY. SHE’D bought it at the mall this afternoon after Suzanne picked up Adam, in honor of what was about to occur. It had been the most discreet of the silky little outfits she had tried on, all of which seemed to be more lacy panels and wildly plunging necklines than actual fabric. Unfortunately it had a thong, which she simply did not understand. Why was it necessary for women to wear thongs? Why did men like this? The salesgirl waved away her concerns. “First-world problems,” she said, and rang up the purchase.

  Allison lit a candle while Ted washed up, then lay back down again. Her breasts oozed out on either side of her getup, giving her a flattened look. So she moved onto her side, propped on one elbow. Her breasts slid down to the side as a pair, seeking the comfort of the mattress. By the time Ted came out, teeth brushed and flossed, she was on her side, one arm under her head, the other under her breasts, holding them together in a way that made her look like she had more cleavage than she actually did, which had been quite an art to arrange.

  Ted brought the bright light of the bathroom in with him. He wore striped pajamas with long pants and a top that buttoned up the front. The kind of pajamas her father wore. Maybe Suzanne should start a men’s lingerie company. Teddies for men. That might do well with women who had lost enthusiasm. Although there couldn’t be thongs. She shook off the thought.

  He blew out the candle.

  “That was for effect,” she said.

  “Oh.” He turned on the bedside lamp, singeing her eyes and exposing all of her puckers and sags. She turned it off, and, after a few failed attempts with the matches, they were back in business.

  It was very early. Not yet eight. That would have raised an eyebrow with Jillian. Why are you guys going to bed so early? Are you sick? But she was conveniently out, at the Conservation Carnival at the middle school, after which a friend’s mother would drop her off.

  Ted had taken the sildenafil just after Jillian’s ride arrived, while he and Allison were doing the dishes. He’d poured himself a glass of water, opened the bottle, and popped four in his mouth. Then, for good measure, he took a fifth.

  They looked at his crotch as if his penis might start rising there and then, erect and mighty, ready for service. But, well, it didn’t work that way, Allison had learned from the Internet. It still would need encouragement before it reported for duty.

  Ted studied the medication vial. “Shoot.”

  “What?”

  “I think I took it too early.”

  “Too early?”

  “It only takes a half hour to an hour to start to work. It can last a long time, up to five hours, though, so we could wait.”

  Nope. Allison wasn’t going to take any chances. She turned off the water, leaving the dishes unwashed, took his hand, and led him to the bedroom.

  “No need for those,” she said after he’d gotten under the covers, and she proceeded to undress him, unbuttoning his pajama shirt and easing his arms out of the sleeves, inching his pants down his legs with slow and sexy precision. The faux Viagra seemed to work quite well, she was pleased to see. Soon he was lying on his back, his penis at attentio
n, holding the sheet up like a tent.

  “‘Let’s go on with the show!’” she cried, quoting a line from Annie Get Your Gun with a laugh. She felt so happy. He cared after all. She’d begun to wonder.

  “Why are you laughing?” he said.

  “It looks like a circus tent.”

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just funny. It’s a funny image.”

  He looked at the circus-tent sheet. “Why do I have to do this?”

  “What?”

  “Take medication. Why does what you want become what we do?”

  She, who had been about to move down under the covers, taking matters to the next level, sat up. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why do I have to take pills? Why can’t we just wait till I’m into it again?”

  “We’re going to have a fight? Now?”

  “All right, if you want to. Yes.”

  “Don’t you care what I need in our marriage?”

  “Don’t you care what I need?”

  Poof. All of the excitement, all of the anticipation and planning, strategizing and executing fled toward the ceiling and the gaps in the windows, through the attic, out the roof and into the heavens. Gone. That fast. They’d gotten so close. She lay down, eyes closed. “So you don’t want to make love with me.”

  “Well, part of me does, I guess,” he said angrily, pointing toward the unflagging pole holding up the sheet.

  She laughed.

  “It’s not funny!”

  “Okay,” she said, but it was.

  “Let’s just have sex, Allison.” Irritation saturated his voice.

  “I don’t want to if you’re going to be like that.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “Why would I want to have sex with someone who feels like it’s a job?”

  “I said I’d do it.”

  “But you’re doing it against your will.”

  “Let’s just get it over with.”

  “Over with? Really, Ted? Forget it.”

  “Really? We can forget it? Because that’s what I want.”

  “Yep. Forget it,” she said, and she rolled away from him, throwing off her ridiculous teddy and putting on her flannel nightgown.

  Before long Ted was asleep beside her. She couldn’t resist a peek before blowing out the candle. As suspected, his erection remained high and lofty, waving a flag for no one.

  12

  DECEMBER 7

  When Nick Cox, comfortable in a leather armchair, swilled his glass of wine, Grant, sitting in the matching chair opposite, swilled his. When Nick Cox shut his eyes and sniffed his wine, Grant sniffed too. When Nick Cox unfolded the preliminary plans for the addition to Grant and Suzanne’s house, Grant interlaced his fingers behind his head and eyed the mural on the wall.

  They were in Nick’s basement, in the lounge adjacent to the wine cellar. Grant had stopped by for a “quick sec” after this evening’s Annie Get Your Gun rehearsal, to see what Nick thought of the plans. He was a builder after all.

  The mural was fantastic. You really got the feeling you were somewhere in Italy, with all those grapevines and blue sky, that villa off in the distance. He shut his eyes and basked, imagining himself on a sunny patio, not far from the olive trees.

  Nick’s house was like an American villa. It had everything—a gym with an amazing sound system, an endless pool, carpeting so thick you could lose golf balls in it. Everything was padded. Everything was shiny and enormous. Grant wanted to leap onto the sectional leather sofa in the media room like a kid jumping into a pile of leaves. He wanted to sack out with the remote control in his hand, surfing through channel after channel on their huge TV. Everything was top of the line, new, new, new, from the shimmering kitchen counters to the conference-table-size dining room table. Two dishwashers in the kitchen! A three-car garage with heating and air-conditioning! The Coxes’ house was otherworldly. Truly. Like another world from his and Suzanne’s little house, where Adam had pounding headaches and Suzanne was climbing the walls.

  And now a baby. A baby!

  He’d responded to the news with unrestrained joy. What choice did he have? You couldn’t say not now to your pregnant wife. He had to act assured, under control, the dad guy. He had to behave the same way at work, to leave his employers in no doubt that they had chosen wisely when they hired him.

  Things weren’t going well on the new job. He was distracted, struggling to force himself to work the long hours a Washington law firm expected. There was just so much pressure on him these days. Even Annie Get Your Gun, which should have been a release, was a stressor. He felt terrible if he missed a line or sang a bad note at rehearsal. He didn’t like to let anyone down.

  Grant thought of his little cache of weed with something like love. He took it out to look at it sometimes. He unzipped the top of the Baggie and breathed it in, fished through it with his fingers in search of buds, like a forty-niner in search of gold nuggets. Nothing illegal about touching and smelling marijuana, if you ignored the fact that possession in Maryland was illegal without a medical marijuana license.

  He thought about getting a license now that he lived in a state that allowed it. If he had it on doctor’s orders, Suzanne couldn’t object to it anymore. It would be like having a snack when you were hungry, water when you were thirsty, cough syrup when you were coughing—nothing anyone could find fault with. All that stood between him and that humming sense of peace was a piece of paper.

  He wouldn’t smoke again till he had that document, he told himself. Not anymore—because, well, he had been smoking a little. A very little. Just on the way back from rehearsals. It wasn’t like he was in the habit. Okay, he was in the habit, but he was just having a couple of hits a night. He had to conserve it since he didn’t know who to buy it from up here. He was mildly stoned right now, but what was the harm in that?

  Honestly, what was so bad about weed? He’d never figured that out. As long as you weren’t out-of-your-head stoned behind the wheel, who cared? It was no worse than alcohol. It probably made more sense to make alcohol illegal since people often got angry when they were drunk. People who were stoned usually just mellowed out.

  All Grant really wanted was to relax a little. Suzanne acted like relaxation itself was a felony. She would kick him out if she knew he was smoking—she’d already made that clear. So he was careful. He went to bed after her, scrubbing himself down like a victim of nuclear fallout and rinsing with mouthwash in addition to brushing. Suzanne was a real bloodhound when she was pregnant. She could sniff out souring milk days before the expiration date, not to mention meat that was on the verge.

  His phone pinged. Maybe it’s a sympathetic pregnancy, Marie texted, continuing a conversation they’d been having about Adam’s headaches.

  Maybe.

  Remember how fat I got when my sister was pregnant? She wrote. I’m still fat. She lost it all, the bitch, but me, I’m still paying for that brat.

  He wrote Hahaha.

  He liked the fact that all she needed was a laugh, not reassurance that she wasn’t fat—though she wasn’t. Since when did a little meat on the bones mean someone was fat?

  The two of them had dated for a while, after college. Not really dated. More like friends with benefits. They used to get together when they were stoned or bored, make out, sometimes more. It went on intermittently for years, in between girlfriends. Marie always said they’d get married someday. He’d apologized to her over drinks after he and Suzanne got engaged. “I didn’t mean I’d be your first wife,” she’d said dryly.

  Grant took another sip of wine. Nick had a special refrigerator filled with bottles.

  “Nice, very nice,” Nick said.

  Grant nodded. “On the dry side.” He had a fifty percent chance of being right.

  “I meant the house plans,” Nick said. “They’re nice, but they could be a hell of a lot nicer. Can I talk to you man-to-man?”

  “Of course.”

/>   “That house of yours is a tear-down. But you knew that when you bought it.”

  Grant nodded tentatively. A fixer-upper, he thought they were called.

  “What’s keeping you from gutting it and building something really gorgeous, something worthy of you and your beautiful family?”

  Grant imagined transporting Nick’s house onto his lawn. He envisioned helicopters carrying it the way storks carried babies. Then he came to with a sigh. “Might not be possible. We’ll see what they decide after the public hearing.”

  “Yeah, what a joke, right? A moratorium will never pass. It’s not even legal.” Nick drained his glass.

  “I don’t know about that . . .”

  “It’s legal? You’re shitting me.”

  Grant nodded.

  “What would it mean?” Nick’s voice crept up the register. “Crackdowns? Retroactive fines? Or worse? Are they going to make people tear down houses they decide don’t ‘fit in’?” He made air quotes. “It’s discrimination, that’s what. Discrimination against the successful.”

  “My guess is what’s been approved, stays approved.”

  “A ‘Petition for Peace.’ What a load of crap. You didn’t sign, did you?”

  “Not me,” Grant said.

  “I ought to start a petition of my own.”

  “A Petition for War?”

  Nick laughed. “I like you, Davenport.”

  “Davenport-Gardner.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” He clapped Grant on the shoulder.

  Grant felt himself blush, more pleased than he would have liked to admit.

  Nick grabbed another bottle of wine by its neck, like a chicken, tore off the foil with his teeth, and poured fresh glasses for them both.

  ALLISON, BACK FROM REHEARSAL, SAT AT THE DINING ROOM TABLE with a cup of mint tea. It had been a good day after all, two Christmas card photo shoots and another afternoon of babysitting. Adam was fine company. She’d sung songs from Annie Get Your Gun to him while he lay on the couch, eyes closed. “Brava,” he’d cried whenever she finished a number, and “Encore.”

  Ted, sitting opposite Allison, frowned over the enlarged map of the town spread across the table in front of him. Jillian sat at the head, math book and notebook open. “Domestic Life in Willard Park,” Allison thought, snapping an imaginary picture.