“What’s the matter, darling?” she said softly, placing her hand on his face. “What’s wrong with my husband that I need to fix?”
Alexander lowered his head. But before he could tell her all the things that were wrong with her husband—one of the minor ones being that he could not sleep alone one more Friday night, not one more—a male voice from behind them said, “Tania?” It was Dr. Bradley. Alexander let go of Tatiana. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s time,” Bradley said, glancing at Alexander. “We’re due in scrubs in three minutes.”
They got up. “Yes, I’ll be right there,” said Tatiana, taking a last sip of coffee. “Dr. Bradley, you remember Alexander, my husband?”
Alexander shook hands with the doctor, who went to wait by the door.
Tatiana patted Alexander on the chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, honey,” she said, and made to go. He didn’t move and said nothing. She stopped, studied him, this way, that, considered him. Then she stepped in and lifted her face.
Blocking her with his body so she was hidden from Bob Hope’s view, Alexander bent to her upturned face, and kissed her soft pale pink parted lips.
“I’ll see you, babe,” he said.
And then he watched her rush out, talking about surgeries and sutures. Dr. Bradley opened the door for her and prodded her out with his hand on her back. Alexander emphatically threw their coffee cups away. Before he left, he sat in the waiting room next to Charlie, who reeked something terrible. Alexander had to move two seats over. Charlie turned to him, gummed toothlessly, nodded his head, and said, “That’s right. If you sit long enough, sometimes she comes again.”
“Does she?”
“If she has time. Sometimes I sit all night. I fall asleep, I wake up and she is sitting by me. I go when she goes.”
Alexander remained in the chair another thirty minutes, watching the doors. But Tatiana didn’t come again, and he went home.
That Saturday morning he said to her as he was getting ready for work and she was in bed, getting ready for sleep, “Tania, is Bradley the doctor in charge of ER?”
“Just the night shift.”
“He works only at night?”
“No. He does work the Friday graveyard. Why?”
“No reason,” said Alexander. “I didn’t remember until last night, but is my memory wrong or is David Bradley the same doctor who came to see you five years ago when Dudley was killed?”
“Was killed? I note with irony your use of the passive voice,” said a smiling Tatiana from the bed. “Yes, I think Bradley was. Why?”
“No reason.” Alexander was thoughtful as he fixed his tie. “Is he the one who looked at the marks on the back of your neck and then got all flustered like a schoolgirl?”
“Shura, I don’t know,” said Tatiana. “How do you remember that?”
“I didn’t remember it. Until just now.”
“Why are you remembering it just now?”
“No reason.”
“That’s the third time you said that.”
“Is it? I gotta go. I have a meeting at nine. Don’t forget we’re getting the Christmas tree this afternoon.” It was the end of November. The Christmas season was just beginning, but they liked to have their tree up for as long as possible. Had Bradley been carrying a torch for his wife for five years? Alexander wouldn’t have thought about it again, wouldn’t have cared, except that he couldn’t get her laughing head out of his chest, her throwing back her head, her hair, and heartily, throatily, lustily laughing.
Winter Wonderland
Two days later on Monday, Alexander and Anthony were once again impatiently waiting for Tatiana to come home. Alexander was bubbling inside. Anthony wouldn’t eat without her, and so Alexander sat like a stone on the couch and read the paper. Those lights in the desert valley sure were twinkling. And every one of them was another damn roadblock in the thirty-seven miles separating the hospital from their front door. Anthony had set the table, the bread was ready, the butter had been taken out of the ice box, the beef bourguignon she had made was heated up.
Tatiana walked in the door at nine thirty. “Sorry, I’m late,” she said.
Alexander got up from the couch—and said nothing. He did glare at her until he saw how wiped out she was. “Iris was late again,” said Tatiana, taking off her coat, putting her bag down. Yes, Alexander thought. But there was once a time when you punched the card and popped the clutch at 7:01, and didn’t care how late Iris was. “I have more responsibilities now,” she said.
“Did I say a word?” snapped Alexander.
The tips of her fingers were trembling. She barely ate. There was a small problem with Anthony at school, but Alexander didn’t know how to bring it up seeing how she was.
“Ant, Shura, you guys really should eat before I get home,” Tatiana said. “This is too late for you to have dinner. Please. Don’t wait. It makes me feel too bad, thinking of you sitting here waiting for me. Just eat in the future.”
“You want your family to eat without you three nights a week?” Alexander said quietly.
And she, nodding! said, “I’d rather you eat without me than eat this late. This is terrible.”
“Yes, it is,” Alexander said.
She didn’t lift her eyes.
Anthony came to his usual Phyrric rescue. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mom, don’t be angry, okay?”
“Great introduction.” Tatiana lifted her eyes to her son. “What did you do?”
“The principal wants to see you first thing tomorrow.”
Tatiana leveled her gaze on him. “And there I was,” she said, “going to go Christmas shopping for you first thing tomorrow, Anthony Alexander Barrington.”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I got into a fight, Mom.”
She did a double take. “You what?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Anthony. “But the other kid has a broken nose.”
Tatiana glared at Alexander.
“What are you giving me dirty looks for?” Alexander said. “I didn’t break the kid’s nose.”
“Is his name Damien Mesker, by any chance?” asked Tatiana.
“Yes! God, how did you know?”
“Because we set his nose at ER this afternoon. Anthony, I thought you two were friends.”
“Mom, I didn’t mean to break his nose. We just got into a fight.”
“Where are your marks?”
“Well . . .” Anthony said, “I didn’t get hit. He went for me but I ducked.”
“I see.” Once again she glared at Alexander.
“What?” he said, shrugging. “You want your only child to stand there and take it?”
“It’s all my fault,” Anthony said quickly. “Don’t be upset with Dad.”
“Clean up, Ant.” Tatiana got up from the table. “Alexander, would you like to have your cigarette outside—now?”
Alexander gave his son a shove as he went out. “See what you did?” he whispered.
On the deck, Tatiana said, “Shura, what are you thinking teaching your boy to fight but not to have sense? He’ll break somebody’s nose now, but you know better than anyone that tomorrow it’ll be front teeth. And he did not use equal force. The other boy just pushed Ant.”
“Anthony has to know how to defend himself,” said Alexander. “The broken nose was an accident.”
“You’re impossible, that’s what you are,” said Tatiana. “Now I have to call the boy’s family. That’s another hour gone by, and it’s already after ten.”
“Yes,” said Alexander, sitting back against the bench, smoking, looking out onto the dark desert. “It is very late, isn’t it?”
After Anthony was made to call Damien and apologize, Tatiana talked a long time to Damien’s mother.
When Alexander came inside the bedroom, he found Tatiana asleep on top of the quilt in her uniform. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. In the cauldron inside his chest, tenderness swirled around, jumbled and swallowed by hostility. He
shook her leg.
“Oh God,” she muttered, waking up. “I’m not alive tonight.”
“As always,” said Alexander. “At least tomorrow you have a day off.” Quickly she undressed, stumbled to the bathroom, stumbled out, and fell into bed, her hair still in a bun, turning her face to him for a kiss, eyes closed.
“Do you want me to rub you?” Alexander whispered. She smelled faintly of musk oil that seemed to have permanently soaked into her skin, of lilac soap, of mint on her breath. His hand crept down her spine. Tatiana muttered something, groaned and was asleep. Alexander lay behind her, against her warmth, caressing her up and down, her soft round buttocks that fit so nicely into his hands, her soft thighs. Her skin was like a baby’s. This is what he imagined baby’s skin might feel like. He fondled her breasts that fit so nicely into his hands, gently pulled on her nipples, making her stir even in sleep, glided into the slope of her waist, rubbed her smooth stomach, stroked her fine fair hair. His hand prodded... but then he stopped. Leaning over her, his hand fanning her face, Alexander kissed her temple. Eventually he fell unhappily asleep.
In the morning he reached for her but she had to be at the principal’s office first thing. “Tania,” he said, sitting down to breakfast, “I’ll be home around twelve thirty for lunch.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, Shura,” Tatiana said, pouring him a cup of coffee and placing a croissant on his plate. “I... did I forget to tell you?” She laughed a little. “I’m not going to be here in the afternoon. After meeting with the principal, I was going to buy groceries, Christmas decorations, and then... um, I have to run to the hospital for a few hours.”
Alexander stopped drinking his coffee, stopped looking at her. For a few seconds he did not speak. Finally he said, “Anthony, can you wait outside for your mother? She’ll be right there.”
“Mom, we have to go. Mrs. Larkin is waiting.”
“Wait outside for your mother, I said.”
Casting an anxious look at Tatiana, Anthony left.
As soon as the door closed, Alexander turned to her. He was still sitting at the table. “What are you doing? Tell me, because I have no idea.”
“Honey,” Tatiana said softly, “you’re working anyway. What difference does it make?”
“All the fucking difference in the world, Tatiana,” said Alexander. “You’re not sitting in an architect’s office, say mine, answering phones. Don’t tell me you’re working on your only day off till the weekend.”
“Well, I didn’t know you wanted to come for lunch,” she said apologetically. “You don’t usually come to have lunch with me anymore.”
They stared at each other for a short moment. “So?” he said. “I wanted to come today.”
“Anthony is going to be late for school,” said Tatiana. “And the principal is waiting.”
“Why are you going to the hospital? Are you picking up someone’s shift?”
“No,” she said, clearing her throat, her hands fidgeting. “It’s the children’s clinic at St. Monica’s Mission. They don’t have enough people to run it. They asked me to help, just for the Christmas season. They’re paying me double for four hours—”
“I don’t give a fuck if they give you ten thousand dollars!” exclaimed Alexander. “How many times am I going to have to say it, we don’t need the money—” Suddenly he broke off, narrowing his eyes on her. “But you already know that,” he said slowly. “Let me ask you, who’s running this clinic with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is there an attending doctor? Or is it just you by your lonesome?”
“Yes, it’s mostly me. When I need extra help, sometimes Dr. Bradley—”
Alexander had heard all he needed to. He raised his hand and got up from the table.
“I run that clinic, Shura. Only when I need extra help . . .”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“We can’t . . . we can’t do this now,” Tatiana said faintly. “Anthony is waiting.”
“He certainly is,” said Alexander. “I’m waiting, too. You know what I’m waiting for? To have a full-time wife. You know how long I’ve been waiting? Since 1949. When—if ever—do you think I’m going to get that?”
“You’re not being fair,” Tatiana whispered, lowering her head so he wouldn’t see tears in her eyes. But Alexander saw. And he also saw Charlie’s eyes, and Erin’s eyes, and the boy’s and his mother’s eyes, and Dr. Bradley’s hand, and small Anthony jumping up and down for her when they were on the boat coming back from Berlin, and he saw her raised, naked hips in his fanned-out hands, and he lowered his own eyes and turned away from her.
Alexander turned his gaze, his head, his heart away from her.
Swinging his hand across the table, he flung his cup of coffee down onto the floor, where it shattered and spilled. Grabbing his wallet, he left with a great satisfying slam of the trailer door.
When he came home at six, Tatiana was home, the house was decorated comfortingly for Christmas, dinner was made, and the candles were burning. She made beef stroganoff, one of his favorites. She served him, poured his drink, served Anthony. They sat and broke their bread.
“Mom,” said Anthony, “how did you manage to put up all our decorations so quickly? The fake snow around the windowsills is an especially nice touch. Doesn’t it look great, Dad?”
“It does.” Alexander’s eyes were on his plate.
“How’s the stroganoff, Shura?”
“Good.” His eyes were on his plate.
“How was your day today?”
“Good.” His eyes were on his plate.
“I love Christmas,” Anthony said, bursting into song, It’s my favorite time of the year! Are we going to trim the tree this weekend?”
They ate with their son as their buffer, talking with him and through him. She made them bananas with rum and vanilla ice cream for dessert. Afterward Tatiana and Anthony cleaned up, while Alexander disappeared in the bedroom. He came out twenty minutes later, dressed in clean gray slacks, a clean white shirt, a gray tie. He was showered and clean shaven. He put on his jacket.
Tatiana wiped her hands on the dishtowel.
“I’m going out,” Alexander said.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“On a Tuesday?”
“That’s right.”
Tatiana opened her mouth, but Anthony was on the couch pretending to watch TV, and so she turned on her heels and gave him the back of her head.
Alexander met up at Maloney’s with duck-billed, rockabillied Johnny-boy, who was on a desperate prowl. Problem was, as Johnny put it, he was looking for a “week-long wife.” He had no interest in getting married, but all the girls, of which there weren’t enough, wanted nothing but to get married. All the servicemen had come home long ago, and now it was a buyer’s market—unfortunately for Johnny—with one girl for every five boys who wanted her. The girl didn’t have to put out until she was sure of Johnny’s seriousness of purpose, which he faked as best he could, being cocky and wily and a fast talker, but the conflict never went away, and Johnny never tired of talking about it. So this Tuesday night, he and Alexander talked and talked about it, and about their houses and their crews, and their customers, and then Johnny said, “Is everything all right, man?”
“Yes, fine.”
“You’re never out on a Tuesday night. Is Mrs. Barrington working or something?”
“No, no.” Alexander stared into his drink.
“Well, don’t look,” said Johnny, “but there are two young ladies eyeballing who I’m hoping is me.”
Alexander glanced over. Johnny smiled at the girls, who smiled back and then ignored him. He sighed. “It seems so easy. They smile. Why is the rest so hard?”
“Because you’re overthinking it,” said Alexander. “The hard part is getting them to look at you in the first place. If they’re eyeing you from the next table, the hard part’s done.”
“Hard part’s done?”
“Absofuckinglutely,” said Alexander. “Call the bartender, ask him to send them a round of drinks.”
“And then?”
“You’ll see.”
Johnny did. A few minutes later, drinks in hand, the two women sauntered over to Johnny and Alexander.
“Thanks for the drinks, gentlemen,” they said, all smiles.
“You’re welcome,” said Johnny, glancing approvingly at Alexander. “But don’t give him any credit; he sent no drinks.”
“No?” said one of them. He glanced at her, then at his beer. “You’re Alexander Barrington, aren’t you?” she said.
“I am. Who wants to know?”
She stuck out her hand. “I’m Carmen Rosario. Remember, me and my husband talked to you last month about building in Glendale?”
“Oh, yeah.” Alexander didn’t remember. “So what happened with that?”
“We’re still thinking about it. Actually, I wanted to make an appointment to meet with you again, perhaps see some of your spec homes. We’re now thinking of building in Paradise Valley instead. We’ve got some land down in Chandler we’ve been trying to sell so we can build a little more centrally.”
“Call the office.” Alexander gave her his card. “I’ll be glad to sit down with you and...”
“Cubert.”
“Cubert.” He and Johnny exchanged a glance. Cubert?
“So, girls, where are your husbands?” asked Johnny. He was so out of control. He just said the first thing that came into his head.
The younger girl, whose name was Emily, tittered and said she wasn’t married. Carmen said her husband was in Las Vegas. Alexander smirked into his beer. Las Vegas! But no, Cubert apparently was a corporate real estate agent and had a lot of business there. “He’s also an EMT trainee at PMH. Where are your wives, gentlemen?”
“Alexander’s is home, and I don’t have one,” said Johnny, pseudo-plaintively. He had had too much to drink and wasn’t thinking even one pathetic move ahead because he said, “But I’m loooking for one.”
Emily immediately backed off—as in, took two steps back.
The Summer Garden Page 58