Amanda Bright @ Home (18 page)

What was she about to do to them? she wondered, as Sophie, squealing with delight, turned the hose upon Ben. The little girl was naked, completely and unselfconsciously so. She had not yet left Eden; there were still puppy wrinkles in her thighs. Amanda went to fetch a towel, and as she went, triggered another question: what was she in danger of doing to herself?

She left the towel by the back door and returned to her post by the window, vigilant but detached. Maybe this was the mother’s role: to make sure her children were in no danger but otherwise to allow them to find their own way. And how were they going to find their own way if she was always waiting nearby, towel at the ready?

Amanda knew this much: she had to do something. There would be no more excuses, no more second thoughts, she told herself firmly. They needed the money, but even more urgently, Amanda needed to be able to open her fists years from now and see that they held something of value; something that proved she had not let life run through her fingers like sand.

Chapter Twelve

“HEY.”

Alan was sitting in his usual place with the stroller. It was the last week of school, and Amanda had entered the lobby feeling exhilarated about her impending liberation. Suddenly the looming summer holidays did not seem so much like a prison sentence as a last chance to enjoy, and even savor, her final weeks as a full-time mother. Amanda had heeded Liz’s advice and planned excursions and projects for the children. By September her house, and life, would be in order. The sight of Alan momentarily threw her. Amanda had locked away her fantasy of him. But as the memory of it escaped, flooding her body with pleasant, tingling associations, she could not lie to herself, either: she was not unhappy to see Alan.

“Hey.”

He was obviously pleased to see her.

“I have the tickets with me,” he said eagerly.

“Tickets?”

“To my play. It’s opening this Friday. Can you still come?”

Amanda remembered promising to go to his play, but at the time the promise had felt like little more than a friendly gesture. Amanda wondered at the implications of saying yes now. The fantasy seemed manageable so long as it stayed in her head.

Alan was aware of her hesitation for he said quickly, “I understand if you can’t. I mean it’s short notice—”

“No, no, I want to come to the play—I just don’t know if I can get a baby-sitter.”

“Sure,” he said, with a trace of disappointment.

Amanda became impatient with herself. Why was she always so afraid of taking risks? What on earth was she afraid of with Alan? It had been her fantasy, not his. They were both responsible grown-ups. She was keen to see his play.

“It probably won’t be a problem though. My neighbor’s kid is usually free. I’ll check. Assume yes,” she said.

Alan’s face lightened. “Fabulous. Do you need a ticket for Bob or is he still going to be working?”

Amanda sensed, but could not be certain, that Alan was rather hoping for the latter.

“I’m pretty sure he’ll be working. Besides, he’s not a big fan of experimental theater. Not that he wouldn’t be interested in your play …”

“I’m not offended. Many people find my work too challenging.” He smiled in a way that included her in the better-knowing audience.

“Yes. Well—” The bell rang and Amanda made a motion to leave.

“I can pick you up if you like,” Alan offered. “It’s playing in Rockville. If you’ve never been out there before, it’s easy to get lost.”

“Rockville? Why Rockville?”

“It’s where they had space.”

“Oh.”

“They workshop a lot of serious plays there. It’s sort of the off-Broadway of Washington. Anyway, did you want me to pick you up?”

Again Amanda hesitated, not sure what to answer, but as if reading her thoughts, he added, “A bunch of us are going—”

This relieved her a little, although why it should, she asked herself, she didn’t know.
Stop being so fearful!

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

“Good. We’ll pick you up around six then, if that’s okay. I have to get there a little early—you know, as playwright and all.”

“Fine.”

Amanda nearly crashed into Dr. Koenig, who had just emerged from the office, carrying files.

“There you are, Amanda,” she said accusingly, as if Amanda had been in hiding for the past week. “I was going to call you today. Did you find a therapist for Ben?”

Dr. Koenig made no effort to keep her voice down, and Amanda cast an awkward glance around the lobby to see how many of the other mothers had overhead. Fortunately, not many had arrived yet; only Alan seemed to be listening closely.

“Um, yes,” she lied. “I’ve been looking into it.”

“Many go away for July so I wouldn’t dawdle. Ben needs assessment
immediately
.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Dr. Koenig marched off down the hallway. Amanda bit her lip and shrugged at Alan, who raised his eyebrows in sympathy.

By the time Friday arrived, Amanda was almost breathless with excitement. She stood in front of her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Everything she pulled out was wrong. She found herself reaching deeper and deeper into the back of the closet and pulling down shirts from high shelves.

Amanda couldn’t remember going out for an evening without Bob; and while she was guiltily aware of the spark of attraction between her and Alan, what excited Amanda more was her rediscovered sense of independence. Some years after she and Bob were married, they were in a restaurant, and Amanda noticed a couple at the next table who were obviously on their first date: the man and woman were recounting their life stories to each other with the earnestness of candidates at a job interview. Amanda had felt so pleased that she was married and not dating anymore—how awful it would be to have to keep offering yourself up on a plate to a different person every week!— and instinctively she had gripped Bob’s hand. Tonight, however, Amanda was looking forward to describing herself to someone new. This evening would be an opening of sorts for her, the official launch of herself as an individual with a life and interests outside the house.

(Bob had encouraged Amanda to go, although she could tell he was glad to have an excuse not to join her, especially after she repeated Alan’s description of his play. “
Workshop
is not a verb,” he corrected her. “Besides, why is it playing out in Rockville? Why isn’t it downtown?”

“Apparently a lot of important plays are workshopped—get their start—in Rockville. At least that’s what Alan told me. He says it’s the off-Broadway of Washington.”

“Or maybe the New Jersey of Washington.”

“Look, you don’t have to go, okay? I’m really just going to show Alan support. It’s a big deal for him. He’s a nice guy and he’s been at home, you know, like me. He doesn’t always get the respect that he deserves.”)

Yet what to wear? There were her mommy clothes, and her old office suits, and the cocktail outfit she had worn to Jack Chasen’s, which was too dressy. Amanda dug around some more and came up with a black T-shirt she used to wear to clubs, before she had met Bob. She pulled it over her head and found that it fit her more tightly than before, but not unattractively so. With jeans it would work—she would look arty, youthful, her old self again, especially if she loosened her hair—

Sophie entered the bedroom, dragging a stuffed dog on a makeshift leash.

“Where are you going?” she asked her mother.

“Mommy’s going out tonight.”

“With Daddy?”

Yeesh,
Amanda thought.

“No. With some friends. We’re going to see a play. How do I look?” Amanda turned around, modeling her T-shirt and jeans.

“Not pwetty.” The little girl went over to the closet and pointed to a long creamy lace dress that Amanda had worn to a wedding. “You should wear thith.”

“I don’t think that would be right, sweetie. It’s too fancy. Now run along and play with your brother.” Amanda ushered her out of the room.

She brushed her hair and made one last check of herself in the mirror. She asked herself if the T-shirt really was too tight. No—she liked it. It made her feel good. She would wear it.

The baby-sitter rang the doorbell, and Amanda hurried to find her sandals. They were where she had last kicked them off, beside the bed. As she slid them on, she noticed the pad of paper and pen she kept on her night table. Amanda tore off a sheet and wrote, impulsively, “Having a great time—sorry you’re not with me. Hope your work went well. Love you. A.” She placed the note on Bob’s pillow.

Alan drove up in a silver Lexus sedan.

“Nice car.”

Alan patted the dashboard fondly. “It’s Lisa’s,” he said, referring to his wife.

Amanda kissed him lightly on both cheeks and noticed him taking in the effect of her T-shirt. She turned and reached for her shoulder belt.

“Where is Lisa, by the way?”

“Working on a big case.” He put the car into gear and pulled out from her driveway. As he reversed, he rested his arm over the back of her seat, and Amanda shifted uneasily. Admittedly, Lisa had not loomed large in any of Amanda’s thoughts, but now that she was sitting in the woman’s car, she became vividly aware of her existence—the lipstick in the cupholder, the hairbrush shoved between the two front seats, strands of unfamiliar reddish hair caught in its bristles—

“Lisa couldn’t come to your opening?”

“Nope.”

Amanda waited for him to elaborate, but Alan seemed suddenly distracted with figuring out the best way to avoid rush-hour traffic on Connecticut Avenue. They drove without speaking through a maze of side streets that led them north of the worst of it. She glanced sidelong at Alan, who was frowning in concentration. Somehow he looked different in this context, less appealing, and she realized it was partially due to his clothes: there was definitely an “author’s-photo” quality to the black blazer he had thrown over his jeans. She was struck, too, by how odd she felt sitting in the front seat of a car with a man who wasn’t her husband, and she wondered if Alan felt similarly. When the quiet between them grew awkward, she asked, “Who else are we picking up?”

Her question seemed to take Alan by surprise, for he replied immediately, “No one”—and then, as if suddenly remembering their conversation from earlier that week, he added, “A couple people from my book group are coming, but they decided to take their own cars. It wasn’t that convenient to go together.”

His answer increased Amanda’s awkwardness, but she fought against it, trying hard to summon that sense of ease that she had always imagined would exist between them if they were alone together. Alan, too, seemed to notice her discomfort; once traffic began to flow more easily as they reached the wider, suburban boulevards, he said, “I’m sorry if I seem a bit tense. I always am before an opening.”

“Oh—that’s okay. I understand.”

“I just can’t tell you how much I appreciate it that you could come. It’s a big night for me. Lisa—well …” He let the sentence trail off as if it were too much to explain. When he resumed, an edge of bitterness had crept into his voice. “I suppose I should feel lucky in my position. I mean, a lot of artists would appreciate the support of someone like her. It’s just that—” He shook his head, dismissing the remainder of his thought.

“It’s just what?”

He paused. “It’s just that I never feel she takes my work as seriously as I take hers. There—I said it. The law,
that’s
a career, but writing plays—that’s a hobby.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“I know you do.”

Alan slowed as they came abreast of a driveway leading to what looked like an apartment complex set back from the busy road. There were three or four stumpy gray buildings that jutted into the flat skyline like broken teeth. Alan turned into a vast parking lot and began driving up and down the rows, hunting for a spot.

“Where are we?” Amanda asked.

“A seniors’ home.”

“Where’s the theater?”

“Inside the main building. There’s an auditorium.” Alan seemed slightly embarrassed.

“But is it open to the public?”

“Yeah. The home allows us to sell tickets to outsiders—basically to cover our production costs—but the residents watch it for free.”

“I don’t get it,” Amanda said. “How does the play … find a wider audience?”

“We book the play wherever we can at this phase. Then, when word gets out, you hope for one of the bigger stages to take it—the Virginia Repertory Theater in Chantilly or the Outer Circle at Gaithersburg—that one’s very highly regarded.

“We open next month at the Bethesda JCC.”

“There’s one.” Amanda pointed to a gap between cars.

“No—it says residents only. We have to use the visitors’.”

Alan continued to drive up and down like a farmer plowing a field; finally a car signaled it was pulling out. The spot was a long walk from the entrance to the main building. By the time they reached the double set of glass doors, which swung open automatically to allow the passage of wheelchairs, Amanda’s hair was sticking to the back of her neck. Inside, the air was at least cooler, but it felt stagnant and recycled; the odor of whatever they were cooking in the cafeteria—boiled potatoes, to Amanda’s nose—was laden with a heavy dose of disinfectant.

Alan approached a surly-looking receptionist who sat behind a fortified pane of glass.

“We’re here for the production of
American Stigmata
.”

The receptionist leaned forward to speak into a microphone. “Who?” her voice echoed.

“It’s not a person, it’s a
play. American Stigmata.
I’m the play-wright.”

The receptionist scanned a clipboard although she did not appear certain of what she was looking for. After a few moments she shoved the clipboard through a slot under the glass and asked Alan if he could find what he wanted. He found it quickly and pointed it out to her.

“You see here?
American Stigmata
, a play. It’s in the ‘MacArthur Room.’”

She nodded, uninterested, and took the clipboard back.

“You’ll be getting more people coming through here asking for it. You can just send them there, okay?”