An Ex to Grind (23 page)

"Want to take a walk with Buster or should we stay here?" he said after we'd fought over the last brownie and ended up splitting it. "We could talk some more or"—he reached for my hand and squeezed it—"just veg."

I wasn't inclined to go anywhere. I felt weightless, despite all the food I'd consumed, relaxed and loose. Buster was happy with his new squeakie toy, and Leah and Dan were on track to spend another blissful Saturday night together, and everything was right with the world.

"I guess we could stay here," I said sort of shyly, not sure of what would happen if we did.

He moved closer. I could swear he was about to kiss me, and I could also swear I would have let him. Then—damn!—my cell phone rang, startling us both.

"Why'd you even bring it?" he said as I got up to fish it out of my purse. "Your clients don't have financial emergencies on Saturday nights, do they?"

"Not usually, but there's this oil tycoon from Texas and I promised him access any time, day or night. Stupid me." I found the phone and answered it, prepared to have to suck up to Jed.

But it was Antoinette Thornberg on the line. She'd reinjured her arm trying to open a can of sardines and couldn't think of anybody else to call.

"Do you need a doctor?" I said while Evan played with Buster.

"I'm not going to that awful hospital again, if that's what you're asking," she said. "They'll just stick a thermometer in my mouth and send me home. What I need is someone to help me fix dinner, get me undressed and into bed, and make sure I don't end up like my friend Rose. First, her arm. Then, her hip. Then, she died."

"But your hip's okay, isn't it?" After the last medical episode, I had reached the conclusion that Antoinette was a hypochondriac
and
a condo commando.

"For the time being," she said. "Are you coming over or not?"

"Mrs. Thornberg, I'd be glad to come over, but I'm busy right now," I said. "A neighbor made me a quiet dinner at his—"

"A quiet dinner?" She sighed. "I should be so lucky. Your ex-husband and the party girl are having such a loud argument that their door slamming practically knocked my pictures off the wall."

I felt my throat dry up. "What?"

"You heard me. They must be on the outs."

"What are they fighting about?"

"How should I know?"

"You would know if you went over there and complained about the noise."

"How can I go over there and complain about the noise if nobody helps me with my arm? It's killing me!" She moaned. "Maybe they'll break up and he'll pick one that doesn't take dope next time."

Next time? No way. Leah was not moving out. I was
not
letting her move out!

"Okay, Mrs. Thornberg," I said, trying to stave off panic. "I'll be over as soon as I can."

"Good, but hurry. I'm starving."

I hung up and told Evan he was right: a client did have an emergency, although not investment related.

"She's a housebound elderly woman with no family or friends," I said. "She relies on me and"—I shrugged modestly—"I do my best to be there for her, even at odd hours."

He looked at me with a hint of suspicion in his eyes. "Are you being straight with me? You can be, you know."

"Absolutely."

"Well, then. I'm impressed. When you're not focusing on Dan and the alimony, you can be one terrific person. Very unselfish."

Yes, of course I felt like a lying sack of shit, but what was I supposed to do? It was one thing to admit I was bitter about the alimony. It was quite another to tell him I was so bitter that I'd rounded up a posse of accomplices to frame Dan into losing the alimony.

I clapped for Buster to come.

"Do you want me to watch him while you're gone?" said Evan.

"He'll be fine at my apartment," I said. "He's used to hanging out by himself."

I thanked him for the dinner and the doggie treats and said we should get together again soon, and then Buster and I left.

As I cabbed it over to Mrs. Thornberg's, I scolded myself for smelling victory too soon where Dan and Leah were concerned. I'd been foolish to think I was nearly out of the woods on the cohabitation. And I'd been equally foolish to think I could have a new man in my life when I still had unfinished business with the old one.

"They are yelling, aren't they?" I said as I was icing Mrs. Thornberg's arm and listening to the racket next door. We were sitting on her bed. She was stretched out like a dying person, although robust enough to wear one of her pretty dresses, and I was perched at her side, a regular Florence Nightingale. The arm wasn't the least bit swollen, and I suspected she was just looking for a little attention, but I wrapped it in a cold pack. The mere act of tending to her seemed to calm her down.

"You should have heard them an hour ago," she said. "Such lungs on those two."

"It's weird, because Dan never raised his voice with me."

"Probably because he was afraid of you."

"He was not."

"Well, then maybe he really loves this one. I think the more they care, the more they yell."

That remark really threw me until I realized she was probably just loopier than usual from all the extra-strength Tylenol I'd given her. I wanted Dan to adore Leah, don't get me wrong, but not in greater proportion to how much he'd adored me.

"She must have done something to provoke him," I said. "Maybe when you knock on their door to complain, you'll find out what."

"I'm not knocking on any doors until I eat my dinner," said Mrs. Thornberg, who had managed to get the can of sardines halfway open before succumbing to injury. As a result, her apartment now stunk of mothballs
and
fish oil.

"I'll bring you a sandwich and some tea," I offered.

"Good," she said. "Mash up the sardines, add a teaspoon of mustard, and a couple of squirts of lemon juice, and put it on some rye bread, with the crusts cut off."

Reminding myself not to feel put upon, since involving her in this drama had been my idea, I smiled and said, "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Make sure the tea's hot. There's nothing worse than tea that's not hot."

I could think of a lot worse things, and one of them was right next door. If Leah walked out on Dan, I was back to square one and much poorer for all my efforts.

I fed Mrs. Thornberg, watched a rerun of
Law & Order
with her, and, after more loud voices from her neighbors, encouraged her to go next door and see what was up.

"I'll remind them about the bylaws," she agreed. "No noise after nine P.M."

"You do that," I said, adding a "you go, girl" or some other inappropriate exhortation.

While she was gone, I pressed my ear to the wall, paced, sat on the bed, pressed my ear to the wall again, then abandoned the bedroom for the kitchen and scarfed down Mrs. Thornberg's discarded bread crusts.

Finally she returned. "So?" I said.

"Leah was crying." Oh, God. "But I told both of them in no uncertain terms that they'd better keep it down or else."

"Did it seem like she might leave?" I said, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt.

"What's it to you if she does?" She regarded me with her beady eyes. "I still don't understand why this is such a big deal for you. You don't even live here anymore."

"Because of Buster!" I said much too adamantly. "I want him living in a stable environment when he spends his time at Dan's. He's very sensitive, and his whole system will be upset if there's turmoil and strife over there." Turmoil and strife. Now there were words I hadn't used in, well, ever.

"Come, come," she said, waving me back into the bedroom with her "good arm." She asked me to help her undress and put on her nightgown and get her under the covers. As I filled all of her requests, I peppered her with questions. Was Dan crying too? (No.) Were they cursing at each other? (No.) Did she overhear any specifics of their argument? (Yes. Leah accused Dan of being afraid of commitment. Dan accused Leah of pushing him too hard too soon.)

"But she didn't threaten to move out," I confirmed again after tucking Mrs. Thornberg in.

"Not that I could tell," she mumbled. Oh, perhaps I forgot to mention that Mrs. Thornberg wore dentures. In addition to my other duties, I was charged with removing them from her mouth and dropping them into their fizzy cleanser for the night and then having to listen to her communicate with me through her gums. "I suppose it's possible that the fighting could escalate and she could move out during the night."

I panicked. How would I be able to verify if Leah stayed or left? Ricardo and Isa weren't around, and Mrs. Thornberg had taken an Ambien on top of the Tylenol. Within minutes, she'd be comatose. Dan and Leah could have a twelve-piece orchestra playing next door and she'd be too zonked out to hear it.

Which left only one thing for me to do: keep vigil myself.

"You'd have to put clean sheets on the bed," she said when I asked if I could spend the night in her guest room. "Nobody's used it in ages."

Poor Mrs. Thornberg. She was as lonely as I was.

As I watched her drift off to sleep, I felt sort of a kinship with her. She wasn't a mother figure, because mothers are supposed to take care of their daughters, and I was the one making her sandwiches and putting her to bed and soaking her dentures, but she no longer felt to me like the caricature of the brittle, meddling neighbor. She'd become more human with each intimate task she'd asked me to perform for her. I guess what I'm saying is that, while my motives for spending the night at her apartment were hardly pure, I wasn't totally heartless.

Once she was asleep, I called Evan and told him that my "client" wanted me to stay over and asked him to get my key from the super and check on Buster. Then I played solitaire with the old deck of cards I found on the dresser. But mostly I listened for movement from next door, and there wasn't any. The guest room was right off the foyer, so I would have heard if Leah had left in a huff, and she hadn't.

By the time the sun rose on Sunday morning, I was exhausted beyond belief but also relieved that the lovers had hung in. Whatever had caused their dust-up had either been resolved or at least tabled for the night.

I made Mrs. Thornberg breakfast and helped her bathe and dress before telling her I had to get home to my dog.

"You look tired," she said, tracing the dark circles under my left eye with her arthritic index finger. "You didn't like the mattress in the guest room?"

"It was fine," I said, surprised by her tenderness. "I was worried about leaving Buster alone, I guess."

"It's hard to be left alone," she said, casting her eyes over at the nearby photograph of the late Mr. Thornberg. He was a large man with a bad toupee. Perhaps if he'd lived longer, he could have bought one of those newer, more natural-looking hairpieces that give you an actual part on the side of the head, instead of a seam.

"I'll come see you again soon," I said.

"Who knew you were such a good girl?" she said, making me feel even more like a con artist than I already did. The fact is, I used to be a good girl—the one who did her homework and met every deadline and told the truth—but now I was somebody else, someone I didn't recognize.