Flatscreen (12 page)

Couldn’t sleep. Condo heat nonadjustable, no settings but on and off. It was on. Radiator rattling, ready to burst from the wall with the force of a freewheeling subway car, nuts and bolts airborne, machinery burning. I smacked it a couple times to no avail. Contemplated finding a hammer, fucking shit up, dueling to death. Smelled like death: sautéed mouse corpse. Plus the heat. Not even an all-encompassing heat that kills chill. This heat was menopausal: hot flashes upsetting my delicate balance. Hot air aimed straight at me in intermittent bursts. Then the quick return of cold. Sweating and shivering, I was up. Nothing to be done.

Wrapped myself in a flannel robe. Worn, holey. Soft, semi-holy. My housecoat. My smoking jacket. My uniform. Tiptoed toward the kitchenette. Benjy deep in unconscious unrest on the foldout. No relief from dreams. Face down, legs spread, biting hard into pillow. One shoe still on. Other sideways on the floor.

“Please stop,” his dream-self said.

Stop what? Excess of familial responsibility? Butt-spanking bogeyman? Nocturnal ball gag and ass-banditry
(Pulp Fiction
, Miramax, 1994)?

We were different that way. I woke sweaty and foul-smelling. He slept shittily. Even in dreams he bore the brunt with bit lip. Like a grunt on the front lines of some hellish nothing war. He took pride in his ability to survive without complaint.

Behind Benjy the sun strode from clouds, tentatively, out of annoyed necessity, like some dude emerging from fuck-bed, late for work, still admiring his conquest’s sleeping body, awaiting toaster waffles. Clouds went pink, then cleared. Boston skyline into view, temporarily inflamed by sun-love, twisted with diminishing beauty. In a matter of minutes it would all be gone, gray. Reminded me of coming down from mushrooms, lamenting my dwindling visions, but comforted by the coming concreteness. We were out of coffee.

Also out of cereal, bagels, waffles, bananas, grapefruit, oatmeal, all forms of prenoon nourishment. Couldn’t turn on the TV; didn’t want to wake Benjy, incite sleep-deprived wrath. No newspaper anymore—Mom had canceled our subscription. Nothing to do but watch daylight emerge, urge myself into daylight. Strapped on a pair of beaten boots. Needed to walk and think, escape condo confinement.

Walked the breakdown lane, slowly, smoking, freezing. Took off my headphones to hear the world: light purr of engines, fragments of music coming out the partially open windows of wind-bearing smokers, wind. Thought it would be funny if Dad saw me on his way to work, took me for a derelict. Considered hitchhiking, catching a ride up the coast, down the coast, west—anywhere. What was the use? Had no money, was wearing a bathrobe. No one picked up hitchhikers these days. Maybe some cannibal molester passing through
(Seat Belt Meat Belt
, Universal, 1984).

Sat at Dunkin’ with coffee and the
Globe
, taking in the familiar smells of by-the-dozen doughnuts, coffee en mass, chemically diluted urine, and stale gas that filtered up through the heating vents into the mostly empty dining area.

Read about the war, football. Skimmed the obits, looking for worthwhile lives: people who’d traveled, broken the restraints this town invisibly slid over our cold-sick selves. Other news: Quinosset Cinema West showing a retrospective—a dead Frenchie auteur whose films took on the legitimacy of history, whose own history hissed with black, pedophilic asterisks. Metro police blotter: A woman had stolen five hundies worth of housewares from Bloomingdale’s. Claimed temporary insanity; her Amex was overdrawn. She wanted to serve with shining silverware. Opened the classifieds, quickly closed them.

A woman sobbed at the next table. Mrs. Sacks, my old Whole Foods friend. Small town, etc.

“Eli,” she managed.

Gave a slight wave, stood as if to walk over. She held out her hand to stop me.

“I’m okay,” she said, blew her nose.

Went to the bathroom instead.

When I came out, Mrs. Sacks was sitting at my table, fixing smudged eye shadow in a hand mirror. Still crying a bit, so she wasn’t having much success. Black Lycra shirt bore the word “Superstar,” embossed in sequins across her well-proportioned chest. Sequins mocked her tears and dark eyes with their luster.

“Eli.”

“Mrs. Sacks. Hi.”

“You doing okay?” she said, as if I had been the one crying, as if she sensed I was still drying my own damp face.
A maternal voice—at once forgiving and resolute, like the safety net beneath a tightrope walker—a voice I’d never heard her use. This was how she’d spoken to Sherri as a child, how she’d bred the confidence Sherri expelled with every ass-wiggly step.

“I guess,” I said, wanting to please her, to not let her down.

“That’s good. Everything will work out fine.”

“I hope so.”

Tears were gone and she smiled, amused by the absurdity of her own public outburst. Some trauma had sent her here. More cheating from Mark? Problems with Chef Barash? Bad luck breast exam or Pap smear? Her face said: “The world comes down on all of us. Money and healthy sex lives can’t save us. But we persevere; we are from Quinosset, home of the QHS She-Devils, second-ranked women’s tennis team east of the Mississippi.”

I nodded in agreement. Mrs. Sacks looked around the empty Dunkin’.

“It’s silly, really,” she said, sipped her coffee, checked out her own gigantic, sparkling chest, then met my eyes, as if to accuse
me
of staring at her breasts, which I was. “This town.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, because I did, if not specifically.

“Do you like it here, Eli? It’s not a bad place, is it?”

“Not so bad.”

“There are worse places in the world.”

“Certainly.”

“A lot worse,” she said, motioning to my newspaper. Then, looking again at the empty tables, “I guess it doesn’t fill up for a couple hours. That’s when people go to work.”

She took a stick of lip gloss, applied it without looking in the mirror. Mirror rested like a paperweight on my
newspaper. Radio wasn’t on, but you could hear the morning patter—Spanglish—from the two cashiers.

“Now they’re all asleep. It’s like we’re the only people in the world.”

“There are other people,” I said, nodded toward the cashiers.

Mrs. Sacks smiled.

“You’re funny.”

“Why does everyone think I’m funny?”

“There’s something Dutch about your face.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Holland,” she said. “My kinda town,” winked.

Her car was shiny, stiff with factory smell. ZLX played the acoustic adult-contemp version of Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” Mrs. Sacks sang along. Never occurred to me that women like her listened to music.

“What are you doing today?” she said.

“No plans.”

“Want some breakfast? I’ll make you eggs.”

“Okay.”

Kitchen was like the others, like my old kitchen. Fridge stocked with fresh produce from Whole Foods. Walls covered in prom pics, bar mitzvah pics. One poster-sized glamour shot of Sherri wearing a bikini, holding a lollipop in her mouth. She’d done a Club Med ad when we were seniors; this was the winning shot. Everyone acted like she’d won a Pulitzer, when all she’d done was be herself: large breasted, well moisturized and exfoliated, seventeen years old.

“I’m a terrible cook,” Mrs. Sacks said. “Eddie used to cook for me, amazing things.”

Used to?

“I’ll make the eggs,” I said.

Found smoked salmon in the fridge, made lox scramble. Felt good cooking in her cast-iron skillet. Ate next to each other on stools at her center counter.

“This is delicious,” Mrs. Sacks said, leaned over, touched my shoulder.

“You’re a sweet kid.” She sounded drunk.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

Mrs. Sacks brushed my cheek with her hair. I put a hand on her waist, rubbed the soft velour of her pastel-pink yoga pants. Kissed, closed-mouthed, divots in chapped lips interlocking.

“Come to the bedroom.”

Followed her up the stairs. No one mentioned
The Graduate
. May-December bone-jobs were common these days. All those female teachers sucking face with prematurely mustached son-surrogates.

The house smelled like potpourri. Reminded me of my other grandmother, who was dead.

Mrs. Sacks stripped naked, sat on the bed, stared out the window. Great shape for her age. Wondered how much work she’d had done. Tan but no tanline. Pictured her in the tanning salon, in that space-pod-like tube: naked, blindfolded, basting in artificial sun.

I was still wearing a bathrobe. She tugged it.

“Hefner,” she said, grown-up-giggling.

Removed the robe. Lifted my shirt, unzipped my pants. Pulled them down, hovered over her, looked in her narrow, bloodshot eyes. Put a finger on her nipple, watched it harden.

“Feels nice,” she said, rubbed the down on my shoulders. “I want to feel you inside me.”

“Really?” I said. “Me?”

Kissed me again, warmly, open-mouthed. Didn’t use my tongue. Didn’t seem the thing to do with an older woman. She
smelled like my mother’s perfume. Bit my earlobe, guided me inside with her hand. Sheets were soft. I estimated the thread count, ejaculated immediately.

“Sorry.”

Mrs. Sacks recoiled.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this. Young and strong.”

“I thought so too,” I said. “Guess not.”

She looked out the window again, away from me. Tried to hide the fact that she was crying.

“This is all wrong.”

Reached for my boxers.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

Mrs. Sacks turned back to me, wrapped her hand around my ankle.

“It’s not your fault. It’s my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault.”

She let go. I stood, dressed. Mrs. Sacks watched, really looked at me.

“Don’t worry,” she said. Not sure if she meant I shouldn’t worry about her, or about myself.

“I should go,” I said.

As I was walking out the door, Sherri walked in with two other girls. Surprised to see me. So surprised she screamed. Must have thought I was robbing her house.

“Relax,” I said. “I was just helping your mother fix her TV. I’m leaving now.”

Mrs. Sacks came running down the stairs. Also in a bathrobe. We didn’t look like lovers.

“Mom?”

“Eli was just looking at the leaky faucet.”

Moved out the door.

American Dream:

For Mrs. Sacks, Hard Body, Soft Heart:

To Cook: