My Husband's Sweethearts (13 page)

And then I think of John Bessom in the car outside of
the bar. Everyone should hear their own eulogies—but
the notes, aren't they a kind of love song? And aren't the
best eulogies a kind of love song? And what in the world
will I say about Artie when the time comes?

Every day is different, but still they begin to blur.
Each of us finds a strange rhythm. There are
often women in the living room, drinking coffee
from the serving tray that Eleanor has supplied—
and some homemade cookies my mother hasn't been able
to restrain herself from baking; she can't resist an audience.

And, my, what an audience she has!

Artie's sweethearts have no pattern—no discernible
pattern, at least. They run the gamut. Some are bimboesque
and boisterous. Some are refined and elegant.
There's shyness, breeziness, boldness. They wear cardigans
and comfortable shoes. They wear belly shirts and
high-heel slingbacks.

If you look at it in terms of the cookies alone, I can put
it this way: some nibble the cookies politely. Some refuse
and complain about a diet. More than one has eaten as
many as they can, wrapping a few extras in a napkin and
stuffing them in a pocketbook.

Bogie delights in them. Even ball-less, he waddles
around the room, begging for cookie bits, licking bare
legs, soliciting affection. Once he humped a handbag that
was long and cylindrical in shape—not unlike a female
dachshund.

And I'm relieved that Springbird came early and left.
Now I don't have to search for her, though, I must say, I'm
tempted to ask every one of the sweethearts how they feel
about elevators.

There are a few I will never forget.

MRS. DUTTON

She is elderly. I mean really ancient. Her hair is creamy,
her hands are knotted, and her lace-up shoes have thick
rubber soles. But beneath the arthritic ointment, there's a
hint of dangerous perfume.

I ask her a few questions. "So, how do you know Artie?"

"I was his high school algebra teacher," she says, introducing
herself in a schoolteacherly way: "My name is Mrs.
Dutton." I expect her to stand up and write it in large
swirling letters on a chalkboard.

"Ah," I say. "Did you know him well?"

She smiles, patiently, and nods.

"Did you keep up with him over the years?"

"Not so much," she says. "My husband didn't care for
him."

I assume the husband may be the reason why Mrs.
Dutton's name has an X by it. Husbands can sometimes
put a real strain on a romance. "I see," I say.

"I don't think you quite do," she says. "But that's
okay." She pats my knee and gives me a wink.

MARZIE HOLDING THE MOTORCYCLE HELMET

Shortly after Mrs. Dutton leaves, a lesbian arrives. My
mother is the one to answer the door, and she walks into
the kitchen and whispers to Eleanor and me, "The next
woman to see Artie is, well, she's a little
butch.
She's carrying
a
motorcycle helmet.
Her man's shirt doesn't have any
sleeves.
" My mother is so distressed, she has to wash her
hands and sit down for a while.

I volunteer to bring out the cookies.

The woman is very friendly. Her name is Marzie. She's
ridden in from Jersey. Artie hasn't seen her in a while.
"I'm looking forward to surprising him," she tells me.

"Well, he's probably seen your name on the list," I tell
her. "He's expecting you, I'm sure."

"I don't think he's really expecting
me,
though," she
says with a laugh. "When I was dating Artie, I didn't
know who I was. But he made me see the light."

"Artie helped you figure out who you really are?" I
asked. "Do you mind me asking how, exactly, he did
that?"

"How can I put this?" Marzie says, helping herself to
cookies. "He set himself up as the ultimate man, you
know what I mean?"

I nod. Artie charms himself sometimes.

"And when he really didn't do it for me, well, I figured
that if the ultimate man isn't doing it for me, maybe men
in general won't. Ever."

"Or maybe he overplayed his hand?" I say. "I mean,
ultimate? Who's the ultimate?"

"It's all self-advertising, I guess. But that's all I had to
go on. And he did nothing for me—you know, in bed.
Nothing! At all!" Marzie reports all of this very happily.
"So, I figured a few things out."

"If you don't mind," I tell Marzie, "I'd really like you
to share all of that with Artie. I mean, it's really important
for him to know, you know, how he did nothing for you, in
bed . . . all of that." This is such a beautiful turn of events
that I can barely contain myself. Artie has to hear about
his sexual failings, how he turned a woman not only away
from himself, but from all men. I couldn't have dreamed
up a better scenario.

"Okay," she says. "My pleasure! I owe him, you know."

"Well, now's the time to really pay him back!"

JUNIOR

Later that same afternoon, a woman about my age shows
up at the door. She looks like she's left a nine-to-five office
job a little early. I introduce myself as Artie's wife. She
grabs my hand and says, "I'm so sorry." But I'm not sure if
she's sorry that Artie's dying or that I'm his wife or for being
his lover.

"Take a seat," I tell her. "Have a cookie." I direct her
to the living room, where another woman is already waiting,
filing her nails. This woman is closer to Artie's age,
maybe even a few years older.

When the apologetic nine-to-fiver steps into the living
room and sees the older woman, she stops dead. "What in
the hell are
you
doing here?"

The older woman stands, letting her pocketbook fall
from her lap to the floor. "Oh, honey," she says. "Let me
just explain."

"No!" the nine-to-fiver screams. "No, no, no! This is
just so like you! I thought all of this was Artie's fault, but I
guess not! Why have you always been so jealous of me! Why
can't you just live your own life! Like a normal mother!"

I stand there, completely frozen to the spot.

The nine-to-fiver turns around swiftly and slams out
the front door.

The older woman bends down to collect the things
that have fallen out of her pocketbook. "What can I say?"
She looks up at me and takes a seat. "She always was a
very dramatic child." She shakes her head wearily. "And,"
she adds, "it really is mostly Artie's fault."

I'm not so sure, this time around.

THE NUN

Eleanor enjoys taking a position at the bottom of the stairs
listening to the louder, more heated conversations.
Sometimes she disappears upstairs and is stationed, less
subtly, in the hallway. She jots things down from time to
time, but I'm not sure what exactly. More than once I've
heard her mutter curse words aimed at Artie.

Occasionally a woman will start yelling up there, her
voice ringing throughout the house. There was a redhead
who was so passionate that we all gathered.

She shouted, "I was a nun when I met you!"

Artie replied, "You were playing a nun in a dog-and-pony
version of
The Sound of Music.
That's not the same
thing!"

There was a steely silence, and then the woman said,
"How
dare
you. That was an Actors' Equity production."

WOMAN BEARING CASSEROLE DISH

Eleanor is the one to invite her in. I'm in the kitchen, not
paying any attention. I don't even look up from some
spreadsheets that Lindsay faxed to the house. But later I
hear the part of the story that I wasn't present for. It went
like this.

The visitor is rosy yet wearing just the right amount of
concern on her face for the occasion of an impending
death. She hands Eleanor the foil-wrapped lasagna.

"I went easy on the spices. I didn't know what kind of
effect they'd have, you know." She glances at the women
gathered in the living room, flipping through magazines.

"Well, this is unnecessary," Eleanor says.

"It's the least I could do," the woman says. "I was feeling
quite useless."

"Okay, then. What's your name?"

"Jamie Petrie. I live up the street."

"Artie," Eleanor says, under her breath. "Well, I guess
I wouldn't put anything past him at this point."

"Excuse me?" the woman says.

"I don't remember your name on the list," Eleanor says.

"What list?"

"Why don't you take a seat?"

"Is Lucy here? I'd like to see her."

Eleanor stares at the woman. "Lucy," she says. "We'll
see. Just take a seat."

The woman moves toward Eleanor. "Who are all of
these women?" she whispers.

"Artie's other sweethearts. You think you were the
only one?"

"The only one?" The woman stiffens. "I'm a Party
Candle representative!" she says, as if this explains everything.

"Wait one moment, please," Eleanor says, then she
walks into the kitchen. She says to me, "Someone's trying
to weasel her way in with a lasagna and no appointment.
She also seems to want to talk to you."

"To me?" I say.

"Yes."

"I don't want to talk to any of them. Too much information.
You know?"

"Well, this one may be of interest. She says she's a
neighbor. A candle representative? What in the hell is
that?"

I pause. My first thought is that I despise Artie
Shoreman. A true and vivid hatred rises up inside me. Did
he have an affair with one of our neighbors? My second
thought is: a neighbor? No. Artie confessed to everything.
He confessed to too much. A neighbor with a casserole?
A candle representative?

"Oh no!" I say. "What did you tell her? No, no, no." I
walk quickly to the living room and there is Jamie Petrie,
my neighbor. The consummate Party Candle representative,
she has taken this moment to hand out her business
card to all the women in the living room. I've never liked
Jamie Petrie, I can honestly say. She's overbearing. She
brims too much with joy over things like her new line of
autumnal scents—everything from amaretto to apple
cider! Every time I see her she asks me to call her with
any
of my scented-candle needs!
I've never had a scented-candle
need.

"Please call me if you ever want to set up a party!"
she's telling the women, who are staring at her in complete
confusion.

"Jamie!" I say. "So good to see you! Thank you so
much for coming by!"

"My pleasure," she says. "I was so worried. Here," she
says, pulling a little white box with a purple ribbon out of
her handbag. "It's lavender-scented. Great for healing."

"Thank you."

"Well, that's proof that there's a scented candle for
every
occasion!"

"Even death," I say.

"That's right!" She ignores the awkwardness and
seizes the chance to make a sales pitch. She glances
around the room of prospective clients. "I'm so glad that I
chose this moment to show up. I always enjoy the opportunity
to get together with women. It's important that we
take time for each other and ourselves!"

"So true," I say. "Cookie?"

DENIAL, BARGAINING, AND, FINALLY, ELEANOR'S TAKE ON
ALL OF THIS

Another woman walks down the stairs and makes her way
gracefully to the front door. She stops short and then
turns to the other women. "He denied cheating on me.
Can you believe it? He said he just didn't remember it that
way." She stares at the women. "Good luck to all of you."
And she leaves.

Another woman, later that day, reports on the way out
that Artie had tried to barter. " 'What would it take for you
to forget what an asshole I was? What would I have to do?' "
The woman grabs Eleanor's elbow. "I loved it," she says.
" 'There's nothing you can do,' I said. And that was that."

Eleanor seems to relish this bit of information. She jots
furiously on her clipboard and ushers the woman out. On
her way back through the hallway, I stop her. "What are
you writing down?" I ask.

"Not much," she says prudishly.

"You keep your clipboard pretty close to your chest,"
I say. "But it's only fair to share your information. What's
all the scribbling?"

"Little insights, I suppose."

"Like what?"

She thinks for a moment, as if trying to decide whether
or not to let me in. "Okay," she relents. "Artie is moving
through the seven stages of grief."

"He is? Toward accepting his death?"

She looks at me wide-eyed, as if scandalized by my
naivete. "Toward accepting his infidelity! Toward accepting
the bastard he is!"

"Oh. I thought maybe he was accepting his own
death."

"Well, that may be happening, too. But I can't chart
that. What I do know is that he has denied cheating on
that one woman, then he tried to bargain his way around
it. He's been angry—you know, with that actress especially.
Eventually he'll despair, and then accept."

"Do we want him to accept himself?" I don't want
Artie to embrace his cheating self. That's for sure.

"Not the way he is," she says. "But accept what he's
done, to become someone new."

"And you're charting all of this?" I ask, skeptical.
How can you chart the inner workings of Artie's conscience?

She looks at her clipboard then presses it against her
chest. "Yes," she says. "I am."

John Bessom has become a permanent
fixture. He's still a little nervous in the
house. There's something left over from
his childhood, I guess, some desire to please his father. He
flattens his shirt as if he's worried it's wrinkled. He puts
his hands in his pockets, but in a way that makes you think
he's just trying to look more at ease. When he sits down,
waiting for one of the sweethearts to finish up, he jiggles
his knees. It's touching, actually, poignant. After all these
years, he's still invested, and despite all his arguments to
the contrary, there is still something between Artie and
him—something unfinished, something he wants and is
now trying to sort out.

He and Artie hole up in the bedroom to talk each afternoon.
But the first time he showed up for an appointment
with Artie, I was stuck on the phone with Lindsay.
She still calls, but is no longer panicked. She asks for advice.
The small promotion and the nice jump in pay have
given her confidence. She throws out offhanded, ballsy
ideas. She doesn't sound like she's always in the middle of
a full sprint.

I could hear John in the hallway. He was talking to
Eleanor, who has maintained her professional facade and
keeps everything moving with incredible punctuality.
Lindsay was prattling a little.

"You're a pro," I said, trying to cut her short. "You've
got it down." I could hear John and Eleanor on the stairs,
and I needed to get off the phone. I had to eavesdrop;
that's the awful truth.

But Lindsay was up on the SEC rulings and was briefing
me, like a pro.

I was impressed. "That's great," I told her. "Can you
write all of that out? I'll have to break it down for our
clients."

Finally, I got off the phone, quickly passed a woman in
the living room wrapping cookies in a napkin, and tiptoed
upstairs. There I found Eleanor dusting a top ledge of the
door frame across the hall from the bedroom and Elspa,
who wasn't even faking a reason to be there, sitting cross-legged
next to the door. My mother was out that morning,
talking to a funeral director—she doesn't bother me with
these difficult details. If she weren't otherwise engaged,
she would have been there, too. Eleanor and Elspa looked
at me, caught.

I shook my head and whispered, "Too many of us. It's
too obvious. Go on downstairs. I'll report back."

They were both obviously disappointed. Elspa picked
herself up off the floor and slumped down the hall.
Eleanor handed me her clipboard, pencil clamped to it.
"Take notes," she said.

Once they were gone, I put my ear to the door. I'd already
missed a good bit, which I blame on Lindsay. Their
voices were soft, muffled, interrupted by laughter. It took
me a few moments to start to understand the words.

"She lives out west now," John said.

"With a cowboy?" Artie asked.

"A rich cowboy."

"So it wasn't a bad childhood, was it?"

"I had a paper route and a dog. Sometimes she cut the
crust off my sandwiches. She taught me to curse effectively
and some minor-league forgery."

"Life skills," Artie said.

"That's what it was like, more or less—affection, a lot
of noise."

"I learned to curse from my mother, too," Artie said.
"So we have that in common."

There was a lull, and then Artie said, "I wanted to be
there all along. Did she tell you that? I wanted to be a part
of your life, but she wouldn't have it."

I wondered if John would tell him what he'd told me,
that old line about how there was nothing between him
and Artie now. It seemed like something John had told
himself to survive, a strange mantra that I couldn't understand.
I closed my eyes, held my breath, knowing that
Artie needed to hear something else, a promise of some
sort.

"But did you really
try
?" John asked.

"She told me that you hated me. She told me that I'd
only mess things up and confuse you."

"I was plenty confused," John said. "It doesn't matter
now anyway."

"I was there, though, anyway."

"What?" John asked.

"I saw you in that play about the princess on all of
those mattresses."

"In eighth grade?"

"And I saw a lot of your ball games. That one you lost
in extra innings because of that bobble by the shortstop.
That tournament."

"You were there?"

"And at graduation, too. I was watching from the
edges of things—last row of the bleachers, back of the
gym. Your mother saw me once, I think, but she didn't
confront me. She just let me sit there." More secrets from
Artie—but these seem humble and sweet.

"Well, I wanted you to be a part of my life," John said.
"So we have that in common, too." It struck me as one of
the most tender things I'd ever heard. I didn't know if it
was true or not, but it sounded true.

That was all I needed to hear. I realized I hadn't quite
trusted John to be gentle with Artie, but now I did.
They'd had a relationship all these years even though John
didn't know it. He seemed to understand that this meeting
was monumental for Artie. Now I knew there was a lot
at stake for John, too. Maybe he didn't quite believe his
own mantra that there was nothing between him and
Artie now. Maybe he'd told Artie the truth. In any case, I
suddenly felt guilty. This was their relationship to invent. I
slipped away, giving them their privacy.

*

One of the problems with eavesdropping is that you can't
unhear what you've heard. So I find myself wanting to ask
John questions about his childhood. I want to know if he
was angry at Artie all those years. I want to know more
about his mother and to talk to him about that edge in his
voice. I want to know if something's changed now that
he's heard Artie was there, skirting around the boundaries
of his childhood. Has he been forced to reimagine everything?
What does that feel like? I wonder, if I'd found out
something like this about my own father, how would it
change me now? I'm a little jealous of John, that he's gotten
the chance to see his father differently. I'll never have
that chance.

But we don't talk about any of these things while we're
on what John calls "the Tour d'Artie." We take drives
around Philly together. Now that Artie has told John
some things about his childhood, John asks that we make
certain stops. We've driven by Artie's childhood home,
some of his schools, and one day we end up at the hotel
where he worked as a bellhop. The hotel is still intact, surviving
with some old-world charm, some gold plating,
heavy ornate rotating doors, and an overdressed doorman
on hand.

"It was a taste of the rich life," I tell John. "He worked
this job so that he could be around the wealthy, get a feel
for their lives. Well, more than that. He wanted to learn
their gestures, their accents, the way they'd fold their tips
and slip them into his hand. He was supposed to be saving
his money for college, but he spent it on tennis lessons
and golf. The rich sports."

"And it paid off," John says, his broad hand jiggling
the gearshift.

"Yep," I say.

"This is where he met my mother, you know."

This is the first time John's ever revealed anything
from his side. "No, I didn't know that."

"I thought you did."

"What was she like back then?" I ask.

"I don't know. Like she is now but younger, maybe a
little less wily, but I doubt it. She was learning to fake
things, too." John rattles the gearshift into neutral. "Did
you like that about Artie?"

"What?" I ask.

"That he was rich." John looks at me directly. His eyebrows
sometimes give the impression that he's wounded.
They pinch up in the middle, slanting down sadly.

"No," I say. "In all honesty, I liked that he came from
nothing. The money made things harder, in a way."

"In what way?" he asks.

I'm not sure. I haven't ever put words to it. I guess the
money separated us. I didn't want him to think I was
glomming on to it. I made plenty myself. So it became an
area in which we went our own ways. It allowed Artie his
freedom, too, and that turned out to be more than he
could handle. If we'd had joint accounts, wouldn't I have
noticed the expenditures on his sweethearts? Hotel
rooms? Dinners at restaurants I'd never been to? But all
this is sidestepping the issue. It's not getting at the heart of
the matter. "I guess this is where he learned to fake being
rich. He learned the art of faking." I can feel my eyes fill
with tears. I look out the window. I want to tell John that
this could be the origin of Artie's betrayal. If he hadn't
learned to fake being rich, could he have faked our marriage
so well, his vows?

"Oh," John says. And I can tell he's starting to catch
on that there's a lot riding below the surface between
Artie and me. "You know what we need?"

"What?" I ask, pressing the tears from my eyes.

"A cheesesteak distraction. An ancient invention, the
cheesesteak holds great powers. Incas used it as a form of
anesthesia for laboring women. Buddha used it as a focus
for meditation. It's what Egyptians ate while designing the
pyramids. What do you think?"

"Two blocks up on the left. A great place. They let you
order extra grease."

"So it's a holy place," he says, putting the car in drive.

"A shrine, really, to grease."

"Complete with a patron saint of extra grease?"

"Of course," I say, noticing that when he says something
funny, he jiggles one of his knees like a restless
schoolboy.

"Saint Al?" he says.

"Did you go to Catholic school or something?"

"It was a great place to meet Catholic girls."

For a quick moment, while he turns the wheel, handover-
hand, I imagine what it would be like to have been
one of those Catholic girls—real or not. I imagine what it
would be like to kiss him in a cramped backseat or in the
blustery wind of a high school football game. I wonder
what he was like back then. Was he too tall, too skinny, all
arms and legs? Did he have perfect hair? Wear a jean
jacket? I know this is wrong. I shouldn't let myself think
this way. What kind of person would think this way about
her husband's estranged son? What would Freud say?

John pulls up in front of the sub shop. "The holy
land," he says. "Do we have to go to confession first?"

And what would I confess? I don't want to dwell on it.
"Let's skip confession, assume guilt, say our three Hail
Marys later," I say.