My Husband's Sweethearts (20 page)

We make our way home after a hotel buffet
breakfast, which turned out to be a
little extra sticky and gooey with Rose
on board. She delights in her food, not just the taste but
the sponginess of her French toast, the rubberiness of her
eggs, the fattiness of her bacon.

In the car, Elspa keeps Rose distracted in the back by
reading, singing, making up games with her fingers and
string. Bogie is also used as a distraction. Rose likes to
mimic his panting, and it's as if they're developing their
own dog-child language—so many pants for yes, so many
for no. I know Rose will bring the kind of lightness and
playfulness we'll need to get through this next phase with
Artie. Rose will help us make it through.

We make it home in two hours—a straight shot, no
traffic. I walk quickly into the house.

One of Artie's nurses waves to me from the kitchen.
"He has a visitor," he says.

I can't imagine who. One of the sweethearts? I decide
to ask her to leave. I have to talk to Artie privately.
"Thanks," I say, and walk directly upstairs. I know I could
probably make excuses for John Bessom's disappearance
from his life, but I've decided I have to tell Artie everything
I know. Artie would want to know, even if it hurts
him. I don't know how he'll take it.

Artie's door is closed. I knock quietly and then open it
a crack. Artie is sitting up in bed. He looks thinner, and I
realize that when I'm away, I have a mental image of Artie
that I've refused to update—a healthier, more robust
Artie, not completely well, but much better, a version of
Artie on the mend. So it comes as a bit of shock that he
looks so ragged and pale and small. The oxygen tubes are
still in place—my mind had erased them.

He says, "I know the whole story now."

"What story?" I ask, wondering how in the world the
news got to him before I did.

"You have to hear him out," Artie says.

"Who?" I ask.

I open the door the rest of the way, and there is John
Bessom, sitting in a chair by the window. He looks exhausted,
like he hasn't slept. His eyes are weary. The scratch
on his face is still there—angrier-looking than before.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I'm coming clean," he says.

"What?" I ask.

"Let me tell you what's going to happen here. Lucy,
you're going to sit in the armchair," Artie says, "and the
kid is going to talk while you listen. That's it. The end. Do
you understand?"

"But . . ."

"No," Artie says. "You're going to sit in the armchair
and the kid is going to talk."

I move slowly to the armchair and sit.

"Go ahead," Artie says.

John clears his throat. He's nervous, fiddling with the
edge of the curtain. "I always thought that Artie was my
father, growing up," John says. "My mother told me he
lived far away and couldn't visit because he was an extremely
busy and important man."

"I
am
extremely important," Artie interrupts as a joke.
He's still trying to disarm the situation. I know I must look
confused and more than a little caught off guard. "That
part was true."

"I found some old envelopes from Artie's monthly
checks in a drawer in a hutch when I was around twelve,
and I figured out by the return address that he lived not
too far away. So I spent that summer spying on him. I'd
catch the bus to his neighborhood whenever I could, and
I'd hide out in the neighbor's bushes and watch him mow
his lawn, talk to neighbors, have barbecues. I even had a
notebook, trying to keep track of everything he did and
everything I could hear him say. And I would go home
and practice saying the things he'd said and walking like
him." I try to imagine John Bessom as a twelve-year-old
kid, crouched in someone's bushes, spending the summer
trying to act like Artie. I have to admit it's really sweet—
even though I don't want to admit to any of John's sweetness
at present. John looks at Artie. "I didn't know then
that he was spying on me, too—here and there—all of
those years."

Artie nods. "I was."

John goes on. "But it was hard, too. I'd see him moving
in and out of the house with other women." I glance at
Artie and he shrugs sheepishly. "I was devastated that he
didn't want to be with me and my mom. I admired him
like crazy. Finally my mother found out where I was going,
and she told me flatly that he wasn't my father, that
my father was dead. 'Stop spying on the poor guy,' she
said. 'He's a stranger.' " John looks like he's replaying this
moment in his mind's eye, and I kind of hate Rita
Bessom—not just for duping Artie, which was cruel even
though it kind of served him right in the long run, providing
a kind of balance of justice—but because she ripped
Artie away from her son.

I look at Artie and then back at John. I'm not sure how
I'm supposed to respond. This doesn't make everything
all better. John Bessom was an accomplice all those years,
and, worst of all, he lied to Artie on his deathbed. "I'm
sorry about that," I said. "But still you lied to me. You lied
to Artie all of these afternoons up here talking. Just to get
his money."

"I never did it for the money," John says. "I had two
reasons, I guess." He looks toward Artie as if asking for
permission.

Artie nods. "Go on."

"First off," John says, "I never had a father, so why not
Artie? Why not, at this awful time in my life, get some advice?
I've never gotten advice, fatherly advice, in my
whole life." Then he stops.

Artie smiles at him. "I never had a son, it turns out.
Not really," he says. "So why not now, at this awful time in
my
life."

"And so we decided . . ." John says.

"We made a pact," Artie adds. "He's my son."

"And he's my father."

There's something sad in this, but so sad, it's tender. I
realize that John has finally said it—finally called Artie his
father. I hadn't expected it to turn out like this—to find
out that Artie isn't his father and then to find out that, on
this other level, he is. I take a moment to let it sink in. This
is what I'd been wanting—this moment—for Artie and
for John.

I gaze around the room, my eyes dart over Artie's pill
bottles, the busted frame of the photo of Artie and me on
Martha's Vineyard, the oxygen tank still noisy in the corner
of the room. I want to know what the second reason
is, too. I want to know if Elspa was right. Would he confess
to this in front of Artie? "What's the second reason?"
I ask.

"The second is more complicated. I came here and
told Artie the whole story and this is the honest truth." He
looks at Artie one more time to get his approval, and then,
with the words spilling quickly out of him, he says, "I fell
in love with you."

My chest tightens. I glance at Artie. He isn't angry, but
there is a certain anguish in his face, a very slight contortion.
I can tell that he's come to some new marker in accepting
his death, that he's realized that my life will go on,
and he has to let it, though the realization isn't without
pain.

"I was drawn to you that first time you found me
sleeping in the showroom, but then, during the tour, well,
I fell in love with you," John says.

"No," I say. I close my eyes.

"Yes," he says.

I shake my head. "I can't tell when men are lying and
when they're telling the truth anymore."

"That would be my fault, in part," Artie says.

"I helped out, too," John says.

"And you wanted the money?" I ask.

"I don't want the money," he says, and then he winces.
"I do need the money. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to that.
But I'm not here because of money."

"You should settle for the money," I say, stiffening up.
"I'll give you all of the money from that old fund Artie
had for you. You'll be fine."

"I don't want to be fine. That wouldn't be sticking to
the new plan. I'm supposed to be feeling it all."

"Artie," I say. "Artie, what do you want me to say
here?"

"Nothing," Artie says. "He isn't asking you for anything."

John looks at me intently with his tired eyes. "I'm not
asking you for anything. I can't explain it," John says. "It's
like you woke me out of a dream, and I didn't know it, but
you were the dream I'd been dreaming."

I sit there for a moment. No one moves. I'm trying to
feel all of it—this kind of love. At first I press it down with
a knot in my chest, but it doesn't work. The knot unravels
and there it is again, untied, set loose. I feel like I've come
back to some essential part of myself—love. I might love
John Bessom. Can I let myself feel that much again?

"Artie," I say. "What about you? What can I do?"

"I'm not asking you for anything either."

Now that I've felt love—or something close to it—for
John, I feel like I can breathe again. I know I can bring
this love to Artie. We need to love each other again, with
all that love entails—even the hard things, like forgiveness
and acceptance. I don't think it makes logical sense—that
one love can bring back another love—but it's true.

There's the unbelievable, glorious chaos of
a three-year-old in the house. The refrigerator
is adorned with crayon drawings; the
counters are sticky with spilled juice; the dining room sofa
covered in poppies has become a field for a herd of ponies
with pink manes. There's a wee potty in the downstairs
bathroom, a step stool at the sink. There are toys that sing
and blink seemingly all on their own. Bogie has learned
how to hide under the sofa in a far corner and to beg at
the bottom of the stairs for someone to tote him up. The
guest bedroom has been turned into a little girl's room,
complete with a canopy bed from Bessom's Bedding
Boutique, and the theme is frogs—Rose's idea. There are
frog sheets and a frog nightlight and frog stuffed animals,
which, it turns out, get along well with ponies of the
pink mane variety. And there is Rose in the middle of
everything—chirping, singing, dancing, stomping, pouting,
laughing, roaring. She is this creature fully herself, so
fully alive.

And, at the same time, there is a man dying in an upstairs
bedroom.

As Artie grows weaker over the next few days, we're
all there with him, trying to make him comfortable in the
smallest ways—cooling his wrists with damp washcloths,
plumping pillows, feeding him ice chips. The oxygen tank
makes the room hotter, so we turn up the air.

John Bessom and I, we work together with a common
goal. What was said in that room—the three of us—it
hasn't stalled there. It exists still. But all our love at this
moment, from every well and reserve within each of us, is
being handed over to Artie. There isn't any left over. Not
now. Not yet.

Still, sometimes I catch myself wondering what a life
with John Bessom would be like—the same way I once
thought about my life with Artie. I'm not as naive now,
thinking only of the good things: beach vacations and our
kids' birthday parties. I think of many different possibilities.
I think of the beginning, when I first woke up John
where he was sleeping on the floor model of a mattress,
and the middle, which might include beaches and birthdays,
and I think of the end, too. There's so much fierce
emotion in an ending—or at least Artie's ending—that it
has a lush beauty within all the sadness and loss. When I
think of a life with John Bessom, Artie still exists. He's the
intricate mechanism that's made this possible future. In a
moment, my heart can feel like it's been ripped from me
and in the next moment, it feels flooded with love—so
much love that there's an uncontrollable current, a riptide.

I still like the night shift. I sing Artie every lullaby I
know, and when I run out of lullabies, I sing Joan Jett
songs in a soft lilting voice.

These last few days are each a kind of eulogy. I have
John to thank for that. I tell Artie the story of the bird in
the shutters of our friend's guesthouse. I tell him about
proposing to me with the crew shells gliding along the
Schuylkill River and the pygmy marmoset at the aquarium.
I tell him about praying for our future together at the
Old Whaling Church in Edgartown. And sometimes,
when he is too tired to listen to stories, I hold his hands
and pray. And when I do, I always pray for abundant
blubber—a richness not of money, but of a kind of
happiness.

Early on, I stop praying for more time. There will be
no more time doled out.

*

Artie asks me if my mother has any sayings that she never
cross-stitched into a pillow revolving around the subject
of the soul.

I can hear Rose downstairs talking to the television, a
PBS show about cats. "I don't think so," I say.

It's become harder for him to speak. The projection of
his voice is a strain, and so he whispers. "A soul should
never be larger than a handbag?" he asks, looking down at
Bogie asleep at the foot of his bed.

"Never let thine soul give in to gravity?" I say. "You
don't want to show up in heaven with a flabby soul."

I want to know whether Artie has learned something—
about himself or his soul. I feel like I've been through such
a whirlwind of change, but he's the one who's been
through the most. "And?" I say. "Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Show up in heaven with a flabby soul?"

"Does my soul look fat in this body?" This is meant to
be funny, but there's nothing fat about Artie now. He's
gaunt. His cheekbones rise sharply from his face. Downstairs,
I hear Rose clapping her hands and now Elspa is
singing along with the cat show.

"I guess I want to know . . . I'm not sure. I want to
know if you've learned anything."

At this moment, Eleanor walks into the room. She's
holding a tray of food that Artie will only pick at. "I'd like
to know the answer to that, too," Eleanor says, "if you
don't mind."

"Have
you
learned anything?" he asks Eleanor.

She sets the tray down, and it rattles a little against the
wood of the bedside table. "I'm not here to learn something.
I'm here to
teach
you something."

"Really?" Artie says. "That's a waste of your time
then."

"Listen, you're the one . . ."

"What do you want from me, Eleanor?"

I get up to leave. "I have to, um . . ."

"No, it's okay, Lucy," Eleanor says. "I know what I
want. I want the world to be different. I want men to be
sweeter. I want sincerity, honesty. I want to be able to believe
people. A little trust wouldn't hurt."

"Well," Artie says, matter-of-factly, "I love you, Eleanor."

"Don't be an ass," Eleanor says.

"I love you, Eleanor," he says again, working hard to
speak loudly.

"Shut up," she says.

"I love you, Eleanor," he says.

And then I say it, too, caught up in the moment. "I
love you, Eleanor."

She stares at the two of us, horrified. "What in the
world are you doing?"

I'm not exactly sure of the answer to this question, but
luckily Artie is. "Giving you a chance to believe people
again, if you want, or not," he says.

And now I know his reasoning, exactly. I say, "There
isn't much you can do about the world and men and an
overall lack of sincerity and trust. But the last thing you
mentioned . . ."

"That's idiotic," she says, and then she turns, swinging
her stiff leg forward, and marches toward the door, then
stops. She pounds the doorjamb with her fist. "Goddamn
it, I love both of you, too. Okay then? Fine."

And she walks out of the room.

"That was actually pretty sincere," I say.

Artie agrees.

*

In the middle of one particular night, Artie startles awake.
His breathing is so labored now, each breath is forced out
by his stomach. He's on a heavy dose of morphine to alleviate
the sharp, deep pain in his chest. The oxygen tank in
the corner is kicking up heat, but I also have the window
cracked open—at Artie's request—and so the humidity
seems to billow around the room like rolling fog. I'm the
only one there, sitting on the edge of the bed. I haven't
been able to sleep. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed
where, once upon a time, Artie sat in a towel with shampoo
still in his hair and confessed to me.

Hospice nurses have taken over. They give the morphine
injections and oversee all his pills. But they do so
much more than that. They are, perhaps, the most exquisite
form of human being I've ever known. They've told
me it won't be long now.

Between gulping breaths Artie says, "Listen." He
reaches out and I hold his hand. "I'm afraid that . . ." His
eyes fill with tears. "I'm afraid that I would have only broken
your heart again."

I realize that I know this about him, that maybe I've
known it for a long time. He would have cheated on me
again. There's something inside him that he could never
really trust. And would I really want some grand conversion,
here, at the end of Artie's life? One that wouldn't
ever be tested by the temptations of the real world? Is that
what I've been waiting for?

No. Artie's come to the truth about himself and has
given me a worthy confession—that he's afraid he'd have
only broken my heart again if he lived. I prefer the truth.
"I know," I say. "It doesn't matter now."

He says my name. "Lucy."

And I say his name.

It's as quiet and simple and plain as an exchange of
vows.

And then he closes his eyes. He's gone.

*

The funeral, I'd handed it over to my mother completely,
and it's everything a funeral should be, of course. My
mother knows funerals. She's chosen all the right flowers,
gorgeously displayed, the urn—Artie had requested cremation—
and the photo of Artie on the beach, looking
windblown and a little sunburned. Still, it all strikes me as
more than a little surreal. Artie is gone. I understand that.
I've accepted it, more or less. (My acceptance comes in
waves.) But the funeral seems off—as if it should be reserved
for the truly dead. Artie will never really be truly
dead—not for me.

And as living proof that Artie is still alive, here are his
sweethearts. They arrive slowly at first, trickling in one by
one, mixing with Artie's business colleagues from the
Italian restaurant chain. But then they start to arrive more
quickly. A crowd has gathered, and now we're at standing-room-only
capacity.

There is Marzie, dressed in a boxy suit, holding her
motorcycle helmet. She's with a woman about her own
age with long, windblown hair. They hold hands in one of
the pews. The redheaded actress who was once a nun in
an Actors' Equity production of
The Sound of Music
weeps dramatically, grasping the chair rail for support.
Artie's former algebra teacher shows up, too, Mrs.
Dutton, arm in arm with an elderly scowling husband—
Mr. Dutton, I presume—wearing a crumpled boutonniere.
The mother and daughter who, much to their
surprise, met in my living room, arrived separately and are
sitting on opposite sides of the room. There's the smirking
brunette from the first day, sitting next to the ever-on-edge
Bill Reyer. She's glancing at him out of the corner of
her eye.

Springbird Melanowski. I wait for her and wait, but
she never shows up, not even to lurk in the back. For
some reason, I'm disappointed in her.

And there are many women I don't recognize—old
and young, tall and short, of various races and nationalities.
In fact, the third row looks like an all-female United
Nations meeting. I never thought I'd be glad to see a
swarm of Artie's sweethearts. But I am. I'm glad they're
here, each handing over some portion of love (and some
measure of reasonable regret, even a couple of worthwhile
grudges—Artie deserves those, too).

And, of course, there are Artie's sweethearts who have
become my sweethearts, too: Elspa wearing a loose-fitting
black linen dress, showing her tattoos; Eleanor sitting
with a proper formality, though her eyes are smudged
with mascara; and Artie's chosen son, John Bessom, who
found his father and now is suffering, but the good kind
of suffering, the one you're allowed to have only because
you've really loved someone. He's sitting right next to me.
Sometimes my elbow brushes against John's. He's been
steady and patient, and, like each of us, consumed by
what's happening now. All these sweethearts of mine sit
beside my mother and me in the front row. But I know,
too, that John's been waiting for an answer of some kind
from me, some indication of my heart's leanings. I'm waiting,
too.

And then there's Rose—she's sitting on Elspa's lap and
wearing her shiny shoes, brushing the back of a stuffed
corduroy frog with a plastic Barbie brush. I love her soft
dimpled hands, the way she cups the frog gently and
sometimes whispers to it, apologizing for tangles.

Lindsay is there, too. She arrives late and sits in the
back, but she catches my eye. Her suit jacket fits perfectly,
like she's finally gotten one tailored. She looks all grown
up, taller even, and it's wonderful to see her—like seeing
part of myself that I don't want to lose.

So this is the funeral—there are black dresses and
flowers and an urn and everything is going fine until the
funeral director starts in with a one-size-fits-all eulogy. He
has a pomp of hair on top of his head, swirled like a cinnamon
bun. He's talking about living life to the fullest. He's
talking about Artie, whom he didn't know, but whom
he admires because of "the legacy of love that he's left
behind."

It's bullshit, of course. I look back over my shoulder
at the roomful of sweethearts—and the occasional
businessman—and no one else is buying it either. They're
squinting at the funeral director and whispering to one
another. There's a good bit of glaring. Artie was Artie.
They've come for something honest and true.

My mother pats me on the knee and smiles sadly in a
way that's supposed to mean
You should smile sadly, too,
dear. Do as I do.
This is not her fault. She's trying to lead
me in the world as best as she can. But she's trying to lead
me through the world as
she
knows it. And that world is
foreign to me.

This is the moment when John leans against me, shoulder
to shoulder. "What we need is an Irish bar," he says.

And he's right, of course. Why didn't I think of it?
This has nothing to do with Artie. Not really.

After the funeral director finishes up monotonously, I
nudge John. "Invite everyone back to that Irish Pub,"
I say.

"Right now?" he asks.

I nod.

*

The problem is I'm not sure how to start a wake. I have no
agenda to pass around, no charts, graphs, no PowerPoint
display. The sweethearts are here. No longer hushed by
the funeral parlor's churchiness, they're loud now, ordering
drinks, talking to one another and the bartender and
the men who were here whiling away the afternoon
watching a basketball game on the ceiling-hung TV.