My Husband's Sweethearts (9 page)

She's quiet a moment. "You would be a good mother,"
she adds, her voice hushed.

And this is it. The fissure breaks open, and the now-too-familiar
anger mixes equally with grief. I curl forward.
The sobs are deep and guttural. Artie won't be a father to
my child. Whatever chance we might have had to work
things out makes no difference now. He is going to die.

I don't hear Elspa make her way around the pool, but
suddenly she's here, at my side. She puts her arms around
me. We're both soaking wet. She holds me tightly, a hug
that feels more like she's the one hauling me up from
the bottom of the pool now, and I can feel myself giving in
to it.

I look up at the house, and there is Artie, with the
male nurse standing at his side, watching us from an upper
window in the office across from the bedroom. He
looks confused and relieved. He seems to know that this is
a private moment, that he's intruding. I see the two of
them turn back into the room.

I start to tidy up by cleaning the broken vase,
putting the flowers into one of the old vases
I keep under the kitchen sink, soaking up
the water with paper towels. I don't read Artie's #59. I'm
tired of sentiments that are so tight they can fit on a little
card. I'm tired of Artie-isms.

But this tidying doesn't quite satisfy me.

I decide that I need an overhaul, complete reorganization.

I know when to call a meeting. I am, after all, a professional,
the kind who's genuinely suited to it—soothed by
charts, amused by indexes, even sometimes delighted by a
well-tallied table.

I know that Eleanor, Elspa—even my mother—and I
have things that need to change. We have, as we say in the
business, overlapping goals. We've been pulled together
because of Artie's impending death, and I'll be damned if
I can't make this thing profitable—in the emotional
sense—for all of us. Every good manager knows that a
catastrophe can really be an opportunity, if you look at it
the right way.

I also know how to prepare an agenda. I spend the
afternoon and early evening creating profiles—needs,
goals, capacity for each individual to withstand risk—and,
based on these profiles, I make a plan for each person I've
invited.

Am I being too assertive, overly structured, hyperorganized?
Possibly, but after being lied to by one of my
husband's sweethearts, threatening to smother my ailing
husband in front of a witness, pulling a possibly suicidal
woman from the bottom of a pool, and having a little
breakdown, what would you expect? Surely some of the
best organizational efforts are a reaction to the world's
emotional catastrophes.

The meeting is a surprise to those attending. Eleanor
and my mother, fresh from the salon and perked to edginess
by lattes, are sitting at the dining room table. My
mother has a newly configured hairstyle stiff with spray.
Eleanor's hair is still pinned back, but two soft strands are
curved by her jawline, looking rigidly windswept. She
seems softer than before, prettier, younger. In fact, she
may not quite be fifty yet. Bogie is perched on my
mother's lap. His doggie jockstrap matches the pale yellow
of my mother's outfit, shoes and all—a new low. Elspa
is there, too, her piercings glinting under the dining
room chandelier. They're all holding the agendas I've
printed out.

"I've called this meeting," I say, "because we don't
have much time and we need to be organized if we're all
to meet our goals."

"Why are we having a meeting? Why so formal?"
Eleanor says.

"Are you wearing work slacks?" my mother asks.

I am, in fact, wearing work slacks and a nice button-down,
but not a matching blazer. "These are my comfort
clothes," I say. I like them because I know who I am when
I'm wearing them.

"Interesting," Eleanor says.

"How could there be any comfort in those clothes?"
Elspa says.

"At least I don't match my dog," I say, gesturing to
poor, oblivious Bogie. My mother looks stung. "I'm
sorry," I tell her. "Let's not get off course." But I know
that they're onto me already. I can tell that they know I'm
overcompensating, and knowing that they know, I can feel
my own swelling emotions—a deep sadness and anger
and love and, because of that mixture, that swelling—
panic. "The agenda is clear. I've marked down everyone's
goals and needs and, brought together by Artie's impending
death, how we individually and collectively can reach
those goals." Impending death. I thought about how to
say it while I was writing the agenda. It's the most clinical
term I could come up with. I was afraid that if I said anything
else, I wouldn't be able to take it. Impending is a
hefty enough word that it doesn't seem real. I don't want
to venture too close to the reality of Artie's death right
now. I can't. I know how fragile I feel.

"Who's John Bessom?" Eleanor asks, pointing at his
name on the agenda.

"He's Artie's son. He's not here, but he is one of the
people who's been brought together with us by Artie.
And, he doesn't know it yet, but he's going to get to know
Artie before Artie dies because he shouldn't repeat his
father's mistakes."

"And how is he going to get to know Artie?" Eleanor
asks. "Will Artie hand over his own glorious version of
himself?"

"No," I say. I've already thought of this. He can't just
have Artie's glorious version. "I'm going to give him my
version, too. I'm planning a tour."

"A tour?" my mother says.

"Of Artie's life. The Good and the Bad Tour."

"That's a great idea," Elspa says, but she says it so gently
and with such airy wisdom in her voice that I know she
means it's something I need more than Artie's son. This
chafes me, but I don't feel like getting into it.

"Fathers are important," I tell them. "Even if you
don't really know them that well." Mine was nearly a
stranger to me when he died. "John Bessom will know his
father. Otherwise he won't get his inheritance."

"His inheritance?" my mother asks.

"Yes. There's money for him in Artie's will, but it's up
to me how much he gets."

"Well, dear," my mother says—she has theories about
the money of dead and ex-husbands, and giving it away
isn't one she thinks highly of.

"So the bastard's got a son," Eleanor says, tapping her
nails on the table.

"I didn't know it either, until a few days ago," I say.

"That is so Artie," Eleanor says, fury rising to her
cheeks. "So many deceptions!"

"Oh, he's just a man. What can we expect?" my
mother says.

"If we don't expect anything from them, then they
never learn, which explains their atrophied emotional
abilities," Eleanor says.

"Which brings me to Eleanor," I say.

Everyone turns her attention to the agenda.

"'Wouldn't it be wonderful if Artie were able to make
peace with his past—all of it—before he died?' That's
what you said the other night. And you're right. It would
do him good." At this point, there's an edge to my voice. I
can hear it as clearly as anything—spite, revenge? I want
Artie to learn some lessons. I want him to have to deal
with his own legacy. The anger rears up again. It tightens
my throat. I cough and point to the agenda. "This point of
the plan is listed under Artie's needs and goals, but it
would also do you good, Eleanor, wouldn't it? And so it's
cross-listed under your needs and goals." It could be
listed under my needs and goals, too, but I'm not ready to
own up to that publicly.

"Look, I've come to terms with men," Eleanor says.
"It's quite simple: I've sworn off them."

My mother gasps.

"Maybe for now you can agree to head up the charge
to help Artie make peace with his past just because it's
good for Artie. And, if you happen to learn something
about yourself in the process, so be it," I offer.

"And how would I go about making Artie come to
terms with his past?"

"I have an address book filled with all of his sweethearts.
That's how I got in touch with you. I think he
should have a session with as many of those women as
possible to hear about just how he failed them, just how
he's done them wrong."

"Well, that would be delicious, really. My pleasure."

"But what if he hasn't done them wrong?" Elspa says.

"Oh, right," I say. "You're one of the red circles."

"Red circles?" she asks.

"Each name has one of two marks: a red circle, which
means that he left the woman on good, perhaps mutual
terms, or a red X, which means not-so-good terms."

"And after my name?" Eleanor asks.

I give her a look like: Well, what do you think?

"A very big X," she says, with a kind of pride. "We
should only invite the women Artie did wrong. Only the
red X's."

"Is that fair?" Elspa asks.

"Artie has you to tell him how wonderful he is," I say.
"Artie Shoreman has come to terms with all of his good
points. He needs to come to terms with the other part of
himself. He needs to understand betrayal." And then I
put it in Elspa terms. "We learn more from our failures
than from our successes."

My mother sighs and rolls her eyes. "It's a waste of
time—old dog, new tricks! Men need pampering. They're
the weaker sex."

Here there is a collective sigh.

"I don't know if it'll work," I say, "but it's worth a try."

Then my mother says, "I don't understand what my
goal means.
Be my own person?
I am my own person,
dear."

"You could be more of your own person," I say.

"How do you plan to have her achieve this goal?"
Eleanor asks sternly.

"I don't know," I say. "If she could just work toward
it—"

"Well, that's ridiculous!" my mother says.

"For example, you could stop big-game hunting for
your sixth husband. Just ease up a little on that front . . ."

"I'm not big-game hunting!"

"Just think about it," I say.

"I'm with Eleanor! I think this meeting is stupid!"

"I didn't say that," Eleanor balks.

My mother pulls her yellow handbag off the back of
the chair, straps it over her shoulder, picks up Bogie, and
starts to storm out of the room. "I'm leaving," she
announces—as if this isn't obvious.

"Wait," I say. "Don't go."

She pauses without looking back. I glance at Bogie's
rump poking out from under her arm.

"There are two more things that I need help with," I
say to her.

"You need me?" she asks warily.

"One, I'd really love for you to take over the funeral
arrangements with Artie. He and I, well, I can't. We just
aren't there yet."

She hesitates, for dramatic effect. "Well, I could do
that," she says.

"And, two, I'd love for you to keep the neighbors
away—especially the ones who seem like friends."

She turns around and smiles with her eyebrows raised.
"I'm fantastic at the polite brush-off."

"Like when you first met me," Eleanor says with a
sharp frankness that catches my mother off guard, but
only for a moment.

"It's one of the things I do best," my mother says, returning
to her seat, watery-eyed Bogie in tow.

"Thank you," I say.

I turn to Elspa. She's been quiet. She's staring at the
agenda. Her own eyes are a little watery, but she's smiling
broadly.

I think of what Elspa said by the pool, that she wants
her daughter back, more than anything. She wants to be a
mother again, and I know how wonderful a mother she
would be, because of the tender attention she's giving to
me, to Artie.

"Mothers are important, too. There's no replacement."

I look at my own mother, still trying to calm her
down from her short-lived hissy. "Children have a right to
all the love they can get their hands on."

Elspa doesn't say a word. She looks at Eleanor, at my
mother, and back at me. I can tell that we've grown to rely
on one another in the strange, intimate way that people
can—quickly and fully, a reliance born from necessity.

"What do you mean?" my mother asks.

"I want you to get your daughter back," I say to Elspa.

Once upon a time, I opened a window and let loose a bird
that had been trapped there. Artie was terrified of the
damn bird, which was knocking around. Elspa reminded
me of this story. I want to open the right windows again.
"I've worked out a plan in which you become the mother
you already are."

"What does the plan include exactly?" Eleanor asks.

Elspa looks up at me, wide-eyed.

"The plan is to go to Elspa's parents' house. She needs
to get her daughter back. Elspa and Rose can stay here until
Elspa gets back on her feet."

"You've thought this through?" Elspa says, with jittery
excitement.

"Maybe not completely. I'm sure there are holes. But I
know I'll need to baby-proof the house, the pool," I tell
her. Unfortunately, I've thought of this house filled with
children too many times. My imaginary babies with
Artie—the ones we name who will never be. I've imagined
where I would set up the nursery. I've imagined the high
chair in the kitchen. I've imagined the little playhouse in
the yard. I know, deep down, that I'm drawn to Rose, to
the idea of mother and daughter, of making that happen,
if not for myself, then for Elspa.

"They won't give her up," Elspa says. The agenda is
trembling in her hand. "I mean, it's not a legal arrangement.
They don't have custody. But they have power.
They are, well, they are my parents. They'll tell me they
know what's best. And I'll buy it."

"That's why we'll go together. I'm good at presenting
what's logical and rational and best for all parties involved.
That's what I know how to do."

"You haven't met my parents. They don't operate on
what's logical, rational, and best for all parties involved.
You'll see."

"
You'll see?
Does this mean yes?"

Elspa nods. "You want to do this for me. I wouldn't
say no to that. It's too important."

"And what about you, Lucy?" my mother asks.

"You're not on the agenda," Eleanor says, scanning it.

I realized this when I was making the agenda, but I
was hoping no one would notice. "Something good has to
come of all of us getting together," I say, thinking the way
a good manager would—catastrophe as opportunity. "But
it doesn't have to happen for me, necessarily. Just something
good."

"There has to be something good for you," Elspa says,
shaking her head. "There has to be."

Eleanor asks, "What would that look like?"

"What would that look like?" I ask.

"Yes, something good, for you. What shape would
that take?"

"I don't know," I say. I consider it for a moment. "I
wouldn't mind being more like the person I was before I
found out about Artie's cheating."