Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (10 page)

Harry’s harem is no more.

11:51 p.m.

The phone is ringing, somewhere far away from my dream about my father showing up at my eleventh birthday party. I feel almost as indignant about this rude awakening as I am about his gift to me: a miniature sports car that looks like Patti’s.

Ted, who sleeps like the dead, doesn’t even roll over. I sigh and pick up the receiver to hear a muffled groan. “Lyssa . . . it’s Harry.”

“What . . . who?” I debate whether or not to turn on the light, and decide against it. Instead I grab the phone and move into the hall with it.

“I said . . . it’s Harry. Listen, there’s been a little—well, I don’t
know what to call it, exactly. ‘Altercation,’ I guess.”

“Harry, what the heck are you talking about? You’re not drunk or anything, are you? What time is it, anyway?”

“No, I’m not drunk! I have no idea of the time. Maybe, I don’t know . . . midnight? Look, please, can you come over here? I need your help!”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“
Just please get over here
. I’m sure the back door is unlocked.”

I consider shaking Ted awake, but then I nix that idea. Instead, I get dressed to Ted’s snores and slip out of the house as quietly as possible.

11:58 p.m.

Harry is right. Not only is the back door unlocked, it was left wide open. Lucky sits on the stoop. At first he growls when he sees me approach. But as I get within sniffing distance, his tail wags, indicating that I’ll be allowed to pass.

I call out Harry’s name. “In the foyer,” he answers.

Yep, that’s where I find him: shackled to the wrought-iron banister with pink fuzzy handcuffs.

“How . . . what . . .” I’m stuttering like a fool, I know.

“Please, Lyssa, you’ve got to find the key. I’ve been standing here at least since ten!”

I look around frantically. My eyes are drawn to the mess at the bottom of the stairs, where a big gift box has spilled out all sorts of wonderful things: a vibrator, a whip, a can of whipped cream, edible panties, a pink negligee. . . .

Harry must have had quite a birthday celebration planned.

And with whom? I shouldn’t care, but I do.

“Hmmm. . . . Okay, now. Well, where might I find the key?”

“She ran out so fast, I didn’t see where she dropped it.” He jerks his hand to make the point, but it won’t break loose from the banister.
“Damn that Tammy! I swear, if I ever see her again, I’ll—”

“Wait!
Tammy did this to you?
” I can’t believe my ears.

Suddenly his eyes grow wide when he realizes the implication. “No, you don’t understand! I know this looks pretty bad, but it’s not what you think. We didn’t do anything—although I’m guessing that was not her intention.”

He tries to move forward, but can’t. In frustration, he jerks his hand, only to shout out a curse when it twists painfully. For a moment he closes his eyes. When he’s calm again, he looks at me as if I’m his last hope. “I can’t stay here all night. And DeeDee is dropping the kids back here right after breakfast. . . . Tammy left through the back door. Maybe she dropped it somewhere in the kitchen. Why don’t you start looking in there?”

I nod and do an about-face. I don’t see anything that looks like a key on the countertops. Could she have left it in a drawer? I open and close one drawer and cabinet after another. “Look, Harry, I know it’s none of my business but . . . why did you let her in here in the first place?”

“Believe me, I thought twice before I did. Who knew she was such a lunatic?” He shivers at the thought. “She rang the bell around nine-thirty. She said she wanted to apologize for any misimpressions she may have given me, that she really appreciated my friendship and hoped there were no hard feelings. In fact, she brought that stupid box over there”—he jerks his head, but shudders instead of looking at it—“it was supposed to be my birthday present. She insisted that I open it while she was still here. What was I supposed to say, no?”

“I guess not.” My last resort is to scrounge around on the floor. Just by chance, I happen to look in Lucky’s water bowl—

And that’s where I see a tiny black key. Triumphantly I snatch it up. “Hey, I think I found it! Gee, Harry, I’m guessing that was an awkward moment. I wonder what the hell she was thinking.”

Lucky follows me out, right on my heels. He must think it’s a dog biscuit, because he’s leaping to snatch it out of my hand.

“You and me both, Lyssa. It shocked the hell out of me at first. The only thing I could think of saying was ‘What’s this?’ How lame is that? She said that she had hoped I was as attracted to her as she was to me. That maybe this would be the start of a different kind of relationship. Or, as she put it, friends with benefits.” He sighs and looks at me pointedly. “Hey, do you mind?”

“What?” I’ve practically gotten Lucky to sit and beg. I just wish I had a reward for him—

“Lyssa, please! The key.” He rattles his shackle again.

“Oh! Of course!” I reach over and shove the key into the lock. It takes some jiggling, but finally the cuff springs open.

Harry’s groan is part pain, part gratitude. He massages his wrist, then his elbow.

I consider the absurdity of handcuffs wrapped in pink powder puffs before tossing them into the box. “Don’t stop now. What happened next?”

“Well . . . I laughed. But she didn’t laugh with me. She said she’d been fantasizing about me since the moment we met, that she thought there’d been an obvious attraction on both our parts, and she wasn’t above having it include a little sex on the side. Then the next thing I know, she’s backed me up against the stair and her tongue is down my throat!”

“She’s got nerve!” I’m truly livid. “How dare she! What a slut! What a—
whore
!”

Okay, maybe I’m overreacting. I have my answer from the quizzical look on Harry’s face. So that he can’t see how hot my cheeks are getting, I busy myself gathering up Tammy’s sex toys and stuffing them back in the box. “So, what did you do then?”

“Of course I shoved her off.” A sad look comes over his face. “Lyssa, it was like something out of high school.
She just broke down.
When she quit sobbing, she asked me what was wrong with her, why I didn’t find her desirable. I didn’t know what to say, so I told her that of course she was desirable, but that I wasn’t looking for
an affair, just a friendship.”

He sits down on the stairs and shakes his head. “Then she started talking about how lonely it is to be in a neighborhood like this, where you can see all the love and the joy in the houses around you. How she likes to walk at night, when she can look through the big picture windows at the families gathered around the dining room table or watching TV together, and how she and Charlie have been trying so hard to have kids and can’t conceive. . . . Well, of course I felt sorry for her. I put my arm around her shoulders, and the next thing I know, she’s all over me again. I had to push her away. That’s when it dawned on me that she wanted me to be her personal sperm donor.”

“Wow, so she’s that desperate to have a kid!” I shake my head sadly. “But how did you get shackled to the banister?”

“At first she denied it, but she finally came around to admitting it. She said that Charlie refuses to consider adopting, or even a sperm donor. He insists on leaving it up to fate. You know—if it happens, great; if not, then it wasn’t meant to be. But she can’t live with that. She promised no one would ever know, and there would be no strings attached. She’d even sign an agreement relieving me of any legal responsibilities for the child. When I said I’d pass on that dubious honor, she got angry. Told me I was a fool not to take her up on her offer. Then she called me a selfish man-ho who had just been leading her on. By then I’d had enough. I told her she was too desperate and too horny to ever be my type.”

I wince when he says that. Considering Tammy’s pride, I can only imagine how much that must have hurt her.

“Well, then she called me a stuck-up prick and cast some pretty cruel aspersions on my manhood—none of which I feel like repeating right now. That was when I shoved all that stuff back into the box and told her to take it and get out.” He shook his head at the memory of it all. “She noticed I had my hand on the banister and, stupid me, I didn’t realize she still had those god-awful fuzzy cuffs in her hand. The next thing I know, my hand is shackled to the rail. I was yelling
at her to let me go, but she just laughed and said, ‘Good luck explaining this to DeeDee and your kids.’ And that’s when Lucky bit her. Grabbed hold of her ankle and wouldn’t let go. I guess he realized I was angry with her, and that got him upset. The next thing I know, she’s hightailing it out of here.” He nods at Jake’s hockey stick, which is propped up against the banister. “For a good hour I didn’t notice it was within reach. I used it to knock my BlackBerry off the foyer table. It’s just long enough to do the trick, but it took me another hour to nudge it within reach. For once I’m happy Jake is too lazy to put his equipment in the garage.”

It’s funny, and yet so pathetic at the same time. Poor Tammy! It makes me sad to think of her twisted attempt to get pregnant by using Harry.

Suddenly Harry’s eyes go dark. “Oh, shit! What if she blabs about this and DeeDee gets wind of it? Tammy can spin this in such a way that I might never see my kids again—”

I shake my head. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Frankly, I don’t think Tammy would broadcast this and risk having Charlie dump her over it.”

“I see what you mean. And, of course, she’s betting I won’t say anything to anyone either. Because of my divorce.” As the fear drains from his face, sadness takes its place. “I guess my speech yesterday pushed her over the edge. I’d be angrier if her actions weren’t so—well, so pathetic.”

I tear up. “Listen, Harry, I’m sorry about all this. If I hadn’t introduced you to the other women—to Tammy—you wouldn’t have been hanging from this railing all night.”

“Yeah, really. So much for a nice quiet night at home. I wonder if Goodwill accepts sex toys.” A sly smile hits his lips. “Hey, I’ve got a better idea—why don’t you take them home with you? I saw the way you were eyeing those cuffs, and I’m sure you’d look great in that negligee. Just consider it a thank-you gift for coming to my rescue—”

“Ha-ha! Very funny. If you’re feeling comfortable enough to make a joke, I guess there’s no need for me to apologize.”

Suddenly he’s serious again. “You never need to apologize to me, Lyssa. I thought you knew that.”

Walking home, I pass the same windows in the same houses that hold the happy lives Tammy covets. There is no excuse for what she did to Harry. But I understand why she’d try.

Well, if he can forgive her, I guess I can too.

“All women are angels . . . as long as you are their god.”

—Leonid S. Sukhorukov

Thursday, 14 Nov., 3:13 p.m.

Mother has this saying, something she has uttered ominously albeit only occasionally since the day Dad walked out on us: “Well, kiddo, the honeymoon is oh-
VAH
.”

When she says this, the last syllable of that last word hurtles at warp speed, like a silver bullet, through the thin O of her lips, aimed, I presume, at the forehead of whoever has ruined her day. Or, in Dad’s case, her life.

After this declaration, as far as she’s concerned the culprit is Dead on Arrival. The issue:
Finito. THE END.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this now, except that the unfathomable is happening: Brooke’s iPhone is whining—
literally
—in her elder son Marcus’s voice. Apparently the customized ringtone assigned to his cell number is his personal rendition of a classic P Diddy ditty: some gangsta-rap haiku incorporating
ho, shizzle, booty
, and
mo-fo
, though not necessarily in that order. It is proof positive that no offspring’s digitally preserved sound bite is too nasal, self-conscious, or raunchy for his mother’s delicate ears, and she should not hesitate to share it with anyone within hearing distance.

Still, there is a time and place for everything. And considering that Brooke, Tammy, and I are mid-pedicure—in other words, ankle-deep
in warm, swirling footbaths of candlenut and coconut milk, our legs slathered in chocolate (me) and honey (them)—now is not the ideal moment for Brooke to hear from any of her kids.

Especially the one who, like my son Tanner, is supposedly being taxied to a very important cross-county basketball game by Harry.

Back when we were all childless, our cell phones would have been muted the moment we entered the Heights of Beauty Day Salon’s labia pink walls. But these days, me time is a guilty pleasure. Sneaking off for an afternoon mani-pedi with your gal pals is the mommy equivalent of the Burgundian mercenaries leaving the Beech Bottom Dyke unmanned during the Second Battle of St. Albans. (Okay, maybe not that bad, but you get the point.)

Marcus’s lament unleashes that most Pavlovian instinct of all: maternal. Without a second thought, Brooke plunges her hand into her Yves Saint Laurent suede Muse bag, paraffin dip be damned. Despite her fumbles and curses, the bag’s cell-phone pocket is too slippery to unzip with mitted hands.

Realizing that someone has to come to her rescue or we’ll all get booted out for upsetting the serenity of the other patrons, Tammy wrestles the purse into submission, and in the process smudges her freshly polished french tips.

To Harry, she’s a psycho rapist. To Brooke, she’s a friend in need.

“Jesus, Marcus! What is it? Not another front tooth!” Brooke’s face mask is cracking under the stress, a veritable San Andreas of organic egg white and coarse brown sugar. Her worst fear is that, once again, a collision with some rebounder’s elbow has turned Marcus’s picture-perfect smile into a gap-toothed grin.

Tammy and I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his indignant tone speaks volumes:
Whoa, Mom, heck, don’t blame me, because this time it’s not my fault. . . . 

Brooke’s face confirms this. Although petrified in meringue, like the moon during a lunar eclipse it moves oh-so-gradually through
several phases of emotion: fear, relief, concern, disbelief, and then anger.