Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (11 page)

“What’s happened?” I hiss.

Brooke shushes me. With Marcus, though, she is as calm as a kindergarten teacher during a fire drill. Panic is something we mothers share with a priest, a shrink, or friends willing to feel our pain, but never with our kids. “Okay, listen. . . . Yes—yes, I know it’s a tournament game. . . . Honey, just call Coach Shriver and tell him to stall. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She hangs up.

Tammy can’t stand it any longer. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t they at the game?”

“Because Harry never picked them up from school, that’s why. Seems that he went into the city today instead.” As Brooke lunges toward the changing suite, her pedicure tub tips over and the milky mixture sloshes onto the floor. Tammy slips and slides as she chases after her. The honey that has her thighs practically glued together doesn’t help her forward momentum.

I shake my head in disbelief, but both of them are so far ahead of me that neither can see me. “But—but that’s not possible! When I reminded him this morning it was his turn to carpool the boys to their game, he told me how much he was looking forward to going.”

Okay, maybe those weren’t his exact words. But there is no way I’m going to tell them that his real response was an eye roll and a litany of curses: at his partners for scheduling an important meeting with one of his largest clients in the early afternoon, as opposed to sometime in the morning; at DeeDee and Bethany the Terminator for socking him with yet another court order demanding that he leave the premises and agree to her taking full custody of their children; and at himself for forgetting that Jake even had a ball game this afternoon, let alone that Temple now had to be covered too.

He’d saved his final curse for himself. “I’m some arrogant son of a bitch, aren’t I? I mean, really, who do I think I am, Superman?
Hell, I can’t even bribe Temple to go to bed at a decent hour! Do you know what she tells me?
That she’s worried about her mother sleeping alone.
” Absentmindedly he ran his fingers through his hair. It was now somewhat shaggier than usual, but that was understandable. With his two worlds colliding, these days Harry rarely had time to shave, let alone hit a barbershop.

“Listen, because we thought you had us covered for middle-school carpool, Brooke and I were going to leave Olivia and Ben Junior with Colleen and her little McGuyver while we get mani-pedis. I’m sure she won’t mind looking after Temple too,” I told him.

“What? Hell, no, I wouldn’t do that to you—or Colleen either. Don’t worry about a thing. If the meeting starts on time, I’ll be home a good half hour before the boys get out of school. Temple can come with us. You and Brooke just do your thing, and don’t worry about me.”

He wasn’t going to come out and say it, but I knew why he didn’t want to call Colleen: because of his work emergencies, already Brooke and Colleen had subbed for him in carpool. If Harry ditched carpool duty yet again, brows would lift in consternation, and his worst fears would be realized:

The girls would have yet another reason to gossip about him behind his back.

“That’s just it. It’s not just the two of us anymore. Brooke told me Tammy is joining us.” Since the handcuff incident I’d been avoiding her like the plague. I guess I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to give her a piece of my mind. “Harry, seriously, I don’t mind bowing out. Particularly not after . . . well, you know.”

“Look, Lyssa, eventually you’ll have to converse with her. We both will, for that matter. You might as well get it over with. Just play it cool. Don’t let on that you know what happened, or she’ll feel obligated to cover it up. Then it will spread like wildfire, only I’ll be made out to be the bad guy. You know I can’t afford for that to happen.”

I went, for Harry’s sake.

Now I wish I’d followed my gut and stayed home with the kids.

Still sticky and pissed off, Brooke and Tammy run on ahead to the parking lot. While Tammy revs up her BlueTec, I toss my credit card at our mystified pedicurist and steel myself for the conversation sure to take place on the way to the boys’ school. In this group of frenemies, where snide suppositions are sharper than any surgeon’s scalpel, Harry’s character will be sliced and diced to tiny pieces.

Tammy’s remarks will be the sharpest.

Now it’s payback time.

Needless to say, the bloom on the rose that was once the Paradise Heights Women’s League board’s lopsided love affair with Harry is withering, one petal at a time.

3:38 p.m.

Harry must have pulled up to the school just a few moments before us, because the boys are about to get into his car—that is, if they aren’t run over first by Tammy, who careens to a stop in front of Harry’s sedan in such a way that it’s obvious she’s watched too many
Law and Order
episodes.

“Humph! Nice to see you were able to make it after all.” Brooke’s tone is snide enough to make Harry wince. Or maybe it’s seeing Tammy again that does that to him. In any case, he smiles and tries to wave us on.

But Brooke isn’t having it. “I guess you don’t care that this is a tournament game for the boys! Have you forgotten that they’re all starters? My God, Harry, if Paradise Heights loses, I hope you realize it’ll be all your fault.”

“Not to mention that
our
appointments are just as important as yours, Harry Wilder.” Tammy raises her smeared fingers to make her point.

To his credit, Harry is implacable. In fact, he’s
gracious. “You’re right, ladies. I owe all of you apologies, especially the boys. Granted, blaming it on traffic is a lousy excuse, but the fact of the matter is 101 was a real—
bitch
.” As he pauses, he looks Tammy right in the eye.

All the color goes out of her face, but she keeps her mouth shut. Her passive-aggressive tendencies are quelled for the time being.

Still, I shudder to think how they’ll surface next, and against whom.

Although he’s not being attacked, Jake turns beet red. Just like every other teen in the world, he feels his parent is enough of an embarrassment on most days. Watching Harry being accused by a teammate’s mom of ruining their game is a fate worse than death.

“Jump in, guys. We’re late as it is.” Harry’s eyes are hard enough to cut diamonds. The kids know a showdown when they see one. I give Tanner a slight nod to let him know it’s okay by me.

Perplexed, Marcus glances at his mother for approval. Brooke pauses, unsure of what to do now. She has every right to be mad at Harry, and they both know it. At the same time, she honestly likes him. Her last-ditch effort to put him in his place is halfhearted at best. “Well, I mean . . . since we rushed over here, we might as well take them ourselves.”

“Nonsense! But, hey, that’s not a bad idea, you meeting us there. I’m sure the boys would love the support. If you think you can keep up, just follow me.” It’s more of a dare than an invitation, and he knows it. If Brooke and Tammy had their druthers, they’d much rather be back at the Heights of Beauty. But having been called out in this way, what else can they do?

Spurred on by Harry’s sharp nod, the boys, all lean limbs and tense energy, implode into his once-immaculate BMW 750Li. The tribulations of carpool duty during the rainy season have taken their toll on the car’s black napa leather.

Harry glances over at me and winks. That’s his way of telling me that he’s okay, but I know better. Harry isn’t used to fucking up, and
this incident has shaken him to the core.

Well, at least he won’t have to concern himself as to whether or not Tammy can keep up with him. I’m guessing her malicious compliance will next show itself in road rage.

Just in case I’m right, I let Brooke ride shotgun.

“Marriage is nature’s way of keeping us from
fighting with strangers.”

—Alan King

5:46 p.m.

R
U coming?

Right as I hit the send button, I stare down at the message I’ve just typed into my cell. Since it has nothing to do with any balls other than the one being tossed around here in the Bohemian Grove Middle School gym, this ain’t exactly sexting. . . .

Yet I wonder if the message’s recipient, my husband, will see the irony in this double entendre.

I doubt it.

Damn it, Ted, it’s been too long. I need to get laid. . . .

I’m sure he’s feeling frustrated too. Not about our sex life, but that he’s not here to cheer Tanner on. It’s not like him to miss our elder son’s basketball games, especially one this important. By hook or by crook, Ted always finds a way to slip away from the tedium of courting new clients. To him, even the thrill of closing a multimillion-dollar deal is nothing compared to the swoosh of a ball falling through a net. It’s even sweeter when that ball is shot by his son.

It’s one of the things I love most about him.

Of course, he’s not alone. Besides students and mommies, this day game is attended by the most avid fans of all: fathers who were once players themselves. The American gymnasium experience is a
hotbed of neuroses. Projected onto our kids are our own shattered dreams. Each squeak of a sneaker on these highly polished wood floors is the audible reminder of a wrong turn, a missed opportunity, a woulda-coulda-shoulda moment that, for whatever reason, just didn’t connect. The chance to relive our youth through our offspring is a parental perk, particularly if our kids are better at the things we never mastered ourselves. This is why our primal instincts push us away from even those faces that make our hearts go pitter-patter, if long strong limbs aren’t also part of the package—or anything else indicating superhero genes that, when combined with our own, ensure the next generation’s athletic achievements will be better than any Mini-Me could possibly be.

The purr of my cell can barely be heard over the crowd on our side of the gym, which is chanting for Jake Wilder, our team’s captain and a starting forward, to make his foul shot. When he misses it, I pat Harry on the shoulder. After the carpool incident, he needs all the TLC he can get. I wait for his wry smile before reading Ted’s response:

Big deal going down. Keep me posted, OK?

I sigh and flip my phone shut. Tanner will be disappointed. It is the fourth quarter of the Division IV play-off game that decides the first-place standing between these archrivals. For the past half hour, the momentum has swung from one team to the other, the lead tipping back and forth between the two. When the spectators’ eyes aren’t following the players bolting up and down the court, they gravitate to the wall holding the scoreboard, where a large banner proclaims:

WE OWN YOU!!!!!!

This is meant both literally and figuratively, as the founding fathers of this private hallowed institution were the last century’s captains of industry.

If there is any doubt to the contrary, the team’s name is the CEOs.

As posh as we thought we had it, Bohemian Grove puts us to shame. There is enough nonskid Paraguayan beeswax on the African hardwood floor to make it glisten within an inch (make that two) of its life. Below the scoreboard is a JumboTron that magnifies every zit on the players’ otherwise cherubic faces: overkill, to say the least. Forget bum-numbing bleachers: the tiers of lumbar-control captain’s chairs climbing both sideline walls rival what you’d find in the best club-level suite in the Staples Center or on the bridge of the USS
Enterprise.

In this setting, Paradise Heights is the public ghetto school.

All the more reason why we must win this game. This is a grudge match between archrivals. A thrilla in vanilla, you might say.

Yes, Harry was right to goad us into coming. For the first quarter, these deluxe surroundings threw our Red Devils off their game. Playing catch-up was a bitch, and they needed all the support they could get. Besides Brooke, Tammy, Harry, and me, Margot is here too, in her capacity as official squad mom of PH Middle School’s cheer squad. She and her girls not only attend home games, but follow the boys to their rivals’ courts as well. Her Mercedes GLK SUV, laden with lithesome tween beauties who double as human jumping beans, brings to mind the slatternly caravan that followed General Hooker’s Union army into battle. I’ll readily admit it’s their uniforms, which hug breasts, expose navels, and graze butts, I find so off-putting: certainly fitting attire for both cheering and hooking, depending on what pom-poms are being shaken. (I pray that by the time Olivia reaches puberty, the turtleneck and chastity belt will have reemerged as must-have fashion statements.) Today, though, I appreciate all they are doing on our boys’ behalf. Besides ratcheting up the tension with husky-voiced chants clapped out with a robotic precision, they are a lusty distraction for our opponents. The thong-wearing flyer, launched in the basket toss, stops them dead in their tracks every time.

Isabelle is here too, in her unofficial capacity as the Red Devils’ loudest fan. This makes her the bane of son John-John’s existence, specifically when she warbles
“THAT’S MY JOHNNIE!”
at his every layup attempt, be it successful or not. Should he follow his father into litigation, I’ve no doubt she’ll wangle her way into the courtroom in order to be his one-woman peanut gallery, or, worse yet, figure out how to get on the jury, whereupon she will proceed to badger the other peers into a favorable finding for her son’s client. Here’s hoping his partner bonuses assuage his shame.

Colleen is the only AWOL member of our momtourage. She is minding Brooke’s Ben and my Olivia, along with McGuyver. I presume Harry begged her to take Temple too, since he didn’t have her in the car with him. Colleen has always discouraged third-grader McAllister and eighth-grader McCawber from playing, since sports are at odds with her earth-mother sensibilities. In her universe, there are no winners or losers, just journey takers. To that end, McCawber’s own path has him exploring his innate talents for makeup application and T-gurl couture. In fact, the cheer squad’s uniforms are his design, so in his case Colleen’s philosophy has paid off beautifully.

If only we all had the courage of our convictions.

Tensions are running sky-high, now that the Patek Philippe tourbillion clock on the wall has ticked down to the final minute of the game. Only in this last quarter have the Red Devils finally caught up. I have to give the boys’ coach, Pete Shriver, credit for this. He is a true Obi-Wan who nurtures, drills, and inspires each boy to attain his personal best. “Alex, shift!” and “Connor, less Kobe” are part of his patter, a secret code between him and his team that keeps them focused and cohesive.