Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (21 page)

“It’s an invasion of my privacy.” Ted is brushing so hard that I’m surprised his gums aren’t bleeding.

“Oh, get real, Ted.” I could easily have ambushed him into this decision by mentioning it at dinner in front of the kids, who would be ecstatic and beg him to change his mind. But no, I waited until we were alone, until after we had made love—with the television on, so that he could watch the Lakers trounce the Clippers, again. I even pretended to believe that his groan during our lovemaking had everything to do with him being in sync with my faux-orgasm, and nothing
at all to do with Pau Gasol missing an easy layup. “Seriously, what is your problem?”

“
My
problem?” He stares at me as if suddenly I’ve grown two heads. “Look, let’s just call it what it is: Harry Wilder’s got a crush on you, and for whatever reason, you’re egging him on.”

“Harry . . . and me?
What?
Oh, boy! You’re crazy.”

“Tammy didn’t think so.”

“Well, Tammy is a horny bitch! She just said that because Harry Wilder wouldn’t ask her to go to bed with him. Spreading cruel, petty rumors is her way of getting back at him.” My brush is stroking my hair so quickly that a few strands have taken flight.

“Why won’t he sleep with her? He’s separated, so that’s not an issue.”

I pause with my strokes. “He won’t sleep with her because . . . well, because—”

“Because he’s got the hots for you.”
Ted’s eyes meet mine in the bathroom mirror.

“No! That’s not it at all. Harry . . . well, if you must know, Harry is still in love with his wife.” I let that sink in. “So you have nothing to worry about, you see?”

He thinks about that for a moment, then gives me a curt nod. “Yeah, all right, I’m fine with you inviting your new friend.” He trades his toothbrush for his razor. “But if you think I’m getting up at the crack of dawn to feed a bunch of drunks and druggies, you’ve got another think coming. I’m sleeping in. End of story.”

I should be happy about finally getting the two of them together, but suddenly I feel hollow: not because I lied to Ted about Harry’s feelings for me, but because I didn’t.

I truly believe Harry is still in love with DeeDee.

If you’re looking for proof, all you have to do is look at the wedding band he still wears on his left hand.

So, no, he’s not in love with me. Not even a little.

Wednesday, 27 Nov., 1:06 p.m.

I am no Martha Stewart, but when it comes to Thanksgiving, I make a mean pecan pie, if I do say so myself. How bad can it be, with a little Tia Maria splashed in?

When it comes to this holiday, I am its queen. To me, it is the epitome of the word
family
, and I work hard to make it perfect for my own.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, which means my day is fully regimented for the prep work that goes into this meal. Right now in my kitchen, the turkey is brining, pies are baking, and I’ve been one with my Cuisinart since daybreak. Veggies of all shapes, sizes, and harvest hues are being chopped, diced, sliced, grated, or zested for side dishes that will leave my family—oh, yes, and Harry’s—as stuffed as the turkey they will have just devoured. Idaho potatoes have been whipped into a frenzy and flavored with garlic, while the top of my sweet potato soufflé has been liberally sprinkled with marshmallows, which will be crisped to a golden brown in the broiler just before the turkey is presented.

All is well in my world.

The aroma of pies permeates the air. Perfect half-moon slices of apples, scented with cinnamon, simmer under a browning lattice crust, while the allspice, which was sprinkled liberally in a pumpkin pulp drenched with dollops of triple sec, lives up to its name.

If we weren’t passing on the Paradise Heights Women’s League’s Friday-After Potluck, I would have baked a second pumpkin pie.

Or perhaps a pie stuffed with crow, specifically for Margot. And while she ate it, I’d remind her that I beat her record by twenty turkeys and eighty-six cans.
YES! YES!

My kitchen duties are timed right down to the second I’ll leave for after-school pickup, at which point the pies will be cooling on a large rack and the vegetables arranged in casserole dishes of varying sizes and shapes, depending on whether they’ve been grilled, roasted, blanched, toasted, sautéed, or creamed.

Last week I purchased a bottle of a very nice Gloria Ferrer Sonoma Brut for us to toast at the gathering. Maybe we’ll allow the older boys to take a sip too. What a perfect way to cap off a perfect holiday event. . . .

I have my head deep in the oven, where I’m wrapping aluminum foil around my pumpkin crust so it won’t brown too fast, when I hear the phone ring. I burn a finger on one hand as I reach for it with the other. “
Shit!
Ouch . . . Sorry! Hello?”

“Lyssa, it’s Carla Liotta.”

Ah, Tanner’s principal. I await her accolade, one of many I’ve received since word got out about the food drive’s success—

“You have to come down to the school immediately. I’ve got Tanner in my office, and—well, he’s drunk.”

“I . . . I beg your pardon?”

“Unfortunately, your son is looped. I think you should come and get him. Of course, this means suspension, through the full week after Thanksgiving. A shame, what with exams and all the following week—”

“But—but that can’t be! He doesn’t drink—”

“Tell me: are you missing a bottle of champagne?”

I run to the fridge. Yep, the Gloria Ferrer is AWOL, so she’s got me there.

“What, he finished a whole bottle by himself?”

“Oh no, he’s in fine company. Jake Wilder helped him out. His parents are on their way, too.”

I grab my keys and run out the door.

1:33 p.m.

Even before I open the door to Principal Liotta’s office, I can hear DeeDee pricking Harry with well-placed barbs. “This is exactly what
I’m talking about! You are absolutely oblivious to the needs of our children!”

“Me—oblivious? How dare you, DeeDee! It sure is easy passing judgment from where you are, which is essentially out of their lives—”

“No, I’m not out of their lives, Harry. I’m out of
your
life. And you just better get used to it.”

“Oh, I’m used to it, all right! At this point, I have no regrets about your desertion.”

“Why did you say that? Just because our son is here with us?”

“Blah blah blah, ‘our son’ boo-hoo, blah blah!” Jake’s impression of his mom sets Tanner off into convulsions of tipsy giggles. Both he and Jake fall to the floor laughing.

Tiny Carla is a woman who, by nature, is as demure as a dewy-eyed Southern belle, but fully in touch with her inner middle-school principal. In one second flat her voice drops an octave and a half, leaving her young charges in no doubt that she means it when she tells them to cease and desist with all their drunken tomfoolery.

Unfortunately, Harry’s next instincts are his worst. He lunges at Jake, yanking him to his feet and drawing him close, so close that the two are nose-to-nose. “You stupid little jerk! How dare you say that to your mother—”

“Harry, NO!” Somehow I’ve leaped between him and his son. Jake, frozen in fear, trembles into sobriety. As he registers me, Harry’s anger deflates and he falls back. Unconsciously he places his hand on my shoulder.

He needs me to prop him up in so many ways.

DeeDee sees this too. Her eyes dampen in the realization that she truly has what she wants: she is free of Harry.

And he is free of her.

With death come the five stages of grief for the survivors: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. For DeeDee, stage
two has my name written all over it. She doesn’t know my role in her soon-to-be ex-husband’s life, but whatever it is, she has already made up her mind she doesn’t like it.

So that she will see I’m not a threat to her, I hold out my hand. “I want to apologize for Tanner’s stupidity. He raided our fridge and brought the wine to school. I’ll make sure that he’s punished.”

“Mom, really it was Jake’s idea—” He shuts his mouth when he reads the look in my eye.

DeeDee smirks. “Your hooligan son has the nerve to blame it on Jake? Now, that’s rich!”

I can feel my head shaking in anger. “My son is not a hooligan! Look, I’ve already apologized—”

“Gee, Lyssa, how big of you.” DeeDee practically spits out my name. “But you don’t need to cover for him. Or for Harry, either.”

“I’m not! Why would I cover for Harry?”

“Oh, come on already!” She laughs out loud. “It’s so obvious. You’re one of those lonely little housewives who prey on any man within flirting range—”

“I beg your pardon—”

“Ladies, please!” It has suddenly dawned on Carla that she may have a grown-up fight on her hands. To put her at ease, I sit down.

Harry puts his hand on my arm. “DeeDee, quit being such a bitch. Lyssa and I are friends. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Just friends? Frankly, Harry, I don’t care who your friends are, but I do care about who our children hang out with.” She glares at Jake. “And the Harper boy shouldn’t be one of them. Come on, Jake, we have to get your sister.”

“The kids are spending Thanksgiving with me, remember? You have plans to go out of town.” Harry motions Jake to his side. Jake stands there helplessly.

DeeDee laughs raucously. “And what were you planning on feeding them, frozen turkey dinners?”

“Hell, no, Mrs. Wilder. My mom’s a great cook.” All eyes turn to Tanner. Realizing how much he doesn’t like the attention, he shuts his mouth quickly and stares back down at the floor.

“You’re taking them—to
her house
?”

“Yes.” Harry’s smile is not triumphant, but weary. “Lyssa—and Ted—were gracious enough to invite us. We’ll be serving at the shelter first—”

DeeDee’s gaze turns to stone. “No. The kids are going with me. NOW.”

“You have no right—”

“Don’t I? Principal Liotta, did you not just witness my husband threatening my child with bodily injury? Shouldn’t you call Child Protective Services?”

“Well—I think, in the heat of the moment—”

DeeDee turns on her, teeth bared. “I’d hate for you to lose your job just because you broke state law and didn’t report the incident.” She flips a hand in my direction. “And I’m sure Mrs. Harper won’t lie under oath about what we all saw, either. Not even for a ‘good friend.’”

Harry shakes his head in defeat. “Why are you doing this, DeeDee?”

“You put it so well, Harry: my children need me.” She pushes Jake toward the door, but looks back at Harry. “Don’t worry. You’ll get them back on Friday. Come on, Jake, you can help pick out the turkey. Just try not to throw up on it.”

“Love: A temporary insanity curable by marriage.”

—Ambrose Bierce

Thursday, 28 Nov., 7:11 a.m.

Olivia has found the king of all puddles in her journey from the driveway of the All Saints Homeless Shelter to its front door. Its depth can be measured from the muddy watermark left high above her ankles.

She bursts into tears. “I’m wet! I’m cold! I’m sleepy! I WANT TO GO HOME!”

This could all have been avoided if her galoshes weren’t buried somewhere in the back of the van, underneath the boys’ sneakers and sports equipment.

Or if I had reneged on my promise to help Harry at the homeless shelter.

But I couldn’t do that. Not after I saw the look on his face when he realized DeeDee was once again getting her way.

Of course, he offered to let me off the hook. “Your kids won’t be as excited if their friends aren’t around. And besides, you’ve got a big meal to prepare—for your own family.”

“Nonsense! This isn’t about them hanging with their friends. It’s about helping someone who needs it.”

Like I’m helping you, Harry. If you’ll let me.

“Besides, our whole meal is on autopilot. Everything will be done ahead of time. All I have to do tomorrow is stick the turkey into the
oven and set the time to bake. Then,
voilá!
!”

“Well . . . if you say so.” He watched as DeeDee drove out of the school’s parking lot with Jake. Soon Temple would be with them. He was returning to an empty home.

An empty life.

“Aw, fuck it. It’s just one day, right?” he said, more to himself than to me. “I’ll see them on Friday, and take them for leftovers at the potluck.”

“You’ll have leftovers from our dinner too.” I gave him a look that said I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

With all we have to do today, I’m not taking it from my kids, either. “Please Mom, can’t we just go home?” Tanner, who is still nursing a killer hangover, has yet to open his eyes since I roused him out of bed.

“No, we can’t.” I snap my fingers in front of his eyes. “People are counting on us. Now, pick up your sister and carry her inside before she drowns in one of these puddles.”

Only Mickey seems up for our grand adventure. He’s already bounded out of the van with one of my pumpkin pies. While I grab another bag of groceries, he counts the number of people standing in the line that snakes around the building. “Cool! Hey, what are the chances that I’ll catch scurvy from a homeless guy?”

“More than likely it’ll be fleas.” Tanner lets loose with a prolonged burp. It is, I hope, the last vestige of his unfortunate incident. “Those guys sleep outside, and they never take showers.”

“Yuck!” Olivia wrinkles her nose. As disgusting as her brother’s burp is, I’m sure she is referring to the thought of going without a bath. One of her joys in life is splashing around in her tub. For her, roughing it is doing without a Little Mermaid bubble bath for even one day.

“Kids, be nice! Not everyone has a roof over their heads like us. This is why we give thanks today—”

“Pecan or pumpkin?” yells a greasy-haired guy with one eye
covered by a patch. “Hey, I’ll let you touch me if you hand it over!”

“Whoa, cool!” Mickey starts over.

I grab hold of his jacket. “No! I mean . . . he’ll get a piece of it when he’s inside.”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, but then they’ll probably make me wear gloves.”

“Listen up! This isn’t a petting zoo. These are real people—”

Real people who want pie. Suddenly the line is moving in our direction. They chant “PIE! PIE! PIE!” as if calling for the head of a despotic king. Mickey looks at me helplessly. I take it from him and thrust it at their leader, One-Eyed Jack.