Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (7 page)

M
y hands are still shaking. The phone call to set up the test drive was tougher than I thought it would be. The woman caught me off guard, picked up on the first ring, just when I realized she might still be with my father. He could have been sitting right there next to her. We talked a little about her car and set up a time to meet at her apartment complex tomorrow. With all the thoughts racing through my mind, it was a miracle I was able to do that much. Now, it's all I can do to press the button on Dimitri's remote and flip through the television channels.

“Check out this one.” Dimitri tosses a lingerie catalog to me. It spins across the couch and lands on my lap. I toss it to the side.

When I get tired of scanning channels, I glance at the catalog. It's for women with large bust sizes—anything from DD through L.
What the hell would an L look like?

Since Dimitri's mother is the manager of the lingerie department at Macy's, their house is always littered with catalogs like this. Dimitri peruses the new arrivals and hoards the ones he likes best. It's interesting to see which ones he keeps, because the women in this catalog, aside from having mammoth-sized boobs, are not particularly attractive. Most of them have plastic-looking hair, plastic-looking smiles, and enough makeup to kill a few dozen laboratory rabbits. I can't imagine any woman with breasts that large being able to smile, let alone stand upright.

I go back to channel surfing.

“Dude,” Dimitri says. “I share goddesses wrapped in silk, ribbons, and lace with you and you'd rather click through home-improvement shows and old episodes of
Judge Judy
? What's wrong with you?”

“What am I supposed to do, start beating my chest and jumping up and down like an ape?”

“I don't know,” he says, “but I can tell you that watching the second half of a
Flavor of Love
rerun is not the right thing to do.”

I drop the remote and flip through one of the catalogs. It's divided into sections. One part is just panties and shows panty-clad pelvises. Another is just bras and shows bra-clad torsos. Another section is two-piece matching sets. Another section shows different kinds of hosiery, and yet another shows robes and sleepwear. It's all very clinical, bordering on scientific. Every model looks exactly the same, with the same expression and the same posture. Then I come across another catalog. This one shows models wearing all kinds
of bizarre outfits with straps and buckles and latches.

“Do they sell this at Macy's?” I flash Dimitri the catalog spread. “These things look more like something you'd use on Houdini before you toss him in a trunk and pitch him into the Hudson River.”

Dimitri glances over. “Not sure,” he says. “My mom gets all kinds of freaky catalogs. A while back there was one that had all kinds of whips and handcuffs in it. I was younger—like in fifth grade or something.”

“What'd your mom say?”

“She told me it was a Halloween catalog. I knew she was full of it—especially since the catalog disappeared from my book bag that night. She's long since stopped trying to keep the bedsheets of my mind fluffy and spring fresh.”

“Way too late for that,” I say.

“That's the truth.” Dimitri pushes his fingers through his hair and leans back against the arm of the couch. It's the first time all day I notice he's shaved. He's given up on the goatee and opted for an oval patch of fur under his chin. “So, what attracted you to Veronica in the first place?” he asks me. “I mean, what set her apart from other girls—aside from the fact that she was the only one in town who would give you the time of day?”

I chuck a catalog at him and he swats it down.

“Seriously?” I say.

“Yeah.”

I lean back and stare at the chandelier. It looks completely out of place hanging in the middle of the living room, but I like the crystals spinning in the sunlight.
“It was how she challenged me. I remember we were in social studies freshman year and we broke into groups to discuss capital punishment. It was one of those debate projects where each group was supposed to take a different stance and we would argue issues in front of the rest of the class.”

Dimitri lifts his finger to stop me.

“Yeah?”

“Is this going to get less boring any time this century?”

I fling another catalog at him. He swats it down again.

“Kidding!” he says.

“I guess my point is that it was a lot of little things, all the details. They all added up to something bigger.”

A girl's voice comes from the kitchen. “Did you ever tell her that?”

It's Audrey. She leans against the door frame, a glass of soda in her hand.

My face flushes, and I wonder how much she's overheard. All of it, I'm guessing.

“Get out of here, snoop,” Dimitri says.

“I'm not a snoop. The living room is a common area. I can't help what I hear in a common area.”

She comes fully into the room and lies sideways across the La-Z-Boy. Without her giant sunglasses and baseball cap, I can get a better look at her. She was blessed with a face that looks nothing like Dimitri's. Not that Dimitri is ugly per se, but it creeps me out when brothers and sisters look alike, as though they both fell out of the same mold and were fitted for different plumbing. With Dimitri
and Audrey, Dimitri looks more like their father; Audrey, more like their mother.

“Did you ever tell Veronica what you liked about her?” she asks me.

I shrug.

“Guys are stoic,” Dimitri says. “We're like cavemen. Mars and Venus. Whatever you want to call it.”

I square up the catalogs and put them on the coffee table as far away from myself as I can. It's weird having them around when Audrey is in the room.

Audrey picks one up and absently flips through it. “Do you want her back?” she asks me.

“Get out of here.” Dimitri flings a pillow at her.

She smacks it aside and turns to me. “Do you want her back?” she says, this time more intently. “If Veronica came begging for forgiveness, would you take her back?”

I'm not sure what to say. I want to say yes, but I also want to say no, and it all comes out at once. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe. It doesn't matter. She doesn't want anything to do with me.”

“Forget about that,” Audrey says. “Figure out if you want to get back with her. The important question is whether it's the right thing for you. If it is, make her a list.”

“A list?”

“Sure.” Audrey crosses her legs. A blue flip-flop dangles from her toes. “Make a list of all the reasons you love her.”

“Yeah,” Dimitri adds. “You can call it ‘Seth Baumgartner's Lame-Ass List of Reasons He Loves Veronica.'”

I ignore Dimitri and think on Audrey's suggestion. It's
not the worst idea I've ever heard—Veronica
did
challenge me to list ten things I loved about her. Under pressure, I couldn't put together five. Given a week, I probably could think of a few hundred. Plus, if she read all the reasons at once, maybe she'd understand why I couldn't list just a few. It'd be like looking at a mosaic instead of at all the individual tiles. It would add up to something bigger.

Audrey grabs another catalog and flips through the pages. “Hey, Dimitri, are you the one who folded the corner of this page down?” She spins the catalog to face him. The page is covered with girdles that have built-in padding to make a woman's backside look bigger.

Dimitri studies the catalog. “I thought you could use some help in that area,” he says.

“Yeah, I think I'm all set.”

“Are there really women who want their asses to look bigger?” I say.

“Big booties are all the rage,” Audrey says, gazing at the pages.

“I guess….”

“You guess what?”

“I don't know,” I say. “Wouldn't it be weird to hook up with a girl and discover she's wearing a giant pair of elastic underwear with fake ass-cheek implants in them?”

“No different than a guy who stuffs his underwear,” Audrey says.

“Guys don't really stuff their underwear, do they?” I say.

“I wouldn't know about that,” Audrey says.

“Women are a wily bunch,” Dimitri says. “The ass girdle helps them create an illusion. Like makeup and high heels help them create an illusion. Guys, on the other hand, we're much more straightforward. What you see is what you get.” He grabs his belly and jiggles it. “Chub and all.”

“Charming,” Audrey says.

Dimitri clears his lap of catalogs. “Let's go grab a Rosie O'Donnell burger at Poindexter's. This caveman is freakin' hungry.” Dimitri turns to Audrey. “You want to tag along?”

“It's only been an hour since you ate lunch over there,” she says.

“What's your point?”

“I'll never figure you out, big brother. Anyhow, thanks but no thanks. Kevin is picking me up in a few minutes.”

“Who's Kevin?” I ask.

Just then a horn honks in the driveway. I glance out the window to see a bright yellow Wrangler idling in front. The top is down, and a blue-and-green surfboard sticks out of the backseat. A skinny guy gets out and pushes a mop of brown hair from his face. He's holding a bouquet of dandelions.

Audrey springs up.

Dimitri looks out over my shoulder. “Kevin is some guy Audrey is dating to piss off my dad.”

“Any guy I date would piss Dad off. Anyhow, Kevin is a good guy.”

“Where you going?” Dimitri asks her.

Audrey snaps a pale green rubber wristband that's
around her wrist. “Some protest down at the capitol building. Something about preserving the area's pine bush.”

Dimitri laughs. “You said
bush
.”

I look out the window again. Kevin sees me and tentatively lifts a hand to wave. “What's with the surfboard?” I ask Audrey.

“Kevin says you never know when you might want to catch a wave.”

“Has anyone told him we're a hundred and fifty miles from the nearest ocean?” Dimitri says.

“I think it's cute,” Audrey says.

Dimitri turns to me. “Let's go, Seth. My treat.”

I glance at the time on my cell. Correction: my mom's cell. Shoot. I've got to get this thing back on the charger before she notices it's missing or she'll tear apart the kitchen tile by tile.

“No can do,” I say. “My mom needs me to help her with something.”

“What's your mom need help with in the middle of a weekday afternoon?” Dimitri asks.

“You have no idea.”

T
he instant I walk in the front door, my mother calls to me. “Have I got a surprise for you!”

I bound into the kitchen to see her holding what looks like a deformed potato with bulging eyes and big, hairy ears.

“Isn't he precious?” she practically squeals.

The tiny thing wiggles its legs and grunts.

“You got a bald hamster?”

“It's a dog! Isn't he the cutest little guy?”

I jiggle the jewel-encrusted collar that falls over one of his tiny shoulders. “I didn't realize dogs came this small. Or that you'd be getting one so soon.”

“Well, Donna down at the club—you know, Donna Teal, the woman in the business office? She told me she knew a reputable breeder, and it just so happened that he
had a litter ready to go. Chihuahuas.” She holds the dog to her nose and breathes deep. “He's even got that new puppy smell.”

Mom holds the dog out, but I politely decline. I'm not putting my nose near something that probably just licked its own butt. The puppy narrows its bugged-out eyes at me and growls.

“Does he have a name?” I ask.

“I'm going to let your father do the honors,” she says. “It'll help him warm up to the little rascal.” She tucks the puppy under one arm as though he's a football and starts searching around the counter.

“Have you seen my cell phone?” she asks.

I pretend not to hear her to buy myself a few seconds. I feel for her phone in the front pocket of my shorts and realize I can't give it back. Not yet, anyway. My own phone is still wedged between my father's car seats and forwarding calls to hers.

“I said, do you know where my phone is?” she asks again. “It was on the charger when I went out this morning.”

“I haven't seen it.”

Mom starts digging through the basket where she keeps her old magazines and catalogs.

“Did you look in your purse?” I ask her.

“Already checked.” She snatches the cordless phone off the wall cradle. “If it's anyplace within earshot, I'll find it.” She begins keying in her own number. “Is my number nine-three-four-five or nine-three-five-four? I always forget.”

“No idea,” I say. “I've got you on speed dial. Umm…”

If I don't shut her phone down in time, I'm totally busted. I plunge my hand into my pocket and scramble to find the power button with my thumb.

“I think it's nine-three-five-four,” she says.

Thank God for baggy pockets in cargo shorts. I flip open her cell. My fingers play across the buttons. Her key pad is a little different than mine, so I'm not really familiar with it. It's a larger button off to the right. I depress the largest bump I can find and hold it in. The phone plays a little tune as it powers down.

Mom perks up. “Did you hear that?”

I ignore her and make my way to the refrigerator. “You want an Arnold Palmer?”

“That'd be great.” She goes back to digging through the junk baskets lined up on the counter near her charger.

Crisis averted.

I grab the lemonade and iced tea pitchers from the fridge and place them on the counter. I get two tall glasses and fill them with ice. The four secrets to a perfect Arnold Palmer are to (1) mix it fresh, (2) add a little more iced tea than lemonade, (3) shake it into oblivion, and (4) pour it over tons of ice. I take the stainless steel shaker from the liquor cabinet and press it into the ice maker. The refrigerator hums and lets a few cubes drop.

My mother lowers the dog to the floor. He begins sniffing around the cereal cabinet. He must like Lucky Charms as much as I do. Maybe we'll get along after all. Mom slides into one of the barstools at the center island. She stares out the sliding glass door. “Hot one out there today, huh?”

“Sure is.”

I pour the iced tea and lemonade and jam the cap onto the shaker. When I begin to shake, the steel gets chilly and begins to sweat. I pop off the top and pour the two drinks.

“Dimitri and I were down at Poindexter's,” I say, “but it's too hot. I figured I'd come home and work on my podcasting.”

“How's that shaping up?”

“Going okay, I guess.”

“You mind if I take a listen one of these days?”

I sip my drink. “I'm still working out the kinks,” I say. “Soon, though. I promise.”

“Whenever you're ready. I do have the—”

“Number one rated show in the Capital District,” I say. “I know.”

My mother slouches in her stool. “Any thoughts on a job? It'll be the first thing your dad asks when he gets home.”

“You mean the first thing he asks after he calms down about you getting a dog?”

“Oh, come on, Seth. How can you not love that little snookums? Within a week, your dad will be head over heels for him.” She watches the puppy stumble around near the sliding glass door. “I asked at the studio—you know, about a summer job—but they only have unpaid internships left.”

“I'm thinking about working at the club,” I say.

Mom smiles. “I always thought you should work down
there. You love golf. It's a perfect match.” She slides her glass in front of herself. “That's all you used to talk about. Begging for this club or that. Wanting some special ball because you read an article that said it would improve your drive or give you better spin.”

I take a sip of my drink. “So what's been up with Dad lately?”

She looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I don't know.” I slide into the barstool next to her. “He's been riding me harder than he usually does.”

My mother wraps her hands around her glass like she's trying to absorb every bit of cold she can. “He's under a lot of stress lately. There's a lot going on.”

More than you know
is what I want to say, but all that comes out is “What kind of stuff?”

She gets a faraway look, and her lips press together like there's no way lemonade or iced tea should even think about getting past. She brushes her fingertips across the countertop. “It seems so long ago your father and I picked out these tiles. I remember it like it was yesterday.” Her hand lingers over one with a crude design of a cobalt blue, yellow, and orange flower on it. “We brought home a few dozen—all the hand-painted ones—from our honeymoon. Mexico. Cabo San Lucas.” She smiles, and I can tell her mind is someplace else. I've heard the story a hundred times, but I let her go on. “Your father was so proud when he talked the merchant down from six dollars a tile to four. It took so long to find other tiles that came close to matching. It's not perfect, but it's close enough.”

It's a nice story, but I can't help but wonder who's going to get the hand-painted tiles in the divorce. And then I wonder what Dad's recent stress has to do with buying these tiles, something that happened twenty years ago.

“Hey, Mom,” I say. “Is getting married all it's cracked up to be?”

My question jars her from her waltz down memory lane. “What?” Her eyes leave the tiles and lock onto mine. “Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. I was just wondering. Everyone is brought up to believe getting married is the goal—getting married and having kids. But all the jokes—everything you see on television, all the sitcoms—are about how being married totally sucks.”

“That's just television, sweetie.”

“But they wouldn't make all those jokes if something about it wasn't true. I'm sure you and Dad love each other and everything—”

“Of course we love each other.”

“I shouldn't have brought it up,” I say.

Mom straightens the coffeemaker so the rubber feet are perfectly aligned with the edge of the tiles. “Your father has got a lot on his plate right now.” Her eyes look through me. “He's preoccupied. When he gets preoccupied, he takes it out on everyone around him. It's just the way he is.”

It's not often my mother and I have a conversation like this, but somehow it feels like a door has swung open and I can say anything right now. I push again. “Do you like
being married?”

“Of course I do. If I wasn't married, I'd never have had you.”

“No, I mean aside from me. If I wasn't in the picture.”

“But you are in the picture.” She reaches across and touches my arm. “I can't separate you from it.”

“Well, suppose I'd be in the picture either way.”

My mother pulls her arm back as if my suggesting life without my father burned her. Her elbow knocks into her glass, and it topples over. The glass lands heavy and shatters against the countertop. The Arnold Palmer cascades over the edge to the hardwood floor. The new, unnamed dog waddles over and begins lapping at it.

I hop up. “I'll get a towel.”

My mother leaps from her stool. “No, I've got it.” She scoops up the dog and hands him to me. “Put him in his crate, would you? It's in the laundry room. Then go on downstairs. Get to work on your podcasting. Make your mother proud.” She surveys the spill. “I've got this.”

I feel the door of our conversation—the one that was wide-open just a second ago—closing. I grab the roll of paper towels sitting next to the sink. “No, let me help you.”

My mom snatches the roll from me. “I've got it,” she says, this time more firmly. “I'm such a butterfingers.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure. Go on downstairs, baby. Please.”

Slam.

Door closed.

Conversation over.

I look at the dog curled up in my hand. His fat puppy belly is smooth and warm. I move forward again to help her but realize she doesn't want me around.

Sweat trickles in a single line down the small of my back. My mother says she can't imagine her life without my father; I wonder if she'll be saying the same thing six months from now when it's just me, her, and this grunting, stumbling, pathetic dog.