The Interruption of Everything (16 page)

“Actually, he’s back at home.”

“You mean to tell me Joyce took his sorry ass back?”

“They do love each other, Marilyn. They’ve even started going to counseling. In fact, I forgot to tell you that Saturday is Frank’s birthday and Sunday is their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary so they’re having a big party. We have to go.”

“No, we don’t.”

“It would hurt them deeply if you didn’t come. I know you’re mad at me, but don’t take it out on them.”

“I’ll give it some thought. We were on our way to Costa Rica a minute ago. Let’s go back.” He sees how cynical I’m being and I know he’s serious but I feel like he wants me to understand his so-called plight but when has he ever taken this much time to give me this much consideration?

“Well, anyway, last year, Frank’s brother Abe and a group of his buddies all went down there for a whole month.”

“To do what?”

“Find themselves.”

“Don’t you mean, lose themselves?”

“No, Frank and I are pretty much in the same boat.”

“And what boat is that, Leon?”

“It’s hard to explain because we don’t really understand why nothing seems to be making much sense to us anymore.”

“So just what are you two going to do down there to find yourselves?”

“We don’t have all the details yet. All Abe said was that sometimes you have to step outside of your situation in order to get your perspective back.”

“Well, I empathize with you two lost adulterers. So, is it a four-star hotel with a spa?”

“Actually there’s more to it than that. But to answer your question, yes, it is, and there’s a spectacular spa.”

“Oh goody. Wouldn’t want you to miss your workout while you’re searching for your soul.”

“Marilyn, please.”

“So, you’ve been planning this for some time, then.”

“Look. I’ve been feeling confused about a lot of things and this might be the best thing I could do for me and for you.”

“Maybe you should just go ahead and take me out of this video.”

“Are you saying that you want me to leave?”

“I’ll say this much. I’ve certainly wondered what my life would be like on my own. I can’t deny that.”

“So, would you want to try being apart for a while to see what happens?”

“Yeah, but what about your mother?”

“I hadn’t thought about Mother.”

“Of course you haven’t. You were just supposed to leave me here with her to continue being Miss Endless Caregiver, was that it?”

“No. But I’ll think of something.”

“She wants to move out, you know.”

“What?”

“She wants to move over there where her boyfriend lives.”

“He is not her boyfriend.”

“He’s her boyfriend.”

“Isn’t that place more like a nursing home for people who have medical problems?”

“No, it is not. It’s an apartment complex for seniors. And according to Arthurine, Prezelle is not handicapped in any sense of the word.”

“The thought itself is disgusting.”

“Anyway, she’s on the waiting list.”

“When did all this happen?”

“While you were out being frivolous and hence missing in action, Arthurine’s been getting plenty of it. That’s when.”

“But why does she want to move?”

“Because she’s bored and lonely, Leon. Just like the rest of us who live in this house! She’s having fun. Something I don’t have much of anymore, at least not with my husband. And I’ll say this so we can come clean. I just lost a baby I didn’t want and I think God did it to shake you up and get you to admit all this stuff, but I’m supposed to do something different, too, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to do it or what I’m supposed to do but I can’t do it by the book anymore. That much I do know.”

“I told you I thought going back to school was a good idea.”

“That is not what you said, Leon. But it’s okay. I’m not just talking about going back to school. Anyway, I’m exhausted. I’m tired of talking. And please don’t even think about sleeping in this bed tonight or any of the remaining nights before you leave.”

“I won’t touch you, Marilyn.”

“I know that. Why start now? But do this, Leon: show your mother some respect and try not to make her feel guilty because she’s still got feelings. Prezelle is a nice man. And she would be much happier over there.”

“How soon does she want to go?”

“The waiting list is long so it could be months. But don’t let this news stop you from leaving. If I have to, I can deal with Arthurine, or better yet, maybe I could leave and you two could stay here and then you could bring your girlfriend. How’s that sound?”

“I told you she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Then what is she?”

“A good friend.”

“Do you sleep with your friends?”

“No, not usually.”

I would love to sucker punch him if I could do it hard enough to hurt. “Whatever.”

“Whatever you want to do, you’ll have my support. Financial and emotional.”

“Let’s just deal with the first one and see what happens. Okay,” I say, turning to leave.

“What are you doing right now?”

“Going back downstairs to fix something I ruined.”

“Would you have dinner with me later?”

“I thought you were so sick?”

“I had to tell Mother something.”

“Well, think about it, Leon. What would make you think I’d want to have dinner with you after what we’ve been through today, huh?”

“So you don’t have to worry about cooking.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can even choose the restaurant.”

“Am I lucky or what? Look, Leon. You’re missing the point and you know it. I haven’t thought about food all day, and I certainly had no intention of cooking.”

“Then what are we going to eat?”

“
We?
You aren’t even supposed to be here! You left me this morning! Remember?”

He’s shaking his head no like a little kid.

“Call your fucking girlfriend back! Have her for dinner.”

“That’s not funny, Marilyn.”

“And I’m not laughing. I think I’ll order Chinese.”

“I’m not really in the mood for Chinese tonight.”

“You’re not in the…
what
did you just say?”

“I said I don’t really have a taste for Chinese tonight.”

If I had a shoe on with a thick heel I’d throw it at his stupid ass. “Leon,” I sigh. “I don’t know how you made it through college sometimes. But read my lips: I don’t really give a flying fuck what you’re in the mood to eat. Okay? So hurry up and recover and get out of the bed and go eat lobster or lamb at one of your favorite spots. Your mother likes to dine out, so take her. And on the way, you can pick your ho up and see if the two of them hit it off.”

“Marilyn, that’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“Who’s trying to be nice? I see you found the nicest possible way to tell me how tired you are of being my husband in one breath and that you were leaving me in the next. So fuck you, Mr. Nice Guy. I’ve got some research to do.”

“That is
not
what I said and it’s not what I’m doing. What kind of research?”

“That’s really none of your business.”

“I’m just curious. I’ve never heard you say you’re going to research anything.”

“I’m about to explore my options.”

“Good, because that’s really all I’m trying to figure out, too. I hope to be a better man when Frank and I get back. Seriously.”

“Then you’re going to need to stay a whole lot longer than four weeks.”

Chapter 15

I
do not order Chinese. I do not research craft fairs or how to sell anything on eBay. If I were a man, I’d probably go down on MacArthur Boulevard and get myself a prostitute. But I’m not a man. I’m a woman whose shoulders feel heavier than any man’s right now. I have to get out of this house. Arthurine’s television is blaring and I pray she’s in there sound asleep. The house is dark and I don’t want to turn on the lights as I tiptoe down the stairs. At the garage door, I turn off the chime, and get in my car. I roll down all the windows and open the sunroof even though it’s cold outside. I don’t care.

I drive with the heat off. Play the only CD in here, one I made just for the car. I blast it. And sing along with Jill, Alicia Keys, and Etta James. Santana, Moby, and Ben Harper. In the Caldecott Tunnel everything sounds louder and I scream at the top of my lungs because I remember reading a long time ago that this could do wonders in reducing stress and anger. I’ve got both, and for a little extra insurance, I give it all I’ve got one more time for as long as I can. My head hurts like hell afterward. This could be one of those times when less is better.

When Sarah McLachlan sings the song from the
City of Angels
soundtrack, I see Meg Ryan sliding down the end of that bathtub under a trillion bubbles while dreaming about Nicholas Cage. I’m remembering all too well how much she longed for him and how much he longed for her while his ghost watched her bathe. I wish someone longed for me that way. Oh Lord, I’m getting sentimental and don’t feel like going there. It’s just a song from a mushy movie and plus I can’t stand Meg Ryan. I turn the radio on and let her drown.

At the Lafayette Hotel, I get off the freeway. I do not know why. The car seems to be driving me where I’m supposed to go. The hotel looks like a small modern castle, all terra-cotta and white stucco. It does not seem to fit the location it’s in because there are hundreds of homes nestled in the surrounding hills. I could pretend I’m in England and before I know it, I’m at the entrance.

“Checking in, ma’am?” a young blond guy asks. He looks like a surfer.

“I am,” I say. “Do you surf?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “Are your bags in the trunk?”

“No. I don’t have any.”

“I hear you,” he says. “Well, registration’s right inside. I’m pretty sure we’ve got plenty of rooms this evening.”

I give him a ten-dollar tip. Rooms are available and I register for a suite. It has a working fireplace, a view of Mt. Diablo, and it is not cheap. I don’t care. When I get inside my room I see what I paid for. I almost don’t know what to do. It feels like I’m standing in a photograph of a room in a fancy hotel. The walls are hunter green. White plantation shutters cover the windows. The comforter is fluffy and white. I strike a long match and make a fire. Then I take my sneakers off and lie down on the bed. I look up at the white ceiling and close my eyes. When I open them again, it’s daylight.

I have just made history. This marks the first time I’ve ever spent the night away from home, alone, in almost a quarter of a century. I pray Leon is freaking out. He should know what it feels like to wonder where I am for once. I wish I could live here—or somewhere that wasn’t home—for a month without telling him. I have already taken the rest of the week off from work to be with my son who isn’t around. In fact, maybe I should find some exotic place to go where I can dig up my soul until it rises to the surface. But then what?

I order breakfast from room service. Orange juice. Decaffeinated coffee. Eggs Benedict. Home fries. Eat all of it and read
USA Today
. The television is waiting to be turned on, and since I’m in a frigging hotel room and don’t want to go home yet, I do. Some talk show is on and I can’t believe when seconds before they go to a commercial break, the topic of today’s show is splattered across the screen:
CAN THIS MARRIAGE BE SAVED
?

The real question should be, is it worth saving? Or ask if they want to save their marriage because it’s the
marriage
they want to hold on to, not the
person.
As if marriage is some kind of all-encompassing entity that can sustain you all by itself. Ask them if they’re pissed because they thought they were getting a package deal. Ask them if they feel like they’ve gotten the short end of the marriage stick. Or do they want to save their marriage because they’ve just gotten used to being married and don’t know what else to do? Ask them that. Ask if they’re just afraid of meeting themselves without the veil of marriage covering their face. Ask how tired they are of putting on a good show for everybody to the point where even they fall for their own lie. Ask them what’s more important, saving the marriage or saving yourself? And who goes on nationwide television to find the answer to this question? Where do they find these people? Why haven’t Leon and I ever gotten a call? I think we qualify.

I turn this silly shit off and take a bath with just as many bubbles as Meg Ryan had but don’t feel all dreamy and what have you and I don’t see any fucking ghosts or feel any aura in here and if I did I’d open the window and blow him right on out of here. After starring in my own movie for a half hour I get out and put my same clothes back on. Open the shutters and look out at the green velvet hills that seem to go on forever. This is just one of the reasons why I love California. It’s not flat and gray. It is not all one thing. And even on a gloomy day it’s still beautiful. I’m not half as afraid of earthquakes as I should be, mostly because I feel like a fault line myself. Right now, for instance, I’m rattling inside. My mind is jostling. My heart is shivering. I’m all shook up. I stare at the rolling hills until they become one emerald blur, until an unbelievable calm seems to fall over me and I realize something I haven’t thought about before: just about everybody in my life is doing exactly what they want to do. Arthurine is like a college girl, making plans to move out on her own. She’s even got travel plans. Who cares if it’s to Reno? Arthurine is probably in better shape than I am, too. At least she gets some exercise. Spencer—broken wrist and all—is with the girl he wants to be with right now and loves being a college student whose parents can afford to send him a ticket to come home for spring break and even go snowboarding in Lake Tahoe. Simeon has discovered that playing music is what really moves him. Sabrina is happy and pregnant. She knows I wished she could have waited until after she got her master’s but she basically blew me off and is doing it the way she wants to. Even Joy. She enjoys getting high, although I’m sure it’s because it’s the only pleasure she’s found that’s guaranteed. And then there’s Leon. My so-called husband. He’s having an affair but thinks of it as a new form of friendship. And now he’s getting on an airplane, flying to a tropical place where he really believes he’s going to have some kind of epiphany or a metaphysical experience that’s going to transform him. Into what, I don’t know. But at least he’s finally trying something new. Now it’s just me. And Lovey.

Paulette is yakking on the phone when I walk into her boutique. She’s heading toward the back where she keeps all of her stock so I say hello to Maya, Paulette’s niece, who works part-time. She’s walking around this small but wonderful little shop, making sure everything is in its place, and waiting for one of four women to ask for her help. Paulette sells good quality merchandise at reasonable prices: sexy lingerie, cool handmade jewelry, casual-funky clothing, and distinctive evening wear—things you won’t find in a department store. She sells soaps and candles that she makes herself. Today it smells like honeydew.

I lean against the counter, which is really a teak table someone made just for her shop, and I have to look up because hanging above my head is the very first chandelier I made. Or redid. It was rusted brass when I found it on the sidewalk in front of a house that was being demolished in West Oakland. But it’s red now. Rose red. Paulette loves red because she says it gives her energy. I remember wrapping and gluing the rayon ribbon around each arm so tight my fingers blistered. I added sprigs of hot pink baby’s breath and burgundy silk orchids. Each light rises like a white flame from the center of leaves in three shades of green in velvet, rayon, and satin. Each leaf’s edges are wired, which allowed me to bend, pull, and twist them to look as natural as possible. It’s pretty—but not my taste. Paulette has had so many offers to buy it that she finally hung a
NOT FOR SALE
tag on it. Because of her I’ve made about twenty variations for her customers over the past year.

She’s still on the phone. Looks and sounds like a heated conversation. One of the women is furiously going through the sale rack. She must be on her lunch hour. She’s black and somewhat attractive. But it seems like she’s in the wrong store. She’s wearing a dark blue suit with matching loafers that I didn’t even know they still made. Another woman is trying on something because I can see her bare white feet under the dressing-room door. A redhead with gray roots and probably on her second face-lift tightens the knot of a yellow cashmere sweater that’s draped over her shoulders. She is killing time because she’s already on her second trip around the store and has not picked up a thing. And then there’s a middle-aged blonde still in her tennis outfit and visor, looking through a mountain of pillows in a corner.

I made every single one of them. She picks up one and puts it back. The longer I look at them the more I realize that all of them aren’t as attractive as I once thought. In fact, some of them are downright drab. I feel like pulling at least six of them out and dragging them to the back of the store. Friendship can be just as blind as love sometimes, I suppose. I don’t know why I’m even noticing things in here I made when I’ve been in here hundreds of times, and rarely acknowledged any of it. Like those hats on the wall. They’re old Stetsons I had blocked and cleaned and just replaced the old rayon bands with outrageous trim so that they’re now funky and feminine and one of a kind. I’ve been in here when someone tried one on, bought it, and never said a word. I made Paulette promise to keep her mouth shut because it was her bright idea to put my stuff in here to prove to me that people would buy it.

“How may I help you?” Paulette asks me, dropping the phone rather harshly on the counter.

“I was just about ready to start shoplifting, but you look like you could use the money, so here.” I drop the Platinum American Express and Gold Visa cards on the table. “Pick the one you’d prefer that I use since I don’t see a sign anywhere.”

“We take
all
major credit cards.”

“Good. Because I’m here to shop hard,” I say, and we’re both trying not to laugh. I wink at Maya. She knows how we do.

“Are you feeling distraught?” Paulette asks.

The other women are now all ears.

“It’s my husband. He’s deserting me. He’s found another woman half my age.”

“No?” Paulette squeals.

“Yes, and on Monday he’s off to Costa Rica for four weeks to find himself.”

“Costa Rica’s a pretty nice place to find anything,” the tennis player says.

“I’d say so,” says the redhead. “Is he going alone?”

“No, he’s going with a buddy who’s also suffering from the same disease.”

“What disease is it they have?” This is the young black girl. She has pulled down one of my hats.

“I call it Mid-Life Crazy.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say that? My husband has left three times,” says the redhead.

“And what did you do?”

“Got depressed. Cried a lot. And then I took him back.”

“But why?”

“Because it was easier than living without him. We have the house and the kids almost in college. I didn’t want to change my life just because he wanted to chase after those young girls in his office who throw themselves at him and all the other successful married men there. Those women don’t care about us. But he always comes to his senses when he gets tired.”

“Well, I don’t know what to do,” I say.

“Kick her ass,” a black woman whom I didn’t see come in is saying. She’s in her early forties and will never find anything in this store to fit her even though Paulette occasionally carries a sixteen.

“Change the locks before he gets back.”

“I say wait it out,” the redhead says. “If you love him.”

“That’s a good point,” I say.

“Does the name Gordon King mean anything to you?” Paulette finally interjects.

“That’s too dangerous, and I’m not out of the danger zone yet if you get my drift.”

“How much longer before you can do the cancan?”

The women all get that “the-what?” look on their faces. We have lost them.

“Another week, but it’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

“That’s understandable.”

“So, Paulette, is everything going okay in your world?”

“Couldn’t be better. Mookie is being released from a special program where he’s been studying law for the past two years and now suddenly needs a place to stay since he didn’t get his degree the first time he enrolled at this same institution and I’m having a little trouble honoring his request, but other than that, everything’s peachy. So, is there something in particular you’re looking for today?”

“Yes,” I say, with a look on my face that says we’ll talk about this later.

“Tell me what you had in mind.”

“Something pretty,” I say.

“Well, I’d like to think that’s about everything in here.”

“How much is the chandelier?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was a gift.”

“Okay, then. I don’t need anything for the house anyway.”

“Are you going straight home after you leave here?”

“What would make you ask that?”

“Well, I’m clairvoyant and I know you’re bound for Fresno if my memory serves me right and I’m almost positive that little number you’re wearing is on day two, so you might want to step over to the casual rack first, you think?”

I give her the finger. “Okay. But I also want something that will make me feel sexy and take his breath away.”