The Rest of Us: A Novel (27 page)

“Rhinehart’s disappeared, and I have no idea where he’s gone, and I’m worried.” I stopped, afraid to say more.

There was a calculated pause. “Where’s he supposed to be?”

“At home. In his apartment.” I looked around.

“Maybe he’s there. Did you call?”

“I’m here right now. There’s no sign of him.”

“Wait. How’d you get into his apartment? He gave you keys?”

I started stuttering, but it was too late. I confessed that Rhinehart and I were in a relationship. “We’re used to seeing each other every day. Until recently.” It was when I said it, and heard her horrified intake of breath, that I saw just how big a deal this was, and how wrong I’d been to conceal it. In a half-whisper she was saying, “I can’t believe this. I really can’t believe this.”

When she spoke again, her voice was icy, and I wished she’d just disappear from the other end of the line so I wouldn’t be forced to hear what she was going to say.

“Do you think he’s left, or do you think he’s just left
you
?”

A sliver of fear streaked across my ribs. “But if it was just me, why would he leave his place?”

“Maybe he went away somewhere to think. That’s not surprising. He does that, but you wouldn’t know, because you were never
married
to him. What surprises
me
is how you played dumb and let me discuss my marriage with you! All those times we were out together! You never said anything! You just let me go on like an idiot.”

“You never asked me,” I said meekly. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“Not
care
! He’s my husband. Who the hell do you think you are? You think you’re so important that I’d support whatever selfish shit you want to do?” Her voice was frighteningly out of control. “I
knew
it was risky taking you into my confidence. I knew there was something about you that couldn’t be trusted.”

Internally, I protested. I always believed myself to be an honest person. But clearly I’d been deceptive—even if, as Hallie had said, Laura hadn’t entirely trusted me from the beginning. Her suspicions probably made my company more exciting. To try and explain this to her would be presumptuous, and would lead us further down the road of insults, possibly about my photography, which I wouldn’t be able to handle. I needed to get off the phone. “I’m really sorry. You’re right. I should have said something earlier. We can meet and discuss it later if you want, but right now I have to hang up and deal with Rhinehart being missing.”

I could hear her silently wrestling with herself on the other end of the line. Finally she said, “I don’t want to meet with you. I hope I never see you again. Have someone call me if he’s in the morgue.”

•  •  •

I went home to wait for him to return. It was the only thing I could do.

A few days later I received a postcard. It was lucky that I even saw it as it was tangled up with the circulars, also garishly colored. On the front was a squat motel with orange awnings and a sickly looking palm tree. I flipped it over. The Frankfort Hotel, South Beach, Miami. He wrote:
I just picked up your voicemails. I’m taking some time away. I couldn’t bear to be in New York. Love, R.

Laura had been right. Maybe this was how he handled things. I hadn’t known.

•  •  •

I was desperately lonely. I was also starting to worry that I was sick. For days, there had been something wrong with my body—I thought I was coming down with the flu, but it never progressed beyond a
dull ache in my legs and sudden waves of nausea. While on the phone with Laura, I was convinced I’d gotten my period, but when I went to the bathroom there was only an insipid pinkish spotting. It had stopped by the next morning.

A week later, I decided to buy a pregnancy test. Rhinehart had never gotten a woman pregnant in his life, he said, and with his age, he doubted he was still able to. We used the withdrawal method most of the time, which wasn’t even a legitimate method of birth control, but we also hadn’t been having sex that much these past two months. I didn’t feel pregnant, but I wasn’t really sure what that felt like. Even though it seemed foolish, I brought the test home and squatted over the toilet. It was positive.

In an eerie, trancelike state, I called Hallie, who answered, saying, “Stop being a nervous Nellie, he just needs some time alone. You should—”

“I need you to come over. To Brooklyn.”

“Right now?”

“Stop at the Duane Reade on your way and get two pregnancy tests.” My entire body felt as if there were an electrical current running through it. I didn’t trust myself to be out on the street alone.

•  •  •

Two hours later, standing in the bathroom doorway, watching me pee on another stick, she said, “Remember the time we were in college and Biddy Jo Jo came over, thinking she was pregnant?”

“No.”

“You remember—you went to the Price Chopper for us. Gertie stayed in the bathroom with her. I evaluated the results and reported to the room. It was one of those sticks you had to dunk in the solution.”

“Vaguely.”

“We’d been drinking daiquiris all afternoon trying to calm ourselves. Everyone was damn near hysterical with the excitement. Nothing seemed tragic or serious back then—everything was cause for a party.” She hoisted herself up with the heels of her hands, sitting
on the vanity. “The first test was negative and we all toasted, and it was great. Then I said, let’s do another. The second test was positive. We were like ‘what the fuck?’ You ran out for a third—it took you forever—we thought you’d lost your nerve at the store. That one was positive, too. And Biddy burst into tears, and we didn’t know what to say. Next day, we went over to the Planned Parenthood, and she was pregnant. She had an abortion and dropped out of school.”

“Jesus, Hallie. You tell me this story now?”

“No matter what happens—you’ll be okay.”

I handed her the stick, and she read the instructions on the package aloud for the third time. “This says you’re supposed to do it in the morning for the most accurate results.”

I pulled up my underwear. “You and I both know it doesn’t matter.”

We waited. Positive. “That’s the second one,” I said. “There’s no point in doing another.”

Hallie looked terrified, as if she were pregnant. To comfort her, I said, “Everything’s fine.”

I was experiencing an unearthly calm, as if someone had a grip on my shoulder and was firmly steering me to the door.

“What should we do?” she called out in a frightened little voice.

I was already in the kitchen looking for my cell phone. “I’m making an appointment with my gynecologist.”

“But what are you going to do?” she said.

A baby. I couldn’t even imagine it. “I don’t know yet. First I need to know if I’m really pregnant. Then I’m going to find Rhinehart.”

T
ropical environments depressed me. It was only recently that I felt this way; as a child I had loved going to the beach, and Hallie and I used to spend all day there when we were teenagers, bringing an old sheet and a bunch of magazines and discussing Rob Lowe and Kirk Cameron and the best way to apply eyeliner to the bottom lid. The sand had been rocky and the sky dotted with hefty clouds, and the smell of tanning oil and seaweed very powerful. It was a public beach that smelled of humans and spills, and one that was only available a few months a year, crowded with city people out for the day or the weekend.

By contrast, the Florida beaches seemed manufactured, the flat sky and odorless light green water, the piercing sun that could give a bad burn, the silence—all this made me uneasy. The manic confidence that had carried me on the plane out of New York had dissipated to nothing.

The cab pulled up in front of the hotel, and confused, I rechecked the postcard. I’d been picturing a little boutique hotel. This building didn’t even seem to be part of the same landscape we’d just passed through. The orange paint was flaking, the neon sign had two letters out. I stepped over crushed cigarette butts on the patio.

The man at the front desk was stocky with heavy apathetic eyes. He said there was no one by the name of Rhinehart there. Immediately I panicked, thinking he might have changed hotels or even left the area. I described him, white-haired, liked to talk. There was
a mole on his wrist, but I doubted the desk clerk had gotten close enough to see it.

He started laughing. “Awful Spanish? He come and sit here at the bar. Always he wear this straw hat.”

I didn’t know the hat.

He rang up Rhinehart’s room. “A woman named Tatie here for you.”

I heard Rhinehart’s surprised exclamation.

The man hung up, and pointed a thick finger at the stairs. “Second floor. Room 202. Elevator’s broken.”

“He’ll be checking out,” I said.

“He’s paid through the week. No refunds.”

Annoyed, I asked, “Did he pay in cash?”

The man gave an almost imperceptible nod.

•  •  •

Rhinehart was waiting with the door open, and he greeted me casually, as if I’d just dropped in from a neighboring beach hotel. Convulsingly, I hugged him and held on. I hadn’t expected to feel such an upsurge of relief, and I tried to hide it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m just so happy to see you. Why are you staying here?”

He looked down. “I’m depressed, Tatie.”

I was a person holding a lot of information unsteadily in my hands, uncertain of what to put down, what to keep.

“You found me,” he said, finally. I nodded, and he stepped aside to let me in.

There was an unpleasant musty smell coming either from the room or from him—both were in disarray. He’d been making use of the two beds. One was bare—the sheets had been stripped off and balled into the corner. If I had ever been concerned, I knew now no woman had been here.

He was fiddling with the mini-fridge, his back to me, I could see his unwashed hair sticking up in all directions. He had degenerated so quickly—now when he fell apart, it showed.

“I don’t think this temperature’s quite right,” he said, his hands all over the inside of the door. A flooding of anxiety made me sit down. By his foot there was a stain the size of a dinner plate where the appliance had leaked.

On top of the cheap plywood dresser, he’d stacked his toiletries, empty Styrofoam cups, and scraps of paper. I picked up a Walgreen’s receipt, on which he had scrawled, “He scat death on the beach.” Another said, “I don’t think I can sleep with the window open anymore.”

“Let’s leave here,” I said. “I made a reservation for us at the Palms.”

He leaned against the door frame of the bathroom. Above his head, a section of the molding was missing. “Expensive.”

“Not so expensive that you can’t afford it.” He’d always been very open about his finances, leaving his old-fashioned bankbook out, as if he were courting my family’s approval. Once I discovered I was pregnant, I’d gone back to his apartment and taken another pass through his desk, and then the file cabinets, including the folders of statements. He had far more money than I thought. Well over two million dollars in cash and assets. How did he have so much! I tracked his funds through multiple folders—it seemed he’d put the revenue from a few illustrious posts, his royalties, and international speaking fees into an investment portfolio that had multiplied it. Coming upon this information, crouching on the dusty floor amongst the files, I was shocked and then saddened—I hadn’t known there was such a disparity between us. I had barely anything, less than three thousand dollars in my savings account, and some money in a CD from my father’s will. Rhinehart, an immigrant’s child, with no good role models, was far more savvy with finances than he’d let on.

•  •  •

He was now trying to convince me that there were two perfectly good beds here for us to sleep on. He would call down to housekeeping. Ask them to send up fresh sheets.

“No way. This is a place people go to drink themselves to death.”

“Maybe that’s what I’m here for.” He was backlit against the picture
window. I saw a smeary face print on the glass. Or was that from someone’s ass?

“Is this because of Lazar not coming to New York? Is this why you’re so upset?”

He didn’t seem surprised. Maybe he assumed I’d rifle through his apartment for an answer. “I’m depressed. I told you.”

To move us along, I told him I’d wait for him in the lobby. Grudgingly, he said, “If I knew you were going to come down here and start ordering me around, I would have sent a generic postcard.”

“I would have found you anyway,” I said. “You have five minutes.”

There was a grubby bar at the foot of the stairs with no patrons and a man was passed out in the only chair in the lobby, so I stood near the rack of pamphlets and free condoms. A skinny woman, her hair knotted into an orange scarf, was stacking out slices of Wonder Bread and brown spotted bananas for the continental breakfast, although it was past noon. I felt the panic hardening in my stomach at the thought of being alone with him in this dirty, aimless city with so much unsaid between us. I wasn’t sure I had the courage to say it.

The bartender with cracked lips was watching me, hoping to get my eye, and I thought of the little body forming in my uterus. Seven weeks pregnant. I turned away. On the other side of the open door was a lazy, overcast Florida afternoon. People walked by with beat-up shopping bags or transistor radios, singing to themselves. No one seemed well here, me included.

I was starting to worry Rhinehart had escaped through an alley door when I heard and then saw him coming down the stairs, dragging an army-issue duffel behind him. I went over to help. “Damn elevator was broken,” he said, panting. He dropped it in the middle of the floor and turned to the bartender. “Well, Jimmy, the woman here says I need to leave. We’ll have to finish our trivia session another time.” He looked genuinely disappointed.

Jimmy was talking to the drunk man, who had migrated to a stool. He waved at Rhinehart, but his eyes slipped down to my breasts. “Sure, friend.”

“Come on,” I said, pulling on Rhinehart’s arm. He looked as if he wanted to take a seat at the bar.