“What a coincidence,” I said, rushing in with one of my constructive interventions. “So do I. And speaking of penalties, what did you think of that foul they called against Georgetown last night in the last five seconds of the game? Was that highway robbery, or what?”
Sometimes I astonish myself. I mean, I never watch basketball but I can’t always tune out Wally and Jake’s morning-after rehash, which is how I learned about this injustice perpetrated against the Hoyas.
The conversation immediately lurched off in a new direction. The Hoyas, every man at the dinner table agreed, had been cheated out of their victory over Syracuse, and the outrage of it all took us through the salad and the home-baked apple pie à la mode. I didn’t know that anyone in America ate like that anymore.
After dinner we returned to the living room, where we broke up into separate chatty groups. I found myself in a white velvet chair, alone with Mr. Monti, who removed his eyeglasses, cleared his throat, and said, “Let me ask you something.”
“Go right ahead,” I told him, hoping he’d ask me for a low-cholesterol diet, or what I thought about full-grown daughters who still call their parents Mommy and Daddy.
“You write a column. You give all kinds of advice. You’re this big expert on people.”
“Well, I don’t claim to be a big expert. I just seem to have an empathic grasp of the . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. An empathic grasp. So just tell me this. Why, all of a sudden, after being a doll, an absolute doll, of a daughter, is Josephine questioning me, disagreeing with me, having all these—all these new opinions?”
“Perhaps she . . .”
“Is that what they teach you in college—disrespect?”
“Perhaps she . . .
“Or could it be your boy? Could it be your boy turning my daughter against me?”
Ordinarily, anyone making nasty remarks about my children (well, let’s be honest here—about Wally) would be the immediate recipient of the full, fierce force of my maternal fury. Instead, despite the fact that Mr. Monti was clearly a sexist and a tyrant, I found myself in touch with the loneliness, the pain, the feeling of abandonment, that quivered beneath his hostile inquiry. Furthermore, despite the fact that he was clearly a militarist, and maybe even a member of the NRA, I found myself in touch with the love he had for his wife and children and with his profound commitment to family life. I later realized that I felt in touch with these things not necessarily because they were there, but because I was finding him extraordinarily attractive.
Recollecting my earlier description of Mr. Monti, I must concede that I’ve made him sound like a slightly sleazy Mafia cliché. It is true that this is how I see him now. But let me not deny that there was a time when his body seemed less burly, his hair less glossy, his jewelry less shiny, his soul less slimy, a time when I was tantalized by his full lower lip and those liquid bedroomy eyes, a time when his restless, eloquent hands seemed made for making a woman’s body sing, not for fishing shrimps out of pesto sauce. Indeed, that night, the night of our first meeting, he was—to me—the spitting image of Joe Mantegna, not the violent Joe Mantegna of that third (and, in my view, quite disappointing) Godfather movie but the Joe Mantegna who, as the seductive con man in the fascinatingly enigmatic movie House of Games, asks Lindsay Crouse, “Do you want to make love with me?” And then tells her that what she craves is “somebody to come along. Somebody to possess you. To take you into a new thing.” And then, knowing perfectly well what her answer is going to be, inquires, “Would you like that? Do you want that?” I drew my chair a bit closer to Mr. Monti’s.
“Mr. Monti . . .” I said.
“Call me Joseph,” he said.
“Joe—I mean, Joseph,” I said, “I honestly think your daughter loves you a lot. But I also think she’s trying to be a separate person, independent from you, and that’s bound to create some temporary tension.”
“Temporary tension? When she talks like that it’s like she wants to kill me.”
I gave him the full eye-contact treatment and said, “Every child who breaks away must, in a sense, kill his parents,” I then leaned forward, smiled my two-hundred-watt smile, and added softly, “Symbolically speaking, of course.”
• • •
The evening ended with affectionate champagne toasts to the engaged couple, though there was a somewhat ominous note struck in Mr. Monti’s “Good luck. Good love. Many children. And, keep the faith.” With the meal I had packed away, I was grateful that my new winter coat still buttoned. Barely.
It had been snowing lightly on the way out to McLean, the flakes melting as they hit the ground, but by the time we said our goodbyes the temperature had dropped and the snow was falling hard. In the hopes of saving my hairdo, I pulled my handy fold-up umbrella out of my purse and was starting to open it up in the hall when Mr. Monti stopped me with a “No. You shouldn’t do that. It’s very bad luck to open umbrellas indoors.”
I had been looking forward to a group analysis of the evening on the trip home, but with near-blizzard conditions assaulting Route 123, I had my hands full helping Jake drive. “Slower, please, darling,” I suggested. And, “Why don’t we just stay in the right-hand lane?” And, “Watch that guy in the Buick—he’s driving as if he’s drunk.” And, a little testily, I admit, “Sweetheart, must you tailgate? In this weather? When it’s so easy to skid? When just one little skid and next thing you know we’ll wind up in one of those hideous twenty-car pile-ups?”
Despite the limitations placed on our conversation by my navigational duties—and by the car radio, which Jake plays at top volume whenever I start navigating—we did have the chance to unanimously agree that Mr. Monti was definitely no pussycat. It was then that Wally presented me with a remarkable new item of information. “And can you believe,” he said, “that there are two of them? He’s got an identical twin who lives in New York.”
• • •
There was a picture of the identical twin—Vincent Theodore Monti—in Mr. Monti’s office. He was indeed a replica of Joseph Augustus Monti except, or perhaps I imagined this, for the look of compassion in his eyes. Joseph Augustus Monti was, I had by now decided, compassionless. Nevertheless, Marvin Kipper—without any further assistance from me—eventually succeeded in striking a deal with him, agreeing that Mr. Monti could take back his money and still retain his right to accuse Wally of the theft, in return for which Mr. Monti agreed not to go to the police with his accusations unless Wally reappeared in Josephine’s life.
Marvin wasn’t, he reassured me as we left Mr. Monti’s office, selling out Wally. He was simply, as lawyers are wont to do, buying time.
“You know that Mr. Monti took the money himself,” I (just for the record) reminded Marvin.
“I know that Wally told you that Mr. Monti took the money,” Marvin replied. “Now”—he pecked my cheek—“I gotta run.”
Mr. Monti’s office is on K Street, within walking distance of my ophthalmologist, gynecologist, and periodontist, all of whom practice out of office buildings on 19th Street between K and L. (It’s incredible how much time you can save by selecting geographically compatible doctors.) Miraculously (well, not so miraculously—most of their, patients were out of town on vacation) I had been able to call first thing in the morning and line up consecutive afternoon appointments, allowing half an hour between each appointment for the usual waiting-room time. (I can’t tell you how much satisfaction I get from being able to schedule so efficiently!) Anyway, I had brought along a novel (The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton—well worth a reread, and if you’ve never read it before, a must) to keep me occupied when I wasn’t checking out glaucoma, cervical cancer, and gum surgery. But I couldn’t concentrate on Wharton. I knew that the trace with Mr. Monti was only temporary. I also knew that Wally would not relinquish Josephine. Furthermore, even if I could mobilize my skills as a detective (I do have certain talents in that area) and prove beyond a doubt that Mr. Monti and not Wally had stolen the money, I feared that Mr. M
onti would keep pounding and pounding and pounding away at my family.
If only, I thought (the first intimations of murder piercing my consciousness), I could just snap my fingers and make him disappear.
• • •
When Jake and I had dinner that evening—cold poached salmon with mustard-dill sauce, in our air-conditioned kitchen; it was much too sultry to try to eat on the porch—I let him tell me all about Marvin’s meeting with Mr. Monti. Marvin, who knows when to keep his mouth shut, hadn’t mentioned my presence at that meeting, which greatly contributed to the serenity and pleasure of our meal. When I (partially) described what Wally had told me late last night, before he departed—that it had to have been Mr. Monti who had taken the money and placed it in his car—Jake was his usual irritatingly sanguine self. “It sounds as if Mr. Monti is having a temporary aberration,” he said. “Watch—in a couple of days he’ll calm down.”
“This is not a calm man,” I reminded him, sipping the soothing California Chardonnay.
“True,” said Jake. “But I don’t think he’s a crazy man either.”
“Or dangerous?” I asked slyly.
“Or dangerous.” These last words, delivered in Jake’s flat and-that’s-that manner, tempted me to describe the rest of what Wally had told me during last night’s conversation: That (though Wally wasn’t quite sure how) Mr. Monti was involved with Jake’s malpractice suits. And that (though I’d have to ask Jeff for the details—Wally did not want to tattle) Mr. Monti was doing Jeff in financially.
“That’ll show you, you dumb insensitive bastard” was the mean-spirited subtext of my wish to tell Jake. But I controlled myself. I controlled myself because, first of all, I didn’t want to pass on that Information until I had thought about how it ought to be handled. And, second of all, I knew that whatever way I wanted to handle it, Jake would definitely disapprove. And, third of all, the kinder, gentler part of me didn’t want to spoil Jake’s mellow mood.
Jake had come home from Children’s Hospital feeling really great, having reconstructed the severely damaged esophagus of a three-year-old girl named Lily Lopez, who was, he said, a honey and the sweetest little kid and doing just fine. He was high on fixing Lily and continued happily high on the Chardonnay, and he looked so yummy in his white shorts (he has even better legs than I do) and sleeveless shirt that I decided to try—by an act of sheer will—to put aside my anxieties and enjoy my husband.
“Enjoy your husband,” usually followed by an exclamation point, is a bit of advice I frequently offer my readers. In the daily grind of marriage, I note, we tend to forget that—once upon a time—we had some excellent reasons for deciding to marry the man we are currently married to. Try to remember those reasons, I urge, and try to find in the person he is today some of those once beloved and admirable qualities. Mix with a video rental of The Philadelphia Story, add a pint of rum-raisin ice cream, and . . . enjoy.
Although I continue to believe that this is one of my better ideas, I’ve received some discouraging mail from a number of readers. The most memorable letter came from a “Grateful in Glendale,” who wrote:
DEAR BRENDA:
When I tried to recall some of my husband’s beloved and admirable qualities, I realized that he never had any and still doesn’t. Who knows why anyone marries anyone? I did try watching The Philadelphia Story with him, but this only ruined the movie for me. On the other hand, I had never tasted rum-raisin ice cream before, and thanks to your tip I’ve discovered what a terrific taste sensation it is.
Jake and I skipped the rum-raisin and opened up another bottle of Chardonnay. “So what else was doing at Children’s today?” I asked him.
With Jake this is always a good question. While normally not a talkative, man, he becomes positively gabby about perforated intestines and intra-abdominal bleeding, about solid tumors and undescended testicles, about hernias and blockages and—his personal favorite—biliary atresia, which, he has taught me over the years, means very serious trouble with the bile ducts. In fact, as Jake was eager to report, his other operation that day was removing and replacing the shut-down ducts of a six-week-old baby boy. “Simeon Andrew Davenport Kaminsky,” he said, shaking his head in bemusement. “Why do they do that? His name weighs more than he does. Real cute baby, though. He’s real, real cute.”
I find it touching that supercritical Jake is so fond of all the children he operates on. Their parents are, of course, a whole other story. But from snarling, belligerent teenage punk to nonstop-screaming baby, he has never met a patient he didn’t like. It is for them that Jake displays the full, unstinting voltage of his smile. It is for them that he exhibits a depth of patience and psychological sensitivity which, around our house, tends to range between slight and nonexistent. Back when I was a volunteer at Children’s, I’d occasionally get to see Jake do his stuff, like the day he worked over a shivering six-year-old boy, a Bobby Something, who was scheduled for in-and-out hernia surgery.
When Bobby arrived that morning in the reception area, Jake was absorbed in tossing a softball around—up in the air, under his leg, behind his back, under his arm—so totally into his ball game (at least it seemed that way) that it took him a couple of moments to notice Bobby.
“You again? What are you doing here?”
“I’m having an operation.”
“Oh, wow. Who’s going to do it?”
“You are, Doctor Kovner.”
“I am? You’re sate? Who said so?”
Bobby, began to giggle, feeling gratifyingly superior to this dumb doctor. “You said so!”
Jake reluctantly set down the ball. “Oh, yeah, I remember now. Well, I guess I better put on my baseball uniform.”
“Your baseball uniform? You’re going to wear a . . .”
Jake doesn’t actually own a baseball uniform but he is in possession of a full gorilla suit, mask included, which he has on occasion donned for a needy patient. Contrary to rumor, however, he has never performed surgery in his gorilla suit. Yet. But there’s no question that he is willing to make an absolute fool of himself if it helps a scared little kid feel a little less scared. When I think of Jake’s beloved and admirable qualities, this is high on my list.
Along with kissing. Which, as we came to the end of our second bottle of Chardonnay (I swear they’re making the bottles smaller these days), Jake enthusiastically embarked upon.
Jake is a world-class kisser. He likes doing it. He likes taking his time doing it. He never rushes ahead to the main event. He kissed me in the kitchen, and up the stairs, and into our bedroom with that same fine combination of intensity and tenderness that made me, when I was eighteen, so eager and so willing to take off my panties.
It still does.
• • •
I woke up the next morning stretching and purring like Scarlett O’Hara after her night of ecstasy with Rhett. I felt as if I’d been stripped and stained and polished, then slowly and thoroughly buffed to a golden glow. Despite or perhaps because of this, I also felt significantly guilty, I mean, what kind of woman—what kind of Jewish woman?—so totally abandons herself to the pleasures of the flesh that she actually forgets that her family is threatened?
At breakfast I tried, as you may recall, to talk to Jake in depth about Mr. Monti, hoping the past night’s stripping and staining and polishing, etc., had co-opted him. No such luck. He was up. He was out. He didn’t wish to discuss it. So I was left on my own to channel the full force of my intellect into strategies for defeating Mr. Monti. As I showered and dressed for the 98-degree weather, I daydreamed of how convenient it would be if Mr. Monti—his arteries choked with apple pie and pâté—should happen to drop dead of a coronary. Or if Mr. Monti—off on one of his trips in his corporate jet—should happen to slam into a fog-shrouded mountain. Or if Mr. Monti . . . Oh, well. Enjoyable though I found them, these fantasies were not resolving the problem. I slipped into my sandals and telephoned Jeff.
“How about lunch today?”
“Wha
t did I do wrong now?”
“That’s between you and your conscience,” I said briskly. “See you at the Four Seasons at twelve-thirty.”
I arrived at 12:15 and settled into a private corner of the upstairs restaurant, which, with its plants and flowers and homey groupings of overstuffed couches and black wicker chairs, is my favorite place in Washington to have lunch. You can order a fresh fruit platter which almost always includes plump raspberries and blackberries, or an inventive warm salad of greens and pasta and seafood, and never gain an ounce unless you lose control and follow it up with their deeply, evil flourless chocolate cake. Besides, there is valet parking, which is guaranteed to do wonders for my digestion.
I am always fifteen minutes early. Jeff is always fifteen minutes late. He headed for my corner with that slow and slouchy it-don’t-worry-me walk, his jacket slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. He smelled delicious as he bent down to kiss me.
After the waitress had given Jeff his Campari and orange juice and me a frosty glass of spiced iced tea, I brought him up to date on Wally’s current difficulties with Mr. Monti. I waited for him to confide in me, and when he didn’t, I added, “Wally said Mr. Monti is also leaning on you.”
Jeff put on his glasses and studied the menu for an inordinately long time.
“Do you want to say something?” I asked.
“The smoked salmon looks good.”
“I mean about Mr. Monti.”
“I know what you mean, Mom.” Jeff had reverted to his old nervous habit of running the tip of his thumb up and down, up and down, up and down the cleft in his chin. I quietly reached over and pulled his hand away.
“I remember you talked a few times about wanting to maybe do a deal with Mr. Monti. Did you? Do it, I mean?”
“Yeah. I did. In fact, we went into a high-ticket project together.”
“A high-ticket project?”
“Very high-ticket.”
“You must be richer than I thought.”
“Creative financings Mom. There’s a lot of creative financing in this business.”