“Holy shit, your hands are worse than mine.”
“The job,” she said, “consists of tolerating pain.”
“Cooks do notoriously abuse their substances.”
“I like a drink at midnight,” she said. “Two Tylenols when I get up at six.”
“Nobody’s tougher than Denise,” Brian bragged unattractively over the antennae of the blondes.
The guitarist responded by sticking his tongue out, holding his cigarette like an eyedropper, and lowering the coal into the glistening cleft. The sizzle was loud enough to distract the blondes from their phoning. The taller one squealed and spoke the guitarist’s name and said he was insane.
“Well, but I’m wondering what substances you’ve ingested,” Denise said.
The guitarist applied cold vodka directly to the burn. The taller blonde, unhappy with his performance, answered, “Klonopin and Jameson’s and whatever that is now.”
“Well, and a tongue is wet,” Denise said, extinguishing her own cigarette on the tender skin behind her ear. She felt like she’d taken a bullet in the head, but she flicked the dead cigarette toward the river casually.
The aerie got very quiet. Her weirdness was showing as she didn’t use to let it show. Because she didn’t have to—because she could have trimmed a rack of lamb now or had a conversation with her mother—she produced a strangled scream, a comical sound, to reassure her audience.
“Are you OK?” Brian asked her later in the parking lot.
“I’ve burned myself worse by accident.”
“No, I mean are you OK? That was a little scary to watch.”
“You’re the one who bragged about my toughness, thanks.”
“I’m trying to say I feel bad about that.”
She was awake in pain all night.
A week later she and Brian hired the former manager of the Union Square Café and fired Rob Zito.
A week after that the mayor of Philadelphia, the junior senator from New Jersey, the CEO of the W——Corporation, and Jodie Foster were in the restaurant.
A week after that, Brian took Denise home after work and she invited him inside. Over the same fifty-dollar wine she’d once served his wife, he asked if she and Robin had had a falling-out.
Denise pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’ve just gotten very busy.”
“That’s what I thought. I figured it didn’t have anything to do with you. Robin’s pissed off with everything lately. Especially with anything that has to do with me.”
“I miss hanging out with the girls,” Denise said.
“Believe me, they miss you,” Brian said. He added, with a slight stammer, “I’m—thinking of moving out.”
Denise said she was sorry to hear it.
“The sackcloth business is out of control,” he said, pouring. “She’s been going to nightly mass for the last three weeks. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. And I literally can’t say a word about the Generator without setting off an explosion. She, meanwhile, is talking about home-schooling the girls. She’s decided our house is too big. She wants to move into the Project house and home-school the girls and maybe a couple of the Project kids. ‘Rasheed’? ‘Marilou’? Which, what a great place for Sinéad and Erin to grow up, a brownfield in Point Breeze. We’re verging over into the loony, a little bit. I mean, Robin is great. She believes in better things than I believe in. I’m just not sure I love her anymore. I feel like I’m arguing with Nicky Passafaro. It’s Class Hatred II, the Sequel.”
“Robin is full of guilt,” Denise said.
“She’s verging on being an irresponsible parent.”
Denise found breath to ask: “Would you want to take the girls, if it came to that?”
Brian shook his head. “I’m not sure, if it came to that, that Robin would actually want custody. I could see her giving up everything.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Denise thought of Robin brushing Sinéad’s hair and suddenly—keenly, terribly—missed her crazy yearnings, her excesses and accesses, her innocence. A switch was flipped and Denise’s brain became a passive screen on which was projected a highlight reel of all that was excellent in the person she’d driven away. She reappreciated the least of Robin’s habits and gestures and distinguishing marks, her preference for scalded milk in her coffee, and the off-color cap on the front tooth that her brother had broken with a rock, and the way she put her head down like a goat and butted Denise with love.
Denise, pleading exhaustion, made Brian leave. Early the next morning a tropical depression slid up the seaboard, a humid hurricane-like disturbance that set trees thrashing moodily and water spilling over curbs. Denise left the Generator in the hands of her sous and took the train to New York to bail out her feckless brother and entertain her parents. In the stress of lunch, as Enid repeated verbatim her narrative of Norma Greene, Denise didn’t notice any change in herself. She had a still-working old self, a Version 3.2 or a Version 4.0, that deplored the deplorable in Enid and loved the lovable in Alfred. Not until she was at the pier and her mother kissed her and a quite different Denise, a Version 5.0, nearly put her tongue in the pretty old woman’s mouth, nearly ran her hands down Enid’s hips and thighs, nearly caved in and promised to come at Christmas for as long as Enid wanted, did the extent of the correction she was undergoing reveal itself.
She sat on a southbound train while rain-glazed local platforms flashed by at intercity speed. Her father at the lunch table had looked insane. And if he was losing his mind, it was possible that Enid had not been exaggerating her difficulties with him, possible that Alfred really was a mess who pulled himself together for his children, possible that Enid wasn’t entirely the embarrassing nag and pestilence that Denise for twenty years had made her out to be, possible that Alfred’s problems went deeper than having the wrong wife, possible that Enid’s problems did not go much deeper than having the wrong husband, possible that Denise was more like Enid than she had ever dreamed. She listened to the pa-thum-pa-thum-pa-thump of wheels on track and watched the October sky darken. There might have been hope for her if she could have stayed on the train, but it was a short ride to Philly, and then she was back at work and had no time to think about anything until she went to the Axon road show with Gary and surprised herself by defending not only Alfred but Enid as well in the arguments that followed.
She could not remember a time when she had loved her mother.
She was soaking in her bathtub around nine o’clock that night when Brian called and invited her to dinner with him and Jerry Schwartz, Mira Sorvino, Stanley Tucci, a Famous American Director, a Famous British Author, and other luminaries. The Famous Director had just finished shooting a film in Camden, and Brian and Schwartz had roped him into a private screening of Crime and Punishment and Rock and Roll.
“It’s my night off,” Denise said.
“Martin says he’ll send his driver,” Brian said. “I’d be grateful if you came. My marriage is over.”
She put on a black cashmere dress, ate a banana to avoid seeming hungry at dinner, and rode with the director’s driver up to Tacconelli’s, the storefront pizzeria in Kensington. A dozen famous and semifamous people, plus Brian and the simian, round-shouldered Jerry Schwartz, had taken over three tables at the rear. Denise kissed Brian on the mouth and sat down between him and the Famous British Author, who appeared to have an evening’s worth of cricket-and darts-related wit with which he wished to regale Mira Sorvino. The Famous Director told Denise he’d had her country ribs and sauerkraut and loved them, but she changed the subject as fast as she could. She was clearly there as Brian’s date; the movie people weren’t interested in either of them. She put her hand on Brian’s knee, as if consolingly.
“Raskolnikov in headphones, listening to Trent Reznor while he whacks the old lady, is so perfect,” the very least famous person at the table, a college-age intern of the director, gushed to Jerry Schwartz.
“Actually, it’s the Nomatics,” Schwartz corrected w
ith devastating lack of condescension.
“Not Nine Inch Nails?”
Schwartz lowered his eyelids and shook his head minimally. “Nomatics, 1980, ‘Held in Trust.’ Later covered with insufficient attribution by that person whose name you just mentioned.”
“Everybody steals from the Nomatics,” Brian said.
“They suffered on the cross of obscurity so that others might enjoy eternal fame,” Schwartz said.
“What’s their best record?”
“Give me your address, I’ll make you a CD,” Brian said.
“It’s all brilliant,” Schwartz said, “until ‘Thorazine Sunrise.’ That was when Tom Paquette quit, but the band didn’t realize it was dead until two albums later. Somebody had to break that news to them.”
“I suppose that a country that teaches creationism in its schools,” the Famous British Author remarked to Mira Sorvino, “may be forgiven for believing that baseball does not derive from cricket.”
It occurred to Denise that Stanley Tucci had directed and starred in her favorite restaurant movie. She happily talked shop with him, resenting the beautiful Sorvino a little less and enjoying, if not the company itself, then at least her own lack of intimidation by it.
Brian drove her home from Tacconelli’s in his Volvo. She felt entitled and attractive and well aerated and alive. Brian, however, was angry.
“Robin was supposed to be there,” he said. “I guess you could call it an ultimatum. But she’d agreed to go to dinner with us. She was going to take some tiny, minimal interest in what I’m doing with my life, even if I knew she’d deliberately dress like a grad student to make me uncomfortable and prove her point. And then I was going to spend next Saturday at the Project. That was the agreement. And then this morning she decides she’s going to march against the death penalty instead. I’m no fan of the death penalty. But Khellye Withers is not my idea of a poster boy for leniency. And a promise is a promise. I didn’t see that one fewer candle in the candlelight vigil was going to make much difference. I said she could miss one march for my sake. I said, why don’t I write a check to the ACLU, whatever size you want. Which didn’t go over so well.”
“Writing checks, no, not good,” Denise said.
“I realized that. But things got said that are going to be hard to unsay. I frankly don’t have a lot of interest in unsaying them.”
“You never know,” Denise said.
Washington Avenue between the river and Broad was lonely at eleven on a Monday evening. Brian appeared to be experiencing his first real disappointment in life, and he couldn’t stop talking. “Remember when you said if I weren’t married and you weren’t my employee?”
“I remember.”
“Does that still hold?”
“Let’s go in and have a drink,” Denise said.
Which was how Brian came to be sleeping in her bed at nine-thirty the next morning when her doorbell rang.
She was still full of the alcohol that had fueled completion of the picture of weirdness and moral chaos that her life seemed bent on being. Beneath her soddenness, though, an agreeable fizz of celebrity lingered from the night before. It was stronger than anything she felt for Brian.
The doorbell rang again. She got up and put on a maroon silk robe and looked out the window. Robin Passafaro was standing on the stoop. Brian’s Volvo was parked across the street.
Denise considered not answering the door, but Robin wouldn’t be looking for her here if she hadn’t already tried the Generator.
“It’s Robin,” she said. “Stay here and be quiet.”
Brian in the morning light still wore his pissed-off expression of the night before. “I don’t care if she knows I’m here.”
“Yeah, but I do.”
“Well, my car’s right across the street.”
“I’m aware of that.”
She, too, felt strangely pissed off with Robin. All summer, betraying Brian, she’d never felt anything like the contempt she felt for his wife as she descended the stairs now. Annoying Robin, stubborn Robin, screeching Robin, hooting Robin, styleless Robin, clueless Robin.
And yet, the moment she opened the door, her body recognized what it wanted. It wanted Brian on the street and Robin in her bed.
Robin’s teeth were chattering, though the morning wasn’t cold. “Can I come in?”
“I’m about to go to work,” Denise said.
“Five minutes,” Robin said.
It seemed impossible that she hadn’t seen the pistachio-colored wagon across the street. Denise let her into the front hall and closed the door.
“My marriage is over,” Robin said. “He didn’t even come home last night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve been praying for my marriage, but I get distracted by the thought of you. I’m kneeling in church and I start thinking about your body.”
Dread settled on Denise. She didn’t exactly feel guilty—the egg timer on an ailing marriage had run out; at worst she’d hurried the clock along—but she was sorry that she’d wronged this person, sorry she’d competed. She took Robin’s hands and said, “I want to see you and I want to talk to you. I don’t like what’s happened. But I have to go to work now.”
The telephone rang in the living room. Robin bit her lip and nodded. “OK.”
“Can we meet at two?” Denise said.
“OK.”
“I’ll call you from work.”
Robin nodded again. Denise let her out and shut the door and released five breaths’ worth of air.
“Denise, it’s Gary, I don’t know where you are, but call me when you get this, there’s been an accident, Dad fell off the cruise ship, he fell about eight stories, I just talked to Mom—”
She ran to the phone and picked up. “Gary.”
“I tried you at work.”
“Is he alive?”
“Well, he shouldn’t be,” Gary said. “But he is.”
Gary was at his best in emergencies. The qualities that had infuriated her the day before were a comfort now. She wanted him to know it all. She wanted him to sound pleased with his own calm.
“They apparently towed him for a mile in forty-five-degree water before the ship could stop,” Gary said. “They’ve got a helicopter coming to take him to New Brunswick. But his back is not broken. His heart is still working. He’s able to speak. He’s a tough old guy. He could be fine.”
“How’s Mom?”
“She’s concerned that the cruise is being delayed while the helicopter comes. Other people are being inconvenienced.”
Denise laughed with relief. “Poor Mom. She wanted this cruise so badly.”
“Well, I’m afraid her cruising days with Dad are over.”
The doorbell rang again. Immediately there was a pounding on the door as well, a pounding and a kicking.
“Gary, hang on one second.”
“What’s going on?”
“Let me call you right back.”
The doorbell rang so long and hard it changed its tone, went flat and a little hoarse. She opened the door to a trembling mouth and eyes bright with hatred.
“Get out of my way,” Robin said, “because I don’t want to touch any part of you.”
“I made a really bad mistake last night.”
“Get out of my way!”
Denise stood aside, and Robin headed up the stairs. Denise sat in the only chair in her penitential living room and listened to the shouting. She was struck by how seldom in her childhood her parents, that other married couple in her life, that other incompatible pair, had shouted at each other. They’d held their peace and let the proxy war unfold inside their daughter’s head.
Whenever she was with Brian she would pine for Robin’s body and sincerity and good works and be repelled by Brian’s smug coolness, and whenever she was with Robin she would pine for Brian’s good taste and like-mindedness and wish that Robin would notice how sensational she looked in black cashmere.
Easy for you guys, she th
ought. You can split in two.
The shouting stopped. Robin came running down the stairs and went on out the front door without slowing.
Brian followed a few minutes later. Denise had expected Robin’s disapproval and could handle it, but from Brian she was hoping for a word of understanding.
“You’re fired,” he said.
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] SUBJECT: Let’s maybe try a little harder next time
Lovely to see you on Saturday. I really appreciated your effort to hurry back and help me out.
Since then, Dad’s fallen off the cruise ship and been pulled out of icy water with a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, a detached retina, short-term memory loss, and possibly a mild stroke, he and Mom have been helicoptered to New Brunswick, I’ve been fired from the best job I may ever have, and Gary and I have learned about a new medical technology that I feel certain you would agree is horrifying and dystopic and malignant except that it’s good for Parkinson’s and can maybe help Dad.
Other than that, not much to report.
Hope all’s well wherever the fuck you are. Julia says Lithuania and expects me to believe it.
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] SUBJECT: Re: “Let’s maybe try a little harder next time”
Business opportunity in Lithuania. Julia’s husband, Gitanas, is paying me to produce a profit-making website. It’s actually a lot of fun and not unlucrative.
All your favorite high-school groups are on the radio here. Smiths, New Order, Billy Idol. A blast from the past. I saw an old man kill a horse with a shotgun on a street near the airport. I’d been on Baltic soil for maybe fifteen minutes. Welcome to Lithuania!