“Just throw it out. I’m not going back there.”
“Are you sure, Kent? Maybe you should think about it some more.’’
“Throw it out,” I repeated.
“Well, okay, honey, but there’s other mail, too. There’s something here from the Motor Vehicle. It may be your license renewal.”
I told her to throw that away, too—that where I was I got around by bus. To change the subject, I asked her how Uncle Chick was doing. Not good, she said. He’d gone from bad to worse. “So they haven’t let him see Annie yet?” No, she said. And they still hadn’t given her any information either, other than to say she was doing fine. I looked down at my ragged, bloody finger. Until then, I hadn’t realized that I’d been tearing at the skin around the cuticle. “Well, take care, Mom. I gotta go.” When she started in about whether or not I was coming home for Thanksgiving, I pretended I was the operator cutting in to say time was up.
“Stop it, Kent. That’s you,” she said.
I hung up. Went outside and walked around for a couple of hours, past all the vacant storefronts, all the shifty-eyed spooks sitting on benches and leaning against the decaying buildings of beautiful downtown Worcester.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Annie Oh
I’m getting ready for bed when Viveca calls, wanting to discuss the evening we’ve just had—our “rehearsal dinner” without a rehearsal. For Viveca, this is typical. Whenever we come back from an evening out and get into bed, she likes to spoon with the lights out and do a postmortem. But tonight I’m here and she’s over there at Bella Linda—in the bridal suite by herself per Orion’s wishes.
“Well, they’re just wonderful, Anna,” she says. “All three of them. And so different from one another—three unique and interesting individuals. You must have been a marvelous mother.”
Far from it, I think. But my kids have turned out okay in spite of me.
“And now I’m going to be part of your family, too. Oh, you know what would be lovely? If we could convince the three of them to spend the holidays with us. Their father, too, if he was game. We could take them to the Met, to Rockefeller Center to see the tree. Radio City, even. That Christmas show they do there is tacky, but so what? It would be part of the fun.”
“Well, we’ll see. They might have plans of their own.”
“Yes, of course. It’s just that we’d have to make a reservation for Christmas dinner someplace before too long. The best restaurants get booked months in advance for the holidays. I can have Carolyn work on it. Make a reservation for the six of us. We can always adjust the number if we have to.”
“Okay, but first things first. Let’s get through tomorrow before we start planning for something three months from now.”
“No, no, you’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself. But I just love the idea of celebrating the holidays as a family. And, of course, the Christmas after this one, there’ll be your daughter’s little one to share it with.” It jolts me back to Ariane’s news. When she told us this afternoon, I just stood there, staring at her for several seconds, too stunned to react. “Won’t that be fun, sweetheart?”
“Yes, sure. But . . .” Inseminated by a man she’s never even seen? It seems so strange.
“But what?”
“No, it’s just that Ariane usually stays out there for Christmas. They do a big holiday meal at the place she runs, everything from soup to nuts, and she says the turnout is double what it is on a normal day.”
“Well, Anna, her priorities may change after her baby is born. She’s such a lovely girl. So earnest and socially conscious. Very Berkeley, that’s for sure.” My hand grips the phone a little tighter. Was that a put-down? “Tell me. How do you feel about becoming a grandmother?”
“I don’t really know yet,” I tell her. “With everything that’s going on, I haven’t had time to process it. But I guess I’m a little nervous about the way it’s happened. Ari says she researched the prospective donors, but still. It’s kind of like spinning a roulette wheel.”
“Well, you’ve always said how grounded and levelheaded she is. I’m sure it will all be fine. And anyway, it’s a different world these days. Women Ariane’s age have a lot more options than we did. Well, no. I take that back. Look at us. Tomorrow at this time we’ll be legally married. Happy?”
“Yes, of course.” And I am. But it’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. The clock on the bureau says twelve forty-five. I’ve got to get some sleep. Hector’s dropping Minnie back here at eight in the morning so that she can help out—cook breakfast, give our wedding clothes a pressing. I could do all of it myself, but I’ve hired her, after all. If I didn’t give her things to do, it would be like I was paying her a thousand dollars to attend our wedding.
“And how about that son of yours?” Viveca says. “He’s even more handsome in person than he is in pictures. Poor Lorenzo couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. I just hope it didn’t make Andrew uncomfortable. Has he always been that reserved and serious?”
“More so than he used to be. It’s probably his military training. And the kind of work he does—dealing with all those wounded soldiers coming back from the war.”
“Yes, I suppose. That must be terribly grim sometimes.” I’m relieved that she hasn’t seemed to pick up on the possibility that meeting her—seeing us as a couple—is what he may have been reserved and tense about. When Lorenzo made that toast and we kissed, I saw Andrew lock his jaw and look away. Saw Ariane reach over and touch the top of his hand.
“He’s nothing like Marissa, that’s for sure,” Viveca says. “She was certainly in rare form tonight.”
“Because she had too much to drink. When she and Lorenzo started doing those tequila shots and I suggested she’d had enough, she told me to stop acting so ‘momish.’ ”
“Well, it was a special occasion, after all. And she was fine. A little over-the-top near the end maybe, but nobody minded. Everyone got a kick out of those stories of hers about some of the auditions she’s been on. That imitation she did of the asthmatic casting director with the bad toupee was hilarious.”
To her, maybe. But I kept hearing desperation in those stories Marissa was telling—all those failed attempts to put herself out there. She worries me. I wonder if Orion noticed anything when she was visiting him.
“Well, it was a lovely evening,” Viveca says. “Just the kind of night I’d hoped for.” Really? I’d felt like I was walking on thin ice the whole time. “So, are you excited about our big day tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’m nervous, though. I’ll be relieved once it’s over.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause on her end. “Not nervous as in, you’re having doubts, I hope,” she says.
“No, no, of course not.” But I’ve already had one failed marriage. How could I not have doubts? “It’s just . . . well, you know how I am. I’m just not comfortable being the center of attention.”
She laughs. “Not even at your openings! Remember when that art critic from the Post came up from Washington to see your first show? He kept telling you how marvelous your work was, and you kept apologizing for it.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Well, darling, it’s a bride’s prerogative to be nervous on the night before her wedding. I just hope you’ll be able to relax and enjoy yourself tomorrow. I have some Xanax with me. Maybe you should take one before things get under way tomorrow.”
“We’ll see,” I tell her. “Right now, I just need to get some sleep.”
“Of course you do. And I do, too.”
“Oh, and about the Jones painting? I was going to look around for it some more when we got back here, but I’m just too tired. I will tomorrow morning, though. Or I could just call Orion and ask him what he did with it.”
“No, don’t,” she says. “I don’t want him to think I’m hounding you about it. He’s probably dropped it off at an appraiser’s and that’s where it is. Don’t worry about it. Now go get some sleep.” She tells me she love
s me, I tell her I love her, too, and we end our call.
I walk over to the bureau to put down my phone and, out of habit, check my messages before turning it off. Which is silly, really. Why would the kids be calling me when I’ve been with them all evening? I’ve had two missed calls, both from the same number. A 4-0-1 prefix. What is that, Rhode Island? It’s probably that same condo company that called me last week. Come for a free weekend in Newport, enjoy the beach and the mansions, and let us sell you a time-share. Damned pests. Didn’t cell phones used to be immune from those stupid robo-calls? . . . Orion’s kept the same framed photos on the bureau, I see. He and I on our anniversary cruise, the five of us on that whale watch we took. My eyes linger on the kids’ high school graduation portraits. God, they look so young. The lighting in the restaurant was dim tonight, but I think I saw some gray in Ariane’s hair. Orion’s mother went prematurely gray—she probably takes after her. . . . Andrew’s hairline has receded a bit, and his face is thinner than it was back then. Makes him look even more like—No! Don’t go there. Chase Kent out of your head or you’ll never get to sleep.
I put my hand on the lamp switch, ready to turn it off, then change my mind. There’s a stack of magazines on Orion’s bedside table. I’m keyed up. I’ll read until I get drowsy. I pick up a New Yorker and thumb through it. Find an article on Julian Schnabel. That will do.
I pull down the covers and climb into bed. Lie back on the same familiar mattress with its peaks and valleys. The same pearl gray sheets I’d lie against while he nuzzled me, kissed my neck and told me how much he loved me—the predictable preliminaries. I got pregnant with the twins at the first place we lived in, but Marissa was conceived here, in this bed. My mind wanders back to the way Ariane’s baby was conceived: in some fertility clinic office, by injection. Why couldn’t she have waited? Held out at least until she was in her midthirties? It wasn’t inevitable that no one else would come along. She gave up too soon. . . .
These pillows feel different—firm and spongy. Not nearly as comfortable as the goose down pillows we used to have. The kids told me tonight that he’s met someone up there on the Cape—a marine biologist who teaches at . . . where was it? The University of Rhode Island? They seemed to like her. Well, good. I’m glad for him. I’ve worried about Orion. I still don’t understand why he gave up his practice so suddenly, or why he’s decided to put the house on the market. Well, whatever. If he’s rebuilding his life, then good for him. I may have left Orion for Viveca, but I still care deeply about him. I glance over at the pictures on the bureau. We shared a life, for Christ’s sake. He’s the father of my children. Why wouldn’t I still love him?
I punch these stupid new pillows, trying to get more comfortable, but they’re unyielding. Why would he have kept everything else the same but gotten new pillows? It doesn’t make sense. Okay, stop it, Annie. Just read.
“At Palazzo Chupi, the converted West Village horse stable where artist and film director Julian Schnabel now resides with his . . .” Three unique and interesting individuals. She’s right. They are. I’m glad she likes them. And no, that comment she made about Berkeley wasn’t a dig. It was just an observation. . . . Well, it was a special occasion, after all. And she was fine. A little over-the-top near the end maybe. Was it just that, or does she have a drinking problem? She’s around alcohol all the time at that bar where she works. . . . Has he always been that reserved and serious? No, just the opposite in fact. I mean, he’s always had a temper, yes, but Andrew’s always had that playful side, too. I smile thinking about how he and Minnie’s son hit it off this afternoon—Andrew coming back down from the attic with his old Atari or PlayStation or whatever it is. Hooking it up to the TV so that he and Africa could play video games. Minnie’s son was in heaven. And so was Andrew, for that matter. The two of them whooping and hollering like they were both little kids. But then tonight, sitting across from Viveca, he seemed so . . . glum. But maybe it didn’t have anything to do with my marrying her. Maybe it is his work. Is he playful with his girlfriend? I hope so. I hope she makes him happy. I wish she had come out here with him. I’d have liked to see the two of them together. Then I’d know. . . . What did they say that woman’s name was—the one Orion’s seeing? Tracy? That’s a younger woman’s name. I can’t remember knowing any Tracys back when I was in school. That couldn’t have been her calling me from Rhode Island, could it? No. Why on earth would she be calling me? It’s those time-share people.
“At Palazzo Chupi, the converted West Village horse stable where artist and film director Julian Schnabel . . .” Ariane came up to bed when I did, but Marissa and Andrew were still downstairs. Did they remember to lock up? Orion told me a while back that there’d been a break-in three or four houses down the hill. He’d said whose house it was, but I didn’t recognize the name. I get up, open the bedroom door, look down the stairs. The front hall light is still on and I hear voices—the television, maybe? Did they forget to turn it off? I’d better go down and check.
Standing at the entrance to the living room, I look through the French doors at the two of them. Marissa’s fast asleep on the recliner, her head flopped back, her mouth wide open. Andrew’s slumped on the couch, watching TV. There are three or four beer bottles on the coffee table, and he’s holding another. After Minnie and Africa left for their motel, he went out and came back with two six-packs. I walk into the room and sit down beside him. “Hi, honey. What are you watching?”
“Movie,” he says, his eyes still on the TV.
I look over at Marissa. “Your sister’s dead to the world over there, I see. When did she conk out?”
“About five minutes after this thing started,” he says. “She got all excited when it came on, and the next thing I knew, she was in snooze mode.”
“Well, it’s been a long day. What’s the movie?”
“Pulp Fiction. I’m a big Tarantino fan.” He takes a swig of his beer.
“Quentin Tarantino. Right? I met him at Viveca’s gallery last year.”
He turns and looks at me. “Really?”
“Uh-huh. But there was a big, noisy crowd and he was talking so fast that I kept missing parts of what he was saying.” No reaction. “You’ll have to ask Viveca about him. She knows him better than I do. He’s bought some pieces from her.”
“Yeah? Anything of yours?”
“Oh, no. I doubt my work is his cup of tea. His movies are pretty violent, aren’t they?”
“Yup. That’s what I like about them.”
“Really?” No response. “So. Speaking of Viveca . . .”
His body clenches. He sips his beer. “What about her?”
“Did you . . . do you like her?”
He shrugs. “She’s okay, I guess. Why?”
“No reason. I was just wondering. You know, it means a lot to us that you’ve made the effort to come out for the wedding.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, we both appreciate it.”
“No problem.” And that ends that.
I nod toward the TV. “So what other ones has he done?”
“Tarantino? Reservoir Dogs is his best. And uh . . . Kill Bill, Jackie Brown, Natural Born Killers.”
I tell him I saw that last one. “Part of it, anyway. I couldn’t take it, though. It was so brutal, I had to walk out.”
He looks at me and laughs.
“What?”
“No, it’s just . . . That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think? Your stuff’s got plenty of violence.”
“Some of it has, yes. But—”
“I mean, when I was a little kid, some of it would kind of spook me. One of them, especially. The one where a little paper doll boy was being buried alive by a paper doll woman.”
I nod. “His mother. That piece was in my Grimms’ Fairy Tales series. I’d based it on a strange little story called ‘The Stubborn Child.’ ”
“Yeah, well, whatever it was based on, I’d go to bed and start thinking about it and then I wouldn’t be able t
o sleep.”
“Oh, honey. Really? I’m so sorry. You should have said something.”
“I did. I woke up Dad and told him. A couple of times, he took me back to bed and stayed with me until I got to sleep. But hey, when I got a little older? I started thinking your work was pretty cool. Actually, it was Jay Jay who convinced me.”
“Jay Jay?”
“Yeah. He was over here at the house one rainy day. We were like, maybe, ten or eleven. We were bored, so we went down to the basement to play some darts. And Jay started looking at these sketches you had done that were taped to the wall. And he goes, ‘What’s up with your mom?’ And I was—no offense, Mom, but it was kind of embarrassing, you know? Because the drawings were of a woman cutting some dude’s head off. In one of them, she was slicing his neck with a knife, and in another, she was holding up his head.”
I nod. “Artemisia.”
“Say what?”
“Artemisia Gentileschi. She was an artist from the Renaissance. I’d discovered a painting of hers in a book about baroque art. Judith Slaying Holofernes, it was called. I was doing some studies of it. Planning to base a piece on it, which I never ended up following through on. But I can see how, taken out of context, those drawings must have seemed pretty strange. And I’m sorry they embarrassed you.”
“Yeah, but let me finish. Jay started complaining about how his mother was Mrs. Fuddy Duddy, and how it must be cool to have a mom who was an artist who did stuff like this. And after he said that, I started thinking that, yeah, your artwork was pretty cool. So who was Judith, anyway? And what did she have against the poor slob whose head she lopped off?”
“It’s from the Old Testament. I’d started reading up on the artist. And apparently this Bible story spoke to her. As a revenge fantasy, I guess. She’d been raped and then publicly humiliated. Blame the victim, you know? Which happened a lot back then.”
“Happens a lot now, too. This woman, Jen, that I knew back in basic training? She got raped by her sergeant, and she was afraid to say anything because of that blame-the-victim stuff. And when it did come out, he didn’t take the hit for it. She did. They ended up giving her a dishonorable discharge.”