In A Country Of Mothers Page 13

  “Mom,” Jake whined.

  “Did you see what he did? Did you see how he tried to use me? He tried to use the process to get what he wanted? What a creep.”

  “I didn’t think he did anything all that bad.”

  Claire didn’t answer. Jake was eleven years old, he never thought anything anyone did was all that bad; that was part of the problem. She patted his head. “Do you think you need to talk to someone?”

  Jake shrugged.

  “You always have your father and me, and if you feel like you need someone else, let me know and we’ll find you someone, someone good.”

  They walked a few blocks in the cool air, among the Saturday crowds. Claire walked quickly, hoping she wouldn’t go marching back to Rosenblatt’s office and give him a piece of her mind. She’d given him too much already.

  “I kind of liked him,” Jake said after a while.

  Claire shrugged. “There are plenty of other people you’d like even better. So, where would you like to go?”

  “You don’t have to spend the whole afternoon with me,” Jake said. “Why don’t you just give me twenty dollars and drop me off at Matt’s house?”

  Claire shook her head. “I want to spend the afternoon with you. How about a museum? We haven’t been to a museum in a long time.”

  “Aren’t I a little old for that?” Jake said.

  “No.” Claire almost laughed. “Which one do you like best?”

  “I guess the Modern is more grown-up than Natural History,” Jake said.

  They took the bus up Sixth Avenue to Fifty-third Street. Before looking at anything, they ate. Eating always made Jake happy. He had a sandwich, Jell-O salad, Coke, chocolate cake, and frozen yogurt. Claire had cottage cheese and black coffee. They both finished feeling virtuous. Now there was no way they could be in bad moods.

  In his adolescent way—“cool”—Jake expressed interest in Picasso and Pollock, but what really got him going was the helicopter hanging from the ceiling on the third floor and the red sports car parked next to it. “Unbelievable,” he said, circling both exhibits.

  They ended up in the gift shop. “Buy me this,” Jake said, immediately picking out a bright multicolored truck intended for someone much younger.

  “Look around a little,” Claire said.

  He pretended to and came back with the same toy. “I want this.” It was something she knew Adam would be happy with. Jake would have fun putting it together, but he’d never play with it. She took the box from him and turned it over. Forty dollars. If she bought it for Jake, as soon as Adam saw it there’d be a fight.

  Claire picked up another box, an airplane for thirty-five dollars. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll get you the truck, and the plane for Adam.”

  “It’s supposed to be my special day,” Jake said. “I’m supposed to get a present — just me, not him too.”

  “I have two children. I can’t buy one a present and not the other.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Then you have to get me something better.”

  “What about a book?”

  “Oh, that’s real exciting.” Jake went carefully around the store and ended up pointing out an interesting collection of painted wooden pieces that could be put together to create creatures or abstract designs. It was much more age-appropriate than the truck.

  “Do you really want it?” Claire asked. It was a great toy, something she might even tinker with herself but unlike anything Jake had ever asked for.

  “It’s called Zollo,” he said.

  Claire bent down and looked a the price in the case. “It’s a hundred and ten dollars.”

  Jake got serious. “It’s very cool. Buy it for me. Please.”

  Claire didn’t want to ruin the good time they were having. Good times were fragile these days. One wrong move and Jake could lapse into a week-long sulk that would put the whole house in a foul mood. Thirty-five for the plane, a hundred and ten for the painted wood.

  “Will it make you happy?”

  “Definitely,” Jake said.

  She handed the cashier her credit card. In the end it was cheaper than therapy.

  15

  Harry took Jody on one arm and Carol Heberton on the other and walked the two of them off the location at the Forty-second Street library. They’d spent the morning getting the scene just right — Carol researching psycho killers while, unbeknownst to her, the one stalking her was watching. Leading the two women up the street like they were blind old ladies, Harry pressed close to Jody’s ear. “I would’ve invited you to have dinner alone with me,” he whispered, “but I knew you’d decline.”

  Jody could feel the thick flesh of Harry’s lips tickling her lobe.

  He held open the door to Aux Trois Mousquetaires on Forty-fifth Street, and Jody quickly ducked into the restaurant after Heberton.

  “I hope you’re happy,” Harry said.

  She was — very. Lunches like this with producers, famous directors, and movie stars, drawing stares and whispers from across a room — that was part of what she’d come to New York looking for.

  “It’s your going-away party,” Michael, her boss, said, kissing her cheek. “Hello and goodbye.”

  Jody wanted to rub the side of her face, to ask the waiter for a special cloth and a glass of bottled water to resterilize the spot.

  Despite what everyone was saying, she knew the lunch wasn’t really for her. Jody’s impending departure was an excuse to take everyone out for a morale booster: martinis and snails.

  “It’s only the beginning,” Harry said, after the waiter took their drink order. “There’ll be more.”

  “You look like you’re about to cry,” Raymond said to Jody. “Interesting, tears and snot — but not really the stuff of a good meal, would you say?”

  Jody blinked and took a deep breath. She wouldn’t cry.

  “Don’t worry,” Carol Heberton said. “In L.A. everyone has lunch, sometimes two and three times a day.”

  “Let’s paint the child a mural,” Harry said, passing around the cup of crayons that sat next to the sugar bowl. Everyone took one and dutifully started scrawling on the white butcher paper laid over the tablecloth.

  Two women came up to Carol, and before they even finished asking “Are you …?” Carol had taken pen and paper and signed her name in huge, nearly floral script.

  Harry looked up from his escargot and smacked his buttery lips. “Only the true cognoscenti know directors.”

  “P.S.” Michael said to Jody. “Could you stop by the office this afternoon and do whatever it is you do to the Xerox? It’s not working again and I have some scripts to send out.”

  “Take a lesson,” Jody said.

  “Well, before you go anywhere, I want you to teach your replacement how to do it.”

  “Replacement?” Jody said. “You mean you’re not having my chair bronzed?”

  The main courses arrived on huge heated plates, and for a few moments of almost prayerful silence they all focused on what was before them, going at it with knives and forks, oohs and ahs. When they’d satisfied their most immediate needs, the remains were passed in a circle so everyone could taste. Lunch ended with espresso all around and a full course of desserts — fruit tarts, crème brulée, and a serving of profiteroles that arrived in front of Jody in a pool of chocolate sauce, a flaming sparkler in the middle. Jody expected that at any minute a long line of waiters would pull up to the table and start singing “Happy Birthday,” “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” or something like that. Fortunately, no one came.

  Harry looked down at Jody’s profiteroles and poked at them tentatively with his knife. “Probably not unlike what’s mounted on your chest, in both size and density.”

  Jody carefully pulled out the flaming sparkler, then turned to Harry. “If those are mine, this must be yours.”

  Harry smiled, took the sparkler, and dunked it upside down in his wineglass. “Touché,” he said, holding up the still
-sputtering stick of metal.

  “God, this is a good time,” Carol Heberton said. “It’s been so long since I’ve had such fun.”

  After they finished eating and Michael had handed over his platinum card — the one he called his “plutonium card”—Harry insisted they wait while the busboys cleared the table and the crayons were passed again and everyone finished the drawing, making bright waxy circles and nasty comments about the spots of wine and food that had stained the surface. Harry directed them all to sign their work, rolled the mural up like a diploma, and presented it to Jody.

  “Go forward,” he said, holding the restaurant door open.

  Jody stepped out into the humid afternoon and immediately felt sick, overwhelmed, and in need of a nap.

  “Back to the trenches,” Michael said.

  Harry belched, rubbed his belly, and belched again. “A lovely lunch, Michael. Thank you. I shan’t forget it.”

  “Don’t forget about the Xerox,” Michael said to Jody.

  “Thanks,” Jody said, and they all walked back downtown toward the two huge granite lions that marked the spot where the movie would end.

  At eleven-thirty that night, Peter Sears called Jody from the pay phone on the corner of Charles and Bleecker. “I have to come up,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”

  Jody wasn’t pleased. She’d just come in the door, numb and dumb from the narcotic combination of too much work, too much lunch, too many drinks before dusk, and the prospect of giving up the life she’d always wanted for something completely unknown. She was also in the middle of doing laundry for the first time in almost a month, and she looked like shit.

  “What’s wrong?” she said, opening the door.

  “Hi,” Peter said, kissing her.

  Jody didn’t kiss back. There were some people she simply wasn’t interested in kissing, and Peter was quickly becoming one of them. He kissed too urgently. His tongue ashed wildly in her mouth, as if he’d lost a family heirloom among her molars. Behind every kiss was his full weight, thrown against her with equal passion.

  He ignored the fact that she didn’t kiss back, lifted her shirt, and started kissing her stomach.

  The farther away his face is, Jody thought, the happier I am. “So what’s the problem?”

  His tongue was in her belly button and it was starting to hurt. She imagined that when he finally pulled away, her intestines would rise up and out in a long curly line like a charmed snake.

  “This is the problem,” Peter said, stepping back, unzipping his pants and letting his hard-on pop out.

  “I don’t get it,” Jody said, unimpressed.

  “It’s been like this all day. It’s not healthy, you know. I mean, there’s a condition you can get from this.”

  “I’m sure you’ve dealt with similar phenomena before,” Jody said, sitting down on her sofa.

  “Touch it,” Peter said.

  “Touch it yourself,” Jody said.

  He shook his head and stepped towards her.

  “Do I have to?” she asked.

  “I brought it here for you,” Peter said.

  “If I do this, you have to leave right away. I can’t spend the whole night with you. I have a life.”

  “Fine,” Peter said, positioning himself in front of her.

  She had the urge to take him in her mouth. As penises went, his was very nice. More than anything she wanted to suck it, but didn’t feel that Peter deserved such luck. He held her hand, spit on it, then put her hand down on his dick. She couldn’t believe he was spitting on her again; no one had ever done that before. He kept putting his hand on top of hers, showing her what to do, and it was incredibly boring. Jody figured if he wanted it a certain way, he should do it himself.

  “Come on — let’s go in your room,” Peter said in the thick, mass-murderer tone men sink into when they’re too excited for their own good.

  Jody went only because she had nothing better to do. The stuff in the dryer wouldn’t be done for another half an hour; the couch was completely uncomfortable. The quicker she got it over with, the sooner Peter would leave, and maybe, just maybe, there might be something in it for her.

  Before lying down, Peter took off all his clothing and neatly draped everything, even his socks, over the chair.

  Still clothed, she lay on her bed. What was she supposed to do — undress like at a doctor’s office? If so, where was her gown? At least if she got to put on one of those blue paper gowns, there’d be some excitement, some possibility. The thin plastic belt could be used to tie her up; the gown could be open in the front or the back — something, anything.

  Naked, Peter sat on Jody, straddling her hips. He pushed up her shirt so her breasts and belly were exposed. Trapped beneath him, pelvis semi-crushed, lungs in jeopardy, Jody could do little more than raise her hand and put it on him again. She did it violently, feeling a little guilty for subjecting such a nice penis to such a brutal beating, but realizing that in the end Peter himself would surely be punished more than his dick. Almost immediately he started making noises she found annoying. She always found it annoying when people made noises. Enjoy, but don’t fucking vocalize. Moaning was what people in movies did when they were crushed between two cars. Without warning, he came onto Jody’s chest, onto her stomach and breasts. Shock kept her from saying anything.

  “I came on you,” Peter said, sitting up straight.

  Jody tilted her head as far down as she could, trying to look, not caring that it made her chin double or triple. Peter touched the come, rubbing it around over her breasts. Jody leaned back and closed her eyes, thinking that in situations like these the best thing to do is not to respond.

  As soon as Peter left, Jody took a fast, scalding shower. Hot-pink and wrapped in her bathrobe, she took the elevator down to the laundry room. It was not exactly a smart move — the kind of thing an idiot would do in a movie and then end up raped, strangled, and stuffed into a dryer set on high. Still, Jody was tough, she was brave, she was bold, she took a huge kitchen knife with her. A stranger had taken her clothing out of the dryer and folded it into two neat stacks, taking care to pair the socks.

  While she was collecting her things, Ellen came in with Rob. Jody figured they were planning to fuck on the folding table as part of Ellen’s plan to do it at least once in every possible location and position.

  “What happened to you?” Ellen asked, touching the bright pink skin on Jody’s neck. “Overtime on a tanning bed?”

  Jody shook her head. Telling Ellen about Peter would ruin her chaste image, and Ellen would never let it go. Besides, Jody was somewhat surprised at herself for doing it in the first place.

  Rob glared at Jody. A long time ago, Jody had answered Ellen’s phone at two o’clock in the morning, and ever since Rob thought Jody and Ellen were having an affair behind his back. Jody couldn’t believe anyone would be that stupid.

  “Got to go,” Jody said, picking up her laundry. She was in a hurry to get back upstairs, to change the sheets, beat the sofa cushions, to reclaim her night.

  “Bye, sweetie,” Ellen said, kissing Jody’s cheek. “Call me at the office tomorrow. And put some lotion on yourself when you get upstairs.”

  Jody lifted Ellen’s hand, holding it up toward Rob. “Great ring,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be really happy together.”

  Ellen flashed her a voodoo look and Jody laughed. She couldn’t help but laugh. It probably made Rob even more annoyed, but she kept laughing all the way into the elevator, an intense kind of manic laugh, a laugh that could turn into a scream at any minute.

  16

  Gloria Owens arrived before her husband, and they started the session without him.

  “Sometimes I really hate him.”

  “Who?” Claire asked.

  “Jim,” she said. “Sometimes I really hate Jim.”

  Claire nodded. Patients always thought it was shocking when they talked about hate. They acted as though they were revealing a horrible hidden secret. Their great
est realization was the simple relief that came from seeing that nothing bad happened as a result of the confession. I hate. I despise. Claire barely responded when people said it. Her lack of response was intentional, designed to push the patient further, to go beyond hate and into the fury for which there was no name.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Jim Owens said, bursting into the office without knocking, twenty minutes into the session. Someone coming out of another office must have let him into the waiting room.

  Claire was surprised. People didn’t just barge in like that. What if there had been a time switch and the hour didn’t belong to him? What if Claire had been in there alone, between patients, taking a nap or doing who knows what?

  “I was just saying that someday we might get divorced,” Gloria said as her husband sat down.

  He smiled at Claire as if to ask, Was this your idea?

  Even though Claire was probably a few years older than the Owenses, she felt vibrant, changeable, and youthful in comparison. The Owenses were well into middle age. They’d settled, you could tell just by looking. Both were about fifteen or twenty pounds overweight, pounds gained by not caring, not having to worry about impressing or seducing the other. They felt entitled to satisfy cravings, take pleasure from candy bars in the afternoon, ice cream with the late news, steak dinners. They were used to each other. If they got divorced, it would be difficult; they wouldn’t be able to simply go forward as a freed man and woman. They would have to make changes, go on diets, rethink careers, wardrobe, friends, and addresses.

  “Don’t say the D word,” Jim said.

  Claire wondered if Jim knew that for most people the D word was Death, not Divorce. Possibly he thought that since the M word was Marriage, D had to be Divorce. Regardless, it was curious.

  “Why not?” Gloria said. “What do you care?”

  The session went on like a chicken fight, Mr. and Mrs. pecking at each other as supervised by Claire until finally their hour ran out.

  “Well, I’ll see you next week,” Claire said, clapping her hands to gether. As they went out the door, she winked at Jody, who was sitting in the waiting room, pretending to read a magazine. “Be with you in a minute,” she said, closing her door to check her answering machine and pull up her pantyhose. She was glad Jody was next; now she could relax.