Monsters (16 page)

I nod. “That could work, but you'd have to run it by her mom.”

He laughs, shakes his head. “She doesn't take my calls.”

“How do you coparent and not speak?”

“It's not really a collaboration,” he says. “There are a lot of lawyers. A lot of legal fees. It's, uh, it's not really good for us to talk.”

“Because of the publicity stuff?”

“Nah. She's just unreasonable.” He shrugs.

“Wow. What the hell did you do to her?” I cross my legs and lean back into the corner of the couch because this seems like it'll be a good story.

He smiles. I can tell he's stalling. “I don't think it was that bad.”

“Mm-hmm, go on.”

“Fuck, Stace.” His glass isn't empty yet, but he refills it anyway. “So, I was on location for a long time, like six months, and this shoot was hellish. I couldn't really get away. I made it home like three times for less than twenty-four hours, and every time I did, I just spent every minute with Sadie. Every time I came home, she was this totally new kid. It was awful. It was miserable, lonely.”

“And you fucked around on her?” I say, but it's not really a question.

Tommy takes a sip of the bourbon, and then he shakes his head. “She fucked around on me.”

“Really?” I say, because this
is
a good story. I like stories with surprising twists.

“I came home, and she just broke down. She gave me this whole weepy confession, and she was like, ‘I'm so, so sorry.'” He pauses, takes another sip of the bourbon. “And this is how much of an asshole I am, because after all of that, I said, and I'm quoting, ‘It's okay. I get it.'”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, she flipped. She was so pissed. She went completely crazy, like she tore up the house, and I just scooped up Sadie and went to a hotel, and she hasn't said a civil word to me since.”

“Because you forgave her?”

“Because I wasn't mad in the first place.”

I hold my hand up and twist my fingers around my lips. “Yeah,” I say after a few seconds, “when you put it like that, it's a little shitty.”

“It's not that shitty.”

“Oh, it's pretty shitty,” I say, and I lean forward and pour more vodka over the ice that's left in my glass.

“Whatever. I'm sorry I'm so fucking understanding.” He tosses back the last of his bourbon. “I'm hungry. Let's go to
dinner.”

N
OW THAT HE'S TEN,
Ben's old enough for pee-wee football, which in Omaha is a really big deal. The parents on this league are insane. Like they tailgate. Who tailgates at pee-wee football? Anyway, there are only a few weeks left, and I must be feeling generous because I invited Michael's parents to come to this week's game. Stan's not a problem, but Carol keeps talking to me. If anything, you'd think she'd help keep Stevie busy, but she doesn't. She keeps telling him to sit still, which is ridiculous. He's seven. “Why don't you look for roly-polies?” I say, and this keeps him occupied for at least the first half of the game. When my phone rings, I'm so relieved to have the excuse to step away.

“I have to take this,” I say to Carol, and into my phone, I say, “Hey.”

“Who is that?” Carol says because she's always so nosy.

“It's Jenny,” I say, and on the other end of the line, Tommy says, “This is getting insulting. I mean, discretion is a nice change, but you're going a little overboard with the secrecy.”

“That's just Carol,” I say, “Michael's mom.” The fact that Carol
doesn't call me on this proves how dumb she is. I mean, if it was Jenny, she'd know who Carol is. “She came out to watch Ben's game.”

“Oh. Yeah, no, I'll give you a pass on that one. That one makes sense.”

“Thanks,” I say. “That's very generous of you.” The kids are heading back out to the field, but I don't see Ben with them. The coach tries to send him out as little as possible. “What are you calling for anyway?”

“I don't know,” he says. “I'm just bored. I'm guessing you're not really up for phone sex with your mother-in-law right there?”

“Jesus, you're fucking horrible,” I say, but I laugh. It's totally funny. Carol turns to look at me though, and she doesn't look happy.

“Careful, honey. You talk to Jenny that way?”

“Sometimes,” I say, but it's actually pretty rare.

“And here I thought I was special.”

“Not really.” When I look up, I see the number 27 on the back of one of the kids on the line. I am ninety percent sure this is Ben. “I gotta go,” I say. “Ben's playing now. I'll call you later.”

•   •   •

I've volunteered to help with Ben's class's Halloween party, but only because they don't have enough parents. The spots filled up just fine in Stevie's class, because they're littler and still cute, and half the moms haven't gone back to work yet. I said this to Tommy, and I must have sounded kind of dismissive because he laughed and said,
You don't exactly have a job either.

Anyway, the lead mom is super into it, and she has this plan where the kids will have to race to pull all of the gummy worms out from a scoop of chocolate pudding, but they'll have to do it with their hands
tied behind their backs. It just sounds like a mess to me and probably to the teacher too, because she asks us to bring plastic tablecloths to spread on the floor. The kids love it though. They march in their little costume parade around the school, and when they come back into the room, we've got all the bowls of pudding ready. They have to race in waves because there isn't that much room on the plastic sheet. By now most of the kids have their costumes half on and half off, and I keep worrying someone's going to rip something or leave their mask behind. They still need it all for tonight.

“Well, I think this is a success,” lead mom says to me, and I nod.

“Seems like they're having fun.”

“I just love Halloween,” she says. “I wish I could still pretend to be a princess once a year.”

I say, “Yeah. I kind of hate pretend.” She sort of frowns at me though, so I force a laugh.

“Where did your son get that mask?” she says, gesturing to the one in my hand. “It's awesome.”

“This?” I say, holding it up. “It's a prop. I have a friend in the movies. He sent a bunch of stuff like this to the kids.” It's not from our movie, just an assortment of crap he had lying around. The boys were making me crazy not deciding on their costumes this year, and Tommy said,
I'll send them some ideas.
“They never used it, but I think this was supposed to be in some alien movie? I don't really know.”

“Wow, that's a cool friend to have,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “He's the best.”

I haven't seen him since the summer of course, but we talk a lot, almost every day.
I miss you,
he's started to say, but I have no idea when I'll even see him again, so he clearly doesn't miss me
enough.

S
ATURDAY NIGHT THERE'S
A THING,
and I have to get a sitter. She's a new girl, and I make her a list of phone numbers to keep on the fridge. I let her make the boys dinner, which Michael never would have allowed. She's sixteen. She knows how to cook a frozen pizza. She's not going to burn down the house, but I can still hear Michael arguing in my head,
What if she leaves the oven on? What if they choke?

It's a fundraiser at a gallery downtown, the kind of place I almost never go, but they're raising money for a new arts program in the schools. I'm supposed to give a reading. They promised it could be quick.

There's a cash bar, and I really need a drink, so I order a glass of white. It feels a little safer, more responsible.

“Stacey?” I turn at the sound of my name. It's Craig. He's a friend, I guess. A poet. We've done workshops together, and the guy is always around. He runs this little poetry mag that he keeps asking me to send to, but of course I don't because who wants to publish in some shitty little magazine out of Omaha? He moves to kiss me on the
cheek, and I feel like I have to tilt my head down a little for him to reach it. “Hello, hello! Looking beautiful as ever. Radiant!”

I smile.

“And you'll be reading?” he says. “Which is fantastic. Something from
The New Yorker
, maybe?” I've never been published in
The New Yorker
, and I know Craig knows that. He also hates to hear me read. He's probably pissed that he wasn't asked. He's a little competitive, kind of a Napoleon complex. “You know Phillip?” He turns to the man next to him, who stretches out his hand. “Or shall I say Dr. Phil?” Craig laughs.

Phillip smiles and takes my hand. “Just Phillip,” he says. He has a very nice smile, bright eyes, a strong jaw, blond hair cut short and clean. I catch myself looking for a ring.

“Do you already have a drink?” he asks.

“I was just getting one.”

He signals to the bartender. “I'll get hers,” he says, “and I'll take a Jack and Coke.” He turns to Craig. “You?”

“On the good doctor? Your finest cognac, sir!” he says to the bartender, who stands there looking bored. “Ha! Just a joke, man! Jack and Coke sounds great.”

Phillip pays for the drinks and drops a couple dollars in the tip jar. “Have you two walked through the silent auction?” he asks.

“I've put some bids in,” Craig says. “And now I think I will circulate, if you don't mind.” He makes what I'm assuming is an ironic bow and backs away.

“How about you?” Phillip asks. “You up for a spin through the tables?”

“I'd love to,” I say.

There's a painting of the Old Market area, an antique ring, a weekend at a B&B. I feel like I should bid on something, but there's nothing
I want. Phillip must feel the same because he leans over and says, “Tell you the truth, I'd rather just write them a check.”

I laugh. “How about the wine?” I say, pointing to a pair of bottles, one white, one red. The current bid is ninety.

“Maybe I could talk you into drinking them with me?” Phillip says, picking up the pen.

“I can usually be talked into drinking.”

Phillip writes
$150
on the next line, and I think,
Not bad.

“So you're a Ph.D. or an M.D.?”

“M.D. I'm an allergist.”

“Nice. Probably not a lot of middle-of-the-night emergencies.”

“Yeah, that's what pushed me over from ob-gyn. Well, that and the likelihood that I wouldn't be able to get a date.”

We keep moving through the tables, and Phillip says, “So what do you do, Stacey?”

“I'm a writer,” I say. “A poet.”

“Right, I know that,” he says, “because you're reading tonight,” and I make a face like,
Right, of course.
“But aside from that. Do you teach?”

“No, I don't.” I shake my head. “I'm just a writer.” I'm sure he's wondering how I can afford to eat, but I just let it drop. “So are you from Omaha?” I ask.

“No, but I've lived here forever, almost ten years.”

“Oh, me too,” I say.

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. “I'm so sorry,” I say, pulling it out. “I have to check this text. I wouldn't normally. I just . . . I have a new sitter.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah,” he says.

But it's not the sitter. It's Tommy. I should have known. There's a whole chain of messages under his number because we text a lot and
I never delete them, though I probably should. This time it says,
Read the hairless cunt poem. That'll go over well in Omaha.

“Kids okay?” Phillip asks.

I look up. “Oh, yeah. It was”—and I don't know what to say—“work.” I shrug.

We've reached the end of the tables, and I'm out of wine. “Can I return the favor? Buy you a drink?” I say, gesturing toward his glass.

•   •   •

I read a few pieces from
Monsters
because god knows I don't have anything new. I keep it short, maybe fifteen minutes, and when I walk away from the microphone, Phillip stands up from his chair in the front row and brings me my wine. I'd asked him to hold it. Seemed like a good move.

“That was terrific,” Phillip says. “Really great.” I can tell by his tone that he didn't understand a word of it. It's probably better that way.

Craig comes up to me from behind, touches my shoulder. “First rate,” he says. “Love that second piece. It's one of my faves.”

I know this is a dig.
Why don't you have any new shit?
is what he means. It's true, this book is three years old. Phillip doesn't care though. He thinks I'm great, and when I decide it's time to leave, he walks me to my car. He holds the driver's door open for me and asks for my phone number, and when I give it to him, he writes it down with a pen. It's really cute.

•   •   •

It takes Phillip almost a week to call me. It's Wednesday, mid-morning, which is weird. I wonder if he's calling me from his office and what his office looks like. I wonder if he's wearing a white coat.

“Stacey? It's Phillip. From the fundraiser.” He sounds nervous. Out of practice.

“Oh, hi,” I say, trying to sound surprised.

“I won the wine,” he says, “that I bid on. I think I promised you a drink.”

It's a cute touch. I like it. I think he's doing pretty well. “You did,” I say. “You absolutely did.”

“I don't know what your weekend looks like?”

It looks shitty. Ben's got a friend sleeping over on Friday, and Saturday I have my sister's kids.

“This weekend's pretty lousy,” I say. “But I'm free the next?”

He groans. “I'm in Philadelphia for a conference. Let me grab my calendar. The nineteenth? No, wait, I'm out of town for the holidays. First week in December?”

“I'm in L.A. Work.”

“Seriously?” He laughs. “I think this used to be easier.”

“I know, right? Maybe we could just say coffee? Next week?”

“How about Tuesday morning? Around ten? My office is just off Pacific. I could meet you at Countryside.”

“Perfect, yeah. I'll be there,” I say.

I have a date,
I think when I hang up. I'm going on a date. And I guess I don't have any reason not to.

•   •   •

Phillip is already waiting when I get there. He must have come early because I'm not even running late. He stands up to greet me, and sort of air-kisses me on the cheek. He motions for me to sit down and says, “I'll grab you a drink. What'll you have?”

I say, “Vodka?” but he doesn't seem to get it, so I say, “I'm kidding. Coffee, black, would be great.”

I look around and realize this is a shitty place for a date. In the corner is a business meeting, probably sales. Some guy's blustering, and the rest of them are nodding along. The table across from us is a mommy with her kid. She's probably just looking to get out of the house, read a paper, have an excuse to comb her hair. I get it. The little girl looks about two, and she's fully into her muffin, picking out the chocolate chips. Phillip returns with the coffee, and I smile a thank-you. He looks nice, a little straitlaced but nice, and definitely cute. He looks like a very nice, cute allergy doctor. I wonder if my sister's ever taken her kids to him.

“So what's taking you to L.A.?” he asks as he sits down.

I blow into my coffee but don't take a sip. “Film adaptation.”

“A movie?” he says.

I nod. “One of my books. I've been working on the script.” I blow across my coffee again and watch the steam swirl off. “They want me to come out for the start of filming, but I won't stay long.”

“Wow, that's incredible.” He looks genuinely impressed. “Is it like a big-budget thing?”

“I have no idea, really. They don't tell me the budget.” I laugh.

He makes a little
Of course
shrug. “So is there anyone I would know in it?”

I don't say Tommy. I say, “Sarah Nixon is the lead.”

“No kidding?” He shakes his head, smiles. “Wow, that's really cool.”

I just shrug. “So tell me again what brought you to Omaha?”

“I did my residency here.” He sits up a little straighter, looks a little more serious. “And then my wife, my ex-wife, her family is here, so we stayed.”

“Mmm.” I take a sip of my coffee finally. “How long have you been divorced?” I don't know if this is a safe date question or not.

“Almost two years. You?”

I shake my head. “My husband passed away.”

“Oh, jeez, I'm sorry. Craig said you were single. I just assumed . . .”

“No, you're fine.” I feel like this would be easier if we were drinking. “Do you have kids?”

“No. No kids.” He looks down at his coffee, and for a second I'm afraid he's going to tell me some awful story about how they tried, but he doesn't, and I'm totally relieved.

“And you're off to Philadelphia, is it? For this conference? If it's anything like a writer's conference, you'll be hungover for a month.” I laugh, but really I'm thinking,
Jesus, how hard do I have to work?
But this one takes, and he laughs, and he tells me a few stories about drunk doctors and guys who get busted for fucking around on their wives, though he doesn't use the word
fucking
. Whatever, it's working, and I think,
We could do this
.
I could see him
again.