Monsters (21 page)

The replies come in so quickly it takes me a minute to tell what's from whom. Tommy says,
Because she thinks she's in love with this piece of shit,
and Sadie says,
Because he's an asshole (Dad, not Matt) and I hate him.

I call Tommy. “You've got to let the piece of shit see her,” I say when he answers.

“No way.” I can almost see him shaking his head.

“I'm serious. As long as you're the dragon at the door, she's in a fairy tale, and Matt's her goddamn prince.” I shuffle my papers around, try to copy the primary-care number from my insurance card. “You have to change the narrative. You have to make it boring.”

“Right.” Tommy laughs, but it's not a happy sound. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“You know, give them a bunch of rules. He can come over, but only when you're home, and they have to stay in the living room.”

“No,” he says. “I don't want this kid in my house.”

“And then sit there and talk to him. Ask him where he's going to college, what he likes to do, just whatever. He will get tired of her if it means sitting in a room with you. You know he will.”

“How is this your business anyway? Don't you have a date or something to get ready for?”

I hate his tone, but it's easier to deal with over the phone. “I don't know, Tommy. It seems like you want to talk to me about everything right up to the minute I disagree with you. You want to break them up? You want to keep her safe? Act like a father and not some possessive
piece of shit. Jesus, Tommy, it's not about you. This kid didn't happen to you. He happened to her, so stop being such a narcissist. It's not your pride on the line. It's her fucking life.”

I hang up and press my hand over my mouth, pinching my nose closed with my fingers. It's like I can feel him yelling even with the phone sitting off on the table in front of me. After a minute, I text Sadie,
Your dad is an asshole.
But then I add,
I'll do what I can,
which is nothing, frankly, but at least Sadie doesn't know that.

•   •   •

Mornings are so loud, and then the boys are off to school and it's quiet again. Then much too quiet. I used to write in these quiet stretches. Now I have nothing to do. I sort of stand in the living room with my coffee, and then I think about dusting. I'm studying a shelf when the phone rings.

“Sarah,” I say. I haven't talked to her in probably two weeks.

“Jason made us come in at three this morning.” She yawns audibly. “I'm so exhausted. And now he doesn't need me for the next hour.”

“Take a nap.”

“I've had too much coffee,” she says. “I'm like bone tired, but when I tried to lie down, I felt like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest.”

“So you're calling me 'cause you're bored?” I laugh.

“And my heart might explode,” she says. “How's Nebraska? Distract me from my impending death.”

“Nebraska's amazing. It's like forty degrees outside, and later I might go to the store.”

“Frigid,” she says, and I say, “No, forty is warm.”

She laughs. “Oh, hang on. It's Tommy.” Her voice gets quieter like
she's moved the phone from her mouth. “I'm talking to Stacey, love. You want to say hello?”

And in the background, I hear him say, “No.”

•   •   •

Phillip asks me out the following Thursday. It's a doctors' thing, some dinner, and he needs a date. “Absolutely,” I say when he calls. “I'd love to.”

He picks me up around five. I've toned the hair down. I've got less shadow on my eyes. I'm wearing a sleeveless sheath that it's still way too cold for, but my arms look really good, and my legs are already bare, so what the hell. I've got a warm coat.

“You look beautiful,” he says as I slide into the car.

I smile, and he backs out of the driveway. It's a nice car, very doctorly, very sturdy. Four doors, leather interior, heated seats. I sit on my left hip so my knees are pointing toward him, close enough to touch, but it's not a stick shift, and he keeps his hands on the wheel.

“So where are we headed?” I ask, and of course it's a steakhouse, but it doesn't really matter as long as they're serving wine.

We walk in, and to start there's a mixer, and I'm there with all these midwestern doctors' wives and I think,
Not a fit, this is not a fucking fit.
But whatever, I've lived here a long time. I know how to blend in. Phillip orders a scotch and soda, and I say, “I'll have a vodka on ice,” and I feel like, once I drink it, things will be better.

Phillip has a little stubble coming in, a little five-o'clock shadow, and I like the way it looks on him. I decide I like the way he looks in general. I shift my body so our arms are just barely touching.

He says, “I should introduce you to a few people.” This time he does rest his hand on the small of my back as he leads me through the room. He's getting better.

I can't keep all their names straight, but Janet is the one with the beige Coach purse, and she's married to the guy with the red tie. Alex is an internist, and his wife is pregnant and therefore not drinking. I feel sorry for her. Then there's the couple who are both doctors, and I didn't catch either of their names, but she's an OB, and he's an infectious-disease guy. Cara is a cardiologist, and her husband is named Mark. I don't know what he does, but he is also not a doctor, and he seems a little embarrassed about it.

“And what do you do, Stacey?” asks Alex's pregnant wife.

“I'm a poet,” I say, draining the last of my vodka. I jiggle the glass like the ice might be hiding more.

“You don't say?” says red-tie guy. And then he laughs and says, “You must get good alimony then.”

I think about saying,
Actually, I don't get any alimony because my husband fucking died,
just to be an asshole, but Phillip says, “She does a little screenwriting too. She has a movie coming out. When is it, Stacey?” and I just sort of shrug.

“They're still filming,” I say, and I jiggle my glass again and wonder if he's going to notice.

“Yeah, she was just in L.A. a few weeks ago on set,” and he says
on set
like he's making air quotes, but he doesn't actually. He keeps his hands down, and his left hand is still on my back, which right now is the only thing that's going right.

“Really,” says Cara. “That sounds exciting,” but she says it like it absolutely does not.

Phillip notices my glass and says, “Can I get you another?” and I flash him my very best smile. I say, “Please.”

“So what's the movie called?” Mark asks.

“I don't know,” I say. “There's been some argument about the
title”—there's been some
Joe is a pain in my ass
about the title—“but the book was called
Monsters in the Afterlife
.”

Suddenly Janet is interested. She says, “Hey, I think I've heard of that! With Tommy DeMarco?”

“And Sarah Nixon,” I say.

“Holy crap, that's a big deal,” she says.

I just shake my head. “You know, they had to pay me, so that part of it was pretty nice.”

Phillip returns with my drink and presses it into my hands. He rests his own hand back on the small of my back, and I think,
Good boy,
and I turn and smile at him.

“Thank you,” I say, and I take a sip of my drink. I lean toward his ear. “I was really glad when you called.”

But then Janet asks, “So have you met Tommy DeMarco?”

“We've been in some meetings,” I say. I don't add how he doesn't appear to be speaking to me since I called him a narcissist. I know he's taken my advice though, because I've heard from Sadie, and Matt's already been over for dinner.

Phillip says, “I didn't realize he was involved.”

“Mmm,” I say, and I nod. “And Jason Collier.”

“Wow, you really undersold this,” he says. He turns toward the rest of them. “She just said, ‘Oh, I'm working on this little movie thing, I guess.'” He shakes his head. “Jason Collier.”

Mark says, “Collier is a great director, but I've never thought much of DeMarco. He does some weird stuff. Didn't he do that movie where he's a drug addict who thinks he's killed his girlfriend but then it turns out that really he didn't?”

I say, “Yeah, that's Tommy,” and then that seems too familiar, so I add, “DeMarco,” but it feels like I did it too late.

“He seems like a real playboy,” red-tie guy says, and I laugh because who says that, and then I say, “That's putting it nicely,” and Janet says, “Really?” in this really engaged tone, and everyone is looking at me a little more intently, and I feel like I've just turned into a walking tabloid.

“I mean, he has a pretty bad reputation,” I say, and then I shut my mouth and focus on the vodka.

•   •   •

Phillip pulls into my driveway and stops the car.

“If the kids weren't home, I'd ask you in.”

“That's okay,” he says. He turns in his seat to face me. “Can I kiss you good night?”

“I'd be mad if you didn't.”

He leans toward me, holds my neck with his left hand, and he parts his lips this time. I am marginally impressed. I put my hand on the top of his thigh and press my thumb across it, and I feel him shift in his seat. His mouth moves with a little more assurance, a little more need. I twist my chin to the left to free up my lips, and I trace the stubble along his jaw with the tips of my fingers. “I like this on you,” I say, “a little rough against my chin.”

He says, “I like you,” and he turns his mouth to find mine again, and this time he uses his tongue to tease open my lips. I think,
Of course you do.
I think,
Who wouldn't
?

“
C
RUNCHY OR CREAMY?”
I say, holding the pantry door open.

“Creamy,” Stevie says.

Ben's having scrambled eggs for breakfast, but Stevie wants peanut-butter toast. I set the jar on the counter in front of him and walk back to the stove.

“Do you have a boyfriend now?” Stevie says.

I turn to look at him, but he's focused on spreading the peanut butter. “You mean because I went to dinner last night?”

“And two other times too.”

“You're right, we did go two other times. So I guess I have a friend I sometimes go to dinner with.”

“Is that why you're not talking to Tommy anymore?”

I turn back to the stove. Ben's eggs look a little dry. I slide them onto a plate. I'm so stupid. Of course they would have noticed. We talk all the time, and sometimes my hands will be full, and my phone will start ringing, and one of them will pick it up for me. Stevie always hands it right over, but Ben will talk for a minute or two.

“I'm not not talking to Tommy,” I say. “He's just been really busy with the movie. It doesn't have anything to do with me having dinner.” I set the plate of eggs in Ben's place. “Can you go tell your brother his breakfast is ready?”

“Okay,” he says, and he hops off the stool and heads down the hallway.

I turn toward the sink, run cold water into the pan.

“Mom,” Stevie says, so I know he's back. “I really like Tommy.”

I shut the water off, but I don't turn around. I say, “I know, baby. I really like him too.”

•   •   •

I don't hear from Tommy for three weeks, and when I do, I wake up to see a text from him that reads,
I forgive you.
I pick up the phone and type,
Go fuck yourself,
and then hit
send
. I'm in line at the post office when he calls. I'm shipping a box of books. I see his number come up, and I hit
answer
and hold the phone to my ear.

He must realize I've picked up because after a second he says, “Stacey?”

I scuff my foot along the floor. I shift the box of books onto my hip.

“Okay,” he says, “you were right.”

“How's Sadie?” I say, but I make sure my tone stays pouty. I don't want him to think that I'm not still pissed.

“Better, maybe. I don't know.” He sighs. “You were right. I'm a terrible father.”

“I didn't say you were a terrible father. I said you were a narcissist.”

“Same thing.”

I'm almost to the front of the line. I say, “I should go. It's not a good time.”

“C'mon, Stacey, what are you doing?” he says.

“I'm mailing a package,” I say, and I shift its weight to keep from dropping it.

“You know,” he says, “sometimes people argue and then if they aren't complete assholes, they figure out a way to patch shit up. So, you know, stop being a complete asshole.”

I set my package on the counter and try to smile at the woman behind it. I'm trying not to let anything slip. I shift the phone a little away from my mouth and say, “I need to send this to Minneapolis. Media rate.”

On the other end of the line, Tommy says, “Oh, fuck you,” and hangs up.

•   •   •

When I walk out to the car, I don't get in. I lean against the trunk and let the sun warm my face. We're having one of those early springs when it's already warming up in March. I have always loved spring in Nebraska. When Michael wanted to talk me into moving here, he brought me out in the spring, and the whole city was so green, and the trees were budding, and Michael and I were starting a new life, and I said,
Yes, let's do it here,
and so we did. And even here, in the post office parking lot, it feels like the air is filled with possibility. It feels like the very beginning.

I take my phone out, and I call Tommy, and when he answers, I say, “I'm lousy at apologies,” and he says, “You suck at forgiveness too.”

“I know,” I say, “but you're good at it, right?”

“I am,” he says. “I'm like fucking
magnanimous.”