My Father's Wives (15 page)

I desperately needed to get home, but that wasn’t an option until morning. I was also exhausted, but I couldn’t bear the idea of going back to the hotel and sitting alone in the darkness, waiting in vain to be overtaken by sleep. The night was warm so I thought I would just walk, as I had the night before, without a destination.

On Hopkins Avenue I passed a sign that screamed
ASPEN BREWING CO
. I dropped onto a stool and ordered a microbrew, choosing the brand by the look of the label. The beer was cold and buttery without a hint of bitterness; I drank half the bottle in two long sips and motioned to the bartender that I wanted another.

“This one’s on the hottie over there,” he said, pointing to the corner of the bar as he slid the beer my way.

“What?” I said, confused.

He fixed me with a look that suggested I was either drunk or stupid. “The attractive young woman seated over there would like to buy you a drink.”

I turned; she smiled. The light gleamed off the steel rod in her tongue. “Fancy meeting you here,” I said as I slid onto the stool beside hers.

“I’m always here. You’re the surprise.”

“Maybe it was meant to be.” The bartender slid my fresh beer across the bar. “You look great.”

“Thank you.”

“You aren’t paying for this,” I said. “I’m too old to allow you to buy me a drink. In my generation the gentleman buys the lady the drink.”

“That’s sexism.”

“No, it’s good manners.”

“Sometimes I get those confused.”

I sipped the beer. “Your name is Amanda, right?” I said.

She smiled. “I knew I made an impression on you.”

“I have a question.”

“I probably have an answer.”

“What made you decide to pierce your tongue?”

“It was a Wednesday and I was bored.”

“No, I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

I drank half the beer in a large gulp. “Do you ever regret it?”

She shook her head.

“Does it serve a purpose?”

Her smile turned sexy. “Be nice to me and you might find out.” As she had in the morning, she made me stir.

“Any ink?” I asked.

“Plenty.” She turned her right wrist over so her palm faced the ceiling. Just below the heel of her hand was what appeared to be a Chinese symbol.

“What is it?”

“It means
breathe,
” she said. “When I get stressed, it reminds me.”

“That it?”

Amanda stood. “Not even close.” She slipped past me, near enough
that her breasts pressed into my shoulder. I could see another tattoo at the small of her back as she walked toward the ladies’ room. The bartender brought two more beers. I thought of Shelby, lying naked in the bathtub. She had been beautiful but empty. Amanda wasn’t empty. She wasn’t as pretty as Shelby, but she was sexier.

When Amanda came back from the bathroom she brushed against me again as she slid back onto her stool. “Miss me?” she asked.

“Terribly.” We clinked our bottles together. “I saw the tattoo on your lower back,” I said, “but I couldn’t figure it out.”

“Maybe you weren’t staring hard enough.” She turned away, pushed her bottom toward me. “See,” she said, “it’s a butterfly.”

It was, an oblong butterfly. Perched atop the lacy black strap of her thong. “You know,” I said, “I really regret not growing up in this era. When I was your age, girls wore leg warmers
over
their jeans. Huge, baggy Benetton sweaters with upturned collars underneath and knitted woolen stockings over their pants.”

“I’ve seen pictures,” Amanda said. “Fashion was so weird back in the day.”

“There are nuns today who show more skin than a promiscuous high school girl did in 1985,” I said. “Fathers must have had it so much easier back then.”

“Are you a father?” she asked.

I didn’t answer that. Instead I just looked down at the bar. Someone had engraved initials in it with a knife. A small puddle of dried ketchup was next to the initials. I could see my daughter’s eyes in the ketchup. I was missing home again, piercingly.

“How old are you?” Amanda asked.

I could feel the beer grow warmer in my glass. “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t really care,” she said. “Thirty?”

I reached for my beer, took a small sip. “A little older than that.”

“Are you married?”

I lifted my left hand. The bar light reflected off my wedding ring.
“Do you care about that?”

“Of course I do.”

The beer had gone totally flat, the taste bitter. All the air was out of the room, at least in the space that separated us. I stood, took two twenty-dollar bills from my pocket and dropped them on the bar. “I’ve really enjoyed talking with you,” I said.

“Where you going?” she asked, though she didn’t seem upset to see me leaving.

“I just really need to get home.”

“SUNDAY MEANS FAMILY!”

Drew shouted it the moment I entered the house; he can hear the garage doors from the couch where he watches television. Kids pick up on everything, even things you don’t. I never consciously decided I was going to announce, “Sunday means family!” It just worked out that way, and obviously he noticed and now was repeating what he’d heard.

Claire was over for a kiss before I set down my briefcase and keys. “How are you feeling?” she asked, and pressed the back of her hand against my forehead.

“I’m not sick.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I’m a mother,” she said. “That’s even better.” She turned back toward the kitchen but I grabbed her arm and pulled her close, kissed her hard on the lips.

“Didn’t see that!” Phoebe called, turning the corner from the
kitchen and shielding her eyes from the worst of all possible sights: her mother and father kissing.

“How are you, sweetheart?” I asked her.

“I’m going to kick your butt today.”

“I see,” I said, loosening my tie. “It’s going to be like that.”

Sunday nights are family nights in our house, and what that has come to mean is heavily competitive board games. Our usual routine: Claire prepares dinner, we sit to eat, she and I share a bottle of wine, the kids alternate who gets to choose the game. We play for hours and it can get heated. Claire and I made an agreement early on that we would not let the kids win, so we play hard and feelings are never spared. Sundays have often been known to end with one or both children in tears over losing, but within a few minutes that usually passes and the few moments of discontent are easily outweighed by the hours of fun.

“We’re playing Scrabble tonight,” Phoebe said.

“And we’re having chicken, it’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” Claire said. “Can you open a bottle of something sensational?”

I nodded to them both. I never realized just how much they look alike. Their features mostly aren’t similar, but there is something in the way it all comes together that is indescribably the same. When my daughter was born I hoped she would grow up just like her mother, and she has. She is exactly what I wanted her to be. So is Drew. So is the wine, and the chicken, and the Scrabble. And so is Claire. I couldn’t escape that. As I selected a bottle of Louis Jadot Batard-Montrachet from the cellar and removed the cork, I thought:
Maybe my life is still perfect
. Then I tasted a sip of wine and took what may have been my first truly deep breath in five days.

Back in the kitchen, I handed a glass to Claire. She received it gratefully and took a sip. Our eyes met over our glasses, and in hers I saw everything I had been aching for in Aspen: familiarity, understanding, compassion. Then she winked at me, took another sip, set her glass on the counter, and went back to preparing dinner. I turned
to the family room, where I saw only the backs of my kids’ heads as they lay sprawled on the sofa watching television. I walked closer, holding my glass, and laid my free hand on each of them, one at a time, stroking their hair. Then I picked up the remote control and clicked the television off. “Come on, you two,” I said, “let’s sit at the table and talk. I feel like I’ve been gone forever.”

There was a little grumbling, which always comes with being made to shut off the television, but they were happy to see me. Maybe not as happy as I was, but happy nonetheless. I poured two glasses of milk and the three of us took seats around the kitchen table, surrounded by the aroma of garlic and the sound of Claire rattling through silverware. In a moment she would ask the kids to set the table. The last vestiges of sunlight streamed through the windows, warming our faces. “Let’s talk,” I said as the kids drank their milk. “I’m interested in anything either of you has to say.”

IT IS MY AIRBORNE
observation that people in coach are happier than people in first class. I don’t have an explanation, but it is too consistent to be coincidental.

I fly a great deal. With Bruce I use the private jet, but the rest of the time I am on the airlines, and what is inescapable is that the passengers in first class are cross, curt, frazzled, short with the flight attendants, and frequently downright rude, as though the pressure of maintaining their status has become too much to bear. Alternatively, the masses who are granted permission to board only after we have settled disagreeably into our seats are almost always greatly spirited, engaged in pleasant conversation, and occasionally even laughing.

“What row are we in, Daddy?” a little girl will ask, wheeling a knapsack, a stuffed animal in the crook of her elbow.

“Thirty-four,” her father replies. “All the way in the back.”

Nine out of ten times, that father’s disposition is markedly more pleasant than that of the businessman seated beside me, nose buried in his e-mail, entire presence emitting the unmistakable vibe that if
you want to have a friendly conversation you have come to the wrong place. He seems a good deal more concerned with wedging his elbow increasingly toward me in a silent but hostile bid to claim our mutual armrest simply because he is competitive that way and assumes if he doesn’t I will.

As the sun rose Monday morning, I found that guy beside me as I flew out of New York. I had tiptoed out of my bedroom before five o’clock, successfully allowing Claire to sleep through my departure, in part out of consideration and the other part because I wasn’t fully convinced of my skills as a liar. It is one thing to type untrue texts. It is another entirely to stare her in the face and tell her I was headed to the office when in reality I was rushing to catch a flight to Saint Kitts, West Indies.

I landed on the island just before eleven o’clock and was transported via ferry three miles across a shallow channel to the island of Nevis. I had heard of the Four Seasons Resort Nevis, but until one is making the approach on a sun-drenched morning it is not possible to fully appreciate the spectacle of the signature red umbrellas set against the sugary white beach and translucent turquoise sea.
The children would love it here,
I thought as the wind rushed through my hair and a light mist coated my face. But I would never bring them. Not after today. There are other places with white beaches and blue water; I wouldn’t need to revisit all this baggage just to get a suntan.

At the dock I was greeted with a smile and a tropical drink, then escorted to my room, which overlooked the tennis courts. The first tee was just beyond, lush and green, with white-bellied monkeys dancing in the trees. There was a scuba lesson going on at one end of the swimming pool, an exercise class at the other; water-skiers were loading a speedboat off the shore, and a steel drum band played a reggae version of “Leaving on a Jet Plane” adjacent to the luncheon buffet.

“As you can see, the variety of activities has no limit,” said the
pleasant young man who showed me to my room. “Is there anything I can add to your schedule?”

“Thanks, no,” I replied. “I only came here to do yoga.”

THE ENTRANCE TO THE
spa was just off the tennis courts and looked exactly like the waiting area of every spa I have ever seen: glass walls, running water, chimes, new-age music, a table bearing signature lotions, creams, oils, gels, shampoo, bath beads.

A tall, dark-haired woman behind the appointment desk raised a hand as I entered. “Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you with anything?”

“I’m here for the noon yoga.”

“Yoga with Miss Anne is in the garden by the reflecting pool. She’ll be here any moment. Will you require a locker?”

“Thanks, no,” I said. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Do you have a mat?”

“I don’t.”

“Help yourself to one from the bin.”

I pulled out a tightly rolled yoga mat and made my way into the sun. It was a cloudless day with enough breeze to take the edge off the heat, perfect for exercise. I unrolled the mat and laid it beside the small pool, pulled off my sneakers, and stood barefoot, breathing deeply in the sea air, my face upturned to the sun.

The voice came from behind me, soft but deep. “Hold that for five, four, three, two, one. Now engage the muscles of your throat as you slowly let it out through your nose. This is called our
ujjayi
breath. Find yours. Five, four, three, two, one. Very good.”

I turned toward the voice, my eyes squinting in the reflection of the sun. “Are you Miss Anne?”

“I am,” she said, and placed her palms together in front of her chest. “Namaste.”

I bowed my head. “Namaste.”

Anne was taller than I expected, with long legs and flowing gray hair. Her arms and shoulders were gracefully muscled, long and sinewy, the sort of muscle that comes from yoga rather than lifting weights. She wore black Lululemon yoga pants and an opaque T-shirt covered in symbols and three words:
LOVE
,
LIFE
,
YOGA
. “Appears you’re the only one today,” she said. “Anything in particular you’d like to do?”

All I knew of yoga came from watching my mother. “Not really,” I said. “Just need a good stretch.”

“Do you have any injuries I should know of? Bad back?”

I shook my head.

“Very well,” she said, and extended a tiny hand. “I’m Anne Sweetwater.”