Plus One (33 page)

Alex puffed out his cheeks and tried to keep quiet.

“All done. Just sit tight. You'll be numb in a second.”

The pain flared and then eased, replaced with an odd tugging sensation, as if a massive weight was pulling his organs down toward his pelvis. He kept his eyes shut and head tilted to the
side. Between his knees he was dimly aware of Finkelstein and the nurse working away.

“You catch the Ozzy roast last night? On Comedy Central?” The doctor shot a quizzical look over his taped-up member.

Alex opened his eyes a crack and looked down. “Sorry?”

“The Ozzy roast. Did you see it? You know he's one of the charter members of the Friends of Finkelstein. He's out there on the wall. His wife sent the picture in—such a doll. They've talked about me on the Stern show a few times—you must've heard that, right? You seem like a Howard guy.”

Alex shook his head. “Must've missed it.”

“I don't generally talk about my patients—but my patients generally don't talk about
me
on Howard Stern. So.” He laughed. As he talked, his hands kept moving. From up here, he could've been shucking oysters.

“Everything… all right down there?”

Finkelstein went right on shucking. “For a guy who bites the heads off bats, you'd think Ozzy'd be okay with a routine procedure, wouldn't you? But oh no. Remember, Diana, what a wreck he was? Writhing around, shaking, crying? We had to give him a general.”

“Wait—you can do that? I don't
have
to be awake right now?”

“Oh stop—you're fine. You're a champ. Almost done here.” He turned to the nurse. “And how about that Lisa Lampanelli bit? The thing about how Sharon has to stick her arm up Ozzy's butt every time he talks? Did you see his face? Priceless.”

Alex rocked forward. “Um, doc?”

“What I don't understand is how they get away with the language—I know it's cable, but I didn't think they could say
anything
. Did you hear that guy Jeff Ross call Ozzy a withered-up old cocksucker? It
was
after nine, but—”

Alex slapped a hand against the exam table. “Doc… maybe save the recap until after we're finished here?”

Finkelstein set something down in his tray, stood up and laid a hand on Alex's knee. “All done. No big whup, right? Don't forget the scrotal support and ice compress—normal to feel some discomfort. Avoid heavy lifting, give yourself a day to recuperate. I'll leave a prescription for the pain. Any serious swelling or discharge, let me know. Otherwise, see you in a few weeks.”

“So that's it? Are we done?” He let out a long breath. As he was preparing to get up, Diana leaned in. With a single vicious motion, she ripped up all five pieces of tape at once, leaving behind a bright red crosshatch pattern across his belly and the underside of his dick.

“
Now
you're done,” she said.

• • •

Alex still felt woozy after he got his clothes on and ventured into the reception area. “Vasovagal lightheadedness—totally normal,” the nurse said, dropping Finkelstein's prescription into a plastic bag with a sheet of after-care instructions and a few squares of gauze. “There's a pharmacy in the lobby, if you want to pick up your scrotal support and medication right away. Ah, here's your wife now—”

Wife? Alex looked frantically around the waiting room. Miranda stood by the door, draped in a knit cardigan and plump leather purse.

Alex felt a jolt of giddiness as she came forward and took his arm. “Easy there, Sher. Let's get you home.”

She'd come. She'd said she'd come and then she'd come. In the elevator, she asked how it had gone and then reached into her purse and pulled out a napkin-wrapped baked something. “Bacon scone?” she said. “Made it fresh this morning.”

“Thanks—but I'm feeling a little rough.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, popping a piece into her mouth. She
checked her phone and followed him into the pharmacy, acting for all the world like this was the most normal errand one could be doing at one o'clock on a Tuesday, even when Alex got the script filled, swallowed two Vicodin dry, and then asked for her help comparing the various options when it came to scrotal support (finally settling on a basic-model jock strap with a protective cup advertised as “padded for extra comfort!”).

Maybe it was the empty stomach, but Alex felt the effect of the pills almost immediately, his tongue going tingly and then a warm molten sensation percolating up through his limbs. By the time he was safely buckled in Miranda's car—a dented, plum-colored Saab with a popsicle-stick-and-yarn craft dangling from the rearview mirror—the wooziness in his chest was replaced by a full-body tingle, like he'd just stepped out of a steam room.

Miranda rolled down the windows and turned on the stereo, silvery ringlets flying loose against her face. Alex closed his eyes and listened to the music. It was “Peace Warrior,” an inoffensive reggae ballad by Franklin Sykes, the singer who'd just signed onto the cast of
The Natashas
. “Perfect,” he said, his eyelids fluttering. “Of course you love this guy. All women love this guy. Figgy has such a crush on this guy….”

“He is pretty dreamy,” she said.

They drove without talking for a while, Alex enjoying the warm wind whipping around the car's interior, the shadows of palm trees and billboards scrolling through the sunroof. He pictured what they looked like from the street, a guy of a certain age in a Saab driven by a young, pale blonde. An attractive young couple. It was such a beautiful city—so much prettier out of his minivan, over here on the right, in the passenger seat. He never didn't drive. When was the last time he didn't drive?

“Thank you for doing this—so sweet of you.”

“It's fine. You needed a ride.”

“I'm very grateful,” he said, then paused to take her in. Her
hair was flying all over, lit up from above. Every part of her was unfamiliar—the long, tapering neck, the spray of freckles on her arms. She flashed him a smile. She was attentive, nurturing. He thought about that kiss on the street, imagined what she looked like naked, a flush on her cheeks and a film of sweat on her forehead.

“I'm pretty looped,” he said.

“So you are.” She reached over and gave his knee a quick pat. “You've had a big day.”

She parked on the curb outside the house and insisted that he wait for her to help him out. As he was fumbling for the seat-belt buckle, he spotted a stack of pages jammed between the parking brake and his seat. He had just enough time to pull it out and give it a look. It was a script. Miranda's name was at the bottom, with a date and WGA registration tag. GERALD & GERALDINE.

“What's this?” he said, getting out of the car.

“Oh that. Just something I've been working on. About my dad and the family and all that. It's a pilot.”

“You're a writer? I didn't know you were a writer,” he said.

“I didn't know you did reality TV. It's L.A.—what do you expect?”

• • •

Alex said goodbye to Miranda on the sidewalk, savoring the quick but close hug she gave him almost as much as the awestruck expression she directed down the leafy path toward the front door. “Some house,” she said.

“Thanks. I can't believe—” he stopped midway through the line he used with everyone who came here for the first time: “I can't believe I get to live here.” Not today. Not with her. For all she knew, there was no “get to”—this was all
his
doing. “What can I say? It's pretty ridiculous.”

He promised to give her a tour some other time—right now the kids were home and he just needed to plop down on the couch. “Frozen peas!” She called to him as he went down the path. “The nurse said frozen peas! For the swelling!”

Alex walked in the door to find Sylvie camped in front of the kitchen TV and Sam at the computer. He dropped his keys and wallet on the counter. “Hey kiddos!” The kids grunted in response, eyes locked on their respective screens. Normally this is where he'd grab the TV remote and computer mouse and unilaterally shut down all media, demanding they speak to him—“Like a person!” he'd holler. He'd check their homework, maybe break out the Uno deck. But right now he was glad for the distraction. Rosa was on her way out, and he was on his own with the kids until Figgy got home.

Alex went to the bathroom, took a look at the contents of his underwear—swollen, discolored—and then put on his new jock strap and some sweats and returned to the kitchen. He plucked a bag of Trader Joe's soybeans from the freezer and headed for the couch.
Frozen edamame: the evolved man's choice for testicular swelling
. He plopped down next to Sylvie and unfolded a blanket hanging over the arm, stuffing the chilly bag down his pants and pulling the blanket around him in a tight cocoon. “Sylvie honey—we're not watching this,” he said, wincing at the laugh track blasting from a Disney Channel sitcom. “Daddy veto.”

“Fine,” Sylvie said. “I've seen that episode like six times already.
King Chef
?”

Alex began scrolling through the DVR playlist, happy at the prospect of whiling away an hour or two with Sylvie as superhero chefs battled it out in the kitchen arena. But what about Sam? Besides the occasional fashion show, he couldn't be bothered with reality TV. After all that had gone on today, Alex had a sudden overwhelming desire to have both his kids cuddled up close. “Hey, Mr. Man,” Alex called to Sam, an idea flashing before him.
“Get in here. I'm putting a movie on.”

“A movie? Right now?” Sam said. “I haven't even done my vocab—”

“Vocab can wait.” Alex furiously thumbed the keypad on the remote, splurging to download
For a Few Dollars More
. He'd watched the entire Sergio Leone oeuvre with his dad on late-night TV during one of his weekend visits after the divorce, as a sort of tonic for all the lady power he was fed at home.

“Get ready—this is only the best Western ever,” he said, pulling them both close.

The kids made dubious groans—“This looks
old
,” Sylvie said—but stayed put. The movie started and they all fell silent.

He'd forgotten how bloody it was—after the sixth body was riddled by bullets, Alex pressed pause, got up, popped another Vicodin, and checked that the kids were OK. Both of their eyes were wide and excited; they clearly had no objection to the violence.

“Who would you be?” Alex asked as he settled back in.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Which cowboy would you be? Clint Eastwood or Lee Van Cleef?”

“Which one is which?”

“Van Cleef's the older guy. The colonel. Clint's in the poncho—with the cigar? For me it's all about Van Cleef. That's who I'd be—I'd be right there, cracking safes and shooting bad guys from across the whole corral.”

“You know how to shoot a
gun
?” Sylvie asked.

“Oh sure.”

“That is
so
not true,” Sam jumped in. “You can't shoot. And you're allergic to horses, remember? And dust. And also hay. You'd be all puffy and sneezy. The only guy in this movie you'd be is the man in the general store with the twitchy face and the ribbon tie. That's you, Dad.”

Alex started to protest, then sighed. “Okay, fine. You're right. But I'd hire you as my right-hand man, to work with in the shop, okay? You'd hook me up with some Sammy's Salves? All these guys could use a skin-care regimen, am I right?”

“Seriously.”

It was after dark and the movie was almost over when Figgy came through the door, lugging a pile of scripts and a bundle of mail. Alex started to get up, then thought better. “Hey!” he called across the room.

On the screen Clint had just tossed El Indio's body into a wagon overflowing with corpses. “What in God's name is this?” Figgy called.

“It's only the best Western ever,” Sylvie said, squeezing Alex's shoulder.

Figgy dumped her stuff and then came over the couch, leaning down on the arm. “What's for dinner?”

Alex looked up at her blankly, the question of food not even occurring to him until now. “I dunno—what
is
for dinner? I can put some fish sticks in for the kids, and maybe we can just do soup or something?”

She rolled her eyes and sat down at the island. “Soup? Seriously? I'm exhausted and starving. And we need to talk. I've got news.”

“Really?” Alex said, tugging the blanket up to his chin. “Can I just sit one more sec? I'm not feeling so hot. Those tacos last night ripped me up inside. I've barely gotten up from the couch all day.”

Figgy looked annoyed. “That should be all cleared out by now, shouldn't it? Have you called the doctor?”

He crossed his arms under the blanket and held onto his sides. The tugging feeling in his groin was back, mingling with a narcotic bleariness. That last Vicodin was maybe not the best idea. She headed over to the fridge, swinging open the door and blocking her view—he had a quick window in which to somehow
get rid of the now-soggy bag of soybeans jammed between his thighs. He got up quickly, tucked the bag under his shirt and headed for the bathroom.