The Hole in the Middle (26 page)

“No kidding!” I say. “You must be the one who went to Harvard.”

Chelsea snorts. “Is she still telling people that?”

“That you went to Harvard?” I ask. “Didn't you?”

“I interviewed at Harvard. I think it's safe to say that it was a more significant event in my mother's life than it was in mine. We did mock interviews every weekend for months beforehand. She grilled the parents of every kid she knew who had interviewed at an Ivy League school so that she could anticipate the questions and prepare detailed answers for me.” Chelsea rolls her eyes. “She's a little controlling. I think she may have blocked out the fact that I went to music school instead.”

“So,” I say, casually, “family dinners were a big deal in your house growing up?”

“Not in the sense of being the most significant event of my life, no,” she says. “Dropping out of music school, moving to New York, and starting my own band was.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “You really shouldn't let her get under your skin. Although she's good at it, I'll give you that.”

“So what are you doing now?” I say.

“I'm trying to make a living as a musician, so I do a few things. I do some vocals for a jazz quartet and teach some private students. And I just started my own band.”

Her roommate joins the conversation. “Chelsea's being modest. Her band is amazing. They're turning away bookings.”

“What kind of band is it?” I ask.

“We do eighties covers,” she says. “I love those old songs. My mom used to play them all the time.”

I can't help myself. “What year were you born, Chelsea? If you don't mind my asking, that is?”

“In 1988,” she says.

“Great meeting you,” I say, and I strike out for the kitchen on the theory that Jesse will eventually gravitate there and I'll have someone my own age to drink with, but first I bump right into Marvin Shapiro. He looks relieved to see me. “Sophie!” he says. “What a nice surprise.” He's sweating profusely. “It's really very warm in here,” he says, dabbing his bald patch with a cocktail napkin. “I meant to thank you for all of your help managing the publicity for Dr. Viggars. Did you see the feature in the paper today?”

“I did,” I lie. “I thought it was terrific.”

Marvin beams. “I'm so pleased to hear you say that,” he says. “It's certainly causing quite a stir!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Dr. Viggars has been getting requests for radio and television interviews all day. Apparently, he's the hottest topic in the blogosphere today, not that I have a particularly good sense of what that means. But he's younger than I am and he says it's a good thing. This will be excellent for his career.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to muster some semblance of enthusiasm. “Well, that's great. He deserves it.” I pause. “Marvin, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“About the study,” I say. “How concerned should I be about the amount of television my sons are watching?”

Marvin looks at me kindly. “Sophie, parenting is all about instincts, and judging from what I know of you, your instincts are excellent. It's an interesting finding, that's all. It's not a reason to change your parenting strategy.”

“Certainly not,” says another voice, and Margaret appears at Marvin's elbow with a drink. “Here you are, Marvin.”

“Bless you,” he says fervently, taking a long gulp.

“How do you know Lil? I didn't realize that you were friends.”

“I've known her for years,” says Margaret. “I was one of her first students. I don't want to tell you how long ago.”

“You lived in this house?”

“For three years, during nursing school. It hasn't changed much since then. Lil gave me the most extraordinary break on the rent in return for my looking after a pair of diabetic cats.”

“Cats?” I can't imagine Lil with pets.

“They weren't exactly her cats,” says Margaret. “A dear friend of hers had died and she felt duty-bound to take in the poor woman's pets. They needed insulin injections twice a day and had a raft of other health problems, but Lillian felt too guilty to euthanize them. They were in quite a sad state. Eventually the poor things expired, but Lil never raised my rent.” Her face lights up as she smiles. “You know, I was just telling your husband this story in the kitchen. He's very charming.”

“He can be,” I say.

“That's the best you can hope for,” she says. “Right, Marvin?”

“Absolutely,” he says, clinking his glass against hers, and I realize that Marvin has plans this evening with Margaret that don't include chatting about diabetic cats. So I excuse myself and wander off in search of my husband.

I pause at the entrance to the kitchen and watch Lil, Jesse, and Will in conversation. I can tell from here that Jesse has turned off the charm; he looks as though he wishes he were anywhere else, and I'm reminded suddenly of the quiet endurance that my father used to exude at cocktail parties. I don't think about my dad that often; for so many years, it hurt too much, but lately I've found myself wondering what he would say about some of the choices I've made. I've never asked myself what he would have thought of Will, though, and I'm surprised to realize that I'm dead certain of his answer.
You're easy to love, sweetheart,
he would have said.
Anyone who thinks it's complicated isn't right for you
.

I sidle up to Jesse.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello there,” he says. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“We were telling Jesse about our plan to recruit you to the foundation,” says Lil.

“Oh?” I say, chagrined. The last thing I need tonight is to reopen our earlier fight by reminding Jesse that this conversation about my future employment has been going on without him for some time.

Will turns to Jesse. “It would be a great move for her, don't you think?”

“That's up to her,” says Jesse. “I have no doubt that Sophie would be wonderful at anything she decided to do.”

“I said I'd consider it,” I say. “But I haven't had a chance to talk it over properly with Jesse yet. It's been a crazy week.”

“Isn't it your decision?” Will's tone is playful but there's no mistaking the challenge in his question.

Most of the time, the events that alter and define us are invisible, mere background noise in the dramas of other people's lives. Usually, you can get away with saying,
I have something in my eye
, or
I stayed up too late last night watching reruns
, and no one will suspect that you just broke up with your boyfriend or had a fight with your mother or bombed an interview. But there is no anonymity in the way Will and Jesse and Lil stand and wait for my answer. This is one of those rare occasions when I won't be able to rewrite a version of events in which I behaved better, or was at least funnier and better looking. All of us know that my answer matters.

I lace my fingers through Jesse's. “It's a family decision,” I say, and I feel him relax, while Lil smiles and Will looks away.

Jesse squeezes my hand. “Lil,” he says, “would you be horribly offended if we ducked out early? We're bagged.”

“Certainly not,” says Lil, beaming her approval. “If my date looked like yours, I'd leave early too. Off you go, my dears.” She gives us both a kiss.

It's quiet out on the street now, and there's no traffic at all. “Can you make it a couple of blocks in your shoes?” Jesse asks. “It'll be easier to grab a cab on the main road.”

“I'm tough,” I say.

“You're not really,” he says, and we start walking. “I was chatting with your future boss. Margaret, is it? I didn't realize that you had finished the search. She seems great.”

“I hope so,” I say. “I'm ready to swap pompous, insulting, and unlikable for great. That's a change I could get behind. At the moment I'm just happy not to be on the search committee any longer.”

“But you're thinking about leaving.”

“Maybe,” I say. “There's a lot to consider. I want to talk it through with you, but not now, OK?”

“OK,” he says, and we walk the length of the next block without speaking, fingers laced together. “I'm sorry about this morning,” he says. I squeeze his hand. “I've been thinking about what you said about Anya.”

“I'm sorry too, Jesse. I didn't know what was going on with the business. I don't know why I reacted like that. She gets under my skin.”

“I know she does. I'm beginning to see that she tries to do that to you. Sometimes I think she's a bit lonely. But you must know there's nothing going on between us. I would never let anything threaten our family. It's the only thing that matters.”

“I know,” I say, hope rising so hard in my throat that I can barely speak. “I feel the same way.”

Jesse strokes his thumb along the side of my hand, and we make our way out to the main road and hail a taxi. There's a lot more to be said, but we won't say it tonight. This tentative peace between us is sweet and hard-won and desperately needed.

At home, Jesse goes to check on the boys while I take off my makeup, wriggle out of my pantyhose, and kick off my shoes. When he returns, I'm sitting on the bed, examining the damage.

“I talk a good game,” I say, “but I think I might be crippled tomorrow.”

“Your friend Zoe would say it's a small price to pay for fashion.” Jesse sits down next to me and pats his lap. “Let's have a look.” I lie down and put my feet across his lap, and he massages my arch with his thumb.

“That she would,” I say. “She calls these ‘fuck-me' shoes.”

Jesse's eyebrows shoot up.

“It's an industry term,” I say. “Mmmm. That's amazing. I might actually walk again.”

“What were you and Lil caballing about at the party?”

“Oh, nothing. She likes you. She thinks you're a catch.”

“Smart lady,” he says, moving his hands up to work the muscle in my calf. “What did you say?”

“I said that she has no idea,” I say, in my best attempt at a sultry tone.

Jesse's hands move a bit higher. I bite my lip and close my eyes. “You know,” he says, conversationally, “I could do a much better job if I didn't have all this fabric in the way.”

“Hmmm. Can I help you with that?”

“No, no. I've got it covered,” he says. I feel the bed shift as Jesse stretches out beside me. He slides one hand under my shoulder, wraps the other around my hip, and pulls me onto my side so that I'm facing him. I open my eyes and hold his gaze; it's dark and steady and knowing, and I swallow hard. And then he grins and, with one fluid motion, scoops me up, rolls me on top of him, and unzips the back of my dress. “Did I mention that I like your new shoes?” he says.

And for the first time in ages, as I lean down to kiss him, I know exactly what I want.

sunday, december 8, 2013

When I wake up, my first thought is one of panic. “What time is it?” I ask, poking Jesse's shoulder.

He lifts his head slightly to see the clock on the bedside table. “Six-thirty.”

I sit up. “Do you think the kids are OK?”

Jesse looks puzzled. “Why wouldn't they be?”

“They haven't made a sound all night!”

“Well,” says Jesse, “I'm going to assume that's because they're sleeping, as opposed to dead. We want them to sleep through the night, right?”

“Good point,” I say. I lie back down and put my arm across Jesse's chest. “That was fun last night.”

He smiles. I wait for a few minutes, but he doesn't say anything.

“Was it fun for you?” I prompt.

“Very fun.” Nothing further appears to be forthcoming.

“That's it?”

“Baby,” he says, “one of the best things about being married is that you can have sex without having to talk about it in the morning. Don't take that away from me.”

Six boyfriends, one husband, and twenty years of dating, and my natural instincts about what men think and feel are still dead wrong. With mountains of evidence to the contrary, I still cling to the theory that a man is an onion, with layers of complexity to be peeled back by a woman who cares enough to discover what is at the core. But a man is not an onion. There is nothing buried at the core; it's all visible right on the surface. You can spend years looking for the complex inner spirit of your mate, but you'll drive yourself crazy. As Gertrude Stein famously observed about Oakland, there is no there there. Women, on the other hand, are all layers. But men, if they give thought to such things, don't think of women in such benign vegetable terms; to them, we are as dangerous and unpredictable as explosive devices. We fester below the surface, ready to blow at the first wrong step.

“OK,” I say in a small voice. “Maybe I'll check on the kids.”

“I want to register my strong objection,” says Jesse. “If they wake up, which they will, you're on duty.”

“Duly noted,” I say.

I slip out of bed, tiptoe up the stairs, and peek into Scotty's room. I see his curls peeking up over the top of the covers and hear the sound of gentle breathing. Truly, there is no sweeter sound in the world than that of a sleeping baby. Filled with a sense of well-being, I retreat back into the hallway and turn toward Jamie's room, stepping squarely on a creaky floorboard. I hold my breath. Nothing. And then, “Mommy?”

I groan, and hear a faint chuckle from downstairs. I retrace my steps, and find Scotty sitting up in bed. “Hi, Mommy!” he says. “I'm ready to get up!”

“Are you sure, honey?” I ask. He nods vigorously. “OK,” I say. “Do you want to come and cuddle in Mommy's bed for a while?”

“No,” says Scotty. “Playroom!”

“It's a little early for that. Why don't I read you a story?”

“Playroom!” Scotty says, stubbornly and too loudly.

“Shhh. Your brother is sleeping,” I whisper, even as I hear Jamie's door opening behind me.

“Is it morning?” he asks.

“Sort of,” I say. “It's still really early, though. Are you sure you don't want to go back to bed for a while?” I hear a snort of laughter from downstairs.

“No,” says Jamie. “I want to go to the playroom.”

“Me too!” says Scotty.

“All right, then. The playroom it is.” We all troop downstairs, past my bedroom, where Jesse is snoring pointedly to indicate that I should look elsewhere for childcare assistance.

I brew some very strong coffee and get out the giant bin of Lego. We construct an elaborate space station, and then attack it repeatedly with star fighters; it's hungry work, so we decide to break for pancakes. The boys help mix the batter and we make shapes in the hot pan: Scotty has Mickey Mouse and Jamie has a Death Star. With the holiday ad in progress, I can't implement the weekend phase of the BlackBerry diet, so the device sits and hums on the kitchen counter, generating a corresponding hum of anxiety in the recesses of my consciousness. By the time breakfast is finished, the hum is as distracting as microphone static. I hustle the boys back to the playroom, convince myself that I've provided as much stimulation as their developing brains can absorb for now, and turn on the cartoons. “I'll be right back,” I say, and scoop my BlackBerry off the counter into the pocket of my bathrobe. Then I sneak into the powder room down the hall and close the door. With the kids distracted, I can probably clear fifty e-mails if I focus for a half hour. I'm making good progress when the door opens.

“Busted,” says Jesse, leaning on the doorframe with a grin.

“This is a bathroom,” I say. “Knocking would be appropriate.”

“The kids were looking for you.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry about that.” I'm more than a little embarrassed. How did I not hear the kids?

“That's OK,” says Jesse. “What's going on? Anything urgent?”

“Just backlog. I thought I'd try to catch up while the kids were watching TV.”

“I have a thought,” says Jesse. “What do you say to a trip to the museum?”

Jesse has always been a fan of excursions, and to be fair, the kids
love them. I resist, which is one of many reasons why I am the less fun parent. Excursions are always so much work—the organization, the packing, the removal of overtired children from the public location of the excursion over their screaming protests.

“Did you ask the boys?”

“They already have their coats on.”

“Did you pack snacks?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Jesse salutes.

I sigh. “A trip to the museum sounds perfect, then.”

“Trust me,” says Jesse. “It'll be fun. Run and get dressed.”

I throw on some jeans and race back down to find the kids standing and waiting at the door. I put on my coat and sling my purse over my arm. “I just need to grab my BlackBerry,” I say. “Have you seen it? I thought I left it here.”

“I put it away,” says Jesse. “We're going to make a deal and both leave our BlackBerrys here. No e-mail for a couple of hours. Just us, the kids, and some dinosaurs. I think we could both use a little separation.”

“You stole my BlackBerry?”

“That's a very uncharitable way of putting it. I'm giving it a well-deserved rest for a couple of hours,” he says.

“Fine,” I say. I'm too tired to argue with him, and too unwilling to disrupt our fragile peace.

We are the first in line when the doors open, and we make our way straight to the dinosaur exhibit. Jamie and Scotty have the hall to themselves and they run in circles with their arms outstretched, cawing. “Pterodactyls?” I guess.

“Pteranodons,” says Jesse.

“What are pteranodons?”

“Flying dinosaurs. They changed the name.”

“Who changed the name?”

“Search me.” He points to the description on the wall of the skeleton suspended from the ceiling. “Also, apparently they weren't technically dinosaurs. See for yourself.”

“I believe you,” I say, although I don't.

Jesse laughs. “OK, smarty-pants. Guess what they call the giant dinosaur with the long neck and tail now?”

“Brontosaurus?”

“I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the brontosaurus is no more,” says Jesse, looking not at all sorry. “They call him apatosaurus now. There's a femur over there.”

“Jamie,” I call, and he swoops over. “What dinosaur are you pretending to be?”

“A pteranodon,” he says, with a look that I know I'll be seeing a lot more of in his teenage years.

“Wait until you tell him he can't borrow the car,” says Jesse.

“Where did you learn so much about dinosaurs?” I ask Jamie.

“We learned about them in school,” says Jamie. “We came here on our field trip. Emmett's mom came with us. Why didn't you come?”

I swallow hard. “I was working, sweetie,” I say. “Emmett's mom doesn't have a job, so it's easier for her to come on field trips.”

Jamie looks confused. “Emmett's mom says that she has the most important job in the world.”

Jesse steps in. “Emmett's mom is right. Raising kids is a really important job. Your mom is so amazing that she can do two jobs at once.”

“OK,” says Jamie. “Can we get some ice cream?”

Jesse laughs. “It's a little early for that. Are you guys finished with the dinosaurs? Do you want to go and see the knights now?”

The boys cheer, and Jesse leads the way to the armor exhibit. “I'm right behind you,” I call, and dart over to the wall to read about the flying non-dinosaur, swing by the femur that does not belong to a brontosaurus, and then run to catch up to my family.

“So?” asks Jesse.

“It appears that you may have been telling the truth.”

“I ask you,” he says to the room, “eight years of marriage, and where's the trust?”

“How did I not know this?”

“The International Association of Paleontologists didn't call to
consult you? We should write a letter.” I punch him lightly on the shoulder. “This is actually bothering you, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I admit. I feel remarkably unsettled, not unlike the day I learned that Pluto had been demoted from planetary status. Bit by bit, everything I learned in elementary school is becoming irrelevant, which is pretty serious since I don't remember anything that I learned in high school or university.

Jesse puts his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “Sophie, I think you might feel better if you could come to grips with the fact that you are not in control of everything.”

“There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I'm not in control of everything. Most days, I'm pretty confident that I'm not in control of anything,” I say, and my lip starts to quiver.

The boys are temporarily occupied with an imaginary duel, so Jesse pulls me over to a bench, sits down, and puts an arm around me. “I know the feeling,” he says.

Tears roll down my cheeks, as the anxiety of the last week returns in a rush. “I'm sorry I didn't know how bad things were for you with the business,” I say. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I should have,” he says. “But you've been so unhappy at work and it never seemed like the right time. And then Will showed up.”

“What does Will have to do with it?”

Jesse shoves a lock of hair out of his eyes, and when he speaks the warmth is gone from his voice. “Oh, I don't know, Sophie. Maybe I didn't want to give you another reason to think you'd picked the wrong door.”

“What do you mean?”

“Behind Door Number One,” he intones, “independently wealthy, hot young Manhattan lawyer and deal-maker, who also happens to look like a
GQ
model. And behind Door Number Two, failed entrepreneur and perpetually exhausted father of two.”

I'm shocked to hear Jesse describe himself in these terms. He has always been so comfortable in his own skin, so sure of his place in the world. I'm horrified to think that Will's visit, and my reaction to it,
have rattled him so profoundly.
And for what?
I can hear Zoe's voice in my head asking.
What has Will ever really offered you behind Door Number One? If you believed you could have him, you'd have paid attention long before now to all of the reasons that he's completely wrong for you
. I hold Jesse's hand tightly in my own as a fierce protectiveness rushes through me.

“That's not fair,” I say. “You're adorable and hilarious. You can cook. And,” I pull his head down and whisper in his ear, “you're good in bed.”

He laughs and kisses my forehead. “Not our best week, was it?”

“No.”

“Leaving aside our mutual friend, what's making you so crazy?”

I sigh. “I hate my boss, my assistant hates me, Geoff is going to quit, and I can't think of a theme for the Gala. The HR director thinks I'm completely unhinged. My doctor gave me a prescription for antidepressants. We're going to get kicked out of the daycare because I'm an incompetent mother and I'm late every day and Scotty bites. The Parent Council at Jamie's school is stalking me because I don't volunteer.” I'm working up a good head of steam now. “The kids have terrible eating habits. They're never going to get into Harvard because we don't sit down together for family dinner. I let the kids watch too much TV, which probably causes ADHD. God, what if the biting is the first symptom?” I put my head in my hands and groan. “I have to make a decision about the job offer from Lil, which is obviously complicated. And my mother's mad at me.”

“Why?”

“Because I quit Family Yoga and didn't return any of her calls about Christmas.”

Jesse shakes his head. “Let's have a reality check here. You're working very hard at a big job that you are very good at. You have two great kids. And you're married to a guy who loves you and apparently has certain attributes that you like.” He squeezes my hand. “But let's deal with your list systematically. You hate Family Yoga. So you should tell your mother, quit, and move on.”