The Summer Garden (74 page)

“You want your family to eat without you three nights a week?” Alexander said quietly.

And she,
nodding!
said, “I’d rather you eat without me than eat this late. This is terrible.”

“Yes, it is,” Alexander said.

She didn’t lift her eyes.

Anthony came to his usual Phyrric rescue. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mom, don’t be angry, okay?”

“Great introduction.” Tatiana lifted her eyes to her son. “What did you do?”

“The principal wants to see you first thing tomorrow.”

Tatiana leveled her gaze on him. “And there I was,” she said, “going to go Christmas shopping for you first thing tomorrow, Anthony Alexander Barrington.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I got into a fight, Mom.”

She did a double take. “You what?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” said Anthony. “But the other kid has a broken nose.”

Tatiana glared at Alexander.

“What are you giving
me
dirty looks for?” Alexander said. “I didn’t break the kid’s nose.”

“Is his name Damien Mesker, by any chance?” asked Tatiana.

“Yes! God, how did you know?”

“Because we set his nose at ER this afternoon. Anthony, I thought you two were friends.”

“Mom, I didn’t mean to break his nose. We just got into a fight.”

“Where are your marks?”

“Well…” Anthony said, “I didn’t get hit. He went for me but I ducked.”

“I see.” Once again she glared at Alexander.

“What?” he said, shrugging. “You want your only child to stand there and take it?”

“It’s all my fault,” Anthony said quickly. “Don’t be upset with Dad.”

“Clean up, Ant.” Tatiana got up from the table. “Alexander, would you like to have your cigarette outside—now?”

Alexander gave his son a shove as he went out. “See what you did?” he whispered.

On the deck, Tatiana said, “Shura, what are you thinking teaching your boy to fight but not to have sense? He’ll break somebody’s nose now, but you know better than anyone that tomorrow it’ll be front teeth. And he did not use equal force. The other boy just pushed Ant.”

“Anthony has to know how to defend himself,” said Alexander. “The broken nose was an accident.”

“You’re impossible, that’s what you are,” said Tatiana. “Now I have to call the boy’s family. That’s another hour gone by, and it’s already after ten.”

“Yes,” said Alexander, sitting back against the bench, smoking, looking out onto the dark desert. “It is very late, isn’t it?”

After Anthony was made to call Damien and apologize, Tatiana talked a long time to Damien’s mother.

When Alexander came inside the bedroom, he found Tatiana asleep on top of the quilt in her uniform. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. In the cauldron inside his chest, tenderness swirled around, jumbled and swallowed by hostility. He shook her leg.

“Oh God,” she muttered, waking up. “I’m not alive tonight.”

“As always,” said Alexander. “At least tomorrow you have a day off.”

Quickly she undressed, stumbled to the bathroom, stumbled out, and fell into bed, her hair still in a bun, turning her face to him for a kiss, eyes closed.

“Do you want me to rub you?” Alexander whispered. She smelled faintly of musk oil that seemed to have permanently soaked into her skin, of lilac soap, of mint on her breath. His hand crept down her spine. Tatiana muttered something, groaned and was asleep. Alexander lay behind her, against her warmth, caressing her up and down, her soft round buttocks that fit so nicely into his hands, her soft thighs. Her skin was like a baby’s. This is what he imagined baby’s skin might feel like. He fondled her breasts that fit so nicely into his hands, gently pulled on her nipples, making her stir even in sleep, glided into the slope of her waist, rubbed her smooth stomach, stroked her fine fair hair. His hand prodded…but then he stopped. Leaning over her, his hand fanning her face, Alexander kissed her temple. Eventually he fell unhappily asleep.

In the morning he reached for her but she had to be at the principal’s office first thing. “Tania,” he said, sitting down to breakfast, “I’ll be home around twelve thirty for lunch.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, Shura,” Tatiana said, pouring him a cup of coffee and placing a croissant on his plate. “I…did I forget to tell you?” She laughed a little. “I’m not going to be here in the afternoon. After meeting with the principal, I was going to buy groceries, Christmas decorations, and then…um, I have to run to the hospital for a few hours.”

Alexander stopped drinking his coffee, stopped looking at her. For a few seconds he did not speak. Finally he said, “Anthony, can you wait outside for your mother? She’ll be right there.”

“Mom, we have to go. Mrs. Larkin is waiting.”

“Wait outside for your mother, I said.”

Casting an anxious look at Tatiana, Anthony left.

As soon as the door closed, Alexander turned to her. He was still sitting at the table. “What are you doing? Tell me, because I have no idea.”

“Honey,” Tatiana said softly, “you’re working anyway. What difference does it make?”

“All the fucking difference in the world, Tatiana,” said Alexander. “You’re not sitting in an architect’s office, say mine, answering phones. Don’t tell me you’re working on your only day off till the weekend.”

“Well, I didn’t know you wanted to come for lunch,” she said apologetically. “You don’t usually come to have lunch with me anymore.”

They stared at each other for a short moment. “So?” he said. “I wanted to come today.”

“Anthony is going to be late for school,” said Tatiana. “And the principal is waiting.”

“Why are you going to the hospital? Are you picking up someone’s shift?”

“No,” she said, clearing her throat, her hands fidgeting. “It’s the children’s clinic at St. Monica’s Mission. They don’t have enough people to run it. They asked me to help, just for the Christmas season. They’re paying me double for four hours—”

“I don’t give a fuck if they give you ten thousand dollars!” exclaimed Alexander. “How many times am I going to have to say it, we don’t need the money—” Suddenly he broke off, narrowing his eyes on her. “But you already know that,” he said slowly. “Let me ask you, who’s running this clinic with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is there an attending doctor? Or is it just you by your lonesome?”

“Yes, it’s mostly me. When I need extra help, sometimes Dr. Bradley—”

Alexander had heard all he needed to. He raised his hand and got up from the table.

“I run that clinic, Shura. Only when I need extra help…”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“We can’t…we can’t do this now,” Tatiana said faintly. “Anthony is waiting.”

“He certainly is,” said Alexander. “I’m waiting, too. You know what I’m waiting for? To have a full-time wife. You know how long I’ve been waiting? Since 1949. When—if ever—do you think I’m going to get that?”

“You’re not being fair,” Tatiana whispered, lowering her head so he wouldn’t see tears in her eyes. But Alexander saw. And he also saw Charlie’s eyes, and Erin’s eyes, and the boy’s and his mother’s eyes, and Dr. Bradley’s hand, and small Anthony jumping up and down for her when they were on the boat coming back from Berlin, and he saw her raised, naked hips in his fanned-out hands, and he lowered his own eyes and turned away from her.

Alexander turned his gaze, his head, his heart away from her.

Swinging his hand across the table, he flung his cup of coffee down onto the floor, where it shattered and spilled. Grabbing his wallet, he left with a great satisfying slam of the trailer door.

When he came home at six, Tatiana was home, the house was decorated comfortingly for Christmas, dinner was made, and the candles were burning. She made beef stroganoff, one of his favorites. She served him, poured his drink, served Anthony. They sat and broke their bread.

“Mom,” said Anthony, “how did you manage to put up all our decorations so quickly? The fake snow around the windowsills is an especially nice touch. Doesn’t it look great, Dad?”

“It does.” Alexander’s eyes were on his plate.

“How’s the stroganoff, Shura?”

“Good.” His eyes were on his plate.

“How was your day today?”

“Good.” His eyes were on his plate.

“I love Christmas,” Anthony said, bursting into song,
It’s my favorite time of the year!
Are we going to trim the tree this weekend?”

They ate with their son as their buffer, talking with him and through him. She made them bananas with rum and vanilla ice cream for dessert. Afterward Tatiana and Anthony cleaned up, while Alexander disappeared in the bedroom. He came out twenty minutes later, dressed in clean gray slacks, a clean white shirt, a gray tie. He was showered and clean shaven. He put on his jacket.

Tatiana wiped her hands on the dishtowel.

“I’m going out,” Alexander said.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“On a Tuesday?”

“That’s right.”

Tatiana opened her mouth, but Anthony was on the couch pretending to watch TV, and so she turned on her heels and gave him the back of her head.

Alexander met up at Maloney’s with duck-billed, rockabillied Johnny-boy, who was on a desperate prowl. Problem was, as Johnny put it, he was looking for a “week-long wife.” He had no interest in getting married, but all the girls, of which there weren’t enough, wanted nothing
but
to get married. All the servicemen had come home long ago, and now it was a buyer’s market—unfortunately for Johnny—with one girl for every five boys who wanted her. The girl didn’t have to put out until she was sure of Johnny’s seriousness of purpose, which he faked as best he could, being cocky and wily and a fast talker, but the conflict never went away, and Johnny never tired of talking about it. So this Tuesday night, he and Alexander talked and talked about it, and about their houses and their crews, and their customers, and then Johnny said, “Is everything all right, man?”

“Yes, fine.”

“You’re never out on a Tuesday night. Is Mrs. Barrington working or something?”

“No, no.” Alexander stared into his drink.

“Well, don’t look,” said Johnny, “but there are two young ladies eyeballing who I’m hoping is me.”

Alexander glanced over. Johnny smiled at the girls, who smiled back and then ignored him. He sighed. “It seems so easy. They smile. Why is the rest so hard?”

“Because you’re overthinking it,” said Alexander. “The hard part is getting them to look at you in the first place. If they’re eyeing you from the next table, the hard part’s done.”

“Hard part’s done?”

“Absofuckinglutely,” said Alexander. “Call the bartender, ask him to send them a round of drinks.”

“And then?”

“You’ll see.”

Johnny did. A few minutes later, drinks in hand, the two women sauntered over to Johnny and Alexander.

“Thanks for the drinks, gentlemen,” they said, all smiles.

“You’re welcome,” said Johnny, glancing approvingly at Alexander. “But don’t give
him
any credit; he sent no drinks.”

“No?” said one of them. He glanced at her, then at his beer. “You’re Alexander Barrington, aren’t you?” she said.

“I am. Who wants to know?”

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Carmen Rosario. Remember, me and my husband talked to you last month about building in Glendale?”

“Oh, yeah.” Alexander didn’t remember. “So what happened with that?”

“We’re still thinking about it. Actually, I wanted to make an appointment to meet with you again, perhaps see some of your spec homes. We’re now thinking of building in Paradise Valley instead. We’ve got some land down in Chandler we’ve been trying to sell so we can build a little more centrally.”

“Call the office.” Alexander gave her his card. “I’ll be glad to sit down with you and…”

“Cubert.”

“Cubert.” He and Johnny exchanged a glance.
Cubert?

“So, girls, where are your husbands?” asked Johnny. He was so out of control. He just said the first thing that came into his head.

The younger girl, whose name was Emily, tittered and said she wasn’t married. Carmen said her husband was in Las Vegas. Alexander smirked into his beer. Las Vegas! But no, Cubert apparently was a corporate real estate agent and had a lot of business there. “He’s also an EMT trainee at PMH. Where are
your
wives, gentlemen?”

“Alexander’s is home, and
I
don’t have one,” said Johnny, pseudo-plaintively. He had had too much to drink and wasn’t thinking even one pathetic move ahead because he said, “But I’m
loooking
for one.”

Emily immediately backed off—as in, took two steps back.

Carmen didn’t. “So are you Tuesday night regulars at this dive?”

“No, we’re Friday night regulars,” said Johnny.

“Oh, yeah?” said Carmen, smiling at Alexander. She was statuesque, dark-haired, put-together, coiffed, made-up, well-dressed, extremely large-breasted. “Where do you two live?”

“I live far,” said Alexander, putting down his empty glass on the bar. “And I’ve got to be going.”

Johnny pulled him aside. “You can’t leave yet!” he whispered. “I think I said something wrong, scared Emily off.”

“You
think
?” said Alexander. “Probably telling her you’re trawling for a wife was not the smartest thing you could’ve said. Oh, well, slick, better luck next time. Try the other one—she seems more friendly. After all, Cubert’s in
Las Vegas
.”

They laughed quietly. “Friendly to you, maybe,” Johnny said. “You’re indifferent and yet she is being flirty with you, why?”

“That’s why.”

Johnny convinced Alexander to stay for another drink.

They all went to sit at a darkened table in the corner. Carmen sat next to Alexander. Quickly he drank his beer, his fifth of the night. Carmen volunteered a lot of information about herself. She asked him questions about building a house, designing it, about stone or stucco, flat roofs or pitched. She heard flat roofs were more energy-efficient; was that true?

“That may be true,” said Alexander. “But there are only two kinds of flat roofs. Ones that leak and ones that don’t leak
yet
.”