Two of a Kind (17 page)

“How about a cup of hot cocoa before you go? It's almost hot cocoa weather.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. He remembered how she used to serve it with animal crackers.

When the cocoa was ready, she put a handful of mini-marshmallows in each mug, and sat down with him again. “Let me ask you something else,” she said. “I want to know about this woman, this Christina person, your father mentioned.”

“What about her? Dad hired her to redecorate the apartment.”

“Is there something wrong with the way the apartment is decorated? I happen to think it looks very nice the way it is.” She blew delicately on the surface of the cocoa.

“Yeah, that's what I thought at first too. But you know, I think Dad thought it would be a way to move on . . . after Mom and all. And you know what? He's right. Christina is making the place a little different, but not, like, too different, you know? And she's got this really cool plan for what used to be Mom's office; it's going to be a guest room for when you stay over.”

“It's hardly like I
need
a guest room.” Ida looked down into the mug as if she were deeply interested in the swirled pattern created by the melting marshmallows.

“Whatever. Anyway, I like her. I didn't at first. But now I do.”

“Why didn't you?” Grandma Ida pounced on those words.

“I thought she was going to, like, erase Mom from the apartment. But she doesn't want to do that at all. She said she wanted to honor her.”

Grandma Ida made a face that said,
Oh really? I don't believe it for a second.

Oliver finished his hot chocolate, brought the mug to the sink, and ran the water to rinse it.

“Go away! I'll do it myself.” She shooed him off. Grandma Ida was an obsessive cleaner. No one, but no one, did a good enough job for her and when she came to visit, she was always puttering around the apartment, not only pointing out all the things she thought Lucy had missed, but fixing them herself. Standing at the sink, she scoured the cocoa mugs and placed them in the dishwasher—not that they needed it now. But she said it was a way to sterilize them. Then she walked Oliver to the door. “You'll think about what I said, won't you?”

“I will.” Oliver felt sad about leaving. The afternoon had been a respite from his real life. But now he had to go back home and, like, deal.

“Here, take this,” she said, pressing a small brown paper bag with a neatly folded edge into his hands.

“What is it?”

“Just a little nosh for the ride,” she said.

Oliver opened the bag. There, inside, was the familiar red and yellow box. Animal crackers. He bent down to kiss her cheek, inhaling the scent of her face powder, and the supersweet cologne—it was like air freshener or something—that she always wore. “Thanks a lot,” he said.

“For nothing,” she replied, and her thin arms enfolded him in a surprisingly powerful hug.

W
hen the call from Cunningham came in, Andy's latex-gloved fingers were thrust deep in Xiomara's vaginal canal, delicately testing her cervix. Of course he didn't know the call was from Cunningham; though he'd given the headmaster his private number, the phone was on vibrate, and buzzed almost imperceptibly in his pocket. “You can get dressed now,” he said to Xiomara when the examination was completed. “I'll see you in my office.”

He left, closing the door quietly behind him. Back in medical school, Andy endured the ribbing—some of it playful, some less so—from his male classmates about his choice to go into gynecology and obstetrics. He'd heard his share of crude jokes, tolerated the nickname of Pussy King; none of it fazed him. Though he was appreciative of women's bodies in his personal life, the women he saw professionally did not elicit the same response. He viewed the female body as a miraculous ecosystem, both powerful and fragile, and it was his job to see that this system functioned at optimal levels at all times. Andy was not so much detached as he was awed by the ability of his patients to conceive, gestate, and give birth to new life; by comparison, the male contribution seemed random and puny.

Sitting at his desk, he waited for his heart rate to slow. Xiomara upended his carefully honed sense of professionalism. She was almost six feet tall, with a full, well-proportioned body that pregnancy had only enhanced. Her belly was a ripe melon; her breasts were magnificent. Once, while palpating them in a routine exam, he'd actually gotten a hard-on; this had never happened to him in all the years he'd been examining women, and he was shaken afterward, like some sacred trust had been broken.

There was a light tap on the door. “Come in,” he said. She wore leather pants, and a shawl with long, lush fringe. Her husband, a professional basketball player with the LA Lakers, was not with her today, which ought to have meant the paparazzi threat was slightly reduced.

“Everything's all right, then?” she asked. “You didn't see any problem.”

“Not a thing,” he said firmly. “The sonogram shows the baby is developing normally; your cervix is nice and tight. How are you feeling?”

“All right . . . Some days, good. Lots of energy. Other days, like I want to fall asleep while standing up. And I'm so hungry! I bought cheese at Dean & Deluca and I couldn't even wait to get home to eat it; I tore the package open with my teeth, right there on Prince Street! Thank God there was no photographer around to catch that!” She laughed, a rippling, melodious sound.

Andy smiled too. “All perfectly natural, everything on course. Eat when you're hungry, though I want you to make every calorie count. And take naps. Lots of them.” He stood and extended his hand.

“I'll see you, then, Dr. Stern.” She took his hand, then covered it with her other one, so that for a moment, his fingers were cradled by the warmth of hers. “I'm
so
grateful for everything you've done.”

“You're the one doing all the work,” he said, flustered by her touch. “I'm just your shepherd here. Your guide dog.”

“Woof,” she said softly and her white teeth—a small, sexy gap separating the front two—gleamed in a smile. “Woof, woof.” Then, gathering her shawl and her bag, she left. Andy stood there a moment, trying to collect himself. Fortunately he had another month before he saw her again; maybe by then he would have figured out how to deal with this maelstrom she set off in him.

Walking into the waiting room, he was distracted by shouts from the street. He moved to the window, which faced Park Avenue and was open; his office was on the ground floor, so that the drama was literally unfolding before his eyes. There was Xiomara, clutching the shawl around her as she attempted to fend off the greedy swarm of paparazzi that had descended. How did these people manage to track her? Had someone implanted a GPS chip under her glorious brown skin?

Cameras clicked, and a crowd began to gather.
Putting a protective arm around her shoulders, her bodyguard started to get rough—pushing the reporters back, guiding her toward the waiting car. A camera was shoved into her face; the bodyguard knocked it out of the photographer's hand. It went shooting into the street and bounced off the windshield of an oncoming taxi. The taxi swerved, people shrieked, the bodyguard used the distraction to push Xiomara into the car, and the driver sped off. Andy watched in a state of mild shock. When the car was gone, he turned and there was Joanne. “Did you see that?” he said. “Jesus.”

“Unbelievable,” she said. But then it was time for the next patient. After that, Andy hurried off to the hospital to meet the patient who'd gone into labor. By the time he remembered to call Cunningham back, it was after six. The guy was probably gone for the day. But to his surprise, Cunningham picked up the phone on the second ring. “I had to expel Oliver today, Dr. Stern,” he said. And then he proceeded to explain what had happened to bring about this definitive act.

“And there's no way you would reconsider?” Andy said. “Maybe we're not going about this in the right way—” A siren blared, as if underscoring his sense of alarm.

“I've tried every way I could think of,” said Cunningham.

“But he's a good student. Or can be, when he puts his mind to it.” The siren was gone, replaced by the loud exhalations of a bus huffing down Second Avenue.

“He shows flashes of real brilliance,” Cunningham agreed. “His English teacher shared his last paper with me; it was on Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. She said it was publishable.”

“Really?” Andy's heart couldn't help but leap when he heard that.

“Yes, really. But then he fails to show up for three out of the next five classes and flunks a silly little pop quiz. He needs help, Dr. Stern. More help than we can give him, I'm afraid.”

“But you've said yourself that he's got the makings of an exceptional student—”

“Which is why I am only expelling him, and not bringing in the police.”

“The police!” Whatever fragile place his heart had attained only moments ago was lost as it went thudding down, down, down. “Why the police?”

“He was in possession of
quite
a lot of marijuana; it's possible that he was intending to sell it.” Andy was silent as he absorbed this new information.
Was
Oliver selling drugs? That would be the final irony; he gave the boy all the money he asked for, never questioned where it went. Why would Ollie want to do that, unless he had some serious self-destructive urge? Or wanted to
zetz
his father, as his mother might have said?

Andy said good-bye and put the phone away. He had to find Oliver. But he thought he'd better calm down first, so he walked over to Second Avenue, where he ducked into a bar and ordered a Scotch. When it arrived, he called Christina. Maybe she would know what to do. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said. “I was worried that something like this might happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, only that I suspected that he was smoking—”

“You suspected and you didn't
tell
me? Why the hell not?” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Are you there?” he asked.

“I don't like being sworn at,” she said finally.

You think that's swearing?
he wanted to say.
Give me a fucking break.
But instead he said, “I'm sorry. I'm just upset, that's all.” He paused. “How long had you suspected?”

“For a while. And then Jordan confirmed it.”

“Jordan? How does Jordan know anything about this?” He had been about to say,
How the hell does Jordan . . . ,
but he censored himself. Barely.

“She ran into him one day over the summer and he pulled out a joint in Central Park.”

“And you've known that since the summer and kept it from me all this time?” Andy said.

“No. She only mentioned it recently. I wanted to tell you. But I wasn't sure it was the right thing to do. I was building something with Oliver; I didn't want to lose his trust.”

“So you let him get expelled from school instead.” Betrayal washed over him like a tide.

“Andy, I'm incredibly sorry. I was wrong. I should have told you right away.”

He sipped his Scotch, not sure how to respond. They were still new as a couple; he didn't want to ruin things between them, but he was hurt. Angry too. “You shouldn't have kept it from me,” he said finally.

“I know. I shouldn't have.”

“Maybe if I'd known, I could have done something. Now it's too late.”

“They really won't take him back?” she asked.

“Take him back? I'm lucky they aren't calling the police.” He finished the Scotch and decided against a second glass.

“What if I talk to him?”

“You? Why?”

“Because he likes me,” Christina said.

Andy did not dispute this. “Well, I'm not sure. . . .”

“Can it hurt?”

“I guess not.” He suddenly did not want to be having this conversation. He wanted to say good-bye, and get the hell out of there, which was exactly what he did.

Oliver was sitting on the sofa in the dark when he came in; Andy didn't see him and when he realized he was there, he jumped slightly. Jesus, but he was nervous. He sat down in the chair facing his son. “I talked to Cunningham,” he said.

“So you know,” Oliver said. In the dark, his blond curls seemed to glow.

“I know.”

“What are you going to do about it? Ground me? Lock me in my room?”

“Ollie—”

“Stop calling me that!” His voice was suddenly sharp. “I hate that name.”

“All right,” Andy said, surprised. “I'll stop. And you want to know what I'm going to do? Well, I don't have a clue. Clearly that therapist you saw over the summer didn't help.”

“Clearly.”

“Do you want to see another therapist?” Andy asked.

“What for?”

That seemed to kill the conversation for several minutes. Andy was quiet while he regrouped. “I have to ask you something important,” he finally said. His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could see Oliver looking at him. “Cunningham seems to think you were planning to sell what he found on you today.”

“Dad! Do you think I'm an
asshole
? Using, possession—that's one thing. Selling is, like, a whole
other
thing.”

For some reason, Andy believed him and there, in the quiet room, he exhaled a powerful sigh of relief. But there was still the
using
part of the equation. He had no reason to believe Oliver was going to stop, unless he stopped him. How? “I'm not going to be so free with money anymore.” There had to be some accountability here, goddamn it.

“Whatever,” Oliver said.

“And you'll have to do something. You can't just lie around here all day. What do you want to do?”

“Grandma asked me the same question.”

“Grandma? When did you talk to Grandma?” Christ, now he'd have to deal with his mother.

“Today. I went to see her. She made me lunch.”

Even in the dark, Andy could see Oliver's smile. “Well, what did she say about your predicament? That is, assuming you let her know about it.”

“I already told you what she said. She asked me if I wanted to go back to school. Because if I did, I'd have to take one path, and if I didn't, I'd be taking another.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I didn't know.”

“Is there anything you
do
know? Anything you
do
want to do?”

“I'm not sure. . . . I was thinking maybe I could just, like, hang out with Christina.”

“Christina?”
Of all the possible answers Oliver could have given him, Andy would never have expected this one.

“Yeah, help her and stuff. Maybe she'd need me to paint something, lug something, clean something. I want to go to those—what do you call them?—like, sales she goes to.”

“Estate sales?” Now the kid wanted to start rummaging through all the crap people didn't want or left behind when they died?

“Yeah. Estate sales.”

“Well, I could talk to her. . . .” Hadn't Christina said Oliver liked her? Well, she was right about that.

“Grandma was asking me about her. Like, a hundred questions: what do I think of her, is she nice? What's
that
all about? You'd think she was, like, your girlfriend or something.”

Andy sat very still. Here was a small moment of truth, delivered right into his lap. “Actually, she is my girlfriend,” he said. Even though they had just had their first fight.

“No shit?” Oliver said, and when Andy nodded,
no shit
, Oliver raised his palm to his father's and slapped it in an exuberant high five.