We All Sleep in the Same Room (9 page)

At various locations between rooms there are small wooden desks where either a pleasant-looking, chicly dressed young man or woman sits before a laptop. As we step past one desk into a plush living room, one of the young men asks, without getting up, if he can help. “That's okay,” I say, taking one of his business cards to be polite, “just trying to get a feel for what I might like.”

“Ah,” the man says, “well, please, feel free to linger. Take your time. Let me know if you have any questions.”

Ben and I take a seat on a large asymmetrical burgundy sofa. It's very comfortable.

“How does it feel?” I ask Ben.

Ben has become quiet and introspective. Maybe it's the pastoral music carrying serenely from the speakers on the ceiling. He rubs the ribbed fabric between his fingers. “I like it, Daddy.”

“Me too,” I say and flip up the plastic price tag hanging from the couch's arm. It's a cool five grand. Expensive, I think, but nice. It's hard to set a price on something you look at and use every day. The right addition could change everything.

From a long-necked lamp arched half-way over the sofa, a convex bulb leans gracefully downward, emitting a mellow glow. I rotate a silver knob at the lamp's base. The warm light sensitively dims and brightens to my subtlest twist.

“I want to try,” Ben says.

Before sliding over I glance at the price tag. Two grand.

Ben and I continue strolling the rooms as if touring an estate. Every object, even those bearing the solidity and refinement of something older, radiates newness. The mystery inherently lurking in the sheen of a mahogany bedpost is not for what has been but rather for what might be. We pass a column that reads: “The urge for good design is the same as the urge to go on living.” And another: “What you make is important.”

A coffee table topped with glossy-leafed photo books of Midwestern barns and the Dalai Lama's travels, and a writer's desk with a copy of
Strunk & White
and a slim volume of e.e. cummings make it nearly impossible to simply stop at imagining a new home without going just a bit further and inventing a new life.

I'm sure we'll be living on the Upper West Side soon. We can afford it, especially now that Raina's back to work. We'll have two or three bedrooms. Maybe a study for Raina. Things will be better then. We'll be one of those couples. We'll send Ben to a private school. Drink lattes. Shop at Zabar's. I'll join a gym. Maybe Raina will take up yoga again. We'll make friends with other parents. Maybe even have another kid. Raina always used to talk about having two.

“Daddy, what's up there?” Ben points excitedly to a spiral staircase.

The upstairs is entirely devoted to bedrooms featuring sumptuous, white-mattressed beds of every size. Ben and I go straight for the kings and queens, their soft down comforters stretching erotically wide. Without fanfare, the first king we come to, draped in a soothing sea-foam green throw and plain white pillowcases, diminishes the memory of Raina's and my paltry full. We hop on, sense the security of powerfully wound springs under fluffy covers. At present there are no sales people up here. I feign a deep sleep before shooting up with a start. Ben laughs. I tickle him under his chin and behind his knees. I lie on my back and hoist him up on my feet. Superman.

* * *

Back home. I kneel
over and tuck Ben's sheets up to his neck, lean a sippy-cup of water against the wooden guard so he can reach it when he wakes, and kiss him.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Almost.”

“I had a really great morning with you.”

“Me too.”

“Okay, now go to sleep.”

“Okay. But, Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Are you gonna be there when I wake up?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too.”

When I leave the bedroom, Raina is facing me. She's come home undetected while I was reading
Pinocchio
, and stands now, at the other side of the living room, leaning expectantly back against the table.

“I've been listening,” my wife says softly. She steps toward me.

“To what?”

“To what a great father you are. He's lucky. And so am I.”

My wife and I meet in the middle of the room where she leans in for a kiss.

“But you're a lousy photographer,” she says, motioning behind her.

I swallow hard. The photos. I picture Jessie posing for me in the viewfinder that morning at the park—hair wet, cheeks red, smiling drolly, seductively—then her unclothed body, writhing rabid in her bed. There they are: a small pile, four by six, stacked on the living room table.

2

F
riday. Raina's late. The union Christmas party—to which the office of Cunningham, Klein, and Levan is invited every year—had been rescheduled from Tuesday on account of the transit strike, which officially ended yesterday afternoon. We'd planned on leaving as soon as Frank arrived. Frank was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.

Dumbo is in the midst of blowing his first shot at stardom by tripping on his ears, the blunder that will demote him to the role of clown and freak. Ben giggles over the routine gone wrong. I dig out the Johnny Walker. I've opted for a black suit and tie.

A key turns in the lock. At the first glimmer of Frank's emergent figure, Ben leaps from the table and wraps his arms around Frank's skinny thighs, tugging at the hem of his jacket. Ben is fully ready to begin whatever game the two have been playing as of late. When he spots me sitting on the couch, his face sours.

“You go away, Daddy,” he commands.

“That's not very nice,” Frank says.

“Listen,” I say to Ben. “This is my house too. Now, I'm going to leave as soon as Mom gets home, but if you want, I can go into the bedroom while you two play out here.”

Just as Ben considers this, a clunky cadenza of horns projects from the miniature DVD player that's been left running on the table. The music signals the entrance of the dancing pink elephants, the stars of Dumbo's madcap hallucination. Over an infectious big-band march, an unseen choir eerily chants, “Hey look! Hey look! Pink elephants on parade!”

“Ooh! I want to watch this part,” Ben says and dashes back to the table. Frank takes a seat next to him, and I'm not asked to leave. Ben is, as always, transfixed by the psychedelic sequence.

“How're things?” I ask.

“Good,” Frank says. “Thanks.”

“Making any art these days?”

“Not exactly.”

“New designs?”

“Actually, I've been writing.”

“Oh. I didn't know you did that. Are you working for anyone?”

“No, nothing like that,” Franks says. “Just, you know, for myself.”

“Fiction? Nonfiction?”

“Fiction.”

“Fiction, wow, that's great. Maybe you can become a famous novelist and hang out with Ben forever.”

“I suppose you already know this,” I say, “but Ben talks about you all the time. He's so attached to you.”

Frank smiles and glances down at his feet. He's embarrassed.

“That's sweet,” he says.

“If you ever leave us, you'll have to join witness protection.”

The lock turns again. It's Raina. Ben gives her a similarly ecstatic greeting. My wife smothers his cheeks with kisses and says hi to Frank. “Sorry I'm late, I'll just be a few minutes.” Unloading her coat and bag on the recliner, she disappears into the bathroom.

I find her topless and bent over, pulling down her stockings.

“What're you doing?” I say.

She turns, startled, fully naked.

“You scared me.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Why are you getting undressed?”

She surveys herself in the mirror. Freshly trimmed under the bathroom light.

“I want to take a quick shower—”

I plant a kiss on her mouth and cup her breast with one hand.

“We're already late,” I say placing my other hand between her legs. She's warm.

“No,” she says. “Tom, not now. I don't want to make us any later.”

She pivots away and steps into the tub. I sit on the toilet and watch her silhouette through the curtain.

“Sorry to be doing this,” she says over the shower. “I was just feeling gross. We'll take a taxi. I'm going to wear heels so a car will be nice for me. We're not too late, are we?” She spreads her legs and soaps between them.

“We're not too late,” I say.

“What?”

I say it louder.

“Good. I know you're excited to see your lovely assistant, although I guess you get to see her every day.”

“Who, Jessie?” I say.

“How many do you have? The one from Kansas.”

“She's from Nebraska.”

“Well, she's beautiful.”

“Funny you should mention her,” I say. “I actually haven't seen her in a while. She took a couple weeks off to visit her folks. She's getting ready for the bar. Tonight will be the first time I've seen her since she left.”

Raina cuts the shower, steps out and begins toweling off. “What?” she says. “Sorry, I couldn't hear you.”

“Never mind. Get some clothes on.”

Raina goes to the sink and applies mascara. I kiss her on the cheek and head for the door. In the middle of the living room carpet, Ben sits cross-legged and alone. His eyes are tightly shut and he counts out loud. Dumbo's saga has been paused just shy of resolution. I enter the kitchen where the lights are off, draw the sliding door and retrieve the Johnny Walker from the cabinet.

“Mr. Claughlin?”

“Is that you, Frank?” He's tucked in a corner.

“Yeah. We're playing hide-and-go-seek.”

I have another pull, and return the bottle to the cabinet. “I'll try not to give you away,” I say. “Raina, I'm going to wait outside,” I call.

“Say good night to Ben,” she shouts back from the bathroom. Ben is in the bedroom lifting the covers off our mattress.

“Do you want to come give your dad a hug and a kiss good night?”

“No, Daddy. I have to find Frank.”

“Come on, Ben. Give me a hug and a kiss.”

“No, Daddy! Go away.”

“Okay then, see you tomorrow. I love you.”

I call again to Raina. “I'll be out front.”

* * *

“I wish you wouldn't
do that,” Raina says.

“Do what?” I say. I'm looking out the window at New Jersey. We've been silent most of the cab ride.

“Leave without saying good night to your son.”

“I did say good night.”

“I mean a proper good night. With a hug and kiss. He's only three years old, Tom, he needs that.”

“He was busy having a good time with Frank. I didn't want to interrupt. Plus, he wouldn't let me, anyway.”

She looks out the window on her side.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” she says. “I just think you're being childish.”

“I'm being childish, you're being…” I trail off. “Well, maybe if you didn't…”

“Didn't what?”

“Nothing,” I say. I try letting more blocks pass. “This is bullshit,” I mutter under my breath. My mouth just kind of does it.

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Really, Raina, nothing.”

“What's gotten into you?”

“Nothing.”

“I'm fine,” I say. “I'm happy. Look, we're almost there.”

“Tom?”

“What?”

“You're not going to start…”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I'm happy too.”

The cab pulls up to the Folk Art Museum on 53rd.

“Tomorrow would've been my dad's birthday.”

“I know,” she says.

“I'm being honored tonight,” I say.

She gives my hand a squeeze. “I know,” she says. “He would've been proud of you.”

I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. The driver hands me my receipt.

* * *

The room is packed
and dark. Faces and limbs glow copper under the lights. Christmas music politely swings.

A few paces in, I'm greeted by Margie Susman, an energetic, salt-and-pepper-haired director of education, and her husband, Mike. It's clear Raina has forgotten their names and they hers. I introduce everyone.

I imagine drinks are to be found somewhere in the back. Before I manage to lead us there we run into John McKibbins, the Teamster Local's president, and his wife, Carolyn, and then into Lamar Jackson, business agent for the United Industrial Workers Local and his wife, Cecile. We say a brief hello to my firm's senior partner, Henry Klein, who's more focused on steadying his twitching hand in order to dip a celery rod into the hill of sour cream on his plate, and to his wife, Sarah. And we say hi to Margaret, who informs us that her date has taken sick—a disappointment for all concerned. Then there's Harold Meyer, union rep for the Sheet Metal Workers and his wife, Catherine, and then Stanley O'Connor, vice president of the Amalgamated Bus Drivers' Union and his wife, Yuka. There's a lot of speculation as to how the transit workers' strike will resolve. Bus and subway services have resumed for now. I steal another glass of red off the tray of a passing waiter.

“You doing alright?” I ask Raina.

“I'm fine,” she says. “You know how I get at these things.” We've finally made it to the drink line.

“You seem bored,” I say.

“Come on…” she starts, but then pauses and stares up past my shoulder. “Behind you, it's Kansas.”

There she is. Jessie, alone in the stairwell, wielding a vodka tonic, advancing leisurely down the steps in a long white dress, red cardigan, green heels, hair up, lipstick on. She's the vision of menacing youth, unable to know the effect of her electrifying descent on our middle-aged party. She spies my wife and me standing below her. She waves.

“Hey you,” Jessie says, slipping into line next to us.

“You're back,” I say.

“Yeah. It was a great trip. I hadn't been home in over a year. I could tell my family was starting to wonder.”

I'm grinning.

“The date of the bar is getting close. I'm so anxious.”

“If
A
intends to shoot
B
but accidentally kills
C
, is he culpable?”

“Yes.”

“You'll be fine.”

“I could've answered that one,” Raina says.

“Always thought you'd be good,” I say.

“Hi,” Raina says to Jessie.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Claughlin.”

“Stoltz. Ms. Stoltz,” Raina says. “But, please, call me Raina.”

Jessie blushes. “Sorry. Raina, of course.”

Jessie offers her glass to the bartender for a refill. Raina asks for what she's having. I, at long last, get my whiskey. I distribute our drinks and the three of us slink off to the corner next to the stairwell.

“So, where exactly are you from?” Raina asks Jessie.

“My hometown is Wisner, Nebraska. We're known as the livestock capital of the state.” Jessie laughs.

“Did you grow up on a farm?”

“Yeah, my family has swine and cattle. My dad's one of the proud holdouts, still maintaining a sizeable piece of his own father's land.”

“Heavily subsidized, of course,” I chime in between sips of Jameson.

“So do you know how to farm?” Raina asks.

“No,” Jessie says. “I watched as a kid, but I didn't pay much attention, not seriously anyway. There was never any question that I'd pursue something else. Most young people leave these days. My dad likes to say, ‘More and more corn, less and less people under sixty.'”

“If he wanted the family farm continued he shouldn't have had four girls,” I say.

“True,” Jessie says.

“Wow, four girls?” Raina says.

Jessie nods.

“So how was it being back?” I ask.

“It was wonderful. I did a lot of studying, of course. But I also got to spend a lot of time with my mom and my youngest sister. I also got my old bike out of the garage. Got a lot of good riding done. Those long, flat roads out there are so right for it.”

“That's great,” Raina says. “Tom never told me you were a cyclist. I'm thinking about buying a bike.”

I nearly choke. “Do you even know how to ride a bike?” I say.

They both roll their eyes. “Raina,” Jessie says, angling her shoulder in my wife's direction, “I'd be happy to go bike shopping with you. Help you make the right decision for your riding needs.”

“Really?” Raina says.

“Yeah, we could go for rides together. It'll be fun.”

They're getting along. Thank god for my incompetence. The photos from the park had come back blank. Every single one of them. Raina said I'd set the shutter speed too slow. Blurry gray: the color of the endearingly inept, rather than the traitorously adulterous.

“I'd love that,” Raina says.

“To good rides!” I declare, each of us beaming as we raise our glasses.

* * *

Second floor. I'm making
my rounds with the rest of the union heads. I'm on fire.

Amid a trickle of my steadily emerging associates is jovial John McDougall with two of his associates from the Federation of Allied Health Employees.

“There's the guy,” McDougall says, nodding in my direction, “The man of the hour. Shaking hands and kissing babies, I see.”

I chuckle and clink glasses with him. “You know me,” I say.

“A well-deserved victory lap. You remember Drew Clark and Greg Donahue.”

“Gentlemen,” I say, shaking each of their hands. “It's good to see you, John.”

“Tom Claughlin is the best ally you'll ever make in this business,” McDougall continues, “but you'll hear more about that later.”

“I'm afraid you'll have no choice,” I say.

“I suppose you're right,” McDougall says. “You seem well, Tom. Is your better half around?”

“Thanks, John. I feel well,” I say. “Raina's around here somewhere. How are you? What's the word around the union these days? That was quite a victory we had for your receptionist.”

“Yes, that's right.” McDougall pauses. He glances at each of the other two men. “Everyone was very pleased with the result, Tom. But let's not talk about work at the party. We're here to enjoy ourselves, right?”

“Come on, John,” I say. “You of all people should know guys like us can't separate our lives from our work. What would we have to talk about?” I gesture to Drew and Greg. They both smile politely. “Am I wrong? I was curious if you'd heard from Ms. Grant.”