Autobiography of Us (25 page)

He’d made it a habit for years now to provide me with clues to his various affairs, little crumbs he left to mark the trail of his infidelities. He dropped names deliberately into the conversation: Tom from high school had stopped by the office to take him to an early lunch, or William over in litigation had sat up with him late in the cafeteria, drinking cup after cup of watered-down coffee as they went over a brief. A certain paralegal, Benny, had taken to bringing in some sort of fruitcake his grandmother sent him from North Dakota every week—
Lithuanian
, Paul had said, frowning.
That or Polish. Delicious, any way you slice it.
The evidence of his trysts he left scattered carelessly around his room—crumpled receipts itemizing lunches for two or expensive gifts I’d never see, rounds of drinks at a bar I’d never set foot in. All of it I understood he meant me to take as a series of kindnesses, a row of windows he built so I might see through into his other life.

But you know me too well to think I appreciated the gesture. The truth is that I found his honesty heartless. I would have preferred to see exactly nothing. I would, given the choice, have liked to live as though our marriage was one of those beautiful old buildings in the Village marked for demolition, the façade even as the wrecking ball descended remaining intact. In the face of that desire, his efforts at disclosure felt pointedly cruel, a deliberate unkindness I’m afraid I found unforgivable.

Every so often a gift appeared on my dressing table, wrapped and tied up with a bow, but those I left where they were, unopened, until he took them away.

I don’t know that I can explain what came over me in the days leading up to Alex’s arrival. Why, after all those months of calculated detachment, I found myself overcome by a sudden tenderness for Paul, his strange and finicky obsessions with the squared edges of the stacked newspapers, the pencils on his desk lined up just so, the gleam in his eye as he took the wine bottle down from the rack at the end of the day. Who can say why, as I placed his folded undershirts in his drawer the afternoon Alex was due, I felt a rush of affection so powerful it verged on panic, the desperate kind of love one feels only for the dead.

Perhaps there is not much more to say about it than that. Perhaps all I need to tell you is that I sank down on the edge of his bed and put my head in my hands, that by the time I came into the kitchen to start dinner for your brothers, that tenderness had already begun to leave me and I became aware instead of a certain electricity in the air, a charge like the static that appears before a storm. Perhaps I need tell you only that as I made my final lap around the apartment, running my finger across the mantels to check for dust and rearranging, for the thousandth time, the stack of books lined up along the edge of the coffee table, I understood that passing affection had been no more than a temporary shield. The heart may hide its reasons, but it is a beast like any other.

You understand: The doorbell rang; my heart roared.

* * *

The elevator doors slid open and there she was, her dark hair falling loose around her face, a wrap made of some sort of silvery fur pulled high and tight around her shoulders. “Pinch me.” She pressed her mouth against my ear, breathing out cold. “I mean it.” She stuck out her arm. “I won’t believe I’m here unless you do.”

“The infamous Alex.” Paul came striding across the room to extend his hand, his face shining in that way a man’s face has when it’s just been shaved. “Welcome to New York. Look at that—you’re every bit as beautiful as she said.”

Which she was. Everything I’d seen that afternoon in Pasadena had disappeared, those small but perceptible markers of time I’d noticed from across the table replaced by that old remembered beauty. She wore a simple blue dress and plain gold earrings, her neck emerging from her wrap in a slim white column.

“I’ll be one little minute.” I gestured at the boys—both of them struck momentarily dumb—with a pot holder. “You’re just in time for the feeding frenzy, I’m afraid.”

“I couldn’t be happier.” Alex smiled at Luc, who was staring up at her with a look of wonder. “It’s revolting how happy I am. Absolutely revolting. Hello there.” Matthew reached out one shy hand to poke Alex’s jacket. “Fox,” she said, still smiling. “Go ahead, it won’t bite.”

She’d brought gifts for everyone: an art book for Paul, a board game for Matthew and a toy truck for Luke, a small bottle of perfume for me.

“It reminded me of your mother. The girl at the counter said it was lilac. Lilac plus freesia plus”—she frowned—“I don’t know, something. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t smell like those roses.” She brought out a white baker’s box and deposited it on the counter. “And the
pièce de résistance
, dessert.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I couldn’t resist. A Lady Baltimore, for God’s sake. I haven’t had one in about a million years.”

“Wasn’t that in a book?” A memory stirred somewhere in the nether regions of my mind: a cake, a spoiled girl, a tea room in—was it Charleston? “The cake. I thought I read something once.”

“Owen Wister.” Her smile was wide and startling. “The book was
Lady Baltimore
too, and the cake comes right at the beginning. Gosh—we must have read that ages ago. We were great readers, your wife and I,” she said, turning to Paul. “Your wife especially—she used to eat books for breakfast. Absolutely devoured them.” She rapped her knuckles against the box. “The cake, in any case, is delicious. I’ve got half a mind to slice a piece right this second.”

I nodded in Paul’s direction. “You’ll have to fight him for it.”

He smiled ruefully. “Someone’s got to keep the dentist in business. Terrible sweet tooth, I’m afraid, and here I married the model of health. Off she goes on her walks, first thing every morning. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“God, you’re good.” Alex shook a cigarette loose. “I’m lucky if I make it out of the house before noon. You don’t mind, do you?” She waved a lighter at me, flicking the little wheel.

“Go ahead.”

“I don’t believe it.” Paul stared at Alex. “You wouldn’t believe how I’ve begged for in-house privileges. Pleaded. Cajoled. What’s your secret?”

She lifted her chin. “I knew her first.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fork one over, please. Consolation prize.”

I opened a bottle of wine and we sat together at the table and drank while Matthew and Luc ate their dinners. The boys were uncharacteristically subdued—intimidated, I thought, by the presence of a stranger at the table and confused by the smoking, not to mention the fox. Matthew asked for more potatoes and then sat, pressing them into his plate with the back of his fork. Luc stared at the gold bangle on Alex’s wrist until she slipped it off and set it on the table beside him.

“Take it,” she laughed. It was marvelous to hear her laugh like that, as though she could hardly have kept it in if she tried. Lucas held the bangle to his eye and peered up at the light, as if sighting through a telescope. Matthew watched jealously from under his fringe of eyelashes. “Aren’t they gorgeous,” Alex sighed. “You must be reading all the right books—Smith, he’s the big news these days, isn’t he?” She beamed at Matthew. He looked back at her—very solemn now, his blue eyes opened wide.

“We have a boy named Smith in my class,” he told her. “Benjamin Smith. And he has a sister, Susan. Susan Smith.”

“Is that right?” He nodded, flushing a little as he looked down at his plate; I have always felt bad for Matthew in moments of discomfort, his coloring so like mine I can feel the heat the moment it begins to rise under his skin.

“Matthew started kindergarten this year,” I said quickly. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

His face was on fire now. “I like my new school,” he told his plate. “They have better paints in art class. Also, they let us stay at lunch longer.”

“He has a longer lunch,” Lucas said excitedly. “I don’t have lunch. I’m in little school. Little-kid school.”

“Gorgeous,” Alex repeated. “And here I am, not missing the twins the tiniest bit.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Is that awful?”

After I’d taken the boys into their room and tucked them in, I brought out our food from where Gladys had arranged it on the counter. Paul carved the meat and opened a second bottle of wine. “To Alex,” he declared. “After all these years.”

I drank very little in those days, a few sips of a cocktail before one of the obligatory firm dinners, a glass of wine nursed through dessert. I’m sure I hadn’t had more than two glasses when I felt myself sinking back into my chair, the weight of my body slippery against the wooden rungs. “You should have seen this one in college,” I announced, doing my best to sit up. “The best Blanche the West Coast has ever seen.”

“Hush.” Alex rolled her eyes.

“It’s true,” I insisted. “Everyone said she was going to be famous.”

“So you’re an actress?”

“She has twins, remember?” I frowned at him. “Little ones. But you could go back whenever you felt like it.”

Alex looked at me. “To?”

“Plays.” I smiled uncertainly. “Films, whatever you wanted. Once the twins are a little older, I mean.”

“Experience the pleasures of Greater Burbank’s very own Regional Marquee, you mean.” She took a sip from her glass. “Thanks, but no, thanks. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

“Well, it wasn’t just about the acting,” I said, trying not to sound hurt. “She had the most magical voice.”

“
Had
being the operative word. Apparently the vocal cords thicken during pregnancy.” She gazed meditatively at her cigarette. “I don’t suppose these have helped.”

“You don’t understand.” I turned back to Paul determinedly. “I’m not explaining it well, but everyone went nuts over her. Completely mad. She was that kind of girl.”

“The Madden-ing kind?” His eyes had gotten that shine they got when he was drinking, their blue a few shades too bright. “A little joke. A pun. D’you know—”

“The kind who was going places,” I interrupted.

“Oh, we were all on our way to
something
, weren’t we?” Alex blinked. “Embracing Our Bright Future. Achieving Our Goals. Windridge Academy for Girls, Make Your—no, I’ve got it—Surpass Your Expectations, that’s it.” She eyed me. “Well, have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Surpassed Your Expectations?”

“It’s funny about the two of you.” Paul tilted his head to one side. “It’s not one thing in particular, is it, but there’s something similar. I can’t seem to put my finger on it, exactly—”

“I’ve never seen that—” I began, but Alex interrupted me right away.

“To the dogs, she means. That’s where I’ve gone. No”—she brushed off Paul’s protest—“I’ve made my peace with it. I had my moment and it passed. They’ll put that on my tombstone. Or: She had her moment and she passed it by. Your wife, on the other hand.” She nodded at me. “That skin of hers is to die for.”

I put my hand to my face. “Soap and water.”

“It’ll age you,” said Alex emphatically. “No one tells you that part. Life with a capital
L
. Wears a girl out.” She made a loop with her glass in the air, the wine sloshing up the sides. It occurred to me that she had eaten very little, that Paul had at some point already emptied that second bottle of wine and opened up a third. “I don’t expect you to understand,” she said to Paul. “It’s not the same for men.”

He glanced up to the ceiling. “My time at this dinner table is nearly up, isn’t it.”

“The Harpies have descended.” Alex held up one hand, fingers curved. “Out come our tiny claws.”

“There’s dessert.” I got to my feet unsteadily. Inside the box, the cake was large and white, voluminous. It sat on the plate like a deflated parachute.

“I’ve had a week.” Paul stared at his wineglass, as though he’d only just realized it was empty, before filling it again. “My God, have I had one hell of a few days. And here it’s only Wednesday. Can someone please explain to me how it’s still only Wednesday?”

“He works very hard,” I told Alex. “My husband’s a workaholic.”

She looked at him. “The brilliant attorney.”

Paul waved his hand. “I do what I can.”

“
Non compos mentis
,” Alex declared. “Daddy’s choice, not that it got him far in the end.”

“
I am not a liar?
”

“
I am not of sound mind
,” Paul corrected me. “Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to help?”

She shook her head. “He’s fine now. He and Eleanor are happy as clams down in Florida. The lawsuit did some damage, but we muddled through. Of course, Beau always was brilliant with investments, bless his heart. But thank you.”

“Anything for an old friend.” Paul glanced at his watch. “And now, speaking of old friends, I’m afraid it’s time for me to leave you two to it. I should have been in bed ages ago.”

“One more drink!”

He
tsk
ed his finger at Alex. “You’re a terrible influence. I sensed that immediately.” He stood. “Anyone for a refill before I turn in?”

“Just a splash.” Alex leaned forward. “A splish. Only because it’s so lovely.”

“Nice, isn’t it?” Paul tipped the bottle back upright. “Château Margaux ’64, gift from a client. My kind of wine exactly—soft and plummy, easy on the acids.” He glanced at her appreciatively. “We’ll have to dig up something new for tomorrow. Rebecca didn’t mention we were hosting a connoisseur.”

“Hardly.” Alex cradled the glass against her chest, cupping it with both hands. “It’s just that we drink the most revolting swill
chez nous.
Husband prefers the strong stuff.”

“Nothing wrong with a stiff drink every now and again,” Paul said. “Take the edge off.” He stretched his arms above his head in an extravagant yawn, the buttons across the front of his chest straining; he’d put on weight that year, his body thickening a bit through the middle, the way men’s do. “I’ll be sound asleep by the time you come in.” He dropped a kiss on my head. “Should I leave the light on?”

“Sorry?”

“The bedroom light,” he said softly. His mouth was so close I could feel his breath move across my cheek. “Shall I leave it on?”