Autobiography of Us (27 page)

She straightened up and turned around, resting one hand on her belly. “So you got knocked up that time and now it’s my turn. You, me, same difference.”

“But it isn’t.” I stared at her stomach, still perfectly flat. “We’re not the same at all.”

“Tomato, to-
mah
-to.”

“Next you’ll tell me you asked for
that
, too.” I was speaking loudly now, my voice filling the small space. “That thing that happened back at the U? The night the two of you—”

“Oh, God, really? You poor thing.” She looked at me with an expression of wearied tolerance. “I thought rape would give me a nice air of the tragic, that’s all.”

“You’re joking.”

“’Fraid not. He didn’t lay so much as a finger on me. Of course, I was terribly disappointed.”

“And the agent?”

“Christ, Rebecca—
Freddy
? A little credit.”

I just looked at her, the pale skin of her chest above her brassiere, the dress caught loosely around her hips. “I’ll take some of that,” I said finally, gesturing at her purse.

“There you go.” She said it kindly, as though she were speaking to a little girl. She handed me a flask and I took a long sip, the whiskey biting all the way down my throat. “Your turn.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something with a touch of the truth might be nice.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, half-laughing. “How about, you’re killing yourself?” I gestured at her stomach. “Killing your baby. Not that I think it matters in the least what I say.” I took another sip just to feel the burn again. “Look at you. Pregnant, for God’s sake, and drinking like this. Smoking. How can you be so selfish?”

“Easy,” she said sharply. “If memory serves, you lost your chance to play that card years ago.”

The whiskey had become something warm and loose in my chest, and I laughed from that looseness. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

She looked at me, and now her eyes were a little sad. “If only that were true.”

“I give up,” I said tiredly. “We should go.”

“God forbid we’re still out when his lordship returns to the manor.”

“He’s my husband.”

“I love the way you use that word as though it means something. Really, it’s adorable.” She pulled on her sweater, running a leisurely hand through her hair. “I’d like to fill a book with words like that. Ones we seem to keep coming up with to refer to absolutely nothing. Husband. Wife. God. Love.” She looked up at the ceiling as though the words were written there across the chipped white paint. “Dead. Alive. Child. Adult—”

“I’ll be outside.”

“Real,” came her voice through the door as I shut it behind me. “Unreal. You. Me. Them. Us.”

* * *

She didn’t bother hiding a thing at dinner. She tucked the bottle of Dewar’s between her plate and the candlesticks, tipping it into her water glass often enough that I lost count: once, twice, six times, a dozen. We ate late, your brothers already in bed. I let Paul pour me glass after glass of wine; I tore my bread into pieces and pressed them against the plate with my thumb. I laughed and laughed. I would have done anything to stop that laughter.

After dinner we took our drinks over to the couch, while Paul excused himself to take a shower. A plate of chocolates I’d put out earlier on the coffee table sat between us in their small brown papers, untouched. We were both what my mother would have called, quaintly,
fizzy
. I remember thinking, with what I believed at the time to be enormous clarity, that I needed to be careful, that if I knocked something over or spilled a drink, it would be the end of me. Alex had sunk down into the cushions at the other end of the couch, disappearing far enough into them that her voice seemed to rise out of thin air. She was speaking with an air of great deliberation about the desert, something she’d seen in the night when she’d been out late for one reason or another, a coyote or a cactus, she couldn’t say for sure. She raised her head to make a point and I caught a flash of her eyes, flat and silvery, like tiny fish suspended in her face. We both startled a little when Paul came out of the bedroom, wrapping his robe around him as he walked.

He gave a low whistle as he sat down. “Ladies, I salute you.” He picked up the Dewar’s and examined it with a look of intent concentration. “You might find this difficult to fathom, Alex, but my wife is usually quite a respectable young woman. Quiet. Well-behaved.”

“We’re celebrating.” I had to concentrate on each word, rounding my lips to sound out each vowel. “Something.”

“So I see.” He looked genuinely amused.

“Refresh me, please,” sang Alex. “I’m in need of refreshment.” She pushed her glass across the table toward him and he poured. “Just a smidge, thanks.”

“Everyone take one little minute to look at that sky. Drink it in—I demand it.” Paul leaned back in his chair. “I’m going ahead and giving you full credit for the turn in weather, Alex. It’s been pouring all week, and here’s tonight, clear as a bell.”

“This view is disgraceful.” Alex waved her hand at the window.

“It’s why we took this place.”

Paul frowned. “It was a little more than that.”

“It was loads of things.” I was laughing again.

“You’ll have to come visit more often, Alex. I haven’t seen my wife like this in ages.” Paul smiled at her from his pool of lamplight, the white of his robe crisp against his skin. He looked particularly handsome as he sat there that night with his wet hair fitted to his skull—boyish, almost, though he was already getting that drinker’s veil, the tint like red lace draped across his nose and cheeks.

Alex shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Maybe you don’t take her out enough.”

“Darling?” Paul raised his eyebrows. “Is that it? Have I been neglectful?”

“I have loads of fun,” I said. It felt like the hardest thing in the world to speak. “Scads.”

“Of course you do,” Alex said soothingly.

“She’s done tremendous work with the parks,” Paul said. “Preservation and so forth. Didn’t she mention it?”

“She didn’t, actually.” Alex looked at me. “What is it you preserve?”

“Grass.”

“Oh, my,” Alex clapped her hand to her mouth. “Is it endangered?”

“Poor,” I said thickly. “Impoverished.”

“Chinese, is that it?” She let out a peal of laughter. “Orphan-girl grasses. Good for you.”

“I stopped last Christmas.” I looked at Paul. “Remember?”

“I didn’t.” He tipped his glass back. “Christ. Someone in the donations department has been having a terrific time at our expense.”

“And what was it you volunteered?”

“Time,” I said. “Hours required for stuffing envelopes, planning benefit dinners, et cetera.”

“Et cetera!” Alex cried. She’d disappeared into the pillows completely; all I could see were her feet—stockinged, stacked one over the other, like clasped hands.

“It really is a worthy cause,” Paul went on. “I can’t imagine raising boys somewhere where there wasn’t a little green for them to run around on. They need their freedom.”

“
That
,” Alex announced from the pillows, “is precisely why I had girls. Stick them in one of those fold-up pens with a doll and they’re pleased as punch. Honestly, you can leave them there for hours.”

“For the time being,” Paul said. “They’re still young, aren’t they? They’ll be chomping on the bit soon enough.”

“I don’t know.” Alex raised her head to look at me. “You seem perfectly happy, Rebecca.”

There was a small silence.

“My, my,” Paul said mildly, rubbing his hands together as though the room had taken on a sudden chill. “It’s gotten late, hasn’t it? I’ve got to get myself to bed, tempting as it is to burn the midnight oil with you two. Honestly, I can’t.” He waved his hand at Alex’s protest. “I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. Ad executives, eight o’clock on the nose.” He made a wry face. “I’ll need my wits about me.”

“I’ll just be a few minutes longer,” I said.

Alex winked. “One more drinkaroo.”

Paul stood, brushing his hands against his knees. “She’s going to miss you, you know.”

“I’d kill to stay here.” Alex’s face turned serious. “I mean it. I think I’d pay about a million dollars to stay right smack-dab here.”

“You’ll have to come again soon, that’s all.” Paul bent and pressed his lips against my forehead, the smell of his aftershave lingering as he straightened up. “Bring that husband of yours. Promise? You’re both welcome here anytime.”

Alex stared at her drink as he disappeared down the hall, smiling a little, as though she saw something mildly amusing in her glass. “Charming man. Must be popular with the secretaries.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just having a little fun.”

“But it isn’t,” I said. “Fun. Any of it. He’s too busy for fun, my husband.” The laugh tore out of me before I could stop it. “He’s so busy he’s forgotten all about me.”

“You poor thing.”

“I’m drunk,” I declared. “Again. Still.”

“Hush.” She put her finger to her lips. “You’re perfect.”

I shut my eyes; the room began to spin. “Do you think it’s awful? Paul and me, I mean.” I opened my eyes. “Quick, before I change my mind.”

“I’ll say this much,” she said thoughtfully, “and then I’ll zip it. I stopped off at the Plaza on my way from the airport—oh, it’s always been this thing with me. Schoolgirl fantasy, I suppose. I’d sit there in the stinking August heat with the goddamn lizards crawling up the walls. Or I was crawling. We were all in the same boat, is the point. I’d picture myself sweeping up those front steps, wearing some sort of spectacular gown. Jewels up to here. God knows how I came up with the Plaza—Audrey Hepburn, must have been.”

“And? How was it?”

“Crap,” she said, but her voice was sad. “Third-rate. The martini was warm, the food a complete disgrace. There was this very ugly little woman sitting by herself at the next table, drinking a Manhattan, who about broke my heart. But it looked terrific, the whole thing. You never would have known what a bust it was to look at it.” I waited. “That’s you,” she said gently. “You and Paul. You’re the goddamn Plaza.”

“I don’t know why I asked.” All at once, I was furious. “You of all people. Someone who likes being tortured. Stockholm syndrome or whatever, but it won’t go on like this forever. One of these days, he just might kill you.”

She rolled her eyes.
“Quelle horreur.”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “It’s your
life
.”

“You’re starting to sound eerily like Alfred.”

“The Hindu friend?”

“Who?” She stared. “Alfred’s my shrink. Try not to look so shocked. Bertie put his foot down. Said I could no longer be termed, quote unquote,
rational
. Anyway, Alfred says I’m classic. He told me to try swimming laps. Apparently water cures are back
en vogue
.”

“Classic what?”

“That’s all he says. Classic.”

“So he’s aware of this, your doctor.” I hesitated. “This abuse.”

“One hundred percent aware. He’s a closet smoker—the brilliant ones always are, you know. He must smoke half a pack at least during one measly forty-five-minute session. Not exactly enlightened to be so dependent, I told him. To which he said precisely nothing.” She eyed me. “Happens to be educated up the wazoo, Alfred. PhD from Columbia
and
an MD. Between the cigarettes and the degrees, he’s probably the most goddamn aware person I’ve ever met.”

“Do you think he’s any good?”

“Good?” She made a face. “Christ, I don’t know. I do all the talking, so it’s awfully tricky to say. The most he’ll give me is that I’ve got to kill the shadow and liberate the self. Freedom vis-à-vis happiness being of integral importance. As though this is big goddamn news.” She sat up a little. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Do you ever think about it? Because you could tell me if you did.” She was sitting with one leg crossed over the other at the knee, and as she spoke the foot that swung in the air began to jiggle a little, up and down. “I wouldn’t breathe a word. I’m saying if you could be sure the children would be taken care of,” she said impatiently. “Somebody there to feed them, change their diapers, rock them to sleep. They’d be looked after, not one bit worse for the wear. Are you saying you wouldn’t pack your bags and go?” She leaned in, the space between us shrunk down to a cushion of air. “Be honest, Rebecca.” Her voice was taut. “You wouldn’t just make a run for it?”

There was a moment of silence.

“I should make us some tea,” I said, getting unsteadily to my feet. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” She gave a little wave. “It’s me, Alex.”

“It’s getting late, that’s all.”

When she said what she did next, she spoke so quietly I thought I had misheard: “It’s his.” She rested her hand on her belly. “The baby. It’s Alfred’s.
Herr Doktor.
”

“Alex,” I breathed, sinking back down onto the couch. “What will you do?”

“Don’t look so shocked, please. Let’s start with that.”

“Does he know?”

“Alfred?” She raised her eyebrows. “God, no.”

“I meant Bertrand.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve been sick as a dog.”

“I suppose you’ve considered—” I hesitated. “That is, you didn’t—”

“I tried.” Another shrug, smaller this time, as though the energy was draining out of her with every passing moment. “I couldn’t go through with it. Isn’t that ridiculous? A brave old goat like me.” She gave me her most brilliant smile, but it was hollow now, a flash of teeth. “I read this book when I was pregnant with the twins that put everything in terms of vegetables. At eight weeks, your baby is the size of a pea. At twelve weeks, the size of a bean.” Her face grew grave. “The place stank, mind you. It was out past Anaheim—I mean, it was in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Run by a bunch of bra-burners or whatever. A
women’s
clinic, they call it. As though that takes away the smell of blood.” She looked at me. “I had an appointment and everything. I really did mean to go through with it.”

I shifted my gaze to the window, the hands reflected there—my hands—pleating the corner of the cotton throw, folding and refolding. “Yes, of course,” I heard myself saying. “Of course you did.”