Kiss Mommy Goodbye (14 page)

“Scotch and water,” Danny Vogel said, suddenly beside her. She took the drink and said nothing. “You should see the cake that Renee made for me,” he said proudly. “She shaped it like a giant penis.” He waited for her reaction and continued when he got none. “That’s not supposed to be flattering,” he explained. “She said it’s because I’m a big prick!” He laughed, flattered nonetheless.

“Why do men always feel complimented when women tell them they’re pricks? I don’t understand, is there a special prize for hurting women?”

“Uh, excuse me,” Danny Vogel said, and retreated quickly.

Donna took a long look around the room. It reminded her of the room in which Anne Bancroft had tried to seduce a wary Dustin Hoffman in
The Graduate,
a movie she had seen three times. Anne Bancroft had sat on a bar stool very similar to the one just to her left and lifted her knee provocatively into the air. Dustin Hoffman had stood rather nonplussed a safe distance away. It was that kind of a room. Most of the furniture had been cleared away to make room for the guests; what remained was of the white-and-black
vinyl variety, modern and cold. The Vogels’ sense of art was restricted to waterfalls and big-eyed children. Somehow their choice of friends seemed to suit the room perfectly.

She took a small sip of her drink, realized immediately that she hated the taste and wondered who she was to feel so superior to everyone here. Was misery in any way superior to enjoyment? Had she really become a martyr to the cause? If so, what was the cause?

She looked at some of the faces around her. Some were deeply tanned, most were not, native Floridians being much more careful of the sun than those who came only for a vacation. Most of the faces were smiling; some were openly affectionate. Arms intermingled, hands touched, the odd kiss on the cheek was extended. There was obviously a place somewhere for warmth.

But not with Victor.

From time to time, various people approached her. She said nothing to their small talk. Eventually they went away. Danny Vogel made another attempt, muttered something about his child and Montessori schools and finally excused himself when she made no response.

What had happened to them? She took another slow sip of her drink, remembering back to that first drink of Dom Perignon they had shared together. She remembered their whirlwind flight to New York. The lobster boiled precisely seven and a half minutes. She had let him order for her even then.

How exciting it had all been. How attracted she was to him. So excited, so attracted, she’d married him despite growing doubts, the knowledge he had lied to her about his mother.

Her own mother had once advised her to watch how a man treated his mother; it was indicative of how he would behave to a wife. She shuddered, then shook her head slowly, realizing how long it had been since she had even thought about her mother, how long it had been since she’d had time to think about anything except Victor. She was always so on guard. Everything she said; everything she did. What did she say? What did she do?

She didn’t read anymore, at least nothing more demanding than a magazine—magazine mentality, Victor described it. But she simply lacked the concentration to tackle even a Gothic novel, let alone an author like Albert Camus.

She never went to movies. Victor hated them—he boasted often that the last movie he had seen was
High Noon,
although he watched
The Magnificent Seven
every time it came on television. At one point in her life, Donna had gone to a movie at least four times a week. Now, there was just no time.

She had given up her job, although that had truly been her decision. She didn’t want anyone else bringing up her child. She wanted those first three years at home, then she would go back to work. No, it wasn’t Adam’s existence she begrudged in any way. He was her salvation. She may occasionally have tired of his demands, of his whining, of his assorted schedules, of not even being able to go to the bathroom without him sitting on her lap, but she enjoyed him, she always loved him.

She no longer loved Victor.

It was that simple.

For a long while she had been telling herself that if she didn’t love him deep down (why not up front instead of deep down?), then she wouldn’t get so angry at him, that
love and hate were flip sides of a coin and that if she was capable of the kind of loathing she at times felt for him, she must also be capable of that kind of love.

But that was a convenient rationalization, an easy excuse.

When was the last time they had talked without arguing? When was the last time they had discussed haiku poetry? Probably the first time. When was the last time they had looked at each other with trust, not had to search every utterance for possible misinterpretations before speaking?

He was probably as unhappy as she was.

They were both miserable, and they were making their son miserable. Adam, she thought. Victor had been wonderful throughout their son’s birth.

Of course he’d been wonderful, she snapped at herself. Everyone can be wonderful for twenty-four hours out of a lifetime! That wasn’t fair, she knew, but who cared. She was tired of trying to be fair. All right, Victor wasn’t a monster—he had his fine moments, he was kind to old ladies and stray dogs—and he was even a decent man most of the time. Just something was wrong with the two of them. Together. Perhaps it had been the same way with his first wife, she didn’t know. It really wasn’t important. What was important was the way he was to her, and no matter how you tried to judge it, how far you bent over to be fair, the fact was that their marriage was a disaster. If he was to blame, she was crazy to stay. If she was to blame, it meant the same thing. Whoever was at fault, him, her, both of them, the plain truth was that they were making each other miserable, and she was too young to throwaway the rest of her life because she didn’t know what else to do. She knew what else to do.

She had to leave Victor.

The massive rock lifted from her shoulders. For the first time all evening, her nose felt clear, her throat unrestricted.

Victor was walking toward her.

“Are you going to stand here all night? Not talk to anyone?”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

“What about?”

She shook her head. “I’ll tell you later. Now isn’t the time.”

“It’s as good a time as any.”

She looked up into his eyes. They were very blue, surprisingly soft. Maybe this was the right time after all. When he was relaxed, when she couldn’t be accused of acting out of a fit of pique. She didn’t know. Surprisingly, she didn’t care. He had asked, pushed for an answer. He would get it.

“I think we should get a divorce.” The words were soft yet strong. Forceful, without being loud. The kind of quiet conviction that comes when one is absolutely certain one is doing the right thing. He understood that quality in her voice immediately, and so he asked for no repetitions or clarifications.

They shared several seconds of absolute silence. “I love you,” he said at last.

“You don’t,” she responded.

“Please don’t tell me how I feel,” he asked, a slight edge to his voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Four exchanges and already she was sorry. Of course he was right. She hated to be told how she felt; she shouldn’t be doing the same thing to him. Oh, Goddamn it, did she really have to go through this
tortuous thought process every bloody time she said something? “I’m sorry, Victor, this isn’t the time to discuss it.”

“Then why bring it up? A hell of a time to drop a bomb like this on me!”

“You asked.”

He shifted uneasily, keeping one eye toward the other guests and one on her. “You really want to embarrass me, don’t you?”

“No,” she stated simply.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel about you?”

“Feel about me? Victor, you told me you loved me not two minutes ago and already we’re fighting, the accusations are flying. Maybe you
do
love me, maybe you don’t. It doesn’t really matter anymore how we feel about each other. What’s relevant is that we can’t live together. We can’t, and you know it.”

“I don’t know it.”

She shrugged, about to say “I’m sorry,” but stopped herself and said nothing.

“What about Adam?” he asked.

Immediately, she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a buzzer like a smoke detector ringing endlessly in alarm behind her ears. Just as a horse senses when its rider is afraid, so she knew Victor had intuitively felt her fear. Though her voice remained soft, it had lost its strength, its conviction was now forced.

“What
about
Adam?” she asked in return.

“You’re planning on divorcing him as well?”

“Of course not. I’ll take Adam with me.”

“Oh?”

She stared hard at Victor. This was just a gambit, she told
herself. He was using her fear of losing her son to make her stay. But he would never follow through.

“I wouldn’t leave my son,” she said.

“What makes you think that
I
would?”

Donna felt herself beginning to panic again. She fought for control.

“We’ll discuss it later,” she said, knowing it was futile.

“No, you’re the one who insisted we discuss it now. Let’s finish it.”

“We’ll talk about it at home.”

“Oh? You’re still going to let me come in the house? Very kind of you considering it was mine to start out with.”

“Victor, please—”

“Let me tell you one thing, little lady, so you better listen. No one—not you, not some fancy lawyer, not the courts, no one, is ever going to take my son away from me. I’ll fight you till there’s nothing left of you. And in case you have any doubts that I’m telling the truth, remember that I’m the guy who spent two days in jail rather than pay a parking ticket—”

“A stop sign,” she said numbly.

“What?”

“The ticket was because you went through a stop sign.” The irony of the entire evening hit her like a sharp poke in the ribs, and she coughed up a flood of tears.

“Jesus,” Victor said, trying to block her body with his own.

“Something wrong?” asked a woman nearby, approaching quickly.

“My wife has a cold,” Victor said hastily. “Here, wipe your eyes.” He handed her a Kleenex. Donna ignored it, continuing to sob.

“Donna, sweetie,” Victor soothed for his gathering audience, “come on, honey. It’ll be all right. It’s a terrible cold,” he explained. There were about five people gathered around them now. Donna sniffed loudly. The small gathering quickly began to disperse. Victor held a Kleenex in front of Donna’s nose. “Blow,” he commanded.

Inside her, Donna felt the scream beginning to build, and waited for the sound. Instead, she was surprised to see her right arm shoot up from her side and slap whatever part of Victor was closest at hand with such force that it caused his drink to fly from his outstretched arm and spew its contents down the backside of one of the ladies who had only minutes ago been so solicitous.

Victor was like an octopus—he quickly had the drink wiped up, the dress restored, his glass recovered, and the guests convinced an unruly sneeze had been the culprit. Donna saw from the faces of several of the guests that they would not be fooled. From their distance they had seen what had actually occurred. Seen Victor’s hand outstretched, offering a Kleenex to his ever-sickly wife, seen her own hand shoot out in full attack, seen the results. They heard nothing. Victor’s wife—just one of her moods. Poor Victor. Well, what the hell, if that was what they wanted—

Victor leaned over her. “If you don’t start smiling and taking an active part in this little celebration, I’m going to have you committed,” he said with the same quiet force her voice had earlier contained.

—that was what they were going to get.

Donna took the proffered Kleenex, blew her nose loudly and then walked boldly into the center of one little clique
which had hastily regrouped after the little glass-spilling episode had been resolved.

“We were just talking about a neighbor of ours,” one of the women informed her, moving to include her into the conversation. It was a nice gesture but Donna was no longer in the mood for nice gestures, preferring to turn a critical eye on all those around her. The woman was maybe ten years older than Donna and her hair was several shades of yellow, although Donna realized even as she criticized that the woman was undeniably attractive. “He had a nervous breakdown a number of years back. The doctors said he was a sadomasochist with homosexual tendencies. Apparently, they were able to cure his masochism and reorient his tendencies very quickly, but he remained a sadist for some time.”

“I think sadism is so much healthier than masochism, don’t you?” Donna asked, not altogether sure if she was serious or not.

Neither were the people present who responded to her query with uneasy laughter.

“Anyway,” the woman continued, “he’s out now and working at a respectable job. All straightened out, it seems.”

“What sort of job?” somebody asked.

“He designs underground parking lots,” Donna shouted, this time not waiting for anyone else to laugh before she broke into gales of laughter of her own.

The other guests began to turn slowly away from whatever conversations they were engaged in and follow Donna’s progress around the room.

Donna continued. “I heard someone over here talking about what a lot of bees there are around this year. Isn’t that the truth?! I’ve never seen so many bees.”

“I’ve never seen so many flowers,” said another woman somewhat smugly.

“Oh God, couldn’t you puke!” Donna roared. If anyone had not been watching her, they were now. “That’s like saying, ‘When fate hands you a lemon, make lemonade!’ People who say things like that make me want to throw up,” she looked at the woman, the smugness obliterated by shock. “No offense meant,” she added.

She saw Victor walking toward the front door. Oh well, if he was going to have her committed, she might as well go down in a blaze of glory. “Did any of you see
Sesame Street
the other day? I’m sure some of you are young enough to have small children. No one watches
Sesame Street?”
If anyone did, no one was saying so. “Well, it’s practically a religious experience around our house. Adam and I watch it every day.” Victor was shaking his keys, something he always did to indicate when he was ready to leave. She ignored him. “Well, the other day, and I tell you this in peril of my life because Victor hates to talk about children, he says it’s boring to other people—hah! I can see you’re certainly not bored. Well, they did this take-off on
Masterpiece Theatre—
you know, they always do little things that the kids don’t catch but the adults all appreciate—and they called it Monster
piece Theatre.
And the host was Allister Cookie, the cookie monster, of course doing Allister Cooke. And the play they did was
Upstairs, Downstairs.
And all it was was Grover running up and down the stairs, you know, to illustrate the concept of up and down. You all know who Grover is—”