The After Wife (33 page)

“Let’s go over there,” Jay said, regarding the grassy area. “That’s where all the mancandies are handing out their headshots.”

As he kept talking, I followed him as best I could, on legs that felt like Jell-O.

“Hey, you could write your own line of books:
Raising Your Dead Person; All the Best People Are Dead; The Dead, They’re Just Like Us, Only, You Know, Dead
.”

We crossed to where the Young and Sweaty were stretching their quads, and sat down in the grass. Jay started doing sit-ups, while I watched.

“Hold my ankles,” Jay said. I complied. “Now. Words, please? What do you say to your dearly departed?”

He sat up, touched his elbows to his knees, and went back down again.

“Honey, I love you, but I’m only human—the live version,” I said. “And I slept with someone else.”

“Good luck with that,” Jay said, as he repeated the sequence. “That certainly never worked for me.”

“So, what do you say, instead?”

“Nothing,” Jay said, lying back. “Sometimes, dishonesty is the best policy.”

Brandon had asked to take a couple days off. He looked so distracted, I could hardly say no. What’s harder than being a forty-something? How about being a twenty-something? Meanwhile, I was feeling more grounded, no longer convinced that anyone I loved might die at any minute. Ellie would keep breathing, even without me hovering over her. Jay could cross the street alone. Chloe might survive her husband, her kids, her paramedics, and her dogs. Aimee, well, Aimee, I wasn’t so sure of. Was it time or Grief Sex that was calming me down?

I put Ellie to bed, poured a glass of pinot, and went outside, savoring the clean air, the darkening sky shadowed by clouds.

“Star light, star bright,” I said. “The first star I see tonight …” I took a deep breath. “I wish I may, I wish I might …”

“Your wish is my command, fair lady,” John said.

“I missed you.” Because I did, I always would. People always talk about closure in death, in tragedy, in disappointment. Instead of closure, all I had was lingering.

“I was just thinking about the first meal I ever cooked for you,” John said.

“Lemon chicken,” I said.

“Lemon chicken?”

“Yeah … it was lemon chicken,” I said. “Remember? Olive oil and lemon juice—”

“That wasn’t our first meal.”

“It was the first meal you cooked for me,” I said.

“Was it?” he said. “I was thinking it was the turkey lasagna—”

“No, no, that came later.”

“I think you’re wrong, I have to say.”

“You dipped that Bay Cities bread in the sauce, and shoved it in my mouth. Then we fucked for hours.”

“Days.”

“Weeks.”

“Years.”

“Years,” I said quietly. Tell him, I thought,
tell him tell him tell him
.

“I wish I could hold you,” he said.

“Oh, John.”

“What do you want to tell me?” John asked. “There’s something wrong. I mean, it’s all wrong, but there’s another layer of wrong.”

“John, I did something …”

“Hannah? Are you breaking up with me?”

“No,” I said. “But hey, you’re dead. You’re not exactly a great catch.”

“I figured,” John said. “Oh God. I knew this would happen eventually—”

“Do you want to know about it?”

“Not really,” John said. “Was he any good?”

“John—”

“C’mon, tell me,” John said. “I’ve got to know.”

“Jesus,” I grumbled.

“I met him, you know—Jesus, I mean,” John said. “Not shy that one. You know what? I don’t want to hear the details about your liaison—about his penis size, or anything.”

Beat
.

“I said, please don’t tell me the size of his penis,” John said.

“I’m not discussing penises with you,” I said.

“Are you in love?” John asked.

“No.” I wasn’t in love. Not yet. I could see the possibility, though, shimmering like a coin at the bottom of a fountain.

“Good. That I got over him. I can’t still make you come eight times a night, I mean, with Isaac Hayes’s help, but I still have your heart.”

“John,” I said, “someday you’re going to have to share it.”

“But I can keep a piece of it. Forever.”

“Yes.”

“Like if your heart’s a pie, I get a nice big piece, right?”

“The biggest piece, next to Ellie’s.”

“Hannah?” John said.

“Average. He was average-sized, okay?”

“Ha! I knew it!”

“For God’s sake,” I said. “You’d think dying would make you a bit more mature!”

“He’s average he’s average he’s average!” John said, and laughed. I laughed with him.

21

Valentime’s Day

As Mr. Barry White once said, “Happy Valentime’s, my dear.” I woke up, remembering how John loved saying that to me, in his best (which was
the
worst) Mr. White timbre.

Tom had asked me to go to dinner at that new Italian restaurant on 26th. Even though we’d slept together a few times since that fateful tree-hugging morning, I was still surprised that he’d asked me out for Valentine’s.

“You do know that Tuesday night is Valentine’s,” I’d said to him.

“Hannah, I know,” he’d answered. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

The phone in my bedroom rang, just as I was thinking about what dress to wear that night (with Jay’s approval), and I picked up.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Jay said, too eagerly. This could only mean trouble. Jay hated to be alone on Valentine’s Day.

“Happy V-Day,” I said. “Don’t make me do brunch.”

“Never,” he said, “we’re going Rollerblading. It’s the perfect day for it.”

“Rollerblading?” I asked. “Should I bring my leg warmers and tube top?”

“Chloe’s in, since Billy’s still away at boot camp. She’ll celebrate Valentine’s later, with a nine-one-one call. Anyway, she promised not to bring the dogs. See you at Ray’s on the boardwalk in an hour.”

An hour later, there was Jay, Chloe, the dogs she promised not to bring, and me, looking like a Heffalump on wheels. Dozens of happy couples had the same idea as us, judging from the crowded bike path. I had rolled, stopped, rolled, stopped about five feet when Dee Dee Pickler, holding hands with a much older man, hurtled toward us on Rollerblades, heading north toward Malibu. Or the nearest Houston’s.

“Hi, kids!” Dee Dee said, as she rolled past us, then stopped.

“Wow,” I said to Jay. “He’s old.”

“Which side was he on in the Spanish Civil War?” Jay said.

“I’m so glad I ran into you,” Dee Dee said.

“Who’s that?” I asked. The man had let go of her hand, and was on his knees, wheezing.

“He’s cute, right?” Dee Dee said. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“Where’d you find him?” Jay asked. “The cemetery?”

“Aren’t you a clever boy?” Dee Dee asked. “How did you know?”

“You found him where?” Chloe asked, rolling up on the conversation. Chloe had been a champion ice skater in junior high. She can do tricks on skates. I don’t hate her for this, but sometimes I do pray to the God of Tripping and Falling on Your Ass.

“I’m not telling you,” Dee Dee said. “You’re single-adjacent. You’ll try to horn in on my action, you little minx.”

“I must hear this,” I said.
“Please.”

“Okay. You know who the wealthiest five percent of the country are?” Dee Dee asked, beaming. “I can’t believe no one’s ever figured this out!”

“Who?”

“Widowers,” she said. “And widows—though I’m not prepared to go there. I hung out at the cemetery near some fresh grave sites, and
voilà
,” Dee Dee said. “I got myself a prize. Goodbye SoMo, hello Bel Air Country Club! He’s a lifetime member, holla!”

“I’m not sure what I’m most offended by,” Jay said, “the grave-robbing thing or the fact that you just said ‘holla’ without irony.”

“Irony would have changed everything,” I agreed.

“Who cares?” Dee Dee said. “I’m going to be spending the rest of my life drowning in Arnold Palmers and tennis pro cock.”

“I never thought I’d say this,” Jay muttered, “but I could have done without that cock visual.”

“Oh, Hannah, I forgot to tell you,” Dee Dee said. “The Turk is out of the picture.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had an outside offer. Someone outbid him,” she said. “I found the Turk a lovingly restored Spanish Colonial built in the twenties. He’s tearing it down next week.”

“Who outbid him?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Dee Dee said. “He made me promise to keep it a secret. NoMo Widower must really like you. People are so nutty, huh?”

Dee Dee’s paramour keeled forward and collapsed onto the boardwalk. Bicyclists and Rollerbladers gathered around him. Someone shouted for a lifeguard.

“Let me take care of this—we’ll talk later. Remember, don’t say a word,” Dee Dee said, then turned to the crowd. “Move over! If he’s alive, he’s mine!”

I was stunned. “Tom is buying my house? What am I supposed to think?”

“How do you feel?” Jay asked.

“Weird,” I said.

“Look,” Jay said, “maybe Tom’s helping out, in his own awkward heterosexual way. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“Ask him, Hannah,” Chloe said. “Maybe there’s an explanation. It is Valentine’s Day.”

I rushed into the bank still wearing my biker’s helmet, making a beeline for Tom’s office. He was in a suit at his desk, a pile of papers in front of him. A middle-aged woman (my age minus self-absorption) was seated to the side, taking notes.

“Hannah?” Tom said. “What’s up?” He looked happy, although surprised, to see me.

“Why did you make an offer on my house?” I asked.

“Hi … Elsie, can you leave me and Mrs. Bernal alone for a moment?” Tom asked.

Elsie sized me up, probably to see how dangerous I was.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’m not packing heat, just self-righteous indignation.”

Elsie took her notepad and left. Tom turned to me. “It’s not what you think,” he said.

“What am I thinking?” I asked. I wanted to believe him. After all, he did cut a dashing figure in his suit. I suppressed the urge to pull him closer by his tie.

“I was going to tell you tonight, at dinner,” Tom said. “It was supposed to be a surprise. I did make an offer on your house. I outbid the Turk—now you have me saying ‘the Turk’—Mr. Mansour, so that you could keep your house. I know how much you love it, Hannah. You tied yourself to a tree, for God’s sake.”

“You made an offer so I could stay at Casa Sugar?”

“Yes,” Tom said, sitting back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

“How exactly does this work?” I asked. “You’re not just … giving me my house. I mean, I would never expect that … I didn’t expect any of this, anything that’s happened in the last six months—”

“I buy your house, and you pay me rent.”

“I pay you rent,” I said, repeating. “Oh. So you’re my landlord?”

“You can stay as long as you like,” Tom said. “I get the tax benefits of ownership, and you don’t have to move. I see it as a win-win for both of us.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said.

“I really wanted to do you this favor,” Tom said.

“Thanks for the favor,” I said. “Now, can you take the favor knife out of my back? I’m sorry, but this just feels so weird to me, Tom. What if you decide one day that you don’t like me?”

“Wait. You’re not … turning me down? You want to lose your house?” Tom said, bristling. “Because that’s what’s going to happen.”

“I know what’s going to happen. The cardboard boxes scattered around my house remind me every minute of every hour of every day,” I said. “What I needed was to refinance.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “you’re too much of a risk.”

I felt like I’d been slapped.

“You are, too,” I said. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I walked out, my dignity and bike helmet still intact.

Well, my dignity not so much.

When apartment-hunting in SaMo, there’s only one place to go: Westside Rentals. This business has the scariest mascot since the San Diego Chicken. Rental Man is an oiled-up, shirtless muscle-head who dances and preens on the sidewalk outside their Wilshire offices. He gives Rip Torn’s mug shot a run for its peanuttiness.

In my former life, when I had a job, a husband with a job, and dropped a mint at Whole Foods for veggie sushi, I’d drive past Rental Man and thank God I’d never have to use Westside Rentals; Dancing Bluto scared the bejesus out of me.

Hi, hubris!
Here I was, with Aimee, as Dancing Bluto crazily grinned at me and reached out … opening the door to the offices.

“Thank you, spray-tanned, Axe-wearing gentleman,” I said. He nodded and grinned maniacally as I scooted past.

I stood in line with the rest of rent-paying humanity, and paid for my list of rentals. Basically, I was searching for the same apartment I had when I was just out of college.

“You’re an idiot,” Aimee said, back in the kitchen at Casa Sugar, as I went over the rental list. She was drinking chamomile tea, with not a splash of vodka. This was news, among my friends. “Did you even find out what the Biking Banker was going to charge you?”

“No.”

“You should have found out before you turned him down,” Aimee said.