The Dwelling: A Novel (12 page)

Women strolled elegantly through the mall in clutches of twos. From jeweled, dainty fingers dripped richly colored shopping bags, with matching tissue climbing out the tops of some as though they were barely able to contain the secrets inside. Others gaped openly, their contents peeking out above the straps of the handles. On the sides of the bags the names of shops were discreetly pressed in black. Louis Vuitton, Ambrosia, Kate Spade, Gucci, Anne Klein, Versace. Becca breathed deeply, her body relaxing familiarly into the rhythm and pace of the aisles.

She went first into Talbot’s. It was very likely the same place where Mrs. Huff shopped.

When Becca pushed open the front door, both hands were fully occupied with shopping bags. There were two from Talbot’s, and an Ambrosia bag, tiny and sexy with its rose-petal montage and scented paper, containing undergarments so light and engineered with such perfection that the bag hardly seemed necessary—the items seemed capable of walking home on their own. There was a Veda bag, with a new pair of slingback pumps—jumping the gun slightly on summer, but by then she’d thought,
what the hell?
and a pair of more sensible shoes for the moment
(the
moment, you could say), which matched perfectly the suit in the large suit bag slung over her shoulder.

The trick would be getting it all upstairs before Dan noticed.
This old thing? I’ve had it for months. I hardly ever wear it because it’s not flattering.
The bags crinkled excitedly, cheerfully, discreetly expensive, and she realized the
real
trick was going to be keeping her own excitement down and resisting the desire to try everything on once she got the bags upstairs. Her stomach was tight with exhilaration and utter terror. She had put everything on her charge cards (distributing it relatively evenly between the two). In all, she had spent just over a thousand dollars.

A thousand dollars. The figure left her out of breath. It was half of what was left in their checking account.

None of it was out of line, really. The suit—white, how fitting: she’d thought, but only fleetingly, that she would wear white like a bride or a virginal (hardly) sacrifice—had cost just over six hundred dollars, not outrageous. The shoes had been an absolute
bargain
at two hundred dollars. The lingerie was also two hundred and fifty, but she had paid that before. Stockings had put her over at fifty dollars, but they were the sort that clipped on to the delicate and delightful, practically
invisible
pair of garters that the salesgirl assured her would not show under the slightest of fabrics. The garters had been a hundred and fifty dollars. That was the fly in the ointment, and the one serious regret (and the most stimulating impulse purchase). She would likely only wear them once. It was almost a done deal now: she would have to do what she was ready to do, or she would have shopped in vain.

A thousand dollars. Thirteen hundred dollars, give or take. She preferred her rounded-off figure.

She stepped quickly and quietly into the deserted hall. There were no lights on in the kitchen and she assumed Dan was still in the studio working on his book.
Let him. Soon we’ll be able to afford that little indulgence. And mine.

The bags, in spite of her holding everything carefully away from her body, made their crinkling sounds, which seemed loud in the empty hall, but wasn’t the sort of sound that carried at all. Just as she was about to mount the steps, she heard the studio door open and the scrambling sound of someone rushing out. She was caught. She thought of dashing up the stairs quickly—
Hi I’m home I’ll be right down
—but then he would come up, and what would she do? Shove the bags into the armoire before he got up to the bedroom, like a common thief?

She backed down the step and stood, brazenly with her bags, in front of the door.

Dan was not in the hall. Instead, she heard him fumbling just out of sight, and then the familiar sound of a zipper hastily raised.

“Hello?” she said, curious.

He came around the corner then, hair disheveled, shirtless, looking like he’d just crawled out of a Dumpster. Or a bed. Had he been napping?

“What’s going on?” she asked. He ran a hand through his hair, succeeding only in making it worse. It stuck up at the back, stiffly, as though he had lain on his back for a long time.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, and she recognized a flash of guilt on his face, even in the dim light of the hall. She leaned sideways, peering behind him, almost, but not quite, expecting to see someone (a prostitute, a tramp, a fellow
artiste
) standing behind him. Dan followed her gaze, cheeks pink, and reached beside him and closed the studio door. It clicked shut boldly.

“Is there someone in there?” she said, her voice rising. “You have someone in there?”

He snorted indignantly. “For Chrissakes, Bec!” he said. “What the hell are you talking about?” His cheeks blazed then, and it might have been from indignation or anger.

“Why aren’t you dressed? What’s the matter with your hair?” she demanded, her bags and their contents forgotten.

He looked sheepish then. “I had a nap,” he said apologetically. “I guess you woke me up. Sorry.”

They stared at each other. Of course. She sighed and nodded.
A nap. Must be nice.
She was just about to say as much when anger crossed his face. He looked down at her packages. “And where the hell were you?” he said, turning it all around. She was trapped, caught (a thousand dollars! Half the account!).

“I was shopping,” she answered, daring him to say something about it. Defiant.

“I can see that. Looks like a pretty successful trip.” She nodded, the same nod she’d given Gordon Huff, that first day: a duck of the chin and not much more.

“I thought we were going to discuss spending more than a hundred bucks at a time. Wasn’t that your idea?”

“Who says this is more than a hundred dollars?”

He laughed. Shook his head. “Anyway,
hello dear. How was your day?”
he said sarcastically. Then he brushed past her in the hall and started up the stairs. “I’m getting in the shower. Then let’s go out to eat”—he paused on the stairs, and turned to her—“unless, of course, we’re all out of money now. And in that case, I’ll have a pair of Prabas. Maybe a left one. Fricasseed. What do you think?”

“Prada,” she corrected automatically.

“Right.
Prada.
Nice soft leather, easy to chew. I’ll be but a moment, darling.” He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, leaving Becca to stand in the hall, her egregious tokens dangling elegantly from her fingers.

Dan bent over the toilet, sure he was going to throw up. His body felt like it had been battered. His stomach was horribly empty, the only thing that kept him from vomiting that there was nothing to throw up; he hadn’t eaten all day. Toast in the morning. He hadn’t left the studio.

He’d heard her come in. His body had shuddered and stiffened as though a piece of piano wire had been strung from his head to his groin. In an instant, the room was brightly lit again, electric light beaming into his eyes from the ceiling bulb. He was alone, strung out on the sheetless bed, naked, sweat filming his torso, his breath still coming in gasps. He heard the shift and crunch of bags and thought she was home with groceries. The fact that he hadn’t been shopping in a week—one of his new duties as home-all-day guy—flooded over him just as the world flooded back over him. Max, drawing, groceries, eating, Becca’s dry-cleaning—
mice in the attic
—and he had jumped, literally, off the bed and grabbed for his pants, pulling them over his legs, jumping comically about, like some rake caught by his lover’s husband. He tumbled, nearly into the door, and flung it open, pausing only long enough to zip up his pants. He almost caught himself in his fly. Then he stepped out into the hall.

There she stood, staring at him with (what seemed to him) utter knowledge.
Honey it’s not what you think…

Then he saw the guilty look on her face, saw the bags, the packages and his sheer, perfect world, utter luck.

Tears sprang to his eyes as he leaned over the toilet and a wave of self-pity and loathing struck him hard enough to make him shudder.
What’s happening to me?
He cried for a minute, standing over the toilet, utterly wretched and afraid.

What the fuck is happening to me?

“I’m done with it,” he said. The sound echoed up at him.

By silent agreement, they went to Vesuvio’s, an old hangout from the early days of their marriage. Dinner was friendly. After his shower Dan had asked her for a truce. She had been on all fours in front of the armoire in the bedroom, stuffing her shoes with tissue. New ones, he guessed, and they certainly looked expensive, but he didn’t say anything.

“Truce,” she said, standing up. She was two inches shorter than he was in bare feet and looked terribly sad when she looked up at him. He’d held his arms out to her and she walked into them, not a word about the fact that he was still wet. No grumble, no admonition to watch her hair, nothing.

“I don’t know what’s happening to us, Bec,” he said into her hair, which smelled clean and fresh. “But let’s stop it, okay? Start fresh, be nice, all that?” She nodded, her chin bobbing on his shoulder. They stood like that, swaying together, her body molding lightly into his, a posture he knew was, if not an invitation, at least a yielding to sex. To lovemaking. He pressed his eyes shut together and tried to will his body into it, but it did not happen. When he broke their embrace, he couldn’t tell if it was relief or disappointment on her face. But the moment passed.

At the bottom of the stairs, ready to go, Dan stopped for a second.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He held up a finger. “One sec, would you just come here for one sec? I have to do something,” and he went down the short hall to the door of the studio. She followed him. He looked at her, wide-eyed, for a moment and then turned the knob and pushed open the door. The room was pitch black without the light. He flicked it on.

He stared into the room for a moment. “I just have to get something. Just stay here,” he said, planting her in front of the open door. Inside, he grabbed two sketchbooks off his drawing board and then held them flat like a tray beside his supplies table. He brushed everything on the surface of the table, pencils, pastels, charcoal, smudgers, erasers onto the flat top. A piece of charcoal rolled off and broke into two on the floor. He looked down at it, alarmed, hands full.

“I’ll get it,” Becca said.

“No!” he said. “Just leave it there. I have lots.” He carried the books flat, the edge pressing against his stomach (and his clean shirt, she did not point out) and all the supplies shifted to that end, in danger of falling over.

“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “Shut out the light, baby.” She flicked the switch and closed the door behind them. As Becca walked toward the front door, Dan stared up the full length of the door, and tugged once more on the knob, making sure it was firmly, resolutely closed.

He took everything upstairs and came back down again, in good spirits.

“Let’s go and get some grub!” he said, and smacked her affectionately on her bum. She squealed, as much from surprise as delight, and they locked up and drove off in the Volvo, Dan at the wheel.

Over plates heaped with spaghetti (by silent agreement once more, both of them had ordered spaghetti, a favorite during those same early years), Dan told Becca about Apex and the meeting. He explained who they were, and when she was unimpressed by their pedigree as publishers of
Brat Boy
and
Tunnel of Time,
he told her they were a small publisher of illustrated novels, adding “comic books” at the end of that by way of explanation, who were well thought of in the world where such things are thought of at all. He tried to make light of the opportunity, but she could hear the pride in his voice.

“So this might be a thing, huh?” she said. She twirled spaghetti on her fork and nibbled at the result daintily. She looked a little like a bird when she ate that way.

He shrugged. “I don’t want to get all excited about a meeting,” he said modestly, but he was grinning. “But, yeah, I guess I’m pretty happy about it.” He wanted to tease her. “Not bad for a guy out of work a few weeks, huh? Published.” She made an agreeable murmuring sound, but didn’t say much. She looked pale.

“You’ll be a director soon, I’ll be a famous illustrator. You’ll be rich and I’ll be famous. What a team. Just like we said in college, huh? Brains and talent. Huh? Admit it, it’s all happening now and you’re secretly thrilled.” He laughed, but she didn’t join him.

“What?”

She shook her head and said, without enthusiasm, “I’m very happy for you.”

He let it go. “Tomorrow after we meet with the Apex guy, we’re going to go out and celebrate—hopefully, keep those gorgeous painted fingers crossed—me, Max and Kate. I’ll call you at the office and you can meet us, but we’ll probably get started at Jester’s. What with all the available beer and all—”

She nodded. “Okay.”

Becca stared down at her spaghetti. She felt like there was a moment being offered up to her here, like a life preserver thrown to the guy caught in the swirls of the sea. She could pass on dinner on Monday. Dan was going to bring in some money. They would get by. She could wait and see what the board decided on its own. She could throw herself to the mercy of legitimacy.

Certainly, she could; but even if she was thinking about legitimacy and talent, even if on the surface of her mind she was thinking about doing the right thing, it stopped there. She didn’t want to go that route. She simply wanted the job. The means of getting it were no longer in dispute. She’d made her decision, and she was going with it.

“The painters are coming tomorrow,” she said brightly. “In the morning. I’m sure it will be all right if you just leave them there when you go to your meeting. Just ask them to lock up. I’ll stop in and change before I meet you and make sure everything is cleaned up,” she finished. She took a big bite of the spaghetti off her fork and through it, in unBecca-like fashion, she said, “Tell me all about the first issue of
The Headhunter.
I’m dying to hear the story.”