The Idea of Him (16 page)

“Well, I certainly had a few men I slept with in high school and college,” I answered, defending my ability to have sex for fun. “Slutting around in my own way.”

“Listen to yourself.” She cocked her head in disdain. “You weren't slutting around; you were sampling the merchandise, figuring out what you wanted.”

“No, I don't think I cared much about the quality of the merchandise.” Truth was, I didn't even look at the merchandise, much less check for a sell-by date.

“Well, why can't you do that now?” she asked, as if she were suggesting I try on a new pair of shoes.

“Maybe I want to set a better example for Lucy.” I think I must have looked at her in that condescending way mothers do to those women without kids. It didn't make even a tiny dent.

“So you prefer this needy state you're in now with Tommy where you're so fearful of your own shadow and your own desires you can't even figure out what you want?” Clearly it was her turn to condescend. “Besides, your husband is doing it, so why can't you?”

“Well, his wrong doesn't mean I am okay with my doing it,” I answered, raising my pitch. I felt a bit uncomfortable opening up to her, but I did like hearing her take on things—more independent than anything I was capable of. Except for Caitlin and a few sweet moms at school on rare occasions, I didn't like to let people know how I felt deep inside, which meant I didn't naturally open up to many girlfriends. Besides, James had an understanding of me that no one else ever would. And that sufficed.

She waved my concerns away with her hand in the air. “Sex is what you make it. It's just a release if you want it to be. Ask any man.”

“You may think it's freedom, but I'm not so sure . . .”

“It doesn't mean anything to me, if I don't want it to mean anything to me.” Jackie shook her head at my simplification. “And it means the world to me, if I'm in love. I'll take the freedom to make that choice any day. Are you following what you want or what society wants you to want? Make sure you don't walk around town with the scarlet letter pasted on your chest, Bovary's arsenic, all that creepy ‘punish the woman' bullshit.”

“Those novels are more than a hundred years old.”

She tied her straw in a heart-shaped knot and tossed it in front of me. “My point exactly. You are following ancient dictates.” She sipped the last drop of her cappuccino and slipped her small laptop into her bag. “Just fuck him, if that's what you want. We're not in Saudi Arabia.” She leaned close to my ear. “Whatever you decide, don't let society put you in a box.”

I looked into her velvet brown eyes, her pupils enormous in the low light. My opinion of her swayed; I went from thinking this woman was out of her mind and someone I just had to hate (or poison) to thinking she might actually be making some good points. “I don't think I'm going to do anything, and I certainly wouldn't be broadcasting it to you if I did, but I'm going to think about what you say. I'll give you that.”

”Well, think about it; and if you indulge, watch those guys in the thirty-and-under crowd. I know Tommy passes the thirtyish bar, he's what . . .”

“Thirty-two.”

“Well, from the looks of him, he's a wild card.”

“Watch what exactly?”

She licked her lips and stood to go. “Oh, you know . . .”

“I'm not exactly a virgin, nor was I before I met Wade,” I answered.

“I think you can peg men by the decade. I can, anyway.” Jackie responded like the expert she apparently was. “Guys in their fifties are all desperate to show they've still got their mojo. They try to show off uncomfortable positions they themselves don't even like.”

I thought about Wade, the near fiftysomething, imagining him acting like a total fool in bed with Jackie, some bucking bronco positions I couldn't even fathom. Part of me was humiliated to be linked to him. “Go on.”

“Thirties and forties are pretty much the same; they know how to please a woman and they know what they like. Pretty straightforward. They like the woman to be turned on, and they understand turning her on actually makes it better for both. You know, normal, pleasurable sex as if, strange enough, that's the goal.”

“And the under thirties?”

“That's the wild card decade right now, I'm finding.”

“You're finding or your friends are telling you . . .” I had to ask.

“Well, a combination of direct, in-the-field research and what I hear, let's say. But the under thirties are Internet porn obsessed for sure; they watch it like a tutorial. That's how they learned to do it, not like the old days where guys learned from the hot sitter down the block teaching them the moves that a woman really likes. They jerk off to it, copy it, emulate it, and they don't know there's another way. They'll slap your ass out of the blue, get a little too rough by holding you down; basically they fuck like they're a porn star the entire time, and they expect you to do the same.”

“Jesus, that sounds horrible. Is that it or is there more?”

“Much more, but I'm late and have to go.” She threw her bag over her shoulder and whispered to me, as she got ready to leave. “Truth is, they all want to replicate the money shot and they're too stupid and immature to understand that the money shot is just for viewers, not real people actually doing it.”

“And by money shot you mean . . .” I sounded like the fishing town girl I was.

“They like to get their jollies on you rather than in you. They forget there are no viewers waiting for the finale. And if you don't get my drift, I mean get out a handkerchief for your face. Put it that way. Or rub it in; it's supposed to be good for your skin.”

“Uh, well,” I huffed loudly. “Thanks for the advice, on all fronts.”

Her sudden smile lit up the bar. “Don't thank me yet. For all I know, despite all his intensity and passion, maybe Tommy sucks in bed. Wouldn't that be ironic?”

“Yeah.” I laughed awkwardly and reluctantly. “That would be hilarious.”

Jackie gave me a long, sideways glance as she laid a hand on her purse and kissed me softly on the cheek. “And I'm sure you can get it the way you want in anyone's bed, regardless of their age, but think about what I said about the men in your life having too much power over you. I meant it.”

22

Blasting Heat

The entire next day at my office, I couldn't help but contemplate Jackie's man-by-the-decade theory. As for her ideas on the morals of sleeping around, part of me wanted to kill her for doing just that with the man I married (and for looking so good while doing it), but I had to admit to myself I liked hearing a woman talk like a man. At least she didn't love Wade back and just considered him a quick, fifty-trying-to-prove-something lay. The clock hit one
P.M.
and my phone rang.

“Allie.” Murray started in without saying hello. He sounded a little out of breath, even for a guy whose breathing was always loud, rattly, and labored, like he might go into cardiac arrest at any moment. “Do what I say.”

“I always do what you say, Murray.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. But this time, don't fuck it up and improvise with some of your own input. Do
exactly
as I say,” he instructed.

“Okay, first of all, you sound like your mother, which is pretty much not who you want to be in life, and second, I don't mess things up.” I was concerned something serious was going on, but I didn't want to let on to Murray how much I knew.

“You don't. I'm just used to having to say that to every-fucking-one. I'm sorry, just do what I say, you hear me?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I think we've established that.”

“I need to see your reports, but I want everything in person now. In Southampton. Today.”

This seemed ominous. Why couldn't I fax or e-mail them? “Today? You want me out there? We talked about doing it on the videoconference.”

“Nope, I need something else as well. A man is going to come to you from a bank. He'll arrive downstairs in approximately three minutes. Let the guard know he can come upstairs. He is going to personally deliver an envelope with some documents to your office door. Not a messenger, but a banker. No one may look at the documents. Not you. Not the guy delivering them. You got it? There's going to be tape bonding the envelope closed. Make sure it isn't ripped anywhere.”

“What am I supposed to do with this envelope?” I asked with great trepidation.

“Get your ass on the Long Island Expressway and bring the envelope to me. And if you get into a car wreck, and the car's about to blow up, grab my papers and let your fuckin' purse burn.”

 

A FEW MINUTES
later, a guy looking like a humorless Swiss banker in a suit appeared in my doorway after having been cleared by the guard. He was upstairs for all of forty seconds before he left again, not saying a single word.

I placed the envelope—closed up with red tape that read
CONFIDENTIAL
—in my bag. I wondered what was in it, but I knew I couldn't open it and find out. I then gathered all my own papers, rushing out the door and bumping into Caitlin bringing me a fresh Frappuccino for my thighs. My phone rang.

Wade.

“What?” I practically yelled.

“Oh, thank God I caught you.”

“What?” I yelled again.

“I'm downstairs with the kids.”

“Downstairs where?”

“Your office building.”

“Okay, well, I'm working a full day as we discussed, and we also discussed that you would take them for the half day, remember? And I'm suddenly on my way out to Murray's in any case so I can't take them now.” I winked thank you to Caitlin and grabbed the cold plastic cup.

“Great.” And then he turned his voice away from the receiver. “They'd love to take a ride out, wouldn't you, kids?”

I closed my eyes, trying not to say motherfucker out loud. “Wade, we discussed how much work I have. How often do I save you from kids when you're overwhelmed? How often do I say I have to work instead of being the main caregiver?
Never
. Today is different. My turn to be overwhelmed. I can't take the kids today all the way out to Southampton; that's nuts.” I mouthed
Motherfucker
to Caitlin and pointed to my cell phone.

“I know, I know, but something's come up, and I need to play a round of golf with Max Rowland this afternoon. We have to discuss a film in the festival that he's now sponsoring; it's not going to launch so well, and I can help with some much-needed buzz, so . . .”

“What do you have to talk to Max about? The prereviews are already out there. You can't bring them back.”

“He wants to discuss international distribution so he can double down on his investment here and overseas. His car is waiting to take me to Bayonne Country Club right now.”

“Motherfucker! Wade, really? Golf? That's your excuse for screwing up my presentation?”

“I promise to make it up to you . . .”

“Make what up to me? Your cheating throughout our marriage or ditching the kids with me on my big report day for my boss?” Caitlin's eyebrows were raised to the heavens at that one, though she quickly occupied herself with neatening up my files and charts in the bag on the ground.

Wade didn't answer for a long time and then finally offered, “Allie. I'm sorry. Jesus, we're in a bad place right now. I, I . . .”

“Yes, Wade, you are making up what exactly?”

“I was referring to today's unfortunate planning snafu. Making that up to you, I mean.”

“You can't make that up either, Wade.” And I hung up.

“Wowza,” said Caitlin. “So by cheating, you mean the girl at the party or just from way before when Lucy was born?”

“I'm not answering that.”

She stared into my eyes, standing on her tiptoes a little to do so. “You have to. I need to know.”

I tried to push by her on my way out of my office. “And why do you need to know?”

“Because I want to give you good girlfriend advice, and you're so clammed up, we can't figure this out.”

I plunked my sorry body down on the sofa in the hallway before the elevator bank and placed my head in my hands.

Caitlin rubbed my back. “Where are you guys? Where are you in all this?”

I shook my head. “If you fall in love with someone who turns out to be a liar and you still love something about him and you have kids on top of that, then you're fucked. It's like Lucy and Blake form this concrete block that trips me up. They deserve the family I never got. I'm telling you, I'm so lost in this mess.”

“Well, maybe Wade just isn't quite the man he seemed when you . . .”

“Wade is just a big kid. He wants it all and he wants it now. And he's exciting in so many ways, but his flaws are very, very real. And they cause acute pain, because a lying mate doesn't mean the connection turns off like a faucet. It just means confusion reigns and, in my case, a prickly and constant state of
what the hell do I do now?
”

“Well, how long can you hold out?” Caitlin asked, like it affected her somehow. “Are you going to try despite his, I don't know, his ways?”

“I wouldn't be the only woman in America who'd overlooked that issue.” My heart hurt and I felt a rush of anxiety wash over me because I had no idea what I wanted or how to fix this.

“Look at Jackie O,” Caitlin said, sounding dejected.

I shook my head and stared at the horribly creased shirt I'd slept in. “Nothing about me is like Jackie O.”

“Look at Hillary Clinton!” Caitlin offered next. “She might be president someday; then we can say the leader of the goddamn free world overlooked a womanizer!”

Yeah, but maybe I just couldn't overlook it, and maybe I couldn't find the right answer either. A happy me didn't exactly shine on either side of the coin. I had two choices: leave him and be alone with the kids and face God knows what hell or stay and feel like I wasn't meant for any of what had come of my marriage.

I stood up straight like a good soldier and stabbed the elevator button. I had a report to present to my boss, a confidential package to deliver to him, and two tired children downstairs in the lobby on a steaming hot, disgusting, muggy New York day. No way around it but to take them to the meeting and feed them enough cool ice cream to keep them as happy as possible. Hugely depressing thoughts were creeping through every inch of my body, but I closed my eyes and willed them buried for now.

 

THERE'S AN UNWRITTEN
rule in Manhattan that says “on summer Fridays, leave for the Hamptons before two o'clock or after seven o'clock.” Never in between. By the time I got the kids into the car and a movie playing on the drop-down screens, it was one thirty.

This time, the unwritten rule was wrong by thirty minutes, which only amped up those depressing thoughts. Two hours later, I sat on the Long Island Expressway, caught up in a perfect storm of pre-rush-hour, middle-island business, and rich Hampton weekender traffic around exit 50, twenty long, slow exits before the off-ramp to the Hamptons.

We were at a standstill on a four-lane highway, and the air conditioner on my old Volvo wagon huffed and puffed. At least the kids had both passed out after the first hour of nonstop poking and teasing and whining. I looked back at them all passed out, finally, and they looked like little rolled-up cherubs.
At least I had them, and no one could change that ever.

My phone rang—Tommy's number on the screen—and I clicked on my Bluetooth earpiece quickly before it woke them. A least a little ray of light in an otherwise taxing morning.

“How's the presentation?” he asked.

“Mashed potatoes at best. My boss will point out every shortcoming.”

“Well, fuck your job. Stick to the writing.”

“When's yours due?” I asked.

“I got a week.”

“I'll be on your ass next week then,” I promised.

“That sounds nice, you on my ass. We could maybe try that before then to practice a little . . .”

I coughed. “I'm undecided on that front, you know that,” I said, while making sure the kids were out cold in back.

“I can help you with that decision. Why don't you just chill out, come to my apartment and rip off my clothes, and you take charge; have your way with me . . .”

“How about instead I help you with your writing?” I asked, hoping to even the score, and cool him off.

“It just so happens I am having this one problem with my main character. There's this nice girl he likes, but he wants to cheat on her with this hot, totally destructive chick, and I'm concerned it's making the audience hate him. How do I do that and make women want to go to this movie, and, on some level, like him?”

“Well, that's not easy, but you should thank God it's the guy you're trying to make likable. Audiences hate it when a woman cheats, especially a mother, so much puritanical backlash baggage about all that. If a married woman actually cheats, then the writer has to have her jump on the train tracks so the audience can go home happy . . . oh, shit.” I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand.

“Allie?” Tommy said, clearly alarmed. “You there?”

“Yeah, I'm here.” I shook my head as my anger resurfaced. “But I gotta do something. I'll call you later.”

“Okay, do that. And put your ass on me next time it's convenient.”

I heard rumblings in the backseat as Blake stirred and asked for a drink, his eyes still closed.

“Honey, there's your favorite strawberry Capri Sun drinks in the cooler; take a sip of something and go back to sleep. When you are both awake, while I'm working at my meeting, you can turn on
Toy Story 3
.”

Next I anxiously called lobby security.

“Good afternoon, 553 West Nineteenth Street.”

“Hi, Lorenzo, it's Allie Crawford from the Hillsinger offices. I have a quick question.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you remember I came down to greet my husband and children?”

“Yes. Always remember the children. Can't say that about the husbands.”

“Okay, Lorenzo,” I pleaded. “Please please please try to remember, just before that, you sent a messenger upstairs. A Mr. Prissert?”

“Okay, yes, I see it. Mrs. Crawford, it's like Grand Central Station here, I don't remember every face I sign in.”

“Did you happen to see my husband talking to that man, Mr. Prissert, the guy who came up with the envelope?” I was gripping the wheel like a crazy person, with all my knuckles turning white. It hit me like an electric shock. If Wade and Mr. Prissert were talking in the lobby, then Wade and Murray were in some kind of financial dealings together for sure and I just might believe everything Jackie was telling me. Maybe I would even hand her the flash drive.

“Honestly, Mrs. Crawford, I'd really like to help you, but I just don't remember. I remember your kids running in when you came down and thinking you must be an awful nice mom, seeing how you treat me nice all the time. I remember that. And I remember you going outside to someone; I mean the kids wouldn't have been there alone, I guess.”

“Can you find any security tapes?”

“Yes. But I'm not supposed to . . .”

“Please, Lorenzo. Look at the tapes. And also tell me if there's an SUV, a black one, outside that was with the guy who brought up my package.”

“Okay. Give me an hour.”

I just needed a link between Wade and the envelope Murray wanted so badly from some bank and then I'd be pretty close to believing everything Jackie said—why the hell else would my husband pray to Jesus in thanks on the floor when I handed him a missing flash drive? The pieces were too easy to ignore: Max Rowland, a.k.a. Texas Takeover King, looking to get even richer; my husband manipulating media stories; Delsie broadcasting fake news on CNBB to earn some more cash for her Easter-egg-colored Valentino suits; and Murray spinning more tales with the help of media mover Wade Crawford to protect them all. A nice little circle of crime that went round and round . . .