The Private Lives of Pippa Lee (17 page)

Yet I was plagued by a maddening insecurity about Herb's love for me. Almost invariably, the same poisonous daydream would infuse my mind as I pushed the kids through the park in their stroller, trying to lull them to sleep after lunch. The details of the fantasy were different, but the thrust was the same: I find a letter. I find a scarf. I find a pair of underpants. I come upon Herb with his lover in our apartment. I come upon them in the beach house. I come upon them in the park while walking the twins. She is always dark, tall, buxom, more intelligent than I. I weep. I mourn. I accuse. I confront. He leaves me.

I got so involved with these scenarios of betrayal and abandonment that I barely knew where I was. One day, I was walking along in Central Park, imagining haranguing Herb as his gorgeous lover covered herself with my guest bedsheets, when a lady in her sixties approached me. ‘Mrs Lee?' I looked at her, confused. She had a sharp nose, small, dark, friendly eyes. She was English. It was then I realized I had tears on my face. I smiled, embarrassed, and wiped them away. She introduced herself as Miranda Lee. Herb's first wife! She'd seen a picture of me standing with Herb at some charity event. She wanted to say hello. She had become a psychotherapist. I should have taken her card. Instead, we chatted on a park bench while the twins slept. She was an intelligent woman with a sense of humor, especially about Herb. When she mentioned him, it was with an amused, condescending expression, as though he was a naughty child. Solitude radiated from her, but it wasn't imbued with bitterness. It just seemed like a fact of her life, something she accepted, even cherished. She had made a considerable life for herself since the divorce. She had a
thriving practice, two sons who were her dear friends, she had a lively social life, went to the opera.

When we parted, she said I seemed like a lovely person. And then she said, ‘Take care of yourself, Pippa.' She looked me in the eye when she said that. I was flustered by her warning, and slightly insulted, for Herb, and for myself, yet what she said stayed with me. After that day, I banned the fantasy of Herb's affair from my thoughts. It took a lot of discipline, but I managed to shoo it away just about every time it started running through my mind, till eventually I kicked the habit altogether. I trained myself to trust him.

I remember one winter, at the country house of friends with young children, everyone went tobogganing but the twins and me. I had stayed inside with them all morning, thinking they were too young, at two, to be on anything moving so fast. Herb came in, though, eyes shining, cheeks flushed from the cold, and said that the other kids in the party were having a great time, they were just a little older than ours. Wouldn't I come out with the twins? Herb rarely went gamboling outside, so I said yes, all right. I armed Ben and Grace against the cold with snowsuits, fat jackets, mittens, hats, and boots, and they waddled out ahead of me. The sky was clear and blue; the snow sparkled. Herb slid onto the back of the toboggan, holding the rope. Then came fearless Grace, snuggling up to her daddy, then me, then Ben, my sweet little Ben. Herb's long legs were like iron railings along the row of his family, as one of our friends gave us a little push. So fast – I hadn't known it would be so quick – and the snow! I couldn't see, there was snow flying into my face, I was blinded, out of control, clutching Ben, Grace against my back – I was terrified, flying through space with Herb bellowing, steering, and Grace screaming with joy, all of us shrieking in the white screen of no picture, till at last we slid onto the frozen lake at the bottom of the hill and slowly came to a stop. We all rolled off the toboggan. Catching my breath, on all fours, I looked up at Herb: his whole face was encrusted with snow, his eyebrows like snowy mountain peaks; the furry trim on the twins' hoods was white and glistening, their light eyes peeking out of sugary faces. We all looked at one another and laughed, we laughed so hard, turning in toward each other,
a circle of people who belonged to one another, and to no one else. That was the moment I felt us become a family, a unit apart from the world. That was when I became Pippa Lee.

The night after her lunch with Moira, Pippa dreamed she was walking through a deserted shopping mall, chewing a wad of gum that had lost its flavor. The escalators were stock-still; rolling metal gates were clamped down over all the storefronts. She took the wad out of her mouth and started searching for a place to throw it away. She found the garbage, got rid of the gum, and was just wondering whether she could persuade someone to open the tobacco kiosk so she could buy some cigarettes when she heard a rough, breathy sound beside her. She turned and saw an enormous lion. He was serenely lapping up a puddle of strawberry ice cream from the floor. His mane was coarse and had golden hairs woven into the reddish thicket. Pippa was terrified.

The lion ignored her. He took a few bouncing steps and leapt gracefully into an enormous planter with an artificial palm tree stuck in it. Squatting, his back rounded, great haunches quivering, the lion shat onto the fake earth. He looked sheepish and vulnerable. Pippa felt sorry for the lion. Having accomplished his task, he sped off the huge flowerpot, as if disavowing his humiliation, and padded down an immobile escalator, moving as fluidly as a river, an invincible predator once again. Finding that she had a plastic bag conveniently wrapped around her hand, Pippa stepped over to the great turd and scooped it up dutifully, as she had a thousand times in Gramercy Park when walking Milo, their corgi, who'd died of pneumonia back in 1996.

‘Mrs Lee?' She heard the voice coming from inside the tobacco kiosk. She walked over to the iron gate and peered inside.

‘I would like some cigarettes,' she called out into the darkness.

‘What kind?' said the voice.

‘Those white ones,' she said.

Chris Nadeau stood behind the counter of the Marigold Village convenience store, watching Pippa, who was standing in her nightgown, holding a large baking potato that she had retrieved from the bin, a plastic produce bag over her hand, her gaze fixed somewhere behind his head. ‘Marlboro Lights?' he asked helpfully. She didn't respond. He leaned over the counter and brushed her arm with his fingers. Pippa felt his touch as a shock from the metal gate of the tobacco kiosk, but it was enough to rend the dream. She looked down at her nightgown, the potato in the bag, her bare feet. As she looked up at Chris, his eyes filled with curiosity and concern, her mind gradually collected itself around her realization.

‘Oh, my God,' she said softly.

‘Would you like me to take you home?' Chris asked.

She nodded, handing him the potato.

By the time they got to her place, weak light was seeping into the darkness, like a drop of ink tinting a glass of water. One bird called out. Pippa made no move to get out of the truck.

‘Mrs Lee,' he said. ‘Pippa?' His gentleness surprised her. She felt tears on her cheeks.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘This is the last thing you need. First your mother and now me.'

‘It's not the same,' said Chris.

‘It's just, I walk in my sleep. Recently, I have been. Something must be wrong … with me. The weirdest thing about this …'

‘What?' he asked.

‘I just feel so young,' she said. ‘Like a very young person.'

‘Well, you're young for around here,' he said.

‘I don't mean that. When I was very young … I was always in the middle of some kind of drama … and as I got older and had a family, I gradually stopped being in the center, you know, I stepped aside, and other people were in the center; when you have kids that just sort of happens. And I got used to that. And now I am living this weird little drama and I am the protagonist
and I just feel so crazy, even though I know it's a very commonplace problem, millions of Americans are probably up buttering their stereos as we speak.'

He laughed, and so did she.

‘You're an unusual person,' he said.

‘No, I'm not,' she said. ‘That's what I am trying to tell you. What's unusual is that I'm acting weird.'

‘Trust me,' he said.

‘Maybe you shouldn't tell anyone … about this,' she said.

‘Okay,' he said.

She looked over at him and noticed his eyes for the first time. Dark as the bottom of a lake, they shone with the helpless honesty of a dog's eyes.

‘Well, thank you – and good night,' she said, getting out and pushing the heavy door shut.

Herb was asleep. Stark naked, legs twisted in the sheets, his arms flung out on either side of him, his hairy barrel chest exposed, he looked like he had been washed ashore, like Odysseus on Circe's isle. But for Herb, the adventure was over, Pippa thought sadly. She wished that the future wasn't so predictable, that this house was not the death house. That it wasn't just a matter of time before he had the morphine IV in, and the nurse sat in the corner reading her magazine. Eighty years old. How long did he have?

Herb opened his eyes and saw her crouching beside him. ‘What are you crying for?' He sounded irritated. He knew what she was thinking. He rolled over and went to sleep. She knew he was right. She had to stop being so sentimental. She needed a doctor, too. Pills, probably. She hated the idea, she never even took an aspirin if she could help it, but she was driving in her sleep, for goodness' sake. At breakfast she would tell Herb. She would tell him and he would fix it, say something dry and logical, and then she would do what he said. She didn't feel like sleeping, so she took a shower, dressed, and made coffee.

Finally, at nine o'clock, Herb came out looking sullen. He took
a sip of the coffee and made a face. ‘This is piss,' he said. Wordlessly she got up, took his cup, poured it out, and ground a new batch of beans. He sat there stewing. When she presented the second cup to him, he tasted it and said, ‘Let's get a new machine.'

‘This is a new machine.'

‘Let's get one that makes a decent cup of coffee. We can afford it, we sold all our real estate.'

‘I'll look them up,' she said. ‘Maybe
Consumer Reports
–' Herb got up and went to the sofa, started reading the paper. She knew better than to try to talk to him when he was in a bad mood.

‘Is there anything you want at the store?' she asked.

‘No thanks.'

‘See you at lunch then.' She walked out of the house and thought about what she wanted to buy. A beautiful melon, if she could find a ripe one. And prosciutto. She walked out into the driveway and stared at Herb's car, sitting there by itself. Where was her car? Had it been stolen? Seconds passed before she remembered it was parked outside the convenience store. Probably had the keys in it! She turned to go back into the house but stopped herself. Herb would flip about the car. He was grumpy enough already. How was she going to get to the convenience store? She could walk, but it was so hot – and Herb might pass her on the way to his office. She hurried around the house and looked across the pond. Chris's yellow truck was parked in the driveway. She wondered when his shift began. It wasn't even ten o'clock. What would she say to Dot? She started walking down the road to the Nadeau house. If Dot was there, she would pretend she was just stopping by, out on a walk. If she wasn't …

Pippa had reached the house. The toadstool cast a purple shadow on the grass. Dot's car was gone. Johnny spent every morning at the boatbuilding club – she remembered Dot mentioning that. Her belly tight with anxiety, Pippa rang the bell. Nothing stirred inside. She tried the door. Locked. She couldn't help laughing at herself as she crept around to the side of the
house, to Chris's open window, and looked in. He was asleep. Pippa tapped on the window with her fingernail. He didn't move. She knocked on the glass. His head moved from side to side, as if to shake off the sound. Then he sat bolt upright and stared at the window.

‘Chris,' she said. ‘It's Pippa. I'm so sorry to disturb you.' He rubbed his eyes and swiveled around, putting his feet on the floor. He was wearing his ‘What?' T-shirt, and held the sheet across his lap. ‘I'll wait at the front door,' she said. She walked to the front door and waited. This was so embarrassing, it was beyond belief. He seemed to be taking a long time. Finally, she heard footsteps. The door opened. He was dressed, but he looked exhausted.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said.

‘'S all right,' he said, his voice weak with sleep. ‘Wassa matter?'

‘My car,' she said. ‘I left it at the store. I think the keys may be in it. I … have no way to get there and you're the only one …'

‘Okay,' he said and walked out the door, toward his truck. She got in beside him.

‘I shouldn't have done this. It's terrible, you won't get enough sleep.'

‘Don't worry,' he said.

They drove to the convenience store. Her car was still there, with the keys in it.

‘Oh, thank God,' she said. ‘Thank you so much.'

‘You want to get breakfast?' he asked, yawning. She realized that she was very hungry.

They went to the shingled Friendly's that was a part of Marigold Village. Pippa ordered bacon and eggs.

‘This is a very strange moment in my life,' she said.

‘You and me both,' he said.

‘Yes?'

‘Fired from a job I despise, I come home to find my wife on top of my best friend.'

‘That's horrible,' said Pippa.

‘The clichés were running fast and furious in Wendover, Utah, that Saturday night. But I've been thinking. Maybe there was a good reason for that layer cake of rejection.'

‘Really? What?' said Pippa.

‘I'm an asshole.'

Pippa let out a little laugh, then realized he was serious.

‘I don't know why. I just always have been.'

‘Hm,' she said.

‘And what about you? Is there a reason you're potato shopping at two in the morning?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I think maybe I'm … Ever since we moved here … I haven't felt right. I feel distanced from Herb and our life together, as if I were hovering above it, watching us. I wonder if it's to do with my age, and the fact that I – I don't quite know who I am these days, sometimes I'll be someplace and accidentally look in a mirror, and for a split second I think, Who's that middle-aged woman? And then, Oh, my God, it's me! It's an awful shock, I can tell you. But that doesn't explain why I've been sleepwalking.'

He didn't say anything, just stared at her. Pippa felt the blood creep up her neck, her cheeks. Her whole chest was getting blotchy.

‘Maybe your brain is trying to tell you something.' His face was, as usual, expressionless. She could see the feathery lines of the tattooed Christ peeking out from the loose collar of his worn T-shirt.

‘That tattoo you have must have hurt terribly,' she said.

‘I can't remember.'

‘My father was a minister,' she said.

He nodded, then ate for a time, looking down at his plate. Pippa watched him. His narrow face seemed very angular, almost wedge shaped, as though his cheeks had been chiseled away from his broken nose and chapped lips. One strong hand curled around his plate protectively.

‘I tried to enter a seminary once,' he said.

‘You were going to be a priest?'

‘I wanted to, but – I wasn't their type.'

‘Do you still have a vocation?'

‘Just the tattoo.'

‘You can have them removed.'

‘You'd have to take my skin off. Anyway, it's a souvenir.'

‘So you lost your faith?'

‘I just stopped believing you could nail it all down.'

‘I'm curious about you,' she said. And then she wondered if that was an inappropriate thing to say. He leaned back in his seat and looked at her, as if weighing something in his mind.

‘Okay,' he said. And then he started to talk.