Wasted Beauty (4 page)

Reba tugs at her crotch hair with the hairbrush. Not even enough to shave off. Just a girl. Never be a real woman. Only good for blow jobs to freaky old guys. Why should anyone normal notice me? I’m nothing. I’m wallpaper. If I stopped moving, I’d disappear.

Reba fondles the teddies and thongs that Billy would never suspect she owned, stored in a Victorian wardrobe inherited from a long dead grandmother she’s never met. The cherrywood veneer exhales an aroma of mothballs and mold. Why do I even bother? I’m not going anywhere.

The interior of the wardrobe door is papered with magazine clippings. Models, actresses and singers, wrapped in silk, bejeweled, coiffed, perfectly painted, a swirl of color and clear skin, blissfully suspended in a delicious syrup of movement and sex and cash. Their eyes say “You have no idea how good life can be!”

Outside her bedroom window, the night is black and still. No stars. No cars on the road. Even the peepers are silent. Reba runs a finger along the mullion dividing the panes. How many times have I touched this painted wood? How many times have I looked out this window? How many people have been born in this house, cried here, made love here, died here? I’m just one more.

In bed, Reba draws the pillow into her arms and nuzzles the cotton cheek. She settles onto her back and lets her hand find herself under the nightgown cloth. Here is a breast. A shape, so important. I’m not that bad, am I? My boobs are nice. Maybe not big enough, but I like them. What do I care anyway? I’m worrying about making some man happy I’ll never meet. Fuck him! I’m a such a bad girl. If Billy only knew I did this! If anyone knew. I’m a sex maniac. Ugly and oversexed, what a great combination! Well, no matter. I am what I am. I can’t help it. Think of nice things.

When she was little, before she was old enough for school, and long, long before death came to reside in her parents’ hot bedrooms, before she understood that this house was old and sad, Reba would run down to the orchard in a homemade smock and take little bites from the green apples that fell all through the summer. In August, she would hurl them at her brother, or aim for the smooth tree bark, exploding them into green shrapnel.

When she was even smaller, she would dash over the tender springtime grass and the white apple blossoms would float like snowflakes into her upstretched arms. The bees would hum and zip over the white and pink and green. And again in the sweet, aromatic fall, the wasps would steal teeny nibbles from the ripest bits on each fruit. And then the dark leaves would turn curly and drop and she would race through the crispy piles.

On exactly what day did happiness end? When did it all turn into dry leaves? Don’t think.

Everything smells of lilac as the petals drift down all around her. She gyrates in the heaps of fallen blossoms, letting them caress her bare skin, arms high over her head. The pink white petals swirl around her nipples, her armpits, her back, the insides of her legs. The leaves and blossoms and honeybees form thick streams, a Niagara crashing over her thighs, faster and faster. The hum of the bees roars in her ears, jet engines streaming down her throat, up into her belly, her asshole, running down inside her arms and legs, out to her toes and fingertips. The hairs at the back of her neck stand up. The universe resonates with the drone. Reba wants to pee and giggle at the same time. She lifts her arms even higher and then something, someone, grabs her by the hands and tosses her high up into the black sky and she’s gone.

RICK SNEAKS OUT INTO THE MORNING LIGHT AND
gathers up all the sunny Sunday morning stuff: newspaper, chive cream cheese, Nova, freshly baked bagels. Totes it back to the happy, happy family waking up in their sunny house. We will have a wonderful, happy family brunch in our wonderful family home.

Why am I mocking it, it is wonderful. A spacious, sunny, suburban domicile full of expensive plants, polished oak floors, black Japanese electronica, handsome bookcases and comfy furniture. Isn’t this what I always wanted? This is the life I imagined in med school. A pretty, loving wife, two great kids, my own medical practice and a serene home with all the things it should contain. A great sound system. Thick handwoven rugs. Windows with views of leafy trees. A flat lawn. A barbecue.

On granite countertops, Rick and Laura slice lemons and red onion, lay out the thick pink pages of salmon and warm the bread in the chef’s oven. Henry and Trina spiral through the house with nutty abandon, noodling like joyous background music.

Rick admires the determination and purpose with which Laura prepares the food. He also likes how good she looks in a bathrobe, likes her plumped up like this, classical. She’s still a piece of ass, but more than that, she’s Laura, smart, focused, efficient, game. My wife. A hundred times more fun and sexy and good-looking than any of those humorless bitches and neurotics my friends married. Watching her slice bagels makes him horny. She glances at him, “What?”

“Careful, don’t cut your finger.”

“Stop staring at me, Rick. It’s creepy.”

“I was thinking how vivacious you look in that bathrobe.”

“This? I was going to throw it out. And my hair’s greasy as a pork chop. Kids!”

Like beagle pups, Henry and Trina flop and scrabble their way to the table, wrangling chairs like they’d spent their lives eating off the floor. They grab fresh circles of bread, poking at the oily fish with their fingers. Laura pours coffee. Haydn string quartets play softly under everything, which is perfect in its imperfection. Rick thinks, this is what it’s all about. Happy morning.

Up late at the ER. The night had been uneventful until two in the morning when a guy in a suit walked in complaining of stomach pains. Before they could begin the workup, he suffered a massive myocardial infarction. Could not be revived. He died on the table. The wife called looking for him. Turned out she’d caught him smoking crack in the bathroom and had chewed him out about his drug use and he had become short of breath and she thought he was faking it. She’d told him if he wasn’t feeling well he should get his ass to the emergency room. She even called the cab and that was the last time she saw him alive. Not only did Rick catch the patient, he had to spend an hour with the wife talking her down while waiting for the police.

This morning, Rick is suspended in a thick jell of fatigue. He needs caffeine and food. He is ready to indulge himself in the ambrosia of a New York City brunch. He sips his freshly brewed, freshly ground Dean & Deluca coffee and enthusiastically layers the fish and cream cheese on top of a bagel.

Laura says, “Save some for the kids.” She says things like this all the time. She is the guardian of food. Guardian of proper behavior and posture. Guardian of tooth brushing and warm clothing. So why does it hit him so hard this morning? It isn’t like he doesn’t expect it. In his heart, he knew as he laid the last piece of fish on top of the white tufts of spread that he was pushing it. I shouldn’t be eating all this. I’m getting older and cream cheese and Nova are not good for me. That guy last night was only four years older than I am.

Isn’t it logical? Isn’t that what I should be doing? Watching my health? I’m a doctor, if anyone should know that all this shit is bad for you, it’s me. When I’m sixty, do I really want to be slumped in a wheelchair with a string of drool hanging off my chin? No, of course not. So Laura is right to be on my case, because she loves me. Plus she doesn’t want to be caring for a vegetable, either. And I took a bit too much. The kids need to eat. Laura needs to eat. But I’m hungry. And Trina doesn’t even like smoked salmon. Why can’t I just have what I want?

The rightness of the morning disappears and in its place swirl clouds of irritations. Rick flicks the fish back onto the serving platter. It lies there, curled over, fragments of coarse pepper clinging. Spoiled. Everything is spoiled. And it’s her fault.

Now Laura is saying something but Rick can barely hear her. “Well, not that much. You don’t have to be ridiculous, Rick.”

The clouds swirl faster, coalescing into a major storm system. Words come before he can edit them. “No. No. You’re right.”

“No, honey, take more. I’m just saying…” Laura’s eyes are not on Rick, they are on Trina.

“I’m fine!” He sips his coffee. It’s gone cold, it’s too bitter.

“That’s ridiculous. Trina, wipe your mouth.” Laura wipes Trina’s face.

“Mom!” Trina wriggles, collapses into a sulk. Laura returns to her food, finds a forkful, lays it onto her tongue. She’s forgotten the conversation already. Or is pretending to forget it.

Dark edges along the periphery. “What’s ridiculous is that you’re telling me, at forty-five years of age, how much food I can put on my plate.”

“No, I’m not doing that, Rick.” Laura reaches for the pepper. “Henry, sit up.”

“Yes, you are!”

“I just said…”

Either Henry or Trina say “Dad!” Which one spoke? Aren’t they all just the same person split in pieces? Or pieces of myself, like an arm or a leg?

“Rick, take as much as you want! Don’t be a baby!”

“You know what? I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Rick!”

Both kids definitely in unison now, more shrilly. “Dad!”

But Rick is up, moving with nowhere to go. Laura addresses his back: “So you’re not having lunch?”

“I’m not having lunch.” Just keep moving. Figure it out later. If I don’t keep moving, I’m going to pick up a plate and throw it.

“But we just sat down.”

“Dad!”

Rick rushes up to the bedroom. He sees a door, goes through it and enters a walk-in closet. Faraway voices call out, “Daddy!”

Close the door. Shut the light. Sit on the floor.

In the gloom with the shoes and the stored Christmas stuff and the boxes of wrapping paper, Rick doesn’t give a shit about the fish. There are much larger issues here that need to be examined. Her presence. My inability to come to terms with her presence. Necessary, but chafing. Chafing and rubbing, hurting me. It comes down to this. A long time ago we fell in love. And we have remained in love. We have kids. And that’s all good. But there’s a problem. You don’t stay in love forever, do you? What we have now is not what we had then. Now we’re companions. Roommates. And I don’t like her anymore. And she doesn’t like me.

The family is an organism composed of parts. No. The family is an organization composed of parts. No. The family is a pain in the ass composed of parts. A state of being created by God to reveal how inept you can be. I spend time with the kids, but I don’t like being with them. Why should I? My father never spent time with me. His father probably never looked at him twice. Ergo my father never really liked me. He endured me. Loved me from a distance. Maybe I’m a sociopath and don’t know how to love my own family? I spend time with Laura, but we’re not happy, not the way we used to be. Or pretended to be. Is familial love just a biological trick to fool us into nurturing what we’ve created? Then what? And if I weren’t being a dad, being a husband, what would I be doing? I should write her a letter, that’s what I should do. Tell her how I feel.

The midmorning sun leaks under the door, casting the empty computer boxes and hangered clothing into unrecognizable shapes. The scent of dust and shoe polish embraces Rick. Voices outside twitter, “Where’s Daddy? Mom? Where’d Daddy go? Did Daddy go out? Is he hiding?”

Am I hiding? Not really. I could have stormed out of the house. Slammed a door. Grabbed the car keys and put some miles between me and them, between me and my life. Could have dropped in on the steak house down the road, knocked back a few Johnnie Walkers. But who needs all that drama? Laura would be worried. The kids would be filled with fear. “Where’s Daddy?” “Oh, Daddy’s down the street getting shit-faced.” Never sounds good. The closet is a much better choice.

A space between his heart and the pit of his stomach cracks open and hurts. Why am I so lonely? How does it happen, in the midst of my happy family meal on a sunny Sunday afternoon that I am on the verge of tears in my suburban walk-in closet? Am I overtired? Am I angry about something? Fuckit, just tell the therapist next week.

Eventually, since no one comes searching for him, Rick emerges. Voices rise from the backyard and he wanders down to the kitchen, spies the family from the window. He catches Laura’s eye and it’s devoid of emotion. He thinks, like a fish, cold-blooded. Why should she worry? I was just “acting out” and so she treats me like a child, she’s ignoring me.

He watches them from the back door. Look, they’re happy together without me. They don’t need Daddy. Daddy is a useless appendage, a fifth wheel. I inseminated Mommy, fought my way into her and made her pregnant. I provided her with a home, provided her with a ways and means for bringing up kids and now I am a meaningless adornment to their lives. What is that Yiddish word Uncle Morrie always used to use? Schmuck—loser, knucklehead. The word means prick. Yiddish has more words for penis than any other language. Penis, prick, whatever. And then in med school I learned the German root,
Schmuck,
meaning, “useless ornament.” Uh-huh. Here I am!

Laura has me figured. My ups and downs are just something to endure, like a rainy day, ultimately inconsequential. There are children to raise. There’s a life to live. Q: “Who was that man you were with last night?” A: “That was no man, that was my husband.”

Rick smiles in their direction, but they can’t see him through the screen door. He wants to call out to Henry, to toss him the ball, but he can’t do it. Henry will need a father figure soon. I wonder who’s going to do the job, ’cause I suck at it. Maybe Henry would be better off without me? I could walk away, like my dad did. Solve the whole mess. Laura would find someone else, a better dad for them. A dad with nice breath.

The problem is Laura and I define love differently. I see it as something dramatic, urgent. She sees it as all the millions of molecules of daily life floating in between the big moments. Laura could care less about the big moments. For her, all that’s important is that we exist on earth together. That’s all she needs.

Rick floats high in the sky and he sees them, way down below, living, happy. He thinks, from out here in outer space, I can only join you momentarily. After a while, it’s just too much. And so I, the Silver Surfer, must fling myself back out into the void. Bye!