Other People's Houses, page 3
“I have no idea.”
“Don’t you love your kids?”
“More than anything.”
“Well, you apparently don’t love them enough to not sleep with this person and run the risk that Charlie will find out, be devastated, divorce you, fight you for child custody, and make them choose between the two of you.” Frances stood up to go refill her mug, in order not to smash it into Anne’s calm, elegant, beautiful face. Anne’s serenity had been one of Frances’s favorite things about her; she’d always marveled at the other woman’s composure and wished for one-tenth the gravitas Anne had. Francis suddenly wondered if it was a mental deficiency or sociopathic disorder. Maybe Anne looked at everyone as if they were chairs or something, unable to feel any empathy at all.
Frances turned to face her friend. “Why am I so completely upset by this and you’re not? Are you having some kind of mental breakdown? I thought you and Charlie were happy together.”
“We are.”
Frances laughed.
The doorbell rang.
* * *
• • •
Sara Gillespie, the wife of Frances’s cousin Iris, was sufficiently famous that people would stop her in the street. Not so famous that she couldn’t walk down the street, but still, frequently recognized. She always played the slightly-ditsy-but-cute-as-a- button girl next door, doomed to romantic failure until the right knight came along, her optimism and openheartedness about to be lost forever when, poof, Mr. Charming realized he couldn’t live without her and asked her to marry him. She was smart, and alternated blockbuster rom-coms with sharp and sarcastic indie pictures that didn’t make money but won awards. She rarely gave interviews, and only went on TV to support charities or raise awareness of some atrocity somewhere. People knew she was gay, it had never been a big secret, but they were able to overlook it or something. Maybe the world accorded her the privacy and respect it wanted for itself; there was always hope. Sara just shrugged it off, and as she walked into Frances’s kitchen now she was laughing at the magazine she held in her hand.
“It says here—Oh, hi, Anne—that I’m leaving Iris for this guy, whoever the fuck he is, and that I’ve decided I’m straight after all.” She bent to kiss Anne on the cheek, and then snagged a cookie. “Am I interrupting something interesting? You both look very serious.”
“No, not at all.” Anne smiled at her. “We were just talking, you know.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re here, because I came to get Frances’s advice and you can chime in, too. I want to throw a surprise party for Iris, for her birthday, and I wondered what you thought.” She sat on the edge of the table, one of her signature traits. She would leap onto a counter, or sit on the floor cross-legged, or flip a chair around and straddle it, but it was only under duress that she’d sit straight on a regular chair in a regular way.
Frances was making her a cup of coffee. “At the house?”
“Maybe, what do you think?” Sara rubbed a hand over her short, curly blond hair, expensively cut and tousled to look as if she’d just gotten out of bed. She spent time on her appearance, it was her job, after all, and it took a lot of money and effort to look as if she didn’t.
“Why not, I think it would be fun. What kind of party? Formal eveningy, or daytime kidsy?”
Sara took the coffee Frances was holding out to her, and another cookie. “These are awesome cookies, low fat, right?” She grinned, and then answered Frances’s question. “I was thinking it might be fun if it seemed sort of impromptu at first and then gradually revealed itself as a planned thing.” The other two were frowning, so she clarified. “Imagine, if you will, a simple lunch with Frances, Michael, and the kids. They come over, bearing a birthday cake that Frances has deliciously baked, and I have made a plate of sandwiches and salady stuff. Trader Joe’s, nothing fancy, right? Happens all the time.” She grinned. “But then the doorbell rings and it’s Anne, Charlie, and their kids, and hey, who knew, THEY brought some food, too, and somehow I find another plate of sandwiches from somewhere, or maybe a veggie platter, who knows, and then the doorbell rings AGAIN and it’s Maggie and Melanie and they brought wine, and then . . . You get my drift? Eventually everyone would be there, and after a bit she’ll realize that it was all a plot and that way I don’t need to do an elaborate ruse to get her out of the house.” She looked thrilled with herself.
Frances nodded. “I think it sounds great. I’m in, for sure.”
Anne frowned. “But then we won’t have that great ‘Surprise!’ moment.”
Sara shook her head. “Iris hates being surprised like that. Hates it. This way I can spring something on her without worrying that she’ll have a coronary or react badly. It’s her birthday, after all.”
“Yeah,” added Frances dryly, looking at Anne with no expression. “Not everyone likes the feeling that people have been plotting behind their back.”
“Right!” Sara giggled. “And I can hide food at your houses, right?”
“Sure, it will be easy.”
“And I thought I’d have a bouncy house arrive in the middle, so the kids will be entertained.”
“Nice.”
“Yay! Good, then that’s settled. Now all I have to do is prevent myself from spilling the beans in the next few weeks and we’ll be fine.” She slid off the table, grabbed another cookie, and hugged them both.
“How is it you eat so many cookies and stay thin? I kind of hate you.” Anne was smiling as she said this. And as Frances watched Anne pretend to be normal, to have normal friendships, and to care about people, while making chatty conversation, she suddenly felt exhausted. Like, week four of a new baby exhausted.
Sara looked surprised. “I’m going to go home and vomit up the whole lot. Isn’t that what everyone does?”
Frances laughed. “No, I hide them in special carrying cases I have on my upper thighs.”
“Ah. Well, that’s another way to go.” Frances walked Sara to the door and watched her make her way down the street, her energy causing her to essentially skip. No wonder she stayed thin; her whole life was a minor workout.
Frances propped the door open to bring in some air, and went back to the kitchen.
Four.
Earlier, after Iris watched Frances walk into her house, she’d turned and looked up the street for a moment. No Sara. Frowning, Iris had headed indoors, wondering what was keeping her wife. Sara had been gone very early, to do some voiceover fix or something, but was supposed to come home for brunch. Iris had run out after Frances had picked up Wyatt, to go to spin class and then to get the cinnamon rolls from Acme that Sara loved. Whatever. She was used to Sara’s occasional flakiness. OK, frequent flakiness. She herself had a meeting at noon, but there was plenty of time. Her work was only half-hearted anyway, if she were being honest with herself. She mostly had meetings to prove she could still get people to meet with her, that she hadn’t become invisible.
“Hello, Rosco.” The dog was beside himself to see her, his tail a barely visible whir of excitement. She stooped to scratch his ears, smooth his small head. He was a mutt, with a comical level of mismanagement in the continuity department: a small head like a fox, a cylindrical body like a dachshund, legs like a terrier, and the tail of a golden retriever. It was a look that didn’t quite work, unfortunately. It wasn’t so much cute as The Island of Doctor Moreau. But Iris had seen him in the pound and known immediately that this was the dog for her. He looked vaguely embarrassed that his outsides didn’t match his insides, and she knew how that felt.
She paused—Was that Sara’s car? It stopped short, didn’t turn into their driveway, so she shrugged and went into the kitchen, Rosco at her heels. First coffee, then the dishwasher, then the laundry. The familiar one, two, three of every single morning. Like many of the lesbian couples she knew, things were at least theoretically egalitarian. They shared the work. Except that theory was one thing and practice another. When Sara was busy Iris would pick up the slack, but somehow the favor was never returned, and when Sara’s schedule loosened up not all of the slack got taken back. Sara was supposed to empty the dishwasher. Iris would refill it. Sara was supposed to do the laundry. Iris would put it away. It all made sense, and yet none of it was happening these days.
Iris liked things to be clean, wanted to see uncluttered surfaces, items filed away. She worked efficiently: emptying, refilling, wiping counters, doing a sweep for stray dishes, topping up rinse aid, soap, hitting buttons, and slamming the door. Then she stood and drank her lukewarm coffee, looking out at nothing. The house was silent, so quiet she could hear a clock upstairs ticking away the hour. She supposed she looked calm and composed, but inside she was going slowly insane because she wanted another baby and Sara didn’t. She’d brought it up, but Sara had shrugged and said she thought things were great right now, why fix something that wasn’t broken, and the subject was dropped. Iris wasn’t entirely sure why she wasn’t pushing it, but she wasn’t.
Iris rinsed her coffee cup, pausing the machine to put it in. Steam wafted out, along with that hideous smell of newly heated old food and salty water, so she held her breath and turned away as her hand found a space for the cup.
She couldn’t stop thinking about a baby. Sara, for her part, was happy Wyatt was at an age where she and Iris had more freedom. Thank goodness we can sleep all night now, she would say, or, Isn’t it nice we can just leave him with a sitter and go out. And Iris would nod and agree, because those things were nice, she did appreciate them. And yet she wanted another child with a visceral pull that however hard she tried was just getting more and more insistent.
She cried whenever she got her period, and went to the back of her closet to hold the tiny clothes she’d hoarded from when Wyatt was a baby. Sara thought she’d given them away, and some she had. A good friend of hers had gotten pregnant “accidentally” when her husband was vacillating about a third child, and Iris was bitter that option wasn’t open to her. Conceiving Wyatt had been a whole mishegoss that took weeks of preparation, lawyers for all sides, thermometers, and doctors’ offices. She had been up for the turkey baster in the bedroom method, but Sara wanted the certainty of medical intervention. Sara had been very gung ho for a child. She’d been thrilled when Iris was pregnant, and showed ultrasounds around on the set and generally looked forward to their expanding family. But now she was done, she was happy, and if she knew that Iris ached to be pregnant again, to have another baby to care for, she didn’t show it.
“Rosco, do you think it would be possible for Wyatt to occasionally pick up a toy?” Rosco remained silent, though he looked supportive. Iris sat on the floor of Wyatt’s room and threw toys into various buckets and baskets artfully arranged around the perimeter. Sara had hired a great decorator for Wyatt’s room, and it was Land of Nod catalog ready, with that additional element of surprising hipness Sara loved.
Iris had grown up surrounded by mess and disorganization, her mother an exhausted working mom with four kids and a charming but feckless husband. Iris had spent a lot of time at Frances’s house as a kid because there was more room for her there, with only two kids. Then Frances’s brother had died at fourteen, struck down by a mysterious flu and dead forty-eight hours after he first said, Mom, my head really hurts. After that things reversed and Frances spent more time at Iris’s house than she did at home. Frances’s house had become too quiet, her parents literally struck dumb by their pain.
Iris envied her own son the many toys and clothes and space he had, the beautiful colors and prints of his sheets, the charm of his rugs and painted walls. At the same time, of course, she was happy he had it all, wanted his whole existence to be well-coordinated and whimsically decorated.
Where the hell was Sara?
* * *
• • •
When Sara left Frances’s house she knew she’d exited some kind of scene in progress, but she couldn’t work out what it was. Dismissing it as nothing to do with her, she crept around the back of her own house, hoping to surprise Iris. She spotted her through the kitchen window and ducked down behind a bush, giggling. She loved her wife so much. After nearly twenty years together she still felt glad to see her, every time. All she wanted was for Iris to be happy, for her to know how much she appreciated her.
As she peered between the leaves like a burglar or a baby deer, she was surprised to see Iris looking a little blue. Just staring off into the distance, drinking her coffee. Who knew what she was thinking? Maybe she was considering going back to work full time? She’d seemed preoccupied lately, and Sara thought maybe she was planning a return to her career. Iris had been a writer’s agent at one of the major talent agencies in town, very successful and glamorous, high-profile clients and dinners every night. When Sara first broached the idea of having kids she was certain Iris wasn’t going to be into it, but she’d been all for it. Once Wyatt had started school Iris had begun doing odd projects here and there, but now, of course, she might be ready to go back to work full time. Raising a kid was pretty thankless, and Sara wasn’t always sure Iris loved it. She herself hadn’t turned out to be as maternal as she’d expected, but hey, life is full of surprises. She briefly pondered her feelings about Iris going back to work and was surprised it made her sad: She liked being able to take everyone with her when she had to do a longer shoot. Even though she knew eventually Wyatt would need to stay in school all the time, she liked the freedom to be nomadic and artsy and bohemian. If Iris went back to work that would stop, presumably.
Shit, Iris had left the kitchen and headed off somewhere. Sara crept in through the back door and stalked her on pussycat feet. She came upon her in Wyatt’s room, talking to Rosco, who unfortunately ruined her surprise entrance by standing up and waving his flaggy tail. Iris turned.
“There you are! I was starting to feel stood up.”
Sara bent down and kissed her wife’s hair. “You smell good. I see you and Rosco are working as a team.” Rosco banged his tail on the ground, grinning up at her.
“You’re joking. Rosco is taking the toys out as fast as I can put them away. He’s no use at all.”
Iris stood, and Sara pulled her into a hug. “Do you want to go out for brunch?”
Iris shook her head. “No, I got cinnamon rolls.”
“From Acme?” Sara’s tone was hopeful. Iris nodded, and Sara squeezed her. “You are a wicked, wicked woman. It’s going to be pilot season soon and everyone will cast me as the plump friend.”
“Well, better that than the bitter single friend. That one doesn’t suit you at all.”
Sara laughed and watched Iris walk away from her down the hall. She still loved looking at her, she was so strong and curvy. Maybe she could talk her into bed; there were no kids around, thankfully. When Wyatt had been young there had been months, literally months, when they didn’t have sex at all. Now they had plenty of time, and often plenty of interest. But she’d missed her chance. Iris was already halfway down the stairs, and moving in a way that told Sara she was distracted. It was remarkable how much you could tell about someone’s state of mind purely by looking at the way they put down their bag at the end of the day, or by the sound of a door closing, or even by how long it took for them to walk into the house after you heard the beep of the car alarming itself. You become an anthropologist studying a tribe of one, and then if you have kids, you start studying them, too; but they’re harder because the little bastards are studying you right back, and changing and growing in a frustrating step function of leaps, bounds, and backward stumbles. Of course, maybe this was also an actor thing, because the semiotics of emotion were tools to her. Little hand gestures barely caught by the camera could make the difference between a visible performance and the true inhabiting of a character.
Sara looked down. Rosco was looking up at her uncertainly. He wanted to follow Iris, but it had seemed rude to do so while Sara was standing there. He waved his tail gently. She grinned at him. “Sorry, dear, I just drifted off there.” She headed downstairs to find her wife.
Five.
Back in Frances’s kitchen there was a long silence after Sara left.
“Are those the toilet roll tubes?” Anne gestured to what was clearly a bag of toilet roll tubes. No, thought Frances, those are the global thermonuclear devices I was planning on planting all along Larchmont Boulevard, the ever-so-slightly twee shopping street nearby.
“Yes. Apparently Kate faces instant expulsion from the cool kids if she doesn’t have them.” Frances looked at her watch, surprised to see it wasn’t quite ten. How could so much be destroyed in less than an hour?
“Do you think it’s too late?” Anne got up, rinsed her coffee cup, and went to pick up the bag.
“To drop them off?” Frances shook her head. “No, they have circle time first, then pointless work sheets, then lunch. I don’t think they do crafty shit till the afternoon.” She picked up cookie crumbs with her thumb and licked them.
Anne shrugged. “OK, then. I guess I’ll run these over.”
“Your boyfriend left, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry if I ruined the mood.” Frances kept an even tone as she stood and went to put her cup in the sink, although it was clear she didn’t give a rat’s ass about the mood.
Anne turned and walked toward the door. “No problem, he’ll be back. Or he won’t, who knows.”
Frances followed her. “Why are you being so cavalier about it? You know you’re going to get caught, don’t you?”
Anne paused, searching her friend’s face. “Are you going to tell Charlie?”
Frances shrugged. “No. He’s not my husband.”
