Been There, Married That, page 29
“Please don’t take my umbrage,” I said. “You’ve already taken a piece of my heart.”
“Only a piece?”
“A sliver,” I said. “Small enough that I can still function once you leave.”
“I’m never leaving. I’m never leaving your side. I’m the opposite of ‘You’re rubber and I’m glue.’”
“Gio, you left your third wife by sticking a Post-it note on the refrigerator.”
“That’s unfair. You’ve never met her. I’m lucky I left with my balls intact. By the way, I have a great relationship with all my ex-wives, even Post-it.”
I sat next to him and rubbed his warm head for good luck. Fin was right. He had kind eyes. If eyes were the window to the soul, his soul was a clear blue love bucket.
“You’re bad at marrying,” I said.
“No, not true, I’m very, very good at marrying,” he said. “I’m bad at marriage. But I can change. I want to change.”
“One broken headboard does not a relationship make,” I said.
“You have to admit, Agnes,” he said, squeezing my knee, which sent a lightning bolt up my pussy, and I wanted him between my legs again. Did I want to be on top? Bottom? Sideways? Reverse cowgirl? “It’s not a terrible place to start,” he said, smiling.
* * *
We were back in our broken bed, breathless and spent. My head rested on Gio’s chest, my legs wrapped around his body. I loved his smell, and I’d forgotten how important a lover’s scent can be. A man can smell like coconuts and vanilla and cinnamon, and if you don’t like any of those smells, you can’t live with that man, no matter how kind he is or how smart he is or how much he makes you laugh.
Gio smelled like home. If you lived in a pine forest with a babbling brook in the backyard and wild violets springing up in the grassy yard. So that kind of home.
I breathed in his scent and ran my fingers through his chest hair, untouched and unbothered by the manscaping craze. The world of men as hairless Chihuahuas had passed him by. Gio was a human time warp.
“Come with me to Giorgio’s tonight. I’m meeting with an actor, some kid from a vampire show. Kid thinks he’s a movie star, everyone’s telling me he’s a movie star. They’re fucking crazy.”
“Sure,” I said.
“His agent will be there,” Gio said. “The kid wants to work with me. I don’t know.”
“Sure, I’ll go,” I said, feeling a wave of dizziness, hearing a familiar echo.
“Wear that dress you wore when I first met you,” Gio said, “the one with the fringe. So sexy.”
A stone dropped in the pond of my stomach, circular ripples of dread growing inside me. Shit. I blinked. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” he said. “You look great in anything. I just really like that dress.”
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry. I can’t go.”
“Oh?” he asked, looking at me with those clear blue eyes. “Do you have other plans?”
I shook my head, trying to keep my tears inside.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t,” I said.
“What do you mean? It’s okay; we’ll go another time.”
“Gio, I don’t care about a kid who thinks he’s a movie star. I don’t care about having dinner with his agent,” I said. “Maybe I will again someday. Maybe I’ll regret all of this. But I find it impossible to care less at this moment.”
“I’m the same as you,” he says. “I don’t give a shit.”
But he did.
“No,” I said. “You do. You should and you do. And you deserve someone who cares, as well. Who can be by your side at dinners, at meetings, on the set. Who can give you total attention and support. That ain’t me. I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
Gio shook his head and folded up the paper. I’d never look at The New York Times again without thinking of his sad face. He stared at his hands.
“So that’s it?” he asked, finally looking up at me.
“I know I’ll always love you,” I said.
“Thank you?”
“You helped me when I needed it most,” I said.
“My tongue helped you, you mean,” he said.
“Right. Can you leave your tongue?”
Gio touched his tongue. “Just the tip.”
“And three fingers,” I said. “I’ll keep three fingers. You don’t need all your fingers to direct.”
“Now, you’re just being greedy,” he said.
I leaned forward and put my forehead on his.
“I’m sad,” he said.
“Me, too,” I said. “I’m sad and happy and clear and mixed up.”
“Agnes. Are you sure you want me to go?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not sure. I’m really afraid, to be honest. But I need to be on my own. That’s the only thing I know for sure.”
A big, fat tear rolled down his cheek. I caught it with my lips.
“Now, who’m I going to marry?” he asked. “I had the tux ready and the flowers all picked out and the ring and everything.”
“You didn’t have the ring.”
“I actually do have a ring, but it’s used,” he said. “Wife number four threw it at my head.” He looked at me with big, sad eyes. “Are we still going to be friends?”
“Always and forever,” I said.
“What about sex?”
“Check in with me in a few months,” I said, then paused. “One month.”
He laughed, filling the house again with his happy noise. I already missed him.
* * *
Fin shuffled into the kitchen. I didn’t want to look her in the eye.
“You got rid of him, didn’t you?” she said.
“Yep.”
“Idiot.”
“Maybe.”
“I liked him,” Fin said. “I really liked him. And I don’t like anybody.”
“Me, too,” I said, and then before I knew what was happening, I started sobbing into my sister’s shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay,” Fin said, holding on to me. “We’ll get through this. We’re survivors.”
“I don’t know, Fin,” I said. “Maybe I just didn’t want him to stick around to watch me sink.”
“No, no,” Fin said. “Remember what Mom sang to us before she took off and we never saw her again?”
“‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’?”
“After that.”
“I don’t remember.”
Fin smiled and sang, “I’m goan’ to learn to read and write, I’m goan’ to see what there is to see…”
“Unsinkable Molly Brown,” I said. “Mom turned out to be the Sinkable Molly Brown, but that’s not so catchy.”
“They can’t kill us, Aggie,” Fin said. “They can try, but they can’t kill us. Hey, you’re going to see Gio before you know it.”
“How do you know?”
“I left the script in his car,” she said. “And yes, before you ask, his car was locked. It’s fine.” She checked her watch. “Oh, we’re supposed to meet Dad at his house.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It sounded mysterious.”
“Oh God, he’s got cancer, right? He’s dying,” I said. “He’s dying, I know it.”
“What is wrong with you?” Fin asked. “Not everything is a tragedy.”
Beat.
“But yeah, that’s what I assumed,” Fin said.
“That would be just like Dad to steal my divorce thunder,” I said, grabbing my keys and walking out the door.
* * *
Dad was seated next to Shu on the couch in his living room; I was in his favorite chair, the one he sat in to watch the Bloomberg report. Fin was sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“Shu and I are getting married,” he said.
I shook my head. What?
“That’s fucking great!” Fin jumped up and embraced them both. Shu gazed up at Dad with adoring eyes.
“Since when…?” I couldn’t wrap my brain around my dad and Shu—
“We’re in love,” Dad said. “Shu’s on a work visa; she needs a green card. And I need someone to take care of me. We’re going to need a bigger place now, too.”
“This is so fucking cool,” Fin said.
“You girls don’t need me anymore,” he said. “Fin, I’m proud of you, kiddo. You’re really turning your life around.”
“Wait. Are you proud of me, too, Dad?” I asked.
“God,” Fin said. “It’s not always about you.”
“Dad,” I said. “Why do you need a bigger place?”
Shu grasped my dad’s hand and beamed. Ah, I recognized that glow.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “I cannot.”
“Hey, don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Dad the lapsed Catholic said.
“I’m going to be an auntie again!” Fin said. “No, I’m going to be a big sister! Finally!”
“So,” my dad said, “Shu and I talked. Do you want your house back, kiddo?”
“My house?” I asked.
“It is your house,” Dad said. “I was just living here.”
I blinked.
“Pep likes it here,” he said. “She told me. It’ll be good for her to come down off that hill.”
“The judge won’t approve. It’s nothing like the dead zone. I couldn’t even fit the orchid guy in here.”
“Wait. I’ll move my shit out of that extra room, and you can fit a bed in there; there’s enough room for a second bedroom,” Dad said. “And if it’s not too late, I want to say thank you. I should’ve said it a long time ago. I’m, you know, sorry.”
My head was spinning. I’d never heard my father apologize.
“Fin, you’re not leaving empty-handed. Here. I’m giving you my Boston Red Sox cap.”
“Dad, are you dying?” Fin asked.
“No,” he said, “Shu hates the Red Sox. She’s more of a Yankees fan.”
“You must really love her,” I said.
He tightened his hand around his bride-to-be’s.
24
Irreconcilable Similarities
“Word is Trevor’s not well,” Waverly said. I heard waves crashing in the background. A seagull cawing. Malibu, no doubt. “I’ve heard it from a studio chief, a director, and his agent. I can’t tell you who they are, but I’m saving their latest Marvel movie—total catastrophe. I can’t talk about it.”
“What do you mean not well? Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous have a court date tomorrow.” I’d forgotten to tell Waverly she was fired, but I hadn’t sent her money in a while and we hadn’t talked, so maybe she already knew I was cognitived out.
“Your ex is having a nervous breakdown,” she said. “Call your attorney. The judge will never give him custody. Right now, Trevor can’t even take care of himself.”
“Trevor hasn’t taken care of himself in twenty years,” I said. “He doesn’t need to.”
I’d seen people have nervous breakdowns. When I say people, I mean my mom. See how healthy I’m becoming? I’m being truthful here. My mom had a nervous breakdown, and then she left. I remember weeks of her hands shaking when she lit a cigarette, her knees collapsing when she tried to wash dishes, sending them crashing to the floor. I remember tears. I remember her screams. I remember puddles of amber liquid ballooning from a tumbler. We were two little girls and one big man, and we were helpless. Whatever was fighting inside her head was winning.
Murphy Family, 0—Head Goblins, 1.
We never even had a chance to score.
I hung up on Waverly; I didn’t want to hear any more.
I called Anne and told her we needed to have a meeting with Trevor and his team. We needed to do this outside the courtroom, outside the office. Someplace safe and warm.
I told her his lawyers would understand and cooperate.
“Hey.” Fin barged into my bathroom. “How’s Gio’s health?”
“What? Why? Why would you be bringing that up now?” I clutched my heart.
“He just texted me. Said the script’s not a total piece of shit,” Fin said. “That’s like high praise coming from him, right? I just want to make sure he can be bonded.”
* * *
Trevor’s team agreed to my suggestion for a meeting and filed a motion to delay the court date.
“I could tell they were eager, even though Ulger tried to cover. His usual bluster wasn’t up to snuff,” Anne said. “What’s going on?”
“We need to talk about Trevor,” I said.
“Isn’t that a movie?”
“This is the sequel,” I said. “Apparently, Trevor’s having a bit of a breakdown. Pep’s fine, she doesn’t seem to notice from what I can tell, but he’s just … not himself.” After I spoke to Waverly, I had everyone’s favorite Latina triplets do a little reconnaissance with the ladies working for Trevor in Malibu. AT&T had nothing on the El Salvadoran connection. Gabriela had called me at midnight to confirm—Trevor wasn’t sleeping, Trevor was taking sleeping pills and still not sleeping; Trevor was drinking and taking sleeping pills and still not sleeping. Trevor was mumbling to himself, Trevor was rocking back and forth. He could pull himself together long enough to hide it from Pep, who was too young and technologically distracted to understand.
It was worse than I’d imagined.
“I see,” Anne said. I didn’t fill in all the blanks. She was smart enough and kind enough not to push for details. I would say she’d never make it as a divorce attorney, but she’d been at it for twenty years. Maybe it was her calling. Or her penance. Had she been Stalin in a former life? Not saying and not judging.
“So lifeguard station 21?”
“That’s the one, outside the police station and the skateboard park, south of Muscle Beach, north of turban guy on roller skates,” I said. “I’ll set everything up. They just need to bring their client and sunscreen.”
* * *
Ulger wouldn’t stop squawking about getting sand in his Ferragamos.
“Stay on the blanket, Ulger,” I said. I thought it’d been a great idea, meeting here on Venice Beach among the negative ions and soft breezes, the skateboarders and the young families, the German tourists and the local homeless. I’d fished a couple of my dad’s old beach blankets out of the cupboard, hauled them down onto the sand, and laid them out. I dragged a cooler full of bottled water and Diet Cokes, because only the unhealthiest divorce lawyers love Diet Coke. I set out legal pads and pens and an assortment of bagels from the Strand, which we could share with the pigeons.
Trevor didn’t show. Ulger informed us he had a work emergency that needed taking care of right away, but he was fine with his representation taking the meeting. Anne and I exchanged glances from behind our sunglasses.
“Everyone crisscross applesauce,” I said as we all took our places on the blanket and set out to make a deal, serenaded by seagulls badgering us for our bagels.
An hour later, Ulger had slipped off his Ferragamos and his silk socks and rolled up his pants legs, and we couldn’t get him out of the water to sign off on the final document for the longest time.
Anne and I watched as he looked for shells, digging in the sand with his cane. I didn’t have the heart to tell him there weren’t any shells left in Venice Beach. Unless he’s digging for used condoms.
“Keep digging, Ulger!” I yelled, then took a deep breath of salt air with a hint of grime. Eau de Venice Beach.
A few minutes later, I walked Ulger back to his Merlot-colored Bentley.
“Why do you divorce for a living?” I asked as he packed his papers in the trunk, which was already filled with files. “You’ve already got this hideous car and a couple of houses you don’t use. What more do you have to prove? We all know you’re an asshole.”
And then I punched him, sort of lightly.
On the edge.
He sniffed and looked down, then gazed back at me. “Agnes, I hate my job. I’ve hated it for thirty-six years. Do you like fly-fishing?”
I stopped to think. “I don’t know. Do you have to touch the fly?”
“Miss Agnes,” he said, gazing up at me. “I’d like to ask you out sometime.”
I mentally fainted, then recovered.
“Now’s not a good time, Ulger,” I said. (Does never work for you?)
* * *
On a Saturday morning at 7:00, a moving truck pulled up in the alley behind my dad’s place, and two big dudes rapped on my door and asked me if this was the right address and was I expecting a delivery.
I shook my head, but they insisted, so I followed the Oakland Raiders offensive line to the alley, where Fin, with slicked-back hair, was dancing around in a wet suit.
“Oh, hells yeah!” she said, her shit-eating grin stretched ear to ear.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “It’s seven in the morning, Fin.”
“Wait, wait,” Fin said. “Look at this.”
The linebackers slid open the back, and the metal clanged against the top of the truck. Inside, blanketed like a baby, was our piano. In all the divorce excitement (excrement?), I’d forgotten about our neglected Steinway.
Sitting beneath the piano, wrapped snuggly, was my Tiffany clock.
I looked at my sister, clear-eyed, her hair stiff from salt water. Fin had taken up and mastered surfing in about a week. Of course she had.
“I paid them a visit,” she said.
“You paid who a visit?”
“The weaselly guy and his wife,” she said.
“Wait, the famous buyers?” I asked.
“I heard he was an actor; is that true?” she said. “He’s all teeth. Anyway, we’re good.”
I had a bad feeling. A bad Fin feeling. A Fin-tingling. “Fin,” I said. “What did you do? What did you say to them?”
Fin smiled and punched my arm.
“Fin,” I said, rubbing my arm and staring at the piano like a giant pet I had no space for. “Where the hell are we going to put a piano?”
* * *
Fin is better with a hammer than I remembered.
“Dad taught me,” she said. “Don’t you remember? I used to help him around the house.”
