An Ex to Grind (19 page)

"The Caretaker left about fifteen minutes ago," said Ricardo after I arrived with Buster on Monday morning. He fetched the notebook and showed me how he'd entered the date and time of Leah's departure. It was clear that he was very proud of playing a role in Mr. Swain's recovery from mental illness. I should have felt guilty but didn't. What I felt was giddy that she had stayed over and that I now had Isa to confirm it. All I needed was someone to cover Saturday nights, and I was set.

"I probably shouldn't say this, because of how serious the situation is," Ricardo went on, "but if I had a caretaker who looked like her, I wouldn't be depressed for a second."

"Why?" I said. "Is she that pretty?"

"Pretty?" He laughed. "Gorgeous. Your basic ten."

"Maybe that's why the doctor paired her with Mr. Swain," I said, pleased that Desiree hadn't oversold Leah. I
was
paying extra for her, after all. "If she's so beautiful, she's bound to lift his spirits."

"Oh, yeah. Sweet girl, too. Gives me a big smile whenever she walks by. And she's never in too much of a hurry to thank me for opening the door. Can't say that about most of the people here."

Okay, so I'd been one of those people. I was always in a hurry and I didn't thank Ricardo for opening the door, not every time, and it wasn't because I was a bad person. I was just—well—preoccupied.

"Let's hope she works out," I said, making an extra effort to
smile
as I said it. Then I asked Ricardo to
please
buzz me up to Dan's and
thanked
him after he did. Sure, I wanted Leah to get me out of the alimony, but I wasn't about to let her show me up in the process.

"Look who's here," said my ex, who was waiting for Buster and me at the elevator instead of inside the apartment, which surprised me. Oh, and he wasn't in his bathrobe either. He had on a pair of slacks and one of his eight-trillion-dollar cashmere sweaters. And I do believe he was clean for a change, scents of toothpaste, shampoo, and cologne floating in the air. Apparently, Leah managed to accomplish in a few days something I wasn't able to accomplish in a few years: get him to shower, shave, and dress in the morning.

Ignoring me completely, he knelt down and clapped his hands. "Come, Busty boy. Come to Daddy."

As Buster scampered over to Dan in yet another demonstration of canine loyalty and devotion, I felt the old lump in my throat. I really couldn't bear sharing custody. I wanted my dog with me all the time, the way it used to be, and if my ex hadn't screwed up so royally, we'd still be married and I wouldn't have to
share
anything.

"What's the occasion, Dan?" I said as the dog licked his face. "You're not wearing your pajamas."

He glanced up at me and smirked. "Melanie, darlin'. I forgot you were even there."

"Did you think Buster hailed his own cab over?"

"No, but you're sort of quiet today. You waited two whole seconds before firing off a criticism."

I was about to fire off another criticism when Mrs. Thornberg, Dan's next-door neighbor, stuck her head out of her apartment. She was a widow in her eighties with short, badly dyed (i.e., shoe polish) brown hair that had thinned out to the point of bald patches on top. She had beady eyes that were set too close together and an unsteady hand when it came to applying her lipstick, and she always wore a dress and pumps, as if she were going someplace fancy when, in fact, she rarely left the building. She was a woman with way too much time on her hands. A condo commando type. There's one in every homeowner's association, isn't there? They poke their nose in everybody's business to make sure no house rules are being broken (loud pets, loud music, loud construction, loud sex), when what they should be doing is getting a life. When I was a resident there, it was nearly impossible to host even a small, tasteful dinner party without Mrs. Thornberg pounding on the door and squawking, "Keep it down!"

"No dogs gallivanting in the common hallways," she squawked right that very minute. "We installed new carpet last month. You'll be assessed if there's doody anywhere."

In response, Dan went down on all fours, ran his hands along the carpet, and then sniffed it. "All clear, Mrs. Thornberg. Want to get down here and check for yourself?" He loved calling her bluff. On those occasions when she'd rant about our parties, he'd invite her in, knowing she'd much rather barricade herself in her own apartment than socialize with us; that was the best way to get rid of her. The funniest was when we'd hire Isa to serve at our parties. Mrs. Thornberg would complain about the noise and Isa would threaten to put a spell on her, and Dan and I would have to mollify both of them before attending to our guests.

"No, I do not want to crawl on the floor, thank you very much," she said. "I just want you to take the dog inside his home where he belongs. Let him do his business in there."

Dan gathered Buster up in his arms and stood. "Right you are, Mrs. Thornberg." He turned to me. "You coming, darlin'? It's probably best that you do your business inside too."

I rolled my eyes, told Mrs. Thornberg to have a fine day, and followed my ex and my dog into the apartment.

"I guess she hasn't mellowed," I remarked when the three of us were alone.

"Like someone else I know," said Dan. "Which reminds me: don't you have to rush off to work? There's gotta be somebody at that office who needs abusing."

"Actually, I think I'll use the little girl's room first. So I can do my business."

I strutted into the master bathroom, not because nature called but because I hoped to find evidence of Leah. Yes, I already knew she'd stayed over, but I wanted to get a sense of her, get a sense of the woman who held my financial freedom in her hands.

I did a sweep of the medicine cabinet. No prescription drugs with her name on them yet, but then you probably don't start leaving your Xanax at your boyfriend's until you've revealed your fear of flying or your anxiety about work or your estrangement from your mother, and it was much too soon for any of that.

I opened the drawers of the vanity. No makeup, no hair dryer, no tampons. Must be too soon for all that too.

I checked the shower. No loofah sponge or girly girl products of any kind. Surely, she rinsed off after sex, didn't she?

Okay. Here we go, I thought, after I turned and spotted something at the bottom of the Jacuzzi tub. I walked over, bent down, and picked it up. It was a waterproof toy. Not just any toy, but a rubber mermaid with the words i have a pussy
and
a tail! written in script on its torso. Eueew.

I dropped it back into the tub. So Leah was a babe with a playful side.

As I emerged from the bathroom, Dan was sitting on the sofa grooming Buster and humming.

"Gosh, you're a happy camper today," I observed.

"Never felt better," he said, positively beaming now. I thought his cheeks would explode from the hugeness of that grin.

"New girlfriend?" I said, trying to sound casual.

He raised an eyebrow. "What makes you ask that?"

"You're as radiant as a bride." I'd meant it as a jab—Dan was so macho that even implying that he had a feminine characteristic or two made him jumpy—but as I looked at him closely, I saw that it was true. He was radiant. His blue eyes were bright and shining. His cheeks were rosy but not the florid red caused by too much booze. And he had more energy, not his usual ennui. He was behaving like a man who was, well, happy.

"No weddings for this guy, as I already told you," he said, then shook his head at me. "You still think I'm a dumb jock from Minco, but even I know that if I get married again, I lose the alimony."

I sighed heavily and pretended to look resigned. "Can't put one over on you," I said. "But you do have a girlfriend, am I right?"

Back came that big stupid smile. "I'm seeing someone, yeah."

"The flight attendant from the San Juan trip?" I asked innocently.

"No, she's a vet," he said.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" I said.

"Not that kind of vet," he said. "She's got a veterinary practice on Eighty-eighth and Madison."

"Wow. Your very own Dr. Doolittle," I said. "If she happens to come by the apartment this week, she can give Buster a free checkup."

"Oh, she'll be coming by," he said, no doubt fantasizing about the bathtub mermaid. "We're having dinner here tonight. She's
cooking
, not that you'd know what that is."

I'm sure I was supposed to feel bad yet again about my ineptitude in the kitchen, but where is it written that women must be gourmet chefs?

"How nice for the two of you," I said, tallying up Leah's sleepovers. This one would make five. "But you're not the dinner-at-home type, Dan. Or are you planning to take her strip club-hopping after you eat?"

"What I'm planning is none of your concern."

"Fine. Just one more question," I said. "Does she mind that you're unemployed?"

"Leah doesn't judge," he said with the implication that I did.

"Leah, is it?" I said. "Lovely name."

"For a lovely lady. Inside and out." So Desiree had said. So Ricardo had said. I was dying to weigh in on this creature myself. "She's not dating me because I used to be famous or because I might be famous again in the future, and she's not staying away because I happen to be in between jobs."

In between jobs. Right. "Okay, I'll bite. Why is she dating you?"

"Because she likes me," he said, getting up from the sofa. "And you know what, Mel? It feels real good."

As he walked out of the room, I was oddly silent. I couldn't muster a counter. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to me that Leah would be so flat-out accepting. I'd hoped she'd fall for Dan, obviously, but what was it about him that had made her fall for him? Was she the sort of woman who liked to mother men who were down-and-out? Was it strictly a physical attraction she had for him? Or was she seeing something in him that I'd missed? I couldn't get a handle on their relationship, and I didn't like feeling out of the loop. And so I comforted myself by sitting next to my sweet doggie to give him some goodbye hugs and kisses.

"Thank God for you, Buster," I said, rubbing him behind the ears. "No matter what happens, you're my boy, right?"

He looked up at me with his big shining eyes, as if sensing exactly how hard it was for me to leave him, then ducked his head under my arm. We stayed that way for a second or two before I finally went on my way.

I was heading toward the elevator when Mrs. Thornberg popped her head out of her apartment again.

"Psst! What's with the girlfriend?" she said, waving me over. "I see he's got one."

It's none of your concern, I wanted to say, to quote Dan. But then—wait—I had an idea. I still needed someone to confirm Leah's Saturday night sleepovers, and who better to enlist than the most meddlesome person in the building? Plus, she was rich. Her garmento husband—his company made bras—had left her a fortune, so I wouldn't even have to pay her. And there was yet another plus: she was always home on Saturday nights.

"Why don't you invite me in and I'll tell you what I know, Mrs. Thornberg?" I said.

She nodded vigorously, giving me the impression that I was probably the first one in years not to blow her off.

"Come in, come in," she said, ushering me into her place, which stunk of mothballs. Oh, and all the furniture was covered in plastic. I didn't know people still did that. "Want a root beer?"

"No, thanks."

"Why? You driving?" She cackled.

"The truth is, I've got to get to the office, so I don't have long to chat," I said.

"You career girls." She sniffed. "In my day, we stayed home and cooked our husbands breakfast in the morning." See that? If you're a woman, everybody expects you to cook! "We didn't run off to work. We didn't 'do our own thing,' as you young people call it. And we certainly didn't get divorced at the drop of a hat."

I nodded politely, then lowered myself onto one of her living room chairs. When my butt made contact with the plastic, it sounded like I'd just sat on a whoopee cushion.

"In fact, I don't think there'd be all these divorces if you girls paid more—"

"Mrs. Thornberg," I interrupted. I really did have to get to work. I was late enough as it was. "You asked me about Dan's new girlfriend."

"I sure did. She's a looker, I'll give her that."

So it was unanimous. "You've met Leah?"

"Leah? What kind of a name is that? In my day, we had first names like Jane and Mary and Betty." Never mind that her own first name was Antoinette. Dan and I used to call her the Antster.

I tried again. "So you've met her?"

"What choice did I have? The two of them were carrying on the other night with the music turned up so loud I couldn't hear Larry King. I knocked on your ex-husband's door to remind him that we have a rule in this building: no loud noise after nine P.M. He said they were dancing and lost track of the time."

Dancing? Suddenly, Dan was Fred Astaire?

During the early years of our marriage, he used to dance with me quite often, and I loved it. But as we began to drift apart, our dancing days dwindled to zero. Have you ever noticed how it's one of the first things to go when a relationship sours? The intimate act of two people holding each other and moving in sync to music?

"And that's not all they were doing," she said, bringing me back to the present. "After my visit over there, I came home and started watching my program again. And wouldn't you know it, the noise got worse."

"The dancing?"

"No. The sex. My bedroom backs up to his, remember?"

I did remember. The Antster used to complain whenever Dan and I went at it a little too spiritedly.

"I'm not a prude, mind you," she continued, "but it says right in the building's bylaws: no resident shall infringe upon the peace and quiet of another. So I made my displeasure known to them."

"I bet they were thrilled," I said.

"Not my problem," she said. "If I have to police them every night of the week, that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Police them. Wow. I couldn't have put it better myself. She was stepping right into the job.