Love in Mid Air (32 page)

“ ’Cause you think I need to know it. And you’re probably right. You’re the only one who’s ahead of me on this trail.”

She laughs, takes the ball cap off and tries to fluff her hair. “I don’t know if I’d put it that way.”

“Come on. Where were you? Uptown?”

“Yeah… I saw Andy coming out of the courthouse and he looked awful. I sat in my car and watched him walk across the parking
lot and get in his little leased Toyota. He just sat there with his head bent down over the steering wheel. I couldn’t tell
if he was crying or praying or just thinking. He never did much of any of those things when we were married…” I smile and
she smiles back. “I know. But it bothered me that he was so sad and lost. Everyone said… you know what everyone said.”

“They said you should hate him because he’s the one who left.” The one who leaves is always the villain. If we were to ever
acknowledge, even slightly, that the one who left might have had his or her reasons, then we would become no better than animals.
Pretty soon we would be chasing cars and peeing in the yard.

Lynn shoots me a look. “But I couldn’t hate him. He looked so small in that car. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But he
sat there and I sat there and watched him and after a while he drove away and I followed him. I told myself that he was upset
and I just wanted to make sure he got home okay. After all, he’s still the boys’ father. I didn’t want him to have a wreck
or do anything stupid. That’s what I told myself, but I’m not really sure why I followed him. He saw me at the first stoplight.
He saw me behind him and he waved… I don’t even know why I remembered that, but you’re right. It’s funny the things you end
up doing.”

“What did you do when he waved?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just that if you leave Phil you might find yourself—”

“Fucking him in the backseat of a Toyota on the day our divorce is final?”

“That’s not exactly what happened.”

“Was it out of pity or because you still loved him?”

Lynn looks away. “I don’t know. Probably a little of both.”

“Were you already dating that guy by that point? I’m sorry, I don’t know his name.”

“It’s better if they don’t have names. Yeah, I was dating him, if that’s the term you want to use. But he didn’t have anything
to do with how I felt about Andy. It’s hard to explain.”

“I understand. You don’t turn it on and off like a faucet.”

“Is there a part of you that still loves Phil?”

“Yeah, if that’s the term you want to use. I probably would have done the same thing in the car that day. I care about him.
I don’t want to be married to him anymore but I don’t want to see him hurt.” The church doors have opened and children are
running out into the playground. Soon it will be too loud to talk. So I lick my lips and ask her the question I most want
to ask. “Do you ever wish you were still married?”

Lynn snaps her chin back in one quick move and looks me right in the eye. “God no. I mean, God no. Jesus and Elvis and a team
of wild horses couldn’t drag me back into it. I was just trying to tell you not to be surprised if you end up doing things…
but you already know all that. In fact, I think you’re farther down the trail than I am.”

I lean my head back and look up at the branches above us, running through the winter sky like cracks in a pot. “Well, that’s
bad news. I was counting on you to tell me what’s going to happen next.”

“This deal about making a wife down the middle of the bed with pillows—that’s a very odd story, Elyse.”

“I know.”

“And kind of sweet.”

I link my arm through hers. This may be—other than flapping arms and air kisses—the only time that Lynn and I have ever touched.
“I think your story about blowing Andy in his Toyota is kind of sweet too.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” she says, but she’s laughing too.

“No, I understand. Love makes people act weird.”

“That’s funny.” Lynn wipes her eyes. “In all these months, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say the word ‘love.’ ”

I wipe my eyes too. “Exactly what did you think we’ve been talking about?”

T
wo weeks later a postcard comes from Mrs. Chapman’s gallery, announcing the dates for their March crawl. My pot is on the
front.

When I call to thank her, she says, “But my dear, you’re going to be a big hit. The cards only went out this Thursday and
we’ve already had an order, that man from Boston.”

I had debated whether I should send Gerry a pot and then decided not to. He’s never seen my work and I wonder if he really
liked the picture on the front of the gallery postcard or if he just wanted me to make an early sale.

“That’s wonderful,” I say.

“You know the one, dear,” Mrs. Chapman says. “That man who likes you so much.”

T
he gallery has already sold one of my pots,” I tell him at lunchtime on the phone. “The postcard just came out on Thursday.
It’s a good omen.”

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

“Do you want me to send you one?”

“No. I mean, of course I’d love to have it. I just know you’re under the gun about making them right now.”

I am smiling into the receiver. “I could bring you a pot when I come up on Tuesday.”

“About Boston—” He goes into a rambling, complicated explanation about my ticket, and having a driver waiting for me when
I arrive because he has a meeting that could run long, and I need to bring a coat of course because it’s always fifteen to
twenty degrees colder in Boston than it is in Charlotte, he’s tracked it on the Weather Channel, and that’s pretty much the
average differential, and then he says, “Do you mind that I plan all this stuff?”

“I like it.”

“You don’t think I’m a bully?”

“I think you’re my wife.”

“Because sometimes I hang up the phone and say, ‘Damn, man, you were way too controlling.’ ”

“It’s nice not to think.”

“I know you’re perfectly capable of handling all the details, I just don’t think you should have to,” he says. “You shouldn’t
be bothered. You’re an artist.”

“I love you.”

“What?”

“I love it when you handle the details.”

There’s a pause. “I’ve got to go,” I finally say. “I’ve got book club tonight.”

“Bring me one of those pots,” he says. “I’ll put it on my desk.”

“We’re starting to keep secrets from each other.”

“I know,” he says. “This thing is getting real.”

W
atch
Oprah
.”

“What?”

“
Oprah
. Cut it on.”

I walk into the den, click on the TV. It’s a program about mothers who have lost custody of their children. I check to make
sure Tory is still in the playroom with the neighbor’s kid and then I sit down and dutifully watch the show through to the
end, even though it makes me a little sick.

Kelly is calling back before the credits even begin to roll. “You need to do it,” she says. “All the things they said.”

“Kelly—”

“No, I mean it, Elyse, you think just because you’re the mother everything would automatically go toward you, but what if
you lost Tory, have you ever really thought about that? Did you see the part about the notebook?”

“They were wrapping it up when I turned the TV on but I think—”

“Because that’s what you need to do. Keep a little spiral notebook in your car and write down every time you do something
for Tory. All the times you take her to the doctor, or ball practice, or go by the school—”

“Oh, come off it, I volunteer with her art teacher every week. Just yesterday I helped the second graders make bunnies out
of papier-mâché.”

“Write it down. Make sure you stop by the office and sign in every time too so they’ve got a record. You might have to prove
that you’re the one who does everything for her.”

“Everybody knows—”

“Part of what everybody knows is that you go out of town every month.”

“For two days. Are you honestly telling me that Phil being responsible for our daughter for two lousy days a month is worth
more than me being on duty the other twenty-eight? What kind of math is that?”

“And watch the drinking.”

“I don’t drink that much.”

“Because you saw the part about that guy who took a picture of their recycling bin with all the wine bottles in it… Does Phil
have a camera?”

“I don’t drink any more than you do.”

“Did you not even see the show? It’s not like those women were trailer trash. They’re just normal people who made a few mistakes…
We probably shouldn’t even be talking on this phone. Phones are the worst.”

“Phil wouldn’t be that vindictive.”

“You don’t know what Phil might be. Picture a transcript of every conversation you’ve ever had all printed out word by word
and stacked on some lawyer’s desk. And some big blown-up pictures of your recycling bin.”

That is an appalling thought.

“And you need to start documenting when you help her with her homework or do her laundry. Even cooking. Those are the things
that count. And the fact that you give blood all the time and send money to that orphan in Thailand or wherever she is. That
kind of stuff. Write it down.”

“If I lived like that I’d lose my mind.”

“You’ve already lost your mind, that’s why I’m trying to think for you. I wake up in sweats sometimes. I had this dream that
we were in a big airport and when we turned around Tory was gone—”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You’re crazy and paranoid but at least you believe me when I say I’m going to leave him. Nobody else believes me. Phil doesn’t
think I’d really go and Jeff doesn’t and not even Gerry…”

“They don’t know you like I do. They don’t know how strong you can be.”

“Thank you.”

“Or how stupid.”

H
e loves you,” Nancy says.

We’re on our way to book club at Belinda’s house. Nancy’s driving carefully, as she always does. She goes 35 in a 45 zone.

“How would you know?”

“He’s called me several times.”

“You talk to Phil? On the phone?”

She glances over. “Well, not about anything important. We talk about you. He asks me stuff like what you’d like for your birthday
or holidays, things like that.”

“So the grill and the Italian tapes were your idea?”

She smiles. “No, even I know that Phil is the one who cooks out, and you already speak Italian. But the cappuccino machine,
that was me. He said it took you a week to get it out of the box.”

I don’t say anything. We both stare straight ahead at the traffic light.

“He wants to please you,” she says. “That’s why he asks me what you want.”

“Why doesn’t he ask
me
what I want?”

“Men don’t think like that.” The light is still red. I exhale. I didn’t think I did it loudly but Nancy exhales too. “Why
are you going to Boston?”

“I’m taking a class.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t pursue it. Lately I’ve been glad my friends take so little interest in my work.

“It’s creepy that he calls you. Between counseling with Jeff and you and Phil chatting it up behind my back, you guys know
way too much about us.”

“It’s not like that. He wanted to surprise you. We thought… we both thought you’d like it. The cappuccino machine, I mean.”

The light turns. Finally. “Tell me something,” I say. “Tell me something bad about you and Jeff.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not fair. You know everything about my marriage and I know nothing about yours. Tell me something bad. Come
on. Pull that marriage inside out and show me the seams.”

“He didn’t get me anything for my last birthday.”

“Not anything?”

“So see? Has Jeff ever called you? Has he ever asked you to give him ideas about what I’d want?” She pulls into Belinda’s
driveway, cuts off the ignition. “Didn’t think so. Phil tries a lot more than you give him credit for, Elyse, that’s all I’m
saying. What do you think it does to a man when he gives a woman a gift and she won’t even take it out of the box?”

Nancy opens the driver’s side door but I can’t seem to move.

“What would you have wanted for your birthday?”

She laughs. It comes out more like a bark.

“A cappuccino machine.”