Monsters (8 page)

•   •   •

The morning that Michael died, when I came down the stairs, he was in the dining room, sitting with his laptop. He had his planner out, working already, and it wasn't even seven o'clock. I hadn't bothered to get dressed yet, but it was one of those mornings when my hair
looked all slept in and sexy, and Michael was wearing this dark striped button-up that I liked.

“You look kinda hot this morning,” I said, and he said, “You too.”

“You're not even looking.”

“I don't have to. You always look hot.” His right hand was still on the trackpad. I could hear it clicking. His eyes were on the screen.

I walked around him, straddled his lap from the left, stretched my arms over his shoulders, kissed his jaw.

“Babe, come on,” he said, and he put his hands on my shoulders, pushed me over far enough that he could see around me. “I'm leaving in five minutes. Save it for later.”

“Maybe you should go in late,” I said, and I leaned in again, this time kissing his lips.

“Why are you always like this when I'm busy?” he said, and he put his hands on my hips, nudging me to get up.

I narrowed my eyes at him, pushed my lips out into a pout. “I hate you,” I said, and then he did kiss me, but only lightly, not with any interest, and he said, “I know.”

•   •   •

When I wake, it's dark out, and Tommy is still curled around me, his hand tucked between my thighs, but I slip out without waking him. In the upstairs shower, I lean my face against the cool tile and let the hot water run on my neck. I stay like that for a long time, and I keep my eyes closed tight, but I don't cry.

•   •   •

It's close to eight when I hear Tommy's bare feet scuffing on the tile floor behind me.

I say, “Morning,” but I don't turn around.

He walks around the island and goes straight for the coffee. He's just wearing these low jeans, no shirt. “You didn't sleep any better?” he asks, turning to face me.

I smile, but I shake my head. “Not really.”

“I gotta tell you, that's a little insulting.” He frowns. “You could at least fake it.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Good one,” he says. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Flight's at noon? Before you go, I want you to read through a new draft of the script. Joe sent it yesterday while you were sleeping.” He pulls a banana off a bunch sitting in a bowl on the counter and snaps the peel. “Banana?”

“No,” I say. “When you say ‘new draft' . . .”

He takes a bite of the banana, shifts it to his cheek, and talks around it. “You'll just have to look at it.” He walks around the island and across the room, toward the study. When he comes back, he drops a stack of pages in front of me. “Start on page eighty-seven.” And then he stands there next to me, leaning against the counter, half naked.
Christ.
“Sure you don't want some of my banana?” He smiles.

“No. I really don't. Thank you.”

“Come on, just a little bit.” He pulls a piece off and holds it up to my mouth. “Just the tip.”

“You are a pervert,” I say, pushing his hand away.

“Come on. One bite.”

“Then will you go away so I can read this?”

“Absolutely.”

I open my mouth, and he holds the piece of banana up, and I take it with my teeth.

“Jesus, Stacey, not the teeth. It's very tender.”

“Oh my god. You are like a twelve-year-old. Go away.”

I hear the front door open and close, Daniel's feet in the hallway. He walks into the kitchen, and he takes one look at us, Tommy leaning on the counter, his foot on the rung of my stool, both of us eating the same banana, and he says, “Jesus Christ. Tell me you're not that stupid.”

“You're fired,” Tommy says, and he takes another bite.

Daniel walks around to the coffeemaker and pours himself a cup. He adds sugar, walks to the fridge, pulls out the milk, stirs.

“Stacey,” he says finally with a kind of sigh as he turns to face me, “I'm not gonna lie. I'm disappointed.”

“I know,” I say, frowning at him. “I'm kind of disappointed in myself.”

“Oh, fuck you both.” Tommy stands up and walks back around the island, throws the banana peel in the trash, and picks his coffee back up.

Daniel shrugs, shakes his head at me with this sad frown. “I'll be in the study if you need anything, sweetie.” He walks around the island and rubs my arm. “Like some penicillin,” he says, and I laugh.

“Just read the script,” Tommy says.

I pick it up, flip the pages across my thumb, looking for eighty-seven. “I feel like you're very demanding, Tommy.”

“Yeah? I feel like I'm very fucking generous.”

“I feel like your ‘generous' is mostly about being demanding.” Then I look up. “What am I looking at?”

“Dialogue sounds off.” He's right, most of the script is really lyrical, and in this scene, a lot of the rhythms are stilted, flat. “You should take that with you.” He nods at it. “Read the whole thing. I think it's good, but read it. See what you think.” He crosses the kitchen, leans
over, resting his elbows on the island. He's directly across from me, but it's a big slab of granite. We're still a few feet apart. “Can you fix it?” he says.

“On paper? I can fix almost anything.”

•   •   •

It's already dinnertime when I pull up to Jenny's house to get the boys. She's made whole-wheat spaghetti with fresh mozzarella, and the kids are crowded around her kitchen table, sucking the noodles up through their puckered lips.

“Look, Mom,” Stevie says. The skin around his lips has an orangeish tint.

“Nice job,” I say, kissing him on the head.

“I know you haven't eaten yet,” Jenny says, putting a plate at the breakfast bar.

“No, I'm starved,” I say. “It looks awesome.”

“So, how did it go?”

“Great.” I twirl a few noodles onto my fork. “Fantastic. We got the director Tommy wanted, so it all worked out. And I have a new draft of the script to look at, make a few tweaks.” I take a bite.

“And then you spent the rest of the day just hanging out with Tommy DeMarco,” she says. “Remember that time we went to see
Destructions
and Michael was like, ‘That guy seems like a real . . .'” She glances at the kids and makes a face. “You know.”

Michael hated that movie. He hated all of Tommy's movies.

“I remember,” I say.

“So what's he really like?”

“Nice.” I wave my fork like,
Nothing to tell.
“Tommy's always really
nice, and his house is gorgeous. Really modern, airy, lots of glass. Beautiful place.” I take the last bite of pasta and stand up. “We should really get going though. It's a school night,” I say.

•   •   •

Ben has a birthday party to go to. It's a bowling-alley thing. When the invitation came, Stevie cried and said,
I never get invited to anything,
and I promised we could go and play in another lane. We end up at the far side of the room, far enough from the party that I can see Ben but not hear him. Stevie wants an orange ball, but all the balls that are light enough for him to manage are pink.

“It's okay, Mom,” he says. “I know it's not your fault.”

They've got these automated rails that go up for all of Stevie's turns and retract for mine, so the end result is that all of my balls go straight in the gutter, and Stevie always manages to at least hit something.

“It's just a game, right?” Stevie says.

It is loud as hell, and there are at least three parties. One of them is in the lane next to us, and the boys look about six. The kids that don't seem scared to be here are chasing one another in circles around the tables. One table is piled with gift bags and packages with ribbon. The table for Ben's group looks very much the same, so I feel a little bad about his yellow envelope with a generic robot birthday greeting and twenty-dollar gift card.

“Mommy, watch this,” Stevie says. He uses both hands to roll the ball from between his legs, and it bounces from the right rail to the left to the right to the left. It knocks down four pins, and Stevie says, “Yes!”

“Good job, baby,” I say.

One of the dads from the party next to us wanders within talking distance. “Some Friday night, huh?” He's wearing a red golf shirt,
tucked in, and it's pulling a little at the beginnings of a beer belly. He smiles. “Greg,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Stacey.” I stretch my hand out, palm down, and let him squeeze it.

“This pro bowler over here your boy?” he says, nodding at Stevie.

“Yeah,” I say. “He is.” I point toward the party across the room. “And I have another one over there.”

“Oh yeah?” he says. “Mine's with this group. Pretty loud, aren't they?” He's wearing a ring, a gold watch. His hair is thinning at the top.

“Is yours the birthday kid?”

“No. His mom just makes me stay. She's a little, you know, nervous.”

“Oh,” I say, and I smile. It's a really good smile. I don't know why—probably because my night's just so dull. “Moms can be so annoying.”

Stevie tugs on my arm. “Your turn.”

I brush my hand against Greg's forearm. “I better go throw another gutter ball.”

I don't look back, but I'm sure he watches. I only look at Stevie, who yells, “Mom, you got one!” and throws his arms around my waist. “Good job, Mommy,” he says.

I almost wander back to Greg, but I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. There's no name, but the area code looks familiar. I pick up and say, “Hello?”

“Hey, it's Tommy.”

I feel a little sorry for Greg, who seems to be hanging around on the edge of the party, waiting to see if I come back.

“I hope you don't have more work for me,” I say.

“Why? You don't like getting paid?”

“Not when all this extra shit is lumped into a flat rate.”

“It's a hell of a flat rate, honey. Daniel just mailed your check today.” Two hundred thousand dollars. It's a nice number. It's not
exactly going to change my life, but it's a nice number. And it means that the movie's officially a go. I watch Stevie roll his ball, and when he turns around I give him a thumbs-up.
Great job!
I mouth.

“Where are you? It's loud.”

“I'm bowling with my kid. Hang on.” I lean down to Stevie. I pull the phone away from my mouth. “I have to take this call, honey. Can you do my turn?” He gives me a high five and grabs a ball to roll. Of course the bumpers are down for my turn, so he's not going to hit a single pin. “All right, what do you want?”

“Wow. Good to talk to you too.”

“Come on. What is it?”

“Nothing, Jesus,” he says. “I read your changes. Thanks for doing that.”

“Yeah, of course. You know I really will work on it anytime. I'm just, you know, giving you shit.” I scuff my toe along the floor. “Hey, is this your number you're calling on?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don't know, Tommy. Do you think I should have it? I mean, what if I try to call you when you'd rather be ‘not really available'?” I try to make Daniel's air quotes with my voice.

“Very funny. You're hilarious,” he says. “I'll be available.”

Poor Greg is standing at an angle like he's not really facing my way, but he's not really into the party either. He turns far enough to make eye contact. He makes a little half-smile, and I smile back.

“I'm not actually going to call,” I say.

“Wow.” He laughs. “Who's the asshole now?”

“I know. I'm sorry. I know that's kind of your thing. I don't really mean to step on your toes.” Stevie gets a spare with the rather
significant help of the bumpers. “I should go. He's going to start pouting if I don't take my next turn.”

“Yeah, you have fun with the bowling. That sounds really fucking exciting.” But then he says, “Hey, Stace, thanks again.”

“Anytime,” I say, and then I hit
end
.

Stevie's standing at the return, waving his hands over the little vent. “I can get your ball for you,” he says when he sees I'm off the phone.

“I would love that, buddy. That would be great.”

•   •   •

Stevie and I finish our games way before the party ends, and I know he's going to be jealous about the cake, so I buy him an ice cream, and we sit in the dining area. There's a bar, and I think about ordering a vodka, but I feel like it would be weird.

“You're not having ice cream?” Stevie says.

“I don't really like ice cream.”

It's soft serve, a twist, and he's holding the cone in his hand, licking it on just one side so that it's dripping on the other. He's got streaks of chocolate and vanilla on his knuckles.

“You can have a lick,” he says, holding it toward me.

“That's okay, baby. It's for you.”

“Do you think Ben's having ice cream too, or just cake?”

“Probably just cake,” I say.

“I like ice cream better than cake,” he says, “but I like pie the best.”

“Like your dad,” I say, but then I think,
Shit, why did I say that?

Stevie doesn't look sad though, just interested. “What was his favorite pie?”

“Coconut cream,” I say.

“Me too,” Stevie says, though I don't think he's ever had it. “We're the same.”

•   •   •

Some days the boys walk to Jenny's after school, and I meet them there. We let the kids play for a little bit while Jenny and I have coffee. She has this very formal front parlor, and there's something nice about sitting on her little Victorian loveseat, drinking coffee out of our grandmother's china.