My Husband's Sweethearts (5 page)

You're here to take your shift?" I ask.
Oddly enough all of Elspa's piercings and
the tattoo and the hair color remind me of
my mother—all of that makeup to disorient the viewer.
Actually, though, all the extra stuff doesn't distract me for
very long. It's evident that this Elspa is very pretty— almost
breathtakingly so. She has full lips and dark brown eyes
with thick lashes and a small nose and great cheekbones.
She isn't wearing a bit of makeup. I'm still so caught off
guard by all of it—the conversation with Artie, the fact that
this isn't my mother—that I'm completely baffled. I manage
to say, "Did the nursing agency send you?"

I'm not guarding the door. It's wide open because I
was expecting my mother to breeze in. I'm standing back,
actually, almost welcoming her in. Almost. And that's all
she needs. She walks past me, duffel bag and all, right into
the hallway. She has a real sense of urgency. She's nervous,
or more specifically, shaken. Her eyes dart around the
house. "No, I'm not from the nursing agency."

"That's a relief, actually."

Elspa ignores the comment. She looks at me directly.
"You called me."

"I did?"

"I came to take my turn at Artie's deathbed. That's
what you said you wanted. Right?"

"Oh. Yes. And the duffel bag?" I'm a little unnerved
by the duffel bag—it has a kind of I'm-here-to-stay-awhile
vibe. This is one of Artie's sweethearts? She's a little
younger than I imagined— twenty-six, tops?

"I drove in from Jersey as soon as I could. I had a class
this morning, but left right after. I already worked out an
incomplete with the professor," she says, as if this explains
everything. She's too old to be an undergrad. She puts her
bag down. "Where is he?"

"You can't stay here." Is this one of Artie's sweethearts
during our marriage—one of his flings, dalliances? Is it
possible she's old enough to have known Artie before we
were married? I mean, Artie and I had been married four
years when I left, and we only dated a year before we got
married—a whirlwind, in retrospect. Was he dating a
twenty-one-year-old before me?

"I'll just crash on the sofa. I won't be any trouble. Is he
in a lot of pain?"

"Look," I tell her. "I was drunk. I was kidding. I
didn't think anyone would take me seriously."

Elspa spins around. Her eyes are wide. She looks like a
little kid, overly hopeful. "What?" She regains some of
her jadedness. "Look. Is Artie dying or not?"

I get the sense that she has a lot riding on this visit.
There's a lot at stake for her. I want to lie to her, to tell her
that Artie's fine and to go home, but I can't. I think she
may actually love Artie, or need him. I can't tell. "He is.
He's dying."

"Then I want to help however I can. He was good
to me."

"He was?"

"He saved my life." And she says this not in the way
that someone talks about a lover, but a saint.

The burly male nurse walks by, up the stairs. Elspa
watches him.

"Is he up there?"

I nod.

"Can I?" she asks, pointing to the stairs.

I'm stunned by her desperation. "Go ahead."

And so Elspa, this complete stranger—saved by Artie
Shoreman, the saint—runs up the stairs, taking them two
at a time.

I stand in the hallway, not sure what to do
now. I look up the stairs. Elspa. What does
she have to say to Artie? Did I say she
could sleep on the couch? I'm tired of not knowing Artie's
secrets, tired of tripping into the cordoned-off areas of his
life. I go to the guest bedroom, pick up the address book.
I grab my keys off the lowboy and walk out the door.
There's a rusty Toyota parked on the street.

I hope it will be gone by the time I get back.

My car is in the driveway. I haven't driven in six
months. I climb into the front seat. It's all adjusted to
Artie, and I'm glad he's not dead yet. I'm sure I would
have jumped out of the car if he were dead, too unsettled
the seat and mirrors all adjusted his way. But Artie's not
dead, and I take my time adjusting everything to fit me. I
should do this with other stuff around the house. I can
think about this logically—Artie's death. I can prepare for
it intellectually before it hits. I can take precautions—as I
would while preparing for a new audit at work.

Bessom's Bedding Boutique is in an older part of
town, one that's supposed to be turning over—going
plush. Every fourth storefront is being redesigned. I find
the cross street I'm looking for and turn left, pull into a
parking spot. Bessom's Bedding Boutique. Since when
did everything go boutique? I don't care for the alliteration.
It's a pet peeve of mine, Klassy Kuts, or Kitchen
Kutlery. For God's sake, spell the damn words correctly! I
walk up to the shop and see my reflection in the whited
windows. I'm surprised to find myself here. I look tired.
My eyes are puffed, the skin under them tinged blue. My
lips are chapped. My hair is unkempt. I tuck a strand behind
my ears and lick my lips, and quickly look away.

I push the door open and hear the archaic chime:
bing-bong.
The place is a parking lot of beds, like an entire hotel
collapsed and the tightly made beds all ended up in the
basement—but a swank basement. There is even some
avant-garde art, and sleek bedside tables, and the walls are
one of those nouveau colors: something lime-inspired?
The carpet is plush wall to wall. The beds are beautifully
made-up with throw pillows galore. There are no other
customers in the store, no Muzak playing. All I hear are
the muted street noises behind me and the empty tocks of
a retro silver sixties wall clock—the kind that looks like
grade-school science projects of the solar system.

I want to steal something. This is my first instinct. I
don't know why. My second instinct is no better: I want to
run across the plane of beds. I picture myself running
down the beds all the way to the back of the store.

And that's when I notice that there's a lump in the covers
of an elegantly made four-poster near the back. With
no other salespeople around, I assume this must be the
straight-C-plus college student who's been left in charge.
I'm not sure whether to wake this loafer or not, but I do
feel a little protective of Bessom's Bedding Boutique—for
no good reason.

I walk over to the bed. "Excuse me."

It's a full-grown man—in his late twenties, early thirties.
I'm surprised that he doesn't jerk himself upright and
launch into some ingrained sales pitch that occupies his
shallow subconscious. Instead, he opens his eyes slowly,
looks at me, and then smiles lazily. He stretches and flattens
down his blond hair. He's good-looking and I can
easily imagine him shirtless, barefoot, wearing only pajama
bottoms—someone John Bessom hired onto his
sales team for his looks, and is unaware that he sleeps on
the merchandise while the boss is out. I decide that when
I find Bessom, I'll have to report this salesman.

"I'm looking for a mattress, um, heavy-duty, firm. You
know, a good, solid, dependable mattress. Do you know
where I can find John Bessom?" He looks at me, a little
mussy and sexy, sleepy-eyed.

"We don't sell dependability, firmness, heavy dutiness,
solidity," he says in a half-yawn.

"You do sell mattresses here, don't you?" I smile at
him and cock my head. I feel like I've wandered into a
word game where I don't know the rules. I like word
games and I'm good at them.

"No, we don't really sell mattresses. Not exactly."

"What do you sell?" I ask.

He smiles flirtatiously. I've taken his bait. He's come
out of his nap selling. It just didn't look like what I
thought it would. "I sell a lot of things. I sell sleep, for
one. I sell dreams."

"Sleep and dreams?" I say.

"Exactly." He hasn't gotten out of bed, just propped
his head on his hand, and now I'm convinced that Bessom
has made a fantastic hire in this kid. I feel like buying a
bed. And then he says, "I sell high-end premium real estate
for love."

This comment stops me in my tracks. I hold up one finger.
I retrace the conversation in my head. I notice that he's
stopped saying "We sell" and has started saying "I sell." I
look at the plate-glass window, the lettering of Bessom's
Bedding Boutique spelled out in reverse. There is something
so purely Artie about " high-end premium real estate
for love" that I feel frozen for a moment. This guy doesn't
look like Artie at all, except for maybe a tiny bit in the jawline,
but he's inherited his father's flirtatious genes nonetheless.

"Are you John Bessom?"

"In the flesh. How can I help you today?"

I just stare at him a bit more—still looking for Artie. I
tilt my head. Part of me was expecting the boss of
Bessom's Bedding Boutique and part of me, I admit it,
was expecting someone more sonlike, more kiddie-pool,
more summer camp, more Little League.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I glance around the store. "Well, unfortunately
I only need a mattress."

"Who could live day in and day out only selling mattresses?"
He sits up and swings his feet to the floor. He's
wearing suede bucks. "It would be too bleak."

"Right. I get that," I say. I'm suddenly not sure what
I'm here for. Am I going to tell him that his father is dying?
Is that my place? If he wanted to talk to Artie, he
could have years ago. I start to walk to the door.

He stands up then. "Look," he says, "wait. I'm sorry. I've had a bad week. I've had an even worse year. I get like
that." He points back to the bed. "I flirt. It's a coping
mechanism. I'm working on it. What I mean to say is, I'd
love to sell you a mattress. I'd
prefer
to sell you something
a little more abstract, but I'll settle for a mattress."

I stiffen—like I'm a little drunk, like my austerity is
eroding, and I'm in my stilt-walking mode. I draw up my
toughness. I wonder if my brow is knotted. Is this toughness,
this austerity, going to cost me wrinkles? Botox? I
have no choice at present but to be tough. That's all I have
to offer. "Next time I need an abstraction, I'll know where
to come," I say, and I walk out the door.

I pull into my driveway and note that the
rusty Toyota is still parked on the street. It's
a jagged, lopsided parking job, to boot.

Walking into the house, I spot Elspa's duffel bag,
which sits in the hallway where she dropped it. As I put
my keys in the bowl on the lowboy, I feel like a stranger—
a polite burglar, someone who's breaking and entering but
only to rummage through the crackers, pop some bonbons,
and maybe make herself a gin and tonic.

I'm not sure what to do. I stand in the hallway. Stockstill.
I peer into the living room. Everything is so hushed,
so still. On the mantel, a massive flower bouquet in a
grand vase is falling over itself. I walk over and pull out
the little card from its plastic stake. It reads:
#58: the way
you came home, you came back. The way part of you, some
tiny, deep down part, might still love me?
I'm not sure
what to do with this. He's right. Some part of me still
loves him, of course, and sometimes it's the part that wells
up and fills me to the brimming top of my soul. Maybe
I should tell him that. Maybe it's something he should
know.

And that's when I hear the singing.

It's soft, high, lilting. My hands drop to my sides. I let
#58 fall to the floor.

I follow the singing up the stairs. It's coming from the
bedroom. I open the door. Artie's bed is empty. The
sheets are thrown back, as if Artie has been healed, miraculously,
and has gone to the office.

But the singing isn't coming from the bedroom. It's
coming from the master bathroom. The male nurse is
standing by the bathroom door. He looks a little bewildered,
not sure of his role here. I nod to him. He nods back.

"I'm standing by," he says, "to help him in and out of
the tub."

But this doesn't explain the singing. I walk through
the bedroom to the bathroom door, which is cracked just
enough for me to see Artie's back. He's sitting in the tub,
and it's Elspa's voice—a beautiful voice—rising up from
somewhere deep inside her. She's there, kneeling beside
the tub, singing softly. I don't recognize the song. She dips
a sponge in the bathwater and squeezes it out over Artie's
back. There's nothing the least bit sexual going on. No
eroticism. Only tenderness—like a mother taking care of
a child with a high fever. This takes my breath. The moment
has a simplistic beauty. A purity.

My chest is tight—a sharp pain. I feel light-headed
again and walk unsteadily out of the room, down the
stairs, and to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. It's too
bright, too loud, too airy. The ceilings are too high. I feel
tiny. My hands work quickly. The ice clinks in the glass.
It's a lonesome sound.

The phone rings. I answer it. Lindsay starts talking
full-tilt, so fast I can only make out the words—someone
might get fired, Danbury? And there's a client who might
drop us? One of the partners is freaking out? I can't make
sense of any of it.

"It'll all work out," I tell her. "Just don't get involved
emotionally. Just don't take things personally. I can't talk
right now."

But she forges on about Danbury almost getting fired
and the possibility of a small promotion and back to the
partner again.

"I can't talk right now," I tell her. "Don't take this personally,
Lindsay, but, here, let me show you how to disconnect."
And I hang up the phone and stand there.

Elspa walks in and pulls a salad out of the fridge. The
salad is news to me. I've never seen it before.

"You want some?" she asks. "I made plenty."

"No."

She grabs a small bowl and starts fixing her own.
"He's so thin. I wasn't prepared for that."

I don't say anything.

"But he's got his mind. It's all there. Still Artie."

"Still Artie."

Elspa starts eating heartily. "You sure you don't want
anything?"

"No, thanks."

She talks while chewing. "He was telling me this story
about this one time—"

I hold up my hand. "I don't want to hear the story."

Elspa freezes, then continues to eat. "Okay."

It hits me then that I don't feel like a burglar—quite
the opposite. I feel stolen from. "That was my moment up
there."

"Excuse me?"

"Bathing him. That's what I'm supposed to do, and
you stole it."

"I didn't mean to . . ."

"Forget it."

Elspa puts down her fork. She looks at me. Her brown
eyes are gentle. "He cheated on you, right? That's why you
hate him. How many?"

"He had lots of women before I met him, and I didn't
know it but he kept two of them—souvenirs."

"He isn't good at good-byes."

"That's a nice way to put it," I say, taking a moment to
consider how much I don't appreciate that reading of
things. "And then he added a third. It was the third one I
found out about and then the other two. When was the
last time you were with him?" This is a fair question. I ask
it boldly enough.

But she doesn't seem caught off guard, only matter-of-fact.
"Before he met you. I started working in one of his
restaurants when I was really young." She still seems
young. "Gosh, it's been, like, six years since I smelled like
Italian food all the time. Artie came in to spot-check. It
wasn't
that
kind of relationship though. I mean, I'm not
really one of his old
girlfriends
or anything. Artie was
more like a father. He helped me through a hard time."
She pauses, still pained by some memory there.

I'm not sure that I buy it. "More like a father?" I ask.

"It was a long time ago," she says. "I survived—
because of Artie."

She's so earnest that it's hard not to believe her. She
has a face that seems completely open—as if too naive
to lie.

Her expression lightens. "He told me a lot of stories
today about you, how you met, your wedding. It's all so
beautiful. But I like the story about the bird on the porch
the best."

"I remember that, vaguely."

"You saved the bird."

"It was beating around the shutters of a friend's guesthouse,
not long after we met. Artie's a coward in many
ways. He was afraid of birds indoors. He hates to fly, too,
on planes. I opened the right window, that's all." But now
I see it in my mind and everything seemed so right then, so
perfect. Artie walked up behind me, wrapped his arms
around me, and the bird flitted off into the trees.

"Sometimes that's all it takes, opening the right window,"
Elspa says.

And I like her, just then, just like that. I need someone
like this—someone not afraid to enlarge the moment.

"When he was telling that story," she says, "he was so
alive I forgot he was dying."

I wonder how, exactly, Artie saved her life. I imagine
her in her waitress uniform, the red shirt and nametag, the
checkered apron, holding her tray of drinks. I wonder
why she's really come here and why she loves him so
much. I walk over to the large salad bowl, pick up a cherry
tomato, and eat it. It's tart and sweet in my mouth. She
would think that Artie deserves to see his son before he
dies, wouldn't she? She's right. Because even if Artie has
done a lot of things all wrong in his life, he deserves to
know his son. Isn't that an inalienable right of parenthood?
And, more important, John Bessom—that mess of
a young man—deserves to know his father.

"I want you to do me a favor," I say.

She looks up at me, expectantly. "You do?"