This One Is Mine: A Novel (13 page)

T
ODAY HE WOULD CALL.
S
PRING EQUINOX.
V
IOLET HAD TOLD
T
EDDY THAT WAS
when David would be out of town. It seemed so obvious when she had figured it out. Once she did, her torment gave way to the calm of having the upper hand in a delicious game of cat and mouse.

So Violet had spent the past two weeks preparing. Embracing the hunger pains she carried to the hairdresser, the waxing place, the facialist, the nail salon. Actually looking at herself in a full-length mirror while David was at work to see which outfits made her ass look the least gigantic. The expedition to a mall deep in the valley to buy size-large lingerie, then stashing it in the back of her T-shirt drawer. The body scrubs and cellulite massages using serum made of sheep colostrum.

While Violet attended to her body, she’d slip off into her life with Teddy — the one she’d lovingly write and rewrite. They’d live near the ocean in Santa Monica. On Georgina or Alta (west of Lincoln, of course!), where they could walk down the steps and across PCH to the Jonathan Club. Violet would fix up an old Craftsman. They’d buy the house next door and tear it down so they’d have a bigger yard and room for Teddy’s studio. She’d fix him up as well — his teeth, his hair, his wardrobe. Because of her age, they’d have to have a baby soon. Maybe they’d get married. Maybe not. Paperwork might befoul the purity of their love. People would talk; Violet accepted that. But once they got to know Teddy, and watched her blossom, they’d wildly approve.

Violet had asked around about golf. It turned out that anyone, for a smallish fee, could sign up for amateur tournaments. If Teddy won enough — which he surely would — he would graduate onto increasingly larger circuits and ultimately the PGA. Even though he was no spring chicken — how old was he, anyway, thirty-something probably, she’d have to remember to ask — the main indicator for success in golf was that you started young, which Teddy had. How she’d burst with pride, standing by his side as he vanquished all nonbelievers. Their charity golf event would be the talk of the town. Lots of rock stars and movie stars, raising money for hepatitis C. That’s right; Violet would not be ashamed of his disease. She had researched it online and was relieved to see that Teddy was correct: the virus was transmitted only by the exchange of blood, such as sharing needles, not from kissing or vaginal sex. There was even a cure for it, interferon, which was a long and expensive regimen, but one Violet would valiantly nurse Teddy through.

And of course, there was Teddy’s poetry. He’d write epic, scrappy poems about Violet and their baby, Lotus. Lotus and Violet, his two flowers. (And Dot, of course, never forgetting Dot!) He could turn his poems into songs, which would lead to a robust music career. Ideally, Teddy wouldn’t go on the road. He probably was a sex addict, and Violet didn’t need to add that to her list of worries. So preferably he’d become a local sensation.

She sought solitude so she could filigree this future with Teddy. When David came home, she’d invent an excursion to the market. While there, she’d imagine the guest list for Teddy’s listening party. Something low-key, a clambake perhaps? And David, happily remarried, would come with his new wife and give blessing.

Soon, Violet’s high-flying life with Teddy was so vivid that the drudgery of her life with David and Dot felt like the distraction. A simple act such as David’s popping his head into the steam shower — her beloved isolation chamber — asking, “Honey, have you seen my car keys?” felt like an act of violence. When conversation with David was unavoidable, she would still think about Teddy. That morning at breakfast, as David bitched about something, Violet had to check the urge to half-close her eyes, as she felt the softness of Teddy’s tongue in her mouth, kissing her for the first time.

But there was a catch.

It was three in the afternoon on March the twenty-first, and Teddy hadn’t called. Violet had carried her cell phone all day so as not to miss their assignation. Equally problematic, David refused to accept that his wife was not accompanying him to the yoga retreat. He was now standing at the car, ready to go.

“Where’s your stuff?” he asked as he threw his duffel bag and yoga mat into the Prius — he knew enough not to drive his Bentley to a yoga retreat.

“I’m not going,” Violet said for the tenth time.

“You planned it.”

“I want to spend the weekend alone. Dot’s with LadyGo, and I just want to relax.”

“Thus, the yoga retreat.”

“It will be more relaxing for me to be home alone,” she said.

“You’re always alone.” He opened the front door of Violet’s Mercedes and popped the trunk. The obstinate bastard then grabbed her yoga mat, some sweats and tossed them in the Prius. “There. You’re packed. Let’s go before we hit weekend traffic.”

Violet dug her fingers into her face. Teddy hadn’t called yet. Should she just go with her husband?

David exploded, “What kind of face is that? I’m asking you to go away for the weekend like we planned, and you look like I just punched you in the stomach!”

Violet’s cell phone rang. Her body knew it was Teddy before she saw the incoming phone number: 310-555-0199. Violet could have collapsed with relief. But she couldn’t answer it in front of David. He grabbed the phone out of her hand. “Will you talk to me?!” It rang again. What if Teddy didn’t leave a message? — oh God — “Say something, Violet!”

“I never said I was going with you!” she screamed. “I want a break!”

“From what? What do you need a break from? Spending my money? Spacing out? Driving off by yourself to God knows where? What do you even fucking do? I make the money. LadyGo raises your child. You do nothing! You’re not necessary!”

“From that! You treat me like I’m a gigantic fuckup!”

“Does it occur to you that maybe it’s because you’re
fucking up?!
You’re constantly out of the house but never doing anything. You’re spending less and less time with Dot. We are your family. Live your fucking life. You haven’t been UV-A for three years. You’re not even UV-B. You’re more like UV-
Z
.”

“Don’t call me that!” The phone! It had rung twice, now three times.

“What the fuck happened to you? You used to be a writer. Why don’t you write anymore?”

“You know why,” she said. “I don’t want to be stuck on a show for sixty hours a week with Dot at home.”

“Who said you have to write for TV? Write in your fucking diary! But write. Why am I even having to tell you this? You used to know these things. You used to be a dynamo.”

“Those days are over.”

“As your husband, don’t I get a fucking vote on that?”

“No!”

“That’s your solution? For me to just go about my business while you slip away?”

Violet knew it was her turn to say something. But the phone had stopped ringing. Would Teddy leave a message? She was stranded on the silence, staring at the phone in David’s hand without shame, like a dog fixated on the slimy tennis ball he wants you to throw.

“Your silence speaks volumes,” David said.

The tinny trumpets of Pachelbel’s Canon in D heralded. A voice mail! Violet panted, her eyes locked on the little blinking mailbox.

David opened his hand. “Your phone.” She snatched it. “I hope you realize how much you stand to lose, Violet.” He slammed the trunk, got into the car, and peeled out.

Violet’s fingers trembled as she hit the voice mail button.
One new message
. “Hi, it’s your spring equinox call.” Teddy’s voice was higher and more nasal than she’d remembered. “I need a favor from you. And ask me what I did last night.”

Violet hit the reply button.

“That didn’t take long,” Teddy said. “Aren’t you impressed that I know when the spring equinox is?”

“What did you do last night?” Violet said, feral with impatience.

“I downloaded pictures of chicks who looked like you and jerked off to them.”

Violet swirled with delight. “Really?”

“I thought you’d like that.”

“What favor do you want?”

“I’d like Geddy Lee’s 4001 Rickenbacker bass.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“Listen to you,” he said. “Like you’re going to get it for me.”

“We know Geddy Lee.”

“
We
know Geddy Lee! Ha!”

“We used to spend every Christmas with him in Anguilla.”

“Do you have any idea how much I love Rush?”

“And you’re giving
me
shit about being a Deadhead? When’s your birthday?”

“May first is my AA birthday. I’ll have three years.”

“May Day,” Violet said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“May Day. It’s a pagan celebration where children with ribbons dance around a maypole.”

“Are you tripping on that hippie acid again?”

“All I meant is, congratulations on being sober for three years.” There was a puddle of oil on the floor. Violet grabbed a rag from the tool bench and started to mop it with her foot.

“If I make it.”

“Of course you’ll make it.”

“We have to stay humble in the program,” Teddy said.

“Let’s have a birthday party for you.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my sponsor’s birthday, too. And he always wants to have our birthdays together.”

“That’s cool.” Violet picked up the dirty rag with her fingertips. “I can throw a party for both of you.”

“He doesn’t exactly know about you.”

“Why not?” Violet headed toward the trash cans.

“He’s this very by-the-book AA dude and he’d be really down on our relationship.”

“Why?” She froze.

“You’re a rich married lady I jerk off to who gives me money. That’s not exactly part of the program.”

“Oh.” Violet dropped the rag.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it figured out, though. What’s your address?”

“Why?”

“So I can come over tonight. Don’t you love it how little old junkie me knows when David Parry’s going to —” A roar from his end overpowered his voice.

“Where are you?” Violet asked.

“I just dropped off Her Majesty Coco Kennedy at the airport. Her sister is going on tour with the
Cats
of Japan and she got Coco a free plane ticket. Don’t ask, because it doesn’t make sense to me, either. You should hear her voice mail. It’s filled with all these producers who want to make her a celebutard reality star. What a crazy bitch.” Violet was speechless. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I thought you broke up with her. Is she still your girlfriend?”

There was a pause.
No; that’s all he had to say, no. Come on, say it: no.

“Yes.” There must have been another pause, because Teddy was now saying, “Violet? Does this upset you? Hello?”

Violet’s throat throbbed. “No.”

“Great. You’re upset,” he said.

“You made me promise I wouldn’t let you get back together with her, that’s all.”

“Oh that. I forgot. Well, relationships are complicated. Am I right, Mrs. David Parry?”

“So you still have a girlfriend.”

“I’m only eighty-five percent faithful to her.”

If Violet could just hit “pause,” she might be able to separate out the vagaries tangling up her brain.

“Hit me with the deets,” he said. “What’s your address? All I’ve been eating are blueberry bagels. I need some healthy food or my liver’s going to balloon. You have no idea what it’s like. I have the body of an eighty year old. You’re a vegetarian. You can make me some healthy grub, right? Come on, where do you live?” Violet was too addled to do anything other than recite her address. He’d be there at eight. “And Violet?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re just going to hang out. No funny stuff.” Teddy hung up.

Violet felt repellent, like a duped sex predator slavering over the phone in a grimy carport. Her Mercedes was right there. She could jump in and catch up with David. She called Teddy back to tell him not to come. But his phone rang and rang and rang, then went to voice mail. She was certain he had seen it was her and not picked up, figuring she was trying to cancel. She closed her phone. The only thing to do was to have him over, whip up some spinach from the garden, and never see him again. Tomorrow morning, she would drive up to Matilija and make things right with David.

S
ALLY
, Jeremy, and his two lesbian neighbors were gathered around his kitchen counter. “To Jeremy!” Jennifer raised a plastic cup of two-buck chardonnay she and Wendy had brought over in celebration.

“Good luck on Sunday,” Wendy said, digging into the supermarket veggie-and-dip platter. She was the guy in this relationship, judging from her bulging khakis and rugby shirt. “We’ll always be able to say we knew you when!”

Sally bristled at the sense of ownership these girls felt over Jeremy. Sure, they used to drive him places, but Sally did the driving now.

“Come on, Sally!” said one of the gals. “Have some wine.”

“I’ll stick to Diet Coke,” she said. Wendy and Jennifer launched into reminiscences about the old days. Sally excused herself. “I have to use the little-girls’ room.”

“Don’t forget your purse,” Jennifer said. Wendy stifled a giggle.

“Thanks for reminding me.” Sally smiled and grabbed her purse. Apparently dykes thought it was the height of uptightness to bring one’s purse to the bathroom. They had commented on it before. But Sally wasn’t offended. Jeremy had asked her to pick a romantic restaurant where they could have dinner later tonight. Deviating from his routine could only mean that he was finally going to pop the question. Sally had picked the Ivy, a place she had always imagined herself getting engaged. Soon enough, she and Jeremy would be kissing off Jennifer, Wendy, and this whole crappy apartment complex for a new life over the hill.

Sally shut the bathroom door, unzipped her Liberty of London cosmetic bag, and got out her lancet and glucometer. She washed her hands with soap and hot water. In honor of the occasion, Sally pricked the ring finger on her left hand. She stuck a test strip into the glucometer, squeezed her finger, and touched the blood to the plastic. The meter beeped. She sucked her finger and waited seven seconds for the reading. She had to smile: diabetes didn’t know happy days from sad ones. It didn’t care if she was getting engaged to Jeremy or dumped by Kurt, rejected by Juilliard or dancing the part of Giselle: ten times a day she’d still have to prick her finger and inject herself in the stomach.