Love Anthony (12 page)

Keep suffering. Keep hiding. I hope you end up looking like Grizzly Adams.

Jill leans into Beth. “I think he’s trying out enough new things at the moment.”

Jimmy turns his attention to the couple next to Jill and begins opening a bottle of wine for them. Beth sips her martini, aware that Angela is a few feet behind her, that her estranged husband is inches in front of her, that she is sitting between them. This is too weird. She downs her drink. She hates the thought of Angela looking at her right now, checking her out, without her knowing. She feels self-conscious, exposed. Beth rubs her arms as if she’s cold and checks her phone. No messages from the girls.

Unable to watch Angela, which is what she thought was the entire point of this outing, she sits and watches Jimmy instead. She can’t remember when she last looked at him for this long. Before he moved out, they slept facing away from each other, a habit that began because of his snoring and his cigar breath. Because of his schedule, they rarely ate meals together, and when they did, it was usually in the living room with their plates on their laps while they faced the TV. And she withheld regard for his very existence whenever they were in a fight, which for the past few years was often.

Now she has a front-row seat with nothing to do but watch him. She’s never seen him bartend before. He’s in constant motion back there, in command, at ease. His hands, uncorking wine bottles, pouring martinis to the rim, muddling limes, are confident, efficient, graceful. He knows where every bottle and bar tool is. He knows from memory how every drink is made. He’s good at this, and he enjoys it.

She didn’t know any of this. She feels surprise and a twinge of hurt to discover that there’s anything about Jimmy that she didn’t know. He’s not exactly a complex guy. Work, sleep, TV, kids, cigars. Not that bartending is brain surgery or race-car driving, but still, he’s got skill and talent. The bar is the hub of this place. Everything revolves around it, and Jimmy is keeping the cogs moving, keeping the customers happy.

This is vastly different from scalloping, which was solitary and outdoors, a job she thought suited him well. But here he is, in a crowded restaurant, confined to a small indoor space, chatting up strangers, mixing “girlie” drinks, and appearing to love it. He looks so at home.

But he’s not dressed the way he dresses around the house. At home, he wears jeans or shorts that used to be jeans—frayed and uneven where he cut them with scissors at the bottom—T-shirts, a Red Sox hat, and work boots. Here, he’s wearing a button-down shirt with vertical blue and white stripes. It’s even ironed. He’s wearing it untucked with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned one button more than most men would wear it, revealing the top of his chest. He has a handsome, muscular chest. The beard, his smile, his forearms, his chest—he looks relaxed and, she could kill herself for thinking this, sexy. Fueled at least in part by the Hot Passion, she’s at once helplessly attracted to him and completely pissed at him.

How is it that he can be present and engaged and so competent here, whereas at home he drags himself around, too exhausted to do anything but lie on the couch? How is it that he can pull himself together, look handsome and cleaned up for work, but at home he only wears T-shirts stained with barbecue sauce on the front and sweat under the arms? How can he save this alive and fun part of himself for work and not share it with her and his girls?

“So, Jimmy, is it always this busy?” asks Petra.

“This? This is nothing. Wait another hour, it’ll be three people deep behind you.”

“Huh,” says Petra.

Her restaurant, Dish, does well, but not three-people-deep-behind-the-bar-without-a-seat well, not this time of year anyway.

“How was your drink?” he asks Beth.

“Okay.”

“You want another?”

“No, thanks,” says Beth, thinking that she’s had quite enough of his Hot Passion.

“You didn’t like it?”

“I did, I just want to try something different now.”

“How about a glass of wine? You’d like the—”

“I can decide what I want without your help.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have an espresso martini.”

“You sure?” asks Jimmy.

“Really sure.”

He shrugs his shoulders, acquiescing. He grabs two bottles and inverts them over a stainless-steel martini shaker. “How are the girls?”

“Good.”

“How was Jessica’s game?”

“It was long. They lost.”

“And Soph?”

“She’s upset about a math test, thinks she failed it, but I’m sure she did fine.”

“How’s Gracie?”

“Good.”
She misses you. They all do.

“Good.”

“Don’t you want to know how Beth is?” asks Petra.

“Of course. How are you, Beth?”

“Good.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks.”

“I like your necklace.”

She places her hand over her locket. Her face flushes hot. She almost forgot she was wearing it. Before she can respond, Angela is behind the bar again, this time showing Jimmy something on her phone, capturing his interest. She laughs and touches his forearm. Angela’s hand on Jimmy’s arm. Beth could stomach the laughing and the smiling and the flirting and the boobs, but something about that small touch, the intimacy of it, undoes her.

“You okay?” Jill asks Beth in her ear. “You look a little pale.”

Beth nods as she clenches her teeth and swallows. She can’t speak. If she talks right now, she’ll cry. Whatever goal she had for tonight, the goal now is to get out of here without crying in front of Jimmy and Angela.

“You probably just need to eat.”

Beth nods again, rubbing her silver locket between her fingers, disgusted with the foolish girl who put it on a few hours ago.

Jimmy serves Beth her espresso martini and then all three women their dinners. Petra ordered the grouper; Jill, on a sushi kick ever since that April book club, got the spicy tuna roll; and Beth got a burger with fries. Truffle-oil fries.

“How is everything?” asks Jimmy after a few minutes.

“Good,” says Petra. “The food is really good, Jimmy. Who’s your head chef?”

While Petra and Jimmy discuss the restaurant business, and Jill is texting her boys, Beth stays focused on eating and drinking. After finishing her second martini, she notices that she doesn’t feel like crying anymore. She mostly feels numb now, as if a thick layer of fuzzy static is wrapped around her like a cocoon, impenetrable, more effective than a beard or a black sweater.

She’s on her third drink, another espresso martini, when she hears someone yelling her name from behind her. She turns around. It’s Georgia, waving and weaving her way through the crowd, knocking into bodies and glasses and splashing drinks as she pushes toward the bar, leaving a sea of hostile faces in her wake.

“I’m so glad you’re still here!” she says, out of breath. “How’s it going? Where’s the Salt mistress?”

Beth, Petra, and Jill look at each other and then at Jimmy, who definitely heard that. Petra laughs.

“You mean
hostess
?” Petra asks.

Georgia laughs. “Whoops, yes! And I haven’t had anything to drink yet. Where is she?”

“You didn’t see her on the way in?” asks Petra.

“No, where?”

“Behind you. By the door.”

“Where?”

“The dark, curly hair.”

Georgia stands on her toes and squints her whole face.

“The one in the black shirt,” says Petra.

Georgia shakes her head, still searching.

“The one with the boobs.”

“Ah, got her!” says Georgia. “Bimbo. I never pegged Jimmy for a boob guy.”

Beth presses her hand over her own insulted boobs. It’s true that Beth’s are unremarkable, and Jimmy is more of a leg guy. Beth has great legs, long and toned. She’s always walking, at the beaches, at Bartlett’s Farm, all over New York City before she moved here.

It occurs to her that she’s never heard of a man referred to as an eyes guy or a brains guy or a personality guy. She downs the rest of her martini. Guys suck. Maybe this is a blessing. Maybe she’s better off without Jimmy. No man in the house. Her home will stay clean and organized, and it will smell pretty.
And no more fighting. It’s been peaceful since he left. Somewhere in her brain, Marilyn McCoo is singing “One Less Bell to Answer,” a song her mother used to like when Beth was a young girl and that Beth hasn’t heard or consciously thought of since.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with yours,” says Georgia.

“Just wait until she has babies,” says Jill. “Hers will be hanging like the rest of ours.”

The fuzzy numbness of Beth’s martini armor must have a chink in it because that comment punched right through and knocked the wind out of her. What if Angela gets pregnant? Beth thinks about how easily she conceived. Each and every time they pulled the goalie, it was one shot—score! She feels dizzy. The edges of her vision turn dim and blurry. She’s got to get out of here.

“Hello, Georgia,” says Jimmy.

“I’m not happy with you,” says Georgia.

“I know.”

“But I’ll forgive you if Beth does.”

“That’s fair,” he says, looking to Beth for input like he’s looking for an opening in a window, even the slightest crack.

“Beth, you’re looking pale again,” says Jill.

Jill is sitting right next to Beth, but her voice sounds as if it’s coming from way off in the distance somewhere.

“Beth, you okay?” asks Petra.

“I don’t feel well,” says Beth with more air than sound.

“I’ll take her home,” says Petra.

“I’ll stay and have a drink with Georgia,” says Jill.

Petra pays her and Beth’s part of the bill, and Georgia hugs Beth as she gets up.

“She’s a bimbo,” says Georgia.

“Thanks.”

“And you’re a queen.”

Beth smiles.

“And I love your dress.”

“Thanks.”

Jill gets up and hugs Beth.

“You did great. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Beth nods. She looks up at Jimmy before she turns to leave.

“Good night, Beth,” says Jimmy.

“G’night, Jimmy.”

Petra takes her by the hand, and they worm their way through the crowd, leaving Salt. Leaving Jimmy. Leaving him there with Angela. Leaving him feels so wrong. Somewhere beneath the static fuzz and above the Marilyn McCoo song still playing in her head, a voice is screaming,
Don’t leave him! Don’t leave!
But it’s late, and she’s had enough to eat and more than enough to drink, and she’s had enough of seeing Angela’s boobs and Jimmy’s smile, so there’s nothing left to do but leave.

“Have a good night,” says Angela’s voice from somewhere behind her.

It sounds as if Angela’s smiling, maybe even gloating, but Beth doesn’t know. She’s already out the door, and she doesn’t look back.

PETRA PULLS INTO
Beth’s driveway. The house is dark. The girls forgot to flick on the porch light. At least they went to bed.

“You okay?” asks Petra.

“Yeah.”

“You’re too quiet.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to hold it together in front of me.”

“I’m not holding anything. I’m fine,” Beth says, having some difficulty enunciating
holding anything
. “I’m a little drunk, but I’m fine. I’m drunk and fine.”

“You guys really need to talk soon and figure out what you’re doing.”

“I know.”

“Drink some water and go to bed.”

“I will.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Beth follows the beams of Petra’s headlights to the front door. It must be a cloudy night because Beth can’t see the moon or any stars in the sky. Outside of Petra’s headlights, the whole world is pure darkness. The air is cool and smells of salt and fish and forsythia. Spring peepers shriek in a loud and noxious chorus all around her, sounding not unlike the techno music from Salt still ringing in her ears. She hears Petra pull away as she opens the front door and turns on the hall light.

She walks upstairs and opens the door to each of the girls’ rooms, checking on them, asleep in their beds. Sweet, beautiful girls. She shuts off Sophie’s computer and tosses her dirty clothes into her hamper; she hangs Jessica’s wet towel on a hook in the bathroom; and she pulls the covers up over Gracie. She walks downstairs and into the kitchen and pours herself a tall glass of water.

Back upstairs, she pauses in the hallway and stares at the pictures on the wall. She looks at Jimmy touching her skirt, and she relives Angela touching his arm, and an anger colored with humiliation rises up inside her, swelling. In another picture, she’s wearing the locket he gave her, the one she’s wearing now that he noticed on her tonight.

She can’t take it. She can’t take one more walk down this hallway, looking at his smiling teeth, his hand on her, the locket around her neck, the lie of their perfect marriage, his deception mocking her every time she walks from the living room to her bedroom, from her bedroom to the bathroom. She’s had enough of this. Enough.

She starts with her wedding picture. She loosens the latch, removes the back plate and the cardboard filler, yanks out the
photo, and returns the empty frame to the wall. She does this methodically, breathing hard, with each picture until she has them all in a nice, neat stack.

Sitting on the floor in the hallway, she flips through them. She gets to the most recent one, the one from last summer, and studies it. Some reasonable part of her not affected by the vodka and rum and humiliated anger urges her to put the pictures in a drawer, that she’ll regret what she’s about to do. But she’s too furious and drunk and hopped up on caffeine to hear reason, and she’s tired of feeling like a passive doormat.

The first tear is slow, hesitant, and then deliberate, straight through Jimmy’s smiling face. Then the rips come fast, one after another, after another. There’s no stopping now. She tears and tears until the shreds are too small to rip any further, and now she’s sobbing, hating him for making her do this. She hears one of the girls sneeze. She stops crying and listens, afraid of waking them. She can still hear the techno music from Salt buzzing in her ears, the spring peepers shrieking outside, and she can feel-hear her heart thumping in her chest and pulsing in her fingers, but the girls are quiet. She wipes her eyes and exhales.