My Husband's Sweethearts (7 page)

"It was a rehearsal." Artie shouldn't be dying. It's
unreal—a misunderstanding, a bureaucratic mix-up—
something that could be cleared up with a few phone
calls. I know that I haven't done much with my role as
wife, but it still seems like Artie's impending death should
be run by me first. I'd like to explain to someone in the
Department of Untimely Deaths that I did not sign off on
this. This sounds ridiculous, I know. But this is how my
mind is working at present.

"Are you afraid?" I ask.

He closes his eyes, shakes his head no. "That's putting
it too mildly."

I hadn't thought he'd be so honest. I wonder if he's being
worn down into some purer version of himself—like
soap smoothed down until eventually it disappears. I decide
to switch gears. "Trivet," I say, "for a boy, and
Spatula, for a girl. I've kept collecting." This is from our
old game of naming our imaginary babies as ridiculously
as possible. Telling Artie that I've kept playing the game is
a huge confession.

He understands. He looks at me tenderly, gracious.
Our babies—the ones we'll never have. We both know
that there was a small window when I could have gotten
pregnant—two months that now seem like such a tiny,
fragile bit of our relationship that they barely existed. And
then I found out about the infidelities and I was gone—
unable to deal with anything real, not the paperwork to
start a divorce, not another honest conversation with
Artie about betrayal. Now our babies will only be imaginary.
I still think about them. I miss them. I miss that
version of Artie that was going to be a daddy. This is dangerous
territory—but I want to give Artie something now,
after almost losing him.

"Caliper," he says. "Argyle. For either gender, really.
And for one of those babies who's born looking like an
old man: Curb. Good ole Curb Shoreman."

"I like Flinch for the old-man baby," I say. "My top
two right now, though, are Hearth and Irony."

"Hearth Irony Shoreman," he says. "I like that." He
smiles at me with so much love, with the weight of all our
history together, that I'm scared, suddenly, that I've given
in too much. I want things to be clear. I almost tell him
that lying there like that next to him, it didn't mean that
all's forgiven.

But I decide against it. Not now. He's afraid. He's
maybe even terrified. I touch his cheek with the back of
my hand and then stand and walk to the chair by the window.
"Get some rest," I say. "Close your eyes."

It's morning. Blurry light collects at the
edges of the bedroom curtains as if these
simple bedroom curtains have been framed,
glowingly, and taken on some holy stature. Artie is asleep,
one arm draped over an extra pillow. I stand up and
quickly walk out of the room. Although I know it's all
wrong, I don't want to get caught having slept here all
night—by Artie or my mother or Elspa. It would be too
much of an admission of tenderness.

When I walk downstairs, I know immediately that my
mother slept here again last night. There's the smell of bacon
and eggs . . . and chocolate? She's felt the near-miss of
losing Artie and now she's having a cooking seizure—as if,
in some old-fashioned way, we can eat our way out of this.

As I make my way through the living room, I stop and
stare at the sofa. Elspa. She isn't there. I wonder if she's
gone. I'm surprised by a feeling of sadness—an ache of
missing her. But then I spot her duffel bag in the corner,
and on top of it, a set of my folded sheets and blankets.
No, she's still here. My mother is taking care of our meals.
My mother is in charge.

I walk back to the guest bedroom and get dressed—
jeans, a T-shirt. I brush my teeth, wash my face. I stare at
myself in the mirror. I'm wearing all this strain. My expression
is pained. There's a tightness, a rigidity, in my
cheeks and my neck, and yet a weary looseness around my
eyes. I wonder if this is what grief will look like.

I walk into the kitchen and there she is—in all her
frenzied glory. My mother. She's putting a tray of wobbly
pale uncooked biscuits into the oven. Her homemade
chocolate sauce is simmering on the burner, which means
that this is serious, a situation that has gotten so dire that
maybe only chocolate will haul us to safety. She seems
to know that I'm there without even glancing in my
direction.

"I've been thinking about everything," my mother
says. "I know that things are going to start coming at you
very quickly. And I want to protect you from as much as
possible." The biscuits safely in, she sets a timer and turns
to me—seeing me for the first time. "Okay. Listen to me.
I've been through this. You should get most of the logistical
stuff done beforehand."

I notice Bogie sprawled out on the floor. He isn't
wearing one of his jockstraps and has the air of a man on
vacation. "Bogie's naked," I tell her.

"I knew I was coming here and the tile floor in your
kitchen is very, well, glideable."

"I guess so," I say.

"Listen," she says. "There is logistical stuff to be done
beforehand. Do you hear me?"

"Logistical stuff . . ."

"Last night made me realize that there are actual
things that need to be handled." She sighs and then goes
on. "Some young woman from your work keeps calling. I
haven't told her anything, but she's very, well . . ."

"Anxious?" I kneel down and pet Bogie. He has soft
fur and tiny crooked teeth that look like they've been
freshly polished.

"Yes. You should call her."

"Lindsay's always anxious."

"And your accountant called. He had a conversation
with Artie yesterday and found out you were back in
town. He wants to discuss details with you—sooner
rather than later. He said that you could stop by whenever
you want." I remember now that I've promised Artie I'd
talk to Reyer, though I have no desire to do anything that
remotely resembles going over the books. "There are endless
details. It's best to get them done in advance. Has
Artie mentioned any preferences?"

"No," I say, realizing how little Artie and I have talked
about death, funerals, all of those practicalities. I don't
particularly want to start talking about it now. "I don't
think I could say the word
funeral
in front of him."

My mother walks over to me. She holds me by the
shoulders. She knows what's ahead for me. She's buried
husbands before. I know that she's trying to infuse me
with her own strength. Then one of her hands cups my
face for a moment. Normally—since the breakup—I
wouldn't have been able to handle this kind of tenderness,
but it feels good to be looked at this way.

"Where's Elspa?" I ask.

"She's still shaken. She said she was planning on
spending some time with Artie this morning."

"And Eleanor? What did she say when she left? Is she
coming back?"

"We're going out for coffee and getting our hair done
together at four-thirty." Eleanor and my mother, side by
side, at Starbucks, at the salon? This is hard to imagine. Is
Eleanor a regular now? My mother walks over to the
counter and pulls a paper towel off a plate of bacon. "Do
you want to eat?"

I shake my head. "Thank you," I tell her.

"For what?"

I wave my hand around the kitchen, meaning everything.

"Of course. This is what mothers do."

*

I find Elspa sitting on a chair pulled up to the bed where
Artie is sleeping. She's rubbing her bare feet on the carpet,
staring out the window at the far trees—the bright
sky and green treetops. She's humming softly to herself.

"Elspa?"

She turns to me and reads what must be a worried expression
on my face. "Are you okay?"

She looks back to the window. "I'm fine. Just sad, I
guess. I'm just trying to figure out what it's going to feel
like."

I think of the razor marks on her wrist that she
showed me last night by the pool. I'm not sure if I believe
that she's fine. And as I watch her, I grow quietly more
nervous. "I'm going to go to the accountant's office. But I
could postpone it, if you want. I mean, we could have
lunch?" I don't know what will happen if she feels this
too deeply. I remember her saying last night that she'll
die along with Artie, that she couldn't make it through
this.

"No, thanks. I'd rather just stay here, if that's okay. I
can help Joan. I'll be ready. In just a few more minutes. I
can be of use."

"Okay," I tell her. "That would be great."

I don't think, rationally, that she would ever try to kill
herself again, but I can't stop myself from taking precautions.
Before I leave, I find myself going through each of
the bathrooms filling a bag with razors and sleeping pill
prescriptions, which I hide in the guest bedroom closet.

My mother and the male nurse, the Toddish one, are
talking in the kitchen, preparing medications and Artie's
breakfast. They're discussing fiber and arranging pills in
little paper cups.

I walk out to my car, and the mattress is gone. Some-one
came and got it, just as John Bessom promised.

Munster, Feinstein, Howell, and Reyer
is the typical upper-end accounting
office—the ferns are real. In fact,
they're such an upper-end firm that the only thing fake in
the office is the receptionist, though she looks well watered
and pruned. I can't remember if it is Feinstein or
Howell who's having the affair with the receptionist.
Munster is dead, and Bill Reyer plays by the rules, which
is why Artie chose him, ironically enough. I've never been
here. I only know all of these things because Artie is a storyteller.
He was so good that he could make even an accounting
firm intriguing.

I tell the receptionist who I am, who I'm here to see.

She says in a kindly way, "Please take a seat."

I glance at a pile of glossy magazines, the water cooler.
I'm feeling antsy. I call Lindsay on my cell phone, to
check in.

She answers breathlessly. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" I ask.

"Where are
you
?" She says this a little pointedly, a real
edge to her voice that I don't recognize.

I ignore the tone, mainly because I'm not sure what it
means. "In an accountant's office—the awful kind," I
whisper. This is the kind of accounting firm that would
make me insane. I know, I know—stacks of numbers are
stacks of numbers to most people, but this place strikes
me as tragically dull. In auditing there's always a hunt
afoot. I prefer it.

"Is everything okay?" Lindsay asks, easing up a little.

"Yes. For now."

"Well then, screw you!"

"What?"

"You heard me."

This is a complete shock. Lindsay has always been so
subservient, so overly agreeable. I turn around a little in my
seat and lower my voice, trying to create a little privacy. "I
did hear you, but I'm not sure I know what's going on."

"You hung up on me and I had to work hand in hand
with Danbury, by myself, and you know how scary he is.
He's a giant with giant hands and that big square head of
his. He didn't get fired, but there was all this stuff with
the SEC."

"And . . . how did it go?"

There's a quiet moment. Lindsay is paying for something.
I hear an exchange with a clerk. "Fine," she says.
"It went fine."

"Well, then, this is great, Lindsay. It all turned out
fine."

"No help from you!"

"That's just it," I tell her. "You handled it without any
help from me. Exactly."

"Oh," she says, her tone changing. "And that's a good
thing."

"That's a good thing."

"Okay," she says. "Then unscrew you."

"That's okay, too," I tell her. "You don't have to unscrew
me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I also got this little promotion," she says.

"That's great!"

"It's just little but it kind of gives me a little more
leverage, which is important while you're gone."

"It's a step up! You deserve it."

The receptionist is standing in front of me now. She
says, "I'll take you back." But I think for a disoriented second
that she means she's going to take me back to the
past. She's going to return me to some earlier, happier
time—wishful thinking. I look at her for a moment then
say my good-byes to Lindsay and snap the cell phone
shut.

"Follow me," she says.

My eyes bounce along with the floofy ruffle at the hem
of her impossibly tight, impossibly short skirt. When we
reach Bill Reyer's door, she asks me if I want coffee, but
her tone is so insincere that I can't even take this simple
offer seriously. "No thanks," I tell her.

She opens the door and Bill jumps up to greet me. He
walks skittishly, as if spooked by the shadow of his mammoth
tax-code books. He takes my hand. "It's so nice to
meet you finally. Artie has always said such wonderful
things about you."

"He has?"

"Of course," Reyer says, but his "of course" is too
chipper or defensively chipper or somehow off. He
coughs to recover a somber tone.

Uncomfortable silence. Accountant silence.

He walks to his desk, motions for me to take a seat.
The leather chairs squeak.

"Yes, and I'm sorry we've had to meet under such difficult
circumstances. How's Artie doing today?" He says it
like he's just read it out of the chapter on "How to
Console a Grieving Widow-to-Be," from the book
How to
Be a Personable Accountant.
The formality, the professionalism,
is incredibly soothing. I'm in a business meeting. I
sit up.

"We had a scare last night. But he's okay today," I say.
"I'd like to get on with this, if that's all right."

"There are separate accounts, which makes it a little
tricky, but Artie made it clear that everything should be
turned over to you. The death certificate will take about
nine days and then the insurance policy—"

"I don't really need the money. I make enough myself,"
I cut in for no good reason.

"Well, it's yours anyway. To do with as you see fit.
Except . . ." He rummages through some papers. I don't
like the pause, nor his acting. I can see this is the part he's
dreading. He's also been seeking advice from the chapter
called "How to Dole Dicey Information to Soon-to-Be
Widows" but it hasn't helped him much. Now he is
stalling, worrying, trying to give me the idea that he isn't
so organized. Please. He's an accountant, a really good
one, too. He doesn't need to be shuffling these pages. He
needs to just spit it out.

"He actually took on some financial responsibilities—
though they're not necessary legally his anymore."

"Payments?"

"Well, he sends a check to Rita Bessom monthly, from
a specific fund, and has for thirty years. He started doing
it as a very young man, really, sending what he could, and,
as you know, that amount has been able to grow."

John Bessom's mother. Rita Bessom. He's been sending
checks all these years? I try to picture Rita Bessom,
cashing her checks, giving the money to her grown son.
Or not. Maybe she keeps it all for herself. Rita Bessom.
I try to imagine what she looks like, where she lives.
"Bessom? Still?"

He coughs again, uncomfortably.

"Why didn't he send them to his son?"

"I think he tried once to contact his son, but the boy,
John Bessom, didn't want anything from him. Well, he
isn't a boy anymore. I mean I suppose he's your age by
now . . ." And then Reyer realizes that he's made a faux
pas. That he's suggested that Artie is old enough to be my
father. And I realize that John Bessom is a man my own
age. I had immediately put him in a more disarming category,
that of Artie's son, and tried to keep him there—as if
he goes into the back office of Bessom's Bedding Boutique
to play with small green plastic army figures. This reminder
from Reyer doesn't help. He recovers from his
blunder quickly. "But Artie believes that support for a
child doesn't end when he reaches eighteen years of age. He wanted it to be ongoing."

"Does the money reach the son?"

"The checks reach Rita. She cashes them. That's all we
know."

I sit there, soaking this in. John doesn't think there's
anything between him and Artie now, but was he still okay
with taking the money? Has he been receiving an allowance
all this time—enough to start up his own business? Or does
his mother hold on to it all for herself? What kind of family
is this?

"You know, Artie's estate is quite large."

"Sure," I say. "He started up a restaurant chain. Of
course it's large."

"You're an auditor, aren't you?"

I nod.

"Don't you want to know all of the figures?"

"No."

"Why not? I have people come in here who want to
know the numbers but don't have any real idea what it
all means. You would know. Exactly. Why don't you
want to?"

"Because I
am
an auditor." This response makes sense
to me, but I can tell it's lost on Reyer. What I mean is that
it's too much, too personal. Aren't there some doctors
who don't want to know all the details of their own illness,
even when it's their specialty? I want Artie to be Artie—
that's enough to deal with. I don't want him to become his
estate. "You have more to tell me, though, besides numbers,"
I say. Reyer still looks terribly uncomfortable.
"What is it?"

"Artie wants you to give a lump sum to John Bessom."

"Did he say how much?"

"No, he didn't specify. He wanted you to decide how
much so you could feel comfortable with it."

"He wants me to choose? So I'll be
comfortable
?" I'm
not comfortable, and I don't think I can become comfortable.

The accountant coughs again. He shuffles papers. He
isn't finished. "There's more?" I ask.

"One other monthly check supports an art fund. He
would like these checks to continue on a monthly basis."

"An art fund?"

"The E.L.S.P.A. Do you know it?"

At first, hearing the name spelled out makes Elspa
sound like a governmental agency. It takes a moment to
register. Then it does. "The ELSPA," I say. "Yes, I know
it." I look to the bank of windows. Is this what he was
afraid he'd muddle if he had to tell me himself? Is this
what he didn't have the nerve to tell me? Fine. He's been
giving money to Elspa. Now that I know Elspa I could see
why he'd want to do that. It's infuriating that he's kept
another secret from me—how many are there?—but
okay. Fine.

"Artie and his charities," I say flatly, but then my mind
starts moving quickly. What does Reyer know? Probably
more than he's letting on. Now I do want some specifics,
some details. "Look, tell me what you know. There's
more. I know that the E.L.S.P.A. isn't a registered nonprofit.
These payments aren't tax deductible." And then I
know exactly the one question that I need an answer to:
"When did these payments begin?"

"Artie said she needed to turn her life around. He
wanted to provide her that opportunity and so, graciously,
he opened this account." Bill Reyer looks down at his
hands. He folds them together.

"When did these payments begin?"

He fiddles with some papers, but I know that he
knows. "Hmmm," he says, as if this bit of the conversation
has so little relevance that it's slipped his mind. "Ah,
here it is. Two years ago. July." He keeps his eyes on his
hands.

"The payments began two years ago? Two years ago?"
Artie and I had been married when they met, when the
payments began? Elspa assured me that her relationship
with Artie happened before Artie and I had gotten married.
Is Elspa one of Artie's three? But, really, does it even
matter anymore, if there were three other women or four
or eighteen? Artie betrayed me, and Elspa lied to me.
"Nice," I mutter. "Very nice."

Reyer looks at me pleadingly. "I told Artie that it
would have been better to explain all of this himself," he
says. "I was hoping that in his time remaining he would
have . . ."

I lean back in my chair then quickly gather my things.
Did Artie want someone younger than I am? Did he prefer
her more delicate features? Is she better in bed? I see
Elspa's face in my mind—the innocence, the sweetness.
Springbird is just a name and my imagination, but Elspa is
real, undeniably real. I think back on the sculpture—abstract
and blue—from
her imagination!
"I have to go."
Something has cracked in me. I thought I had dealt with
the brunt of the betrayal, but this is a deeper pain.

"We aren't finished . . ." I hear Bill say as I stand up
and head out the door. "We haven't worked out any details,
come to any conclusions."

Things are blurry, sizzling, and a hiss is rising in my
ears along with the dull thud of my footsteps down
the hall.

"Ma'am?" the receptionist calls after me. "Is something
wrong?" I wave my hand like a flag of surrender.
"I'm sorry," I tell her, barely pausing. "I have to go."