That’s how Jen’s life outside her marriage started. A few reckless thoughts, moments, a motor scooter, the promise of spring in the air on a yacht. She forgot herself. Now she can’t seem to remember her old self at all. She doesn’t know this person staring back at her from the mirror: dark eyes, tiny, narrow pupils, cheekbones jutting proudly above the tired terrain of face. Her chin seems to juts out too—it never used to. She wakes up with a sore jaw from grinding her teeth.
She picks up a rubber band and scoops every single strand of hair back into a knot. Jace hates it this way. Not muffy enough, not soft. Severe, he says. Jen smiles to herself, thinking of his whining about her hair, taking some kind of perverse pleasure in thwarting his ideas about her. She walks over to the window and whips back the sheers. She sees Pete’s car at the side of the road in front of the house. A tiny metal bug from up here, though up close it’s a new Mustang GTO, a sure sign of impending mid-life crisis. He speeds away. Busted. Jen feels a twang of pity, not too much, though. Just a touch. Pete and Rosemary are well on their way, they will be fine without doubles.
Jen saw them last night at Comfy’s. Jace was sound asleep by 11, so she slid out of bed like a thief, dressed in the guest room, and walked the scooter down the lane. She’s become addicted to fear, its thrill, and free of it in a way too. She was indulging in a foamy stout at the bar – she likes things dark now – and saw them nestled in the corner by the chess table. She went over and joined them for a while. But Paul kept asking her what was going on with Pete. Telling her what a great guy he was. It was too much, so she begged off and slunk home. Jace didn’t even stir when she slide back under the sheets, her nocturnal adventure both inert, innocent, by comparison, yet treasured.
Pete, now he’s another matter, she thinks. She’d not bother to sneak out for him now. That she ever did those few times was a mistake. In a way, she was like a house cat – once she experienced the outdoors, well, she was always looking for the next escape. The lure of the double life. The top-of-the-rollercoaster thrill. It had nothing to do with love and everything to do with ennui. It took him a few months, but she thinks Pete now understands what he meant to her. A key to a door that would never need to be opened again, because the house was coming down. Obsolete.
Jen can’t believe she let him touch her; she is so repulsed by his need. His drive-bys, his childish hang up calls at dinner time, in the middle of the night. And he won’t admit it either, swears he’d never call.
Jace acts like it’s just a wrong number, but he’s different now. Jen thinks he senses the change in her, though maybe it’s not anything he could put a finger on. She goes through the motions; she thinks she’s being clever, will not tip her hand until she needs too, if ever. But the air’s dead between them, she thinks. He must know somewhere inside him, and is just too chicken to face it. Closes his eyes and trusts whatever it is it will go away. Coward. He’s out all hours of the night himself lately, likely crying in his beer.
But she’s outside that too. Almost. She’s fine until she thinks too much about Chris, what it’s doing to him. All she and Jace do of late is bitch and pick. It’s hard to remember about Chris, she loves him to death, so does Jace, but it’s like they take turns with him, as if he can’t have two parents at once. What does that tell him about love? If it weren’t for Chris, it’d be easy, she’d really be free. But right now single life means the life of a starving artist, welfare or worse; some drab little hole somewhere, anger, shame. Stakes are high here. She’s got to keep on with it somehow, at least until she figures it all out. It seems to be coming automatically, on pilot. If the wheels fall off, if she’s ever busted, she knows exactly what she’ll do. Fantasizes about it, in fact.
She will get a studio apartment, some warehouse or store attic. She will paint it all in purples, blues, golds — scrumble the walls. She’ll have a small wooden bed built into one corner for Chris, and an old sofa bed. She won’t take the TV. Just the file cabinet, her desk, books, a few clothes. She will burn incense and sit by candlelight at night just thinking about things. Jace will want to keep Chris at least half the time. She realizes that she’ll have to have a phone, for emergencies. But she’ll find an old one, with a metal dial. Jen won’t talk on it any more though.
During the days when Chris is at his dad’s, Jen will build enormous sculptures, sculptures of furniture, until the place is full. A fake television. A trendy sectional from Styrofoam and two-part epoxy. A stereo wired from salvaged junk. A computer from clay. Fiberglass drapes. A junkyard Microwave with nuclear symbols. Everything will be different colors, clashing, and have sad clay faces emerging from them. Maybe they’ll be hollow, or stuffed with counterfeit bills. Her home will be a mockery of this idiot life full of conspicuous consumption. Her life with be uncomfortable on the outside, but comfortable on the inside…like a monk’s.
Jen has not had her hands in clay for so long they ache. She told Jace she was going to take a class in the fall. He said, “Why bother, you already know how. Just buy some clay.”
He doesn’t understand her at all. If Jen had clay in their house, she would smash her fists into it until it was a thin slab, till it flaked apart, full of holes like her pie crusts. She can’t trust herself around clay. That’s where it all comes out. She might cry, and hasn’t done that since that first day on the Bounty.
She misses Saint, she sees that now. She realizes she’s spent the last several years trying to be a bas relief of her, the soft, sane one. It’s all bullshit. Jen doesn’t know who she was trying to fool, like there’s some secret, magic camera on her 24 hours a day. People sitting around reviewing the takes, saying ‘what a healthy life. How rich!”
The phone rings and startles her from her thoughts. She runs to grab it before it wakes Chris.
“Hi! Whatcha doing?” It’s Rosemary, of course. Exams are over. Jen didn’t realize it was so late.
“Just sitting around. Kind of lost the day, I guess,” Jen says, wondering how she’s come to let time slide away from her like this.
“You okay?” Rosemary asks.
“Yeah, I’m just bored. Chris is napping and I don’t feel like doing a thing. So what’s up?” Jen asks, though in truth, she doesn’t even really feel like talking.
“You didn’t forget about tonight, did you?” Rosemary says.
But of course she did. It’s Alby’s birthday.
“Oh, shit, yeah. I’m glad you called. What time is everyone getting there again?”
“8:30 okay? Chris will be down, right?” Rosemary says, not realizing Jen hasn’t even mentioned the girls’ night to Jace.
“Yeah, he’s on the bottle now anyway so it doesn’t really matter,” Jen says.
“I got her a rose quartz crystal pendant and an ebony carving. Wait til you see it, it’s this African woman all hunched over holding a little baby between her large hands,” Rosemary says.
“Shit, I haven’t even had a chance to go shopping yet.” Jen says. Christopher starts crying in the background— Jen should have got him up an hour ago—he’ll never sleep tonight.
“You want to split with me on this? I don’t mind,” Rosemary offers.
“That’d be great,” Jen says, relieved that this can all be managed, no thanks to her.
“Is that Chris?” Rosemary says.
“Yeah, I forgot to get him up,” Jen says, feeling guilty.
“Go ahead and get him before he breaks my heart.”
Jen cradles the phone and runs back upstairs. When she gets to his room he’s beet red, heartbroken, and standing. Standing! Big wet tears are coursing down his chubby little cheeks, making his long lashes stick together. Jen hugs him and lifts his sobbing, shuddering body out of the crib. She can barely speak, but manages to coo about what a big boy he is, learning to stand.
On her way downstairs, Jen hears the door opening. Jace is home early. They get to the living room at the same time. He looks at her, puzzled, and asks what’s wrong. Jen shakes her head, phone trapped in her neck, and motions “just a minute.” Jace takes Chris, who is still trying to catch his breath between sobs.
“Rosemary, you won’t believe it. Chris pulled himself up the side of the crib and stood up!”
Jace looks over at Jen and raises his eyebrows. Jen nods at him. He begins talking to Chris.
“Oh my god, you’re kidding! He’s too young! Are you sure?” Rosemary asks, overdoing it a little.
“That’s how he was when I walked in,” Jen says, slightly proud but feeling guilty, guilty that she’s been so disconnected lately.
“Wow, wait ‘til Alby hears. You’ve talked to her, right?’
“When?” Jen asks.
“This week, she said she was trying to get a hold of you, left messages,” Rosemary says.
“Yeah, she did, I meant to call her back but haven’t had a chance yet.”
“She has news for you,” Rosemary says in a sing-songy voice.
“News?” Jen asks.
“Yeah, well, don’t tell her I told you, but…she pregnant!”
“Pregnant!” Jen’s shocked.
“Yeah, nine weeks, in fact.”
“Oh my God, what’s she going to do?” Jen feels sick at the thought.
“What do you mean, what’s she going to do, Jen? She’s going to keep it!” Rosemary sounds a little puzzled. Perturbed, even.
“But she’s all alone! George will never settle down,” Jen can’t seem to get her head around this. Alby, pregnant.
“What’s your point, Jen? It’s been done, you know.”
“It’s hard enough with two…” Jen says.
“She knows that, she doesn’t care. Besides, George asked her to marry him.”
“Oh God, that’s just what she needs. Two babies!” Jen spits.
Rosemary laughs. They both view George as a liability. Alby’s brilliant, beautiful, could have any one she wants, but usually winds up rescuing guys, takes them home just like her stray cats and broken-winged birds. Not to be important or take control, either, but just because she has a big heart. She’s very centered, and draws nutcases like flies. Jen feels a little jealous of her grace, can picture her managing it all with that solid, earthy ease of hers. George, though, is another story. Sometimes Jen thinks he’s the reincarnation of Jim Morrison. He looks like him, but worse, acts like him too. Jen and Rosemary always marvel at Alby’s capacity to forgive his hijinx, which to date, include an unfortunate dalliance with one of her staff.
“Just don’t say anything about George tonigh, Jen. She’s a little touchy about him right now,” Rosemary says.
Alby? Touchy? Where the hell has Jen been, she wonders.
“Then she’s just trying to sell herself on him,” Jen says. “Somebody should say something!” Jen feels her voice rising, and has to ask herself why is this so important to her? Too familiar, she guesses.
“Just leave it alone, Jen, please. Let’s give her a great birthday tonight, okay?” Rosemary says, pleading.
“Okay.” Jen’s feeling guilted like an irrational child. She tries to lighten her tone. “Who all’s coming, anyway?”
“Just me and you, Lou, Janet and Elaine. And Alby, of course.”
“Janet’s coming?”
“Yeah, I called her the other night, in case you forgot. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No—sorry— I forgot all about it. Damned. Well, I’m glad you called her. I’ve gotta go though, get these guys fed, so I’ll see you at 7:00,” Jen says.
“Seven? You mean 8:30.”
“Sure, see you then,” Jen says, seamlessly.
“Oh…okay. See you then.” Rosemary doesn’t like this idea, Jen can tell.
“Wait—“ Jen says, “do you need me to bring anything?” She realize she’s completely fucked up here.
“Nope. Everything’s under control. You just have to show up, okay?”
“Great, thanks for everything. See you tonight,” Jen says.
“Bye.”
“Bye.” Jen says, but she’s already gone. Jen feels terrible. Alby’s always so good to everyone and Jen hasn’t done a damned thing for this party. Plus it was her idea. Chick-party at Rosemary’s. Rosemary puts up with a lot from her, Jen realizes. Covers for her in more ways than one.
She’s a little surprised that Janet’s coming; she’s always been more Jen’s friend than part of this group. They go way back, to high school. Jen didn’t meet Rosemary until after, after Saint and her had it out. And Lou, Jen met her in group therapy seven years ago. Shortly thereafter, Jen had met Alby when she started selling pottery at Haven, and then Alby got her started on selling the fine art installations. Elaine used to work with Jen before she started making her name as an artist. It dawns on Jen that she’s the only thing they all have in common. Jen’s pondering the connections while doing the dishes she should have done yesterday, just to get the kitchen clear enough to cook.
It feels a bit strange that all her friends are becoming friends. She likes to introduce people, especially when they have things in common. But she’s wondering exactly what the six of them actually have in common— except a tendency to objectify men—when Jace shouts at her and makes her jump.
“What are you doing!” he yells.
Jen realizes the sink is overflowing, suds dripping down her jeans. She fumbles to shut the tap off quickly.
“Sorry, lost in thought, I guess,” she says, flushing, feel stupid.
“For Chris sake, Jen, what’s wrong with you? Use your head.”
He’s annoyed, of course, as usual, ad nauseum, she thinks.
“Sorry, I’m just trying to get the dishes done so I can have supper ready in time.”
“In time for what. You mean, in time for bed?” Jace quips.
He’s acting like he’s trying to be funny, but any idiot can see the hostility. Jen can’t seem to take it like she used to.
“Would you fuck off with your little late-dinner jabs. I’m sick of hearing about it.,” she jabs back.
“Well it might make you sick to hear it but it makes ME hungry. It’s not like you’re doing anything else all day. Pulling together what you pass off as a meal shouldn’t be rocket science,” he says.
“Talk to me when you learn to put a TV dinner in the oven, asshole,” Jen mutters, slamming a pot into the stove storage drawer with a clatter. He’s such a smug, righteous bastard at times, she thinks. She knows now she’s really in for it, calling him an asshole like that. It always gets him.
“I’m usually too busy cleaning up after you and looking after Chris, thank you,” he spits.
“And how many hero points do you get for that? You’re such a sensitive new age guy, aren’t you?” Jen slams some more dishes around, but it’s not helping. She’s too far in to stop now, but a little surprised at herself for blowing.
“A lot of women would be grateful,” Jace says.
“They’re too stupid to see that’s how you get your kicks, that’s all,” Jen smiles, just to really get him going. She doesn’t care any more, doesn’t even feel that angry now. No passion, just meanness.
“You fucking ball-breaking bitch. I don’t believe you. You think I get my kicks looking after everything? Someone has to, and God knows you can’t seem to get your shit together.”
“You love it, don’t you? Yes, Jace, our world would collapse without you. I’m just a useless piece of shit, right? What does that say about you then! You married me. But hey, I had money then, right?”
“I had no fucking clue. I’m allowed one mistake, aren’t I?”
“You’re allowed all the mistakes you want, but you’re too busy being a hero to make any, or at least admit any,” Jen said, feeling it to be so profoundly true and yet not believing she dared to say it. She drained the water even though there were still dishes in the sink. Fuck the dishes.
“We’re just not on the same planet anymore Jace,” she said, sincerely hoping for just a minute they could decelerate long enough to talk.
“Thank god for that. You’re fucked.”
Or not talk…
“Sure, I’m fucked. It’s my fault too, I knew all along that you were just like everyone else,” she said, knowing that her matter-of-fact tone would piss him off even more.
“Men are evil pigs, eh. The way they work, clean, change shitty diapers. We just don’t know what you women want, do we? We’re insensitive. So goes the song of the femi-nazis,” Jace says. His face is red and puffy and he won’t look at Jen. He is now running the water again to do the dishes himself, this way he can turn his back on her.
Jen is leaning against the stove, mildly interested in what he’ll say next. He looks out the window for a minute. Jen follows his gaze. The river is calm and sunny. None of this seems right. It feels like play acting.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Jen says softly, feeling a little regret.
“Get what? I’ll tell you what I get, Jen, I get a lot of bullshit from you, that’s what I get. The more I do to help, the more I get.”
“You really feel that way?”
“For a long time, Jen,” he says.
“Fits with your victim theory, doesn’t it?” Jen says, more angry than ever but unable to explain why.
“It’s not a theory, Jen. It’s real. The harder I try, the more I’m shit on.”
“I wasn’t shitting on you Jace, you were shitting on me. It’s all you do anymore. Once or twice a week I can handle. But it’s a daily mantra now, and I won’t take it.”
“Take it? I don’t even know what you’re talking about. You want me to say nothing at all? Just let you do whatever, no matter how stupid. You want me not to notice, pretend I don’t see things?”
“No, but that’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? That how it’s been played out all long.”
He laughs bitterly. “Since when have you kept your mouth shut about anything?”
“I do. I do all the time. I coddle you like a teenager rebelling against mommy. I’m sick of it, Jace.”
“Well I’m sick of a lot of things too.” He hangs his head down and rinses the soap off a plate.
“Yeah, I know. You’re sick of everything, all the time. You’re sick of things that never happen. You’re sick and tired, sick and tired, it’s all I hear about. When was the last time you had a positive thought or a happy feeling.”
“With you? I can’t remember,” he says, looking smug that he got one off.
“Oooh. Hurt me Jace. Go ahead and try. You can’t, at least, not on purpose, when you try. I know about you though, how the only time you have a good time is when you’re putting on a show for other people, what a great guy, so funny…”
“I’m warning you now, shut the fuck up…” he says, beet red.
“They just don’t know you, that’s why you can do it. But they count, don’t they? I mean, more than me or your mom or even Chris. What they think is more important, because they get the shell. We get what’s inside, and we know how ugly it is, how rotten.”
“Just fuck off, Jen. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Getting a little close for you, hon?” Jen leans forward, as if insisting on an answer.
“There’s no point trying to get through to you.”
“Yeah, I’m fucked, right? No getting through to me with the bullshit you sell yourself. I don’t buy it.”
“I told you, just shut the fuck up, will you,” Jace says, avoiding her glare.
“Sure, I’ll shut the fuck up.” Jen walks over to the closet in the living room to get her shoes and jacket. Jen sees Chris, playing in the corner with his shape—o-ball, trying to fit the star shape into the square. He is concentrating very hard. She’s never seen him this still. She’s surprised he’s not crying, but they weren’t yelling that much, just that deadly controlled venom they’re getting so good at.
Jen slips on her shoes, zips up her jacket, and goes over to give him a hug. He looks up to her with sad, sad eyes, just like his dad’s, beautiful blue but full of pain. Jen can’t believe it. She wants to bite her hand, hard. Jen hugs him and he clings to her for dear life. She tells him mommy has to go shopping for Alby’s birthday present, it’s her party tonight. He starts to cry as Jen leaves, reaching his arms out to her.
Jace comes flying out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“What’s it matter?” Jen says calmly, not wanting to upset Chris more. “Look, I just have to get a present for Alby, then go help Rosemary get ready for the party. Okay?” Her hand is on the door knob. Chris pulls himself up to a standing position against the sofa, holding on with one hand, reaching with the other. Jace picks him up, but he’s pulling away, still reaching for Jen.
“You never said anything about it before.” He seems worried now.
“I never got a chance to, with your smart-ass comment about dinner.”
“But I’ve got a meeting tonight.”
“You’ll have to cancel. I can’t miss this.”
Jen sees him getting ready to explode, but he won’t because he has Chris in his arms.
“You can’t…”
“See ya later.” Jen breezes out the door and hops on the scooter. She fastens the helmet tight. He pokes his head out the door yelling at her, but is muffled by the helmet, by the engine Jen kicks to life. She sees him and Chris in her mirrors, standing grimly at the door. Then she’s on the road, and the warm wind embraces her face and pushes her tears to her ears.