Housebreaking (6 page)

But a few years later, he met Rachel Rosenberg, and it happened again. She was his daughter's ninth-grade Spanish teacher. He met her at the annual parent-teacher get-together. She was freshly divorced, with a rose tattooed on her right shoulder blade, and she never wore panties, not around him at least. In their Cancún hotel room she drank tequila from the bottle and danced to flamenco music. “I used to buy into all that AA crap,” she told him, “before I decided to lighten up.” He couldn't stop, even after Judy found out, even after she threatened to take the kids and go. Eventually Rachel herself called it off. She refused to see him. “Recess is over,” she told him. “I need a serious man in my life.” The next year she moved to Boca Raton with a bank president.

It had been love, he'd thought, stupidly. But Rachel had discarded him like an old newspaper. And he had not even missed her. He found himself relieved to be free from her craziness and self-absorption and drunken drama. This time, Judy let him come back with a simple dictum:
That was your last chance. Next time, it's over.
He agreed, elated to win her reprieve. What a fool he had been, to risk his marriage, and for what? His two extramarital affairs had been about sex. Sex, alone. He knew that, in retrospect. He'd had a couple of drunken one-night flings during his four semesters at college, but Judy had been his first real sexual partner, and he had married her. He'd had to get that urge out of his system. After Rachel, he vowed never to cheat again, and he hadn't, no matter what Judy suspected. In the seven years since Rachel Rosenberg he'd been as chaste as Jimmy Carter, lusting in his heart but nothing more than that.

Still, he and Judy grew apart. A phantom unease entered into their marriage during that time of fidelity, a slow-growing silence, which got worse after the kids left for college. That silence had done more damage to his marriage than any affair.

So now, here he was, single: This was what he'd contemplated over the past few years like some tropical vacation, a release from marital servitude, a return to the world of women. Long ago, the summer after his first year of college, Benjamin had rented a cottage on Martha's Vineyard with some buddies. They would sit on the front porch, the raucous five of them, calling out to the girls who passed by on their way to the public beach. Often a few of the girls would come up on the porch, have a beer from the cooler, join them for a swim or meet them later at the bars. That's how he'd always imagined being single would be: a procession of women in the summer sun.

Now, sitting on the front stoop with the leash in his hand, Benjamin waited for Audrey Martin to appear. Her malamute lay on its stomach, picking away at the turkey bone. She would show up before long, he figured. If she didn't come looking, he would deliver the dog to her. He would play dumb.
You look familiar
, he would say.
Did you go to Goodwin by any chance?

* * *

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
she appeared, alone, calling out, “Sheba.” When she saw the dog, she came striding across his lawn. “You found her,” she said. That same sparkly smile, only slightly dimmed by the twenty-five years in between. She took the leash from him. “You're a lifesaver.”

“Actually, I'm a car salesman. Benjamin,” he said, extending his hand.

“Audrey.”

Audrey.
A thrill went through him at the sound of her name, even though he'd known it was her. He shook her hand—soft skin, wedding ring, no watch or other jewelry. Her face showed no recognition. She didn't remember him.

“Do you live nearby?” he asked, playing his part.

“We just moved into the house at the bottom of the street, my husband, daughter, and me.”

“Ah, the new neighbors. You're doing a terrific job with the renovations.”

“Thanks.”

There was a pause, and she patted her dog, looking down. Before she could try to get away, he went into his act, affecting an expression of concentration. “Hey, you look really familiar. Did you go to Goodwin by any chance?”

Her mouth fell open. “How on earth did you know that?”

“Your name is Audrey Martin, right?”

“Wow. You've got a good memory. What was your name again?”

He told her.

She narrowed her eyes. “I'm sorry, I don't remember you. Did we have the same homeroom?”

“No. I was a year beneath you, a lowly underclassman with a serious crush. But that's not very original. All the guys had crushes on you.”

She blushed, he was pleased to notice. “Hardly,” she said.

“Well, it's true.”

“How long have you lived here?” she asked.

“I don't. This is my dad's house. I'm visiting, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Well, I'm waiting.”

She laughed. “Waiting for what? The rapture?”

“For my divorce to become final.” He hadn't planned to volunteer that information, but her question had thrown him off-balance. “There's a ninety-day waiting period,” he informed her. “I've got—let's see, what is this, October twentieth?”

“Yep.”

“A little more than two months to go.”

“Is that all it takes?”

“Ninety days to freedom, yes.”

“Lucky you,” she said with a mysterious smile.

Benjamin had no idea how to answer that. “What happened after Goodwin?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation going. “Give me the CliffsNotes version.”

“I was a drama major at Wesleyan,” she said. “Then grad school at Yale, English literature.”

“I never finished college,” he said. “I didn't like it all that much.”

“You must think I'm a terrible snob,” she said, “giving you my résumé like that.”

“Not at all,” he said, happy to throw her off-balance. “You were never snobby, it was one of the things we all liked about you. Not like Skippy Brooks and Ginny Hunter and that gang.”

“Skippy was actually really nice.”

They talked about former classmates, teachers and class reunions. (She hadn't gone to any.) He settled into his easy salesman's style, feeling the awkwardness fade—she had thrown him with that “Lucky you” response. What was she trying to tell him? That her marriage was in trouble? That she wanted out? He rattled off all the gossip he could recall from the last issue of the
Goodwin Alumni News
. “Do you remember Mr. Dorfman?” he heard himself saying. Their old gym teacher had won the state lottery. “Three million dollars, but he kept his job at the school. He works for a dollar a year now.”

“You really keep up,” she said, patting her dog. She told him that Gretchen Peters had moved to Paris and married a famous artist, but otherwise she hadn't kept in touch with anyone.

They reached a lull. He took a deep breath, not wanting to force the conversation further. He'd made contact. He'd gotten her attention. That was enough for now.

In the silence that followed, she pulled a leash out of her pocket. “Here, let me,” said Benjamin. He bent down to unsnap his old leash from the dog's collar. His head was level with her waist, just inches away, so close he could smell the fresh-laundry scent of her jeans. The clasp was stuck. As he fiddled with it, he felt her fingers graze the nape of his neck. He lowered his head, and she ran her fingers through his hair. Her touch surprised him, shocked him, but at the same time felt completely natural, so soothing that he wondered if he were imagining it.

“You have beautiful hair,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said, without looking up.

At last he detached the clasp and stood.

“Thanks for rescuing her.” She smiled, snapping on her leash.

“Glad to help.”

He watched her as she walked away. The dog turned back to look at him, but Audrey didn't.

* * *

HE WENT INTO
the kitchen through the garage door. Yukon jumped up and rushed to sniff at his legs, then ran to his water bowl, lapping
furiously—a good sound, that hectic splashing and the pushing of the bowl across the linoleum. Sometimes Yukon would plant his foot inside the bowl to keep it steady, a sight that always made Benjamin smile. A moment later the dog padded out of the room.

Benjamin could still feel her touch on his neck. Yes, she was married, but there were always consequences in getting involved, he had learned; it was the cost of personal interaction. Like the cost of doing business: unavoidable. In the past he'd fallen into entanglements without really meaning to. With Judy, he hadn't expected anything more than a few dates. With Rachel Rosenberg, he'd expected a single night, not a full-fledged affair. The bill always came at the end—often in some wholly unexpected form—but that was no reason not to play.

His thoughts were interrupted by Yukon, whining and whimpering from the hallway. “Hey,” he yelled. “Stop that!” He expected the dog to come running toward him, but instead the whining intensified. Annoyed, Benjamin went down the hall, to where Yukon stood in the den doorway. He pushed past the dog and looked into the room. For a moment he didn't comprehend what he was seeing.

“Dad?”

His father was splayed facefirst on the rug.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

Leonard twitched. He seemed to be trying to speak, but only garbled sounds emerged, like those of a person choking. Benjamin bent beside him and rolled him onto his back. Leonard stared blindly at the ceiling, his tongue rolling.

The dog barked, and the noise roused Benjamin. He rushed to the kitchen, grabbed the wall phone, and dialed 911.

“I need an ambulance,” he yelled. “Something's wrong with my father.”

* * *

AT ST. FRANCIS HOSPITAL
, Benjamin waited for two hours in the emergency room for the doctor to return. He was a middle-aged Indian man, barely five feet tall, with shiny black hair slicked across his forehead.

“Shall we have a word outside?”

Benjamin followed the doctor into the hallway. The intercom blared. An orderly pushed a cart loaded with dinner trays. Benjamin had not eaten all day, but the smell of the food made his stomach knot tighter.
An old lady was sitting in a wheelchair against the wall, her legs spotted with dark bruises.

“We moved your father into the intensive care unit,” the doctor said. “He's stable but his condition remains serious. He's had a stroke. A blood vessel to the brain was blocked by a clot. When this happens, that part of the brain cannot get oxygen and begins to die.”

From one of the emergency room cubicles came the cries of an old man.
Help me,
he yelled.
Please someone help me.
The man had been screaming for most of the afternoon, and at first the screams had shocked Benjamin. But now the man's voice was dry and hoarse; no one seemed to notice.

“Shouldn't someone sedate that guy?” Benjamin said.

The doctor continued as if he had not spoken. “One way we treat the stroke is with drugs that break the clots. These drugs are most effective when administered within a three-hour window from the onset of symptoms. A very small percentage of stroke victims reach the hospital within that time. But your father is one of the lucky ones. You got him here quickly.”

In the back of the ambulance, Benjamin had held Leonard's hand as the EMTs worked above him on the stretcher: the siren blaring, the sickening smell of diesel fumes, the bursts of amplified voices on the two-way radio.
It's okay
,
Dad
, he'd repeated, averting his gaze from his father's stricken, uncomprehending face.
Everything's going to be okay.
The same thing he'd told his daughter not so long ago, he realized now. Would these reassurances prove to be just as empty? He pushed away the thought, trying to concentrate on the doctor's words.

“He has a partial paralysis on the right side. This means that the left side of his brain was damaged. And his speech has been affected.”

“Will he be able to talk again?”

The doctor consulted the chart. “We're giving him Coumadin to prevent further clotting. Many stroke victims are able to regain capabilities, but of course we can't be certain. Your father is how old?”

“Eighty-four.”

The doctor nodded. “A lot depends on his will to improve. The rehabilitation process can be taxing.”

“How long will he have to stay in the hospital?”

“One week, at the very least. If all goes well, at that point we can transfer him to a rehabilitation clinic.”

“May I see him now?”

“Of course.”

From the hallway Benjamin heard the old man start up again, screaming for help, and then just screaming. Benjamin took the elevator to the ICU. In the room, the bright fluorescent light spilled across his father's pale and blotched face. Leonard lay on his back with tubes coming out of his nose and arms. His feet, protruding from the blankets, were sheathed in hospital stockings, like women's nylons. “That's to prevent clotting,” the nurse told him. Benjamin stood by the hospital bed, holding his father's hand.

* * *

THAT NIGHT
he came home to a darkened house. He went from room to room turning on lamps, trying to dispel the sense of dread, while Yukon followed him, panting. Benjamin scooped some brown pellets from the bag of dog food into the bowl. He sat at the kitchen table watching Yukon gobble the food. Thirty seconds later the dog was finished.

He needed to talk to someone, but could think of no one to call. He certainly wasn't going to worry his kids about it yet, if he could help it. He'd already called his sister in San Diego, to give her the news. She had wanted to come on the next flight, but he told her to stay with her husband and kids. There was nothing she could do, he told her. They just had to wait to see how Leonard responded. And besides, he said, it was only a “minor stroke.”

In truth, the doctor had said no such thing. Benjamin had wanted to put Sissi's mind at ease. But now who would reassure him? What if Leonard didn't get better? Or if he got worse? His father, his business partner, the one person he trusted above all others: What would he do without him?