The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus (19 page)

I
n this world of disposable, replaceable, new and improved upgrades, I am one of those people who cling to the old original. I still have all my high-school and college year-books, my third-grade Peanuts lunch box with Lucy holding the football, a piece of Juicy Fruit from the pack that Craig Keyser bought for me on my first “date” to the movies, and the first book report I ever wrote about a bunny who had vampire tendencies.

I am a saver. I love keepers.

Which is as close as I can get to explaining the lingering relationship I have with my ex. Although the romantic, physical aspects of our relationship dwindled soon after our son was born five years ago, I have tried to hold on to TJ as a partner, as a friend, as a father for our child.

“You will always be his father,” I have told TJ countless times. When Tyler was an infant he would respond with things like “That’s true,” and jokes like “So you say,” and “Then why does he look like the cable guy?” which only mildly perturbed me since I was used to TJ’s sarcasm and goofy humor. Back then his response didn’t really matter since we shared so much, spending our days together in the downtown studio, our nights in his Victorian in Pacific Heights. In that first year, that copacetic interlude of bottles of sticky formula and sweet-smelling Onesies and padded tushy, I could not imagine a time when TJ would not be in our lives every day.

“You will always be his father,” I assured him when Tyler and I were moving to the apartment in search of some independence, cheaper rents, and residential quiet compared to the hub that the Heights had become. I had never felt completely at ease in TJ’s Victorian mansion, admittedly; neither had he, and I assumed that eventually he would follow us south to the less tony, more residential Noe Valley.

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll always see you guys around,” TJ had responded with that wry grin. “It’s not like you’re leaving town, Cassie, and with you working on the show, I think I can make my way from my dressing room to the art department.”

“You will always be his father,” I told him my last day on the set, after I’d given my four weeks’ notice and gotten my acceptance to the design institute.

“Ah, but I don’t have to be.” Hands thrust in his pockets, shoulders up by his ears. How many times had I massaged that tension away? It had seemed so easy once. How had it come to this, face-to-face with a stranger who wrings himself inside out because he has to talk with me about our son? “If there’s someone special in your life, you know I’ll step aside and let him raise the kid.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying that.” I picked up my box, loaded with shoes and tampons, green tea bags and desk toys and thingamabobs Tyler had made in preschool. “I am not hearing this.” I turned and walked down the shadowy corridor of the television studio, suddenly wishing the soles of my shoes had metallic studs capable of tearing off the glossy surface of the floor.

“If it’s about money, I’ll pay,” he called after me.

“It’s not,” I shouted without turning back.

If my friends hadn’t pushed me, I wouldn’t have taken TJ’s money at all, but Jaimie kept reminding me about Tyler’s future, and Bree kept pointing out that two thousand a month wouldn’t be missed with TJ’s income. So I accepted it, my 17 percent child support. Most of it went into Tyler’s college fund, though I had used some for art school with the logic that my education would lead to a better job and a more secure future for the two of us.

Throughout my relationship with TJ, I didn’t want to hurt him for not loving Tyler as I’d expected. I assumed that special relationship would develop in time, realizing that not all men are so enamored of the baby stages, the diaper changes and crawling feats, toddling through neighbors’ gardens and scattering finger foods on the kitchen floor. Tyler was beyond those stages now, an intelligent, creative little boy, and I knew it was time to invite TJ back into our lives, time to nurture a father-son relationship for these two.

As I stepped in through the double glass door of the studio, the security guard jumped up from the reception desk and pulled me into a hug. “It’s you!” Darlene squealed. “How are you, honey? I haven’t seen you for months.”

“I’m doing great! I finished design school. Got a job doing windows at Rossman’s Union Square.”

Another squeal, more subdued. She leaned back to take a good look at me. “That is so great. I want to get back to school, soon as the kids are in school full-time.”

“You should do it, Darlene. Not that you don’t get all the stimulation you need here on set.”

She waved a hand. “Please, if I have to run backstage and open one more limo door because some star wants hotshot treatment, I promise, you’ll hear me screaming down at Union Square.”

I laughed as I leaned over her desk, signed in, peeled off a badge. “Well, much as I love my new job, I miss you guys.”

She waved at me. “Nothing’s changed around here, except the set. Have you seen it? That Coit Tower that looks like a horn growing out of TJ’s shoulder?”

“I’ve heard about it.” We talked a little about Tyler and Darlene’s sons as we walked toward the studio door. The red studio “taping” light was on, but Darlene let me in. “They’re taping the last segment,” she said. “TJ should be done in a few minutes.”

Moving quietly, I hugged Sally from make-up, then swept past the cluster of writers, mostly new faces now. The AD pointed a cross finger at me. Concepcion had always been a tad bossy, which helped move people along onstage. I braced myself for a scolding, but she gave me a hard time for being so scarce. “Did you completely forget about us?” she cooed. “And have you noticed, we’re badly in need of a set designer.” We both glanced over at the dinky miniature of Telegraph Hill and laughed till someone shushed us from the wings.

I ducked backstage and tiptoed past my old work space, a warehouselike section large enough to store flats and furniture. I felt a sudden pang for the life I’d once had, the creativity and security, the late hours and the daily bubble of excitement over whether TJ would follow the monologue, run off set, offend a guest…He was full of surprises, full of energy, the hyper kid on the block.

The sudden shift of noise and footsteps made me realize that the show was ending. Concepcion led a very tall man to a dressing room—a pro basketball player, I suspected—then slipped off her headpiece and called out a good-bye. Cameras were being rolled off set, crew calling out instructions, and there was TJ, hands shoved in his pockets as he meandered down the hall.

TJ possessed an underdog quality that always garnered sympathy: that dog-ate-my-homework, too-many-cowlicks, hands-in-the-pockets everyman quality of Charlie Brown from Schulz’s comic strips. I had always had a weakness for Charlie Brown, the downtrodden average kid who was always seeing the football swiped away just as he was about to kick it, and hence, all those years ago, I fell in love with TJ, a man who could string an hour-long comedy show out of his rich neuroses.

“Hey! You
are
here! I thought I picked up a whiff of you backstage. Were you actually laughing at my jokes?”

I grinned. “Do you think?”

He grabbed my hand and yanked me toward his dressing room. “I’ve been meaning to call you. No one seems to know what to do with that god-awful set they’ve put behind me. Have you seen it? Apparently it cost the network quite a few gold doubloons, so they want to keep it and amortize it over the next hundred years.”

I shook my head, following him into his dressing room. “Some things never change. I was just feeling a twinge of homesickness for this place, but you just reminded me how it felt working for the big bad network.”

“Can you fix that thing?” He kicked the door closed, grabbed a foam ball from the floor, and shot it into a small basket mounted on the wall. “I feel like a huge ogre crouching in front of a kids’ toy train set.”

“So what’s wrong with that? Take a look in the mirror, bub.”

He growled, arms straight out like Frankenstein, grabbed my shoulders, and started pushing me back. “Don’t sass me, Cassie.”

“You seem to have mistaken me for someone on your payroll,” I said, arms in the air as he pinned me against the stucco wall.

He giggled. “Ooh, that’s right. Does that mean I have no power over you?” He ran his hands down the side of my body, then brought one hand up, catching me in the crotch and squeezing. “Oh, I’d say I still have some power here.” He grabbed tight and massaged through the light cotton of my painter’s pants.

Although I liked his proprietorship, the reminder of days when he used to reach out and grab me there and start something, I would not be deterred. “I’m not in the mood, TJ. I came here to talk.”

“What, you didn’t come here to come?” He moved his hand away and pressed his pelvis against me, his erection jabbing my stomach. “Feel that? Doesn’t that suggest something a whole lot more fun than talking?”

“TJ, I…” The sentence ended in a sigh as I felt myself responding, wanting the sex with a very primitive craving.

“Come on, Cassie. You know you want it, and we’re both unattached. Why the hell not?”

A convincing argument, but the facts spoke for themselves. I wasn’t seeing anyone right now, sex with TJ was always fast, and he did know how to push my buttons to bring me to climax. We could squeeze in a quick one, some meaningful conversation, and I wouldn’t even be late picking up Tyler from school.

“Fine.” I pulled my black sweater over my head and tossed it aside. “But afterwards, we are going to talk, mister.”

He was already growling into my chest, his nose burrowing between my breasts, his hands cupping my nipples like a man who’d been stuck on a desert island for years.

We both stripped down quickly and he lay back on the sofa, massaging himself until I found a condom in his desk. I slid it on, then straddled him. I had to be on top with TJ, had to control the speed and depth of the thrust, had to pilot this ride. He was lousy at missionary, too eager and frenetic, just like his stage personality, but at least he had the good sense to give up control in this one area, letting me slide him in, squeeze my muscles over him, stroking us both in a steady rhythm that made orgasm inevitable.

“I’ve missed you, Cassie. Missed this.”

I tossed my head back, not wanting to admit that I didn’t really miss him at all, didn’t miss the long hours and crazy outbursts and supercharged volume of his life. Yes, I missed the sex, but I had discovered it wasn’t too hard to find that, especially when the guy found out that all I wanted was a physical relationship. No involvement, just quick recreation so that I could go home and pour my heart into more important matters.

My heartbeat quickened, my nerves straining as I rode him to orgasm. TJ let out a holler, then let his fingertips slide down along my hips, outlining my shape.

“Aaaach!” He groaned like a contented bear as he scraped off the condom and tossed it behind the couch. “That was great, as usual.”

I stretched like a cat, leaned down to pluck my panties off the floor, and slipped them on before I took a seat again beside his furry legs. Around other guys I felt self-conscious about the extra five pounds of baby weight on my hips, but with TJ, who was not in the best shape himself, it seemed okay. “Now, about your son. We really need to set some ground rules here, TJ, or you’re going to break his little heart.”

He turned over on his side and closed his eyes. “Has anyone ever mentioned your talent for killing a buzz?”

I adjusted my bra and glared down at him. “Not funny. Did you notice? I’m not laughing.”

“The cheap laugh isn’t everything. Sometimes I just strive to entertain.” He rubbed his genitals, then glanced down. “Would you look at that? Mr. Happy may be coming back for an encore.”

“Don’t be a dick. I’m all done, thanks. Now on to more important matters.”

“Now, Cass, just look at that.” And suddenly we were both staring at his cock, which seemed to thicken by the minute. “You wouldn’t want to make Mr. Happy sad, would you?”

“You can give Mr. Happy a hand any time you like.” I leaned down to pick up my sweater, thinking that one day I would make a list of all the ridiculous things men named their penises. Actually, there were probably already countless blogs on that topic, so dear to the hearts of men.

“Don’t try to dodge the subject,” I went on. “You’re not being fair here. You know, Tyler is getting old enough to have a real relationship with you. Old enough to—”

A knock on the door made TJ flinch, his hand freezing over his groin.

“TJ?” came a woman’s voice. His writer’s voice. Melissa the viper.

“Shit!” He swung his legs off the sofa and sat up.

“I thought she was on vacation this week,” I said.

“Shit, shit, shit!” He dove for his pants, shoved one leg in, then hopped around as he shoved his boxers into a desk drawer.

I crossed my arms, watching his freak-out. This was the reaction of a man who had everything to hide. “And you said you weren’t involved with anyone…” I didn’t feel betrayed as much as annoyed that he would lie just to screw me. I mean, really, if he was seeing someone else, then screw her!

Calmly I slid into my boots, then faced the mirror to straighten the chain of my necklace as TJ hopped, zipped, and smoothed himself back into place behind me. “When are we going to talk about Tyler?” I asked.

“Just as soon as I convince Melissa that we weren’t doing what we were doing,” he snarled.

“Ooh.” I raked my hair back and reached down to pick up the foam basketball. “You know, I think I’ll take a rain check.” TJ was just pulling on a sweatshirt when I opened the locked door, coming face-to-face with the pert, smooth face of Melissa Diamant, her rhinestone-studded designer glasses reflecting my own angry, red face. She’d risen to head writer and executive producer in the time since I’d left, and Bree and I blamed her for making the show’s atmosphere too cutthroat for Bree to sign a new contract.

“Cassie?” Her hand flew to her face in a dramatic gesture. “Oh, sorry, sweetie. I didn’t know you were here.”

The hell you didn’t.

“We were just discussing the Coit Tower as a phallic symbol,” I said. “What a bold design for your new set. Has that subliminal seduction thing panned out in your ratings, or are people put off by the lack of subtlety?”