Saturday morning, I play the role of the good daughter. I drop Tiffany off at Washington Mall, I pick up Mom's dry cleaning, I make a quick stop at the A&P, and I even make an early lunch. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Maria appreciates my effort, even if she does whine about my forgetting to cut off her crusts. Mom doesn't pay attention. She definitely isn't paying attention when she sets her elbow in her soup and her ivory silk blouse quickly bleeds tomato red. Mom curses and shouts at me to get a paper towel. It's the first words she's spoken to me in two weeks.
"This is probably ruined," Mom growls, quickly unbuttoning the pearl buttons. She pulls off the blouse and tosses it to me. "You'll have to go back to the dry cleaners."
I catch the blouse. "I can't," I reply. "I'm going to New York. Remember? My study group and I are going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We're leaving on the one o' clock train. I won't be home until tomorrow."
Mom snatches back the blouse. "Fine. I'll take it myself," she snaps, throwing the blouse down on the table. She slams her briefcase shut. "Of course, now I'll probably miss my plane. As long as you're not inconvenienced, Shannon." Mom's flying to Chicago with some of her friends from the office. A mini-vacation. She'll be away until Tuesday. Dad's also out of town. Somewhere. I don't remember where he went or when he'll be back. Maybe he didn't tell me.
"Good because I don't have time," I reply, haughtily. Wes and I could easily drop it off on our way out of town. But I won't offer. Maybe if she spoke to me like a real mother, I would.
Mom narrows her eyes at me. She swings her briefcase off the table and grabs the blouse. She's still glaring at me when she says, "Maria, run upstairs and get my suitcase and a clean blouse, please. Like a nice daughter." Mom gives me a pointed look, then turns away.
I remain stone-faced, standing behind the center island. I watch my mother march out of the room, briefcase at her side, ruined blouse in her arms. Her heels click on the tile in the foyer. Maria's feet stomp down the stairs, Mom's suitcase bumping after her. The front door opens and closes. Mom doesn't say goodbye.
It doesn't matter.
I pour Mom's soup down the sink, splattering the white porcelain like blood. I turn on the water and wash it all down. When Maria returns, I make her finish her lunch while I eat Mom's untouched sandwich. Then I send Maria upstairs to pack her duffel bag, so I can clean the kitchen in peace. While I'm in New York, Maria will stay next door with the Papadakises. Linny is a year older than her and Hannie a year younger. But Maria's friends with both of them. Casual friends, neighborhood friends. Tiffany's staying overnight with her friend, Frannie. I spoke to Frannie's mother to ensure that Tiffany really will stay there, instead of hanging around here with Tyler, unsupervised. At noon, Maria and I walk Astrid over to Kristy's house. Maria's paranoid about leaving Astrid home alone, even if Maria will only be a house away. The Papadakises have a small poodle and a cat, both of whom are overwhelmed by the sight of Astrid. After leaving Astrid with David Michael, Maria and I walk back across the street to the Papadakises.
Wes arrives for me at twelve-thirty sharp. I'm standing by the door, peering through the curtains as he strides quickly up the driveway. Ten minutes ago, I stood on the front porch and waved goodbye to Maria as she drove off with the Papadakises, on the way to the cinema. I don't have to worry about her popping over unexpectedly and discovering Wes. And I don't have to worry about Kristy or Abby either, spying on me through their bedroom windows. They're at the library. I stood on the porch and waved goodbye to them at eleven-thirty. I've covered all my bases.
"Do I get to come in?" Wes asks when I open the door.
I smile. "Of course," I reply, stepping back and holding the door open for him.
Wes steps into the foyer and looks around. "Great house," he says. "Is your family home?"
"No, my parents are away on business and my sisters are out. Maybe you'll meet them next time." Or never, I silently add.
Wes appears almost disappointed. "We should get going then. Hopefully, traffic won't be bad. I'll get your suitcase," Wes says. He picks up my suitcase from where I've left it beside the staircase. I grab my cosmetics case and garment bag and follow him out the door, flicking off the lights as I leave.
"You look very pretty," Wes tells me when we're in the car. "But you always do."
I smile, pleased. "Thank you. Wait until you see the dress I bought for tonight," I reply. The dress from Bellair's is in the garment bag, currently hanging in the backseat. I finally looked at the price tag this morning. It's a good thing no one ever sees the credit card statements but me. Right now, I'm only wearing a green corduroy skirt that belongs to Tiffany and a black v-neck sweater that Greer left at my house last month. "You always look great, too," I tell Wes, reaching over and fixing the collar of his polo.
Wes smiles. "I'm trying to impress you," he says.
"You don't have to impress me anymore," I reply with a laugh.
"Maybe on our next date, I'll show up in overalls and a straw hat then."
I laugh. "I take it back. Please continue trying to impress me."
Wes laughs and places his hand on my thigh. His hand is very warm on my bare skin. It makes me feel strange and tingly. And nervous. I wonder if Wes is nervous, too. There's an odd tightening in my stomach, sort of sick and heavy, like it's full of butterflies too bound up to properly beat their wings. But under it all there's something else, something almost hot with expectation. Of course I'm nervous. But I'm excited, too. Wes squeezes my thigh, lightly, then returns his hand to the steering wheel as we turn onto the Interstate.
"Did you have fun with your friends last night?" Wes asks.
I chuckle. "Absolutely not. It was horrible. My friend, Meg, has this horrid new boyfriend. He's a complete jerk. Rude, arrogant, crass. He spent the entire night talking about banging sluts, then ended the evening shouting an ethnic slur. Then he was beat up."
Wes glances over at me. "Are you serious?" he asks, incredulously.
"Unfortunately, I am. He was beat up right outside Burger Town," I reply. I reach over and set my hand on his knee. "The entire night, I wished I was with you instead."
"Really?" Wes asks, grinning. "I wished the same thing. I spent the evening grading about a thousand math tests. As fun as that was, I would have preferred your company."
"Well, you have me to yourself all day and all night," I tell him, then realizing my words, blush. I look out the window so he won't notice.
"Yeah, I'm...looking forward to it," Wes says, then clears his throat, nervously.
Still staring out the window, I smile to myself. It's cute how shy he can be. I find it endearing. And comforting.
Wes begins messing with the radio. He tunes it to the classic rock station. There's an old Billy Joel song playing. "This is our song," Wes announces, turning up the volume.
I look away from the window. "We don't have a song," I inform him.
"Yes, we do," he argues. "I just found it. Listen. It's about us. You're an uptown girl! And I'm a downtown man!"
I laugh. "Wes, you're from Greenvale. That isn't exactly the slums of Southern Connecticut."
"But now I live in downtown Stoneybrook," he points out. He begins drumming on the steering wheel and singing along with Billy Joel. He can't sing.
"You are bizarre," I tell him, still laughing. "You look completely normal, but you are a strange, strange man."
"What's so bizarre about me?"
"Well, for one thing, I'm disturbed that you know all the words to this song."
Wes laughs.
It's a wonderful drive into New York. There's hardly any traffic at all. Wes and I talk most of the way, except when he randomly decides to sing part of a song to me. He is a strange man, but in an absolutely perfect way. So what if he's disorganized and slightly obsessed with his demonic cat. He wants me and he loves me.
Although Wes is a terrific driver in Connecticut, he turns out to be a terrible one in New York. I'm shocked that we make it to East 87th Street alive. We park in a garage adjacent to our hotel. I shiver a little thinking that. Our hotel. That nervous feeling returns, but I don't allow it to rattle me. I smile at Wes, then step out of the car. I'm not exactly sure what to expect out of our hotel. I'm not very familiar with New York City. Mostly I've visited with Greer and her parents. They have family living on the Upper East Side, which is where Wes and I are staying. Our hotel is called The Franklin and it looks like any other building in New York from the outside. Inside, it looks like we've stepped into someone's home. There's a beautifully decorated living room and a library off the lobby.
"This is very nice," I tell Wes, setting my suitcase beside the front desk.
"My parents always stay here when they stay in the city," Wes replies. He rings the bell. "It's the only place I've ever stayed in New York. I thought it best to stick with what I know."
I glance upward. There's a lovely chandelier hanging from the ceiling. My mother would love this hotel. It's exactly the kind of place we used to stay when our family still vacationed together. I try to recall our last vacation. I might have been in fifth grade. We went to Atlantic City. Mom, Tiffany, Maria, and I spent all our time at the pool. Dad was very popular at the blackjack table.
The concierge appears and Wes signs us in. When he slides his credit card across the desk, it occurs to me that this hotel is expensive. It was my idea to get a hotel room in the first place. Maybe I should pay for the room. Or at least half. A bellboy carries our suitcases upstairs to our room. I get that little shiver again, thinking of our room. Our room turns out to be rather small, but the bellboy, seeing my surprised expression, assures me all the rooms are small. For what it lacks in space, the room makes up for in style. It's gorgeous with beautiful black wood furniture and tall floor lamps with lacy cream-colored shades. I glance upward again. Even the light fixture is gorgeous.
Everything is perfect.
"Which side of the bed do you want?" Wes asks. He says it very casually.
"Um...I'll take the left," I answer, lifting my suitcase onto that side of the bed. The comforter is gray and turquoise. I press my hand on it. It's down. Very nice. I open my suitcase and begin neatly stacking my clothes in the small drawers of the nightstand. A few things I have to refold.
"You're very neat," Wes observes. He's opened his suitcase on the other side of the bed.
"I like things orderly," I reply. I crane my neck around to see into his suitcase. Everything is folded, but not nearly as neatly as mine.
"Would you like me to refold those for you?" I offer.
Wes raises an eyebrow. "You want to refold my clothes?" he says. "No. That's okay."
I decide not to be pushy. I shrug, nonchalantly. "All right," I say and carry my garment bag to the closet and slide it onto the rack. "Do you need me to hang anything up for you?" I ask.
"Sure," Wes replies. He tosses me a navy blazer.
I shake it out a few times before sliding it onto a hanger. I smile at Wes as he walks by, carrying a canvas bag into the bathroom. I like this. Bustling around together, putting away our things. The last thing I take out of my suitcase is a white nightgown. I fold it, more carefully than usual. It isn't skimpy lingerie. I'd be too embarrassed to buy anything like that. Actually, I was too embarrassed to buy any type of lingerie knowing Wes would see me in it. Knowing that he would take it off. I found this nightgown at the back of Mom's closet with the tags still on. For as much as she paid for it, someone should wear it at least once. It's white silk, sleeveless, and snaps down the front. I set the nightgown on top of my other clothes, the slide the drawer closed. Then I shut my suitcase and slide it into the closet. I sit down on the bed. It's very soft. I feel warm and nervous again, thinking that tonight, this is where I'll lose my virginity.
"So, I was thinking," Wes says, coming out of the bathroom, "our dinner reservations aren't until seven. We're right by Central Park and a lot of museums. Do you want to go out? We're also not far from Madison and Fifth Avenue, if you want to go shopping." Wes doesn't look too thrilled about that last suggestion.
"Can we go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art?" I suggest. After all, if I really go, then it won't actually be a lie.
"Sure!"
"Great! Let me freshen up," I tell Wes, grabbing my purse and my cosmetics case. I slip into the narrow bathroom and shut the door. First thing I do is check out what Wes brought in. It's nosy of me, but I've shown a lot of restraint in not opening his medicine cabinet at his apartment. I look in the shower. He's set his shampoo and conditioner on the shelf. Paul Mitchell. That's a little high maintenance for a man, but I can overlook it. Dad uses this horrible perfumed shampoo from Bellair's, so I know it could be much worse. Next, I check the canvas bag Wes carried in. I paw through it quietly. Razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, a prescription bottle of migraine medication, vitamins. And at the very bottom, a small box of lambskin condoms.
The sight of them makes me blush, so I bury them back underneath the toothpaste and vitamins. I shouldn't be embarrassed. I've been thinking all week about having sex with Wes. I've been making plans. Of course he's had similar thoughts. Of course he's made similar plans. He reserved this hotel room, this beautiful, expensive hotel room, so our first night together is special. I shouldn't be embarrassed.
"I'm ready," I announce a couple minutes later, coming out of the bathroom, hair brushed and make-up freshened.
Wes hands me my coat, then we walk downstairs. Outside, the street is busy as we walk, hand in hand, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I haven't been in years. The last time was seventh or eighth grade. I went with Lindsey and her grandparents. I think we saw an Egyptian exhibit. I remember how when I was little, Greer and I used to pretend we were running away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art like Claudia and Jamie in From The Mixed Up Files Of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. We would go to my house and pack my suitcase, then over to Greer's to pack hers. I always packed sensible things like clean panties and a toothbrush. Greer always packed ridiculous things like hair glitter and a liter of grape soda. There's a pang of sadness remembering that. I miss the old Greer.
Wes and I spend a couple hours walking around the Metropolitan. I walk with my arm tight around his waist, my head resting on his shoulder. I push him into dark corners and kiss him long and hard, probing his mouth with my tongue. I feel a little dangerous. I feel a little naughty. I like it. Wes seems to like it too.
It's almost five-thirty when we get back to the Franklin. Our dinner reservations are at seven. Wes wants to shower before dinner. I lay out my new dress and my gray heels, listening to the water rushing in the shower. I stand back and admire my dress, then quickly slip out of my skirt and sweater. I slide the new dress up over my hips and slip my arms through the spaghetti-straps. It's a struggle to zip the back up by myself, but I manage. Then I slide into the heels and admire my reflection in the mirror on the wall. It isn't full-length, but I know I look wonderful. Perfect.
Wes wears khaki slacks and his navy blazer. "You look very handsome," I tell him, straightening his collar. Then I kiss him, lightly on the lips, so I don't mess up my lipstick.
Wes smiles. "You're beautiful. I'll have to keep my eye on you tonight. I don't want anyone stealing you away." He puts an arm around my shoulders as we leave the room.
Wes and I have reservations at the Four Seasons. It's funny because I told him to choose any restaurant because I haven't eaten in New York very often and he chose the restaurant I've eaten at half a dozen times. The Carsons love the Four Seasons. We ate here every time we came into the city. But I don't tell Wes that. Even though we have reservations, it's still a short wait for a table. When the waiter finally seats us and hands us our menus, I actually already know what I'll order. But I don't tell Wes that either.
"I think I'll have the roasted black bass," I tell him, after studying the menu for awhile. Or pretending to study it.
"That looks good. I came here with my parents over the summer and had the crab cakes. I recommend not ordering them."
"I won't then," I reply with a laugh. "Your parents come to New York often?"
"Yes. My mother loves the city, but my father hates it. But then, my mother hates Miami and my father loves it there. So, they compromise and suffer through each place for the other."
"That's really sweet," I say. My parents would compromise, too. Only they'd compromise by taking separate vacations. "It must be nice having parents who - " I almost say, like each other, " who are willing to make sacrifices for each other."
"I'm lucky. I have great parents," Wes smiles at me, sort of sadly. I know he's feeling sorry for me. "Well, they're mostly great. They do nag at me sometimes. About my love life, about my job. They want me to start the graduate program at Stoneybrook University in the winter. They think teaching wouldn't be such a bad profession if I had a master's degree or a doctorate. They're hoping I'll tire of SMS and eventually move on to the college level. I'm not interested."
"I think you'd be a wonderful teacher on any level. But I bet there aren't grades more difficult to teach than seventh and eighth grade. I remember, middle school could be a nightmare."
"High school wasn't much better."
I pause and take a slow sip of water. "Yes," I finally agree. "I'm so glad that's over."
I quickly switch the subject from high school to the Metropolitan. We discuss the exhibits we saw today until the waiter reappears and takes our order. We both order the bass. Wes talks awhile about his cat and how worried he is that the cat's upset about his leaving. The cat's alone at the apartment because Wes' parents went to Buffalo to visit friends, so the cat couldn't go to their house. And none of Wes' friends would watch the cat for him. Smart friends. So, Wes had to arrange for some girl from his building to come and feed the cat. As much as I like Wes, his attachment to his cat still sort of weirds me out.
"I heard on the radio this morning that the Great Blue Whales are playing in New Haven next month," Wes tells me when we're halfway through our dinner. "Maybe we could go."
I swallow my bite of bass and nod. "Sure. That would be - " I drop my fork.
Wes lowers his fork from his mouth. "What's wrong?" he asks.
I'm staring over his shoulder, across the dining room. "That man over there," I say.
Wes turns around. "What man? Who are you looking at?"
I don't answer. I rise and start across the dining room. I'm not even thinking. I've switched to autopilot. My legs are moving, very fast, crossing the dining room to the table in the corner. I stop beside the table. I stand very straight and still until they look at me.
"What are you doing here, Dad?" I demand in a very quiet voice.
"Shannon!" Dad cries and drops the woman's hand. She's young, not much older than me. She's very pretty. In fact, she looks like a young Kathleen Turner. "What are you doing here?" Dad asks.
"I already asked you that," I reply, coldly. "Who is this?"
"This is...this is Kathleen," Dad answers, flustered.
"Actually, it's Candace," the woman says. She holds her hand out to me. She expects me to shake her hand! "He just likes to call me Kathleen."
I refuse her hand. "Do you know that he's married?" I demand. "Do you know he has three daughters?"
She retracts her hand and fingers the gold chain around her neck. She looks over at Dad, uncomfortably. "We hadn't discussed..." her voice falls away.
Dad clears his throat. "Shannon...we've just met...Kathleen - er, Candace, is from an...agency."
My mouth falls open. Did I hear correctly? Did I understand? "A prostitute? You're here with a prostitute?" I gasp. I don't know how I don't scream it. "What do you do? Cruise the streets of New York searching for a hooker who looks like Kathleen Turner? You're sick!"
"I'm an escort," Candace says, irritably.
I ignore her, concentrating on Dad. "How can you do this to us?" I demand.
Dad glances around, ensuring no one's listening. He straightens his glasses and clears his throat again. "Shannon...you're old enough to know...your mother and I...we have an open marriage."
His words are lost on me.
Dad continues, "We'd lose a lot in a divorce. This arrangement, it's much easier."
Easier on him. Easier on Mom. Not easier on me or Tiffany or Maria. We're the ones paying and suffering and barely holding ourselves together.
"So," Dad chuckles, fakely, "what are you doing in New York City all dressed up?"
"I'm on a date," I reply and point, without thinking to Wes, who's turned around in his seat across the room, staring at us.
"Good looking guy," Dad says with another chuckle. He raises his tumbler of bourbon toward Wes and grins. "A little old for you. Don't worry. Our secret." Dad winks at me. "Why don't I pick up the check?"
"Don't bother," I sneer. "Enjoy your hooker." I turn and stride away, not so quickly, not so confidently. The walk back seems much longer. I can't breathe. I may pass out. I shouldn't be shocked. I should have suspected. I had wondered sometimes about him and Mom and who they are with when they're apart. And they're always apart. A mistress in New Hope or Greenvale would be one thing. Hookers who look like famous actresses are another. What kind of sick freak is my father? It becomes glaringly clear, as I cross the room, that we will never be the same. I will never have my family back. Whatever secret hope I may have harbored deep in my soul has disintegrated in an instant. Dad isn't coming back to us. He left long ago, checked out, and forgot us. And Mom followed.
"May we leave now?" I ask Wes, quietly, pausing beside his chair.
Wes looks at me, concerned and confused. "What's wrong, Shannon? Who is that?"
It's an effort to control my voice, keep it calm and steady. "My father," I answer. "And his hooker. May we leave now?"
"Sure. Let me find the waiter. I'll pay, then we'll leave." Wes rises and glances around, searching the dining room for our waiter.
"I'll wait outside," I tell him and walk away before he can reply. The cold air hits me sharp in the face the moment I step through the doors. I breathe in. The air chills in my lungs.
Wes joins me a few minutes later. He's carrying my coat and purse. He drapes the coat over my shoulders. "We'll take a taxi," he says.
In the taxi, we sit apart, silent. I stare out the window, gazing at the city lights. I turn to Wes. "What's an open marriage?" I ask him.
"Oh," Wes replies. "It means they're free to, uh, sleep with other people."
I fold my arms, holding myself tight. "You must think I'm very stupid," I say.
Wes shakes his head. "Of course not, Shannon."
In our room, I don't bother to hang up my coat. I simply drop it on a chair, then go stand at the window, staring out. Wes comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"Do you need to cry? It's all right to cry."
"I don't cry," I reply. I lean back into him. I am so lucky to have Wes. He is the best thing in my life. My parents don't care, they dismiss me, but Wes is here, arms around me, loving me. "I'm going to get ready," I tell him.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
I take my nightgown into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I change, slowly, out of my dress, my beautiful, expensive dress that did not deliver the evening I desired. I pull on the nightgown, quickly fastening the front snaps. My breasts are nearly visible through the thin silk. I stare into the mirror, not really seeing myself.
Wes has turned down the bed, exposing its clean white sheets. He's removed his shoes and blazer, but nothing else, as if he suspects I'll fall to pieces in the bathroom and change my mind. He's stretched across the bed, but sits up when I exit the bathroom.
Approaching him, slowly, I unsnap the front of my nightgown, exposing my breasts. "You love me, right?" I ask him.
"Yes," he replies.
"Say it, please."
"I love you, Shannon."
I let my nightgown fall to the floor.