Benny
Alan and Danielle’s rooftop is a 10-story-high world of festive lighting, luxury outdoor amenities, and outrageous greenery, including potted palms and massive outdoor topiaries, most notably a seven-foot-tall rabbit with twinkling lights woven all through its leaves. Guests are abuzz with speculation on how they got the massive plants onto the roof, because they certainly didn’t grow them up here. They couldn’t have brought them up the stairwell.
The sunset blazes over the river in the distance, painting glass building faces orange.
But the real wonder of the rooftop is Francine, casually elegant in a black-and-pink flowered dress. Her hair is down around her shoulders in loose waves that look unbearably sexy.
“What do you think?” she asks when I bring her a fresh bubbly water. “Are you cogitating on the topiary?”
I tuck a stray bit of hair behind her ear. “I won’t play.”
“What do you mean?”
“Its only purpose is to get people talking,” I say. “I don’t want to play.”
“I so want you to, though,” she says. “Do you think it was a helicopter? They’re saying this isn’t a proper helipad for that.”
“All the better,” I say. “What a bore it would be if this was a proper helipad.”
“You are so obstinate!” She tugs on the lapels of my suitcoat. “Tell me.”
I smile like I know. Which I do. It drives her a little bit crazy and she begs some more. I love the sound of her begging. It’s a drug that I’m quickly getting addicted to.
I should tell. Then again, I should do a lot of things. Like let Francine go. I need to do it. I’ve been in denial of that fact, but what the hell? She’s in the most difficult rehearsals of her life. She needs to relax when she’s not rehearsing, to baby that hurt knee.
I’m starting to suspect that I really am the asshole here.
“Please?”
I lean in. “Heavy-lifting drone.”
Her eyes widen. “You think so?”
I nod.
“Hah!” She links her arm into mine, pleased, and it does something to me. “Nobody guessed that. But then, a drone is just a big robot, isn’t it?”
“Entirely,” I say.
She beams at me.
“What?”
“Helicopter. Whatevs!” She pulls my arm in more tightly, pleased and proud—of me, of us as a team in the world.
Here I am, her captor. If I were her, I wouldn’t show me anything, but Francine shows her emotions, sparkling with feeling, sensitive to the vibrations of the world, all brightness and flow and beauty.
I spent so much of my life trying to contain my emotions—unsuccessfully. I get so full of curiosity, so consumed with the drive to make a thing work, that my world can sometimes collapse to a single point. I’d go at things with too much intensity. I fall in love too desperately.
A few people come over; it’s more of James’s network that adopted me, the sullen nerd that James inexplicably elevated to best friend. Like everyone, they’re curious about my long-lost wife.
We tell our origin story for about the fifth time that night. People have a hard time believing that I was ever even peripherally in the theater. She’s describing elements of the show in humorous terms—the swans, the gunfight expressed in acrobatic ballet. I remind her of other details, and she takes them up and spins them. The show really was ridiculous. Nobody knew that better than us cast members.
She hooks her arm into mine. “If you get him drunk enough he’ll sing ‘Alejandro.’”
“You never give up, do you?” I say to her.
“No way does Benny sing ‘Alejandro,’” somebody says.
“He totally does,” she says, smiling.
She was happy when I sang it. She’d be delighted if I sang it again. It’s such a little thing. What would it cost me to sing it? Nothing. The mechanical action is simple—the mouth forms consonants and vowels.
The problem is that it feels like more than just a song. I’ve resisted singing it for the same reason I’ve resisted saying so many things. The vocal cords vibrate. You string words into one honest sentence. You follow it up with another honest sentence. It should be so easy, but it feels like moving mountains.
Telling her about James was hard like that, though it did feel good after.
People are arguing about what ‘Alejandro’ was really about. Some say it was about Lady Gaga’s old boyfriends. Others say it’s about her gay friends. Still others claim it’s about the civil war in Spain. The talk flows as freely as the champagne fountain, another topiary-involved creation.
Eventually the iPhones come out.
We wind up in another group where people are talking about the park construction project—some of our favorite paths are going to be closed. Fitness classes will be canceled. Francine is telling them about something called bear walks, and also how important it is to be able to get up from a lying position without using your arms. She’s telling them about the study that she loves to quote where elderly people who can get up from a lying position without using their arms live longer.
A few people try it—right there on the rooftop—and discover that it’s harder than it sounds. We exchange glances, laughing. Francine would normally be demonstrating, but she doesn’t. It’s her knee.
Later, she grabs another bubbly water from the open bar and wanders off to the far side to look over the railing, looking out at the lights, looking so sad. And I know she’s thinking about her knee.
She should be home, resting it.
I go over. “If only Igor and Monique were here. They would show them how to rise without using their arms.”
A grin spreads across her face. “They would laugh at everyone too much,” she says. “They can be merciless.”
“Igor is so good at everything, he doesn’t understand,” I say.
“Monique, too,” she says, fixing my collar. “She’s so gifted. Igor helps her understand what it’s like to have issues.”
“That’s funny, because I find Monique helps Igor in that respect,” I say.
“Who are Igor and Monique?” It’s Jeff, another neighbor.
Francine is smiling. “I brought Monique to the marriage, and Benny brought Igor. They’re both nine, and it’s sad because Monique speaks three languages and is an international personage while Igor is still having trouble with ‘Little Teapot.’”
“Well Igor doesn’t like to show off. It’s important to Igor to make Monique feel special.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t notice,” Francine says, “what with her artwork being on display in the Louvre.”
“The Louvre?” Jeff’s wife is there confused. People are wandering over, Aaron among them.
“Our children, Igor and Monique, have been about nine years old for the last decade,” I say.
“It’s been hard on them what with our jet-setting ways,” Francine adds. “Perhaps that’s why they’re so over-achieving.”
“Igor is applying to colleges these days,” I say. “Sometimes I think he is just far too serious for a nine-year-old.”
Francine grabs my arm with a look of concern. “He thinks he’s applying to colleges? Oh, how sweet!” This she says in a pitying tone. “Like an Easy-Bake oven, but colleges.”
“You’re correct in that he’s not truly applying. He’s been invited to quite a few of them. I don’t know if he’d really have to apply, so you were right in that it’s not really applying. I’m sure they would consider Monique if it weren’t for the Victorian ailments.”
“A few things are starting to make sense with you two,” Danielle says. “Suddenly this entire weird relationship is starting to make sense.”
“Oh my god, you guys,” says a neighbor. “I was like, they have kids? They named one Igor? Who names a kid Igor?”
Francine snorts. “People who love Igor Stravinsky. Did you know that one of his ballet pieces caused a riot in the streets of Paris? The man’s a badass.”
I’m beaming at her proudly. Then I catch sight of Aaron, standing there with a fake smile that’s very much like a dreadful rictus. He really doesn’t like Francine, ever since she reminded me how much I hate working for people.
I haven’t stopped thinking about that. I haven’t stopped thinking about our chocolate chip cookie dough discussion, either. I’ve reached out to a few people, in fact. Exploring ways to edge Aaron out. To take on a new partner. It turns out there are ways I could do it.
After James was killed so suddenly, I was in survival mode, doing all that I could to interact with the fewest people. I just wanted to be in the lab, my comfort zone. Now I’m thinking bigger—figuring out how to arrange things the way that I want instead of just reacting to them.
Chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Who knew?
“This is what it would be like,” I say as soon as we’re alone.
She turns to me. “Yeah, right? Where they all think we’re sadly weird.”
“But we don’t give a crap,” I say. “That’s the kind of marriage that we have. And it’s a good example to set for Igor and Monique. They’ll have trouble in life if they worry too much about opinions.”
She’s grinning. There’s this feeling bubbling in my chest, and I don’t know what it is.
Until I realize it’s happiness.
God, our marriage is such a mirage, and I’m drinking it all in. I’m splashing in it. I can’t stop. I lean over and brush my lips over hers.
Her hands curl around my lapels and she pulls me to her.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” A voice. Aaron.
We pull apart.
“Didn’t realize it was showtime,” he mumbles.
I give him a hard look.
He turns to Francine. “Monica and Britney want suggestions for ballet schools. I told them that you’d know. They’re talking about sending their girls to Ballez Over America or something like that?”
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” she says. “That’s a scam!”
“Not what Monica says.”
“Oh, man!” She heads over, leaving me with Aaron, who has some bullshit to say about Juliana. Moving up the signing.
“What are you doing?” I bark. I’m not a moron; he deliberately interrupted that kiss.
“What?” he asks, blue eyes wide and innocent.
“Fine.” I walk off. Another beauty of being me is that I don’t have to make excuses when I leave. I grab another beer.
What’s up with Aaron trying to intervene? I’ve always known he was manipulative, but did I have my head buried so deeply in my ass I didn’t see him trying to manage me? Is he trying to hasten the sale to Juliana because he doesn’t want me to think it through? To think about the larger picture?
Alan, our host, comes up. “You know what I don’t understand?” he asks.
“Topiary transportation?” I ask.
“You two,” he says. “You have such independent lives, but when you’re together, anyone can see the sparks fly. Do you have a secret of some sort?”
“If you’re asking for relationship advice, you’re in the wrong place,” I say.
“Am I? Plenty of people I’m looking at right now spend less than half the year with their spouses. Some of them spend zero time at all. But they’re not like you two. It always seemed extreme that you didn’t bring her around, that you led such separate lives. But it’s not the quantity, it’s the quality, isn’t it? You have chemistry, but also this friendship. You like each other. You laugh together.”
Francine’s the one laughing. Over across the roof, she’s laughing, gesturing, pointing north, probably in the direction of whatever ballet school she’s recommending. I think to tell him it’s a charade. But even if I was in the mood to let him in on the secret, it’s not entirely true that it’s all a charade. We have chemistry. We have friendship. We have history. We’re attracted to each other. We laugh together. We lead separate lives, yet we’re married.
“Or do you work well as a couple because you’re apart so much?” Alan asks. “Do you wish you were together?”
I stare across the rooftop at her, bathed in the festive lights strung overhead like giant stars.
Yes. I wish we were together.
The thought forms before I can think better of it. I’d risk it. I’d risk the hurt. The pain. I’d risk all of it.
The thought hits me like a sledgehammer.
Eventually she’s back and Alan takes off to do host things. I coax her to a couch. She needs to not be standing.
“You remembered my mania about the whole ‘getting up from a lying position without your hands’ thing,” she says. “I didn’t even remember that.”
“I remember. Every time I do it.”
She pokes at my abs. “I’m sure it’s easy for you, what with your hardbody weightlifting ways.”
“That’s right,” I say.
“I can’t anymore,” she says, meaning she can’t get up without the use of her hands. Because of her knee. “Not now.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put your mind back on it again.”
“Like I don’t freak out about it twenty-four seven already,” she says. “Running every doom scenario possible. Go ahead. You want to ask me how bad it is.”
“I don’t need to,” I say. I already know. It’s bad.
“Teaching that class yesterday in that beautiful space...I had this realization that that’s where I’m happiest, even the most fulfilled.”
“Wow! That’s massive,” I say. “Isn’t it?”
She sighs sadly and looks out over the chockablock buildings, all muted grays and browns except for where the sky reflects. The sun is gone, but there’s still brightness. For now.
“Isn’t that a valuable insight?”
“No. Because I don’t know who I am without that goal. This European tour, dancing in front of the ruins, being this international ballerina, it’s what I’ve been dreaming of all this time—it feels like all my life. Striving and striving. When I think of letting it go…it makes me want to weep.”
I curl my fingers around her forearm. I’m not the kind of man who’s good with people or who knows what they need on an emotional level. I barely know my own mind, but I want to show her that I’m with her. I am with her. Or I want to be.
“I know what you think,” she says. “I know you think I shouldn’t do the tour because of my knee. You think I’d mess it up even more. I’d let down the whole company.”
“It’s not my decision,” I say. “I’m the last person to suggest you stop being extreme.”
This gets a smile from her.
“How about you tell me this,” I say. “What are the chocolate chip cookie dough parts? Of the ballet tour? And what’s the boring ice cream?”
“I think you’re being sneaky,” she says.
“What parts?”
“The whole thing is chocolate chip cookie dough,” she says tersely. “That’s the problem.”
“Come on, you know that’s not true. Tell me.”
She touches the buttons of my sports jacket, one and then another, then adjusts my lapels. “The chocolate chip cookie dough is very plentiful. Dancing in front of the ruins, obviously. Being specifically chosen for this prestigious tour out of a large pool of hopefuls. That’s chocolate chip cookie dough, dude. A European dance tour! Fabulous hotels! Dream come true.”
“So dancing in front of the ruins, accommodations, and having been invited. What else?”
“What else…” She adjusts my collar. “Kind of, that somebody thought enough of my skills to literally pay for me to fly to Europe in order to dance for people.”
“That’s a restatement about having been invited. What about the dance itself? The ballet itself.”
“It’s an original creation of Sevigny’s.” She shrugs. “It’s very challenging technically, and I’m proud to be nailing it. But Sevigny’s not really thinking about the ruins on an artistic level. The ruins are just one stop on a tour that’s all about showcasing his choreography.”
“Like how?” I ask.
“This feels like an exercise in frustration,” she says, swinging around so that her legs are on my lap.
I settle my hands lightly over her knee, wishing I had ice, wishing I could trade knees with her. “Tell me how the dance would be different if it were pure cookie dough.”
“If I had my way, the dance would be done in complete response to the ruins. It wouldn’t be as polished. I’d want it more exuberant, the way the girls dance. A less breakneck tempo. Better costumes.”
“So the cookie dough parts of your upcoming tour are being invited in the first place, which you’ve nailed. Being able to do a technically difficult dance, which you’ve nailed. And the accommodations.”
“And being on a worldwide tour as a ballerina,” she insists. “Going down to have a café au lait in a café on the ancient streets.”
I slide a palm over her calf, down to her sock and back up. Why is she knocking herself out for something she’s not a hundred percent on? She’s barely twenty percent on it.
“So you like it in theory, just not in reality,” I say.
She raises one brow. “You’d better not be suggesting I blow off this tour. Because then we’d have a problem.”
“You hear me suggesting that?” I protest.
“I think you’re thinking that I should do my own damn tour. Maybe with the girls. Make that my whole thing. I think that’s what you’re saying.”
“I said all that?” I tease.
She pokes my chest. “I think you should screw off.”
I grab her finger and brush a kiss on her knucklebone.
“Not this again,” she says.
I move on to the next knuckle.
“It’s a lifelong dream,” she says. “My dream since I was a kid. And you want to act like it’s boring ice cream parts.”
“I think you fought for it,” I say. “I think you are the most tenacious person on this rooftop.”
“No, you’re the most tenacious person,” she says.
I brush my lips over another knuckle. “It’s a thing we have in common.”
“Who knew!” she says.
A rush of déjà vu hits me. The memory of a conversation from the night we were married.
“What?” she asks, tilting her head. Her silky hair catches the light from atop a nearby building. “I can see those gears in your mind turning and churning. Tell me.”
She’s waiting, really wanting to know. She so hates being the last to know things. And somehow, I can’t resist. One brief trip to the past. “We knew that night.”
“We talked about it?” she asks.
“We talked about being tenacious that night. That people get it wrong, like they take it weirdly personally. We talked about being both outsiders.”
“I hate that I forgot so much of it,” she says. “And I hate so much of how I acted.”
“It’s past. We don’t have to talk about it.” I glide my palm along her calf, soft and cool. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Maybe you don’t like to talk about it, but I want to know. Tell me what else happened,” she says. “I know you remember.”
“For one thing, I had no idea that you were such a lightweight.”
“Such a lightweight,” she says.
“I wasn’t used to drinking either, but—”
“But at least you remember our nuptials!” she says.
“We were acting in…an uncharacteristic way,” I say.
“Like how?”
I shake my head. I shouldn’t be going back there. The level of happiness I had that night is what made it hurt.
She’s looking at me now, eyes piercing. “I want to know. And don’t say it was tequila. Tell me really.”
“One highlight,” I sigh, “or possibly a lowlight, was us holding hands, running down the strip. And at one point, skipping.”
“Wait, what?” Her eyes go wide. “No. Are you making that up?”
“Sorry to say, I’m not.”
She fake punches my arm. “No way!”
Skipping. That’s what she did to me then. “It was a little bit ironic, but not entirely.” It was actually ecstatic. She opened me up and unraveled me and made me feel so much joy.
“Us. Skipping,” she says. “Holding hands and skipping. You are so shitting me!”
“I’ve tried to suppress that part.” Which is true, but not because it was dorky. Because it was good. We were both drunk on tequila, but I was drunk on impossible things, and that’s a far more dangerous drink.
“Skipping,” she says, stunned.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
“No, it’s…” She sucks in her lips, staring at a giant bush that’s shaped like a duck. “What else. How did we…get the idea to you know, get hitched?”
“We were doing this whole thing with Igor and Monique. Something about giving them a stable family life. We were on a side street by this run-down chapel. They posted the marriage certificates the way restaurants post menus, all in different styles. You found one that had little birds holding banners, and a place to put names of children that would be members of the blended family. It was all bordered in gold foil. Calligraphy, etcetera. You were like, ‘We have to get this!’”
“The wedding was my idea?” she asks.
“Well, you really wanted the certificate showing we were a family. And we didn’t even keep them. We taped them up on a lamppost outside the Bellagio to announce it to the world. You felt that it was…beautiful and ephemeral,” I say. “Those were the words that you used.”
“Wow,” she says.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I say, trying for lightness.
Seemed like a good idea at the time. Understatement of the year. She was the only thing worth having in the whole entire universe.
“We went back to my place because I had chocolates.” I straighten her socks so they line up with each other. They’re white with black smiley faces. Francine will go elegant, but she always reserves some part of her outfit for fun. Always the little rebel. “You ate every one of those chocolates before crashing on my bed. I crashed on the couch out in the living room. When I woke up, you were gone.”
“I blew town,” she says sadly.
“You blew town.”
“And we were married,” she says. “Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I thought you’d find me when you figured it out,” I tell her. “When you were ready.”
“And I had no idea.” She sighs dolefully. “I acted like such a complete and utter asshole. I’m so sorry.”
“The past is in the past.”
“I know, and I know you don’t like to talk about it, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to, but Benny—” She swings her legs off my lap, sitting up, like she wants me to get this. “I want you to know, I loved the thing we had going. I loved it even before that night. You were this bright spot in everything, this genuine person in a land of fakery. And I had to go and ruin it by making all those unwelcome passes at you. I felt like an ass.”
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“When we got back to your place. You were right to reject me.”
I frown, not sure what she’s apologizing for.
“You know. Me kissing you and trying to unbutton your shirt, and you were like ‘Francine, no, we can’t.’ The few good things I remember from that night are blotted out by my awful behavior. I had to ruin it, you know? I was so screwed up back then. And I behaved so shamelessly with you, and then I compounded it by ghosting you the next morning instead of staying there and apologizing.”
My mind is reeling. What?
She presses a fingertip to my lips. “Let me get this out for once. You texted me,” she continues, “and you were so sweet. I felt so ashamed, you have no idea. I couldn’t face you, even through texting! Of all people, it’s you I made a fool of myself in front of. I would think about it over and over, wishing I’d acted differently.”