| |
I WAKE UP ON SATURDAY MORNING sprawled across the center of the bed with my head on Tim’s pillow. I press my face into it and smell him on it; I feel a dull ache in my chest just from missing him. I roll over and see that it’s 11 a.m. I am thankful that I’ve slept the morning away and wish I was tired enough to sleep all of Saturday, too. Vito paces at the bedroom door; he needs to go out. I throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and say, “So let’s go for a walk. A long one that takes all day!” He wags his tail excitedly.
The kitchen is empty; hopefully everyone’s at Del’s. It’s nice to know that rock stars don’t take weekends off. For the moment, I have the house to myself, and I wish Tim was here to share the quiet with me. I imagine us eating a leisurely brunch and then deciding what to do with the rest of the day. A visit to Mystic Aquarium? Even better, a day in Boston? I wonder if we’ll ever again hold hands and stroll through the narrow winding streets of Boston’s North End. I can almost smell the garlic and the bread baking, just thinking about it. When did I last eat?
Due to Angela’s diligence, there aren’t any chores to do other than the laundry. I throw a load into the washer and grab Vito’s leash. “Let’s go, Buddy Dog!”
We walk on the trail from our back yard into the woods. Vito immediately puts his nose to the ground, tracking something or someone that walked there before we did. When he does that, I always wish that he could tell me what he smells. I think it would be fun to solve a mystery with him. He could say something like, “It smells like peaches,” and then I could try to guess anything that might smell like peaches that walked there ahead of us.
“Who is it, Vito? Do you know?” I ask. He doesn’t look up and instead remains focused. Beagles are excellent trackers in the woods, and once his instincts take over, he cannot be distracted for anything.
He stops and raises his front leg, bent at the knee; he’s pointing with it off the trail to the right. He can’t tell me what it smells like, but at least he can tell me where it’s going. Should I follow him? For all I know, he’ll lead me into a rabbit hole. But he isn’t baying the way he normally does when chasing a rabbit. He calmly and methodically sniffs at the unseen trail before him and ignores everything else. What else am I going to do today? Might as well let my dog take me on a tour of the woods, right?
We take a right and head off the trail; I walk quietly behind so I won’t distract him. And then I hear the leaves rustle ahead. There’s something moving just beyond a cluster of low trees, but the foliage is too thick; I can’t make out what it is. It might just be a deer.
Vito cocks his head and listens. I am holding my breath. It’s not at all like the sound of a bounding deer or the rustle of a squirrel or rabbit. The footsteps get progressively louder and my heart races. Our woods aren’t accessible to the public, so it’s unlikely that hikers would be roaming around out here. I feel my pockets and realize that I’ve left my cell phone at home.
I can barely make out a man walking toward me—and then I realize it’s Keith. When he spots me, he calls to me, and I see that he has his camera strapped around his neck. I am annoyed; he’s out here sightseeing when he should be in the studio, working toward getting out of my house.
“Hello, Brenda.” He bends to scratch Vito’s ears. The dog arches his back in pleasure; I silently call him a traitor. “And hello, little beagle. Sniffing around, are you?” Vito tips his head to coax Keith to scratch his favorite spot on his neck.
“Actually, I think he followed your trail. We don’t normally go this way.”
“I came upon a hummingbird nest back that way,” he says. He points to the clump of trees.
“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.” I forget that I am annoyed with him. It would be cool to see an actual hummingbird nest. “Will you show me?”
I know I should be mad at him. He’s supposed to be working, not spying on hummingbirds. And how on earth would he have found a hummingbird nest? There are miles and miles of forest out here. But then I figure I’ll never get this chance again. I leash Vito and tie him to a tree; he whimpers at being left behind. I shush him and follow Keith to the clump of trees. I’ll have him show me, and then I’ll lay down the law and tell him he needs to get back to work. He places his finger over his lips to warn me to be quiet. How does Keith manage to do this to me every time I should be mad at him? He insists on showing me some loveable sensitive side that makes my insides go all gooey. If only he could exert this influence on the American listening audience.
He points to a small cup fashioned out of twigs and grass. Then he gestures to a log, and I step on it to get a better view. The opening is about the diameter of a quarter, and there is a single tiny egg inside. I gasp.
He tilts his head upward and whispers, “The mother is up there, watching us. See her?” He holds out his hand to steady me as I step off the log. “We’d better leave her be. Don’t want to stress her out and cause her to abandon her nest.” I want to stay longer and stare. Maybe I can stand here and wait for the tiny egg to hatch. I look around to spot a few landmarks so I can come back and check on the baby hummingbird’s progress.
I untie Vito, and we walk back to the trail. Keith holds out his camera to me. “I got some great shots of her sitting on the egg.” We stop so I can check out his pictures. He’s right: they are great. How the hell did he find this nest way out here? Just how much time is he spending in the woods, when he should be working? I consider asking him but decide not to. I think I need to become friends with him again, and then maybe he can help me to get the band out of my house.
“You could probably sell these to National Geographic, if this whole rock-star thing doesn’t work out,” I say and hand his camera back to him.
“Actually, I am just going to send them to my mum. She can send them to National Geographic if she wants. Hummingbirds are her favorite.”
“So, any word yet on her lump?”
“Actually, yes. She called me this morning. Turns out it’s benign. She’s fine.”
“Really? Oh, Keith, that’s great news.” I throw my arms around him. “You must be so relieved.”
“Yes, I really am. I truly could not face the prospect of life without Mum.”
We are standing on the trail at the edge of my lawn with our arms still around each other. I am happy that his mom is okay, but yet somehow I cannot pull away from him. He doesn’t pull away, either. He brushes the hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear then caresses my cheek. My pulse is racing in all the right places. Is it possible to feel so right and know I am so wrong at the same time?
“Brenda, I have never met anyone like you. You had the courage to put me in my place and be honest with me. Honestly, it’s refreshing and sexy.”
“Keith, you are so infuriating.” It doesn’t escape my attention that Keith Kutter called me sexy. He pulls me closer, so close that I take in his spicy, sweaty scent. I remember picking up on that the day he’d helped me take in the laundry from the rain. The smell of him goes right to my head. All I want to do now is press my face into his neck and stay there for the entire afternoon, letting whatever happens, happen.
It would be so easy to just go with it. What it would be like to go on tour with him? I don’t think I would need to worry about groupies anymore, as the band’s now older than the talent that the average groupie considers. Other than Trisha, that is. I would stand in the wings night after night and watch them play for thousands of screaming fans.
Never mind being backstage with the band—what about getting to see the whole world one city at a time for months on end? How amazing would that be? While he’s rehearsing, I can go walk along the Seine in Paris or take a gondola ride through Venice or hike in Red Rocks. London. Moscow. Tokyo. But when I think about it a bit longer, I realize that I’ll probably be seeing those places alone. I’ll be there only because Keith is there working, not because I am on a trip around the world with someone I love. I don’t really want to see those places with Keith.
I can picture standing in front of the Kremlin with Tim, watching the colorful domes change as the sun hangs lower in the sky. I can imagine a long deep kiss with Tim while a gondolier expertly navigates through the canals of Venice. Really, it’s with Tim that I want to see those places. He’s the one I sat up with to the wee hours of the morning, talking about all the places in the world we wanted to go. Tim’s the one who would make sure I had a blanket to keep warm on the plane. Tim’s the one who would learn how to say, “No onions,” in several different languages, so I wouldn’t have to deal with having them on my plate. I don’t see Keith doing any of that for me. With Keith, I’d be the one tagging along behind him, rather than walking beside him. And that’s really how life with Tim is: we stand beside each other. We support one another. My God, I really am being a shitty wife. What the hell is wrong with me? I pull myself away from Keith’s embrace.
“You need to get out of the woods and back into the studio, Keith. Get back to work.” I really have to get the idea of being Keith Kutter’s girlfriend out of my brain. But there’s still that little voice that asks me why I need to do that. When will I ever have this kind of chance again? It probably wouldn’t last, but it would probably be a lot of fun. But then, what would happen when it eventually ends? Which it will. End it before it starts.
We walk toward the house. I bend down and unclip Vito from the leash. He bolts across the lawn, past Tent City and up the deck stairs to the door. He taps on the glass with his claws until the door opens. I wonder who is inside to let him in. When Keith and I get to the door, we see Tim standing just inside. He glares at me then at Keith and then at me again. I can see the look of disappointment in his eyes.
“Tim...” I begin.
“You are unbelievable, Brenda.” He pushes past me and walks toward the deck stairs.
“Tim, would you wait a second?”
He turns to face me. “Why should I?” He lunges at Keith, and for a second, I am afraid that Tim is going to deck him. Keith flinches and takes a step back. “And you! You are a guest in my home, and now you’re trying to get into my wife’s pants.”
Keith turns to face Tim. He’s about to say something that’ll probably piss off Tim, but then cocks his head to the side and says, “Okay, I am off to work then.” Classic Keith: stir up the drama and then slip out the back door. But he doesn’t leave yet. He’s cleaning the lens on his camera and placing it into its case.
“That’s not it at all,” I try to explain to Tim.
“Then what is it? Looks like my wife and my dog went for a romp in the woods with Keith Kutter. Did you fuck him out there, too?”
“It wasn’t like that at all. Will you please listen?” But he won’t listen. Instead he’s pacing around the deck, and I am starting to get a bit scared. I feel like, any second, he’s going to haul off and punch Keith. Frustration radiates from Tim; I need to get control of this situation. Fast.
And then I notice a red BMW pulling into the driveway. “Oh, shit,” I mutter. Any hope of controlling the situation is now gone. Keith spots her, turns on his heel, and goes back into the house. I wish I could, too.
“Be nice,” Tim warns.
“Did you call her?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Are you fucking crazy?”
“Brenda, she’s my mother. I should be able to call her when I’m going through a tough time.”
“And have her hate me even more?”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“Just watch.” I plaster a smile on my face; I figure I should lay on the charm a bit, seeing as how she thinks I called her rude. “Portia! How lovely to see you,” I call out as she emerges from behind the wheel. She’s wearing one of her Chanel suits. She never seems to sweat in them, even on the hottest of days—another way I can tell that she’s not human. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Keith in the window, jumping back so he can dodge her view. Lucky. Wish I could do the same. Portia, as usual, doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve even spoken to her.
“Timothy, I’ve called Albert, and we’ll have you out of this mess in no time flat,” she says, breezing by me.
“Mess? What mess?” I ask. She ignores me. I haven’t talked to Tim about the shop in about a week; is he in some kind of legal trouble? Portia has this friend, Albert Sharpley, from her club. He’s pretty famous in Rhode Island for being a legal shark. Whatever the problem is, this guy will get results for Tim. That’s actually a good thing about Portia: she’s pretty well connected.
“Albert is brilliant with divorce, dear. You’ll be out of this,” she gestures toward me, “in no time.”
“And hello to you, too, Portia.” I plaster on an even wider, faker smile. I am so over this bitch. “How lovely of you to stop by, unannounced. Again.”
Tim glares at me for a moment, and I look back as if to say, “What?” Then he turns his attention to Portia. “Mother, I don’t want to get a divorce. Would you please be nice?”
“Then darling, why on earth did you tell me you’d moved out?” she asks.
“Um, Tim?” I ask, tugging on his arm. “May I please have a moment in private with you—darling?” I smile at Portia. “Would you excuse us for one moment?”
Tim scowls at me but agrees to walk out of earshot of his mother. “Are you fucking crazy?” I hiss. “You told her that we’re getting divorced?”
“No, I didn’t. She called me on my cell and came and met me at the shop one night, and she figured out that I was staying there. She got onto this divorce stuff on her own.”
“Tim,” I say, sighing, “is she going to sic her crazy lawyer on me now?”
“No, I’ll ask her not to. She’ll listen to me.”
I don’t really want to come between Tim and his mom. It’s great that he’s so close to her; but she does need to get a life of her own. I had always figured that, if I ignored it long enough, eventually she’d warm to me. After thirteen years, it hasn’t happened yet, as evidenced by her willingness to help Tim divorce me—even when he says he doesn’t want a divorce. Something has got to change, and it’s obvious that Tim won’t be the one to make it happen.
“Will you please tell her to go home?” I ask. I don’t want to give Portia even more of a reason to hate me, but the last thing I need is her involvement in this mess. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we have enough going on here without her getting involved.”
“You’re right.” He runs his hands though his hair. “I’ll get rid of her. But Brenda, you gotta tell me what’s going on here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re acting like a fucking groupie, Bren. I saw you guys come out of the woods together, and you were fawning all over him.”
“What? No, he was fawning over me, Tim.”
“Well then, maybe he’ll write a song about you, and then you can get over it—” He’s cut off by Portia Interruptus.
“Is there a problem here?” She came up behind me as Tim and I were talking. I bristle at the sound of her voice; she is skilled at sneaking up on me when I least expect it, like some kind of snooty ninja. Tim doesn’t acknowledge her, but raises his eyebrows at me. So, he’s chickening out and not telling her to get the hell out of here? Nice.
“No, Portia, there’s no problem here. Just having a private discussion with my husband.” I sigh, hoping she’ll take the hint and back off. I wish I could add, “But if there were, your presence would only be making it worse.”
“Well then, who could be fawning over you, dear?” She raises her eyebrow, not one crease shows on her Botoxed forehead. She looks me up and down as if it’s impossible that any man would find me attractive. “Are you threatening my son?”
“I’m not threatening anyone,” I say, glowering at her. Where the hell would she get that idea? God, she’s so infuriating. I wish I could just tell her to go fuck herself. Maybe next time.
Tim would absolutely kill me—kissing another man and telling his mother to fuck off in the same week would push him right over the edge. Though I am pretty sure the look on her face after she registers that I’ve said “go fuck yourself” would be absolutely priceless. That is, if her face is still capable of expressing emotion, what with all the Botox. I wonder if anyone’s ever said it to her before; I can’t see how she’s gotten this far in her life, acting the way she does, without someone saying that to her. But I don’t really see the ladies she lunches with talking to her like that.
“Mother, Brenda and I have a lot to talk about. Can I call you tomorrow?” Tim kisses her on the cheek and nudges her toward her car. Good, Tim’s stepping up. Now I don’t have to cuss her out. She lingers on the driveway, tapping her foot; she’s probably thinking I’m rude for not asking her in for a gin and tonic. Sorry, honey, fresh out of gin and Newport niceties. She sighs and reaches up to air kiss Tim on the cheek.
“Timothy, shall I set up a meeting with Albert for tomorrow?” she asks before heading to her car.
“Mother, please, it’s not necessary,” he calls out after her. I look up at him, thankful that he doesn’t find her bulldog divorce attorney necessary. She dismisses him with a wave, and we watch her slip her probably very expensive sunglasses onto her face and back the car out of the driveway. I can’t help but smirk a bit because nothing’s going to change the fact that Keith peed on Portia’s car.
“Well, I just came to get some clean clothes,” Tim says, shrugging. “See ya around, Bren.” And then I watch him get into his car and pull out of the driveway, too. I briefly wonder what he’d done with the dirty ones. Angela’s going to have to wash them; no way in hell I will, at this point.
I stand on the driveway and try to process exactly what just happened. This morning when I woke up, I tried to be angry with Tim. Even when I tried to imagine going on tour with Keith, I really couldn’t be angry at him. Imagining being Keith’s girlfriend just felt all wrong. But now, as I watch Tim pull out of the driveway, I can kind of picture it. I mean, it’s not like Tim wants me to be his wife right now.
I wonder what the hell he told Portia about us. Whatever it was, it was not cool for him to do that. Though, to be fair, he could probably tell her that I buy my underwear at Target instead of Nordstrom, and she’d insist he divorce me. As I walk up the deck stairs, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and wonder when the hell I’m going to stop crying.
When I get inside, Keith is at the table with a cup of tea. I notice that there isn’t any paper or pen in front of him. He’s not writing. Why isn’t he writing? He doesn’t say anything at first; I bend down to stroke Vito. He gives my hand a sincere lick and thumps his tail on the kitchen floor; he knows exactly how to soothe me. I tell him he’s a good dog.
“Off to the studio, then.” Keith sighs and opens the back door. “Thought I’d ought to make myself scarce, seeing as how my last meeting with your mother-in-law went terribly.” Thankfully, Keith knows when to exit a scene—surely pissing on Portia’s very rare and very expensive BMW did not endear him to her, anyway. He pauses, thinking maybe to say something before walking out the backdoor. He has a look of concern on his face, and I wonder if he overheard the scene play out on the driveway. How embarrassing to have Portia show up, on top of everything else. But he doesn’t say anything else, just walks out the door and closes it behind him.
After Keith leaves I pace around the house for an hour or two until I get bored. I try to read, but then I realize that though my eyes are moving across the page, they’re not absorbing any of the words. I can’t fathom another month of this without Tim.
I need to see for myself. Are they really working as hard as they say? Will it really be a month? Before I know it, I am behind the wheel of my car and a few minutes later, I am pulling in to Del’s driveway. I let myself in and open the door to the basement then I tiptoe down to the bottom step where I can listen undetected.