Something New (9781101612262) Read online

  My nameless relative, heaven help her, is surrounded by testosterone, with a husband and three sons. I often wonder how she deals with it. (She once brought home a female dog in an attempt to balance out the estrogen level in her home, but within six months, little Fifi was humping everything in sight.) She explains to me that she treats her four boys as though there are eight of them. She can always tell which brain is controlling the body, and her response is based on that knowledge. If the skull-brain is in charge, she uses her reasoning and carefully chosen words to defuse an untoward situation. If the penis-brain is calling the shots, she screams like a Neanderthal and lets fly a properly placed, and never forceful, spanking, in hopes, she says, of shocking the penis-brain into relinquishing control back to the skull-brain, at which point she can fall back on logic. (I should add that my nameless relative majored in anthropology, and clearly, this serves her well in a house full of men.)

  The preoccupation with the little brain starts early, in case you hadn’t noticed. From the time baby boys begin flexing their fingers, their first destination is always their pants. “Oooh. What’s this? Fun!” It’s all over for them before their lives even get going. And the fixation continues to grow until they are, haha, erecting shrines to their penises. You see them everywhere: skyscrapers and rocket ships and those color-changing columns that greet you at LAX.

  Not that I am putting down the penis, Lord no. I love the little guy. He comes in handy quite often. And I love men, too. At least, I love them when they’re not busy being total jerks. I just think it must be hard—uh, difficult—to be a man. I feel sorry for them, actually. Here you have a being on the face of the planet who is so deluded as to think he is in control of his own destiny, when in fact he is ruled by a small squishy creature that looks like an oversized flesh-toned amoeba. God help them, every one.

  • Fourteen •

  I thread my way through the heavy foot traffic that crowds Center Street on this unseasonably warm March evening. The Garden Hills Friday Night Farmer’s Market is in full swing, and all of the stalls that line the main thoroughfare are jammed with customers looking for the perfect organic tomato or hemp handbag or Indian scarf. I myself am in search of the rose-infused honey, which I’ve left to the last minute to acquire. Jonah and the kids are leaving on Sunday, so if I don’t find it tonight, Margaret is shit out of luck in the honey department. I could have come a couple of Fridays ago, or last week before book club, but I rationalized that I wanted to give Margaret the freshest batch available. I wouldn’t want my father-in-law to get a rash, now would I?

  My farmer’s market friend, Masood, has apparently moved his stall because it is not where it was the last time I was here, before Christmas. I used to come to the market frequently, just to wander, and occasionally, on a whim, I would buy something. Like the organic beets that ended up rotting in my fridge. But as life got busier, my visits became less frequent, and now it seems I only come four times a year for the honey. It’s my go-to gift for my mother-in-law: Christmas, her birthday, Mother’s Day, and the spring break trip. I know it’s not original, and it takes no thought at all on my part, but she loves it. And if you find something your mother-in-law loves, my advice is to stick with it.

  I am still energized from my time on the treadmill, can still feel the endorphins coursing through my veins. When Connor and I got home, I sent him to his room to think about his actions, then carefully tucked the sketch of Naked Becka in a file folder in Jonah’s office. I spent the rest of the early afternoon writing my blog and finished just before Jonah got home, and the two of us were able to communicate like the adults we claim to be as we rehashed the Connor situation. I finally managed to get my exercise in while the rest of the family excitedly got themselves ready for their night out.

  And how I needed it. All week, I’d felt as though I were riding on an emotional roller coaster. I’d been working so hard to stay on an even keel, fighting to maintain my precarious grip on the steering wheel of the familial vehicle in order to keep it from crashing into the side of a mountain. My blog was helping a lot and I’d definitely been using it as therapy (and was heartened to see my hits numbering close to thirty thousand), but there is a finite amount of angst and rage that can be defused through the written word, so I cranked up the resistance on the treadmill and poured the rest of my pent-up emotions into my workout.

  With each inhalation and exhalation, I told myself that I had an evening of freedom ahead. While I was conflicted about letting Connor off the hook so easily, I knew that a timeout from my family was exactly what I needed.

  By the time I hit the shower, I was blissfully alone in my home, and therefore, I had no one to brag to when I donned my favorite pair of jeans and found that I needed a belt to keep them from falling off.

  So just about now, I am feeling good. It’s a beautiful night. My ass is tighter than it’s been in years. I don’t have to cook or do dishes. I made it through a hellish week marginally unscathed. And I am, for the next five hours, free.

  And that’s when I see him.

  I am just walking past the nut stand when I catch a glimpse of Ben Campbell through the throngs of people who are standing around listening to a street performer waffle on his acoustic guitar. Ben stands among them, his arms folded across his chest, his head bobbing to the rhythm of the song. As if sensing my presence, he turns his head and sees me. Our eyes lock, and suddenly I feel like I have been sucked into a Rogers and Hammerstein musical. A sly grin spreads across his face as he uncrosses his arms and slowly moves toward me.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi back,” I return. I pray he can’t see my pulse throbbing in my neck. The evening light is waning so I’m pretty sure I’m safe.

  “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  I suppress a juvenile giggle and manage to turn it into a throaty laugh. “You’re right, we do.” I make a show of looking around, even though his wife and kids are conspicuously absent. “Where’s the rest of your clan?”

  “The boys are home.…” He makes a face. “We got a sitter for tonight, thought we’d check out Center Street, have dinner, you know. A real grown-up date. But she, uh, got tied up at the office. Gonna be there late. So, I thought, what the hell? We already had the sitter. Might as well take advantage of it.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, you wouldn’t want to alienate a good sitter by canceling at the last minute either. Good sitters are hard to find.”

  “Really? I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I can’t find a sitter who doesn’t have Enjoys animal sacrifice on her résumé.”

  He laughs at that, a hearty resonating sound that tickles me from head to toe. “What about you? What are you doing here?”

  “My quarterly honey run,” I answer and receive a puzzled look. “For my mother-in-law. It’s rose-infused.” As if that’s an explanation.

  “Does she cook with it?”

  “Among other things.”

  His brow furrows once more. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

  “Definitely not.” I peer past him down the long line of stalls. “Only, I can’t find it. My man, Masood, is not where he should be.”

  “That sounds like a problem. What do you say I help you find him?”

  “Oh no,” I protest, shaking my head. “Enjoy your evening, do what you were going to do…”

  “Hey, I am enjoying my evening. And you know what? It just got a little better.”

  His brown eyes are twinkling with mirth, yet at the same time serious, and I fear that if I look into them too long, I will melt into them and float away.

  “Unless you’d rather…not…have company.…”

  “No, I…” I take a breath then let it out on a chuckle. “Masood’s about five feet tall, and almost as wide, with a beard down to his nipples.”

  “So, in other words, hard to miss.” He grins, then holds out his arm, gesturing me forward. We walk side by side down Center Street, in search of a short fat hairy Persian man with
the best damn honey on the West Coast.

  Five minutes later, Ben spots him at the end of the aisle of stalls, situated in front of Yogurtland, prime real estate by farmer’s market standards. As I step beneath the caramel-colored canopy, the beefy Persian greets me with a magnanimous smile.

  “Ah, Miss Ellen! You found me! I knew tonight you would not disappoint me with your absence!”

  He clasps both of his enormous hands over mine and gives them an emphatic shake.

  “Nice spot,” I tell him, hooking a thumb toward the yogurt shop.

  “Ah, yes. Allah smiles on those with pure hearts.” He winks at me. “Well, those with pure products at least. I have your precious nectar right here.” He waddles over to one of the display tables and gingerly picks up a glass jar filled with the rose-infused honey. He hands it to me as though it is a priceless relic, then glances at Ben, who is perusing the rest of his merchandise with interest.

  “I see you have brought Mr. Ellen with you this fine evening!”

  I glance at Ben, feeling myself flush as he grins back at me. But instead of correcting Masood, he steps forward and puts out his hand.

  “I’m Ben,” he says simply.

  The two men shake hands and then Ben compliments Masood on his offerings, which include an assortment of both regular and infused honey, many different kinds of fruit preserved in spiced syrup, dried dates and figs and other fruits I don’t recognize, and a variety of sweet and savory chutneylike spreads. Masood beams and gives Ben an earful about each item, and Ben graciously listens, nodding and asking questions.

  After Masood finishes his discourse, I pay him and receive a bear hug in return. Ben and I wander back out to the middle of Center Street and stop. He shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and I glance around, unlike Masood, at a sudden loss for words.

  “Hey, any good sushi restaurants around here?” Ben asks out of the blue. “I’m having a craving. Linda won’t eat it, so now seems like a good time.”

  “Is it the vegan thing?”

  “No, the brain worm thing.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I read about that once. I try not to think about it.”

  “It’s good to live on the edge.”

  “Says the man who belongs to the three-mile-high club.”

  He cocks his head at me and smiles with such boyish sincerity that I feel warmth spread through my chest. I clear my throat and glance down the street, not wanting him to see the effect he is having on me. (But if he’s even a halfway decent detective, it’s a good bet he already knows.)

  “There’s, uh, Sushi Yummy,” I say, pointing to a building in the middle of the next block that houses my favorite procurer of raw fish.

  “Sushi Yummy?” he repeats doubtfully. “I don’t know about the name.”

  “It’s ridiculous, I know. But, trust me, the fish is the freshest in Garden Hills and their special rolls are orgas—” I stop myself and bite my bottom lip in embarrassment.

  He raises his eyebrows and suppresses an amused grin. “You were saying? Their rolls are…?”

  “Very…yummy,” I finish.

  He shakes his head. “That’s not what you were going to say. You know, I am a trained officer of the law. I could get it out of you. So, what was it?”

  I remain mute.

  “Chicken,” he teases and I can’t help but laugh. I also can’t help but wonder what kind of interrogation techniques he had in mind. A few are zipping merrily through my brain right about now. Like handcuffs and wax and feathers and…oh shit. Stop, Ellen!

  “So, you heading home to the family?”

  Lie, Ellen, I tell myself. Say “Yes, I am going home to my husband and children.”

  “Actually, Jonah’s taking the kids to see the Blue Man Group tonight, so I’m on my own.”

  “Those guys with the shaved heads and the blue body makeup, who make a huge mess on stage and call it theater?”

  “The very same.”

  He shudders. “So why aren’t you going?”

  “Not enough tickets.”

  “I can see you’re really broken up about it. Not that I blame you. I can’t stand those guys.”

  “I thought all men loved the Blue Man Group.”

  “I think you have them confused with the Three Stooges.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right.”

  We both chuckle, and then the sound dies away, and there we stand, in the middle of the carless street, people passing between us and by us, neither of us moving.

  “Why don’t you—”

  “Well, it was—”

  We both start to speak at the same time, then go silent in unison. We laugh again. I look at him expectantly, allowing him to go first.

  “Why don’t you come grab some raw fish with me.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My brain is on high speed, like a 33-rpm record being played at 78. Don’t, Ellen, no you can’t, but it’s totally innocent, it’s never totally innocent, remember When Harry Met Sally, men and women cannot be friends, but I want to and it’s just dinner, and what if one of your friends sees you or one of Jonah’s buddies, it’s just sushi for God’s sake not a suite at the Ritz, don’t even think about it, you slut, nothing is going to happen, you floozy, just say no and go buy a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and masturbate.

  “That sounds great,” I finally manage to say.

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, an image of Jonah skirts through my mind. I am still upset with him, but, as is usual in married life, my anger has lost its intensity and become tangential. I have been carrying it with me for the past few days, but it has remained on the periphery of our normal routine. I tell myself that accepting Ben’s invitation has nothing to do with Jonah and our squabble, but I wonder if I would have given the same answer if Jonah and I were on good terms.

  “Great.” Ben smiles. He doesn’t reach to take my hand, although I have the strangest sensation that he wants to, wants to reach out and touch me in some way. But he doesn’t. This isn’t a date. We are not two giddy teenagers caught up in some adolescent fantasy. We are two married adults who can certainly spend time together without it becoming something untoward or deceitful. This is no big deal. It’s perfectly innocent. Whether there is an attraction between us or not, we are adults. We are mature enough to behave like the rational married people we are. We are just going to have some sushi, and that will be the end of it.

  Of course, that was before the sake bombs.

  “So there I am, crouched down with my pants down around my ankles, trying to…uh…you know, make, and all of the sudden I look up and there’s like twenty-five Indian Princesses staring down at me, tomahawks at the ready.”

  Ben is in the middle of a story about a camping trip he and his college buddies took and I am laughing so hard I am afraid Sapporo is going to shoot out my nose.

  “Talk about shrinkage!” he cries. “For Christ’s sake, I told my buddy Paul I wasn’t ever going camping again unless the place had outhouses.”

  “Those poor girls!” I exclaim. “They must have had the shock of their lives.”

  “Poor girls? What are you talking about? They were armed! I was literally scared shitless!”

  I groan at him and shake my head, then laugh with him some more. I watch as he half fills my empty beer glass with a fresh bottle of Sapporo, then grabs the pitcher of sake and pours some into the white porcelain cup in front of me. He repeats the procedure with his own, lifts the sake cup and holds it over his beer mug and treats me to one of his trademark grins.

  “Bombs away!” he cries, then drops the porcelain cup into his beer glass and raises the glass to his lips. I notice his throat working as he rhythmically swallows the beer/sake concoction, and for some absurd reason this turns me on. He finishes and places the empty down on the sushi bar, and the porcelain cup drops to the bottom of the beer glass with an alarming clank.

  “Your turn,” he challenges.

  “I haven’t done sake bombs since colle
ge.”

  “It’s just like riding a bike,” he encourages.

  I mimic his every step, wincing as the combination of hot sake and cold beer hits my mouth, but I manage to drink it down with only one brief pause. I pull the sake cup out of the glass with two fingers and set them side by side next to my soy sauce dish. The warmth of the double dose of alcohol spreads through me, and for the first time in a few days, I feel myself relax, feel the tension draining from my shoulders.

  “Wow.”

  “See? No problem,” Ben says with a smile.

  “This is great. I really needed this tonight.”

  “Long week?” he asks.

  “An endless series of family dramas,” I explain.

  “Ah, yes.” He gives me a knowing look. “Those suck.”

  The sushi chef, a slight Asian man with the incongruous name Pierre stitched into his uniform, sets a plate in front of Ben on which sits a gorgeous, delectable-looking roll with eel and uni and some kind of sauce on top that has been flash-broiled to bubbly. At my place, Pierre places a tray of salmon sashimi drizzled with ponzu and garnished with bonita flakes. Using his chopsticks, Ben expertly picks up a section of his roll and pops it into his mouth. His eyes immediately roll back in his head and he moans loudly, and rather unself-consciously, to the amusement of the couple seated on the other side of him.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God! That is so good. Oh God.” He scrunches up his face. “I feel like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Oh GOD. YES!!” Suddenly, he turns to me and deadpans. “That sounded gay, didn’t it?”

  “I was just thinking about that movie,” I tell him. “And, yes, it did sound a little bit gay.”