Elizabeth Berg - Open House

Contents

For Jean-Isabel McNutt

Prologue

YOU KNOW BEFORE YOU KNOW, OF COURSE. YOU ARE bending over the dryer, pulling out the still-warm sheets, and the knowledge walks up your backbone. You stare at the man you love and you are staring at nothing: he is gone before he is gone.

The last time I tried to talk to David was a couple of weeks ago. We were in the family roomDavid in his leather recliner, me stretched out on the sofa. Travis was asleephed had his eleventh birthday party that afternoon, the usual free-for-all, and had fallen into bed exhausted. The television was on, but neither of us was watching itDavid was reading the newspaper and I was rehearsing.

Finally, David? I said.

He looked up.

I said, You know, youre right in saying we have some serious problems. But there are so many reasons to try to work things out. I hoped my voice was pleasant and light. I hoped my hair wasnt sticking up or that my nose didnt look too big and that I didnt look fat when I sat up a bit to adjust the pillow.

I was wondering, I said, if you would be willing to go to see someone with me, just once. A marriage counselor. I really think

Samantha. He said.

And I said, Okay.

He returned to the paper, and I returned to lying on the sofa, to falling down an elevator shaft. There were certain things I could not think about but kept thinking about anyway: how to tell the people Id have to tell. How lonely the nights would be (that was a very long elevator shaft). How I believed so hard and for so long that we would be able to overcome everything, and now I would have to admit that we could not. How wrenching it is when the question you want to ask is "Why don't you want me?" but you cannot ask it and yet you do not askor talk aboutanything else.

David? I said again, but this time he did not look up.

I DRESS TO BRING IN THE MORNING PAPER. THE NEW ME. I once read that Martha Stewart never wears a bathrobe. Not that I like Martha Stewart, nobody likes Martha Stewart, I dont think even Martha Stewart likes Martha Stewart. Which actually makes me like her. But anyway, maybe shes onto something. You get up, you make your bed right away, you shower and dress. Ready. Armed. Fire.

I go into the kitchen to make a strong pot of coffee and to start Traviss breakfast. French toast hell have today, made from scratch, cut diagonally, one piece lying artfully over the other; and Ill heat the syrup, serve it in the tiny flowered pitcher I once took from a room-service tray. Ill cut the butter pats into the shape of something. A whale, maybe, he likes whales. Or a Corvette. If that doesnt work, Ill make butter curls with a potato peeler.

I lay out a blue linen place mat at the head ofthe dining-room table, smooth it with the flat of my hands, add a matching cloth napkin pulled through a wooden ring. Wedding gift. I center a plate, lay out the silverware, then step back to regard my arrangement. I really think Travis will appreciate this.

My head hurts. My head hurts, my heart hurts, my heart hurts. I stand still for a moment, which is dangerous. So I go back into the kitchen, pull a dusty wineglass wedding gift down from the high cupboard above the refrigerator, wash it, and bring it to the dining room to center directly over the knife. Then I go back in the kitchen and select three oranges from the fruit bowl. I will squeeze them for juice just before he takes his seat.

Actually, Travis doesnt like fresh orange juice, but hes got to get used to elegance, because thats the way its going to be from now on. Starting today. Well, starting last night, really, but Travis was asleep when the revolution started. I went to Bloomingdales and charged a few things last night; that was the start; but when I got home, Travis had gone to bed.

I stand straighter, take in a deep breath. This is the first day. Every day that comes after this will be easier. Later, when I think of Travis sleeping, the thought will not pick up my stomach in its hands and twist it.

All right. Butter. The whale shape does not work, nor does the Corvette, but the butter curls do, more or less. I lay them carefully over ice chips in a small bowl, then bring them out to the dining room and place them to the right of his spoon. Is that where they go? There must be some incredibly expensive Martha Stewart book on table settings I can buy. Perhaps Ill hire a limo to take me to the bookstore, laterI dont really feel like driving. Perhaps I will take the limo to Marthas house. I understand youre divorced, Ill say. You seem to be doing all right.

Back in the kitchen, I gulp down another cup of coffee. Then I mix eggs and milk in a blue-and-yellow bowl that tiny shop in Paris,our weeklong vacation there, I stood at the window one morning after Idgotten up and he came up behind me and put his arms around my middle,his lips to the back of my neck, add a touch of vanilla, a sprinkle of sugar. I put a frying pan on the stove put his lips to the back of myneck and we went back to bed, lay out two slices of bread on the cutting board. These hands at the ends of my wrists remove the crusts. Im not sure why. Oh, I know why. Because theyre hard.

I sit down at the table. Stand up. Sit down. Concentrate on my breathing, thats supposed to help.

Actually, it does not.

I check my watch. Good, only five more minutes. I take off my apron and go upstairs to my bathroom. I brush my teeth again, put in my contacts, comb my hair, apply eyeliner, mascara, and a tasteful shade of red lipstick. I straighten the cowl neck of my new sweater. Its red, toocashmere. I dab a little Joyalso newbehind my ears and on my wrists. Then I stand still, regard myself as objectively as possible in the mirror.

Well, I look just fine. Okay, circles under the eyes, big deal. The main thing is, what a wonderful change for Travis! Instead of him seeing me in my usual old bathrobe with the permanent egg stain on the left lapel, I am nicely dressed, made up, and ready to go. Everything will be different, starting today. Everything will be better.

I go into Traviss room. He is messily asleep; covers wrapped around one leg, pajama top hiked high on his back, pillows at odd angles, his arm hanging over one side of the bed.

Travis? I say softly, raising his shade. Its seven oclock. I sit down beside him, rub his back. Travis?

Im up, he says sleepily. Then, turning over quickly, eyes wide, What stinks? He puts his hand over his nose.

I stand; step back. Perfume, its... Listen, get dressed and come down for breakfast, okay? Im making French toast.

No reaction.

I mean, not the frozen kind. From scratch. Please, Travis.

He sits up, rubs his head. Two blond cowlicks stick up like devil horns. He is wearing one of Davids T-shirts with his own pajama bottoms. The bottoms are too short for him, I see now. Well. No problem. Today I will replace them. Maybe Ralph Lauren makes pajama bottoms for kids. Silk ones. Monogrammed.

Travis yawns again, hugely, scratches his stomach. I look away, despairing of this too manly movement. It seems so recent that I had to step around imaginative arrangements of Legosjagged-backed dinosaurs, secret space stations, tools for surgeryto wake him up. Now he hides a well-thumbed issue of Playboy under his bed. One day when Travis was at school, I inspected Miss August thoroughly. I felt like putting in a note for the next time he looked at her: