Leggy Blonde: A Memoir (18 page)

I struggled to keep food down for the next eight months. A one-legged pregnant woman racing for the toilet every twenty minutes was not the prettiest sight. Harry was loving and supportive, as always. I could not keep up with his desire to go out every night, and I often stayed home alone. Around month six, when I practically lived in the bathroom, Harry left Bear Stearns. He was vague about the details. “It was a mutual decision,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m already lining up a new job. I’m going to work in the Broadway business with my uncle, raising money to put on shows.” If he’d told me his job was to shine shoes at Grand Central, I wouldn’t have cared. I was just so violently ill, the only thing I could think about was making it through the next hour.

Harrison was born on July 26, 2001. He was healthy, robust, and beautiful. Harry’s parents came from Washington to the hospital to meet him. His mom offered to pay for a baby nurse, and I accepted gratefully. A brand-new mother, I didn’t know what I was doing. I needed the help.

My mom and dad came a week later from Florida to meet their grandson at our apartment. Mom was really out of it. When she held the baby, she listed to the side, and seemed to forget Harrison wasn’t a stack of towels. I hovered too close, ready to swoop in and catch him if she dropped the baby. Even worse, Mom didn’t seem to feel anything when she held him or looked at him. She said the key phrases—“beautiful boy,” etc.—but it sounded rote, rehearsed. Her eyes didn’t match the words. My father confided in me that their financial situation, despite the apartment sale, was tenuous. He wanted to give Harrison so much, but he couldn’t. Not right now.

It broke my heart that Dad was upset about that. The last thing he
should worry about was supporting us. I was married to a grown man and I had the ability to earn income myself. Dad had to preserve his resources to help Mom. I told him, “We are fine.”

It seems almost pathologically stupid that I still hadn’t caught on about the “trust fund,” where I thought the AmEx bills were sent, and what had made it possible for Harry to spend so much without having a job. When I asked about it, rarely, he replied craftily. His family was reserved in their comments. No one told me outright what was
really
going on. Sometimes, I’d pick up a hint. Louis and Tiffany seemed to want to tell me the truth, but that would have been a betrayal of Harry. It wasn’t a conspiracy of silence. More like family protecting family.

I
n September 2001, when Harrison was two months old, I got bronchitis and had a 104-degree fever. I was too ill to go to the doctor, which for me meant near death’s door. That was when Harry’s mom called and announced, “It’s time to let the baby nurse go.”

I barely remembered the conversation. But when Harry came home from his Broadway job, I said, “Your parents don’t want to pay the baby nurse anymore. I really want to keep her for another couple of weeks, at least until I’m well.”

He said, “I’ll ask Mom.”

I was too febrile to question it. But then I started to wonder what his mom had to do with keeping the baby nurse if we would take over paying her salary. Did Harry have to get her stamp of approval on all of our decisions, big and small? It wasn’t like his mom was paying our bills, right?
Right?

Or was she?

And just like that, the light switched on.

Harry’s mom had weighed in on
everything
. Our wedding. Our honeymoon. Renting the apartment. The decorating budget. When to have a baby. How long to keep the baby nurse. I thought she was just a superinvolved mom, and that Harry, a great guy, indulged her out of habit and because he wanted to make her happy. As I lay in bed, my head burning, it dawned on me that her interest went way beyond the personal. It was professional. She kept a hawk eye on Harry’s expenses because she must have been paying the bills. I remembered all the comments that people made when we got engaged. His brother and sister-in-law asking, “Why are you marrying Harry?” His own mother saying, “It’s not like he’s going to make a million dollars.” And what about Harry’s vague reasons for leaving Bear Stearns?

The only logical explanation for all of it was that Harry had no money of his own. His so-called “trust fund” was held by the First National Bank of Mom and Dad. The AmEx bills went directly to them. His investment bank job was probably set up by his family. He’d lost all of the blood money. His current job was working for his uncle. How long would that last? Harry had led me to believe that he was independently wealthy. But the opposite was true. He was dependent on his family.

The thing about taking money from your parents: it comes with strings attached. And Mrs. Dubin knew how to pull them. I realized with a sinking heart that Harry and I were puppets. I had believed his story from day one. Was I delusional? Willfully ignorant? I should have pressed him and asked more questions. I shouldn’t have been so clueless about our finances. I was suddenly terrified about the future. Would Harry be dependent on his parents
forever
? I had a child to protect.

Three days later, hijacked planes flew into the World Trade Center towers. Lower Manhattan became a hellscape. Thousands of people were killed. Toxic dust rained down on the city streets. Anthrax envelopes were mailed to media outlets in midtown. The atmosphere in New York was one of shock, terror, and deep grief. People were stockpiling Cipro and gas masks, convinced another attack would happen at any moment. Manhattan was on lockdown. No traffic in or out. No subways. Sirens around the clock. Military plane flyovers rattled the windows every hour.

I was postpartum, sick, alone with Harrison, shell-shocked to learn the truth about Harry, petrified about the toxic dust, the threat of attack. The unprecedented sadness and tragedy that hit our city was overwhelming. My brother worked on Wall Street, and he ran to my home covered in soot. He could not speak for two days, and stayed in my apartment for weeks. My anxiety and hypochondria went into overdrive and didn’t let up. My episodes usually lasted a few minutes to an hour. The week of 9/11, I existed in a perpetual panic attack. I simply couldn’t calm down. Overwhelmed with grief over those who lost loved ones, I was terrified for Harrison and the world I had brought him into. Harry was still going to his Broadway “job,” even though the entire city was in mourning and no one else bothered to show up. The world was a mess, my family was in trouble, and life was looking dismal.

I took it minute by minute. I fed the baby, changed him, and bathed him. I fed and bathed myself. I got through the day, and then the next. My body ached from being in a constant clench. The TV reports about the dead devastated me and everyone else. I couldn’t stop crying. If it weren’t for Harrison, I would have crawled into the closet and stayed there. I don’t know how the relatives of the 9/11 victims did it.

“We have a problem,” Harry announced at the end of the month, when rent was coming due. “When we rented this apartment, I told my family that it was four thousand dollars and showed them a fake lease for that amount. I got the other four thousand dollars from my grandfather. Well, my parents and grandfather somehow found out about it all. And they’re pissed.”

The moment of truth had arrived. Harry went on to tell me everything. The house of cards he’d built had finally toppled. His secrets were exposed. I felt sorry for him. He had to feel awful about it. But he didn’t bother apologizing for lying to me from the beginning. It was beside the point. We were in crisis, and couldn’t waste time on making each other feel better. We had to figure out what to do next.

I learned that I had been wrong about a few things. His parents weren’t getting the AmEx bill. That went straight to his grandfather. Harry’s parents hadn’t known about that huge bill either. They weren’t happy about it, since they also gave him a generous allowance, which his grandfather hadn’t been aware of. Well, they all knew what was up now. If I’d been in their shoes, I would have been furious at Harry, too. But I was his wife. We had a son. I swallowed my anger for Harrison’s sake. I asked him, “Why didn’t you just tell them the truth? Why didn’t you tell me we couldn’t afford this place? I would have kept looking.”

He just couldn’t answer. There was no logical explanation. Harry, I realized, couldn’t help himself. I loved how easy he was when we first started dating. But now I realized why he was so easy. To Harry, the hard truth was optional.

Harry’s grandfather (also named Harry, a.k.a. Mr. Myerberg, a.k.a. Pop, as everyone called him) was ninety years old, and strong in body and will. He’d been nothing but kind to me—until that week. The man got on a train in Baltimore and came to our apartment in New
York. When he showed up, he didn’t even look around. He walked into the living room and sat down in a chair. I was holding Harrison on the couch. He said, “Please remove the baby.” He didn’t want to conduct the ugly scene with his great-grandson present. I put Harrison in his crib. Harry and I sat next to each other on the couch.

“You two have until January First to get out of this apartment,” said Pop.

The way he looked at me, he must have believed I was complicit in Harry’s scheming. I can’t describe the shame of it. I tried to talk to him, but he was livid. I realized that kind of thing had happened before with Harry. I bet it had happened many, many times before, going back to his childhood. The rent debacle was probably the last straw.

Although it had taken me months to find and professionally decorate this apartment, we had no choice but to find a new place quickly. I began apartment hunting with an infant strapped to my chest in a Baby Bjorn. There were a lot of new vacancies because people fled the city in the wake of 9/11. I was able to find an apartment on Eighty-sixth Street between Central Park West and Columbus. Even though the new place—a three-bedroom—cost only a thousand less than the duplex, it was a matter of principle to his family that we move. Harry had to be punished.

Harry’s allowance was slashed, too. His AmEx was reined in. I learned my lesson, and started asking questions. Entitled, bratty, spoiled-wife questions like, “Do we have money for food? Can I buy diapers?”

Harry said, “Yes, yes, of course.”

I went to Fairway, the supermarket in our neighborhood, to buy dinner ingredients. I waited on line with Harrison in his stroller with a chicken, some broccoli, and a loaf of bread. I got to the cashier and
my debit card didn’t work. Harry had promised me an hour earlier that it would. As I wheeled Harrison home empty-handed, a quiet, dark thought crept into my head:
He can’t help it. Harry simply can’t help it.

Harry really was a great guy. He wasn’t malicious or mean. He wouldn’t intentionally hurt me or his son. He certainly hadn’t set out to alienate his family and shatter the trust in his marriage. But he’d done it anyway, and would continue to do it. Harry would probably say anything to cover his ass for another five minutes. I couldn’t see how I could be married to someone like that for the next fifty years.

•  •  •

My father called. “Aviva, we have to talk about your mother.” His voice cracked when he said, “Neighbors found her in the building’s elevator naked. I took away her car keys and tried to keep her locked inside. But she got out and went looking for alcohol. The cops brought her home. She was screaming at them, cursing and fighting.”

My heart broke. “She has to go to rehab,” I said.

“She won’t do it.” Whenever the subject of treatment came up, Mom flew into a violent flailing rage. Dad and I talked constantly about having her committed involuntarily.

“Is it really up to her?” I asked. Mom couldn’t make rational decisions. She had alcohol-induced dementia. She didn’t recognize people and places.

“Well, I won’t do it either.” Dad didn’t have the heart to force her into rehab. He’d done it before, and spent a fortune. As soon as she got out, she started drinking again. If the patient didn’t want to be there, treatment was a pointless exercise. “Can you come down?” he asked.

My father hardly ever asked for anything. But he wanted my help. I hadn’t told my parents what was going on in New York with the Dubins. Dad knew we moved, but not the reason why. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I didn’t have money for a plane ticket to Florida.

“As soon as I can,” I said.

•  •  •

Harry’s mother and I still chatted almost every day, making nice, keeping up a facade of civility. “Harry needs to send monthly reports to his investors at the Broadway job,” she said one morning.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell him.” I knew my role now, no need for double-talk. I was responsible for keeping Harry on track, but in classic Dubin indirect style. The uncle had complained about Harry’s performance to his mother. She told me. And then I had to tell him. I had no idea why his uncle and boss didn’t tell Harry himself.

When he came home, I did my duty. “Your mother told me to tell you to send the investors’ reports.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll do it,” he said.

A cut in allowance didn’t stop Harry from going out every night. He simply couldn’t stay cooped up. He went stir crazy, especially when the baby was fussy. I couldn’t stomach spending money I now knew wasn’t ours, and stayed home with Harrison. My son was a more entertaining companion than a bunch of barflies. But Harry had no problem leaving us behind to hang out at restaurants and bars. It was his compulsion. He needed to socialize. A baby and a wife weren’t enough for him. My options were to invite guests to our apartment and cook every night—not going to happen—or just stand aside as he raced out the door to get his people fix.

The news reported that a rapist was terrorizing our neighborhood. I couldn’t stay home by myself knowing that. Harrison and I joined Harry for dinner at a restaurant. After dinner, though, I’d had enough. The baby needed to go to bed. “I’m going to stay for a bit longer,” he said. “Just go home without me.”

“Are you sure the windows are locked?” I asked.

The rapist’s MO was to enter apartments with open windows and attack victims in their own homes. We lived on the second floor, with scaffolding built right up by our windows. I was convinced the rapist would target our apartment.