Modern Lovers (14 page)

E
lizabeth hadn't seen Iggy Pop all afternoon. She'd been in and out—into the office, to the grocery store, to the coffee shop—but Iggy usually rotated through his sleeping spots throughout the day, and so it didn't seem strange until she realized that it had been nearly all day. Harry was playing a video game in the living room, an SAT book splayed open on the coffee table. “Igs?” she said. “Iggo Piggo? Pop Pop?” Elizabeth walked in circles around the kitchen.

“Have you seen the cat?” she asked.

Harry shook his head without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Hmm,” Elizabeth said. She checked all the beds and the bathroom sinks. Sometimes when it was hot, Iggy went from sink to sink, trying to stay cool by pressing his body against the porcelain. Andrew was at EVOLVEment again.

Elizabeth wasn't interested in being a nag. She loved that Andrew was in touch with his feelings. She never wanted a husband like her father, who could have been on fire and wouldn't have called for help. But she didn't love that Andrew seemed to have chosen to be an intern at a yoga studio instead of finding an actual job, even if that actual job had been an internship as a woodworker. Andrew had never cared about money—he'd never had to—but for most of their adult lives, he had at least respected the appearance of having a job.

There were tons of kids at Whitman in similar situations—the children of actors and hedge-funders, the grandchildren of people whose names were on the sides of public buildings. Brooklyn wasn't the same as it had been when they'd moved, a city next door, with its own rhythms and heartbeats. Now it was all Manhattan spillover—the Russian oligarchs were buying up Tribeca and the West Village, and so Brooklyn was the next-best thing. It was her job to support this, but Elizabeth didn't like it. She would have been happier making smaller commissions and keeping the borough full of middle-class families. She'd sold so many houses to public-school teachers—Center Slope town houses—and those houses were now worth absolutely stupid amounts of money. Sometimes she thought about moving upstate, somewhere pretty along the Hudson. Maybe when Harry graduated, she and Andrew could cash out for good. Sell the house, sell the life. If they weren't in the city, then maybe Andrew wouldn't ever have to pretend to have a job again. He could just go on meditation retreats and build sculptures or throw pottery or take tae kwon do classes. She could sell country houses to the rich people who were buying $2 million houses in Brooklyn—she'd ask the O'Connells to let her open a branch office in Rhinebeck. Harry could spend summers at home, living in the apartment over the garage. What did it mean about their self-worth if they needed to be in the city for no reason? Was she that afraid of what her friends would think of her, if they'd say she was a quitter? Was she a quitter?

“Mom?”

“Sorry, what?” Elizabeth blinked. Harry was staring at her, the scene on the screen paused with his detective frog in mid-jump.

“Do you want help looking for the cat? It's going to get dark soon.”

Elizabeth rubbed her hands together. “Yes, oh, sweetie, yes, let's do that. Can you check the basement? I'll do one more search down here, and then maybe we'll walk around the block?” Iggy Pop wasn't
supposed to go outside—there were feral cats in the neighborhood, and he was no fighter—but the back screen door was easy enough to shove, even for a cat. He'd gotten out a few times before, and they'd always found him stalking around the flower beds in the yard, a determined look on his face.

Elizabeth opened and shut cupboards in the kitchen and peeked under the dining-room table.

“Not in the basement,” Harry said, coming up the stairs.

“No,” Elizabeth said. “I didn't think so.”

They started in the garden, Elizabeth walking clockwise and Harry counterclockwise. No sign of Iggy.

“Let's walk around the block,” Elizabeth said. They walked down the driveway to the sidewalk and turned right, checking under the parked cars and in the flower beds.

Harry needed a haircut. His curls were starting to creep down his neck the way they had when he was a baby. Elizabeth resisted the urge to reach out and put her finger inside one of the ringlets.

“So, are you spending time with Ruby?” Since the eBay incident, Harry hadn't mentioned her, but Elizabeth saw his phone light up more than usual, and then his whole face, and so she knew that Ruby was still hovering around. She wasn't against it, not really—she loved Ruby. She loved Zoe. She loved that Harry was spending time with a girl, whether what they were doing was romantic or platonic or, most likely, somewhere in that giant, hazy, in-between zone.

“I guess,” Harry said. “Yeah, we hang out. I mean, after our SAT class, and stuff. Sometimes.”

“That's nice,” Elizabeth said. She didn't want to press. She had never once talked to either of her parents about her love life as a teenager, or as an adult. When she and Andrew had decided to get married, her father had made a joke about the marital bed, and Elizabeth had felt nauseous for days. It was Harry's business. Ruby was a little bit wild, but Elizabeth very much doubted that her sweet son was up
to Ruby's romantic standards. Zoe had been like that—happy to flirt with anyone who looked her way, but much harder to pin down. It was funny to see how things repeated. Not funny ha-ha.

When Zoe and Jane had started talking about having a baby, it wasn't clear how they'd do it. Zoe was younger, but also more squeamish. Jane's mother had had four kids at home with a midwife and no drugs; her genes seemed promising. It was a logistical conundrum—they would both be mothers, of course, but who was going to carry the child, who was going to breast-feed, who was going to have her hormones and pelvis put through hell? They were both open to it. If they were going to have more, then maybe Jane should go first? But how could they know if they were going to have more? Neither Zoe nor Jane had elaborate fantasies about big families. And then, of course, they had to figure out the sperm.

It was what people always wanted to know—and what Elizabeth had been afraid to ask too many questions about, even as close as she was. Were they going to get it from a friend or a sperm bank? If it was from a friend, would they actually have sex, or go for the turkey baster? Elizabeth hated to think about how Ruby probably got asked all those questions—at school, at summer camp, by bigots and friends alike. Before Zoe had Ruby, Elizabeth had never thought about how easy it was for a heterosexual couple—even though she and Andrew had had a horrible time getting pregnant, both before Harry and after, it was their private trauma and heartbreak and no one else's. No one ever asked how they were planning on having a baby, what elaborate measures they would have to take.

It was amazing to think that that sperm—Jane's younger brother's, if you must know—had eventually turned into Ruby, who had been a full-cheeked baby, who had been a mermaid child, who had been a sullen tween, who had graduated from high school. Elizabeth had wiped her bottom dozens of times, had bathed her in the sink. And now Harry blushed at the sound of her name.

“She doesn't know what she's going to do next year,” Harry said, unprompted. They'd made it to the corner and turned right, still with no sign of Iggy.

“No? Zoe told me she was going to take a year off. In Europe, practically everyone does. I think it's a great idea.”

“Yeah, but she doesn't even know what she wants to do, like, at all.”

Elizabeth looked at her son. “Next year, you mean? Or for the rest of her life?”

“Either. Both.”

“I didn't know what I wanted to do for the rest of my life when I was eighteen.” Elizabeth waved to an elderly neighbor across the street. “I still don't. And your father
certainly
doesn't.”

“What do you mean?” Harry looked stricken.

“I mean, it's never too late to decide to do something else. Becoming an adult doesn't mean that you suddenly have all the answers.” Elizabeth stepped over a large crack in the sidewalk and then stooped down to check under a few more cars.

“I know,” Harry said. “I wasn't raised in an igloo. But what do you mean that Dad
certainly
doesn't?”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “That. I just mean that he has a lot of interests, and that he hasn't had a conventional career path, you know, moving up the corporate ladder.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said. He seemed satisfied. They got to the next corner and turned right again. “Maybe we should make signs.”

“For your dad?”

“For the cat.”

“Right.” Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. The sun was setting. The neighborhood looked prettiest at dusk, as did the rest of the world. Sometimes she wished she could take all the photos for all the houses just before sunset, when every room looked alive with beauty and possibility. Harry's curls were outlined with gold. She wanted to
kiss her son on the mouth the way she had when he was a baby, and to remember every second of their lives together, like some sort of robot. Andrew was better at that, at remembering all the tiny moments of Harry's development, what day of the week it was when he first smiled, and when he learned how to ride his bike without training wheels. There wasn't enough time in the world, not for the things that mattered most, even counting all the endless days when Harry had a fever and was home from school and they didn't move from the sofa. Even counting the days the three of them had spent marooned indoors during blizzards. Even counting the days before he was conceived and she and Andrew wanted nothing, nothing, nothing more than a wick to light and hold.

T
he house was a mess, with Ruby's clothing everywhere, and dog hair, and half-empty abandoned glasses of water. Zoe knew how it must look to Elizabeth; like she wasn't sure what to do next, as if the likeliest result would be for her to end up like the Collyer brothers, buried under mountains of her own junk. That morning, she'd weeded out the bookshelf next to her bed and her underwear drawer. She wasn't sure if she was clearing things out in order to begin to think about maybe selling the house (she couldn't even
think
about it declaratively) or whether clearing things out was a way of procrastinating even doing that much.

It was her favorite time of day, the window of time between lunch and dinner. All was quiet at home, and Hyacinth was recharging its batteries, the cooks readying everything for the evening rush and making staff meal, something large and comforting to feed everyone from the cooks to the waiters and the runners and the busboys. Zoe had always preferred staff meal to anything on the menu. She'd had everything so many times over the years—a bite here, a bite there, spoonfuls of everything at home—that even with the changing of the seasons, she couldn't stomach another plate of Hyacinth's polenta and
mushrooms or shaved asparagus with pecorino. Staff meal could be anything—fried chicken, moo shu, burgers smothered in blue cheese. She wasn't always around Hyacinth to eat, but Jane was cooking tonight—she'd been inspired and signed herself up—and Ruby was working, and so she went. All she was doing at home was moving things from one room to another, and she was happy enough to get away from it for a little while.

It took six minutes to walk to the restaurant. Ruby was sitting at the table in front of the window, her legs crossed underneath her and her long purple hair falling in her face. Zoe knocked gently on the window to get her attention, and Ruby stuck out her tongue.

Inside, Hyacinth smelled like basil and peaches and brown sugar. Zoe folded herself into the chair next to Ruby, and waved hello to the servers setting the tables.

“Hi, sweets,” she said, and tucked Ruby's hair behind her ear.

“Mum,” Ruby said. “Please.” She untucked it.

There was a bowl of sugar snap peas in front of her, and Zoe popped one into her mouth.

“Hey,” Jane said, coming up from behind them. She was in her kitchen clothes, a stiff white jacket unbuttoned at the collar. Zoe loved seeing Jane in her chef coat—it had always been a turn-on. It was her formal wear, her version of a ball gown, when she looked most like herself, and most in charge. Jane had always seemed like an adult, even when they met, when Zoe was twenty-three and Jane was thirty. Unlike Zoe, who'd never had to work a job, who paid her rent late because she was disorganized but not because she didn't have the money, Jane was already a grown-up. When she'd told Zoe that she wanted to open a restaurant, Zoe knew that she would make it happen. There was nothing adolescent about her, nothing wishy-washy. Jane put her hands on Ruby's shoulders and squeezed.

“Hi,” Zoe said. “What's for dinner?”

“Carnitas, baby. So rich, it tastes like chocolate. Watermelon salad. So good.”

“Sounds delicious.” Zoe loved it when Jane talked about food. She wasn't one of those chatty chefs who killed a whole meal by telling you where every grain of rice was born. Jane cared about that, of course, but she'd rather just sit across from you and nod at your happy moans. She was more den mother than sommelier—she didn't care whether or not you could identify the sage or the saffron, she just wanted to know that you liked what she'd given you. She'd cooked for Zoe early and often in their courtship—when Zoe thought about falling in love with Jane, she thought of the two of them sitting naked at Jane's kitchen table, dragging their fingers through brownie batter and twisting their forks into perfect orange yolks, sending tendrils of richness down over handmade pasta. Jane was fresh out of the CIA and liked to practice her techniques. Fresh croissants, sometimes stuffed with almond paste. Zoe licked her fingers every day. She gained ten pounds in the first six months they were together. Whenever she'd lost weight in the intervening years, Jane would take it as a personal slight. It was a good quality in a wife.

Jorge waved from behind the bar. “You want a glass of something?”

Zoe shook her head, but Jane ducked back around the bar and returned with two glasses of cava. “Come on,” she said to Zoe. “Live a little.” Jane handed her own glass to Ruby. “Not the whole thing—I'll get arrested. You're sitting in the window.” Ruby slurped a little off the top. Zoe pursed her lips and then smiled.

“How's your SAT class going? I haven't really heard that much about it,” Zoe said. Behind Ruby, Jane rolled her eyes—but it was never a good time to have a conversation that a teenager didn't want to have, so Zoe forged ahead. “You think you'll be able to take the test again?”

“As I've already told you, Mothers, the score was not the
problem.” Ruby gritted her teeth. “My scores were fine. Like, better than half of my stupid friends'.”

“But not as good as the other half of your stupid friends'?” Jane sat down.

“They're not actually stupid. My friends are smart. I'm just calling them stupid because I hate them.” Ruby closed the book in front of her.

“Gotcha,” Zoe said.

“And yes, I can take the test again, if you want. I really don't think it matters, though. Mom didn't go to college, and she's fine.” Ruby turned toward Jane. “Right? Are you fine?”

“I went to cooking school,” Jane said. “If you want to go to a trade school, that counts.”

“And what did you do in college, Mum, except smoke cigarettes and play in a band?”

Zoe laughed. “Hey, I was an art major! I also made prints!”

“You guys are really not selling this idea.” Ruby shook her head. “No wonder neither of you gave a shit about my applications. It's a waste of time and money, and you know it! Come on, admit it, part of you is relieved that you're not going to have to spend like fifty grand a year for me to learn how to weave baskets, or whatever you did at Oberlin, or make a soufflé.”

“You already know how to make a soufflé,” Jane said proudly.

“Again, not the point.” Ruby swiveled in her chair and looked back toward the kitchen. “Are the tacos ready? I'm starving. It was a long day of doing absolutely nothing in here.” She pushed back her chair and walked into the kitchen.

Jane slid over into the empty chair. “Did we do everything right, or did we do everything wrong? Sometimes I can't tell.”

Zoe let herself fold against Jane's shoulder. “If you figure it out, let me know.” She smelled like pork and garlic and chocolate, and Zoe
breathed it all in. If things were always this easy, they'd just be together. If the restaurant weren't a tug-of-war, if Ruby weren't a gorgeous ball of anxiety that grew in the pit of her stomach every day. Zoe wished that marriage were just the good parts, just the parts that made you happy, but it wasn't. Even she knew that.