Willy woke. He came into the kitchen, pyjamas drooping, yawning, scratching his head, fine hair all fluffed up above his sleepy blue eyes.
‘Hey, Willy Wonka. Hungry?’
He smiled but said nothing. A toddler of few words. He pulled off his diaper in the kitchen, dumped it on the floor and trundled to the bathroom. While Billie listened to the steady stream, she poured him a bowl of Lucky Charms.
Lucky boy indeed – his siblings had grown up eating lumpy oatmeal every morning. Somehow, worrying about junk food had tailed off. After he’d finished eating, she decided that instead of her usual quick shower, they could take a bath together. Willy loved baths. She put on a record, Sounds of Silence, and filled the bath while Willy tossed his bath toys in. She added bubble bath, then cold water till it was just right. She undressed them both, lifted him up and they both sank into the water. His skin was smooth, slipping against her own skin. She soaped him gently, washed his hair, rinsed it by tipping his head back over her chest and scooping water over it. Normally Willy hated having his hair washed, but today he just chuckled. Then she lifted him out of the bath, got out herself and towelled him dry. She pulled clean clothes on his wriggling body, popped a bottle into his mouth, grabbed his bunny and his blanket just in time for Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. It’s a beautiful day in the neighbourhood, a beautiful day for a neighbour, would you be mine? Could you be mine? Willy sat on the beanbag and sucked, trancelike.
Well? You call this looking for a puppy?
‘Shut up, Loulou. Loads of time.’
Billie sat on the sofa, still wrapped in her robe, and attempted to imagine Mister Rogers being married. Or even kissing. The more she looked at him the more he seemed like an overgrown sexless child. She’d bundle Willy into the car after the show and head to the pet store. Lots of puppy ads on the bulletin board there.
A knock on the door, darn it! She looked around – she could see the door from the sofa. She tightened her robe around her, but before she could get to the door, it opened. And there he stood. Jeff, from number 23.
‘Hey, Billie.’ That embarrassed smile he always seemed to have these days. ‘Sorry, it’s so early – didn’t mean to…want me to come back?’
‘That’s okay, Jeff. Just having a lazy morning. Want some coffee?’
Why are you encouraging him? hissed Louise. You don’t even like him, do you?
‘Well, sure,’ said Jeff. ‘That would be great.’
‘Let’s have it on the back deck. Willy’s addicted to Mister Rogers, he’ll be fine for another twenty minutes.’
‘It’s raining.’
‘We can sit under the sun shade. I love to sit there when it’s raining.’
‘Oh, me too,’ he replied seriously in a low voice, as if they’d both confessed to a strange and intimate affinity. ‘In fact, I was just thinking we could talk about that decking repair you mentioned needing.’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said nonchalantly, while yawning. Oh! To have a man flirt with you even before you brushed your hair or put on your lipstick! Also, his wife, Shirley, was so superior, with her tiny waist and university degree, lording it over all the other moms at the PTA. Billie felt a little thrill, imagining Jeff preferring her uneducated self.
‘Let’s have lemonade instead of coffee,’ she said softly, smiling.
‘Jack! Why are you drinking lemonade? I bought more gin yesterday. And tonic. And green olives and vermouth.’
‘Did you?’
He was only seventeen miles from his old home, but it was not raining here. He was sitting by the pool, enjoying Indian summer and reading a John le Carré. Jack and Billie lived in different universes. He lived in Colette’s clutter-free beige house with three bathrooms (each with a shower that worked), a colour television, and a record player with two speakers (stereo!). Which reminded him. He needed space to put his records and books, and they’d need another dresser. And more shelves. And maybe he could take over one of those spare rooms as an office. And the room with the big windows could be his studio, for painting.
‘Yes,’ said Colette. ‘Why not have a drink? You’re on vacation.’
‘Silly me.’
He was sick of getting drunk in the morning. What’s more, he was sick of getting drunk with her. But she was standing in the doorway in her bikini, smoking a cigarette with that pout, so he repeated:
‘Silly me. Limes? Did you get more limes?’
‘Of course, honey pie.’
This was wrong too. Honey pie belonged to Billie. Colette used to call him lover, sex God, hottie. But how could he complain? He didn’t pay rent, and she offered him amazing sex any time he wanted it. Even better, she offered decent conversation about politics, literature, life in general. There were no awkward silences or sulky ones either. They were soulmates and life was good. No nagging, no sneaking around, no guilt.
Ernie had been wrong, wrong, wrong yesterday. They’d been eating pastrami sandwiches on the deck of Ernie’s sailboat. Not out in the bay, just a lazy lunch at the dock. Since he and Bernice had finally moved to Marin six months ago, this had become a weekly ritual. Always on the boat, away from wives and girlfriends. After the third beer, Ernie had burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You. You’re so funny, Jack. I mean, Colette’s nice, but look at you. Forty-two years old and you’re acting like a kid. Why didn’t you get all this hanky-panky stuff out of your system when you were young?’
‘Well. I’m a late bloomer. What’s wrong with that?’
‘But why, Jack? Why bother at all? I mean, your wife’s gorgeous. And sweet-natured.’
‘I know.’
‘She doesn’t smoke or drink. Take my Bernice, now. She gets so she can hardly walk to the bedroom. You’re lucky.’
‘Huh.’
‘Billie doesn’t even flirt. Bernice flirts with other men all the time. It drives me a bit crazy, to be honest. But Billie, well. You have a wife you can count on, there. She’s got eyes for no one else.’
‘Jesus, Ernie, I know all that. But.’
‘But what.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I felt…cheated. Billie didn’t keep to the deal. I know it sounds dumb, but the original deal was that we were supposed to be like this.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘That’s what I thought was going to happen. Laughing at the same stuff. Billie has no humour. She thinks jokes are funny.’
‘Jokes are funny, Jack.’
