I quickly gave a nod of agreement to show how completely I was on her side, against myself. The kettle was screaming. She pulled her hand away and poured the water into a Styrofoam cup of noodles—not appeased, just revolted by our affiliation. I walked away, a free woman on rubbery legs.
I curled up on my bed and held my globus. What was the name of the situation I was in? What category was this? I had been mugged once, in Seattle in my twenties, and that had had a similar feeling afterward. But in that case I had gone to the police and in this scenario I couldn’t do that.
I called my bosses in Ojai. Carl answered immediately.
“Business or pleasure?” he said.
“It’s about Clee,” I whispered. “It’s been lovely having her, but I think—”
“Hold on. Suz—pick up! Clee’s making trouble! Not that phone—the hall one!”
“Hello?” Suzanne’s voice was almost inaudible through the crackling connection.
“You’re on the crappy phone!” Carl shouted.
“I’m not!” Suzanne yelled. “I’m on the hall one! Why do we both need to be on at the same time?” She hung up the hall phone but could still be heard distantly through Carl’s phone. “You get off the phone, I’ll talk to Cheryl alone!”
“You’ve been snapping at me all day, Suz.”
Suzanne picked up the phone but paused before putting it to her mouth. “Can you go away? I don’t need you monitoring my every move.”
“Are you going to offer her money?” Carl said in a whisper that seemed louder than his regular voice.
“Of course not. You think I’m just handing out—” Suzanne put her hand over the phone. I waited, wondering what there was to argue about since they both agreed I should not be offered money.
“Cheryl!” She was back.
“Hi.”
“Sorry about that, I’m not having fun in this marriage right now.”
“Oh no,” I said, although this was the only way they ever were, like this or loudly entranced by each other.
“He makes me feel like shit,” she said, and then to Carl, “Well, then go away—I’m having a private conversation here and I can say what I like.” And then to me: “How are you?”
“Good.”
“We never thanked you for taking Clee, but it means so much”—her voice became thick and halting, I could see her mascara starting to run—“just to know she’s getting exposed to good values. You have to remember she grew up in Ojai.”
Carl picked up.
“Please excuse the theatrics, Cheryl, you don’t have to listen to this. Feel free to hang up.”
“Fuck you, Carl, I’m trying to make a point. Everyone thinks it’s such a terrific idea to move out of the city to raise your kids. Well, don’t be surprised when that kid is pro-life and anti–gun control. You should see her friends. Is she going on auditions?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can you put her on?”
I wondered if I was still allowed to hang up if I wanted to.
“She might need to call you back.”
“Cheryl, hon, just put her on.” She could tell I was scared of her daughter.
I opened my door. Clee was eating ramen on the couch.
“It’s your mom.” I held out the phone.
Clee took it with a swipe and strode out to the backyard, the door slamming shut behind her. I watched her pacing past the window, her mouth a little spitting knot. The whole family exerted tremendously toward each other; they were in the throes of passion all the time. I held my elbows and looked at the floor. There was a bright orange Cheeto on the rug. Next to the Cheeto was an empty Diet Pepsi can and next to the can was a pair of green-lace thong underwear with white stuff on the crotch. And this was just the area right around my feet. I touched my throat, hard as a rock. But not yet to the point where I had to spit instead of swallow.
Clee stormed in.
“Someone named”—she looked at the screen—“Phillip Bettelheim called you three times.”
I CALLED HIM BACK FROM my car. When he asked me how I was, I did my equivalent of bursting into tears—my throat seized, my face crumpled, and I made a noise so high in pitch that it was silent. Then I heard a sob. Phillip was crying—out loud.
“Oh no, what is it?” He had seemed fine when we touched fingers through the computer.
“Nothing new, I’m okay, it’s just the thing I was talking about before,” he sniffed soggily.
“The confession.”
“Yep. It’s driving me nuts.”
He laughed and this made room for a larger cry. Gasping, he said, “Is—this okay? Can I just—cry—for a while?”
I said of course. I could tell him about Clee another time.
At first the permission seemed to stifle him, but after a minute he broke through to a new kind of crying that I could tell he liked—it was the crying of a child, a little boy who can’t catch his breath and is out of control and won’t be consoled. But I did console him, I said, “Sh-sh-shhh,” and “That’s it, let it out,” and each of these seemed to be exactly right, they allowed him to cry harder. I really felt a part of it, like I was helping him get somewhere he’d always wanted to go and he was crying with gratitude and astonishment. It was pretty incredible, when you thought about it, which, as the minutes wore on, I had time to do. I looked at the curtains of my own house and hoped Clee wasn’t breaking things in there. I doubted if any man had ever cried this much, or even any adult woman. We would probably switch roles at some point, down the road, and he would guide me through my big cry. I could see him gently coaxing me into wet tears; the relief would be overwhelming. “You look beautiful,” he’d say, touching my tearstained cheek and bringing my hand to the front of his pants. With a little fiddling the car seat went almost flat; as his wail renewed itself I quietly unclasped my pants and slid my hand down. We’d blow our noses and take off our clothes, but only the clothes we needed to. For example, I would leave my blouse and socks and maybe even shoes on and Phillip would do the same. We’d take our pants and underpants off completely but wouldn’t fold them up because we’d just have to unfold them to put them back on. We’d lay them out on the floor in a way that would make them easy to put on again later. We’d get side by side in the bed and hug and kiss a lot, Phillip would get on top of me and insert his penis between my legs and then, in a low, commanding voice, he would whisper, “Think about your thing.” I’d smile, grateful for the permission to go within, and shut my eyes—transporting myself to a very similar room where our pants were laid out on the floor and Phillip was on top of and inside me. In a low, commanding voice he said, “Think about your thing,” and I was flooded with gratitude and relief, even more than last time. I shut my eyes and was again transported to a similar room, a fantasy within a fantasy within a fantasy, and it continued like this, building in intensity until I was so far inside myself that I could go no further. That’s it. That’s my thing, the thing I like to think about during intercourse or masturbation. It ends with a sudden knotting in my groin followed by a very relaxing fatigue.