Neighborly(73)

Even with the supposed feminism of openness, a sixty-three-year-old man does better than a fifty-five-year-old woman. Patrick’s been with a surprising number of the spreadsheet’s women. His reputation does a lot of the heavy lifting: he’ll give and give, and he gets off on that so fully that he never needs to receive. That tongue of his is legendary. It knows just where to go, it never gets tired, and the beauty of it is, since you don’t have to see his face, you can just fantasize about whoever you want, for hours.

The other good thing about Patrick is that he takes rejection well. He just backs away, hands in the air to show he’s harmless, no pressure, no hard feelings. Some others on the block should take notes.

Revenge fucking, trophy scoring, saying “I love you” only to be dumped immediately, sexual obsession . . . Not to mention, there’s never enough time for balancing/juggling the spouse and the kids with an outside person; something has to give; it’s a scheduling and logistical nightmare. The spouse feels neglected, the household chores are neglected, and sexual needs go unfulfilled because one person is already fulfilled on the outside, so then the other might have to go seeking, causing the same scenarios but in reverse. And while the husband can try to satisfy his wife with his hand or mouth, his lover is often getting the dick. So there’s loneliness, resentment, and loss, but somehow, no one wants to stop, because the carousel ride itself is addictive, because everyone else is doing it, and who said peer pressure stops at a certain age? It doesn’t; it goes on and on and on . . .

Would I live anywhere else, though? No, I wouldn’t. These are my best friends, and we’re in it together, no matter what. The system we’ve crafted is complex and, at times, downright ugly, but there’s love and beauty in it, too. And sex, of course. Lots of that. It beats all the alternatives. Families are messy. Maybe that was the problem with my family growing up. It was too good to be true.

No, it wasn’t too good. It just seemed that way to other people, so they wanted to tear it down. They envied us, Katrina most of all. That’s the only explanation I’ve ever been able to come up with for how she could do what she did.

But enough about Katrina—Kat—for one day. I need to think happy thoughts. Funny thoughts.

I remember when Brandon first told me about the stripper pole and the lessons, and we couldn’t stop giggling over the image of Val suspended from it, naked but for the fanny pack, while Patrick texted other women on the block madly to see who was available for some quickie cunnilingus. Brandon and I used to laugh together and then say how bad we were being, and that we needed to stop, poor Val, and then we’d laugh some more. Because sometimes it’s just good to be bad.

Ilsa didn’t agree. That’s why she and Nils had to go.

“I’ve texted Kat, but she hasn’t responded,” Val says. “I don’t have Doug’s number. Could you just let them know we’re thinking of them? As soon as they’re comfortable having more visitors, we’d love to see them. You’re sure we can’t bring them a lasagna or something?”

“I’m sure. They just want space.”

“Of course,” Patrick says, his eyes again stopping at my breasts. I don’t even mind. It’s just a quirk of his, a tic.

Val sees it, and she clearly does mind.

“I should buy this stuff.” I indicate the contents of my cart. “And get back to the hospital.”

Later that day, when I arrive, Doug and Kat are whispering heatedly. I try to loiter outside the curtain to make out their words, but Kendall calls out a greeting to me and when I answer, the voices cease.

“Hey,” I say, drawing back the curtain.

“Hey!” Doug is too hearty, as usual. Kat looks upset as she squeezes out a hi.

“Is it a bad time?”

“Not at all,” Doug answers as Kat says, “Yes.” She adds, “Doug was just headed out to the waiting room. You can walk with him.” She won’t look at him as she tells him to send in his mom or dad, whoever. The implication is clear: she’ll take anyone over him at the moment.

Doug and I head out into the hall, removing our gowns on the way.

I put my hand on Doug’s arm, stalling his progress. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt with a tiny hole at the collar, wearing way too much cologne. The bags under his eyes aren’t nearly as pronounced as Kat’s. “Are you OK?” I ask him. It wouldn’t hurt to buddy up to him, try to get some information or give some, depending on what’s most advantageous to me. His rift with Kat could pay dividends, especially since he and his parents own the house that I want Kat to vacate.

I sense his uncertainty. He’s not sure how to play this. His veil is different, yet in his way, he’s guarded, too. He hides behind layers of joviality.

“I’m holding my own,” he says. “I just need to support Kat. She can be kind of fragile.”

Yeah, dude, you really seemed to be supporting her back behind that curtain. “Were you mad at each other? It was kind of intense in there.”

His eyes darken. “It can be intense having a sick baby. You should know, right?”

So Kat told him my lie. But from his tone, I’m not sure he believes it. “Yes,” I say, “I know.”

“It seems like you and Kat have gotten pretty close, pretty quickly.”

“We understand each other.”