Nora Goes Off Script(17)

Leo looks around the store, fingering every coffee mug, every throw pillow, every set of salad tongs. “I’ll take these,” he says holding up a set of ivory sheets and evoking a gasp from the store owner. Then to me, “What do you sleep in? A king?”

“Queen,” I say in a small voice because (1) it seems like a personal question, and (2) it’s possible I was harboring a fantasy that these women thought he’d seen my bed.

He picks up a set of queen-size sheets and hands them to the lady. “I bet your sheets are crap,” he says to me. When I start to object, he puts up his hand to silence me. “Just let me.” He stares me down until I nod in agreement. “What else? Do you like your coffee mugs?”

“I do.”

“I do too.” He wanders around collecting small items until he finds the towels. “We need new towels. Don’t even start to argue.” Which, okay. He chooses four sets of the most luxurious towels I’ve ever felt. They’re a light aqua, a perfect match to the fading tile in the kids’ bathroom. He hands them to the slightly panting lady.

By the time he’s convinced me that my wine opener is “trash,” he’s got more stuff than we can carry. The ladies happily agree to deliver it all to my house.

“Well, my house feels like it’s had it’s Pretty Woman moment,” I say as we head to the bookstore.

“I don’t get to shop. There’s a woman Weezie hired who chooses my clothes. Someone else picked out everything in my apartment. Same for the other houses.”

“That’s weird.”

“It is. Like, it feels good to choose a towel color, decide which bananas look good.”

“Is that what’s at the heart of this suburban crisis you’re having? You want to make choices?”

Leo doesn’t answer, and I’m afraid I’ve pried. I also haven’t said “thank you,” and now it feels too late. We walk into the bookstore, and I introduce Leo to Stewart, the owner. He asks if he can take a photo with Leo for his Instagram account, and Leo is gracious.

Leo touches the spine of every book, and agrees to pose for selfies with three customers. He chooses a book on French provincial cooking (he doesn’t cook) and a newly released Stephen King novel.

I have to admit I like walking through town with Leo. People I know greet us with surprise and curiosity. Both of these things are better than pity. Everyone knows Ben left me. And everyone knows he sort of used me up and tossed me aside. “She did everything for that man,” they’d say, shaking their heads. Besides Mrs. Sanducci, who is recently widowed at eighty-six, I think I’m the only single woman in town. Look at me having fun, I want to say. Look at me next to something glamorous.

We stop at the hardware store to check in on Mr. Mapleton, and Leo buys a spray nozzle for my hose because he thinks they’re fun. I argue that I use my thumb and get the same effect, and now Leo and Mr. Mapleton have ganged up on me. “This woman lives like the Unabomber,” Leo says. “Have you been to her house?”

“That’s her, just the basics. And she’ll use and reuse something until it crumbles in her hands,” Mr. Mapleton tells Leo.

“You should see her bath towels,” Leo says and laughs.

“I can only imagine,” says Mr. Mapleton. “But not the husband. That guy was in here all the time, buying a slightly newer version of something he already had. I used to tell my wife, ‘That Ben’s got everything but a job.’?”

I’ve heard this a thousand times, but I laugh because it’s true and also because I like how he’s always been on my side. “And he took it all with him,” I say. “I like to think of Ben wandering around the globe with six sets of torque wrenches.”

Leo adds the spray nozzle to his bag with the cheese, and we say good-bye. “Enjoy your stay,” Mr. Mapleton says. “I’ll have my eye on you.”



* * *



? ? ?

“What happens now?” I don’t even know how many times he’s asked me this today. Last time the answer was: I put the kids to bed. Before that it was: We watch Wheel of Fortune. Preceded by: We have dinner. Between school and dinner was two hours of Fagin training. I’m not entirely sure if Arthur did his homework.

I pour a glass of wine and head toward the sunroom.

“Can I come?” I also don’t know how many times he’s asked that today.

I grab a second glass.

My sunroom is only big enough for a small couch, an armchair, and a coffee table. There are two ferns at all times, one dying and one getting started, on a regular rotation of grief and replacement. It looks out over the lawn to the tea house, where I can see Leo has left the door open to welcome him back.

Leo sits on the couch, so I take the armchair. He’s in a button-down shirt and shorts. He looks like he should be in the Hamptons or Malibu, any place but on my sagging beige couch. “Will you write tomorrow?” he asks.

“I think so; I need to start something new.” I take a sip of my wine.

“Let’s hope it’s not a musical.” He smiles an ironic smile. I’ve seen this smile before.

“African Rose,” I say.

“Stop it,” he says. “So, what’s the inspiration for the next script?”

“It’s not inspiration, it’s more like math.”