Spa Page 5

  “I want to go there. To the spa. Michael, I’ve got to lose some weight and I need a little boost to get me going.”

  He closed the magazine with a sigh.

  “Cathy, Cathy, Cathy,” he said shaking his head. “You are a wife and a mother. Your place is here, looking after your family, being my wife, not at some glamorous jet-set spa.”

  “But Michael.…”

  “There’s nothing else to discuss. You’re not going, and that’s it. I told you this morning, I don’t mind a few extra pounds on you. That’s all you have to worry about. I understand what happens to a woman’s body when she has children. You can’t expect to look the same as you did when you were eighteen.” He picked up the paper, signaling the end of the discussion.

  “Michael, I.…”

  “Enough said, Cathy. That is my final decision. Now run along and let me read my paper.” He smiled benignly.

  Cathy picked up the magazine and turned to go. She caught another glimpse of the girl in the orange maillot. I could look like that again, or close to it. I know I could, she thought to herself.

  “Michael?”

  “Yessss, Cathy?” He hissed the “yes” through clenched teeth, from behind the newspaper.

  “Michael, I’ve never been demanding. I’ve never said anything to stop you from doing something you thought was important, but now I want to do something that is important to me and I don’t think it’s fair of you to try and stop me.” She was amazed at her own bravado. It was the first time in their marriage that she had ever stood up to him after he had made a “final” decision.

  “Cathy, if you went to the spa you would only be setting yourself up for a disappointment. You might lose a few pounds, but you would only gain it all back. You know what you’re like. I’m only trying to protect you from yourself.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, Michael.” She saw a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. “Please let me go. I know I can do it. And it won’t be any inconvenience to you. Mother will come in and look after the children and cook your dinner.”

  He thought for a moment. “Well.…”

  “Please. Michael, please?”

  “Wellll. Oh, alright. What the hell. They’re so far behind on the billing I can probably comp it, anyway,” he said with benevolent largesse.

  “Oh thank you, Michael! I know it will be the beginning of a whole new me.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Cathy. Leopards can’t change their spots, and you can’t turn back the clock. But far be it from me to stand in your way. Go ahead, get it out of your system. But remember, when it doesn’t work, that I told you so.”

  Chapter 7

  After Alvin left, Cliff retraced his earlier steps back down the hallway and into the kitchen, picked up the vodka, the ice, and a couple of limes, and then went back to the study.

  He sat there staring through the french windows, watching as the sky turned to mauve and then magenta and orange as the sunset proved to be as spectacular as the smog had promised.

  He was thinking, going over his life, looking for places where he might have made a wrong turn, things he could have done differently so that he wouldn’t have ended up where he was. He had tried to get drunk, but the vodka had only made him reflective. Fortunately, though, it was easier to reflect on the past than to try and deal with the future.

  The sky turned slowly to indigo and then to black. The lights at the foot of the canyons came on like so many earthbound stars. After a time, he flipped on the television set. The famous face of a local interviewer filled the screen. Deep tan. Wall-to-wall teeth. He was nodding enthusiastically, apparently interested in what his guest was saying, but Cliff knew from his own experience on the same show that “Teeth” was watching the cameras and the floor director and pacing himself between the commercial breaks. He couldn’t care less what his guest was saying. His mind was elsewhere.

  A commercial came on, and Cliff wondered briefly if the loyal viewers knew that “Teeth” was keeping a young actress in a house up in Coldwater Canyon. He wondered if Mrs. Teeth knew either, or cared.

  The logo of the show came back on the screen and faded to a shot of the set. The next guest came out and took a seat on the couch. It was Nadine Balfour. He had always liked her. Had in fact done a couple of pictures with her, and the chemistry between them on the screen had sent all the gossip-mongers into a tizzy of expectation that they were having a fling. They both thought that was hilarious, and played the lover angle to the hilt whenever they were in public. Not many people knew, even now, that Rose, Nadine’s secretary for more than twenty years, was the real love interest in her life.

  Nadine was looking pretty good. She didn’t look like a woman who was almost fifty. Same age as him. But then, she looked after herself … didn’t abuse the booze … didn’t fuck around. What was she saying now? He turned the volume up.

  “.… Well, thank you, Larry; you’re looking pretty marvelous yourself.”

  “You look terrific, Nadine, no wonder you’ve just landed the lead role on that new evening soap—‘Palmer Cove.’ Why don’t you tell our audience what your secret is. How do you stay so young?”

  “No secret, Larry, I’m just lucky, I guess. Good genes.”

  “And pretty good in jeans too.” The audience tittered and Larry Carter flashed a full frontal view of his teeth at Camera One. Nadine smiled graciously, before continuing.

  “But actually I do have this teeny weeny little secret. I go to a spa at least four times a year. You know, just to rest and rejuvenate. Get all the toxins out of the old system. I find it works wonders.”

  “If you’re an example, I’ll say it does, Nadine.…”

  Cliff flicked the OFF button. “Works wonders, does it? Well, kid, if I can look as good as you, why the hell not?”

  He dialed Alvin’s number at home. The agent answered on the third ring.

  “Alvin?”

  “Cliff? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “It’s only ten past twelve, Alvin. Did I wake you?”

  “Yes, you did. Are you drunk?”

  “No, Alvin, I’m not drunk. I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  “What did I say?”

  “About the spa, remember, the one in the Caribbean?”

  “Oh yeah. What about it?” Alvin yawned into the phone.

  “I’m going to go. Get back in shape. I bet if I get all the toxins out of my system, I can pass for forty, maybe even thirty-eight.”

  “Taxes? What taxes?” Alvin was less than half awake.

  “Toxins, Alvin, toxins. Aren’t you listening to me?”

  “Sure, sure I’m with you, Cliffy. Great idea. Do you good. Call me when you get back.”

  “Alvin. Don’t hang up. I need the name, Alvin. The name.”

  “Oh yeah. Right. Hang on a sec.”

  Cliff heard him put the phone down on the bedside table.

  “Irma. Irma. Wake up.”

  “Huh. Oh, Alvin, not again.”

  “Forget it, Irma. Cliff’s on the phone. He wants to know the name of that spa you went to in the Caribbean.”

  “Spa? Alvin, it’s the middle of the night. Go away.”

  “Just tell me the name of it and you can go back to sleep.”

  Cliff heard Irma mumble something unintelligible and then Alvin picked up the receiver again.

  “Cliff? You there?”

  “Where else?”

  “Got a pen handy?”

  “Got it, Alvin.”

  “O.K. It’s called ‘The Spa at St. Christophe.’”

  “‘The Spa at St. Christophe.’ Thanks, Alvin. See you when I get back.”

  Chapter 8

  Maxine

  The smell of frying onions, mixed with the more tantalizing scents of garlic and hot cinnamon, had just wafted under the bathroom door. Bradley inhaled deeply. Even with his face slathered with Aramis-scented shaving cream, he could smell his mother’s cooking, and his mouth watered at the promise of i
t.

  He sighed as he dragged the Track II down one side of his chin and up the other. He hated to miss one of Maxine’s dinners again, but at the age of twenty-two he had discovered that there were more important things in life than food. They were called “Janie.” So he finished shaving, ran the razor under the cold water tap to rinse out the “whisker buds,” as Janie called them, and patted a little cologne on his face. And then, taking one last look in the mirror, he made his way down the hall and into the kitchen to tell his mother he was going out again tonight.

  Maxine was stirring the béchamel sauce in a pot on the stove, and a spicy meat mixture lay steaming in a casserole dish on the counter beside her.

  “Hi, Ma.” Bradley scooped up a spoonful of the meat and put it in his mouth. Maxine just kept stirring.

  “Don’t tell me … you’re going out again.”

  “Mmmmmm, hot.” He mumbled, tossing the beef mixture from one side of his mouth to the other. She frowned. “But good, very good. How did you know I was going out?”

  “You smell like a florist.” She cracked two eggs, beat the whites and, turning back to the stove, folded the whites into the sauce, and then continued stirring.

  “I’ve got a date with Janie.” Bradley shook his head. “Ma, how come you’re always cooking?”

  “It’s a Jewish mother’s therapy. I get nervous—I cook. I have a fight with your father—I cook. My son tells me he prefers the company of some shiksa to his own mother—I cook.”

  Bradley ignored the reference to Janie. It was just his mother’s way of needling him. “But Ma, nobody’s gonna eat it?”

  She stopped stirring and turned off the element under the pot. “You think maybe I should take Valium instead?”

  “No, Ma. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that most of the time you’re the only one who’s home for dinner.” Bradley knew he was treading on thin ice now, and he stepped carefully around mentioning his father’s regular absences from the dinner table.

  “So, you don’t think a mother has to eat too?”

  “Of course you have to eat. What I meant was, you go to so much bother. Cooking all these fancy dishes. What’s the point?”

  “You never asked me what the point was when you used to eat at home.”

  Bradley held up his hands. “O.K. Ma. O.K. I take it back.” He took another spoonful of the meat mixture. He felt guilty about leaving his mother alone so much, but what could he do? It was not his job to take Harry’s place.

  But she slapped the back of his knuckles with a wooden spoon. “Doesn’t this girl of yours ever feed you?”

  “Sure Ma. We’ll grab some Mexican or something later.”

  “Mexican! You know the first thing those peasants do when they cross the border in Texas? They stop eating Mexican. And now my own son, who should know better, tells me he wants to eat what the peasants won’t eat.”

  “Come on, Ma.…” Bradley slipped back into an adolescent whine.”

  Maxine noted this with some satisfaction. Her son wasn’t as grown up as he liked to think, after all.

  “I used to cook for your father two, three times a week before we were married. That’s how he knew I would make him a good wife.”

  “Ma, I told you, Janie’s not into domestic stuff. She’s a businesswoman. She likes to eat out.”

  “Eat out? Eat out. The whole world is eating out. Even your father doesn’t come home for dinner any more.”

  Bradley shifted his weight to the other foot. “Dad doesn’t come home period, Ma.” Talking about his father made him uncomfortable, but, since his mother had brought the subject up, he thought maybe she wanted to talk about the situation, and so he gave her the intro. “Is he still sleeping at the office?”

  But Maxine just nodded and poured the sauce over the meat and then put the dish in to bake.

  “What can I say. The man chooses to live like a gypsy. I sent a packet of clean shirts over there for him this morning. Otherwise, he’ll start to smell like a gypsy, too.”

  Bradley came over and stood beside her. “Ma, why don’t you two get a divorce? What’s the point?”

  “There you go again with ‘What’s the point?’ Why does everything have to have a point?”

  “But Ma, you’re not happy. He’s not happy.…”

  “Happy? Happy? That’s all you young people think about is being happy. What makes you think marriage is supposed to make you happy?” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

  “Well, it’s not supposed to make you unhappy, is it?”

  “Look, Mr. Knowitall, if you know so much about marriage, why don’t you marry that girl you spend so much time with?”

  “Janie and I aren’t ready for that kind of commitment yet, Ma.”

  “Not ready yet?” Maxine sniffed in disdain. “When I was your age, we didn’t have time to get ready to make a commitment. We made it. That was it. Believe me, you think about marriage too long, you’re never ready.”

  “Jumping into something before you’re ready is not the answer. Look where it’s gotten you. You’re miserable. Get a divorce, Ma. Start a new life. You’ll see. It’ll be so much better.”

  “What? Are you getting a commission from that divorce lawyer who lives downstairs?” She moved him aside and put the pot and the spatula into the sink to soak.

  “Don’t make jokes, Ma. I mean it. I don’t like to see you like this.”

  Maxine turned to face him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Bradley my son, you don’t understand. You’re young. You have your looks—especially now you got rid of those blue stripes in your hair. You have your whole life ahead of you. I’m forty-five. Things are starting to slide. When I married your father I had a shape like zucchini. Now I look more like an eggplant. At this rate, my whole body is going to be down around my ankles by the time I’m fifty. I’m not exactly Loni Anderson, if you know what I mean. If I divorce your father, I’m going to be alone.”

  “If you’re worried about being lonely, Ma.…”

  “Lonely? Who’s lonely? I’ve got a microwave.” She gestured at the contents of the kitchen. “I’ve got a Cuisinart. I’ve got a convection oven with a built-in salamander. How can I be lonely? I’m not worried about being lonely. But I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You could find someone else.…”

  Maxine made a noise that sounded like “pissssssh” and waved him aside.

  “Ma, Ma, you’ve never looked better. Believe me.” He picked up the lid of a saucepan and held it so she could see herself. “You look great. You know, some women look better when they get older. Look at Joan Collins.”

  Maxine looked at her reflection. “I look like a frightened blowfish.” She pushed the lid away.

  “That’s because it’s a convex surface.…”

  “Look, I know you’re trying to make me feel better.” She patted him on the hand. “You’re a good boy, Bradley, a good son, but you just don’t understand. I’m your father’s wife. Mrs. Harry Kraft is who I am. It’s also what I do. If I divorce your father, I’ll be unemployed.” She kissed him on the cheek. “And you wouldn’t want your mother to be unemployed, would you? Now go. You’re probably already late for what’shername.”

  He hesitated. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

  “What’s gonna happen? I’m gonna get mugged in the living room? Go. Go eat out. Take some Alka-seltzer with you.” She smiled and pushed him toward the kitchen door.

  Grateful to be let off the hook, Bradley left the kitchen and went down the hall to the front door.

  A minute later, Maxine heard the door close and then went back to check on the moussaka. The top was browning nicely, and she stuck a fork in, to see how it was coming along.

  “Ten more minutes,” she said to the empty kitchen, and began to prepare a tray for herself.

  After she had served herself a modest slice of the moussaka, she took the tray into the living room and sat down in the chair nearest the television set. The remote control was on the table
beside it, and she switched on Channel Four to catch the last half-hour of “Live at Five” while she waited for the NBC News to come on.

  Then, while she ate her dinner and listened to the local news, she picked up the TV guide to see who she would be spending her evening with.

  There wasn’t much on until 8 p.m., when Robin Leach was going to have some starlet whose name Maxine didn’t recognize show him around her favorite getaway, a spa in the Caribbean.

  She wasn’t particularly fond of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” The truth was that Robin Leach got on her nerves. But the only other choice was the movie of the week, and Maxine thought if she saw one more story about a divorced middle-aged woman who was a) crushed by her loneliness, b) destroyed by her dependence on prescription drugs, or c) bravely fighting a strange and crippling disease, she would give in to the ravages of the menopause and go stark, raving mad.

  Besides, she was curious about seeing the spa. Without telling either her husband or her son, Maxine was planning a little getaway of her own. It was the first time she had ever done anything like that, and she was scared stiff at her own bravado. But she felt a need to do something to shake up her life. Either that, or she would soon start cooking lunches as well as dinners.

  Chapter 9

  Joyce was packing—or trying to. Through a process of random selection and distribution, she had managed in a few short hours to transfer every piece of clothing in her closet to a heap on the middle of her bed. The suitcase, however, still remained empty on the floor beside it.

  What did you wear to a spa? A bathing suit. She pulled one out of the pile and then threw it back. It was faded and the elastic was gone, so it sagged everywhere it should have snugged.

  What else? Not much, she decided. A least most of the time. But what did you wear in between “not much” and a bathing suit? She sighed, turfing Fredo off the pile of clothes.

  “Do I sleep on your things?”

  A knock on the door saved the cat from having to come up with an answer

  “Now what?” Joyce padded barefoot down the tiny hallway. She was in no mood for visitors. It’s probably somebody who wants a contribution for saving some endangered species I’ve never heard of, she decided, as she approached the door.