Domestic Arrangements Read online

  “For cooking school?” Daddy said.

  “Evidently that’s what it costs . . . it’s a whole big deal. You have to learn restaurant management and how to make puff pastry for a hundred people.”

  “I thought she was just a little slip of a thing,” Daddy said. “I thought her whole aim in life was to gaze at him dotingly.”

  “It was,” Abigail said, “but I guess she got fed up with that . . . as even the most doting among us tend to.” She smiled slyly.

  Daddy smiled back. “Poor Charlie.”

  “Why poor Charlie?” I asked.

  “Well, this is his third go-around . . . what comes next?”

  “Who was he married to before?” I asked. I thought Charlie was a bachelor. He was always flirting with everyone on the set.

  “Let’s see, who was the first one?” Daddy said.

  “Jessica,” Abigail said.

  “Oh, right . . . the prom queen from his hometown.”

  “Then there was, you know, the one with the braid,” Abigail said.

  “Suki . . . wasn’t she the one with the cross-eyed kid?”

  “Right . . . they corrected it with surgery, but . . . well, he says he’s had it with marriage.”

  “I would think,” Daddy said. “Three mistakes, after all.”

  Abigail looked at him indignantly. “Why mistakes? Just because they ended in divorce?”

  “Well,” Daddy said. “Yes.”

  “They were right at the time. He changed, they changed . . . that doesn’t make them mistakes!”

  Daddy looked taken aback. “Well, I didn’t mean it in any pejorative sense. Just that . . . I don’t think he knows what he wants from women.”

  “Men never do,” Abigail said dismissively.

  Daddy laughed. “Never?”

  She shook her head. “No, they just follow whatever fantasy appeals to them and depending on their degree of gullibility, it lasts till the smoke clears.”

  “I can’t allow my sex to be so maligned,” Daddy said. “I have no such illusions about women. I look at them with total clarity.”

  Abigail smiled. “Sure.”

  “What do you mean, ‘sure’?” Daddy said.

  “Hey, let’s look at the show, what do you say?” Abigail said. To Daddy she said, “Your illusion is that you have no illusions. That’s the most dangerous illusion of all.”

  I think Abigail likes Daddy, even though she teases him. The show was sort of interesting. It was big color photos of naked men. In some of them you couldn’t tell they were naked men; they were such close-ups they could have been of anything. Like one just showed a nipple as big as a sunflower, practically. And in some, the man’s body was all bent to one side so you couldn’t see his head.

  “That’s a penis,” Kerim said, pointing. Daddy was carrying him on his shoulders because he got tired.

  “Is it?” Daddy said. “Yes, I guess it is.”

  “It’s big,” Kerim said, impressed.

  “That’s because it’s a close-up, honey,” Abigail said. “You know, I like her wild ponies better.”

  “I know what you mean,” Daddy said. “She used to go to this island and photograph wild ponies,” he explained to me.

  “She says Willie has such an incredible body, it made her see the possibilities in male nudes. She said she could stare at him all day.”

  “Now so can a lot of other people.”

  “Who’s Willie?” I asked. “Her boyfriend?”

  “Kind of.” She looked pensive. “He’s only eighteen. Well, I guess she was mainly interested in great sex.”

  “Great sex with an eighteen-year-old?” Daddy said disdainfully.

  “Aren’t men at their peak then?” Abigail said. “That’s what they say.”

  “Well, maybe biologically,” Daddy said, “but in terms of finesse—”

  Abigail looked thoughtful. “Oh, finesse . . . well I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I’m hungry,” Kerim said.

  “Let’s go to the cafeteria,” Abigail said. “I’m getting a little tired of penises. I think I’ve seen enough for one morning.”

  We had soup and sandwiches and Kerim had yogurt with fruit. Mostly, he just mushed it around his plate. He ate the fruit, though. When we went outside again, the sun had come out. Abigail took out her camera. She usually carries it with her. It’s a Pentax.

  “Be mad,” she said to Kerim.

  He jumped up on a park bench and started scowling and stamping his foot.

  “Be happy.”

  He started waving, with a big grin on his face.

  I jumped up beside him and started waving too.

  “Be sad,” Abigail said.

  Kerim and I looked at each other. He sniffed. I let a tear roll down my face. I can do that.

  “Oh, do that again, Tat,” Abigail said.

  She took a bunch more pictures of both of us. She wanted to take Daddy too, but he said he was too self-conscious.

  “That hair,” she said to me. “Wow.”

  “It’s because of my grandma,” I said.

  “Kerim is great, though,” Daddy said. “You should try to get him in something.”

  Abigail made a face. “The thing is, someone wants him for a commercial for some dumb toy, but I . . . I just hate commercials! I feel like it would be going against all my principles.”

  “I know what you mean,” Daddy said.

  “Mom does commercials,” I said. “She says it’s okay because it’s real acting. She says it’s what you bring to it that counts.”

  “But how about the whole exploitive aspect of it?” Abigail asked. “How does one justify that?”

  “I don’t think Amanda loses a lot of sleep over issues like that,” Daddy said.

  If Mom had been there, she’d have gotten mad at that remark. She always does when Daddy says things like that.

  Abigail lives way down in the Village on Broome Street, or something, so Daddy and I didn’t go home with her and Kerim. She said she thought he was tired and needed a nap.

  “No, I don’t,” he said loudly. But his eyes were kind of drooping shut.

  “I do,” Abigail said. “Naps are one of the world’s great inventions . . . whoever invented them deserves a medal.”

  She and Daddy kissed each other good-bye, and Daddy and I took a cab home. Usually Daddy doesn’t believe in cabs, at least as much as Mom does. Mom says she’s addicted to cabs. If it’s farther than three blocks away, she takes a cab to it. Daddy says that’s one bad habit he doesn’t want me to pick up from her. He says public transportation is a wonderful thing, and we should be glad we have it. But still, at the end of the day, when you’re tired, it’s nice to take a cab.

  Chapter Five

  Daddy likes to talk to cab drivers. He likes to just start talking to people he doesn’t know, sort of joking around. When we got into the cab, the cab driver (his name was Juan Martinez) said, “You know, I was about to go off duty, but the little lady looked so cold and tired, I decided what the heck. That’s my trouble—I’m too good-hearted.”

  “Oh, you can’t be too good-hearted,” Daddy said. “That’s not possible.”

  “No, it is possible,” Juan Martinez said. “Let me tell you. You’re good-hearted and what good does it do you? Does anyone notice? Does anyone care?”

  “I’m glad you stopped,” I said shyly. “I was tired.”

  “It’s October,” Juan Martinez said. “October does it to me.”

  “What does it do?” Daddy said. “Why October?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. He was looking at us in his rearview mirror. “You really want to know?”

  “I do,” Daddy said. “I’m on the edge of my seat. Aren’t you, Tat?”

  Sometimes I think Daddy teases people a little, but they don’t always seem to notice.

  “Well, you may not believe this,” Juan Martinez said, “but I used to be the soccer champion of Brazil.”

  “And then what happened?” Da
ddy asked.

  “Then what happened? Then I had a family; then I had kids to support; then I came to this country and got a job driving a cab . . . and there you are.”

  “What is it about October, though?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s when I quit. I quit back in October 1967.”

  “Do you miss it?” Daddy asked.

  Juan Martinez looked at him. “He wants to know if I miss it,” he said. “What do you think, mister? Do you think I miss it?”

  “I imagine you do,” Daddy said.

  “You’d rather be driving a cab in this crazy city than out there with crowds cheering when you make a goal? You’d rather be bucking traffic, getting held up, sworn at?”

  “No, I don’t think I would, now that you mention it,” Daddy said.

  “Listen, I’m not complaining,” Juan Martinez said. “I had my moment of glory, right? I mean, lots of people, they spend their whole lives waiting. I had it. So they can’t take that away from me, can they?”

  “They certainly can’t,” Daddy said. “Tat, do you have a single? This corner is fine,” he said. We were right at our house.

  Juan Martinez took the change. “Everybody should have one moment of glory,” he said.

  “Definitely,” Daddy said. “I couldn’t agree with you more. At least one.”

  “Listen, mister,” Juan Martinez called out the window. “I hope you won’t be offended by my saying this, but you’ve got a gorgeous daughter, you know that?”

  Daddy smiled at me. “Of course I know that.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You look after her,” Juan Martinez said. “You keep an eye on her.”

  “I’m trying to do just that,” Daddy said as we walked into the lobby.

  We looked at each other and smiled.

  “You know, Tat,” Daddy said in the elevator, “I think there’s an object lesson in that exchange.”

  “There is?” I thought he was going to say something about how I shouldn’t be conceited about my looks.

  “What I’m thinking of,” Daddy said, “is what he said about a moment of glory. He’s right. We all have it, usually anyway, at one point or another, but it doesn’t always lead anywhere. You think it’s a high point and you’ll go on and on, but you don’t necessarily.”

  I wondered if he meant about his having won the Emmy five years ago, and not having won another one. I remember when the shooting started for Domestic Arrangements, Mom said that she was worried Daddy would be envious of Charlie since he’d always had vague thoughts of making a feature film. He optioned a book for about four years and then the author sold it to someone else for more money. I think that made him feel bad.

  “Do you know what I mean?” Daddy said.

  “About the Emmy?” I said.

  “No, about you, darling . . . You don’t know, but when Domestic Arrangements opens, you may suddenly get a lot of attention and, well, it’ll be a nice thing, but it’ll be helpful if you try to take it in perspective, appreciate it, but—”

  “Don’t let it go to my head?” I finished.

  “Right . . . Lots of people will be crowding around you, telling you you’re gorgeous and talented, which you are . . . but you’ve got a whole life ahead of you. It’s something you have to . . . work on. Things won’t always come that easily, just strolling in and getting a lead in a feature film without any acting experience. That’s great, but don’t expect life to be like that.”

  “I won’t,” I promised him.

  Mom was at home, stretched out on the couch.

  “How’d it go?” Daddy asked, giving her a kiss.

  She gestured. “Not bad . . . God, those writers are idiots! You have to sit there, listening to such total junk, and pretend it’s the most fascinating thing you ever heard. How was the show?”

  “Fair,” Daddy said. “A lot of male organs, larger than life.”

  “Huh . . . oh, honey, that reminds me, did you put those kidneys back? They were supposed to be for dinner. How’s Abigail? Still as relentless as ever?”

  “Never saw the kidneys,” Daddy said. “Abigail’s fine, not especially relentless that I could see.”

  “You should introduce her to Simon,” I said, taking off my boots.

  “What?” Mom and Daddy said together, in horror.

  I was taken aback. “Well, you just said”—I meant Daddy—“she doesn’t get that much money from her husband and you’re always saying”—I meant Mom—“Simon ought to get married, so I thought—”

  “Tat,” Daddy said. “Abigail is a highly cultured, sensitive person. She loves ballet, she’s studied Oriental art. What would she talk about with someone like Simon?” He looked disdainful.

  “Well, that’s hardly the point,” Mom said, bristling. “Simon likes women with some kind of spark, or pizazz. Abigail would probably bore him senseless, reading him the latest issue of Ms. from cover to cover.”

  “What do you mean?” Daddy said.

  “Well, darling, you’re the one that always said what a party liner she was about feminist things,” Mom said. “I’m only quoting you.”

  “That was years ago,” Daddy said. “She’s softened considerably. I thought you said Simon didn’t know what he was doing as a director, that he just got the job because his father knew somebody.”

  “That’s how he got the job,” Mom said. “But he’s earned his keep. The cast loves him now. He has them eating out of his hand.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Daddy said. “I thought all that LSD he took might have softened his brain.”

  “Lionel! That’s his generation. They all take stuff. So what? Big deal. His brain is in fine shape.”

  “Big deal?” Daddy said. “To be stoned for ten years?”

  “He wasn’t stoned for ten years.” Mom looked at him indignantly. “He went through a brief period in which he experimented with drugs a little . . . God, you’re such a moralist!”

  “It’s his chromosomes,” Daddy said. “Let him worry about them.”

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Mom said. “When are you going out, Tat?”

  “I’m meeting Joshua at eight.” They were both looking at me so I said, “I’ll be back at one, okay?”

  “Fine,” they said together.

  Mom and Daddy were having guests for dinner, and Joshua’s parents were going out, so we’d decided to spend the evening over there. Joshua’s father has a wide-screen TV and there was some movie on Joshua wanted to watch. Joshua is an old-movie buff. He likes to watch all the movies some director made, every single one. They have this thing where you can record movies that are on in the middle of the night or when you’re away, and play them back any time you feel like it. Joshua says he wants to make movies when he grows up. But he wants to make really good movies, not like Domestic Arrangements and not like the things Daddy does. He wants to make great movies, like Ingmar Bergman, or Lubitsch. I think he probably will. He’s a very determined person. He said the minute he saw me, he knew we’d go to bed together or he’d die. I didn’t think anything special when I saw him.

  Joshua’s parents were just leaving when I arrived. Joshua’s mother was wearing a white fur coat. She had her hair in a gray turban. “Oh, hi, Tatiana,” she said, smiling stiffly. Maybe she felt funny after that talk with Mom and Daddy.

  “Well, there’s the girl,” Joshua’s father said. “We had a nice time with your parents the other night, Tatiana. I’m glad we met them finally.” He had this sort of loud, booming voice.

  “Yes, they were glad too,” I said hesitantly.

  “Now I know where you get your looks,” he said. “Your mother is quite a looker.”

  “Patrick, I think we really should be going,” Joshua’s mother said.

  “The two of you should be in something together,” he went on, ignoring her. “You’d be sensational. I want to talk to my pal Dan about it. He’s looking around for someone to—”

  “It’s past eight thirty,” Joshua’s m
other said. “And I’m in a fur coat.”

  “Sweetheart,” Joshua’s father said. “Don’t be so uptight. No one ever gets there on time.”

  “Yes, they do. We just never do.”

  He sighed, and rolled his eyes. “You see, the tyranny of women,” he said to Joshua and me. “How we are yoked and chained, but we submit.” He lowered his head like a bull. “I submit. Carry me off. Do with me what you will.”

  After they’d left, Joshua shook his head and sighed. “The original wise guy.”

  “Daddy didn’t like him,” I said.

  “No one likes him.”

  “Doesn’t your mother?”

  “Are you kidding? How could anyone like him if they lived with him?”

  “So, why doesn’t she divorce him?”

  “I guess she figures why bother. He’s rich.”

  “That’s gross, that she just stays with him for his money.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I guess women do.”

  “Joshua!” I looked at him indignantly. “Women do not! My mother doesn’t.”

  “Your father isn’t rich.”

  “He’s not poor . . . he says we’re comfortable.”

  Joshua smiled. “Listen, Mom didn’t even want to go to the West Side to meet your parents. She was afraid they’d be mugged the second they went west of Fifth. She says she saw a cockroach walking up the wall of the restaurant.”

  “Daddy liked her.”

  “She liked him. She said he was very sincere.”

  “He is.”

  “Maybe we should fix them up,” Joshua said.

  “Oh come on!”

  “Why not?”

  “My parents are happily married,” I said.

  “Nobody’s parents are happily married,” Joshua said. “Some just put on a better front than others.”

  “That’s really a cynical attitude.”

  “Realistic.”

  “Cynical.”

  I glared at him. He came over in back of me and put his arms around me and hugged me. Then he slid his hands up under my shirt. “Hey, what’s this?” he said, touching my bra.

  “I went out with Daddy this afternoon. He doesn’t like it when I go without a bra.”