Read Open House for Free Online

Victoria’s Secret and spent five hundred dollars in about fifteen minutes. She got matching everything. And a whole bunch of dirty stuff. Lewinsky thongs, garter belts . . .”
    “I went to Tiffany’s. I got china. And silver.” I won’t mention the bracelet. No need to get into
that
.
    “You’re kidding!”
    “No.”
    “You don’t like that stuff.”
    “Well, I never did before, but now I do. I just want . . . something different. I’m going to live another way. I have to live another way. I mean, even things like learning not to be afraid of the dark. Did you know I’m afraid of the dark? I lie awake at night now, wondering who’s in the basement getting ready to come upstairs and murder me and Travis. I keep a fish knife under my bed.”
    “A
fish
knife?”
    “Well, I’d never used it. I figured I might as well use it. It’s very nice. Pearl-handled.”
    “I’m sure the killer will appreciate that.”
    “That would be a pretty nice change, being appreciated.” All the things I really want to tell Rita are stuck in my throat. I cannot say them, it’s too embarrassing.
I sat in the middle of the living-room floor
and howled like a dog, Rita. I’ve been contemplating “accidental” death. I
bought a book on self-esteem, and when the author said to make a list of
what I liked about myself, I couldn’t do it. I could not write down one thing.
After two days, I made one that kind of copied the suggested list, then hid
it in my underwear drawer, then burned it. I can’t think straight; my head
is full of cobwebs. I have to concentrate really hard to open a can of soup.
    Gently, Rita says, “Sam, why don’t you get away for a while? Come out here. I’ll take time off from work, I’ll take care of you.”
    Why don’t I visit Rita? She lives in a beautiful house in Mill Valley, in Marin County. I could fly out to San Francisco tonight, lie around in the hammock in Rita’s beautiful backyard tomorrow, staring at the gently rounded hills, at the ocean glittering in the distance. We could eat avocado and tomato and sprout sandwiches, take long walks, make bouquets of the extraordinary wildflowers that grow everywhere. Rita’s husband, Lawrence, is a humanities professor, gray-eyed and bearded and calm. He casts coins for the I Ching. He is an inventive chef, and he cooks at least twice a week. He would leave us alone when we needed to be left alone, join us when we wanted him to.
    Rita always puts fresh flowers in my room, as well as a huge box of chocolates and a
National Enquirer
. She plays the music she and I used to listen to when we were roommates: the Temptations, Janis, Odetta. We talk for hours, laugh until we cry.
    Finally, though, I say, “I can’t come out there. Travis is in school. I can’t just pull him out. And I don’t want to leave him with David.”
    “Leave him with your mother, then. She loves to try to wreck him.”
    “I think I need to hang around. I mean, this is hard for him, too.”
    “Oh, I know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to underestimate any of this. I really don’t. How is Travis, anyway?”
    “Mostly not talking. I think he thinks it’s just a big fight.”
    “Is it?”
    “No. It’s been coming for a long time. I don’t think he ever loved me. It’s sort of astonishing, isn’t it?” I start to cry. Again.
    “Oh, honey,” Rita says. “I know how this hurts. I’m so sorry. I wish I could be there now, I’d do something.”
    “I know you would. It would be something wonderful, too. What would it be?”
    “
Well,
I would . . . I have no idea, actually.”
    I laugh, blow my nose. “So you always thought he was a jerk, huh?”
    “I really did.”
    “Did you talk behind his back?”
    “Constantly.”
    “I hope you mentioned what a terrible dancer he was. Absolutely no sense of rhythm. Not that he knew that.”
    “We covered that, I’m sure. As well as that reptilian gesture he made whenever he cleared his throat, sticking his chin out that way.