Martin was a good househusband. He taught two classes on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. The other days he wrote from morning to dinnertime. He liked routines; “psychical and creative order,” he called it. He’d take Melanie to school every morning, then he’d go home and write or go to school and teach, then he’d write some more and pick Melanie up. He cooked all their meals (all writers were good cooks) and even washed the dishes! He split the laundry and cleaning chores with Melanie. Many nights Ann wasn’t home for dinner, but that had never been a problem either. Melanie had taken to him instantly. He encouraged her and counseled her better than Ann could ever expect to, and since they were both flaming liberals, they both agreed on everything. Martin even liked Melanie’s wild, discordant music. At least once a month he would drive her and some of her friends to one of the New Wave clubs in D.C. to see bands like the Car Crash Symphony, Alien Sex Fiend, and Nixon’s Head. “Nixon’s Head!” Ann had once tiraded. “You took her to see a band called Nixon’s Head?” “Creative alternativism, my dear,” Martin had quietly responded. “Without it we’d be another Red China.” Maybe Ann was stupid but she didn’t understand how a group called Nixon’s Head could be proof of democracy. Nevertheless, without Martin, Melanie would have no father figure at all, and would probably have run away for good by now. Martin was tolerant of things most men could never be: stable, kind in the face of her job stress, never jealous, and someone who wouldn’t rant and rave every time she had to work late on depositions or had to take clients out to restaurants where dinner for two cost more than Martin made in a week. He didn’t feel subservient at all; he even jokingly referred to himself as her “wife.” He insisted on contributing the little he could toward the mortgage, and refused to let her replace his ten year old Ford Pinto with a Corvette. “People will think I’m your gigolo,” he’d objected. “Any poet who doesn’t drive a ten year old car with at least 150,000 miles on it is a complete fake.”
His first proposal had been made in good humor. “If you don’t marry me soon, the neighbors’ll think all I’m good for is sex.” “That’s not true, Martin. You’re also a very good cook. Let’s talk about it later.” The second time had turned ugly. “I’m not comfortable with the idea of marriage right now,” she’d said, now twice turning down the ring which he must’ve saved years for. “Why?” he asked. “Because I was married once before and it didn’t work out,” she said. “It’s not my fault you married an asshole!” he yelled back. She’d felt terrible about it for days because his point was legitimate. Part of it was she didn’t want to be married until she knew she was occupationally secure.
But was that really the problem?
What’s wrong with me? she thought.
«« — »»
Getting Melanie to dress appropriately had been like pulling teeth. “Yes, you’re going,” Ann had ordered. “And, no, you can’t wear leather pants and that Rob Zombie T shirt.” It had been Martin, of course, who’d convinced her. “Conforming to conformity is a statement too, isn’t it?” he’d asked. Melanie had then actually put on a dress without another word. “I feel like a yuppie,” she’d said, grinning as the hostess had seated them by the window. The Emerald Room was indeed the best restaurant in town. The state legislature had their power lunches here every day while in session, and brought plenty of lobbyists for dinner. The governor appeared weekly, and the county executive often came in late. Any celebrity who happened to pass through town always wound up here via the recommendations of other celebrities. Stallone was once overheard remarking to a producer: “Preeminent grub.”
“What exactly does being a partner mean, Mom?” Melanie asked.
“It means I share in all the firm’s profits.”
It also meant sharing in all the responsibilities, but Ann wasn’t worried about that. She’d snagged their biggest client, Air National, herself, and had managed to hold on to them twice as long as any other firm. It was a sleazy acknowledgment, but the best thing about representing an irresponsible airline was that they paid any amount to get out of hot water. What partner meant most of all, though, was more delegation, and that meant more time she could spend with Martin and Melanie. From now on it would be the associates who scrambled over interrogatories till 3 a.m. Maybe now things would evolve into the domestic solvency she knew she needed. Maybe now they could be a family.
The maître d’ expertly reeled off the day’s specials and left them to peruse leather bound menus.
“How’re things going at school?” Ann asked.
“Okay,” Melanie meekly replied. Okay meant no D’s on the horizon. She was a smart girl but just couldn’t adjust. Before Martin, she’d been cutting class, failing all her subjects. But then she beamed: “I’m gonna get an A in my art class.”
Art, Jesus, Ann thought. “Melanie, art isn’t going to get you very far in this world.”
“Rembrandt would probably disagree with that statement,” Martin said, and discreetly scowled at her.
“What I mean, honey, is that art doesn’t usually make a good living. Art never sells till after the artist is dead.”
Martin was still scowling. “Your mother’s right, Melanie. Peter Max only makes $500,000 a week. Last year Deniere sold a twelve inch canvas for seventeen million. A person could starve on that kind of money.”
There I go again, Ann thought. Martin’s jovial sarcasm was his way of objecting to Ann’s negativity. What Melanie needed was maternal support, not criticism. More and more she feared Martin was totally right, that Melanie’s maladjustment stemmed from a lack of such support. Ann’s own parents had been infuriated by her decision to attend law school. “Lawyers are sharks, liars,” her mother had said. “It’s not a job for a woman.” “You’ll never cut it as an attorney, Ann. It’s too tough out there,” her father had assured her. Ann doubted that she’d ever been hurt so badly in her life, and now she felt worse. How many times had she hurt Melanie with similar ridicule?
“I’m sorry, honey,” she said, but it sounded terribly fake.
Martin quickly changed the subject with more comedy. “What kind of dump is this? No chili dogs on the menu.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” Ann said. “I’m sure they’ll bring your foi gras and Beluga caviar on a hot dog roll if you ask them.”
“They damn well better unless they want me to start tipping tables over. And they better bring me catsup for my fries too. “
Melanie loved it when Martin poked fun at the establishment, or at least where the establishment ate. But Martin turned serious when they deliberated over appetizers. “Jesus.” He leaned forward and whispered. “The poached salmon costs seven bucks. That’s a lot of dough for an appetizer.”
“Don’t worry about it, Martin,” Ann assured. “This is my celebration dinner, remember? Cost is no object.”
“I don’t want an appetizer,” Melanie said. “I’d rather have a beer.”
“You’re too young to drink beer,” Ann reminded her.
Then Martin: “I’ll have the oysters Chesapeake. That’s two bucks cheaper than the salmon.”
Ann didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Would you get the fucking salmon and shut up? she felt like saying. I just got a forty thousand dollar raise today. I think I can handle a seven-dollar appetizer! “I’ll order for everyone,” she said instead. “It’ll save trouble.”
A beautiful redhead took their orders, as robotic attendants brought bread and filled their water glasses. Martin and Melanie chatted about local art shows, during which three different opposition attorneys appeared to congratulate Ann on her partnership. This surprised—even startled—her, the enemy camps acknowledging her success without so much as a hint of jealousy. “You seem to be quite the talk of the local legal world,” Martin suggested when Melanie excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.