This One Is Mine: A Novel Read online

  He handed Teddy the overengineered putter.

  Teddy marveled at its feel. “Sharp!”

  Violet quickly looked away. The eroticism of Teddy handling another golf club was more than she could take.

  Teddy putted; his ball rolled swiftly and directly into the hole.

  Violet folded her hands behind her back so she wouldn’t spontaneously embrace him.

  Teddy plucked the ten from the guy’s shirt pocket. “Thank you, ma’am.” He led Violet off. “I’m going to buy you something pretty with this.”

  “Double or nothing,” called the man.

  Teddy stopped. He smiled at Violet, waited a beat, then turned on his heels. “You do know this time we’re going to be shooting for that badass putter.”

  “It’s an eighty-dollar Callaway.”

  “I’m good for the money.” Teddy turned to Violet. “You got eighty bucks?”

  “I got eighty bucks.”

  “One putt,” said the man. “Eighty bucks or the putter.” He went through the usual tortured deliberations and stood over his ball. Just as he was about to hit it, Teddy said, “You ever watch The Partridge Family?”

  “What?” asked the man.

  “I used to love that show when I was a kid. Especially the end, where Keith would sing the song. Then, one night, I’m sitting there watching the one where they all go to SeaWorld. And at the end, the mom starts walking around Shamu’s tank, singing a love song about whales. The song ends, and I’m waiting for Keith to start singing, you know, the real song with his brothers and sisters. Then you know what happens?”

  “What?”

  “The show ends,” Teddy said. “That was the song! The mother singing to a goddamned whale!”

  “What’s your point?” asked the man.

  “It’s just fucked up, is all.”

  The man took his shot.

  As the ball swerved right, Teddy said, “Yippee kay yay!” The man hurled his club to the ground.

  It was Teddy’s turn. He picked up the putter, then stood over the ball. He turned his head to either side to loosen up his neck. He took an exaggerated backstroke, froze, then looked up at Violet. “This one’s for you, baby.” He hit the ball. Violet locked eyes with Teddy. Her father, her education, her husband, her career, motherhood, it all molted away. For this, Violet had driven through red lights, eyes closed. She looked. Teddy didn’t have to. His ball was rattling in the cup.

  “Jesus fuck me!” cried the man. He wheeled his bag away. “Fucking hustler.”

  Teddy turned to Violet. “Jesus fuck me? I’ll have to remember that one.” He handed Violet the club. “My gift to you, Baroness.”

  “In other words, you do know how to play golf.”

  “I shoot low seventies. When I was a kid, I spent all day on the links. My uncle was a greenskeeper at a public course and got me on the Junior Circuit. I placed top ten in enough tournaments to earn a golf scholarship to USC.”

  “I didn’t know you went to SC.” Violet sat down on a bench. “What did you major in?”

  “I only lasted a semester. Not even. Couldn’t deal with all those rich assholes. By Thanksgiving I was shooting up every day and stopped showing up for classes.”

  “But you could play professionally now, right? I mean, what was that?” She pointed to the putting green.

  “That, my friend, was hustling.” Teddy stood with one foot on the bench beside her. “That guy, I watched him. He’s probably not a bad player. But when I asked him to putt me for the hole, everything about him changed. Sure, he made the shot, but I could tell he was feeling the heat. You want me to drop some science on you?”

  “Go ahead, drop some science.”

  “When there’s something on the line, when there’s real heat, I play better than my abilities. Good players, even world-class sticks, can’t do that.”

  “Can I just say, that was one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced. And this from someone who saw the Clash at Bonds in ’81.”

  Teddy took a seat beside her. Their legs touched, and stayed touched. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” he asked.

  Violet braced herself. What he said next would lock them into a marvelous adventure, their future together, with Teddy calling the shots. “What?” she asked.

  “Do you know what I’m going to spend all night doing?”

  “Tell me.”

  “A tenth-step inventory.”

  “A . . . what?”

  “An inventory. The tenth step: ‘continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.’”

  “But — you didn’t drink.”

  “You don’t have much experience with alcoholics, do you?”

  “My father was a drunk and died from it, if that’s what you mean.” Teddy threw his head back and laughed. Violet couldn’t help but be charmed by such a wildly inappropriate reaction. “Thanks for the sympathy.”

  “I’m sorry. People like me and people like you . . .” Teddy trailed off.

  “What?”

  “We don’t mix. Or, should I say, we mix way too well.”

  “Well, which is it?” she asked.

  There was a long silence. “Hey, wanna see my track marks?” He held out his arm. There were some candle drips of scar tissue on the inside of his elbow. “First thing, when I meet people?” he said. “I check to see if they have track marks.”

  “That seems a bit self-defeating, doesn’t it?”

  “Meh?”

  “You’re clean now,” she said. “You’re living an honorable life. That kind of thinking just perpetuates the junkie mentality, which you’ve clearly outgrown.”

  “You may not believe it, but there are a few things I may be smarter about than you, Miss Violet.”

  She ran her finger along his track marks. Teddy lifted her dark glasses and looked into her eyes. She smiled. “What?” he asked. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’d like to kiss you,” she said.

  “That probably wouldn’t be cool, though.” Teddy shuddered and scooched away.

  “Oh —” Violet’s hand was stranded in the air. She tucked it under her leg.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He was plastered to the far side of the bench.

  Violet had to get away before the skin on her face peeled off from her scorching humiliation. “I’ve got to get home.” She stood up.

  “Where do you live?” Teddy asked idly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where’s home?” It was true! He hadn’t a clue that he had just driven their budding affair into the ground. And with it, any hope of friendship.

  “Up on Mulholland, with my husband and child.”

  “Who’s your husband?”

  “His name is David Parry.” Violet waited for the inevitable.

  “Holy shit! David Parry, the Ultra Records guy?” There it was, the inevitable. The intellectuals had this reaction when they found out who her father was. Most others had it for her husband.

  “So you’ve heard of him.”

  “No fucking way! Ultra has the sickest jazz catalog. Ray Charles, Stan Getz, John Coltrane.”

  “Yep,” Violet said. “Back in 2001, David saw into the future that the kids and every generation thereafter wouldn’t pay for music. So he set about buying publishing catalogues and jazz labels. Old people’s music. He’s done quite well.” It felt good, sticking it to Teddy with David’s accomplishments.

  “But he’s also a big rock-and-roll manager.”

  “Yes, David is the star.”

  “Fuck. I can’t believe David Parry’s wife just tried to kiss me!”

  “I’ve got to go to the market. David said he wanted pasta for dinner.” Violet fished the keys from her pocket.

  “I’m fucking depressed,” Teddy said.

  Her heart leapt: had he already regretted letting the moment pass? Would he try to win her back? “I’d give anything for a home-cooked meal,” he said.

  “Here’s your
putter. Sell it for gas money.” Violet checked her watch. It was four o’clock. She could easily make it to the market and get dinner on the table by the time David returned home. She walked off, with a lightness to her step, immensely relieved that her abasement, though grotesque, was so short-lived.

  FIRST people said “I love you,” then they get engaged. It was this sequence of events Sally pondered as she sat in the teetering forest of shoe boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. She had already picked out some cross-trainers for herself. (That was ninety-five dollars she’d never see again!) Now it was time for the true purpose of the foray. . . .

  “Hey,” she said to Jeremy. “While we’re here, maybe you’d like some new shoes!”

  “I already have these.”

  “I think you need some new ones,” volunteered the marathon-running hippie who had been helping Sally. He had long hair, leathery skin, and an emaciated body. He looked like someone who’d been stranded on a desert island. “See how you’re over-pronating your right foot?” The castaway pointed to the sole of Jeremy’s gigantic docksider, which had, in fact, worn out at the inner heel.

  Jeremy studied it. Sally liked where this was going. Her best strategy was to hang back and let the castaway fight this battle for her. “But these shoes are perfectly comfortable,” Jeremy said.

  “Now, maybe,” said the castaway. “But if you don’t get some stability in that right heel, you’re looking down the barrel of a lifetime of heel spurs, plantar fasciitis, and shin splints. If you’re lucky.”

  “Really?” Jeremy said.

  “Absolutely. What size are you?”

  “Ten,” Sally said. The castaway disappeared into the back. She called after him, “Make sure they’re dark! With dark soles!”

  I love you. How would Sally get Jeremy to say the words? He was a man of habit. Saying “I love you” wasn’t part of his habit.

  He took a quarter out of his pocket and started flipping it. “Do you have a pen?” he asked.

  “I love you!” Sally said, mortified at what had just squirted out of her mouth. “I mean —”

  Jeremy looked at her. “Me, too.”

  “What — you do?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, when were you going to tell me?”

  “I thought it was obvious.”

  This was all too odd and fabulous. But Sally couldn’t rest. Jeremy still hadn’t said the words. “You thought what was obvious?”

  “I love you.”

  She gave him a shove. “You are such a guy! Do you realize how much of a guy you are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jeremy?”

  “Sally?”

  “Does it scare you?” She took his hand. “Our love?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not scared, either.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” he said. “Real love, like the kind we have, is hard to find. We should be happy.”

  Sally’s heart swelled with tenderness. It filled this cluttered little store, bursting through the wall, spilling out into Encino, and expanding up into the heavens. Everything that just moments earlier had annoyed her — the sun blisters on the castaway’s cheekbones, the turned-over shopping cart blocking the good parking space, the drizzle that had started out of nowhere and would cause her hair to frizz — all of it was dissolving fabulously skyward.

  Jeremy got a pen from the counter and fished out a piece of paper from the trash. He flipped his quarter several times and wrote out the results. T-H-T-T-T-H-H-T.

  An image came to Sally, something she remembered from childhood. It was from the Carl Sagan series Cosmos, something called Flatland. Flatland was this two-dimensional world where everything was flat, even the Flatlanders who lived there. They could only perceive left and right, front and back, but no above or below. One day, a potato flew over from another dimension — really, Carl Sagan had said it was a potato — and this potato looked down and said, “Hello.” The Flatlanders couldn’t see it because it was hovering over them and they had no up or down. And when the potato entered their two-dimensional world, all the Flatlanders were able to see was this weird changing potato slice appearing from nowhere. It totally blew their minds because they had no concept this other dimension even existed. Then, when the potato went home and the Flatlanders who witnessed it tried to explain it to their friends, they couldn’t. Because they literally didn’t have words for it. Jeremy’s “I love you” was like the potato materializing out of nowhere. Sally realized she had been living in a world where love equaled scheming, second-guessing, and game playing. Now she understood that there was a whole other dimension where love simply . . . was.

  The castaway returned with a pair of dark brown hiking boot–sneakers with black soles.

  Jeremy put them on and stood up. He smiled and turned to Sally. “These are more comfortable than any shoes I’ve ever worn,” he said. “Thanks for making me come here.”

  Sally caught a glimpse of the two of them in a mirror. Jeremy and Sally. Sally and Jeremy. How she loved Jeremy, the kind genius. And how she loved that she loved a kind genius. And how she loved that the kind genius would no longer be galumphing around in those awful shoes.

  VIOLET crawled up traffic-clogged Benedict Canyon, the words “I can’t believe David Parry’s wife just tried to kiss me” strangling her brain. Back at Whole Foods, she had to ask someone three times where the capers were, when she had been staring straight at them. She had to pull it together before she got home. What was she thinking asking Teddy to lunch? She’d never had an affair. If she did, it would certainly be with some genius rock star like Thom Yorke, not Teddy Reyes. She sat in traffic, her embarrassment so visceral she felt as if she were about to suffocate. She rolled down the windows. Her cell phone rang.

  “It got pretty intense back there, didn’t it?” It was him.

  “It really didn’t.”

  “Do you have Sprint?” Teddy asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I don’t concern myself with such things. We have people for that,” she said, pleased with how haughty she just sounded. “What’s it to you?”

  “You’re so fucking rich,” he said. “I can talk for free to people who have Sprint. That’s why.”

  “Do you work for them?” she asked.

  “Do I work for them? It’s my phone plan! What does your phone say?”

  It said Sprint.

  “Good,” Teddy said. Without missing a beat, he started in. “How scary was that? Every time we see each other we almost fuck.”

  “Hardly.” There was roadwork ahead. Hopefully, traffic would loosen once Violet passed it.

  “I’m telling you, I’m totally hardwired for sex. Remember how you held my hand in the museum?”

  “Yes.” She sighed.

  “After I left you, I went to the men’s room in the park and jerked off.”

  “You did?” This was difficult for Violet to imagine. Twenty years ago, maybe. But after sixteen years of marriage,? And that stomach! A few weeks after giving birth, Violet had been taking a shower and accidentally ran her hand over it and nearly shrieked at how squishy it had become. Sometimes she found herself actually tucking her stomach into her pants! What had once been an admittedly curvy body was now the shape of a troll doll, with fat showing up in the most dispiriting places, like her upper back! The thought of a stranger — a young stranger with a Kennedy for a girlfriend, no less — jerking off to that? Okay, she liked it.

  “You like that, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Are you a sex addict?”

  “I don’t concern myself with such things. I have people for that.” Repeating what she said, that’s what made her twinkle. “What positions do you like?” he asked.

  “Have we already graduated to ribaldry — if there’s such a word?” A horn blared. There wasn’t a car ahead of her. Violet stepped on the accelerator, rounded the bend, and caught up with
traffic.

  “You love this, coming down off your mountain and giving the junkie a hard-on. Tell me. What positions do you like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you like doggy style?”

  “I guess.”

  “Say certainly.”

  “I certainly like doggy . . . you know.”

  “You know what you like even more?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Getting fucked in the ass.”

  “I should say not! I’ve never had the dubious honor.”

  “That’s such a lie,” he said.

  “It’s true.”

  “Then you’ve got a real treat coming to you. Chicks like you who think they’re in charge are the ones who love taking it up the ass the most. What’s your pussy like?”

  “I don’t know.” She rolled up the windows and checked her mirror to make sure nobody she knew was in the car behind her.

  “Do you shave it?” he asked. “Is it big and hairy?”

  “Big? You mean like men have big dicks?”

  “Is it hairy?”

  “I wax it a bit. Not too much.”

  “David Parry likes hairy pussies! Ha! I knew we were brothers. Ask me some questions.”

  “Where are you?” Violet turned a sharp corner. A cheery patchwork ball that belonged to Dot jingled under her feet. She picked it up and tossed it over her shoulder.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “You have conversations like this while you’re driving, or are you behind a tree on the back nine?”

  “I’m driving,” he said impatiently. “Ask me a question.”

  “Will you recite a poem you wrote?”

  “Not that kind of question!”

  “Please?”

  “Hey!” he said. “I have an idea. You put me on the payroll, and I’ll write poems for you.”

  “I can be your Maria de’ Medici,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “You know, the Medicis of Florence. During the Italian Renaissance they were patrons of Michelangelo and everyone. Rubens did those paintings of her that are hanging in the Louvre.”

  “Four out of five dentists surveyed said” — Teddy went into a Red Foxx impression — “What you just say?”