"Were you now?"
I'd won her back. It had been years since I'd flirted. I felt as though I were snorting cocaine, or rappelling down a cliffside, or cliffsurfing off a cliff of pure cocaine.
"I had a memo all planned out."
"Well," said Aiden's mother, "there's no way I was going to play office. Not when I have to go to one. I was really counting on making a house out of pipe cleaner. Maybe a four-bedroom, three-bath, Italian-style villa."
"That could be tough, with pipe cleaner," I said. "Milo."
I stuck out my hand.
"Denise."
"His legs are the motorcycle, they become the motorcycle or the airplane, but he can't fly like Superman," said Bernie.
Sometimes with peers, and with us, Bernie acquired an authoritative tone that charmed. Autodidactic vigor is darling in a little boy. Give him forty years, though, a beer gut, leather vest, bandanna, granny glasses, and picture him the sad knob known as the Professor in a biker bar off the thruway, the arrogant but harmless turd humored for his historical factoids about extinct warrior societies and mots justes about the bankruptcy of liberal democracy, humored, that is, until a severe, silence-craving patron, maybe some psychotic who made his living garroting people's wives and business partners for high three-figure fees, suddenly didn't find the Professor's disquisitions edifying, kicked his neck in, then it wasn't so charming. Which is why I tended not to picture it.
"I saw him fly on TV," said Aiden.
"He's not real," said Bernie.
"Who? Iron Hawk?"
"No," said Bernie, and I started to cringe. "Superman. He's not real."
"Yes, he is," said Aiden.
"No," said Bernie. "He's just a story people tell to make themselves feel better. That's what my daddy says."
Denise shot me a look.
"It's true," I said.
"I guess it is." She laughed.
Now the Happy Salamander door opened and a bearded young man peered out. This was Carl, a Salamander founder, the heavy theorist with the barn. I'd met him once at a school picnic. Was he Blue Newt Faction? We'd have to tread carefully.
"Hey, guys," he said. "Probably be better if you didn't loiter here."
"Loiter?" I said.
"Right."
"We came to drop our kids off at school."
"I'm sure you read the sign on the door," said Carl.
"I'm sure you have our reimbursement checks cut," I said.
"You tell him, Milo," said Denise.
"Excuse me?" said Carl.
"We're paid up through June."
"Us, too," said Denise.
"There's still a month and a half left of school."
"Yeah, look," said Carl. "This isn't about money, okay? The whole project has been ripped apart. There are former comrades out there spreading intolerable lies about our methodologies. Reputations and friendships are in tatters. And you're worried about reimbursement?"
"Damn right I am," I said.
"We just wanted a nice pre-K for our kids," said Denise. "Blocks and hugs. That's all. We didn't demand Mandarin, or even tumbling. Blocks and hugs. An ant farm."
"And we wanted to give your children the most wondrous educational and social experience ever devised. But we blew it. It's that simple. It's a tragedy. I'm going back to grad school. I don't need this shit. Screw budgets, overhead, trying to compensate for the inadequacies of parents like you. I'm going back to grad school and then I'm going to teach rich kids in Brooklyn. I'll write books. Fuck you, reimbursement. Of course you'll get your reimbursement. But also, fuck you for not contributing, for not helping to make this work, for being a coward in the battle for your children's minds and souls."
"Going back to grad school?" I said. "Didn't you get your degree already?"
"There are many versions of that story, my friend."
Carl shook, his beard wet with spit. He wiped it with the sleeve of his stained French sailor shirt.
"Can we talk to Maddie?" I said.
"Yes," he said. "Maybe it's better if you talk to Maddie."
He disappeared into the house and in a moment Maddie poked her head out.
"Sorry about that. Carl's taking this hard."
"So are we," I said.
"The Blue Newt Faction is talking about starting again. Maybe upstate. If you're interested. The others, I don't know what they will be doing. But we would be delighted to take Bernie back if we get something together at some point. Aiden, too."
"Would you board them? With the milk cows?"
"Excuse me?"
"We live here, Maddie," I said. "This school is near our houses. Are you suggesting we all move to a little town upstate? Will there be a cheese collective we can all work at?"
"Cheese collective?"
"Jesus, Maddie. We were depending on you guys. We didn't realize it was just an intense hobby."
"I resent that, Bernie's Dad."
"I'm just being honest, Bernie's immature, self-involved, pseudo-intellectual preschool teacher."
"I'm closing the door now," said Maddie. "For Bernie and Aiden's sake."
"Close away," I said. "Tourist. Honky."
"Honky?"
"Ofay."
"We're all white in this conversation," said Maddie.
"This might be your year abroad, lady," said Denise, "but we live here."
"I really am closing the door," said Maddie, and did.
"Come on," said Denise. "There's a Montessori on Ditmars. Maybe they've got some openings."
We marched off together.
"Daddy," said Bernie. "Is Carl sad?"
"I think so, yes," I said.
"Is he bad?"
"He's young. He's idealistic."
"He's a total disaster," said Bernie.
We skipped the Montessori, got milkshakes instead.
"Cheese collective." Denise laughed. "That was funny. You're funny."
I was funny again, the sexy jester Maura could no longer appreciate. Denise's swirling green eyes appreciated all. We'd go to her house, plant the children in front of a longish DVD,Winnie-the-Pooh, perhaps, devour each other in the bedroom. She was a single mom, probably no stranger to kid-friendly assignations. (Had she ever listened to a thrusting lover sputter a broken poem of climax into her ear while Aiden moaned with night terrors over the monitor? Might be fun to ask.)
Denise smiled, spooned up her cafe au lait. The noise of our kin fell away. I pictured days lost in a soft white bed, us rising only to pee or nibble on some olives or last night's stale baguette before our bodies would start to twitch with lust again. I could almost smell the high stink of our clinches.
It might be awkward with Aiden around. It would be better if he didn't have to experience that particular cliche, the naked Mommy Friend, raw whang aflap, washing up in the bathroom or drinking from the kitchen tap. Hey, kid. Your mom is a real nice lady. You like baseball? You talk at all? Suit yourself. It would be better, but it wasn't mandatory that Aiden be spared the crushing animal truth, especially if it meant I forgo crushing animal need.
Denise was definitely not touched out. Denise was all touched in.
I watched her wipe chocolate from Aiden's mouth. Then I looked down at Bernie, the top of his head, peered through his hair at a sliver of pinkish scalp. His tender little scalp. We'd made that scalp, Maura and I, shielded it from the scalp hunters of this world.
There was no way I could go through with this. I wasn't that guy. No matter what had become of my marriage, I wasn't Roger. My life would never be a cavalcade of nooners. Pornography and corn chips would be my mistresses. Maura would be my wife.
I'd led Denise on. Now I'd have to let her down. She'd see through me anyway, the timid husband afraid to act upon his desires, the evader, the deflector, the sublimation machine. She'd find a better man to touch her in and out, somebody capable of real love, real deceit. Maybe a single man, though they said the good ones all were taken. She'd find a married man who could afford another secret family. Some men could pull that off. Purdy never had the choice, and Roger never dared, as far as I knew, but he was a one-off specialist. There were other sorts, however, capacious souls, who yearned for monogamy with several women at once. Their energy was unthinkable, biblical, Koranic. Poor Denise. She'd probably just been horny, wanted dick. Here I was getting sanctimonious and my whang did not even warrant it. But I had no choice, I had to close off this buzz between us. She'd have to learn to live with the spurning.