Double Bind, Chapter Four: Dadsalish

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Prairie voles are extremely monogamous creatures. They rarely take second mates – even when the original mate dies (picture those couples who jog in matching outfits). The secret of this attachment is endorphins.

            When prairie voles mate, the female produces an endorphin called oxytocin. If you inject a female prairie vole with oxytocin, she will bond with a male just by being in his presence – something that would normally occur only after intercourse. If she is injected with an oxytocin antagonist, then has intercourse with a male, she will fail to bond with her partner. Leaving a very confused and hurt male vole.

Damon is a remarkably clean-cut individual. I’m huddled with Kelly in a biker bar in Redwood City – hoping to avoid anyone who might know Jessie. Damon enters in a slash of sunlight, wearing a baby blue golf shirt, khaki shorts and blazing white tennis shoes. His hairline lies in that midpoint between receding and bald, giving him an open, friendly appearance, an effect that’s further assisted by a broad shotgun smile. He’s that neighbor who’s constantly inviting you to barbecues, and not minding when you don’t show up.

            Kelly greets him with a hug, then turns him my way like an action figure.

            “Hopkins, this is Damon.”

            I shake his hand. I have no idea what to say, but Damon needs little encouragement.

            “Kelly’s told me all about you! And I am truly sorry about your predicament.”

            I take a swig of Coke and study the room, putting on the appearance of a customer who’s willing to say no.

            “What I’m trying to understand, Damon, is… what exactly do you get out of this?”

            Damon smiles, eager to tell his story.

            “First of all, I’m a trust fund baby. So money is not an issue. I’m also a child of divorce. My little ventures often enable parents to stay together till their children are grown. So I like that. Thirdly, the women are tremendously grateful. Most of them have gone without passion for years, and they let off the kind of sparks you just don’t see in the happily married types.”

            He can’t contain that sparkling grin. He’s getting to the good part.

            “Now I confess my baser nature. I am a connoisseur of the hunt. Any idiot with a full head of hair and chiseled pecs can klutz into a lay now and then, but a guy like me has to work the angles. Especially when I have to forgo the advantages of natural chemistry and go after an assigned target. I won’t chase just anyone, of course, which is why I ask for photographs. You should see some of the scary-looking… Well, rather not be negative. On the positive side, your Jessie is just my type.

            “But let’s be clear. Even though I find her attractive, I do not blame you in the least for not feeling the same. I consider marriage a wholly unnatural state. What we all desire is newness. I acknowledge that need in myself, and I think I’ve developed a pretty unique way of dealing with it. But I always seek permission from the husband, because my other desire is to not to get myself killed.”

            I take a long drink to let this all settle in. It’s a peculiar situation, but to any male willing to cop to his true nature, Damon’s thinking is reasonable. I look at Kelly, who’s watching me like a gambler at a spinning slot machine.

            “Nothing abusive?” I ask.

            “Out of the question.”

            “Safe?”

            “Condoms at all times.”

            “What if we end up in divorce court?”

            “I don’t know you from Adam. There’s no deal here, no money changing hands.”

            My small five percent of doubt is washed away by the picture of my son, crying in the ER.

            “Damon, you have your assignment.”

            Damon fires that grin.

            “Hot damn!”

It’s Thursday, two days after the unofficial deal. Mood-wise, I’m a little under the weather. My reference batch didn’t include any RNA from the lung – in genetics terms, a must-have – and I had to toss three works’ worth of tumor arrays. Sometimes I feel like the only capable person in a world of morons. I’m trying to keep this toxin self-contained, but I’m pretty sure that Laura has picked up on it. Instead of giving me the standard Interesting Things That Happened to Me in Swim Class, she’s tapping her index finger against the knuckles of her left hand.

            When we pull into the driveway, my wife is standing under the magnolia tree, holding one of its milk-paddle blossoms to her face. She spies one-half of her family, squints her eyes with pleasure, and forms an expression with her mouth that resembles a smile.

            Laura’s no dummy, she runs to the parent who’s in the better mood. Jessie grabs her around the waist, lifts her skyward and pockets her neatly against her hip.

            “Hi,” I say. “Sorry we’re late.”

            “Oh,” she says. “Are you late? I’ve been out here, gardening. Beef stroganoff tonight?”

            “Mmm yeah.” I plant a kiss on her cheek. She looks at me, and I can read her thought: First that nice man at Draeger’s, now my husband. I’ve got it goin’ on!

            Draeger’s is an upscale grocery store in Menlo Park – and my insider’s tip for Damon Karvitz. Each Thursday, Jessie drops Laura at the pool, does her shopping, then heads for the upstairs café (latte, non-fat, two shakes of semi-sweet chocolate). I picture Damon at the railing, scoping the luscious housewives at the checkout stand. He spots his target, sliding up the escalator. After that, it’s a ruthlessly simple plan: condiment table, ask for the time, a strategic nutmeg spill. He puts on just enough charm to make her hope to see him again, to make her glow just a little – to inspire her to cook her husband’s favorite dish.

            It’ll take a while. I have given Damon a worthy challenge: a woman convinced by years of neglect that she is wholly unattractive. Which brings me to my dilemma. Now that m’lady’s endorphins have been activated, do I have sex with her? Would it hinder Damon’s campaign, by lessening her justification for cheating, or encourage her, by convincing her that she does, indeed, have it “goin’ on”?

            I check on our kiddies asleep in their chambers (Marcus’s shoulder afloat on a concatenation of pillows), then report to the bedroom, where my wife is gazing at herself in the mirror.

            “What are you looking at?” she says, good-naturedly.

            “Same thing you are,” I reply. “Did you have a good day?”

            She smiles, Mona Lisa.

            “I guess I did.”

            I come from behind, reach a hand around her waist, feel the swell of her breast.

I always get the kids when they’re well exercised.

            This is my thought as Laura plods along the sidewalk, pool-wet hair, rubbery limbs. She falls into the passenger seat and straps herself in.

            “Hi, Dadsalish.”

            “Hi, Lauralish.”

            We were watching some swishy British comedy when we latched onto the “lish” thing. Now it’s a ritual.

            “How was swimming, babe-alish?”

            “Just delish.” She waves her hand downward like a Jazz Age socialite.

            “Delish?! You’re not drinking the pool water, are you?”

            She clucks her tongue. “Don’t be ridicalish. It feels delish. Capish?”

            “Capish.” I rev the engine and head for home. My mind, however, is fixed on espionage.

            “Laura?”

            She gives me a stern look. I correct myself.

            “Lauralish?”

            “Yeh-ess?”

            “How’s your mom? Is she doin’ okay?”

            This knocks her out of her “lish” mode into something more serious.

            “She seems… happy.”

            “And what do you mean by the big… pause?”

            “Wuhl. She’s happy, but she’s not always… there. Like last night, she asked me if I wanted some ice cream…”

            “And you said yes?”

            “Well, duh!” she says, answering my straight line. “But Marcus and I were watching a movie, and I kinda forgot. But when the movie was over, I went to the kitchen, and my ice cream was sitting on the counter, with whipped cream and fudge, and it was all melted into goo!”

            “Which you ate.”

            “Well, duh!” She giggles, then returns to the serious face. “Are all moms like this?”

            “Sometimes. But I think she’ll be all right. We’re… working on a few things. Just hang in there, okay?”

            She stretches and yawns dramatically.

            “Okay, Dadsalish.”

I’m traversing the archways of Stanford’s quad, picturing my wife having sex with Damon Karvitz. Neither one of them is what you would call bodyphotogenic, but they’re having fun, and that’s what’s important.

            I’m heading for a Saturday lecture that I don’t need to see. My real objective is to open up Jessie’s schedule for freelance nookie. When I told her about it, she promptly set up the kids for an afternoon with the grandparents and headed off on some “errands.”

            Thankfully, the onset of adultery means that my wife no longer feels the need to have sex with me. Kelly’s vision of my contented cuckold’s life has come true. I am the happy geneticist, widening the scope of his knowledge in a public forum. I enter a packed lecture hall (God bless Palo Alto) and settle for the rightmost seat in the front row. It’s a rainy September day; a breeze noodles under the windowsill to tickle the back of my neck.

            Our lecturer, Arthur Poulterbryce, is in the wrong business; he ought to be a stand-up comic. He pulls up a graph on the overhead and says, “You’ll see in this comparison that the group suffering from depression gives a much more negative response to the same question. Of course! They’re depressed!”

            People don’t expect brain researchers to be funny, so the laughter carries an extra density. A dark-haired woman, front and center, is laughing so hard she’s losing her breath. Dr. Poulterbryce gives her a look of mock disapproval – which makes her laugh even harder. The woman is Lisa Pisarro.

            After the lecture, I pick my way through the crowd, and catch her in front of Memorial Church.

            “Mr. Grinder! You’re stitchless.”

            I run a finger along the tiny buttons of skin over my cheekbone. “Took ‘em out myself. Used to be a pre-med student.”

            “It looks good. How’s your son?”

            “Indomitable. He goes out to the driveway every night to shoot left-handed baskets. So where are you headed?”

            “The Gates of Hell.”

            Aren’t we all? I think. Then I remember it’s a bronze in the Rodin sculpture garden.

            “Why don’t you come along?” she says. “I could… use a chat.”

            There’s something inside that pause, but I’m just along for the ride. We cross the courtyard and turn for the art museum.

            “That Poulterbryce sure had you in stitches.”

            She giggles at the thought. “Oh! I know. Arthur and I are friends from way back. He’s a little too deft at pushing my buttons.”

            “Did you enjoy it? I mean, the lecture?”

            “Most of it I know already. Arthur keeps me well briefed. But it’s nice to see all those laypeople, lined up at the trough of knowledge.”

            We stop before the Shades, a trio of muscular bronze men, oppressed by some great weight. Rodin bent their necks at painful angles, forcing the tops of their heads into a tabletop line.

            Pisarro blinks at a sudden sunbreak. “You’ve heard of Camille Claudel?”

            “Rodin’s lover,” I reply. “Model, muse. Though I’m a bit fuzzy on the…”

            “She spent her last thirty years in an asylum,” Pisarro fills in. “They said she could have been as great as Rodin himself, but she suffered from what today we’d call depression. She destroyed everything she made, with one exception: a bust of her… brother.”

            Pisarro melts before my eyes, shoulders slumped, legs wavering. She stumbles forward and buries her face in my jacket. I take the cups of her shoulders in my hands, and am overcome by a rush of fragmentary thoughts: the raven thickness of Pisarro’s hair, the exaggerated fingers of the Shades – the way that someone’s tears, in a cartoon, can flood a whole town.

            She catches her breath, lifts her face from my lapel, and speaks without looking up.

            “I’m… awfully sorry. My brother tried to kill himself yesterday.”

            “Don’t worry,” I say. “You heal my wounds, I’ll…”

            “It won’t heal.” She spins away, her hands shaking. I feel small in her presence.

            “Please go,” she says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

            Her thought trails off. I stand there for a moment, then turn and walk away.

Photo by MJV