Lily Manheim has a new lover. Howard is slightly too young, too tall, and too nice, but he is, for the moment, hers. Lily’s daughter Natalie would not approve of him, her estranged husband Del would not like him, but her dog, Britney Spears, who actually shares her life and home, adores him.
And, Lily thinks, when she isn’t overanalyzing, she may adore him too. But such moments, when she is not overanalyzing, are remarkably few.
Her lover knows this. He knows that her ongoing divorce has left her uncertain and fearful, angry, and afraid. That Howard knows this and allows her to talk about it already makes him different from Del, who wants to talk about anger and uncertainty and fear, but only if they involve him.
Otherwise, Del isn’t all that interested.
All of which would make her lover “touchy-feely” as defined by Del. Lily hasn’t actually introduced the two men, but since Howard is only her third lover in 23 years of marriage — a list that includes Del, Howard, and a six-week fling with a Chestnut Hill coffee barista named Fred Willobee — her mind filters him through Del’s imaginary judgments. She doesn’t want to think about Del in relation to Howard, yet she can’t help but make comparisons: how Howard breathes (Del is a mouth breather), how he smells (Del smells of vanilla and toothpaste mint), how he strokes her body or her hair (Del strokes her with an intense care, as though he were molding her on the spot).
“
Stop thinking so much,” Howard advises. Lily nods, but thinking too much is an occupational hazard, one that she cannot abandon. Thinking too much is her private nicotine, the drug that gives meaning to everything else, an addiction that doesn’t have a patch. She wonders if there might be a 12-step program to forget your old husband, or at least to stop expecting him to come into the room while you and your new lover are in bed. Or while she is with a client, practicing therapy.
“
It’s too soon,” her mother Ruth rules over the phone. “What will your neighbors think?”
“
Neighbors?” Lily asks.
“
A new one coming in and out every other day,” Ruth says. “I hope you’re taking precautions.”
“
What precautions?” Lily asks. Of course she knows what precautions, but it was worth it to hear what her mother might say.
“
Don’t be coy,” Ruth says. She hangs up the phone.
On days she can stop thinking, Lily’s cells feel renewed. Today, a March Saturday, she moves around the rooms of her Chestnut Hill house infused with energy, tossing newspapers, cardboard, old refrigerator containers of Chinese food. She rolls throw rugs, pushes chairs against walls to damp-mop floors. She wipes around the edge of a picture frame and throws the gray paper towel into a green plastic bag and then repeats the gesture until a towel shows white. She works for two hours, scrubbing and shining, polishing and tossing.
At 3 o’clock, Britney starts to emit a long, low howl that Lily recognizes at once. To Lily’s horror, she looks up from her work to spot her estranged husband Del, nose pressed against the window of the front door.
“
What?” she calls.
Del mimes opening the door, and though she suspects it is not going to end well, she lets him in. In the hallway, he raises both hands to greet Britney, who was originally his dog, but rather than leap into his arms, as was once her wont, the giant schnauzer stays splayed on the worn Oriental carpet, tail down, head pressed to her paws. Lily ties shut the last of the green plastic bags, makes a note to buy more, and only then turns to Del, who is staring at the dog.
“
What did you do to her?” he asks.
Lily glances at Britney, who has not moved.
“
She’s behaving,” Lily says.
“
Something’s different,” says Del. He runs a hand through his crinkly curly hair. Dark circles round his eyes as though he has been missing sleep. This is a surprise: When he lived with Lily, Del had been an extremely sound sleeper; she was the one who traced cracks in the ceiling above their conjugal bed, counting his numerous infidelities.
Del leans over Britney.
“
Are you my best girl?” he asks. Kneeling, he studies the dog. “You’re seeing someone, Lily,” he says.
Lily doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes in Del’s denim-covered back, once long and lean, muscular from his regular workouts, and notes that his shoulders show a little slump and his waist has thickened. Not a lot; not much. But little things, tells that he is no longer exactly young.
“
Del, what do you want?”
“
Who is he?” he asks. He keeps his eyes on the dog. “When you kiss him, do you think of me?”
“
Del!”
He jumps to his feet, bends to rub his right knee, and then lifts his eyes to meet Lily’s.
“
I came to talk about Natalie.”
“
What about her?”
“
She’s making a mistake. This Jonah. He’s not trustworthy. They’re too young.”
Lily sighs. A month earlier, their daughter Natalie had phoned with the stunning announcement that she planned to get married this June after she graduated from Bard. An uncomfortable dinner in Center City had followed, where it was clear that neither set of parents believed this was the best of ideas. But the young couple had stubbornness in their favor. They weren’t looking for blessings or anything else. They had answers for everything.
“
A little late to get involved now,” Lily says. “They’ve already bought the rings.”
Del waves his hands. “Do you want them to get married? Is this something you desire?”
“
We’re not talking about what I want,” she says with more confidence than she actually feels. “We’re talking about two grown people getting on with their lives.”
“
I’m not ready for this,” Del says. “I don’t want to be the father of the bride. I don’t want to have grandchildren. I don’t want …” he pauses. “I’m getting on, Lily, ” he says.
Lily surveys the room. Fourteen bags of trash sit in one corner, and she has only begun. Six months ago, Del insisted that they sell the Chestnut Hill house they had shared for 23 years and split the proceeds. Lily lobbied to stay, and she lost; she and the house would be gone in a month.
“
It isn’t how I imagined it,” he says.
Lily puts her dust rag down and walks around the kitchen counter. Del settles on one of the kitchen stools. When Lily reaches where Del sits, Britney starts to growl. How Britney has managed to change loyalties so quickly in the space of three months of Lily’s time with Howard she didn’t know, but the dog had.
“
Natalie is happy,” Lily tells Del. “She’s not asking our opinion. She’s 22. She gets to make her own mistakes.”
“
Why?” Del asks. His voice is plaintive as a toddler’s. “Can’t we stop her? Buy her off?”
Ignoring Britney’s growls, Lily steps closer. Del’s vegan diet has thinned his skin; she can trace a blue thread in his right cheek, pulsing. Once, years and years ago, she had gone into Del’s cardiology research lab at Penn, where he had shown her stem cells drawn from the heart, bumping rhythmically in tiny petri dishes. If left alone, Del said, they would evolve into heart muscles; each one capable of pumping blood through arteries and veins, powerful enough to sustain life.
Lily steps near. “Nothing lasts forever, Del.”
He looks at the dog who, seeing Lily close to her former owner, jumps to attention, tail up, teeth bared. “Don’t I know it?”
And then, with a bitter glance at both Britney and Lily, Del stands and pushes out the front door.
***
Amanda Rodgers has a new lover, an older married lawyer who works in the firm where she is also employed. Because his firm sometimes shows up in the newspapers and online, Amanda doesn’t think she should tell Lily, her therapist, his name. Lily has agreed; they call him Mr. X to protect his anonymity.
