Split Ends

© 2002 by Beth Rubin. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted by any means, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without

written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4033-1211-7 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-40331-212-5 (Paperback)

ISBN13: 978-1-4033-1211-2 (ebook)

1st Books–rev. 07/23/02

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

About The Author

YOU’RE JUST IN LOVE by Irving Berlin © Copyright 1950 by Irving Berlin Copyright Renewed International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved Reprinted by Permission

Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014

SWEET LITTLE SIXTEEN by Chuck Berry

© 1958 Isalee Music Co.

All rights Reserved by Permission

Isalee Music Co.

COME FLY WITH ME by Sammy Cahn and James Van Heusen

© 1958 Maraville Music Corp.

© Renewed, Assigned to Maraville Music Corp. and Cahn Music Co.

All Rights o/b/o Cahn Music Co. administered by WB

Music Corp.

All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission

Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc, Miami, FL 33014

SEND IN THE CLOWNS, music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim

© 1973 Rilting Music, Inc. (ASCAP)

All Rights administered by WB Music Corp.

All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission

Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014

Dedication

To my mother and father

Acknowledgments

Many people helped me to conceive and birth this book. Some shared their own stories or read early drafts and offered suggestions. Others plied me with coffee, hugs and encouragement. Several pushed me to get dressed and leave the house once in a while, thank God. You know who you are. Hugs all around. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I’m especially grateful to:

My parents, children and brother for their love and faith that I could pull this off.

My grandchildren, for the joy they bring to my life.

Peter and Trish Benesh of AuthorAssist, editors and friends par excellence, for their insight, professionalism and pep talks every time I wanted to burn the manuscript. I bless the day I found them.

The Maryland Writers’Association and Carl Lau at 1st Books Library for the opportunity to make it happen.

My friends at the Maryland Writers’ Association for their ongoing support.

Judi Scioli, for her friendship, faith in the project, editing skills and wisdom-professional and otherwise.

My wonderful girlfriends-Joyce Dumin, Bonnie Gibson, Ellen Goodman, Rosemary Mild, Judy O’Keefe, Barbara Rasin Price, Nancy Rosenshine, Billie Sandler and Mary Ann Treger-for their good humor, kindness, loyalty and putting up with my nuttiness; The Jersey Tomatoes-Chris Hildebrand, Sue MacKinnon, Bobbi Conway Fox and Suzanne Lyman Clark. I treasure our time together. May we never grow up.

Jaymie Meyer and Wendy Solomon-cousins by chance, friends by choice-who are always there for me.

My friends at the Maryland Youth Ballet, whom I miss every Monday, and my Sea Sisters at Women Aboard, Annapolis chapter, who welcome me even though I’m boatless.

Brenda Castle-Young, LCSW, for her assistance with the therapy scenes and shrink speak.

The Center for Disease Control and Anne Arundel County Health Department for HIV/AIDS information.

Donna Vogel and Jane Hill for the crash course in Catholicism.

Jeffrey Fisch, Esq., for his help with the legalese.

Kathy Poerstel for her sailing expertise.

Penne Romar for the cover concept.

Hillary Frank for taming my split ends.

Eleanor Becker for keeping my back in line and nurturing my spiritual side.

My 4th grade teacher, Claire Auger, who said I had a flair for writing.

PROLOGUE

The wedding dress whipped at the flagpole like a hurricane warning to mariners. The sleeves had shredded and their ragged edges clawed at the wind, as if the tempest had ripped a tormented soul from their embrace.

Ashen sky mixed with charcoal sea and air turned to water. The horizon disappeared.

The undertow sucked Ellen down. She thrashed. Her feet hit bottom and she pushed up, up. Lungs imploding, she broke the surface, gulped in air and struggled toward the colored dots on the beach—dots she knew were Ron and the children.

She tried calling, hus-band, hus-band. The word came out, has-been, has-been.

Ron just sat in his canvas chair, ignoring her screams. Ellen harnessed her rage to subdue her panic. Rage at Ron that he would let her drown, panic that she would never again embrace her Michael and Lisa. The current seized her. She drove every ounce of will into her muscles.

Soft music, something by Sinatra, floated toward her from the ocean liner 50 yards away. Old Blue Eyes’ voice lifted her like a life jacket. Friends cheered from the ship’s rail.

The orchestra sat on the bandstand. Violin bows hung at half-mast from the string musicians’ flies. A cigarette glued to her lip, Ellen’s mother finished her eulogy and handed the microphone to a shapely woman Ellen did not recognize.

The woman rose from a director’s chair with SHRINK on the back and curtsied to the screeching gulls.

She pulled a top hat from her cleavage, sprinkled M&Ms into it and lifted out a life-size marionette—a clone of Ellen.

With a slash of her jewel-encrusted knife, the shaman severed the umbilical cord and the puppet pirouetted around the stage. The melody bounced off the water and Ellen recognized All the Way rising to a climax. At the refreshment stand, the doll whirled like a dervish in the tattered wedding dress.

Ellen gave up the struggle and floated on her back, spreading her legs and praying for a savior. Ropes slung from giant pulleys in the sky lowered a man onto her. She felt his weight and heat but could not see his face, now pressed tightly to her own. Yet he seemed familiar.

As her arms were about to lock around him, he disappeared, leaving her bereft. She rolled onto her stomach and willed herself toward the beach. Some power answered her prayer. She body-surfed to safety.

As she lay gasping in the trough between the breakers and shore, the waves drove sand up her crack. She heard Ron challenge the Ellen doll to a game of badminton, using a pigeon for a shuttlecock. The game ended in a rout. The doll won.

Nearby, pelicans the size of linebackers hawked snacks to the sun worshippers. Ellen saw Ron buy two hot dogs and hand one to the pretty bitch next to him. A few feet away, the children had a tug of war with a two-headed fish. One end was Ron, the other herself.

With no conductor on the podium, the musicians began to play the Wedding March. The melody grated. As the music grew louder and more discordant, Ellen welcomed the sloshing in her ears.

A procession of hand-holding couples traipsed from the bathhouse, a neon Divorce Court sign blinking on its roof. On their march to the sea they trampled Ron and his hussy. Ellen eyed the burial mound where something poked through the sand—a coin, perhaps.

It was Ron’s bald patch. Small change.

The doll clambered onto the lifeguard stand, satin shreds slapping at its goose bumps. As the wind began to lift it, the children raced over and hugged the legs, grounding it like a zeppelin.

The betrothed—extras from The Ten Commandments—squeezed together at the shoreline. Rabbi Charlton H. Prinski ‘s dirigible face appeared in the sky, bulbous nose penetrating the marine layer. His voice boomed above the multitude.

For better or worse, do you promise to take each other?

Sure, rebbe, they shouted in unison. To the cleaners.

After exchanging smoke rings, the mob did a Red-Sea parting. The men dashed north; the women scrambled south in a tangle of arms and legs. Lying in the surf, Ellen sensed the stranger’s presence again, his heat searing her loins. She struggled to see him but he was invisible. He tore away again.

Fear gripped her anew. A cramp paralyzed her leg. In agony, she fought for her life. She beat the water to keep her head up as the tidal wave’s curling wall of foam blocked out the sun.

Penny swam up, a brown life preserver around her neck. Ellen mined her last reserve of strength and flailed toward the faithful retriever. As she reached for the chocolate doughnut it dissolved and the tsunami crashed down on them.

CHAPTER 1

I’m not ready to die.

Ellen swiped at the seaweed on her cheek. Her hand found Penny’s tongue instead. The yellow lab stood next to the bed, tail thumping the mattress. The pounding of the surf and the tail merged into the rhythm of Ron’s snoring. With each exhalation, he sounded like a train screeching to an emergency stop.

In her semiconscious state, Ellen struggled. Should she retreat into the maw of the nightmare or fight back by waking up?

In the limbo between dream and reality, she chose to open her eyes. The sun burst through her haze and she blinked. A boat roared up the river, jarring her alert. She covered her eyes with her hands and felt her forehead. Clammy.

God, what a pisser that was.

Nightmare number four that week. A few days earlier she had awakened drenched after careening down a mountain road in a driverless car. Too shaken to go back to sleep, she had padded to the kitchen and baked muffins before dawn.

Until recently her dreams had been more like cartoons, non-threatening and entertaining. Sometimes the plots had been so bizarre that she had jotted them down. Maybe a writing career lay ahead.

This morning, she would have killed for another hour of sleep. She had not gone to bed until 1 A.M. She had hung up her apron, left the stemware and platters unwashed and absolved herself for the sloth.

She hated the sight of dirty dishes the morning after a party, but exhaustion had overwhelmed her perfectionism. Ron had gone to bed at midnight after not helping. As usual. He had said, Good dinner. See you in the morning.

Poor guy, he’s had a rough week, she had told herself. As usual.

Not so fast, lover, she had replied, and slipped her hand between his legs. He jumped.

Jesus, Ellen. Don’t do that.

Did I hurt you?

No. I’m tired.

Ah, c’mon.

But he’d backed away as she tried to rub against him.

"I thought you might like another piece of my pie.

Me."

G’night, Ellen.

She had lifted her skirt to her waist and slid her panties to the floor. Pretty please? He had turned away when she tried to kiss him. C’mon, Ron. I’ll make you feel good.

He had shot her a withering look. Gimme a break.

*     *     *     *

Ellen hunkered down in the kitchen after walking Penny. She stood under the skylight in her domain, communing with the pots of forget-me-not and bridal veil. She warbled with Sinatra.

Ron stormed in and yanked the plug.

Hey, I was listening…

I hate that skinny, no-talent, wop.

I don’t turn off your football games.

That’s different.

Of course. How thoughtless of me. She watched Ron fumble at the counter, scattering crumbs everywhere as he butchered a bagel. He slammed it in the toaster and barricaded himself behind the paper.

Ellen sponged his crumbs into the sink. The toaster popped. Ron emerged to slather the bagel with cream cheese. She heard him chewing in back of The Washington Post sports pages.

Ron, let’s start over. Good morning.

He grunted.

How’d you sleep?

He turned the page with a cream-cheesey thumb.

‘kay

Ellen surveyed the unwashed dinnerware. Oscars for last night’s performance.

The stemware was so delicate, a harsh look could shatter its stems. She loved to entertain, spending days planning and preparing. When she prepped for company she felt like an actress on opening night. Five minutes before guests arrived, she’d still be rehearsing her lines, plumping the sofa cushions and re-re-rearranging the flowers.

She envied the Martha Stewart wannabes who luxuriated in aromatic baths an hour before the curtain rose. Only when the doorbell rang would Ellen drop her security-blanket sponge and step center stage.

She measured audience enjoyment by the noise level.

It’s beautiful, Ron. How ’bout a walk before the wind comes up? she said to the top of his head. Sandy grass plugged his scalp. In the sunlight, it looked like a Chia pet.

I have a lot to do before we sail.

Oh. For instance?

Hose my boat, pick up beer.

That’ll eat up an hour, at best. I’d like to walk with you.

He groaned.

A short stroll, Ron, not the Boston Marathon.

I’m too tired.

Her jaw ached. She began emptying the dishwasher. "Why did you say my boat?

Huh? I’m trying to read.

"You said, ‘I have to hose my boat.’"

You’re putting words in my mouth.

I don’t think so.

He looked up for an instant. Do you have to start an argument first thing?

I’m not arguing.

Could’ve fooled me.

"I’ve always considered it our boat, even though…" At dinner the night before Ellen had bristled when she overheard Ron mention that he had taught her to sail. Her uncle had taught her, giving her the boat when he bought a larger one—before she met Ron.

The comment had rankled, but she let it go. Sailing was one of the few activities they enjoyed together. An able skipper under favorable conditions, Ron would freeze in an emergency and Ellen would take over.

Day sails on their 30-footer, Golden Oldie, to pick crabs at a waterside restaurant, were fun, but dropping the hook in a secluded cove overnight was sheer bliss. Stretched out in the cockpit at sunset, they would down frosty beers, the bottle sweat cooling their sunburned foreheads.

It doesn’t get any better than this, she would tell Ron when they spent the night on the water. But that was then and this was nowhere. Ellen sighed.

Do you think our guests had fun last night? she asked.

Probably. He surfaced for a moment as he turned the page, then submerged again.

Well, I didn’t, you withholding bastard. Ellen wondered if naked cartwheels would get his attention.

Dis-tant hus-band, sis-boom-bah. Talk to me, you kiel-ba-sa!

I forgot to tell Wilma and Steven whether we would meet them for dinner this week. It’s their 25th anniversary. Ron?

He put down the paper, glaring. Ellen expected flames to shoot from his nostrils.

You know I don’t go out during the week. I’m no good for work the next day.

But they’re our best friends. And a 25th is special. We can be home early.

I have a heavy week coming up.

Well, how ’bout the weekend after?

I’d rather wait until sailing season is over.

Ellen knelt down to put an arm around Penny. She lifted the dog’s ear and whispered, Let’s run away together.

Penny licked her cheek.

Nearest thing to a kiss I’ll get today.

Ron walked out, leaving his plate and newspaper on the table. Ellen knew there were worse habits, but it irked her. He was saying her job was to serve. All she asked was a little consideration. Was that too much?

She heard him peeing in the powder room. Why couldn’t he close the door? He came back a few moments later, his hand behind his back. His nose twitched as though Penny had let one go.

Why do you leave the dog’s things lying around?

What?

He shook the rawhide bone in her face. For a second she wished he was showing her the evidence of self-mutilation. Vincent van Gonads.

This was in the guest john. You leave her crap all over the house.

I meant to put it away. I guess I got sidetracked by the company.

I don’t think it’s asking too much. Ron used his how-could-you tone. Try to be a little considerate for a change.

Ellen’s eyes burned. She turned to the sink, picked up and scrubbed a lipstick-stained goblet. The stem broke, slicing her finger. Damn.

He rolled his eyes, pursed his lips. I paid 60 bucks a piece for those in St. Thomas. You could be more careful.

The way he stormed out, she knew he was savoring his triumph.

Ellen sucked her soapy wound and wrapped a napkin around it. Wiping her good hand on her shirt, she dialed Wilma. She wondered if Wilma had noticed that Ron had been more subdued, moodier than usual last night.

Ellen envied Wilma’s life with Steven. They laughed together. Even after 25 years. Especially after 25 years. She wondered how often they made love. A cloud grayed the scene outside, the way something had dimmed her romance with Ron.

Wilma’s voice yanked her back. I thought you might be sleeping in after last night.

I was up early to walk the beast. I didn’t see your kitchen light on so I kept going.

Why doesn’t Ron walk Penny?

He hates her. Because he hates me.

Why, Ellen?

Damned if I know.

By the way, dinner was great. Wilma’s voice seemed to chirp as she changed the subject. What are you doing today?

Well, Ron offered to bring me breakfast in bed.

Hmmph. Ellen heard Wilma’s disbelief. Or was it disdain?

You’re a lucky girl, Ellen. I’ll bet he’s doing laundry and darning socks too.

How’d you know? Then he’s making a soufflé.

And I’m Bernadette of Lourdes. Any plans?

We’re going on the boat with Michael. I can’t believe my boychick is starting his last year of law school. I thought he’d never be potty-trained.

Good thing we’re not getting any older, girl.

Seems like yesterday my little Michael was eating Play-Doh and singing, ‘I Love Trash,’ with Oscar the Grouch. Ellen felt woozy and sat down.

Wilma, did you notice anything different about Ron last night? she whispered.

Different?

Ellen sensed Wilma was stalling.

No. Well, he looked heavier.

I don’t mean how he looked. I’m probably imagining things.

Ron came into the kitchen shaking his head and muttering. Who’s that?

Ellen covered the mouthpiece. Wilma.

I can’t believe you’re on the phone to her. You saw each other last night. What can you possibly have to say? He left as he had entered, still mumbling.

Schmuck.

What’s wrong, Ellen? You don’t sound yourself.

You’re right. I don’t know who I am anymore. Did Ron seem preoccupied to you, Wilma?

That’s not news. You know what kind of party animal he’s not.

I know. He’s the last one to wear a lampshade or moon the neighbors.

Maybe he’s stressed over work.

Maybe. Ellen scolded the little girl inside her. You’re blowing things out of proportion.

CHAPTER 2

A few days later, in her, It Took Me 50 Years To Look This Good, T-shirt, Ellen pedaled next to Wilma at the Beautiful Body. Ellen struggled. Sweat soaked her T-shirt. Wilma exercised daily and weighed, at the most, 100 pounds after Thanksgiving dinner.

How do you do this every day? Three mornings a week are punishment enough.

C’mon, Ellen, it’s not that bad.

For you, maybe. I’d rather clean bathrooms, but gravity’s been working overtime. My waist has wedded my hips and I want them to divorce.

Hang in a little longer.

I won’t go gently so I rage against the cellulite. But only three times a week.

What are you talking about? You have a lovely figure, Ellen.

Puhleeze. There’s enough cottage cheese in my thighs to feed the Naval Academy for a week. Ellen started to feel lightheaded. She let the bike slow.

You’re flushed. Are you all right?

Ellen gasped. Was this like drowning? My get-up-and-go got up and went.

They spread towels side-by-side for the floor exercises. As Donna Summer’s Last Dance crackled, Ellen strained to flex her gluts and crunch her abs to the beat. More sweat ran down her face and dripped onto the towel.

She turned to Wilma. I’ll bet this carpet hasn’t been cleaned since Millie peed on the White House lawn. In fact, it smells like Millie peed here.

We’ll be done soon.

Ellen liked talks with Wilma. But she thought their best conversations took place during their morning walks, while Penny sniffed every square inch of turf in Annapolis. Ellen admired Wilma’s analytical mind and relied on her friend’s sound judgment.

And, damn it, Wilma always looked good—even first thing in the morning. Ellen doubted she would ever possess Wilma’s clarity of insight, but she thought that in her next life she might try makeup and big earrings at 7 A.M.