American Hustle: Swing It

I love my wife. That is, of course, I love Sydney. Sydney's wonderful, she's amazing, you know Sydney. But Rosalyn, my ex-wife—okay, I love her too. What can I say, the heart's not one of those computer-machines that just boops and beeps. It sings, it makes its own music, and I never quite could stop seeing all the great things about Rosalyn I fell in love with. And I'm especially not one of those guys, two or three ex-wives and every one of them supposedly a cunt, whining about paying child support, what a bunch of schmucks. No. We've had our differences, but Rosalyn, she's a peach.

Maybe... more like a volcano. From a distance, all you see is the majesty and the glory of nature, and you know in time all that ash and lava is gonna seep into the soil and make all sorts of flowers grow. It's great. Ya gotta love that kinda business. Then up close—you're running for your life, praying you don't die from being set on fire. And when the lava's just a metaphor, I suppose it just counts as... interesting.

Only she was dating a mobster named Pete Musane with the Meyer Lansky crime family, so the lava was really a metaphor for dying some other, hopefully less painful way.

He should've known she was coming from the cab. It overshot pulling up to the curb, one tire lurching up onto the sidewalk. Irving knew Rosalyn wasn't driving, but she was just a magnet for that kind of fuck-up. She'd married him, after all.

Out came the woman herself, dressed in a gingham/tie combo blouse that changed patterns on the cuffs, the sleeves, the lapels. She could've been wearing a kaleidoscope almost. Thankfully for his odds of developing cataracts, her pants were simple white slacks and her shoes were Hollandia platform wedges.

The second she was on her feet, out came a lighter and Marlboro, out from her purse like she was a gunslinger pulling six-shooters. "Irving, baby, I couldn't smoke in the cab. What's the country coming to when you can't smoke in a cab you hire? It's my dime, I need to smoke—honestly, I should just start riding a bike everywhere. Who'd be laughing then, all the cab companies out of business? Me! Me and my toned calves."

There Irving had been, out on his porch in a plastic lawn chair that wasn't too comfortable, but was just comfortable enough to make him too lazy to go elsewhere. He'd been drinking a pretty nice Orange Julius from a antique sherry copita he'd bought at a great price from a secondhand store, and there was a good splash of white rum in it to keep things copacetic. He'd always thought that too much alcohol could ruin the nice groovy flavor an Orange Julius strove for, but this one had just the right amount. Now that he was semi-retired, mastering things like the right amount of alcohol in something was becoming important to him.

Then he saw Rosalyn and, Irving could've sworn, he knew how dogs felt when they sensed earthquakes. He felt like barking up a storm. His heart was beating faster too, because as ridiculous as that top was, it was pretty tight and the pants were even tighter. She was so beautiful she gave him heartburn. If only he'd told that to her on their honeymoon, it would've gone much better.

He talked like he was trying to swallow peanut butter. "Rosie—Rosalyn. What are you doing here? It's still our week with Danny." The kid was out with Sydney. Small favors.

"Thank Christ for that," Rosalyn said, stomping across the yard. It really worried him when they both agreed on something. "I don't want him to see me like this. My make-up's a mess, Irving. I've been crying."

"Your make-up looks fine."

But talking with Rosalyn was like trying to stop a boulder from rolling downhill. Once it got started. "You were right about Pete. I don't say that often enough, but you were so right. He was a total jerk, complete asshole, he bamboozled me, Irv. Made me think he was a sweet, caring guy like you but that MOTHERFUCKER has no class, no taste, no redeeming qualities, I must've mixed up my pills to see anything in that COCKSUCKER!"

"Honey, we've got neighbors," Irving pleaded.

Try to get in the way of a boulder rolling downhill and: "What do you care, divorcee living with some loose woman, not even an American, and a kid who's not even yours. You think they don't gossip? You bet those motherfuckers gossip. Probably think you stole Danny. Have the police been around asking about him?"

Before Irving could catch up with every last sentence of that, the cabbie honked his horn. "Hey!" he called, leaning out the window. "She say you pay when we get here!"

"I've got it," she assured him. "I just need five bucks. And you'll get my bags from the trunk? It's only fair, I loaded them in. Me and the driver. And he wouldn't let me smoke!" Rosalyn growled.

Irving dug into his corduroys for a crinkled five dollar bill, which came out to be snatched from his hands by Rosalyn. She marched back to the cab, Irving trailing after her.

"You know what that bastard Pete Musane did? He was a fucking pervert, that's what. Fucking dirty movies and he wanted to take pictures of me in—things. He even almost put his thumb up my ass. You're a sick fuck, Irving, I don't mean that, but he makes you look like Prince fucking Charming." She leaned into the cab. "Pop the hood! Can't you see he's getting my bags?" And she slapped the money down on the passenger seat. Her train of thought finished chugging up a hill and came down the slope. "Honestly, Pete Musane, probably involved in some kind of Satanic cult like on the news, it would not surprise me at all. Trying to lure me into some kind of sexual human sacrifice like those people do. You should be damn glad I made it out of there alive. Danny could be half an orphan right now if it weren't for my women's intuition. C'mon, hurry up with the bags, I need you to comfort me."

Irving realized he was still holding his Orange Julius when she plucked it out of his hand and took a sip. "Yeah, just like this. Make me another one of these. I'll get the door for you, too." She went to the front door of his and Sydney's home, drink in hand.

He got the bags. It took four trips. The cabbie did not help. Irving took one of his heart pills.

***

I suppose I always saw Rosalyn Rosenfeld as something of a cancer. No, that's too mean. I meant it in the sense that a tumor can be benign, and that you don't judge people for having them. I never saw Irving as cheating on me with Rosalyn, or what he and I had as him cheating on her. Duplicitous, I suppose. But I simply considered Irving as having this sort of medical condition—or mental illness—of a wife and adopted son, and the same way you'd support someone with a fear of heights, I put up with him having—a wife and adopted son.

Strangely enough, I never really hated Rosalyn either. It was more that I assumed all the irritation Irving felt toward her and couldn't get out. It wasn't like one of those noir films where a woman wants to bump off her husband or something so she can be with her lover. I just wanted a decent excuse to slap her. Just once.

When she came home from work, Sydney felt like a different person. At the art gallery, she knew she belonged, knew she was legitimate, but there was a voice in her head with an English accent. It told her she didn't. It told her she was a fraud. Dirt-poor girl from Minnesota. She came home to a beautiful house and a loving husband and a good kid, she knew the voice was full of shit.

Except that day. That day, Rosalyn Rosenfeld was in her house, hanging up crystals like the place needed wind chimes inside. "These," she was telling Danny, "are quartz crystals, very powerful. Everyone used to use them, the Chinese, the Indians, the Hawaiians, until the white man came and told everyone that needles worked better. Who likes needles? Except in acupuncture. Anyway, once we have them all around the house, they're gonna create an energy grid of healing power—"

"I can explain," Irving said behind her.

Sydney turned and took a deep breath. "I'm not angry."

"No, you're a rational, calm, beautiful woman who knows there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this."

She nodded. "Yes. A patient woman. See how patient I'm being? Waiting for that very reasonable explanation?"

"I think Pete kicked her out and—she needs to stay with us a couple days."

"A couple days."

"Maybe a few weeks."

"Few weeks?"

"Definitely not a month. Not a month."

Sydney refused to turn around as the tinkling of a crystal sounded behind her, like an echo. "Could I talk to you outside, please? I don't think I can spend another five seconds in this house without ripping around all the crystal shit your ex-wife is putting up."

They stepped out onto the backyard porch. Very calmly, Sydney took the paperback she was reading out of her purse. Looking for Mr. Goodbar by Judith Rossner. She slapped Irving with it, hitting the stiff spine against his shoulder. He yowled low-key, shielding his face, but gritting his teeth more than defending himself. She stopped after a few seconds.

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why is that woman in our house?" Sydney demanded, her voice becoming more strident but not necessarily louder.

"Because her relationship ended and she's got nowhere else to go—"

"Big surprise! It's Rosalyn. She'd marry Charlie Manson if he was single!"

"I don't think he is married, actually."

Sydney hefted the paperback threateningly.

"Okay! Okay." Irving straightened his lapels. "If you knew this was coming—"

"Ha! You didn't?"

He shook his head. "If you knew, what was your plan going to be?"

"Put her ass in a motel!"

"A motel." He nodded along with her insistent look. "A fucking motel, the mother of my child—"

"Jesus Christ..."

"I'm just—hey—" Irving slammed his hands into his pockets. "I'm thinking about Danny here. I want all his parents to get along and like each other because that's what normal, well-adjusted kids have with their parents. Okay? Not some shit about his mom getting thrown out on the street and coming to his father and getting just some fucking change for a motel. That's not something healthy people have in the back of their brain. That's some shit from the funny pages, that's what makes you grow up to fight Spider-Man."

"Spider-Man," she repeated caustically. "Irving, what the fuck would you know about healthy people?"

He looked inside. Rosalyn was holding Danny up so he could hang a crystal over the window. The kid looked so happy.

Her hands were suddenly on his face like ice, that's how cold they were. They forced his eyes into hers. "You know I've always been proud of you? Throughout this whole crazy thing, there was only one time it was hard. I could be pissed at you, I could be worried for you, but there was only one time I almost wasn't proud. That first time you told me how you conned people. And it wasn't you—" Her voice wasn't solid. It was creaking like thin ice. "It wasn't you I was ashamed of, it was us. I was thinking 'am I really the person who can be in love with this guy?' But even then we were so much alike. It was like I could hear your voice in my head. We all con each other, right? You're just better at it. We're just better at it. But for a moment there, I was ashamed to be in love with you. Just that once." She looked down at her hand like she'd forgotten she was holding a book in it. She put it back in her purse. She was still wearing her purse, she was still wearing her coat. It made things easier. "Two times now."

And she walked out. Irving took one of his heart pills.

***

I never hated Sydney. I'm just not a hateful person. I was angry *with her* for Irving being weak and her taking advantage of that, but men cheat. It was a fact of life. My father cheated on my mom and my mom told me that my grandfather had cheated on Nana, so there've always been whores and men who just need a little something extra on the side. I don't mind that.

It's not like I haven't thought about it myself even. I've had some pretty intense dreams about David Cassidy, but I don't wanna *fall in love* with the guy, right?, I don't wanna move to Hollywood and live in his basement or something. I keep things in perspective, and Irving never had that without me. No perspective. Everything's just these trees, look at this big tree Rosalyn, look at this little tree, trees trees trees trees. And here I am, looking at the forest. I came up with that myself, by the way, don't ask me where I got it, I'm always thinking up philosophical shit like that, I should write some of it down.

Irving couldn't sleep that night. He laid in bed, thinking if only he could call her, if only he knew where she was so he could call her, if only she had a little phone she could put in her pocket and he could call her on that. Yeah, right. And then he could call the Enterprise and tell Mr. Scotty to beam him over to her.

It was a good house he'd bought. Solid house. Thick walls. Voices didn't carry. So he didn't hear the front door open, the heels click over tile and muffle on carpet. He didn't know Sydney was home until she opened the door to the bedroom and found him lying on his back, a cigarette propped in his mouth.

"How many times have I told you about smoking in bed?" She shut the door behind her, gracefully, like a dance move. "It causes house fires."

"Sydney, baby, my love—"

She saw the overflowing ashtray. "I emptied that out last week. Shit, how many of those things have you smoked?"

"Two packs, but I already had one started when you left."

"Shit, Irv—those things'll kill you before the fire can."

"There ain't gonna be a fire—" He stubbed the cigarette out. Smiled at her. "Sydney. Sydney, you're back!"

"Uh-huh," she said. "Yeah? Why not? You're everything to me. I can go out and wear some hot outfit and speak in my accent and get hit on twenty times—"

"Twenty?"

"It's not any fun without you." She climbed onto the bed, her knees denting the mattress, jostling him like he was a boat on the ocean. "I'm sorry I yelled, baby. I know you're just trying to do right by Rosalyn. You've over her. You are over her. Right?"

She held her hand stiffly by her side, like she did when she wanted him to take it. He took it. "Yeah, baby. We're done. I can't think what I ever saw in her." He saw the quirk in her brow that told him that bullshit was hitting the little red zone on the dial. "I mean, I know what I saw in her, but I can't believe I didn't see more of it in you."

Sydney crumpled, landing on his stomach, resting her head on his paunch like a father-to-be listening for the baby. "Irv, you've got less shit in you than any man I've ever met, but you're still full of it. But it is good shit. And I am sorry I made you worry."

"What, me worry?" He grinned. "I was just in a smoking mood. I get in those. Happens every seven years, like a clock. Bada-bing, I've gotta smoke everything in the house."

"Yeah, this place smells like a coal mine. You need to cut back."

"It cools me down, baby. I'm a single father, I've got two pesky kids to handle."

"Two—oh. Funny." She patted his love handles. "No lighting up until the weekend. We're gonna be spending more on tobacco than gas, you don't quit. You wanna relax, you let your wife handle that. That's what we're here for."

"We?"

Another hand at his ribs, this time a little harder. "Wives. Idiot. In general. But with you, just me. Just me, Irv." She kissed the fabric stretched tight over his belly. "Did she ever do this for you, baby? You can't tell me some bratty housewife from Long Island did this..."

Irving started to breathe hard as Sydney's head slid down his body. He was starting to wish he had his heart pills on him.

***

Rosalyn thought she finally had it all figured out. Past lives. Just like her psychic had warned her about. Clearly, back when Irving had been a Viking chieftain, she'd been his shield-maiden, but they hadn't found each other when Irving was a gunfighter in the Old West, so he'd shacked up with a saloon girl who'd been reincarnated as Sydney. Simple as that. Who could even tell how many times they'd swapped him in all their cycles? But this time really blew, because she'd seen Irving first, married him first, and Sydney still got him. Total bullshit. Bad karma. She wouldn't be surprised if Sydney ended up a flea in the next life.

She wondered if Sydney was still out. Probably. Probably staying out all night. Maybe even still seeing that curly-haired IRS agent Risakyb'd seen her with. Oh yeah, she'd seen how those two looked at each other. And say what you would about Rosalyn—you couldn't say that much, though, she did have depression and anxiety and she wasn't even sure that her shrink had diagnosed all of her disorders, she might have more, society barely cared about the mentally ill, that was just her cross to bear.

But say what you would about Rosalyn, she was always home for Irving when he needed her. She was there 24/7. She didn't take vacations or lunch breaks like it was some job flipping burgers. No. She was there for her man. And, because she wasn't the type to hold a grudge unless someone was really asking for it, she would go check in on Irving, even though he'd left her for some red-headed slut. That was just how big her heart was. She would always place his needs before her own.

Besides, she couldn't find a drink anywhere and how was she supposed to sleep sober? What was this, the Middle Ages?

Padding through the house on her bare feet, and finding the tile floor way too fucking cold, she came to Irving's bedroom. Tried the door. It was locked. Yeah, that was safe. What if there was a fire, little Danny ran for help from his adopted parents, and then the door's locked? What was he even doing in there, anyway, he needed the door locked? Rosalyn got down on her knees and looked through the keyhole.

Then she watched as Sydney Prosser, that whore, sucked her ex-husband's cock.

It was a good-sized cock. Rosalyn had never had any complaints about it. And Sydney was doing a good job with it—cheeks puffed out, lips stretched thin, a shimmer of spittle running from the corner of her mouth. But the evident skill and passion of their... their blowjob made Rosalyn sick to her fucking stomach.

She just couldn't believe she was watching Sydney's head bobbing up and down on her ex-husband, his thick thigh muscles flexing rhythmically. Where were his—there they were. His fat balls were squeezed under Sydney's chin as she took him deep down her throat.

Rosalyn was not a sensual woman. She knew a wife's duty was to provide certain outlets for her husband, and as long as those outlets were filled the marriage was in great shape, but past the obligation and, honestly, the enjoyment she got out of having Irving so completely in her thrall, she'd always considered sex somewhat dirty. A little sinful.

Her first husband had come from a wealthy family; she should've been set for life, only his parents hadn't approved and though they'd tolerated the marriage, they'd cut him off when Danny was conceived. And Rosalyn had tried, she'd tried really, really hard to get her stepparents to like her. See that she wasn't just some floozy. She had a picture in her head, vivid as the silver screen, of them finally inviting her to their house. And when they did, her stepmother would look her in the eye and see she was a good girl, not some cheap slut who'd put the moves on her son. And she would see that all over Rosalyn because that was how she lived.

And even after he'd died and she'd taken up with Irving, she'd tried to be decent. Sex only once a week, maybe more often, but it didn't count if she was drunk. She knew that frustrated Irving. Probably drove him to Sydney. But she knew he understood her little quirks—only having sex at night, only with the lights out, only under the covers, and always, always in the missionary position. Deep down, he didn't want some tawdry seductress for a wife. That would make him lose all respect for her, and that was far more harmful to a marriage than withholding sex until he really, truly needed it.