“I thought you'd like him.”

“I do.”

“Maybe too much so. Is that what you're saying?” He sounded nearly as upset as I did, and more than a little jealous.

“I don't know what I'm saying. Maybe we're both crazy.”

“I'll try to come home early.” He sounded genuinely worried.

“Maybe the three of us should just live together. And by the way, Helena is having a baby.”

“Is that what's really bothering you?”

“Maybe. No, I don't think so. But the kids are upset about it. They hate her. And the idea of a baby.”

“I'm sorry, Steph.”

“No, you're not.” Suddenly, I was crying, and I heard Paul in the next room, with the children. “He's an alcoholic, for chrissake, and if I see those goddam zebra pants again, I'm going to have a nervous breakdown. Maybe I am anyway. How did this ever happen to me?” It was all his fault, and I wanted to hate him for it. But I didn't. I still loved him. And I knew my kids did too. Even Charlotte, though she would have hated to admit it. And Sam had been his loyal follower for months, more than ever since Peter had come to his rescue when Roger flaked out on him on Halloween.

“It was just an experiment, that's all. Don't take it so seriously.” We both sounded like crazy people, but thank God Dr. Steinfeld couldn't hear us.

“Don't take it seriously? He's living here, and I'm in love with you, and sometimes I can't even tell you apart. When he's in the shower he looks like you. And when he gets dressed, he looks like goddam Elvis Presley.”

“I know. I know … we, tried straightening that out, but he wouldn't let us.” I suspected he didn't want to ask me how I knew what Paul looked like in the shower, but it was easy to guess what was happening between us, from everything else. Besides, I figured that, better than anyone, Peter knew Paul only too well.

“He thinks you should marry me. Can you imagine that? He's crazier than you are.” I was crying by then, and at Peter's end, there was a long silence. “Don't worry. I told him neither of us was crazy enough to do that.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” was all he said finally, sounding just a fraction cool.

“So am I. Maybe I need to leave both of you for a while, and try to get sane again.” I was better off alone back in front of the TV watching reruns. I thought I had a real life with Roger before that, but even that blew up in my hands. Now look what I had. The bionic man, and Dr. Frankenstein, the mad inventor. I was so upset, I just sat there and cried.

“The holidays are hard for everyone, Steph. You're just upset. Try to relax. I'll be home soon, and he'll be back in the shop. If you want me to, I can have him dismanded.”

“That's a terrible thing to do to him. Besides, I like him.” Which brought us right back to the beginning. I loved Peter, but I didn't want to lose Paul. It was an insane situation.

“Just take it easy. Get some sleep tonight. He's sleeping in the guest room, isn't he?”

“Yeah, sure.” You fool, I wanted to say to him. What do you think? He hadn't been built to sleep in anyone's guest room. “I love you,” I said forlornly.

“I love you too. I'll call you in the morning.”

He hung up then, and that night it was the same story all over again. I couldn't resist him. Quadruple flips and fantastic sex, candlelight and massages, and scented oil, and when morning came, I was still awake, and so confused, I hated both of them. I wanted Peter to come home, and the Klone to stay, and never to see either of them again, and if I never did another double or triple flip again it would be too soon, and I never wanted another piece of jewelry. I wanted it all to stay, and go away, and as I fell asleep finally, I was dreaming of Peter. He was standing there, watching me, with an arm around Helena, while Paul just stood there wearing those damn zebra pants again, and laughed at me.





Chapter Nine

By the end of Paul's second week with me, I was more confused than ever, but in spite of that, we always seemed to have a good time together. We went to all the Christmas parties I was supposed to go to, and in spite of a few minor faux pas, he actually did very well. I tried to get him to let me pick his outfits, but of course that was too much to ask. He had bought a silver suit with Christmas balls hanging all over the jacket, and the trousers were covered with tiny colored lights. He thought it incredibly festive, and the hostess at the first party we went to thought it was an enchanting joke. Little did she know he meant it, and felt he had made the fashion statement of the season.

He devoured all the hors d'oeuvres, gobbled up all the caviar, and when they ran out, he put their tropical fish in his drink and swallowed them too. I don't think anyone noticed, but I did, and we left before he could get seriously out of hand or upset the hostess more than he already had.

The second party we went to was given by old friends of mine who had met Peter. They sang Christmas carols, had a fabulous buffet, and insisted on playing charades after dinner in the living room. I did Gone With the Wind, and no one guessed it, which must have sparked something for Paul. Because he chose a single word, a “short one,” he gestured, and it only took me a few seconds to realize that the word he was acting out was fart. You can imagine what he did to get the point across. We left the party a little early that night, but in spite of my apologies, the host and hostess assured me that Paul had been a huge hit, particularly with their kids. They said he seemed a lot more “outgoing” than the first time they'd met him, and was a true free spirit, and keeping a close eye on him, I agreed with them all the way out. But I was furious with him for his outrageous behavior, and I said so in no uncertain terms after we'd left their apartment.

“That was a bit much, didn't you think?” I scolded him in the cab on the way home. I was not amused.

“What? The Christmas carols? No, I thought it was nice.”

“I mean what you did when you played charades. They were doing movies, Paul. I have never seen a movie called Fart.”

“Don't be so uptight, Steph. They loved it. Everyone laughed. It was so easy, I couldn't resist. It was their fault anyway. They shouldn't have served beans on the buffet. There's nothing Christmasy about beans,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No one forced you to eat them. You embarrassed me.” But as soon as I said it, he looked devastated.

“Are you mad at me, Steph?” But just looking at him in his Christmas ball suit, with the pants all lit up, I shook my head. How could I be? He was so lovable and so silly.

“I guess not, but I should be.” The worst of it was that as irritating as he could be, I knew I would miss him as soon as he left. And that day was coming soon. We only had a few days left. There was something about him that always hooked me, and I knew it wasn't his wardrobe, or even the double flip. There was something so basically decent about him, so innocent and so loving. He was agonizingly hard to resist. And I couldn't.

“I love you, Steph,” he said, snuggling close to me in the cab. “I wish I could spend Christmas with you.” I wanted to tell him I did not, but it wouldn't have been true. There were times when I wanted him to stay forever, with his crazy clothes and his outrageous behavior. He wasn't easy to take to parties, and yet when we were alone, we were always so happy.

He felt so remorseful about upsetting me that night that he suggested we stop at Elaine's for a drink. It had always been one of my favorite places with Roger, and I hadn't been there since he left me, but the idea appealed to me, and after hesitating for a minute, I agreed to go with him.

The cab dropped us off on the corner, and he put his arm around me, as we walked toward Elaine's. There was a huge, festive crowd at the bar as usual, and Paul ordered a double bourbon straight up and a glass of white wine for me. I didn't really want it, but it felt good to be there, and in spite of the ridiculous suit he was wearing, I was happy to be with him. And the crowd at Elaine's was eccentric enough that I figured he could get by there without attracting too much attention. It wasn't as difficult as going to a place like ‘21’ with him.

But I had just taken the first sip of my wine, when I turned and suddenly found myself staring at Helena in a red velvet cocktail dress trimmed in white rabbit or some kind of fur that was shedding in white clouds all over everyone standing at the bar near her. But far more impressive than the fur she was shedding was the amount of cleavage the dress left exposed. All I could do was stare at her enormous white bosom, it was so impressive it distracted one completely from noticing her ever so slightly protruding belly. And as I looked up I saw Roger, watching me watch her, and looking desperately uncomfortable, and then he glanced at Paul. The balls on his Christmas jacket suddenly looked larger than ever, and even in the crowd at the bar, the lights on his pants seemed to surround him in a kind of glow.

“What is that?” Roger said without preamble, staring at him in amazement. He knew about Peter from the kids, but nothing they had said had prepared him for what he saw.

“That's Paul … I mean Peter,” I said calmly, brushing some of the fur Helena's dress had lost off my nose.

“That's quite an outfit,” Roger said expressively, which Paul took as a compliment, but I knew Roger better, and saw with ease that he was appalled. “Thank you. It's Moschino,” he explained pleasantly, with no idea who Roger was, much less Helena. “I usually wear Versace, but I couldn't resist this for the holidays. What kind of fur is that?” he asked, staring at Helena's cleavage, and then turned to me with a smile. “Friends of yours?”