3
There’s an Ex
I used to have a husband, from a marriage that was a bad idea from the start. Now I can advise others: Never marry a man who proposes too early. I didn’t say yes on his first try, of course. I said, “Well, that’s very flattering, but I don’t know you, and you certainly don’t know me.”
He explained that he had a special gift, that he could size up a job applicant or a woman on the first date from a gesture or remark, a telling one.
“So what was my telling gesture?”
“Many.” His gaze was, I now recognize, faux fond. “Starting with your thanking the busboy for the bread . . . Don’t give me that skeptical look. To most women, busboys are invisible.”
“I waitressed all through college.” But instead of shedding light on the topic by revealing how many busboys I’d had summer flings with, I said, “We were all college students. We’d go out after work, the whole crew. It didn’t matter if they were waiters or busboys or delivery guys.”
“Because you’re not a snob. That’s what I saw in that gesture. You probably don’t know it, but there’s an innocence to you.”
Yes, there used to be, a big dangerous innocence honed by my six years as a Montessori teacher and exactly why I was targeted by Holden Phillips IV. Despite what I would later characterize as flattery and bullshit, I went on a second date with him. The marriage entreaties were often soft-pedaled in phrases such as “You realize, of course, we’ll be married one day. FYI, that’s not a proposal, because I know you think I haven’t earned you yet.”
“Insecurity,” the girlfriends said. “Not a good sign. Is he desperate?” They Googled him and saw his photos. Holden was not, as my maternal grandmother used to say, an oil painting.
But he did introduce the unaffordable into my budgeted, between-careers life. He’d order a bottle of wine rather than two glasses and the up-charged desserts on a prix fixe. Yes to that sprinkle of black or white truffle, the chocolate soufflé that required advance notice. And there were orchestra seats to shows that were famously sold out for the rest of any given year.
I was a bought woman—an overstatement, but I deserve it. He called himself an entrepreneur, having cofounded a start-up with a business school pal. Most people didn’t ask for more than that explanation. If pressed, I’d add, “It’s called Life’s Too Short. It helps you hire people to do stuff you don’t want to do yourself.”
It might sound as if a successful guy would have already found a wife by the time we met. He on the cusp of forty. I was not yet thirty. When I asked if the big rush was about procreating, he scoffed. “Procreating! Who said anything about wanting children! You’ve had your fill, right? Not even looking for another teaching job?”
“You don’t ever want children?”
He sensed that he’d gone one selling point too far in the wrong direction. “I just meant I’m not one of those guys whose aim is a young, fertile woman. I mean it’s not my first, second, or third priority. I’m not the guy who puts an ad in a Russian newspaper: American male seeking attractive blonde. Wide pelvis a must.”
When I looked startled, he said, “I’m joking! At least give me credit for composing a clever fake ad on the spot.”
“Of course you were joking. I knew that.”
My emerald-cut diamond was huge by New Hampshire standards. And a woman approaching thirty can be stunned into a yes when a little velvet box is perched on a dessert plate decorated with raspberry jus spelling out “Will you marry me?” upon her return from the ladies’ room.
We wouldn’t have met in the natural course of either life except for our both going to a CVS for flu shots. We were sitting side by side. I was wearing a boat-neck, long-sleeved jersey tight in the arms so it would be easier to expose the required flesh downward from the shoulder rather than work the sleeve north. He was dark-haired, going gray, neither handsome nor unattractive, wearing a big lump of a class ring and a camel coat. I said, exposing a bra strap, “Don’t look.”
He took that as a sexual advance, which might have led to a conversation if I hadn’t fainted the moment the needle touched my skin. Within seconds, he’d lowered my head between my knees. I came to, repeating, “I didn’t faint, I didn’t faint, I’m okay.” The pharmacist, looking stunned, managed to say that a small percentage of people faint after any vaccination.
Apparently, I started walking toward the escalator without my coat or pocketbook, giving the impression that I wasn’t in possession of my faculties.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked this concerned citizen, leading me back to my chair. He introduced himself as Holden and said he was putting me in a cab.
An apparently more senior pharmacist had been summoned. “You’re not going anywhere yet, little lady. We have a protocol.”
I shut my eyes so I didn’t have to watch Holden getting his shot. He helped me with my coat and arranged the strap of my pocketbook over my noninjected arm. Out on the sidewalk, he hailed a taxi and got in after me. I protested, but he said, “How else will it be my treat?”
That same afternoon, he sent me flowers care of the doorman on duty when he’d dropped me off. His business card was attached. [email protected].
I could hardly fail to acknowledge flowers, especially ones like these—rare, exotic, out of season, from a shop inside the Plaza Hotel.
I’m only revisiting this to illustrate how occurrences outside the everyday can take on the aura of romance. Fainting is one of those things. I am wiser now, having discovered this humiliating fact: Holden was only acting the part of do-gooder, then suitor, then fiancé, then husband. His marriage motivation was financial: He needed a wife in order to shake free the good-size fortune his grandparents had left him, a condition I deduced from a remark a bigmouth friend let slip in a very careless, frat-boy toast. Had his grandparents seen something in Holden that gave them pause? Or was it their experience that bachelors squander money on boats and fancy cars? Apparently, he’d seen in me an easy mark for a whirlwind courtship and marriage, the kind from two centuries ago, about property and inheritance.
The will and trust that marched me unwittingly down the aisle didn’t stipulate that Holden had to stay married. Nor did he have to be a faithful spouse. Everything ended the night he didn’t come home because . . . what was his lame story again? He’d had too much to drink at his staff dinner and didn’t want to be sick in a taxi.
“First of all, that’s ridiculous. Second, I’ve never seen you get drunk. And where was this staff orgy?”
He named a fashionable SoHo hotel, where ingenues drank martinis at the bar. And here he was at eight a.m., freshly showered, mouthwash rinsed, hair wet, not meeting my eye. I asked, quite dramatically for me, “Who is she?”
“Who is who?”
“The woman you spent the night with.”
“I did no such thing. I couldn’t go home. The bartender wouldn’t let me leave, so he had someone walk me to the front desk, and the next thing I knew, I had a room upstairs.”
“Was that someone a woman?”
Now deeply fake-offended, he asked, “What are you implying? That I didn’t go upstairs alone?”
“Only an idiot would believe that a bartender sends a drunk guy over to the reception desk.”
“Daff,” he said. “I should’ve called—”
“But you couldn’t because your phone was dead and the hotel had no landline?”
“I was wasted. I didn’t want you to know that. You can be very judgmental about my drinking.”
“When have I ever said a word about your drinking?”
More scoffing, and now too casually leafing through the previous day’s mail, he said, “It was late, past your bedtime. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“And there you were, in the bar, no wedding ring, possibly just having ordered an expensive single-malt Scotch. You probably offered to buy her a drink, too. And maybe you told her that you owned the company that was here doing team building. Is that
what happened?”
He walked past me into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You’re irrational,” he finally said.
About this confrontation I was waging: It was the opportunity I needed to end this marriage of his convenience. “Just tell me the truth. I won’t get mad,” I lied.
He put his arms around me in my homely bathrobe, and asked, “We’re good? That was just wifely worry? Now that you know I’m not lying in a ditch—”
“Just tell me: Was it someone you work with? Because sex with an employee can get you sued for a fortune. But I can live with whatever you tell me.”
What a good actress this was provoking me into being. He said he was going to be honest. He trusted me, trusted that I was being sincere. Good old Daphne. It won’t happen again. Thank you for worrying about rules of the workplace. She was not one of his employees. Hell no; he wasn’t that stupid. He had indeed met her at the bar. How did I know that? Not only was I insightful but so fucking understanding as well. He only knew her first name: Amanda. He wasn’t going to see her again. She wasn’t that bright. He hadn’t even asked for her contact information.
“You don’t have her contact information? No business cards changed hands?”
“No, I swear—”
I yelled, giving him a shove, “You liar! Of course you’re going to see her again. Go back to the hotel. Go live there. You can afford it. Take your grandmother’s money and buy yourself a penthouse apartment next to Donald Trump’s.”
“You tricked me!” he yelped. “You weren’t trying to be understanding. You gave me the distinct impression that it was going to be truth without consequences.”
“We’re newlyweds! I can’t be married to someone who cheats before we’ve gone on the postponed honeymoon.”
“That’s not fair! I want to take you to New Zealand, but it’s winter there. I’ve been saying that since day one.”
“New Zealand, my ass. This is the first time I’ve heard that mentioned. I will not stay married to a cheater. I have way too much self-respect. Oh, and by the way? I don’t even like you.”
“Welcome to the world, little girl. You know who’s monogamous? No one.”
I said, “You’re wrong. I am. And so is everyone I know.”
“Maybe in Picayune, New Hampshire. But not in the real world. Not even animals are! Just some birds, but not us mammals. The sooner you give that up, the better for all concerned.”
“Pickering, New Hampshire,” I spit back. “I never should have married you. You tricked me—”
“It’s not my fault. Maybe I need treatment.”
I was too stunned at “not my fault” to answer in properly flabbergasted fashion. All I could say was “Treatment? For what? Your drinking didn’t make you cheat.”
“Not that. For sexual addiction.”
More stunned nothingness.
“I hoped marriage would cure me. I’m so sorry.”
“Sex addict? Maybe that’s something you tell a fiancée before she walks down the aisle?” (A figure of speech. There was no aisle. We’d gone to city hall, then gathered at a restaurant with his boisterous friends, his mother, and my father. For brunch.) “Because if you’re a sex addict . . .” I raised my eyebrows, implying Not so apparent in the marital bed.
“You’re right. I should’ve told you. But it’s an atypical presentation—”
“Fine. Get treatment. Go to rehab. You’ll probably meet some nice sex-addicted women there and hook up the whole time. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
Did this seem precipitous? It wasn’t. Ever since I’d heard I was merely an inheritance tool, I’d been waiting for him to break a marriage vow so my escape would appear to have means, motive, and opportunity. He did obey my wishes and leave, but not until he’d spent a long time packing his suitcase with too much care, too much consideration of which tie went with which shirt and suit, as if he was preparing for a week of dates with female hedge-fund managers. I finally said, “Just go! I’ve served my purpose! I know about the will. I figured it out. And I know this for damn sure: You never loved me.”
He didn’t counter that. Instead, he reminded me that I’d signed a prenup. I’d better not be thinking that his trust fund was mine to share.
Later I looked it up. He’d been right: Except for prairie voles, monogamy was unheard of in mammals.
4
You’ll Be the First to Know
I waited to hear from Geneva Wisenkorn, who presumably took the yearbook along on her writing retreat, promising I’d get it back eventually. Upon her return, whenever I’d pass her in the hallway, she was in too big of a hurry to talk. The one time I got as far as “Any news?” she looked slightly bewildered as if wondering, About what?
After the second unresponsive exchange, I said, “Geneva? You realize I’m asking you about the documentary?”
“Of course I do. I’m still making notes. Rome wasn’t built in a month. You’ll be the first to know.”
I called after her, “But you’re still doing it, right?”
“Of course I am. Nothing means more to me than our project.”
Our project. I caught that. It had the ring of remuneration.
I didn’t have a case with respect to keeping the six-room marital apartment in the divorce since Holden’s unsympathetic mother owned it. I considered a move back to Pickering, but my dad said via phone, “No, don’t. There’s nothing for you here. There’s nothing for me here. Are you sitting down? I’m thinking of joining you in NYC.”
I asked him to define “joining.” Did he mean a visit? He’d always be welcome, just not as an overnight guest in my postage stamp of an apartment.
“Maybe I could help. You’re newly alone. Maybe if we pooled our resources—”
“Dad! Adult children don’t live with their dads unless there’s something seriously wrong with them. Or something’s off.”
“Isn’t getting a divorce ‘something off’? Or maybe something’s off with a parent who lost his wife of thirty-six years and is lonely. For the record? Baby boomers’ children certainly do live with their parents. It’s a movement.”
I didn’t want to be indelicate. Should I address the loneliness part or the baby-boomer-returns-home part? I said, “I hate to hear you’re lonely. Aren’t friends inviting you over and leaving casseroles?”
“That’s one of the reasons I need a change. Too much mother henning.”
Of course that would be true. My father would be a matchmaker’s dream once he took the measure of his own five-starness.
“Daff? You still there?”
“Is there no one in Pickering you could see yourself spending time with?”
“Honey, I’ve sat next to every eligible woman at every awkward get-together that was billed as a casual family dinner. And if I say, ‘Too soon,’ these hostesses come back with ‘Too soon for what? A few hands of bridge?’”
“But you said you’re lonely. No one you’d consider taking to a movie?”
“Maybe ‘lonely’ is the wrong word. Maybe just ‘alone.’ I want to start this new chapter in a new place. If I don’t move now, when would I? I still have my health. I can afford it. If ever I needed an adventure, it’s now.”
Even though I had no say in the matter, I said, “Let me sleep on this.”
I did, and I woke up thinking that I had no right to discourage the very move I myself had made. I called him, and said, “I’m in. You should move here. You could volunteer and maybe tutor. Go to concerts and readings. Find bridge partners, for sure. And you won’t have to drive to Manchester to see a movie.”
“I appreciate that. And, hon? When I said we’d pool our resources, I didn’t mean I was looking for a couch to sleep on. I want my own place, a home. I just meant we could get together when you had a free night. For dinner. Or lunch. Your dad could treat you to a play once in a while.”
I said, “Sounds great.” And I meant it.
“I’ve wanted to live in New York City my whole life
. Your mother was afraid of the city. Well, maybe not afraid, but she hated it. Everyone waving their arms for the same taxi. Long lines for hamburgers that aren’t anything special and cost as much as a steak back home. And forget the subway!”
“How come I never heard this before—about your New York dream?”
“Because I thought it would never come true. Your mother wouldn’t leave Pickering. Even when I talked about downsizing, she’d say she’d never leave.”
Wouldn’t leave Pickering. She got her wish. I pictured their double gravestone, the blank half waiting for my father’s eventual burial. I couldn’t say what I was thinking: that he’d been liberated. Too cruel and untrue emotionally. He’d loved my mother and was still mourning her. Instead, I said, “Maybe the silver lining to losing Mom is that you can fulfill a lifelong dream.”
“So you’re giving me your blessing? I won’t be invading your territory?”
“Highly unlikely in a city this size.”
“Three hundred square miles if you count every borough!”
Such enthusiasm. It was almost heartbreaking. What if New York didn’t deliver? “So what’s the next step?” I asked.
“An apartment, of course.”
I said I’d invite him to stay with me for a scouting trip but again—I didn’t even have the floor space for a blow-up mattress.
“I’ll do that Airbnb thing.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’ll take the bus in and reserve for a couple of nights. I think I’d like to be near Lincoln Center.”
I laughed.
He asked me what was funny about Lincoln Center.
“It’s not Lincoln Center. It’s you, the Manhattanite already. I never knew this guy.”
“What’s your neighborhood again?”
“Hell’s Kitchen. Aka Clinton. I think you should get closer to a subway, though, especially in this cold spell.”
Good Riddance Page 2