“For starters, let’s call her by her name, which is Bonnie. And I’ve known her since I made partner in my firm.”
“Which was when?”
“A simple ‘congratulations’ would be nice.”
“I just meant . . . she seemed cuckoo.”
That was not well received if I was correctly interpreting his sharp intake of breath. “You and she had an unfortunate introduction. She’d never done anything like that before, and she’s apologized.”
“Not to me she hasn’t!”
“We thought—we were wrong, obviously—that inviting you to the wedding was an apology. I’m beginning to think that this decision was misguided.”
With that, he’d penetrated the fortified guilt center in my brain. I said, “I’m sorry. I got fired this week. It’s made me a little crazy. I’ll come and I’ll behave. Okay if I bring a plus-one?”
“We figured you would. Presumably not that woman you brought to the reunion.”
I told him God, no, she and I weren’t speaking; in fact, it would be good to get out of town.
One doesn’t invite a man to a wedding reception casually, especially if he’s a frenemy. I’d start with the news that Senator Peter Armstrong was engaged, then work my way up to the ask. When to approach? ASAP, I decided, since the wedding was one month away. I waited for Jeremy’s return from work, easy to calibrate since lately he’d been singing or whistling at high volume upon his arrival. Was it an attention-getting device? When I heard a spirited “Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, I don’t care if I ever get back,” I was ready, lipstick applied, dressed in my coat and backpack to give the impression that I was going somewhere.
I feigned surprise at finding him outside his door. He smiled, and said, “Why, it’s Miss Maritch. Qué pasa?”
“Not much.”
“Where are you off to?”
“Whole Foods. Need anything?”
“Um, probably. But I don’t want to hold you up.”
“Go check. I can wait.”
He unlocked his door, stepped back, and gestured, After you. Inside, I stopped in the foyer, waiting in the manner of a delivery person who knows his place.
Without asking, he slipped my backpack off my shoulders and pointed me toward his living room. There, I planted myself picturesquely in front of his window, its river view and the lights of New Jersey beyond. Was my pose too artful? Too wistful? Would that be a bad thing?
His kitchen survey was taking more time than expected. And was that the sound of ice being harvested, then rattling in a cocktail shaker? After another few minutes, he returned with two martinis. “Gin, three olives, right?”
“It hasn’t been that long.” I took mine, leaving him free to dim the wall sconces. I’d taken off my coat, exposing the black jersey dress underneath, its deep V-neck ruling it out as daytime attire.
“Looks like there’s a cocktail party at Whole Foods,” he said.
“I went to one earlier and didn’t bother to change,” I lied. To shelve any further discussion of that nonevent, I announced, “I heard something interesting today.”
He, then I, took a seat on the couch a sisterly distance away. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Peter Armstrong is getting married. The senator? From the reunion?”
“Right. Your alleged father. Remind me: not already married?”
“Never! And you won’t believe who he’s marrying—the woman who intercepted my thank-you note—remember that?—and sent it back, defaced.”
“He’s marrying that crackpot?”
“Yes! And I’m invited to the wedding.”
Unprompted, and to my amazement, he said, “Awesome! Think you can bring someone?”
“Meaning you?”
“Yes, me. I’m in!”
In? Without knowing where I stood and if he was the last man I’d ever invite? Unsure if it was a sincere yes, I put forward a list of out clauses: “It’s not in New York. Not a taxi ride away. It’s in New Hampshire. It’ll take four, five hours to get there. You haven’t even asked when—”
“When is it?”
“March nineteenth, a Saturday.”
“I’ll make it work. In Pickering, I hope.”
“No, in Exeter. At an inn.” It took me a few moments and several sips of alcohol for his question to register. “Why would you be hoping for Pickering?”
“To see it. To get a feel for it.”
“Except there’s nothing there.”
“Except the house where you grew up and Pickering High School. And there must be a main street and a diner, or a town common, maybe even with a bandstand. How far is Pickering from Exeter? Could we kill two birds with one stone and take a side trip there?”
What was this about? I confessed that I had intended to invite him as my plus-one before he beat me to it . . . which confused me . . . which would confuse any ex or relationship counselor.
“Because . . . ?” he asked.
“Because men avoid the woman they had sex with once it’s over. And they certainly don’t go to weddings with them!”
“And you think I’m like most men?”
“No, unfortunately you’re not.”
“Where does the ‘unfortunately’ come in?”
“I just told you: You’re still around and very buddy-buddy. Whistling to announce you’re home. Still trying to help. It makes no sense.”
“You mean not an asshole? That’s the problem?”
I was back in debate club again, having drawn the side of an argument I couldn’t support. He was looking pensive and overly analytical when he said, “I think I know why I sound like such a sensitive man, always saying supportive things.”
I prepared myself for a heartfelt answer that would explain his mixed messaging.
“It’s occupational,” he announced.
I said I didn’t get that. Occupational how?
“I meant I’m exceptionally nice because women write all of my lines!” His laugh was the audible equivalent of a knee slap. Lines? Scripts! Ha! Good one!
“Clearly we can’t have a serious discussion. You have to joke around and hide behind Timmy while I’m worrying that you want to pick up where Geneva left off with that lame documentary. Why else would you want to take a field trip to Pickering?”
“Believe me, there’s no documentary in the works, which, PS, was a shit idea. Did you forget we had a long conversation about what I might be writing for the stage?”
Oh, wait. He had told me—which I’d quickly forgotten since it had the ring of Playwriting 101 and the work of every third Starbucks customer with an open laptop. I said, “Of course I remember. But why do you want to go to Pickering? Why my old house and PHS?”
“It’s about scenery.”
“Pickering for scenery? Unh-unh. You’d want Franconia Notch or Mount Washington or the Kancamagus Highway.”
“Not that kind of scenery. I meant scenery as in set design. Photos to project on a screen or a white sheet.”
“You’re not calming my fears about this being The Maritch Story, As Told Through a Yearbook.”
“Nothing like that. When I have something I can show you, I will.”
“A play set in New Hampshire? Really?”
“Partly. I think I’ll call it . . . wait; I’ve got it: Our Town! Could that work on a New York stage?”
See what I mean: Men cannot have a serious discussion. I asked what he would’ve done if the Armstrong nuptials hadn’t come along at such a conveniently creative moment. “Jump on a bus and head north until you spotted the first bandstand on a town green?”
“Bus?” he repeated, his eyes wide. “Movie stars don’t take buses. We’ll rent a car. My treat.”
I told him I’d have to think it over.
“Which part?”
“Everything.”
Pretending there was a camera over my shoulder, he addressed it in documentary fashion: “Things are very black or white with Daphne Maritch. Because of our history
, she thinks we can’t take a field trip together. She questions my motives, both personal and professional. Could she just relax and stop analyzing every word I say?”
I turned around to speak to the imaginary camera. “I withdraw the question, whatever the hell it was. I accept his acceptance to the wedding. I’ll also pray that a project that requires a scouting trip to Pickering won’t make me sorry I ever met him.”
This time he answered me directly, setting his glass on the coffee table. “You know what’s progress? That you haven’t asked, ‘How’s the professor?’ six times. Or ‘How can you come to the wedding if it’s on a Saturday night?’ Or ‘Are you having sexual relations with that woman?’”
I was dying to ask exactly those questions. Instead, I said that there was one thing I hadn’t had a chance to discuss before he signed on for the wedding.
“Which is what?”
“The party’s going to be big. Lots of guests. Armstrong’s a public figure and it’s his first wedding.”
Jeremy asked if I’d forgotten how good he was with people, how at ease. And though he hated to brag, fans of the show were everywhere.
“Yes, yes, I know you’re an excellent mingler. It’s not that. I meant it must be a huge party because I got the last available room, generously provided by the senator. But don’t worry. It was a double, with two big beds, surely. And if not, these five-star inns always have cots for the platonic.”
34
The Day Job
Dad put me in touch with Sara, his relationship manager at New Leash on Life, who hired me despite my submitting fewer than the requested six letters of reference.
“Is this a joke?” I asked, upon meeting my first client, a huge slobbering English Mastiff.
“He’s a cream puff,” Sara said, caressing the big wrinkly forehead. “Right, boy? You two are going to fall in love. Don’t wear anything too good, though.”
His name was Elton John, nicknamed E. J., and his poops were the size of a hardcover book. We had bonded early—attributable to the mere sight of a human carrying a leash, the smell of fresh air clinging to her coat and treats in her pocket. His mom told me that by my third visit he’d planted himself at the front door a half hour before I was due. Was that not both brilliant and flattering, plus reassuring to an owner? I allowed a modest “My last job was as a Montessori teacher.”
When my trial period ended, Sara asked if I wanted to switch to another client. I said, “Not on your life,” despite the nightly ibuprofen I needed for muscles wrenched whenever a squirrel crossed our path.
My dad was, in his own words, pleased as punch.
“I told you,” he said.
“Yup. The famed unconditional love.”
“And the nicest possible company to work with. Did I tell you they sent me a Starbucks gift certificate at Christmas? You’ll get one, too.”
“Real benefits would be nice,” I said.
“You’ll get there.”
“Where?”
“I meant a figurative ‘there’—a job with health insurance and membership in something like a guild.”
I laughed. “Guild! Like I’ll become a mason or a candlemaker?”
He claimed not to know why he used that term, then conceded it might be Kathi’s membership in a musicians’ guild of some sort. She was eligible because she’d played in an orchestra pit for a whole week, subbing for the regular pianist who had bronchitis. “Isn’t that New York for you? Everyone is involved with something creative—whether it’s music or theater or television or publishing or art or designing skyscrapers.”
“Everyone except me,” I said.
Less than a week later, I received a birthday card, two and half months early, from my dad and Kathi. Folded inside was a brochure and acceptance letter announcing ten weeks of acting lessons starting almost immediately.
Acting lessons? Weren’t those for actors? I checked the envelope to see if I’d opened someone else’s mail. No, it was addressed to me in my dad’s handwriting. I reread the enclosed letter, still puzzled. Was the Drama Factory the lowest hanging fruit on the drama-school tree since I didn’t have to apply or audition? At the bottom of the card, Dad had written, “NB: The hours will not interfere with your day job.” And next to that, he’d penciled a paw print and a heart.
I called him, offered thanks that must have sounded anemic because his follow-up was “I did check whether I could get a refund if you hated the idea. But I thought it would be fun. And you’d be good at it. Jeremy thought so, too. In fact, it was his idea.”
“Wait. Jeremy? When? At my dinner party?”
“No, recently. I ran into him buying bagels.”
“And the topic of my June birthday came up?”
There was a silence I could read: How to negotiate with Daphne when she’s like this? “Not exactly. I got the idea after Jeremy told me you enjoyed going over lines with him.”
“But that was me hamming it up! What’s easier than playing a drunk stepmother in the privacy of your then-boyfriend’s boudoir? And how long a conversation did you have before it got around to my alleged acting ability?”
“Not long. He was on his way to work. I said, ‘Remind me what you do,’ and one thing led to another.”
“Does he know you signed me up?”
“I thought you might tell him. I guess not; I guess that would require a modicum of enthusiasm.”
Now I felt bad. “Let’s start over,” I said. “So this is me thanking you profusely for such an . . . original gift.”
“You’re welcome.”
Elton John was taking a noisy snooze under the customers-only bench provided by a barber shop I didn’t patronize. When I reached down to stroke his gigantic head, his rheumy eyes asked, How about if I turn over and you rub my belly?
“C’mon, you couch potato. Wanna go to school?” He loved walking by Sacred Heart of Jesus and PS 111 on West Fifty-second, or so I projected. I timed our visit to coincide with recess when his sheer immensity drew a delighted crowd behind the chain-link fence. I did some showing off: I’d throw whatever stick I’d harvested from Central Park, causing him to move not an inch or even turn his head to follow the stick’s trajectory. Instead, he took it for his cue to perform his only trick, offering me his paw, which I’d shake like I was cranking the handle of a pump. That earned us the cheers and mittened applause of our pint-size onlookers.
Acting potential? I doubted it. But who didn’t like an audience?
“I won’t keep you,” I told Kathi, who picked up after one ring. “Just calling with my thanks.”
“No hurry; no student until eleven. Thanking me for . . . ?”
“The gift certificate? Great present!” That was step one of my plan: express heartfelt gratitude, then work my way toward the who/what/where/why of such a present. Since hearing how Kathi saved my father from Geneva’s evil output, I’d been viewing her as the inside track. I said as casually as I could, “Dad told me he got the idea from Jeremy. You remember Jeremy—he was at my chicken dinner but left before we ate?”
“Of course. I liked him very much . . . I even entertained a secret thought that it was too bad you two can’t get together.”
Had Jeremy been the source of that “can’t”? I didn’t ask. I said, “Funny coincidence—Dad’s running into him.”
“Not really. It was at Pick-a-Bagel. Isn’t that a block or two from your building?”
“Yes, true—”
“You know your dad. He’ll strike up a conversation with anyone.”
“And I guess it was natural that the conversation would get around to me, either my birthday or my hidden acting talent?”
“Your dad thought the lessons would be fun. Not like the chocolate course where you had to buy supplies and do homework. And, most important, you might meet some new people.”
That wasn’t supposed to sting, but it did. Now I knew: The gift wasn’t the flattering career counseling I’d taken it for; it was to get me out of the house, make fr
iends, meet the similarly lonely and unmoored.
“You still there?” asked Kathi.
I said yes. I was on a walk with Elton John; sorry if I sounded distracted.
“I hope it’s okay to say this: You have your whole life ahead of you. You can dip your toes into so many different things. You might even come full circle, discover that your true north is teaching.”
E. J. was squatting and staring back at me with an apologetic look I recognized. I unrolled a plastic poop bag and a backup one. “Unlikely,” I said. “Did you know I was fired from my Montessori job?”
“Your dad told me.”
“For bullshit reasons!”
“I heard that, too.”
“But I’m fine. I might have a case—just need a little distance on that.” Thinking I’d sound motivated and mildly adventurous, I added, “Next weekend I’m getting out of the city, doing some exploring in New Hampshire. And even going to a wedding up there.”
“In Exeter? That one?”
Had I already mentioned that? Or had Jeremy told my dad about our upcoming weekend? I said yes, that one.
“I wondered if you’d be going.”
“Wondered when?”
“When I heard about it from your father.”
“And how did Dad hear?”
“From the invitation.”
“He got one?”
“In his email.”
I was still processing this exchange as being about an ill-considered invitation that my dad had sent straight into the trash until Kathi said, “Do you know what you’re wearing? The invitation said cocktail attire.”
“You’re going? Dad actually accepted?”
“He felt he should. The groom isn’t only a Pickering High grad, but he’s also now a state senator representing Pickering.”
I stumbled through a litany of questions: Did they really want to go, considering the complications? The podcast? The drama that could unfold after a few drinks?
“Your father feels it’s a way to right a wrong.”
“Which wrong?”
“The one he refers to as storming the State House.”
“And going to this party erases that? Retracts what the Concord Monitor wrote about the two of them going at it?”
Good Riddance Page 20