by Kate Jacobs
“We need some new furniture,” he said.
“I don’t want to pick out anything else,” said Darwin. She didn’t want to make things potentially worse by buying items for the babies. She had stopped fantasizing about that extravagant crib except for five minutes every night, when she allowed herself a limited selection of upbeat thoughts. Just enough to keep a flicker of hope, not enough to tempt the Fates.
“No,” said Dan. “For us. We could use a new bed. A dresser. And what about that living room?”
“I can’t go shopping,” said Darwin.
“Sure you can,” said Dan. “You’ve got your computer and your credit card. All we need to do is schedule deliveries when I’m here, and we’re set.”
“It’s not really in our budget,” she reminded him. Not that he needed her to point out the stack of bills on the messy desk, the looming potential medical bills whether things went right or wrong.
“Who cares?” Dan was typically meticulous when it came to staying within their means. His ability to save had helped them squirrel away the down payment on the apartment even as they attempted to pay off their ambitions. It seemed like such a no-brainer, for two smart kids, becoming a doctor and a professor. So good on paper. But when they got more paper—in the form of school loan bills—the cachet of their brainy, white-collar careers faded somewhat.
But what Darwin needed now, Dan thought, was a diversion. From the health of the babies and the lack of attention from Lucie. He’d have called in the entire Friday Night crew but he fretted about introducing too much hubbub. Not to mention that he’d have to clean up to save Darwin from the embarrassment of the dirty-socks-on-the-floor lifestyle they led, and he had no time to clean because he was on call for the entire weekend.
He wished, really, that he had someone else to come in and entertain his wife. But a visit from her mother was not a recipe for relaxation, and his own mother and Darwin had never gotten along.
Truth be told, Dan had been counting on Lucie very much. He hadn’t spent quite as much time with Ginger as Darwin had, but he’d done his time in Candyland. And he would have appreciated a little backup when it counted.
“Order as much stuff as you want,” he said, trying to jolly Darwin out of her funk. He wanted to help her find ways to entertain herself and, most of all, to feel useful. She’d never done very well as a couch potato. There was nothing on TV that she ever wanted to watch, she said, explaining that most shows covered the same narrow, antifeminist territory over and over. Egalitarian, functional families do not make compelling entertainment.
“Well,” said Darwin now, thinking of what else she could do and not coming up with much of anything, either, “I might just take a quick peek at craigslist.”
In the end, it was Dakota who saved her from insanity.
“You’re massive!” she’d said upon coming into the bedroom, having arrived for an unscheduled visit.
“What?” said Darwin, raising herself up on her elbows and motioning toward her. “Bring me the hand mirror that’s in the bathroom.” She peered into it as Dakota also looked. “I am not.”
“You’re just looking at your face,” said Dakota. “Your ankles are like sausages.”
“I can’t see that far,” admitted Darwin. “I assume you brought snacks?”
“Without question,” said Dakota, reaching into her overstuffed yellow backpack and pulling out some banana loaf. “I used the kitchen at my dad’s.”
“That’s it?” Darwin had already broken off a hunk and popped it into her mouth. “Two bites and I’ll be full, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Ooh, that’s dramatic,” said Dakota, pulling out a binder. “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to help me with my paper on the world wars and their effect on women.”
“You came over here to ask me to help you with your schoolwork?” Darwin raised her voice.
“Yup,” said Dakota, who often turned to Darwin when it came to matters of education and feminism.
“That’s my girl,” said Darwin, raising her arm for a high five. “Where have you been, lady? I’ve been sitting on my ass for weeks here!”
“So then I guess things are finally looking up,” said Dakota, leaning in to smack palms with her favorite professor. “There are times when things go right, you know. And just to prove it, I’m going to teach you how to knit baby socks.”
easy
It’s all about getting the hang of things. Easy does it; take it easy. You’ll figure everything out in time. But for right now, just keep trying. Pay attention and avoid the temptation to go further than you’re ready. Talk less. And listen more.
nine
Keep an eye on the mail.
That was the one and only rule Anita had ever given Catherine about staying in the San Remo apartment.
“I always do,” Catherine had joked, then caught Anita’s sharp look. She’d never tolerated Catherine’s man-eater humor.
“Do not throw anything out,” Anita had said. She wasn’t concerned with what Catherine did with her own letters and circulars, of course. She simply explained that she wanted Catherine to put aside every item that arrived addressed to any Lowenstein: Stan, Anita, Nathan, Benjamin, David. No matter that none of them lived in the apartment anymore, that the boys were really middle-aged men who lived with families of their own in Atlanta, Zurich, and Tel Aviv.
Anita had kindly provided Catherine with a wicker picnic basket (not a stitch of gingham in sight) in which to store the envelopes. She placed the basket in the kitchen, off to the side on a long stretch of counter. The kitchen, like every room in the apartment that Anita and Stan had shared, was spacious and perfectly coordinated in every last detail, from the rich polish on the wide-plank wood floors to the deep espresso glaze on the oversized cabinets.
“It seems a bit light this month,” said Anita, peering into the basket and then lifting it up. Coming back to the San Remo was like channeling a past life. A dream she’d had in which she could remember some of the details so clearly while others were hazy and seemed to vanish as she grasped for them in her memory. This spoon: we used it to stir gravy. That cup: it was once my favorite for mint tea.
Anita came over to the apartment every so often, sometimes with Marty and sometimes alone. Catherine would order too much food from the Italian restaurant around the corner and decant a good bottle of wine that she would bring down from The Phoenix.
“It’s from Cara Mia, my new favorite Italian vineyard,” said Catherine now, pouring out a glass. “In Velletri, not far from Rome. The son who handles the exports has this deep, sexy voice—I call sometimes just to ask how the grapes are growing.”
She was quite excited to have Anita over to the house, had been keeping a low profile since Darwin’s shower several weeks earlier. She’d been seriously working on that crime thriller she’d casually mentioned to James, for one thing—Dead Men Don’t ReMarry. But mostly she just felt in a funk.
“I’m one of the few U.S. shops that is importing from them,” continued Catherine. “It’s a family-run outfit, and the younger generation is branching off to try some new grape varietals—”
Anita interrupted her rambling.
“You’re skimming the mail,” she said with finality. Anita’s tone was even but her pursed lips betrayed her annoyance. “You’re taking my mail and just throwing it away. Dumping it out without a word. And after I expressly asked you never to do so.”
It was true and Catherine felt a rush of guilt. For years, she had dutifully collected every preapproved credit offer and each invitation to refinance the mortgage and cash out the equity, had stacked the cruise brochures atop the ValuPak coupons that arrived weekly. (Really? she’d wondered. Coupons to the San Remo? But direct marketers, it would seem, did not spend a lot of time weeding out their lists. This was why Catherine received her very own set of coupon books to the very same address.)
Rarely, a personal letter might arrive. Or a postcard. Anita had been living with Marty for
such a long time that most everyone in her life knew where to contact her. Most likely, the personal items were simply addressed to the San Remo out of long habit or by a friend whose memory wasn’t quite what it used to be. She’d always made sure to set those aside.
Lately, though, Catherine had decided to be a little bit more helpful—she was very pleased with her initiative—and had taken it upon herself to recycle the ubiquitous department store catalogs that seemed to reproduce overnight in the mailbox. Apparently every store was in a constant state of Sale Sale Sale!
“Just the junk, Anita,” she said now. Slowly. “I’m sure you get the same things at home, anyway.”
“That’s simply not acceptable, Catherine,” said Anita, her words clipped. “I do not ask much from you in this regard. I don’t care if something seems like a piece of junk, I want it collected and handed over.” She did not look up from the basket. But Catherine could feel the frown on Anita’s face and she didn’t like it at all.
“Sorry.”
“Did you shake everything out?” asked Anita, still peeved but pretending to be calm to get the maximum information. That old mother’s trick. “Make sure there was nothing stuck to any of those items you threw away?”
“Uh . . . no,” admitted Catherine. “Were you expecting something?”
“That’s not the point, whether I was or not,” said Anita sharply. “That’s really none of your business, Catherine. Sometimes you are quite presumptuous, you know that?”
Immediately, watching Catherine’s shoulders instinctively pull in closer, Anita regretted her harsh tone. It’s only a postcard, she told herself silently. Without a word she gave Catherine a hug, followed by a little pat on the cheek.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “Let’s have that glass of wine and get the takeout menu. I’m going to have gnocchi again, I think.”
Catherine forced a smile in return. She always felt that little bit uncertain, even after all these years of living in Anita’s apartment, that she was just leftovers. Dakota was the real deal, without question, a genuine piece of Georgia. But she was a remnant from that last summer with Georgia, someone Anita kept around out of pity, even as Catherine felt a strong need to forever be in the older woman’s graces. There is no moment we do not want a mother’s love.
“No, I’m sorry, Anita,” she said. “I overstepped, and I’m apologizing.”
Anita waved her off, already seeming to move on, marching into the living room. Typically she enjoyed a good look around the apartment, not so much to check on Catherine’s wear and tear on the place as to regale a little story about each piece of furniture. Anita had taken a few antiques, all her photo albums, several paintings, and her wardrobe when she and Marty bought their new apartment. Apart from that, the two had bought pieces together and furnished their home from scratch, leaving Catherine with a beautifully furnished home completely not to her taste. But Catherine had preferred it that way, had enjoyed the sense that she was on a hiatus, vacationing somewhere and not quite ready to make permanent choices. It added to the sense that time—life, even—was on hold. And until recently, she’d found little very comfortable.
“So,” said Anita, sitting down on the sofa she’d picked out with Stan in 1980 and re-covered in rich brocade in 1995. She patted the space beside her. “I have some news to share with you . . .”
Just like any couple, Anita and Marty had made their compromises. They had to figure out which side of the bed to sleep on, and who would do the dishes, and whether or not it was important to their coupleness to follow the same programs. Not to mention their divergence in hobbies: she liked opera, he liked to go to baseball games. Or, more precisely, Yankee games. She liked to knit; he liked to watch the Yankees on television. She liked to walk in the park; he liked to listen to games on his iPod.
“What do I care?” Anita told Dakota long ago. “He’s a good, sweet man and I’m glad he has an interest. Keeps the mind active.”
And even though Marty had never tried to cast on, Anita accompanied him to watch his team, the players standing around the bases and waiting for someone to pop a fly or whatnot. “He’s tall,” she might say. Or “If they had a co-ed team, I don’t think there’d be as much spitting going on.” Typically she settled into a torrid romance novel, the type she would buy at the drugstore, and only look up when the crowd grew animated. Without fail, she made sure to tell Marty she thought it was a lack of good judgment that Yankee Stadium had a problem with knitting needles.
“Other teams let knitters click-clack away,” she’d say. “They even invite them to bring their friends. Someone should write a letter to Mr. Steinbrenner and tell him so.” And Marty would solemnly agree, all the while keeping track of the score in his program and carefully filing away the sheet in his Yankee-blue filing cabinet at the deli, with his other important papers.
Now Marty continued to work and went into the deli most days, making perfect sandwiches piled high with pastrami and spicy mustard. It was what he’d done his entire life, taking over the deli business from his father and sharing it with his brother, then buying his brother’s share and looking after the whole thing himself. And along the way, he had quietly and meticulously invested in real estate on the Upper West Side, first with the building that housed his first-floor deli and the second-floor Walker and Daughter, then with brownstones and other commercial and residential properties. Indeed, Marty Popper was one of those quiet millionaires who could afford pretty much anything they wanted and yet chose to live simply.
“Who would pour the coffee?” he always said when asked if, at seventy-three, he was getting ready to retire. Though, when pressed, he would admit a certain longing for a tricked-out RV, Anita knitting intently as she rode shotgun and watched the trees go by out the window.
An interest in travel was something they shared. Once he and Anita settled in together, he’d made sure to find a right-hand man to look after things and pick up some of the menial tasks that Marty felt he’d done quite long enough, someone to watch over the deli when he and Anita took the train around the country on yet another second honeymoon.
“We can’t have a second honeymoon,” Anita would tease him at night when he clambered in beside her. “We haven’t had a first.”
They were life partners, it was true, but they were not husband and wife.
Marty had never been married and had no children: the very fact that he was a child-free orphan lent a certain ease to their getting together. Anita, on the other hand, brought more than enough troublesome family members for one relationship. She’d caught her children unawares, truth be told, startled them with the idea that she needed companionship and perhaps, not that they dared think too deeply about it, a sex life. It’s not that they wanted her dead. Not in the least. They would have just preferred that she act dead . . . in certain ways. That was the thing. Weren’t old ladies supposed to just focus on their knitting and their mah-jongg?
Marty and Anita’s solution was to chart a neutral course with the children. To always stay in hotels when they went to visit Nathan and his family in Atlanta, for example, so as to avoid the discussion of who was sleeping with whom and in what bedroom. (“It’s for the children, Mother,” he insisted, though it was so hard to get her grandkids’ attention anyway that Anita doubted they would even notice.)
Anita never felt she saw as much of her grandkids as she wished. At one time, that had been because the kids were young and busy with activities and Anita, afraid to fly, hadn’t found it easy to make the trips. But then the grandkids grew older and, lo and behold, they became not less busy but even more so. Even when she was a guest in their parents’ home, it truly was a challenge to sit down and chat with her grandchildren, who were always rushing through dinner and running off to games and dance practice and volunteer gigs that would look altruistic on their college applications. She supposed she ran the same sort of household when her boys were young and her hair was brown instead of silver, but now it struck her that the daily
lives of children were overscheduled and overextended.
“All that fun is going to stress them right out,” she told Nathan, who ignored her, as usual.
Still. She hadn’t let her sons’ reluctance dissuade her from moving in with Marty. They’d discussed marriage many times and Anita had always been clear that she thought it unnecessary and potentially quite complicated. Besides, those types of restraints were for folks under sixty, she told herself, people who lacked the common sense to appreciate the rarity of finding a true companion.
So it was with great surprise, then, that as she stood up at the seventh-inning stretch to let Marty and all the other fans sing away, she noticed Marty wasn’t joining in with his usual gusto. Instead, he was sweating.
“Are you ill?” she asked him.
“Nervous,” he said, taking her hand as the last strains of “. . . the old ball game” were being shouted out by people all around them.
“Anita, will you marry me?” asked Marty, fumbling around in his pocket before pulling out a velvet box and opening it to reveal a whopper of a diamond and ruby ring. She blushed as she could feel the eyes of the strangers all around them watching her. But all she wanted to do was giggle. Throw her head back and laugh. At the absurd setting, at this crazy, caring man who thought it the height of connection to share his love of the slowest game ever played with her. And she loved him for it.
Proposing marriage at Yankee Stadium was not something Stan would ever have done. And really, in a way, that was part of the point. Part of Marty’s allure. Women don’t just like one kind of meal and they don’t just like one kind of man.
And that’s when she decided. Yes, she was going to marry Marty. And she was going to tell Catherine that she was ready to sell the San Remo apartment.