“This is so great,” I say, “I can’t believe that’s my name.” I try not to be disappointed. I know it’s unrealistic to think that I’d have my own office, but I can’t help being upset. I keep comparing my life to Bryan’s. He’s a doctor, he saves lives, and I am a fucking secretary. Of course he didn’t call me. Why should he? I’m a nothing.
“Relax a few minutes, then come into my office. And lock up your purse. Even though everyone’s friendly, this is New York.”
She walks into her office and picks up the phone. I take out the picture of my father and prop it up next to my computer. His smile embarrasses me, so I turn it over and put a coffee mug on top. I stroke the phone with my fingertip. Abby called this morning to wish me good luck. “Call me the minute you can,” she said. “I want to hear everything about everything.” I notice a headset hooked over the computer keypad. “Figures,” I mutter. I take a deep breath and put the headset on as a tear slides down my cheek.
I take out my phone book. After debating five long minutes whether to call Bryan, I put the book away. I can’t stop thinking about him. Why does this always happen? And why does it make me so upset? A few days ago, I was the one who could have cared less. Now I am the one crying. Strangely enough, the only person I feel like talking to is Chubby. Go figure.
I walk into Vicky’s office with a legal pad and sit down.
“Hi, Fran. Hold on a second.” Vicky finishes up a phone conversation and hangs up. “We have a meeting tomorrow at the Reggie’s in Parsippany. They want us to do a Labor Day promotion. They should have called in May, but here it is August and they expect me to work miracles.” She looks up. “Thank God you’re here. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t taken this job.” She smiles at me, but I don’t smile back. She’s gushing and her effusiveness makes me nervous.
“What would you have done?” I ask.
“Probably freelanced the job out. Why?”
I take a deep breath. “It just seems that this is too good to be true. Why would you hire someone with my track record? You saw my résumé.”
“I thought you had spunk. You also came highly recommended.”
“From who?”
“Paul DiMartino. We worked together ten years ago. In fact,” she says slowly, watching me, “he was my first husband.”
“Paulie? You were married to Paulie?”
Vicky nods. “We met at the Reggie’s in Weehauken. He was a bartender and I was a cocktail waitress. We had a child together. A little boy.” She pauses. “Tommy, our son, died when he was only a few months old. After a year, I went to business school. Then Paul and I started to fight and, eventually, our marriage fell apart. We’re friends now, though.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. It must have been so painful.”
“It was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I still love Paul and I suppose he loves me, but he’s married to Tina and we each have our own lives.”
“I don’t think things are going so well with her.” I don’t know if this is appropriate, but I want to say something to let her know how sorry I feel. I’m struck by how awful it is to have to comfort someone like this. Everything seems so trite.
Vicky tells me that Tina’s trying to get pregnant, but can’t. “He calls me sometimes to talk. Anyway, he knew I was looking for an assistant and recommended you. He adores you, despite your track record, or if I know Paul, because of it.”
“Why didn’t he say anything to me?”
“For several reasons. One was that he wanted you to feel as though you were doing it on your own.”
“So,” I say quietly, “everything you told me was bullshit.”
She shakes her head. “No, I said that was one of the reasons. Paul was going to tell you, but you weren’t working at Rascals when he first got the idea. When you didn’t return my calls, I made an offer to someone else. She turned it down and Paul suggested I call you again. He told me about Shelly and how difficult losing her was for you, something we both are painfully familiar with, and he decided to let things work out—or not—without getting involved. When I finally met you, I thought you were terrific. I was happy, you seemed happy, and the sequence of events that got us there didn’t make a difference.”
“But it does make a difference. I feel like you hired me because you felt sorry for me.”
“You’re not listening, Frannie. You did do this on your own. Paul just gave you a push. And the truth is, waitresses are rarely promoted into management. Paul wanted to keep it quiet for that reason as well. I told you during the interview that you made quite an impression. That was the truth, Frannie. You have to trust me on this.”
I did trust you, I want to say. This was so much easier when I thought she was just some beautiful woman I wanted to look like. “I never realized about Paulie,” I tell her. I want to haul my ass to a phone right now and tell him how great he is. For a long and sad moment, I wish I was back at Rascals.
“You didn’t know.” She pauses. “Frannie, you never know where people come from. Everyone has a story, and a lot of those stories are very painful.” Then she tells me that my desk is only temporary. “Regina is moving upstairs. I want you to move into her office. Then Sue will move to your desk so we can both be close to her. It might take a few months, but it’ll happen.”
“That’s great,” I say. “Thanks a lot. I’m just happy to be here.” I stare at the floor, feeling very naive. I keep having to relearn everything, and it seems like I’ll never catch up.
I wonder if this is what Shelly was feeling in St. Mary’s or back at Cornell, or even before that, in junior high. There are so many choices, but each choice has an overwhelming number of implications. It occurs to me as I force myself to forget about Paulie and his dead little boy and pay attention to a job that I can’t afford to lose, that Shelly must have been scared as hell of growing up.
“Okay, what about this?” My father walks into my room wearing a camel’s hair jacket, a forest-green shirt, and a red tie.
“It’s ninety-five degrees out, Daddy. You can’t wear that jacket. And lose the tie.”
He comes back a few minutes later wearing a green linen blazer and a pale green tie.
“You look like the Jolly Green Giant, Dad. What is with you?”
“I don’t know what to wear, goddammit, and Eleanor’s going to be here in fifteen minutes.” He looks tired and frustrated. “I just want tonight to be special. I made drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Then we’re going to the Rainbow Room and back to her place, and—”
“Whoa, big guy,” I cut him off. “Keep the festivities to yourself. Come on, we’ll find you an outfit.” I search through his closet until I find a tailored navy blazer, a white shirt, and an old rep tie. I hand them to him, but he shakes his head.
“I’m not wearing that shirt or that tie. I want something with pizzazz.” When he takes out a yellow tie with pink flamingos to go with his green shirt, I excuse myself to get dressed.
I’m having drinks with my father and Eleanor, then I’m going to the home to eat dinner with my grandfather. Abby and Randy are in Bermuda so they’re not around to hang out with, but I’m exhausted from my first week at work and looking forward to something sedate. It’s nice to be exhausted at five after being somewhere other than my bed.
In the bathroom downstairs, I’m suddenly stricken with nausea. I can’t believe my father is going on a date. I crouch on the bathroom floor and lean over the toilet. My father walks in on me. “What the hell are you doing?” he accuses me. He sounds frightened. “Are you sick?” I shake my head and look into his eyes, which are wild with panic. “Are you making yourself throw up? Is that what you’re doing? Frannie! Tell me the truth!”
“No, Daddy,” I say softly. “I wouldn’t do that. I promise.”
“You’ve gotten so skinny, and you don’t ever eat. I will not … I can’t …” He looks away.
“Daddy, I promise. Don’t think those things.” His sudden concer
n touches me, and I put my hand on his arm, but he walks away. He takes a deep breath. “Frannie, I don’t think I could survive if something happened to you.”
My throat closes. “I’m fine, Daddy, I swear.” I pat his shoulder and he sighs.
He looks at himself in the mirror. “I hate this tie. I look ridiculous.” The doorbell rings. “Oh God. It’s her.”
“Get a hold of yourself, Daddy. You look very handsome tonight.” I turn to open the door and mutter, “Let the games begin.”
Expecting a young hot mama in thigh-high cutoffs, teething on hay, I’m surprised to see a short, stout woman wearing a yellow linen duster, a silk pantsuit, and sensible shoes standing in the doorway. She has a face like a fox and bright blue eyes that peer into the house. She smells like mothballs, which startles me. Eleanor looks old enough to be my father’s mother or at least a great aunt. “You must be Frannie.” She holds out her hands. “My gosh, you’re pretty. I’m Eleanor. I’ve heard so much about you.” I take her hand and usher her inside.
We sit in the den and pick at the oyster dip and the shrimp puffs my father whipped up this morning. I shove a glob of oyster dip into my mouth. I immediately gag from the fishy taste, spit out the cracker, and stuff a napkin in my mouth to make the oyster wang go away. Instead of relief, I am suffocated by wet paper.
Eleanor tells me she saw the picture of my father in the Christian Times and couldn’t pass it up. “Did you see the picture?” she asks. I nod and gulp my wine.
“I never pictured him as much of a cowboy,” I tell her, “but what do I know?” I try to relax. The taste of salty fish lingers in my mouth like the smell of dirty feet.
Eleanor smiles at my father. “I just thought it was the cutest thing, the way that hat just sat on his head. I just had to write him a letter. The next thing you know, we’re having coffee.” She leans forward. “I must tell you, Frannie. Your father is nothing like my husband, Walter, may he rest in peace. He’d never make jokes about himself.”
I look at my father, who has cupped his hand over Eleanor’s, and is leaning back with relish, listening to her talk about him. “How long were you and your husband married?” I ask. I have so many questions: her real age, for example; how her vital signs are holding up, but I hold back. I remember my mother asking Dylan McGuire why he wasn’t going to college. She must have wanted to ask him so much more. I’m suddenly sad for my mother; sad that this is happening while she’s in Tempe, that it has to happen at all.
“Walter and I were married for thirty-nine years. He had a myocardial infarction.”
“A heart attack,” my father interprets.
“That’s right,” Eleanor squeezes his hand. I study her lips. They’re thin and her lipstick is smeared in the corner. I wonder if they kiss on the mouth. Stop it, Frannie, I tell myself. I hear my father chuckle as they study the Glamour Shots. I try to remember a time when he and my mother looked at pictures together and laughed, but can’t.
“I better be going.” I shake Eleanor’s hand and tell her how nice it was to meet her.
“It was wonderful meeting you,” she bubbles. “You are just darling.” Slow down, Bessie, I want to say. This isn’t the fucking Miss America Pageant.
“Be careful driving,” my father says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I remember he has big plans for the evening. The sudden image of him lying in Eleanor’s bed, sunlight streaming through the curtains as they cuddle, rocks me with a burst of rage.
My father walks me to the door. “I just want you to know …” he starts.
“I know, I know. This is only a date, you’re not getting remarried, and you will always love Mommy. I know, Dad. You don’t have to tell me.”
He smiles. “Actually, Frannie. I was going to tell you that I think you’re terrific.”
When I walk into my grandfather’s room, Charlie is sitting on Freddie’s bed. “Hi, Madonna,” he says and I ignore him.
“Vell,” Freddie says. “You’re here. Good. Now ve can eat.”
I look at Charlie. “We’re all having dinner? Together?”
Freddie hits me. “Of course ve’re having dinner together. Vhat is wrong vit you?”
As we walk down the corridor, I hold on to my grandfather. His eyes are very watery, and the right one, the one with the cataract, stares off, glazed and idle, in the wrong direction. I wonder what he sees, if it’s dark like being without lights or murky like being under water. One night, I tied a scarf around my eyes and tried to walk through my room. I couldn’t go two steps without stubbing my toe. Ever since that night, I’m careful with my grandfather, making sure I call things out so he’ll know what’s ahead. It’s not much, but it makes me feel better.
“Give Max to me.” Freddie pushes me forward. “Charlie, you are Frannie’s escort. Vhere are your manners? You vere raised by volves? It’s no vonder you’re all alone.”
“I guess I’m your date, Chuck,” I say to Charlie.
“Looks that way.” He studies me, picking at his lip with his forefinger and thumb. His expression is hidden behind his hand. “Can I buy you a drink? A straight shot of tequila or how about Sex on the Beach? A Screaming Orgasm?”
I look into his eyes. “How about a Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall?” He raises his eyebrows and takes my arm. “What’s the matter, Chuck? Cat got your tongue?”
He doesn’t answer. Slowly, we walk arm-in-arm toward the dining room. Behind us, I hear Freddie’s loud stage whisper, “Max, look at zat. Zey like vone another!”
Charlie holds my elbow. I glance at him just as he checks to see that the boys are okay behind us. Under his breath, I hear his faint humming and despite myself, I smile. He is serenading me with a slow rendition of “Like a Virgin.”
“Ve need a toast,” Freddie says, holding up a glass of wine. “To Frannie and Charlie.”
“A toast,” my grandfather echoes. “More wine for me, please.” He holds out his glass for more wine.
“Grandpa,” I say softly. “Take it easy.”
“I take it easy all year. For one night, let me not take it so easy.”
“So how is business?” Freddie asks Charlie. “Not so good, huh?”
“Business is great, Grandpa,” Charlie tells him, stretching.
“So vhy should you vork so hard? Vhen business is good, you should be out vit girls.” He glances at me. I turn my head slightly as if I’m not listening. “Vhat’s wrong vit you you’re not married? Here’s a beautiful single girl.”
“So you’re a lawyer?” I ask loudly.
“Sat’s right,” Freddie says proudly, smacking Charlie’s shoulder. “Vent to Princeton. Top of his class.”
“What do you do?” Charlie asks me, red-faced.
“She’s a waitress,” my grandfather says, just as proudly. “At Hooligans.” He licks his lips, which are purple from the wine.
“Grandpa,” I tell him softly, “I got a job, remember?” I look at Charlie. “I’m in promotions for a restaurant corporation.”
There’s a lull as we eat. I can feel Charlie watching me, but I don’t look at him. I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room. As I get up, Freddie asks Charlie vhen he’s goink to ask me on a date. I rush away.
I look at myself in the mirror and groan. My hair is all ratty. I can’t even believe I care. I mean Charlie’s nice I guess, but Jesus, he’s, I don’t know, he’s just whatever. An elderly woman comes out of the stalls. She peers up at me. “The chicken is dry,” she screeches. “I can’t eat this garbage.”
“Maybe they can give you cottage cheese.”
“For what I pay I’ll choke it down. You’re Max’s girl, right? That your boyfriend at the table?”
“No, that’s Freddie’s grandson.”
“Is he married?” I shake my head and inch toward the door, trying to escape. “So what’s wrong with him?” She lowers her voice. “He’s a faygeleh?”
“I don’t think so. I just met him, though, so I don’t know for sure.”
Sh
e puts her hand on her hip. “And you’re hiding in here like a scared little rabbit? He’s a handsome boy and he’s Jewish, and from what Max says, you’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m only twenty-seven,” I say meekly.
“Go out there,” the old woman says. “It’s not every day you’re in a place like this, having supper with a nice Jewish boy.” She nudges me. “Go!”
Location, my father said. I look around at the cracked linoleum floor, the steel bars along the walls, the wheelchairs lined up at the entrance to the dining room, and the smell of old age that covers everything like a blanket. Location, location, location.
I walk back to the table. Charlie hovers over our grandfathers, pouring them coffee. He is completely unselfconscious, as if he genuinely likes to do this. He leans forward to talk to Freddie, tilts his head back, and laughs. He suddenly looks so handsome, I can’t catch my breath.
My grandfather is still drinking wine. “Grandpa,” I say. “Maybe you’ve had enough.” Drowsy, he mutters, and lets his eyes close. Quickly, as if he’s startled, they flutter open. “How about a nap?” I ask him softly.
“Come on, Maxwell, my man.” Charlie gets up from his seat. “Let me help you home.”
I move toward my grandfather. “I’ve got him,” I tell Charlie.
“No, it’s okay. You sit with Grandpa Fred. Let him grill you for a while about your marriage plans.”
“Call me a cab,” my grandfather whines, holding his head.
“You’re a cab,” Freddie says. “Und you’re a gut-for-nottin drunk cab, you old man. Now get to bed.” When we’re alone, he turns to me. “So, vhat do you tink?”
“I thought it was good. The chicken was a little dry, but I’d come back.”
He isn’t amused. “Sat’s not vhat I mean. Vhy do you play games? I’m an old man.”
I shrug. “Okay. Charlie’s very nice. I like him. Why? Did he say something?” Freddie shrugs, but he smiles coyly. “What, Freddie? What did he say?”
“Max is fine,” Charlie says, returning to the table. “He’s out like a light.”
Hunger Point Page 31