"How is it that you somehow managed not to know the right answer?" he says. "How did you miss that? What is the matter with you?"
"I gave the only right answer I know."
"Well, think up another right answer, because this one isn't going to fly. And let me give you a little hint about the answer, a peek at the back of the book, as it were: it should end up saying 'marry the guy.' "
"She shouldn't marry him! Did you read her letter? Did you see how trapped she feels?"
"I did. I understand. But to paraphrase somebody intelligent, the rich aren't like you and me. When we feel trapped, we have no choice but to break off engagements. They can go and buy a third world island for themselves and forget about it."
"Casey, that's horrible."
"It's true, though. This wedding has to go through."
"Why?"
"Because Lance told me it did, that's why." He laughs his hyena-style laugh.
Even Simon looks alarmed. He says, "Mommy, let's go."
"Well," I say. For good measure, I slam my desk drawer. "I can't do it. Write it yourself. But be sure to sign your own name to it."
"No. You have to do it. Look, why am I always having so much trouble with you over stuff like this? Just write the answer that everybody wants you to. Why is that such a big deal? The man is a very nice man. He'll make her happy." His voice softens. I see that he's pleading, as if he's a little boy who wants a Nintendo and I'm the mom with the checkbook. "She just has the jitters, and there is no right or wrong answer here. Just write the answer that'll make your publisher happy. It's simply not a moral dilemma. Just say, 'Yes, you're being a baby. Suck it up. Everybody freaks out about their wedding. You'll have good days and bad days. Marry him.' Make it flowery, like you really give a shit. Boom. Outta there."
Simon says, "Mommy, I'm bored. Can we go?"
"Play with your dinosaurs for a few minutes longer, honey," I tell him. "Casey, I can't do it."
"I have to go pee," Simon says.
"I'll take you in a minute. Please go play for a few more seconds. Casey, I don't know what to say. What you're asking of me is immoral."
"There's nothing immoral about this. Look at it this way: Her family loves her. They adore this girl. And they wouldn't want her to marry him if it was the wrong thing. They know this is right for her. Just trust them and do it," he says.
"I can't."
"Trust me, you can," he says. "I want this column in my office in fifteen minutes, or Lance is coming in here to explain to you why we're not running the 'Eeek!' column anymore. Simon, you come with me. Kendall's downstairs and she wants to play tic-tac-toe with you."
"No!" I say.
Casey looks at me.
"Simon's staying here with me," I tell him.
"Fifteen minutes, and I'm not joking," he says. He goes out and closes the door behind him.
So I sit down and write a sniveling little letter. Let's face it: Evangeline Hamilton is no doubt going to marry Ellsworth Penn III, no matter what I say. By the time she's this far along, she's not going to be able to get out of it because some advice columnist says she should.
"Everybody feels this way," I write. "You'll have good days and bad days. Remember that your love for your fiancé has gotten you this far. Think of the life ahead of you with hope and pleasure. Think of ways that you can express your soul in your life whether married or single. You'll be fine. Remember to breathe, and throw your bouquet high."
CHERIE'S SALON is like an oasis. She fixes glasses of iced tea for herself and for me, and brings out action figures and plastic dinosaurs from the back room for Simon to play with, and then she massages the conditioners into my scalp. She tells me that her parents have practically decided she's a lunatic because she wants Skip's name on the invitation. "But," she says, "I just kept thinking of what you said, and I've stuck to my guns. I'm not marrying a guy named Deuteronomy. I'm marrying a guy named Skip."
Did I say that? I tell her that weddings this summer have meant nothing but trouble. There must be some astrological convergence going on that's making them impossible for families to work through. And then I explain the deal with Evangeline and her family. Cherie grows silent when I tell her that my boss made me change my answer.
"I kind of had to," I say, closing my eyes and feeling her hands working the conditioner through my hair and scalp. "It's just the way the boss wanted it, and I can't stay there and fight all day."
She massages the conditioner a little harder into my hair.
We're quiet. Bonnie Raitt is singing about a woman who's been in love too long. After a while, Cherie sighs and says, "Sometimes people just need someone to give them the courage to do what they know they ought to."
I don't know if she's talking about Evangeline or about me. I close my eyes, try to concentrate on the fact that my straw hair is going to turn to corn silk, and that my life is going to calm down, and that Evangeline Hamilton will thrive no matter if she's married or not, with or without my help.
"Like with me," Cherie continues. "I mean, I already knew what to do, but you just gave me the focus. You pointed out that it was my wedding. I had courage, but I'd fought so long that I'd forgotten that I had any. You know?"
"But that was an easy one," I murmur. "You and I were sitting right here together. I could see you and know who you really are. With this other letter... well, my boss said... " I laugh a little, to show that I wish it didn't have to be this way, but it is. Bosses, you know.
"Well," she says at last. "I don't have a boss, so I shouldn't talk. You did what you had to do. I don't mean to sound superior or anything. I probably would have done the same thing. You have to keep your job, after all."
We're quiet again. Norah Jones sings about walking the long way home. Simon is on the floor at my feet, bouncing his dinosaurs along. One of the T. rexes says to a stegosaurus, "I am the boss, and I will tell you what to say!"
Cherie leans down and says close to my ear, "I shouldn't tell you this, but I think you've cast a spell or something on my brother. He was over here last night, and when he saw your name in my appointment book, he said he was going to try to drop by to see you. And watch: he'll make it look like a coincidence, of course."
"Really?" I say.
"And I think—well, he should tell you this next part himself, but I can't ever keep my mouth closed, and you know how men are. They can go forever without telling you the main thing you need to know. But his wife, I believe, has filed the papers."
"Filed the papers?"
"The divorce papers."
"Oh."
"Don't let him know that you know."
"Oh, don't worry," I say.
She puts me under the hair dryer, where I have time to bake in my guilt over the letter to Evangeline Hamilton. Actually, I go back and forth. Yes, my answer might save her. No, it really doesn't matter so why should I get myself in trouble at work? I fidget around under the dryer; this thing is so hot. Why am I an advice columnist if I'm too scared to say what I really think? I don't deserve this job. I have to go back and change my answer! I should do it this minute, in fact, before the conditioner gets done! No, no, no...
You see how it goes with me. I twitch around in the chair, restless. I need to pace, but you can't pace with a hair dryer. Simon climbs onto my lap and, finding it inhospitably fidgety, climbs off again.
It's three o'clock. After this interminable conditioning process is over, I'll go back to the paper and tell Casey we have to change the answer. Simon will be nuts, and Casey will go crazy, but that's the way it has to be. My reputation. . .
No. No. No. Who cares about this? I'll just stick with the answer that Casey made me write...
And then I look up and Alex is there, smiling at me, activating dimples.
"Wow," he says. "Fancy meeting you here. I just dropped by to see if my sister wanted to go out to dinner with me later."
"Alex!" I say, and push the big bulb of the hair dryer off my head. Instantly I feel cooler. "I've don
e such a terrible thing!"
***
So that’s how it happens that at eight-thirty that night—after Alex and Cherie and Simon and I have gone out to dinner, after we've played Frisbee on the Green with Simon, after we've walked endlessly around New Haven, talking and debating, and after we've dropped Cherie off at Skip's apartment near the beach in West Haven—Alex and I drive aimlessly through the city. Simon, who chased seagulls on the beach until he was exhausted, falls asleep in the backseat. Tomorrow is his first day of kindergarten, so it's good he's gone to sleep, even if it is in the car instead of in his own bed. In my gloomy mood, I see this as his last real day of freedom from society's expectations. He's going to need all the rest he can get.
Alex is saying, "People listen to you because you're honest. That's what you offer. Otherwise, you might as well just be Ann Landers reruns."
Then he says, "Casey is an idiot if he doesn't appreciate that kind of integrity. But then—well, we've seen that he is, in fact, an idiot. Restricting you to short answers, not letting you answer the kinds of questions you want... I don't know. For me, the answer would be clear. I think you know what you have to do."
"You're right, of course," I say. I stop at a red light, and he reaches over and takes my hand, curls his fingers in mine. "I think my original answer is still in the computer. I'll just go there and put that one in."
I look out the window. Two teenagers dressed in Goth are smoking cigarettes on the corner. An older couple, both gray-haired and wearing khaki shorts, are swinging a bookstore bag between them, and a young woman dressed up in a sparkly blue evening dress is hurrying somewhere with her head down. Evening in the city. Stores are just closing. The air is so heavy and humid, it feels like the inside of a dog's mouth, I think as the light turns green.
"Are you going to call Casey and tell him what you're doing?" Alex says. The wind from the car blows away some of his words.
"And have him stop me? I don't think so." I shiver.
"Wow," he says when I stop at the next red light. He looks over at me, and his eyes are shining in the glow of the streetlights. "Wow! A guerrilla attack by the advice columnist! Whoo-hoo!"
"Yeah," I say. "I'll just run up to the production room and have the night editor there substitute my old answer for the new one." I feel flushed and a little dazed.
"And that person will do it?"
"Oh, yeah. I'll just say there was a mistake in the copy that I just remembered I didn't fix. Oh, yeah. It won't be a problem at all."
"I'm impressed."
"Yeah. It'll work." I stare out the window. "I'll feel much better about everything. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do this."
"Well, I didn't think you could," he says. "But I figured you'd just have to have it out with Casey again. . ."
"Nope," I say. "We're beyond that now. This is just me, acting on my own." I do a theatrical squaring of my shoulders and point westward. "We're going to The Edge!"
"How appropriate," he says. "This is so exciting. There's a part of me that wishes we were going to have to do something really dramatic here, like scale the wall of the building and then sneak in a window."
"I know," I say and laugh.
"Lily, I've gotta say, I'm so proud of you for this."
When we get to the paper, he waits in the car with Simon, who's still sleeping, and I go inside. It all goes as planned. George, the head copy editor, waves me in, and when I tell him I just have to change something in the column, he frowns for just a minute and then says, "Not the length of the column, though, right? I have the ads all placed on the page already."
"No, no, not the length," I say. "Just a quick substitution."
"You came all the way back here just to correct a mistake?" he says when I come back from inserting the new copy. "My hat is off to you. You're a real pro. Not many people would care that much."
Then I drive Alex home. This is the first time I've ever seen where he lives, in a two-story duplex on Elm Street in the Westville section of town, a street dappled with maple trees underneath streetlights. It's so lit up it looks almost like daylight here.
"Take a look around," he says. "This may someday need to be your refuge. The deal still stands, you know."
I lean out of the window and look. His house has a big front porch on both the first and second floors, long, shuttered windows that are all dark now, and a tiny strip of grass in front with some formless rhododendron bushes. From the glare of the streetlight, I can see that he has a big porch swing—much like the one I have.
"Nice," I say.
He doesn't get out of the car right away, just sits there smiling, his arm resting on the back of my seat.
"Well, this has been real," he says. "You've got some brass ones, that's for sure."
I laugh and say, "Well, we'll see..." and when I turn my head back toward him, he reaches for me and tilts my head up to his and kisses me. Then he looks into my eyes and pulls me to him, and we start kissing in earnest. I can feel actual neural synapses melting in my brain.
We've been kissing for a while when he whispers, "You know, if only..." and nods toward the backseat, where Simon is sleeping.
I smile. It's true. If Simon weren't here, if I were alone... but then I think maybe I'm glad there's a reason to leave. I am so not ready for what this will lead to. One major upheaval a day is all I can really manage. And even that's a stretch sometimes.
I'm still smiling and trembling when I get on the highway to go home.
28
As soon as I pull into the driveway, Teddy comes charging out of the front door, looking even more frazzled than usual. His hair is frizzed from the humidity, his glasses are askew, and his shirt is untucked. He stands there on the step while I park the car, running his hands through his hair and looking wild-eyed. Really, he looks so ridiculous, so... Teddyish, that I almost want to laugh.
"Where have you been?" he says.
I smile at him. "How about saying 'hi' first? As in, 'Hi, Lily. How are you? Isn't it a lovely evening?' "
I haven't talked to him for a long time, long enough, I realize, to actually miss him a little. I can't wait to tell him about Evangeline's letter.
"Where have you been?" he says again in his high-pitched, hysterical way, and then, in typical Teddy fashion, he doesn't even give me a chance to answer. "I've been out of my mind worrying about you. Where were you? Did you forget that Simon has his first day of school tomorrow? Why weren't you home putting him to bed at a decent hour?"
"Shhh. He's fine. He's sleeping," I say. "Look at him, how darling he is. How about a little help? You can carry him inside, and I'll bring his stuff."
"What stuff?"
"His backpack with his toys. He was at work with me today."
"Don't even try to tell me you've been at work all this time. Where were you?"
"I'm not trying to tell you I was at work, although, actually, I was until just very recently," I whisper, laughing. "What I'm trying to do is bring Simon in and put him to bed without waking him up." I lean into the car and undo Simon's seat belt, and motion to Teddy to scoop him up.
We go upstairs together, and I turn down the bed while Teddy eases him into it. Simon makes a mmmmphhh noise as I take off his sandals and put him under the covers, turn on the fan in his room, and then snap off the light.
"Come on," I say, heading down the hall to the stairs. "Let's go have a glass of wine on the porch. Boy, do I have a story to tell you! I'm probably going to be fired tomorrow, but you know something? I don't care. Get Dana, and let's go sit outside. I feel like I haven't been home forev—"
I stop and look back at him. He's just standing there in the hall with a stricken look on his face, his hands balling themselves up into little fists and then coming apart again. I feel my smile fade.
I put my hand over my mouth. "Oh, no. Has something bad happened?" I say. "Is it Leon? Dana? What's happened?"
"Come into the bathroom," he says. "I want to show you something."
&
nbsp; I don't know what to expect—his look suggests it might be blood and guts, if not an actual corpse on the floor—but I follow him to the bathroom off my bedroom, already feeling my heart sinking in dread. There, on the sink, is a pregnancy test, just like the one Maggie and I bought the other day. I feel confused. This isn't the same pregnancy test, surely? What does it mean? I look up into Teddy's face.
"It's Dana," he says, his face white. "She's pregnant."
"Dana? You're kidding," I say. My voice sounds far away, even to me. The test strip, I now see, has a clearly defined line. A swarm of bees seems to start up in my head.
He's watching my face. "It's mine," he says in a hoarse whisper, looking guiltier than I think I've ever seen him look. Then he says, "I felt I had to come tell you. First."
"Wait." I can't seem to get this. "You... and Dana are...?"
"Yes." He looks down.
Another thought struggles its way to the surface of my mind. "Is she, you know, planning to keep it?" I say.
He nods.
We're silent. The floor seems to get closer and then farther away. Teddy's face is swimming in front of me. I wonder briefly if I'm going to faint. "So where is she?" I say. I clear my throat. "Where is Dana?" My voice seems to be coming from the far end of a tunnel.
"I don't really know where she is now. I think she's out with friends. Seth Tomlinson and that crowd." He sighs, runs his hands through his curls again. "She's kind of scared of you, you know. She didn't want to be here when you heard." He looks at me and shrugs, and suddenly everything comes into focus again, and I have the urge to slap him—just reach over and slap his guilty, horrified little face for lying to me, and then slap him again for standing there looking so fucking scared and passive, so deer-in-the-headlights frozen. I've been lied to. That's the thought that swims up to the surface of my consciousness. He lied about what they were doing. I've been his friend and I've protected him, and he said he was helping her. And how stupid was I, to believe even for one second that they weren't sleeping together? Hello? Dana sleeps with everyone she can. I knew that. Hell, he should have known that.
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