“Mommy, would you like a piece of chocolate?”
I smiled back and nodded. He stood up, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the bag, handing it to me to tear open. I handed it back to him and he picked out a brown M&M for me, smiling broadly when I chewed exaggeratedly and gave a blissful sigh.
“I know you like chocolate, Mommy. I do, too, but not as much as you do.”
“What do you like more than I do, honey?” Besides your father.
“Pokémon, pizza, movies, drawing, Teen Titans.” He rattled them off as if he had been preparing his answer for weeks. Why haven’t you asked me before, Mommy?
“What do you like?”
Just what I was wondering myself.
“You.”
He frowned. “I know that already.”
“Um . . .” British men with dimples, not having to worry about the bills, faithful husbands . . . the usual. “Peanut butter, books, coffee, jewelry. Sleeping. I think that’s it. Besides you, of course.”
He flung the blanket off us and jumped off the couch with a look that made me say oh, no in my head. “Then I’m going to make you a special treat.”
Images of peanut butter–smeared books wearing earrings swam through my head. I got up off the couch, too, even though I was pretty darn cozy. And my favorite part of Toy Story was coming up, the part where the toy dinosaur complained about his short little arms.
I followed him into the kitchen. He was already dragging a chair so he could reach my coffee beans.
“Let me help you with that, honey.”
“I can do it,” he replied in his best I’m-six-and-totally-competent voice. He tried to open the jar of beans but couldn’t figure out the vacuum seal.
“Let me.” I opened it, then grabbed a bowl and placed a handful of beans into it. “That should be enough, right?” Before he could respond, I hoisted the beans back up onto their shelf, so he wouldn’t waste them. Given a choice between him and the beans, I knew I’d pick him, but I also knew I wouldn’t be too nice about it. He’d be scared by my no-caffeine Mommy face.
“Go back and sit down. It’s a surprise.” He pushed me out of the kitchen and down the hall.
I was snuggled back under the throw when he came back and handed me his special treat with a triumphant grin.
“Oh, Aidan, a peanut butter coffee bean sandwich. Thanks, honey.” He pulled a book out from behind his back—that damn The Ambassadors again—with another wide smile. “And I brought you a book to read, too.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“And Mommy?”
“Mm?” Actually, the sandwich wasn’t half bad, once I got over the gritty crunch of the beans.
“Can we get a pet? I mean, now that Daddy’s moved out?” I bit my tongue before I suggested we replace Daddy with a rat.
Ah, the sandwich had an ulterior motive. “A pet?”
“Yeah. Maybe a tarantula, or a snake, or an elephant.”
“An elephant wouldn’t fit.”
“Or a cat. Grammy has a cat.” Grammy’s kinda on Mommy’s hate list right now, honey.
“Mommy’s allergic. Maybe a turtle?”
“Turtles are boring.”
I thought for a minute. I sure as hell didn’t want a spider or a snake roaming around. “Maybe we can get a special kind of cat.” That weird-looking hypoallergenic one. It would be a cat, though. “We’ll have to see.”
He grinned and hugged me. For that kind of hug, I’d have gladly sneezed my head off.
And the dinosaur had just tried to scare someone with his fearsomeness.
To Infinity . . . And Beyond!
Aidan had finally fallen asleep, after pondering—and discarding—about a hundred possible names for the as-yet-unfound cat. He’d finally decided on Beast, after his favorite Teen Titans character, Beast Boy, which I thought would be pretty appropriate, given how hideous the cat would probably look.
I turned on the computer and found the teaching fellows’ website. The deadline for applications was mid-March, which gave me about a month to prepare. Classes for the master’s degree began in June, and my teaching, if I were accepted into the program at all, began the following September. So I would need money to get through the spring and summer to be able to do this. Did I have it?
Even presuming I got the money from John, the answer was a resounding no. And I had just about promised to buy Aidan a pricey, ugly cat. What the hell was I going to do?
I put the list down on the table and walked to the kitchen for coffee. And then I spied the uneaten bit of a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin I’d bought for Aidan in a devil may care bit of spend thriftiness a few days before.
After all these years of hoping, would my problems actually be helped by baked goods? I stuffed the stale muffin into my mouth. It was nothing compared to the deliciousness of whatever Simon had made, but at least it gave me enough renewed vigor to return to my notebook.
Aidan was on his third movie that day when my friend Lissa arrived, agenda in tow. Lissa was a solid friend, someone who’d always been there at the other end of the phone, even though she was a full ten years younger than I. She’d jumped in to babysit Aidan as soon as Hugh left, practically pushing me out the door so I could go get a coffee, or thumb through a magazine, or anything to make me “get back in touch with myself.” Lissa was a bit of a granola-head, but she had such a good heart, it didn’t bother me. Plus she worked in the fashion industry, so I figured she needed some sort of self-defense mechanism. And I admired her shoes.
She held a copy of the Village Voice and pointed toward the computer.
“Lissa, I don’t want to,” I whined. Oh, my God, I’ve become my son.
She smiled that sassy grin at me in reply, showing her clean, white teeth. I could see why men fell at her feet so often. Especially dentists. “It’ll be good for you, Molly. And who knows, you might meet someone really nice.”
We sat at my desk with the computer whirring in anticipation. Of what, I didn’t want to guess.
I’d sunk so low as to go online to find a date. Lissa had assured me it was better than living the rest of my life alone and bitter. No, wait, I had decided that.
Back when I figured out that this was me, this was my life, and I was going to take charge. Even if it meant revealing myself to any number of strangers on the Internet.
I’d tried to argue to Lissa that I wasn’t even divorced yet, but she told me—in no uncertain terms—that the longer I took to dip my toe in the water the longer it was going to be before I got wet. So to speak.
We’d agreed that this was just a toe adventure. Nothing had to happen. But I had to try.
“Mommmmmy!” Aidan’s screech sounded like his leg was being amputated or something. Luckily, I knew him well enough to know he just wanted me to see something on the TV.
“Yes, that is disgusting,” I said in a suitably revolted voice. Satisfied, his eyes glazed over again as he watched the dinosaur eat the rest of the scientist. I headed back to where Lissa still had that annoying smile on her face.
She gestured toward the screen. “I’ve already entered the basic information. You just have to be specific about what you want.”
Money. Time. Security.
Oh, what I want in a man. Oh, well, that’s easy: money, time, security.
I sat down in front of the screen and held my fingers above the keyboard for a second. “And if I don’t do this, you’ll stop babysitting?”
I’d told her about the new freelance job, and my tentative career goals. As I’d known she would be, she’d been very encouraging. And then she had issued her threats.
She poked me in the shoulder. “Stop dawdling, Molly.”
I took a deep breath, feeling the air filling my lungs. I peered at the screen. “Lissa, I do not weigh a hundred and thirty pounds. In my wildest dreams, maybe.”
She poked me again. “Everyone lies.”
I thought of Hugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
I looked at t
he first blank category, then read it aloud: “Name five items you cannot do without.”
“That’s easy,” Lissa said, “coffee, coffee, coffee, books, and coffee.” She laughed as she pulled her chair closer with a loud scrape on the wooden floor. I could smell her perfume, a slightly musky scent that smelled like decadent flowers.
“Coffee, books, what else? Hm.”
“Jeans?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Let’s not go there.”
I began typing. Coffee, books, eyebrow pencil, Stevie Wonder discs, and my son. “Actually,” I said, pulling back from the keyboard, “that is pretty much all I’d need if I were stranded on a desert island. Well, a CD player for the discs. And maybe a mirror to apply the eyebrow pencil. Otherwise I’d end up looking like Groucho Marx.”
She peered over my shoulder. “It makes you sound down-to-earth but sophisticated.” Sometimes Lissa baffled me with her fashionista doublespeak.
“In other words, an absolute lie.”
She punched me. For a tall, skinny chick, she had a lot of strength behind that fist. I rubbed my arm and glared at her. “Look, Lissa, let’s face facts. I’m forty. I am an about-to-be-divorcée with a small child.”
She punched me again. I waved my index finger in her face.
“And I’m Irish with pale skin, which means all that punching is going to leave bruising. Thanks, Lissa, now any potential man will think I’m into S&M, when all I’m really into are M&M’s.”
She laughed. “You are pretty, Molly, and you know it, if you’d just stop wearing the same clothes every day. Men really go for the sexy librarians, you know.”
“And,” she continued before I could react to that, “you’re shy, but you do have a mouth on you, as you say yourself. You’re very smart—and remember how many times you told me to go for something? Now it’s your turn. Once someone gets to know you, they’ll adore you.”
“If I let them get to know me.”
My own words brought me up short. Won’t let them? Was I that scared?
I swallowed hard and thought about it. Well, damn. I had to do something about that.
Dr. Lowell’s frequent advice rang in my ears: I was a woman, a woman who was occasionally witty, sometimes pretty, always well read. Not to mention well caffeinated. I put my fingers back down on the keyboard determinedly. I could do this. I could place a personals ad.
“What kind of music gets you in the mood?” Lissa read out loud, then leaned back and shot me a measured look.
“Mood for what?” I asked, striving to keep an innocent look on my face. “Paying bills? Macramé? Laundry?”
Lissa raised her fist in a menacing gesture. “Okay, okay, I get it,” I said, “gets me in the mood.” I gave her an exaggerated wink. “I feel like I’m a housewife speaking in code. Why can’t they just ask you what kind of music makes you want to have sex?”
Lissa rolled her eyes. “Just fill it in, already.”
“Stevie Wonder, Soundgarden, Teddy Pendergrass, disco divas, and Fela.”
“Four out of five of those make you sound like you’re definitely not Irish. The Soundgarden thing is just bizarre.”
I shrugged. “Well, honestly, could you see me wanting to date someone who liked listening to earnest white guys with guitars? Or worse yet, earnest white girls with guitars? And breathy harmonies? My admirers are just going to have to understand I like soul music,” I finished in a lofty tone.
“And Soundgarden.”
“Not to mention Gilbert and Sullivan, which is totally out of left field. I know. But it’s me. Okay, what’s next. Books. Cool, I can do this. ‘Name five books that touched your life.’ Touched your life? What kind of yoga-practicing touchy-feely garbage is that?”
Lissa squinted her blue eyes at me. Even squinted, they were bigger than the ones in those doe-eyed children paintings. “One more word and you get no babysitting from me.”
“Okay. Let’s see. That’s too hard—there are too many out there to name.”
“So list the first five that come to mind.”
I typed. “Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Neal Stephenson’s The Diamond Age, Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon, and Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep.”
Lissa looked impressed.
“I bet you thought I was going to say Love’s Scoundrel and Love’s Scoundrel Returned.”
Her expression faltered. “No, I was just thinking how amazing it is that I’ve actually heard of any of those books. You’ve read a lot more than me.” Her voice was unquestionably mournful. I felt uncomfortable.
“Well, let’s face it, Love’s Scoundrel doesn’t stand up to repeated readings.” Her expression eased, and she read the next section of the profile out loud.
“Write a brief description of yourself and what kind of person you’re looking for.”
“Oh, this will be fun. If I don’t burst into flames from the embarrassment of it all. Go away, Lissa, this is uncomfortable enough without you watching.”
She smirked and grabbed a glossy fashion mag from her bag. I watched as she settled down on the couch, wrapping the throw around her thighs. Even that gesture was elegant. She stuck her tongue out at me, then flipped open the magazine, staring at it in exaggerated concentration. I turned back to the computer.
Forty-year-old mom with a love of caffeine, her son, and black clothing (not necessarily in that order) seeks a man with the ability to laugh at himself, enjoy a good pun, and not be afraid to dance in public. I like Gilbert & Sullivan operettas, Jorge Luis Borges, caramel, Christmas socks, and sensible shoes. I’m not nearly as obnoxious as I seem in print, and the only thing that is a must is that you like children, or rather, a child. Specifically mine.
There. I took a breath and hit SUBMIT.
Congratulations, your personal profile has been added to our database!
the computer screen said in a cheery green script. Lissa put the magazine down and walked over to me. “There, it wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked. I looked up at her and shook my head. “No, it wasn’t so bad. It’s just so . . . single adult of me, and that’s hard.”
Lissa sat back down in the chair next to me and patted my shoulder. “Ah, honey, it is hard. This is hard. All of it. And you’re doing great.”
I was? Oh, right. I was.
“Thanks. You’ve been great through all this, sorry I’ve been acting like such a pill.”
“What else could I expect from such an old bat?” Lissa said with a grin.
I punched her in the arm.
“Um, Molly?” Lissa had lost her sassy tone.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think—that is, I was wondering—could you recommend some books for me to read? Tony mentioned some, and it sounded like he assumed I’d read them, and I don’t want to sound dumb. Fashion majors don’t usually read the classics,” she finished with a self-deprecating laugh.
Tony was Lissa’s new boyfriend, a slick Manhattan type who always had an expression like he had one up on you. I was not fond of Tony. “You’re not dumb, Lissa.” I checked my watch. “Aidan!” I called. “Time to get ready for bed!”
He scrambled up from the floor and blinked like I had just woken him up. “But the movie—”
“You’ve seen the movie a zillion times, it’s late, and you need your sleep.” He shuffled down the hall, his tired little body movements belying his drifting “I’m not tired” wail. “Anyway,” I said, turning back to Lissa, “you’re not dumb,” I repeated.
She wrinkled her pert little nose. “I’m not stupid, but I’ve never thought of myself as sharp or anything, not like you. So can you lend me something?”
“Sure.” I thought about it for a second, the idea of teaching her taking root in my head. “You could be my first student! Hey, have you ever read Ethan Frome?” She shook her head. I wondered just what they had taught her in that girls prep school she went to. Besides being well groomed, beautiful, and perfect.
“Boy, d
o you have a treat in store. I mean, if you like relationships that are doomed to failure.” I stopped and smacked myself in the forehead. “No, wait, that’s me.”
She laughed as I walked over to the bookcase and un-earthed the “Wharton” section, which was filed right between Evelyn Waugh and Phyllis A. Whitney. I handed it to her. “It’s really good. And it’s one of her shortest ones, besides the novellas.”
She tucked it into her brightly colored tote bag along with her magazine. “Thanks, Molly. Tony will be impressed.”
It made me mad to hear the pathos in her voice. I’d been there, I wanted to tell her, it’s not worth it. Don’t try to change yourself for a man, it never works. They won’t change themselves for you, either.
“Don’t forget to tell me about any interesting replies to your ad,” Lissa said as she headed to the door, her blue eyes gleaming in anticipation.
“I brushed my teeth, Mommy,” Aidan said in a sleepy voice. He’d already climbed into bed.
“Be right there,” I replied.
As I closed the door behind her, I grabbed The House of Mirth for some light bedtime reading and walked to his bedroom.
I needed to write some more lists:
Books everyone should read
Books everyone has read, but won’t admit
Books everyone says they’ve read, but no one really has (see: Ayn Rand)
Why friends are better than men (see: do not let them down)
Why men are sometimes better than friends (see: sex)
And the last one, How Molly will get a job, support her child, and enjoy the rest of her life without her no-good, cheating husband. Nonfiction, natch.
The Bun Also Rises
There’s nothing so wonderful as an item that delivers what it has promised. In this case, it’s fresh, fresh, freshly risen bread, so fresh it practically deserves to be slapped. Its buttery-rich crust encases a delicately moist center, swirled with Spanish chocolate.
Vanity Fare Page 4