Vanity Fare

by Megan Caldwell

“But no matter, the principle is the same. Did you bring a photo album, too?” I reached back into the bag and drew out the book, which was covered in black. She gave me a wry glance. “I can see where you’re going with this. This will be fun.”

  She took the album from me, then opened up the pages. “First thing is to define your goal.” She gave me another amused look. “Judging by your materials, I’d say you already have. Next is to lay out the order of your items.” She picked up the list. “Is this how you’d like it to go?” I nodded. “Then all that’s left is to put it together.”

  She stood up and leaned over the table, pulling a tablet of construction paper over to me.

  “So how long were you married?” Tamsin asked, taking a sip of her wine.

  “Ten years. We were together ten years before that.” There was a murmur of sympathy from the women around the table.

  I flipped through the construction paper and found the black section. I ripped out one of the sheets and set it in front of me. I opened the album to the first page, and peeled back the plastic covering.

  I laid the wedding invitation in the middle, then stared hard at the black paper, hoping to get inspired.

  “More wine, Molly?” I gave a start as I saw I’d somehow managed to finish the first glass.

  “No, thanks, not just yet,” I said as Caroline gave my pages an approving look. “Seems like you’re getting the hang of it,” she said, touching me on the shoulder. “I know you were skeptical, but this is fun, isn’t it?”

  It was. It was also something I’d never do in a million years.

  “Ladies, time for a break.” Caroline stood to my right, waving her hands to get our attention. Her bracelets clinked pleasantly as she waved. The last hour had been spent in almost total silence, all of us working on our projects, with only an occasional murmured “pass the scissors” or “can I have your glue?” I looked up and blinked, pulled out of my trancelike state.

  I stood up, feeling my legs protest a little at having been still for so long. Caroline held her arm out to a room farther in the apartment. I followed her pointing, and found myself in a huge room with a long table on one side and an entire windowed wall. It was cloudy outside, but even so, the view was spectacular.

  “Wow.” I stood there for a moment, allowing the pangs of envy to envelop me. If only Hugh hadn’t been so lazy. If only I’d continued working, kept my résumé current, not had Aidan . . . but then I wouldn’t be happy. I’d have a nicer apartment, sure, but I wouldn’t be happy.

  And I felt . . . almost happy. Molly Hagan, no engagement ring, dicey financial future, and scrapbooking. And almost happy. Would wonders never cease?

  After I piled a plate full of warm, nummy things, I headed toward the unoccupied couch and settled myself in. I surveyed my food, hoping I hadn’t been gauche enough to take way more than everyone else. Tamsin came and sat next to me, and I was relieved to see she had even more of the Chinese noodle salad than I did. She speared a piece of tofu, then turned toward me.

  “Sorry about your divorce. How is your son taking it? He’s how old?”

  I twirled a noodle on my fork. “Six. He’s doing okay, I guess, although he clings a little more. Not that I mind. I kind of need that right now.”

  She nodded, attacking a cherry tomato with enthusiasm. “Kids are smarter than we think. He probably knows you need that, too. Is he getting along with your ex?”

  I shrugged. “I think so—it’s hard to tell, he mentioned not wanting to spend as much time with him anymore. But it’s because his dad is doing the same things he always did: watching sports, hanging around the house, napping. Aidan just didn’t notice before because I was always there.”

  “I know what that’s like,” Tamsin said. “My husband thinks bonding with our kids is when they all cheer for the Knicks. But they adore each other, so I guess that’s okay.”

  “How old are yours?” I asked, moving my fork to investigate what I thought might be curry beef. Mm.

  “Nine and seven. One of each, Sidone is the oldest, Vashon is my baby.”

  “And where do you live?”

  She gestured with her fork. “On Fifteenth Street. Vashon and Caroline’s oldest son play T-ball together.”

  “How long have you been scrapbooking?”

  She gave a mock grimace. “Six months now. I know, I sure don’t look like I like to cut borders and write cute phrases, but it’s really . . . relaxing. It’s a good thing to do, just for me, and it makes me happy.”

  “It is very zenlike. I am totally surprised at how engrossed I got. So,” I said, spearing another piece of beef, “what do you do?”

  “I do fund-raising for a nonprofit. It’s part-time so I can be with the kids.”

  I sighed. “I know, that’s the most important part, isn’t it? Being with your kids. Unfortunately, you need money to do that.”

  “What does your ex do?”

  “He’s a lawyer. But he’s an unemployed lawyer right now. I have no idea if he’ll be able to help us as much as we’d need for me to stay home with Aidan. So I’ve applied to the Teaching Fellows’ program to become a teacher. It’ll mean a change of life, but not as drastic as a traditional nine-to-five. That is, if I get in.”

  She waved her fork. “You’ll get in. You’re smart.”

  “You know that because . . . ?”

  “Because you’re smart.” She said it so confidently I couldn’t argue. “When do you hear?”

  “Well, I sent in the application materials, and then I made the first cut, which meant I had to go in for an interview. It was awful. I felt so self-conscious, and stupid, and I know I sweat and stammered and all those things I used to do during Speech and Presentations Class in college. But at least I answered all the questions, even if I looked like I’d been doused in water several times.”

  Thinking of being able to provide for Aidan was what made me get through it and not run out crying from the room. Then I realized I hadn’t answered her question. “Um—a few months, I think?”

  “Good luck.” She laughed. “That self-conscious part sounds like me when my mother-in-law questions my child-rearing habits.” She took another bite and smiled at me. “So—what kind of stuff would you be teaching?”

  I shrugged. “They place you where you think you can do the most good. I have that English degree, so either high school English or elementary or middle school. I’m not picky, I just want to be able to do something useful that also pays the rent.” And how.

  She nodded. “That sounds like a good goal.”

  I twirled a noodle around my fork, then lifted it to my mouth. If I kept eating, maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about dinner that night. Mom was off at a meeting, so she wouldn’t be home anyway, and without Aidan in the house, it was so . . . lonely. Better for me not to rattle around the apartment too much.

  Caroline came over just as I was considering whether I should get thirds. Most of the other women were onto their dessert and coffee, but there were still a fair amount of noodles left. I felt extra pathetic when I realized I was contemplating asking for some to take home so I didn’t have to worry about lunch the next day, either.

  “Are you having fun?” She still wore that perky J.Crew smile, but I knew there was more there than just pastels and the perfect life.

  “Mm, yes, thank you. Thanks so much for inviting me.”

  She smiled. “I could hear you were skeptical when I asked, but admit it: It’s fun.”

  It was fun. I never would have thought I’d be the kind of person who liked scrapbooking, but I could still surprise myself after forty years. Go me.

  I’d just about finished when Sandy, the Goth-looking deceased cat owner, lifted her head, swept back her Bettie Page bangs, and addressed me. “Molly, tell me, what kind of copywriting do you do?”

  “Actually, before this project, I just did copyediting for medical journals. Boring stuff. But the guy I work for hired me to write copy for a new chain of bakeries that’s opening. It’s
been a lot of fun, actually.”

  “I own an ad agency,” she said in a smug voice. “Which company is it?”

  Oh, dear, someone who actually knows what they’re doing. “Corning and Associates, working with Simon Baxter.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, then you must know Natalie Duran. She was with them briefly.”

  “I met her, yes.” And now she’s bribing my son. “We actually were working together on the bakery project, but now it’s just me.”

  She lifted her perfectly arched eyebrow and said, “Hm,” then swept her supercilious eyes down my body. I dug my nails into my legs so I wouldn’t duck my head like I used to in high school. “Natalie has big shoes to fill. She’s quite talented.” The implication being, of course, that I was not.

  Tamsin’s mellifluous voice cut through the frosty air left by Sandy’s obvious disdain. “Molly’s smart, I bet she’s doing a great job. Aren’t you?”

  I gave her a relieved smile. My hero. “We’ll see. I have a presentation next week.”

  “Really? Well, you have to practice with us. Right, ladies?” Caroline looked around the room, nodding approvingly as the other ladies nodded their heads.

  Suddenly I wished Caroline weren’t quite so friendly. “Uh . . .”

  “Oh, come on, Molly,” Tamsin chimed in. “It’ll be good practice. We won’t be nearly as tough an audience as those corporate geeks.”

  I shot a look at Sandy, whose eyebrow was still raised. Only now she was regarding me with an amused stare. Yeah, well, I always thought Siouxsie and the Banshees were overrated anyhow, lady.

  “Please, do show us.” She sounded as if listening to me was the last thing she wanted to do . . . probably almost as much as I didn’t want to do it. Stand up in front of a crowd of strangers and give a presentation off the top of my head? I wouldn’t do it in a mill—

  “Okay, sure,” I heard myself saying. I put my half-finished scrapbook project to the side, stood up, and straightened my pants with a nervous gesture.

  After the women—with the notable omission of Sandy— had given me their applause and plenty of confidence-boosting feedback, I’d made plans with Tamsin and Caroline for lunch while our kids were at school. I’d also committed myself to attending the next scrapbook day and was ridiculously proud of the Post-Mortem Marriage Book I’d started. I wished Keisha could see it.

  I ambled down the street from Caroline’s apartment, thinking of how the day had surprised me. How I had surprised myself. I glanced at my watch, and realized there were at least six hours left of the day before I could reasonably put myself to bed and not feel pathetic. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go home. At least not yet.

  I walked onto Seventh Avenue, Park Slope’s main retail drag, and looked longingly at the window of the local artisanal jewelry shop. Was it wrong that I briefly debated the merits of rent versus a bracelet?

  I walked past one of the oldest bars on the avenue, a place where you could still get a steak and fried onions for $15.95. Hugh and I had never been there—he’d turned his nose up at its placidly middle-class demeanor—but it looked cozy and nice. The windows were all fogged up against the cold, and the people inside looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Without allowing myself to have any second thoughts, I pushed the door open and went inside.

  A few people glanced up as I came in, but there weren’t any of the looks I’d feared of “hey, you don’t belong here.” I walked over to the bar, shrugged off my coat, and draped it over the barstool. As I sat down, the bartender came up.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, blowing a piece of gray hair away from her face. She looked to be about fifty-five, with a nice, lived-in look to her face.

  “Guinness, please.”

  She nodded in approval and grabbed a pint glass, holding it under the tap. The beer was as thick and brown as I’d remembered. She placed it in front of me and waited for me to take a sip.

  I gave a satisfied sigh. “That good, huh?” she said with a smile. I smiled back, feeling as if there was no one more content than I at that moment.

  “Mm. It’s been a while since I’ve had a beer. I gave it up for rent.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Very funny.”

  “I only wish I was kidding.”

  Her name was Lois, she told me, and she’d worked there for twenty years. She knew most of the people who walked in, grabbing a glass and pouring their drink of choice without even waiting for their order. She asked questions without being too nosy, and I found myself telling her all about Aidan and a little bit about Hugh.

  “Have you been dating at all?” she asked, refilling my glass.

  I took a sip and rolled my eyes. “Kind of. Not really,” I continued, thinking that I’d just broken things off with the only guy who seemed remotely interested in me.

  She nodded sagely, as though she could read my mind. “Dating is probably good experience for you. You don’t strike me as someone who spent a lot of time dating, even before you were married.”

  “Really? How can you tell?”

  “The way you walked in here, sort of hesitantly. As if we’d ask you to leave.”

  I gave her a wry look. “That just means I don’t have much self-confidence.”

  She nodded again in agreement. “Exactly. And people who date a lot, and know how to date, are self-confident. So probably in about six months you’ll be striding in here like you own the place.”

  I took a big swallow and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I sure hope so. I mean, about the self-confidence thing.”

  “All you need in this world, Molly, is self-confidence. Everything’s gravy after that.”

  I thought about what Lois had said as I walked home. It was remarkably similar to what Dr. Lowell was always saying. And Keisha, too, come to think of it.

  When I got home, I pulled out my notebook and made a list. This time, it was all about me.

  THINGS I AM GOOD AT

  Being a mom.

  Being a daughter. Sometimes.

  Being a friend.

  Talking on the phone.

  Reading.

  Eating. Especially pastries.

  Drinking coffee.

  Loving Stevie Wonder.

  Making puns.

  Dressing in black.

  Making fun of myself.

  Liking myself.

  Loving myself.

  The last one was the hardest to write. I took the paper, folded it twice, and stuck it in my lingerie and sock drawer, where I kept all of Aidan’s cards from birthdays and Mother’s Day over the years. I’d show Dr. Lowell—and probably Keisha, too—when I could look in the mirror and say it all to myself without hesitation. Especially the last one.

  That was something I would do in a million years. Or less, if I just gave myself a chance.

  The Adventures of Huckleberry Pie

  This pie might seem to be one thing at first bite, but as you dive deeper, you’ll find it is so much more. It’s blended with all-American berries, not just the huckleberry—an elusive fruit that takes many forms—but also blueberries and cranberries. It takes a trip down the Mississippi of your taste buds, so delicious it almost makes you want to craft a new word to describe its taste. It’s more nuanced than it seems, and it flips the idea of the average pie on its head.

  Go beyond what you see on the outside—a plain, average piece of pie—and come to love this new American classic.

  20

  THAT MORNING, AIDAN DECIDED HE WANTED TO WEAR shorts. In thirty-seven-degree weather. With a slow, steady drizzle of cold rain outside. It took an extra ten minutes to talk him out of it. He succumbed to the combined bribe of Jiffy Pop popcorn for breakfast and a half hour of extra SpongeBob SquarePants after school.

  Meanwhile, Mom was wandering around the house picking things up and putting them down again. My book? Up, then down. Aidan’s last school picture? Up, down.

  “Mom, are you testing gravity, or do you think you could stop that?” My w
ords came out sharper than I meant. She jerked away from the candy cane Christmas candlestick I’d forgotten to put away.

  “Sorry, dear. Just . . .” Her voice trailed off. I felt horribly guilty for snapping at her.

  “Never mind. Just help me get Aidan’s shoes on, okay?”

  After Aidan was suitably dressed, Mom walked him to school so I could get ready. I wore a pair of black pants and a crisp white cotton shirt with a black blazer over top. I wrapped a double strand of jet beads around my neck and made sure my hair was smooth, not fuzzy.

  I took an extra few minutes with my makeup, too. I viewed myself in the mirror, almost satisfied with the result. If I turned my head just right, I looked like one of those career women who were always being featured in O, The Oprah Magazine.

  I dumped the contents of my vintage carpetbag purse on the table and extricated my MetroCard, my wallet, a pack of Kleenex, and my lip salve. I placed them into a slim black clutch I’d bought for Hugh’s high school reunion. It was a little fancy for daytime, but it was fairly inconspicuous, and way more professional-looking than my usual purse.

  Dressed for success, that was me. And my interior almost matched the exterior.

  On the way to John’s office, I stopped off at Starbucks and indulged in a tall skim latte. I sipped it as I walked down Twenty-fifth Street. Maybe it would be easy. Maybe the Cooking Channel folks would love my ideas and give me a standing ovation.

  And maybe I’d sprout wings and fly around the room.

  The first person I saw when I stepped off the elevator was Nick. I smiled, then felt it falter as I caught sight of his face.

  “Ms. Hagan.” Gone was any hint of friendliness. Nick’s eyes shone a frozen blue, his lips creased in a thin line.

  “Ni—, Mr. Harrison,” I replied. “Am I late?”

  He frowned. Or scowled, really, and glanced at his watch. “No. Five minutes early, in fact.” He said it as if it were an accusation.

  “Oh. Well, then.” I straightened the hem of my coat. “Should we go into the conference room?”