Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Yeah, but don’t you have an opinion?” JoAnne pressed.

  “Of course. But my opinion should make no difference to Erin. Besides, I learned a long time ago that most times it’s better to keep your opinions to yourself.”

  At least someone didn’t feel the need to lecture me.

  Maggie Branley. Red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Maggie’s got a Ph.D. in Urban Design from MIT. She’s smart and funny and yet private in a way that makes you think she’s suffered some pain that just won’t go away. Which, I’m guessing, was caused by her disastrous grad school marriage to an Italian Lothario, about which JoAnne and Abby knew nothing. And she respects other people’s privacy in a way that’s very comforting.

  “Anyway, this is not really about men and women,” Abby said. “It’s about morality. Right and wrong.”

  “Duh! If it’s about morality, it’s of necessity about men and women,” JoAnne snapped. “This Doug person is a man. Erin is a woman. The two big questions here are: Will a married man cheat on his wife? And will Erin let herself be used?”

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  “You wanted our take on the situation,” JoAnne reminded me.

  Not really, I thought.

  “Sexual ethics. Sex as power. Sex as acquisition,” Maggie recited, mopping up the last of her omelette with a piece of buttered toast. “Doesn’t it ever seem boring? It does to me.”

  “Here’s my favorite argument for male infidelity,” JoAnne said. “One of them, anyway. ‘Men need variety and change.’ ”

  “Oh, God, we’re back to the biological imperative,” I said, not enjoying the conversation at all. Wishing we could just drop it. Doug Spears wasn’t like the average man. I just knew. Through the clashing in my head and the fire in my heart, that one truth shone clear. I just knew.

  “Yes, sir!” JoAnne pounded her fist on the table. A fork jumped to the floor. A very handsome, very gay waiter raised his eyebrows. “Men must sow their seed over the face of the land.”

  “Yeah, and how many men stick around to reap what they sow?” Maggie said. “How many stick around to cultivate the love? And the kids?”

  “It’s not about sticking around,” JoAnne said with a grin. “For men it’s all about sticking it in. The consequences are the woman’s problem.”

  “Which is why women should stick together,” Maggie affirmed. “Okay. There’s my opinion.”

  JoAnne turned to me. “Here’s a question for you, Erin. Does this Mr. Married Man of yours have kids?”

  “He’s not mine,” I answered hotly. “And I don’t know.”

  “I suppose he could be separated,” Abby said in an oddly hopeful voice. “Or maybe he’s a widower.”

  “Now that’s a happy thought,” JoAnne said. “Anyway, I don’t really care one way or the other about the morality or ethics of an affair. Till death do us part is a ridiculous sentiment. One true love—please. Why pretend anyone can attain a goal that’s clearly unattainable? Cheating is an unpleasant fact of life. End of story. Just watch yourself, kiddo. If you decide to play footsie with this guy, set some rules up front. And don’t expect him to leave the Mrs. for you. Most men don’t have the balls. And try to get some jewelry out of it. Something you can sell later. When the bastard goes slinking back home.”

  JoAnne Chiofalo takes no crap from anyone. Ever.

  JoAnne is wiry and olive-complected with long, very dark, very naturally curly hair. She’s also a well-known and highly respected pediatrician. And in a city famous for its top-notch medical community, that’s no small feat. Kids love her and she loves kids. Which is kind of interesting when you consider that among the four of us she’s the least interested in getting married and having a family. If you said that JoAnne’s a romantic it would be like saying Louis Farrahkan is white. Severe misunderstanding of the situation.

  “You’re not going to do it, are you, Erin?” Abby said. “Go out with him?”

  What could I say? What should I say?

  What did my friends want to hear?

  “Abby, I don’t even know if I’ll ever see this guy again. And I’m certainly not going to call him,” I lied. Because the thought certainly had occurred to me.

  I could admit to curiosity, pure and simple. How could that be wrong? The desire to know what, if anything, Doug Spears had in mind. A one-time flirtation? An ongoing, teasing dance, a platonic friendship with a kick? A one-night stand? An affair?

  Marriage?

  “Because it would be wrong, Erin,” Abby went on. “Besides being a total waste of your time, it would be wrong. Just think of his poor wife, sitting home alone every night, wondering why her husband has to work late again.”

  “I won’t allow myself to be a cliché, Abby,” I lied again. Because Friday night, still heady from the too-brief encounter, my head filled with images of Gloria the call girl and her married lover, I had stood in front of the bathroom mirror and tried out the title of “mistress.” Just to see how it fit. Just in case.

  Mistress. It felt odd and exciting, a little dirty, and I had to look away from my reflection.

  Then I tried “the other woman,” but it just sounded too 1940s Hollywood. I couldn’t take it seriously. I felt I should be wearing a hat with a black veil over my face, long black gloves, a cigarette in a holder between my fingers.

  Finally, I tried “girlfriend on the side,” but the only image that came to mind was a plate of cold peas. It made me laugh and I turned off the lights and went to bed.

  Abby reached for my hand. “Just promise me you’ll try to do the right thing, Erin. You always have, I know, but, well . . . things are different now. I know you’re upset about your parents and sometimes when we feel someone has hurt us we’re so—upset—we hurt someone else back. And that’s bad for everyone.”

  JoAnne removed her sunglasses and eyed Abby critically. “Are you sure you’re not moonlighting as a talk-show hostess?”

  Abby released my hand and blushed.

  Abigail Walker. She’s the prettiest among us, in a classic kind of very feminine way. Long, sleek brown hair; peaches-and-cream complexion; big hazel eyes; slim but not skinny. Abby’s almost totally unconscious about her looks, has no clue that beauty equals power. Which is partly what makes her bearable as a girlfriend.

  That and the fact that she’s smart and kind and surprisingly true to her ideals. Which sometimes I admire and sometimes makes her a big pain in the butt. Abby might look like a pushover, with her propensity for hair bows and sweaters embroidered with scotties, but just try to get her to bend on the issue of, say, gentrification. Or extramarital affairs. Good luck. Abby is New England’s version of a steel magnolia.

  What would that be? A hard-shelled lobster?

  “Look, everyone,” I said, feeling suddenly like I had to protect my friends from an uncomfortable reality. Me. “He probably won’t even call. And if he does ...” I hesitated. My heart actually beat faster at the thought. “And if he does, and it’s for any reason other than strictly business, I’ll tell him right off that I don’t date married men.”

  Reason spoke. Good girl, it said. Stick to your guns. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be watching.

  “That’s my Erin,” Abby said.

  “Betraying another woman is betraying yourself,” Maggie added. “His wife thanks you. We all thank you.”

  JoAnne smiled enigmatically.

  There. I’d given my friends what they were asking for, hadn’t I? At least what Maggie and Abby were asking for. An assurance that I would turn my back on Doug Spears, starting now.

  But it wasn’t that simple. Because I knew it was not a promise I could easily keep. Wasn’t at all sure it was a promise I wanted to keep.

  Why had I opened my mouth if all I was going to do was lie? Answer: To regain some privacy, someplace within which Doug Spears and I could come together without being harrassed.

  To cherish what happened the other night, Romance reminded me in a soothing, persuasive voice. Because you’
ve never felt this way about a man before. This compelled, this in need. You have to pursue the feelings! It would be fatal to your soul to ignore them. This man could be your destiny. You cannot let arbitrary social mores stand in the way of your one great love!

  I would say one final thing. For effect. To keep up the role of reasonable, self-respecting woman, someone a friend could be proud of.

  “If Mr. What’s-His-Name suggests any hanky-panky, I’ll just tell him to go jump in the Charles.”

  JoAnne tossed her napkin on her plate and slid out of the booth. “I’m out of here.”

  “Have fun,” Maggie said.

  “Oh, so you’re meeting someone else?” I asked. “More exciting company?”

  “Martin. The lawyer I told you about.”

  “Do you like him?” Abby.

  “He keeps me out of worse trouble.” JoAnne turned to me and grinned. “Like dating married men.”

  Chapter Five

  My father and I had made plans to meet for dinner. If it were anyone but my father I would have canceled, rather than subject myself to being outside any longer than strictly necessary. It was a particularly bitter January day with more than a hint of snow in the air. The damp New England cold has a way of seeping through just about any gear you might don and chilling you head to toe.

  This kind of weather sucks. Not only does it suck, it blows. And bites.

  I do not like it. I know people who claim that Boston is no colder in winter than New York but I beg to differ. I’ve been to New York. I know what I know.

  By the time I got to the Legal Sea Foods at Park Square I was beyond miserable but determined to snap into a good mood. The last thing my father needed was to be dragged down further than he already had been by the last several months of divorce hell and postdivorce blues.

  He was waiting for me at a table for two. He’d ordered a bottle of wine and poured me a glass as I struggled out of the requisite layers of winter gear.

  “Cold enough for you?” he joked.

  I rolled my eyes. It was something my Grandfather Morelli used to say and it had always driven me crazy.

  “Ha ha.” I bent down and kissed his cheek, then sat down. “How are you?”

  “Can’t complain.” He made a face. “Well, actually, I could complain, but I won’t.”

  “I’d listen if you wanted to complain, Dad.”

  “No thanks. Hey, I ordered some bluefish pâté to start, okay?”

  Well, if my father didn’t want to bitch and moan, I wasn’t going to force him to bitch and moan.

  For a while we ate and drank and talked about mutual acquaintances and stuff going on at his office. Then, boldly I said:

  “Dad, do you want to get married again?”

  His answer came quickly and definitively. “Yes.”

  That was a surprise.

  “I ... why? I mean, after such a bad experience with Mom ...”

  “Erin, it wasn’t a bad experience with your mother. Well, the last part was, but not the entire marriage. Honey, there were lots of good things about our relationship. At least, I thought there were. I guess your mother didn’t share my opinion.”

  “Oh. So ... you wouldn’t have left her?”

  Dad sighed. “No, I wouldn’t have. Maybe I should have, maybe we both would have been happier in the long run if we’d parted earlier. But I’m not a boat-rocker, Erin. I liked the comfort of our family life. I liked the status quo. I felt—lucky.”

  “Oh.” Then, I said, “Do you think Mom was happy being married? I don’t mean to you, necessarily, just—being married.”

  “I tried to make her happy.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Thanks, Erin. But, honestly? No. I don’t think she was all that happy.”

  “Even in the beginning?”

  “Even then. Your mother loved me the best she knew how, I believe that. But I don’t think marriage was for her. Remember, Erin, there wasn’t a whole lot of choice for a woman like your mother. Given her family, especially her father, the church, her own lack of ambition. Your mother did what she thought she had to do.”

  “You’re awfully forgiving, Dad.”

  Dad laughed. “I’m not saying I’m not angry. Or hurt. But I can’t see the point in punishing your mother or in lying about her.”

  I wondered if Doug’s wife would be so generous with him if...

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Each of us in a marriage makes a deal—with ourselves and with the other.”

  I smiled. “How did you get so smart? Have you been in therapy and not told me?”

  Dad laughed. “Old age, Erin. With age comes wisdom. If you let it.”

  “You’re not old, Dad!”

  “I’m old enough. And I’ve had enough experience to realize that nobody knows what goes on in a marriage but the two people wearing the rings. That’s why it’s usually not a good idea to interfere in someone’s marriage based on what you see at a dinner party.”

  “Aside from bruises.”

  “Of course.”

  We ate in companionable silence for a while. Then I began to think.

  “So, Dad,” I said, “if you’re so smart and fine with things and all, does that mean you’re ready to start dating?”

  Dad laughed. “Oh, no. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time.”

  “Well, someday you’ll be open to meeting someone, right?” I prodded.

  “I suppose. Why don’t we just wait and see what happens, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed. Truth be told, I was in no great hurry to see my father out there on the singles’ market. For a variety of reasons.

  “Dessert?” Dad suggested with a mischievous grin. “I remember how much you loved German chocolate cake when you were a little girl.”

  Who could resist him?

  “Oh, yeah.”

  In spite of—or maybe because of—our busy work schedules, JoAnne, Maggie, Abby, and I tried hard to get together once a week. We were each other’s touchstones and, to a great extent, each other’s family—without the emotional garbage that comes with one’s biological family. I admit that sometimes I didn’t want to meet for dinner or brunch, that I would have preferred to hunker down alone with a book or in front of the TV, but the few times I succumbed to that desire I found myself regretting my decision. Being alone is fine—it is even healthy—but one can easily overdo it. Isolation is not an admirable goal.

  The four of us met for dinner at Ambrosia on Huntington Avenue. Inevitably, the conversation turned to men—dating them, loving them, avoiding them.

  “Who’s left to date in this town?” I wondered aloud as three twenty-something idiots whooping it up at a corner table were asked to keep the noise level down to a low bellow.

  “I want someone—innocent,” Abby said, frowning at the idiots. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” JoAnne said, replenishing her glass of wine. “Oddly enough, I do. But face facts. We’re in our early to midthirties. We can’t possibly avoid dating a guy who’s either been married, at least once, or who has kids. I mean, unless you’re into dating twenty-five-year-olds like the idiots in the corner—and good luck there.”

  “Or you’re into dating eternal bachelors and playboys, and then you’re just a masochist,” Maggie said.

  “If a guy hasn’t settled down by the time he’s thirty-five,” JoAnne said, “look out. Steer clear is what I say. He’s either obsessed with his mother or a serial killer. A serial killer obsessed with his mother.”

  “Isn’t that part of the job description?” I said to no one.

  “So, what’s the alternative? We just have to deal with ex-wives and stepchildren?” Abby asked mournfully.

  “It doesn’t have to be an entirely bad situation,” JoAnne said. “It depends on a lot of factors.”

  “Right. Like, was the divorce amicable,” I said, thinking of my parents and their divorce. “Their” divorce. Their marriage, their child, their divorce. Yet another thing they sha
red. Who would get the divorce when they died?

  “No divorce is amicable,” JoAnne said dismissively. “The question is: Is the woman a furious psycho?”

  “And, why did he get divorced in the first place?” Abby added. “Did he cheat on his wife? Did she cheat on him?”

  “And what’s their settlement like? Does he have to give almost all his money to her and the kids? If so, for how long? And how much money does he make? How much can he spend on you?” Maggie paused thoughtfully. “If you get married, can he afford to let you quit working to have kids?”

  “Isn’t that jumping ahead just a little?” Abby asked with a frown.

  “I’m trying to help you here. You’re the one who wants to get married.”

  “And what about the kids?” I said, thinking now of when I was a kid myself, about five or six, and we lived next door to a girl named Jeannie Connor. Jeannie’s parents were divorced. Five days a week Jeannie lived with her mother and went to my school. On Friday night Jeannie’s father would drive up to her house in a green Dodge Dart and park at the curb. From the living room window I’d watch him walk up the path to the front door, ring the bell, and wait for Jeannie and her little blue suitcase to appear. I’d watch as Jeannie’s father took her hand and led her to the car. As he carefully put her suitcase in the backseat and then opened the passenger side door for her to climb in. I’d watch them drive away.

  On Sunday nights at about seven-thirty, I’d push the living room drapes aside again—just a crack—and wait for Jeannie to reappear. She always did, with her suitcase and a large stuffed animal or doll clutched in her arm.

  Where did she go on those weekends, I’d wonder. What did she do? What adventures did she have? Somehow Jeannie’s life seemed glamorous to me. Two homes. A suitcase. A new toy every week. Jeannie seemed like a minor celebrity, living an exotic life of travel and surprise, while I sat trapped in my stable and happy home, peering at her through a wall of double-hung glass. I didn’t have a suitcase. And I got a new toy only on my birthday or Christmas. I was just like everybody else I knew. Except Jeannie.