Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  JoAnne had a point.

  “It all comes down to self-respect, doesn’t it?” I said, shuffling my photographs around the page. “If you don’t respect yourself, then how can you expect someone else to respect you?”

  “That and independence.”

  “Interdependence is healthy.” Or so I’d heard.

  “To be successfully interdependent you need to be truly independent first,” JoAnne corrected. “You need to know your boundaries. You need to be able to spot when someone is crossing his own boundaries and getting too close to yours.”

  It was beginning to sound as if we were talking about invading armies and international warfare rather than two people in a loving relationship.

  “My head is swimming.” I said. “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Gladly.”

  “You used to be fun, you know that?”

  I reached for something called a corner rounder and began to snip.

  “Honey, I was never fun. Witty, yes. A smart ass, yes. Fun, no. Now, we’d better start making these pages or the kindergarten teacher over there is going to scold us.”

  “Ladies!” the consultant called. “Let’s go around the room and share the work we’ve done so far. Tell us a bit about the pictures you brought with you tonight.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement. It did not come from us.

  “Nancy, why don’t you start?”

  Nancy stood and showed us her page in progress. “These are my two little boys,” she said. “They’re twins, Jason and Jacob. I took these pictures on their first day of nursery school. Aren’t they adorable!”

  JoAnne raised an eyebrow at me and whispered, “I’ve seen cuter.”

  Maria went next. She had brought pictures of her honeymoon in Barbados.

  Maggie passed me a note. It said: “I prefer Europe.”

  Rebecca had brought pictures of her wedding.

  Abby made a subtle face at me. I knew the look. It meant, “Horrible dress.”

  “And what about you, Erin?” Candace Recklet asked. “What did you bring?”

  Show-and-Tell should be outlawed after kindergarten.

  I remained seated and very quickly said, “Just some pictures of my cat.” What was I supposed to have done? Ask Doug for some pictures of him with his kids and try to pass them off as my own?

  “Well, stand up and show us,” the consultant said brightly. “I’m sure we’d all love to see them. After all, our pets are important members of the family, aren’t they? Especially when we have no other special someones at home.”

  I felt my face begin to burn. There was no way in hell I would be able to stand up and brag about Fuzzer in front of this group of happy wives and mommies. And how the hell had she known I lived alone? Did I look so obviously lonely?

  “Well,” JoAnne said, standing, her voice loud and brooking no interruption. “I didn’t bring any pictures with me. But if I had, they probably would have been of me and one of the fabulously handsome and wealthy men I date. Maybe Martin and me in Cancun. He looked so yummy in that itsy-bitsy bathing suit. Or Wayne and me at the Plaza in Manhattan. No man wears a tux like Wayne. He owns three of his own. Or ...”

  “Thank you, thank you,” the consultant said, laughing nervously.

  Show-and-Tell was over after that. JoAnne shrugged and sat down.

  “I owe you one,” I said, impending tears going back to where they’d come from. Deep inside.

  JoAnne grinned. “No problem. It’s what I live for.”

  In the end, Maggie bought a baby album and wouldn’t say why. I bought a wedding album because I wanted to torture myself even further. JoAnne bought a travel album, a practical gift for herself, and several small albums and accessories for her staff. Abby bought everything. Candace Recklet gave us each a business card and packed up her many black bags. I tossed the card in my purse and forgot about it for a long, long time.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  E—rmbr to send b-day card to mrs. cirillo. she’s yr godmother, after all. rmbr respect yr elders. M.

  On a beautiful afternoon in late June, Doug and I went to the movies. Our first movie together. I told Terry that I had a dentist appointment and left the office at three. Doug met me in the lobby of the Loews along the Common on Tremont. It was risky; someone we knew might see us. But to the outside world we were simply two friends spending time together, nothing illicit about it at all. Or so I tried to convince myself.

  We each paid for our own ticket. That seemed right. Doug asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I shook my head no.

  We sat in the back of the theater, Doug’s choice. It was largely empty. The tension between us was enormous. It was an entity in and of itself. It was a welcome intruder.

  We mocked the pre-preview Hollywood quizzes. We commented on the previews: “I’d see that” or “No way.”

  And then the lights went all the way down.

  Doug’s knee touched mine and didn’t jerk away. I could hardly breathe. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, have him think I was sending a signal for him to move his leg away.

  His hand took mine. I squeezed his hand gently.

  I can’t speak for Doug but I was barely conscious of the movie on the screen, some two-bit comedy we’d chosen because both of us knew our going to the movies wasn’t about the movie. Doug’s touch, the length of his leg against mine, our hands clasped—I felt almost sick with desire.

  When the movie was over and the lights came up, Doug finally released my hand.

  “Pretty good, wasn’t it?” he said softly.

  “Yes,” I answered. “It was.”

  Later, alone at home, with the TV tuned to E!—perfect for when you’re in the mood for sound but not for serious listening—I thought about that afternoon. Doug and I definitely had taken another step closer to each other—and closer to a full-blown affair.

  Was I really okay with that?

  The fact was, I’d never considered seeing a married man. I mean, the notion had never even crossed my mind. How many women, I wondered, actually said to themselves, okay, I think I’ll date a married man for a while. Who would choose that path?

  Well, maybe a woman who wanted the minimum of commitment and the maximum of freedom, while still having somewhat regular sex.

  Even that sounded—odd. So I thought more about it.

  Fact: After a while, two single people in a relationship either broke up or got married. But a relationship involving one married partner pretty much precluded the second eventuality. How many married men having affairs actually left their wives to marry their girl on the side? Not many.

  So, what would motivate a woman who said she wanted to get married to get involved with a married man?

  There was only one answer, I thought. Well, maybe one answer with several parts. Passion. Overwhelming desire. Intense need.

  Obsession? No, I didn’t like that word. Addiction? To what, danger? Was a woman who would sleep with a married man a thrill-seeker? Huh. I’d never thought of myself as a thrill-seeker but ...

  So, what was it about Doug Spears that overrode the fact of his being married to another woman? Besides his incredible sexual allure, of course.

  The answer: Doug made me feel smart and competent. He regularly asked for my input or advice on everything from what to buy the secretaries for Secretaries’ Day to the wording of an opening paragraph in a proposal. Sometimes it seemed as if he were the only person in my life at all interested in me. Abby had my father; my father had Abby. JoAnne had the pursuit of a new JoAnne. Maggie had withdrawn from all of us with no explanation.

  Except for Fuzzer, Doug was the only person I saw or spoke to or got a message from every day. He was beginning to feel like family.

  And family is a powerful thing.

  Even when they forget that their daughter’s godmother has been dead for over a year.

  Still, I held out.

  Our conversations—if they merited that term—went something like thi
s:

  Me: “I can’t do this.”

  Doug: “Why not?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “Not everyone would agree.”

  “It will hurt Carol.”

  “It won’t affect her life. I won’t let it. She’ll never know.”

  “What if she finds out?”

  “She won’t.”

  “What will people say?”

  “They won’t know, either.”

  “What if people find out?”

  “Screw ’em. It’s none of their business. Besides, it would only be a rumor. We’ll be careful. No one will see us when we’re alone.”

  “Could I tell my friends?”

  “The fewer people who know the better. But do what you have to do.”

  “No one at work should know.”

  “Of course.”

  “What if my boss found out?”

  “He can’t fire you because of your personal life. And remember, it’ll only be a rumor. No one can prove anything.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. Everything.”

  There were slight variations on the theme but the content was always the same: I resisted, Doug persisted; I shied away, Doug pursued; I hesitated, Doug urged a seizing of the moment.

  As time passed, my protestations grew weaker, even to my own ears. Doug knew and I knew that it was only a matter of time before I capitulated. Because I wanted so badly to be with Doug Spears. I’d never wanted anything so badly in my life.

  I talked to Doug about lots of things. I talked about my father dating my best friend. Cautiously, at first, not spilling the jumble of my feelings about the situation, unsure of the level of conversational intimacy that Doug and I shared. It’s not wise to share family trauma with someone you haven’t yet slept with. Chances are that if you do, the sex part will never come about.

  Here’s what he said: “Don’t think about it, Erin. Don’t waste your time on something you can’t control. Think about yourself. Think about me. Think about us. Think about something you can control.”

  I couldn’t let it go quite that easily. “So, you don’t think it’s—odd—that my father is sleeping with my best friend?”

  “I don’t think anything about it,” Doug said, taking my hand in his. “I think about us.”

  Doug and I had dinner at Ginza in Chinatown. We went mad on sushi, which I’ve always found to be a highly sensuous—and visually beautiful—food. Several cups of sake later, Doug walked me to the corner of Kneeland Street and Harrison Avenue, where I could catch a cab home. He put my arm through his as we walked. I couldn’t look at him. Because if I did ...

  Just before we reached the end of the small, alleylike street, Doug kissed me. In one swift motion he stopped us, turned me to him, and kissed me. I kissed him back. It was so simple.

  “Why the hell haven’t we done that before?” he breathed finally, his mouth at my ear.

  There’s no turning back, I thought. I felt his erection against me.

  “I don’t know,” I breathed back.

  Doug pulled back a bit and looked at me.

  “Your lipstick’s gone,” he said.

  “I don’t care.”

  “I like your lips naked.”

  “Good,” I said. “Sake is a good thing.”

  Doug laughed. “You think that’s what gave me the courage to finally kiss you?”

  I took his face in my hands. “I don’t care what gave you the courage,” I said. “Just kiss me again, okay?”

  He did.

  Ten minutes later I was sitting alone in the backseat of a cab, biting back a shout of happiness.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  July, Boston

  July in New England is nice if you’re spending your days at a lake or at the beach. But July in Boston just picks up and runs with late June’s haziness, heat and humidity. And let’s face it—haziness, heat, and humidity, annoying enough in and of themselves, also call attention to a city’s grime and its unfortunate homeless population. Crime goes up in the hot weather. The average, generally peace-loving person begins to understand the impulse to commit random acts of violence.

  At least, I do.

  The only good thing about July is the opportunity to celebrate Independence Day. I went to a rooftop barbecue and watched the spectacular fireworks display over the Charles. I’m not a flag waver by nature, but I do admit to feeling pretty darned patriotic on the Fourth.

  Anyway, one night, just after the Fourth, I met JoAnne, Maggie, and Abby at Jae’s, on Columbus Avenue for dinner.

  Falling off the edge of caution and into a relationship with Doug had started me thinking more closely than ever about being alone. About being single. About living single. About a married woman like my mother, choosing after over thirty years of marriage to be single, again.

  “Do we even think about what it means to be living single?” I said when the wine had been poured. “Not just being single but living it, day after day, month after month, year after year?”

  “I do.” Maggie. “All the time.”

  “I don’t think I know what you mean, Erin,” Abby admitted.

  “You know,” JoAnne burst out, “I see a couple on a bus or in a theater—that’s the worst! What the hell did you buy tickets for if you’re not going to watch the show!—and the woman puts her head on the guy’s shoulder. Okay, well, news flash, I’m tired, too, okay? But I’m alone and I don’t have the option of leaning against someone. So, I’ve learned how to sit up on my own and how to stay sitting up on my own.”

  I knew I should keep my mouth shut but the temptation was too great. “So ... are you saying the woman is weak for leaning against her husband? Is leaning on your husband’s shoulder a weakness. Is it wrong?”

  “In public, yeah, it’s a weakness and yeah, it’s wrong because it’s insulting and it’s showing off in front of women like me who don’t have a husband to lean on!”

  What?

  “That’s a little harsh and judgmental, JoAnne,” Maggie said. “And self-centered. I hardly think either member of a happy couple is thinking of anyone but themselves.”

  “I think JoAnne’s just jealous,” Abby said. “You’ll think differently when you’ve met the right guy.”

  JoAnne glared. “Don’t tell me what I’ll think, okay?”

  “Look, what if the woman’s not tired?” I said. “Maybe leaning on her husband’s shoulder is a sign of affection. Are you saying that if you were engaged or married you’d never put your head on your guy’s shoulder in public? Ever?”

  “What am I, crippled?”

  “Can she say that word?” Maggie said, musingly. “Because I don’t think she can say that word.”

  “I’ve got something wrong with my spine, I need a brace, I can’t sit up by myself? What am I, an infant?”

  Why was I opening my mouth again?

  “We’re not talking about the woman going down on her husband in public,” I said, “or playing tonsil hockey, or her asking him to carry her over a puddle. We’re talking about a small sign of affection. Is all PDA off-limits with you? No holding hands, no linking arms? Just because you can’t have it no one else can? That’s not a very generous way of thinking.”

  “Maybe I’m not a very generous person.”

  “That’s crap,” I said. “You’re a pediatrician. By nature and by profession you help people. You do services for free when the parents are strapped. You’re there for your friends when they need you. You ...”

  “Yeah, I’m a regular Florence Nightingale.”

  “Can we please change the subject?” Abby pleaded. “Living single is too—messy.”

  I looked sideways at JoAnne and wondered what the hell was wrong with her. She was in a big bad mood, being more than characteristically bitter. Was it all because Martin had dumped her? Had the recent cancer scare opened up some old wounds? I felt I had to ask her to talk to me—but not right then. I was too afraid of
being attacked.

  However, JoAnne did have something to say and she was about to say it to us all.

  “Look, I’m sorry everyone, really. Shit. It’s just that I’m pissed at Martin. And ...” JoAnne took a gulp of water before going on. “And there’s something that’s been weighing on my mind since that stupid cancer scare. God, I wish I didn’t have to ...”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, JoAnne,” Abby said helpfully.

  JoAnne grimaced.

  “What is it?” Maggie asked.

  JoAnne began. “I told Erin, right before I got the biopsy results. I had cancer as a kid, okay, and it was bad but I got over it. But it basically destroyed my family and I don’t know . . . Lately I’ve got all these—feelings—running around inside and I don’t know what the hell to do with them.”

  Abby and Maggie each murmured the appropriate murmurs of sympathy.

  I risked it. “You said you wanted to make some changes. Maybe a therapist is a good idea.”

  “Ha. Only as a last resort.”

  “I could give you a name,” Maggie offered.

  “No, thanks. I shouldn’t have even said anything now, but ...” JoAnne laughed and shook her head. “I’m so confused lately, I don’t know what I’m saying half the time. I should just go home and get on my treadmill, work off some energy.”

  “JoAnne,” Abby said, “are you sure you should be alone?”

  Lord.

  “Why?” JoAnne looked utterly annoyed. “I’m not suicidal. God. Forget I said anything.”

  JoAnne gathered her things and handed a few bills to me.