Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Well,” I ventured, “the therapy is okay, right? I mean, you feel it’s helping?”

  JoAnne made a face. “I guess. I don’t know. Jesus, doesn’t anybody make a quick fix kit or something! Need a change? Apply liberally, rinse, repeat, presto, everything’s shiny and new.”

  I was beginning to understand something, the root of JoAnne’s frustration. As far as I knew, JoAnne hadn’t gone on one date since Martin.

  Oh, yeah. It was time to strategize. Forget the herbs and spacey music and goddess workshops. It was time for her to get back out there and meet a man. It was time for sex.

  “JoAnne,” I said, “you need to get laid.”

  “Well, duh,” she snapped. “But I’m supposed to be choosing wisely. I’m not supposed to be getting involved with just a fuck. My therapist says I need to meet someone who wants a relationship. Shit. What has my life come to?”

  “Your therapist is right,” I said. “Now, have you considered trying one of those seven-minute dating services?”

  “Shoot me. Just go ahead, kill me now.”

  I grinned. “Okay, okay. Just asking. So, it looks like we’re left with ye olde classic dating service. Or the personals.”

  “No personals,” JoAnne said fiercely.

  “All right then,” I said, picking up a copy of the Globe that was sitting on a side table. “It’s a dating service.”

  “I can’t believe I’m even considering this,” JoAnne muttered. “It’s humiliating.”

  “Oh, please. More humilating than sitting alone at a bar trying not to look like a desperate sex-starved woman?”

  “You do that?” JoAnne asked sweetly.

  “Yes. And so do you. Do you really need another reminder? You’re considering using a dating service because you’re mature enough to realize you can’t trust your old patterns any longer. You’re considering this because you’ve had a second brush with cancer and you realize that your life is passing you by and that maybe a real relationship would be a good thing for a change. So be quiet.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Now, let’s see. We have—okay, Options. And Choices ...”

  “Sound like abortion clinics. Next.”

  I scanned the page. “Your Call?”

  JoAnne rolled her eyes. “Sure that’s not Last Call?”

  I sighed. This was not going at all well. “Just try to be open, okay? Now: New Crop.”

  “No,” JoAnne said shortly. “I’m getting produce out of that.”

  She had a point. “Here’s one. Perfect Partners, Inc.”

  JoAnne considered. “Okay, not bad. A bit law-firm-like but ...”

  Now we were getting somewhere. All it took was the first little step ... “Right-On Romance!”

  “Oh, no. No way. I’m channeling Different Strokes. All in the Family. The Jeffersons.”

  One step forward, two steps back. “Okay. Here’s one. Reality Romance. That sounds, I don’t know, intelligent.”

  “A.K.A, Time to Settle.”

  I looked at JoAnne consideringly. “You know you’re impossible, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. As long as you know. Moving onward ... We’ve got: On Point Romance.”

  “For ballerinas only.”

  And weren’t most male ballet dancers gay, anyway? And the ones who weren’t probably weren’t big on hanging out at expensive bars. I’d heard that dancers were very poorly paid. Their salaries made a tuba player’s look hefty. Ballet dancers were not the way to go.

  “Here’s one,” I said. “Couples Co-ordinate.”

  “Specializing in geeky mathematicians.”

  I laughed. “Is there any other kind? Okay, I get your point. So, what about Perfect Partners, Inc. It’s the only one you didn’t entirely shoot down.”

  “I don’t know. Read the rest of their ad.”

  I did.

  “Where are the offices?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “I’m considering giving these people my hard-earned money, I want to know where their offices are located.”

  “Uh, Somerville.”

  “What! No way. Forget it. Slumerville? Uh uh.”

  It was a long, long afternoon.

  If JoAnne was experiencing a dry spell, Damion had hit the jackpot.

  I called him one evening and got the latest.

  Damion’s official new boyfriend was the real deal. Frederick was ten years Damion’s senior and had been in a long-term relationship until his partner had died. Not of AIDS or some other illness. The poor guy, only thirty-seven, had been hit by a car while on a morning bike ride. Frederick had been awarded a good deal of money by a sympathetic court; seems the driver was seriously drunk at the time of the accident and wanted on assault charges.

  After Tom’s death, Frederick had sold the home they’d shared in Lincoln for almost ten years and bought a condo in the South End. He’d told Damion that with Tom gone, he just couldn’t stand living alone in a big suburban house, surrounded by all the memories. Frederick had sold most of the furniture, bought new pieces, and put some other, more personal items of Tom’s in permanent storage. A formal portrait of Tom stood atop the baby grand piano in Frederick’s condo, the only physical reminder of him.

  “Is he morbid?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” Damion said. “He’s totally moved on with his life.”

  Tom had been allergic to animals, Damion explained. Frederick had always wanted a cat so after moving to the South End he’d walked on down to the Animal Rescue League of Boston and adopted two kittens, which he named Coco and Chanel.

  “What happens if you guys get serious?” I asked Damion. “Two cats living with two dogs? Sounds like trouble.”

  But Damion wasn’t worried. He was falling in love with a man who was falling in love with him.

  “It’ll work out,” Damion said, “you’ll see. True love makes all possible, chicka.”

  I wondered.

  “How did you meet him again?” I asked.

  “Erin, don’t you ever listen anymore? I swear, since you’ve been seeing that creep your brain has turned to mush. We met through a friend of his who I did a job for last month. It’s a great way to meet, through someone who knows you both.”

  “Isn’t that what blind dates are all about?” I said glumly. “Blind dates have a lousy reputation. Everyone says ...”

  “I don’t listen to what everyone says, my dear. I do what seems best for me.”

  “Okay. Well, good luck. When do I get to meet this guy?”

  “Soon, I promise. Let me enjoy him all to myself a bit more, though, okay?”

  “Sure,” I quipped. “Who am I to thwart the progress of true love?”

  Who was I even to recognize it?

  Chapter Forty-two

  E—is it nice in boston? v. hot here, all the time. miss fall and opp to wear my mink. ricardo offered to buy me one but what wld i do with it here? M.

  We decided that if JoAnne was going to do the dating service thing, she was going to do it right. Which meant we were going to have to help her. We gathered at Abby’s apartment and got down to work. Maggie begged off, saying she was taking a class for a colleague who was ill.

  “Perfect Partners asks that you fill out this simple questionnaire,” Abby explained, “to help them get to know you. It says in the brochure that they’ve successfully matched up over two hundred couples in the past two years! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  JoAnne grunted.

  “Curb your enthusiasm, dear,” I said.

  JoAnne sneered.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Abby wiggled in her chair and cleared her throat. “Okay, let’s get started. Now. First question. Remember, answer honestly,” she admonished.

  “Okay, okay. Just start.”

  “First question: Store you can’t live without?”

  “Express.”

  Abby looked surprised.

  “JoAnne’s a hoochie mama at
heart,” I commented helpfully. “You might want to put that down somewhere.”

  “Favorite ice cream flavor?”

  “Oh, come on,” JoAnne cried. “This is ridiculous. How do the answers to these questions reveal anything essential about me?”

  “You want to register with this dating service, you fill out the Personality Profile,” I said, struggling unsuccessfully to hide a grin.

  “Christ. Okay. Go on.”

  “Favorite ice cream flavor?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting.”

  “What? What’s interesting about my liking coffee ice cream? Is it too masculine or something?”

  “No, no,” Abby said. “Just wondering. Okay, next question. What movie star do you find most sexy: Brad Pitt, George Clooney, or Denzel Washington?”

  “Why do those same three names always come up in these stupid polls? None of the above. I’m into Charles Laughton.”

  “The fat dead guy.” I just wanted to be sure. “With the puffy lips.”

  “He’s not fat anymore. Put it down.”

  Abby sighed and tossed the questionnaire on the coffee table. “You’re not being honest, JoAnne. You’re giving a false picture of yourself.”

  “Next.”

  Abby sighed again. I was enjoying this immensely. JoAnne’s prickly discomfort was far more entertaining than a sitcom.

  Three hours later, we had a profile that vaguely resembled the JoAnne Chiofalo we knew and loved. It was going to have to do.

  Doug and I went for a walk one evening after work and found ourselves at the Holocaust Memorial at Dock Square by Congress Street and the Union Oyster House.

  I think it’s one of the most haunting and powerful monuments ever built. It’s particularly powerful when experienced at night.

  We stood quietly just outside the walls of glass, etched with six million numbers representing the victims of the Holocaust.

  “My grandfather was Jewish,” Doug said finally, softly.

  “Really?” That was interesting, as was any new information about Doug. But there was something odd about the way the words had sounded.

  “On whose side?” I asked.

  “My father’s father.”

  “So, your father is Jewish, too, right?” And that would make Doug, also, Jewish, at least partly.

  “No,” he said. “My grandfather converted to Christianity. My father was raised in the first church of suburbia. When he and my mother had kids, they gave up the whole religion thing entirely.”

  “But, when you’re Jewish you can’t just stop being Jewish, right? I mean, it’s more than a religion, it’s a people, a huge and varied culture, a ...”

  “Not for me,” Doug said harshly, and I knew the subject was dismissed.

  I knew but I couldn’t let it go. Not for the first time I wondered about Doug’s wedding, about Carol’s religious beliefs, about...

  “Did you and Carol get married in a church?” I asked, attempting to sound nonchalant.

  Doug answered promptly.

  “Carol was raised Lutheran. We got married in the church she went to every week as a kid.”

  “Does she still go to church?”

  “Why do you want to know these things?” Doug’s voice betrayed a slight annoyance. As if—as if he thought I was intruding on his privacy?

  Why did I want to know these things about Doug and Carol? Morbid curiosity? Or would knowing these domestic details somehow lead me to further knowledge of Doug as an individual? Truth was, I didn’t really understand my motives in prying.

  I shrugged. “It’s interesting, that’s all. I like to know about people.”

  Doug began to walk through the Memorial.

  “So,” I said, walking quickly to catch up. The words were going to come out of my mouth. I couldn’t stop them. “If you got married again, would you do it in a church? You know, if the woman ...”

  Doug stopped short and I bumped into him.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Erin,” he said, his voice serious and low, “I’m not getting married again.”

  “Oh. I just meant ...”

  “Erin, listen to me. Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever told you that I was leaving Carol?”

  “No,” I said, my heart shattering.

  “I’m sorry. This will have to be enough, what you and I have. Okay? Do you understand that?”

  I nodded, too sad to speak.

  Doug took my hand and we walked on.

  No, it’s not okay, I thought. And I don’t understand. What Doug and I have is not enough and it never will be.

  Now you’re talking sense, Reason said. I hadn’t even known it was listening.

  And no, I thought, bravely, stubbornly, I don’t believe that Doug will never get married again. I believe in us. I believe in our love. I believe we can be together the way we should be.

  There’s my girl, Romance soothed. Don’t give up hope. Love can conquer all obstacles.

  Except reality, Reason said. It can’t conquer reality.

  Chapter Forty-three

  We met at Joe’s American, clearly one of Maggie’s favorites, as almost every time it was her turn to choose the restaurant, that’s where we ended up. I reminded myself to buy her a T-shirt with the Joe’s logo for Christmas.

  Maggie was late by ten minutes. Her color was high. She looked—pretty. She flopped into the empty chair, said, “Sorry I’m late,” and grinned.

  “What in God’s name is going on with you?” JoAnne said, grinning back.

  “I met someone,” Maggie blurted.

  “I knew it!” JoAnne crowed. “That’s why you’ve been so secretive lately. And late. We’ve hardly seen you. Who is it? Do we know him?”

  Suddenly, it came to me. How could I have been so blind? There was no him to know.

  “Uh, not exactly,” Maggie said, blushing.

  “Do we know her?” I said, amazed at my own boldness.

  Maggie blushed more furiously. “Uh, you might. But probably not. She ...”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Just—whoa. Her?” JoAnne looked at me, like I was the one with the Big Story. “She’s a—she?”

  “Yes,” Maggie said. “She’s a—she.”

  Abby smiled kindly. “Maggie, I’m so happy for you. So, what’s her name, what’s she like, what does she do?”

  “So, you’re saying—what? That you’re gay?”

  “Why can’t you get with this, JoAnne?” I said. “We’re all a bit—surprised—but it’s really no big deal.” I looked at Maggie. “I don’t mean anything insulting by that. I just mean, you know ... But if it is a big deal I don’t want to diminish what’s going on and I guess it is a big deal after all ...”

  “You can stop babbling, Erin,” Maggie said. Kindly. “And yes, JoAnne, I guess this does mean that I’m gay, or maybe what it means is simply that I’m in love with a woman, I don’t know. Yet. I don’t really care. Look, I’m happy. For the first time in way too long, I’m happy. Jan makes me happy.”

  “And I think it’s so wonderful!” Abby squealed. “What’s Jan’s last name? Is she pretty? Oh, should I ask that?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie admitted with a laugh. “I think she’s beautiful. And her last name is Ward and she’s very smart and very kind. And she loves, me, too.”

  “How did you meet this paragon of womanhood?” JoAnne sounded like she was choking.

  “We met through the Women’s Lunch Place. You know, where I volunteer. So does she.”

  “When did you meet?” Abby asked.

  Maggie considered. “Exactly two months and eleven days ago.”

  Bingo.

  “Wait a minute!” I cried. “She’s Dr. Bruce, isn’t she? You went to Paris with Jan, didn’t you?”

  Maggie blushed furiously.

  JoAnne clapped. “You dog, you.”

  Abby’s mouth opened wide. “You mean, there is no Dr. Bruce?”

  “Jan owns a bookstore in Harvard Square,” Maggie
said hurriedly. “She’s very successful. I mean, she’ll never get rich being an independent but she provides a great service to the community with special orders and readings and events. She can pay the mortgage and still have enough left over to ...”

  “Take you to dinner?”

  “Actually,” Maggie said coyly, “Jan’s a fabulous cook. We usually eat at home.”

  “Hmm. I have noticed you’ve, er, filled out a bit lately.”

  “And I look better, don’t I?” Maggie challenged.

  Actually, she did, I realized.

  “I’ll be right back.” Maggie got up and walked toward the ladies’ room.

  When she was out of sight, JoAnne leaned close to me.

  “I’m sorry,” she hissed. “I just don’t understand how you can go to bed one night straight and wake up the next morning gay. Something weird’s going on here.”

  Abby said nothing but looked at JoAnne with concern.

  “That’s not how it happens, JoAnne,” I said. “Come on, you know better.”

  “Do I? Look how hard it’s been for me to change my life, even a little bit and Maggie just ... just ...”

  “Just what, JoAnne?” Maggie had returned from the ladies’ room.

  JoAnne looked stumped for about half a second then recovered her usual aplomb.

  “Look, Maggie. I could use some advice. Nothing I’m doing seems to be helping all that much. Individual therapy, group therapy—”

  “People still do group therapy?” Abby said. “I thought that went out with fondue pots.”

  “Fondue pots are back,” I said. “Check the Crate and Barrel catalog.”

  “Anyway,” JoAnne said loudly, “and art therapy and Ti freakin’ Chi and touchy-feely goddess-within workshops. Why am I not happier than I was when I started all this self-help crap? All I’ve accomplished is a piece of cardboard with macaroni pasted on it. And I haven’t heard one word from that bogus dating service.”

  “So, what you’re really saying is that you’re jealous of me?”

  JoAnne looked hard at Maggie. “Yes, I think that’s what I’m really saying. You got happy. You fell in love with someone who fell in love back. I didn’t. Haven’t. Yeah, I’m jealous. And—well, I guess I’m proud of you, too.”