Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  Bert loped off and Doug and I continued through the Gardens.

  “Can you believe that moron!” I hissed. “What a freakin’ nerve! He’s hallucinating!”

  “Oh, come on, Erin. Aren’t you exaggerating, just a bit?” Doug’s cocky smile just fueled my fire.

  “I was not in love with him,” I said fiercely.

  “Maybe you were, just a little. It was a long time ago, right? Maybe you forgot.”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. I’ll tell you what really happened. One night Mr. Numbnuts said to me, ‘Hey, babe, don’t fall in love with me.’ Believe me, falling in love with Bert was the last thing on my mind. So, I answered, quite nicely, ‘Uh, love? This is just a fuck.’ And he looked at me like I’d just strangled his pet puppy. He was horrified. He just couldn’t imagine meaning nothing more to me than his technique. Which wasn’t so fabulous, by the way. Well, that was the end of that. He acted all huffy and injured and then he broke up with me.”

  Doug eyed me.

  “You really didn’t care?”

  “I really didn’t care. But obviously, Bert did. It’s been how many years and he still can’t let it go?”

  We walked on. Anger made me want to run, not walk.

  “Why did you go out with him in the first place if he was so lame?” Doug said suddenly.

  I felt my heart go hard.

  “Why does anyone do anything?” I said. “Boredom.”

  Jan was at a meeting of independent booksellers. Maggie was free to have dinner with us. We gathered at my house for takeout from Jae’s. It was an amusing challenge keeping Fuzzer out of the chicken dishes I’d ordered.

  When the food was distributed, JoAnne said: “So, tell us. What’s it like with a woman?”

  “JoAnne! God ...” Abby gulped her water.

  “I’m curious. I mean, I have an idea but I’ve never gotten a first-hand report from an actual ...”

  “Lesbian. You can say it, it’s okay. Pass the spring rolls?”

  “Really, Maggie, we don’t have to talk about this ...” I said as I handed her the plate.

  “I know. But we’ve spent hours talking about sex with men so JoAnne is right to assume she can ask me about sex with women.”

  “See?”

  “But I’m not going to tell you anything.”

  “What? Why not?” JoAnne demanded.

  “Because my sex life—now that I’m having one again—is private. It’s no one’s business but mine and Jan’s.” Maggie grinned sheepishly. “Besides, I’m too shy to talk about it.”

  “Well, you guys are still new,” I said. “It’s normal you’d want to keep things special.”

  “That, too. But I’m not going to be giving a course in lesbian sex to you chickies any time soon so ...”

  “Rats.” JoAnne. “Anyone going to eat that last dumpling?”

  “I’m relieved,” Abby said, then clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean ... I just ... Maggie, you know I’m shy, too!”

  It was a good evening, the four of us just hanging around, drinking wine, eating Asian food, taking turns scratching Fuzzer’s head. It was like old times.

  But it wasn’t. Things had happened to us. Other things were happening. And still other things were about to happen.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  November, Boston

  November in Boston is often gray, rainy, and cold. But that’s only after the trees have exploded with color and the air has freshened.

  November the first. The day after Halloween. A holiday best left to children, in my opinion. Too many adults find it license to be idiots. Idiots in stupid costumes. Drunken idiots in stupid costumes.

  I’d stayed home and distributed candy for the few kids who came around. All were accompanied by their parents. Maggie and Jan had gone to bed early, pooped after a day of serving and cleaning up after a holiday meal at WLP. Abby and my father had rented the old black-and-white Dracula with Boris Karloff and popped popcorn.

  JoAnne had donned an expensive rented costume and gone with Peter Leonard to a party given by someone from his office.

  JoAnne had gone as Cleopatra. Peter, it seemed, had gone as himself. An asshole.

  The four of us met at Tremont 647 for dinner.

  “Gather round, girls,” JoAnne said when we were all together. “I have a little story to tell.”

  Peter Leonard had turned out not to be a perfect partner, at all.

  “From the minute we got to the party,” JoAnne said, “Peter acted as if I didn’t exist. He didn’t introduce me to anyone. He got his own drink. Then he got me one, but only after I’d asked him to. So, being the social butterfly that I am, I began to mingle. And it didn’t take me long to see that every woman at the party but me was a twenty-something. A young twenty-something. I tried to strike up a conversation with one girl dressed as a genie but it’s hard to have a meaningful talk with someone who doesn’t know the name of the current mayor of Boston.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “I know the type. Dumb as a bucket of hair. What about the men? Anyone eligible?”

  JoAnne laughed. “If you’re looking for late thirty-something assholes who make far too much money for their own good. Judging by the conversations I overheard, Peter isn’t even the worst of the bunch.”

  “So, what happened?” Abby asked. “Did you just leave?”

  “Well, that was the plan. First, being a well-mannered social butterfly, I figured I’d find Peter and tell him I was out of there. And I found him all right. With his tongue down the throat of the dumb-ass girl I’d tried to talk to earlier.”

  “Loser,” Maggie pronounced.

  “Oh, yeah. Total loser. But I wasn’t leaving without his knowing I’d seen him. So, I shouted his name and when he came up for air, I picked two apples from the bobbing bowl and tossed them to him.”

  My jaw dropped like a cartoon character in shock. “You didn’t.”

  “I did. And I said, ‘Here. You might need these. I noticed you don’t have any of your own.’ ”

  Abby looked puzzled.

  “The apples were, like, his balls,” Maggie explained.

  Abby gasped. “Oh, my God. Did he do anything? Did he say anything? He must have been so embarrassed!”

  JoAnne shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if he got my meaning. I walked out of the room, grabbed my coat, and got the hell out of there.”

  “You ...” What could I say? I was so proud. “You amaze me. Kudos, woman, and kudos again.”

  “What are you going to do?” Abby asked. “You really liked him.”

  JoAnne laughed. “What do you think I’m going to do? It takes more than a bimbo in a freakin’ genie costume to keep me down.”

  “Hurrah for you!”

  “See,” I said. “Being open to emotional experience doesn’t mean giving up all powers of discrimination. It doesn’t mean you have to be anti-intellectual. And it doesn’t mean issuing an open invitation to be trod upon.”

  JoAnne eyed me. “Just who are you preaching to?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “My advice,” Maggie said, “is to stay away from those dating services and just live your life.”

  “Not exactly the most original words of wisdom ...” JoAnne grinned. “But I like them.”

  Erin—any snow yet? don’t miss nov in boston one bit! thinking of writing memoirs of travels. think it wld sell big, if i do say so myself. M.

  Abby had come over to watch an Audrey Hepburn movie. She owned just about all of them on video and was slowly replacing them with DVD versions. I was the happy recipient of the slightly worn videos.

  It should have been a light, fun occasion but from the moment Abby walked into the apartment, it was clear she had something on her mind.

  I popped the tape into the VCR—Breakfast at Tiffany’s, this time—and got us settled with champagne, cracked black pepper crackers, a variety of cheeses, and olives.

  “Ready?” I asked, though I knew in my heart it wo
uld be some time before we would get to the movie.

  “I have to talk,” Abby said, sitting upright on the edge of her chair, busily twisting the tassle on a throw pillow.

  “Okay.” Yes, the movie would wait.

  “Erin, could you ... Do you think you could talk to John? You know, about me and him.”

  It was not what I was expecting to hear.

  “Oh, Abby,” I said, “I can’t do that. First of all, I doubt he’d say anything but ‘Mind your own business.’ Second . . . well, I think I should mind my own business. Why can’t you, you know, just ask him if anything is wrong?”

  Abby flopped back into the chair and rested her head against its back. Fuzzer immediately leapt onto her lap. “I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid of what I’ll hear.”

  “What if I hear something—bad. You’d want me to tell you, right?”

  “No. Well, yes, I suppose. Erin, I just can’t figure out what’s going on! John’s been so distant lately. Since my birthday. Not mean, not really cold, just—kind of like a stranger. I feel he’s uncomfortable with me suddenly and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Erin, I swear, last night both of us couldn’t wait to get home. To our separate apartments.”

  “I really don’t know what to say, Abby. Except that you should talk to him. Maybe something at work is driving him crazy, I don’t know. And you won’t know either, unless you just ask him if everything’s all right between you.”

  “Maybe if I just say nothing and act like everything’s fine—which will be hard but I can do it—whatever’s going on will pass. They say that sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

  And, I added silently, they also say that having your head up your butt means you’re a big sack of stupid.

  “Well, it’s up to you, Abby,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

  Another lie, but it seemed to satisfy Abby, who now busied herself with scratching Fuzzer under his chin and humming softly.

  I took a sip of champagne and started the tape.

  I’d done what I thought was the right thing. I’d advised Abby to speak honestly with her boyfriend. But I had developed a strong curiosity now and knew I’d butt in where I shouldn’t. I’d talk to Dad. I just wouldn’t tell Abby that I had.

  Secrecy and lies, deceptions and falsehoods. The words were like a chant in my head. They were becoming my own personal mantra. I could see my tombstone now: HERE LIES ERIN WESTON. ADULTERER, CONSUMMATE LIAR, BETRAYER. MAY SHE ROT IN HELL.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Friday. The end of the week, the beginning of another weekend without Doug. We’d spent a lot of time together Monday through Thursday and I probably should have had the strength not to pop in on him at Trident’s offices Friday late afternoon but ...

  I knew that Doug usually didn’t leave work before six on a Friday. At five-forty-five I knocked on his open office door. As far as I could tell, everyone else at Trident had gone home. Odd. But promising. Maybe we could slip in a few kisses, at least.

  Doug looked up from his computer.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, obviously startled.

  I smiled. “Just wanted to say hi before you left for the weekend. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  “You didn’t. But I need to finish something before I leave.”

  “Rush hour traffic’s a bear, isn’t it?” I said, moving into the office and perching on the edge of his desk.

  Doug looked at me and something flickered in his eyes. I felt sick suddenly.

  “I’m not going home,” he said. “I’m staying in Boston this weekend.”

  I felt sicker now. Oh, God, I thought, Doug’s seeing another woman ... How could he, after our weekend in Vermont?

  “Oh?” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Doug leaned back in his chair, as if relaxing. “Because it’s really none of your business, Erin. It’s my anniversary. Carol’s coming in to meet me at seven and we’re staying at the Ritz for the weekend.”

  I’ve never been shot by a gun and hope never to be. But I can’t help thinking that what I felt at that moment was what a gunshot victim might feel at the moment of impact. Nausea. Pain. Shock. Disbelief. The world growing fuzzy and dark at the edges.

  “You’re doing what?” I said finally, voice shaking with rage.

  “Oh, come on!” Doug laughed. He roared. He really didn’t get it. “I can’t believe you’re upset about this.”

  “You can’t believe I’m upset that you’re taking Carol to the Ritz for a weekend?”

  “She’s my wife and the mother of my kids. I respect her, I’ve told you that. It’s our anniversary and I want her to feel special.”

  Okay, Reason said, he’s got a point. He can give his wife whatever gift he pleases. You have no right to object.

  It’s good that he treats his wife well, Romance said stoutly. It bodes well for you.

  But on the other hand, Reason continued, voice more sharp, what an amazing load of crap this guy is spewing.

  I struggled to keep my voice at a calm pitch and my hands from picking up the giant stapler and lobbing it at Doug’s head.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as a bit, oh, I don’t know, insincere, to be celebrating your anniversary when you’ve told me you know you married the wrong woman—and when you’re fucking another woman? When you’ve taken another woman away for the weekend?”

  I couldn’t help it. My voice had risen to a horribly hysterical screech. I could hardly stand myself.

  Doug looked unperturbed. His smile was gone—but not entirely. “No,” he said, “I don’t think I’m being insincere. I think you’re being childish.”

  For one thrillingly nasty moment I determined to call Carol and blow it all up, tell her that her shithead of a husband was cheating on her, tell her we were both better off without him, crack open Doug’s world like my grandfather used to crack open walnuts in his bare hand. God, that would feel good. I’d be free and clear and ...

  And you’d be leaving Carol to clean up the mess, Reason pointed out. You’d be cracking open her life, too, destroying her hard-won illusions of a happy marriage. She doesn’t deserve that, Erin.

  But doesn’t she deserve the truth? I demanded.

  Yes. But not from you and not in this way. Not as an act of vengeance.

  That gave me something to think about. I knew so little about Carol—the real Carol. Was she mentally tough, emotionally resilient? Would she receive my revelation with mature stoicism—or would she collapse with grief? Maybe even try to kill herself. What would become of the children if I destroyed Carol and her personal version of marriage?

  Damn it, Reason was right. I’d keep my mouth shut.

  But oh, did my heart—and my dignity—hurt.

  “I can’t be with you right now,” I said. I couldn’t even look at Doug’s face. I reached for my bag and his hand shot out for mine. I yanked both hand and bag away and still without looking directly at him, I left.

  Behind me I heard an amused chuckle.

  On the way home that evening I forced myself to stop in CVS for the few items on my list. You’ll be home soon enough, I told myself soothingly. And then you can let loose. Cry. Stomp. Eat. Drink. Whatever. All by yourself. For the entire weekend.

  No matter what time of the day, CVS was mobbed.

  Mouthwash and ibuprofen. Last stop, the makeup aisle.

  I took my purchases to the back counter, which is really the prescription pharmacy counter, but the people who work there are much smarter than the ones who work at the general checkout counter up front. So, if you don’t want to be charged six times for one stick of deodorant, and then spend fifteen minutes waiting for the slack-jawed cashier to cancel out the order and start from the beginning, you take your purchase to the drug counter.

  The guy behind the counter wore a name tag that read JARED. Nice name. He said hello and asked if I had a CVS card. I didn’t. He rang up the mouthwash, ibuprofen, and liquid makeup.


  “Oh,” he said, examining the box of face powder. “There’s no price on this. Did you by any chance notice what it costs?”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t. Sorry.”

  “No problem.” Jared looked over his shoulder. A twenty-something girl stood several feet behind him, hair streaked false red, lab coat open to reveal a tight tank top. He held up the box of face powder.

  “Suzy? Do you know the price on Revlon Age-Defying face powder stuff?”

  The girl laughed. “How would I know?” she said loudly. “I’m not, like, old.”

  Jared whipped back to face me. One look at my face and he knew I’d heard the girl’s careless remark. At least Jared had the decency to blush.

  “I’ll go check the price myself,” he said and rushed out from behind the counter.

  Which left me looking directly at the girl, and her looking at me. Suzy’s expression was carefully blank. And then she turned away from me.

  So, there I was, waiting for my age-defying formula. Trembling—slightly—with anger. Trembling—largely—with hurt. Single, thirty-two, and with no more prospect of marriage than I had back in January when I’d vowed to get serious about my life. When I’d promised myself I’d start living more consciously and wisely.

  Who ever knew I was such a liar?

  I had another dream about Doug that night. Maybe “about” isn’t really the most accurate word. It was more like the dream was Doug, like the dream was reality, like Doug was there physically, in my bedroom, in me, on me, overwhelming me. It wasn’t a sex dream as much as it was—what? I was beneath Doug, he was hovering over me, then pressed against me and I couldn’t breathe and it was thrilling and at the same time horrible. I looked up as best I could, not being able to move all that easily, and Doug’s head was thrown back but it lowered when he sensed my watching and blood gushed from his mouth ...

  I woke then, scared and breathing fast. No blood on my face, no Doug in the bed, just Fuzzer sleeping heavily against my leg. I got up and went through my usual morning routine and put the disturbing dream from my mind. It wasn’t easy but I did it.