I met Mr. Stability that fall. His name was Daniel and he was the director of marketing for the La Jolla Playhouse.
On our first date we saw Julius Caesar at the Old Globe Theatre. Every time the lights went down for a scene change, we kissed wildly, and after the play we danced in Balboa Park under a white trellis, thick with wisteria and pink roses.
One Sunday, Daniel drove me to Julian, up in the mountains east of San Diego, to see the autumn leaves and eat warm apple pie. He was adorable and had the sweetest smile. On a red flannel blanket under an oak tree with acorns scattered all around us, I fell in love with him. He was the right person, and I knew it.
I think Mom and Jim felt the same way, because when Daniel got off the plane with me that Christmas, his Brooks Brothers suit slightly disheveled, jet-black hair combed perfectly to the side, my mother whispered, “Marry this man.”
Daniel came from an East Coast upper-class background, which included expensive restaurants, correct-for-every-occasion clothes, and no jumping in leaves or hugging. I was nervous about what he might think of Galesburg, with its single grain elevator north of town. Much to my surprise, he embraced it. All of it. The tiny post office, the cemetery with the sunken grave, and Whitmore’s field behind our house, where we’d buried all those birds, squirrels, and murdered cats. He’d grown up in Washington, D.C., and had never seen such a rural place. Surprisingly, his new favorite thing was Christmas at Mom’s.
He was Jewish, but that first Christmas Eve he insisted on performing “Silent Night” with my family at the Galesburg Methodist Church. We were an eccentric choir that year, with Christine, JoAnn’s new black girlfriend, singing soprano; Jim, who was now my stepdad but who still had the stain of dishonor from living in sin with Mom for two long years, singing bass; and Daniel, the Jew, singing tenor. After our song, I ran downstairs to go to the bathroom and returned to see Daniel receiving communion. I thought God would kill him right there.
Daniel, not unlike my family, was happy to ignore any inconvenient fact—like being Jewish on Christmas Eve—for the sake of belonging. Everyone agreed I had made a good choice for the first time. Even Dad liked Daniel. “He’s quiet,” Dad said. “He doesn’t get in other people’s business.”
My second summer in San Diego, Daniel and I drove to La Jolla Village Square mall and bought a diamond and sapphire engagement ring. No one could believe it. I was going to marry someone normal and successful. I moved into Daniel’s condo.
Daniel worked incessantly. This left plenty of time for the actors to come over and swim in the pool or sit in the Jacuzzi at the condo, but not much time for Daniel and me to deepen our relationship. I was busy with classes and rehearsals, but Daniel’s schedule was worse. Sometimes he’d be in his office at the playhouse until two or three in the morning.
One night we were supposed to meet at the Rusty Pelican for dinner, but Daniel didn’t show. I drove my motorcycle to the playhouse, pulled into the “valet” zone, threw down the kickstand, and stormed into the box office. There was Daniel, sports coat off, tie flung over his left shoulder, helping someone figure out the seating system. I was furious to see how handsome my no-show was.
“Hi there,” I said, standing at the door, holding my helmet under my arm.
“Just a second, Mon,” he said, holding up one finger, not bothering to look up at me. “I’m right in the middle of something.”
“You’re always in the middle of something, and it never has anything to do with me. I don’t need to be stood up by my own fiancé,” I snapped.
“If you’ll just wait a second, I’ll be right with you.”
“I’m not a patron of the theatre. I’m your fiancé, you freak, and I just spent twenty minutes waiting in a restaurant for you.”
He was looking at me now. “Okay, hang on.” He turned to the woman he’d been working with. “Excuse me a minute. I’m sorry.” He walked out of the box office and slammed the door.
“Don’t ever talk to me like that in front of someone I’m working with,” he said.
“FUCK YOU!” I yelled so it echoed all the way down the lobby of the theatre, where everyone he worked with could hear it.
“DON’T STAND ME UP EVER AGAIN—EVER!” I yelled. Daniel’s cheeks were bright red.
“If you can wait, I’ll only be a few minutes and we can sit down at dinner and talk this out,” he said, trying to touch my arm. “Just a few minutes.”
I nudged him in the chest with my helmet. “Take your time,” I said, storming out the door.
I jumped on my bike, put on my helmet, and sped across the parking lot, only to be immediately pulled over by a rent-a-cop, who was also on a motorcycle.
“Step off the bike,” he commanded into his little speaker. I threw my leg over the seat and turned to face him. “Helmet off, please,” he said. Boy, was I getting pissed. I pulled off my helmet. When the cop saw all my hair, he had the nerve to laugh.
“Expecting a guy in tights?” I asked.
“You drive pretty wild on that thing,” he said.
“Not usually. It’s been a particularly shitty evening,” I said.
I looked up and saw Daniel walking across the grass, smiling. Fuck.
“Hi, Stan,” Daniel said. He knew this guy? Of course he did. Daniel knew everyone, especially campus security, because they were also security for the theatre.
“Do you know this young lady?” the policeman asked.
“I think we’re engaged, but I’m not sure,” he said.
“You won’t be getting married if she doesn’t slow down, because she’s going to be riding in a hearse,” said Stan.
“Not my first time,” I assured him.
“Look, what can I do to help here?” Daniel asked.
“You can walk back to the theatre, you workaholic maniac,” I said.
“You’re engaged to her?” Stan asked again.
“We’re engaged, Stan,” I said, showing him the ring. I turned to Daniel. “This is none of your business, so go back to the most important thing in your life: work.” Daniel smiled. “I’m glad you’re happy I got pulled over.”
“You should stay off the bike until you calm down,” Stan said.
“Driving like that is extremely dangerous, not just for you but for students and patrons walking across the parking lot.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to run over anyone.”
“Then slow down.” He flipped his ticket pad shut and pointed it at Daniel. “Good luck,” he said, straddling his motorcycle.
“Good luck to you, STAN,” I yelled behind him as he sped away. Daniel was still smiling. “Shut up,” I said. God, I was crazy about Daniel.
That winter Mitch divorced Becky, and even though she hadn’t wanted me in her wedding, she did want to live in our California condo now that she had no home. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea but thought it might be an opportunity for the two of us to create a better relationship. Starting over in a new state might help break the cycle of hate. I hoped so.
Becky moved out of Ohio and into our place with her black-and-white cat, who shit in my bathtub and, I swear, smiled at me afterward. Becky needed to get on her feet and her cat needed a cork up his ass. His name was Vinnie, and he was not helping break the cycle of hate.
But Becky and I began enjoying sunny afternoons and sunsets at Torrey Pines beach, where she would generously set up two chairs, a blanket, and a picnic of shaved turkey, cheeses, chips, soda, and water. I would speed in on my motorcycle after rehearsals or classes. We’d sit on the beach and laugh like we used to when we played Barbies under the piano. I didn’t think it was possible, but Becky was starting to like me.
Mom graduated with her PhD that spring and was pissed off that Becky and I couldn’t afford to fly out for her graduation. She thought Daniel should pay for it, but Daniel and I were just getting our footing. Unlike her, I wasn’t relying on a man to take care of me.
It would have been impossible for me to leave the theatre
production I was in, and Becky had just started a new job with a big insurance firm.
“I’ll never forgive you,” Mom assured us.
I’d never forgive her for missing years of our lives. We were hardly even. So why did I still feel guilty? Why did I send her money from my school loan to fly out to see us as a graduation gift? I needed that money to live on.
The following fall Daniel unexpectedly quit the playhouse to join a company that created ticketing software for regional theatres.
He moved to New Haven, Connecticut, and six months later I graduated with my master’s degree. After signing with a renowned talent agent who told me to move to Los Angeles for my career, I followed Daniel to Connecticut. Becky stayed in San Diego, where she had been promoted at the insurance company and was making an excellent salary.
That summer I didn’t perform in a New York play, I didn’t join an excellent acting troupe, and I didn’t tour the country with a Broadway musical. I worked at Camp Deer Lake in Madison, Connecticut. I spent the summer with Archery Ken, Arts and Crafts Kathy, and High Adventure Rich, tweezing splinters out of filthy fingers and gravel out of tiny knees.
I was the assistant director of a summer arts camp. After earning my prestigious degree and snagging an excellent agent, I learned to set fire to a paper bag full of dog shit and successfully convince a camper to stomp it out.
When I got home at night, Daniel was still working. I was overwhelmed by the vast future ahead of me. I had no plans. It was the first time in my life there wasn’t a sure step in front of me. I was panic-stricken and embarrassed. Some of the other actors from UCSD were performing in the city. I was helping some poor kid weave a multicolored lanyard.
Finally, I came to the conclusion that New Haven, a two-hour train trip, was too far from New York and a possible career. I sublet an apartment with my friend Tina, moved into the city, went on auditions, and worked temp jobs.
Meanwhile, Daniel was consumed by his new career at the software company. I hardly ever saw him. When I did, we cooked elaborate meals together, enjoyed movies, and took picnics to Tanglewood, where we listened to gorgeous music, snuggling on our quilt. But there was something enormous missing; there was an emptiness I couldn’t fill with Daniel. The longer I was out of school, the worse my depression became.
Once in a while Daniel asked me about the engagement ring I was still wearing.
“Are we ever getting married?” he’d ask.
“Sure,” I’d say.
“When?”
“Soon,” I’d answer.
After three years Daniel delivered his ultimatum: “Marry me or we’re breaking up.” When I told Mom, she said that Daniel would last (as a single man) about as long as a paper shirt in a cat fight.
“Someone will snatch him up and he’ll be married so fast it’ll make your head spin,” she assured me.
That night I drove to Barnes and Noble and picked up Martha Stewart’s book Weddings, a fifty-dollar guide to spending thirty thousand dollars on a wedding. I didn’t have a career, I didn’t have financial stability. I guessed I’d have a wedding. I loved Daniel, and I ignored the nagging voice in my head that said, Isn’t this what your mother did? The very thing that screwed up all our lives?
Against my better judgment, I opened that book and began planning our wedding.
Daniel promised we’d move closer to New York so my commute would be shorter. We looked for a place in Darien, thirty minutes from the city.
I wanted Daniel to be the one. I wanted life in Connecticut to feel as perfect as the country inns and beautiful seaports that defined the New England countryside. But, at that point, we hadn’t had sex in a year and a half. We were more like siblings. I, who’d had sex in a moving car and on a professor’s desk, had let go of one of the most thrilling aspects of my life. But life with Daniel wasn’t thrilling; it was steady and reliable.
My roommate Tina told me at dinner one night, “You must have sex. It’s too important. And if you aren’t having sex now, what do you think will happen later?”
I knew that sex was important, but I convinced myself that love was the most important thing and wanting a great sex life (or any sex life) was asking for a perfect equation.
We set the date: November third, picturing a blue sky in late autumn with jewel-colored leaves swirling around our guests. Mom was ecstatic, hanging up on me to call her friends to tell them to hold that date. Dad seemed happy too, offering to send a check.
I booked Tollgate Hill in Litchfield, Connecticut, a large gambrel-roofed red clapboard colonial built in 1745. Fritz, the innkeeper, graciously served me a complimentary quiet lunch so I could observe the atmosphere. The clincher for me was the second-floor ballroom with an enormous walk-in fireplace.
I daydreamt about the ceremony taking place in front of the roaring fire, our guests rosy-cheeked, my veil floating in the breeze. The next thing I know, my veil catches on fire, I fall into the fireplace, and that’s when I order another glass of wine.
I shook off all bad thoughts and attended to the endless details of the wedding (shoes from Peter Fox, flowers by Country Iris) so I wouldn’t worry about my decision to go forward.
Dad, true to his word, sent two thousand dollars to help with the deposit. I was grateful he was going to help us. Everything was falling into place quickly.
The wedding was the only way to stay numb, and numb was the only way to avoid the gigantic boulder of depression that had been threatening to flatten me for as long as I could remember. Daniel was steady and true, and I was nutty and unstable. This was the right decision because, at some point, maybe I’d become steady too.
With the wedding looming, I temporarily fled, taking a summer-stock job in Michigan with my favorite acting company. I’d spent two summers with them in the past and loved it there. I hoped acting would distract and center me.
The summer bumped along—no visits from Daniel, our relationship was not about seeing each other, it was about knowing we were each in the world—and then my veil arrived. It represented something both spectacular and hideous—the wedding.
I called Dad from a pay phone in the lobby of the theatre, with the flat cardboard box shoved under my arm.
“My veil arrived,” I told him.
“Okay,” he said. “How’s the weather up there?”
I glanced out the enormous tinted windows in the lobby. “Sunny with a few clouds. It was seventy-eight today.”
“Sunny here,” he reported.
“That’s good. Are you coming up to see a show this summer?” I asked. It was a long drive.
“I have to see if I can get someone to watch the store,” he said. This meant he wasn’t coming. He took cruises to the Bahamas and trips to Florida. He left the store all the time. I wanted him to come because I needed someone to tell me to call off the wedding.
“Don’t worry about coming up,” I said. “Thanks for helping with the wedding, Dad. The veil looks really nice,” I said, patting the box.
“All right,” he said.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I said.
“Are there lots of mosquitoes up there? We’re having a terrible time down here,” Dad said.
“Not too bad,” I said.
“Buy yourself some Off,” he said. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“Will do.”
“Bye-bye,” he said.
“Bye.”
I drove the veil back to my woodsy house on Lake Michigan, where the acting company was staying, and tried to bond with it. I draped it over a hanger in my room and let it float down to the floor so I would be forced to face it every day. When my housemates were at rehearsal, I wore it to talk on the phone, and I watched Postcards from the Edge in it.
There was a long mirror with beveled edges in the hallway, where I stared at myself. At least the veil was perfect.
All was going forward as planned until Alex Sullivan joined the company midsummer. I knew him from a previous summer when he and I had kissed passionately af
ter I’d consumed a 7-Eleven Big Gulp filled with a little Coke and a lot of Bacardi rum.
Alex was sexy and I was celibate. I called Daniel.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Good. Good. I’m working hard.” I could hear Daniel tapping his computer keys as we were talking.
“Alex Sullivan is in the company this summer. He just got here,” I said. Daniel had met Alex a couple of summers before and knew I had a hopeless crush on him.
“And?” The typing continued.
“I just wanted you to know he’s here—right now,” I said.
“Look, if you want to be with Alex Sullivan, I can’t stop you.”
“I know that.” Long pause.
“Let’s not talk for a while,” Daniel said. The typing stopped.
“We need to call off this wedding,” I said, my stomach tightening.
“No. Get this out of your system and then we’ll talk.” He hung up.
At the company party that night, Alex sauntered over. He looked edible and I blurted, “I’m getting married.”
“I heard.”
“I won’t be kissing you this summer.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“No problem.”
“Everything is ordered, so stay back.”
“I’m getting a drink. Do you want one?”
“No. No drinks, no nothing. No. No thanks.” I was dying to kiss him.
He was forty-eight and had an unfortunately alluring British accent, small darting eyes, and a wife. It was the kind of ridiculous and complicated situation I craved. I felt alive when I was kicking up terrible shit around me.
Alex drove to my house one humid night and kissed me on the bed while my veil bobbed in the breeze.
The next evening, during a performance of The Music Man, I tripped over an intern, did an unchoreographed somersault, and broke my ankle. It was surely the hand of God striking me down. I won’t be able to have sex with Alex Sullivan with a cast on my leg, I thought as two muscular stagehands carried me to the car for the trip to the hospital.
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