Looking for Mr. Goodfrog

by Laurie Graff

  Cookie, Millie, Gladys and I walked to the front desk to hand in our tickets. We were greeted by Arlene. I knew this because it said so in giant letters on her name tag, pasted on the front of her lavender twin-sweater set.

  “Where’s Sy tonight?” asked Arlene. She stood up from behind the desk giving us a big hello as she took the tickets.

  “Home,” said my aunt in a way that indicated why he was there, but she really didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Okay, tomorrow will be a better day.” Arlene looked past Gladys, searching for Lester.

  “Also home,” said Gladys, but to this Arlene simply smiled.

  “Here,” said Cookie.

  She opened her pocketbook and handed over a small envelope that contained her ticket. Arlene took two red tickets from the envelope, as her eyes registered Gladys and my aunt at the same time.

  “Wait, let me get mine,” said Gladys reaching into her purse.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Arlene, waving the two red tickets. “You can go in on these.”

  Cookie nodded, Gladys thanked her, and they walked inside. Millie and I were behind. My mom had her two red tickets out, ready to hand to Arlene.

  “These are for me and my daughter,” she said. “Karrie, I don’t know if you’ve ever met Arlene? Arlene, this is my daughter, Karrie, from New York.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Nice meeting you,” said Arlene, taking the tickets from my mom. She paused a moment to look at them, and then looked up. “Millie. You really can’t use these tickets.”

  “What’s the matter with them? They’re dated. They have today’s date.”

  “Yes, but these are two homeowner’s tickets. Karrie is a guest. You really need to use one of your green guest tickets for her.”

  “Why?”

  “These are just for homeowners,” Arlene pressed, shoving the tickets back into Millie’s hand.

  “Karrie is a homeowner,” Millie said. “Her name is on the deed.”

  “But it’s not in the Kensington phone directory. She doesn’t live here. She’s a guest. Don’t you have a green ticket?”

  Red tickets, green. I was not in the directory, but my name was on the deed. The thought of how I would come to own that house was not only sad and terrifying, but this kind of welcome did nothing to make me think Kensington South would be the place I’d enjoy spending my golden years.

  “What’s going on?” said Cookie, who walked back to the desk to see why we were delayed.

  “Don’t ask me,” said Millie.

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” she said when Arlene explained. “You just let Gladys in on my other homeowner’s ticket.”

  “Well, that’s different,” said Arlene. “Sy is sick so he’s not using it, but with Millie, she doesn’t even have a—”

  She caught herself, because Arlene stopped before she got to the heart of what she was going to say. But Millie finished for her.

  “I don’t have a husband, so I’m not allowed to use my other ticket?”

  Arlene did not answer. She stood as if she was the one who had been wronged, but just for the record my mother set her straight.

  “I pay the same money for the season’s entertainment as each household, and in addition to the guest tickets each household receives two homeowner’s tickets per show. Are you telling me I can’t use my other homeowner’s ticket when I bring someone, because the person I bring isn’t Henry? You’d discriminate like that with a widow, when you didn’t think anything of letting Cookie use Sy’s ticket for Gladys?”

  “What chutzpah!” said Cookie.

  The one with the chutzpah was Millie, and I was proud of her. Arlene’s face was red, but I felt her embarrassment came more from having been confronted than because of what she had done.

  “I didn’t realize,” she said, taking back the two red tickets, the closest to an apology as she would get. “I have a lot on my mind.”

  Sufficiently made to feel like we were on the standby list for Noah’s Ark, we entered the clubhouse and walked on in.

  “What nerve, really,” said Cookie, but I could see the worry for my uncle’s health ride a new wave as she contemplated the ramifications of living in a coupled community without a spouse. Everyone was quick to say how beautifully the widows managed. Just so long as they didn’t have to be one.

  “Ma, save me a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  I wasn’t ready to join in and be merry, and excused myself to the ladies’ room to take a few minutes for myself. Some of my best thinking was done escaping events in public bathrooms. I went down the hall to my office to work.

  People were often dismissive to women, not to mention women alone. In Arlene’s defense, I could only think that she really did have a lot on her mind, or that thing with my mom possibly triggered her own fear of being widowed. I’ve observed that one of the great perks of coupledom was that it made people feel comfortable. It didn’t matter much about the couple. At face value it was a shield they could hide behind, it fit people into a box that was easy to understand, and it was a lot less threatening. Singledom. The Scarlet S.

  I used to fight my mother on this thinking it was only her generation. That mine was more enlightened, and none of it mattered. That was when I was younger and had more single friends and expectations were different. In my twenties, my landlord would not allow me to have a dog. I had pleaded with him to no avail.

  “But I found such a sweet dog in need of a good home. Why won’t you let me have one, Mr. Biofski? Why?”

  “You know, I rent to all you young girls thinking I can get a quick turnover on the apartments because you’ll move out and get married. And instead, you want a dog? Don’t get a dog, get a boyfriend!”

  Although still single, things still changed, and with changing expectations. Like friendships. Your girlfriend’s privacy bond was with her husband, not you. Social circles shrunk, and without your own family, holidays were up for grabs. Saturday night’s date night, couples date each other. If you’re not part of one, don’t expect to eat with someone that is. And on a more interesting note your friends’ dads. They used to look at you with the hope that you’d soon meet a prince who’d whisk you away. Now there was the hope that they might.

  That’s not the great news. But I am not romanticizing couples. I have had dinner with some that sent me hopping back to my worst blind date. While coupledom was not all great, singledom was not all bad. And when a coupled woman treated a single woman unkindly in a social situation, I could only think she somehow felt threatened, or was not one of the happy ones. From the view of coupledom being single could look sad or terrifying, but it might also look quite desirable and romantic.

  For me it’s never been about marriage, it’s only been about love. Some have assured me that what I want doesn’t exist, my expectations are off. Perhaps they are even right. But those are just words in a conversation. I’m the one who would have to live with the guy. I’m the one who needs to be true to myself. And if I wasn’t, I’m the one who’d have to stuff it because, after all, to the world I’m the one who was happily married.

  Even with their different lives, single, married, divorced or whatever, your close friends will always be just that. If ever married I hoped I would remember life B.C.—Before Coupledom. It only took a moment for anyone to be back there. No one was immune.

  While being single had not changed, my view from singledom continued to. But always constant was my freedom, my possibilities and my hope. It was not only envied, it was among my most valuable assets.

  “Karrie, over here,” Millie called in a loud whisper, waving her hands when she saw me coming out of the ladies’ room. She was sitting with Cookie, Gladys and two women I didn’t know. Widows, I wondered. “I got for you,” she said, pointing to a paper plate with a purple menorah that was filled with three deliciously greasy potato latkes.

  I sat down, quietly waving hello to the other people at the table as the singer had already started her act. H
olding a hand mike, dressed in black sequins and false eyelashes, she crooned “Rock of Ages,” number one on the Hanukkah Hit Parade. She was accompanied by a very small man on accordion. I looked up from the singer and back down to the table. Next to the latkes were two bowls, one with apple sauce and another with sour cream; toppings for the holiday’s traditional potato pancakes. I’d had enough with the puggies, it made my stomach hurt just to look at the latkes. Except they sure looked good.

  “Didn’t we just eat?” I asked my mother.

  I resisted the latkes by taking only one onto another plate, still deciding. I wasn’t hungry, but how could I pass? I thought I could be content to eat one with a little drop of apple sauce. Or maybe a little drop of apple sauce and a teeny dollop of sour cream. That would work, I thought. I reached for the bowls but suddenly, as if possessed, I found myself slathering two huge spoonfuls of apple sauce and sour cream all over the one lone latke.

  “Can I join you?”

  A tall man with glasses dressed in a navy-blue warm-up suit came over to our table. When he smiled at Millie she pointed to an empty chair.

  “Mmmmmm,” he said, as he sat. “Get a whiff,” he said of the fried potatoey smell. “Isn’t that something?”

  He reached to the center of the table taking the two latkes that were left, finalizing my decision to eat just the one. I watched as he ate one latke with apple sauce and the other with sour cream. He wouldn’t put a topping on the next until the first was finished, obviously keeping his foods separate.

  It was interesting to watch how people ate, and more interesting to see what they did with the food. Passion or necessity? To hog or to share? A taste off the plate, or cut and hand over? Save the best food for last? Anyone for seconds? The lowdown on leftovers—to keep or to throw? Perhaps on my next date we’d skip the talk and go directly to a taste test.

  I liked to taste each food individually before I combined. But combos often led to new recipes. My favorite was the tuna-chip, where you put some chips from the side inside the sandwich. A crunch on every bite!

  “Come on everybody! Let’s hear it! Put your hands together! This song is for everyone who uses an electric menorah!”

  So absorbed in the latke, I hadn’t noticed that bit by bit everyone had begun talking over the singer who’d been singing her little Hanukkah heart out. To the tune of “I Have a Little Dreidl,” everyone joined in singing like they were part of a holiday concert.

  Oh lightbulb, lightbulb, lightbulb

  It helps save energy

  Millie wasn’t a joiner under the best of circumstances. But the man at our table was having a ball.

  “Come on, Millie,” I said, egging her on. “It wasn’t easy getting into this shindig. I think we should have some fun!”

  Oh lightbulb, lightbulb, lightbulb

  Come save the world with me

  They repeated the verse over and over while I caught my mother’s eye. Soon we were laughing. We were laughing so hard I thought they’d have to call the paramedics, and considering our location they were probably very nearby. Between the latkes and the lightbulbs, not to mention the sour cream and the puggies, I thought I would burst wide-open. I got hiccups. I was laughing and hiccupping and hiccupping and laughing, and then the hiccups got so bad they hurt. I was sick to my stomach as I sipped water in a glass through a cloth napkin I had to hunt down in the kitchen. I’d like to say it helped, but it didn’t.

  “Your daughter sure knows how to have a good time,” said the man.

  He had gone to the main table and brought us back cake. When I came back from the kitchen Gladys got up with the women, leaving me, my mom and my hiccups at the table with the man.

  “Take a whiff of this,” he said, pointing to the warm cherry cheese strudel. I couldn’t smell any more food. I couldn’t deal with any more. But it was all over the place. More food. More cake! Chocolate cake, pound cake, cheesecake, and strudel. Let them eat it, I thought, as I absolutely could not manage ano—(hic)—ther bite!

  “Marv,” the man said to me, extending his hand. “And you are...?”

  “Karrie,” I said, saying it slowly and trying to regulate my intake of air. “Nice to meet you,” I managed.

  “Your mother talks about you all the time at bowling,” he said, pointing to my mom, who was drinking her tea. “She’s a good bowler. Too bad she’s not on my team.”

  My mother was a good athlete. Growing up in Brooklyn when they’d choose sides for teams she was always first pick. She was the only girl, and they called her The Skirt.

  “Do you bowl, too?” asked Marv, smiling at my mother, who had yet to say a word.

  Marvin was chatting me up. He wanted something, but thankfully I knew it was definitely not me.

  “A little. But I’m not as good as my mother,” I said, tossing her the ball though she was curiously out of this conversation.

  “If you’d like, maybe I could take you girls,” he said.

  “We have a lot of prior commitments,” Millie now chimed in. “We have plans, we have the book club.”

  “But I’ll be staying right till after New Year’s,” I said, confirming my decision to change my ticket and stay a little longer before I went home.

  “Then it’s a date!”

  “It’s up to Karrie,” said my mother.

  “Okay. I’ll call you,” Marv said, before he got up and self-assuredly sauntered away.

  “Karrie,” said Millie.

  “We’ll set it up but then we’ll cancel, and you can reschedule with him for when I’m gone.”

  “Karrie!” said Millie, her voice the beginning of a reproach.

  “It’s okay, Ma. Maybe he won’t even call.”

  “Oh, if he said he’ll call, he’ll call,” said Millie, with a confident annoyance.

  But I thought it was great. A man said he’d call and you knew he would call. It was a Hanukkah miracle after all.

  * * *

  “You know what I wish for you,” my mom had said when we clinked champagne glasses to bring in the New Year. I was going home in the morning. And another year would begin. What would happen now?

  “So you think you’ll go out with him on Wednesday?” I asked later, when I finished packing. We lay on her bed watching TV. I reached down to pick up Charlie.

  “I’ll do what I want to do, okay?” said Millie, who was far from enthusiastic about the prospect of Marv.

  “Okay! But what are you so worried about? He’s very nice.”

  Millie sat up. I could see she was finally going to talk.

  “Marv makes a very nice appearance. He seems comfortable, he drives at night. He’s fine. But since he’s widowed he’s been involved with two of the women here already. One was my friend.”

  The intrigue of Kensington South. The people were seniors, but dating was the same as high school. Dating didn’t change, but each generation gave it its own spin. Fifty years from now, twentysomethings living in Kensington South would probably make a dinner date by sending a text message.

  “So what happened?” I asked. “Marv break her heart or something?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Millie turned away from the TV to look at me. “But he’s a sexy man.”

  “So you are attracted to him.”

  “What makes you think I’m attracted to him? Who said anything about being attracted to him?” asked Millie.

  “You just said he’s a sexy man.” It was self-explanatory to me.

  “Yes. A sexy man,” said Millie. “A man who wants to have sex. You understand now?”

  “Okay.” I didn’t understand at all, but after the other night I could see that I didn’t really understand anything.

  I went with my mother to the Kensington South book club. It so happened that they were discussing a book I’d just finished and loved. It was about a young girl who fled her hometown after her fiancé came upon a tragic accident after their graduation. She ran away to New York where she became involved in a very passionate, all-encompas
sing, highly sexual relationship with a secretive, older man.

  “What did you think of the character of Gibson?” asked Gloria, who moderated. “Who liked him?”

  The room, filled with about twenty-five women, suddenly became electric and was quickly divided. Gibson made some swoon, while others thought him swine.

  “I loved him!” I shouted. “He was soooo sexy.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have minded knowing a Gibson,” said Sylvia from my mother’s bridge game.

  “But why didn’t he tell her anything about himself?” Gloria asked the women. “Why was everything such a big secret with him? He had to make such a gedillah when he brought her to his parents? He couldn’t have just invited her home, like a mensch?”

  “But he was starting to open up,” I said. “It was his first real relationship.”

  “Real relationship?” asked Gloria. “Because all day all night they were with the sex?”

  I thought about Edward and wished I could explain, but I couldn’t. All day all night those characters were with the sex because it was emotional. It was their bond, an exquisite sensual duet. And it wasn’t just sex. It was the most amazing sex I had ever read!

  “Who has relationships like that?” asked Blanche. “That wasn’t a real relationship. That was nonsense.”

  If that was nonsense, what was Edward? One big load of baloney.

  “Well, I think he would have come through if she stayed,” I said, defending myself through Gibson, though I was annoyed with him for not giving me more to work with. “I really think he would have stepped up to the plate.”

  “Oy, veissmir!”

  “She’s dreaming!”

  “Karrie! That’s why you’re still single!”