Me Times Three

by Alex Witchel

  “And how’s everything else?” Aha. Down to business.

  “Great.”

  “Good. You’re having fun?”

  I could have killed her. Why didn’t she come right out and say, “So, are you dating? Have you gotten over that inappropriate boy? Who are you marrying instead? Where will you be registering?”

  “Yes, I’m having lots of fun. Just going to get another drink,” I said, turning and hightailing it to the bar, where Paul was loitering.

  “Thanks for being there,” I said to him. And then, to the bartender: “Another double and make it strong.”

  “Time to eat,” Paul announced, putting my glass down and steering me toward the dining room, where the Salton hot tray was loaded with potato pancakes. “Ah,” he said, piling his plate. “Heaven.”

  I followed suit. We sat and ate and I started to feel better. More people came and went, and I introduced Paul and answered the same meaningless questions over and over. Mrs. Stein wanted to know why the clothes in Jolie! were so expensive. Mrs. Dubinsky wanted to know if I got any designer discounts. Before I could get away, Paul had disappeared again.

  “Hi, Sandy, how are you?” It was Dr. Lipton, a shrink who worked at the same college as my mom and who had the distinction of living a block away from Bucky. Unlike the other women here—teased, sprayed and lacquered—she wore her hair in a braid, and her glasses hung on a chain around her neck. I had liked her ever since a conversation we had once when I was in college: We were talking about avoiding feelings of depression. “What makes you happy?” she had asked. I considered a moment. “Sex,” I answered. She nodded, unfazed. “So have more sex,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”

  “Hi, it’s nice to see you,” I said, rising.

  “Oh, you look wonderful, dear,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What have you been up to?”

  “Not much, just working, really.”

  “Your mom told me that you and Bucky broke up.” I snapped into consciousness. Someone had actually said the B-word.

  “Yes, a while ago. Before the summer.”

  “I figured as much,” Dr. Lipton said, “when I met his new girlfriend.”

  “Oh?” I tried keeping my voice casual. “When was that?”

  She cleaned her glasses with a cocktail napkin. “Around Labor Day weekend, I guess.”

  That would be Beth Brewer.

  “Yes, I think I know the one,” I said. “Shag haircut, bow-tie blouse?”

  Dr. Lipton shook her head no.

  “Well, I mean, I guess she wasn’t wearing a bow-tie blouse on Labor Day weekend, but—”

  “Actually, she was a tall girl with long red hair.”

  “Beth? Tall?”

  “No, her name wasn’t Beth. I believe it was Wendy.”

  “That’s a new one on me,” I said, my voice loud and bright. “He sure does go through ’em, doesn’t he?”

  Dr. Lipton looked at me. “His mother says he’s marrying her next summer,” she said quietly.

  I felt as if I’d been punched. I thought I might even fall over, until I saw Mrs. Schwarz out of the corner of my eye. That straightened my spine.

  “Again?” I snapped.

  “Again,” she said. “This one is an interior decorator.”

  “Really?” I said, trying to laugh. “I don’t think his interior can stand any more decorating.”

  “She works at Hargrove Hadley on Wall Street,” Dr. Lipton went on, “in charge of executive offices and things. That’s according to Leila Ross, anyway.”

  “Um …” I stopped.

  “What?” she asked.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  “The wedding? It’s going to be at the Green Hills Golf Club,” she said, taking me by the elbows. “You can do so much better, Sandy.” Dr. Lipton’s voice was warm, her tone firm, and her brown eyes focused on mine. “Trust me. I have daughters, too. You think the world has come to an end, but it hasn’t.”

  I sank into a nearby chair. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

  By Paul’s last day in New York, I had gained back the seven pounds it had taken me all summer to lose. The news flash on Bucky’s latest engagement hadn’t helped. Even though I didn’t have time to lie in bed and devour the harvest of America’s heartland, I made up for it at work and with Paul, instead. I would write a book of love poems dedicated to Hellmann’s mayonnaise, I decided. It was the perfect life partner—so very versatile, yet always reassuring. I only agreed to be separated from it by the prospect of a trip to John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street. I sat with Paul on the eve of his departure, close to tears.

  “You don’t have to leave yet,” I said. “There are more than two weeks until Christmas, and anyway, L.A. is no place for Christmas. I’ll miss you. This is my first Christmas without Bucky.”

  He squeezed my hand. “I’ll miss you too, Sandra, but you know I have to go home to Marie. And it’s time to forget about Bucky. You’ve got to realize that nothing you did warranted the way he treated you. You’re immature and selfish? You and everyone else. That doesn’t mean Bucky gets engaged to three people and you’re supposed to say ‘I deserve it.’ ”

  I smiled gratefully. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “But it’s time to move on now, Sandy. It’s going to be a new year soon.”

  I sighed. “I just can’t bear the thought of the next few weeks,” I said. “Everyone in the office will be going someplace with their husbands or boyfriends, to ski or to the beach. Or they’ll stay home and have all their friends visit, and serve them cocktails and buffet dinners with chafing dishes filled with Swedish meatballs and turkey Tetrazzini.”

  He laughed out loud. “What fifties fantasy is this?” he asked.

  “It’s not,” I insisted. “Bucky and I went to a party just like that a few years ago. This couple we graduated from high school with got married and had all their friends come to her parents’ house in Green Hills, and everyone got dressed up and had gin and tonics and there was Christmas music on the stereo and a big tree with all the trimmings and a fire in the fireplace. And the china was stacked up on the buffet with the good silver, and everyone ate that food, and the hostess was pregnant and wearing these velvet evening pants with an elastic waist and a silk tunic, and I thought how great it would be when I was the one giving that party and I was the one serving that food and I was the one wearing that tunic.”

  “Sandy.” Paul regarded me seriously. “Is that the life you really want?”

  My eyes filled. “I don’t know,” I said honestly, looking down at the wooden table, which jiggled in stripes. When I was growing up, Christmas was so desolate. “For us, it’s a day like any other,” my father would say in his utilitarian way. And if something like Mary Poppins was playing at the movies, we would go and see it, but more often than not we would stay home. Dad would listen to the radio, and there was no one to call because other Jews either celebrated Christmas or went away, daring to have fun. I would read, but somehow not even a great book could distract me from the fact that in other homes, people weren’t reading alone, they were talking, laughing, rejoicing together. I wanted that, too.

  “What have you planned for the holidays?” Paul asked.

  I shrugged. “Work, I guess. A friend is having a party on New Year’s Eve. I don’t know.” This time the tears spilled over and I tried to laugh. “Do you think I’m feeling sorry enough for myself? Maybe I’ll go back to the AA meeting and listen to everyone else’s problems.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think one of the things you have to do in the next few days is make plans. I want you to schedule at least one activity every day for the next two weeks. And no days in bed feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “Does reading a book count?”

  “No. You know what I’m saying. I want to see a schedule.”

  “I could always fly out and spend the week
with you and Marie,” I said. I could see him starting to vibrate. “I could watch you kiss the Baby Jesus good night. I’m an expert at that.”

  He put on his coat and didn’t answer.

  “Are you ignoring me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. But as we left the restaurant, he hooked his arm through mine and we started down the street, stopping to look in a store window filled with leather bags and briefcases. I caught his reflection in the glass. He was looking at me.

  I turned to him. “What?”

  He took my arm and kept walking. “Well, you know, Sandra,” he said, “I was just thinking that it probably wouldn’t kill me to stay a few more days.” I stopped, and he tried to suppress a grin. “There’s this actor I’ve been meeting with who may not sign as fast as I thought he would, and you know there are at least four plays I didn’t see with people in them we might really want.”

  I started to cry. He looked away, jabbing at his hair.

  “I never cry,” I yelled. He raised an eyebrow. “Or at least I never did until this year.”

  He threw his arm around my shoulders and turned us in the direction of the Potbelly. “Time for dessert,” he said, rummaging in his coat pocket for a cigarette.

  As we passed under a streetlamp, I wiped at my mascara. “Am I a mess?” I asked.

  He nodded reassuringly. “The worst.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then it won’t matter if I eat a sundae.”

  “Yes, it will,” he said sternly. “Project New Year is coming up, and that means we’re forgetting Buck Ross and finding you a fabulous new man, so you are not allowed to look like a cow. You ate too many potato pancakes the other night, and tonight you had pizza, and this idea about the mayonnaise book is completely insane. You can watch me eat a sundae, but you are having water.”

  “Well, what about your own potbelly, while we’re on the subject?”

  He drew himself up. “The guy I was with last night didn’t seem to mind,” he said.

  I sighed. “You meet more men than any woman I know.”

  He smiled. “That’s the point, dearest.”

  The following morning I was up at six-thirty for my first freelance writing assignment. One of the British editors who had been at Jolie! early on had since returned to England and was working for a newspaper as a features editor. She had called, asking if I would write a piece about Ira Baumgarten, a lawyer who worked for the Justice Department and a bona fide Nazi hunter. He was also—the editor mentioned helpfully—single and in his thirties. He had been involved in uncovering the Kurt Waldheim scandal, and she thought he would make a good piece for her readers. It seemed like an awfully grown-up subject for someone who spent her spare time writing about spells and princesses, but it was time for something different. I agreed to meet him for breakfast.

  I arrived at his office at seven-twenty; to my surprise, other people were already hard at work. His secretary poured me coffee and seated me in a conference room with a large platter of danishes and croissants. I set up my tape recorder, opened my notebook, and perused my questions. I was in good shape. I sipped my coffee. Maybe he’d be fabulous, I thought, looking out the window. Sandra Baumgarten. I wouldn’t even have to change my initials.

  The door opened. Never mind. He was the ultimate geek, so much so that he reminded me of Henry Cain in third grade, who used to steal my bus fare every time I went into the coatroom. Here he was again, I thought, all grown up and looking for Nazis.

  We shook hands and sat down. He offered me a croissant, which I refused, and then I sat there a moment before it occurred to me to look at my notes. Good news, Sandra, I thought. You’re not on a date. It’s time to work.

  The hour flew. I was well prepared, and Henry Cain—I mean, Ira Baumgarten—knew it. He was very smart and very eloquent and very anal, showing me all sorts of documentation to prove the most basic things that I never would have questioned, official papers from Austria proving where Waldheim had been and when. As he spoke, staring out from behind his thick glasses, what I liked about him best was that he was a bigger dweeb than me. There I was, working at this slick fashion magazine in the middle of the eighties, surrounded by toned twigs who club-hopped and had strong opinions about Dynasty and who looked at me as if I were Emily Dickinson’s idiot cousin, stumbled in from the wrong century. Compared to this guy, I was some happening chick—if anyone even used that expression outside a sketch on Saturday Night Live.

  He moved on from Waldheim to escaped Nazis who were now living in America, and showed me parts of their files.

  “How do you find these things out?” I asked.

  “All kinds of ways,” he said. “We have them followed, tap their phones, go through their garbage.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, we’ve actually found some relevant evidence that way. Old papers they’ve thrown out, letters, pictures.”

  His secretary came to the door. It was eight-thirty sharp.

  “Thank you,” I said, standing. “I appreciate your time.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “When will this run?”

  “I’m not sure, but as soon as I know, I’ll call you,” I said.

  “Great,” he answered, walking me to the door. “Maybe we could have a drink sometime.”

  I smiled. “Sure,” I said. “We’ll talk.”

  I could always slot him in over the holidays so I could have something to put on my list for Paul, I thought. We could see Mary Poppins.

  When I got to the office at five minutes to nine, I figured I would be the first one in. But no, there was Susie Schein, already on morning patrol. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of me.

  “What’s happening with Mark Lewis?” she asked in lieu of “Good morning.” “Miss Belladonna asked me about him again last night. I think she wants to call that dinner-party hostess and tell her she’s using him in the magazine.”

  “His agent said he was out of town giving speeches. She wants me to call after New Year’s, when everyone is back.”

  Susie twisted her mouth in annoyance; holidays were a personal affront to her. She didn’t have to ask about the other marquee names; they had all said no, as I knew they would. Frankly, I was surprised we had lasted this long with Mark Lewis. He must have really been broke.

  I went to the coffee room, where the chief copy editor was using a plastic stirrer to scrape the excess butter from her roll. We talked awhile about our holiday plans. Things weren’t too bad, she said. She was dating an executive from Wall Street who seemed like a real human being.

  “That’s so great,” I replied automatically. “Where does he work?”

  “Hargrove Hadley,” she said.

  “You know, I was just talking about that place with someone,” I said, managing to keep my voice steady. “She knows the woman who designs it, or something. Isn’t that the strangest thing you ever heard, being a bank designer?”

  She nodded. “Actually, it’s funny you should say that, because it’s the only bank I’ve ever been in that looks like a bed-and-breakfast. The offices all have lots of baskets and dried flowers, and the pencil holders are wrapped in fabric to match the curtains.”

  “That’s hilarious,” I said. “I guess they’re just trying to make it homey. The bank with a hearth. Uh, heart.”

  That afternoon, Paul called. “My tea canceled,” he said, aggrieved. “Can you believe it?”

  “Honestly, Romano, how do you sit through all these meals every day? You should be glad to skip one.”

  He sighed. “I guess I’ll do some Christmas shopping instead.”

  “Well, what if I met you?”

  “Sandy, it’s only two-thirty. You can’t leave now.”

  “I think I can, actually. Meet me on the corner in fifteen minutes.”

  I grabbed my coat and stood in the doorway of Susie’s office. She looked up impatiently from her computer.

  “Susie, I have to go and meet with Victoria Segal,” I said quickly. “She has some questio
ns to ask before she lets me sit down with Mark Lewis.”

  Susie looked at her watch. “You can’t talk about it on the phone?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “That’s what I suggested, but then she said if I didn’t think it was important enough to meet face-to-face, she wasn’t sure it was something he should do. So what could I say but yes?”

  After she grudgingly nodded her approval, I practically ran to the elevators and out to the corner where Paul was waiting. I hailed a cab.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “We’re taking a field trip,” I said, leaning toward the driver. “Thirty-fifth between Park and Lex, please,” I said.

  Paul looked confused.

  “I met a man this morning who hunts war criminals,” I said. “And he told me that one of the ways to discover the truth about people who lie is to go through their garbage.”

  “So?” he asked warily.

  “So we’re going to look through Bucky’s garbage and see exactly who he’s marrying.”

  “What? How?”

  “Last night was Bucky’s company’s Christmas party,” I explained. “That’s always the night he likes to begin exchanging gifts—make Christmas start early, he says. And I’ll bet you anything that the wrapping of whatever she gave him is still in the garbage outside his house.”

  Paul gripped my arm. “Sandy, for God’s sake, what are you doing? Why do you care who this woman is or why he’s marrying her? I thought we agreed that it was time to move on.”

  “We did, and I will. But I cannot for one minute believe that after nine years with me he can turn around and marry someone else and I don’t even know who it is. I have known every single thing he’s done during our entire lives.”

  “What?” Paul yelled.

  “Well, except for the last part.”

  “Hello,” he called, “are you in there?”

  “Listen, for the last eight months, nothing in my life has been right. I want to see what’s going on. I know you think I’m crazy, and I probably am. But at least I’ll be getting information.”

  “Sandy, between the two of us I think we can find out some other way, if you need to know that badly. But don’t do this. It’s demeaning.”