You must do the right thing and ask all three of your friends to be bridesmaids. Under no circumstances are you to suggest that your short, plump, dark friend wear five-inch heels, go on a diet, or color her hair. But before you do anything related to this sickening display of self-indulgence you call a wedding, you are to get out your checkbook and write a hefty check to one of the following charities. (See below.) Try thinking about someone other than your pampered self for once and maybe, just maybe, you’ll discover how awesome it is to be a human being.
SOPHIE
In the kitchen, Jake perched on a stool at the counter while I made a salad. I’d bought the raspberry dressing he liked.
Jake claimed to be eating well but I know my son. He can barely boil an egg without it resulting in disaster. Maybe his lack of culinary skills is my fault. After all, he never even had to make a sandwich for himself. I was always there. Anyway, I’d asked him over to my apartment on the pretext of giving him a packet of new socks. I knew that once he smelled my famous roast chicken and mashies, he’d stay on for dinner.
“I talked to Dad yesterday,” Jake said, as if he’d just remembered.
I looked up from chopping a Vidalia onion. “Oh? How is he?” I wondered if I really wanted to know. It was hard to say.
“He’s good,” Jake said.
Why do women have to drag information out of men? “Is he still seeing that bimbo, what’s her name, Kara?” I asked.
“Carly. Yeah, he’s still seeing her.” Jake looked at me curiously. “Mom, when was the last time you talked to Dad?”
“Oh, maybe about two weeks ago. Why? Is everything all right?”
Jake grabbed a tomato from the counter and began to toss it from hand to hand. “Everything’s fine.”
“Then, what?” I asked, grabbing the tomato midtoss. Hadn’t I taught Jake not to play with his food? “There’s something you’re not telling me, Jake. What is it?”
“Nothing!”
“Jacob Michael. I’m your mother, I know when you’re lying.”
Jake sighed. “Mom,” he said, “I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you, okay? I don’t want to get involved any more than I already am.”
“Involved with what?” I asked, somewhat disingenuously. “I’m not trying to play you off your father, Jake. And if there’s something you promised not to tell me, fine. But—”
“Dad’s thinking of asking Carly to marry him,” Jake blurted. “Okay? That’s the big secret although he didn’t actually tell me not to say anything.”
I laid the knife on the counter; my hand shook ever so slightly. “Oh,” I said. “But he’s only known her for, well, for less than a year.”
“I know. Like six months, tops. Look, it’s not a done deal, he’s not a hundred percent sure he’s going to ask her. He’s just thinking about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “I kind of forced you to tell me.” I brought the finished salad to the table before saying: “Are you okay with this?”
Jake half-laughed. “With the idea of having a stepmother only four years older than me? It’s a bit unusual but it’s not the end of the world. I guess I don’t really care. Dad can do what he wants.”
“He always has.” My tone was bitter; it surprised me.
“Well, it is his life.”
I’m sure I looked a bit stricken. Jake and I rarely argued, about anything.
“Sorry, Mom,” Jake said. “I just really don’t want to hear anything bad about Dad from you or anything bad about you from Dad.”
“I didn’t mean to sound like I was criticizing your father,” I said, contrite. “But I know I did. I’m sorry, Jake.”
Jake smiled. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m just looking out for myself, you know. Setting boundaries.”
“Change the subject?”
“Gladly. I’ll be right back.”
Jake loped off to the bathroom and I finished setting the table.
As I laid out forks, knives, and spoons, the shock Jake’s news had induced began to wear off and in its place was embarrassment, as if Brad’s choice of a much younger, much more beautiful woman (She had to be more beautiful, I was sure of it.) somehow devalued me in my son’s eyes. It certainly devalued me in my own.
But it’s not in my nature to wallow in self-pity. Before the plates were in their places I felt a flash of that “I’ll show him!” spirit burning inside me. The same spirit that helped me to fight back when I lost the presidency of the PTA to a particularly obnoxious woman, the mother of a boy who’d bullied Jake for an entire school year. Let’s just say that a little voting fraud was uncovered (I can be very tenacious when on a mission.) and within weeks, I was the newly elected president of that fine organization.
I’ll get back out there, I swore, bringing the salt and pepper to the table, and I’ll find a guy so much better than Brad could ever be and I’ll marry him and we’ll live happily ever after!
So what that I was a single woman approaching middle age? There was a man out there for me. There just had to be.
Jake loped back into the kitchen. “So,” he said abruptly, “your friend, what was her name, Eva?”
“You mean the woman you met at the game?”
“Yeah, her.”
“Oh. Well, actually, her name used to be Eve but somewhere along the line she changed it. I don’t know why. I think Eve is such a pretty name and—”
“Does she work here in town?”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, in fact, she’s senior vice president of Caldwell and Company. It’s the biggest ad firm in New England. Well, that’s what Eva tells me.”
“So, you guys were pretty tight back in college? You, Eva, and what’s that guy’s name?”
“John,” I said. “Yes, we were. There was a kind of loose group of friends in the scholarship program, but for whatever reason John, Eve, and I became close. Close in the way of students, I mean. Close in the way young people are. I used to think we’d be friends forever. It never even occurred to me that we might lose track of each other.”
“But you’re glad you got back in touch with Eva?” Jake asked. “And John?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, pouring a glass of a nice Sauvignon Blanc. “I mean, things are different now, we’re different. At least, Eva seems to be. I’m not so sure I’ve changed all that much since college and John, well—he just seems more of himself, if that makes sense.”
“So, you guys weren’t exactly wild and crazy?”
I laughed. “Hardly! We were all on academic scholarships. Our parents couldn’t afford to send us to college without financial help. If our grades slipped, then the money slipped away, too. Some kids were tossed out of the program—and maybe they had to leave school, I don’t know—but not us.”
“But you must have had some fun, Mom,” Jake prodded. “Spring break? Summer vacation?”
“Oh, sure,” I said automatically. But then I thought about it. “Well, during spring break I’d usually go and visit my grandparents. I loved them and I always had a nice time but Grandpa was getting sick so it wasn’t exactly what I’d describe as fun.”
“But what about the summer?”
“I worked every summer to help pay for expenses during the school year. All of us did. But Eve—Eva—and I did manage a few trips to the Cape. I remember one year we stayed in this horrible little motel. The shower floor was covered in ants and the sheets were full of teeny holes, like something had been chewing on them.”
Jake made a face. “I have a hard time imagining you, my scrupulously clean mother, staying in such a place.”
“It was horrible. Eva didn’t seem to mind it, though. She was very laid-back in those days.”
“What about when you guys were in Boston?” Jake asked. “Did you hang out at clubs, dance to all that insipid New Wave stuff?”
What had brought on this sudden interest in my past? I wondered. “It was not insipid,” I protested, though I remembered Eva calling it much worse,
which is one of the reasons we never went out to clubs. “Saturday nights,” I said, “Eva and I would sometimes go to see a movie. John was usually out on a date. We didn’t see much of him during the summers, come to think of it. I remember one year he went to Italy with his sisters. They visited family, I think.”
“Uh-huh. What about Eva? Did she date a lot?”
“Oh, no!” I laughed at the memories. “She thought the whole idea of formal ‘dating’ was ridiculous. When she did get involved with someone it was usually more . . . organic, I guess. You know, first she’d be friends with a guy and then they’d get romantically involved. But honestly, I only remember her having two boyfriends through all of four years of college, though Eva never considered them ‘boyfriends’ in the usual sense.”
“What do you mean?” Jake asked, leaning forward on the island between us.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said. “You’d have to ask Eva. She always was very much her own person.”
“A character?” Jake suggested.
“I wouldn’t use that term, no. Maybe . . . strong-willed. Definite in her opinions. But never flamboyant or eccentric. Not a character.”
Jake went to the fridge and got himself a beer. He’s into something called boutique breweries and weekly gives me a list of favorites for when I go shopping. I’ve never been a beer drinker and Brad was always a vodka man. Who, I wondered, introduced Jake to good beer? I hated not knowing every little thing about my son’s life.
“So, before you met Dad,” Jake said, as he poured the beer into a special glass (I bought it for him; it’s supposed to help the beer taste good or something.), “did you have a serious boyfriend?”
“No, no one serious. Well, maybe except for . . . Never mind.”
“No, what were you going to say?”
“It’s nothing,” I protested.
“Do you know how annoying it is when someone starts to say something and then changes her mind?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“So, spill.”
Really, what could be the harm of Jake knowing? “Well,” I said, “if you must know, John and I were involved. Very briefly,” I added, as if that changed the fact of the relationship.
Jake smirked. “Details, details.”
I swatted him with a dish towel. “You’re not getting details. Frankly, I don’t remember much about our little—whatever it was.”
But I did remember that when I was with Eva the other night I’d almost let slip the fact that John and I had been briefly involved. I don’t know why I thought it important she not know about it. But I’d—well, I hadn’t lied, I’d just omitted to tell the truth.
“Please don’t say anything to anyone, Jake, okay? Promise me.”
“Who would I tell?” Jake asked. “Anyway, I know I asked about boyfriends, but, well, I have to say I’m not really comfortable with the idea of you being with anyone other than Dad.”
“But Dad’s being with another woman doesn’t bother you?” I asked.
Jake laughed. “Well, that’s a lot easier for me to take.”
“Jake, that’s so old-fashioned!”
“I know,” he said. “It’s stupid, but hey, it’s how I feel. And feelings can’t be judged. Only actions.”
“How smart you are!” I teased. “Jealous of the men in my life, but smart enough to admit it.”
“Jealous! I’m not jealous. Mom, that’s . . . weird.”
“Oh, I don’t mean anything weird by it, you know that. Just that—you know you’ve always come before your father with me, but how can you be sure another man might not take your place someday?”
“Have you been reading Freud in your free time?”
“Not since college, no. Anyway, I’m proud to say that I’ve never been jealous of your girlfriends.”
Jake raised an eyebrow at me. “Uh-huh.”
“No, really,” I protested, “I haven’t.”
“Maybe not jealous, but, Mom, you never liked anyone I brought home. Ever. And you weren’t exactly nice to a few of them.”
“That’s because no woman is ever going to be good enough for my son.”
“Oh, boy, here we go. Can we change the subject, please?”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “If you insist. Anyway, it’s time to eat.”
“Good, I’m starved. I missed lunch.”
“See!” I said. “I knew you weren’t eating right!”
“Mom!”
“Sit. I made those brownies you like for dessert, the ones with the walnuts.”
Jake pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and plopped into it. “Are you trying to give me heart disease before I’m twenty-five?”
“You’re skin and bone! You could stand to put on a few pounds.”
“My body mass index is right where it should be, Mom. And I work at keeping it that way.”
I put the roast chicken on the table. “Does that mean you won’t have a brownie?”
“No, Mom. I’m sure one little brownie won’t kill me.” Jake grinned. “Maybe two.”
I beamed. Brad could have his twenty-four-year-old girlfriend. I had Jake.
17
Remember: The mind is a sacred space. No thought or feeling is wrong. Guard your thoughts well; respect your feelings. Learn to choose wisely what you would share with friends (for example, the fact that you enjoy vanilla ice cream) and what you would not (for example, that you harbor a fantasy of murdering your former second-grade teacher).
—The Mind Is a Sacred Space
JOHN
“Is it my imagination or are we getting a lot of calls today?” I asked Ellen.
“No, it’s not your imagination. I finally told Eric to only put through the calls from men. My time is too precious to waste.”
“What?” I asked.
Ellen perched on the edge of my desk. “Counselor,” she said, “the town is abuzz with the news. One of the most eligible bachelors in Boston is looking to settle down.”
“What?” I repeated. Maybe not the most eloquent reply.
“Oh, yes, it’s true. People have nothing better to talk about than the imminent change in your domestic habits.”
“People,” I said, “are idiots.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve had more than one offer of a gift certificate to a spa in exchange for some inside information about your tastes and preferences.” Ellen held out a pink memo slip. “Usually,” she said, “I don’t even bother to take down the names and numbers, but in this case, I thought you might be amused.”
I frowned, doubting I could ever find amusement in this situation, and took the slip of paper.
“I know this woman,” I said, looking up at Ellen in disbelief. “She’s sixty if she’s a day. Is she kidding?”
“Oh, I think she’s quite serious. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a delivery of daylilies sometime this afternoon.”
“Daylilies?” I repeated stupidly.
“Yes. I told her they’re your favorite flower.”
“They’re not my favorite flower. I don’t have a favorite flower.”
Ellen shrugged. “Well, she wanted to send you something. Besides, I like them.”
“Good. Then you can take them home with you tonight. This is insane.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “How did word get out that I’m—that I’m changing my ways? I never said a word to anyone about—” Suddenly, I felt massively embarrassed. “About maybe, you know, wanting to get married.”
Ellen looked at me with pity. “Women are highly perceptive, John. And the particular women who’ve launched this attack have been watching you closely for years. You miss a party, you leave a bar early, they know something is up. Once it’s determined you’re not having a torrid affair with a socialite holed up at the Ritz, the answer to your unusual behavior becomes clear. John Felitti is finished sowing his wild oats. He is, finally, bagable.”
“Bagable?”
; “Yes, able to be bagged. Just waiting to be dragged down the aisle.”
“Oh, God.” I rubbed my forehead. “Who else has called?”
Ellen recited the names of three women who until that moment had been, as far as I knew, as devotedly single as I. “And suddenly, they want to get married,” I said numbly.
“They want to get married to a handsome, powerful, and, above all, wealthy attorney.”
I cringed. “So it’s not about me at all, is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s right.”
“I suppose I should find that insulting. But I don’t. I find it pitiful.”
But not pitiful enough to turn down the offer of a date with Vanessa Lambert, a very successful, reasonably attractive tax attorney I’d met on a few occasions. I didn’t remember much about our brief conversations, but neither did I have a memory of being bored by them.
I did hesitate for a moment before agreeing to meet her. I’d heard about Vanessa’s romantic habits. She picked out the man; she picked out the restaurant. But when it came time to pick up the check, that’s when Vanessa took a powder. Literally. The check arrived and Vanessa sailed off to the ladies’ room.
But, I thought, what the hell? So she’s got a thing about not paying for dinner. I usually paid for my dates, anyway. And I was absolutely certain there was no way that Vanessa, a woman who really did seem to have it all, would be interested in marrying anytime soon. I’d pass a few pleasant hours with her, maybe pick up a tax tip, and be home—alone—by ten.
The best-laid plans of mice and men . . . We were seated no more than a moment or two when Vanessa said: “I don’t have to have kids, do I?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well,” she said, her gaze frank and forthright, “I like everything to be clear up front. I think that’s best when negotiating a deal, don’t you?”
“Uh,” I said eloquently, “yes, but—”
“Good. So, if we get married I don’t have to have kids, right? I mean, that’s not part of the deal, is it? Because if it is—”
I put up my hand, as if flesh and blood could hold back this craziness. “Part of what deal, Vanessa?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
The Friends We Keep Page 7