The Friends We Keep

by Holly Chamberlin

  I threw my plastic cup into the big trash barrel by the door and left. The night, I thought, hasn’t been a total waste. I just might have found Eva’s new Mr. Right.

  28

  Dear Answer Lady:

  Last week I got a ticket for ignoring a STOP sign. (I swear I thought it said SOAP.) Now I’m supposed to get an eye exam but I really don’t want to wear glasses. A friend of mine works at the eye doctor’s in the mall. I’m thinking of asking her to help me cheat on the exam. But I don’t know. It sounds like maybe it’s wrong. What do you think?

  Dear Stupid:

  Sure, go ahead and cheat. Wait to get glasses until you’re in jail for vehicular manslaughter. I hear prison-issue frames are very fashionable.

  EVA

  “Is this a good time to talk?” Sophie asked.

  “No,” I said, scanning the piles of paperwork on my desk.

  “This will only take a minute, I swear.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What? I’m timing you.”

  Sophie spoke in a rush, as if she believed I was following the second hand on my watch.

  “I met this wonderful man last night at a singles mixer at the church down the block. Eva, I think he’d be perfect for you!”

  First of all, no one perfect for me would be found at a singles mixer sponsored by a church. “No thanks,” I said flatly.

  “Oh, Eva, don’t be silly. Let me just tell you a bit about him.”

  What part of “no” do perky people not understand? Why do they feel they’re immune from dissention?

  “Sophie,” I said, a bit impatiently, “I mean it, I’m not interested.”

  “But why?” Sophie asked. “I thought you wanted to meet someone.”

  “I never said that. You made an assumption. And by the way, you’ve exceeded your allotted phone time.”

  “You won’t even meet him once, maybe for coffee?”

  “I don’t like to be fixed up,” I countered.

  “He’s very nice. And he’s a doctor.”

  “I don’t date doctors.”

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “I prefer ugly men,” I lied. “They work harder to please a woman.”

  “He has nice hair.”

  Then I did look at my watch. This conversation had gone on far too long. “If this guy is so perfect,” I said reasonably, “why don’t you go out with him?”

  “I didn’t feel a spark,” Sophie admitted.

  “Are you sure you didn’t feel a spark, Sophie? Not just a little one? Why don’t you meet him for coffee? I hear he’s very nice.”

  “Okay.” Sophie sounded hurt. “I get your point. I’m sorry. I was just trying to be—”

  “Yes,” I said, in a kinder tone, “you were just trying to be helpful, I know. Thanks. Really.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay,” Sophie said again.

  I disconnected the call. I’d been a bit rough with Sophie. I felt bad. Worse, I felt bad about feeling bad.

  This friendship thing, I thought, turning back to my computer, is a hell of a lot of work.

  29

  Human beings are under no compulsion to reveal every thought or feeling or action to other human beings. We are entitled to hold close whatever personal information we care to, even when confronted by a nagging spouse or a nosy neighbor.

  —The Privilege of Privacy

  SOPHIE

  “I thought you were going to bring your laundry?”

  “Mom, I’m not a kid. I can do my own laundry.”

  I thought of Jake’s weekly visits home during his four years at college, visits that were as much an excuse to drop off his laundry as anything else. “How often?” I asked. “How often do you do your laundry?”

  “Often enough.”

  “Hmmm.” Maybe, I thought, I’ll use the key he gave me and surprise him one day. Who could complain about a drawer of clean underwear and socks? “So, how are classes going?”

  “Good.”

  “Just good? Do you like your teachers? Do they give you a lot of homework?”

  “Mom, it’s grad school. Not third grade. It doesn’t matter if I like my professors or not. And I’m there to work, not to slack off.”

  “Okay,” I said. What did I know about graduate school? “Have you met anyone nice? A girl, I mean.”

  Jake opened the fridge and peered inside. “Actually,” he said, “I’m too focused on my classes to have time for a relationship right now.”

  I sighed. “I don’t understand people who spend all their time and energy on work! You sound just like Eva. The other day I tried to set her up with a very nice man and she wouldn’t even agree to meet him for coffee!”

  Jake closed the door and turned to me. “Oh? Did she say why?”

  “She said that she wasn’t interested in meeting anyone right now. I mean, coffee! How long could that take, half an hour?”

  “Well, maybe she just wasn’t in the mood. You can’t force love, Mom.”

  “Oh, I know. I’d just like to see her happy.”

  “I’m sure Eva can take care of herself,” Jake said. “But what about you, Mom? Why don’t you go on a date?”

  Why, indeed? Because no one had asked me.

  I told Jake about the singles mixer and about how, in the end, all I’d gained from the experience was a deeper conviction of how I hate going to parties.

  Jake reached out and hugged me. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said. “There’s a good guy out there for you. Of course, he’ll have to pass my inspection, first.”

  I pushed him away playfully. “That’s assuming I’m going to ask for your opinion!”

  “You’re getting my opinion whether you ask for it or not. End of discussion.”

  “You sound like your father.”

  “No way! Though I guess a commanding tone of voice can be useful.”

  “Speaking of Dad,” I ventured, “did he ever ask for your opinion on his girlfriend? Carly?”

  “Of course not,” Jake said. “Has Dad ever asked for anyone’s opinion on anything?”

  “There’s a point. Anyway, you never did tell me what you think of her. It’s okay, I won’t be upset if you tell me she’s nice in addition to being a knockout.”

  Jake considered before speaking. “Mom, she’ll never be you.”

  “You’ve become quite the diplomat,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, divorce will do that to a kid.”

  Oh. I reached out and took Jake’s hand. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry for whatever trouble the divorce has caused you.”

  Jake squeezed my hand and let go. “Mom, it’s okay. Really. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “And I shouldn’t have put you in an awkward position by asking about your father’s girlfriend. Subject over?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Later, when Jake came back from the bathroom, he said he’d noticed that the overhead lightbulb needed replacing. I’d avoided dealing with it, even though it was a minor project. I showed Jake the kitchen drawer in which I kept extra bulbs and he hauled the step stool into the bathroom.

  I stood alone in the kitchen and thought about how all my life I’d been reliant on men, specifically on my father, and then on Brad. And now, on Jake? Maybe, I thought, I shouldn’t be in such a hurry to meet someone and get serious. Maybe it would do me some good to be independent for a while. It was an uncomfortable thought. I’d always seen myself as the kind of person who worked best as a partner. Brad might have earned the money and fixed the toilet when it broke—after some nagging—but the reality is that I raised Jake pretty much alone. And while Brad was taking meetings and doing lunches, I was taking care of the house and doing all of the cooking and the cleaning and the chores, like running Brad’s suits to the cleaners and taking Jake to playdates and buying and sending Christmas and birthday gifts for the families. And I appreciated my responsibilities as much as I appreciated what I wasn’t called upon to do.
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  Still, thinking of Jake replacing a lightbulb I was too—I don’t know, lazy?—to replace, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d missed out on something by never having lived on my own.

  “All done,” Jake announced, joining me again. “Anything else need doing?”

  I thought of the knobs on my dresser drawers that needed tightening and said, “No, thanks.”

  30

  Dear Answer Lady:

  My best friend loaned me her diamond necklace and I lost it. The thing is, I’ve seen the exact same style necklace for sale in cubic zirconia. She’d be heartbroken if she knew the necklace was gone. Should I replace it with the c.z. necklace and keep my mouth shut?

  Dear Thief:

  Are you sure the diamond necklace isn’t tucked away at the back of your underwear drawer? Do your friend a real favor. Return the necklace and don’t bother her ever again.

  JOHN

  “I hope this isn’t a bad time,” Sophie said. “I can call back.”

  “No,” I lied, “it’s fine.” The middle of a workday is never a “good time” to chat. But I always manage to take the calls I shouldn’t.

  “Oh, good. I just wanted to confirm dinner on Wednesday at Marino’s.”

  “Confirmed. Have you talked to Eva?” I asked.

  Sophie sighed. “Yes, she’s meeting us.”

  “Why the sigh?” I asked.

  “I worry about her, John. She wouldn’t even consider meeting this nice man I tried to fix her up with.”

  I’ll admit this information pleased me. In spite of my better judgment and in spite of Eva’s obvious lack of interest in me, on some level I still hoped I might have a chance with her. It was partly the thrill of the chase. But it was something else, too, something indescribable that drew me to Eva.

  And then I remembered the vibe I’d caught when the three of us had had dinner. Somewhere, there was a man in Eva’s life—or there was about to be. And I knew it wasn’t going to be me.

  “Maybe she’s seeing someone,” I ventured, trying to be rational.

  “No,” Sophie replied emphatically. “We’re friends. She would have told me.”

  I wondered. Did Eva consider Sophie a friend? Even if she did, I wasn’t sure Eva felt she owed anyone the truth about her life.

  The reality was that after all the years of silence none of us really knew each other. What was Eva hiding? What was Sophie hiding? For that matter, what was I hiding?

  “I just wish Eva would get over that guy who broke her heart. She’s letting her past haunt her.”

  “What guy who broke her heart?” I asked, thinking immediately of the paragon Eva had gushed about when I’d seen her a few years back.

  Sophie gave me the story in sum. The timing worked. The paragon was indeed the man who broke Eva’s heart. According to Sophie.

  I wasn’t so sure Sophie’s interpretation of Eva’s emotional state was accurate. Maybe Eva wanted to be unattached. Maybe she liked being single. Then why did she hide behind the story of a broken heart? Was the façade of the tough, invulnerable woman really only a façade?

  I dismissed the questions. There’s no point in guessing what’s going on in someone’s head. Ask them to explain and you still might never know the truth.

  “It’s good of you to be concerned about Eva,” I told Sophie, “but I don’t think she needs our help.” Or, our interference, as Eva was likely to view “help.”

  “Maybe,” Sophie conceded. “Anyway, I should go. I know you’re busy. So, I’ll see you on Wednesday at eight o’clock.”

  I assured her that it was penned in on my calendar.

  31

  When fabricating a fact or a feeling, stick to verbal expression. Never, ever put pen to paper—or, as is more appropriate for today’s world, finger to keypad. Remember: The key to sustaining a successful lie, and then to being able to deny your involvement in it when convenient, is to leave no trail.

  —Never Lie in Writing

  JOHN

  We stood on the sidewalk just outside the excellent French restaurant that Kelly had suggested. I knew when I met her at a one-day conference the week before that she had good taste. I know Tiffany’s Atlas Collection when I see it.

  I shifted, right foot to the left. “So, thanks for having dinner with me,” I said. “The food was great.”

  Kelly continued to look at me expectantly. “You’re welcome,” she said. “So . . .”

  “So . . . Well, thanks again.” I stuck out my hand to shake hers. She kept her hand at her side and I let my own fall.

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  Oh, boy. Teri hadn’t coached me thoroughly; what was I supposed to do now? “Excuse me?” I asked.

  Kelly gave me a significant look, the kind that mothers give their kid when the kid is supposed to be saying “thank you” for the slice of American cheese the guy at the deli counter just gave him.

  “Am I going to see you again?” she asked.

  I took a deep breath. This was not going well at all. “Well,” I said, “you see, I had a nice time tonight.” I paused. “But, well, I’m just not sure you’re, uh, that we’re . . . right for each other. At this point in my life.”

  Ah, the tongue-tied attorney! Kelly didn’t find anything charming or even pitiable about my awkward explanation. She spoke her words carefully, as if not quite believing their meaning.

  “You’re saying that you’re not going to call me.”

  “Well, uh, yes,” I admitted. “I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

  Kelly leaned toward me; I involuntarily took a step back.

  “You bastard,” she hissed. “You scumbag! How dare you insult me this way!”

  Teri definitely hadn’t prepared me for this kind of reaction. “What?” I asked, hands suddenly in the air as if to ward off the blow that I wouldn’t be surprised was coming. “No, no, I didn’t mean to insult you, I just—”

  “Oh, just shut up,” she spat. “What an idiot I am going out with a creep like you!”

  “No, no, you’re not an idiot,” I said, though right then I was thinking, Hey, this woman is crazy. “I just thought . . . Look, please, my sister told me—”

  “You told your sister about me!”

  Oh, crap, John, just shut up and run for it. “Well, not about you in particular. How could I?” I pointed out reasonably. “This is our first date.”

  “And clearly our last!”

  An older couple came out of the restaurant just in time to hear Kelly’s pronouncement. The woman startled; the man looked at me sternly. I smiled feebly and the couple walked on, though the man looked over his shoulder twice before reaching the curb. Let me tell you, I didn’t relish the idea of being arrested for “bothering” my date. I doubted it would help my reputation as a defender of abused and downtrodden women.

  “Yes,” I said, lowering my voice almost to a whisper, “well, be that as it may, could you please stop shouting? Please just let me explain.”

  Kelly folded her arms across her chest and the word that came to mind to describe her was “pugnacious.”

  “Oh, you’d better explain, mister. And it had better be good!”

  “Okay. Okay. You see, I went out with this woman recently and, well, she was very nice, but I just didn’t, you know, click with her.” How to put this next part so as to avoid being the recipient of a mean right hook?

  “Go on,” Kelly urged, glaring up at me.

  I did, but first I took another small step away from her. “Well, at the end of the night I hailed her a cab and before it drove away I told her that I’d give her a call.”

  Kelly made a sound like the bark of a small, pissed-off mutt. “Let me guess. You had no intention of ever calling her.”

  “Well, no,” I admitted. “But I didn’t know what else to say. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or embarrass her, so—”

  “So, you lied.”

  “Well, yes. I guess I did. Anyway, I was telling my sister about it and she r
eally lit into me. She told me that women prefer honesty. She said that women don’t want to hear the white lies men tell at the end of the evening. She said that it was disrespectful. So—”

  “So,” Kelly interrupted, “you thought you’d try this honesty thing with me, is that it?”

  “Yes,” I said, grateful for her understanding, hopeful that I might yet make it home without blood oozing down my chin. “That’s it exactly. But,” I said, with one of my trademark charming smiles, “I’m getting the distinct impression that honesty wasn’t the best policy in this particular situation.”

  Big mistake.

  Kelly roared, “Don’t try to make a joke out of this!”

  My hands went up again. “I’m not, I swear! Look, Kelly, I’m sorry I upset you. Really, I am. But what was I supposed to do, tell you I’d call and then not call?”

  “Well,” Kelly said, “it would have been far better than telling me right to my face that you don’t like me!”

  God, I thought, I haven’t prayed to you since grade school but if you get me out of this intact I’ll write a big fat check to the old parish.

  When I spoke, it was very, very carefully. “I didn’t say that I didn’t like you. You’re a nice person, really. You have . . . great jewelry. It’s just that—”

  “It’s just that you’re not that into me, I know, I know, I’ve heard it before. It’s not my fault—”

  “It’s not!”

  Kelly bared her teeth. “Don’t interrupt me! It’s not my fault, it’s all yours. It has nothing to do with me, I’m a fine woman, I’ll make someone a lovely wife. God, I hate men!”

  I spotted a cab. It was idling at a red light. If I ran really fast I figured I could duck in its backseat before the bullets caught up with me. “Maybe,” I said, “I should just go—”

  “Oh, you’d better go, mister!” Kelly shouted. “And the next time you’re just not that into a woman, have the courtesy to lie to her, okay? When you don’t call, we get the message. There’s no need to humiliate us face-to-face.”