“Okay,” I said. “Again, I’m sorry—”
“Save your breath.”
I did. I saved my breath for the dash to the cab. And once sprawled on its backseat I made a vow to never, ever take Teri’s advice again. And when I dropped off that check with Father Imperioli the next morning, I just might inquire about becoming a monk.
32
Dear Answer Lady:
The lady next door is a real pill. Every time I have a party she calls the cops and just because I sometimes use her trash cans she thinks I’m some kind of a bum. Worse, she’s got it in for my dog. Okay, so sometimes Buster gets out of the backyard and poops on her roses. I mean, he’s a dog. His poop is probably good fertilizer. Anyway, the last time this happened she threatened to call Animal Control or whatever and have Buster taken away. What can I do to make this old biddy calm down?
Dear Menace to the Neighborhood:
Kick out your party guests at ten o’clock. Get your own damn trash cans. Make the fence around your backyard higher (consider barbed wire). Enroll Buster in an obedience class. And bring your long-suffering neighbor a box of expensive candies as an apology for your inconsiderate behavior. Have a nice day.
JOHN
I have to tell you. Being verbally attacked in public by a woman I’ve just bought dinner for is not my idea of a good way to end an evening. I can see if I had groped her or insulted her mother or done something objectionable like pick my nose. Sure, scream and yell all you want. Kick me if you need to. Go right ahead.
But all I’d done was to be honest.
For the millionth time (this is probably not an exaggeration) I found myself wondering what women wanted from men. Truth, lies, or an artful combination of both?
When I was just dating around through my twenties and thirties, with no intention of becoming serious with anyone, the rules were clear. I stuck to seeing women who didn’t expect anything from me but a good time. Sure, there was the occasional woman who declared she didn’t want anything serious and who then, after sex, morphed into a clingy creature, but they were few and far between and, frankly, I never found it hard to extricate myself from their desperate grasp.
Now that I was taking my love life seriously, I couldn’t seem to do anything right.
I began to wonder if it really was too late for me to marry. Had I inadvertently become . . . the bachelor uncle? The guy with nowhere to go on holidays, the guy who depends on his happily married siblings to invite him for a home-cooked meal? The guy with no one to clip his ear hair, with no one to care if his nose hair grew offensively long, with no one to care if he took his Centrum Silver or developed prostate cancer?
One thing was clear. Men needed women. Let me be specific. I needed a woman. And preferably before I became a monster, the old man with no female companion to keep him from sliding in grotesquerie.
33
All writers, whether of “fact” or “fiction,” are liars. And that’s okay. But why should they be exempt from an ethical accounting? Why isn’t it okay for the average secretary, say, to tell a tall tale when his boss asks what became of the one hundred dollar bill he left on his desk?
—The Creative Imagination and Its Dubious Relationship with the Truth
JOHN
“What do women want?” I asked. “I really want to know. What do women want? This is not a rhetorical question. I need an answer.”
“Could you be more specific?” Sophie asked. “What do women want when? On a date, in a relationship, in general?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, in general I guess. From men, what do women want from men?”
“Sex.”
Sophie rolled her eyes at Eva. “Respect. And love, of course.”
“And sex. Unless they’re lesbian and then women have no use for men at all.”
“Eva!”
“Well, come on, Sophie. You can get respect from your assistant and love from a puppy. Sex, well, of course you can get it from a variety of sources, but I’ll stick to men.”
“You two,” I said, “are no help at all.”
Sophie reached across the table and patted my hand maternally. “I’m sorry, John. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Yeah, something happened.”
I told them about the disastrous confrontation with Kelly. “I mean, one woman tells me that women want honesty from men. Another woman tells me that women want men to lie to them. All the time? Only in special circumstances? I tell you, I can’t figure out you people.”
“‘You people’? Women can’t be lumped into one convenient mass, John,” Eva said. “I know it’s difficult but you just have to take each one of us individually. Incredible concept, isn’t it?”
I glared at Eva. “I know that, I’m not stupid. I’m just looking for some general guidelines, something I can actually use. But maybe it’s ridiculous of me to even try to understand women. I don’t know.”
I became aware of Sophie eyeing me keenly.
“What?” I asked her.
“There’s something else bothering you.”
“Yeah, there is,” I admitted. “But just forget it. I don’t want to dump work stuff on you.”
“No, John, tell us, please. Maybe talking about it will help.”
Why not? “By now,” I said, “you’d think I’d be used to watching women make lousy choices about their lives.”
Eva raised an eyebrow. “Like men don’t make lousy choices?”
I ignored her attempt to drag me into some stupid argument in which she would try to paint me as a misogynist slob.
“One of my pro bono cases,” I said. “This woman’s been her husband’s punching bag for years. And every time I think we’ve convinced her to take the guy to court, every time we’ve got her all set up with temporary housing, every time we’ve got her emergency financial assistance and counseling, what does she do? She drops the charges and goes right back to the creep. It happened again and I swear, I’m tempted not to even try to help her next time—and there will be a next time. It’s massively frustrating.”
Sophie clutched my arm briefly. “You won’t give up on her, John, I know you won’t.”
“Don’t be too sure.” I was aware of my voice having a sepulchral tone. “My time and resources are limited. I’d rather spend them on someone who’ll actually accept the assistance and try to make a better life for herself. You don’t give a new liver to an alcoholic who’s determined to continue drinking when there’s an otherwise healthy candidate waiting for one. You assess the risks and the chances of success and you act from there.”
Eva nodded. “It makes sense. But assessing the winners and losers in a medical crisis isn’t the same as assessing someone’s capacity for emotional or psychological growth.”
“Of course not,” I agreed. “I’m not a psychiatrist. It’s a big crapshoot for me to draw the line on a case. I don’t walk away easily, believe me.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Sophie said, ever the encouraging one.
“By now,” Eva said, “your instincts must be honed. I’m sure you can spot a loser more easily than when you first started out.”
“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t use the word ‘loser’ when talking about victims of domestic abuse. Every client is of equal importance.”
“Even the ones who can’t pay?”
“Absolutely. It has to be that way.” I waited for Eva to start slinging accusations of unethical tendencies, like she’d so enjoyed doing back in college. I really, really wasn’t in the mood for that kind of thing.
But for some reason she dropped the argumentative tone and said, “That’s admirable.” Maybe it was the look of apprehension on Sophie’s face, her fear of an impending argument that persuaded Eva to back down.
“Does anyone want to share a dessert?” I asked, thankful for the peace. I might not have learned anything useful but at least nobody had come to blows. “Alberto’s pastries are killer.”
34
Dear Answer L
ady:
I had to stay late at the office one night last week to finish a project. Just before I left—it was about nine o’clock—I went to the break room to put my coffee cup in the dishwasher. The lights in the break room were off. When I switched them on I found two of my coworkers making out. Someone screamed—I think it might have been me—and I switched the lights off and ran to the elevators as fast as I could. Since then, whenever I see the man he looks the other way. The woman, however, gives me a dirty look. I feel totally uncomfortable going to work. What should I do? By the way, both coworkers are married to other people.
Dear Unwitting Witness:
You are at no fault in this matter and it is entirely wrong that you should be made to suffer for the sins of these two adulterous people. I offer this advice: Ignore the man. He’s obviously a coward. The woman, however, is a problem. The next time you run into her, smile brightly and offer a hearty greeting. Compel her to talk about the weather or some other neutral topic. And then, keeping the bright smile on your face, inform her that if she doesn’t stop giving you dirty looks you will be forced to reveal a bit of information that might cause some distress to her and her family. Offer a hearty farewell and be on your way. You will then rightly have the upper hand in the matter. One further bit of advice: You work too hard. The only people who should be in the office at nine o’clock at night are illicit lovers.
EVA
“What was Mom—I mean, Sophie—like in college?”
We were in Jake’s bed. A bottle of wine sat on the floor next to a cheap digital alarm clock and two torn condom wrappers; Jake didn’t see the need for a bedside table.
I took a sip of wine—a very good one, which I had brought, as Jake kept only beer in his apartment—before answering. “You know you’re not supposed to bring up the subject of your—of Sophie.”
“Oh, come on,” Jake pressed. “I’m just curious about what she was like when she was my age.”
Well, I thought, it won’t kill me to give the kid some information.
“Okay,” I said. “My memory for details is pretty grim. But what I do remember is that Sophie wasn’t all that different from the way she is today. Pleasant, sociable. Smart. Sometimes a little dull.”
“Hey!”
“You asked a question,” I pointed out. “Don’t ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer.”
Jake frowned. “Dull compared to you, maybe.”
Most people, I thought, are dull compared to me. Or, at least, dull compared to my public persona.
“So,” Jake said now, “did she date much?”
“She went out from time to time. I don’t think there was anyone serious. And once she met your—once she met Brad, well, it was all over.”
“You make it sound so negative,” Jake said. “Like her entire life was over when only her single life was over.”
“Yes, well. I never much liked Brad. And he never much liked me.”
Jake laughed. “I’m not surprised.”
“Excuse me?”
Jake took a sip of beer before replying. “My father prefers women to be—how do I put this?—more docile. More malleable. That’s why a twenty-four-year-old, not-very-bright restaurant hostess is perfect for him. She allows him to be everything he thinks he is: powerful, indispensable.”
“Then why did he leave your mother?” I asked. I was too tired to correct my choice of words. We both knew about whom we were talking. “Didn’t she play her part in his game?”
“You might find this hard to believe, but Mom developed a bit of a rebellious streak when it came to my father. She resisted him in subtle ways, but her plan—if it was even conscious—worked in the end. He left her alone. Now she can start over.”
This was an interesting view of the situation. “Huh,” I said.
“It was never in her to ask for a divorce,” Jake went on.
“I’m sure it never even crossed her mind. But in a slow and subtle way she forced him to the point of wanting out. And to wanting a woman more interested in playing the adoring, pampered wife of a rich and powerful man.”
“How did you become so aware of your parents’ relationship dynamic?”
Jake shrugged. “Most kids know a lot more about their parents’ marriage than the parents think they do. Or would want them to know. And, I’m a particularly observant person.”
“Oh, really?” I asked. Was Jake observant enough to realize that a large part of the time my attitude toward him was one of mild amusement? Did he realize that I saw him as in large part an entertainment?
“Really,” he said, without a trace of defensiveness. “Still, I think if someone confronted my mother with this theory of mine she’d deny it. But I’d still say that I’m right.”
“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
Again, Jake was unfazed. “About most things, yeah.”
About me? I wondered. How could he be? I thought of the call I was planning to make. Lately, I wasn’t even sure of myself.
35
You’ve told your colleagues you attended the University of Michigan. You’ve referred to their winning football team as “we.” For example: “The year we won the big pennant I was playing with a fractured foot.” You neglected to explain that what you were playing was a trombone. Perfect! Now your colleagues assume you were a true hero for the football team! You’ve accomplished just what you set out to do!
—You Just Assumed: When Passive Lying Is Useful
EVA
I wasn’t looking forward to making the call. But it had to be done and better over the phone than face-to-face.
I called Sam’s cell, per my habit. There was no reason for his assistant to have any knowledge of me. He answered immediately; of course he did, my name showed on the screen of his phone.
“I have to cancel tomorrow.”
Sam laughed dryly. “Hello to you, too. Okay. Let me get my Blackberry. How about Thursday? At one?”
“No,” I said, “that’s not going to be good, either. In fact, I’m not going to be seeing you for a while.”
“Whoa. This is a surprise. What happened? Did I do something wrong?”
I laughed. “Everything has to be all about Sam. No, you did nothing wrong and nothing’s wrong with me, thanks for asking. I’m just—we’re just not going to be seeing each other for a while.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. I heard him get up from his desk and close the door to his office. When he got back on the phone he said: “Jesus, Eva, after all we’ve been through aren’t you going to give me more of an explanation?”
Damn, it was going to be as exasperating a conversation as I had feared it would be. “Sam,” I said, with exaggerated, false patience, “we’ve been through nothing together but a few hundred condoms. We’re supposed to mean nothing to each other, remember?”
“Yeah, well, call me a romantic, but I like you, Eva.” His voice sounded ragged. “I can’t have sex with someone over and over and not grow to like her.”
“You’re just used to me, Sam, that’s all.” I fiddled with a pen. I am not a fiddler. I put down the pen. “You’ll get used to another woman.”
“There aren’t many other women like you, Eva.”
“By that you mean a woman who can divorce sex from intimacy.” Except when she can’t, I thought. Isn’t that why I was ending things—temporarily—with Sam, because of some sense of loyalty to Jake? Or was it guilt about deceiving Sophie?
“You know that’s not all I mean when I say that you’re special,” Sam replied, and for the first time since I’d known him, he sounded angry.
I didn’t owe Sam an explanation, I didn’t. But something made me give him one. “Look,” I said in what I thought was a conciliatory tone, “if it makes you feel any better, I’ll tell you the truth. I met someone a few weeks back and we got involved and, well, for now, while this other thing plays itself out, I’d feel more comfortable if you and I weren’t having sex.”
Sam’s response was accusa
tory. “You’re in love with this guy, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said, “I’m not, as a matter of fact. But I do like him, he’s very sweet and that’s all the explanation you’re going to get.”
Sam was silent for a long moment. I wanted badly to get off the phone and was just about to tell him good-bye when he spoke. “Eva, if sex with me means nothing to you, then why can’t you keep sleeping with me while you see this other guy?”
Because . . .
“Look, Sam,” I said, “I’m ending this conversation. I’ll call you when . . . when this other thing is over and if you’re still interested we can get together.”
“Can’t we even talk in the meantime?”
I sighed. “About what?”
“I don’t know, about anything. So that I know what’s going on in your life.”
“Sam, you’ve never known what’s going on in my life.”
“Only because you won’t tell me. You know I’m interested.”
“And that’s another reason I won’t be seeing you for the duration. You’re getting too attached, Sam. Look at how hurt you are. You need some time away from me.”
“Why do you always assume you know what I need and what I don’t need?” Sam shot back.
“Because,” I said, “I usually do know.”
Sam laughed bitterly. “Well, this time you’re wrong, Eva. But I have no choice here, do I? You’re breaking up with me and I have no choice but to accept it.”
“You can’t break up with someone you weren’t dating in the first place, Sam. Now, don’t be melodramatic.”
The Friends We Keep Page 12