“Right. Easy for you to say when—”
My stomach clenched and I disconnected the call. Sam didn’t call back.
I suppose I’d half-expected him to. The silence left me feeling annoyingly unsettled. For a moment I doubted the wisdom of cutting Sam off, and the wisdom of allowing Jake an exclusivity he wasn’t even aware he possessed.
What’s done is done, Eva, I reminded myself. Besides, I knew I couldn’t reverse the decision I’d made regarding Sam without losing the considerable power I had over him—and that prospect, the loss of power, was far too frightening to contemplate.
36
Dear Answer Lady:
Lately, my boyfriend has been spending a lot of time with my best friend, who everyone says looks just like Jessica Simpson. (She really does.) On more than one occasion my friend has told me my boyfriend is too skinny, so I know she’s not attracted to him. And my boyfriend has said he thinks my best friend is too “perfect” and that he prefers someone “real” like me. But in the past week they’ve gone to a movie together (while I was at work) and met for dinner (while I was visiting my mom). I know I’m being ridiculous; I mean, it’s not like they’re hiding the fact that they’ve become friends. In fact, the only reason I’m writing this letter is because my sister is convinced my boyfriend and best friend are having an affair. Please, tell her (and me) that the two people who mean the most to me (outside of my family) are innocent.
Dear Painfully Ignorant:
The truth, my friend, is as plain as the nose on your face. You do have a nose, don’t you? I wouldn’t want to be accused of making an assumption here. Some people, I am told, do not have a nose due to accident or illness. Okay, then, assuming you do sport said appendage, find a mirror and take a look at it right now. See? There it is, your nose. As obvious as the fact that your so-called best friend is fooling around with your boyfriend. Dump the bitch and send the bum packing. With friends like them . . . Well, you know the rest. Or do you?
SOPHIE
“Eva? It’s Sophie.”
“Yes, I know. Caller ID.”
“Oh. Right. Well, is this an okay time to talk?”
I always ask people that question. Almost always. Just in case.
Eva sighed. “Yeah, it’s fine. I was just about to nuke some dinner but it can wait.”
I made a mental note to have Eva for dinner soon. No one should eat frozen meals night after night. “I need your advice,” I said. “It’s about a man.”
Eva’s interest was piqued, as I knew it would be. “Ask away,” she said.
I told her how just an hour earlier, when I’d been getting my mail from the boxes in the lobby of my building, one of my neighbors, a man who lived on the floor above, someone I’d only ever said hi to before, got off the elevator and stopped to chat.
“And?” Eva queried. “This is utterly boring so far.”
“And then he asked me on a date. He asked me to have dinner with him Friday night.”
“He what?” she barked.
“He asked me out for Friday. And I said yes. But I don’t know if I did the right thing. I mean, he seems nice enough but I felt kind of pressured just standing there in the lobby, kind of like I was being ambushed. Am I being silly about this?”
“No,” Eva replied emphatically, “you are not being silly.”
I was relieved. From the moment he’d walked out of the lobby I’d doubted the wisdom of my decision. I mean, what if we went out and had a horrible time? Would I have to avoid the lobby entirely from that point on?
“Doesn’t this idiot know the rules?” Eva went on. “You don’t shit where you eat.”
“Eva!”
“What? That’s the saying. Anyway, I want you to call him right now and tell him you’ve changed your mind.”
“Can’t I just stick a note under his door?” I asked.
“No. He needs to hear the words from your mouth. Better yet, don’t call him. Knock on his door.”
“But what if he asks me why I changed my mind?” I asked. “What am I going to say?”
Eva considered. “If I were in your position I’d tell him straight out that he was an idiot for trying to date his neighbor. But you’re not as tough as me. So what I want you to say is this: that you’re not ready to date. You thought you were but you’re not. And smile nicely for the man. You don’t want your life in that building to be miserable. You don’t want to be afraid of running into him every time you leave for work. What an ass. I’m really pissed at this guy.”
You know, I thought, I’m pissed at him, too. How dare he put me in this awkward position!
I thanked Eva and let her get back to microwaving her dinner. And I spent the next half hour working up the nerve to follow through with her advice.
In the end I picked up the phone. (Thankfully, his number was listed.) I just didn’t have the courage for what might become a face-to-face confrontation. I mean, what did I know about this man other than the possibility that he was, in Eva’s words, an ass? I’m sure it would have sickened her to hear me apologize repeatedly for breaking the date he never should have asked for in the beginning. But my humility (faked, even though I hate playacting) seemed to work, and although he sounded mildly disappointed he didn’t give me a hard time at all.
I settled in bed that night with a new mystery by one of my favorite authors, and tried to let myself be transported to another time and place—England in the 1920s, to be exact. But at the back of my mind the current world continued to intrude, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my every experience with dating would be fraught with unforeseen complications and rules I would need a notebook to keep track of. Thank God, I thought, for a friend like Eva.
37
You neglected to call your mother on her birthday. Maybe you forgot or maybe you consciously chose not to call. Either way, some would call this a sin of omission, i.e., not a good thing. Now, is it wrong for you to omit this particular detail when your new boyfriend, someone you’re trying to impress with your sterling character, asks how you spent your day? Some would say that choosing not to tell him (or, “forgetting” to tell him) about your poor behavior is, in fact, the commitment of a sin. Face facts. No matter what you do or don’t do, you’re going to Hell.
—Omission and Commission: A Trap You Can’t Avoid
JOHN
“I married Marie because she’s simple, you know?”
I supposed I was required to nod so I did. Gene nodded back at me and took a sip of his scotch on the rocks. We’d gone out for a drink after a particularly difficult day. Five minutes into the evening I was mentally slapping myself for having agreed to spend time with my disgusting colleague.
“Look,” he went on—as if imparting information I hadn’t already heard, information that for some reason he felt it vitally necessary that I possess—“she knows she’s not a hottie. Her self-esteem isn’t great—you should meet her parents, they’re crazy people, they really did a number on her—and she’s not exactly a rocket scientist. She’s a perfect wife for a guy like me, no trouble, stays at home, doesn’t ask me where I’ve been when I come in late. And man, can she cook. Keeps a perfect house, too. I’ve got it made. Hey, maybe it’s old-fashioned but so what? It works for me.”
“And you’re sure it works for her?” I asked, fascinated in spite of myself, as one is fascinated passing a car wreck. You see a bit of blood on the pavement and, repulsed, strain more closely in order to catch a glimpse of gore.
Gene made a face to indicate I was an idiot for even asking. “Of course,” he said. “Marie never complains. Never. She’s the ideal woman, except for the face and the body.”
“I see,” I said. I didn’t see at all.
“I give her money to decorate the house the way she wants and she’s having a kid, which she wanted more than anything, and once a year, on her birthday, I take her out for a fancy dinner and all that crap and she’s satisfied. I tell you, John, if you ever get married, don’t go for a looker. Go f
or someone like Marie, and you can have all the gorgeous women you want on the side. À la carte, man. It’s the way to live.”
Gene’s absolute lack of shame was stunning. I’ve known plenty of guys who’ve cheated on their wives. And not one of them had ever spoken—in my hearing, at least—in so brazen a manner about their affairs. On the contrary, most cheating husbands I’d encountered kept a low profile and dealt with their guilt by saying nothing but good things about their wives to anyone who would listen.
Gene was one of a kind in my experience. From the beginning of our acquaintance I wondered if his bravado was real or some sort of act meant to result in his being found out. I wondered if he wasn’t unconsciously hoping to get caught, for reasons I couldn’t even begin to fathom.
I drained my glass—scotch, no ice—and stood. “I’ve got to be going,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Stay for one more,” he said. “Come on, the night is young.”
But I’m not so young anymore, I thought. I lifted a hand in a wave and walked off.
38
Dear Answer Lady:
One of my friends is always getting compliments on her hair, which is an interesting shade of red. She’s always claimed that it’s natural but one day a few weeks ago I was in a neighboring town on business and what did I see? My friend in a hair salon, having her hair colored! (I’m sure she didn’t see me.) I can’t believe she’s been lying all these years! Last night a bunch of us were out and this really good-looking guy came by our table and told her she had the most beautiful hair he’d ever seen. My friend told him, of course, that it was natural and he asked for her number. I could hardly control myself! I wanted to call her on the lie right there and then, but I didn’t. Now, I regret keeping my mouth shut. Shouldn’t she be punished for false advertising?
Dear Woman-Who-Has-No-Life:
Three words: get over it. So your friend has some bizarre need to sustain a stupid white lie about her hair. Big deal. In the scheme of things, how does this affect your life? Global warming, war, terrorism, an escalating crime rate, growing unemployment—these are the topics you should be pondering, not some woman’s pitiful need for attention. If you’re so pissed off, end the friendship. But for God’s sake, let the poor woman live with her lie.
EVA
“I have to eat before we fool around,” I said, kicking the door shut behind me. “I’m absolutely starved.”
Jake stood in the kitchen, idly bouncing a pencil off the kitchen’s peeling counter. “I don’t think I have anything,” he said.
“That’s why I brought us lunch.” I plopped a white paper bag on the counter and grabbed the pencil from his hand. “That drives me crazy,” I said.
“Where were you last night?” he asked. “I called your cell a few times.”
“I know,” I said. “I got your messages. Do you have any clean glasses?”
“I thought if you weren’t doing anything we could catch a movie.”
“Well,” I said, blowing a speck of dust off a drinking glass, “I was doing something. My company sponsors an annual charity auction. I didn’t get home until after midnight, which means, of course, that I’m not feeling fabulous right now. Lack of sleep does nothing for my mood, not to mention my skin. I wouldn’t be surprised if it breaks out by evening.”
I handed Jake the chicken wrap I’d picked up for him. He took it, his expression openly hurt.
“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
Jake shrugged and fiddled with the paper around the wrap. “No, it’s just . . . Did you go to this party with anyone?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a party. These things are more like command performances. Nobody has any fun but everybody pretends to. Payment is in mediocre champagne and mushy caviar.”
“But you didn’t answer my question.” Jake put his wrap on the counter. “Were you there with anyone?”
Ah, Jake was showing signs of his father’s jealous nature. I wasn’t impressed—and I wasn’t going to make this little inquisition easy on my lover. “Yes, Jake. About two hundred of my closest friends.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, plaintively. “Why are you being so difficult, Eva?”
“Difficult? I’m not the one grilling his lover about her social habits.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this auction?”
I folded my arms across my chest. Like a cat arching his back and running sideways at his enemy, this gesture makes me look particularly formidable. I know because I was told—by two employees on the day they quit their jobs and spilled their resentments. “Frankly,” I said, “because it was none of your business. Come on, Jake. What possible interest could you have had in spending the evening in a hotel function room with hundreds of advertising types?”
“I would have enjoyed being there with you,” he said stubbornly.
“No, you wouldn’t have. Because I wouldn’t have had any time to devote to you, Jake. And what could you contribute to a conversation about branding?”
“I’m a good listener. All my girlfriends have told me that.”
Poor kid. He was lumping me in the girlfriend category. I uncrossed my arms. There was no real contest here. “Please, Jake, just drop it, okay?”
Before he could reply I took a bit of my sandwich and chewed enthusiastically. I’d eaten an entire half before Jake spoke again.
“I feel,” he said, “that you don’t respect me.”
I wrapped the rest of my sandwich in its paper and sighed. Were all boys of Jake’s generation so needy? And so articulate about their emotions? “Of course I respect you,” I said carefully. “My decision not to ask you to come along had nothing to do with respect or lack of it.”
“Are you embarrassed by me, then?” he pressed. “Are you ashamed of our relationship?”
I didn’t answer Jake’s accusatory questions. I couldn’t answer them.
Jake shook his head. “I thought so,” he said and he sounded deeply wounded.
“Look, Jake,” I said, my patience worn thread-thin and my stomach still rumbling, “no one brings a spouse or a partner to these events. Hardly anyone. You would have been thoroughly bored. Trust me.”
“I’d like the opportunity to decide for myself whether or not I’m bored.”
I swear I thought the next words out of his mouth would be, “You’re not my mother.” Instead, he just looked at me and in his eyes I saw Sophie’s emotional vulnerability. Poor kid, I thought again. Life is only going to be nasty if he doesn’t toughen up.
“Well?” he demanded.
Well, what? Had he asked a question? I couldn’t feel the slightest bit of sympathy for him. Frankly, I wished he’d just stop whining.
“Look,” I said wearily, “I’m sorry you’re upset but there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“You could apologize.”
“For what! I didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the first one to say that everyone is responsible for his or her own feelings. If you’re feeling hurt, that’s your responsibility, not mine.”
“Even if you’re the cause of the hurt?”
I grabbed my sandwich and stomped into the miniscule living room. “Jake, I just can’t do this. I’m going back to the office.”
Jake followed me. “Two people who care about each other shouldn’t walk away when they’ve reached an impasse. They should stay and work past the problem.”
I whirled to face him. “Are you sure you’re studying for a degree in engineering and not couples counseling? Good-bye, Jake.”
As the door closed behind me, I heard Jake’s voice, young and hopeful though still tainted with hurt.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
The door clicked shut. I was spared the need to reply.
39
Remember: Everyone understands wrong assumptions. (“I thought you wouldn’t mind if I ate the piece of cake with your name on it.”) Everyone can relate to finding out that something she was told was real
was, in fact, not real. (WMDs, anyone?) Everyone knows all about being duped by mistaken beliefs. (Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy, The Easter Bunny—take your pick.) In short, everyone is well acquainted with prevarication, fuzzy thinking, and outright lies. What’s the big deal?
—Don’t Beat Yourself Up: Loving the Phony Within
EVA
That night, alone in my apartment, stretched in my one armchair (which I’d bought years earlier), feet propped on a box of books unopened since moving day, I recalled a similar situation with Ben.
I’d completely forgotten about it until that moment. This, as I’ve said, was not unusual. For years I’d been perfecting the art of selective memory. The ability to block out uncomfortable incidents . . . It’s a fine skill to have. It allows you to get on with your life as if nothing at all upsetting had taken place.
Anyway, several months into our relationship my company had sponsored an event similar to the one I’d just attended. I mentioned the event to Ben. He asked if he was invited. I told him that no, he wasn’t. He asked why not. I explained that it wasn’t my habit to mix my personal life with my professional life.
Like Jake, Ben had been upset, though he’d been far less annoying about it. He said he felt I didn’t take the relationship as seriously as he did. (It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that remark, or the last.) I replied that I took the relationship as seriously as it should be taken. He asked what I meant by that, and—
And I had nothing.
Thinking back on this episode now I realize that the relationship had begun to fall apart right then and there.
What is it, I thought, about the way I relate to the people I supposedly care about that inevitably results in disaster, or, worse, in nothing, a dead end? Why, I wondered, do I claim to care about someone—my sister, Ben, Jake, Sam—but at the same time have the need to marginalize them?
The Friends We Keep Page 13