“Of course,” Ellen conceded. “I was talking about the average person, not some poor woman plagued by deep-seated insecurity caused by an abusive childhood, or someone manipulated into submission by an evil control freak. With a tiny dick.”
“It does make you wonder . . .”
“About the tiny dick? Please. Any man who mistreats his wife or girlfriend has an issue with his penis. It’s a no-brainer.”
“You’ve conducted studies?” I asked.
“I’ve been around,” Ellen said with an air of superior knowledge. “And we women talk. Of course, not all men with tiny penises are demonic assholes. In fact, I remember one guy from college, he was awfully sweet and he had this incredibly small—”
“Uh, Ellen?”
“Oh.” Ellen had the grace to look chastened. “Right. Okay.”
“And all this started when I asked you what you liked about your marriage.”
“Hazelnut gelato,” Ellen announced. “I’m mad for it and whenever I feel blue Austin brings home a pint for me. He doesn’t even ask for a spoonful. And most times I don’t give him one. But he still continues to know when I’m down, even if I’ve said nothing specific—and to show up with the gelato. That’s one thing I like about my marriage.”
“That’s a big thing.” What, I wondered, would I like a woman to bring me when I felt blue? I’d never thought about it.
“You bet it is,” Ellen agreed. “And here’s another big thing. Whenever I ask Austin if a particular dress or pair of pants makes me look fat he replies immediately and automatically, ‘Of course not!’”
“He’s well trained.”
“That, and he knows I don’t mind being lied to about certain topics. See, I’m not really asking for his opinion when I ask about the dress or the pants; I just want to hear the answer I want to hear. Austin has learned to distinguish a real question from a—let’s call it a phony—question.”
“Some men might call it a trick question,” I pointed out.
“Not once they’ve memorized the answer,” Ellen countered. “And his reply isn’t really a lie, is it? It’s all part of a game, a routine, the “Ellen and Austin Show.” Every couple has their own little variety show. Believe me, it helps pass the time—arguing about the same old same old, using the same catch phrases, repeating favorite quotes from The Simpsons. It’s good stuff, routine.”
And speaking of routine . . . I slid off the desk. “I’d better get back to work,” I said. “Thanks for the chat. And don’t forget to return that credit card tomorrow.”
Ellen grinned. “I won’t. But you might regret having given it to me in the first place.”
50
Dear Answer Lady:
Last night my husband and I had dinner at a cool little restaurant in the next town over. At the end of the night he went to get the car and asked me to pay the bill. Here’s the thing. We ate at the bar and had gotten into a lively conversation with a bunch of people, so I wasn’t really paying much attention when the bartender put the check in front of me. (I’d also had a few glasses of wine.) Anyway, this morning, I couldn’t find the credit card receipt in my bag. I have this horrible feeling that I left the restaurant without paying! What should I do? I’m so embarrassed. Should I just forget about it? It’s not like we ever have to go back to that restaurant. Besides, I know my husband will make fun of me when he finds out I spaced so badly.
Dear Alcoholic:
Get yourself to the restaurant as soon as it opens this evening, apologize, and pay your bill. Then proceed immediately to the nearest AA meeting. Have a nice day.
SOPHIE
I met Ben for lunch two days later. His tousled hair, his startling eyes, his way of looking right at me when we talked—it was all there again, those feelings I’d had the first time we met. Not that I was surprised. When he’d called to make the date his voice over the phone had made me smile.
And as we talked, as I learned more about him, I couldn’t help but notice the glaring differences between Ben and Brad. Ben’s demeanor, his way of listening, it seemed that everything about the way he walked around in the world set him apart from Brad. It made me feel . . . hopeful.
When we’d decided on what to eat (Was it meaningful that we chose the same dish? Brad and I never did.), Ben told me that he owned an apartment in the Back Bay (not far from my own in the Fen) and that he had two cats, Rousseau and Cellini.
“Brad wasn’t fond of pets,” I said, wondering if I should be mentioning my ex-husband again. “When Jake was ten he wanted a puppy but Brad said no.”
“That’s too bad,” Ben said, neutrally.
“I’m more of a cat person, though. I had a cat for a long time when I was a girl. His name was Rutledge. I don’t remember why.”
Ben smiled. “Are you thinking about getting a cat now that you’re on your own?”
The question affected me like a good shake. “I hadn’t even thought about it,” I admitted. “How odd. I guess that I can get a cat, now that—now that Brad’s not around.”
“It takes time to get used to living alone. And to living not in relation to a particular person’s particular habits.”
“Yes,” I said, “I suppose it does. It’s only been a few months, since, well, since everything’s been final.”
“So, you’re new to the horror that is the midlife dating scene.”
“Yes,” I said. And I thought: This is a date, isn’t it? Maybe it’s not—how would I know? Maybe Ben is about to give me advice about dating and if so, should I assume he just wants to be my friend? But do single men befriend single women only for the companionship? “It feels really weird,” I blurted.
Ben laughed. “Of course it does. There’s something wrong about being in our situation. You have to find the absurd humor in it or you’ll sink into depression.”
“I’m not the depression type,” I said honestly. “So I guess I’d better find the humor right away.”
“You will. There are a lot of . . . interesting people out there.”
But I’m not interested in them, I thought. I’m interested in you. And I need to know some things about you.
“So,” I said, “you were married only once?”
Ben nodded. “That’s right. Since my divorce I’ve had a few relationships that lasted more than a year. But none of them worked out, ultimately.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t sorry at all.
“Fortunately, the breakups were civilized.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Well,” he said, “except for one.”
I wasn’t sure I should ask for details. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear details.
Before I could open my mouth to say whatever it was I was going to say, Ben said: “I suppose that after dropping that tantalizing bit of information I owe you a more complete explanation.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said, but maybe he did.
“Be that as it may . . . What happened was that I ended the relationship after about eight months. To me, it was obvious we weren’t working as a couple, but she didn’t see it that way.”
“Oh,” I said.
“She often didn’t see the obvious, at least, in terms of human relationships. Otherwise,” he said, “she was very smart. She was quite successful in her career.”
I nodded, not necessarily encouraging Ben to go on but not deterring him, either.
“Anyway, she was upset when I ended things. Finally, of course, she moved on.”
“And you haven’t heard from her since?” I asked carefully. Even a big city could be a small town. “You don’t run into her?”
“No, our social and professional spheres are quite separate. I have no idea what’s going on with her. I hope she found someone more suitable than I was.”
“More suitable,” I said. “In what way?”
Ben laughed. “A man who doesn’t want a commitment.”
I said with a smile, “I thought all women were supposed to want a commitment.”
> “Yes, well, not this one. She told me that she’d never been in a long-term relationship before me. It seemed a bit odd. I don’t think she had any understanding of what a committed relationship requires.”
“Sacrifice,” I said automatically. “Negotiation. Communication.”
Ben laughed again. “I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”
“But,” I said, watching carefully for his reaction, “the payoff is worth it.”
“It can be, sure.”
“So, that relationship is entirely over?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” Ben looked at me suddenly with some embarrassment. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up. But the fact is I still feel bad about how things ended. It never feels good to hurt someone, even if the wound is delivered unintentionally.”
The waitress arrived just then. As Ben ordered for us, I wondered: When had I last hurt someone? I’d certainly annoyed Brad over the years of our marriage, but right then I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to apologize to him—by which I mean, I couldn’t remember the last time Brad and I had had any important argument in which I’d said something mean or hurtful. Even our divorce and the conversations that led up to it were relatively bloodless.
Apologies arise when there’s a sense of accountability. To say, “I’m sorry” to someone—for a deed more significant than an accidental bump on the elbow—implies that there’s been some significant interaction. It implies that you recognize a relationship and respect it. An apology arises from a social contract; a rule has been broken and an apology is an attempt to fix it. It’s also an act of recommitment to the relationship.
For the last ten years of our marriage, Brad and I had been living apart, though under the same roof. We’d been the proverbial two ships passing in the night, aware of each other’s presence but only as a darker shadow in the general darkness.
But that relationship was over. Now I wanted the chance to make a mistake with someone so that I would also have the chance to apologize. I wanted to mean something to someone, to have an effect on that person. I wanted to matter.
The waitress moved off and Ben smiled at me.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I’m very happy to be here.”
51
When telling a lie, look directly into the person’s eyes and speak calmly and with conviction. Forget the histrionics. Your boss is far more willing to believe that your dog ate the report you were supposed to hand in that day when such information is delivered in a rational manner than when it’s delivered with bulging eyes and garbled speech.
—Foolproof Fibbing
EVA
A framed photo of a little boy stood on a side table. The frame was decorated with blue and purple teddy bears. I picked it up to look more closely. “I assume this is Jake?” I asked.
Sophie had invited me over for a drink after work. With nothing better to do—I’d cut Jake back to only two nights per week—I accepted her offer.
Sophie poked her head out of the kitchen. “Yes, when he was almost three. Wasn’t he adorable?”
He really had been a cute kid. Dimples, big eyes, the whole thing. “Yeah,” I said, “he was.”
“He was the spitting image of Brad at that age. It was only when he got to be about five that he started to look a bit like my family.”
Genetics. Interesting stuff. I returned the photo to the side table and settled onto the very comfortable couch. Aside from the tacky frame, the apartment was furnished tastefully. I don’t have the skills to decorate but I know them when I see them.
Sophie emerged from the kitchen carrying a platter of cold shrimp with three different types of cocktail sauce. I reached for a shrimp as the platter touched the table. Sophie perched across from me on a caramel-colored leather armchair.
“Jake was potty trained very early,” she announced. “He was so proud of himself! I remember him announcing to total strangers in the supermarket that he could ‘make’ all by himself. It was so cute!”
I’ll bet. I just love strange kids telling me about their bowel movements. “That’s nice,” I said. Really, what else was there to say? Luckily, talk of bathroom activities doesn’t affect my appetite. I downed another shrimp.
“Oh, yes, Jake was early with everything: crawling, walking, talking.” Sophie laughed. “He’d kill me if he knew I told anyone this, but I just can’t help myself. Do you know what he called his penis?”
Oh, God, she had to bring up the subject of Jake’s penis. I was inordinately fond of that organ but had no desire to discuss it or anything about it with my lover’s mother.
I just shook my head.
“He called it his weepee. Isn’t that hysterical!”
“That’s hysterical, all right,” I agreed.
Sophie popped off to the kitchen again and returned with a silver bucket in which a bottle of wine nestled. All those years that Sophie played the corporate wife/semiprofessional hostess were really paying off for me. The woman knew her wines and she cooked a mean roast beef.
When she’d poured us each a glass I attempted to introduce a subject other than baby Jake. But before I could suggest a discussion about the president’s latest verbal gaff, Sophie launched back into her favorite topic.
“You know,” she said, “Jake will definitely want to settle down someday, get married and have a family. I just hope he marries the right sort of woman.”
Meaning, I thought, a woman weak enough to be controlled by her mother-in-law.
“Oh,” I said. “And what kind of woman is that?”
“Well, someone educated, of course. Someone kind and loving, that goes without saying. But also someone really—I don’t know, cozy. Yes, that’s the word I’m looking for.”
Cozy? Well, I reminded myself, it’s not like you want to marry the kid. Still, I was a bit disconcerted to hear that for her son, my friend envisioned a woman almost entirely different from me.
The doorbell rang. Sophie hurried to the door and peered out the peephole.
“It’s Jake!” she announced happily.
Oh, shit, I thought. I should have known this was within the realm of possibility. I finished my glass of wine in a gulp.
Sophie unlocked and opened the door. “Jake, what a nice surprise! Come in.”
Jake leaned down to hug Sophie and caught my eye over his mother’s shoulder. Instead of a wink like he’d given me at the ball game, Jake gave me a wide-eyed look that said, “Believe me, I had no idea you were here.”
“Oh,” he said when he’d pulled away from his mother’s fierce embrace. “I didn’t know you had company. Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, it’s just Eva. You remember her from your game, don’t you?”
Jake nodded. “Sure. I remember. Hey.”
“Hey,” I said, my voice surprisingly even.
“To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” Sophie asked brightly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow for dinner.”
“Uh.” Jake pointed to the duffel bag over his shoulder. “I just thought, I mean—”
Sophie laughed. “Of course I’ll do your laundry. Just put the bag by the machines and join us for a bit.”
With a distinctly sheepish expression, Jake loped off into the depths of the apartment.
His mother was still doing his laundry? I found this both annoying and somehow embarrassing, for both Jake and me.
“Isn’t this nice?” Sophie asked rhetorically.
What could I answer? “No, actually, this is incredibly uncomfortable for me, as I am, in fact, having sex with your son. ”
Jake returned and looked from the couch to an empty chair well out of my reach. As he bolted for the chair I bolted to my feet and excused myself to the bathroom. Maybe, I thought, we could spend his entire visit in separate rooms.
In the bathroom I checked my watch. A normal bathroom run shouldn’t take more than two or three minutes. If I hid out for much longer than that I’d run the ris
k of Sophie knocking on the door in concern. When the second hand indicated that just over three minutes had passed I took a deep breath and stepped into the hallway.
Jake appeared from the direction of the bedroom. Before I could take another step he’d pushed me against the wall and his lips were on mine.
I pushed him back but he still held my arms. “Get off me!” I whispered fiercely.
Jake grinned. “Don’t you think this is kind of fun?”
“No, I don’t. Let me—Let me go!” I shoved Jake and his hold broke.
“You really do work out, don’t you?” he asked with a low laugh.
I gave him a nasty look. “You couldn’t tell before this?” Men can be such blind idiots.
I hurried back to the living room. Sophie was just emerging from the kitchen with a plate of something in puff pastry.
“Where’s Jake?” she asked with no trace of suspicion.
I shrugged. Jake then appeared from the hall and made an excuse for running off, after promising his mother he’d be on time the following night. I didn’t meet his eye when he offered his farewell.
When Jake was gone, Sophie perched on a chair and, a propos of nothing, she said: “I still can’t believe you’re in advertising. I swear I thought you’d have published, oh, a dozen books by now. Or maybe be teaching literature in a private high school.”
I smiled stiffly to hide my annoyance. You’d think I’d signed a contract back in college, pledging that I would pursue my stated goals, and that I’d broken that contract. What did they want me to do—apologize?
“What does it matter that I’m not doing what I wanted to do when I was twenty?” I said. “How many people get to live out their dreams? Besides, those old dreams don’t count anymore. I like my life just the way it is. Really.” I looked Sophie squarely in the eye. “It’s perfect.”
Sophie looked back at me doubtfully.
All right, not even I believed me. It was time to redirect the conversation.
“So, how’s the dating game going?” I asked. “Have you met anyone?”
The Friends We Keep Page 18