The Friends We Keep

by Holly Chamberlin

  I laughed unhappily. “Well, Ellen, if you get an inspiration, feel free to share it. I’m out of ideas when it comes to Eva Fitzpatrick.”

  88

  Dear Answer Lady:

  I’m not even sure I should be writing this letter. But here goes. My friend teaches math at an all-boys high school. Recently she told me that she’s fooled around with a few of the boys. All except one are under eighteen, which I think is the legal age for consent. Or is it twenty-one? Anyway, if my friend gets caught she’s going to be in really big trouble. I mean, she could lose her job and maybe even go to jail. I told her she should stop “seeing” her students but she just laughed and said that none of the boys will tell on her because they’re having such a good time. What should I do?

  Dear Spineless:

  Make an anonymous call to the police as well as to the principal regarding your friend’s illegal and immoral conduct. Then dump said friend for being a predator and for involving you in a crime. Finally, get yourself into therapy and learn some assertiveness techniques. That’s an order.

  SOPHIE

  “I’m just . . . I’m just having a hard time with this, Ben. I’m sorry.”

  Since Eva had stormed off that morning after our horrible confrontation, the living room had felt tainted. I thought I could still hear faint echoes of her fury. And now Ben was there with me and nothing felt right.

  “You have nothing to apologize about,” he said gently.

  “Yes, I do. I’m sorry that my being upset is upsetting you. I’m sorry,” I said, “that it’s upsetting us. And I’m not sure what I can do about it.”

  Ben sighed, but it wasn’t a sigh of impatience, more, I think, of sadness. “Sophie, I don’t want my former relationship with Eva to destroy our happiness together. I’m afraid that’s what’s happening.”

  My happiness, destroyed. I got up from the couch and walked off a few feet. I stood with my back to Ben.

  “I just need some time,” I said. “Everything will be fine.” But I didn’t quite believe that it would.

  Ben came over and put his hands on my shoulders. I stepped away.

  “I’m sorry, Ben. Not tonight.”

  “I just wanted to rub your shoulders. It might help.”

  I turned to face him but could hardly meet his eye. “No, thank you,” I said.

  I watched the floor as Ben gathered his coat and bag. At the door he paused. “Sophie,” he said. “Please look at me.”

  I did, but it was difficult. There was such pain in his eyes. But he was not a man to beg; he would spare me that.

  “Take care of yourself, please.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  And then, he was gone. And I was left with the terrible feeling that Ben and I might never be happy again.

  89

  Who cares that Dante committed the Neutrals to a circle of Hell? Stop taking unpopular stands. Give up making definite statements of belief. Reject devoting yourself to popular causes. Life is a lot less troublesome when you disengage from public debate.

  —Equivocate Now!–Avoid Committing Yourself and Start Living the Good Life

  EVA

  Alcoholics Anonymous teaches a Twelve Step program for recovering addicts. Once, a long time ago, I came across these steps in a magazine article I was reading while waiting for the dentist. Though the religious aspect of the process didn’t appeal to me, some of the other steps seemed to make sense. I thought they might be useful for the nonaddicted person, too.

  So, I secreted the magazine in my bag—not that I’m a thief—and once home, tore out the key page of the article, and promptly forgot about it.

  Until now. Though the page itself was long missing, I did suddenly recall one of the steps, something about making amends to people you’ve hurt. Maybe in this case my version of making amends wouldn’t count with AA. But it was the best I could do.

  First, there was Jake. I would break off the relationship with as kind an explanation as I could find. And, maybe, I would also apologize; by saying yes to Jake’s advances I’d allowed him to become a liar.

  Then, there was Sophie. I felt bad about attacking her, first for the fact of her relationship with Ben and then for keeping it a secret. I had no rights to Ben and besides, I was keeping a big, damaging secret of my own.

  Ben. I just might owe him an apology, too. For the first time I was able to think clearly about our relationship. Why now? I wondered. No matter. The point was that I finally understood that a large part of my anger about our breakup was just wounded pride in disguise.

  And then I had to ask myself if I’d ever really been in love with Ben. The fact that he never raised his voice annoyed me. His cats made me sneeze. His habit of washing the rind of a piece of fruit before peeling it drove me nuts.

  Why was I ever with him? Ben, I now realized, might have been more of a symbol for me than an individual. I believe I was drawn to him because in some way he represented my youthful self and the dreams that went with her. If I’d been in love with Ben, the individual, why would I have mocked everything about him? Why would I have derided him for loving me? Ben had functioned as a way through which I could work out my long-buried feelings of disappointment, resentment, and anger.

  Poor Ben. A punching bag, not a person. How unfair I’d been to him.

  I felt terribly tired. I don’t remember ever having felt so tired except for the first few weeks after my parents’ deaths. But there was still work to be done.

  There was John. I would apologize to him for having thrown a fit in his office. John was guilty of nothing, except caring. What would happen after that, I had no idea. I hoped he would at least accept my apology. I didn’t feel I deserved anything more.

  90

  Dear Answer Lady:

  I’m a thirty-two-year-old lesbian in a committed, five-year relationship. A few months ago my partner and I started to discuss marriage and while we haven’t made any firm plans, we’ve both been buying wedding magazines and talking about what kind of event we’d like. Then about six weeks ago my partner started a spin class at the gym and began to socialize with one of her classmates—a man I’ll call “Bob.” Bob is straight and single and even though he does nothing for me personally, I can honestly say that he’s very handsome. My partner and I have been one hundred percent faithful since the day we met so at first it didn’t even cross my mind that something might be going on between her and Bob. But lately, my partner has been growing distant; she hasn’t wanted to make love for the past two weeks and she rarely engages in conversation with me. She makes no secret of the fact that she and Bob meet for lunch and sometimes even for dinner. I don’t know what to do; I’m just sick about this. Should I ask my partner if she’s attracted to Bob? What if she says yes? What if she says no but continues her unusual behavior? Please help me!

  Dear You-Poor-Thing:

  How to put this gently? There’s a very good chance that your devoted partner is no longer so devoted. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that she is about to have sex with this “Bob”—if she hasn’t already. Now, take heart. Your partner’s behavior might be attributed to a serious case of cold feet in light of your possible marriage plans. If so, all is not lost, as long as you are able to forgive her stress-induced lapse of fidelity and convince her to work through her fears about a lifelong commitment. On the other hand, the possibility exists that she has already “changed teams,” much in the vein of the actress Anne Heche. If this is the case, relax! Has Ellen DeGeneres suffered from this defection? Have you seen Portia de Rossi? Listen to me: Talk to your partner; you have every right to know what the hell she’s been up to.

  JOHN

  “It’s your soul mate, line one.”

  I looked up at Ellen, momentarily confused. Then, “Oh.”

  “I’ll close the door,” she said, and slipped out of my office.

  I wasn’t at all sure what to expect. The last time I’d talked to Eva she’d declared she nev
er wanted to see me again. I took a deep breath and plunged.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi. Thanks for taking my call.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I want to apologize. I never should have gotten so angry with you for keeping Sophie’s secret. I know you did nothing wrong. I’m sorry.”

  The words had spilled out, as if she’d rehearsed them, but they sounded genuine nonetheless. “Thanks, Eva,” I said. “I accept your apology. I know it must have been a lousy thing to find out, especially in the way you did.”

  “Yes,” she said, almost impatiently. “But there’s something else.”

  “Okay.”

  I heard Eva take a deep breath. “I exaggerated to Sophie about Ben’s importance in my life. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my motives for misleading her and, well, I think I understand a bit about . . . about a lot of things.”

  So, I’d been right about Ben all along. “I’m glad,” I said carefully, “that you’ve worked things out. But I hope you’re not apologizing. At least, not to me.”

  “No. I just thought you might want to know that—about Ben and me.”

  My heart—yes, my heart—leapt. But I warned myself to step with care. “Look, you want to get a bite to eat?” I asked, casually. “I know it’s kind of early for dinner but—”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  We agreed to meet at the bar at Morgan’s, a rough-and-tumble Irish American pub. I was surprised by Eva’s choice. But then again, there was so much I didn’t know about Eva. Yet.

  At the bar I ordered mozzarella sticks. It broke the ice, as I hoped it would. Eva scolded me for treating my body like a garbage can; I told her she was too uptight and dared her to eat one. “It’s not going to kill you,” I pointed out.

  “Give it time. You keep eating all that fat and—”

  “I work out! Do you see any fat on me?”

  She eyed me up and down. “Your tailor does a marvelous job masking your physical defects.”

  “I’ve seen you eat crap.”

  “Everything in moderation. All I’m saying is that your fat intake is a little too high.”

  I sighed dramatically. “How about this. How about you let me eat this fried cheese without one more critical comment and starting tomorrow I’ll go on a low-fat diet? For a while.”

  Eva grinned. “Deal.” And then she grabbed one of my mozzarella sticks and bit into it with relish.

  For about an hour we continued to spar about nothing and talk about mundane matters—everything, in short, except Sophie, Ben, and the meddlesome past.

  “I need to get home,” Eva said finally, looking at her watch (the fifth time that hour). “I’ve got work to do tonight.”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey. Thank you for suggesting this. It was fun.”

  I laughed. “But now I have to go on a diet.”

  “It’s for your own good,” she said. “But I know you. You’ll cheat before the week is out.”

  “I will not!” And then: “Okay, you’re right. I probably will cheat.”

  On this light note we left Morgan’s. I walked Eva to her apartment in a Victorian mansion on Marlborough Street. I didn’t ask her if I could or if she minded. I just sort of . . . went along.

  “Thanks,” she said when we stood outside Number Forty-Five.

  “For what? The mozzarella stick?”

  “No, idiot. For accepting my apology.”

  “Oh. That. Well, your reaction was totally understandable.” It was mostly true, I thought.

  “Do you want to see my place?” she asked suddenly. “It’s nothing much, really, but—”

  Down, big boy. “Uh, sure,” I said, shrugging.

  “Just for a minute.”

  If I wasn’t going to be cautious, Eva was going to be cautious for both of us. Smart.

  We climbed the stairs to the third floor in silence. Eva opened the door to her apartment—with a key on a Tiffany chain—and I followed her inside.

  “Well,” she said, with a nervous half-laugh, “this is it.”

  For a long moment I was without speech. And then: “It’s, uh—”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be so—”

  Eva laughed again; this time, she sounded more relaxed. “So like the apartment of a kid just out of college and barely able to make rent.”

  “Please tell me you’re not sleeping on a futon.”

  “Of course not. I have a mattress and a box spring.”

  I gestured helplessly around the almost-empty living room. “Eva, why didn’t you ever buy some furniture, hang a few paintings?”

  Eva hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I just kept putting it off. Eventually, I guess I just didn’t care. I mean, why bother?”

  “Too busy with work?” I ventured, though I was too busy with work, almost everyone I knew was, and we all had a couch in the living room and art on the wall.

  “Something like that,” she said. “There are weeks when I’m hardly here, when I’m working until ten and then I just fall into bed—okay, onto the mattress—for a few hours, get up and go back to the office. Decorating hardly seems worth the effort. Who would enjoy it?”

  “You, for one,” I said. “It’s a good space. Big, lots of light. A cat would love to sit on that windowsill and watch the world go by.”

  “I’m allergic to cats. Besides, like I said, there are times when I’m hardly ever here. It wouldn’t be fair to an animal.”

  “True, but it’s too bad.” And then I looked at my stylish, successful, difficult friend and said: “You could use a little companionship, Eva.”

  Across her face there passed a variety of emotions, only one of which was anger.

  “Go ahead,” I said, “jump down my throat, but I’m not apologizing for saying it.”

  “No,” she said then, with a bit of a sigh, and looking not at me but out of the big living room window. “You’re right. I could use some companionship.”

  Emboldened, I headed for what I supposed was the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking in your cabinets. And the fridge.” I turned to Eva, who had followed me. “Just as I suspected. No food worth mentioning. And”—I looked around, spied a likely drawer, and opened it—“no tableware worth counting. Don’t tell me you use plastic utensils?”

  “No, of course not,” she protested. “Close that drawer, you’ve seen enough.”

  I leaned back against the counter and folded my arms across my chest. “So, it’s safe to say you don’t entertain often.”

  “Perfectly safe. In fact, you’re the first person who’s been here in—in a long time.”

  The first person? I wondered about the young man in Eva’s life but didn’t ask. I’d already taken some big risks; there was no good in pushing her too far too fast. “Oh,” I said.

  Eva leaned against the doorjamb. “I know that your home is supposed to reflect your personality. Your home is supposed to be your castle. But every time I try to think about how I would want to decorate, I come up blank. I just don’t know where to begin.”

  “You’d begin,” I instructed, “by thinking about what colors soothe or excite you, what style, Modern maybe, best suits your—”

  Eva grimaced and raised her hand. “John, stop. I didn’t ask you to solve a problem. And by the way, you’ve been watching too many home decorating shows.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I have a natural talent for decorating. You’d know that if you’d ever come to my apartment.”

  “You never asked,” she countered, with that Eva-like snappiness.

  “Yes, I did. Twice. Once for dinner with Sophie, another time for a small wine-tasting party. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh,” she said, as if she really had forgotten until that moment. “Right. I must have been busy.” Eva touched her hair in a gesture I hadn’t seen since college. “What excuse did I give for not coming?”

  “No excuse. You
just said, ‘can’t,’ which I took to mean ‘won’t,’ so I let it go at that.”

  Her mouth twisted into her version of a thoughtful frown. “Well,” she said finally, “if you ask me again, I’ll say yes.”

  “Third time’s the charm?”

  “Just ask already.”

  “Okay,” I said, cautioning myself to remember with whom I was dealing. “Eva, will you come to my apartment for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “What are we having?”

  “Does that mean you’re coming?”

  “I need,” she said, as if talking to an idiot, “to know what kind of wine to bring.”

  “Prime rib. Be there at seven.”

  “More red meat? What happened to the diet?”

  “We both knew I’d cheat.”

  “Okay. I’ll have a small salad for lunch. Oh, one more thing. Where do you live?”

  So like Eva not to know where her friends lived. She turned back for the living room and I followed. “Find me a piece of paper. I’ll write it down.”

  “Just tell me,” she said, reaching into her large bag. “I’ll put it in my Blackberry. I can’t believe you still use a date book.”

  “Paper and pen are a lot more reliable than an electronic device.”

  “But you use a computer.”

  “I didn’t say I was a Luddite,” I corrected. “And I’m not stupid. I just continue to appreciate the act of writing by hand. Don’t ask me to explain or I will, in some detail.”

  “God, no.” Eva smiled and opened her Blackberry. “What’s the address?”

  91

  Specious reasoning, hollow arguments, circular logic. Forget about clarity! It’s the twenty-first century. Time to get with the program!

  —The Century of Dissembling or, Don’t Let the Truth Slow You Down