The Friends We Keep

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Lust!” I cried. “I am so sick of the whole subject. I am so sick of hearing about husbands cheating on their wives and women having meaningless sex and middle-aged men marrying girls half their age!”

  “Stuff happens,” Jake said with a shrug. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  His studied indifference infuriated me. “I’ll say,” I shot back. “And what about you? When are you going to start being normal and date women your own age!”

  I’d never raised my voice to Jake, even when he was little. And I’d never said anything so hateful, so hurtful, to him—to anyone.

  “That was uncalled for,” he said, his voice wavering. “I’m perfectly normal. I resent your saying otherwise.”

  I didn’t apologize. I didn’t want to. “Maybe,” I said, “your father is right. Maybe it’s all my fault. Maybe I did spoil you, maybe I did smother you. Maybe that’s why you’re fixated on older women.”

  “I’m leaving now.” Jake grabbed his bag off the kitchen table and turned for the door.

  “Fine,” I said to his back. “I have nothing more to say.”

  The door slammed shut.

  101

  No matter how well you cover your tracks, no matter how deep your secret is buried, remember this: The Truth Will Out in the End. Repent or not, it will make no difference when the Lord sorts out His people on Judgment Day.

  —Eternal Damnation and Your Undying Soul

  SOPHIE

  I waited another few days before making the call, just to be sure. Just to be sure I was free of wasteful notions of what was acceptable and what was not. Just to be sure I was free of the need to rely on my ungrateful son for the semblance of a life. Just to be sure I still felt for Ben what I’d felt for him before Eva and Jake tromped in and sullied my happiness.

  He answered after several rings.

  “Ben. It’s Sophie.”

  “Oh, hi,” he said. “I almost missed your call; I just got in from class. I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “Ben, I’d like to try again. I’d like us to forget everyone else but each other. I’d like us to be together.”

  “No preamble?” he teased, gently.

  “No. I’m tired of wasting time. I miss you. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Sophie. I wish you could see the smile on my face.”

  “Come over,” I said. “I’ll make dinner. And you can show me your smile.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  102

  Dear Answer Lady:

  I’ve hated my wife’s best friend from the first minute I met her nine years ago. I don’t know why. Anyway, she saw me the other night with a female colleague from out of town. We (the colleague and I) were kind of drunk and kind of making out. Anyway, the second I saw my wife’s friend I pushed my colleague off my lap (she’s okay, just a sprain) but just as I was about to run over to her (the friend), she ran out of the restaurant. Should I contact my wife’s friend and offer her money not to tell my wife what she saw? I mean, she loves my wife and won’t want her to be hurt, so I have some chance of keeping this all a secret, no?

  Dear Shithead:

  I’ve already called your wife. (Don’t worry about how I found out your real identity; that’s my business.) You’ll be receiving divorce papers at your office this afternoon. By the way, I’ve urged your injured colleague to press charges of battery. Thanks for writing.

  JOHN

  “Counselor?”

  Gene was standing just outside my office. I have to remember to keep that door closed, I thought. And where the hell is Ellen?

  “You don’t look so good,” I said blandly. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face was unevenly shaven. “Late night?”

  “Yeah.” Gene gestured for permission to come in and I nodded. “But not in the way you think,” he said, sinking into a guest chair.

  “You mean, carousing ’til all hours with a woman not your wife?”

  Gene shook his head, like a man just waking from a nasty dream.

  “She found out,” he said. “Somehow, she found out I’d be at Muse last night. She caught me red-handed, man. It was bad.”

  “I can imagine,” I said without a trace of sympathy.

  A flicker of something like suspicion crossed Gene’s face. I decided to speak with more care. Gene didn’t need to know I’d acted in collusion with Marie.

  “No,” said Gene. “I don’t think that you can imagine. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be out with a gorgeous, sexy woman and look up to find your pregnant wife standing over you?”

  “You’re right, Gene. I can’t really imagine. What happened?”

  “Nothing much. Marie just looked at me. I don’t think I even said good-bye to Heather. I just followed Marie out to the parking lot. She got in her car and I got in mine. It was when we got home that the shit hit the fan.”

  Good for you, Marie, I thought.

  “Somehow she knew where to find me,” Gene was saying. “But how?”

  “Maybe Marie isn’t as dull-witted as you’ve claimed she is,” I suggested. “And maybe you’re not as crafty as you’ve claimed you are.”

  “You mean, maybe I got sloppy?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “maybe.”

  “I thought I had it all worked out. I never thought she’d suspect me of cheating. Even if she did, I never thought she’d have the nerve to confront me. Man, she’s been talking to someone. Someone’s been giving her ideas.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “My in-laws are a big problem. You don’t know these people; they still treat Marie and her sister like they’re eleven-year-olds. If they get word that the marriage is in trouble—and that it’s my fault—I’m in for a world of pain.”

  “I gather,” I said, “that you’re not taking advantage of Marie’s discovery to file for divorce.”

  Gene looked stunned. “No way! Marie’s family has money. And besides, it’s not really bad at home. It’s just . . . dull. I mean, Marie’s a fabulous cook. I swear, if I didn’t go to the gym every day I’d be as big as a house. How many guys these days can say their wives have dinner on the table for them every night?”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Gene. I’ve been telling you for the past few years that you don’t appreciate your wife. She’s smart, loyal, and clearly a lot tougher than she appears. You don’t deserve her and maybe now you know it.”

  Maybe, I thought, but I doubted it. In my experience men like Gene don’t change enough for the better to make being married to them worth the trouble.

  Gene’s reply to my last remark was to say, almost as if talking to himself: “I’ve got to tow the line for a while, at least until the baby is born. It’s going to be rough.” Gene paused, hands gripping the arms of the chair. “But I know Marie. Once the baby is here she’ll be all wrapped up in it. She won’t care if I start coming home late again. Everything will get back to normal. I just have to be patient.”

  Gene’s words were hopeful but his expression was that of a defeated, bewildered man. I almost felt pity for him.

  “I’ve got a client meeting in a few minutes,” I said.

  For a moment, Gene continued to sit, hands tight on the arms of the chair. Finally, he rose to his feet. “Maybe,” he said, “I should bring Marie some flowers tonight.”

  Like putting a Band-Aid on a cancerous tumor. “It won’t hurt your cause,” I said. “Oh, and Gene? Close the door behind you.”

  103

  Evasion is sexy. People are far more attracted to the mysterious than to the obvious. Before you tell your entire life story on the first date, think twice. Consider eluding certain questions and giving only tantalizing clues to others. A second date is sure to follow.

  —How to Navigate the Winding Road to Marriage

  EVA

  Almost two weeks after Sophie found me in Jake’s bedroom I finally worked up the nerve to call John.

  I knew he might recoil from me. I knew that any feelings he’d had for me might be dead
, killed by the news of my despicable actions. I could only hope for his continued friendship, nothing more, though I was terribly afraid I would be getting something much less.

  He agreed to meet me for dinner at Marino’s, the place where it had all started, our botched reunion. I almost cried when he walked into the restaurant. I was so relieved he’d actually shown up, so glad to see his familiar face.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” I said when we were seated at the corner table I’d requested for some degree of privacy.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked easily, but his expression was guarded.

  I trembled with the possibility that I’d lost him. “Please, don’t pretend ignorance. I know Sophie must have told you. And you haven’t called so I know you’ve been angry with me.”

  “Oh,” he said. “That.”

  “Yes, that. I want to clear the air between us, John. I need to.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sure there’s something you want to say to me. I promise I won’t get mad.” I attempted a smile. “At least, I promise I won’t punch you in the nose.”

  “Okay,” he said, with a weak smile of his own. “Here goes. First, I’m not mad at you. More . . . disappointed. And I didn’t call because I thought maybe you needed some time alone. Maybe I was wrong.”

  “I don’t know what I needed,” I said. “I was a wreck. But, what else?”

  “It bothered me from the beginning that you were seeing someone so much younger.”

  “So much younger than me or so much younger than you? I don’t mean to be antagonistic.”

  John hesitated. “Much younger than me,” he said finally. “It drove me crazy.”

  I replied archly, out of habit. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

  John flinched.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound flippant. I’m just—I guess I’m still a wreck.”

  “It’s all right. Forget it.”

  We sat in awkward silence for a few minutes, John staring down at his fork, me surreptitiously watching him. “Weren’t you worried that I’d get hurt in the affair?” I asked finally.

  John looked up. “As long as we’re being honest,” he said, “and as long as you keep your promise not to punch me, then no. I wasn’t worried about your feelings at all. I suppose I assumed you were invulnerable to heartache.”

  “A coldhearted, self-serving bitch?” I suggested.

  John smiled. His expression seemed less cautious. “Those are your words,” he said, “not mine. Look, I know it was stupid of me to think of you as beyond emotional reach but I did. I figured you could take care of yourself. I figured you knew exactly what you were doing. Of course, I also thought you were wasting your time dating a kid.”

  “You made that very clear,” I reminded him.

  “Sorry. In spite of my being an attorney, I’ve never been very good at dissembling.”

  No. And that was one of the things about John I’d come to appreciate.

  “Do you think I’m a horrible person for sleeping with my friend’s son?” I asked. “Because I do. I think I’m a horrible person.”

  “No,” he said readily, “I don’t think you’re a horrible person.”

  “Then what?” I pressed. “What am I? What kind of person does what I did?”

  “A fallible human being. Who did something deeply stupid. Look, I’m not passing judgment on you, Eva, really. We’re all—most of us, anyway—helpless when it comes to sex. Not all the time but every once in a while.”

  “It wasn’t just sex,” I said honestly. “Not after a while, anyway. If that helps.”

  John smiled. “You don’t have to make anything easier for me, Eva. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

  “I know it was wrong of me, John. I did think about Sophie’s feelings, I did, really. And yet . . . I let Jake persuade me because I wanted to be persuaded. I suppose—”

  Where, I thought, am I going to get the courage to admit the depths of my vanity?

  “You suppose what?” John asked. “We’re being honest here, right? And we don’t seem to be fighting or hurling insults.”

  And there was the courage; it came from John’s willingness to listen.

  “I was flattered,” I admitted. “It’s ridiculous, I know. Lots of men my own age find me attractive. And yet, this . . . kid’s interest in me . . .” I shook my head. “God, what an idiot I was! I let vanity win out over respect for my friend.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Eva,” John said kindly. “It’s in the past, it’s over.”

  “But it’s not over, John,” I said, “not really. Do you think Sophie is going to forget that I slept with her son? Not for a long time, maybe not ever. And as long as she remembers that . . . betrayal, our friendship is finished.”

  I felt tears threatening. I sipped a bit of water, hoping for distraction, and it dribbled down my chin. John handed me the napkin I’d neglected to unfold and put on my lap.

  “Okay,” he said patiently, “there are consequences to your actions. But try not to overdramatize, Eva, okay? You didn’t commit a crime. You didn’t break a vow, not technically.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked with a bitter laugh. “I don’t care about technicalities. Suddenly, all I care about are the results of my bad choice. I hate the fact that Sophie hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t think Sophie is capable of hate, not in the way you mean. She’s angry and hurt but she’ll get over it.”

  I hoped John was right. And I wondered: What about me? As a result of my affair with my friend’s son, my life had taken a definitive turn onto a new path, but I had no idea of where that path would take me. Forever after, my life would be divided into two phases: Pre-Jake and Post-Jake. Just as my life had also been divided into the time before the death of my parents and the time since then. That first defining moment I hadn’t courted. This one, I’d called down on my head.

  “Thanks,” I said, voice wobbly. “For being so . . . supportive.”

  “It’s what friends do. Help each other through bad times.”

  Friends. Thank God, I hadn’t lost John’s friendship. Anything else he might offer would be icing on the proverbial cake.

  “Oh,” he said then, “here’s news that will cheer you up. Ben called me last night. He and Sophie are back together.”

  “I hadn’t even known they’d broken up!”

  “It was Sophie’s decision to end the relationship. She was having trouble accepting—everything.”

  “Oh,” I said, miserably. “I see.”

  “But all’s well that ends well, right?”

  I smiled weakly at John’s attempt to make me feel better after having so badly disrupted Sophie’s life.

  “Hey,” he said, “are we ever going to order? The waiter’s been hovering.”

  I hadn’t even noticed. And suddenly, for the first time since that awful day in Jake’s bedroom, I had an appetite. “Yes,” I said. “Let’s start with some appetizers, okay?”

  An hour later we stood outside Marino’s. “Thanks, again,” I said.

  “For paying?”

  “For listening. And for paying, yeah. It’s on me next time.”

  “Deal,” he said. And then, before I knew what was happening, John’s arms were around me.

  “You’re supposed to hug back,” he said against my head.

  I lifted my arms around him. It was the first hug I’d shared in—in a very long time.

  John was the first to pull away. I felt bereft of his touch. I wanted him to kiss me but I knew it was wanting too much.

  “Friends?” he asked, smiling down at me.

  “Yes,” I said. “Friends.”

  104

  Dear Answer Lady:

  Recently a guy I befriended in a local bar pitched what sounded like a great business deal. We talked about it for a few weeks—I must have seen him six or seven times—and fi
nally, I was convinced to go in on the deal to the tune of ten thousand dollars. I’ll spare you the details, but in the end, the guy made off with my money. The phone number and e-mail address he gave me are bogus and no one at the bar has any idea where he is. I can’t help but feel that I’m partly to blame for getting duped. Am I the one at fault?

  Dear Too-Late-Now:

  You must learn how to hit on the truth before it hits on you. In the future, keep your eyes open for the ugly signs of fraud, your ears open for the dull roar of deception, and your nose perked for the sickening stench of corruption. The next time someone tries to take advantage of you, you’ll be able to avoid being made a fool. Oh, and one more thing: Don’t make business deals in bars, Stupid.

  EVA

  Please don’t let it be cookies.

  That was my first thought when I brought the package from my sister into my apartment. When Maura was a kid she was an enthusiastic but lousy baker. For all I knew her baking skills hadn’t much improved.

  I reached for the box cutter that sat on a cardboard box unopened since I’d moved in to my apartment. What I found in Maura’s package wasn’t cookies at all.

  I felt light-headed, almost as if I was going to faint. Before I could fall on the open box cutter blade I put it on a high shelf behind me. Then, I breathed deeply and reached for a folded sheet of paper with the words “Aunt Eve” printed wildly in a kid’s hand.

  I unfolded the paper. Maura’s handwriting was difficult, just like our mother’s. The note began:

  Dear Eve:

  Just after Mom and Dad died, when we—well, really, you—were cleaning out the house so it could be sold, I found these notebooks in the garbage. I remember wondering why you’d throw them out because you really loved to write. Anyway, I took them out of the garbage and I’ve kept them ever since. They got kind of warped along the way, so I’m sorry for that.