Loves Me, Loves Me Not

by Libby Malin

  Fred is showered and dressed by the time I come downstairs again. He’s drinking coffee at the kitchen table, reading the business section of the Sun and poking at some whole-grain cereal that probably tastes like cardboard. He has set out no bowl for me even though I arranged three mugs next to the coffeemaker when I awoke.

  “Morning,” I mumble.

  Fred does not respond until he’s finished reading his article. Then he closes the paper and looks up at me. “Sleep okay?”

  “Fine. Just a little noisy this morning.”

  Standing, he reaches for the coffee carafe and pours himself another cup. “Well, you have to get up eventually.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Gina shuffles in, yawning, in a silky robe of deep blue. “Thanks for putting the coffee on, Ame.” I notice she doesn’t assume Fred did it. “Anybody want pancakes?”

  “Not me. Had some cereal. Maybe tomorrow. I have to get going.” He smiles at her, his “little woman,” then gives her a peck on the cheek. When he leaves the house a few minutes later, he doesn’t say goodbye.

  “You have a headache still?” Gina asks, popping in some toast.

  “Yeah. I need to get to my house. Feed Trixie.” I need my drugs. Fast. I need to get away from here. Fast.

  “You can borrow my car.”

  “My car will be fine. I’ll get it checked on the way back into town.”

  “Is your cell phone charged up?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.” Not. I don’t have a cell phone, but I have kept this from my sister. After the accident, a week didn’t go by that Gina didn’t bug me about getting a cell phone, as if having one would have made a difference.

  I had every intention of getting one, too, but then her pestering triggered a case of spitenfreude, which is a German word I’ve made up to mean the joy you feel when you are doing something secret to spite someone else. It seemed kind of fun to give her a phony number and pretend I never turn the phone on.

  But then procrastination kicked in and I never bothered to get the actual phone.

  “Well, give me a call if you need help.” She sits opposite me with her toast and coffee. “I’m worried about you, Ame,” she says.

  Ah, yes. The old “I’m worried about you” talk. She’s nipped at the edges of it for the past few months. Looking at her worried eyes I’m grateful it took her this long. She managed to restrain herself from giving the speech when I got out of the hospital and when I decided not to go back to my job, even when I moved to the country.

  “You’ve been kind of drifting for the past two years, which is understandable,” she begins to say, slowly. “But now you have a chance to stop the drift. The shop being sold is really an opportunity for you to reevaluate where you are and where you want to go.” She leans back. “I was reading an article the other day about realizing your dreams. This doctor—I think he’s a behavioral psychologist—suggests you sit down and write an essay, nothing long, describing what your life would be like if you could have everything you want. Maybe you should consider doing that. It might help get you back on track.”

  Because Gina has been such a good sport about not bugging me to “get on with my life,” I respond with good cheer. “You’re right. I should try that.” Phony good cheer. “When I get home this morning, I’ll do it.” I take my now-empty mug to the sink. “I think I should get going, though.”

  “Call me when you get home,” she says.

  “Okeydoke.”

  Before leaving I help her unload and reload the dishwasher and listen to her talk some more about recipes and decorating ideas. By the time I hit the road at eight my head is throbbing to the rhythm of my car’s engine—a ragged roar of sound and pain.

  I’m hurting so much that I actually cry my way home. Bursting into tears, I hit I-83 and weep my way up the interstate and onto Route 439.

  Maybe it’s the fact that my car is clearly giving up the ghost and I don’t want to see her die? Maybe it’s the fact that I’m losing my home and my job in short order? Maybe it’s the fact that when I think of writing that stupid “what I want out of life” essay I imagine a whole list of things that I don’t ever envision getting?

  An in-ground pool. A good job. A nice house. My old fiancé.

  And, oh yes, no more migraines. Wiping my face with the back of my hand I mutter a hello to Trixie at the door, but she ignores me and runs for the bushes. Inside, I tear open a headache pill and pop it in my mouth, then check my messages. The house smells rotten—even the lavender can’t cut the scent of old strawberry hulls in the kitchen trash. My messages play while I set the trash can outside.

  “Hi, this is Wendy. Thanks for the flowers. That was really sweet of you. Give me a call when you have a chance.” She sounds better. Not happy, but definitely calmer. And no longer angry with me.

  “Conchita, when you make up your mind about the banquet, let me know.” Hmm…he’s called me twice now.

  “Pete Swilton here.” Pete’s tentative voice cuts into the room. “Uh…give me a call.”

  After opening up all my windows to let the fresh air in and the rotten-berry smell out, I call Pete back. He owns a farm in Pennsylvania and one of his sons answers, but tells me to hold while he gets his dad.

  By the time Pete comes to the phone, I’ve managed to pour myself a Coke and find a Little Debbie chocolate cake to eat.

  “Miss Sheldon, I’m glad you called back. I’ve got a deal to offer you.” Turns out Pete’s buyer wants to get a jump start on the construction season. He’s willing to offer me the equivalent of a month’s rent if I move out right away.

  “What’s right away?” I ask, pouring myself some more Coke.

  “Uh…by the end of the week.”

  I nearly spit the Coke out across the room. Looking around my small place, I imagine packing up my belongings and heading out in a week. Impossible. Not with a job and…

  A job? A job? I won’t have a job soon! Take the money, my inner mercenary child whispers. Screw the job.

  “Okay,” I say evenly. “You pay my moving expenses, too, and you’ve got a deal.” Pete agrees in a heartbeat, which makes me realize I could have asked for much more.

  After hanging up, I give myself an hour to let the headache pill work, and when it finally does, I’m calmer and more energized. I start making a list—not the list of things that would make me happy. This list is more practical—what I need to do in order to be moved and financially secure in a week’s time.

  First order of business: find a place to live.

  But I procrastinate with that and instead ring up a moving van and self-storage place to make arrangements for the move. Since I didn’t specify how much money Pete would need to fork over for moving expenses, I order the priciest package—the movers will pack up everything for me, down to the rotting-berry trash if I happen to leave it out for them.

  “No point in going into work today,” I tell Trixie, who meows at the front door. “In fact, I think I’ll take off all week.”

  All week—vacation. I deserve a vacation. I return Wendy’s phone call and reach her at the office before she heads into a meeting. She is repentant even though she doesn’t say so.

  “I talked to Sam,” she whispers. Her office is big and open and she has a nice cubicle by the windows, but it gives her little privacy.

  “And?”

  “And he says they’re getting a divorce.”

  Oh, no. The old “getting a divorce” line. Surely Wendy won’t fall for—

  “He wants to go to Jamaica with me!” Her voice is excited and I’m ready to throw the phone at the wall.

  “Uh, do you think that’s wise?” I ask, treading softly.

  “I haven’t said yes yet,” she says. “Let him sweat for a while.”

  Let him sweat? What does the guy have to lose? So he can’t have sex with Wendy in Jamaica. Big deal. He can go have sex with his wife in California. And if that professor friend of his mistook Wendy for Sam’s wife, the “li
ttle woman” must be a pretty good-looking package, too. How does he do it?

  Since Hopkins is so close to 3900 Charles Street I’m beginning to think that Tess Wintergarten and Sam are in cahoots. I can see Sam and Tess jumping and dancing in a circle on the lacrosse field shouting spooky chants that turn rational women into idiots and old Pontiacs into rusted wrecks.

  “How are things going with you?” Wendy asks. “Were you at Henry’s again last night?”

  “No. Stayed with my sister. But I have to call him. He left a message for me.”

  “That’s great, Ame. This could be the start of something really good for you. It’s about time you got on with your life.”

  “Gina said the same thing.”

  “And Henry seems like a nice fellow.”

  “You’ve never met him.”

  “He sends you flowers. How many guys do that?”

  I want to tell her that if not many guys do it, it’s because Henry has cornered the market. He sends enough flowers to make up for the rest of his fellow men. For all I know, he’s worked out some designated-flower-sender deal with the rest of the male race. For all I know, he could be sending flowers to someone else at this very moment.

  “Yeah. It’s nice.” I’m about to tell her that I’m losing my job but she has to run to her meeting.

  “On Friday, a bunch of us are getting together. Want to come? Women’s Work at seven,” she says, naming a new female-only athletic club.

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  Now that I’ve returned two of my three messages I can’t put the last one off any longer. I reach for my purse to pull out Henry’s card. Who am I trying to kid? I have his phone number memorized. I have his fax number memorized. And his e-mail address for that matter. If I knew his social security number I’d probably have that committed to memory as well.

  “Squires Law Firm,” a new receptionist answers, and out of habit I start to say “Could I speak with Rick, please,” but stop myself before I get to his name, quickly changing it to Henry’s.

  After a detour through Henry’s personal secretary, another new woman I don’t know, he’s on the line. But I’m still rattled by my near mix-up and my voice shakes a little when I say hello.

  “Anything the matter?” he asks.

  “No,” I lie. Then I start crying again. Another good way to test a relationship—begin it with a crying jag. Here I thought I’d cried myself out for the day, but damned if new tears don’t start staining my blue jeans. “I’m losing my job,” I add at last.

  “Oh, man. That’s a bummer,” he offers as consolation. “I have a few minutes. What happened?”

  So I explain about the Japanese firm and my house and my accelerated moving plans. “Look, I have a client coming in,” he says after my monologue. “But I can come see you after work if you want.”

  I’m touched. He seems genuinely interested in making me feel better. Looking around, I can’t imagine suave, career-climbing Henry comfortable here. He comes to this place and he’ll know instantly that I’m a fraud. I’m no savvy urbane sex kitten. I’m just a kitten. Maybe not even that.

  “Sure. Let me give you directions.” I have a dating death wish, I guess.

  “I’ll bring something to eat,” he says before hanging up.

  Henry and food. Two primal needs taken care of.

  But it gives me something to look forward to, and throughout the day, I feel like a swimmer who’s just set a record—tired, with puffy eyes, but happy. I spend the day sorting through my things. There isn’t much. Even though this is a three-bedroom house, I only have furniture in the living room, kitchen and one bedroom. The dining room is empty except for a few old chairs and sideboard. The other bedrooms hold some boxes.

  When I moved here from my apartment with Rick I didn’t have enough to fill the space. I thought it would be fun to decorate, slowly accumulating what I needed. But I never found the time or money to do it right.

  A few of the boxes contain remnants of my past with Rick. The scheduling book from the wedding planner. Folders with information on various banquet rooms. Brochures on potential honeymoon spots. I’d saved them for several reasons. Obviously, they were a connection to happier times. But I guess I also thought that maybe I’d need them again, that maybe I’d find another Rick and I could start planning all over again. Like for a job vacancy that needed to be filled.

  “This is the reason I break down in tears on the Interstate,” I say to Trixie, who follows me around. After I look at the contents near the top of one box I lug it downstairs and put it outside with the trash. No need to dig further.

  As the heat of the late spring day settles on the house, I nap, serene at last on my country-quilted bed. That was the one purchase I made to spruce up my new digs when I moved. A new quilt. It made the bed feel fresh and blanched of old associations.

  Showered and changed by evening, I feel like someone in a Wyeth painting. I’ve put on a blue sundress and smeared honeysuckle-scented body cream on my shoulders. Even though Henry says he’s bringing food, I feel like I should put something out. So I find some crackers and an unopened square of cheese. Cheese keeps forever, right? I’m slicing up the cheese and putting it on a plate when I hear wheels crunching on the dirt road.

  I can’t help it—my heart starts thudding in anticipation. When I open the front door, I see Henry scowling as he stares at the dust on his Beamer. In one hand is a large plastic bag obviously filled with carryout boxes and tins. In the other hand is his jacket, slung over his shoulder, Frank Sinatra-style. Oh baby.

  “You made it!” I cry out.

  He looks up, takes in my dress with his eyes and stops grimacing. It’s not a smile, but it will have to do.

  “Just barely. Traffic was a bitch. I can’t believe you commute this every day.”

  “Mmm…smells good. What did you get?” I take the bag from him and turn to go in the house. But he stops me and kisses me, pushing me into the doorjamb. The sun warms my shoulders. Henry warms my insides.

  “Chinese,” he whispers. “It can keep.”

  I decide to give him a tour of the house starting with the bedroom.

  A half hour later, we’re lying intertwined under my quilt with the sound of bees whirring near my rhododendron outside. Its brilliant purple-and-rose-colored blossoms could open any day.

  I trace a line down Henry’s nose to his chin to his chest and he smiles with his eyes closed. “I guess we should eat,” he says.

  “Yeah. I’m hungry.” I sit up and crawl over him to get to the floor. But he grabs my butt and kneads it with his hand in such a way that other hungers start to resurface. “You’re wicked, Henry,” I purr.

  After I kiss him, he lets go. Even a sex machine has other needs and we can both smell the sesame oil and garlic of our Chinese feast.

  Downstairs, he helps me set out the cartons and I grab some plates from a cabinet.

  “Tell me about your job,” he says as he dives into the rice and lamb two flavors, forgoing the chopsticks and opting for a fork. I’m a fork person, too. Never could grasp the chopstick allure.

  “There’s not much more to tell. The building will be sold. And it’s unlikely that the shop will stay open.”

  “Is that what you want to do—retail?”

  “Not really. I kind of landed there. After the accident.”

  “What about going back to Gelman?”

  I shake my head. “No openings. Plus, I don’t think I want to go back there. I don’t have happy memories of that place.” Part of the reason for that, of course, is because I associate my time with Rick with Gelman’s. But I’d also grown tired of the agency with its too-hip, too-cool approach to promotions. I’d even started looking around for other jobs before I left there.

  “You’re not interested in communications work at all?” He looks around the kitchen. “You have any beer?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I announce cheerfully, “I don’t. I do have some Coke.”

  “Water’s f
ine.”

  I fill two glasses. Once again, he eats as if it’s his last meal, and if I want my fair share of the dumplings, rice and lamb, I better plow in or they’ll be gone. “I’m not sure what I want to do,” I say after scooping what I consider to be my portions onto my plate.

  “Have you thought of going to a career counselor?”

  “You mean one of those people who gives you tests that they pull out of Cosmo magazine?”

  Henry does not laugh. “They do good work. I know one. Has an office on Pratt Street.”

  “I don’t have the money for that right now, especially when I’m facing unemployment. I’ll find something.”

  “It’s not as expensive as you think. You can buy different kinds of services. You don’t need to get the whole enchilada.”

  “Oh, Henry, I love it when you talk Spanish,” I coo.

  Again he does not laugh. “If you’re serious about getting something, I can help. But if you just want to screw around…”

  Curious choice of words, that. “Screw around.” Does he mean “If you just want to screw around with me, but you don’t want anything more serious, I’ll back off?” Or does he mean “If you just want to screw around with your career…” I look into his eyes searching for an answer, but none rotates into view.

  After dinner, we sit on the front porch and watch Trixie chasing flies.

  “What are these?” he asks, pointing to the rhododendron’s flat waxy leaves and full buds.

  When I tell him, he pulls a branch closer to inspect it.

  “And what do they mean?”

  I twist my mouth and close my eyes, thinking. “Beware. Danger.”

  He laughs. “Do all flowers mean ‘beware’?”

  “No. Only a few.”

  “Just the ones I like.”

  “You like yellow roses. They mean ‘jealousy.’”

  “I’ll have to get a flower book so I don’t accidentally say something that will get me into trouble.”

  “Have you been sending a lot of flowers lately?”

  He smiles but gives no quarter. “I sent some to you.”

  Some. Hmm…does that mean he sent others?