by Libby Malin
“Economics.”
Relief. The doorbell rings and I hang around so Gina can introduce me to her friends. There is an awkward moment when one of them, Penny Barton, remembers I was engaged to Rick Squires and offers her sympathy. I thank her and instantly recall how awful it felt to thank people for telling me how sorry they felt for me. I was about to leave, but now I feel compelled to stay for a few minutes to prove to her that she didn’t upset me with her remarks.
Eventually, Gina ushers them into the family room and starts serving drinks, so I slink away into the dark and up to my room. Yes, I think of it as my room now, sort of the way I thought of my room at my parents’ house as my room even though they owned the house.
With a couple of hours to kill, I try reading and napping but mostly end up thinking of Henry. I’ll call him tomorrow. That keeps me from calling him tonight. But it doesn’t keep me from moping. My energy level is low because it’s the end of the day, so the floodgates open and I can’t hold back the scenes—that he’s already forgotten me and moved on to someone else.
At last it’s close enough to ten that I can leave to meet Wendy. I change into black capris and a stonewashed sleeveless shirt. Gina knows I’m going out so I just waggle some fingers in the air at her as I creep by the door to the family room.
The night air is cool and good. I let it revive me on the way into town, only rolling up my windows when I cross the Badlands.
At Zabo’s, I order a beer and fend off a buzzed Don Juan by saying I’m waiting for someone. Yeah, why should I settle for a fake Don when I can have the real thing, huh?
Wendy is late. Annoyed, I check my watch every five minutes and order a club soda after the beer is gone. I’m about to get up and call her when she finally walks in. With Sam.
She is beaming and my heart is a concrete block. Sinking fast. When they sit at my table, their aura sends me psychic messages. First, they’ve had sex. Second, Sam has no intention of divorcing his wife. Third, Wendy does not know this. Why, why was I born with these telepathic powers?
Sam only glances at me when he says hello, and he doesn’t order anything when he sits down while she orders a margarita. What does this tell me? It tells me their conversation before coming to Zabo’s went something like this:
Wendy: Look at the time! I told Amy I’d meet her at Zabo’s at ten.
Sam: Do you have to go?
Wendy: She’s waiting for me. Hey—why don’t you come with me?
Sam (inwardly groaning): That’s okay. I’ll head on home.
Wendy (knowing she can make him feel guilty since they just made love): Oh, c’mon, go with me, sweetie.
Sam (feeling guilty): Okay, just for a little while.
“Been waiting long?” Wendy asks.
“Well, since I got here on time, I’ve been waiting exactly thirty-eight minutes,” I say, glaring at Sam. But my arrow misses the target and strikes Wendy instead.
“I’m awfully sorry, Ame. We were…detained.” She titters, which confirms my had-sex theory.
Her laugh sends me over the edge. Squaring my shoulders, I look at Sam. When he won’t stare me in the eyes, I confront him.
“Sam, what are your intentions?” I ask, straight out of an old movie.
“What?” One side of his mouth curls up in annoyance. Wendy’s eyes widen with horror. Her drink arrives and she takes a big sip.
“I said, what are your intentions?” I repeat. “Wendy’s my best friend. I don’t want to see her hurt. Are you getting a divorce or not?”
“Amy!” Wendy nearly gags on her drink. She puts her hand on my arm. “Sam and I worked things out. You don’t need to…”
“It’s none of your fucking business,” Sam says cordially. “What Wendy and I do is between us. No one else.”
Wendy stares at him. Shock and disappointment register on her face. “What Sam is trying to say is that he’s working on it and I need to be patient.”
“Hah!” I say loud enough that folks at the next table look our way. “Do you put that sort of line in your Schmuck 101 syllabus?”
Sam stands and pushes his chair in. He looks at Wendy, not at me. “You want me to drop you home?” he asks her.
She reaches up and touches his arm. “I…I…”
“I’ll take her home,” I say defiantly. I hate the way that sounds—as if I’m her lover trying to keep her away from the Big Bad Boy, as if I can love her better.
Before leaving, Sam delivers a parting shot. “I hardly think you’re qualified to pass judgment on me, Amy.”
Why didn’t he just bludgeon me to death? It would have been far less cruel than that cryptic, intended-to-inflict-maximum-damage missile. What did it mean—that since I was driving when Rick died, I was a lesser person than an adulterer? That I lived in some outer ring of goodness while the inner rings were reserved for folks like him? I wanted to jump up and challenge him to “take this outside.” I wanted to fight. I wanted to hit, to hurt, to scream at someone. Damn him. Damn Rick. Damn Henry.
After he leaves, Wendy looks both apologetic and worried. “He knows about Henry,” she says.
This still makes no sense to me, and I want to concentrate on her problem and getting her to stand up to him, but I can’t help myself. I have to ask.
“Knows what about Henry?”
She waves her hand in the air as if it’s nothing. “Oh, you know, about the other women, the flower thing.” The flower thing. I curse myself for telling Wendy this bit of information during a girlfriend confess-all phone call.
And I don’t know if she means he knows only what she has told him or he has some expanded knowledge of Henry through other circles. You know—the huge male club where men share all their women-snaring secrets. I resist at last, forcing myself to focus instead on her woes.
Leaning into the table, I rest my hand on her hand. “Wendy, I’m very disappointed in you. Sam has no intention of divorcing. Can’t you see that?”
She pulls away and reddens. Even after one drink, her voice slurs. She’d probably been drinking at her apartment with Sam before coming to see me. Poor Wendy. She’s hurt bad, and headed for worse.
“What do you know? Didn’t you hear him? He said we’re working things out!”
“You have nothing to work out!” I whisper at her. “He’s the one with the working-out to do. Specifically working out of his marriage. There’s no future in this relationship for you. None!”
She sits back and scrunches her mouth into a tight pucker, folds her arms over her chest and orders another drink when the waiter scoops up her empty glass.
If logic won’t work, cruel bluntness will have to do. After all, Sam just showed me how effective it was as a weapon. And she had chastised me for not being up front with her before.
“Sam doesn’t give a shit about you,” I say, low and serious. “He’s using you for the sex. You had sex before you came over here, didn’t you? And as soon as he can, he leaves. He doesn’t stay to hang out with your friend. Tell me, when you go out with Sam, do you ever not have sex? And when you drove out to the country to visit me last week, I bet you went back to your apartment, had sex, and he left. As soon as he gets his payoff, he vamooses. Listen closely…he…does…not…love you.” It does not escape my attention that I could be describing my relationship with Henry.
A fat tear rolls down Wendy’s cheek and I feel pretty bad but still plunge forward. “And here’s what your life will be like if you stay with him. You’ll hang on for another year because Sam will keep telling you he’s ‘working things out’ and maybe sometimes he’ll even throw in a line about how ‘fragile’ his wife is. At the end of that year, you will give him an ultimatum in a fit of angry pique. And Sam will not give in. You will. You’ll see him again and start the whole process over. Until eventually, he leaves you. But it won’t be to go back to his wife. It will be because he’s found another sucker to have sex with no strings attached.”
Maybe the use of the word sucker is taking this lesson a
little too far. I regret the word as soon as it spills out of my mouth. Wendy visibly flinches, closes her eyes and lets out a long, long sigh. When she speaks, her voice is tight.
“What do you know? You had the only decent guy on earth and you managed to…” She doesn’t finish. Instead, she covers her mouth in dread. But she is looped enough not to offer an immediate apology.
And what can I do? Slap her? That will only add to our lesbian-lover act.
“Then I guess you won’t want me taking you home,” I say quietly, and pull some bills from my purse. “Here, you can take a taxi home. It’s on me.”
I throw some money on the table for my soda and stand to leave. Before I’m at the door, she’s right behind me, hobbling on four-inch sandals she probably put on to get Sam all hot. I, meanwhile, am wearing flats. She touches my shoulder and I want to shake it off and yell to anyone who will listen that this is no lover’s spat.
“Hey, Ame, wait up. I’m sorry,” she says. Then hiccups. She’s really gone. I can no more trust her to get in a taxi as I can trust myself not to call Henry as soon as I get home.
“C’mon,” I say. “I’ll take you home.” Then, out of a perverse desire to fuel the fantasies of a couple of drooling fellows by the door, I wrap my arm around her shoulder and hug her close. Let them imagine what they want. Wendy’s my friend and she needs me.
Her apartment is actually within walking distance, which is one more reason I’m glad I offered to take her home. If I had left her to walk it on her own, who knows where she would have turned up?
Even so, she is asleep almost as soon as she gets in my car. No more chance for heart-to-hearts about Sam or her own accurate aim at my soft spot. A few minutes later I help her toddle into her building, and even make sure she’s safe in bed before leaving. And yes, I shed a tear or two myself because she finally said what has been welling up inside of me for two years and what I was never able to say to Dr. Waylon Freud: that I screwed up somehow. Even though none of it was my fault.
I drive off toward Gina’s, not caring any more how close I come to Tess’s spell.
Maybe Tess is asleep and her powers don’t work because I make it home unscathed. Gina’s party is still going strong when I come in, but I can’t bear to face those ladies, especially the one who’d offered her sympathy earlier. I’m afraid she’ll take one look at me and see I’m not worthy.
For the past two years, I’ve been constantly reexamining my “worthiness”—for sympathy, love, you name it—and how to protect it. It’s as if I can prevent the next catastrophe with careful planning. I’ve started listening intently for “other shoes to drop” and visualizing bad omens in tea leaves, clouds, flower orders or women whose names rhyme with “Bess.”
If I’m prepared, I can brace myself for any potential body blows and will be more likely to survive with my psyche intact.
All this is to say that I have no idea yet what kind of guy Henry really is. Just because he’s not ordering flowers from my shop doesn’t mean he’s not ordering any flowers at all for other babes. So I am restless to get this disaster plan moving forward. I want to call him and say, “Stop procrastinating, you jerk, and break my heart now so I can get on with my life. I’m working a plan here.”
I quietly let my sister know I’m home with a gentle tap on her shoulder and quickly head off to bed.
In the kitchen, I make a fast stop for a glass of milk and the phone taunts me. Then I remember—my voice mail will still be working. Phone’s not officially cut off until Monday. Grabbing it, I quickly punch in the numbers. Four messages!
Two are hangups, one’s a call from the movers informing me that if I want to check my shipment for breakage, I have thirty days to make a claim, and one, God bless him, is from Henry.
“Hey, conchita, what are you doing tonight?”
I don’t care that it came in at 5:25. I don’t care that he doesn’t whisper sweet nothings or offer proposals of marriage or even promises of fidelity. He’s called. That’s enough for me tonight. Take that, Tess.
chapter 10
Lily of the valley: Return of happiness
One area of cheerful agreement in the wedding-planning saga was the selection of the men’s boutonnieres. When I suggested lilies of the valley instead of roses or carnations, Mrs. Squires was delighted with this tasteful straying from conformity. My mother was happy because I was happy, and I was filled with a contented joy because lilies of the valley reminded me of that no-worry summer spent around Sheila’s pool. I’d discovered a new perfume that year—the dime-store scent Muguets des Bois. After an afternoon at Sheila’s house, I would splash the perfume on my wrists and behind my ears right out of the shower, and it made me feel sophisticated and innocent all at once. After selecting the boutonnieres with Mrs. Squires, I stopped at a pharmacy on the way home and bought some of that old perfume. It immediately transported me back to my girlhood.
In the morning, everything is different. The gloom of the night before has lifted; I awaken rested and refreshed and can’t wait to get started on the day. In fact, I’m up an hour before Gina, who sleeps in due to what I believe is an overdose of daiquiris. When she finally comes downstairs at nine, I have baked Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and frozen hash browns, and I pour her a cup of coffee. I’m showered and dressed while she holds her head with one hand and pulls her robe close with the other.
“Try four Motrin and a Coke,” I say, pulling a pill bottle from my purse, then placing it on the table.
“Coffee’s fine. Thanks for fixing breakfast.”
“You have fun last night with your friends?” I ask.
“Yeah. Lots. Too much.” She laughs a little and stops when it becomes clear that laughing and headaches are like propane and a match.
Looking at her lush backyard through the sliding doors, I am imbued with a sense of reckless optimism.
“Who takes care of your lawn?” I ask.
“Some father and son company. Except the father died last month. I’m not sure if the son’s going to keep up the business.”
“Let me do it.”
“What?”
“I don’t like staying here without paying you back.”
“Silly, you’re family.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how long I’ll have to stay until I find a new job and a new place. Let me do your lawn. It’ll save you some money and make me feel like I’m not a free-loader.”
She’s too tired to argue. “I don’t even know if our mower still works. They used their own. Big rider things.”
“I’ll check on it. Where do you keep it?”
“In the garage.”
“Okeydoke.”
“Ame, really, you don’t have to.” Her spirit is willing but her flesh is weak and she doesn’t sound all that adamant. And she looks pretty pathetic holding her head with one hand. Poor Gina. She’s not used to tying one on.
Before she can protest further, I leave to look at the mower. Right—like I’ll know if it’s okay just by looking at it. This should give you an idea of the kind of slaphappy mood I’m in.
It sits in the corner, behind the Volvo, and I don’t see anything obviously wrong—like a blade lying loose next to a wheel—and I know enough to be able to unscrew the cap and see it still has gasoline in it. It will do.
It’s only nine-thirty, but in the distance I hear the whine of a fellow mower. I want to be part of this community of Saturday mowers, marching across lawns with mowing songs in our hearts. I want to feel the wind whip at my face as I push my machine over the fields, shearing away the tall weeds, soaking in the scents of just-cut grass, communing with nature. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? This will kill so many birds with one stone—pay back Gina, plot out a new career in landscaping, keep me from calling Henry right away.
Because I am so needy, I’ve decided the best therapy is to try to make him needy, too.
My goal for the day is to wait until noon to call him. I figure if he sleeps in, that will give him ampl
e time to get up and wonder why I’m not calling. Make him miss me. I’ve decided to check my voice mail before I call him just to see if he’s tried me again. So it’s with a light heart and a serene soul that I start the mowing routine.
When we were small, my father used to handle the mowing, only giving in to paying a neighbor’s boy when he had to work overtime or see one of his girlfriends. For some reason, Gina and I never asked to do it, even though I’d look longingly at Jimmy Kamen as he cut neat swaths through our grass. It seemed like so much more fun than washing walls or vacuuming, which were jobs we got stuck with as Mom did the spring cleaning. I’m looking forward to recapturing some of that youthful exuberance as I look over the mower.
Luckily for me, Fred is obsessive-compulsive and has hung the mower manual in a plastic bag from a hook in the garage above the machine. I spend five minutes figuring out spark plugs and starter switches, then roll the thing into the driveway and up the slope to the front lawn.
Pulling the starter cord presents a problem as I struggle to find the right amount of strength to get her whirring, but when she finally purrs to life I feel like a kid with a hot rod, rarin’ to go. Off I march into the wilderness of overgrown grass, coaxed into Alaskan-king-size by the chemicals Fred and Gina have dumped on it once a month. The mower struggles through the thick patches, causing me to pull back so the motor won’t go out. I quickly become attuned to its rhythm, however, and merrily make my way in concentric squares around the front yard.
It doesn’t take me long to realize that this would be great fun except for the fact that it’s really hard work.
In ten minutes, I’m sweating so much I have to use the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe the perspiration from my eyes, and my thighs are screaming at me to stop tormenting them and let them sit down.
No matter. I’m on a mission. To hell with my discomfort. This is man’s work and I’m doing it. Grunt-grunt.
Still huffing and puffing twenty minutes later I’m only halfway done, and this is just the front. Maybe this is why the Kamen boy never looked happy when he mowed our lawn. And maybe this is why his abs were made of steel, I think, as I use my own to nudge the mower up a slight incline.