This Christmas

by Jane Green

  Roses are a thorny issue with me also because there were far too many of them at Rudy’s funeral, a day marked with not only loss, but abject humiliation. I knew that when guests offered me their sympathy, it wasn’t simply for the loss of my six-month-old baby’s father; it was for the circumstances surrounding his death.

  Not surprisingly, Rudy was a casualty of his own drunk driving. I’m thankful that he didn’t injure any other drivers on the road, but he did take one of the firm’s paralegals, Madeline, to her death as well. I met her twice at holiday parties. Young. Attractive. Blonde. I can only assume she and my husband were having an affair since they were driving to New Jersey, where Madeline lived, at eleven at night.

  The police officer who came to deliver the news to me assured me that Rudy and Madeline were killed instantly. “Chances are they didn’t know what hit ’em,” the officer said as sympathetically as he could after having delivered this message hundreds of times. Lucky them, I did not say aloud. The officer went on to say that neither Rudy nor his tart mistress felt a moment of pain, so I vowed I’d do likewise. I inhaled deeply, thanked the officer for his time, and closed the door on this chapter of my life. I stayed up all night rocking Hunter, despite the fact that he slept soundly and needed no extra coddling. As I looked at his pudgy face, his gumdrop nose, and puckered lips, I promised myself I’d focus on the future and not dwell on the past. Rudy was gone, and that meant it would be especially important for me to be a strong parent, since I now had to fill the role of both mother and father. At seven the next morning, I called the firm and told Rudy’s secretary that my husband had been killed in an auto accident.

  “Oh my God!” she shrieked. “You’re kidding!”

  Yes, Kendra, I am kidding, I thought. Isn’t that hilarious? Rudy’s dead and so is his paralegal. They were probably having sex while driving. Nah, just joshing. He’s got the flu. Gotcha good, though, didn’t I?!

  Six years later, I picked up the same telephone and dialed Sophie’s number to invite her son Oscar over for a play date. More important, I needed her input on what kind of man would be best for Prudence.

  “Hello. Is this Sophie?” I asked, as she answered the phone. She confirmed. “This is Sarah Peterson. Our boys go to school together.”

  “Oh, yeah, Reilly’s new wife. How are you, Sarah?”

  “Just fine, thank you,” I lied. “And you?”

  “Good, good. So what’s up?”

  “Oh,” I said, a bit startled by her directness. It seemed one step above asking why I called. “I wanted to invite Oscar over to play this afternoon if you don’t have other plans. I know it’s short notice, but—”

  “This actually works perfectly. Devie was invited to the Nutcracker so I was going to take Oscar Christmas shopping, but I’m sure he’d rather play,” she said. I heard screeching in the background, which I could translate as approval from her son. “That really takes a load off me, Sarah. Thanks.”

  “I do hope you won’t rush off too quickly. I was hoping you’d stay for tea,” I offered.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Tea,” I confirmed. “My friend Gwen will be here, too. I’ve always thought the two of you would get along nicely.”

  “Well, okay.”

  Gwen arrived a half hour before Sophie was due. “What’s the plan of action?” she asked. She tossed her heavy red leather tote bag onto my floor, seemingly without any regard for its obscenely high price tag. She says they’re indestructible, but frankly, when I see Gwen’s stuffed purses bending her ninety-five-pound frame, it’s not the bags I worry about.

  “Gwen, please. I don’t want it to feel so contrived.”

  “You want an organic setup?” she said, laughing.

  “It’s not a setup,” I replied. “Our sons go to school together. She seems like a lovely person. Why not befriend her?”

  “This is Gwenny you’re talking to,” she said. “You can drop the Goodie Two Shoes routine. I remember you when you were fun,” she teased. “You’re using this woman to pump info about Prudence. I’m fine with that. Just tell me how I can help.”

  The crassness of it all repelled me, including Gwen’s blind acceptance. I suppose she was being loyal, but what I really needed was someone to remind me that I was not a user. I was a good person, above this sort of thing. As I picked up the phone to call Sophie and cancel, I heard a woman’s and a boy’s voices ascending the stairs to our front door. It was too late to cancel, but I decided to call off my plan. Either way I sliced it, I was not acting like the person I was raised to be.

  The doorbell rang and I reminded myself of the holiday film It’s a Wonderful Life. Oh sure, vowing not to execute one’s twisted plan is hardly the stuff of an angel earning her wings. But it marked the moment for me. The moment I decided to go through with the boys’ play date—and women’s tea—with no agenda. I breathed freely for a moment, feeling like my old, sensible self again. The bell rang again.

  “Wanna see my trains?!” Hunter shot at Oscar, as he ran to greet him. He didn’t answer. The two of them just ran downstairs, beating the steps with the cadence of a rainstorm. It always amazed me how kids socialized without all of the niceties like, Hello…come in…can I get you something to drink…are you ready for the holidays? I suppose I’d worry about my six-year-old boy if he were to ask another if he were prepared for the holidays.

  “Hello, Sophie.” I held the door open and took her red coat, which was made from what could only be described as Muppet fur. And yet, she made it work. I always envied people who took risks with fashion. It was as if they were making a statement: I can pull this off. I might be able to, but I’d be too aware of other people’s reactions to carry it off with any degree of confidence. “Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Fabu coat,” Gwen said, never leaving her chair. “Where did you get it?”

  Figures she’d like it. Gwen would get lost in a coat like that. Her tiny, angular brunette head would stick out from the top and her twiggy long legs would dangle out from the bottom like bamboo.

  “Estate sale, if can you believe!” Sophie said, energized by the compliment.

  “I can’t! It’s so, so—”

  “So gaudy it transcends to chic?” Sophie proposed.

  “Yes! I was going to say unique, but yes, it’s so tacky, it’s cute. Gaudy transcended to chic. I love it. I can’t believe you got it at an estate sale. It looks so modern.” Gwen extended her hand and introduced herself.

  I excused myself from the Elmo-fur coat love fest and stepped into the kitchen to boil water and set out tea bags, sugar, cream, and spoons. I raised my voice to offer them snowball cookies, but neither could hear me amid their laughter.

  I returned to the living room with my grandmother’s Chinese teapot filled only with hot water, and three cups with Morning Lotus painted on them.

  Sophie picked a tea bag, dropped it in her cup, then folded her hands across her lap. “So tell me, ladies,” she began, “what can I do for you today?”

  Gwen and I looked at each other stunned. She raised a single eyebrow as if to ask me how we should address such boldness. “Sarah thought it would be nice if we could all get acquainted, that’s all.”

  “Oh, why’s that?” Sophie asked, smiling as she blew steam from the top of her teacup.

  “We have boys in the same class,” I said, not really sure how to respond if she continued. In my job as a reporter, I ask tough, even impolite questions, but socially, this type of directness was unheard of. “You seem like an interesting person,” I stumbled.

  “Oh, because I was certain your invitation had something to do with Prudence.”

  “Prudence?” I said, because nothing else came to mind.

  “Yes, Prudence. Reilly’s first wife,” Sophie said, not sharply, but not softly either. “When you called, I figured it had something to do with her.”

  “Whatever would give you a silly idea like that?” Gwen asked. I immediately cringed because I could
guess Sophie’s reply.

  Sophie was not combative. She had an air of serene fortitude that let us know that neither Gwen nor I was going to rattle her. She was pleasant, but more curious to see how we would respond to her brand of candor. “Well, Sarah and I have seen each other every morning at school since September and she’s never so much as said hello. Yesterday she found out that I’m friends with Prudence and now—” Sophie concluded her thought by gesturing with her arms as if to say, Here I am. She smirked victoriously and finished, “Tea and holiday cookies and all. I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m mistaken, but the timing struck me as odd. I thought you might have invited me here in hopes that I’d leak information about Prudence.”

  “Information?” Gwen asked, as if the notion was absurd. “Why would Sarah want information about Prudence?!”

  I know Gwen meant well, but her defensive questions only gave Sophie an opportunity to advance her case.

  “Oh, why are women ever curious about other women?” Sophie asked.

  It was unsettling to be so obviously transparent to strangers. Sophie immediately knew my invitation was loaded with ulterior motives. What else could she see in me? Did she know I was coming unglued? Did everyone?

  Gwenny jumped in, again trying to save me. “Well, now that you’ve brought her up. How is Prudence?”

  “Ladies, you seem nice enough, but the gig is up. Why don’t you come clean and tell me what you’re up to?” Sophie shot back. How I longed for the moments we shared over Elmo-fur coats.

  “We were just curious, that’s all,” Gwen said, gently setting her teacup on the table.

  “I’m sorry, Sophie,” I said, silently reminding myself that I’d decided against finding Prudence a new husband. As soon as my guests left, I was going to hop in a cab and make my way to Saks for some retail therapy. It was time to focus on my own mental health instead of filling my head with diversions from my holiday blues. “It was inappropriate for me to ask about Prudence. I hope she’s well, and please send her my best.”

  “You have a beautiful home,” Sophie said. I lived with my parents in this brownstone on West Seventy-fourth Street for my entire childhood before they moved to Greenwich, Connecticut and sold it to me well below market value. My parents did things a bit backward, retiring to the suburbs, but they’ve always marched to the beat of their own drummer. When everyone was carrying on about Aruba, they stayed true to Barbados. When all of their friends were engaged in mortal combat to get reservations at the city’s newest, trendy restaurant, they remained loyal to their favorite chef at Lutece.

  “Thank you,” Gwen replied. “Since Prudence got the loft in the divorce settlement, Reilly was lucky to marry a woman with a location like this.”

  “Back to discussing Prudence now, are we?” Sophie asked.

  “Sophie, I do apologize. I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” I said. “I know you’re new to New York, but apartments are a pretty big deal here. A good one is harder to find than a good man, so we tend to prattle on a bit about our digs. All Gwen was saying is that a man in Manhattan is lucky to go from a loft in SoHo to a brownstone on the upper West Side without so much as a stint in a residence hotel.” Gwen and I laughed, but Sophie did not join us.

  “I had to screw three doormen to find my place,” Gwen joked.

  “Oh, Sophie, she’s kidding. I’ve known Gwen since high school and she’s a complete prude,” I said. Gulp. “I mean she doesn’t have casual sex.”

  “It’s always a black-tie event,” Gwen said uncomfortably. The tension flooded my living room.

  Sophie reached for her purse and started to stand. “Clearly you two have some sort of ax to grind with Prudence, and I’m not going to be any part of it. I may be new to New York, but I can spot bitches with an agenda in any city.”

  I felt a lump in my throat and tears begin welling in my eyes seconds before I burst into tears. Crumbling, I sobbed, “She’s right!” I bawled into my palms. My hand lotion smelled so nice, I wish I could’ve enjoyed it. “I am a bitch.”

  “No you’re not, Sarah!” Gwen said, straightening upright in her chair. “Look, missy, I don’t know where you come off calling us bitches or saying we’re plotting a scheme against precious Prudence, but you are dead wrong!”

  Sophie scrunched her mouth to one side, skeptically. “Sarah just said I was right. She called herself a bitch!”

  “She’s out of her mind!” Gwen defended, sort of.

  “Look, I owe you both an apology,” I interrupted. “Sophie, you were right. I did want to know about Prudence, but it’s not what you think. I wasn’t going to do anything malicious. I just wanted to find her a new husband.” I sighed at the absurdity of it. “I don’t know what’s going on with me these days, but I’d feel more comfortable if she had a new man in her life. But none of that matters because as soon as you rang the doorbell, I decided I couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Why do you care if Prudence has a husband?” Sophie asked. “Prudence dumped Reilly in case he failed to mention. I see her every week and she’s never brought up his name once.”

  “She hasn’t?” I sniffed gratefully. “Didn’t he mean anything to her?”

  Sophie laughed. “Look, I’ve been trying to fix up Prudence for months now, but she’s not interested. Ever since she got back from Italy last summer, all she wants to do is work on her wire sculptures. Jennifer and I have tried to fix her up on dozens of blind dates, but she refuses. She says she did enough dating to last her a lifetime. She says if the right man is out there, he’ll find her.”

  “Really?” Gwen asked, fascinated and appalled. “Does she know she has a better chance of getting struck by lightning?”

  “I think that theory was disproved in the nineties,” Sophie returned.

  “What are wire sculptures?” I chimed in now that my eyes had dried.

  Sophie exhaled deeply as if she was contemplating whether or not she trusted Gwen and me. “You two wanted to find Prudence a new man out of the goodness of your hearts?”

  “Not just that,” Gwen shot, in an attempt to establish credibility. “Sarah’s lost her mind and she says this will calm her nerves.”

  “Have you considered Paxil?” Sophie asked.

  Gwen shrieked with delight. “That’s what I said! Sophie, bitch’s honor, I’m telling you, Sarah wouldn’t harm a fly. Look how easily you made her cry. Do you honestly think she has some nefarious plan for Prudence?”

  “And what about you?” Sophie asked. “What’s in this for you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean why are you spending your time concocting plans to set up your friend’s new husband’s ex-wife? What’s your angle?” Sophie asked.

  “My angle?” Gwen repeated. “I have no angle. This is what friends do for each other. My friend said she’d feel better if her new husband’s ex-wife had a new husband, so I said, darling, it sounds absolutely insane to me, but if it’ll bring you out of your funk, count me in.”

  “I helped Prudence with this last time. It’s a big job,” Sophie said.

  “It’s the season of giving,” Gwen explained, folding her arms.

  “What do you do?” Sophie asked.

  “What do you mean what do I do?”

  “For work? What’s your job?”

  Gwen knit her brows. “I’m a philanthropist. I have lunch.”

  “Oh,” Sophie said as if that explained everything. “And just out of curiosity, when you said bitch’s honor, does that mean you’re a graduate of—”

  “Vilma Veeter’s Bitchcraft class?” Gwen finished, as though they were two sorority sisters just discovering each other’s Pi Beta Phi charm bracelets.

  “Yes!” They clasped hands.

  “You remember the pledge, right?” Sophie asked.

  “How can I forget?”

  “Excuse me,” I chimed in. “Do you mind if I ask who in good God’s name Vilma Veeter is and what bitch’s honor means?”

  “Another
time, Sarah,” Gwen dismissed, still clasping hands with Sophie. “Shouldn’t Sarah take that class?”

  “She’d never cry like that again,” Sophie said, laughing. “Seriously, Gwenny,” Gwenny?! “you remember what Vilma said about the Bitch’s Code of Honor. If you’re lying to me, you’re saying it’s okay for me to take revenge, right?”

  “Of course,” Gwen assured.

  “You’re saying that if it turns out you’re lying to me, I can throw a rock through Sarah’s beautiful window here, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Gwen said, filling with the enthusiasm of promise.

  “If you are planning anything that will hurt my friend Prudence—a fellow bitch by the way—”

  “No doubt,” added Gwen.

  “If you do anything that hurts her, I will strike back by Photoshopping Sarah’s head onto Paris Hilton’s sex tapes and blasting them over the Internet,” Sophie said.

  “Absolutely!”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “I don’t want my face on Paris Hilton’s naked body.”

  “Then don’t screw my friend,” Sophie said.

  “Yeah, Sarah, it’s simple. Don’t screw her friend.”

  A moment later, I found myself locking middle fingers with my two compatriots and reciting some crazy Bitch’s Pledge of Allegiance.

  “Okay, so here’s the deal,” Sophie began. “You remember how Prudence took off the day after your wedding last June? Well, while she was in Rome, she volunteered for a mosaic restoration project, where she met this artist who taught her how to twist wire every which way. So now she’s making sculptures full-time. She quit her job in accounting and everything. I don’t think she’s had a single date since she and Matt broke up.”

  “Matt?” Gwen asked.

  “The guy Prudence dumped Reilly for,” Sophie said.

  “And you say she has no regrets?” I asked. “She never misses him?”