Slightly Engaged

by Wendy Markham

  “One of Donatello’s best friends was a featured performer in Curious George, and he was supposed to skip it?”

  Cultural priority?

  “I thought Jones was your friend,” is all I can think to say.

  “We’re getting married, Tracey. As in forever. As in, all our friends are mutual from this day forward.”

  I wonder if this means that Donatello’s kleptomaniac hag, Nellie, is now part of Raphael’s inner circle. If so, I’ll be sure to keep a wide berth when she’s around. The last time she was over at his place, somebody’s wallet went missing.

  “So, Curious George? You mean the kids’ book about the monkey?” I ask, not particularly anxious to linger on the topic of engagement and its consequences, to which I am unfortunately unable to relate, damn that Jack.

  “What other Curious George is there, Tracey?”

  “Snobby and sarcastic, Raphael. How am I supposed to know Curious George was a Broadway play now?”

  “Because I told you. And it’s not Broadway, it’s off-off, and it’s a musical, not a play. Jones is a dancer, remember?”

  “Oh, right.” Fake lightbulb. “Maybe I’ll go see it.”

  Raphael sighs. “It closed last month, Tracey. Remember?”

  “I guess I forgot.”

  “Of course you did.” He looks exasperated. “Unless it has to do with you—or Jack—and whether or not he’s going to give you an engagement ring, you’re not interested.”

  Wow. If that’s not hypocritical, then I haven’t been struck by a sudden fierce craving for nicotine.

  “I’m sorry I’m not as culturally enlightened as you are, Raphael,” I say loftily, stung by his accusation. “But I’ve got other things on my plate right now. Things that are more important than Curious George: The Musical.”

  He mutters something under his breath. I don’t catch a word of it, but I’d bet my life that it has to do with that groundless accusation of narcissism.

  Suddenly, I’ve had enough. I really don’t need this right now.

  “You know what? Let’s call it a night, Raphael,” I say curtly, all set to spin on my heel and head back to the Astor Place subway.

  “Tracey!” He instantly throws his arms around me. “I’m sorry. That was mean. Forgive me?”

  I consider it.

  “Really, Tracey, I didn’t mean to be so bitchy. It’s just that between my wedding plans and the holidays, I’m exhausted.”

  “And bitchy.”

  “And bitchy,” he concedes. “But aren’t all brides?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been one, remember?” I say tartly. “And according to you, I never will.”

  “Oh, Tracey…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Okay, I did, but…I’m sorry, okay? I take it back.”

  “Really?” I peer into his face.

  “Scout’s honor,” he says, holding up two fingers.

  “Oh, please. You were never a Boy Scout, Raphael.”

  “No, thank God.” He’s shifted gears again, going instantly from utter disdain to heartfelt contrition. “But really, Tracey, it would break my heart if you were mad at me.”

  He does look a little weepy.

  Then again, he’s always been a drama queen.

  “Whatever, Raphael.”

  “You forgive me?”

  “I guess.” I shrug and cast a longing glance at a couple of passing NYU types who have yummy lit cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.

  Yes, even after two months, I’m still not over my addiction. Not entirely, anyway.

  But I’ll admit that this cold-turkey thing is getting easier. I no longer wake up in the mornings consumed by an instinctive need to light up. And just the other day, when I was hungover from the office Christmas party and caught a whiff of Yvonne’s menthol smoke, I felt like I was going to vomit.

  I took that as a good sign.

  That I was compelled to drink so much at the office party the night before was not a good sign. As you’ll recall, Jack and I met at the Blair Barnett Christmas shindig two years ago. Which means the party was our second anniversary, more or less.

  More, if you’re me.

  Less, if you’re Jack.

  I got him a card, same as last year. Once again, I had to painstakingly explain what it was for. You’d think he would remember the occasion upon which we met. You’d think he’d take a hint after last year, realize that the Office Christmas Party/Anniversary of the Night We Met is an occasion that calls for a card—or even better, a gift.

  Like, say, a diamond ring.

  But did Jack give me the ring?

  You already know he didn’t.

  Did he even get me a card?

  If you guessed No, Tracey, he did not even get you a card, you win.

  And I lose.

  Still, I’m hoping absence will make Jack’s heart grow fonder and he’ll return from Toledo tomorrow just bursting with the urge to engage me.

  Raphael and I spend another hour perusing the wares along Saint Mark’s Place.

  During that time, he arbitrarily suggests a number of gifts for Jack, none of which is appropriate, much less available here: a beer-making kit, a hammock, an iguana.

  “A live iguana?” I ask.

  “No, stuffed,” he says sarcastically, as though that’s any more outrageous. “Of course, live, Tracey. Jeez.” He shakes his head.

  Choosing my words carefully to avoid another flare-up from Bridezilla, I say, “The thing is, I don’t think Jack is really in the market for a live iguana, Raphael.”

  “How do you know that? Has he ever come right out and said he doesn’t want an iguana?”

  “No, but—”

  “No offense, Tracey, but enough already about you and Jack,” he interrupts. “What am I going to get Donatello?”

  “I thought you already bought him five golden rings.”

  “I did, but I need something to go with them. You know, a real showstopper.”

  If five golden rings—especially number five—aren’t a showstopper…

  But turnabout is fair play, so I make a few suggestions, all of which are promptly shot down by Raphael. A live iguana. A self-help book for disowned Italian-Catholic homosexuals. A My Friend Starred in “Curious George: The Musical” And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt T-shirt.

  No, no, and no.

  “How about a subscription to the Fruit of the Month club?” I suggest.

  “Tracey! He’s monogamous now, remember?”

  It takes me a moment to get the joke. I laugh.

  “What?” he asks, deadpan.

  Maybe it isn’t a joke?

  Then, from Raphael: “Oh! Tracey, you meant real fruit? As in kumquats and papayas?”

  “Even apples and oranges. And I’m not even going to ask you what you meant.”

  “There’s this club that Terry, a drag queen friend of mine, started—”

  “I said I wasn’t going to ask, Raphael.”

  “I know, Tracey. I was going to tell you anyway.”

  And he does.

  I tune him out, still trying to figure out what I’m going to get for Jack.

  I can play it safe and go with a nice sweater, which is what I did last year. That’s a good boyfriend gift. A sweater, a couple of CDs and some books. Perfect.

  Unless he’s giving me the ring.

  Even then, am I obligated to respond with an equally extravagant gift? I mean, a diamond ring is about the symbolism, not the cash value. Correct?

  Correct—unless you’re Kate, who unapologetically had her solitaire appraised the morning after Billy presented it to her.

  Naturally, she told me that she thinks I should get Jack a Rolex.

  That’s because she can afford one, and in fact got Billy a Rolex the Christmas they were engaged. She bought it with her daddy’s money, of course.

  My daddy’s money would barely buy a Timex, but that’s beside the point.

>   Yes, I have a credit card.

  No, it’s not maxed out. I still have a few thousand dollars of credit left.

  Still, I think I’ll play it safe and go with the sweater, CDs and books. Maybe throw in a Chia Pet for good measure, since the one Jack gave me is now beyond hope. I keep waiting for him to notice that it’s mildewed and suggest that we throw it away, but he never does.

  I know I could just chuck it into the garbage and call it a day, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

  So there it sits, a disgusting, depressing symbol of our relationship.

  Okay, maybe not a symbol of our relationship, but it’s definitely depressing.

  And disgusting.

  “Is that snow?” Raphael asks gleefully, tipping his face up.

  I gaze into a streetlight and see a few flakes whirling in the glow.

  “Yup,” I say, “that’s snow.”

  “Oh, Tracey, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he rhapsodizes.

  Actually, it isn’t.

  I mean, it’s not like this is a sugar-frosted Dickens scape. It’s a few measly flakes, just enough to make us colder and collapse our hairdos.

  Well, my hairdo, anyway.

  Raphael’s used so much gel in his tawny locks that it would take a steamroller to flatten them.

  “Ooh, I caught one on my tongue, Tracey!” Raphael exclaims.

  “You’d better hope that was a snowflake,” I say ominously, glancing at the overhead windows of a run-down apartment building.

  “Tracey! Why are you being so scroogy?”

  “Sorry, I’m just cold,” I say apologetically, putting my icy hands into my pockets and turning up the collar of my old blue pea coat that goes in and out of style every other season.

  Yes, it’s currently out, but my other halfway decent coat—a five-year-old long wool dress coat—is at the cleaner’s with Jack’s suits, which I forgot to pick up yesterday as promised before his trip. Oops.

  Mental note: pick up dry cleaning after work tomorrow, before Jack gets home.

  “You really should have bought one of these, Tracey,” Raphael says, gesturing at his toasty turban. “It’s festive and warm.”

  “I’d rather buy a ticket to Anguilla,” I say impulsively.

  In fact…

  “I’d rather buy two tickets to Anguilla!”

  “Oh, Tracey, that’s so sweet.” Raphael gives me a quick, fervent hug. “But if I take any more time off from work between now and the safari, I’ll end up an unemployed desperate housewife.”

  “Not two tickets for you and me, Raphael. For Jack and me.” I can’t resist adding, “Because, after all, you know my world is all about Jack and me.”

  “To each his own,” Raphael murmurs demurely, busy trying to catch sight of his reflection in a plate-glass window as we pass.

  Why didn’t I think of this before?

  I’ll get Jack a Carribbean vacation for Christmas!

  It’s the perfect solution. He might open it on Christmas morning, but it’ll be the gift that keeps on giving…to both of us.

  Plus this way, if he doesn’t propose for Christmas, he’ll have the perfect romantic setting where he can do it later.

  But not much later.

  I’m thinking January. That’s the absolute cutoff if we’re going to have that October wedding.

  Meanwhile, if Jack does propose for Christmas, then our trip will be to celebrate our engagement.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  You’re thinking Jack probably has his heart set on taking me to Anguilla for our honeymoon.

  I know, I’m thinking the same thing.

  But with this plan, I can’t lose. We can get the Caribbean out of the way now, and he can take me to Europe or the South Pacific for our honeymoon.

  See how it all falls into place?

  “How much do you think an all-inclusive week in Anguilla would cost?” I make the mistake of asking Raphael.

  “More than you make in a month,” is the prompt response.

  Point taken.

  I reconsider.

  Then ask, “How about a long weekend?”

  “More than you make in a month.”

  “What if I cut the all-inclusive part?”

  Raphael sighs. “I have a question for you, Tracey. If you have to pay for every last dirty banana, what’s the point of going at all?”

  I just know I’m going to regret asking this too, but…

  “I have a question for you, Raphael. What the heck is a dirty banana?”

  “One part crème de cacao, one part crème de bananes, one part Kahlúa. Add ice, a heap of vanilla ice cream, and blend till smooth.”

  What a relief. It’s merely a frozen cocktail, and not…

  Well, you can just imagine the connotation “dirty banana” might take on in Raphael’s lurid little world.

  “So they make dirty bananas in Anguilla?”

  “They make them everywhere in the Caribbean. Go somewhere else, Tracey. Jamaica is cheap.”

  “I don’t want cheap. I want exotic and upscale. Like Anguilla.”

  Not that I know Anguilla from anywhere else in the Caribbean, but it sounds exotic and upscale, and it must be if Jack’s sister recommended it.

  “You can’t afford it.”

  “I can if I charge it.”

  “I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Raphael says darkly, and tacks on a cryptic, “Besides, it might be cursed.”

  Okay, did I miss something here?

  “What might be cursed, Raphael?”

  “Hello? Anguilla.”

  “The entire island?”

  He nods. “Brad and Jen went there, and look what happened to them.”

  “What?” I ask helplessly, because with Raphael, you sometimes get swept along.

  “They wound up getting separated before they even boarded the plane home.”

  “They got lost in the airport?”

  “No, separated. As in divorced.” He shakes his head wearing a some-people-are-impossibly-thick expression.

  “Oh.” Pause. “Brad and Jen who?”

  “Hello! Pitt and Aniston?”

  “For God’s sake, Raphael.” I swat his arm. “I thought you were talking about somebody we know.”

  “I was. Somebody I know. Brad, anyway,” he concedes when I glare. “I told you I met him last spring during Fashion Week, remember?”

  “You told me you grabbed his butt when he walked by you on the street and he threatened to call the police.”

  “Right. During Fashion Week,” he repeats, and I can’t help but wonder what, if anything, any of this has to do with me and Jack getting married. Or not.

  Horrified inner gasp!

  There I go again.

  Can Raphael possibly be right about me?

  Am I obsessed with myself and Jack and our forthcoming—or not—engagement?

  Paranoid, I mentally backtrack over the last few hours…

  Then the last few days…

  Then the last few months…

  Can it be?

  No. I am not one of those so-called New York career women whose secret main goal in life is a diamond ring on her finger and wedding date on the calendar.

  Or so I claimed way back in October, when I first found out Raphael got engaged. But things have changed since then.

  You know, I’m really scaring myself.

  Have I turned into…

  The Anti-Bridezilla?

  I mean, think about it…

  Like I said earlier, what else really matters to me lately?

  I should be looking beyond my own little dilemma.

  I should be interested in other things. Global issues. Politics. Even Raphael’s tabloid fodder.

  I must be lousy company.

  If I were a true friend, I would probably be asking Raphael about his hopes, his fears, his dreams…

  Except that I already know all of them—or most of them, anyway. And what I don’t already know, I don’t want to
know. Trust me. Nobody would.

  Still…

  “Raphael…?” I ask tentatively, resolving that from this moment on, I will do my best to think about—and talk about—other things.

  “Yes, Tracey?”

  But I can’t think of a single thing to say. Nothing that doesn’t involve myself, or Jack, anyway.

  Finally, I settle for, “Let’s go home.”

  “But what about Christmas shopping, Tracey?”

  “I’ll finish it up online,” I say. “Or in Brookside.”

  “I thought Wal-Mart was the only store in town.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  He laughs and links his arm through mine. “You always do like a bargain.”

  “So do you.”

  “Just not from Wal-Mart. We’re two of a kind, Tracey!” He smooches my cheek. “I’m so glad you’re my maid of honor.”

  “Me too,” I say with feeling.

  Then he adds pessimistically, “I just hope I can return the favor someday.”

  This is God, testing you, I tell myself.

  “Tell me about your hopes, your fears, your dreams, Raphael,” I say in response.

  Without batting an eye, he says, “Well, last night, I dreamed I was the March selection in the Fruit of the Month club…”

  Alrighty then. Tune-out time.

  I find myself speculating wearily that if Jack would just ask me to marry him, life could get back to normal, which it hasn’t been since Labor Day.

  Maybe on Christmas Eve, I think hopefully, barely aware that Raphael is continuing to regale me with a tale straight out of a gay-porn movie.

  Or Christmas Day…

  Or even New Year’s Eve…

  Or New Year’s Day…

  Chapter 14

  The only thing Jack returned from Toledo bursting to do last night was go to the bathroom—there was snow in Ohio so the flight was delayed, then he drank too much coffee on the plane and got stuck in rush-hour traffic on the way back from the airport.

  “That really, really sucks, Tracey,” Brenda says sympathetically over her shoulder from the front seat of the cab we’re in, headed to the west side for a long lunch. Upper management is at a holiday client reception this afternoon, so we don’t have to worry about hurrying back.

  Sandwiched between Yvonne and Latisha in the back seat, I say, “Yeah, well, it’s that time of year so what do you expect? I’m sure our flight to Buffalo will be delayed tonight, too. And the traffic—well, look at this.”