I reach over and squeeze his arm. “Ben, I think you’re wonderful, but I’m not in a serious relationship place right now. And I enjoy your company, but I have to be free to live my life my way. I don’t mean that to be hurtful; I just want to be honest.”
“Well, do you think you might get into a more serious place sometime in the foreseeable future?”
How do you tell someone that he just isn’t ever going to be that guy? You don’t. You chicken out. “I honestly don’t know, Ben.” Always use the word honestly when you’re lying. No one will suspect you. I’m a cow. “I’m not ruling it out. But I’m not making promises.”
I hate this. I really do like him, I like hanging out with him. Why I can’t just say that we should be friends is beyond my own comprehension. We aren’t compatible physically, so the relationship is pretty chaste, with the exception of some decent good-night kissing. But I know he thinks he is giving me space to get back to a place of intimacy, and it just isn’t going to happen. So why can’t I tell him that? What is it about me that I like having him pursuing me romantically and not just being friends?
Ben smiles. “No, it’s fine. I’m glad we both are on the same page. I definitely want us to keep hanging out. No worries. Nonexclusive. It’s fine.”
This is where I get nervous. Ben looks like I just handed him a challenge. But I have to take him at his word.
“Okay then, shall we go to this party?” I say, getting up out of my chair.
“Absolutely,” he says, his voice filled with brave enthusiasm. I can hear his gears turning. I’m starting to dread the evening. Mostly because I feel like sort of a bitch, and I hate that.
“Off we go.” He offers me his arm, I take it, and we head out to surprise Benna’s new boyfriend.
“Okay, everyone, quiet! He’ll be here any minute!” Benna says in an exaggerated stage whisper.
There are maybe fifteen of us crowded into Gino’s spare living room, waiting for the door to open. It is almost nine thirty, and so far, so good. Ben has been charming and funny, Jill has given her stamp of approval, and Paige has winked at me so many times she looks as if she has a tic. He has fetched drinks, made friends with all of Gino’s pals, and been generally adorable. He’s bounced back remarkably from our uncomfortable earlier exchange and seems bound and determined to be a jovial and attentive companion, which is part of why I do like him so much.
“Shhhhhhhh! He’s here!” Gino’s helpful neighbor yelps from the window where he has spotted Gino’s car turn the corner. We all hunker down, and I wonder how it is that the sound of fifteen people breathing can be so loud. After several long moments, there is a key in the lock and the door swings open.
“Surprise!!!” we all yell as someone throws the lights on. And then, silence.
Gino is standing in his open doorway with an attractive blonde, one hand still inside her blouse, the other holding his keys, mouth agape.
“Who the fuck is that?” Benna says with venom in her voice.
“Who the fuck are you?” the blonde snaps.
“What the fuck is going on?” Gino says, releasing the blonde’s left breast and letting his hand drop to his side.
One by one we all replace our drinks on the nearest surface and begin to sidle out, no one making eye contact, sheepish and embarrassed.
“Poor baby, what a mess!” Paige says to Benna, handing her the umpteenth tissue.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Jill adds, squeezing her arm.
“He’s a total tool,” Ben says, which makes the rest of us laugh. We all waited downstairs for Benna and then whisked her back to Jill’s, where the four of us are commiserating with a bottle of Glenlivet.
“I mean, three months we’ve been dating! Three months! Shouldn’t I have been able to expect that he wasn’t still seeing other people?”
“Well . . .” I begin, then I think better of it.
“Well, what?” she asks.
“Nothing. Never mind.” This is not the right time to explain my views on dating protocols.
“No, really, I’d like to hear.” Benna blows her nose loudly and takes another swig of her whiskey.
“Well, did you and he ever have a conversation about making the relationship exclusive?”
“No, not specifically, but I just thought, I mean, once you start seeing someone regularly . . .”
“Look, Benna, tonight was awful for you, and I’m so sorry. I know your feelings are hurt. But it has only been three months you and he have been together, and if you never had a conversation about not seeing other people, then he wasn’t doing anything wrong. And since you didn’t have plans with him tonight, it’s sort of hard to fault him.”
Three pairs of eyes turn to glare at me.
“What? I’m just being honest.” Yeesh.
“Jodi, I think it’s easy to believe that in a dating situation, after several months and a certain level of intimacy, one might be able to assume exclusivity without having to make a federal case of it,” Paige says.
“You can see how she would believe that,” Ben pipes in, making pointed eye contact as he does.
“Now wait, don’t everyone jump on Jodi.” Thank God Jill will be on my side. “We have always recommended that women should be more direct about periodically addressing the boundaries of their relationships and ensuring that they are on the same page as their partners.”
“In order to avoid these sorts of misunderstandings,” I say.
“That’s all well and good,” Benna says. “But can we just not talk about it right now? Right now I want to just focus on the continuing proof that I only pick the wrong guys.”
“You got it,” I say. “How about we leave you to it?”
“Thanks, Jodi,” she says.
“Good night, Benna,” Ben says, walking over and kissing her hand, much as he did earlier with little Carly. “I’m sorry about that idiot. But it was nice to meet you anyway.”
“Good night guys,” I say, and Ben and I leave Jill’s.
“Can I come upstairs?” he asks.
I think it over. On the one hand, I’m tired. On the other, I don’t want Ben to feel like I’m punishing him for our earlier conversation.
“It’s fine if you want to come up, but I’m kind of tired, so I’m not up for much. Is that okay?”
“Of course. You know, Jodi, I just like being with you. It isn’t always about sex.”
“Well, I like being with you, too.”
He leans over and kisses me gently, and we walk upstairs.
A nice, quiet snuggle and a good-night kiss turn into talking, laughing, more kissing, and a witness to the sunrise. And this is why I am so reluctant to let go of Ben. Because not once did he try to push the advantage. Not once did he try and go further than I wanted. He just kissed me and talked to me and listened to me and held me close. And when he left early this morning, he told me how much he adores me. Which makes me adore him back, even if it doesn’t make me want anything more than what we already have. I hate that I know I’d miss him; it makes me really embarrassingly selfish. And what is worse, times like this really do make me feel like a fraud, since I’d read the riot act to any caller who behaved the same. Ugh.
Silly Rabbi, Trix Are for Kids!
You cannot blame someone else for something you allow them to do to you. If you have an opinion, assert it. If you don’t want something, don’t accept it. There is a difference between strong and bitchy, and you will have very little control over which label someone else places on you. But you should never be afraid to express your feelings, even if they are potentially offensive to someone else. You can’t live your life doing things you don’t want to do just because you don’t want someone to call you a bitch.
—Advice given to a caller by Jodi Spingold, March 2005
Riiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnng.
Fuck. Phone. I hate when the phone rings early in the morning. I peek at the clock, seven-fucking-thirty for Lord’s sake. My alarm isn’t set to go off till eight.
<
br /> Riiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnng.
“H’lo?” I mumble.
“Yes, is Jodi Spingold there?” The thick Jewish accent on the other end of the phone is completely unfamiliar to me. Probably trying to get money for JUF or something.
“I’m sorry, I don’t take solicitations over the phone. You can send me your materials, and I’ll review them.”
“No, miss, I’m not calling to ask you for money. I’m Rabbi Silverman. I’m calling about your get.”
Great, Brant. Just give some random rabbi my number, and don’t bother to tell me. I take a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, Rabbi, I wasn’t expecting your call.”
“I just wanted to tell you that you need to come pick up your get; I have it.”
“It’s all set?” Well, maybe Brant isn’t a complete idiot, if he found a way to get it done so easily.
“Well, if you can come by maybe Sunday morning, we can take care of everything.”
“Christmas Eve day?” Seems an odd choice.
“You have big Christmas plans, nu? Going to Mass?” he says with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
I laugh. “No, of course not. But I thought Brant was out of town?”
“Brant doesn’t need to be here; he has already taken care of his part.”
I take back all my bad thoughts about this get business; Brant clearly really has organized this in the least painful way possible for me.
“Fine, Sunday morning it is.”
The rabbi gives me his West Rogers Park address, and I agree to meet him at ten in the morning on Sunday. Then I hang up and roll back over, bound and determined to sleep till the alarm goes off if I can possibly manage it.
“Can I have extra cherries, please?” Jill asks Aunt Ruth, who is pouring Manhattans.
“Will three suffice, dear?”
“Ample. Thanks.”
Aunt Shirley appears from the kitchen with a tray. She sets it down on the coffee table in front of Jill and me and begins to point things out. “Crostini with goat cheese and fig preserve, marinated olives, pâté-stuffed cremini mushroom caps, and snow peas filled with Boursin.”
“Yum,” I say, grabbing a small plate. “I’m starved.”
Aunt Ruth brings over the drinks, we all settle in, and for a few minutes there is only the sound of contented chewing and sipping and compliments to the barmaid and chef.
“So, darling, are you and Hunter ready for your trip?” Aunt Shirley asks Jill.
“Not remotely. I mean, he is. You know Hunter, always ready. Plus it’s his family, so he has nothing to be nervous about.” She fishes a cherry out of her drink and chews it thoughtfully.
“What do you have to be nervous about? They’re lovely people,” Ruth says. “In spite of themselves.”
“Yes, of course they are, but I’m going to meet Hunter’s grandmother for the first time, the grande dame matriarch, and apparently hell on wheels, which, considering who we’ve already met, is quite a statement. Plus all the aunts and uncles and cousins. And there I am, the heathen Jew at midnight Mass!”
We giggle. “I hope the church doesn’t burst into flame when you cross the threshold,” I say.
“Of course not, Jodi,” Ruth says. “Lightning will strike her in the parking lot first.”
“Ruthie, that’s terrible!” Shirley says. “You know the one true God will smite her before she enters the sacred parking lot!” One forgets how wicked Aunt Shirley can be, and how quick-witted, just because she has a soft, comforting presence and angelic hair and usually smells like cookies.
We all laugh.
“Then again, at least I don’t have to go see Rabbi Silverman and get spanked with the fourth book of the Talmud for marrying a nincompoop!” Jill says, reaching for a mushroom.
“Still with the get business?” Aunt Shirley asks.
“The rabbi called this morning. I have to go pick up my get on Sunday at ten.”
“Well, at least you’ll have it over and done with,” Ruth says, freshening my drink the tiniest bit.
“Maybe it will be a cleansing sort of thing,” Aunt Shirley offers hopefully.
“Like a colonic,” mutters Ruth.
“I highly doubt it. But I will give my nincompoop ex some credit; he seems to have set it up to be as simple as possible for me.”
“I still think old Malicious is up to something sinister,” Jill says. “And frankly, her power over him is entirely your fault, missy!”
“My fault? How is it my fault?”
“You trained him to completely subvert his will to the influence of a strong woman! And Lord knows he needed the guidance; the man couldn’t dress himself without you. But when you released him into the wild, he found another strong woman and has put all the decision making into her hands. You reap what you sow.”
I punch her in the arm. “You make me sound like such a manipulative bitch! I never asked him to subvert his will. I just, well I, I mean he needed . . .”
“You were a benevolent dictator, dear,” Aunt Shirley says.
“And you did dress him very nicely,” Aunt Ruth offers.
“I can’t take it when you all gang up on me like this. It isn’t fair! Was I really so awful?”
Jill pats my arm. “Not awful. Young and determined and with the wrong fellow. Who is now, sadly, allowing his new gal pal to wreak havoc with your life.”
“I hate that you are going to be out of town. I wanted you to come with me.” Somehow, facing the whole business would become an adventure if Jill were there.
“Well, I wish I were going to be here as well. But I will be in the wilds of Pennsylvania eating oyster stuffing and creamed onions and drinking eggnog.”
I sigh. “Will there be ham? God bless the goyim and their Christmas hams, so succulent and pink . . .” Say what you will, but nothing really beats great ham.
“Yes, I believe there will be refreshment of a porcine nature at the groaning board.” Jill reaches for an olive.
“Well, we will be missing you,” Aunt Ruth says. “Emperor’s Choice won’t be the same without you.”
Emperor’s Choice, the family favorite of all the Chinatown haunts, with its unobtrusive green awning and the most delectable treats, has been the site of all of our Christmas Day dinners since time immemorial. When my folks were alive, we all went together, usually in between the two movies we were likely to see.
“And I shall miss the Emperor.” Jill places the back of her hand on her forehead in a melodramatic fashion, which makes the rest of us crack up.
“Well, if I survive Sunday, I’ll need all the dumplings they can fry up!” I say.
“It’ll be fine. No problem. A quick trip to West Rogers Park and home in time for lunch,” Jill says.
“Sure, home in time for lunch and to obsess about what to wear to the party Sunday night.”
“Ah, yes. The Duncan clan Christmas Eve. Are you nervous?” asks Shirley.
“Well, of course she’s nervous,” Ruth snaps. “Meeting the brothers is a big deal, probably more important than meeting his parents.”
“I do really like him, and his family is important to him, so in terms of our continuing to see each other, yes, it is important to me that I not make an idiot of myself.”
“You’ll be great. He wouldn’t be bringing you if he had any doubts, so just be yourself,” Jill says.
“And just think, at least you’ll be freshly divorced! The new primping, manicure, pedicure, blow out, ritual religious act . . .” Ruth says, raising her glass to me. “To a Sunday night that makes Sunday morning worth the trouble!”
“Hear, hear,” Aunt Shirley says.
“I’ll drink to that!” Jill picks up her glass.
“L’chaim!” I say, and we all clink and drink.
At ten sharp I pull up in front of the small bungalow in West Rogers Park. I take a deep breath and steel myself to go inside. Piece of cake. Meet the rabbi, grab the get, and go.
As I climb the front stairs, I think about how strange i
t is to be focused again on my divorce after so many years. Jill’s words are still ringing in my ears. My marriage was a failure, a mistake from the beginning. The kind of mistake smart girls aren’t supposed to make. The kind of mistake girls like me counsel the less fortunate girls against. This strange exercise brings that into clear relief for me all over again. And what is worse, it makes me deeply embarrassed. I married a man who was the totally wrong guy. I married a man to whom I was only peripherally attracted, because he was nice to me, and in love with me, and made me laugh, and didn’t cheat on me or make me feel like shit. I married a man who was socially inept and boring in bed because I was so full of my own ego that I thought I could change both those things and make him into the perfect husband. A rookie mistake if ever there was one, and I am mortified. And Jill is right. If there wasn’t ever going to be public opinion about my actions, I’d never remotely put any effort into maintaining even a semblance of a relationship with him.
I climb the front stairs and ring the bell, which makes a tinny noise inside the house. After a few moments, a tiny woman opens the door. She is wearing a faded calico housedress and dirty slippers, and the curly gray wig atop her head is slightly unkempt and in a very old-fashioned style.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I’m here to see Rabbi Silverman.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “The rabbi isn’t in at the moment.”
I look down at my watch: 10:03. “I’m sorry,” I say. “There must be a misunderstanding. I have at ten o’clock appointment with the rabbi. He said I should meet him here.”
“Oh my. He didn’t mention anything to me before he left. May I ask, what is it regarding?”
I close my eyes for a moment. “I’m here to pick up my get,” I say, and a look of deep consternation crosses over her features.
“Oh, I am so sorry, dear. Let me see if I can get him on the cell phone.”
The Spinster Sisters Page 14