The Spinster Sisters

by Ballis, Stacey

  I can hear her mumbling into the phone in the other room. She seems somewhat put out. Soon the mumbling stops, and she returns to the foyer.

  “He’s on his way back, dear. It will take probably fifteen minutes or so. Won’t you please come sit down?” She leads me into the dining room and offers me a chair. “You’re welcome to read the paper if you like,” she says, gesturing at the New York Times, which is strewn about the dining room table. “Can I get you something, a cup of coffee, perhaps some tea?” she asks.

  “No, thank you,” I reply, thinking I’d really like a cold martini. “I’m fine. Please don’t go to any trouble.”

  “Well, then, I’m sure the rabbi will be back shortly.” She leaves me alone in the room as if somehow uncomfortable to be in my presence. I suppose that makes sense. My being a living representation of a failed marriage, a Jewish wife who couldn’t cut it. Wouldn’t want it to rub off.

  I sit at the dining room table, reading sections of the New York Times and waiting for the rabbi to arrive. I’m trying to control the anger that is building in me. The waste of my time. How rude it is for him to not have even remembered that we have an appointment. After nearly twenty-five minutes, finally, the door opens. I rise and turn to meet a slightly stooped man, probably in his late sixties to early seventies.

  “Rabbi Silverman?” I ask, and he extends his hand.

  “Yes, Jodi dear, I am so sorry. I must have forgotten to call you.”

  “Forgot to call me about what?

  “To cancel, of course. I was unable to get two other rabbis to join us for our meeting this morning.”

  “I’m not sure I understand. I thought I was just here to pick up my get.”

  “You are,” he says, “but there have to be two other rabbis here to witness it.”

  “I was under the impression from our phone call that the get was completed, and I simply needed to come and pick it up.” I feel ambushed, though probably not as ambushed as I would have felt if there had been a roomful of rabbis here when I arrived.

  “Well, not quite, dear. After all, there needs to be some discussion, there are some prayers . . .” He trails off.

  “But you said on the phone that Brant didn’t need to be here, that everything was taken care of.”

  “That’s true, Brant already has his get.”

  I think about this for moment. Brant already has his get. I turn back to the rabbi. “If Brant already has his get, does what we do here somehow validate it or make it legal?”

  “No, of course not,” the rabbi says. “Brant’s get is complete and final and cannot be altered. What we do here is for you.”

  Thank goodness. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Well then, Rabbi, it doesn’t matter; we don’t need to reschedule. I don’t need a get.”

  He looks puzzled. “I don’t think I understand you, Miss Spingold.”

  “I don’t need a get,” I explain. “Brant wanted the get, and you’ve just told me that Brant has his get; he’s finished. Therefore you and I don’t need to worry about anything.”

  “But you don’t have a get,” the rabbi says.

  “But I don’t need one,” I say.

  “I’m confused. Have you remarried?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what if you want to get married again someday?”

  “I may.”

  “Well, then you need a get.”

  I hate the assumption. “No,” I reply, trying to stay calm, “I don’t.”

  “What kind of man would have you without a get?”

  Something in my head snaps. “Well, for starters,” I say with a coy smile, “a Gentile man.”

  He blanches. “Are you engaged to be married to a Gentile man?”

  “No,” I reply. He looks relieved.

  “Well, what if you wanted to marry a Jewish man?”

  “I may very well.”

  “Well, what if he requires it of you?”

  “I can guarantee you that I would never marry a man who would require this of me.”

  “It’s an important step that you should take.”

  “That is your opinion, Rabbi, one you and I do not share. My Judaism is different from yours. I thank you for your time and your effort.”

  I turn to leave.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he says.

  “I made a mistake. The civil courts have undone that mistake.”

  “You cannot be whole and free without your get.”

  “I have been whole and free for my entire life. I don’t need you, a team of rabbis, or some religious document to tell me that. Good day, sir.”

  I open the door and step outside into the crisp air. Feeling lighter than I have felt in a long time, that strange giddiness that comes with being slightly disrespectful to an authority figure, I hear the screen door creak open behind me.

  “I’ll keep the paperwork on file,” he calls after me. “You come back any time to complete this process.”

  I turn back over my shoulder. “Don’t waste the file space.”

  I get into my car and head back toward the city.

  Now, what the hell am I going to wear tonight?

  Six Geese A-Laying

  Meeting the family is a big step in a new relationship. Don’t try too hard to be either accommodating or entertaining. Sit back and observe a little. Watch the interactions. There is much to learn about your partner from the way they behave with their family members. Don’t try too hard to make an ally of any particular family member. Allow them to get to know you organically, ask questions to get them talking about themselves, and be politic about what you share about yourself. And most important, don’t let your nerves lead you to drink too much or talk too much; you really never do have a second chance to make that first impression, and drunk-girl-talking-about-sex is not the impression you want them to remember.

  —Quoted in an article in Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine, Jill Spingold, February 2004

  I’m helping Connor organize the buffet in his dining room in preparation for the Christmas Eve festivities. We are laying out plates, flatware, and napkins, as well as serving platters. His family will be bringing all the food. We already set up the bar, made the family recipe eggnog, and decorated with pine boughs and twinkle lights. Bowls of Aunt Shirley’s praline pecans are on every occasional table, and my own contribution, a layered café au lait and chocolate cheesecake, is in the fridge.

  “Okay,” I say to Connor as I roll green napkins into cylinders and slide them into holly napkin rings, “tell me if I have them all straight.”

  “Will do.”

  “Michael is the oldest, and his wife is Peg, and they have three boys,” I start.

  “Right,” says Connor.

  “Then you, with your delightfully charming companion, me.”

  “Indeed.” He smirks.

  “Then Patrick, and his second wife, Ashley, who nobody likes. And he has one girl and one boy from his first wife, Patti, who everyone loves.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Then Darren, with his girlfriend Jeanette, and she’s pregnant, and your folks are freaking out that they have no plans to get married.” I’m totally on a roll.

  “Nope.”

  Shit. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me . . . Liam and his fiancée Ana Maria, and then Darren.”

  “Right.”

  “And then Jack is the oops baby, ten years younger than Darren, and his girlfriend of the week is Andrea.”

  “You know it better than any of us!” Connor laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s a fun evening. Mom and Dad take all the grandkids for a sleepover at their house, so we can all have a nice adult evening. Every year we take turns hosting. Which is the easy part, since all you have to do is provide the location and beverages; everyone else brings the food and cleans up before they go.” Connor comes over and slips his arms around my waist. “I’m glad you’re here.” He kisses me softly.

  “I’m glad you invited me.”

  He kisses me again. The doorb
ell rings.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “Absolutely.”

  He kisses me one more time and then goes to answer the door.

  We are all sitting in Connor’s living room having coffee and more eggnog, stuffed to the gills. Minus Jack and his girlfriend Andrea, who left right after dinner, claiming another obligation.

  Peg, a porcelain strawberry blonde with delicate freckles, points at Jeanette’s gently rounded belly. “You’d better hope that one’s a girl, because these Duncan men are exhausting. Little Sean pitched a fit in the middle of the cereal aisle the other day. I thought I was going to get arrested for child abuse. Just shrieking and wailing because I wouldn’t get him some sugary mess, and everyone looking at me like I’m the worst mother in the world.”

  “Kids are guaranteed to embarrass you at every opportunity,” Patrick says. “Remember our wedding?” Everyone giggles again. Patrick turns to me to explain. “When Ashley and I got married, my kids were five and three. Joe was the ring bearer and Bridget was the flower girl. They were walking in together.”

  “Looked like little angels,” Ashley says.

  “Until they got halfway down the aisle,” Liam jumps in.

  “Then Joe grabs Bridget’s little basket of rose petals and starts hitting her with it!” Peg says.

  “Bridget hunkers down in the middle of the aisle like a miniature sumo wrestler and begins to shriek at the top of her lungs,” Patrick continues.

  “Peg bolts down the aisle, throws a kid over each shoulder, and scoots out the side door,” Michael pipes in.

  “So we get everything back on track, we all do the processional, and then, in the middle of the vows, Joe gets away from Peg, runs back out into the ceremony, and starts yelling at the justice of the peace, ‘That’s not my mommy!’ It was one hell of a fiasco,” Patrick finishes.

  “The wedding every girl dreams of,” Ashley says.

  “Wow. You all have just completely reinforced my decision to not have children,” I say.

  “Oh, honey, kids are great. Just because you and your first husband didn’t have them, it isn’t too late,” Peg says. “You’re plenty young.”

  “And Lord knows the Duncans are a fertile bunch of boys!” Jeanette offers.

  “I appreciate the encouragement, but I think I’m going to leave the child rearing up to the rest of you.” What is it about December? Suddenly everyone thinks I should be a mom.

  “Leave her alone, guys. Not everyone feels the need to populate the city.” Connor comes to my rescue. His own admittance to a lack of the parenting gene was one of our earliest bonding moments.

  “Well, considering some of the behavior of our bunch of monsters, I can certainly see why you would opt out!” Darren says. “What do you think, honey, should we put this one up for adoption when it arrives?” He rubs Jeanette’s bump affectionately.

  “This bastard spawn of sin that you’ve saddled me with? Absolutely,” Jeanette says, laughing.

  “We’re getting her a scarlet letter for Christmas,” Liam says.

  “I still don’t know why you guys don’t just get married. Save yourselves the hassle,” Darren says.

  “I’ve been married twice, thank you,” says Jeanette. “I think the Goldie/Kurt model is the way to go.”

  “Twice?” I ask. “But you’re so young!”

  “I know! First time to my high school boyfriend. We eloped just after my eighteenth birthday, annulled after three months. And the second time to my college sweetheart, which lasted two years,” Jeanette says. “I’m done with the marrying. We’re going to live in sin forever.”

  “Works for me,” Darren says. “I know where home is. I don’t need a ceremony to tell me anything.”

  Connor offers around more coffee, and I retreat to the kitchen with Peg, Ana Maria, and Jeanette to begin cleaning up a bit.

  “You’re a brave girl, to suffer through tonight,” Peg says, beginning to rinse plates and load Connor’s dishwasher. “But I’m glad you did.”

  “Connor never brings anyone to the Christmas Eve parties,” Jeanette says.

  “Well, I’m glad he invited me. It’s so wonderful to watch how a big family interacts. My family is so small. I like the noise of it all with you guys!” I say.

  Interesting. Connor doesn’t usually bring a date to these. I’m surprised by how much this pleases me. I’m still reasonably certain I’m not looking for Mr. Right. And yet, something about the knowledge that he has brought me into the fold makes me all warm and gooey. And there is nothing like watching a bunch of committed couples being happy to make one reconsider whether independence is the best choice.

  “Well, I’m just glad I’m finally not the only one in the room who isn’t Irish!” Ana Maria says.

  We all laugh and continue cleaning up with the hum of the five Duncan brothers wafting in from the living room.

  It’s just after three when Connor and I finally collapse into his bed.

  “Thanks for all your help tonight,” he says, pulling me tight against him. “Everyone loved you.”

  “They’re all amazing,” I say, snuggling against his chest. “And exhausting! Is it always that draining to spend time with your family?”

  “Pretty much. Anytime you have that many personalities in a room, it’s bound to be weary-making.”

  “So what will you all do tomorrow?”

  “Well, after a quiet breakfast with you,” he kisses the top of my head, “I’ll head over to Mom and Dad’s. Everyone in the immediate family will be there by noon. We’ll open presents, play with the kids, and me and my brothers will begin assembling the crap that comes unassembled while Mom plays general in the kitchen with all the girls. By two, all the aunts and uncles and cousins will arrive, and at four, we’ll sit down to dinner. Which means by four forty-five we’ll all be stuffed to the gills, half in the bag, and the kids will be cranky from too much sugar. Someone will break someone else’s new toy, and one by one the families will peel off toward home.”

  “Another full day.”

  “Well, it isn’t movies and Chinese food, but it is traditional.” He chuckles.

  “I think it sounds nice. Family on that scale is something I don’t understand, but it always seems sort of magical.”

  “The grass is always greener. I think the idea of being able to fit your entire family into your car is pretty cool.” Connor yawns deeply.

  “How about we call it a night?” I’m bone tired, slightly buzzed, stuffed to the gills, and awfully contented.

  “Excellent idea. Good night, sweet girl.”

  This chills me. One of my favorite all-time movies is a darling little film by Ted Demme called Beautiful Girls. Great cast, smart writing. Uma Thurman at one point is telling Matt Dillon the way to her heart. “All I need to hear before I go to sleep is four little words. ‘Good night, sweet girl.’ That’s all it takes.” And I remember thinking the first time I saw that movie, She’s so right. That is all you really need in life. If you can find the person to express that ideal, you’re pretty much set.

  “Good night, sweet boy,” I whisper back to him. Good night, sweet boy.

  Don’t Let the Door Hit the Old Year in the Ass

  There are certain dates to which we have given an inordinate amount of power. New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, birthdays, and anniversaries are all potential traps for relationships old and new. And unless you have had a discussion about your expectations, you cannot fault your partner if he doesn’t live up to them. No one can read your mind. If you place a great deal of weight on that midnight kiss or heart-shaped box of chocolates, you need to make that known to your partner. You can’t blame him for not intuiting that you wanted more; it obviously wasn’t something that was forefront on his mind the way it was for you. But since you didn’t tell him, then you are the creator of your own disappointment, and frankly, I think you owe him an apology.

  —Advice given to a caller by Jill Spingold, July 2006

  The phone rings at
six.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, you.” It’s Connor.

  “Hi! How are you?” It’s about flipping time. I haven’t heard word one from him since I left his place Christmas morning. Four days ago. Not a call, not an e-mail, not a text message. He was so sweet, made me a hearty breakfast, and then sent me on my way with a kiss and a smile, but then, nothing. “Just getting settled in for the evening.”

  “Sounds nice. Don’t go out; it’s disgusting out there.”

  I can see out the window that it is snowing sideways, a particularly Chicago thing for it to do. “Certainly looks that way. What are you up to?” I ask him.

  “Just getting ready to leave work. Me and the guys are heading over to watch the game at Bill’s.”

  “So we both have excellent indoor evenings planned.”

  “Indeed we do. Anyway, I wanted to check in and talk about New Year’s.” Finally! I couldn’t believe he hadn’t asked already. I’m getting ready to forgive him for neglecting me.

  “Well, Jill and I always do a small dinner party for New Year’s. Would you like to come?”

  There is a silence. “Oh,” he says. “Well, the thing is, I, well . . .”

  “You don’t want to come.”

  “It isn’t that, it’s just, I told Michael and Peg I’d watch the boys so that they could go to a party. I’m not really much for the whole New Year’s Eve thing anyway, and since you hadn’t said anything yet, I sort of figured maybe you weren’t a New Year’s Eve girl either, and maybe you’d want to come hang out with me and help babysit.”

  Babysit? Help babysit on New Year’s Eve? Oy.

  “Oh, Connor, I’m sorry. I should have told you about the party. I didn’t mention New Year’s because some people place a lot of weight on it, and you and I just started seeing each other. I didn’t want you to feel pressured.”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly check with you first either.”

  “Aren’t we a perfect pair?” My heart sinks.

  “Well, it’s just New Year’s. You’ll have fun with your party, and I’ll have fun with the nephews. I’ve got a thing on New Year’s Day, but how about dinner on the second?”