Paige listens intently to the tale of my former woe. “Did he ever get with the program?” she asks.
“Nope. I gave up. Started making my own Valentine’s joy. I refuse all datelike invitations and spend the evening with my favorite sister and our aunts, getting drunk on fluffy girl drinks, eating crap food, and watching old movies. And since you are so blue, my little peach crumb, tonight you will come join us for our estrogen festival of love.” I walk over and sit next to her on the couch and put an arm around her shoulder. “Will you come? Bring your jammies, and we’ll make it a sleepover.”
Paige looks up gratefully. “Really? I won’t be an intrusion?”
“Nonsense,” Jill says. “You’ll be a very welcome addition.”
“Don’t you have plans with Hunter?” she asks Jill.
“Nope. I’m sending him to Dave and Buster’s with some of his single guy friends.” Which was Hunter’s idea, insisting that she keep her tradition with us, and took her for a romantic dinner last night to celebrate “on Australian time.” If I didn’t have it on authority from Jill that Hunter leaves whiskers in the sink after shaving, has some sort of annoying morning phlegm issue, and an unnatural obsession with the Phillies, I would suspect he was too perfect to live.
“Thanks, you guys, you’re the best,” Paige says. “Meeting in fifteen?”
“We’ll be there,” Jill says, and the two of us start getting our stuff together.
After the meeting we return to our office to find that Hunter has sent two dozen roses in a shade of deep lavender that I’ve never seen before. I don’t have so much as a card.
And the day doesn’t get much better. Every hour and a half or so, all day long, something arrives for Jill. An iPod nano loaded with a playlist of romantic songs. A huge chocolate chip cookie with I Heart Jill in red buttercream. I get a text message from Ben wishing me a happy day. He’s still pouting that I turned him down for a date tonight. A masseuse shows up at three with orders to give Jill a twenty-minute chair massage and then to work her way through the office, one girl at a time. I get one of Abbot’s famous floral arrangements, which have started to be less romantic than they are an easy choice and an offering devoid of thought or heart. At four thirty, she gets a box with a comfy lounging pajama set and a pair of sassy slippers from Cheeky with a card encouraging her to cuddle up and enjoy our evening. Connor is still profoundly missing in action.
I’m trying so hard not to be resentful. I love that Jill found someone so thoughtful and creative and so crazy about her that it inspires him to keep trying to sweep her off her feet. I’m certainly not jealous of the commitment or the natural sacrifices that Jill has to make in order to be a good partner. But I am wondering what it is in me that doesn’t inspire the same in someone. I am wondering what I lack that none of the men in my life have ever been driven to consistent demonstrations of romantic love. I am wondering what is so broken in me that I either continue to choose men who won’t be romantic or that subconsciously I refuse to let go of the thought that it means that I’m just not good enough.
“Hey,” Jill pulls me out of my self-loathing reverie.
“Yeah?” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you’re disappointed.”
“Oh, honey, it isn’t your fault my boys are letting me down.”
“I know, but I also know that Hunter’s attempts to enter himself into the pantheon of most romantic men ever has done nothing but rub it in your face all day.”
“I’m not that obviously bitter, am I?”
“Not bitter, Sis. Just human. And having bad V-Day luck.”
“Not karma?” I ask.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve done nothing bad to require punishment from the universe . . . unless . . .” she trails off.
“What?”
“Well, maybe in your past life you were involved in the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre!” she says, her face a mask of faux horror.
“Oh, sweet Frito bandito. Can we go home, Helen of Troy, before Hunter wins a war in your honor?”
“Absolutely.”
We gather our stuff, say good night to the girls, tell Paige to come over anytime after seven, and head home. I go up to my apartment to change into my comfy clothes and check my mail and messages. A card from Raj and Tim, handcrafted, of course. An e-card from a college friend. A couple of telemarketing calls, a message letting me know my prescription is ready. Nothing from Connor at all.
I might not have been a Mafia hit man in my past life, but clearly, something about me and Valentine’s Day is not a match made in heaven. I shake off the lump in my throat, mentally scolding myself for such silly girlie foolishness, get into my pajamas, and remind myself how lucky I am to have four amazing and supportive women to spend the evening with.
V-Day Redux
At the same time, ladies, remember to support your girlfriends, especially
your single girlfriends, on Valentine’s Day. It’s a great time to
send a treat or a card, make that phone call you’ve been putting off.
The day hits us all in different ways, but no one is sad to be acknowledged
by someone. Just remember not to call to regale them with how
great your guy did at buying the right present or how bitter you are
about not having someone to be with. Keep the conversation light and
about being happy to know them, and you’ll bring a smile to their day.
—Continued advice given to a caller by Jill Spingold, February 2005
“Okay, Shirley, your turn!” Paige says.
Our viewing of a documentary about a guy who filmed all of his dates on his search for a wife has prompted the sharing of everyone’s worst dates. We’ve heard about the time Jill was fixed up by a friend from the marketing firm she worked with, and at dinner he continually popped pills for his anxiety problems and made lewd gestures with the loaf of bread. I shared the sad tale of my first date after the divorce. A charming advertising executive I’d interviewed for an article for the Trib, who liked the way he came off so much that he asked me to dinner. He took me to Green Dolphin Street. Where we ran into his wife.
Aunt Ruth has declined to participate, saying that she immediately deletes bad dates from her memory.
“Well, let’s see now,” Shirley says, squinching up her nose the way she does when she is thinking hard.
“I think you should tell them about Junior,” Ruth says slyly.
Shirley blushes. “Oh, Ruthie. I don’t think . . .”
“Oooohhhh!” Jill says. “Who’s Junior?”
“Yeah, I never heard about a Junior,” I say.
“Fine,” Aunt Shirley says, shaking her head. “In 1956 . . .”
“Fifty-seven, dear heart,” Ruth interrupts.
“You’re right, it was fifty-seven. At any rate, I had broken off the engagement with Michael, and frankly, none of the boys in the neighborhood were much interested in me.”
“It was widely assumed she might be a lesbian,” Ruth says matter-of-factly.
“Ruthie, please,” Shirley says.
“What? It’s true! Any young woman who broke off an engagement to as good a catch as Michael Rueven Goldfarb was definitely assumed to be of the Sapphic persuasion,” Ruth offers as explanation. “Plus you and that Himmelman girl were attached at the hip, and she did have a certain androgynous quality—”
“Oh, Lord, can we please not have that discussion again!” Shirley is clearly exasperated, and Paige, Jill, and I are holding back laughter.
“I wanna hear about Junior,” I say, faking petulant to get us back on track.
“Me, too,” Jill pipes up.
“Me, three,” says Paige, never one to be left out.
“Fine.” Shirley settles back in her chair a bit. “In 1957, after breaking off my engagement, I wasn’t dating much. At the time I was working the register at Manny’s delicatessen four days a week. One day a young man whom I had seen a few times before com
plimented me on my eyes and asked if he might have the pleasure of my company one evening for dinner. He seemed nice, polite, clean-cut, so I accepted. We made a date for the following Saturday night. He picked me up and took me to the Billy Goat Tavern for burgers, the first time I’d been there, and then asked if I wanted to hear some blues. I agreed, and he took me to a place called Club Zanzibar, which was at Fourteenth and Ashland. We went in, got a table—there weren’t very many white people there—and my date, Marty, fetched us drinks. The music was amazing, but Marty drank more and more and became, shall we say, rather unpleasant. He asked me to dance and then was less than a gentleman with his hands. When I sat back down, he accused me of being a square. When I said I was leaving, he grabbed my arm and pushed me back into the chair. I didn’t notice, but the music had stopped. And suddenly Marty just disappeared into the air. One of the young men who had been onstage had come down into the crowd, grabbed Marty by the scruff of his neck, and simply picked him up and threw him across the dance floor. Marty got up and took a swing at the nearest man, a tall African American gentleman in an exquisite suit, and the man simply reached out and almost gently tapped Marty under the chin. Marty’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell backward onto the table of another couple. Drinks everywhere. Before I knew what was happening, the place erupted in fighting! The man who had grabbed Marty first reached forward and took my hand, very gently, and said, ‘Miss, I think I’d better get you home.’ And he led me through the club and around the corner to a car. I was so flustered I didn’t know what to say or do. He opened the car door, and I just looked at it. ‘It’s okay, miss,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to get you home safe now.’ So I got in the car. He was very sweet and made some jokes, and pretty soon we were laughing and getting along like a house afire. I told him how much I liked his music, and this seemed to make him pleased. As we got close to home, I suddenly got very quiet. Because, you know, as liberal as your grandparents were, I wasn’t so sure they would be happy to have this particular young man escorting me home. And as if he could read my mind, he asked me, ‘Would you like me to leave you at the corner, Miss Shirley, for your folks’ sake?’ This, of course, made me very embarrassed, so I worked up my courage and said that no, in fact he could leave me at the door. When we got to the house, he stopped the car, walked around to let me out, and escorted me to the gate. He kissed my hand, and thanked me for coming to hear him play, and said he hoped he might see me in the audience again one night, and then he left.”
We’re all hushed. Paige breaks the silence. “Did you ever see him again?”
“No, I never did,” Shirley says almost wistfully.
“But I did,” Ruth says.
Three heads whip around. “You saw him when?” I ask.
“A few months later I took a small group to a club to hear some blues, and after the show we got into conversation with the band. One of the musicians talked about how different the shows were when whites came to listen, and teased one of the others about his ‘white damsel in distress.’ And then proceeded to tell a tale of a bar fight that began when some drunk white man put his hands on his date and this musician boy jumped off the stage to her rescue! So I looked at him and said, ‘You’re Junior.’ And he said he was, and I said that I was Shirley’s sister and very grateful to him for his assistance and kindness toward her. And then I came home and smacked Shirley in the head for not paying attention to who exactly had come to her aid,” Ruth says. “I mean, it isn’t every day Junior Wells saves your bacon!”
“Junior Wells!” I yelp.
“Aunt Shirley, why have you never told us this story? That is classic!” Jill says.
“Okay, I’m an idiot,” Paige says. “Who is Junior Wells?”
“A legendary bluesman, dear,” Ruth says. “He played with Muddy Waters.”
“Wow. That’s amazing!” Paige says, realizing the connection.
“He was just a very nice young man who helped me out of a pickle,” Shirley says.
“No vision, my sister,” Ruth teases. “You could have been Mrs. Junior Wells had you played your cards right.”
“Maybe,” Shirley admits. “But then how lonely you would have been all these years,” she finishes with a wicked smile.
“I’d have survived,” Ruth says, pouring another round of wine. “Now, Paige, dear, that just leaves you to share a tale of woe.”
Paige takes a sip of her wine and thinks a moment. “Okay, how about this one. I meet this guy at the gym. Nice, cute, seems normal. One day we’re walking out at the same time, and he asks if I want to run over to Jamba Juice with him to recharge the batteries. I figure, sure, no problem. We have a nice half hour over juice, and he asks me to dinner. I say sure. He takes my number. When he calls me to make plans, I tell him that I had received a gift certificate to Charlie Trotter’s from a raffle at a benefit, and ask if he wants to go there. At which point he launches into a ten-minute tirade about how much he hates stacked food!”
“Stacked food?” Jill asks.
“You know,” Paige says. “Vertical presentations at schmancy restaurants.”
“Like the base of rice with a layer of spinach with the lamb loin fanned on top with a chive sticking out sort of thing?” Shirley asks.
“Exactly. Stacked food. It’s pretentious, he says. He hates having to deconstruct his dinner, he says. Why should putting all the food in one teetering pile warrant charging double for it? Food doesn’t need to be in fanciful shapes, it should just be shaped like food, he says.”
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I said I’d see him at the gym some time, since I couldn’t imagine a world without stacked food, and clearly we weren’t destined to eat together,” Paige says. “And then I took my brother to Trotter’s and had a spectacular meal! Stacked all over the place!”
“Really, where do these men get their strangeness?” Shirley mutters.
“Parents, mostly,” Ruth says with an authority that belies her own lack of experience in this arena.
“Well, I’m grateful I’m not still out there,” Jill says. “No more nightmare dates for me!”
“It isn’t nice to gloat, darling,” I say.
“Says the woman with three attractive men on her dance card!” Paige elbows me in the ribs.
“Want one?” I ask. “I’ll make you a nice deal!”
“Tut, tut,” Ruth clucks at us. “If Shirley and I have learned one thing, it is that there is no one way to be in the world. And no one’s life is any better than anyone else’s, just different, and with their own unique joys and challenges. Time for our Valentine’s resolutions.”
Another Spingold tradition, we do resolutions for each other.
“Me first!” Shirley says. “I resolve that Paige should do at least one thing every week that she couldn’t do if she were in a relationship. I resolve that Ruth should remember not to leave half-filled teacups all over the house. I resolve that Jill should have the wedding she didn’t even know she was wishing for. I resolve that Jodi should sit down for one hour and really ponder the idea of monogamy.” She looks very pleased with herself.
Ruth nods thoughtfully. “I resolve that Shirley should get over the damn teacups. I resolve that Jodi should continue to seek her happiness in the way that fits best for her. I resolve that Jill should not ever apologize to her new in-laws for who she is or where she came from, but should bring their family the same joy she brings to ours. I resolve that Paige should not be afraid to throw herself into the dating pool with abandon and be open to men outside her normal comfort zone.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” Paige says. “I resolve that Jill have a wonderful marriage. I resolve that Jodi should dump Ben and Abbot and settle down with Connor. I resolve that Aunt Shirley start going to blues clubs again. I resolve that Aunt Ruth show me some of the Chicago I haven’t seen yet. How’s that?”
“Excellent, dear.” Shirley pats her hand.
“My turn,” I say. “I resolve that Aunt Shirley sho
uld bake a batch of poppyseed cookies before the week is out. I resolve that Aunt Ruth should take a one-week sabbatical from sniping at her sister. I resolve that Jill should not make me wear periwinkle as her maid of honor. I resolve that Paige should take us up on our tuition reimbursement plan and get that damn MBA she doesn’t know we know she’s been researching.” Paige’s eyebrows shoot straight up in the air.
“I ditto Jodi’s Paige resolution,” Jill begins. “Just apply already! We’ll figure out the logistics later. I resolve that Aunt Shirley should start doing more things for her own enjoyment and not make such a huge percentage of her life about doing for others. I resolve that Aunt Ruth should be in charge of telling us what we should do for all the ancillary events the weekend of the wedding. I resolve that Jodi should not worry about how things look to the world and just do what is in her heart in all things.”
We toast, clean up, hug and kiss all around. We head upstairs, and once I get Paige settled in my guest room, I head for bed.
Jill resolves for me not to worry about how things look. I can’t tell if she means about the business or my personal life. Or both. And while I love the sound of it, I know I can’t necessarily live up to it. After all, what my heart wants right now is to call Connor and ask him to be my valentine. But I know that what I want more than that is for him to want it. And the fact that he obviously doesn’t bothers me more than I like to admit. Because, despite Hunter’s assertion that I probably only want him because he’s the one I can’t get, nevertheless, I do want him.
The Spinster Sisters Page 20