Husbands and Other Sharp Objects

by Marilyn Simon Rothstein

  Moxie shook her head. “There’s a bottle of someone else’s breast milk in the fridge.”

  “Someone else’s milk?” Dana said. I was curious too.

  “I purchase milk from another mother.”

  “What?” Dana said.

  “How do you know it’s good?” I asked.

  “She went to MIT,” Moxie replied. “I pay extra for that.”

  “So, if the baby cries, give him the milk?” Dana said.

  “Oh, no, I feed on schedule,” Moxie said, removing her phone from her jeans. “See, here’s my breastfeeding app.”

  I had never heard of such a thing. She had an app that told her when to feed her baby? I was lost in the Stone Age. I hated not knowing about that app. What else didn’t I know about? Maybe someone had invented an app that would exercise for me.

  “But what if he’s crying before the app goes off?” Dana asked.

  “We feed only on schedule.”

  Jeremy handed Moxie a coat. He was clearly in a hurry to leave.

  “But what if he keeps crying?” Dana asked, not understanding.

  “We don’t want to spoil him.”

  “But he’s just a few months old,” Dana said.

  Jeremy pulled Moxie’s hand. “Okay, let’s hit the road.”

  When they were gone, Dana rolled her eyes halfway to Europe.

  “Now do you get it? I don’t know if it’s her or her whole generation. Rules, rules, rules. Moxie should have seen me—drinking and smoking—while pregnant with Jeremy. She never would have married him.”

  “I didn’t drink, and I didn’t smoke,” I said.

  “Another person who thinks I’m a lousy mother.”

  “No one thinks you’re a lousy mother. Jeremy is great. The twins are in college.”

  “And take a look at your crew. Elisabeth is a doctor. Amanda, the retail genius, is getting married. Ben is in law school.”

  “We did a good job,” I said. “But when did everyone grow up?”

  Dana knocked my shoulder. “Let’s watch a movie. I have diet popcorn.”

  “You mean cardboard popcorn.”

  “I am not going to be a fat grandma. Ugh. That word.”

  “‘Fat’?”

  “‘Grandma.’ What about The Big Chill?”

  That movie was one of my favorites. It’s about a reunion of college friends. I had seen The Big Chill more times than I’d seen my own face.

  “Great,” I said.

  Dana ordered the film.

  The movie title rolled. Wolfgang cried. Dana didn’t budge except to put popcorn in her mouth.

  I picked up the baby. He cried louder.

  Dana said, “I can’t hear the movie.”

  I thought she was going to come over and comfort the baby, but all she did was reach for the remote to turn up the sound. This from the woman who had wanted to babysit, complaining about how infrequently she’d seen Wolfgang.

  “We’ve seen this movie so many times we could recite it. Go get a bottle,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s just gas,” Dana said. “There’s a lot of gas in my family. My father once got thrown out of a bar for farting.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said.

  “No, it’s true. He pointed to my mother and said, ‘It was her.’”

  “Get a bottle,” I repeated, shaking my head in disdain.

  Finally, she left to get the bottle. When she returned, she handed it to me, and I held it to Wolfgang’s mouth. He wouldn’t take it.

  “Why didn’t he screech when his mother was here?” Dana said.

  “Because then his mother was here.”

  I rocked Wolfgang and passed him to Dana.

  She touched his bottom, and then held her hand out. “I think he’s wet.”

  “So change his diaper.”

  “That’s why I invited you,” she said.

  I put a long towel on a counter to put the baby on. I opened the diaper, and the baby squirted me—bingo—in the face.

  Dana started laughing. “That’s my grandson.”

  I held the infant’s legs with one hand and wiped my cheek. “That’s right. This is your grandchild. You change the diaper.”

  Standing by as Dana struggled with the diaper, I noticed that the baby had a scarlet rash on his bottom. “There’s the culprit,” I said. “Look at that rash. It’s on fire.”

  “I have some Vaseline,” she said.

  “Ointment would be better. Look in the diaper bag.”

  After I basted Wolfgang’s cute little butt, Dana placed him back in the crib. I picked up a stuffed koala and a rubber giraffe, stationing both near his chest. He quickly tired of shrieking and fell asleep. Dana and I nodded at each other, proud of our job well done, and returned to the movie, both of us sitting on the couch.

  “I have been thinking about something,” I said.

  “Can you think about it after the movie?”

  “Do you think I am doing the right thing waiting for Harvey to file for divorce?”

  She turned toward me. “Is he still paying the bills?”

  “Generously,” I said.

  “So, why bother?”

  “Why bother? Why did you file for divorce?”

  “I divorced my first husband because I was bored by him.”

  “And the second one?”

  “He was bored by me.”

  “No one can be bored by you,” I said.

  “That’s true.” She tossed a kernel at me.

  “But I’m seeing Jon,” I said.

  “Does he care that you aren’t divorced yet?”

  “He’s never said anything.”

  She shifted her eyes to the ceiling, shaking her head. “Then let sleeping dogs lie. And you have to admit, Harvey is a dog.”

  “What about the house?” I said.

  “Marcy, I told you to stay where you are for now. But if you want me to tell you to pack up, I will.”

  “No. I want an honest opinion.” As though there were anything else I would get from Dana. “How did this happen? Me. Separated from Harvey, restarting my life as Amanda is about to get married, and you, a grandmother? When my mother was our age, Harvey insisted she needed long-term care insurance.”

  “That whole generation was old.”

  “And what about us?”

  “We’re young, but our kids think we’re old.”

  “And what about our kids?”

  “An entire generation of self-involved brats who think they’re entitled to everything, because we convinced them they were.”

  I laughed. We both forgot about the movie.

  “By the way,” Dana said, “I am trying to stop smoking.”

  “That’s great, Dana.”

  “This is my first day,” she said.

  “Why today?”

  “Because Wolfgang was coming, and I know Moxie doesn’t want me to smoke when he is in my house. I’m dying for a cigarette. I puffed on a pencil this morning. But I know they hate my smoking.”

  “They are right about that. But in general, you know what I would do in your situation? I’d smile.”

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “If the baby fusses and screams and won’t take a nap, don’t complain. If your new silk, full-retail blouse is stained by regurgitated breast milk—bought from a Phi Beta Kappa—tell Moxie what a joy it is to babysit. Dana, you’re in advertising. Spin the story.”

  “I brought up three kids. But it’s different being a grandmother. You just can’t afford, can’t tolerate, one thing going wrong.”

  “How was he?” Moxie asked as soon as she came through the door. Jeremy had his hands in his pockets, waiting to hear.

  “Sleeping,” we said from the couch in unison.

  Moxie went to the crib.

  “There are stuffed animals in here!” Moxie said, turning to Jeremy. “The crib has to be empty. If the giraffe wound up anywhere near his mouth, he could suffocate. And that bear. I don’t believe it.”

  A
ll right. So the girl is nuts.

  “Mom?” Jeremy said, condemning Dana.

  “Don’t say a word to them, Marcy. It’s a waste of time,” Dana said as she left the room. I threw up my hands. Had she not heard a single line of my pep talk? Smile. Don’t complain. Tell them what a joy it is.

  Moxie lifted the baby out of the crib. Immediately, he cried. She stuffed him in a hoodie and hurried out of Dana’s house. Jeremy picked up the diaper bag.

  Before he left, he turned to me. “Tell Mom I said good-bye.”

  “Jeremy,” I said from the couch.

  “Yes?”

  “Your mother and I raised six amazing human beings.”

  “I know, but Moxie is not like other mothers. She worries.”

  Chapter 10

  Most Sunday mornings, Jon and I strolled through the endless farmers’ market on the picturesque town green in Atherton. Facing the green, there was a white colonial-style church with a red door and a steeple. There were elegant, stalwart homes, the kind that the leaf peepers marveled at in autumn while wondering who was fortunate enough to live in Atherton. A few homes had historic plaques, but my favorite was the white house with gables that was shaped like a birthday cake. Before we were together, Jon had painted a picture of it, and he had the painting in his apartment. I hoped he would give it to me to hang in the yellow house, but I didn’t tell him that.

  In addition to local farmers, the outdoor market hosted crafters, and we knew quite a few of them from the Guild. There were also many young families, none of whom we knew; lots of toddlers waiting to have their faces painted; teenagers in jeans hanging in groups; and a middle-aged woman here or there interested in quilts. Some local organizations had information booths; others sold homemade cookies, coffee, and hot cocoa. The volunteer firemen gave kiddie rides in a fire truck.

  Jon and I had a thing—we always wore jeans and plaid flannel shirts and Frye boots to the market. On cool days, we layered. If the weather demanded coats, we threw on old denim jackets. Always, I pushed my hair into a ponytail with two barrettes on the sides. Jon wore a straw hat and chewed on a piece of hay he found at the market. Let’s just say we went into it 100 percent.

  We selected ugly vegetables, because we didn’t want all the ugly vegetables to feel bad. I thought this was original of us until Jon pointed out that he had ordered ugly vegetables for years. Jon was holding an eggplant that looked like it had dysentery. He was about to put it in my basket, which contained crooked carrots and other sad misfits.

  “That one might be overdoing it,” I said.

  “You’re hurting his feelings,” Jon said, holding it up and looking it over. “On the other hand, maybe you’re right.” He put the eggplant back into the farmer’s bin. “I’ll go and get something for us to drink,” he said, and then he headed toward the booth selling cider.

  As I stood alone, my phone rang.

  “We need to talk,” Harvey said in a voice way too bossy, condescending, and annoying. His command made me want to hang up, but I figured he was calling about the wedding. I was hoping he wanted us to get on the same page. This would be best for Amanda, and also beneficial to me, because if Harvey was laying down the same law, it would be tougher for Amanda to blame me for everything she thought was a major injustice, the last outrage being that I had—oh no—asked for pictures of each table to ensure that there were photographs of everyone who attended.

  “No one takes table pictures anymore,” she had retorted.

  “I was at a wedding last year, and they took table pictures,” I had said. “In fact, I purposefully stood next to an overweight woman so that I would appear thinner.”

  “Did it work?”

  “My shoulders looked narrow.”

  “Mom, there will be no table pictures. I will give the photographer headshots of the people who must be in pictures, and he will refer to those while shooting.”

  I had imagined the photographer looking down at his cheat sheet, searching for the people Amanda wanted pictures of.

  “Okay,” I said to Harvey. “I can be at Starbucks after work. About six?”

  “How about the house?”

  I was uncomfortable about meeting at the house, wary that Harvey would become too cozy. Apparently, he heard my thoughts in my silence.

  “Marcy, don’t be ridiculous. I just want to talk in private.”

  I could do this for Amanda. It wasn’t easy for her to go through a wedding with separated parents. Or to go through anything with separated parents. I tried to think of one thing that had not been bad about this for my children. Could it be that it had drawn them closer to each other? I only wished.

  “Fine. The house on Wednesday at seven is fine. But don’t ask me for a cup of coffee. I will never make you a cup of coffee again. In fact, not making you a cup of coffee is my best life goal.”

  “I got it,” he said. “What about tea?”

  I laughed to myself. Then I said, “That’s not funny, Harvey.”

  I was bothered by what had happened at Dana’s, how Moxie had thought we had been delinquent about watching Wolfgang, so I called her to apologize. Moxie thanked me, and I could have left it at that, but instead I decided to put in a good word for my friend.

  “Don’t be hard on Dana,” I said. “She took excellent care of the baby. I’m the one who put the animals in the crib.”

  “That’s the least of it. You were watching an R-rated movie.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re over seventeen.”

  “We don’t watch R-rated movies in front of the baby. The Big Chill has suicide, pot, and sex. Doesn’t that single friend sleep with Kevin Kline?”

  Moxie was nuts. What was worse, she had no sense of humor. So in the great daughter-in-law raffle, Dana had gotten the booby prize. Worse yet, there was no way she could ever get along with Moxie. Jeremy had married his antimother.

  “You know Dana and I have never gotten along,” Moxie said. “She poked fun at me, because I wanted the cocktail hour at the wedding to be forty-five minutes. She said I was classless, because she insisted on top-shelf liquor, and all I wanted was beer and some wine.”

  I couldn’t imagine that Dana had said this directly to Moxie. “She said that to you?”

  “No, she said it to Jeremy. He told me.”

  Thanks, Jeremy.

  “When she visits, she always brings some huge, useless thing we don’t need and don’t have room for. One time, she gave us a painting some friend of hers had made. She acted like it was from the Museum of Modern Art. It was dreadful, an old fishing pier in Maine.”

  I knew the painting. It was by Jon. Dana had bought it from him at one of his shows. She said it was a gift for Jeremy. Now this was getting personal.

  I had had enough of being Henry Kissinger and Madeleine Albright rolled into one. I was going to keep my mind on my work. The following day, a Monday, the best day to start a new habit, I was at my desk, filling out a grant application for the Guild. Around noon, Cheyenne announced she was going to McDonald’s. She asked me if I wanted anything. I told her a small order of gout and clogged arteries. She returned with a Big Mac. When she came into my office to deliver it, she asked if I wanted to see what she had done so far on Facebook. I told her I would after lunch.

  I ate my Big Mac alone in my office. Afterward, Cheyenne and I went into a room with a conference table. I sat next to her, looking at her laptop. She had done a lot in a short time, and I was happy.

  “Do you want to have fun?” she said.

  “Fun is my middle name,” I said sarcastically. “Marcy Fun Hammer.”

  “Let’s look up one of your old boyfriends.”

  I wasn’t particularly interested in this. I shook my head.

  “Oh, come on. People do it all the time.”

  “I don’t need to look up an old boyfriend. I have a new boyfriend,” I said with a thousand-watt smile on my face.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. And he’s really great.”

 
“That’s good! I want to hear all about him, but let’s look up the old guy anyway.”

  Cheyenne pulled the laptop closer. If only I had been like her, so direct, always going and doing just what I had in mind. I told her how I admired this.

  “I’m a millennial,” she said.

  “Are you saying your entire generation is like this?” I asked.

  “Not the losers.” She took off her lime-green sweater, a sweater that matched the lime-green streak she had put in her jet-black hair. “Okay, just tell me the name of your college boyfriend.”

  “He dumped me,” I said, as though it had happened yesterday.

  “So when was that? During the French Revolution?”

  “The Crusades,” I said.

  “Was he your first?” Cheyenne said, her eyes almost twinkling.

  Taken by the moment, I did something dumber than a dinosaur’s brain. I answered yes.

  “How old were you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “You didn’t have sex until you were eighteen?”

  Had I lost my virginity too late in life? There was nothing I could do about it now. Except change the subject. But first, I had to defend myself by giving Cheyenne a history lesson. “Girls waited to have sex back then.”

  “No, that was the time of the sexual revolution.”

  “Not in Queens,” I said.

  She glanced up at me. “Let’s find him.”

  “Oh, okay. Michael Goldfarb,” I said. “Michael A. Goldfarb, if I remember correctly.”

  For a moment, I felt younger than the youngest millennial. “So, what if he answers? What will you write?”

  “‘Remember when we banged in college?’”

  “That’s a joke,” I said.

  “True, but let’s look him up.”

  She typed, and then there he was—salt-and-pepper hair, silver glasses. I had long ago forgotten about the distracting brown mole on the side of his nose. I couldn’t believe that by now there wasn’t a way to remove that thing.

  Facebook informed me that Michael had become a world-renowned photographer who specialized in animals of Africa. We watched his video of an elephant giving birth—first the sac, then the whole baby plummeting out all at once in a flood of amniotic fluid. Nice elephant, but where was Michael’s wife? No wife? What about kids? So, what, if I had married him, I would be childless? And where would I have been while he was in Africa with the wildlife and his wild life?