Just Friends

by Robyn Sisman

  “Of course.” She eyed him defiantly, arms clasped tight beneath rounded breasts. Somehow he had never imagined Cat looking like this.

  “Well, listen, Ca—that is, Ms. da Fillipo. I am not, as it happens, intending to sue Freya—not that it’s any business of yours. Moreover, I would like to remind you that I am not on trial here, and I consider it highly unprofessional of you to allow personal feelings to interfere with a case of law.”

  “Oh, do you?” Her chin lifted; her eyebrows soared: it was one of the most expressive faces he had ever seen. “I’m sorry, but I can’t suppress my feelings the way you men can. I’m glad to hear that you’ve backed down over the lawsuit. That’s something, at least.”

  “I haven’t ‘backed down.’ I never even—”

  “And I cannot agree that personal emotions are irrelevant to a case of law. That’s the difference between men and women: for me, divorce is about people; for you, it’s all about money.”

  Suddenly Michael was almost angry enough to slap her. “How dare you presume to tell me what I feel? As a matter of fact, I think divorce is a tragic, cruel, painful business. Yes, I make money from it—and so do you. I’m proud to do my job well. I’m proud that I, for one, can keep my emotions under control.”

  Michael stopped, stunned by his own outburst. His nose was running. He groped for his handkerchief, but he must have left it in the other room.

  “Here.” Cat handed him a folded Kleenex from her skirt pocket.

  “I’m never going to get divorced.” Michael blew his nose with a loud honk. “The thing to do is to pick the right person—and stick.”

  “You didn’t stick with Freya,” she pointed out.

  Michael jerked his head in exasperation. “I didn’t ask her to marry me either.” He added, more quietly, “I don’t think she wanted me to. Do you?”

  Cat didn’t answer. She was looking at him as if he presented some puzzle she couldn’t figure out. Now that his explosion of anger had subsided, Michael felt foolish, exposed.

  “Let’s get back to the case, shall we?” he said. “So far, there aren’t any real obstacles to a smooth divorce except this dog business.”

  “ ‘Dog business,’ ” mimicked Cat. “Pookie is her child. You’re a man: you can’t understand what that means.”

  “Of course I can understand what it means! Anyway, Mr. Blumberg’s a man, and he loves . . . the dog.”

  “See, you can’t even say Pookie out loud. You think it’s sissy.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Say it, then.”

  Michael rolled his eyes. This was absurd. He had never met such an unreasonable woman. “Pookie,” he grunted.

  Those fierce brown eyes stared into his, and suddenly a kind of craziness swept through him. “Pookie Pookie Pookie. I love you, Pookie. Come to Mama, Pookie. Stop crapping on the carpet, Pookie.”

  Cat’s mouth had gone a very peculiar shape. She was laughing!

  There was the rattle of a doorknob, and a voice growled, “Are you two people interested in our case? Or are you just going to stand out there yakking?”

  “Of course we’re interested, Mr. Blumberg,” Michael replied smoothly. “In fact, we were just discussing a pertinent legal technicality concerning canine apportionment.”

  “Hmph.”

  They had returned to the table and resumed negotiations when a sudden trill sent both Michael and Cat scrabbling in their briefcases for their mobile phones. The call was for Michael. He tossed Cat a superior look and opened his phone importantly. “Petersen here.”

  “Mikey! Thank goodness I’ve reached you.”

  His mother: that’s all he needed.

  “What seems to be the problem?” he said, in what he hoped was a businesslike voice. “I’m just wrapping up an important case here for Mr. Rinertson, so I can’t—”

  “I want you to come over right away. It’s sweltering in this room, and I can’t get the air-conditioning to work. I think I’m going to have one of my attacks.”

  Michael turned away from the table and hunched himself over the phone. “Are you sure you turned it on correctly?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Speak up, Mikey. You’re mumbling.”

  “Can’t you get room service to fix it?” he asked, painfully aware of six eyes watching him, and six ears listening.

  “They’re so busy. I don’t like to bother them.”

  “Mother, it’s a hotel. That’s what they’re for.”

  “Can’t you come over just for a minute? It’s such a little favor to ask. Or do you want your poor old mother dying all alone in a strange place?”

  “The Plaza Hotel is hardly—”

  “Is this a professional meeting or a goddamned circus?” demanded Mr. Blumberg, slamming one palm on the table.

  “Now, Lawrence, don’t get all riled up. It’s bad for your ulcer.”

  “So what? These people don’t care about us, Jessie. All they want is money, money, money. Pah! Plaza Hotel. I’m going to talk to Fred about this. What kind of a rinky-dink outfit is he running anyway? Fellow didn’t even know who Pookie was.”

  Michael felt the sweat break out on his forehead. He put his thumb over the earpiece of his phone, and stood up. “Excuse me, Mr. Blumberg . . . Mrs. Blumberg . . . Ms. da Fillipo. This is an, um, emergency call. I’ll be right back.” With that, he escaped into the outer room, accompanied by a faint parrot squawk. “Mikey? Mikey? Mikey!”

  “Mother, will you please stop shouting? I am in the middle of a business meeting. I can’t come now. Call room service, and I’ll see you at dinner, as we agreed.”

  There was a long silence. Then a sulky voice said, “Maybe I’ll just take the plane home.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “I might as well not be here. You’ve neglected me all week.”

  “I have not neglected you. I’ve been at work.”

  “If I’d known you were going to turn out like this, I wouldn’t have scrimped and saved all those years to put you through college.”

  Michael removed the phone from his ear and bashed it hard against his head.

  “What’s that noise? Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard. Now I’m going to say good-bye.”

  “You’re with a woman, aren’t you? I can tell by your voice. Some flashy, New York—”

  Suddenly Michael couldn’t take any more. He cut the call, snapped his cell phone shut, and leaned his head against the cool wall. His nose was running and his eyes itched. He was tempted to walk away and leave the whole Blumberg mess behind. He’d blown this case, possibly even blown his chances of partnership. Then he remembered Ms. da Fillipo’s scornful eyes: she’d think he was a wimp—as well as a male chauvinist stuffed shirt with no feelings. Not that it mattered what she thought. Michael gave a bracing sniff, squared his shoulders, and reentered the room

  An extraordinary scene met his eyes. All three of them were sitting cozily together on the same side of the table. Cat held a handkerchief to her eyes as if she’d been crying; the Blumbergs sat solicitously on either side of her, like ministering angels.

  “Well, young man.” Mrs. Blumberg gave him a stern look. “I think you owe Caterina here an apology.”

  Michael frowned. “Now what?”

  “Don’t be like that. You’ve got to learn to get over these little problems. All lovers have quarrels, even old veterans like us.”

  Lovers! Michael looked wildly at Cat, whose eyes commanded silence.

  “You have to learn to say you’re sorry,” continued Mrs. Blumberg. She smiled across at her chastened-looking husband. “Imagine: we were actually thinking of getting divorced after fifty-one happy years.”

  “Imagine . . .” Michael repeated faintly. He had no idea what was going on.

  “Well,” prompted Mrs. Blumberg, “aren’t you going to apologize to Caterina?”

  There seemed nothing to do but go along with this pantomime. Michael looked at Caterina, and swallowed. “I�
��m very sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” She seemed equally embarrassed by this charade.

  “Well go on, give her a nice big hug.”

  After a small hesitation Michael stepped forward, and Caterina rose from her chair to meet him. He held his arms out stiffly, and she leaned her head against his chest. Automatically his arms closed around her. She felt warm and womanly under his hands. Her hair smelled spicy. Caterina . . . The syllables sang in his head.

  “All right, that’s enough,” joked Mr. Blumberg.

  Michael relinquished his hold, and Caterina stepped back, eyes lowered.

  “We’ll leave you now, so you can be alone,” said Mrs. Blumberg. “Come along, Lawrence.”

  “Don’t forget your bag, Jessie. She always forgets her bag.”

  “Look who’s talking! What about your reading glasses? Lawrence can’t go anywhere without losing his reading glasses.”

  “Yes, I can. I’ve got them right here.”

  “Only because I gave them to you.”

  Arm in arm, bickering gently, they left the room.

  Michael waited until he heard the outer door close, then turned to Caterina. “What happened?” he demanded. “What did you say?”

  She moved to the table and started gathering up her papers. “All I said was that you’d broken off our engagement.”

  “Our what?”

  “I told them that your mother didn’t approve, and was trying to make you give me up.” She flashed him a defiant glance. “I had to think of something.”

  “But—but why?”

  “For the Blumbergs’ sake. Obviously.”

  “But—?”

  “It was quite clear they didn’t want to get divorced. I thought we might as well all stop playing games.”

  “But just now—you were crying!”

  “That’s my party trick.” She tossed her thundercloud of hair. “I can cry on demand.”

  “I see,” said Michael. He didn’t, in fact, understand a single, solitary thing, except that a few minutes ago there had been an impossible tangle, which this extraordinary woman had somehow pulled into a smooth ribbon of silk. He watched the capable way she squared her papers and rapped them firmly on the table.

  “Well . . . thanks,” he said at last.

  She caught his eye and smiled. The transformation was astonishing.

  Michael took a step forward and opened his mouth. “Atchoooo,” he said.

  “You want to take care of that sniffle,” Caterina said calmly.

  Michael was suddenly aware of how unattractive he must look, with his red nose and watery eyes, dressed in this awful suit. “I’m trying to,” he said. “Codex, Codeine, Flugo, Dri-noze: I’ve got them all.”

  “Tchah! Your yin and yang are out of balance. I recognize the signs. What you need are some vitamins. Do you like nuts?”

  “Uh . . . yes. In their place.”

  “Well, their place is inside your stomach. You need some Vitamin E to get those antibodies going. There’s a good health store not too far away where you can get the right stuff. Here: I’ll write down the address for you.”

  With the passionate energy that seemed to infuse everything she did, she tore a strip off her yellow notepad, scribbled something in a bold hand, then folded the paper and handed it to him. “Now, I must rush.”

  “Thank you. Uh . . . Ms. da Fillipo—Caterina—” Michael broke off. He wanted to keep her here a little longer, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Yes?” She shot him a glance of cautious curiosity, as if he were an unfamiliar and unpredictable beast. Michael couldn’t remember a woman looking at him quite this way before. Her eyes were not brown after all, he saw, but flecked with fiery sparks of yellow.

  “I, um . . .” Michael frowned. His mind was blank. Then he had an inspiration. “I’d be very grateful if you would clear up this misunderstanding about a lawsuit—you know, talk to Freya.”

  “Freya?” His request seemed to startle her.

  “You’ll be seeing her, won’t you?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. Of course.” She was cramming her belongings into her briefcase and busily snapping the catches. She was leaving!

  “Wait! I’ll ride down in the elevator with you.” Belatedly, Michael started to clear up his own things. But he was too slow.

  “Sorry. Got to go. ‘Bye!”

  Moving like a small, vivid blue whirlwind, she picked up her briefcase, whisked herself to the doorway, and was gone with a wave of her hand.

  Michael stood alone in the dismal little room. He looked down at the piece of yellow paper he was holding and unfolded it. There was the address of a store called Aphrodisia and the names of a couple of products: nothing else. He crushed the paper in his fist and let out a curse of frustration.

  “Nuts!” he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  “. . . and I thought the part where Mack chopped up his mother was a little clichéd.”

  “That was intentional, Mona. It’s an ironic commentary on the banality of violence in our society.”

  “But he didn’t have to eat her, too.”

  “Of course he had to eat her. That’s the ‘devouring passion’ foreshadowed in my very first paragraph.”

  “With ketchup?”

  “You don’t get it, do you? The ketchup is symbolic.”

  “Oh, yeah? Of what, exactly?”

  “Of blood, I imagine.” Jack cut in smoothly. “Am I right, Lester?”

  Lester gave his usual psychopath’s stare, then jerked his head in a nod. As always, he was wearing a tie over an obsessively well-pressed shirt; his scalp gleamed white through a born-again-Christian haircut. Jack wondered: Could Lester have written the threatening letter? Lester was always the first student to arrive for class, and always sat in the same seat. This latest story—about a son so grotesquely overfed by his mother that he became a prisoner of his own obesity, and eventually ate his mother’s corpse—was typical of his work. If anyone knew about “the Forces of Darkness” it would be Lester.

  “Why do men always have to chop up their mothers? Why not their fathers? Give me a good castration scene any day.” That was Rita, fat and fifty, an enthusiastic latecomer to feminism. But Rita was all bluster; her hatred of men was purely theoretical. If she knew about Candace and him, she’d just laugh. Wouldn’t she?

  Jack forced himself to concentrate. His gaze traveled around the faces at the seminar table, drawing their attention. “Let’s look for a moment at character development in ‘Big Mack.’ Who wants to comment on that?”

  As usual, Nathan began to shoot his mouth off. Meanwhile Mona, who clearly felt she had been snubbed over the symbolic ketchup, began to clean her nails with a hairpin. She was one of those pale, skinny women who cultivated the “damaged” look, and told anyone who would listen how she had been abused by her high school English teacher. Jack studied her bony profile; maybe she had written the note, as a form of vicarious revenge.

  The letter had arrived yesterday in the mail. Fortunately, Freya had gone to work by then, so there was no one to witness his shock. And Jack had been shocked. He was used to being liked; hell, he was a likable guy . . . wasn’t he? To begin with, he had screwed up the letter and thrown it away. But all morning, while he tried to write, he found his thoughts dwelling uneasily on its threatening malice. Eventually, he had retrieved the crumpled paper from the wastebasket and smoothed it out, scanning it for clues. It was upsetting to know that someone out there hated him this much. He wondered if a similar letter had been sent to his employers. Part of his training course to become a Creative Writing Instructor had included a lecture on “appropriate” behavior. Jack hadn’t paid much attention. He wasn’t a dirty old man, and there were plenty of girls around without having to resort to your own students. Though that, of course, was exactly what he had done. Jack frowned; it occurred to him that he might have been rather stupid. At the back of his mind was the notion that one day, when he had tired of the New York li
terary scene, he might take a job as a Creative Writing professor in some agreeable university town. He didn’t imagine the teaching would be very onerous; there’d be plenty of time for his own writing.