I imagine Joanie shouting back: Life!
The thought of this, not her wedding, makes me eerily happy. My mom is getting married. She’s leaping forward into the great unknown with a smile on her face.
“I’m thrilled for you both,” I say.
“What other mother gets the double joy of planning her daughter’s wedding and her own wedding?” Mom asks.
Smell of New Leather
I SMELL NEW LEATHER even before I’m inside his office, and it can mean only one thing: he got a real couch! It’s brown leather. Clubby-looking. It has some strategically placed throws on it that I can’t imagine him shopping for. Gifts?
“You said—”
But before he could finish, I said: “I know what I said.” I lay on the couch. A deal’s a deal.
There is a new painting, too. It stretched the distance of the couch, a field of poppies. Not masculine. Not feminine exactly.
“What’s the story on the painting?” I ask.
“It’s by a French painter. Reminded me of van Gogh without all of the craziness,” Paul says.
“I think that’s what people like about van Gogh,” I say.
“Maybe,” he says.
“The painting is nice. The new couch is nice. But that daybed you had? That was absurd! It wasn’t good enough for you. Neither was the rug that I’m sure everyone was probably tripping over for fifteen years. So good work on getting out of your funk. I think you’re starting to care about yourself again.”
I hear laughter.
“What?” I say.
“I think you’re going to like the couch,” Paul says.
Back in the World
WENDY’S NAILS ARE painted red. First time I’ve seen her with a manicure—ever. Looks a little severe, but it seems so sweet that she’s trying to get back into the world.
“What should I wear?” Wendy says. “I’ll be going from work to a date.”
“You can never go wrong with stretchy stirrup pants and an oversized T. And don’t forget the scrunchie,” I say. “How about a suit?”
“A suit?” Wendy asks. “My ex said that women in suits scare men. That’s when I started wearing separates. I think it was too late by then.”
“More casual,” I agreed. “You know, Wendy, you’re so organized, and on top of things, maybe relaxing your wardrobe will relax you on the date. It might be a nice complement to your strengths.”
“That’s good advice,” Wendy says. “Thanks.”
Wendy is my father’s office widow. She never asked if I wanted to help clean out his office. I was surprised not to be asked about this, but grateful. My father’s apartment has been organized for weeks. Wendy took his books. We donated his clothing and some of his furniture. I gave my sister his cuff links because I have to believe that there will be a time when she’ll want to examine her own relationship with our father and that it will be easier for her to do so if she doesn’t have to involve me.
We’re almost finished with dinner, and a bottle of wine, when Wendy gets to the real reason she wanted to see me.
“I have something to ask you,” Wendy says.
“Okay,”
“It’s kind of awkward,” Wendy says.
“Money?” I say.
“Not that awkward,” Wendy says. “Well, maybe it is that awkward, but in a different way.
“I’m, um, I’m thinking of having a baby, and I have to choose a donor. A sperm donor. I keep reading the profiles of all these donors, and instead of seeming like donors they start to seem like potential dates, and it’s really fogging my judgment. I just need someone to read these and tell me who’s the best father on paper,” Wendy says.
“That’s huge. That’s great,” I say.
“Well, so, can you read a couple of profiles and let me know who you’d choose?” Wendy says.
Sure. Of course. I’m flattered; I’m confused.
“Why are you asking me to do this?” I ask.
“I think you’re very…sensible. Intuitive, too,” Wendy says. “By the way, if you’re having a hard time choosing between two guys, look in their files and see if they have attached or detached lobes. That can be the tiebreaker. I have attached lobes, so let’s vote that way,” Wendy says.
Locker-Room Talk
I MEET MARJORIE at the tennis club. I stretch my legs. She walks toward me in a panic.
“I feel like jumping out a window,” Marjorie says.
“Why?” I say.
She hands me a glossy piece of paper with a grainy, unidentifiable image on it.
“How many do you see?” Marjorie says.
“How many what? I don’t even know what the hell I’m looking at,” I say.
“Two! You see twins,” Marjorie says.
“Wow—that’s amazing,” I say. “Congratulations. Just think, it only took you ten months to come up with a name for one!”
“They’re going to need names—shit, that didn’t even occur to me,” Marjorie says. “My timing is terrible. I wanted to have them two years apart.”
“You get what you get—be happy about it. This year. Next year. Is there really a difference? You always wanted a big family,” I say.
Marjorie wants what she didn’t have when we were growing up. More kids. More noise. I want what we had before it all fell apart.
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s true. And I can have my boobs lifted after they’re born, because I’ll be all done.”
“I knew you could find the silver lining,” I say.
After we play tennis we go into the locker room to change. There is a naked woman drying her hair in front of an enormous mirror. She’s spraying it, blowing it out, working on a genuine updo. All this—while completely naked. It’s taking way too long. People are going out of their way to walk very far around her as she dries her hair.
“What’s up with that?” Marjorie says.
I shrug my shoulders.
“That pubic hair is frightening. Seriously, have you ever seen so much pubic hair?” Marjorie says, more with baffled awe than judgment.
“Actually, no, I haven’t. It looks like it’s been grafted onto her,” I say.
Marjorie starts laughing. She can’t stop. “Pubic hair grafting,” Marjorie says.
“Whoa, lady, tame that triangle!” I say, while throwing myself back toward the lockers, pretending the pubic hair is strangling me. The blow-dryer stopped at least fifteen seconds ago, and the woman who was drying her hair is now staring at me in disbelief.
“What are you two—twelve years old?” the woman asks.
Marjorie gathers her gear and hightails it out of the locker room.
There’s no such thing as grown-up, I remember Paul saying.
The Brontë Sisters
MY REPLACEMENT STARTED today. I, Emily the intentionally incompetent, am to train the new receptionist. I am slow to dole out the nuances I’ve learned in my tenure here. I will pass them out like kibble.
Her name is Charlotte. She is my age approximately. I can tell from the get-go that I can teach this woman nothing. She’s a highly functioning individual. Emotionally stable. Average-looking. Smart enough. Pleasant voice. Easy to laugh. She’s got the whole package. Unfortunately for her, the reward for having this particular “package” is a desk job that she can keep as long as she desires. That means she’ll have this job for twenty years. Perhaps not unfortunately, because she seems like she might actually enjoy answering the phone. She lifts the receiver as if performing a ballet.
“Funny, we’re both named after Brontë sisters,” I say.
“Do they work in the building?” Charlotte asks, while unpacking seven framed photographs of her Yorkie, Lady.
“No, they’re…yeah. Yeah. They work in the coffee shop,” I say.
I give her time to organize her dog photos and various dog statuary. She places her makeup mirror directly in front of her on the desk. Her makeup bag (yes, dogs on that, too) goes next to the mirror. In the meantime, I return to making personal calls on company
time. I view this as a service to the law firm. The sooner I get on with my life, tie up the loose ends that now keep me in a state of flux, the sooner I get out the door and they move forward with a qualified receptionist. It’s my last week, but if things don’t work out for me on the outside, we all know I’ll be back. And that won’t be good for anyone.
It’s taken a while, but I’ve worked it so most of the lawyers now answer their own phones. They grew tired of missing calls, or receiving the wrong ones. If I’ve taught them nothing else, they will appreciate a good receptionist. I’ve got high hopes for Charlotte. She moves into the job with zeal. She takes over the place. With her personal belongings on display for all to see, she’s inviting people into her world. An invitation is an invitation. She’s not self-conscious or embarrassed about the twisted one-dimensional canine-adoring planet from where she hails. This is self-acceptance on the grandest scale. She might be the most amazing person I’ve ever met.
Milestone
MY MOTHER IS STANDING on a ladder, mop in hand.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Cleaning windows?” Mom says. “It drives me nuts to look at that dirt,” Mom says.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“It’s okay, honey. I enjoy doing it,” Mom says. “Remember the last time I did this?”
“I do,” I say. “Dad helped you.”
A peculiar silence follows.
“The doctor called,” Mom says. “Everything is fine. One year mark. Quite a milestone.”
“That’s great,” I say. “That’s really great. And you feel good?”
“Never better,” Mom says.
“Maybe the windows can wait,” I say. “Besides, they already look clean.”
“Phil cleaned them this morning,” Mom says. “Or yesterday. He cleaned them yesterday.”
“Well, was it this morning or was it yesterday?” I ask, intentionally putting her on the spot.
“Honey, listen. Since we’re going to be married in a few months, Phil is moving in,” Mom says.
“I’m confused. I thought he already lived here,” I say.
“Oh. Okay, well I didn’t know you knew that,” Mom says. “I guess we can skip the pretend moving day we were planning.”
Between the Lines
I’M IN THE PARKING lot of Hildreth’s in East Hampton, and I’m having a phone session with Paul the shrink. It is a paved black parking lot. There are no lines to park between.
“It is insane,” I say.
“It is insane,” Paul says. “I don’t understand why you didn’t call me from Sam’s house. He knows you’re in therapy.”
“Right, why do I care if he hears what I’m saying to you?” I ask.
“Yes, why do you care?” Paul asks.
“I don’t know. The employees of Hildreth’s are actually taking turns watching me watch them. Hold on a sec, I’m going to turn the car around so they can’t see my face. They probably think I’m going to drive through the window,” I say.
“Why would they think that?” Paul asks.
“Because my car is pointed toward their double glass doors, and I’m revving the engine?” I say.
It is the Friday before Valentine’s Day, and Sam and I are at his place in East Hampton. Even though he says he’ll take a walk while I talk to Paul, I don’t quite trust the quiet house. So I insist on doing my session via phone in the car in the parking lot of a home-goods store. It’s not about trusting Sam, though.
“I was half hoping you wouldn’t answer,” I say.
“Why?” Paul says.
“The four home pregnancy tests I’ve taken have all been positive. And I’m in shock,” I say.
Silence.
“Nothing?” I say. “You aren’t going to say anything?”
“That’s wonderful. Really wonderful,” Paul says. “What does Sam say?”
“Sam says ‘If it’s positive, why do you keep buying more tests?’” I say.
“And what else does he say?” Paul says.
“That we need to move up the wedding date,” I say.
“I see,” Paul says. “So you’re in a parking lot with the engine running…”
“In case I need to make a clean break. Get away. I know what you’re going to say,” I say.
“What?” Paul says.
“Drive back to Sam. Experiment with what it feels like to stay when you might be tempted to run,” I say.
“I don’t need to say what you already know,” Paul says.
Ashes
MY FATHER’S ASHES ARE still in the living room in an overpriced container that we bought from the undertaker. Because we were new to this death thing, we didn’t know you caught a break if you bring your own container. It reminded me how, for a brief time, some supermarkets were offering a two-cent refund if you brought your old bags back.
BUT MOSTLY, IT SEEMS TO ME, it is ridiculous that you get charged for dying, for needing disposal. Is it any wonder the nation’s parks and highways are littered with bodies?
The disposal, or spreading of, his ashes is sort of like cleaning out the junk drawers. Mom and I kept meaning to get to it. But there was always a good excuse not to.
Finally, in April, we scattered them in a place, two places actually, where he’d spent a lot of time. Two fistfuls of him were sprinkled in the tie department of the men’s Bergdorf store. Security kept tailing us, like we were going to steal something. It was mortifying. Of course he’d said this as a joke, decades earlier, to my mother. Their joke. We figured, why not?
The rest of his ashes we poured in a wildflower garden behind our old summer house. The place we went in July and August when we were a family. There was sap on the grass from the trees, and my mother insisted that we put trash bags over our shoes before stepping on the grass. Is nothing sacred?
She and I laughed as we put Hefty bags over our shoes and paraded the urn out to the lawn. It was heavier than you’d expect. Heavier than a bag of flour.
Marjorie, Malcolm, Little Malcolm, Nana, Sam, and Phil waited in the car. Mom and I walked close to the water and an amazing old oak tree. It was a sunny, breezy day, and we lifted the lid and began pouring his ashes in increments. His ashes swirled and flew back in our face and mouth and eyes. Some settled on the grass, some flew through the air and settled on our clothing. Letting go is never easy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For being an all-around great editor, thank you, Lee Boudreaux!
For their opinons, insight, and careful reading, I appreciate the help I received from: my husband and first reader, Ed Conard, my agent, David McCormick, Leslie Falk, Gillian Linden, and Abby Holstein.
For keeping their senses of humor and being very good sports about having a writer in the family, I want to thank my mother, Jane Leader, and my sisters Linda Davis and Kelly Davis Corbett.
To Carrie Kania, Josh Marwell, Kate Pereira, Kathy Smith, Nina Olmstead, Rachel Bressler, Stephanie Linder, and Michael McKenzie of ECCO and HarperCollins, I’m amazed by your foresight and planning. Thank you!
In addition to the people mentioned above, I would be remiss in not thanking many of people who contributed to the success of my first novel, Girls’ Poker Night: Barry Friedberg, sister goddess Victoria Beaven Roca, Carmen Jacobson, Joan Didion, Jay McInerny, Mark O’Donnell, Adriana Trigiani, Laura Zigman, Susan Isaacs, Sandy Jones Reese, Mandy Stapf, Libby Moore, Ed Conard, David McCormick, Lee Boudreaux, Jynne Martin, and Daniel Menaker.
To the many readers who took the time to write such thoughtful letters and emails, I’ve been overwhelmed by your kind, heartfelt, and often very funny words.
I’d also like to thank the East Hampton Library and the New York Society Library where parts of this book were written.
About the Author
JILL A. DAVIS was a writer for Late Show with David Letterman, where she received five Emmy nominations. She has also written several television pilots and movie screenplays in addition to short stories. She lives in New York City w
ith her husband and daughter.
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Girls’ Poker Night
Credits
Jacket design by Allison Saltzman
Jacket photo-illustration by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant
Copyright
ASK AGAIN LATER. Copyright © 2007 by Jill A. Davis. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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