The Opposite of Love

by Julie Buxbaum

  I cross the room and make my way through the costumes. Static cling, the avian flu, the Mona Lisa, a Wonder Woman Pez dispenser, a pair of dice, another fucking cat.

  “Hey,” I say to the two of them.

  “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?” I ask Andrew, and tilt my head toward the hallway that leads to the bathroom. It is the only place in the entire loft that has any semblance of privacy. The rest of the apartment feels like one big stage.

  “Sure,” he says. “See you later, Carisse.” I see Andrew take one last peek at her boobs before he follows me down the hallway.

  “What’s up?” he asks. “How have you been?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay. You?” I am not sure how to stand and suddenly feel ridiculous in my costume. I want to appear relaxed, which is next to impossible in a gown. I am wobbling on my high heels, the product of nerves and too many drinks.

  “Good,” he says. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better. You looked rough on the subway.”

  “Yeah.” I am no longer capable of making small talk. I need to say what I want to say.

  “Listen, Andrew, yes.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, I want to say yes.” I look up at him and see he has no idea what I am talking about. I can tell he is wondering if I am drunker than I seem. I am.

  “Yes? Yes to what?” He stares at me, but he’s smiling. He finds me amusing when I am drunk. I give myself a quick pep talk. You can do this.

  “Yes, I want to marry you.” I say it. Straight and to the point. I feel a flush of pride for getting the words out.

  “Excuse me?” Andrew takes a step closer and looks down at me. He feels even taller than usual, almost menacing. His dark hair falls onto his forehead, a large clump just above his eyes, but he doesn’t push it away. “I don’t think I asked you to marry me. In fact, I know I didn’t. What the hell are you going on about, Emily?” I feel the weight of his use of my full name. No Em, but Emily. He does not look relieved or loving or even kind.

  He looks mad as hell.

  “I, I just…I wanted to let you know that I made a mistake. I want to tell you yes.” I put my arm on his shoulder, my way of saying Please don’t be mad, we can fix this.

  “You are a piece of work, you know that? What makes you think after the shit you pulled these last two months that I would ever want to marry you? The thought makes me sick.” Andrew’s voice gets louder, but then he notices the volume and lowers it.

  “You are out of your fucking mind,” he says, and takes a step back. Though he is speaking in a whisper now, his tone is hard. He breathes in deeply, and exhales slowly, controlled, like they do in yoga class.

  “You know what? I don’t need this right now. You are drunk. Fortunately, I have enough sense for both of us. I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just insult me like that. I’m going to pretend like this never happened.” Andrew turns away.

  “Bye, Emily. Good luck to you,” he says, a couple of meaningless words thrown over his shoulder. An afterthought.

  “But, Andrew—” I don’t get to finish my sentence, because he is already down the hallway, and has slipped back into the party, lost in the throngs of the costume bazaar.

  I find Jess and tell her we need to go home. Now. She takes one look at my face and runs to get our coats. When she gets back, she grips my elbow and steers me toward the entrance.

  “You okay?” she whispers to me, under a fake plastered-on smile. She knows enough not to draw any attention to us.

  “No. Not okay. Not even fine,” I say. So far I have held back the storm of tears. I can’t hold out much longer, though, and am grateful once we reach the front door.

  I take one quick look back on the way out. I can’t help myself. I see Andrew is again talking to Carisse, and their heads are bent forward, a caricature of flirtation. In the other corner, I notice the guy with the tiara is kissing someone, his fake lettuce pressed up close against a white body. I point them out to Jess.

  “No way,” she says. “I can’t believe it.”

  And it is then, when I see the simplicity of it all, the culmination of choices that has brought me to this moment—the Burger King making out with a woman dressed as the Dairy Queen—that my tears begin to fall.

  Twelve

  Emily, dear? Hello? Hello?” A gravelly voice echoes through my apartment and breaks through my dreams. “I am not sure if this machine is working. Is this working?” There is a loud knocking sound; the person on the other end is hitting the phone against something hard.

  “It’s Ruth Wasserstein here. I left you a few messages already, and I can’t get ahold of your father. I know it’s early, but please call me back. It’s…well, it’s important.”

  “Ruth? Hi, it’s me. What’s wrong?” I say. My emergency instincts kick in and supplant my hangover. Instead of nausea, I feel uprooted by fear. My answering-machine light is blinking furiously, and my pulse begins to match its beat. Blink. Blink blink blink blink. Blink.

  Grandpa Jack. Something has happened to Grandpa Jack. There is no other logical explanation for Ruth to be calling at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning. Grandpa Jack is dead. This is how these things happen. With unexpected phone calls and blinking answering-machine lights. This is how these things happen.

  “It’s all right. Take a breath. He should be okay,” Ruth says. “It’s just that he’s…well, he’s missing. Jack is missing.”

  “Missing? So he’s not dead?”

  “Dead? No, he’s not dead,” Ruth says, laughing and then stopping herself. “Well, at least I don’t think so.”

  “So what you are saying is Grandpa Jack is not dead, right? That’s what you’re saying.”

  “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. He’s wandered off, that’s all. I’m sure he’s okay. But I think it would be best if you came up here. I’ve already called the police.”

  “I’m on my way. Ruth?” I take a deep breath, willing the oxygen to stop my body from shaking. “Thank you so much for calling me.”

  “Of course. And don’t worry, Emily, he’s probably just lost.” She hangs up the phone. Just lost, I tell myself, like she means it figuratively.

  I run out the door and don’t take the time to brush my teeth or comb my hair. I need to find Grandpa Jack. Please, God, don’t let him be dead, I say over and over again, under my breath, my new mantra. I have no time for positive thinking.

  When I sprint through the front door of my building and fly past Robert, I take a quick look at my doorman, remember he is an older gentleman too, probably just a few years younger than Grandpa Jack and with grandchildren of his own. A sick jealousy washes over me, a feeling not dissimilar to what happens in department stores when I see mothers and daughters shopping together, sharing the two-by-two feet of dressing-room space. Why isn’t Robert missing instead of my Grandpa Jack? I wonder. Why does it always have to be the people I love? Why does it always have to be the people I’ll miss the most?

  I’m bitter and angry above all else. Even above the fear.

  “Where are you off to, princess?” Robert asks, unaware that I am thinking hateful thoughts about him. His kindness shames me.

  “Sorry, Robert, gotta run,” I say, as I step into a taxi. Why my Grandpa Jack?

  “Have fun, princess,” he says again, and whistles. Princess?

  Five minutes later, only after I am in the cab, only after I have shouted “Riverdale” at the driver, I realize I’m still wearing my costume from last night, tiara and all. I take my hands to my head and press my fingertips hard against the metal spokes. This is the scary part of the fairy tale, the part before the happy ending. When Cinderella loses her slipper, or Sleeping Beauty bites into the poisonous apple. I feel the sharp edges of the tiara dig into my skin. I don’t stop pressing until I draw blood.

  When I get to the retirement home, Ruth is waiting for me in the lobby with two police officers. They are all polite enough not to comment on my gown.

  “Hello, I a
m Emily Haxby. Jack Haxby is my grandfather.” I put out my hand to shake each of theirs. I use my lawyer voice; maybe the seriousness of my tone can erase the sequins. My eyes immediately start scanning the lobby, hoping that this is all a big misunderstanding and that Grandpa Jack will be sitting down somewhere reading a book. Perhaps they just don’t see him, like when you don’t notice the glasses on your face.

  “We have sent out two patrol cars to scan the streets, Ms. Haxby. I’m sure we’ll find him soon,” one of the police officers says, his hand resting casually on his hip, just above the holster for his gun. He could shoot me right now, I think. Swing the pistol with his pointer finger, like they do in old westerns, and shoot me right now. What would I need to do to provoke him? Would screaming until my lungs gave out be enough?

  “Have you spoken with your father, dear?” Ruth asks.

  “I left him a couple of messages on the ride over here, but I got his voice mail. He might already be on his way. That’s what I’m hoping, anyhow.” I am tempted to apologize that I’m the only family representative. I feel wholly inadequate for the task.

  I can deal with this, I tell myself. I went to Yale Law School, for God’s sake. I can deal with a missing octogenarian.

  You can do this.

  “Okay. What should we do? Should I start looking on foot? I need to do something.” My voice holds steady. I sound in control. Grandpa Jack is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.

  “Ma’am, I think it is probably best if you wait here with Ms. Wasserstein. She gave us a recent photo, and some of the nurses have volunteered to help us out. They have some ideas about his favorite places. Don’t worry, I’ll call you when we find him.” I notice he says “when,” and not “if,” which provides a bit of relief. They are going to find him.

  “I have my cell phone. You can call me while I look,” I say, and turn to leave, but Ruth puts her hands on my arm, both gentle and forceful at the same time.

  “Let me come with you,” she says, and in my half-second delay in responding, she sees that I am worried about her slowing me down. “Please.”

  “Sure. Yeah, of course.”

  I examine the two cops before we leave them behind to do their own search. They look capable, with their guns and their graying hair.

  “Come on, dear,” Ruth says, and we link arms as we walk through the automatic doors and back out onto the street. She leads.

  “What happened?” I ask, once we are moving. It feels a little better to be moving, doing something, though my voice still has that edge of anxiety. Ruth tells me only the important facts with the precision that comes from having practiced law for fifty years.

  “When I stopped by his apartment this morning, he was gone. I figured he was in the breakfast area, so I came downstairs to look for him, but he wasn’t there either. So I started asking around, and nobody had seen him. I asked the nurses to search the building, which they did, and no luck. And, well, now here we are.” She pats my hand, in a way that is comforting and not patronizing, in a way that makes me miss my grandmother and my mother and Andrew and Grandpa Jack so much I think I might explode with emptiness. “He probably wandered off and got lost. He gets confused sometimes.”

  “I know.” I run away in my head for a few moments, thinking of last night and then back to Grandpa Jack.

  I look for a way to comfort myself, a best-case scenario for the situation, and I can’t come up with one. The best case is what Ruth described—he got confused and wandered off—but this does little to ease my anxiety. This means I will be losing Grandpa Jack soon, perhaps slowly, but in the only way that matters, and I am not sure if I can do that. I am not sure I can lose both Andrew and Grandpa Jack in one year.

  Ruth and I turn left from the retirement home and take my grandfather’s and my usual route. We walk with an affected casualness, as if this is a typical Saturday morning stroll, and pretend that we are excited about the baby that waddles by or the puppy peeing on a small patch of grass. Our eyes crisscross in front of us, though, dart from side to side, and soak up the visual cues. We peer into shop windows and see hanging meats. Fresh-baked breads. Toilet-paper pyramids. No Grandpa Jack.

  My spine feels stiff and alert, and my head hurts from my laser-like focus. I do not let a single detail pass by undigested. I picture worst-case scenarios; I can’t help it. We will stumble upon his body on the curb, tossed aside and still, his wallet emptied, a baseball bat nearby. We will find him disheveled and scared and alone and at first we won’t even recognize him. We will never see Grandpa Jack again.

  I buy Ruth a hot chocolate at a coffee shop. It has only one table and two chairs. I feel disappointed when we walk out, partially because my grandfather is not in there but more because they didn’t give me any space to look for him.

  “Emily,” she says, breaking me out of my reverie. “How’s work?”

  I give Ruth a wry smile. She is trying to distract me, and I appreciate the effort.

  “Work sucks.”

  “Yeah, I know how that can be. Long hours, right?”

  “Yup, and lecherous partners.” While we scan the streets, I tell Ruth the story of my Arkansas case, about being on the wrong side and about Carl propositioning me. I even describe his open boxer shorts and seeing him in the flesh. I am not sure why I share this, dirty details and all, but there is something about her warmth that makes me feel like she can handle it. I know none of this reflects well on me either, but I am okay with her seeing that too.

  “I guess things haven’t come as far as I had thought,” she says. “I thought we women had moved past that.”

  “Yeah, I did too.” We stick our heads into a pawnshop, an antiques store, a Rite Aid. No one has seen Grandpa Jack. Where the hell is Grandpa Jack?

  Ruth keeps me talking as we walk, and I explain why I don’t want to report Carl to the firm. I am surprised when she understands. Jess didn’t get that, didn’t understand the humiliation involved, the potential destruction of my career. Jess thinks staying quiet is an act of cowardice, which it might very well be.

  “I guess you have to decide if it’s worth the fight. You pick your battles in this life,” Ruth says. “You’ve got to decide what it is you want.”

  “I have no idea what I want.” Other than to find Grandpa Jack. That’s all I want right now.

  “You’ll figure it out. You know, I think in some ways we had it easier in my day. I had to fight every battle. There wasn’t really a choice, at least not for me. You guys are sort of the hungover generation.”

  “The hungover generation?” I look down at my wrinkled prom dress and my cup of coffee; I pat down my bed head.

  “I mean, it is almost like the next morning after the last wave of the women’s movement. There isn’t the energy left over to keep up the momentum. Where are we now? Postfeminism? Post-postfeminism?”

  “I don’t know. Just postfeminism, right?” We check the bank. The long aisles of the shiny new Whole Foods. Though organic is not my grandfather’s style, all bets are off today. We will look everywhere if we have to. “I just think I don’t have the energy. Please don’t look at me as representative of anything.”

  I wouldn’t want Ruth to indict the women of my generation just because I can’t seem to get my act together.

  “I’m not. I think we’re all falling behind. I don’t know why, but there is a pandemic phobia of intellectual thought in this country. We have only one woman on the Supreme Court. It’s crazy. Did you know that even Liberia has elected a woman president? We are so freaking regressive.” She slaps her hands together with force, pure aggression. I wish now that I had had the opportunity to see Ruth in action, in her heyday, on the bench, issuing judgments and taking names. I bet when she was younger, people called her a “spitfire.” I bet that used to piss her off.

  “Back to you, dear,” Ruth says, recovering her composure. She smooths out her pants, a physical act to transition the conversation. “Have you thought about quitting?”


  “Yes and no. I mean, I don’t know what I would do if I quit. It is sort of who I am, if that makes any sense,” I say. “When people ask me about myself, I tell them that I am a lawyer. It’s an identity thing, I guess. I don’t really have anything else.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m a judge, that’s what I say. Even though now I really am just an old lady living in a retirement home. Even though the only thing I judge now is the monthly senior talent show. You know Jack did stand-up a couple of months ago?” Ruth smiles, which rearranges the lines on her face. She inverts her parentheses and transforms commas into apostrophes. The pattern is that of a woman who has no regrets.

  I try to remember Grandpa Jack’s comedy routine, but I can’t think of a single joke. I only hear the rhythm and picture him standing up at the diner, in the narrow aisle between the tables, performing for Andrew and me, as practice. We gave him a standing ovation.

  “Yeah. Ruth, how did you figure out who you wanted to be?” I ask, but this is not exactly what I want to know. What I really want to ask, but don’t, is when I will become who I am supposed to be.

  “I haven’t yet figured out who I want to be, dear,” Ruth says, answering both my questions, and then throws her head back in a hearty, unselfconscious laugh. “I’m not kidding. I haven’t figured it out yet. But don’t tell my daughters that. I lie to them every day. I tell them they will figure it out, with time. To just keep doing what they are doing. But let me let you in on a little secret, because I think you can handle it.” She leans in to whisper in my ear.

  “All parents lie to their children. It’s our duty. But the truth of the matter is, I don’t think many of us know what we are doing. We all walk around much of the time confused and very much alone. Probably how Jack feels right about now.”