Forks, Knives, and Spoons

by Leah DeCesare

  The next day, Amy and Andrew wove through the New England roads past stone walls and drying fields. The First Congregational Church of Litchfield looked like a postcard with its white clapboard siding against the last of November’s golden and red leaves. The bell in the clock-adorned steeple rang out eleven times, triggering a sentimental weepiness in Amy. On the stone path in front of the church, she snuggled herself into Andrew’s side. Their fingers interlaced while they chatted with a group of Owen’s friends and their dates; the only one Amy had met was Patty.

  “So Owen’s the first one to crash and burn,” one joked, his girlfriend lightly poking his side with her elbow.

  “Wonder if he’ll ever be allowed to come out anymore.”

  “Not once the ring is on. Then it’ll be ‘honey, this’ and ‘honey, that.’”

  Amy glanced around the cluster, a wrinkle between her eyebrows as Andrew said nothing and laughed along with the guys. The girls all smiled unobtrusively. Each one exempted herself, believing her guy wouldn’t assume these things about their relationship. Amy wanted to speak up but suppressed the desire.

  “No more late nights with the boys for the Owe-ster. He’ll be all, like, ‘No can do, fellas.’”

  “All bets are off now. He’s whipped and we’ve lost him.”

  Words and emotions were bubbling in Amy’s stomach, something in their joking felt personal to her. Their jabs at marriage struck her heart and urged her to protect what she believed.

  “Are you all kidding me?” she blurted. “Holly is a sweet girl; she’s not a jailer. Owen is happy and wants to be married.” She saw the stunned faces around her, and she felt Andrew subtly lean away from her, but still she couldn’t stop herself. “Being married isn’t some punishment, it’s a partnership, a forever friendship. Clearly he is the most mature of all of you.”

  Amy punctuated her rant with her hands, gesturing higher and higher as she spoke. The women looked at Amy with admiration in their eyes while they stepped closer to their dates, distancing themselves from her as Andrew had. In the silence, Amy took a deep breath, shocked at her own boldness, and observed the blank faces until Kyle broke the stillness.

  “The great marriage defender. Boy, you’re in for it, Andrew,” he muttered.

  “Lay off, Kyle,” Matt said, glancing at Amy.

  She looked at him with gratitude and turned to Andrew, willing him to chime in, to support her and stand up to these guys. He stood beside her like a sculpture as she implored him with her eyes.

  “Oh, right,” he murmured, then spoke louder. “Amy’s right, I mean, Owen’s happy and we should just be happy for him.”

  Smiles crept into the guys’ faces, but no one dared speak what he was thinking.

  Amy let her lips part and then pulled them taut. She wanted to run away from the church, away from these people, away from Andrew, but her feet stuck to the path beneath them as her eyes burned with threatened tears.

  “We’d better get inside,” Andrew said. “Come on, Amy.” He took her hand in a demonstration of his masculinity and led her up the steps where ushers escorted them down the main aisle of the church.

  Amy sat in the pew with an erect posture. Tension tightened her shoulders and jaw, and a sadness rested in her throat, even as Holly glided down the aisle on her father’s arm. Amy pictured herself making that walk with her dad, but for the first time in years, with anger in her eyes, the end of the aisle was blurry.

  Owen stood in his tuxedo, his clasped hands in front of him and his eyes fixed on Holly. Love painted his face. Amy’s jaw softened in a smile, and Andrew lay his hand, palm open, on her lap. An offering. She paused then reluctantly placed her palm on his. He aligned each of his fingertips with hers, and Amy felt their pulses join as Holly repeated the words the minister recited.

  “I, Holly, take you, Owen, to be my husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do us part.”

  Amy dabbed at her eyes, adding another balled-up tissue to her fist. Emotions ricocheted through her and she couldn’t help visualizing herself in Holly’s white lacy shoes. She imagined standing at the altar of her family’s church on Main Street, the one where her parents had gotten married, and where she had been baptized only weeks before her mother’s death. She envisioned the pews filled with familiar faces of people who loved her, she saw her dad, and, as her indignation dissolved, she also saw Andrew’s parents sitting across the aisle. Their fathers with coral roses in their buttonholes, Mrs. Gabel in cornflower blue.

  She squeezed Andrew’s hand when the minister spoke words she agreed with, and Andrew returned each with a reciprocal squeeze. As they stood for the benediction, Andrew nuzzled his nose into Amy’s pin-straight hair and whispered, “I’m sorry for the guys. I love you, Aim.”

  Amy dabbed her eyes, hearing his words and what was missing from them.

  THE SUNDAY MORNING SUN smiled into Amy’s face before she was ready to greet it. She rolled over in the four-poster bed at the Litchfield Inn and pulled a pillow over her head. Andrew lifted the feather pillow and kissed her. “You need to get up, it’s already nine thirty.”

  “Mmm,” she said, pinching her eyes closed. She felt him kiss her head again, then sit on the edge of the bed. Peeking from beneath the white linens, she was happy that her first sight of the day was his muscled, naked back. “Mmm,” she said again with new meaning.

  “We’re supposed to meet everyone for brunch downstairs,” Andrew said, slipping on pants and brushing his damp hair with his fingers.

  Amy hopped off the side of the high bed and headed to the steamy bathroom.

  “Did you agree with what those guys were saying before at the church?” she asked with a toothbrush dangling from her mouth.

  “Spit, I can’t understand you.”

  Rolling her eyes, she spat and repeated herself, then continued. “Why do they have to be so negative about marriage? Do you feel like that, too?”

  Andrew threw his things into his bag. “I don’t know why you had to get all sensitive about that yesterday. The guys were just being guys. We’re young and they were just horsing around. No one meant anything by it and you freaked out.”

  “Freaked out?” Amy clenched her toothbrush in her fist. “So, you think it’s no big deal to act like once a woman gets married she becomes this, this different person who traps her man against his will? Do you ever even want to get married? Or do you think I’ll ruin your life if we do?”

  Andrew sighed heavily and sat on the ottoman, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re reading too much into this. Of course I don’t think that. You know I love you and someday I’d like to get married. I’m not ready now, but someday I want to.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Is that what this is all about? Do you want to get married? I saw the way you looked at the ceremony.”

  Amy released a puff of air through her lips. “No, that’s not what this is about. Of course I want to get married, but I’m in no rush. I was offended by the guys’ comments. They were rude, and not just to Holly, who’s really great, but to all women.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a feminist?”

  “What? Just forget it.” Amy closed herself in the tiny white bathroom.

  It seemed like too long before he tapped on the bathroom door.

  “Please come out, I don’t like arguing with you.”

  When she answered only with a sniffle, he continued. “I’ve never seen you like this before—what’s going on? We never fight.”

  Amy dabbed her face with water and let it gurgle in the sink. Maybe we never fight because I don’t speak up about what I’m feeling. Do I do that? Do I stand up for myself? Amy asked herself the prying questions she would ask on the job before tentatively opening the door, leaving them unanswered. Andrew stood with his bag on his shoulder, waiting for her to emerge.

  “I love you. You know I love you.” He pulled her to him and stroked
her hair.

  Amy hiccuped. She stood in his embrace, her arms caught between their chests, leaving a gap.

  “I don’t feel like you get me,” she said. “It feels lonely to be misunderstood.

  THE RENTED POCONOS LAKE house where they were spending New Year’s Eve weekend was large and contemporary, with wide-open spaces and five bedrooms, each furnished with pairs of beds. Everyone claimed rooms with their bags; Veronica and Joey were sharing a room with Amy and Andrew. Friends of friends piled in and prepared to make memories with new acquaintances and longtime pals.

  Cases of beer chilled on the deck and plates of cheese and crackers, celery and carrots, potato chips and onion dip, lined the counters and coffee tables. A group crowded around the dining room table in a lively game of Scattergories, and laughter was punctuated by the sound of billiard balls crashing together in the TV room.

  Sitting on the stone hearth by the fire, Veronica took in the scene of friends new and old, glad that with all the drinking everyone was safe inside for the long weekend. She sipped and looked around: Andrew leaning across the pool table to make a shot, Owen handing Amy another beer, Andrew leaving his game to kiss Amy, Matt noticing Andrew kissing Amy.

  “What are you doing alone over here?” Joey sat next to her.

  “It’s like I’m watching a movie. A romance. You see how Andrew is so attentive to Amy?”

  “Been noticing since we left the city.”

  “Ever since that tiff they had at Owen’s wedding, he’s been the perfect boyfriend.”

  “Well, perfect is his thing.” Joey smirked. “What are they doing up there?” From their seats at the fireplace, they could see the upstairs sitting area through the railing.

  “Strip Scrabble. Looks like that guy Stanley’s not doing too well. Tipsy and down to his underwear and slippers.” They could see his fluffy slippers with the Syracuse mascot, Otto the Orange, popping from the toes like stuffed animal heads.

  “Oh, crap, what’s he doing now? Dude, Stanley, don’t do that!” Joey called, getting to his feet.

  Stanley had climbed over the railing and was trying to balance and walk across an exposed beam. “Dude, get down!” Joey called, running toward the stairs. Pool balls cracked together, U2 blasted through the open house, and no one seemed to notice what was happening above them. The other strip Scrabble players—Holly’s friends Josie, Emily, and Marcus—were standing in various stages of undress, trying to prod Stanley off the ledge. Joey ran up the stairs, and as Stanley started to let go and teeter onto the beam, Marcus and Joey each clasped an armpit and lifted him like a drunken rag doll over the rail to safety.

  “Thanks, man,” Marcus said to Joey. “He’s a good guy, but always been a bit of an idiot when he drinks.”

  “I’m sure Amy’s got a utensil for that,” Joey said to Veronica, who had followed him.

  The Scrabblers put on their clothes and joined the party downstairs with Joey and Veronica. Amy rolled herself away from the card table and across the wood floor on a cushioned chair to put her empty can on the kitchen counter. Andrew grabbed her a new one and sent her wheeling back to the table, where Owen caught her before she crashed. She squealed, full of delight like a toddler on a swing. Back at the table, she tried to keep a straight face as she called Matt’s bluff: “Bullshit!”

  Matt threw down his cards, laughing at being snagged.

  “She got you!” Patty kissed his cheek and left his side while the dealer started shuffling the cards.

  From the edges, Joey said, “You’d never be able to play Bullshit; it requires lying.”

  Veronica smiled, nestling into his arms as they watched poker faces and people hiding cards.

  Hours later, Owen yelled, “Come on, everyone! It’s almost midnight,” and they all congregated around the TV.

  “Who played tonight?”

  “The Village People and Barry Manilow.”

  “And I think Slaughter was supposed to be there, too.”

  “What’s Tori Spelling wearing? She’s got more twinkles than the ball.”

  Couples sought their other halves and sorted themselves around the room as the countdown clock ticked away the time until 1993. Andrew scooped Amy onto his lap and nuzzled into her. Veronica could tell Amy had drank too much and left to get her a bottle of water. “Thanks, V,” she slurred as she gulped it down.

  “Should we be worried about her?” Joey asked.

  “She’ll be okay. She usually throws up when she drinks too much, then she’s better.”

  “We’re sharing a bathroom with her.” Joey raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s okay, I’ll take care of her, or Matt will.”

  “You mean Andrew?”

  She shook her head. “In school, whenever Amy got a little drunk, it seemed like it was either me or Matt holding back her hair, wiping her face, and making sure she was okay. Andrew was usually still off partying.”

  “Nice.”

  “When you’re the life of the party, duty calls. But you know he’s a good guy, even perfect boyfriends have their flaws.”

  “Ten! Nine!”

  “Would you be including me in that assessment?”

  “Six! Five! Four!”

  Veronica smiled at him and joined in the countdown: “Three! Two! One!”

  “Happy New Year, Joey.” She fell into his kiss and the room around them melted away.

  As the early hours of 1993 crept in, people found their way to beds, couches, and corners. The TV droned behind quiet conversations and one couple’s tearful argument. The dramatics drifted upstairs, mixing with metered snoring and stifled whispers. Snuggled in bed beside Joey, Veronica heard Amy noisily tiptoe into their room followed by Andrew, then the familiar sounds of her nighttime routine in their shared bathroom.

  “Is she brushing her teeth?” Joey whispered to Veronica.

  She laughed, no longer surprised by her friend’s compulsion despite her drunkenness.

  “Her teeth will be sparkling but her clothes will be in a heap on the floor.”

  The water shut off and they could hear the slapping sound of Amy’s feet stumbling against the tile floor. Then it started. Amy was getting sick, and Veronica leaped out of bed to help her friend. From the darkness, she saw a white hand stretch out in front of her and she screamed.

  “Oh, sorry, Veronica, it’s me. I’ve got her.” Andrew had been feeling his way to Amy’s side, too. Veronica stepped back and let him go to her.

  From the bed, she heard Andrew’s soothing voice comforting her: “It’s okay, Aim, I got you. I’ve got your hair, it’s okay.”

  After a few moments, Andrew flushed the toilet. “Let me wash your face. Don’t drink any water. You’re brushing again? Okay, here.” He was patient and sweet with her, and Veronica smiled, pulling the sheets under her chin and cuddling into Joey.

  In the dark, she watched Amy’s figure shuffle back into the room with Andrew guiding her to bed. He tucked her in, then rounded the bed and climbed in beside her.

  Veronica heard Amy’s loud whisper before she went still. Andrew must have heard, too, because even with her mumble, her words were clear: “Thank you, Matt.”

  1993–1994

  FORKS IN THE ROAD

  “GO AHEAD, OPEN IT,” Andrew encouraged. “I told you I’d never forget Valentine’s Day again.” He grinned proudly.

  “But it’s past Valentine’s Day, it’s practically Easter.”

  “Well, I didn’t forget Valentine’s Day, did I?”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “Just open the present.” Andrew was smiling like a child and tapping his toes impatiently.

  The small box was wrapped clumsily in cream paper speckled with pink dots. Amy’s stomach fluttered as she turned the box over to untie the ribbon and untape the seam. He had tried his best and his effort was more attractive to her than if some lady at the store had wrapped it flawlessly. Andrew wasn’t a gift-giver; she had accepted that over the years, and when he did get
her something it meant even more for its scarcity. She smiled into his green-gray eyes, those happy eyes that she felt could see into her. The paper tore as she peeled off the three pieces of tape sealing the backside. Maybe this was it, the small box she’d been waiting for, hoping for, dreaming of. But it’s just an ordinary day in his ordinary apartment. This is an odd way to propose, she thought.

  “Oh, just open it, Aim. Rip into the paper,” Andrew teased, and leaned forward from the edge of the leather couch in his Upper East Side apartment.

  “I like taking my time with presents, and you know I like to save paper from the special ones. You’re making me think this is a special one.”

  Andrew smiled widely, nodding. “Come on, open it,” he pleaded.

  Amy unfastened the sides and pulled out a heavy-duty cardboard box. The top was imprinted with the Lord & Taylor signature and red rose logo.

  “Oh, it’s not from Lord & Taylor, I just used the box from there,” he preempted as she jiggled the lid off.

  The flutters in Amy’s heart flew into her stomach when she peered inside. It was shiny and golden, resting on the fluffy foam square, but it was not at all what she had expected. It hung from a chain made of tiny silver beads. A key.

  Amy’s mouth hung open. “I, uh . . .”

  “You’re surprised! That’s just what I’d hoped!” Andrew pulled her into a hug. “You’ll move in with me, won’t you? It’ll be great to live together, Aim, and so much easier for us. You can rearrange and redecorate stuff if you want to, so it feels like your place, too.”

  Amy nodded, her head bobbing like a metronome to a silent beat, unable to speak.

  VERONICA SAT CROSS-LEGGED AT the end of Amy’s bed. “Wait, so this is his idea of the next step after going out four and a half years?”

  “I don’t know, it was a month ago we had that big talk. Maybe he thought moving in together was what I meant.”

  Veronica watched Amy stroke the BELIEVE stone, thinking this must be the big decision Train Santa had prophesied.

  “You’re a reporter, you specifically talked to him about getting married,” she prodded. “It was a month ago, but you’ve recounted that talk over and over, analyzing it up and down and backward. You discussed getting married, right?”