by Rita Ciresi
“Listen, Lise,” Dodie said. “I’ve been thinking. I feel bad about what happened between you and this Strauss guy—”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, as I sawed away at the onion. “You didn’t ask to get sick.”
“But I should never have told you,” Dodie said. “I could have hid it, and then you wouldn’t have felt like you were hiding something from him.”
“You did the right thing,” I said. “You told me. And I did the right thing. I told him. He was the one who couldn’t deal.”
I put down the knife for a second to wipe my watery eyes with the back of my hand. Dodie got out the eggs and cracked them against the counter, slowly letting the whites slip into the bowl before the yolks plopped to the bottom. This created a sick sucking sound that made me wince, and I was glad when he got out the egg beater, even if he did use it to goose me.
“Stop harassing me,” I said.
“I’m not the one harassing you, Lise.”
“And forget Strauss.”
“Can you say that with a little more conviction in your voice?” Dodie asked.
A year—or two years—ago, Dodie and I would have gotten drunk or stoned or danced all night in some sleazy club to purge the old boyfriend from my system. Instead, Dodie beat the eggs and dredged the eggplant while I pressed my palm on the dull side of the blade and furiously diced until the onions ceased to look like solid matter and resembled a pool of liquid.
“Lise?”
I bit my lip. “Don’t.”
“No, come on, serious now. This is Dodie Daddy talking.”
“All right. Speak.”
Dodie went into my refrigerator and pulled out a bag of carrots. “My opinion is that if you still love him—and I think you do—you should call him, especially since now you’re to the halfway point. I’m sure you’re negative. Tell him you’ve gotten this second negative. Ask to talk.”
I let out a bleat. “You gotta be kidding,” I said. “I don’t grovel.”
“Who said grovel? The word is compromise.”
“That’s not in my vocabulary. Or his either.”
“Sounds like you were made for each other,” Dodie said. He began to hum as he took up my rusty peeler. I could tell he was playing a game with himself, trying to get the longest possible peel off each stroke of the carrot.
“Why do I have to make the first move?” I asked.
“You’re the woman. You’re the woman, aren’t you?”
I looked down at myself, as if I’d find confirmation of this sitting on my chest. Then I looked at Dodie and said, “How sexist can you get?”
Dodie gave me his best locker-room duh sound. “Gay, but a guy at heart.”
“Fuck guys,” I said. “Gay and straight. Why can’t guys say they’re sorry?”
“Because their pricks will fall off if they even think of the word. And if they said it, they might spontaneously combust.”
I laughed hysterically—much louder than necessary, as Dodie pointed out.
“What’s it to you whether I hook up with him or not?”
“Life is short.”
Ain’t that profound, I felt like saying. But I didn’t. I listened when Dodie told me, “Lise, I want you to be happy—”
“I am happy,” I said. This was no lie—I had always loved being in the kitchen with Dodie, surrounded by a sea of green and orange and yellow vegetables. Moments like this seemed like natural happiness. But such happiness wouldn’t last. As I dumped the onions into the oil—coated frying pan, my hands felt heavy on my wrists when I thought of how lonely I would be after Dodie left my apartment, the emptiness deep and low as the sound a bow drew on the strings of a bass. I had told him, Dodie, I’ll take care of you if you get sick, really sick, and he’d said, You’ve got to be kidding, I wouldn’t inflict that on my worst enemy, I just pray it’s quick when it comes, sometimes I just want it to hit me like lightning, I can’t stand this too much longer, it’s like waking up on death row every morning, and the more I want to live, the more I wish the guards would come and take me away.
Dodie’s presence in my kitchen reminded me it was possible to miss a man even when he stood right beside you. I could stand alone, I thought—but did I want to? I didn’t want to. I tried to make my voice sound casual—flippant, almost—when I asked Dodie, “How would you try to get back together with him? If you were me.”
Dodie perked up. He liked to map out battle plans. “What would he go for? Some kind of sweet talk or something?”
I shook my head.
“Tears?”
“He’s already gotten that.” I put the cutting board in the sink. “Would you call him?”
“No way. Don’t ever do anything important over the phone. This has to be face to face. Keep it professional, maybe, at first. Sling the lingo. Talk about the recent miscommunication between you two—”
I groaned.
“No, seriously. Give him the line about wanting to be a better team player—”
“When and where am I supposed to do this? He asked me not to call him at home—”
“Ask for an appointment at the office.”
“I’d have to go through his secretary.”
Dodie put down the carrot peeler. “Didn’t you say you had a Christmas party coming up?”
I nodded. I grabbed his forearm. “Be my date.”
“No way, girl. You’re going solo. And dancing with him. And pray he doesn’t bring another woman.”
“He never brings another woman,” I said. “I know that for certain.”
Dodie’s eyes sparkled. “ ’Tis the season for forgiveness,” he said, and grabbed my hand. “Show me what you’re going to wear.”
We headed for my closet. After fifteen minutes of bickering, we agreed only on one thing: the next day we’d go shopping.
Chapter Sixteen
She’s Positive He’s Not
Boorman’s holiday party was held on Friday night in the employee cafeteria. It was beginning to snow when I pulled back into the jammed parking lot—more than fashionably late—at 8:00 P.M. Across the rolling lawn burned the yellow lights from the laboratory, ominously sunk into the ground as if it were a nuclear bunker. The guys in R&D were pulling a second shift again. Boorman hadn’t concerned itself with developing an AIDS test. But rumor had it that R&D was madly at work on a new AIDS therapy—something called Compound Q, which was derived from the Chinese cucumber. A good comedian, I was sure, could find some material in that.
Looking at the lab, I was reminded of why Dodie had changed the complexion of my entire investment portfolio. Although he had broken up with Homer, he had kept me in sex toys (claiming that fear would make the market for vibrators and other marital aids absolutely soar). But he also had snapped up stock of corporations that manufactured rubber gloves and condoms and the tightly sealed plastic disposable containers I was starting to see in every doctor’s office, the ones labeled BIOHAZARD. “If something happens to me,” he said, “make sure you stay in this stuff.”
“I don’t want to be in that stuff.”
“Use your head. Somebody’s going to make a mint off this thing.”
“Why me?”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t seem right.”
“So make the money and give it to Mother Teresa. She won’t ask you where you got it.”
The party officially had started at seven. Gussie—who’d been extra nice to me ever since late September, when he hesitantly asked, Lost your shadow? and I only nodded and blew my nose—guarded the back door. When I signed in, he was sampling a pig-in-a-blanket off a paper plate full of hors d’oeuvres. Beside him sat a plastic cup full of foamy sea—green liquid that looked more like Saint Patrick’s Day brew than wassail. Apparently there had been a colossal power struggle on the entertainment committee over how much—if any—alcohol would be served. The squabble was quickly resolved by the CEO, who put his own drunken foot down and said, “Whoever wants to drink can drink, and the
lily—livers who don’t can swill punch.”
“What say, Miss Lisa?” Gussie asked.
“I say: How come you can’t come to the party?”
“Somebody’s got to guard the gates.” He looked over my shoulder into the parking lot. “You got a designated driver tonight?”
“Nope,” I answered, and took off down the hall after promising Gussie I wouldn’t have too much to drink.
The back hallways were hushed except for the buzz of the ventilation fans and the far-off sound of a phone pealing in one of the hotshot’s offices. It was hard to walk in my heels, and it didn’t help that my emerald-green velvet dress hugged my butt tighter than the hands of a lover. The dress was purchased at Saks with Dodie’s approval and my credit card and with the implicit plan of returning it the day after the party. Inside the right sleeve was pinned the price tag. Tucked inside the underarms were pads to absorb sweat. Whatever I did, I couldn’t spill on this dress, or else I would have to shell out four hundred dollars for three hours’ worth of looking like a knockout.
When I took off my coat in the crowded cloakroom, I noted I was a victim of static cling. I smoothed my skirt down my thighs and took a deep breath before I made my grand entrance. At the double doors where employees usually lined up to grab their plastic turquoise trays and bent silverware, a short receiving line had formed. I peered into the cafeteria. The fluorescent lights, kept off for this event in favor of hurricane candles, were festooned with holly berries, ivy, and mistletoe. Tinsel icicles glittered down from the bulletin board that usually displayed the thermometer gauging the company’s contributions to United Way, announcements that Maryann in Marketing was selling Girl Scout cookies for her daughter, and Bob in sales was looking to sacrifice a complete cherry-wood dining-room set for only $600. Gone were the proud proclamations that Boorman was an Equal Opportunity Employer and that sexual harassment was illegal and would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. They had been replaced by a multicolored glitter banner that sparked Noel, Noel!
A huge evergreen, glimmering with rainbow-colored lights, had been erected on the tile floor where the salad bar usually reigned. The tables were covered with green paper, the swinging doors were gift-wrapped in boldly striped foil and brazen red bows, and the only parts of the cafeteria not transformed into some kind of evocation of the winter-wonderland theme were the dull tile floor and the stark orange plastic chairs, which violently clashed with all the red and green decorations.
Although the affair was billed—with characteristic corporate attempts at cultural sensitivity—as a holiday party, this doo-rah clearly was nothing more than a Christmas celebration, which gave the few non-Christians at Boorman (a handful of Jews, some Muslims and Hindus and probably even a few Buddhists, all scientists in R&D) a convenient excuse to boycott this event. As I stood on line to shake the hand of the cheesy CEO and his wife—who were dressed in Barney’s best with his-and-hers Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus hats cocked jauntily on their heads—I thanked God that Strauss, as part of top management, could never weasel his way out of showing his face at this fiesta.
I wondered how it felt to be Jewish at a Christmas party. I imagined it was a little like being the only white girl on the basketball court at Roger Sherman High, knowing no one was going to throw me the ball, but loping up and down from basket to basket like a useless dope anyway, because if I got lower than a C in gym I’d lose whatever slim chance I already had of getting a full college scholarship. Then I imagined it was the way Dodie felt at Carol’s wedding, his eyes stubbornly lowered toward his melting spumoni, as the deejay goaded all eligible bachelors onto the dance floor.
I felt the price tag on my dress inching forward as I shook the CEO’s hand. I gave him a gracious smile and adjusted my cuff. The moment I was free of the receiving line I spotted Strauss far across the room. I smiled again—until I saw on his elbow the hand of an unknown blonde in a blue mandarin—collar dress, who hovered next to him like a bee honing in on pollen.
I, too, could be beelike. I buzzed for a table at the opposite corner of the room, where I joined the Editorial division and the art-shop designers. I smiled and laughed and met all my coworkers’ spouses and significant others, whose names I forgot the moment they were spoken.
“We’re taking bets on how much you’re going to eat tonight, Lisa.”
“Save it for the bingo hall,” I said, because I was determined not to eat—or drink—anything. I made up my mind I would stick this party out for an hour—not only to fulfill the minimum face-time requirements, but also to avoid having to explain my abrupt departure to Gussie. Of course, I could have steered clear of the security guard altogether by sneaking out the front doors, which had to be unlocked from the inside because of fire regulations. But it was a real hike from the front of headquarters to the parking lot, a walk I wasn’t eager to make in the snow considering I had on three-inch stilettos.
After a few discreet glances across the room I was able to discern 1) Strauss’s date had a good ten years on me, 2) that was blond out of the bottle, thank you very much, 3) my butt was in vastly better shape than hers, and 4) her flimsy rayon dress closed up the back with absurd frog buttons that would be more appropriate on a Chinatown quilted jacket. I felt like marching right up to her and pointing out something I was sure she hadn’t noticed: Strauss’s big hands and thick fingers. “En garde,” I’d confide in her. “He went to Harvard, but he can’t handle a bra hook. It’ll probably take him half an hour to get you out of that outfit.”
Then I felt a tightness in my chest—a breathlessness that mimicked a heart attack—as I remembered that pale pink chemise flying through the air like a silken parachute across the bed, and Strauss saying, Wear this? For me?
What I wouldn’t wear—what I wouldn’t take off—for him. But why was love so demented? I sat there and told myself, Right, Lise, this is what your life’s come down to—trying but not even succeeding at seducing a man whose parents call him Ibby, a man who actually put on a tie to go out to dinner, a man who was old enough to wank himself blind before you even were born, a man who makes you feel ashamed of where you come from and who you are and who holds you responsible for things you did before you knew enough to put that self destructive shit behind you. And he’s your boss. He’s still your boss. Are you crazy?
Waiters circulated with trays. I declined all offers of drink. Not a smidgen of food—the bacon-wrapped scallops, the spanakopita, the honey-mustard chicken on a stick—passed my lips. My butt was glued to my chair. I made distracted conversation with the person on my right, then the person on my left. But all the while my mind was on Strauss’s date. I was sure he met her flying first-class to Indianapolis. I was sure she was a stewardess—oh, pardon me!—flight attendant. I was sure she smiled a crinkly lipsticked grin as she offered him a blanket and a pillow and paper slippers for his little tootsies. She probably fetched him magazines and drinks and brushed him with her breasts as she leaned over to refill his cup with tepid black coffee. If you pressed her belly button she’d probably open her mouth like a Chatty Cathy doll and repeat the lines I had come to memorize not through my own extensive air-travel experience (I’d only been on a plane once in my life, to visit Key West with Dodie) but by watching too many made-for-TV movies: All seats and tray tables must be in the forward position. In the unlikely event of a water landing …
With my back carefully turned toward Strauss (who was obliged to work the room and circulate), I smiled and laughed some more and told a few dumb Ronald Reagan jokes to a spouse after carefully determining he didn’t vote Republican. When Karen showed up with her family, I called the baby she instead of he, emitted the requisite oohs and aahs, and then told Karen everything was under control at the office, so she could rest easy. An older woman from Accounts Receivable told me, “Wait ’til you have your own baby, honey—you’ll find out you don’t get any rest whatsoever!” This remark sent me over to the next table, which should have had a sign over it saying SINGLES ONL
Y. I hovered in the corner with the rest of the girls from the Editorial department, finally giving in to boredom enough to sip some mulled wine, but not enough to actually eat a cheese puff or a blackened shrimp or a dainty cucumber sandwich. Soon, canned music began playing through the audio system. I hoped the cleared-out space in the back of the cafeteria was not reserved for dancing, because never in my life had I felt so utterly depressed about not having a partner.
My misery was heightened by the forced jollity of the talk. I felt like the only person on the planet who did not spend December making gingerbread and fudge, combing the malls for hours in quest of the perfect present for her sister or brother, and relishing the thought of spending the holidays at the warmth of their family hearth. I planned to drive home on Christmas Eve and try not to complain to my mother about the stink of the smelts she always served the night before Christmas. I planned to attend midnight mass and sleep as late as I could until the wailing of Junior—a boy as stocky and belligerent as Al Dante—woke me. Then I planned on going downstairs and eating one very select Whitman chocolate from the box my mother always splurged and purchased every Christmas, and drinking a pot of coffee to get me through the rest of the day, until I went back to Ossining that night, probably after fighting with both my mother and Carol and exchanging a few harsh words with Auntie Beppina, who always had held a grudge against me because Dodie was gay—as if it were my duty to straighten him out.
The sour singing of Mel Torme—and just the thought of all the MSG in the hors d’oeuvres—made my head pound. I’d never seen so many glittering angora sweaters, gold-lamé tops, jingle-bell necklaces, and Jolly Old Saint Nicholas earrings gathered under one roof in my life. But I couldn’t cut out too early. Although roll hadn’t been taken, every employee’s business card had been put into a clear plastic container exactly like the revolving drum used at catechism bingo. An hour after I got there, the CEO stepped up to the microphone to begin a drawing for door prizes. The announced purpose of this: to show Boorman’s appreciation of our hard work throughout the year. The real purpose: to humiliate those who had the good sense to stay home. I had to stay. It would not have been good politics to have the by-now bourbon-bombed CEO pull my business card and announce my name over and over again until it was apparent that I had not shown up to claim the cheesecake or the complimentary movie tickets or the vouchers for two dinners at the most exclusive seafood restaurant in town.