Younger

by Pamela Redmond Satran

  Diana laughed uneasily. “I’m taking the weekend off, and I spent the night in town,” she said. “With a friend.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

  I liked thinking of her in a place with electricity and a toilet and no lions prowling nearby.

  “Mom,” she said. “I have to tell you something.”

  I held my breath. She sounded nervous, as if I wasn’t going to like what she had to say. But she’d already dropped out of school and gone halfway around the world. What could she possibly have to say that was going to make me feel worse?

  “I’ve decided to stay here,” she said in a rush. “At least until the spring.”

  “Oh,” I said, relief flooding out of me. “That’s great.”

  “That’s great?” she said. “I thought you’d be mad.”

  “Why would I be mad?”

  “The whole time I’ve been here, you’ve been pressuring me about when I was going to come back. At New Year’s, when I told you I was staying longer, you sounded so crushed.”

  And so I had. But now, intoxicated with my own experience of adventure and novelty, I felt only ashamed that I’d leaned on her like that. She was at a time in her life where she should be going out in the world and doing what she wanted, for as long as she wanted, without any sense of obligation to come home and keep me company. I didn’t want her to wait twenty years, as I had, to get a taste of this kind of freedom.

  Plus, now that I’d claimed it for myself, renting out the family nest and making myself a new young secret—at least from my daughter—life, I wasn’t ready to hand it back.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry for that. I see now how unfair that was. You’re doing this really amazing, adventurous thing, and I think you should make the most of it.”

  There was a silence so long I finally said, “Diana?” worried that we’d lost our connection.

  “I’m here,” she said. “I just can’t believe you mean that.”

  “I do,” I said firmly. “In fact, I think it makes sense, since you’ve gone through all the hard work of getting acclimated over there, to stay as long as you’re able.”

  Another long pause, and then she said, “Really?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  I looked out the open door of the tent to see Maggie, still reclining on the chaise, but pointing at her Dale Evans watch and mouthing something frantic-looking to me.

  “Listen, sweetheart,” I said, “I have to run now, but you have a wonderful weekend, okay?”

  “Where are you going?” Diana asked.

  “To a dinner party here in the city,” I said.

  “How’s everything going there?”

  “Great,” I said, with what I instantly feared might be too much fervor. “I’ll e-mail you. And really, don’t worry about rushing back. The house is rented out for at least a couple of months. Stay as long as you want.”

  And then felt guilty, as soon as I hung up, that it sounded like I didn’t want her to come home. Of course I want her to come home, I reassured myself, just not quite yet. Not quite yet.

  When I finally arrived, huffing and puffing and shiny with sweat from running down the five flights of stairs from Maggie’s apartment, through the streets of the Lower East Side to the Second Avenue subway stop, and then eleven blocks up Madison Avenue to Thad’s apartment building, Josh was already waiting for me, leaning against its imposing limestone facade. Looking adorable. Wearing torn jeans.

  “Oh,” I panted, looking at the skin of his knee poking through the denim.

  “Oh,” he said, taking in the black satin pants and black lace blouse and black velvet peacoat I wore, along with a long emerald velvet scarf wound around my neck. On my feet, in anticipation of the long run ahead, I’d worn boots, but I held red satin high-heeled mules in my right hand, a bottle of champagne, now extra-extra-bubbly, in my left.

  “You look amazing,” he said. “Maybe I should go home. Put on a suit.”

  “Hmmmm,” I said.

  “Except I gave all my suits and ties to this group that helps inner-city kids get corporate internships.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve still got the navy blazer my mom bought me in high school,” he said. “I could wear that.”

  “Oh?”

  “But I guess it would take me a while to get out to Brooklyn and back.”

  “How long?”

  “Maybe”—he cast his eyes toward the dark winter sky, calculating—“an hour and a half.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told him, taking his arm and suddenly wishing I’d taken Maggie’s advice and worn jeans myself. “I don’t think this is going to be your kind of thing anyway. I’m just happy you said you’d come.”

  “I’m happy,” he said, “because I’m here with you.”

  He was taller than I remembered. As we stood in the lobby of Thad’s building, waiting for the elevator, he pulled off his stocking cap, and I felt like running my fingers through his hair. He smiled down at me, and I found myself tongue-tied. Small talk seemed impossible; if I opened my mouth, I felt, I’d start pouring out my heart.

  I was relieved to see, when the door opened, that we were the first guests to arrive and that Lindsay was dressed up in something shiny in her usual black, and Thad wasn’t—though for Thad that meant he was wearing crested velvet lounging slippers instead of shoes, and a cashmere cardigan instead of a jacket. But at least he was well mannered enough not to comment on Josh’s jeans and T-shirt, instead taking his worn leather jacket and offering him a martini. I was relieved when Josh accepted, and then further relieved when Thad’s face broke into a smile as Josh specified straight up, with olives, and gin rather than vodka.

  “I never did understand this vodka nonsense myself,” Thad said to Josh, ignoring me after issuing his standard hello peck on the cheek. “I thought Lindsay would have everything ready in time for the girls to sit down and have a drink with us, but apparently there’s some high-level brouhaha in the kitchen, so you’ll have to make do with just me for company until the others arrive.”

  I figured that since, in Thad’s view, I didn’t exist, I was free to leave Josh with a little wave and follow Lindsay into the kitchen. Actually, I didn’t quite have a chance to follow her in there: as soon as the guys were out of sight, she grabbed my arm and yanked me into the tiny stainless steel space.

  “He’s so hot!” she whispered, presumably referring to Josh, not Thad. “Is he, like, some kind of rock star?”

  Why would Lindsay think Josh was a rock star? But more urgently, why was every surface of the kitchen covered in debris? There were grocery bags strewn across the counters with food spilling out of them. A dozen tiny plates held a dozen tiny mountains of chopped somethings—onions, mushrooms, parsley. And why did nothing seem to be actually cooking?

  “How’s it going in here?” I asked.

  “Awesome!” Lindsay chirped. “I guess. I mean, I thought everything was under control.” She looked around the kitchen, seeming to notice the jumble of uncooked food for the first time. “But now, I’m not sure—”

  And then she burst into tears. I was stunned to see Lindsay, who’d always presented herself as being in utmost control of everything from her job and her relationship to her pubic hair, lose it so instantly and completely.

  “Sssssh,” I soothed, moving in, awkwardly at first, but then enfolding the girl in my arms, as I had done countless times with Diana. “It’ll be okay.”

  “I can’t do it,” Lindsay sobbed. “It’s a disaster. Thad is going to leave me.”

  If only it were that easy, I thought, but what I said was, “Don’t be silly, sweetie. I’ll help you. What do we have to do?”

  Lindsay looked wildly around the room, like a racehorse panicking at finding herself in the starting gate. “I don’t know,” she wailed. “Everything!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Dinner will be on the table in no time. But first things first.”

>   I ducked out of the tiny kitchen and snagged the bottle of Bombay Sapphire that Thad had left open on the antique sideboard in his dining room, pausing for a moment to marvel that he had a dining room. He probably considered that more essential than a kitchen. Pouring a healthy measure in each of two crystal glasses, I moved back into the kitchen and handed one to Lindsay.

  “What’s this?” Lindsay said.

  “This is courage,” I said, raising her glass as if in a toast. “This is nerve. Now drink up.”

  I heard Lindsay sputter as the gin hit her tongue, but I had no problem swallowing my own mouthful. The taste of it was so redolent of a thousand suburban dinner parties that it seemed almost like the magic potion that would transform me back into Super Housewife.

  “Okay,” I said, noting with satisfaction that Lindsay had managed to drain her glass as well. “What are we having?”

  “Caesar salad,” Lindsay said. “Oh, fuck, I forgot to make the croutons. And pasta. Pasta something or other, with lots of chopped vegetables. The recipe is on the counter there, somewhere under the bags.”

  Looking at all the ingredients in such disarray made even me feel overwhelmed.

  “Did you consider just making a roast?” I asked.

  Lindsay looked horrified. “Oh, no,” she said. “Thad might have liked it, but I’m vegan. And there’s at least one other vegetarian, a nondairy, and a raw foodist coming tonight, though he’s eating at home before.”

  The doorbell rang, sending Lindsay back into panic mode.

  “You should be out there with what’s-his-name, your rock star,” said Lindsay. “I’m supposed to be taking care of this.”

  “Nonsense,” I told her. “You’re the hostess. Your job isn’t to be a maid or a chef, it’s to make your guests feel comfortable.”

  Lindsay looked intrigued, if still doubtful.

  “Seriously,” I reassured her. “Here. Let’s pull some hors d’oeuvres together. Do you have any cheese? Good—your nondairy person can just eat around it. Here, throw some nuts in this bowl. Okay, now take that out and say hello to everyone, and whatever you do, act like everything’s all right.”

  “What will I say if Thad asks me when dinner’s going to be ready?”

  “Pretend you didn’t hear him and suggest he pour everybody another drink.”

  “But an article I read in Bon Appétit said—,” Lindsay began.

  “Just do it.”

  As soon as Lindsay wafted out of the kitchen, I set to work unpacking the bags, lining up the ingredients, tearing up lettuce, and putting a big pot of water on to boil. This shouldn’t take long, as soon as I got everything organized. Back in Homewood, I threw parties for a hundred three or four times a year, and got so practiced I could pull the whole thing together in less than twenty-four hours.

  By the time Lindsay returned, the ingredients were lined up along the backsplash in order of when they needed to be cooked, the countertops were cleared and wiped clean, the lettuce was washed and nestled, wrapped in paper towels, in a salad bowl, and three enormous cloves of garlic were soaking, smashed and covered in kosher salt, in a bath of olive oil for the Caesar dressing.

  “How did you do this?” Lindsay asked, her mouth open.

  “It just took a little tidying up. The only thing I couldn’t find was the dessert.”

  “Oh, no,” said Lindsay. “I knew I forgot something.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll call down to that deli on the corner and get them to send up eight packages of Hostess cupcakes. Everybody will love it. How’s it going out there?”

  “Great.” Lindsay grinned. “Thad is already on his third martini, and Josh said everything smelled great.”

  I laughed. “The power of suggestion. Okay, let’s get busy.”

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d been missing this kind of thing in the time since Gary had been gone. I’d tried once or twice to throw dinner parties in Homewood on my own, but all our old regular guests had seemed uncomfortable coming to a party with no Gary, even though when Gary was there, all he did was sit at the head of the table looking as if he’d rather be watching TV.

  But I loved cooking, I remembered as I sliced and sautéed and stirred, especially cooking for a crowd, on a deadline, with the sound of laughter rising from the next room.

  “Where did you learn to cook like this?” Lindsay asked, as she darted around, acting as my sous-chef.

  “I know it might seem hard to believe,” I said, not letting her see my smile, “but I learned to cook in New Jersey.”

  As the work neared its crescendo, I sent Lindsay out to set the table and reveled in spending the final moments in the kitchen alone, tossing the salad and running the bread under the broiler for just long enough to make me faint with the aroma of hot buttered garlic.

  “Now it really does smell awesome.”

  Josh was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  I shot him a smile. “The secret ingredient is always garlic.”

  “I’ll eat it if you will,” he said.

  “You have to eat it because I already have.”

  “Let me taste,” he said, moving toward me.

  And then before I had a chance to actually respond, his lips were on mine, the tip of his tongue flicking out to taste me.

  “Mmmmm,” he said. “Definitely delicious.”

  My whole body flamed. Oh, God, perfect time to have my first hot flash.

  “Go tell your buddy Thad,” I said, “it’s time to sit down.”

  If Lindsay was worried about Thad questioning her role in preparing the dinner, she needn’t have been: he accepted the appearance of the food as nonchalantly as if it sprang fully prepared, all by itself, from his stove every night. The other guests gushed about how delicious the food was, and I insisted that Lindsay take all the credit.

  Thad held forth at the table, ignoring not only me but all the other women there, addressing his comments to the men, especially Josh. Yet Josh made a point of redirecting every one of Thad’s questions and remarks toward one of the women at the table. “I don’t know,” he’d say. “What do you think of the Supreme Court decision, Lindsay?” Or Alice or Liz or Sarah, the other two women who were there. “Interesting, Thad—I’d love to hear Alice’s take on that.”

  He even tried to help Lindsay and me clear the table when we were done eating, but Thad stopped him—I actually thought Thad might throw himself bodily across the path of Josh’s hand as he reached for a dirty teaspoon. For what I hoped was the last time in my life, I found myself supporting Thad.

  “Go ahead,” I told Josh. “I’m just going to give Lindsay a hand, and then we can leave.”

  But after one pass over the table, I realized I was working alone. As I moved around the table clearing the last of the wineglasses, I heard Thad droning on in the living room and caught sight of Lindsay perched on his lap.

  Screw it. I’d been intending to tie on an apron and begin loading the dishwasher, but then I told myself, Stop being such a mommy. Anybody can do dishes. Even Thad.

  I went into the living room and laid a hand on Josh’s shoulder.

  “It’s time to go,” I said.

  Thad looked up in surprise. “I’m just finishing up a story about when I was publisher of the Crimson,” he said, opening his mouth to resume his speech.

  “Sorry,” Josh said, standing up and putting one arm around me, at the same time extending his right hand. “Great night. Thank you.”

  God, he was smooth. If he ever wanted to get rid of me, I’d be cut loose before I even saw the glint of the knife.

  Out on the street, Josh slipped his hands inside my coat and pulled me close. At first I was nervous, thinking of what I’d thought when he so adroitly extricated us from the clutches of Thad. Then I was nervous, thinking about what might lie ahead tonight. And then finally I let myself relax against him, resting my head against his chest, unsure if what I heard was the beating of his heart or my own.

  When at last I looked up at him, h
e said, “Thank you for introducing me to your friends.”

  “Thad is not my friend.”

  Josh laughed. “That’s who I was afraid of becoming.”

  “You’re nothing like him.”

  “It can happen so easily,” said Josh. “You don’t even realize it, and suddenly you’re this stodgy prick.”

  He was right. That had happened to Gary. Gary hadn’t always been an endodontist with a thirty-eight-inch waistline. He had been a poet, slender and romantic. But it was so much easier to pull off being a slender, romantic poet at twenty-two than it was at forty-four.

  Sitting on the subway beside Josh, hurrying down the dark streets with him, my hand tucked in his pocket, I could sense his energy but his insecurity, too. It was the insecurity more than the self-confidence, I felt, that had driven him to go to business school and get engaged when he claimed never to have wanted those traditional trappings. His conventional side, under wraps now but still in there somewhere, was more frightening to me than the sneaker-wearing gamer. Just as I was more afraid of my own inner housewife than of the young woman I was pretending to be.

  It was the inner housewife who threatened to betray me when I squeezed into the hot and crowded club behind Josh. It was so loud in there, louder than anything I had ever heard in my life. And the music sounded unbearably horrible, all squawks and squeals and arrhythmic pounding. I wanted to—my inner housewife wanted to—clap my hands over my ears and scream, “Stop that racket!”

  But Josh, whose left arm was stretched out behind him so he could keep hanging on to my hand even as he continued pushing forward toward the stage, was nodding his head to the music, as, it seemed, was everyone else in the room. Most of the people there looked to be about the same age as Lindsay and Thad and the other dinner party guests, but it was as if this crowd was being young in a different era. They had shaggy hair or shaved heads, pierced noses and tattooed necks. The girls were wearing huge trousers or tiny skirts—or sometimes both—and tops that barely existed, cropped and shredded across their breasts. The guys looked as if they had stepped off a fashion runway or rolled out from under a car.