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Second date with Theo. We went to see a foreign film with subtitles at the Framington Art Cinema. Old, Victorian theatre that used to host vaudeville. Restored in the early 70s, but now once again musty and dank, with sticky floors and stale popcorn.
Theo chose seats in the exact middle of the theater. We settled down and watched previews of some film festival’s short subjects. Then a preview of a movie about drug deals gone wrong.
I munched my popcorn, but kept getting whiffs of lime. Candy? Air freshener? No—of course: Theo’s aftershave.
The film that had something to do with Nazis and Jews living in the woods, foraging. Of course, the ending was tragic. Theo at one point tried to hold my hand, but I pulled away. No public displays of affection are appropriate watching people being brutalized, in my opinion.
Afterwards, we strolled up Main Street towards the Icee Crunch, where I adored the “Perfectly Peach” ice cream cones. Theo took my hand again. I have to say that I am not a big fan of handholding. It reminds me of preschool and street crossing. I never feel like an adult doing this. However, to pull my hand away once again might seem rude, so I did nothing. Theo’s hand was warm but moist. I tried to ignore that. I focused on his smooth hair and flawless complexion.
He looked over at me, just as I stumbled on an uneven strip of pavement and stubbed my toe, nearly face-planting right there. It was his moist grip that saved me. Chagrin. I scrambled to regain my balance, and blushed with the embarrassment of it all.
Diversion: “Theo, what did you think of the movie? I found it utterly depressing and gratuitous.”
He took it as a challenge, I guess. Stopping and abruptly releasing my hand, he retorted, “Gratuitous? World War Two was gratuitous?” He looked incredulous. As incredulous as a mild-mannered banker with perfectly cut hair and dimples could look.
“Let’s get our ice cream, and then we can sit down and talk about the film.” This might prove to be our first in-depth discussion. He ordered a vanilla cone—one scoop, cake cone. Telling. I ordered two scoops of peach on a chocolate-coated waffle cone. The only choice for people with passion. Vanilla???
We sat at a little table by the window, where we could see folks wandering by, enjoying the Midwestern summer evening, chattering and chuckling. They all looked so incredibly white bread. I bet none of them had read any of my books.
“So how do you think the film was gratuitous? The Holocaust?” Theo looked riled. His brow furrowed and he ignored his cone.
“Well, I just think that the filmmakers replayed the same old tune. We all know the Nazis were butchers. We all know the horrors. This film just rehashed them. I would expect this from American movies, but a foreign film? They are usually so much more nuanced.”
The vanilla was melting down the cone and onto Theo’s hand. He ignored it. This made me want to hand him a napkin. I restrained myself.
“You know that there are some people who say that the Holocaust never happened? This film serves as a reminder to those people!” In his passion, he shook his cone, and the scoop of vanilla nearly fell off. He righted it just in time and took a few discreet licks.
“I get that. But do you think that people who don’t believe that there was a mass extermination of the Jews would really go see this movie? I don’t think Holocaust deniers would seek out foreign films about World War Two and the Nazis, do you?” I demolished the last three bites of my cone. Theo’s was still nearly pristine.
Theo, apparently overcome, pulled a napkin out of the dispenser, set his cone down on it, and proceeded to give me a lecture involving Hitler, Americans with short memories, the entire history of the Nazi incursion across Europe, and the need for us to REMEMBER. I watched with fascination as his ice cream dissolved and saturated the napkin, forming a viscous puddle in the center of the table. Theo rambled on. I felt the way I always did in World History class in high school. Bored.
The ride home in the car was uncomfortably silent.
I called Gail as soon as I got home.
“My God. Theo is nice enough. But could he be more diligent and accountable? A more decent guy? Any more well groomed or fragrant? Gail, he is really nice. But I have to admit that there isn’t any chemistry. Shouldn’t there be chemistry? Why isn’t there any chemistry?”
Gail, who bestows the benefit of the doubt around like manna, was indignant. “This was your second date. YOUR SECOND. Do not write this man off so quickly! And Beck—the sort of chemistry you are talking about only happens in the kind of books you write. Come ON! These things take time.”
“He has a fine and detailed knowledge of history. At least of World War Two. Gail, it was a lecture! Took me right back to the back row in Mr. Miner’s history class! My God!”
“Beck, you are impossible. This is a really good man. You have to give him a chance! You are critical of things that any other woman would find completely admirable. He is good looking, well educated, loves foreign films and history, and he smells good. What on earth is wrong with you? Plus, you haven’t even slept with him yet. He may be dynamite. You of all people should be willing to wait for this. Chemistry—shemistry! You call yourself an erotica expert?”
She made good sense. I rolled my eyes and remembered the parrot.
“Gail, you win. You are right. I will give him another chance. That is, if he is even remotely interested in me after this evening. And I will bet you a million dollars that his sexpertise is lacking. Speaking of that, what about the Man-Bun? I feel sure that he has a light touch, if you catch my drift.”
Snorting at the other end. “Honey, your drift is right on. However, as you know, I don’t discuss my sex life with you, because I don’t want to end up in one of your books. And his name is Rick. As you know. And he only wears a man-bun when he is working out.”
A pause to let that sink in. “Gail. Sex. Working out.”
We both snorted.
But after I ended the call, I felt a surge of envy. I grabbed Simpson, buried my nose in his neck and inhaled. He smelled a little spicy. “Oh, Simpy, if you were a man, I would marry you.” We padded back to the bedroom. The lights from across the street made shadowy patterns on the walls. The curtains puffed in the breeze. I pulled down the covers and placed my kitty on the top of my pillow, where he loves to sleep. The sheets were cool and crisp. I love newly laundered sheets, especially in the summer. I fell asleep with a tabby vibrating on my head and a tiny thrust of hope in my heart.
I dreamed I was leaning over a crib, winding up a Muppet mobile. I woke up in a cold sweat. Shit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My writing lately lacked oomph. Maybe Gail was right. An infusion of a new sexual partner might be called for. But Theo? Could I really develop a sexual relationship with Theo? I contemplated how to even get Theo going. Would it be tricky? A see-through blouse? Oysters for lunch with champagne? New perfume? Ugh. So much work. For such an iffy payoff.
It was a Sunday evening, and I had been pounding away at my latest, Bad Boys on the Beach, (for the summer reading crowd—I seem to have to write seasonally; my books come out about a year after I write them, so it works out), and no matter what I did, it had begun to sound mediocre. I might as well change the title to Mindy Does Malibu, for God’s sake.
I tried to work the Theo dilemma into my chapter. The main character’s friend, Mindy, would use all sorts of inventive foreplay to get her dud of a boyfriend, Brad, to heat up. Delete. I tried again, this time having Mindy do a strip tease while Brad watched from the bed. Better. But getting Brad from his office at the accounting practice and into Mindy’s bed proved problematic. Delete. I tried the oysters. Didn’t work. I shut down my computer and went to bed, frustrated. Kind of like Mindy and Brad. I pictured myself churning the sheets with Theo. The picture was pleasant, but murky. I tossed and turned, trying desperately to picture the two of us engaged in steamy foreplay. I began to drift off be
fore Theo even got my bra unfastened.
I slept for about an hour, but then a horn honked right outside my window, jolting me awake. I sat up in bed, eyes grainy with sleep, my tee shirt riding up, my stomach suddenly clammy. I adjusted my clothing , lay back down, and shut my eyes, but sleep eluded me. I started another internal conversation instead.
What is WRONG with you? A perfectly adorable man presents himself in your life, and all you can do is find fault?
I know. I know. Theo is what every other woman on earth dreams of. So I am obviously defective.
You don’t think you deserve happiness. And you dwell on the fact that most marriages end in divorce. Relationships tend not to work out. You hate to feel vulnerable. So you stay alone to preclude being hurt.
By this time, my armpits were slimy, my hair was what the romance novelists call lanky, and my fingertips tingled. I got up, turned on the light, and shuffled to the kitchen. I grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water, which I chugged. Rehydrating seems to be the first line of defense when things go south. I stood looking out the window, waiting for my body to get normal again. The moon shone on a green sedan as it drove by, making it look like absinthe. Good line for a book. I made a mental note.
Returning to my room, I surveyed the books in the bookcase beside my desk. All my well-worn childhood favorites lined up on the top shelf: Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. All books in which hapless children were raised with love, and all conflict was overridden with patience, all problems resolved with spiritual resonance. I thought of Anne overcoming the stereotypes of “orphans” that surrounded her and piercing the ironclad heart of the stoic Marilla. I thought about Marmee’s devotion to her dear husband, ministering to the Union Army on the front. People who were saved by the good and true love of others. Family. I put my head in my palms. I dug my fingernails into my forehead. The pain felt good.
When I got back into bed, Simpy purred without stirring.
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I went to work the next morning, still thinking about this dilemma. Joe, the faithful back-up barista, greeted me as soon as I put on my apron. “We are all out of blueberry muffins, and five people have called me names already this morning. And the cinnamon container spilled behind the counter, and did you know that in large concentrations, it is actually highly spicy? And it BURNS your eyes when you try to clean it up? Shitty start of what will most likely be a shitty day!”
Joe is a little weak. Nervous. Nerdy. But a nice guy. He used to have dandruff, but I gave him the T-Gel suggestion and that seemed to have solved that. I watched him fuss around up front; swabbing the work area, with his dark bangs dangling in front of his watery eyes, owly spectacles and pale face like an empty paper plate. He twitched with annoyance.
“Joe. I will finish up. Take a break to calm down.”
He smiled, pushed up his glasses by putting a finger directly on the left lens, turned, and went into the break room. Sweet guy—easy to work with. I bet he never taunted his siblings.
I began to wash the few mugs and plates. Not enough to put in the dishwasher. I added a capful of bleach to the water to meet health department requirements. I threw in some spoons and the milk frother. Just as I was getting into the Zen of cleaning, I had a customer.
“I would like a mocha latte, sugarless syrup please, but with whole milk and whipped cream.”
“Oh, hi, Mom. What brings you here so early? More family news?”
Claire, wearing her latest Net-a-Porter.com ensemble, ran a red gel fingernail through her thick, stylish waves. I have always wanted her hair, dammit. She set her Burberry bag on the counter and leaned in. “Honey. Can’t you take just a small break and have a coffee with me? We need to talk. And since you never answer my texts, I had to come all the way down here.” (Mom lives about five minutes away from here, tops.)
Poor Joe. I yanked him back up front, told him it was all up to him for the next half hour, unless we suddenly got a logjam of caffeine junkies in here. I poured myself a venti latte and joined her, where she was elegantly draped around a seat at a corner table. I plunked down. I lack her grace, obviously.
“I see you have your coffee. Did you forget about my mocha latte?”
I sighed, dragged myself back to Joe, and supervised Claire’s drink. I didn’t tell Joe about the sugarless part. Spite. I carried it back to her with a napkin. I knew enough to tell Joe she needed it in a mug.
We sipped. Not exactly companionably. Mom seemed tense. I burned my tongue on my first sip. Awkward.
“Mom. What would you like to talk about? War? Health care crisis? Gay marriage?”
Claire raised a silver eyebrow and gave me the stink-eye. “I am here to remind you that Diana and Bryan are coming Friday. The Mother’s Day weekend brunch. You know.”
I shifted in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs. A pain stabbed me behind my left eye. I dropped my spoon, and it dinked into my mug, displacing some of the coffee onto my mother’s hand. She recoiled. “Rebecca, do you have ADD for heaven’s sake? Be still!”
“So you want me to calm down and be very still about the fact that D and Bryan are coming. This, you understand, means a forced face-to-face with these two. Is this what you just dropped into my workplace to ‘share a coffee’ with me and talk about? So what are your expectations, Mom?” I shot her a stink-eye right back. “Well, it’s been lovely sharing this bonding time. But I have no plans to see either one of them.”
Then my mother did a very characteristic maternal thing. She stood up, leaned over me, and enveloped me with her pipe stem arms in what I would have to classify as a hugging gesture. Being as slender as she is, a hug is more a matter of banging together elbows and collarbones than melding of bodies. But it had an immediate calming effect. My shoulders dropped about two inches, and the tightness in my chest eased. This is what happens when a mother hugs you. The mother-child bond just kicks right in.
I reciprocated in a self-conscious fashion by patting her three times on her shoulder and pulling away. There we were: me—negativity wrapping me like a shroud, all anger and angst; and Mom hovering over me, with her pashmina nearly knocking both mugs of coffee off the tiny table. It didn’t last but for a couple of seconds before Mom smoothed my hair and sat back down.
“Truce, Rebecca. Truce. What can I do to convince you that we all need to get over this? I want a grandchild. A happy one. I want two happy daughters, not one happy one and one sour, bitter one. Let me put it more strongly. I need this to happen. Because, Rebecca, I have skin cancer, and it might be serious.”
Wait. Before you react in any way. Because skin cancer. Claire Throckmorton did not say breast cancer, pancreatic cancer, lung cancer, or brain cancer. None of the actual huge, deadly, scary, and truly “family back to the fold” cancers. No. Because all of those cancers have to be very real and very provable. Skin cancer? Not so much. She will go to the dermatologist, have something removed from her face so we can all see it, and she will keep us all in suspense “waiting for the test results.” Isn’t this the way mothers work? When all else fails, haul out the guilt? And notice also that she did not say the word melanoma.
“Mom. What kind? Did the doctor say it was melanoma? My God! Will you have to have chemo after the surgery? When is the surgery scheduled?”
She took a long sip of her latte, wiped her lips with the napkin, gave me another, slightly less stinky eye, and cleared her throat. “Its basal cell. But it can still be dangerous—they told me it was locally invasive. So don’t be so bitchy.”
“Where is the spot?” I peered closely at her smooth, lovely face.
She pointed to a spot I could barely discern next to her left eyebrow.
“That’s it? Looks pretty small to me. I’m sure it won’t leave a scar.”
“Of course not! I go to the best plastics man in Framington! None of this is the
point. The point is, I am not getting younger, and I am starting to have health stuff happening. You two girls aren’t getting any younger, either. All you have is each other, because Lord knows what all and where all your father is. He may be dying of a tropical disease or Ebola or something right now.”
Sidebar: Dad was in Africa, we thought. He doesn’t write. Mom gets an occasional missive from his attorney.
I was hit with a sudden wave of fatigue. My head still hurt from the eye-stabbing pain earlier (maybe I had cancer). I was beaten. Beaten down. “Okay, okay. What exactly do you have in mind?”
Claire Throckmorton had triumphed once again. Her hazel/blue/green/amber eyes (depending on the light and what she was wearing) flashed. She smiled, her whitened teeth gleaming. Her cheeks bloomed with the expensive blush that she wore, and there wasn’t a noticeable pore anywhere. She straightened in her chair, clasped her hands, her gold cuff bracelets clinking, and pronounced, “Rebecca, I love you more than ever. You won’t regret this, I just know it!”
And with that, she readjusted her summer-weight pashmina, stood up, slung her Burberry bag over her shoulder, handed me her mug, and turned to sweep dramatically out of the store. As she pushed through the door, nearly hitting a college student on his way in, she turned and left me with an “I’ll text you the details!”
She left a waft of Chanel in her wake.
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Theo had arranged a picnic for the four of us. Gail and Rick were to bring wine and cheese. Theo was “doing everything else.” I offered to make cookies, but he insisted that I just “show up and look beautiful.”
So far, we had been out to dinner at Beth’s Bistro one more time, and the four of us had met for cocktails after work at The Green Gate, a local bar. I had three vodka tonics and felt buzzy. Theo and Rick drank some sort of artisanal beer. Gail stuck with the standard glass of merlot. When Theo suggested the picnic, Rick put his arm around Gail and said, “We may need an extra blanket.” Then he growled. Gail smoldered. I was uncomfortable. But I made a mental note to include growling in my next chapter of Bad Boys on the Beach. Then I looked at Theo, who didn’t seem to notice the growling, because he was absorbed in brushing the spilled peanuts on the bar into the palm of his hand and placing them carefully in a cocktail napkin, wrapping them snugly in it and putting the whole thing into his empty beer glass. I had to restrain myself from ordering a fourth vodka and tonic. Normally, I don’t have to do this. But nothing about double dating with Gail and Rick the Man-Bun was normal.
Crossing the Street Page 6