What More Could You Wish For

by Samantha Hoffman

  Silly stuff. The stuff of romance novels.

  I went to my computer and searched through pictures I had stored on my hard drive. There was one from last year’s vacation, but I was wearing a blue dress with a large print that made me look like a blimp. What had I been thinking? I made a mental note to get rid of it. There was another photo that wasn’t bad but my neck looked saggy. Then I found one taken at a backyard party at Sophie and Pete’s. I was lying on the grass, leaning on my elbow as I played with someone’s small, blond grandchild. We had both looked up, surprised, when Michael called to me and snapped the picture. Sun glinted off the gray in my hair, making it look like shiny highlights, and I had an open, unself-conscious smile. I was wearing shorts and a low-cut top, and my legs looked long and sleek, even though they’re not all that long. Or all that sleek. But the angle was just right.

  Patrick,

  It was so much fun talking to you. A blast from the past.

  So here’s a picture. Last time you saw me I wore black eyeliner and had long straightened hair parted down the middle. There are a few other changes as well. Hah! I’m also sending a picture of Sophie and Pete.

  Say, didn’t you have a big, old black Ford with huge fins that we used to go “parking” in?

  Libby

  P.S. Do you have a girlfriend?

  I couldn’t help myself.

  A reply came back within minutes.

  Girl, the years have treated you well! Are you sure you didn’t hire a stand-in?

  I laughed out loud.

  No, really, you are still beautiful even without the eyeliner.

  Thanks for the picture of S & P. It’s great to see them! Give me their e-mail addresses, would you? I’d love to contact them.

  That was a ’61 Ford Starliner, to be specific. I’m flashing back right now. Didn’t we used to go to a little covered bridge that was in a housing development somewhere and park there? So neat to pull up these memories.

  Peace,

  Patrick

  P.S. Nope. No girlfriend.

  Why did that please me?

  Eleven

  I didn’t call Michael on Monday. I didn’t call him on Tuesday. I didn’t call him for almost a week. I thought about it, but each time I picked up the phone I decided I wasn’t going to be the one to call. Childish, I know. Sometimes it’s hard to believe I’m fifty when I do things like that. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that things just don’t change all that much as you get older. Inside I feel the way I always did.

  I had a boyfriend in fourth grade. His name was Randy Dempsey and he had shiny black hair and a small dark mole beside his right eye. He wore plaid pants and he made me laugh. I passed him a note one day that said

  I like you.

  Do you (____) like me

  (____) not like me

  (____) love me

  He put an X beside love me and that was how I knew he was my boyfriend. Eight is the best time to be in love, when you’re young enough to be unself-conscious about your feelings, before you learn about playing games.

  That was the last time love felt so uncomplicated and pure. By the time I was in eighth grade, I had a new boyfriend, Jim Evans, and I was rife with confusion. I was shy around boys by then, not knowing what to do or say, and clueless about what was expected of me. And yet Jim asked me to go steady and gave me a gold-colored ring that had an Indian head on it, and I wore it on a chain around my neck. It made me feel supremely secure. But one afternoon we went to the eighth-grade mixer and did the Twist among the crepe-paper streamers and drank punch and talked about everyone at the dance. I went off to the washroom and when I came back, Jim was talking to Kimmie Kramer, she of the blond curls and long eyelashes and multicolored tent dress. They seemed lost in their conversation, heads close together, and I stood watching for a moment while tears formed behind my eyes, and then I turned around and walked out.

  I walked home feeling wounded and jealous, thinking that if he wanted to be with Kimmie Kramer, then he could just be with Kimmie Kramer and I would give him back his stupid ring.

  For the next couple of days I refused to take Jim’s phone calls, and moped around the house making everyone miserable until finally my dad cornered me on the back porch and asked what was wrong.

  “Nothing,” I said. I didn’t want to tell him. He thought I was too young to have a boyfriend and I didn’t want him to say anything bad about Jim, even though I was mad at him.

  “Something’s wrong,” my dad said. “Your smile’s gone missing. Come on, you can tell your old dad.” He put his arm around me, and so I told him my sad story and how betrayed I felt.

  “Did you ever ask him what they were talking about?”

  “No.”

  “What if they were talking about how much he likes you?”

  I snorted.

  “What if they were talking about TV shows? Couldn’t they have been talking about”—he searched his brain for one of the shows I liked—“The Monkees?”

  I shrugged.

  “The thing is, pumpkin, you don’t know. You just jumped to the conclusion that he likes her better than you. Isn’t that right?”

  I was starting to get his point.

  “I bet that’s not true. Put yourself in his place: here you are talking to some boy, just a friend, and Jim sees you and just makes a snap judgment about you and leaves. How would that feel?” I stared at my bony knees and my dad pulled me close. “You’re a smart girl, Libby. Just give it some thought. I think you’ll see that Jim at least deserves the chance to talk to you. He’s been trying, so my guess is he’s feeling pretty bad himself right now. He’s probably sad that you won’t talk to him. Don’t you think?”

  I nodded into his shoulder. “Well, go call him, honey.” This from my dad who didn’t want me to have a boyfriend.

  And so I did. And my dad was right, of course. Not that they were talking about The Monkees, but that Jim had no interest in Kimmie Kramer. Didn’t even like her, actually.

  And here I was fifty years old, and the feelings, the insecurities, the pride were all the same. When you’re young you think being middle-aged means you’ll act like an adult. What you don’t know until you get here is that in certain things, particularly where love is concerned, we never grow up.

  I was ambivalent about my aloneness. But Rufus loved it. He was happy to have me to himself. Especially at bedtime. He liked to curl up at my side with a paw resting on my hip, and when Michael was there he had to move over to the other side of the bed. He didn’t appreciate the displacement. He’d walk around for a while, then stand on me looking at Michael before pawing around in a new spot and settling in. At some point during the night he’d meow and stalk off.

  Now he was content.

  It seemed odd and empty not to see Michael, not to talk to him. I vacillated between relief and anger, loneliness and tranquility, righteousness and rejection. But I survived. At first I was sad, then I was pissed that he didn’t call, that he could just shut down because things hadn’t gone his way. Fuck him, I thought. Two could play at that game.

  * * *

  Dominick was at Mrs. Rosatti’s when I arrived for our appointment. “Well, here’s the engaged lady,” he said. Inwardly I rolled my eyes. “Come join us for tea and coffee cake.”

  Bea looked jazzy in a teal blue pantsuit with splashes of bright white flowers. She wore a chunky white necklace and large hoop earrings. She belonged on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. Dominick, his shiny bald head fringed with fluffy white hair, was quietly dapper, the antithesis to Bea’s in-your-face fashion style. Today he wore a gray cashmere cardigan over a snowy white shirt and navy trousers. This relationship was of the “opposites attract” variety.

  Bea put a piece of pastry in front of me and poured me a cup of tea. At first I didn’t notice they were hardly speaking to each other, that each of them was addressing their remarks only to me, commenting on the weather, talking about my surprise party. When it finally dawned on me that th
ere was tension in the room I looked up, surprised, first at one, then the other. They were concentrating resolutely on their coffee cake. Bea asked Dominick if he wanted more tea. He said no. She gave him a pointed look and glanced at me.

  “Well,” he said, suddenly cheerful, “I’d best be on my way. I’ll leave you two to your girls’ stuff.” He kissed Bea on the cheek.

  “I’ll speak to you later, dear,” she said.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked when he’d gone.

  “Oh yes,” she said, clearly lying.

  “There was a bit of tension in here.”

  “Oh, I suppose there was,” Bea said. “That was rude. We should have been more discreet with our little tiff.”

  “You were fine,” I said. “What are you ‘tiff-ing’ about?” I didn’t want to think of people in their eighties having a lovers’ quarrel. Isn’t there a statute of limitations on that kind of bullshit?

  “Would you like more tea?” she asked, getting up and lighting the burner under the teakettle. “Or how about a sherry?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” I said. “Come sit down.” She turned off the fire and sat. “So tell me,” I said.

  “Dominick wants us to move in together and I’m not sure it’s a good idea. So he’s upset.”

  “Wow,” I said. “It’s the same old crap no matter how old you get, isn’t it?” She smiled. “Why isn’t it a good idea?”

  “I’ve been alone for a long time and I’ve gotten used to doing things my own way. I don’t know that I want to change that. We have such a lovely relationship, but I think part of that is because we don’t live together so we don’t deal with each other every minute. And at our age, what’s the point?”

  “What does age have to do with it? You always tell me you’re only as old as you feel.”

  “Ah, throwing my words back in my face, eh?”

  “Absolutely. You’re using age as an excuse.”

  “I think I was taken by surprise, if you want to know the truth. It never seemed important to Dominick before, so I just never thought about it.”

  “Do you think it would work?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to think about that now, won’t I? How are you handling it? You and Michael don’t live together and now you’re getting married. How do you think that will work?”

  “The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” I said. “I have no idea.”

  “Sounds like this is the time for the sherry,” Bea said and poured two glasses. “So, tell me,” she said when she sat.

  “Looks like we’re sort of in the same boat.” I told her everything that had happened, from the proposal to the party to when Michael walked out.

  “I don’t know Michael well,” she said. “He seems like a nice man, but if you’re not sure you want to get married, for heaven’s sake, don’t do it. Make your decision for yourself, not for him.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Is that a good reason to get married? Sometimes people get hurt when you have different ideas of what you want from a relationship. You can’t control that. The only thing you can control is you. If you marry him because you don’t want to hurt him, you’ll both be sorry.”

  Simple, logical, sensible advice. She made it sound so easy.

  Bea drained her glass and cleared the table. “Come,” she said, “let me show you the new clothes I bought, all of which need altering, of course.”

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked, nearly blinded by the array of colors and patterns she displayed before me. There were several summery pants outfits, one with a pattern like an EKG readout in tangerine and green, a pair of electric blue capri pants and a violet evening gown with sequins top to bottom.

  “We’re going on a cruise to the Caribbean,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

  “How lovely. Maybe spending so much time together will help you decide if you want to live with him,” I said.

  “It can’t hurt,” she said.

  “Maybe Michael and I should go with you.”

  “Come along,” Bea said, “you can borrow my clothes!”

  Twelve

  Jill was already at the restaurant when I arrived, sitting at a corner table looking elegant and put-together. When Jill was little she was like Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip, clouds of dust always seeming to waft around her. She never wanted to play paper dolls with me (my favorite thing to do when I was a kid, already the little fashionista), but she did it to please me. Jill didn’t care about clothes or what she looked like and she certainly didn’t care what other people thought about her. Not as long as she had me.

  And then, sometime around ninth grade, she did a complete 180. It was amazing, really. She met Mark, now her husband, and the next thing I knew, she was experimenting with makeup and asking my advice on fashion, even borrowing my clothes, which annoyed me no end. She had become a whole new person and, I had to admit, I had a hard time relating to her. Jealousy was part of it. I felt as if Mark had slid right into my place of importance.

  Jill and Mark went steady all through high school and college and then got married and started a family. She never went out with anyone else. And after they got together we were never as close as we’d been before. She didn’t need me anymore.

  I could still see the messy little tomboy she used to be, but it was almost as if that were another sister. Now there was no remnant of that person. Now she wore black trousers with a gold chain-link belt, white silk blouse and gold hoop earrings. Her chin-length hair was perfectly highlighted and she brushed her shiny thick bangs off her forehead with a manicured forefinger. I was fashionable—after all, it was my business—but much more casual in jeans tucked into knee-high boots and a rather low-cut red top, my frizzy hair pulled back with a ribbon and little corkscrew curls popping out all over the place.

  “You look terrific,” I told Jill. “Going somewhere this afternoon?”

  “Your belated birthday lunch,” she said. “And then my bridge club.” Or Junior League or the PTA or the volunteer work she did at the library. Jill always had a million things going on.

  The waiter came by, a twenty-something with gelled and spiked hair, blue eyes and tattoos starting at both wrists and disappearing under the sleeves of his T-shirt.

  “My name is Jarrod and I’ll be your server. You ladies are looking lovely today,” he said, which could have sounded sleazy but seemed immensely sincere, probably because of his youth and his bright white smile. Obsequiousness and flirtation, an excellent combination for someone hoping to score a big tip from two older ladies.

  “How’s the Caesar salad?” I asked.

  “Fab. We use white anchovies and shaved fresh Parmesan. But if you want the best thing on the menu, this is it,” he said, and bent close to point to the portobello mushroom sandwich. He smelled faintly of herbal shampoo. “It’s marinated and grilled, and has goat cheese, caramelized onions and fire-roasted red pepper on a ciabatta roll. And I recommend the sweet potato fries, although you can get the hand-cut French fries if you want.”

  Under his spell I ordered exactly as he suggested. Jill ordered an omelet and we both ordered a glass of wine, the Côtes du Rhône because he said it was crisp and elegant. Was he even old enough to drink it?

  “So,” Jill said when he’d gone, “why didn’t you tell me Michael proposed?”

  “I didn’t have time. He sprung that ring on me and then he sprung the news on everyone at that stupid surprise party. It was crazy.”

  “He was pretty excited about that party. He had us all believing you’d be thrilled by it.”

  “I’m not sure I like this new Michael,” I said. “I thought we were on the same page about things like marriage and living together. And even surprise parties. I mean, he blindsided me with that ring.” I told her how he’d proposed at the restaurant and then about our fight. “I haven’t talked to him in days, and we usually talk at least once a day. He’s pouting, I think.”

  “Why don’t you call him?” she
said.

  Jarrod the waiter brought our wine. “Everything okay here?” he asked.

  It would be, I thought, if I wasn’t fifty and pseudo-engaged. “Perfect,” I said and he rewarded me with a big, toothy smile.

  “Your lunch will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “He likes you,” Jill said as he walked away.

  “I could be his mother,” I said, secretly pleased.

  “Do you think you’re having a midlife crisis?” Jill asked.

  “Oh, fuck you,” I said and she laughed.

  “Being fifty sucks, doesn’t it?” she said.

  “More than you know. Just wait. You’ll see.”

  “Seriously, though, I think you should call Michael. Don’t let this fester.”

  “He can call me, too, you know.”

  “Lib, don’t stand on ceremony here. This is the rest of your life you’re talking about. Michael’s the best guy you’ve ever been with. Don’t let that go.”

  The waiter brought our food, so I didn’t have to answer, but I resented Jill for siding with Michael. She was my sister; wasn’t she supposed to be on my side?

  I took a bite of my portobello sandwich, which was delicious, but now I wasn’t hungry. Jill took one of my sweet potato fries. “You’ve had some bad luck with men in the past, but Michael’s someone you can grow old with,” she said.

  I could see Michael and me sitting in matching easy chairs in a nursing home somewhere, wiping drool off each other’s chins. But I couldn’t see what led up to it. I couldn’t see us married and living together. “Maybe to you he’s the best guy I’ve ever been with, but you don’t live with us and I’m not so sure. Our relationship is fine. It’s nice,” I said. “It’s easy. It’s comfortable. But is that reason enough to marry him? Shouldn’t it be more … thrilling, more passionate?”

  “People get married for different reasons,” Jill said. “And I think at our age we have different priorities.” She took a cheesy bite of her omelet. “I always thought Michael was your Mr. Right. You seem happy with him.”