Pickles sighed. How had she happened into this mine field? One day, these girls would have babies and realize how way too exhausted she was for this.
“She feels—mind you, I’m not saying this is true—that you aren’t happy for her successes. That you’re still struggling with not being high school ‘Madgesty’ anymore, wondering why you can’t have your heart’s desire without effort. That you’re drowning and pulling her down with you to the bottom.”
“The bottom?” Marjorie choked.
“Bottom, so to speak.”
“This is all because I don’t have a boyfriend. Being single at our age is like her worst fear. I’m a cautionary tale to her.”
“Now, Madge. No one said that.’”
“No one said that out loud.”
“We just feel that, with your lack of direction, you’re a bit … immature.”
“Oh, now it’s we? Why? Because I haven’t settled for a Brian? Because I don’t have kids?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?!”
“You’re a bit developmentally arrested.”
“Is that like being mildly retarded?”
Pickles lowered her voice to a whisper: “‘Retarded’ is really not the accepted word these days.”
“What else did you diagnose me with?”
“Nothing. We finished our kombucha mimosas and left. I took Jasper to samba class and—”
“Jasper takes samba?”
“He’s very graceful.”
“He’s three.”
“Look, sweets. I didn’t mean to upset you. You can always talk to me.”
Marjorie took a shuddered breath and collapsed into the ergonomic desk chair her father had insisted on her having; it served mostly as purgatory for dirty clothing. “Sure.”
“So when is Vera moving out?”
“Tomorrow. But she didn’t tell me until yesterday, which is crazy because—”
The baby started crying in the background. Marjorie could practically see her friend fading away like Michael J. Fox in that Back to the Future Polaroid, a movie she, Vera, and Pickles had first watched together in eighth grade.
In the face of futility, Marjorie continued, “I wasn’t given any notice.”
“Uh-huh,” said Pickles absently.
“And, here’s the thing, Pick. At work yesterday, I was—”
“I’m so sorry, love. Got to run. Riley is wailing, and if she wakes Jasper that will be the end of me, ruin tomorrow for him and the nanny. But it’s been so fantastic to hear your voice; I adore you. Let’s talk next week! Love to your parents!”
The line cut off with a crisp click.
“… Fired,” finished Marjorie into the deafening silence.
13
Marjorie slept as late as possible, then awoke to the sounds of packing blankets unfurling, furniture banging, and cardboard boxes being heaved into the arms of what she assumed were two burly men in lifting harnesses—“Luther and Curt of Platinum Movers,” she heard them announce.
She hid in her bedroom for the rest of the morning, while Vera and Brian navigated their move. She was developmentally arrested. They could hardly expect more.
An hour in, Vera—the self-proclaimed model of poise and evolution—shrilled that her iPad had been stolen. (Curt had actually placed it on a window ledge out of harm’s way.) Marjorie shook her head in disgust and decided to drown out the existential (and actual) noise with the final two episodes of Downton Abbey, Season 2.
Hours, gowns, and constitutionals later, Mary and Matthew had reached a more than satisfactory resolution despite war, mayhem, and class distinctions. Clearly, Marjorie had been born in the wrong century. She untangled her cross-legged limbs, stood and, hesitantly, turned down the TV’s volume.
No sound. No Curt. No Luther. No binging of the service elevator. She cracked the door and peeked out into the living room. No one.
Maybe she should have wished her longtime best friend a disingenuous “Good luck!” But making peace would mean sharing recent setbacks with Vera, and by default Brian and whomever he told. No way.
She crept out, the floorboards creaking with each socked step, and slid to the front door, Tom-Cruise-in-Risky-Business-style. Through the peephole, the hallway looked warped as if through a kaleidoscope. There was no sign of life: no dollies, no red tape spools with serrated edges, no empty Gatorade bottles.
Marjorie exhaled and faced the empty living room; only a flea market side table and cheap IKEA halogen lamp remained. Like undesirables at a school dance, dust balls mingled at the edges with leftover surge protectors: cream and beige. A diorama of Marjorie’s objects sat in one corner: the framed photo, the starfish, a broken conch shell (was that hers?), the champagne. Marjorie considered chugging it, but her recent hangover still lingered, too close.
That was when she heard a noise from the kitchen. Was that the ice maker? Tell me that was the ice maker.
Before she could flee, Brian—disgusting as always in his grubby Syracuse University sweatshirt—nearly plowed her down, a water glass in hand. She jumped out of the way, suddenly aware that she was braless in a sheer tank.
“Oh. You’re here.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then dried it on his Tony Soprano track pants.
“I just woke up,” Marjorie lied, feigning a yawn. “I thought you guys had left.”
“We’re about to. Vera’s waiting downstairs.” Brian grinned, squishing his layers of neck fat together like piled jellyfish. “We figured you didn’t come home last night.”
She didn’t like that he was smiling. “Of course I came home. Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know or care, but Vera worries. I figured you were with O’Shea, but I guess he spanked some other chick at the Babe Cave this time.”
Marjorie froze. “Excuse me?”
“Heard you guys mixed it up something ugly night before last at DIRT.”
“Who told you that?”
“So it’s true?”
“It’s none of your fucking business. Who told you that?”
“Lighten up, Ice Queen. That’s what you get for whoring. Guess I was a year too early that New Year’s Eve. You were still uppity. Bet you’d feel lucky to have me now.”
It took every ounce of Marjorie’s will not to grab the halogen lamp and beat Brian senseless with it. “‘Lucky’ isn’t the word that comes to mind. Anyway, don’t believe everything you hear. Like I’d go home with Mac.” She snorted.
“Like you would. Like you did. Would have thought even you knew better.”
Marjorie’s laugh bordered on maniacal. “Seriously, Brian, as a last favor, now that we’re getting out of each other’s hair for good, tell me who told you that.”
He shrugged. “I never minded you that much. You just need to learn to be more laid-back … like me. Say it and I’ll tell you.”
“Say what?”
“That you’ll try to be more like me.”
“Are you serious?” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.
“As a heart attack.”
She sighed. What pride did she have left? “Fine: I want to be more like you.”
“You’ll try…”
“I’ll try.”
“Great.” He stepped toward the front door.
“Wait! Who told you that rumor about me and Mac?”
“No one.”
“What?”
“Someone told Vera. No clue who. But hey! Have a nice fucking life, Madgesty.”
Marjorie snapped. She stormed toward him, got in his face and shouted: “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” He froze, stunned, as she ripped the water glass from his hand. “This is my glass, you fat piece of shit. I just pray that one day Vera wises up and leaves you to die alone.”
“I’m not the one who’s alone, baby,” Brian snarled, as he slipped out the door. “Enjoy whoring!” The tumbler hit the wall and shattered, missing him by inches.
Now this was rock bottom.
&n
bsp; 14
Fred made good on her promise and showed up at Marjorie’s on moving day with her fellow band members: The bassist, Brandon, and drummer, Andy, wore matching slouchy shoulders, early Bieber hair, and chain belts. One of them had a tattoo of Dennis the Menace on his forearm, but which was anyone’s guess. The saxophonist, Elmo, was the oldest at twenty-two, and wore a patchy beard to prove it. He played leader, admonishing the others for carrying the mattress incorrectly and not bending their knees when picking up heavy boxes. (As an out-of-work musician, he’d worked plenty of manual labor gigs.)
Marjorie had requisite pizza on hand and thanked the guys every thirty seconds until Elmo asked her to stop. “It’s no problem. Fred told us you’re broke. Been there.”
Injured pride aside, Marjorie was grateful—even after one box broke open, revealing a collection of old Taylor Swift CDs, and the guys ribbed her.
After Brian left, she had stood, staring at the glass shards, and weighed her options. She could plot ways to murder and humiliate Vera’s boyfriend (perhaps not in that order) or she could get on with her life. A third option was to die of embarrassment now that the Mac indiscretion was public knowledge. That was still pending.
The band’s van was as rusted and windowless as Marjorie had expected, needing only a mattress and portable lava lamp to complete the 1970s “love shack” picture. Unspeakable fluids surely lurked below the paint-stained tarp on its floor. Some company’s former logo was poorly painted over on the exterior.
Marjorie loitered beside Fred on the sidewalk, watching the boys load up the last of her stuff.
“How did that tutoring thing go, by the way?” asked the pixie. “Thank you so much! You saved me!”
“Oh, it was no problem.”
“Were they mad? That I screwed up and can’t do that time slot, I mean?”
“No, not at all,” evaded Marjorie. “They found a solution.”
“Okay, cool. Cause I actually have too many tutees right now as it is.”
Changing the subject, Marjorie said, “So, are you gonna paint the name of your band on the side of the van?”
“Oh, we have. Many, many times. But we keep changing it. We’ve pledged to stop until we keep a name for at least three months.”
“What are you called now?”
“The House Hunters.”
“You play house music?”
The pixie’s mouth dropped open. “Shit!” She flopped down onto the curb, nearly squashing a European couple’s off-the-leash pug. “Ugh! Guys! We have to switch the name again! Damn. House.” Behind wraparound sunglasses, the dog’s owners rolled their eyes. Stupid Americans.
Fred wore another eclectic outfit: Her black tank top was tucked into an ankle-length lace skirt with a wide leather belt and sandals so basic that Jesus might have rocked them. A red-and-black scarf encircling her neck evoked Carmen.
Marjorie smiled. Maybe she was sleep deprived, but this quirky girl was growing on her. She sat beside Fred. “What else has the band been called?”
“Oh, a bazillion things: the Red Plastic Cups, Filthy River, Filthier River, Filthiest River, The Filthiest River, the Movers, the Shakers, Pippi West End—”
“‘Pippi West End?’”
“It’s my stripper name: you know, the name of your first pet plus the street you were born on.”
“You named your band after—?” Marjorie snorted, then burst into laughter. “I’m sorry. I’m slaphappy. I haven’t slept. It’s not you … ha!”
Fred began to giggle too. “Ha! How high must these guys have been to say yes?” The girls dissolved into hysterics and soon had tears streaming down their faces.
The boys stood by the van, hands on their hips. “If anyone cares, we’re done,” said Elmo.
“Women,” grunted Andy. Or maybe Brandon.
“Sorry!” Marjorie stood, wiping renegade mascara from below her eyes. “I know you said to stop saying it, but thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Elmo blushed, then ducked into the driver’s seat; his cohorts slid in on the passenger side. “Meet you there.” Pulling away, he waved without looking back.
“There goes your chariot,” said Marjorie to Fred. “You want to head back to Brooklyn on the train with me? I just need to grab my bag and leave the keys.”
The apartment was now truly empty; even the white cable cord dangling from the wall had lost its sense of purpose. She set her keys on the kitchen counter.
“This must be weird for you,” said Fred.
Marjorie pulled her hair back, let it drop; she took a steadying breath. “It—just happened really quickly.”
“One day your life is one thing—”
“And the next you’re living with Pippi West End.”
Marjorie closed the door forever on apartment 2B.
15
The text barrage from Mac began later that day:
Madgesty. It’s your friendly neighborhood hedonist.
Weird to see you in Bklyn on Mon. Good weird.
You seemed mad.
Do I get a chance to explain?
Marjorie deleted each message without replying.
They kept coming.
Over July 4th, she could practically smell the cocoa butter, grilled corn, and singed firecrackers that permeated the air at the Schulmans’ Montauk house. She, Vera, and Pickles had celebrated there annually since they were kids. She tried not to feel hurt when no invitation arrived, but the fireworks display on the East River viewed from Fred’s tar roof seemed like a sad replacement. That’s when those Taylor Swift CDs came in handy.
Mac’s texts—surely sent from the Hamptons too—did not help. As Marjorie unpacked, she endured bing! after bing! until the noise polluted her sleep, conjuring anxiety dreams about timed pop quizzes for which she was unprepared.
Finally, she turned off her ringer and missed several calls from her mother, who became hysterical. (Though Barbara Plum had advocated moving to Brooklyn, she hadn’t visited the borough in twenty years. Despite countless New York Times articles to the contrary, she envisioned a neighborhood akin to Rikers Island prison.) Once she reached Marjorie, she demanded the ringer stay on.
So the texts continued:
C’mon. Does 15 years mean nothing to u?
Tina Fey or Amy Poehler? Quick. Choose.
U know u love me. Deep down underneath all that anger.
Don’t u want your yellow panties back at least?
I said panties. Aren’t u gonna tell me that’s creepy?
Did you fall down a manhole? That happens sometimes.
U know it was fate that we ran into each other in Bklyn, right?
I have syphilis.
Fine, I don’t have syphilis. But when someone says that, u really should call. It’s your health.
I’m being pathetic for u. Have u ever known me to act this way?
Is this getting old yet? Just fucking text me back.
By Friday afternoon, Marjorie was considering throwing her phone out the window.
Fred was all for it. She knocked on Marjorie’s door, ostensibly to offer a Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda, even though she knew nobody drank that besides her and some geriatric men in Boca Raton. She was clearly starting to worry: Who was this stalker driving her new friend bonkers? Marjorie offered a skeletal explanation about longtime friendship, a trust-fund-fueled sense of entitlement, the bad idea, her—abridged to sound less pathetic—request for a job.
Later, she was admiring her newly set-up room (faded sheets, well-loved books, a life reassembled, the pretense of being herself again), when another text arrived:
Sitting in DIRT’S back office, thinking of u.
It was one too many. Marjorie grabbed her phone and typed furiously:
Unsubscribe.
You’re alive!
UNSUBSCRIBE.
You can’t unsubscribe. This isn’t SPAM.
Seems like junk to me.
Madgesty, c’mon.
UNSUBSCRIBE.
Ma
dge. That isn’t going to make me stop.
This is NOT some grand gesture, Mac. it’s an invasion of my fucking privacy. I said stop it! RESPECT that!
There was a long pause. On one end of the conversation, a young man sat at the dining table he never used (not in DIRT’s office at all), crouched like The Thinker and pulling fretfully at his ear. On the other, a young woman, still in her pajamas and nighttime nerd glasses, held her breath and wondered if she’d gone too far. Or just far enough.
Mac sighed. He couldn’t see a way to win this one:
Fine.
And it was over. Marjorie felt relieved, but empty too like a sticky-fingered kid at a birthday party, watching the last balloon float up and away. She was officially untethered. She climbed into the bed—a Design Within Reach hand-me-down from her parents—and closed her eyes.
Moments later, sensing a presence, she opened one eye and found Fred peering in from the doorway: “Oh, good. You’re up!”
“Fred?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you watching me sleep?”
“I have a special power that makes people do things when I stare.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Are you or are you not awake because I wanted you to be?” The pixie bounded in and crossed to the window, overlooking Roberta’s garden patch. “Looks like more tomatoes are coming in. Yum.”
“Roberta shares them?”
“Nope.”
“So, what? You steal her tomatoes?”
“Who are you? The produce police? It’s our thing: I steal the tomatoes, she accuses me, I act indignant, she shakes her fist and threatens to set up cameras. It’s our shtick!” Fred shimmied, as if jazz hands were another facet of their cabaret show.
Marjorie shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“Lucky for you, I take my antipsychotics—sporadically.”
Fred perched at the end of Marjorie’s bed, her feet dangling a foot above the floor.
“Speaking of which, I couldn’t help but notice the text-free silence.”
“There will be no more texts.” Marjorie laid a palm across her forehead.
“You don’t seem happy about that.”
Staving off tears, Marjorie inhaled a rattled breath. “I’m fine. It’s just PMS.”
Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Page 9