by Sheri Langer
Maybe Dorie could explain it away that cavalierly, but Fordham, having accepted Arnie’s gambling as a passionate hobby, wasn’t inclined to be as generous. Maybe she wasn’t the first daughter who was ever betrayed by a father she’d adored and built Popsicle-stick castles for. A father she idolized and brought to school for show and share. A father who walked her down the aisle when she was making one of the biggest mistakes of her life, telling her, “You can still run if you want to, no questions asked.” A father who cried when his granddaughter was born and said her imperfection was God’s way of making her beauty more unique. A father who left her and her mother with a raging mess and no plan to clean it up. No, the betrayal was not unique. Things like this happened to other families, and to save face, they kept their mouths shut and went about their business.
She had loved her father, believing he was the beacon of reason in a world that often seemed to have gone nuts. Now she realized it was a ruse, and she was left with the daunting task of having to reinvent him in a more workable, realistic template. She had to learn to memorialize him as a man who’d been fallible, insecure, and incapable of picking up the pieces of her fragmented life. In time, she expected that she would find a way to forgive him, but she wasn’t there yet. She was amazed at how easily Dorie had been able to think of it as one of life’s tests without ever uttering a cathartic, “Fuck you!”
Tea finished, Fordham shut off the light and headed back to bed. Maybe she would meditate. She needed to figure out a way to make Love Online a bestseller. Abe had said that commercial success would translate to more money in her pocket. With just a little more confidence in herself, she could do it. She had to do it. From where she was standing, it was the only way to ensure she wouldn’t end up on Whitty’s doorstep someday.
Chapter Five: Bell, Book, and Scandal
Fordham couldn’t sleep. She had, as her grandmother used to say, too many knishes crowding her kishkas, which was like pain in the tuches but more serious and with a greater range of angst and discomfort. She did have a lot on her plate, and there didn’t appear to be much relief in the near future. She glanced at the clock for the ninety-sixth time. It was almost one in the morning. She’d hoped to get into the office early to check for submissions and go over some eventual layout options. That wasn’t happening, and Abe would have to understand.
Since sleep was axed from the agenda, she got up and headed to the kitchen. There was nothing quite like one-floor living. “Open concept,” her realtor had told her. Fordham wasn’t sure if that was the case, but it didn’t matter. A house without stairs was safer and easier for Whitty to get around, and that was enough.
Outside the cozy kitchen, a motorcycle revved its engine. Fordham went to the pantry for the second time and got out the Sleepytime tea, the honey, a spoon, and her favorite mug, which was tall and decorated with in a colorful Parisian street scene. She glanced over at the business card on the counter. Tony Gallo had successfully fixed her pipes, called her beautiful, and asked to take her out for the best saltimbocca alla romana she had ever tasted, as if assuming she was worldly enough to know what he was talking about. He’d probably faint if she told him that not only had she never tasted it, but she also wasn’t even sure what was in it. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine a date with Tony Gallo, but she couldn’t keep a straight face.
Fordham brought her tea into the family room and sat in the corner of the big taupe sectional. It had seemed like Barbie furniture in her old house. She didn’t care. What this house lacked in space it made up for in warmth, and that was something that couldn’t be measured.
A group of boxes rescued from the flood still had to be sorted, repacked, and stored, but that would have to wait. Maybe it was lack of sleep or the ungodly hour, but the huge carton marked Nostalgia seemed to be willing her to open it. At first, she resisted. Revisiting the past didn’t seem productive. But since the box was within arm’s reach, Fordham made a game of challenging herself to get it without leaving her seat. After a few good tugs, the box proved no match for her determination. She downed the tepid tea as if it was a belt of whiskey swallowed before a confrontation with a masked bandit then opened the flaps at the top of the carton.
“Okay, breathe,” she whispered to herself.
She picked up the first folder lying on top of an enormous pile of stuff she couldn’t throw out but wasn’t sure she ever wanted to see again. Research papers from college. That wasn’t so bad. Professor Hayley Stone had given her an A-plus for her “insightful contemporary account of the complex economical, political, and sociological conditions existing in Victorian London that perpetuated prostitution and led to the betrayal and ultimate dissolution of the family unit.”
She was relieved to find documented evidence that she could write. She put it aside, thinking she might show it to Abe if at some point he gave her a hard time about her content or style. There were tons of similar papers and files, and she was sure that this box was strictly schoolwork until she noticed her high school yearbook and a small photo album covered in hearts and peace signs.
Yearbooks were tough, especially when life promised one road and somehow replaced it with another, which was what had happened to her. For Evie, the Spring Vale High School yearbook was further proof that she had always been a smart girl who knew what would work for her. She chose the right boyfriend, who became the right husband, the right dentist, and the right father to her daughter. For Fordham, it was a slap in the face for having been foolish enough to have irrational expectations when everything told her she was, as Dorie put it, “cruising for a bruising.”
She threw the book down on the coffee table, but it still commanded her attention like a good horror movie—despite the lurid screams and the looming knife, she wouldn’t be fulfilled until she saw the kill. Fine, a page or two will satisfy my morbid need to connect with ancient history. Fordham read a few entries then came to Evie’s. Beneath a picture of Eve Gross and Marv Weiner sitting side by side on the bleachers at a football game was the label, “King and Queen of the Prom.” She had almost forgotten how long and dark Evie’s hair used to be. Nowadays, it was cut to her chin with caramel highlights. And Marv, except for a few stray grays, seemed untouched by time.
Dear Fordham,
Hey, sister—We’ve been friends forever and always will be. You’re the only person I’ve ever shared chewed gum with—and I guarantee it will stay that way. You’re beautiful, smart, and funny, and I love you so much I’m not even jealous. You’re the only one who really understands me, and when Marv and I get married, I want you to be godmother to our kids. See ya at the party. Tell Aaron to remember to bring a bathing suit this time! Love ya always, Evie.
And there it was in print: the name Aaron and a reminder of the time he’d shown up at Marv’s pool party without his bathing suit and convinced her to go skinny-dipping when all the guests had gone. Although they’d been dating all through high school, they didn’t have the chance to have sex very often. That night, Aaron was pretty clear it was going to happen again. She didn’t have to close her eyes to remember his voice.
“You gonna stay in the pool?” he’d asked from the deck. Aaron was perfection. He had soulful eyes, dimples, longish dark hair that feathered back, and just enough facial hair to enhance his chiseled features.
“Yeah, why not? I remembered my bathing suit.” The moon was high and bright, and as she swam, her arms created little eddies that sparkled like swirls of glitter. She stopped to splash him, but he was too far away to reach. She closed her eyes and went underwater until she hit something hard that forced her up. It was Aaron.
“At least I have my birthday suit.” He kissed her, and in seconds, her bikini was floating on top of the water.
“In the pool?” she asked.
“In the pool now, and in my bed later.”
Evie and Marv were too busy making out at the other end of the pool to even notice they had company. Certainly, they would never have known Fordham and Aaron w
ere naked if Marv’s mother hadn’t rung her famous cowbell to let them know the pool was closing for the evening. Aaron flew out of the water and into his pants before Fordham even realized they’d stopped kissing. He might not have been gallant, but he was fast and had her wrapped in a towel, bikini in hand, before the last of the clanging.
She had been head over heels, heels over head in love with Aaron Karp. It was the kind of love that made her stomach tumble when she said his name and her heart race when he said hers. They dated for two years—an obscene amount of time to emotionally invest in a fantasy that included a down-on-one-knee, two-carat brilliant-cut diamond proposal, a split ranch with an in-ground pool, an oak fence, and a toy poodle named Fifi. Not to mention a spacious music room where Aaron—a wannabe musician turned sound engineer with a soft spot for oldies—could store and listen to all the precious eclectic albums he obsessively collected and frequently quoted from. Friends said they looked like they belonged together and that someday they would have beautiful children. She remembered thinking she was good for two children, maybe three, as long as labor and delivery weren’t really like the movie they’d had to watch in health class.
Fordham slammed the yearbook closed. This was silly. She did have a beautiful child, just not Aaron’s beautiful child. But she couldn’t kick the habit. She picked up the little photo album devoted to the summer after high school graduation, the last time they’d been a couple. It held picture after picture of her and Aaron smiling at the beach, at each other, on carnival rides, on his bed. Her heart hurt to remember being so in love with Aaron Karp.
She opened another photo album, hoping to numb the memory by jumping into a different decade. But somehow, Aaron’s yearbook picture fell out of a collection of photos ranging from Whitty’s first meal to her preschool graduation. Maybe the universe was challenging her.
Fordham opened the yearbook, flipped a few more pages, and spotted Aaron’s unmistakable signature on the back cover. She wanted to slam it shut, but something that felt like a dare from one of her childhood sleepover parties wouldn’t let her. Fine. I’ll read it then shove the past back in the carton. The familiar script read:
To My “Golden Lady”—
You came into my life like a “Summer Breeze,” and you made me feel fine. I was in “Bad Company,” but you could sure “Make Me Smile.” I was just a “Piano Man,” but you made me a “Happy Man.” “From the Beginning,” I said, “Could This Be Magic?” And since then, it has been. Seriously, Fordie—I love you, and even though I’m “Leaving on a Jet Plane” to study in Spain, you’ll always be “My Girl.” Please don’t ever tell me to “Beat It.”
Love, Aaron
He was gone for three weeks and then sent her The Letter. She wanted to laugh, remembering Aaron’s corny sense of humor, but instead, a few tears of humiliation and regret stung the corners of her eyes.
Enough. There was no room in her life for coulda-woulda-shoulda memories. She smacked the book closed and tossed it to the other side of the couch, willing the past away from her. She returned to her tepid tea and stared at the blank television. She barely noticed when Dorie came in, also holding a cup of tea.
“It’s late. What are you doing?” Dorie asked.
“Entertaining Brad Pitt, but he couldn’t make it. Why are you up?”
“The usual. Online Scrabble. This time, I had a great seven-letter word, z-e-a-l-o-u-s, and he blocked it.” Dorie shook her head in disgust.
“Who blocked it?”
“That one pain in the ass I told you about who always beats me. I don’t want to talk about it.” She noticed the yearbook. “Memories?”
“Yeah. I don’t even know why I keep this stuff.”
“Stuff is good. Things give us pieces of a puzzle we already started, and if we’re smart, we keep them in place and move on. Did you learn anything new?”
“Yeah. Apparently, I had great-smelling hair and a laugh like Woody Woodpecker and could win any argument.”
“I believe that. And you wonder where Whitty gets it. Good night, darling daughter. Try to get some sleep. You don’t want to end up with Aunt Bertha’s luggage under your eyes.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Dorie paused as she was about to leave the room. “I almost forgot. Here you go.” She retrieved a letter she’d stuck on the fridge under the Empire State Building magnet and handed it to her daughter. “Wear the coral sweater. It hides your little tummy and brings out your eyes.” Dorie left the room before Fordham could comment.
She read the note and sighed. Back-to-School Night. Tomorrow.
She was too wired to sleep but too tired to sort through any more boxes, either. A laminated painting of Whitty’s hand transformed into a Thanksgiving Day turkey was hanging off the side of one of the cartons. Fordham tilted her head to examine it. Even when Whitty was in preschool, she’d been artistic. She still liked to draw, but her passion was poetry. Fordham’s little girl carried so much in her heart that deserved to be recognized. If anyone knew about getting over hurdles gracefully, it was Whitty.
Fordham had to make this book work. The sooner it was done, the sooner she could get back to spending time with Whitty. But for the moment, she would do her best to show Whitty that anything could be achieved with a little confidence and tenacity. Never mind that Fordham considered the sentiment a crock of shit. People failed all the time, and she was likely to be one of them, but her daughter didn’t have to know that. Smart mothers lied to their daughters to protect them from their insecurities.
She went to the kitchen and got more tea, using the minutes while the kettle came to a boil to pick up her phone and see if there were any responses to the submission request she’d posted on Craigslist. Holy shit! There were seventy-five of them. The good news was that the post had worked. The bad news was what Margo had said about the arduous process of skimming, sifting, and tossing was true. The first dozen submissions made Fordham blush and worry that people were mistaking her call for submissions as an ad for a porn site. The last thing she was interested in reading was cyber sexcapades from horny teenagers who either fabricated their experiences or belonged in therapy. Some emails missed the point entirely and seemed to assume she was a matchmaking message board:
I cook, clean, do laundry, and can tie a cherry stem with my tongue. I also bake chocolate chip cookies from scratch. My womb is ready for a place in your house. Please write.
Unsurprisingly, this woman was still single.
Others seemed to have stories to tell but didn’t offer enough information:
I met Earl on Facebook in a group called Sweet Cheeks. He said “Hi,” then I said “Hi.” Then we met for real at the Offal House in Kenawonga County. He had brains in sauce and mashed potatoes. I had pan-seared heart over wild rice. He said between his brains and my heart, we were a feast to be reckoned with. After some tripe ice cream and kidney cake, he proposed. It was quite a meal, and we’ve been married five years. But we’re vegetarians now.
Fordham nixed the tea, sat back down on the couch, and kept reading. Some stories were mildly amusing, but nothing was tugging at her heart, saying, I belong in your book... until the second-to-last submission.
AFTER THE FIFTH RING, Fordham was about to hang up and go to bed when Evie’s voice popped out over the line.
“Hello?” Evie yawned.
“Hi! Evie, don’t kill me,” exclaimed Fordham.
“No, it’s okay. Marv went to the office—an emergency. Some boxer chipped his front teeth. They’ll be bonding for hours.” A note of confusion followed by panic crept into Evie’s voice. “Did you have a date tonight? Oh my God. Did he hurt you? I’ll come over there and kill him!”
“No. Evie, calm down. Everything is fine. I’ve been home, working. I had some trouble with—forget it. I didn’t call about that. I called because I got a submission I have to read to you.”
“A submission?”
“Yeah, it’s a long story. I have to edit a book for work. I’ll tell you abou
t it when I see you, but I have to read this to you now.”
“Okay. Wait, I need my glasses.”
“Why? I’m reading it to you.”
“I know, but I’ll hear it better with my glasses on.” Evie rustled on the other end of the line. “Go ahead. I’m ready.”
Fordham felt herself tremble as she began to read. “Stephen Stills once said, ‘There are three things men can do with women: love them, suffer for them, or turn them into literature.’ I’ve already loved... and suffered, so it seems fitting to complete the journey now that I’m ready to move on.
“Several years ago, my first wife decided her guru’s home was more fulfilling than ours. I came home one evening to a babysitter, a note, and an empty box of granola. Our daughter was only a few months old, and the idea of being a single dad terrified me. I was betrayed and alone. How could this have happened to me... to us?”
Evie sighed. “Awful, right? Choosing a guru over a baby.”
Fordham continued reading. “I spent a lot of time online, hoping to find something that would help me make sense of it all. One night, I found a support group called Baby Games. The administrator was a single woman who couldn’t have children, so she taught others how to be better parents. With her support, I became closer with my daughter and happier than I had ever been.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Evie said.
“Just wait,” Fordham cautioned then picked up where she’d left off. “Paige was amazing. We’d sit online for hours, laughing, crying, and sharing our stories. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. But when I finally got up the courage to ask her out, she turned me down. She said I was too young for her. After some serious pleading on my part, she decided to give me a chance. From the moment our eyes locked, I was hooked. A few months later, she agreed to marry me. On our honeymoon, she gave me a copy of Flowers from the Heart: The New Family. She loved me and my daughter in a way I never knew existed. Things were better than wonderful.”