by Sheri Langer
Gils eyes opened, and he shook his head a few times as he started to look more awake. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah, she’s okay, but she misses you.”
“Please don’t tell me that’s why you called!”
“So you’d rather I called to tell you she’s dead?”
“Fordham, you know damn well that’s not what I meant.”
The lump beside Gil stirred, and Fordham was surprised at how little she cared. “Are you coming to her graduation?”
“She’s in fifth grade. What the hell graduation is that?”
“The kind they have after fifth grade.”
Fordham could see a bottle of champagne and two glasses sitting on a table near Gil’s bed. Now I’m jealous. It appeared that Gil had moved on while she was still taking baby steps, getting ready to meet Evie’s catch of the day.
“I doubt I’m coming,” he said, tossing the blanket to the side.
Their camera signal wasn’t great, but a pink blurry thing caught her eye. She did a double take and realized, though it had been years since she’d seen it, Gil’s mouse was out of the house. If things on screen were supposed to appear bigger, his mouse had missed the memo.
Fordham continued without missing a beat, empowered by his sudden exposure. “She wants you there. And if she means anything to you, you’ll figure out a way to be there.”
“When is this friggin’ thing?”
“June.”
“It’s September, and you’re throwing this shit at me now?”
The lump growled something inaudible, and Gil yelled at her to shut up.
Fordham smiled with gratitude that she was no longer on the receiving end of anything he had to offer. “She was practically crying, Gil. She thinks you care more about work and money than you do about her.”
“Yeah? Where’d she get that from, Fordham?”
“Hey, don’t shoot the damn messenger. You haven’t emailed her. You haven’t called her. I was ready to do you a favor and tell her you had malaria or something, but that would have upset her too much.”
Gil let out a stream of breath that rumbled between his lips. “I’ve been pretty busy here.”
“So I see,” she said, hoping not to sound as if she cared.
“Screw you and your self-righteous bullshit,” Gil shouted. “If you had played your cards right, things might have worked out differently for us.”
Fordham wasn’t sure if he meant sex or money, but it was getting late, and she’d had enough. There was her evening with Paul Nudelman to consider. “I’m thinking I’d have given you the royal flush under any circumstances.” Fordham ran her finger over her chin and immediately covered a small pimple with her hand.
“Yeah, right. Believe what you want. Who do you think you’re talking to, a moron?”
Fordham held back the obvious answer. “You sound angry, Gil.”
“A lot less since I left you.”
She wanted to call him out on his misinterpretation of events, but with all the coke he’d been doing back then, he probably didn’t remember the truth. “I just called to say your daughter misses you, and she’d like to be penciled into your agenda when you can find some time between business and pleasure.”
“Yeah, go fuck yourself, Fordham.” He was seething. “I’ll let my daughter know when I can.”
Fordham let Gil end the call then went to the kitchen for a drink. She was fairly sure she had won that round, but it was pretty clear that they were both still stuck in a state of resentment. She had some water then slipped into her heels and let go of the last ten minutes.
SHE FELT CONFIDENT in her black dress, even if her sweaty palms made the steering wheel harder to maneuver. She turned on the radio and tried to get into the music. There was no reason to be nervous. This date wasn’t going to be any different than any of the others Evie had sent her on. She was going to walk in feeling hopeful, see him, be immediately disappointed, and find a way to cut the evening short. Even if it meant leaving a wedding, if she was miserable, she’d find a way out. She knew the drill all too well, which totally explained her persistent anxiety.
“Stop this bullshit already,” she said loudly enough to drown out the traffic update. In a few more turns, she’d be there. She steered with one hand and used the other to freshen her hair. Suddenly, she yelped in pain. One of her big dangling hoop earrings hooked onto the lacy strap of her dress. If her outfit ripped, she’d have a valid reason to turn around and go home. She was tempted, but she couldn’t do that to Evie.
She challenged herself to fix the problem without pulling over. The cars behind her kept honking, and as each driver passed, there was an exchange of obscenities. The release felt good. She set the earring free just as she pulled into the parking lot.
“I’m not doing this for me. This is for Evie.” She spoke to the rearview mirror as she checked out her face. But she wasn’t ready to leave the car. She opened the glove compartment, pulled out a copy of her favorite submission, and read it—twice.
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...
As always, reading those words produced a sense of calm. Her true love might not be at this wedding, but he was out there somewhere.
There was no valet in front of the large, gaudy catering mill, so she had to park near the dumpsters. It was drizzling, but she didn’t bother to cover her head. The damp air felt good against her cheeks. This would all be a joke by morning. She was pretty relaxed and not the least bit flustered when she tripped at the entrance. Luckily, the doorman caught her and let her lean on him as she checked her shoes. If she and her clothes got home in one piece, she’d consider the evening a success.
Chapter Nine: The Wedding Zinger
“Paulie, what’s your date’s name again?” slurred Paul Nudelman’s sister—and Marv’s cousin—a plain, chubby woman in her forties with drinks in both stubby hands. “Something about toys... Fisher Price?”
“It’s Fordham. Fordham Price,” she interjected before Paul could answer.
“Yeah, that’s right. This isn’t a name,” the woman said with conviction.
Paul rolled his gray eyes and continued buttering a dinner roll.
“I’ll let my mother know. And the IRS,” Fordham said with a cautious smile.
“The IRS,” Paul said, mocking a serious Southern drawl. “There’s no ducking those guys. When they shoot, they win because they all... hail from Taxes!”
Paul laughed heartily. Fordham worried that his slight frame would fly off the chair.
“Paulie, why isn’t your girlfriend laughing?” the chubby woman asked as she dragged her wiry husband onto the dance floor. Fordham followed the couple with her eyes as they found a place to do the twist.
“So what makes you laugh, Fisher?” he squawked. “You know I mean Fordham, right?” Paul wiped his black-framed glasses with a dinner napkin then placed them on the skinny bridge of his long nose.
She wanted to say, This date, but held her tongue. “Oh, you got me.” She laughed to buy time. She wasn’t sure how to continue their conversation.
Paul surveyed the table and motioned for the waiter. “Waiter, I need five waters, four dinner rolls, three napkins, and two lemon slices.”
“Of course, sir, but just so you know, we’re all out of the partridge in a pear tree.”
Paul ignored that. Fordham caught the waiter’s wink.
“We should probably dance,” Paul said, “I can dance. It’s just that last week, I pulled two tendons. Then I aggravated my fifth lumbar carrying a dozen file boxes. And then—”
“Actually, I need to use the powder room,” Fordham said, getting up from her seat.
Paul followed, making a beeline for the dance floor.
She wanted to go home and relax, watch TV with Whitty, and be done with this day
of double Mr. Wrongs. But she couldn’t. It would make Evie look bad if she left before dinner. She resolved to deal with it a little longer, a task made more daunting watching Paul do the Chicken Dance with his parents.
The walk to the ladies’ room was a good opportunity for Fordham to clear her head. She was happy to see a lounge area with a loveseat. The room was empty except for the attendant wearing a black uniform.
“You need anything, sweetie?” the woman said. “My shift is up.”
“Yes, actually I do. Do you know anything about online dating?”
“That is a question I can safely say I have never been asked in here.” The woman laughed.
“It’s for a project I’m working on.”
“Can’t say I know much. I’ve been married to the same guy since chatting was something you did on the telephone. I got lucky. He works and still has a full head of hair. The only reason I’m handing out toilet paper on Saturday nights is so I can buy him a home theater for our anniversary. My sister’s the one who knows the computer stuff. She met a guy on some dating site for people who are into stocks—or stockings—I don’t remember which, but they’re getting married. It’s her fifth and his seventh. Me, I think marriage gets cheaper by the dozen. Here, sweetie.” She pressed a packet of aspirin into Fordham’s hand. “You look like you could use these.”
There was only so long she could stay in the ladies’ room. After a quick check in the mirror, she was laboring her way back to the party when her heel gave out. Despite her spontaneous balancing act, she tripped forward right into what she immediately recognized as a man’s zipper. Horrified, she quickly lifted her head only to have her earring latch onto his belt buckle. To make matters worse, she couldn’t maintain her balance and fell to her knees. She closed her eyes in utter embarrassment as the man cupped her chin to raise her head and set her free. But his attempt didn’t work, and she had no choice but to face her unwitting target. Her heart skipped a beat when she found herself gazing at Whitty’s principal.
“Dr. Prince! Oh, I am so sorry!”
“I know you.” He paused for an eternity. “Whitney Presser’s mother. The woman with the text. From Back-to-School Night.”
Fordham swallowed a gasp, despite Dr. Prince’s easiness at having her hitched to his crotch. She would have felt less awkward if he’d just left his epiphany at “Whitney Presser’s mother.”
“Fordham. Fordham Price. With earrings I’m returning to Nordstrom’s tomorrow.”
They worked together efficiently, and in moments, she was detached and upright on one foot. The other damned shoe was useless. The heel was broken clean off.
“Interesting to meet you again, Fordham. Great name.”
“Thanks. I never got lost at a playground.”
“Now what?” he asked.
Fordham went into her bag and pulled out a tube of Krazy Glue. “Usually for broken nails,” she said while doing a quick repair job on her shoe.
“I’m impressed,” he said, taking her hand when she was done.
Fordham wasn’t quite sure what the gesture meant, but she wasn’t about to pull away. “Thank you so much, Dr. Prince.”
“I’m David,” he said, taking the shoe and checking the repair, “and I’ve always believed you can tell a lot about a woman by looking at her sole.” He handed the shoe back to her.
Fordham laughed. “Got to hand it to you, I’ve never heard that one before.”
“Pretty bad, huh?”
Nothing could be that bad when she was staring into David Prince’s warm blue eyes. But he didn’t have to know that, at least not yet. “Yeah, but I’ve actually heard worse.”
“Well, now I feel redeemed.”
“You should, considering you’ve been helpful from head to toe.”
“So what brings you here tonight?” David asked.
“A huge favor for a very close friend. What about you?”
“I’m at a bar mitzvah in the Loring Room.”
“I’m at a wedding in the Boring Room.”
They chuckled in unison.
“Long night?” David asked sympathetically.
“If the marriage lasts this long, they’ll be in good shape.”
Fordham put the shoe down to step into it. David got down on his knee to help her. It could have been a Cinderella moment, but then Pam showed up.
“David?” Pam said, her voice icy. “The boys want you. I wasn’t sure where you went.”
“Pam, this is Fordham Price. She’s Whitney Presser’s mother.”
“Yeah, we’ve met,” Pam said curtly.
Fordham wondered if it was past Pam’s bedtime. The women shook hands limply as a young boy came running out of a room.
“Uncle David! Come here! They want to lift Big Mike up on a chair, and they need you. Come on!”
“Okay, I’m coming.” He waved at Fordham while Pam wrapped her arm around his. “Have a good night.”
“You too,” she said.
She headed back to the room, trying to avoid anything that could make the evening get any worse.
IT WAS A JOY TO BE home in sweats and slippers, accessorized with a carton of Ben & Jerry’s. Sleepless in Seattle had gotten to the part where Rob Reiner was telling Tom Hanks about the importance of his butt. Fordham licked the spoon. Sleepless always worked after bad dates. Somehow, it cleansed the offending aura. If love could work out for Meg Ryan, Fordham still had no shot in hell, but fate and destiny were universal constants, and that comforted her.
After that night, she was going to have to talk to Evie and reconsider this whole matchmaking business. It was too forced and unnatural. People shouldn’t just be thrown together like broccoli and onions in some wok concoction. They should get to discuss their ingredients before attempting to become a dish. Her analogy brought Rachael Ray to mind. She paused the movie and went into the kitchen to add pretzels to her ice cream. Whitty was sitting on the couch when she returned.
“You’re watching this again.” Whitty was holding an empty glass.
“Hey, monkey. What are you doing up?”
“I dunno. Guess I had a dream I was thirsty. Bad night, huh?” Whitty said, searching Fordham’s face for clues.
“Get a spoon. I’m indulging in guilty pleasures. Phish Food and I are having a heart-to-heart. Is Mom-Mom sleeping?”
“Yeah. So come on, tell me about your date.”
“It wasn’t a date. It was a favor. We ate. He danced. I laughed, mostly at him, and then I left. And now your Aunt Evie owes me big.”
“Oh, one of those. Was he really ugly?”
“No, not ugly. But definitely not my type.”
Fordham wasn’t sure she even had a type anymore. Her type used to be long hair, beard, mustache, medium build, and a confident swagger. Now she’d be best served switching her criteria to just a nice guy that didn’t make her gag when facing him over dinner.
“Was he rude? Was he pond scum?”
Since turning ten, Whitty had shown a greater interest in Fordham’s dating life and often asked her to share highlights. It was cute but also reasonable for Whitty to want to know about who might take on the role of a dad while hers was absent. So far, there’d been no one who even came close to filling that role, but Fordham wondered how Whitty would react should that time come.
“No... more like plankton. Very bland, very boring plankton.”
“Sorry. You sound disappointed.”
Whitty was half-right. Fordham was disappointed about men in general. She sensed Whitty wasn’t crushed by the news of her bad date.
“There’s only one more pint of chocolate chip left in the freezer.” Fordham gave Whitty a nudge. “Kidding. I’m fine. Just tired. Oh, you know who I saw tonight? Your principal.”
“Dr. Prince was at the wedding?”
“Not exactly. He was at a bar mitzvah in the next room, and we kind of bumped into each other in the lobby.” She snickered. The next time they saw each other, she would be embarrassed, but she was lookin
g forward to it anyway.
“Cool. Did you talk?”
“A little bit. Nothing much. He actually belonged at his party. He was with your homeroom teacher.”
“Her? Really?” Whitty sounded bummed. “I think he’s nice.”
“Yeah.” Fordham steered the conversation elsewhere. “Did you have a nice time with Mom-Mom?”
“It was fun. She bought me a couple of shirts. She was pissed ’cause that guy won at Scrabble again, but she was in a good mood by the time we went to the movies and had pizza.”
“Hmmm, pizza. So we both had a cheesy time!” Fordham tickled Whitty.
“Eee! That was sooo lame!” Whitty said, tickling Fordham back.
By the time the credits were rolling, Whitty was fast asleep. Fordham got a tissue to dab her teary eyes and then watched Whitty dream. It was hard to believe her preadolescent daughter was once a baby, totally dependent on her to make every decision, from what to eat and what to wear to where to go and how to get there. These days, she rarely asked Fordham for help or advice. She seemed to thrive on doing her own thing, which made Fordham both proud and wistful.
But for Fordham, little had changed. The moment Whitty was born, she became the center of Fordham’s life and inspired her to want to be everything a good mother was supposed to be. When she was a toddler, that meant moving to a new house. There was no question that a ranch house would be far more convenient than the colonial they lived in. Those steps were too much for any toddler to handle, and for Whitty, they were exceptionally frustrating. One day, when she was about two, Whitty threw all her toys over the safety gate. They formed a mound and blocked the front door. Gil insisted that they put up a For Sale sign the next day.
Gil could be impulsive, but Fordham had agreed with him that time. And finding a new house would mean they would have to spend more time together. She wanted that. He was always so busy working that they were more like roommates than spouses. She had difficulty remembering the last time they had sex. Moving, she’d decided, would make them closer and get them on the same page.
It was strange, especially after their conversation, to think of Gil as anything but an adversary. She could hardly remember that at one time, she’d wanted to be closer to him. She didn’t think about it often, but she had to admit that he’d seemed to want to be a good father, at least in that moment.