Searching for the One

by Gabriella Murray

  Sara couldn't answer.

  "It is, isn't it?"

  The silence deepened.

  "Leave her alone, Cynthia," Greta interrupted. "It's her first time here."

  "I'm getting her tea," Iris offered. "All this talk could put anyone in the nut house."

  "You can say that again," murmured Wanda loudly, looking out of the window from her seat on the sofa. Wanda was big boned and tall, with carved features and a pale complexion. She wore a long burgundy, wool dress that seemed to match her mood.

  "Sara doesn't need tea," Cynthia said. "She's been single for the past three months and everyone says she's doing fabulously!"

  "They do?" Sara was astonished; she didn't realize people were saying anything.

  "Sure. You look better than ever. You seem more alive. So, answer, please. Tell us why divorce isn't terrible? You always know how to say something that helps. Do you really miss Melvin?" Cynthia kept pressing, as Greta took a cookie for herself.

  "Yes," Sara said to her surprise, "I do miss him, and I probably always will."

  "Well, I'll always miss Ted, too. After all, I loved him for twenty-two years. And twenty two years is a long time to keep love one person who doesn't know how to love you back." There was a high, rasping ring to her voice now.

  That was the battle cry. Everyone said they had been in love with a person who had no idea how to love them back. Melvin had used those words exactly. Articles printed endless versions of it, psychotherapists grilled it into their clients. This mass complaint had seized them all. But Sara was sick of it. She didn't buy it. She suddenly felt like getting away from these women, but didn't know how.

  Cynthia pulled herself together now. "But life has to move on, anyhow."

  "Of course," Sara said. "You're sharp, clever, a good businesswoman. You know all the angles. You've got it made, Cynthia."

  "Are you being sarcastic?"

  "No, I mean it. You'll do fabulously."

  "Thank you."

  Greta put her arm around Sara, who was looking around the room for the nearest exit.

  "Don't get upset by this, honey. We're all a little shell shocked. Sometimes it comes out more, sometimes less. But we need each other more than ever. Being single's a whole new world."

  "Yes, it is," Sara said simply, as Iris walked over with a hot cup of orange spice tea.

  "Thanks," she said, sipping slowly.

  "Where's my tea?" Wanda called from the couch.

  "No tea for you unless you perk up," Iris called back.

  "That's the word! Perk up!" Cynthia said. "I want to perk up and go for it all the way. Don't you?" Cynthia's voice rose another few octaves.

  "Go for what?" Sara said.

  "For happiness, love, terrific times! What else? What about you?"

  "Who doesn't want wonderful times?" Sara said, but still wasn't sure what that really meant.

  "You'll come with us, won't you, Sara?"

  "Come with you?" Sara said.

  "I want a boyfriend. And I want one fast."

  Sara took another long sip of the hot tea which burned her mouth and comforted her at the same time.

  "Maybe not just one either! It's been twenty two years. I've got to find out who I am."

  "What makes you think you will find who you are locked in some stranger's arms?" Wanda crooned from the couch. "What can he show you?"

  "Plenty," Cynthia answered, spinning on her heel. "And he could show you plenty too!"

  Greta shook her head and walked away from both of them. "Come sit here on the couch," she called out. "Until Cynthia quiets down."

  "I like men," Cynthia announced, "and I know you all like them too. That's all it takes. We've got to support each other all the way."

  "All this talk is getting me dizzy, weak in the knees," Iris drawled. "Give Sara time to get herself oriented."

  Oriented to what? Sara wondered.

  Sara went over, put her tea down, and helped herself to a cup of cider. As she poured the cider Cynthia and her band of single women suddenly seemed like a circle of moths, fluttering, preparing for the moment they would descend upon the world of single men. Sara didn't want to be part of them - but she didn't want not to be either.

  Cynthia then placed herself on a high wooden chair and called the evening to order. "I hope I haven't been acting too nutty," she said.

  "Not at all," said Iris. "Just being who you are."

  "Okay," Cynthia said, pulling a long piece of paper from her pocket, covered with scrawl. "Here's a list of dances, parties and meetings I've found for the week. We'll go together. This Sunday at six there's a dance at Lorraine's, with buffet dinner. Thursday night, drinks at Millie's - and Friday at nine, Jazz at Tommy's corner." As she spoke, she crossed her legs and swung them back and forth like a metronome.

  "You'll get the hang of it in no time, darling," Greta leaned over to Sara. "I know you're a potter and have got those kids around, but what good is life without a little romance? How about it? Can we count you in?"

  "I'm thinking it over," said Sara.

  "Come on," Cynthia said, "we need you with us!"

  That surprised Sara. "Why?"

  "Because, whether you know it or not, you're interesting, fun. Things get tired, Sara. You add a new face to the pack."

  Everyone knew Sara went to a famous psychic, Camella, who you couldn't get an appointment with for a year. She lived in a small house hidden in Yonkers, and Sara got in at a moment's notice. Sara'd been seeing her for years. By now they even looked a little like each other, someone who'd seen them together said.

  "I'm really not sure I can do this," Sara started, thinking it was time to check with Camella.

  "Okay, let's leave her alone," Greta said. "We're acting like dogs."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Cynthia's eyes narrowed.

  "It means cool it," Greta said.

  Sara sipped the mulled cider, munched on chunks of oranges Cynthia'd put in. She didn't want to take sides. She liked all these women, but always thought violence lurked barely under the surface when they were together. Sara enjoyed having violence emerge in her pots - nowhere else. More and more, the pots she made in the shed had wild coils, unexpected loops, dark patches of shadow. She stared at the shadows as they emerged, bringing new fascination to her work.

  Greta turned to Sara.

  "Even though Cindy's flip, we're all really wonderful friends."

  "Lovely," drawled Iris, tugging on her braids.

  Cynthia got up and went to the kitchen, pretending Greta hadn't said a thing. The minute she left, Greta spoke louder to Sara.

  "This is a terrific group," Greta said, "but I don't feel safe around Cynthia. At all. Do you?"

  "Of course I do," said Sara.

  "She's too flip. . .hungry."

  "We're all hungry," Sara said. "The men too."

  "Ravenous," Iris commented. "Don't kid yourself. How do you know so much about who's hungry or not, hidden away in that shed of yours?"

  Sara took what felt like a blow and then realized she'd been presumptuous. She didn't really know. None of them did. Up until now, they all had been carefully married, protected by their husbands. It was only games they'd played with each other, none of them knew what went deeper, what would happen when they had to count on each other.

  Iris leaned closer and Sara could smell her thick, cloying perfume.

  "You know what I think?" she said. "It's a jungle. The men are hunters. We're the prey. It's power they're after. That's all they want. Once they devour you, it's good-bye."

  A horrible shiver ran down Sara's spine.

  "What's the point of going out there then? Sara managed to ask. "If you think you're doomed."

  Iris's eyes narrowed and her voice rose.

  "What else am I supposed to do? Where else am I gonna find him? Where is this absolutely glorious creature who is supposed to make my life turn into everything I've been waiting for twenty-six years? Is he at the neighborhood bar? Maybe I'll find him at
the disco? Or could he be Peter Brown's conservative father who finally mustered up the courage to leave Peter's mother one day?"

  Sara wanted to run from all of them. They felt like ravens, gathering for a feast.

  "I'm hot, honey," Iris continued. "Aren't we all? I'm not going to turn into a pig, either. Some women go crazy when they get out there. Not me. I've got dignity. Just like you. You've got dignity, Sara. Everyone says so."

  Sara was amazed. "Thank you."

  "You've got more than dignity too. Devotion, sweetheart. But it's stupid. It's obvious that it takes you forever to stop loving someone. Someone who isn't worth the dirt you stand on. Look at you. You still haven't gotten over Melvin."

  Sara felt the hair rise on her arms as everyone one in the room looked at her. Well, she didn't plan on getting over Melvin either. She didn't want to scoop out years of her life, throw them into the garbage, forge them into rubble and ash. Instead, like her pottery, she hoped to take her years and fire them in the kiln, watch them turn into something wholly unexpected, and magnificent. People weren't interchangeable; you couldn't exchange one for another like a worn-out hat.

  But recently she'd begun to wonder if it might not be possible to make some space, to include someone new in the place where Melvin used to reside?

  * * * * *

  It was nearly the end of December. Holiday decorations were in all the stores, year-end parties were in full swing. The house was scattered with wrapping paper, ribbons, school books, and papers. School was out and streams of kids marched through the house with wet boots, raiding the ice box and blaring music behind closed doors.

  Sara trailed behind them with a vacuum cleaner and rag, mopping up the wet spots, desperately trying to keep some semblance of order. It was mostly futile. The skylight in the upstairs bedroom had cracked, letting in cold wind and snow that blew all through the house. The flu in the living room fireplace clogged, every now and again sending wisps of smoke through the main corridor, and the noise level increased with each passing hour. Sara wore ear muffs as she vacuumed.

  "Give it up, mom," Chloe said. "It's only a week or two like this."

  As if hearing Chloe's wise words, the vacuum screeched and conked out. Instead of calling vacuum cleaner service, by mistake Sara dialed the plumber and left a desperate message begging for help.

  An hour later Joe-Z, the plumber, a dark haired, good looking man in his mid thirties who lifted weights, arrived, inadvertently tripping over a loose shoe in the middle of the room and falling on his back.

  "God, I'm so sorry," Sara breathed, anguished, helping him to his feet.

  "It's nothing," he looked discombobulated.

  "I didn't realize I called you," Sara gulped. "It was a mistake. I needed vacuum cleaner service."

  "You need more than that," he mumbled, rising to his feet, looking at her oddly. "You feeling all right?"

  "Yes. I mean, no. I mean - "

  "It's too much for you?"

  Tears welled up. "It didn't used to be."

  He scanned the topsy turvy house.

  "School's out," Sara said, weakly.

  "It's different when you're alone."

  Sara breathed deeply.

  "Why not give yourself a break?" he said. "Leave the mess and have some fun. This place won't exactly fall apart any more than it is already if you're out there enjoying."

  At that moment decided he was absolutely right. There was no way she could hold it all together. She might as well relent, go out with the girls this Sunday night.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dear Sunflower 101

  You are available, aren't you? Are you hiding from romance? There are women out there who get a windfall of courage and then retreat. I can't imagine that's you Is it?

  Still hoping,

  Greg

  That Sunday night Sara came downstairs perfumed, coifed, and wearing a black, silk dress, high heels, and long, silver earrings. When she walked into the kitchen, the kids, gathered around the table, all looked up and gasped.

  "What's going on?" Matt eyes were wide open.

  Chloe had a strange look on her face.

  "What's do you mean?" Sara asked, taken aback.

  Abel looked away.

  "What?" Sara's heart felt heavy.

  "You got plans?" Matt asked reluctantly.

  "Obviously," Chloe answered.

  "It's just a night out with the girls," Sara said.

  "Yeah," Matt answered, "at some club."

  The three of them took it in. They looked at each other and then away.

  "I thought you wanted me to go out and meet people," Sara finally managed.

  "It's just that. . . we're surprised," Chloe said. "You didn't warn us about tonight."

  "It's weird seeing your mother dressed up like this," Abel said.

  A wave of sorrow swept over Sara. For a second she wanted to run back upstairs, take off her black, silky dress, throw on blue jeans and join them for hot chocolate, marshmallows and a cozy, safe evening home. At that second, a car pulled into the driveway, honking.

  Abel flinched.

  "It's them," Sara said.

  "Honking like that? Grown women acting like kids?" Matt exclaimed.

  The car in the driveway honked again, for a long time.

  "It's only for an hour," Sara said, going for her coat and feeling pulled in half.

  "Have fun," Chloe called, as Sara ran to the door.

  As she opened the door, the cold night air stung her in the face, waking, jostling her, and preparing her, she hoped, for what lay ahead.

  The car was packed full of women, talking and laughing over music that blared on the radio. They waved as Sara approached, throwing open the back door.

  Sara squeezed into the back seat, pressed against Wanda on one side and Greta on the other.

  "So, you finally made it," Wanda screamed over the music as the car pulled out.

  "Congratulations, honey," Greta yelled. "Welcome on board."

  They were headed to Lorraine's - a fashionable club on Long Island. As the car sped along, amidst laughter and music, Sara, stuck in the back seat, tried not to visualize all the crazy scenarios that could be waiting, feeling oddly as if she'd never been to a club before.

  As soon as they pulled up, valet parking swooped the car away and Sara and Cynthia walked to the main door together.

  "Now, listen closely and you won't go wrong," Cynthia said, talking quickly. "These parties are usually crowded. When you first walk in, all heads turn to check you out. Then you're on your own. You have to wander from person to person, don't get stuck in one place for too long. Some guys try to trap you for company. They talk too much, hold on for too long and don't really even have the barest intention of taking your number. They're easy to spot if you know what you're doing.

  "If someone likes you, and you like him, just give him your number and let him call. You're there on a fishing expedition, not to just hook one. Plenty of nights get wasted talking forever to a professional single."

  "Thanks a lot," Sara managed as they were pushed in through the front door.

  It was packed to the gills and Sara shuddered the minute she walked in. Blinking red and blue lights flashed on the dance floor, casting eerie shadows in which none of the people looked quite human. Only a few were actually dancing, some gyrating, others moving stiffly, a few locked in each other's arms. Everyone else was watching, or roaming with a drink in their hands.

  Sara and her friends went to the bar first thing, found a spot, and ordered drinks. After we get to the bar, Cynthia had told her, we split. That's the only way to meet a guy. No one comes up to you if you're huddled with the girls.

  Cynthia and Greta positioned themselves far down the bar, leaving Sara approachable. Alone suddenly, she ordered a gin fizz and stood there, waiting.

  "Come here often?" a tall man with sad eyes was the first to speak.

  "The first time," Sara said.

  "They all say that," he answered. "It's Sunda
y night - that's why it's so crowded. They have a buffet dinner later, in the back. You'll see people lining up. Chicken, shrimp, ribs, salad, lasagna - the works. The food's not so bad, that's why a lot of people come. But Sunday night's the worst, anyway."

  Although the man smiled nicely, on closer inspection his eyes were blank. Through the haze of smoke Sara saw that he had big creases between his eyebrows. From worrying, she supposed.

  He moved a little closer.

  "It's not so bad," he went on in a low voice. "You get used to it after a while. It's better than sitting home."

  I'm hardly alone, Sara wanted to say. I've got three kids, friends, a pottery show coming, books to read, work to do. But she saw in a flash it would mean nothing to him. Whatever anyone said or didn't say, whatever they thought they had or didn't have, they were all here together anyway in the same boat - going home to an empty bed.

  Sara bit her tongue, which tasted salty, and wondered what Melvin was doing at this moment, how, after an entire life together, she had ended up standing here with this sad guy.

  "How long have you been single?" the man moved another step closer and Sara began to feel as if the walls were closing in. He obviously wanted her to move closer too. She couldn't. It wasn't his fault. There was nothing wrong with him - nothing wrong with any of them - she thought, looking around. It was just a lonely Sunday night, forcing them all into strange gyrations.

  "My name is Ned," he continued, extending a large hand. "I'm pleased to meet you. You're very pretty."

  "Thank you."

  Sara didn't want him to tell her she was pretty. And she didn't want to tell him her name. He smelled of fresh cologne; Sara pictured him at home, dressing up and splashing cologne like this every Sunday night.

  "Listen," he said. "I run an insurance agency. I speak to people all day long, but the first few months of being single, I thought I would die. You get used to it though, believe me. Want to dance?"

  "No, thank you," she spluttered.

  "Why not? Just a dance," he reached out and put one arm around her. Sara pushed him away.

  "Not right now," she said. "Nothing personal. It's just that . . ." her voice trailed off.