The Latecomers Fan Club

by Diane V. Mulligan

  Abby tried to picture Breanna’s other bridesmaids in any of the dresses and almost laughed.

  “I like the silver,” Breanna said.

  “Shall we start there?” Katrina asked.

  “Maybe we could start with the black one?” Abby asked. It was the most sensible option. Floor length with an empire waist and spaghetti straps, it was the one most likely to suit a variety of body types.

  “You would pick the black one,” Breanna said, rolling her eyes.

  “It’s a more formal option,” Katrina said, bringing the dress over to them.

  “But black?” Breanna said.

  Katrina assured her it came in other colors, and Abby got up to try it on. She stepped behind the screen and quickly pulled off her skirt and sweater. She stepped into the gown and came out for Katrina to zip it.

  Abby stepped up onto the platform as Katrina directed her. She had to force herself to face the mirror. She’d been avoiding full length mirrors since the first day her jeans felt tight. Now she had to look at herself in a three-way mirror, no angle hidden.

  “You’re hardly showing,” Katrina said, taking some clips and fidgeting behind Abby to adjust the fit of the dress. “When Breanna told me you were expecting, I thought I’d have a bigger challenge on my hands.”

  She glanced sideways in the mirror to her left. She couldn’t bring herself to look head-on. She’d lost weight during her first trimester due to all the morning sickness, but now those pounds were back and her middle was expanding by the day. She hated feeling fat. Her due date seemed impossibly far away. “What do you think, Bree?” Abby asked.

  “Eh.”

  Abby turned away from the mirrors to face her. “It’s simple enough, right?”

  “Matronly.”

  Matronly. Well, I’m going to be a mother soon, Abby thought.

  “Let’s try the silver,” Katrina said.

  Abby tried the silver. Then she tried the red. Katrina brought four more styles after that. Breanna became increasingly grumpy with each dress, even though Abby was perfectly cooperative. Finally, Breanna declared that the silver had been the best.

  “Why don’t you slip it on again?” Katrina asked.

  One more time, Abby went behind the screen. She was getting tired of squirming in and out of dresses. She came back around and stepped up onto the platform.

  “It is a great, classic cut,” Katrina said, standing off to the side with her hands on her hips. Her voice was as patient as ever, but Abby suspected she was ready to move on.

  “Oh my God, Abby, I seriously hate you sometimes,” Breanna said.

  “What?”

  “You look better in that dress with a baby bump than I could ever look, even after months of dieting.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Abby said, stepping down from the platform.

  “Seriously. You are going to weigh less on the day you give birth than I will on my wedding day. It’s infuriating.”

  “Honey, you’re beautiful,” Abby said, sitting beside Breanna and wrapping an arm around her.

  “I can’t do this today,” Breanna said, looking at Katrina. “I have plenty of time before the wedding. I can’t do this until I lose more weight.”

  “Well,” Katrina said, picking up a big appointment book from a side table next to the sofa. She shook her head. “We book up so quickly, and you know if we have to order something and then make alterations... You really don’t want to put this off.” She appeared to be struggling to hold back a tsk. Abby wondered if being bitchy was good strategy for making a sale and earning commission. Then she considered Katrina’s expensive-looking clothes and shoes and decided it must be. If you have to be a bitch in order to wear nice clothes to work, then sign me up for a lifetime of polyester uniforms, she thought.

  “I’ll just take this off,” Abby said. She hurried out of the dress and sat back down beside Breanna, who hadn’t budged an inch. Katrina stood waiting, arms crossed, by the door. “Can we have a minute?” Abby asked her.

  Katrina raised an eyebrow but complied.

  “Pat’s mom says this is the best place,” Breanna said, shrugging. “I guess I should try some while we’re here.”

  “There are other dress shops,” Abby said. She had attempted to locate price tags on the dresses she had tried on without any success, a sure sign that this shop was too expensive. She thought Breanna knew better than to make up her mind after only one stop, but if she could use Breanna’s current distress to get her out the door, she could make sure of it. She was too easily seduced by name brands and cache.

  “I just hate being fat,” Breanna said, pulling a tissue from her purse.

  “You aren’t fat,” Abby said. Breanna was a top-heavy girl, but she certainly wasn’t obese. She had a round face and enormous breasts, but she had no butt and her arms and legs were skinny. Her whole body appeared to taper from her shoulders to her feet, with no waist, no hips. It was an unfortunate build, but you can’t change your shape.

  “Says the size-four diet queen.”

  “Not anymore.” It was true, though, that Abby had always worked hard to keep her small size. She was determined to gain as little as possible during this pregnancy, as little as her doctor deemed healthy. After high school, when she was no longer taking dance lessons and cheerleading and was working full time at her uncle’s restaurant, she had packed on a few pounds. You don’t get much exercise behind a bar, and on work nights she ate greasy plates of fries or mayonnaise-laden sandwiches for dinner at the restaurant, instead of the careful home cooking her mother served. Her mother, a card-carrying, lifetime member of Weight Watchers, put her on a diet. She hated every minute of it, but she lost those extra pounds. After she moved to Somerville, it was easier. She had to walk everywhere since she had no car, so she got enough exercise that she didn’t have to be so careful about dieting. But then, like clockwork every month before her period, she would feel impossibly, disgustingly fat, would swear off bread or hop on whatever other craze was au courant among dieters. Then she’d get her period, binge on chocolate, and forget her diet again until a few days before her next cycle. She hadn’t ever considered the effect of her diet-madness on Breanna. Nathaniel used to complain about it all the time, but Breanna—always the supportive friend—went along with whatever restrictions Abby was imposing on herself at any given moment. Breanna was much bigger than Abby, taller and thicker all around. Of course Breanna must have concluded that if Abby believed she needed to lose weight, Abby must also think Breanna needed to lose weight, and if her best friend thought it, it must be true. Abby thought about the baby. Please, be a boy, she thought. She was afraid she’d be a terrible influence on a girl. “You aren’t fat,” she said. “You’re just busty.”

  “Maybe I should get a breast reduction before the wedding,” Breanna said, seriously.

  “I’m not sure Pat would like that.”

  “I hate this, you know.”

  “What?”

  “All this wedding nonsense.”

  Abby never would have guessed Breanna hated the wedding “nonsense.” She had taken to being engaged like a fish in water. She loved making plans, factoring in the little details, being the center of attention. She used to talk about being an event planner, ditching her accounting career for something more creative.

  “Pat’s mom has kind of taken over,” she said. “It’s like she has this plan in her head of the perfect wedding, and since she has no daughters, and I’m going to be her first daughter-in-law, she’s going to make that perfect wedding happen for me. It’s really generous of her, but it’s just all gotten too elaborate. Honestly, if it were up to me, we’d elope tomorrow and be done with it.”

  “You don’t really want that,” Abby said.

  “No,” Breanna admitted.

  “Look, you are going to be beautiful. You are beautiful. We need to get y
ou a dress that will shock everyone. Maybe instead of a gown, a cocktail dress that will show off those amazing legs.”

  “I do have great legs.” Breanna smiled. She picked up her purse and coat and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  The sun had come out and the day was warming up. Abby slung her jacket over her arm as they walked down Newbury Street. They stopped at a Starbucks for Breanna to get a latte and then resumed their leisurely stroll. As they walked Breanna asked Abby about her first week of work, and Abby filled her in on the details. There wasn’t much to say about the job, but she was worried about her immediate supervisor, Martin, a brusque man in his early sixties whose disdain for the customers was only surpassed by his disdain for Abby. He was in charge of helping Abby learn the ins and outs of helping customers. He was loud and bossy, quick to temper and under the impression that she should master everything after being instructed once.

  “Well, try not to let him get to you,” Breanna said.

  That was the hard part, though, because all day it was just the two of them, except when the truck came to drop off packages and take away the mail they’d been collecting. She was stuck there with a grumpy old man who didn’t like her and who become enraged every time Abby couldn’t remember which form a customer had to fill out or the different options for delivery confirmation. Still, Abby was sure Breanna was right. They’d get used to each other. The real problem was that she wasn’t sure she wanted to get the hang of her job or get used to Martin. It wasn’t her life’s calling to sell postage stamps.

  “I never knew there were so many ways to mail things,” Abby said.

  Breanna laughed.

  She wished she had Breanna’s optimism sometimes. She knew a lot of it was a front, but—except for brief moments like at the dress shop—Breanna kept it up, and everyone loved her for it. Abby hooked an arm through Breanna’s and breathed in the cool spring air. She had to think like Breanna, she had to tell herself everything would be okay, and maybe it would.

  They rounded the corner onto Arlington and walked to the crosswalk at the entrance to the Public Garden. As they waited for the light to change, Abby heard someone calling her name. She turned and saw Charlie, the bass player from the Latecomers, waving to her. Breanna followed her away from the curb.

  “Long time, no see,” Charlie said, hugging Abby and kissing her cheek. “Hey,” he said to Breanna.

  Abby always suspected Charlie had a crush on her. He stuck up for her when Nathaniel was being an ass, and he made sure to include her in conversation when Nathaniel’s other friends ignored her.

  “You look great,” he said. “You going to be there next Thursday?”

  “Be where?”

  Charlie looked confused for a moment, and Abby realized he had no idea she and Nathaniel had broken up. “The gig,” he said, “O’Grady’s Tavern.”

  “O’Grady’s,” Breanna said. “Big time.”

  Charlie shrugged. “We’ll see. We could use some more practice, but sometimes it helps to be under-rehearsed.”

  “What time?” Abby asked.

  “I can’t believe Nathaniel didn’t tell you.”

  “We aren’t really speaking,” Abby said.

  “He never gets his head out of his ass, does he?” Charlie asked. He punched her arm playfully. “You know you deserve better, right?”

  Abby loved that Charlie assumed that whatever had happened, Nathaniel was to blame. “So what time are you on?” Abby asked again.

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll try to make it,” she said.

  “Okay, cool, but do me a favor,” Charlie said. “Don’t apologize to him. Whatever is going on, I’m sure it’s his fault.”

  Abby sighed. She studied Charlie’s gentle brown eyes behind his black-framed glasses. They were ringed with lashes that any girl would kill for. Such a sweet guy, and not bad looking. She wished she’d met Charlie before she met Nathaniel.

  “Gotta run, but great seeing you,” he said, hugging her again.

  Abby and Breanna turned back to the crosswalk.

  “If you have to have a musician, I’d say pick that one,” Breanna said.

  Nathaniel

  After his phone call from his mother, Nathaniel ignored four calls and a handful of text messages from Julie, and then she stopped calling. He sobered up, but he was a mess. He was shaky and anxious and his head was constantly throbbing. He awoke in the night drenched in sweat in a tangle of dirty bedsheets, but all day he felt chilled and clammy. The only thing that helped was playing his guitar. It was like meditating. It focused him, made him stay in the moment and steady his breathing. He could lose himself and his racing thoughts in the rhythm of song. After practicing with Jeff and Charlie, he came home and played for hours in his living room until the neighbors banged on the wall between their apartments in protest. The next morning the tips of his fingers were raw and red but he picked up the guitar anyway. The first few chords were painful but soon he was numb to it. All he could feel was the vibration of the body of the guitar against his body. He played every song he knew and then let his fingers wander, discovering sweet or dissonant combinations, notes that reminded him of some long forgotten old favorite or left him breathless for their mournful tones. As much as possible, he had his guitar in his hands.

  He made it from moment to moment by keeping constantly distracted. Commuting to and from work was the worst part of his day. With nothing to divert his attention, his anxiety bubbled up, his hands shook, sweat beaded on his forehead. Then he’d rush into class, ready to forget his life in exchange for Plato or Nietzsche, or into his apartment, eager for musical release.

  On Thursday, he woke with dread in his stomach and a sour taste in his mouth. Class with Julie in the afternoon and his big gig that night. It was too much for him to handle—if he wanted to keep his resolve to stay sober. He called in sick and canceled his class for the afternoon, but filling all that empty time was hardly better than facing Julie. The day before he’d had such a bad cramp in his hand he was afraid he wouldn’t recover in time for the show, so he couldn’t risk playing now. He stuck his phone in his pocket and went for a walk. He wound through a maze of streets into Cambridge toward Central Square and then on to Memorial Drive along the Charles River. He walked into the wind trying to focus all his mental energy on the rhythm of his feet.

  He wondered if Maggie would be there that night. He had told her about it when they had lunch at Quincy Market, but they hadn’t talked since. If she was there, it would all be okay. She believed in him. If he could look out and see her smiling at him, he could put on a great show, a good enough show to convince Jeff and Charlie to give it another go. He wouldn’t even need to drink to loosen up.

  He had no idea if she was working that day, but he pulled out his phone and dialed her number before he could second-guess himself. When her voice mail message came on, he hung up. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and turned away from the river toward Harvard Square, past the brick university buildings and colonial houses, now offices or shops, with their perfectly restored clapboards and shutters. He was waiting in line at Peet’s Coffee when his phone buzzed—a text from Maggie.

  “At work. Everything okay?”

  He could ask if she was coming tonight via text. That was better than calling. He wouldn’t have to hear her turn him down.

  “Coming tonight?” He wrote.

  “What’s tonight?”

  Why would she remember? He mentioned the gig exactly once and at the time she was distractedly watching her nephew.

  “My band is playing at eight,” he wrote. “O’Grady’s in Somerville.”

  “I forgot. Don’t know if I can make it. I’ll try.”

  Trying isn’t good enough, Nathaniel thought. He needed her. “We had a pact,” he replied. The guy behind him in line nudged him.

  “You gonna orde
r, buddy?” he asked. Nathaniel stepped aside and let him go ahead. He wiped his sweaty hand on his jeans and waited for Maggie’s reply. The downside of texting—too slow and you never really knew if the conversation was over. Just as he got back in line, she responded, “I’ll call you on my lunch break.”

  That was good, Nathaniel thought. She would come through for him. She always did.

  He snagged a copy of the Globe and ordered a cappuccino. It was already almost noon. She would call soon. He just had to stay busy until then.

  It was after one by the time she called. Nathaniel tried not to sound too eager when he answered the phone.

  “You should have reminded me sooner,” Maggie said by way of greeting.

  “I know, it’s just such a busy time of the semester,” he lied.

  “Well, I have to say I’m glad one of us held up his end of the pact. I haven’t so much as doodled in the past month,” Maggie said.

  “All the more reason to come. Maybe you’ll be inspired.”

  “Or I’ll just feel guilty and lazy.”

  Nathaniel knew what that felt like.

  “I don’t love driving into Boston alone at night,” Maggie said.

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re playing in Somerville.”

  “That’s worse. Finding my way in a strange place. Where will I park?”

  “How about this,” he said, proposing that she park at Alewife and take the T to Davis Square where he could meet her. “Can you be there by seven-thirty?” Jeff and Charlie would be pissed that he wasn’t there to help set up, but they would get over it. Besides, Nathaniel’s whole part in setting up was plugging into the amp.

  “I don’t know. I get off at six.”

  “Plenty of time,” Nathaniel said. “Come right from work.”