Cheyenne was prodding me to send a friend request, but instead, I thought about Jon and how I was wasting my time with this nonsense. Who cared what had happened to Michael the grade-A loser, who pissed me off so bad that I wanted to knock his new girlfriend over the head with her guitar? Or that I had to go to the counseling office just so they could tell me I was suffering from “serious lack of boyfriend”? And it got worse. I was so depressed that my mother wanted to pull me out of school and take me home for the semester. Amazingly, I cheered up the moment she mentioned this idea.
I should’ve been thanking the heavens that I didn’t have to troll Facebook and the rest of the World Wide Web for men. Badbatch.com. I had hit the good-guy jackpot. I was holding a four-leaf clover in a field of wilting weeds. I was fortunate to know Jon and start a relationship with him. He was my man for all reasons. I looked forward to seeing his blue eyes, his blond stubble, and his ponytail. I loved that his apartment was filled with books and paint and brushes and art, and that he had a canoe he built in his living room. I adored his sexy scrambled eggs and that he actually knew where to find a fuse box. I liked the way he smiled—and every kiss, from the first one in my house.
I shut the laptop and pushed out my chair.
“Party is over,” I said to Cheyenne. “Let’s get back to work.”
Chapter 11
I had just gotten several days’ worth of dishes out of the sink and loaded begrudgingly into the machine. I threw in detergent and pressed “Start,” but it wouldn’t go on. I revisited the problem two days later. The dishwasher was dead, but the rancid odor had taken on a life of its own.
I rang up Dishwasher Guy, who said he could be there at four the next day. I left work early, annoyed that I had to do so. I parked myself in my kitchen and waited. Four turned to five and then turned to six.
I had given up, aggravated, when he called. “Sorry to be late, but I can be there in half an hour.”
“In half an hour” was exactly when Candy had planned to drop by. She wanted to go out for a glass of wine. When she came in, I told her we had to wait for Dishwasher Guy.
“They are always late,” she said. “If they show up at all.”
I uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir. I lost track of time, but I could measure it in bottles. We were on our second when I heard a knock at the door.
Dishwasher Guy was handsome. He had a square jaw like Superman and short brown hair. He was wearing a red-and-black checked shirt and jeans. Not daddy jeans. I could easily imagine what came between him and his Calvins. I guessed he was in his thirties.
“My name is Evan,” he said. “Do you want me to remove my boots?” I looked down at his buffed mustard-colored work boots, the laces at the top tied perfectly. “Because of the carpets and all.”
“Oh, you should definitely remove your shoes,” Candy said. And as he bent over, she pointed behind his back to his rear end.
“So let’s see that dishwasher,” Evan said.
I poured more wine. Candy watched from behind as Evan tooled about.
“I have binoculars,” I whispered to her.
Evan’s head was in the dishwasher when she said, “Evan, how about a glass of wine?”
“Sure, it’s been a long day. Why not?” he said as he stopped looking at my dishwasher and concentrated on Candy.
I couldn’t believe she was offering him a drink when he had been hours late, and all I had wanted to do was get my dishwasher fixed so we could go out.
“Marcy, do you have another glass?” she asked.
“No,” I said, glaring at her. “They’re all dirty because my dishwasher is busted, remember?” I pounced on the word “remember.”
She went to a cabinet and found a goblet.
“How old is this machine?” Evan said.
“I’m not sure.”
Evan disconnected the dishwasher, moved it, and turned the thing inside out and upside down.
“Too bad,” he said. “Because this is a big problem.”
“How big?” Candy asked, raising an eyebrow.
Shut up and let the guy repair my dishwasher.
“Big,” Evan said.
He joined us at the table, took out a calculator, and typed in some numbers.
Candy filled his goblet.
He rubbed his big knuckles back and forth over his lips.
“Jeez, my lip is cracked,” he said.
Candy said, “Have you tried vitamin E?”
“Vitamin E?”
“I have some if you want it,” she said, reaching for her bag.
“Sure.”
“I bought it just in case I met a handsome repair guy with a chapped lip.”
Please tell me she is not going to smear it on his lips.
“Thanks,” he said as she handed him the tiny tube.
Candy had had enough to drink. I corked the bottle and put it in the fridge.
“I have to go out to the truck to get a part.”
“We’ll be waiting,” Candy said. “Don’t be long.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said when Evan was out of earshot.
“Oh, stop being such a killjoy. Loosen up.”
“I think you might have had too much to drink,” I said.
“I’m entitled to a little fun.”
He came back in, and Candy said, “Do you want me to show you how to fix it?”
“The dishwasher?” Evan asked.
“No, your lip. You didn’t put enough ointment on.”
He lit up like the bright lights on a car on a dark road in the woods. He pointed to the crack with his index finger, tapping on it.
Candy moved closer to him.
Her eyes widened as I grabbed the vitamin E out of her hand. I could see that Evan was taken aback. He grinned at Candy, as though to say “That friend of yours is tough.” Then he went back to work.
He reinstalled the machine, stored his tools, and asked politely for a credit card. As I handed him my card, he gave Candy a wink, and she gave him an inviting smile.
Business taken care of, she walked him to the door. She was gone for fifteen minutes.
“What is up with you?” I asked when she returned. “You were acting crazy with Dishwasher Guy.”
“What could be wrong with me? My life is perfect,” she said.
“Okay, then. Give me an example of that perfection.”
“Here’s one. I was married to a gynecologist, and when do I have problems with my uterus? After I divorce him.”
“I am sure Brian would help you get any information you need.”
“Brian has his own problems. He’s been fired from the hospital in Colorado.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“Sexual harassment. Not one, but three complaints. All from interns.”
“I’m sorry, Candy.”
“Forget him. I have to worry about me. My whole life, I am fine. I’m healthy. Then this hits when I’m all alone.”
I felt a flash of gratitude. I had children who were adults. If I needed help, one of them would step up. Which one? I recalled the adage “One mother can take care of six children. But six children can’t take care of one mother.”
“Brian was my health advocate,” Candy said. “Can you get a better health advocate than a man who’s a doctor? Right now, Brian would put up a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ sign if I had a nosebleed.”
I pulled closer at the table and touched her arm. “I can be your health advocate.” It seemed so little to do. So small in light of all we had been to each other when our parents became ill and our marriages fell apart.
“I need a hysterectomy.”
I was blown away, far away. The past year, for both of us, felt like one thing after another. “What? When? Why? What’s going on?”
She held her hand to her forehead. “It might not be a complete hysterectomy, but definitely removal of my uterus.”
“Oh, that old thing,” I said.
“Well, it’s not like I’m using it,” she
said.
“That’s the spirit.” I didn’t really know how long I could keep making uplifting remarks.
“But I feel it’s what makes me a woman.”
“It’s inside. No one will even notice it’s missing.” Okay, I was done being cheerful in the face of tragedy. “What else did the doctor tell you?”
“I have a tumor the size of a Ping-Pong ball.”
I imagined a Ping-Pong ball. Then I imagined it inside me. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember the word that meant “nonmalignant.”
“Hopefully the tumor is benign,” she said.
Benign. Yes, benign. That’s the word that means everything now.
Hearing about Candy’s tumor made me dwell on how precarious life was. I couldn’t swat it out of my mind. One day you’re fine, then suddenly, who knows? That’s what happened in my marriage. But being sick was worse. Candy just had to be all right.
The next day after work, I drove home to meet Harvey. I sat in the car, staring at my house. The façade was light stone and colonial-blue clapboard. All the front windows were the size of doors. We had six bedrooms, six full baths. No better place to have diarrhea.
I thought that I should move. I should move while I was well, while I could enjoy it. But then I imagined Harvey living in the house, inviting our children over, having my family in the house without me. I knew exactly how it would be. Harvey would order pizza. Elisabeth and Amanda liked vegetarian. Ben—meatballs. Of course, Harvey chowed an everything pizza—because Harvey had always enjoyed having “everything.” I imagined the pizza boxes stacked on my kitchen counter, my children goofing around with one another. Everyone laughing. Not one of my kids thinking, Mom always liked the crust. Things are pretty bad when your own family won’t save you some crust.
And what if Harvey remarried? The new wife would move into my house. I wanted to heave. I had gotten used to the idea of him with another woman when he fessed up to having a baby with that model. If they had a baby, it meant they had sex, right? But the thought of an all-new woman lounging in the hot tub in the master bath with him was excruciating, especially since he and I hadn’t gone in that tub together even once. I imagined his second wife, That Bitch, brewing morning coffee in my kitchen. How dare she drink coffee in my house? I hated her mug, “Keep Calm and Marry a Rich Man.”
Maybe what I had to do was stay in my house and defend it. Maybe I needed to buy a machine gun and stand in the driveway, ready to shoot.
Harvey pulled up. He was in his sports car, wearing khakis and a golf shirt. He looked around, like a groundskeeper. “We did a great job with the landscaping,” he said.
“Harvey, we never touched a blade of grass. It was all Landscaping Man.”
“But who hired him?”
Inside, I discarded the blazer I had worn over my pinstripe shirt, which was wrinkled after a day at work. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. I smoothed my hair, always trimmed slightly to maintain a length below my shoulder. I noted some despicable gray at the roots. Just looking at that gray made me age twenty years. I placed my palm on the offending roots. I planned to walk around just like that until I made it to a hair salon.
When I reappeared, Harvey was exploring the kitchen, looking around like he’d never before seen it. “I should’ve bought a new fridge, a larger one.”
“Harvey, a football team could be stored in that fridge.”
“Got any coffee?” he asked.
“Coffee? Never heard of it.”
“Just kidding,” he claimed. But he wasn’t.
“What do you want to discuss about the wedding?” I said, getting down to business.
“I really need a cup of coffee.” It would never occur to him to brew a cup for himself. In fact, I couldn’t remember one time in three decades that he had touched a coffee maker. I had told him when he called that I wasn’t making coffee, and I wasn’t.
“Harvey, either make it yourself or drive to Dunkin’ Donuts and get one. Oh, and bring one for me.” I sat down at the head of the table. “Shoot,” I said, my hands clasped in front of me. The sooner we got this over with, the better.
He waited a moment. He looked at my eyes, and then he lowered his head a bit. “I want us to get back together.”
What? I had thought he might say this eventually, one day, but not sitting in the kitchen. At opposite ends of the table. While I had gray hairs on my head and thought I was there to discuss Amanda. The romance of it all!
No need to consider this one. “Don’t think so.”
“Marcy, there will not be a repeat incident.”
An incident? He was calling it an incident? Having a baby with a woman younger than our daughters was an “incident”? I thought of it more as a hundred-car pileup involving several jetliners.
“Harvey, I can’t get back together.”
“Ever or today?”
I took a breath. I had to ask. “Why do you want to get back together?”
“Because we’re making a wedding together. Because we’re family.”
I nodded. I missed those things too. Desperately. I felt the ache and wondered if it would ever fully go away.
“I’m a family man,” he continued. “I made a mistake.”
And there it was. The reason we were broken.
“Haven’t you ever made a mistake?” he asked.
Yes. I made the mistake of trusting you.
I leaned forward. “Harvey, why don’t we just get through this wedding? I just want to get through this wedding as a family.”
He touched my hand. I shook my head. I stood up.
“I can wait,” he said.
I looked him in the eyes. “You’ll be waiting for a train that is never going to come.”
“My train will come,” he said confidently.
“Let’s talk about the wedding,” I said, ignoring his remark. “I want Amanda to have the event she wants. And I want us to get along to facilitate that.”
He sat back, lifting the chair legs with him. “That is not a problem. I know what you think a wedding should be. And I know what I think a wedding ought to be. We are in total agreement.”
“I was talking about Amanda.”
“Marcy, she’s a kid. What does she know? You know where I’m telling her to get married?”
“The synagogue? You’re wasting your time.”
“The Seascape in Florida.”
“Really?” This was good news.
“Really.”
“I love the Seascape. The beach is heaven, the building is gorgeous—and the food is great. What’s more, the kids have so many great memories from vacationing there. It’s a fabulous resort. And we’ve known the manager for so many years. It will be a pleasure to work with him.”
“I’ve already spoken to him on the Q.T. I was amazed to hear that he has the Saturday night before the Christmas crush available. There was a cancellation.”
The Seascape was perfect. Five stars. Maybe seven, in my opinion.
“So now do I get a cup of coffee?” he said.
Chapter 12
Before Amanda informed her company that she had accepted a position in Connecticut, she was sent to New York on business. She had a room at the Bliss. It was where movie stars stayed. When I arrived at two, paparazzi were stationed outside, waiting for Denzel Washington and George Clooney, who were about to start filming a movie. I waved to the photographers. Then I blew a kiss.
In the lobby, I spotted Amanda wearing all camel—a short camel skirt and a ribbed short-sleeve knit top that reminded me of the kind of poor boy sweater I wore in high school. Matching shoes and shoulder bag. Apparently, she had added camel to her repertoire of black, white, and cream.”
She hugged me hello. “Do you want to have tea?” she asked.
“Tea? When did you start drinking tea?”
“When I noticed they have a high tea here, like the British, every afternoon. I checked it all out yesterday. Scrumptious. There are scones, cakes, muffins, and itsy-bitsy sandwic
hes.” She held her thumb above her index finger, demonstrating what “itsy-bitsy” meant.
“I am sure the price isn’t itsy-bitsy,” I said.
“Mom, I’m a bride! We’re here to discuss my wedding. Let’s have fun.”
The “tea” was in the lobby. It was a romantic setting, perfect for mother and daughter. We sat with a small table between us as the solemn young waitress, in a dress that was basically a body mold, presented a silver platter with four graduating tiers of delicacies—each no bigger than the swab on a Q-tip.
“Looks great,” I said. “Is that salmon or a pink dot on that crust of bread?”
Amanda laughed as she helped herself to a muffin the size of a shirt button. A waitress brought over a pot of tea as well as cups and saucers with shiny demitasse spoons.
“This is delightful,” I said. “Fifty or sixty of these tea sandwiches, and I won’t be hungry for dinner.”
Amanda nibbled on a sliver of cucumber topped with an eye drop of cream cheese.
“Pass a scone if it’s not too heavy,” I joked, anticipating what she had to talk to me about.
“Speaking of small things,” she said. “I have a small favor to ask you.”
“Ask away,” I said, trying to imagine what she was about to request, hoping she wanted to go look for a wedding gown the next day and excited to tell her that I had already made an appointment at Palladium, a renowned bridal shop in Brooklyn, to do just that.
I imagined her trying on gowns. Would she go white or off-white? Long train, short train, or none at all? What about the veil? I’d be stationed on a plush love seat, sipping the cold champagne provided by a saleswoman so overly solicitous that I wanted to slap her, waiting excitedly for Amanda’s appearance in each gown.
“What’s that TV show?” I asked. “The one about shopping for wedding gowns?”
“Say Yes to the Dress.”
“Don’t even ask. I would love to look for wedding gowns.”
Husbands and Other Sharp Objects: A Novel Page 11