Husbands and Other Sharp Objects: A Novel

by Marilyn Simon Rothstein

  “Have you heard the latest?” Ben said to no one in particular.

  I shook my head.

  “The boots,” Elisabeth said.

  “The boots,” he said, imitating her.

  Jon moved to the corner of the couch. I felt as if he were in the wrong movie.

  “I come bearing family news. I just spoke to my ignorant sister in Seattle.”

  “And?” Elisabeth said. If he was about to bad-mouth Amanda, she was willing to help him get to the point.

  “Guess where she wants to get married?”

  “Where now?” I said.

  “She wants to get married in Fortuda, the island near Bermuda.”

  “Someone hand me my shorts and knee socks, please,” Elisabeth said.

  As for me, I said nothing, because I was well aware that we had an audience, and this wasn’t the play I wanted him to see.

  “That’s all you know about Fortuda?” Ben said.

  “I’ve never been there,” Elisabeth said. “By the way, the boots. And you’re dripping on my wood floor.”

  Ben ignored her. “Fortuda is antigay.”

  “What do you mean, antigay?” I said.

  “A gay person cannot get married on a cruise ship registered in Fortuda. Not only are they homophobic on land. They’re homophobic in the ocean. Amanda is so insensitive. How is it that she was brought up by the same people as me?”

  “Give me the raincoat, Ben,” Elisabeth said.

  Ben handed her the raincoat.

  “I had no idea,” I said. “And I am sure she has no idea. Did you tell her?”

  “Of course I told her. Just now on the phone. You know what she said? She said we were all out to ruin her special day.”

  “Oh, not with that ‘special day’ again,” Elisabeth moaned.

  “She had the sympathy of a hawk for a carcass,” he said. “How about a drink?”

  Elisabeth went to pour some wine.

  “A drink,” Ben said.

  She made him a martini. “Olive?”

  “Yes. Stuffed. In my sister’s face.”

  “Ben, you have to calm down. I am sure Amanda did not know about the discrimination in Fortuda. I am sure that once she has a moment to think, she will reconsider her plans.”

  I noticed Jon’s eyes shoot from me to Ben, awaiting his response.

  “I was so steamed, I just hung up. No one can talk to her about this wedding. Besides, do you think she cares about anyone but herself? Me, me, me! It’s the only opera she knows.”

  Elisabeth laughed. I could see Jon holding it in.

  Ben was pacing in his wet shoes. However, Elisabeth was now enjoying this indictment of her sister too much to be bothered by some soggy boots. “Amanda not only looks out for number one, she doesn’t think there’s a number two.”

  I defended Amanda. “Stop. I’m sure she didn’t know about the discrimination.”

  “Don’t be naive,” Elisabeth chimed in.

  “I told you that I told her,” Ben said as he took a chug of his drink.

  “Slow down, Ben,” I said.

  “She’s deaf when it comes to other people,” Ben snapped.

  Jon remained on the couch, not saying a word, holding his chin in his palm, watching the ball being slammed back and forth, like he was at Wimbledon.

  “Let me read to you from this tour guide for gays.” He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and read. “If you choose to go to this island hell, you should keep a good distance between you and your partner.”

  “That’s outrageous!” Elisabeth said. “Amanda chose Fortuda out of the air. She can select another island that’s just as ridiculously expensive and time consuming to get to.”

  Ben held out his phone. “Good. So tell her.”

  “You have to talk to her,” she said.

  Ben put the phone away. “She’s the most selfish person alive. I should have stopped talking to her when she busted my Walkman in high school and wouldn’t pay to replace it.”

  “I replaced it,” I said.

  “She’s still a bitch.”

  “Enough.”

  “And you know what else?” Ben said, “I don’t see her here tonight.”

  Jon stood, and I could tell it occurred to Ben for the first time that there had been an audience for our family drama, that Jon was present. That Jon had heard Ben at his worst.

  “Hi, Jon. Welcome to the family,” Ben said.

  Elisabeth lent us an umbrella. It was no longer pouring, just raining slightly, as Jon and I found his car. I reached for his hand. I felt terrible that the night had turned out the way it had.

  “I am sorry,” I said. “This wasn’t what I expected. I really, really apologize. If you are willing, and I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t, we’ll do it again another time.”

  “Are you serious? I loved it,” he said.

  What? He had to be kidding.

  “I loved watching your family. I loved being with your real family. I loved your kids being real in front of me. And it was the first time I witnessed you as a mother. You’re good at it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling warm and proud and appreciated. I squeezed his hand.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Jon said as he held open the door for me.

  “She’s not getting married in Fortuda. But I’m not mixing in.” Harvey would never, ever agree to a place that discriminated against Ben. Besides, he had told me that day in the house that he planned to steer Amanda to the Seascape in Florida. I was staying out of all this.

  “Good decision,” Jon said, then he shut my door.

  It was so insanely wonderful to have someone I respected tell me that I had decided the right thing, to have a partner to share even the rotten experiences with. As he got into the driver’s seat, I thought about how lucky I was to have met Jon. After Harvey left, I couldn’t imagine how or where I would meet another man. I kept imagining myself in a low-cut dress at singles’ night, the kind in bars—worst of all, suburban bars that had names like Peaches—sitting in a row with a hundred other divorcées, all blond, chitchatting with the bartender.

  The next morning, I called Amanda.

  “I know you,” she said as though she had been right about forecasting Hurricane Katrina and had told everyone to leave New Orleans a week in advance. “I know you put Dad up to it.”

  “Up to what?”

  “He just called. He told me that he wouldn’t foot the bill for a wedding in Fortuda.”

  “He did? Amanda, I didn’t say a word to Dad.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.”

  I decided to drop it and let her blame me. Why not blame it on Mom? Everyone put it on Mom. I certainly had, but at least I stopped after she died. Not everyone can say that. My cousin Leona was still pointing a finger at her mom for making her wear braces in high school when everyone else was already done. Until this day, Leona said it was the reason she never had a date. I didn’t think so. I thought the reason Leona never had a date was that she was a bitch. Who cared what Amanda thought? As long as she got married somewhere that wasn’t an affront to gay people everywhere.

  “Amanda, there are plenty of places to get married, places that aren’t offensive to your brother—and by extension, to us.”

  “That’s not why I’m upset. I’m upset because I was done. I had a place—the Buckingham Palace Resort in Fortuda. Now I have to start all over again. Ben gets everything he wants—just because he’s gay.”

  What was she? Ten?

  “Elisabeth is the star, because she’s a doctor. Ben is the favorite, because you always have to worry about how problematic it is to be gay in this world. It’s not that problematic when you reside in Chelsea in Manhattan. You know what’s difficult in Chelsea? To be heterosexual, that’s what.”

  “Are you done with this ridiculous rant?”

  “If you’re done meddling . . .”

  “I didn’t meddle, and what’s more, this is a decision you should have come to on your o
wn.”

  “So, what? Now you are calling me insensitive?”

  I had no clue, no idea, how to assure Amanda that if all three children needed me at once, I would divide myself in thirds. Also, I didn’t think this was a good time to ask her when she herself was going to meet Jon.

  I’d had enough for one morning. I said good-bye to Amanda. I felt like talking to someone my own age, so I headed over to Candy’s. When I arrived, Candy was in overalls on the damp and shady edge of a pond in her yard. We chatted as she planted mats of very dark moss. Until that very moment, I didn’t know anyone planted moss. I thought it was a weed. Candy told me that many people planted moss and she thought that it added a sense of calm and stillness to a garden. In that case, I definitely needed some moss. She asked me if I wanted her to plant moss at my new house.

  “Of course,” I said because it would make her happy. “But does it require upkeep?”

  “No, that’s why it’s perfect for you.”

  “How are you doing?” I asked in a soft voice, as though if I said it softly, it would result in what I wanted to hear.

  “There’s bad news,” she said.

  “What?” I said, putting my fingers over my mouth.

  “Can you hand me that moss?”

  I did what she said. I picked up the moss on an edge, as if it were a dead bug.

  She shook her head. “The tumor on my uterus is malignant.” She stood up from the ground and removed her gardening gloves.

  I shook my head. I couldn’t stop. But I had to stop before I caused her to cry. “It can’t be,” I said. “There is no way this can happen. I won’t allow it to happen.”

  She looked at me as though I was the one who was ill. “Hopefully, the doctor will remove it and find the cancer hasn’t spread.”

  I was worried. I couldn’t think. I forgot where I was, or I wanted to forget or just not hear anymore.

  “Marcy, you could help here.” She was loading her red wheelbarrow.

  I tried to make her laugh. “Moss is gross,” I said, pronouncing “gross” like “moss.”

  “Have you ever seen a hillside of British moss?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, if I survive this thing, we’re going.”

  I’d go look at moss. I’d go look at anything, as long as she was going to be okay.

  Chapter 18

  Amanda, Harvey, and I were at a speck of a French restaurant on a corner in Greenwich Village. An elderly French woman kept post from a bistro chair positioned at the door. Her head hung low, as though she was snoozing, but I had a feeling she wasn’t missing a thing. My bet was she was the owner and that she had turned the place reluctantly over to her children. She wore a leopard-print wrap dress, beige hose, and heavy black shoes.

  As we entered, I looked around. The walls were painted yellow. White lights were strung across the room. The red vinyl bar had five seats facing a long glass shelf chockablock with liquor bottles. On the far side of the bar was a small black-and-white television hanging from the wall. The happy bartender and a waiter—in striped French sailor shirts—were thoroughly enjoying a game of soccer.

  A middle-aged couple in bright casual clothing, almost neon in color—confirming they were tourists, not New Yorkers—had walked into the restaurant before us. They grabbed two stools at the bar and asked the bartender if he could switch the channel to the Mets game. So much for international relations.

  A young hostess led us to our table, which was covered with white paper and had crayons sitting in a cup next to the salt and pepper. She handed us old-fashioned menus. I asked for French onion soup. Harvey ordered croque monsieur. Amanda went for the country pâté. We all had iced tea.

  “You are going to be so excited,” Amanda said, brimming with happiness.

  Harvey and I looked at each other.

  “We have decided where we are having the wedding.”

  “The dude ranch?” I said.

  “What dude ranch?” Harvey asked, bewildered.

  So she never even told Harvey about the Colorado idea, I thought.

  “The Seascape!”

  Harvey broke into an ear-to-ear grin.

  “Jake just loved it, and we met the manager, who told him so many great stories about Dad.”

  I was as amazed as I was happy. “The Seascape is lovely,” I said. “Do you have a date?”

  “The Saturday night before Christmas.”

  I thought this was wonderful, especially since Guild for Good was closed the last two weeks of December.

  “Don’t forget to have the pigs in the blankets,” Harvey said. “At the cocktail hour.”

  “Dad, we are not having hot dogs rolled in dough.”

  “Why not?”

  “We are doing tuna tartare.”

  I had no opinion on men in penguin suits passing pigs in a blanket during the cocktail hour. I was more interested in potato latkes. I wanted something about the wedding to be traditionally Jewish, and because she had told me that she had chosen not to be married by a rabbi, I thought crispy mini potato latkes with a choice of applesauce or sour cream just might make up for the prayers.

  Harvey perseverated on the pigs, and Amanda told him once again they were out of the question.

  “Who’s paying for this wedding?” Harvey asked. When in doubt, pull purse strings.

  “It’s not about money, Dad. It’s about personal style.”

  “You wanted the wedding at a resort. It’s at a resort. You wanted everyone to fly to a state no one lives in. We’re flying. Amanda, this whole thing stops at pigs in a blanket.”

  Harvey really enjoyed little hot dogs rolled up in dough. I used to keep them frozen in our freezer and pop a few into the microwave whenever he was in the mood. He would become very upset if I didn’t also have the brown deli mustard he liked.

  “It’s my day,” Amanda said. “And I am not going to ruin it, ruin everything, with tacky little hot dogs from Hebrew National.”

  “I understand,” I said, wondering why Harvey couldn’t leave the hand-passed appetizers alone, since he now had the wedding exactly where he wanted it.

  “And Dad, by the way, Hebrew National isn’t even kosher anymore. No super-religious Jews eat Hebrew National. They should take out the word ‘Hebrew’ and just call it ‘National.’”

  Amanda cooled down as the waitress delivered our orders. Then she turned to me. “Well, Mom, if you understand about the hot dogs, maybe you will also understand about the potato pancakes.”

  “What about them?” I asked, hoping they would be crisp and wouldn’t turn out too greasy. When they were oily at home, I blotted them. But at the wedding, nothing could be done.

  “I know how you love them, but if we have potato pancakes, we might as well dance the hora.”

  “Are you saying you are not dancing the hora?” I said, bewildered.

  My daughter was a Jewish girl marrying a Jewish boy. What did they have against a celebratory dance that had been used at weddings and bar mitzvahs the world over for more than 5,700 years? Okay, so maybe not 5,700 years, but as long as I remembered. Even those who just stood back and clapped to the music had a good time. I especially liked the part where friends lifted both bride and groom in chairs and everyone danced around them. At our wedding, Harvey and I were hoisted up and down as we each held on to the ends of a white napkin. I felt it was a symbol of us always being connected. Oh well, so much for that. What was wrong with Amanda? Had she not seen Fiddler on the Roof?

  “No hora,” she said flatly.

  Harvey and I looked at each other. I decided to let him take over.

  “I think Rabbi Straus will be happy to fly down and perform the ceremony,” Harvey said.

  “And no rabbi,” she said.

  “First, no hora, and now no rabbi?” Harvey said.

  I was surprised Harvey hadn’t been apprised of the rabbinical situation. Just what was Amanda telling him about?

  “Who’s going to marry you? A minister
?” he asked.

  “We are being married by Jake’s psychiatrist.”

  “I never heard of that,” I said, confirming my dinosaur status.

  “You would have to be crazy to get married by a psychiatrist,” Harvey said.

  “He is becoming ordained online for the day. We don’t want to be married by a perfect stranger. We don’t want to hear meaningless blah, blah, blah. No one knows us better than Dr. Genesis.”

  “He knows Jake. Does he know you?” Harvey asked.

  “Yes. We’ve gone to couples counseling.”

  Couples counseling? She hadn’t even married him yet, and they went for counseling? I hoped once they were married, they never had sexual or financial problems or disagreed on whether to buy a baby crib that converted into a twin bed. Okay, stop making fun. Maybe if you had gone for counseling, you would still be living with your husband and still be listening to his endless talk about underwire versus no-wire bras.

  “We feel that Dr. Genesis will say the poignant things we want to hear at the ceremony. He will keep it intimate and personal.”

  It’s a wedding, not a sex act, I thought.

  “Does Dr. Genesis know Jake wet his bed until he was seven?” I asked.

  “How did you know that?”

  “His mother mentioned it to me when I called to tell her how wonderful it was to meet her. Not that it’s anything to be ashamed of.”

  “Of course he knows. That’s the whole point,” Amanda said. “He knows us.”

  “Rabbi Straus knows you,” I said, evoking the name of the rabbi at the temple we long ago attended regularly but now visited only once a year on Yom Kippur.

  “Rabbi Straus does not know me.”

  “Yes, he does. He can tell the story of how you put the sign for the women’s bathroom on the men’s bathroom in fifth grade.”

  “Mom, this is not funny.”

  Harvey threw his napkin down on his sandwich. That’s how I knew he was really angry. Harvey always finished his food. He’d croak before giving up a croque monsieur. He pushed out his bistro chair and stood up.

  “Amanda, dance the damn dance. And there better be pigs in a blanket.”

  Harvey walked past the old French lady sitting at the door and out of the restaurant (he has a penchant for walking out), leaving me sitting with Amanda.