All the Single Ladies

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Lisa? May I say something and will you tell me if I’m out of line?”

  “Why not? Of course.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you and your daughter since you told me the story and I had a few thoughts about it. A different point of view.”

  Eric reappeared with the wine, so we stopped talking. He pulled the cork in a swift movement, placing it on the table in front of Paul. This kid was slick. He poured an inch or so of wine into Paul’s glass and stood back. Paul gave it a swirl and a sniff, took a sip, and smiled.

  “It’s delicious,” he said.

  “Very good, sir,” Eric said, filling my glass to the halfway level, and then finished pouring for Paul. “Have you made a decision about your meal? May I answer any questions?”

  We told him what we’d like to have and he knitted his surfer-­boy eyebrows in concern.

  “Is something wrong?” Paul asked him.

  “No, no. I was just thinking it would be perfecto if you had the pork-­belly steamed buns to round everything out. You know, a little bit of Hong Kong meets Lowcountry? But that’s your call. They would just balance all the flavors, that’s all.”

  “Well then, bring on the pork-­belly buns,” Paul said, smiling.

  “Yes, sir! I’m gonna bring it!” Eric laughed.

  “He’s a very good waiter,” Paul observed when Eric was out of earshot. “He didn’t even write anything down.”

  “I’ll bet he remembers everything. No flies on him,” I said. I took a sip of my wine. “You were going to tell me something about my daughter’s excellent career path?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking pensive. “Okay, here’s my thought. I think you have to take the long view on her business, and here’s why. I did some Googling and it turns out that the legal marijuana business is about the fastest-­growing business in the country, up to something like three billion in sales last year. That has some mighty powerful implications.”

  “Such as?” I said.

  “Well, for one thing, every time there’s a new trend, big money figures out how to get involved. Look what Home Depot and Lowe’s have done to mom-­and-­pop hardware stores. Big money has crushed independent businesses in almost every category and I predict they will do it here too.”

  “Good grief. Suzanne had a similar thought but I haven’t really thought it through.”

  “And although pot’s legal in Colorado, it’s still in violation of a whole pile of federal laws. So my next prediction is the timing. If the federal government decides to decriminalize the use of recreational marijuana? That’s when the big guys will make their move. Could be a year, could be two. Who knows? And I’m sure they already have ­people in place laying the groundwork.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I think you should get her on the phone and tell her to consider the fact that this might be a short-­term business. Tell her she should save her money and plan to reinvest whatever she nets in something else. You know, tell her, ‘Marianne? Let’s be practical about this.’ Tell her that while free enterprise is at the foundation of capitalism, at some point she’s going to get pushed out by bigger players. There’s precedent in every sector of the market. Books, furniture, clothes, food.”

  “You’re brilliant. Do you know that?”

  “That’s highly debatable. Listen, it’s easy for me to step back and look at this differently. Number one, she’s not my child, so I don’t have an emotional investment. And I completely understand why this is so offensive to you.”

  “It really is.”

  “Well, my mother always said that when I did something stupid she didn’t take it personally. That’s the thing. You can’t take this personally.”

  He was one hundred percent right. It was a eureka moment of true revelation. I had personalized my daughter’s choices when it was not about me at all. Marianne had not ventured into the World of Weed to offend me. She wasn’t that kind of girl. She had done this with her father’s support, and to be honest, that one fact infuriated me as much as anything else. She set out primarily to make money and maybe she ignored the moral questions because she simply believed her business was a legal means to a lucrative end. At least I’m sure that’s what her father told her. But was she becoming a man-­pleaser? Was she so deprived of a father’s love that she’d do anything he told her to do?

  “What about the moral aspect?” I said.

  “Well, that’s the issue, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and there’s also the fact that there’s not enough medical research yet to show that weed is harmless,” I said. “I just read something about a recent study that said pot can trigger psychosis in ­people who have paranoid personalities. Getting involved with that whole scene just seems stupid to me.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I was just thinking you could approach this from another perspective, that’s all. This angle might catch her off guard and at least get the conversation going again.”

  “I’m a little worried that she’s doing this because her father suggested it and she’s desperate to please him.”

  “I’m sure there’s some of that in the mix,” he said. “But it’s not the end of the world if she is. That would be normal, given the circumstances.”

  This was the moment when I realized why women need men for reasons beyond procreation, carrying heavy things, killing large creepy bugs, taking out the garbage, and making our coats shiny. We need another perspective and men really do have a remarkable capacity to look at things differently. Men are just different. Vive la différence. Really.

  “You are right. Absolutely, totally, and completely right. I’m going to call her and leave a nice message and I’m going to e-­mail her too. Thank you, Paul.”

  “For what? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, you did. You were thoughtful.”

  “Well, you’re welcome. I have this funny little sign on my wall in my office that quotes the Dalai Lama. It says, ‘Give the ones you love wings to fly, roots to come back to, and reasons to stay.’ I just always loved that.”

  “I love the Dalai Lama,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said, “me too.”

  Eric our waiter returned and placed the beignets in front of us and another dish too.

  “These are some wicked good lobster and cheese wontons. Compliments of the chef. Enjoy!”

  “Thanks!” Paul said. “Where are you from?”

  “Maine, sir. Home of wicked good blueberry pie and Stephen King.”

  Eric refilled our glasses and left. I popped a beignet in my mouth. It was insanely good.

  “Well, that was nice,” I said, thinking I should ask Eric to send me a pie for my friend Judy.

  “It sure was,” Paul said. “Even if the food’s only marginal, I’m definitely coming back here.”

  “It’s way better than marginal. Try the beignets. So, did you ever think about becoming Buddhist?”

  He took a bite of a beignet and his eyes grew wide.

  “Wow! Is that good!”

  “Told you!”

  “No, but of all the religions and philosophies that are out there, I think I like Buddhism best. You can sum its core up in three words. Do no harm.”

  “Good grief!”

  “What?”

  “I might already be a Buddhist!”

  “Me too,” he said, and we laughed.

  “Oh! It feels good to laugh, doesn’t it?” I said.

  “It sure does,” he said. “Now, as soon as I stuff this last beignet in my mouth, let’s look at the questions.”

  “Sure,” I said, “why not? Meanwhile this wonton is delicious.”

  I had brought two sets of the questions, one for each of us. And the questions themselves were divided into three sections, becoming more revealing and personal as they went along. At the end we were supposed to sta
re into each other’s eyes for four minutes. I explained everything to Paul and we began. I went first.

  “And we have to tell the total truth. Okay, so, given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you have as a dinner guest?”

  “What a question! Male or female? Living or dead?” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “I don’t know. Present company excepted?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Maybe John Adams. Or Carl Sagan. Or Pope Francis?”

  “You only get one.”

  “Okay, then I’d choose John Adams.”

  “Why? Wasn’t he supposed to be a really cranky guy?”

  “I think so, but wouldn’t you love to know what it felt like to be a founding father of a nation? I mean, there were no trains, no telephones or e-­mail, the winters were brutal, and all the odds were against them. Nonetheless, the patriots prevailed and John Adams was in the middle of the whole thing. I’d just like to have that conversation about their amazing strength of perseverance and what it felt like to be willing to die for your convictions. I think. Now it’s your turn. Whom would you choose?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Sure. Are you going to eat that?”

  There was one lonely wonton on the plate between us.

  “No. You have it.” I was going to say Jane Austen but suddenly she seemed too tame. “How about Mary, the Mother of Jesus?”

  “Okay! Big name! And why?”

  “Well, it had to be a very strange experience to have angels appearing and miracles happening all over the place. And obviously, I’d like to know what it was like to raise a boy who tells you he’s the son of God. Her life must’ve been a nonstop roller coaster.”

  “Yeah, throw in a virgin birth and an actual physical ascension into heaven. That had to be wild.”

  “Paul, you know the rest of the Chris­tian world is still unconvinced on those two points. Right?”

  “Yeah, but I figure if God’s possible, so is anything else.”

  “I’ve heard that said. Okay, next question. Would you like to be famous and in what way?”

  “Oh my. Um, well, I think being famous probably isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But I would like my life to have meant something. I’d like to, you know, leave a legacy?”

  “I agree. I feel exactly the same way. Are you ready for another?”

  “Shoot!”

  We continued asking each other questions through the charcuterie plate and the fish. Finally the bottle of wine was empty and the panna cotta was consumed. Dinner had been a feast. A delicious beautiful feast.

  “We’re not quite finished with all these questions,” he said.

  “No, we’re not. Why don’t we ask some more in the car and then finish up on Miss Trudie’s porch?”

  “That’s a good idea. Or we could take a leisurely stroll along the moonlit dock outside. Hmm?”

  Was he saying there was romance to be had in the moonlight?

  “Let’s do that! Great idea.”

  Carrie was right about the questions. I learned so much about him that night, things that would’ve taken years to know. One of the questions was about naming three things we thought we had in common. I was delighted by his answer.

  “Innate intelligence, a good sense of humor, and loyalty.”

  I said I thought our three common traits might be “curiosity and willingness to learn new things, that we were reasonably flexible by nature, and that we were both personable.”

  “We left off kind. We’re both kind, don’t you think?” he said.

  “I think we might have a lot of things in common but the test only gives us three choices.”

  “Well, that’s pretty anal-­retentive, if you ask me.”

  “I agree,” I said, and smiled. “I’ll e-­mail Arthur Aron in the morning.”

  “The guy who dreamed up this experiment?”

  “Yeah, that guy.”

  “Well, give him a piece of my mind,” he said, and laughed.

  There were questions about the future and what you thought it might bring. There were questions about your greatest accomplishment and greatest regret. There was even a question about how close you were to your mother.

  “I knew I couldn’t get away without talking about her,” I said.

  Paul threw back his head and laughed so hard that I began to laugh with him.

  “Wait until you hear about mine!” he said. “She was a guilt trip and a half!”

  We finally got to the eye-­gazing part of the experiment. We were sitting on a bench near the water. I set the timer on my phone for four minutes and we began. Well, they say the eyes are the window to the soul and I think it just might be true. For the first minute it was hard to settle down and keep looking at him. I felt very self-­conscious. And then the experience moved me from self-­consciousness to a place that was interesting, and finally I felt like I was in a hypnotic state. I felt transparent, as though he could see all my flaws and weaknesses but that he didn’t care. My shortcomings became irrelevant, yet still I felt vulnerable. And as wacky as this may sound, I could feel understanding and affection radiating from him in waves of something not overpowering but as something warm and invited by an involuntary longing deep inside of me. Simply put, he seemed to know what my heart needed and he was happily giving it to me. I found myself giving it back to him. Everything between us changed then. I don’t know if, at that moment, I would’ve called it love, but I was filled with a powerful desire to protect him. It was not a parental feeling. No, ma’am. I knew he felt the same way. I didn’t want this part of the night to end. Then my timer began to ping. I tried to mash the end bar without taking my eyes away from Paul, but I couldn’t, so it just kept making the most annoying high-­pitched peppy noise. It was all I could do not to throw the thing into Shem Creek.

  “I have to look at my phone to make it stop,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “Time to come back to earth.”

  “Too bad,” I said, and dropped my phone in my handbag. I started to stand up.

  “Wait,” he said. “We have to kiss.”

  “We do? Why?” I said, and he pulled away. “Wait! I don’t have any objection. I’m just wondering why.”

  “To see what it feels like, you silly girl! Don’t you want to know?”

  “Roger that,” I said. Since when did I use shortwave-­radio lingo? “I mean, yes, you’re right.” God, I was such a dork.

  Well, so what if I was a dork? He kissed me, and, honey, there was seismic activity in the Netherlands. So to speak.

  “How’s that?” he said, moving away after the kiss that was heard around the world. Thankfully, he was a bit of a dork too. I mean, who asks, “How was my kiss?”

  I started to laugh and somehow sputtered out, “Pretty damn fabulous.” And then he laughed too.

  “Yeah,” he said, “fucking inspired.”

  “Excuse me! Word order!” What was the matter with me?

  “You’re a very naughty girl,” he said, still laughing.

  “Well, I’ve never been called naughty but I think I sort of like the sound of it.” Get a grip, Lisa! “Um, do you think we could do that again just to be sure the first time wasn’t a fluke?”

  “Sure! Come over here!”

  It wasn’t a fluke. When we opened our eyes, Eric our waiter was sauntering by.

  “Dude!” he called out, and gave Paul a big thumbs-­up.

  “Awesome!” Paul responded.

  Then we really laughed like two teenagers. I felt so alive then, more alive than I’d felt in years. What did I have to do to keep feeling this way? I know, go to Belk’s and buy some decent underwear sooner rather than later.

  Paul drove me back to the house on the Isle of Palms. Suzanne’s and Carrie’s cars were p
arked in the driveway. It was nearly ten o’clock. I wondered how long they’d been home. I imagined that they’d be inside with their feet up. The three weddings they had had over the weekend must have worn them both out.

  Pickle was on the other side of the screen door waiting. She danced and hopped with happiness to see me and I wondered if she thought I had abandoned her. I leaned down and ruffled the fur behind her ears.

  “Hey, little Pickle! Were you a good girl?”

  She licked my hand over and over and then turned to Paul to receive the homage she felt was her due. He leaned down and whispered some doggie sweet nothings to her and she sat right down by his feet, practically purring.

  “Call you tomorrow?” he said.

  “Sure. Hey, thanks for a wonderful night! It really was incredible, you know.”

  He laid his lips on mine and then once again for good measure. Pickle barked.

  “Hush, girl!” I said in my dog-­mommy stern voice. “Mommy’s having fun.”

  “Yeah, it was. It was great,” he said. “Now, don’t you yell at that dog. She’s my new girlfriend.”

  “Go on home, boy,” I said. “It’s a school night.”

  He left me there on the porch and walked down the steps to his car. Then as though he knew I was still there watching him he turned and blew me a kiss. When he pulled away from the curb I went into the house.

  “Come on, miss,” I said. “I want a glass of water and then I’ll take you out.”

  My dog followed me to the kitchen. Carrie and Suzanne were there at the table, looking somber.

  “Hey!” I said. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

  I took a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water.

  “We came home about an hour ago and I found Miss Trudie in a heap on her bedroom floor,” Suzanne said. “She had fallen out of bed. She’s okay, I think, because she fell on carpet. But one of these days she’s going to really hurt herself.”

  “Did she say what happened?” I asked.