“We had a couple of glasses of wine.”
He frowns. “You’re too small to drink that much and then drive.”
“I’m fine. They were spread out. Hey, I just had a really fun thought.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to fix up Cathy and Jacob.”
“Your father’s Jacob?”
“Yeah.”
“Why? Is Cathy short?”
I laugh as the elevator doors open and we head down the hallway to our apartment. “Not at all. She’s kind of huge actually. Tall, I mean—she’s thin. Well, pretty thin.” I shake my head to get myself back on track. “It’s just that they’re really similar—their interests and all that. I was thinking we could invite them both over for dinner. And some other people, too, just to make it more fun. Maybe Lou and Izzy?” I reach the door first but wait for him to get out his key.
He unlocks it, then gestures for me to go inside first. He’s gentlemanly that way. “Sounds like a lot of work. Why not just tell them to call each other?”
“They’re both really shy. I don’t think they’d ever do it.”
He lets the door swing shut behind us. “Will we also have to help them have sex if they hit it off? I’m not sure I’m prepared to go that far. Although it could be interesting. . . .”
“Oh, oh!” I interrupt him as another idea comes to me. “We can do it this weekend and say it’s for my birthday!”
“But you and I will still celebrate it tomorrow, right? I made a reservation.”
“Of course. That’ll be my real celebration. This will just be an excuse to invite them over. But it means they’ll say yes, because you have to when it’s for someone’s birthday!”
“Does that mean I have to do whatever you say tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I move right up close to him. “You’ll basically be my slave.”
“Interesting.” He grins down at me, but when I start to put my arms around him, he pulls back. “Oops, watch out for my arm.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—I just pulled a muscle at work.”
“Poor baby. Want me to rub it?” I reach up, but he holds me off.
“Nah. That sounds painful. I may try putting some ice on it later.”
“Okay.” I head over toward my computer. “I’m going to go send out an e-mail about dinner before I forget.”
* * *
This is what I write in the e-mail, which I send to Jacob, Cathy, and Izzy:
I totally forgot about my birthday up until right now, so I know it’s kind of late notice, but can you come over on Sunday for dinner and cake?
I blind copy them all. I don’t want either Cathy or Jacob wondering why they’re on such a short list when we’re not birthday dinner close.
Izzy e-mails me back immediately to say they’re going to the Sox game that night and can’t come. I’m bummed they can’t make it. I can’t think of anyone else to invite: Lou and Izzy are kind of our go-to friends for last-minute stuff.
“Would it be weird if it’s just the four of us?” I ask Tom a little while later. He’s watching TV in the bedroom. “You and me and Jacob and Cathy?”
“They left,” he says, staring at the screen.
“Who?”
“The people who care about this conversation.”
“Very funny.”
“I get you with that every time,” he gloats.
I stick my tongue out at him, but he doesn’t notice.
I decide to hold off on a decision until Jacob and Cathy respond. Later that night, I get back a Sounds great from the former and a Thanks for thinking of me! I’d love to. What can I bring? from the latter.
I decide not to invite anyone else. The worst that could happen is that they’ll sense they’re being fixed up. They’ll be fine with that if they like each other and maybe resent it if they don’t.
But I think they will.
* * *
The next morning, Tom gets up early and runs out to Dunkin’ Donuts to bring me back breakfast in bed. It’s not much of a surprise since he always does that on my birthday, but it’s a tradition I love.
He snuggles up to me in bed—carefully because he says his arm still hurts—and asks me if I’m happy, and I am, blissfully happy, lying there lazily popping little bits of crunchy-soft doughnut into my mouth in between sips of hot, milky coffee.
Mom calls me at work and tells me she remembers every detail of That Day twenty-five years ago, and assures me that even though I tore out of her too quickly for her to get an epidural so it was her most painful delivery, she forgave me the second she looked into my big blue eyes. “And saw that crazy red fluff on top of your head,” she adds. “That was a shock. But a good one.” She tells me the same thing pretty much every year.
Around noon I get a big vase of flowers delivered to my desk. They’re ostensibly from Dad, although I suspect that Jacob was the one who actually ordered them, especially because the card says, “Happy birthday, Kesha. I love you. Dad.” My father has never said the words “I love you” to me in his life. I picture Jacob dictating the note to the florist over the phone and it makes me laugh: he probably made sure he was out of Dad’s hearing. And probably also spelled my name letter by letter in the vain hope that the florist might actually get it right.
No one gets my name right.
Hopkins e-mails me and Milton IM’s me, both to say happy birthday.
I’m hoping to get there soon, Hopkins writes. We’ll celebrate your birthday and say good-bye to the house all at once. Given how long it’s taken her to actually make it to Boston, I figure we’ll probably be able to squeeze a Fourth of July celebration into the mix. Maybe even Labor Day.
Milton’s IM starts with:
—Hey, happy bday and all that stuff.
—Tanks, I write back.
—What are u doing to celebrate?
—T’s taking me out tonight.
—Cool. Have a good one. Bye.
At least he remembered.
At four in the afternoon, I hear the first wobbly strains of “Happy Birthday to You.” My boss Rochelle, chairman of the English department, enters holding a cake with seven lit candles, followed by whoever’s in the office that afternoon. I ask Rochelle what the significance of the number seven is, and she says, “That’s how many candles were left in the box. You need to buy more, sweetie.” I’m touched she remembered my birthday: I’m in charge of every other celebration around here, so she had to make a real effort to organize all this.
When Rochelle finds out that Tom’s taking me out to dinner that night, she insists that I leave early and go home and make myself pretty for him.
So by the time Tom comes home at six thirty, I’ve showered and pinned my hair up and am wearing a dress I’ve never worn before, very ’50s looking with a tight bodice and a full skirt. When he walks in, I arrange myself on the sofa like some kind of odalisque, lying on my side with my arm stretched languorously along my torso and my back arched. “Just let me jump in the shower,” he says, walking past me without noticing. “I’ll be right out.”
I’m slightly annoyed, but all is forgiven when he comes back out fifteen minutes later freshly showered and breathtakingly handsome in a tie and jacket. He gathers me up in his arms, tells me I look beautiful, and gives me a deep, long kiss. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says. “About this moment. When I have you all to myself for the rest of the night.” I kiss him back and wonder if he’ll be inspired to just carry me into the bedroom, but when he releases me, he checks his watch, says that our reservation is at eight and we’d better get going or we’ll lose it.
He won’t tell me where we’re going, but I recognize the restaurant and squeal as we pull up in front: it’s one that I’ve been wanting to go to forever and have clipped reviews and articles about. I hadn’t even thought he was paying attention.
Inside we’re led to a really nice corner table near a window, and Tom informs me proudly that
when he made the reservation, he let them know that it was both my birthday and our anniversary and that tonight needed to be extra special.
“Let’s take our time,” he says. “No rushing through the meal, no talking about work, or complaining about our families. Let’s just enjoy being here together.”
We sit there grinning at each other happily, but it does occur to me to wonder what we’ll talk about if we can’t discuss work or families.
Food, as it turns out. The waiter brings our menus, and after Tom orders a bottle of wine, we spend some time discussing the various options and agree that I should get the lobster and he should get the steak, both of which are wildly expensive, but Tom says that it’s our night to splurge.
He’s in a funny mood, kind of overexcited, which is sweet but weird. He startles when the waiter shows up at his elbow to pour the wine, which Tom tastes and—to my embarrassment—proclaims “delightful.” He gets nervous around waiters in fancy restaurants, tries too hard to impress them, and ends up sounding pretentious.
He gets up at some point “to use the restroom,” but I know he’s arranging some kind of birthday/anniversary surprise, and sure enough, after we’ve finished our entrees but before we’ve ordered any dessert, the waiter brings over a slice of chocolate cake with “Happy Birthday and Anniversary!” squeezed in around the edge of the plate in raspberry sauce letters.
“You like chocolate cake, right?” Tom says. “I picked it for you because you usually get something chocolatey. But if you’d rather have something else—”
“It’s perfect. Share it with me.”
“I will. But first I want to give you your presents.”
“Yay!” I put down my fork and push the plate away.
He slips his hand inside his jacket and pulls a box out of the inside chest pocket. He hands it to me and watches eagerly as I open it.
There’s a necklace inside. I scoop it up to examine it. An extremely large oval purple stone dangles from a thick gold chain. “That’s so pretty,” I say.
“Do you like it? My mom helped pick it out.”
I’m not surprised. It looks like something his mom would pick out. She doesn’t have bad taste—she’s an attractive woman who dresses well—but she’s over fifty and likes the kinds of things you’d expect a woman her age to like. Which aren’t necessarily the kinds of things a twenty-five-year-old would like.
“If you’re not crazy about it, we can exchange it for another color or something completely different,” Tom says.
I once returned a gift he gave me. He had told me I could, but when he found out, he looked so hurt I resolved never to do it again. Not unless it was something so awful and so expensive it would be crazy not to. This necklace doesn’t qualify as either, so I say firmly, “It’s great. I love it. Tell your mom I say thanks.”
His face lights up, and I’m glad I went with the pretend-you-like-it approach. It’s a perfectly nice necklace, and I’ll find times I can wear it—mostly to his parents’ house, I’m guessing. Anyway, the point is he took the time to go shopping with his mom to find me a gift. I’m lucky I have a boyfriend who cares enough to do that, who doesn’t just grab something at the drugstore or hand me a twenty and tell me I should go buy myself a nice present. He cares.
I put it back in the box, then reach for my fork.
“Hold on,” Tom says. “That was just your birthday present. I still have to give you your anniversary present.” He starts to slip his arms out of the jacket.
“Um, Tom?” I say as the jacket comes off. “If this present involves your going full monty, maybe it should wait until we get back to the apartment. Not that I don’t love the idea—”
“No, that’s your third present,” he says with a laugh. The jacket’s off, and he’s unbuttoning his left sleeve at the wrist and rolling it up.
“Then why are you getting undressed?”
“Hold on. You’ll see.” He keeps rolling up his shirtsleeve.
“You got a flu shot? For me? Aw, honey!”
He shakes his head, preoccupied: he’s rolled the fabric so tight it won’t budge, and he swears and struggles with it and has to pull the shirtsleeve down again. He’s more careful this time to keep the folds smooth, and he’s able to pull it up almost to his shoulder. He extends his arm out to me, twisting it a little from the shoulder so I can see the exposed area above his elbow.
It’s a little pink and a little inflamed, but even so, I can clearly make out the letters of my name written in dark black ink.
No, not written.
Tattooed.
Tom’s had my name tattooed on his arm.
Keats
Like that.
* * *
And I had thought it was hard to pretend to be happy about the necklace.
He’s waiting for my reaction, his excited eyes flickering up to mine and then back down to his arm like a little kid who’s painted a picture on a wall and isn’t sure whether his mom is going to praise him or punish him.
“Wow!” I say after I’ve opened and closed my mouth a couple of times without saying anything. “This is. Incredible. I can’t. Believe it.” I sound like I’m talking in Morse code. I clear my throat and get out an entire “When did you do it?”
“Yesterday.” He beams. “Remember how I said my arm hurt? This was the real reason I didn’t want you to touch it and why I came to bed after you and was wearing that long-sleeved shirt all night. I had the bandage on underneath. It really hurt. I had to take a painkiller to get to sleep.”
I hadn’t even noticed. I think I was asleep by the time he came to bed.
“I wasn’t really having dinner with my dad,” he adds. “That was all a setup so I could sneak out and do this. But Dad knew he was supposed to cover for me.”
“Your parents knew you were getting a tattoo?” I’m surprised. The Wellses are fairly conservative people. Politically and every other way. It’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided getting them together with my parents, who are as liberal as they come. Another reason is that my parents aren’t at all interested in getting to know them.
Tom smiles sheepishly. “Not exactly. I only told them I was getting you a surprise present and didn’t want you to know.”
“So they don’t know you got a tattoo?”
“Not yet.” He wiggles his arm a little. “But they won’t mind. Dad got one when he was in the army, so he can’t really have a problem with it. Anyway, forget about them—what do you think?”
His face is so hopeful, so excited, so eager for assurance that he’s done something wonderful.
I feel sick.
I don’t want my name tattooed on Tom’s arm. He should have asked me first. It’s my name. If he had, I would have told him not to do it. But he went ahead and did it without asking, and now it can’t be undone.
“It’s such a surprise,” I say. The waiter comes by to fill our water glasses, and I see him look at Tom’s arm and his eyebrows soar. He grins at me and briefly touches his hand to his heart as he moves away again. I guess he finds the gesture touching. Which probably means I should. I reach across the table and squeeze Tom’s extended hand. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”
“Ten years, Keats,” he says and finally lets go of his sleeve. It shifts down so it covers the tattoo, although the fabric is still all bunched up around his elbow. “I wanted to do something really special. I mean, once you make it an entire decade, you know it’s forever. I had to do something to honor that.”
Most of the girls I know have gotten tattoos. Izzy once told me she has one—“but it’s private, just for Lou,” she said coyly and never did say exactly where on her body it was or what it looked like. I’ve thought about getting one myself—maybe a little rose or snake on the back of my shoulder.
But I’ve never thought for a second about getting Tom’s name tattooed on my body. Now, as he gazes at me hopefully, I realize that he wants me to do what he did. He wants me to get his name engraved permanently on my ski
n. In my flesh. He’s too nice to put me on the spot about it—and it’s probably worth more to him if I come to it on my own anyway. But he wants me to. I can see it in his eyes.
I think of all the celebrities who’ve fallen in love and gotten tattoos and later tried to get them removed. WINO FOREVER and all that. I always thought they were idiots.
I still do.
But it’s different for us, right? Tom and I—we really are forever. He’s right: you make it ten years, and that’s all the proof you need that you’re a couple who’ll never break up.
It would make him so happy if I showed him the kind of faith he’s showed me. I’m not scared of the pain. I’m not worried about how it will look.
I just don’t want Tom’s name in permanent ink on my body.
And I don’t want mine on his.
I take a really big sip of wine. “Did it hurt a lot?”
“Yeah. But I survived.” You can tell he’s proud of himself. He survived a painful ordeal. For me.
“You used someone reputable, right? And made sure everything was clean and sterilized?”
“No, I went to the sleaziest guy I could find and had him spit in the open wound. Come on, Keats, give me a little credit.”
“Sorry.”
He pulls the fabric up again and surveys his arm proudly. “I think I picked the best place to put it, don’t you? On weekends, when I’m wearing a T-shirt, everyone will see it. But when I’m dressed for work, it’s covered. Smart, right?”
“Very smart.” I feel like I need to praise him more. “I like the font you chose.”
“Oh, good. Me too.” He lets go of his shirt and picks up a fork. As he digs into the cake, he says offhandedly, “So how do you think your family would react if you got a tattoo with my name on it?”
I give a short laugh. “You’ve met them, right?”
“Meaning?”
“My father has this whole speech about tattooing. You’ve never heard it? He equates it with branding cattle and docking dogs’ ears. My mom just thinks it’s low class. And Hopkins—” I stop. “Actually, I don’t know what Hopkins would think about it.”
Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts Page 9