How to Love an American Man (8 page)

“I have one piece of advice for you, my dear. Get your single life settled first.”

The Debbie Downer jingle goes off in my head.
Wonh, wonhhhhh.

Grandma once told me that right out of high school, she and her best friend enrolled in nursing school together. Sometime during their first year the best friend died tragically, and Grandma was too upset to continue studying. She took a part-time job as a department store clerk downtown and basically hung around socializing, as it sounded to me, until something better came along.

It came along quickly, in the form of a suitor. My grandpa had been to the war and back and learned enough in the field about engineering to get involved in some entrepreneurial manufacturing endeavors. He wanted his life all in place, and he married my grandma.

“I've never resented not having a career,” she says, “because that's just not what most women did back then. After you graduated from high school—
if
you graduated from high school—you typically took the first thing that asked you out. That was that.”

Lately, though, ever since my grandpa died, Grandma's been saying how her friend who's also recently widowed has such an easy time staying busy. This woman was an artist for years and is having a grand time redecorating her house and getting back to her painting now that her husband has passed. The two of them go out to breakfast, and Grandma has said she grows a little envious that she doesn't have anything for herself.

“You know what, Kris? Now that your grandpa's gone, it would be good to have something to keep me occupied. There's only so much Silver Sneakers and bridge I can take.”

I'm happily shocked—very shocked—when she says one of the smartest things women my age are doing is creating lives for ourselves before we commit ourselves to someone else. “You don't know,” she says, “he might not be around forever.”

“So Grandma, you actually think living as a single woman is a
good
thing.”

“I really do. I'd go so far as to say it will make you a better wife.”

I edge forward in my seat. “Really?”

“Well, sure. Take you, for example. You've lived in another country, you know how to get around a city, when a problem comes up you have a quick solution or you call someone who will. You'll be a good partner for somebody else's life because you have a lot of common sense.”

Grandma reminds me of my education, the years I put into publishing. She says I don't get to just give those up because I'm uncertain about where my life is headed. “What are you planning to do for work now that you're home?”

“I'm writing.”

“Is that enough to pay the bills?”

“Well, not exact—”

“Where are you thinking of living? Are you waiting to see where this boyfriend goes?”

It had crossed my mind.

“You're going to put your life decision on him? What about your career? For all you know, you might end up with a job elsewhere.” She can see in my face that she's beating me down. “And are you ready to deal with the image out there that it's still a man's world? If he makes a decision for his career and you two are serious, it'll be on you to follow him.”

Certainly she must be finished. I didn't get involved with someone to have my new love-guru grandma tell me it's not going to work . . . but while it's almost impossible to admit it to myself, what she's saying is reality. “And one more thing,” she says.
Oh no
. “I think you should stay single until you find your next job.”

My face goes hot. “But Grandma, what if a new job takes me someplace where I'll never meet a guy?” I want to cry. “Like in New York, it was impossible.”

“Krissy, you can't settle down until you get where you're going. Get your own life settled first.”

But that's just it, I don't know where I'm going. Since when did she take such a liberal stance, this woman who used to wait weeks for her husband to call from the road? I keep hoping that a relationship will give me some direction about where to go next. Funny how this woman went from peddling the doctor to talking me into flying solo a while; such a peculiar change of tune.

I'm not ready to just accept that the relationship I'm in is not the answer, nor do I want to believe that it's not likely to last . . . but Grandma is proving to know more about relationships—and women like me—than I ever imagined. I know following around some guy who shines a little attention on me isn't what she meant by “strong and patient.” She meant being strong and patient for the partner who's right for me, and in the spirit of her new crush, Dr. Christopher, she's diagnosing that just by looking at the different places we are in our lives, Tucker and I are not a match.

Not an easy conversation to have, that. But I can't criticize my grandma: she had what I want—a devoted marriage and a bustling brood and a life full of love and purpose. When I let her words sink in, I know she's getting somewhere with me. She's making me face the demons that are actually standing in the way of my happiness. Am I trying to cop out of planning my future by waiting passively for a guy to do it for me? How did I decide that banking on life with the first thing that came along was a good move?

I mean, Tucker's mature for his age and incredibly caring—and quite frankly, the intimacy
rocks
—but maybe it's impossible that he's thinking ahead at twenty-two the way I am at twenty-eight. He asked me to marry him on our third date. I laughed, then startled. “Oh my God, you're not joking.”

“I'm not joking. I want to spend my whole life with you.” I almost reminded him that he didn't have a job and that if we wanted to have sex we had to do it on the air mattress when his pothead roommate was out, but the point was hardly worth arguing. Deep down I knew that eventually this whole thing would fizzle. I've lived long enough to know that I'll never be a pickup truck kind of girl, or one who's thrilled with a proposal at the county fair on the third date.

I give Grandma a kiss on my way to the kitchen, the soft crinkles in her skin yielding to my lips. When I reach the sink, I stare past her windowsill's statue of Mary, holiest woman, to the hummingbird drinking nectar from Grandma's feeder in the sun. No noise, just its agreeable floating and enjoying life's juices—sort of how Grandma was in her marriage. The hummingbird bolts away when my bowl accidentally crashes into the basin, ceramic against steel, milky water from my bowl spouting around the kitchen.

“I'm okay!” I yell. “Don't worry Grandma, it's okay! Nothing's broken!” She giggles quietly and says something to herself, and when I finally get the spigot shut off, I hear the patient turn of her newspaper page.

How did I descend from this woman, this example of tranquility and virtue who spent decades feeling gratified to make sacrifices for someone she loved? I'm a bull in the delicate china shop of interpersonal communication; an aimless force bouncing in and out of commitments both when I care whether they'll last and when I don't. Is my hapless pursuit of relationships a cover for the fact that I'm not in any place to share my life with someone, because my self-actualization is still in the works? And is that why I gravitate to guys in the same boat—in it till it's not fun anymore?

Grandma's cheeks glow warm as I slip on my flip-flops to go. More than the mini-exercise bike, our reminiscing about dear, sweet—and challenging—Grandpa seems to have brought some of her rosiness back . . . and our chat about men has brought us to eye level.

T
HE FOLLOWING
S
UNDAY
is our family's annual bocce tournament. This ten-year anniversary is huge not only because for the first time we have hundreds of participants to raise money for the Catholic schools in town, but also because it's our first year without my grandpa as its patriarch and master of ceremonies.

My mom's glare says
You're late
as Tucker and I scoot into the early morning crowd around Bocce Court Number One (over the last twelve years, Grandpa built three courts across the Landing's lakeside). As the eldest son, master speechmaker, and CEO of the family business (I joke that he's also CEO of the family), Uncle Phil is Grandpa's obvious successor as head of the tournament. He asks the crowd to give Grandma a round of applause as she rolls the day's first ball in honor of Grandpa. She looks tinier than ever in petite cotton capris and a ball cap with morning g lories, her team name, which honors her as captain and namesake, embroidered with two blue flowers.

Tucker makes his way to the bar with my brother, and it's obvious they're talking bocce strategy. I like how easily he gets along with my family. My mom brings me a mimosa and invites me to sit with her and her friend Nancy on the edge of Court One. Today Nancy is characteristically put-together in a cute
I
♥
BOCCE
! tank and kitten-heel flip-flops and purple toenails. Nancy's cute sexiness is always a surprise, considering her very discreet manner. She gestures for me to sit on the folding lawn chair next to her. “Here, honey,” she says, “let me add some champagne to your drink.”

“Thanks, Nance.” My mom sits in the empty seat to my left, and instantly a swarm of her friends follows. I think Mom's height, no-nonsense style, and incomparable sense of humor make her the queen bee among her friends—to say Mom is “the funny friend” would be as apt a description as saying that the President of the United States wields some influence over world policy. Doesn't even begin to do her role justice.

Nancy apologizes that she wasn't here the night I had Dr. Christopher over for everybody to meet. “We were on our way home from the Outer Banks.”

“Ugh, Nancy . . .” I drop my forehead in my hands. “Don't apologize. It was like a volcano: entertaining to watch, disastrous to experience.”

“Your mom said it didn't go exactly as you'd hoped.”

“Ha! No,” I say.

“Ha! No,” Mom echoes. “But I told her, a woman needs a man who loves her unconditionally.” Mom's in slim black shorts and a T-shirt with the Italian map in red, white, and green rhinestones. Mom is actually German, but with her high cheekbones, olive complexion, and almond-shaped eyes, apparently she used to be mistaken for Sophia Loren when she and my dad would travel to Asia in the nineties for Dad's work (“Seriously, I did!” she says). Mom also made herself the master apprentice of Grandpa's spaghetti sauce recipe, and so around the kitchen and the family it's easy to forget my mom's not Italian. “A girl needs somebody easygoing. Just look at our guys,” she instructs us.

On the bocce court my dad is wearing his signature outfit (St. Louis Cardinals ball cap, khaki shorts, and Croc flip-flops) and biting a cigar as he performs his signature victory dance (gently wiggling his hips and fists in hand-mixer motion, commonly seen when he sells a machine, finishes a marathon, or, in this case, wins a bocce game).

“Right, Nance?” my mother says.

“That's right.” Nancy leans in carefully and whispers, “But you liked Dr. Christopher, didn't you, honey?”

Mom leans in too, and their whole group of girlfriends follows, pulling their heads in closer. I'm growing aware that even though Mom treats the topic of Chris with a brush-off, she was more enamored by the thought of him and me together than even I was. I nod, and look at Nancy. “I did. But you know, it's funny, with other guys I've dated, I get so hung up on ‘Why isn't he calling? What did I do wrong?' But this time, I don't know . . . maybe I'm just outgrowing the insecurities. Or maybe I'm just too jaded by men to bother dissecting it. But my point is, thank God, I'm not analyzing it to death.” I brush my hands together, as though there's bocce court sand on them. “It's done. Moving on.”

Mom lowers her chin clandestinely and says, “Although weeks ago, she did invite him to come today. It wouldn't surprise me if he just shows up.”

“Oh Lord, Mother, he's not going to just show up—”

Right then Grandma catches my eye from across the court and gestures with her chin to warn me,
Pay attention, someone's here to see you.

It's Tucker. “Babe,” he says, coming at me holding a beer. “Your cousins are taking the boat out. Wanna go? I'm gonna try to get up on the skis.”

Truthfully, hashing things out with Mom's friends about Chris is just turning fun. But I hand Tucker my mimosa and take his hand to stand up. “Sure.”

I widen my eyes at Grandma to give her an inconspicuous thank-you. It must've been growing obvious to observers that I was dishing about my old flame when the new one approached.
Be careful,
she mouths across the court. I know: she's not just referring to the boat ride, but to the situation I've gotten myself into.

Chapter 4
Does He Know What He Wants for His Life?

A
LREADY EIG HT MONTHS
have passed since we lost Grandpa in January. Grandma has approached his birthday with reserve, the way one braces for a massive sneeze whose threatened attack brings dread but no catharsis. Grandma doesn't know how the day might shake her. She didn't want cake—no way, too emotional—but she did want spaghetti and family. That, we all agreed, we could manage. Grandma and I attend afternoon Mass in the chapel at the nursing home across the road from her house. Because Grandpa had worked closely in community organizations with some of the administrators there, they informed us that they'd be dedicating the ser vice to him to commemorate his birthday.

When I pick Grandma up in the afternoon, I see that she's gone to have her hair done. Her lipstick is a deep shade of Victorian rose, and the aquamarine sweater set she wears lights up her eyes. She appears luminescent and perfectly prepared, as though she's seeing Grandpa for their first date in a long time. In a way I feel the same, and I've even slipped on a dress and patent leather heels. I get the sensation that the three of us—Grandpa, Grandma, and I—are all headed to the same place for the same purpose, like when we'd go to Mass at their church in Florida. For just a moment I allow myself to pretend that when Grandma and I arrive in the vestibule, Grandpa will be there waiting for us with a seat already picked out. She and I take the spot where we sit together every Sunday, on the left-hand side in the middle. The chapel was added onto the building at the same time Grandma and Grandpa's house was built three years ago, but somehow, despite its newness, the smell of incense and the stained-glass reflections give it an ancient feel. As Grandma and I settle into our pew and release the kneeler to pray, a tender, familiar solace creeps upon me and I'm reminded how I always feel at home in a church. I am protected, my worries lifted . . . and so it's true, Grandpa is here. As I rest my head on my knuckles, Grandma releases a loud sigh. This isn't going to be easy for her. The priest takes the altar, and right away I grow so immersed following the liturgy that I forget why we're here.

Two-thirds of the way through the Mass the priest leads, “And now for our petitions and the intentions in our hearts. Our response is, ‘Lord hear our prayer.' ” He runs through the usual suspects: world peace, wisdom for our leaders, the upcoming national election, the fulfillment of needs for the poor. Obediently I respond to all of these with such concentration that my eyebrows have furrowed. Then he says, “For the beloved George Gasbarre, to whom this Mass is dedicated.” Grandma and I both respond—
Lord, hear our prayer
—but the reminder that Grand-pa's left us takes the wind out of me. When we turn around for the sign of peace, a friend from Grandma's bridge group takes our hands and grips us tightly, as though she feels our pain as well. The way she attempts to comfort us with her eyes reminds me of the never-ending line of people at Grandpa's funeral viewing—how many of them shared stories about him that most of us never knew: he'd hired them when no one in town had work to spare; he bought a share of a colleague's ailing business and months later their orders were on fire; in the early seventies he borrowed a Ford truck for a business trip from a friend who was a car dealer and afterward the friend let him keep it and make payments when he could afford to. Grandpa stayed loyal by driving Fords for decades.

Just glancing around this tiny chapel, I can count half a dozen people whom my grandpa impacted with his kindness, his persistence, and his integrity. As the priest steps down from the podium, Grandma and I dab silently at our eyes, trying to maintain our composure. But a few minutes later when I allow her into the aisle before me for communion, I feel both of us raise our chests and walk tall toward the altar. The moment of mourning has passed. Now it's time to be proud for having been his happiness. Grandma lifts up her glasses and blots under her eye. When we're seated again I rub her shoulder gently, and she half looks at me with a closed-mouth smile.
I'm trying
, her expression tells me. We both are.

W
HEN WE ARRIVE
back at her house I remove my heels at the door to avoid tracking dirt across white carpets. The smell of garlic and onions and sauce bubbling on the stove invites us inside. I have to give Grandma credit—she's faced the day with as much courage as she could harvest, going so far as to take a stab at Grandpa's impossible spaghetti sauce—with meatballs. “Grandma,” I swoon as the aroma from the kitchen pulls me with greater force, “this place smells
incredible
.”

She's pulling wineglasses down from the kitchen cabinet, making two rows of six goblets. “I'm a little worried it won't be ready when everybody gets here in a couple hours. This was always Grandpa's job.”

“Let me taste it,” I tell her, taking a teaspoon from the drawer to dip it delicately inside the pot like Grandpa used to do. “Oh, good
heavens
, Grandma.” (At some moments I now find myself employing her sayings in all their grandmotherly glory.) I drop my spoon in the sink and take out a clean one from the drawer. “I think it's ready now.” She's giggling silently when I turn to her. It's the first time I've seen her smile today. We travel together into the garage, Grandma holding tightly to the railing Grandpa installed for her. The room is in perfect order, with his workshop occupying the left back corner. Since he died I've only been out here to fetch drinks from the utility fridge, but I realize it was on purpose that I hadn't stopped to observe how Grandpa had left his favorite area of the house. Grandma turns around and points back at the screen door we just opened. “Close that,” she says. “I want to show you something.”

I slide shut the screen door that separates the garage from Grandpa's office. A piece of string the length of a shoelace drops down, holding a palm-sized silver cutout of Grandpa's company logo. Grandma's staring at me with amusement when I turn to her, puzzled. “He did that so we'd know that when the logo's at eye level, the screen door is closed.”

“Ahhh!” I go to the door and open it, watching the pulley disappear into the door frame above it. “Look at that!”

“Isn't it something? I almost fell through it one day because I thought it was open—you see, it's hard to see!” She goes to the garage fridge and pulls out a chilled bottle of white wine. “He was always thinking,” she says, more to herself than to me. “There's no doubt about it, that man was born to be an engineer.”

I agree with her, surveying the perfectly organized contents of his garage. On the side wall he kept a collection of old-fashioned skeleton keys that he would examine and then duplicate on his machines just to keep his mind occupied when there were no other projects. Hanging here, they take on the feel of an exhibit at a history museum. “Grandma, come here,” I say. “Look at this key—how beautiful.”

“That one's from Italy,” she whispers. “You know what to?” I look at her.

“Your great-grandpa's house.”

“Hey, I visited that house when I was in Rome!”

She beams. “I know.”

I continue wandering the garage, peering curiously into Grandpa's shiny tool cabinet, the stacks of company-stamped ashtrays that he kept for posterity and pride, the shelves of nonperishable groceries lined up single-file like soldiers—a fixture for any household that had survived World War II and the Depression. “Hey, Grandma?” She's following me now, taking in the strength that Grandpa has left on every wall, above every shelf, in every corner. “Can we open up his pipe cabinet?”

“Oh, why not,” she says, as though I've just asked her if I could have a popsicle before dinner. She unlatches the wood cupboard doors, and a couple dozen pipes of all different styles line the shelves. I take out one whose bowl is a yellow corncob. I giggle, bewildered. “He liked these corncob pipes, didn't he?”

“He did. He picked up on those when we lived in Missouri. Local farmers harvested the corn and Grandpa wanted to support the locals. But,” she reaches, “this one was his favorite.” She hands me a regal, shiny wood pipe with a perfectly round bowl.

“This
was
his favorite, huh?” I say. He left dozens of teeth marks on the pipe's lip. “Oh, Grandma.” I put my hand on my hip as though we've just busted Grandpa doing something he shouldn't. “There's still tobacco in here!” We both laugh, but then the ashy tobacco inside the bowl makes it seem like he might have been smoking it just yesterday. I hold the pipe under my nose, and the scent paints an image of Grandpa standing right before me. He lights his pipe, shakes out the match, and winks. I put back the pipe and shut the cabinet. “Grandma, look!” On top of the cabinet sit a row of six candles designed to look like green martini olives lined up in a wax aperitivo dish. “We have to light these today!”

We travel back into the kitchen, each double-fisting bottles of wine. I light the candles while Grandma makes an attempt with the corkscrew. “Oh, your grandpa always took care of this,” she says though her teeth. She gets on her tiptoes to give the cork one last fight.

I meet her at the counter. “Here, Grandma,” I say gently. “Would you like me to try?”

“He took care of everything,” she says, surrendering the corkscrew into my hand. “That was his mission in life. He was always in charge.
Always
.” She laughs, but the whites of her eyes go pink and well up.

The cork finally exits with a quiet pop. I pour her glass, then mine, wishing I could be better at letting someone else take care of me. Grandma's scratching at exactly the idea that's been confounding me. Grandpa used careful placement of the building blocks of their life together; yet, he wasn't a control freak. It was as though he was on this mission in life to be a success, and when he met Grandma, she had a quick chance to jump on board and be part of it all . . . or not. And it's not that he would have been pleased forging ahead without her, but he was so self-assured and focused on his achievements that if he'd had to carry on alone, he still could have—and he still would have. It was like he was sitting outside that old ice cream soda shop on a steed, and Grandma looked up at him, took his hand, and climbed on for the ride.

It's such a compelling trait for a woman to find in a man, that cavalier manner; that passion to leave his mark; that battle against being ordinary. When I look at Grandma, I get a sense she couldn't quite
feel
Grandpa's drive or relate to it, but she loved it. She was all in. I don't even know whether she actually understood the things my grandpa cared about—the mechanism of the key, for heaven's sake, the physics behind a pulley, the economic role of the corncob pipe in twentieth-century America—but she found the man endlessly interesting. She was sort of like Dorothy in
Jerry Maguire
: I'll stand back and support you, even when I can't read your heart. And when you come home at the end of the day, I'll happily be your soft place to fall.

The way most men navigate the universe with such a determined path and such fierce passions absolutely mystifies me. And we women, how we yield so pliably, how we take interest in
their
interests with such heartfelt sincerity. I used to research this when I studied psychobiology in college, the male hunter-gatherer capacity that is complemented by the woman's nurturing, by her devotion to home and hearth. This gender-psychic phenomenon has more to do with the human spirit than it does with science. A male is born into the universe with such an un-stoppable approach to his goals and identity—for him there's always a victory to prove. And the female, she encourages him, or at least permits him, to pursue his battle . . . but does he notice that? Somehow the women around me have balanced their own desires in exchange for comfort and protection of a man. This clear interpretation of the male and female hearts . . . did I somehow miss the memo?

And when I think of it from this angle, it seems a little embarrassing that
I
am always trying to prove some feat of my own. What if I entertained the thought of sharing all my challenges with someone? “Grandma, you liked that Grandpa was usually in charge, didn't you?”

“Oh goodness, I wouldn't have had it any other way, really. He always knew what he was after. I trusted him.” If I found a man with such ambition, would it inspire me to sit back and be cherished? Would it help me to stop worrying about opening the pickle jar—or, ha, the wine bottle—myself? And would one hundred percent of me
want
that? I'm proud of the self-reliance that I've fostered in my young adulthood, and it doesn't come in handy only when I'm alone. Just look at the work I've been doing for Chris: these days some men actually benefit from having a woman in their lives who can manage things on her own. But . . . what if that's not the same kind of woman who they perceive as making a good wife?

Grandma and I clink cheers. She sips at her pinot grigio and smooths herself over. “Let's sit down.” She places a dainty napkin under my wineglass and sets out a tiny bowl for our shrimp tails. We nibble at shrimp cocktail and cashews, shifting our conversation away from memories to catch up on the last week.

Neutrally, Grandma asks me how things are going with Tucker. I tell her fine, nothing eventful, that we're just hanging out. “He's fun.” I shrug. “He's nice company. But he's back at school now, so he's two hours away.” Tucker and I have made plans for me to go out next week and help him get settled. Meanwhile I've been trying to gauge how the long-distance thing is going to affect us on top of our already hazardous age difference . . . and frankly, I should probably feel more concerned. Fewer than two months into my relationship with Tucker—innocent, harmless Tucker—I weeble constantly between feelings of affection, ambivalence, and annoyance. While fortunately the affection is the most frequent of the three, the intensity of the other two sometimes eats me alive. He called me last week to tell me he'd gotten caught cheating on a paper: