Living Single (24 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Living Single
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Chapter Forty-three
W
e met at Joe’s American, clearly one of Maggie’s favorites, as almost every time it was her turn to choose the restaurant, that’s where we ended up. I reminded myself to buy her a T-shirt with the Joe’s logo for Christmas.
Maggie was late by ten minutes. Her color was high. She looked—pretty. She flopped into the empty chair, said, “Sorry I’m late,” and grinned.
“What in God’s name is going on with you?” JoAnne said, grinning back.
“I met someone,” Maggie blurted.
“I knew it!” JoAnne crowed. “That’s why you’ve been so secretive lately. And late. We’ve hardly seen you. Who is it? Do we know him?”
Suddenly, it came to me. How could I have been so blind? There was no him to know.
“Uh, not exactly,” Maggie said, blushing.
“Do we know her?” I said, amazed at my own boldness.
Maggie blushed more furiously. “Uh, you might. But probably not. She ...”
“Whoa. Whoa. Just—whoa. Her?” JoAnne looked at me, like I was the one with the Big Story. “She’s a—she?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “She’s a—she.”
Abby smiled kindly. “Maggie, I’m so happy for you. So, what’s her name, what’s she like, what does she do?”
“So, you’re saying—what? That you’re gay?”
“Why can’t you get with this, JoAnne?” I said. “We’re all a bit—surprised—but it’s really no big deal.” I looked at Maggie. “I don’t mean anything insulting by that. I just mean, you know ... But if it is a big deal I don’t want to diminish what’s going on and I guess it is a big deal after all ...”
“You can stop babbling, Erin,” Maggie said. Kindly. “And yes, JoAnne, I guess this does mean that I’m gay, or maybe what it means is simply that I’m in love with a woman, I don’t know. Yet. I don’t really care. Look, I’m happy. For the first time in way too long, I’m happy. Jan makes me happy.”
“And I think it’s so wonderful!” Abby squealed. “What’s Jan’s last name? Is she pretty? Oh, should I ask that?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie admitted with a laugh. “I think she’s beautiful. And her last name is Ward and she’s very smart and very kind. And she loves, me, too.”
“How did you meet this paragon of womanhood?” JoAnne sounded like she was choking.
“We met through the Women’s Lunch Place. You know, where I volunteer. So does she.”
“When did you meet?” Abby asked.
Maggie considered. “Exactly two months and eleven days ago.”
Bingo.
“Wait a minute!” I cried. “She’s Dr. Bruce, isn’t she? You went to Paris with Jan, didn’t you?”
Maggie blushed furiously.
JoAnne clapped. “You dog, you.”
Abby’s mouth opened wide. “You mean, there is no Dr. Bruce?”
“Jan owns a bookstore in Harvard Square,” Maggie said hurriedly. “She’s very successful. I mean, she’ll never get rich being an independent but she provides a great service to the community with special orders and readings and events. She can pay the mortgage and still have enough left over to ...”
“Take you to dinner?”
“Actually,” Maggie said coyly, “Jan’s a fabulous cook. We usually eat at home.”
“Hmm. I have noticed you’ve, er, filled out a bit lately.”
“And I look better, don’t I?” Maggie challenged.
Actually, she did, I realized.
“I’ll be right back.” Maggie got up and walked toward the ladies’ room.
When she was out of sight, JoAnne leaned close to me.
“I’m sorry,” she hissed. “I just don’t understand how you can go to bed one night straight and wake up the next morning gay. Something weird’s going on here.”
Abby said nothing but looked at JoAnne with concern.
“That’s not how it happens, JoAnne,” I said. “Come on, you know better.”
“Do I? Look how hard it’s been for me to change my life, even a little bit and Maggie just ... just ...”
“Just what, JoAnne?” Maggie had returned from the ladies’ room.
JoAnne looked stumped for about half a second then recovered her usual aplomb.
“Look, Maggie. I could use some advice. Nothing I’m doing seems to be helping all that much. Individual therapy, group therapy—”
“People still do group therapy?” Abby said. “I thought that went out with fondue pots.”
“Fondue pots are back,” I said. “Check the Crate and Barrel catalog.”
“Anyway,” JoAnne said loudly, “and art therapy and Ti freakin’ Chi and touchy-feely goddess-within workshops. Why am I not happier than I was when I started all this self-help crap? All I’ve accomplished is a piece of cardboard with macaroni pasted on it. And I haven’t heard one word from that bogus dating service.”
“So, what you’re really saying is that you’re jealous of me?”
JoAnne looked hard at Maggie. “Yes, I think that’s what I’m really saying. You got happy. You fell in love with someone who fell in love back. I didn’t. Haven’t. Yeah, I’m jealous. And—well, I guess I’m proud of you, too.”
Maggie grinned. “Plenty of people have been proud of me, but I don’t think anyone’s ever been jealous of me before. Thanks.”
JoAnne grinned back. “No problem.”
 
A weekend in Newport, just me and JoAnne. Abby was with John. Maggie was with Jan. Damion was with Frederick. Doug was with Carol.
And JoAnne was not pleased. I suppose she had reason to be pissed.
We were sitting at the bar at Christie’s, looking out over the sparkling water of the Narragansett Bay. JoAnne was having some trouble keeping her voice down to a civilized level.
“You come to Newport for the weekend—what’s probably the last gorgeous weekend of September—so you can mope? So you can pine for your married lover who’s probably at this very moment firing up the grill for the kids and the neighbors, playing Mr. Suburbia?”
“Thinking of me while he’s doing it,” I said. The woman he said he would never marry.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure. Come on, Erin, you’re no fun.”
“Sorry. If you want to talk to some guy you can. Nothing’s stopping you.”
“This is supposed to be a singles weekend. You know, as in, we’re both single, it’s late summer, we’re looking for love.”
“I’ve got love.”
JoAnne sighed dramatically. “Whatever. I’m not saying you have to sleep with anyone, but maybe smiling every once in a while would be nice. For my sake. God, Erin, Doug’s made you into a dishrag. He’s got you all locked up and waiting for him, all untouchable, while he goes on and lives his life as he pleases. What right does he have?”
“The right I give him to ask me to be faithful.”
“Oh, honey, I give up. Look, let’s just have a drink and stare at the water if that’s what you want to do.”
“We could talk,” I suggested, smiling. “See, I’m smiling.”
JoAnne grunted. “As long as we don’t talk about Dirk Spiral, fine. But if Mr. Gorgeous approaches me, I’m flirting. Perfect Partners hasn’t come through with one guy for me yet.”
“Fair warning. Nice yacht.”
“Hmm. Wonder what its owner looks like?”
Wonder if he likes cats, I thought. Because in spite of my protestations to JoAnne about being content to be faithful to Doug, even on a beautiful, late summer weekend in Newport, Rhode Island, I was, in fact, experiencing a glimmer of discontent.
Just a glimmer, but it had caught my eye and wouldn’t go away.
Maybe since shopping with Maureen for baby clothes. Maybe since the night at the Holocaust Memorial. Maybe only since earlier in that past week when Doug and I had met for a quick lunch. The lunch itself was unremarkable, as was our conversation. Doug seemed tired and overworked; I know I was both. When it came time to part, Doug said, in a far too casual voice for a truly spontaneous thought: “By the way, Erin. I found several cat hairs on my suit jacket the other night when I got home. They must have rubbed off you. Luckily, Carol was asleep, but you’ve got to be more careful. You’ve got to think of me more in this. You’ve got to consider my position.”
The words and Doug’s fake-casual tone hit me like a slap.
“You don’t like cats?” I’d quipped feebly.
Did he really think I didn’t consider his feelings? How could he claim to know me and think that I was being careless with his reputation as husband and father?
“I hate them,” Doug said sharply, “but that’s not the point.”
“I know,” I said, feebly still. “I’ll be careful.”
Doug smiled but it seemed obligatory, not a freely given gift.
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”
He turned away and I said, “I’m going to Newport this weekend with JoAnne.”
Doug turned back. His face was expressionless. “Good,” he said. “Have fun.”
And that was that. No, “Think of me,” or, “Don’t let any guy pick you up,” or, “Be careful.” At that moment it occurred to me that Doug had never actually asked me to be faithful to him, even though I’d managed to convince myself that he had.
And he’d never told me he loved me.
The thoughts were too disturbing so I shoved them away.
By the time I’d gotten back to the office that afternoon, I’d partly convinced myself that Doug’s ill temper—or lack of concern?—was due to his being exhausted by the demands of his job. By the time I got home that night, the glimmer of discontent had made its appearance.
Fuzzer met me at the door, as was his wont, and yowled. I scratched his head and followed his fleeing paws into the kitchen. As I watched him eat his dinner noisily, I was overcome with a growing anger.
“Screw you, Doug Spears,” I said to the kitchen. And to Fuzzer, eyeing me for seconds, I said, “You can shed on me all you want, guy. It’s my life.”
Now, Saturday afternoon in Newport, here I was effectively lying to one of my dearest friends, implying that Doug had asked me not to sleep with other men, stating flat out that I was content with my relationship and its demands.
“JoAnne?” I said suddenly. “Want to go dancing tonight?”
 
I got home late Sunday night to find a call from Doug on my answering machine. It was hurried but it lifted my heart. Doug said he hoped I’d had a fun weekend—but not too fun—and apologized for being “distracted” at lunch the other day. Distracted was not exactly the word I would have chosen, but hey, at least Doug had acknowledged he’d been a less than perfect date. He suggested we meet at Pignoli after work the following day.
It felt good to be home.
Chapter Forty-four
E—will be out of touch for a while, don’t worry.
M.
For some reason, Pignoli was mobbed, an unusual thing for a Monday evening. There was only one empty seat at the bar. I took it with reservations. The woman to the left seemed innocuous. The guy to the right—the one in black pants and shirt with a pale, slightly shiny, printed sports jacket—was going to be trouble. The moment I sat ...
“So, is that an Irish nose?”
I don’t know. I threw away the box it came in. What kind of dumb ass question was that?
“I’m part Irish, yes,” I said. And you? What kind of honker is that?
“Me, I’m Italian-American, all the way. Ba-da-boom, heh?”
Tony Soprano this guy wasn’t. He wasn’t even James Gandolfini, whom I would have dated in a moment if he—and I—suddenly became single. This idiot next to me at the bar was as far away from Soprano/Gandolfini as Spam is from fine duck liver pâté imported directly from France.
The thought made me hungry. I looked over my shoulder at the door. Where was Doug? I checked my watch. Ten minutes late. As usual. I had probably another twenty-minute wait ahead of me. And the excuse would be the same—he’d called Carol to say he was going to be home late and got caught listening to every detail of her boring day.
“Hey, what’s a nice Irish girl like you ...”
“American. I’m an American. And I have the passport to prove it.”
“A babe like you must get a lot of invitations to travel, right? Bermuda, Bahamas ...”
Oh, my God. I blocked out the offense of Joey Bag-a-Donuts’s voice and quickly cased the bar area. Still no empty seats I could slip away to. Shit. I wished someone would call me at that moment and get me out of this moron’s way. Can you will a phone to ring, I wondered. Maybe a psychic could do it... .
Ring ...
“Excuse me,” I said brightly.
Bag-a-Donuts shifted noisily on his chair and scoped for another “babe” to bother.
“Hi,” I said.
“It’s me. Have you been there long?”
“Only since the time we were suposed to meet.” I turned my back to Mr. Ba-da-bing. “Is everything okay?”
“No, it isn’t.”
I felt that all-too-familiar burst of fear and dread and panic in my stomach. For an irrational moment I knew Doug was going to dump me via cell phone. For that same irrational moment I thought he was going to tell me he was dying of cancer.
“Erin?”
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Carol called. Courtney had an accident. They’re in the hospital. I’ve got to get home.”
“Oh, Lord, is she okay?”
“Yeah. Has a broken leg but otherwise she’s okay. She was at a friend’s house for a play date and—God knows how it happened—but she fell down the kid’s basement steps. The mother isn’t being too clear on what role her bully of a kid might have played.”
“Doug, do you really think another kid pushed her!”
“I don’t know what to think yet. Look, Erin, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to run. Have a good weekend, okay? I’ll try to call but with all the stuff going on at home—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “It’s okay,” I lied, “really. If you can call, great, but don’t worry about me. Just take care of Courtney.”
Doug signed off. I flipped closed my phone and took what I hoped would be a steadying breath. The bartender gestured toward the almost empty glass of Vernaccia in front of me. I shook my head and reached for my wallet.
Every family joy or crisis threatened my relationship with Doug. Taylor’s getting chicken pox might make Doug realize just how much he cared about his family and how wrong it would be to leave them. Carol’s getting her real estate license could result in Doug’s experiencing a burst of pride in his wife and a rededication to her happiness. A school play could stir up long-dormant memories of the vows he’d made to Carol to be faithful to her till death did them part, no matter his own distress.
Romance was not bothered by this fact. But consider the frisson of The Affair, Romance said. Oh, Erin, you are so lucky! The secrecy of your love demands a bravery and a truer devotion than a love that announces itself to the world.
Reason snorted. And you like this nonsense? I never saw you as a drama queen, Erin. What’s happened? Reality not good enough for you? The mature security of marriage too mundane? You need to spice things up by ...
All right, already! I shouted in my head, but the woman to my left flinched, so loud were my troubled thoughts. My body was radiating emotion, it had to be. Flesh is only so solid.
I drained the last of a glass of water I’d asked for when I came in.
It was horrible of me to resent Courtney’s broken leg, horrible and selfish. But it was the reality of my situation. I was living the life of the Other Woman. My position in Doug’s life was nothing if not precarious.
But that didn’t mean I had to lose my native kindness and generosity of spirit, did it? I’d be there for Courtney in what way I could.
I felt calmer already.
Doug did the right thing by going home, I told myself. He’s a good father.
Right, Romance agreed. And that’s one of the qualities you most admire in him, his love for his children.
How is fucking you showing his love for his kids? Reason often had a foul mouth. Nevertheless, Reason usually had a point. If I were willing to listen to it.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“What? Oh, sorry.”
Bag-a-Donuts grinned in an oily way. “Get stood up?”
“No,” I lied. Lying was second nature to me now. “That was my boyfriend telling me to meet him at the Four Seasons instead. He wanted to surprise me.”
Bag-a-Donuts shrugged and made a face. “Hey, if you get bored, I’ll be right here. I ain’t going nowhere.”
That’s the truth, I thought and smiled nicely. Bag-a-Donuts slurped his Scotch.
Rats. I had been looking forward to Pignoli’s homemade gnocchi. I couldn’t hang around for dinner now that I’d lied about being wanted elsewhere. I’d just trudge home and nuke something, maybe rent a movie along the way.
I gestured for the bartender, paid my bill, and added a generous tip—to show myself that even though I’d been hurt I was big enough not to take it out on the world—and left.
The night air felt wonderfully cool on my heated face. I breathed deeply.
“The hell with him,” I said to the world. “I’m going to the Four Seasons if I have to go by myself.” I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and started walking.

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