Authors: Holly Chamberlin

Living Single (3 page)

BOOK: Living Single

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Chapter Three

T
he very last thing I needed on the morning of my review was a postcard from my mother. The very last thing I needed the morning after meeting the love of my life and two minutes later finding out he was married was a postcard from my mother.

All right, maybe not the very last thing. The very last thing I needed would have been something like a lousy case of the flu.

But it certainly wasn’t a good thing, a postcard from my prodigal mother. Because with a mere twenty words or so, spoken or scrawled on a piece of paper, my mother could knock me flat. Just knock me down, deflate me, make me want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head. For about a week.

She was a powerful person, my mother. Though her motives have always been somewhat unclear to me, puzzling, from the beginning I’ve admitted her power to crush and strangle. And then to graciously offer to help her victim stand. It’s a strange and vicious cycle. And I fell for it every time because in spite of it all, I loved her, which meant I always opened up to her—just before she zinged me again.

So I did not need a postcard from her, that day of all days. The day that I was sure I would be fired. Which event would lead rapidly and assuredly to my losing my apartment and being thrown out onto the street. Where, no doubt, I would be killed by a pack of rabid squirrels within a week. My rotting body not found for months.

Review day was not a favorite day of mine.

Despite the fact that, yes, thus far in my career review day had always resulted in a raise and quite often a promotion. (Or a bonus. Sometimes all three.) Despite the fact that by the time I’d gone to bed the night before I’d managed to work up a pretty good supply of confidence. But I think that might have been due to the wine. Wine and lust and an unbelievably ridiculous determination to win Doug Spears away from his no-doubt nasty wife.

And then morning had come. The glaring light of day. And with the return of consciousness, Reason awoke and reminded me just how dangerous it was to be thinking romantic thoughts about a married man. And, it added, it’s ridiculous and a major waste of time to judge someone—his wife—without even knowing her.

And then Reason’s nasty cousin Negativity slipped into the room and took over. Negativity tends to sound like a sonorous, Old Testament prophet of doom. Or a ranting, decrepit oracle.

Pride goeth before a fall, Negativity cried. Things can change at any time. You never know what will happen. You can count on nothing. And never, ever rest on your laurels!

You’re only as good as your last win, Reason added, unnecessarily.

Everyone is replaceable, Negativity roared.

Even a wife? I asked.

Neither responded.

I found the postcard when I opened the door to leave for my office. It sat on the cheery WELCOME! mat I had put down the first day I’d moved into this apartment, a first-time homeowner. A sanitary, hospitable measure I’d picked up from my mother. Back in the days when she cared about things like sanitation and hospitality. And home. And family.

The mailman must have put the postcard in my neighbor’s box again. This was common enough. Ike, the mailman, was a nice guy. He always had a chatty comment to make about the weather or an opinion to express regarding the failed marriages and impending tragic breakups of Hollywood couples. According to Ike, Brad and Jennifer had four years, tops. I tended to agree. Ike had called the Meg Ryan-Dennis Quaid breakup, an event I had not at all seen coming.

But in spite of his likeable personality, Ike was no rocket scientist. In fact, I wasn’t a hundred percent certain Ike could read. Which could be a tricky sort of handicap for a mailman to work around.

Anyway, there it was. A postcard from my mother. Marie Weston. Fifty-six years old. Divorced after thirty-five years of marriage to my father, John. Currently living in an Unidentified South American Country. See, since she’d gotten on a plane and headed south, it had been difficult to keep track of her whereabouts. She moved from here to there, only occasionally sending a scribbled line or two. Once, I’d tried to contact her at the address on the back of a card, some small, slapdash resort. The snakey proprietor told me she’d left weeks before. With some guy from the town. And asked me when I’d be coming to enjoy the pleasures of Villa Loco.

The brightly colored photo of a brightly colored bird on the front of the postcard was somehow offensive. Clearly, the photo had been taken on a hot and sunny day. This fact annoyed me. Along with the fact that my mother currently lived in a year-round warm climate.

I did not. January in Boston, Massachusetts, is not a whole lot of fun. It was cold, twelve degrees with a wind-chill factor of minus two at 7:30
A.M.
, according to the telephone service weatherman. Not unusual weather for the Northeast Coast.

There was ice on the ground, too, the extremely tricky, all but invisible black ice which forced me to walk like the very frail and nervous ninety-year-old woman I will be in exactly fifty-eight years. Shuffle, really. And look constantly for something to hang on to. A signpost. A mailbox. A stranger’s arm.

On icy days I was not in the habit of actually lifting my feet off the sidewalk. No one has ever accused me of being physically reckless.

I was dressed for the bitter winter weather in a smart, wool-blend, gray pin-striped pantsuit; an ankle-length, black wool coat I’d bought at Banana Republic the year before; a black beret and black, slim-fitting leather gloves; and a gorgeous gray cashmere scarf, a present from my father two Christmases ago. And I was beginning to sweat, standing in an overheated hallway, staring down at a picture of some stupid tropical bird. I didn’t even like birds. They frightened me.

My mother used to know that.

Okay. Several options faced me. I could pick up the card, I thought. Verify it was indeed from my mother. Though who else did I know in South America? Who else would be sending me a photo of an undoubtedly smelly, beady-eyed, flea-infested, claw-footed creature?

Option number two. With my booted foot, I could slide the postcard under the
WELCOME
! mat. Pretend I never got it. “Oh, my God, Mom! Really? Wow, I never got that one! Gee, I’m sorry. That’s too bad.”

The guilt would haunt, then kill me.

Back to option number one. I could pick up the postcard and walk directly to the trash can under the kitchen sink. Alternately, I could pick up the postcard, tear it into many little pieces, and walk directly to the trash can under the kitchen sink.

Another thought occurred to me. I could go off to work, leaving the postcard where it was on the
WELCOME
! mat. See if it was still there when I got home. Might be. Might not be.

Still another idea. My imagination is fecund. I could pick up the postcard and put it, unread, on the kitchen table for that evening’s reading adventure. Which last two plans, I immediately realized, meant that all day long I would be dreading the moment when I had to face the thing again. Dreading and dwelling, going crazy with curiosity and driving myself insane with worry.

Reason and Negativity have a stepcousin named Panic.

Because what if the postcard is a cry for help? Panic asked. Good question. What if my mother was withering in a horrid, dank, rat-ridden jail cell in the Unidentified South American Country? What if she needed my help, now?

I could make it to the USAC’s embassy in half an hour. Provided the USAC had an embassy in Boston. I would call a lawyer. Yes, my father was a lawyer, perfect! Maybe Mom had sent him a postcard, too. He could rescue her and she’d be so grateful she’d declare him her hero and beg him to take her back... .

Wait! Reason shouted. Just back it up, Erin.

I took a deep breath. Okay, how likely was it for South American jailors to allow their North American female prisoners to purchase colorful postcards with the word
“Hola!”
printed in yellow on the front? How likely was it for them to allow their prisoners to send such cards to their families and friends back home, scribbled with words like “starving” and “putrifying” and phrases like “lice-infested” and “water torture”? And when had my mother ever been in serious danger before?

I sighed. Felt a drop of sweat trickle down my back. I was screwed. No matter what I decided to do I’d feel regret. Possibly shame. Inevitably, I’d feel like a very bad daughter.

There was no winning with her. There never had been.

I picked up the postcard. I read it.

E—Having a fabulous time with Roberto. Latino men are simply
the
most wonderful lovers! Our work with the villagers was unexpectedly halted when one of the young girls accused Roberto of ... Well, anyway, we’re on our way—somewhere!—so won’t be in touch for a while. Oh, hope the holidays were fun! M.

P.S. I chose this card because I know how much you
love
birds!

Chapter Four

B
y eleven o’clock that morning I was senior account executive.

I figured it was probably all luck, though Terry, my boss and EastWind’s owner and founder, said otherwise.

And since waking that morning I’d only thought of Doug Spears once. Every hour.

That night, Friday, while most of Boston’s single people were out celebrating the start of their forty-eight hours of freedom, I brought in some Thai food and settled on the couch with Fuzzer to watch
Providence
—which only sometimes annoys me with its goody-goody heroine—and then to pop in a tape of a movie I’d rented on the way home.
Butterfield 8,
with Elizabeth Taylor and Lawrence Harvey. It was one of my all-time favorites. John O’Hara wrote the book and for some reason I’d never gotten around to reading it.

But the movie is brilliant enough—Taylor’s performance won her her first Oscar as Best Actress. That night, I was particularly compelled and haunted by Taylor’s character, Gloria, a self-employed, high-class call girl who falls in love with one of her married escorts. Tragically, of course.

My interest in the movie that particular weekend had nothing at all to do with my brief encounter with Doug Spears. In spite of what Reason made sure to point out to me.

Saturday morning I cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, did two loads of laundry, waited for the grocery delivery. The usual. At one o’clock I met my father for lunch at Joe’s American Bar and Grill on Newbury Street, one of his favorite lunch places. We had hamburgers and beer and I tried to cheer him up by being funny and light-hearted but the sadness in his eyes just didn’t budge.

We talked about our jobs. Dad told me about an interesting new case the firm had just taken on. I told him about my promotion. After that, there was a lull in the conversation.

“Have you heard from your mother?” Dad asked abruptly.

“Actually, I just got a postcard from her,” I said neutrally.

Dad nodded. I knew he didn’t want to ask if she was okay and happy. I also knew he really did want to know.

“She seems fine,” I said. “She didn’t say much; you know Mom. She said she hoped we enjoyed the holidays.”

Dad was not so far gone into misery that he couldn’t spare a wry grin. “How considerate of her,” he said.

I returned the wry grin. And into my head came rushing a scenario, played out instantaneously, of Doug Spears sitting in his living room, alone, at night, lonely and miserable and not wanting to join his wife in their bed, but thinking of me. Yearning. Of his getting up, packing a bag, driving into the city, and appearing at my door.

“Well, Dad,” I said, reaching for my bag, suddenly uncomfortable, “I guess we should get going.”

We parted with a promise to get together for dinner later that week.

At seven o’clock I met my friend Damion and his new boyfriend, Carl, at the Loews Cineplex to see the new Russell Crowe movie. There was a lot of noise and flesh and blood. Afterward, the three of us went for cocktails at Vox Populi. At eleven-thirty I was in bed with Fuzzer, reading the new Barbara Kingsolver novel.

And the entire night I’d been obsessed by thoughts of Doug Spears. Even Russell Crowe shirtless—even hotter, in my opinion, after his role in
A Beautiful Mind
—couldn’t block out the unbidden fantasy of Doug Spears taking my hand in his on a warm and starry night, of his drawing me close, of his kissing me.

Doug Spears even haunted my dreams that night. In those dreams my hair was dark, not ash blond, and I wore a tight-fitting dress much like the ones Elizabeth Taylor wore in
Butterfield 8.
Otherwise, I was me and Doug Spears was himself, utterly gorgeous in that manly, imperfect way, and wearing a dark suit and the camel coat.

In the dreams the same thing happened, over and over, with only slight variations. I stood in the middle of an office hallway. To get past me, someone would have to slide to the right or left. At the far end of the hallway, Doug Spears suddenly appeared and began to walk rapidly, purposefully toward me, straight at me. He’s coming to kiss me, I’d think. And then, as he trod on, I’d realize he didn’t even see me. And as he got closer, his eyes focused far beyond me, on some distant goal, I’d panic and try to move out of his way. But I was never able to move even a finger. And as Doug Spears crashed right into me, not really seeing me, I woke up.

Sunday, I met Abby, JoAnne, and our friend Maggie for brunch at Aquitaine, on Tremont Street, only a few blocks from my home. Brunch is a major social event in the South End so I’d made a reservation for us on Wednesday. We had a booth close to the front of the restaurant and were blinded by the white winter sun streaming through the large glass windows. There we were. Four thirty-something women, eating brunch, wearing sunglasses. Very cool.

We ordered. Eggs Florentine for me; ditto for JoAnne; banana pancakes for Abby; a mushroom and cheese omelette for Maggie. Coffee all around and a Bloody Mary for JoAnne.

And then somehow, inexplicably, the conversation got around to my wayward mother. And to the uncomfortable fact that I still had not found the strength or maturity to forgive her. I mean, I wanted to forgive her—for ruining the family and upsetting our lives and all—but I just didn’t seem to be able to do it.

“Why don’t you buy that book,” Abby suggested innocently. “You know,
Mothers and Their Adult Daughters: The Dance Continues.
I’ve heard it’s very helpful.”

JoAnne barked a laugh. “Where, on
Oprah?
Please. Self-help books are useless. Only pathetic losers read them. Or buy those self-affirmation cards. Yes, I am such a loser I can’t even afford therapy.”

Maggie shrugged. “Hey, my attitude is: Whatever works.”

“Here’s an idea,” I said. Suddenly, changing the topic from my mother to anything else—even nuclear physics, about which I knew virtually nothing—seemed an important idea. “Let’s come up with a series of self-defamation cards. I bet there’s a market.”

JoAnne’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve got one. ‘I’m fatter today than I was yesterday and I’ll be even fatter tomorrow.’ ”

My turn. “ ‘I suck and am going to Hell.’ ”

“Too general. Let’s keep it specific,” Maggie suggested. “ ‘No matter what my mother told me, I am not at all special.’ ”

“ ‘I am just like everybody else,’ ” Abby said.

JoAnne shook her head. “Could be taken as a positive. The point here is to demean. Here’s another one: ‘I am my parents’ least favorite child.’ ”

“ ‘I was an accident and will live to regret being born.’ ”

“ ‘The mirror does not lie. My butt looks like a sack of cottage cheese.’ ”

“ ‘No matter what my friends tell me, I am not attractive to men.’ ”

“ ‘I am so pathetic I can’t even come up with a self-defamatory statement brutal enough to approach the sad and sorry truth of how big a loser I am.’ ”

I raised my coffee cup. “To JoAnne. The winner, as usual.”

“Next topic?” Maggie asked after the waiter had delivered our food.

“Men?” JoAnne suggested. “Anyone have anything new and interesting to tell?”

“Erin does,” Abby said.

“No, I don’t,” I said. Panic reared its ugly head but Reason quickly beat it down. What was I afraid of?

Too many feelings to acknowledge.

“Yes, you do,” Abby insisted, turning to JoAnne and Maggie. “Erin met someone the other night.”

“It’s nothing,” I insisted. What was Abby thinking! “I didn’t even really meet him. I mean, there was a man and I was introduced to him ...”

“So, you did actually meet him?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a special introduction, like someone wanted us to meet, it was ...” I poked at my eggs and spinach and Hollandaise sauce.

“He’s married,” Abby blurted.

“Erin?” JoAnne singsonged. “Is this true?”

“And they were flirting.”

I turned to Abby. I felt the blood rise in my cheeks. “You know, I can speak for myself. And while I have the floor, are you for me or against me? I’m having trouble telling.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, patting my arm. “I’m for you, Erin, of course. And I know you can speak for yourself. But I was afraid you wouldn’t and I think you should talk about this and get him out of your system. You know, before something . . . happens. I saw the way you looked at each other,” she added. “It was ... intense.”

“Abby,” I protested lightly, “I talked to him for less than two minutes. He’s hardly in my system.”

At which point everyone lowered their sunglasses and gave me the look. The look that said, “Cut the crap.”

Okay. There was no way out of this conversation but to be honest and up front. Right? At least about the bare facts.

“Look, I met this guy Thursday night at Biba. His name is Doug something. He works for a big competitor. And ... yes, I was attracted to him. I am attracted to him. A lot.”

“But he’s married.”

“Yes, that fact has been established.”

“Did you look for a ring?” JoAnne asked, pointing a stalk of celery at me like an accusatory finger. “I mean, before you flirted?”

“I didn’t even think to look,” I admitted. “I was just ... so . . .”

Abby nodded. “Smitten.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the word I would have chosen,” I said, “but yeah. I was smitten.”

“Not all married men wear rings,” Maggie pointed out reasonably. “So even if Erin did look and didn’t see a ring, she’d have been none the wiser.”

“So, when did you finally spot the ring?” JoAnne pressed.

“When he shifted his coat from one arm to the other,” I said.

“Smooth.”

I gasped. “You don’t think he was hiding the ring on purpose, do you? That’s ridiculous!”

Maggie grimaced. “It’s been known to happen, Erin. Men are manipulative. They’ll use any weapon they can when they’re on the hunt.”

JoAnne just shrugged and took another sip of her Bloody Mary.

Mood dip. Instinct told me to go on defense.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “You’re making it sound all sordid and cheap. It was just ...”

Just what, Erin? Reason prodded. Just that you went all stupid and slobbery? Tell them the truth!

“It was just that he didn’t seem married,” I blurted.

“What the hell does that mean!” JoAnne, Abby, Maggie. At the same time. They grinned at one another, proud.

I kept my mouth shut. How could I expect anyone to understand something I could barely articulate? Something I was still figuring out myself?

“It means he was pitching as well as catching,” Maggie ventured finally. “Right? He was playing the game back? Feeding you lines.”

“It wasn’t that,” I repeated. It seemed I was going to try again to explain the unexplainable. My feelings. “It ... it just seemed like he was supposed to be mine.”

Reason choked on its words. Good, I didn’t want to hear them anyway.

My friends fell silent again. Admittedly, I had uttered another interesting statement. Another statement that made sense only to me.

But what business was it of anyone’s what happened between me and Doug Spears?

It’s his wife’s business, Reason snapped. Mostly, it’s your business and you’re on the verge of conducting it very, very badly.

“Well,” I said testily, angry at all the voices around and inside me, pissed off at all the intruders. “Since Abby so thoughtfully brought up the topic, and if I say I don’t want to talk about it anymore you’ll just ignore me, why don’t you all tell me your opinions. You know, about everything.”

“I’m off men, totally,” Maggie reminded us. “Married, single, fat, skinny, whatever.”

“Yeah, but don’t you have an opinion?” JoAnne pressed.

“Of course. But my opinion should make no difference to Erin. Besides, I learned a long time ago that most times it’s better to keep your opinions to yourself.”

At least someone didn’t feel the need to lecture me.

Maggie Branley. Red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Maggie’s got a Ph.D. in Urban Design from MIT. She’s smart and funny and yet private in a way that makes you think she’s suffered some pain that just won’t go away. Which, I’m guessing, was caused by her disastrous grad school marriage to an Italian Lothario, about which JoAnne and Abby knew nothing. And she respects other people’s privacy in a way that’s very comforting.

“Anyway, this is not really about men and women,” Abby said. “It’s about morality. Right and wrong.”

“Duh! If it’s about morality, it’s of necessity about men and women,” JoAnne snapped. “This Doug person is a man. Erin is a woman. The two big questions here are: Will a married man cheat on his wife? And will Erin let herself be used?”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“You wanted our take on the situation,” JoAnne reminded me.

BOOK: Living Single

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