Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (21 page)

Rome sat as if she were still waiting for something, rubbing her thumb over her manicured nails.

“What was the date?” she snapped. The thin band of soldiers around her mouth came to attention. Go on lady. I’m ready. Don’t let the outfit fool you.

“The date?” Gabe repeated in a slight panic. We had no idea. May twentieth. May twentieth. May twentieth! We had to think quickly, starting to count backwards from Tuesday. “I don’t know, what was the date on Saturday?”

“You don’t even know the date?”

“The fifth. August fifth,” I interjected, really still unsure if I was right. “It was this past Saturday when you guys were away. We wanted to call you,” yeah, like months ago, “but we thought it was better to tell you two first, and in person.” So you can’t find anything else to bitch about.

We were saved by the bell. It was David and Arlene Diamond, waving through the window that flanked the front door. “Please don’t tell anyone,” Gabe said sharply, “because no one else knows yet.”

“Weren’t you just at Stephanie’s father’s house?” Rome asked without standing to open the door. “You mean to tell us you didn’t tell him while you were there?” Lady, I know it looks like makeup, but this is war paint. I squeezed Gabe’s hand.

“No,” Gabe lied, “we didn’t see his car in the driveway, so we figured we’d go back after telling you.” We were never at my father’s house. This was Gabe doing improvisation, with one hand behind his back. I’d give him that—the boy could lie.

Marvin opened the door for the Diamonds. Hugs, handshakes, kiss kiss. “What are you two doing here? What a nice surprise.” In a beat, Gabe and I were in our car, following the two couples in Marvin’s car to a dinner we never planned on attending. There would be no toasts at dinner, no easy conversation, and no escaping the inevitable: Rome would cry herself to sleep that night in Marvin’s arms questioning, “Am I that horrible of a mother that my own son would go and get married without me? And back in Manhattan, I’d fall asleep in Gabe’s arms questioning, “Am I that horrible of a choice for your wife that your parents wouldn’t be happy for you?” None of us would be able to run from it.

IT’S PROBABLY HUMAN NATURE THE WAY WE ALWAYS
think it’s going to get better with almost everything, until the tipping point where our health and looks begin to decline. With relationships, I always had a reason why some time in the future would be better for me than it was that day. When I was fat, I thought I’d feel pretty when I was thin, and when I was thin, I thought I’d be happier if I was more toned and muscular and had more money to look more coordinated. I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin unless there was a man there to tell me just how radiant that skin looked. I was a victim of low self-esteem and had the Soon syndrome
bad
. I was running toward a brighter future, unaware of the mirages I’d created in the distance.

I thought everything in my relationship with Gabe would be better in our future, because by then his parents would finally take us seriously—they’d treat me like family instead of the redheaded stepchild-in-law who turned their son into some kind of outlaw. By then Gabe would shake his Peter Pan syndrome and become a grown-up, the kind with leather laces and polished shoes, the sort who read the paper and wasn’t afraid of honesty. I genuinely believed all I had to do was “just make it through this,” like the pain in your lungs when you’re approaching the finish line. Our relationship required stamina and perseverance. I thought running alongside him as he lied to his parents would guarantee us a 26.275-mile marriage. I didn’t know then we were more endurance training, alternated with speed drills, than anything that would ever approach a marathon.

On our one-year wedding anniversary, the one we celebrated publicly on August fifth, I felt relieved. One year together felt like the “I told you so” of endurance, until, that is, Rome refused to acknowledge it. The rest of her family sent gifts and cards, wishing us love. Rome’s own mother confided to me, “Stephanie, I did not raise my daughter to behave this way. I never taught her this.” Rome would repeat this exact phrase years later, when I’d confide in her what Gabe had done. “Stephanie, I didn’t raise my son to behave this way. We didn’t teach him this.”

HE DID IT OVER TOOTHPASTE. IT WAS SUNDAY, NOVEMBER
2, 2003, at the butt-crack of dawn, the day of the New York Marathon, when Oliver asked me to move in with him. He was leaning over my bathroom sink, spitting minty foam into running water while I sat on the toilet peeing.

“And this is how you ask me?” I pretended to be annoyed. If I hadn’t just peed, I would have wanted to.

“It seems appropriate. We know we can share a bathroom.”

“Can I wipe before we talk about this?”

“You can do anything you want to, baby. I just think it makes sense.”

I was thrilled someone loved me enough to want to live with me. It made me feel important, like I’d just checked the wall posting at school and learned I landed the leading role. Oliver and I had been dating exclusively for three months. In that time, he had made a practice of cooking me romantic dinners on hot summer nights, complete with rose petals, candlelight, and Christmas music. Holiday music always makes me happy, so during dinner, in lieu of Billie Holiday, we listened to Billy Gilman sing “Jingle Bell Rock.” And once we finished eating, I’d turn up the volume and we’d dance in our socks, slipping on his wooden floors. Despite my pleas, he’d always lower the volume. “I’m saving you from tinnitus.” And that’s when I knew he really wasn’t the guy for me.

I know what you’re thinking. Is she fucking kidding me? She wanted to break up with the guy ’cause he lowered her music? I know it’s a small thing, and it might sound absurd that I’d want to end our relationship over something so trivial, but it was a very illustrative straw. And maybe I grasped onto that straw because it’s what I could hold—it was a reason I could point to. Otherwise, it was just some gut feeling I couldn’t explain, and then I’d have to wonder if it was sabotage, wonder if I was gun-shy, wonder if it was me. This way, needling at some inane reason not to be together made me feel like I was in the right. Besides, I really didn’t think I could spend the rest of my life with a man who didn’t enjoy me singing with my eyes closed at the top of my lungs. When I get to that place, I’m a toothy kid, in mismatched clothes on top of the big slide, doing it all myself, with the whole world out there in front of me. I’m happiest there, and spending eternity with someone who unremittingly lowered my groove, well, he’d always be bringing me down. It was a sign.

He also had horrible breath.

Still, I lingered by his side, ignoring signs, because he told me innovative bedtime stories, and took Linus for runs in the park so I could read, or photograph, or let’s face it, just kitty about in a laze. He loved me selflessly, with back scratches, mushroom barley soup, and chick flicks. He wanted to make me happy, and when I looked at him, some afternoons, on his sofa reading, I thought of tea sandwiches and hand-knit blankets. Of lunchtime and buying fresh bread. Oliver made me feel taken care of, like I was in grade school with its organized times for naps and finger-painting. He was my comfortable. I liked him most when he was depressed.

So, I remained because of that, because of how well he did patient and loving and there. I hung on because Phone Therapist said “self-sabotage” repeatedly during our sessions.

“So what do you say? I’ll even give you the big closet.” He was now in my bedroom pointing to my squeak of a closet.

“Don’t you need to go stretch or something?” I answered without answering.

“Okay, sweetie, we’ll talk about it later. I’ll look for you on the East Side. You’re taking your camera, right?”

“Yeah, I have to practice my panning. Don’t forget to brush your tongue.” He went back for the toothbrush and did as he was told.

“Okay, Mom, I love you,” he mocked. “’Bye, Linus. Be good for Mommy.” And he was off to run twenty-six miles of torture.

It was too bright out later that day; it hurt my eyes. Delicate whisps of cloud, layers, and mittens. I couldn’t stand it. I hate blinds pulled to the top at any time, but in the morning, it’s insufferable. I yanked the blinds down, then grabbed my camera, let Linus lick up my nose, and headed to First Avenue to photograph the runners as they made their way off the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge.

The streets were littered with clementine wedges and crushed paper cups. Barricades, officers, windbreakers, and dogs. Children holding signs, “Go Ted.” Some of the kids were attached to their mothers with plastic coiled leashes, connecting their wrists. And I nodded. It made sense. Crowds, kidnapping, missing children screaming for their mothers. Precaution.

Growing up, I was terrified of being kidnapped. I’d dream a stranger snagged me, and when I’d part my lips to release a ripple of a scream, nothing would come out. Today, the Upper East Side of Manhattan paralyzes me in the very same way. The South Bronx or even some disreputable streets south of the Meatpacking District, near the warehouses and twenty-dollar trannyjobs, is understandable. But it’s the Upper East Side, home to the Ralph Lauren mansion, Serendipity’s frozen hot chocolates, and Bloomingdale’s big brown bag that houses my anxiety. It has little to do with East Side rapists trailing unaccompanied quick-paced women to their fifth-floor walk-ups. It’s worse. It’s where Gabe lives.

But this was the only appropriate place to go for the marathon shots. The lighting was better here than on the West Side, closer to the end of the race. Sure, his friends, the hospital at which he worked, and our memories resided there. Until that marathon Sunday there wasn’t much room for all that
and
me. I was on a goddamn island. There wasn’t room for rationing anymore. Running into Gabe or one of his extensions would be unnecessary drama, like the suspenseful music, warning the audience something is about to happen. The warning music is nerve-racking; it’s the same as the anxiety I toted to the East Side with me in my camera bag. You’re just waiting for something big to happen. But the truly scary bits usually happen in silence, as quick as a guillotine. I needed to take precaution—I’d hide behind my camera lens if worse came to worst.

I’ll save you the suspenseful music right now. I didn’t run into Gabe. I ran into our former doorman, Asa. He smiled at me across the barricade, and as quick as that, I wanted to cry. His smile was sympathetic, the kind you get when you tell someone you’ve just been laid off. Looking at Asa’s face, it came upon me: I wasn’t ready to move in with Oliver. I didn’t want to share any more people with Oliver. I didn’t want overlap, for fear that years later I’d run into
our
doorman and want to cry. I think they call it gun-shy.

It’s no wonder. Too many people move in together to save money. “Well, it just made sense at the time. It’s stupid to be paying rent in two places.” After a few months of dating you’re both cohabiting, sleeping together nearly every night anyway. Stupid is moving in with someone before you’re married. It’s not like it was years ago, when dates were formal and regulated. Now you’re aware if he hogs the covers, pays his bills on time, or squeezes the toothpaste from the middle or the top. You don’t need to share a lease to recognize if he picks up his socks, keeps the refrigerator clean, or makes the bed every morning. You already know. This whole living together before you get married is absurd. It’s a fake precaution. It’s a false sense of security, like a frail Juliet balcony. I lived with Gabe for three years before we actually got married, and how well did that serve me? I knew false security all too well.

ON OUR WEDDING DAY, THE RABBI TURNED TO GABE AND
me and said, “It’s no longer just between the two of you.” He looked at each of us. His hands were warm and dotted brown. “Now it’s between you, and you, and God.”

I loved that idea.

God was my precaution because now, if Gabe screwed up, he wouldn’t just be messing with me, he’d be fucking with scripture and commandments, with the big G. Marriage was a commitment to spend our lives working on our relationship, no matter what. In my mind, the “what” part excluded abusive behavior. If, one day, he abused our children or me, that was a deal breaker. Otherwise, until death us do part, just as it says. I was firm on this. I’m a big fan of the vows.

I believed no one goes into marriage thinking about divorce. Single people confirm, “I don’t believe in divorce” early in relationships. It’s as if it’s something to boast about, like homemade tomato sauce or naturally straight teeth. “Oh, well I don’t believe in divorce,” she’ll say as she folds her napkin and purses her lips. As if “divorce” could fly like Santa or the Tooth Fairy. I’ve never heard anyone retort aloud, “Oh, well I do. It’s fabulous for the wallet and the complexion. All that saline, dear, you oughta try it.” Maybe you believe in divorce when you’re a child who witnesses his parents making each other cry snot. But then, maybe you don’t believe in
marriage
, the way some people don’t believe in e-mail or cell phones. You know it exists. It’s just not for you—until it is.

It was my understanding that both Gabe and I believed in marriage upon the respective “I do” bits. Even if one of us strayed, I assumed we could ameliorate the situation through communication, work, and counseling. I’d say it as if I were reading buzzwords off a chalkboard. We would rebuild trust by first examining and understanding “why” a betrayal occurred. Then we could overcome it by preventing a recurrence through our newfound understanding. I could make our environment safe for him to communicate honestly with me, while he could identify when he was in compromising situations and act more appropriately. It all sounds lovely and neat, like a dainty tea sandwich. Unfortunately, the only tea sandwiches Gabe cared for were made of bologna.

I knew we would fight, but at the end of the day, we were a team. It was us against the world. Despite my enormous set of lungs, I couldn’t cheer enough for the both of us; he’d need to do his part. Otherwise, we’d never win.

Many people I know shrug their shoulders at marriage. “I guess. Why not? If it doesn’t work out, I can always get divorced.” It’s not ideal, but it’s as contemporary as “Come join us this Saturday night as we celebrate my divorce” e-vites. I’ve discovered a way to spot the ones who really, truly, believe in marriage.

They move your relationship forward.

If you’re in a relationship with someone who hasn’t been the one initiating forward momentum, question things. If he’s the one who only moves things ahead out of fear of loss, then you have someone who’d rather lean toward the water of your sinking boat than grab a bucket and work to stay afloat. Consider this your red and white life preserver.

Before Gabe and I were married, I could forecast my behavior for years. I used words like
always
and
never
. “I will always work through anything with you. I’ll never have children just to bring us closer.” The truth is, I wouldn’t learn how I’d really deal with a situation until the weather actually turned. One day it did.

It was exactly one year earlier to the day. It was Sunday, November 3, 2002, NYC Marathon Sunday. Linus was getting his nails clipped on East Eighty-first Street. My sister Lea was over, reclined on the living room sofa, watching E!, flipping through the pages of
InStyle
magazine. I was in my first trimester.

“Lock the goddamn door, Lea. And no matter what happens, don’t open it.”

“What the fuck crawled up your pregnant ass?” Lea asked without looking up.

“I just have a feeling.” I raced to the front door and locked it with the sliding chain.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“No, seriously, I’m fucking shaking. I just know.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I didn’t answer her. I bolted into our office, a small room we were currently converting into a nursery. We’d just put up curtains and a toile valance. I sat at the desk, opened our laptop, and began to dig through the history of visited web pages. There wasn’t anything suspect. CNN, ESPN, Yahoo!

Years prior, Gabe had given me the password to his personal Yahoo! mail account to send an e-mail out for him. And since then, unbeknownst to him, I would periodically check his e-mail for anything suspicious. “Suspicious” didn’t mean other women—it meant lies. Gabe was the type of guy who would habitually lie to his friends and family. “Sorry, man, I really wanted to make it this weekend, but I was stuck at the hospital” e-mails were issued regularly to his friends. If “the hospital” was a substitute for “on the sofa picking my balls and watching the NY Jets game,” then call me Woody Johnson. He never had the stones to be honest with people, fearful of what they’d think of him. Having to work sounded safer than “I overpromised, and ended up going out with Stephanie’s family instead.” Work implied obligation instead of choice. No one could be offended by obligation.

When I’d see these e-mails to his friends, I’d confront Gabe. Okay, I’d do my share of lying too, telling him I needed an address or number from his contact list, “that’s the only reason I was in there. And then I saw an e-mail from Paul, and well, I just wanted to see how he was doing. But then I saw you lied to him. Why?” It was that type of thing. The truth is, I just didn’t trust him. I’ll say it again. I didn’t trust him. He’d postponed our wedding, would lie to his parents and friends, and something in me worried he was lying to me too. I knew, deep down, he was a “yes-man,” who would say
yes
even if he meant
no
. And he was a flirt. He’d even flirt with the telephone operator: “Why yes, the address would be lovely, just as lovely as your voice.”

“Jesus, Gabe.”

“What? It’s funny.” And then he’d laugh, and seeing him laugh made me happy, so I’d sneak attack him with a kiss. Gabe was an emotional slut. But he was my emotional slut, and we were married, so I’d have to love him for it, and get over the “little things,” like his lying to his friends via e-mail. So I convinced myself, “When you’re married, it just doesn’t matter.” Let it slide.