The Friends We Keep (13 page)

37

 

“I married Marie because she's simple, you know?”

I supposed I was required to nod so I did. Gene nodded back at me and took a sip of his scotch on the rocks. We'd gone out for a drink after a particularly difficult day. Five minutes into the evening I was mentally slapping myself for having agreed to spend time with my disgusting colleague.

“Look,” he went on—as if imparting information I hadn't already heard, information that for some reason he felt it vitally necessary that I possess—“she knows she's not a hottie. Her self-esteem isn't great—you should meet her parents, they're crazy people, they really did a number on her—and she's not exactly a rocket scientist. She's a perfect wife for a guy like me, no trouble, stays at home, doesn't ask me where I've been when I come in late. And man, can she cook. Keeps a perfect house, too. I've got it made. Hey, maybe it's old-fashioned but so what? It works for me.”

“And you're sure it works for her?” I asked, fascinated in spite of myself, as one is fascinated passing a car wreck. You see a bit of blood on the pavement and, repulsed, strain more closely in order to catch a glimpse of gore.

Gene made a face to indicate I was an idiot for even asking. “Of course,” he said. “Marie never complains. Never. She's the ideal woman, except for the face and the body.”

“I see,” I said. I didn't see at all.

“I give her money to decorate the house the way she wants and she's having a kid, which she wanted more than anything, and once a year, on her birthday, I take her out for a fancy dinner and all that crap and she's satisfied. I tell you, John, if you ever get married, don't go for a looker. Go for someone like Marie, and you can have all the gorgeous women you want on the side. À la carte, man. It's the way to live.”

Gene's absolute lack of shame was stunning. I've known plenty of guys who've cheated on their wives. And not one of them had ever spoken—in my hearing, at least—in so brazen a manner about their affairs. On the contrary, most cheating husbands I'd encountered kept a low profile and dealt with their guilt by saying nothing but good things about their wives to anyone who would listen.

Gene was one of a kind in my experience. From the beginning of our acquaintance I wondered if his bravado was real or some sort of act meant to result in his being found out. I wondered if he wasn't unconsciously hoping to get caught, for reasons I couldn't even begin to fathom.

I drained my glass—scotch, no ice—and stood. “I've got to be going,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Stay for one more,” he said. “Come on, the night is young.”

But I'm not so young anymore, I thought. I lifted a hand in a wave and walked off.

38

 

“I have to eat before we fool around,” I said, kicking the door shut behind me. “I'm absolutely starved.”

Jake stood in the kitchen, idly bouncing a pencil off the kitchen's peeling counter. “I don't think I have anything,” he said.

“That's why I brought us lunch.” I plopped a white paper bag on the counter and grabbed the pencil from his hand. “That drives me crazy,” I said.

“Where were you last night?” he asked. “I called your cell a few times.”

“I know,” I said. “I got your messages. Do you have any clean glasses?”

“I thought if you weren't doing anything we could catch a movie.”

“Well,” I said, blowing a speck of dust off a drinking glass, “I was doing something. My company sponsors an annual charity auction. I didn't get home until after midnight, which means, of course, that I'm not feeling fabulous right now. Lack of sleep does nothing for my mood, not to mention my skin. I wouldn't be surprised if it breaks out by evening.”

I handed Jake the chicken wrap I'd picked up for him. He took it, his expression openly hurt.

“What?” I asked. “What's wrong?”

Jake shrugged and fiddled with the paper around the wrap. “No, it's just . . . Did you go to this party with anyone?”

“I wouldn't exactly call it a party. These things are more like command performances. Nobody has any fun but everybody pretends to. Payment is in mediocre champagne and mushy caviar.”

“But you didn't answer my question.” Jake put his wrap on the counter. “Were you there with anyone?”

Ah, Jake was showing signs of his father's jealous nature. I wasn't impressed—and I wasn't going to make this little inquisition easy on my lover. “Yes, Jake. About two hundred of my closest friends.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, plaintively. “Why are you being so difficult, Eva?”

“Difficult? I'm not the one grilling his lover about her social habits.”

“Why didn't you tell me about this auction?”

I folded my arms across my chest. Like a cat arching his back and running sideways at his enemy, this gesture makes me look particularly formidable. I know because I was told—by two employees on the day they quit their jobs and spilled their resentments. “Frankly,” I said, “because it was none of your business. Come on, Jake. What possible interest could you have had in spending the evening in a hotel function room with hundreds of advertising types?”

“I would have enjoyed being there with you,” he said stubbornly.

“No, you wouldn't have. Because I wouldn't have had any time to devote to you, Jake. And what could you contribute to a conversation about branding?”

“I'm a good listener. All my girlfriends have told me that.”

Poor kid. He was lumping me in the girlfriend category. I uncrossed my arms. There was no real contest here. “Please, Jake, just drop it, okay?”

Before he could reply I took a bit of my sandwich and chewed enthusiastically. I'd eaten an entire half before Jake spoke again.

“I feel,” he said, “that you don't respect me.”

I wrapped the rest of my sandwich in its paper and sighed. Were all boys of Jake's generation so needy? And so articulate about their emotions? “Of course I respect you,” I said carefully. “My decision not to ask you to come along had nothing to do with respect or lack of it.”

“Are you embarrassed by me, then?” he pressed. “Are you ashamed of our relationship?”

I didn't answer Jake's accusatory questions. I couldn't answer them.

Jake shook his head. “I thought so,” he said and he sounded deeply wounded.

“Look, Jake,” I said, my patience worn thread-thin and my stomach still rumbling, “no one brings a spouse or a partner to these events. Hardly anyone. You would have been thoroughly bored. Trust me.”

“I'd like the opportunity to decide for myself whether or not I'm bored.”

I swear I thought the next words out of his mouth would be, “You're not my mother.” Instead, he just looked at me and in his eyes I saw Sophie's emotional vulnerability. Poor kid, I thought again. Life is only going to be nasty if he doesn't toughen up.

“Well?” he demanded.

Well, what? Had he asked a question? I couldn't feel the slightest bit of sympathy for him. Frankly, I wished he'd just stop whining.

“Look,” I said wearily, “I'm sorry you're upset but there's nothing I can do about it now.”

“You could apologize.”

“For what! I didn't do anything wrong. You're the first one to say that everyone is responsible for his or her own feelings. If you're feeling hurt, that's your responsibility, not mine.”

“Even if you're the cause of the hurt?”

I grabbed my sandwich and stomped into the miniscule living room. “Jake, I just can't do this. I'm going back to the office.”

Jake followed me. “Two people who care about each other shouldn't walk away when they've reached an impasse. They should stay and work past the problem.”

I whirled to face him. “Are you sure you're studying for a degree in engineering and not couples counseling? Good-bye, Jake.”

As the door closed behind me, I heard Jake's voice, young and hopeful though still tainted with hurt.

“I'll call you tomorrow,” he said.

The door clicked shut. I was spared the need to reply.

39

 

That night, alone in my apartment, stretched in my one armchair (which I'd bought years earlier), feet propped on a box of books unopened since moving day, I recalled a similar situation with Ben.

I'd completely forgotten about it until that moment. This, as I've said, was not unusual. For years I'd been perfecting the art of selective memory. The ability to block out uncomfortable incidents . . . It's a fine skill to have. It allows you to get on with your life as if nothing at all upsetting had taken place.

Anyway, several months into our relationship my company had sponsored an event similar to the one I'd just attended. I mentioned the event to Ben. He asked if he was invited. I told him that no, he wasn't. He asked why not. I explained that it wasn't my habit to mix my personal life with my professional life.

Like Jake, Ben had been upset, though he'd been far less annoying about it. He said he felt I didn't take the relationship as seriously as he did. (It wasn't the first time I'd heard that remark, or the last.) I replied that I took the relationship as seriously as it should be taken. He asked what I meant by that, and—

And I had nothing.

Thinking back on this episode now I realize that the relationship had begun to fall apart right then and there.

What is it, I thought, about the way I relate to the people I supposedly care about that inevitably results in disaster, or, worse, in nothing, a dead end? Why, I wondered, do I claim to care about someone—my sister, Ben, Jake, Sam—but at the same time have the need to marginalize them?

The phone rang, mercifully interrupting these upsetting, revolutionary thoughts. I recognized the number as Sam's cell.

“What?” I asked.

“Eva?”

“Yes, Sam. Why are you calling?”

Sam wanted to meet with me. He'd had a tough day at the office. It looked as if heads might roll, one of them being his. “I'm still at my desk,” he said. “Please. I really need to see you.”

I hesitated. I'd ended things with Sam because of Jake. And now Jake and his unreasonable anger had tossed me into the depths of a bad mood. Too many disquieting thoughts were roiling around in my head.

“Eva?”

“Where?” I asked. “And when?”

Sam and I had a round of rip-roaring sex. There is nothing quite as mind-numbing as rip-roaring sex.

Afterward, I extricated myself from Sam's reaching hands and took a cab home. As I settled in the lumpy backseat I felt strangely unhappy, even near tears. This disturbed me. Why should I feel unhappy? Why?

And why, I wondered, should I be feeling anything at all? In the past weeks, things had gotten messy. People seemed to need things from me—things like conversation and commitment. In the past weeks, I'd found myself thinking far too much about things like trust, and truth, and, God help me, fidelity.

And everything had started with that first call from Sophie. The call I'd taken by mistake.

I gave the driver a lousy tip and went straight to bed.