The Friends We Keep (17 page)

46

 

She wore a blouse with a Peter Pan collar; it made her look an uncomfortable fourteen. (Note: You don't grow up with two sisters who are really into clothes and not know how to recognize a Peter Pan collar.) The short sleeves showcased her arms, which—and I'm being kind here—were not in the best of shape. The flounced skirt she wore only reinforced the appearance of an awkward young teen, someone who hadn't yet hit upon a style that was flattering and appropriate. Somewhere, Cathy had learned that when it came to makeup more is better, and almost every man will tell you that more is decidedly worse. I can't help but wonder about people who leave the house looking so—wrong. Is it an indication of a deeper inability to see the self as it really is and to improve upon it?

“So,” I said into the deafening silence, “you know my sister Chrissy from church?”

“Uh-huh,” Cathy said. “I'm on the altar guild. I iron the altar cloths. And wash them. Well, I wash them first and then I iron them.”

I nodded. “Of course.”

There followed a maddening silence as Cathy just looked at me placidly, waiting for the next question. The art of conversation was something she seemed unfamiliar with.

“So, what are you reading?” I asked dutifully.

Cathy's face clouded with confusion. “What?”

“What are you reading?” I asked again, this time with a pained smile.

There was another moment of confusion and then, finally, the light dawned and Cathy laughed. “Oh, like a book?” she asked. “I thought you meant, like, the menu, and I thought, why is he asking me what I'm reading when I'm sitting right here reading the menu!”

Murder, I thought, is too good for my sister. No, instead I'm going to devise a fiendish way to punish her for the rest of her life here on Earth.

“Right,” I said. “I meant, what books are you currently reading?”

Cathy shrugged. “I don't really read books,” she said. “I'm not really a book person, you know? I like the daily paper, I mean, I never miss the daily paper! And magazines. I like magazines.”

“Really? Which ones?” I was beyond hope. I knew there was no way in hell my date was going to respond, “Oh,
The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Atlantic Monthly.
” But I had to keep this so-called conversation going, as apparently Cathy was unable to generate questions of her own.

“Um,” she said, “like those ones that show recipes and pretty houses. Those kinds are good. They sell them in the supermarket, by the—what do you call that?—the checkout.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding like a madman. “I wasn't aware there was much writing in . . . in those kinds of magazines.”

Cathy swatted my arm. “Oh, silly, there isn't! That's why I like them! I look at the pictures of those pretty houses and I think, maybe someday I'll live in a big house like that!”

Not on my dime, I thought. What in God's name had Chrissy been thinking, setting me up with this woman? We had nothing, zero, zilch in common, and we could hardly have a coherent conversation. I had to get out of that date and fast. But how?

Diarrhea? If I claimed a sudden and debilitating attack of diarrhea, complete with a graphic account of what was happening in my pants, would that turn her off so much that she wouldn't want a second date—and let me out of this first one?

I snuck a look at my date over my menu. Her too-red lips were moving as she read her own menu. Oh, yes, I thought miserably, she'll want a second date no matter how disgusting my behavior this evening. I felt my shoulders slump. It was going to be a long, long night.

47

 

“You're a snob, John. So the woman didn't go to college. That doesn't mean she's an idiot.”

“I'm not a snob,” I protested. “I've met plenty of people without a college degree who are intelligent and successful. But believe me when I say this woman was neither. She doesn't read, Eva. She doesn't read! How could anyone who knows me even a little bit set me up with someone who's idea of literature is the back of a cereal box? Maybe Chrissy was pissed off about something I said and this was her idea of revenge.”

Eva grinned. “It is pretty amusing, picturing you stuck with an imbecile.”

“Don't call her an imbecile. She seemed nice enough. It's not her fault she's—”

“Stupid?”

I frowned. “Let's just say less than brilliant. Really, Eva, you're the snob. What happened? Back in college you were all about equality. You were democratic. An egalitarian.”

“Why does everyone always talk about how I was in college?” she asked angrily.

“Everyone?”

“You and Sophie. For God's sake, let go of the past already! I was different back then, we all were. Well,” she continued with an arch of her brow, “maybe not you. You were full of yourself then and you're full of yourself now.”

“Eva,” I said, “you don't know me even a little bit. You didn't when we were eighteen and you don't now that we're in our forties. It's too bad. I'm an okay guy.”

“Huh. Says who?”

“Plenty of people,” I assured her. “But back to your being a snob.”

“I prefer to think of myself as an elitist.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it's not,” she argued. “And what's wrong if I do have high standards? I apply them as much to myself as I do to others.”

Eva spoke in the challenging way I'd come to know too well. I considered the strikingly attractive woman seated across the table from me. Her clothes were expensive. Her style was immaculate. Her figure had to cost time and effort to maintain. Her career was flourishing. Who would this woman consider an acceptable mate? The role, I thought, would be an almost impossible one to get—and to keep. I felt both pleased and bothered by this.

“It must be tough to live with yourself,” I said, “always striving for perfection.”

“It's not as hard as you think,” she replied smoothly. “Perfection and I are often hand in hand.”

I found a moment's relief in a long sip of wine. While so occupied I wondered if Eva was exaggerating for my benefit, or if she really considered herself to have achieved perfection.

Sophie joined us just then and I was relieved not to be alone any longer with Eva.

“I'm so sorry I'm late,” Sophie said, dropping into a seat between Eva and me. “I was at a class and it ran long and I didn't feel comfortable slipping out.”

“Of course,” I said. “Was the class interesting?”

Sophie's face brightened. “Oh, yes.” And while she told us about the exciting topic of title insurance, I watched Eva as best I could without arousing undue suspicion. Her face was a barely concealed mask of boredom. She almost seemed to be asleep with her eyes wide-open. What, I wondered, would touch this woman?

48

 

I kept thinking about that woman alone at the bar, the woman I'd glimpsed the night of the awful date with Mark.

And while I knew I wasn't ready to eat out alone, I also knew that I was perfectly capable of going to the movies on my own. Really, how hard was it to walk to a theater, buy a ticket and maybe some popcorn with that fake butter (I know I shouldn't eat it but I really like it; Brad always scolded me about it.) sit in a seat, and watch a movie?

I was feeling pretty good about myself as I waited in the lobby of the funky, independent art house that was showing a recent, British adaptation of
Jane Eyre
. The only disappointing thing was that the tiny concession stand sold only coffee and muffins. Not that I'm opposed to muffins but I'd had my heart set on popcorn and fake butter. Next time, I thought, I'll go to a cineplex.

While I was thinking about popcorn and fake butter and Brad's scolding, I became aware of a man to my right, also waiting to be let into the theater. He had a sort of Romantic look; maybe it was the long black wool coat he wore, and the way his hair swept off his forehead. I guessed he was about six feet tall. His features were fine but not small. And then I saw that his eyes were a startling blue-green. In contrast to his dark hair they were extraordinary.

I looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. And when a few moments later I casually looked back, I found the man staring right at me! Well, I can't say it was love at first sight because I'm not sure such a thing exists. But honestly, I don't remember ever having felt what I felt in that moment with this stranger. Everything tingled. Everything sort of lit up. It was as if I recognized him as someone I had been waiting for—though, of course, how could that be?

The man smiled. I smiled back. Then he came over to me. Whatever happens with this man, I thought, will be significant.

“Hi,” he said. “I'm Ben. Ben Marin.”

“Sophie Holmes, hi.”

“I'm really looking forward to the movie.”

“Me, too.”

If the conversation was less than stimulating, the feelings that coursed through me made up for it. I don't remember what else we said; I do remember wanting very badly to kiss him. I also remember that he never looked away while we stood there. I felt—noticed.

Before long the theater doors were opened and people began to rush ahead.

I wanted to say,
“Let's not go in.”
I wanted to say,
“Let's go someplace together.”
But I couldn't.

“So,” Ben said, awkwardly, “uh, enjoy the movie.”

I nodded. I'm not sure I said anything.

Ben walked ahead of me. I followed; when I got inside I couldn't see where he'd sat. I walked toward the screen and took a seat on the aisle. And through the entire movie, I hoped desperately that he would wait for me afterward.

When the final credits began to roll I felt panicked. I wanted to rush back to the lobby in the hopes of finding Ben. But I also didn't want to seem overeager. I hate games but I suddenly found I wasn't immune to the desire to appear—desirable. Anxiously, I waited until the lights finally came up. The theater was almost empty. Seven people walked ahead of me toward the lobby; none of them was Ben.

Maybe, I thought, I should have dashed out of the dark before now. But maybe that would have been a bad idea, as Ben might have simply walked off, leaving me feeling like a foolish high school girl who waits by her crush's locker for a glimpse of her idol on the slim chance that he'll finally notice her as more than just a nuisance.

And then I walked into the lobby and saw him standing against a wall of posters. I wasn't sure he was waiting for me until I came close enough for him to step forward and smile.

“Hi,” he said. “I was hoping I hadn't missed you.”

“Oh, hi,” I said. Could he tell that I was elated?

“Did you like the movie?” Ben asked.

“Oh, I did, very much.”

Ben nodded. “Me, too.” He hesitated for a moment before asking if I'd like to get some coffee and talk about it. “There's a good little place right down the block,” he said. “If you've got the time.”

“Yes,” I said. “I have the time.” We walked to the coffee shop and sat at a table for two. Ben paid for the coffees and for an oatmeal cookie, which we split. I watched his hands as he neatly broke the cookie in two pieces. I hadn't noticed them before. They were slim and looked strong. Brad's hands had gotten chubby. All of Brad had gotten chubby.

We spent a very pleasant hour talking about the movie and exchanging bits of vital information—including the interesting fact that we were both divorced from our college sweethearts. I could hardly believe how much time had passed when Ben checked his watch and explained that he had to dash off for a class.

“I teach Romance Languages at Longfellow College,” he explained.

“Oh,” I said. “I'm afraid I don't remember much of my French. I haven't spoken a word of it since college.”

“That's okay,” Ben said with a laugh. “We'll stick to English.”

Ben asked if I was going in his direction. We could ride the T together, he suggested. For a moment I was tempted to lie and essentially tag along, but I told him the truth, that my apartment was in another direction entirely.

Maybe Ben appreciated my honesty. In any case, he didn't take my no as a brush-off because he asked if I'd like to meet again for lunch.

“Yes,” I said, “I would like that.” But should I give a stranger my phone number? Ben didn't feel like a stranger, but he was, after all. I thought about the neighbor who'd asked me out and wished I could turn to Eva for advice.

“Would you feel more comfortable if I gave you my number?” Ben asked, as if reading my mind.

I hesitated. And in those few moments something else happened between us, something extraordinary. I felt overcome by a feeling of—rightness.

“No,” I said finally. “I'll give you my number.”

Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous, and maybe what happened in those moments happened all in my head. Even so, I felt extraordinarily glad to have begun this unknown adventure.

We parted on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. I watched him walk away. At the corner, he turned and waved. I raised my hand in return.