The Last Time I Saw You (18 page)

“Does this mean I have to pay you a million dollars?” Lester asks. “Do you take Visa?”

Candy shakes her head sadly. “See? This is how he is. I ask him to come with me and he says no. But now the whole time I’m here, he’ll keep calling. This is how he always is, these mixed signals, and it’s so confusing. I wonder why he doesn’t ever just say
yes
to
any
thing I propose. Why doesn’t he ever say, ‘Sure, I’ll go.’ Just like that. It’s as though he just likes to say no to me. Or
needs
to or something. Maybe it’s something he learned.

“You know, at my father-in-law’s wake, my mother-in-law was sitting in a corner by herself. She was sitting up so straight, her purse balanced on top of her knees, clutching a hankie. I went to sit by her and asked her how she was doing. She said, ‘He never played cards with me.’ I didn’t know what she meant, of course, and I said something like, ‘Oh?’ And then she told me that she used to wait for her husband to come home every night, that was the highlight of her day. Half an hour before he was due, she changed into a dress and heels, put on lipstick and perfume, and combed her hair. Then she set the table—candles every night—and served him a nice dinner. Almost every night when they had finished eating, she would try to get him to spend some time with her. Just a card game, perhaps gin rummy, she would suggest. And he never did. She said when the kids were home, she could understand it; he was tired—well, so was she. But even after the kids left, all the years they were together without children, she would still make him dinner every night and she would still ask him for a little card game and he never did play with her. But here’s the thing: he didn’t say, ‘I don’t want to play cards.’ Or ‘I don’t like to play cards.’ He would say, ‘Later,’ and then never do it.
Why?
”

Lester has a few ideas about why, but he keeps them to himself. The question seems mostly rhetorical. Besides that, Candy’s figuring things out for herself. And the process is new, still delicate. If he criticizes her husband, he suspects she’ll find a way to defend him. Let silence be his only comment. He’s known men like Candy’s husband seems to be, and the kindest thing he can say about them is that he will never understand them, the way they deny themselves happiness and contentment because of a kind of stinginess and general obstinacy toward their wives, if not a weird sort of hatred. He thinks that such men feel there is a pattern of behavior that must be adhered to during courtship; after that, the onus is on the woman—and the woman alone—to please.

“I wish I had the courage to leave him,” Candy says. “But then I’d be alone. It would be hard to deal with all that’s going on if I were alone.”

“I don’t know,” Lester says. “I think there’s alone-alone; and then there’s feeling alone when you’re with someone, which is worse.”

“You’re right,” she says. “You’re absolutely right. Alone-alone is… clean. Isn’t it?”

“I think it is.”

“To be alone without longing, that’s the thing.”

“That is the thing.”

“I have never in my life been alone. I have always had a man.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Since I was eleven years old. My God. Since I was
eleven
. That’s when my boyfriend Billy Simpson would come over every day after school. Every day, and you know I would spend a good half hour getting ready for him. Instead of being outside and riding my bike or something, I would sit in front of my dresser mirror trying out different ribbons for my hair.”

“Didn’t your mom say anything?” Lester asks.

“Oh, sure. She told all her friends how wonderful it was that I had such a dedicated boyfriend so young. She was quite proud.” She is quiet for a moment, and then she says gently, “Bless her heart. It was such a different time.”

It is quiet for a while, and then Candy clears her throat and says, “Lester? In your professional opinion, do you think I’m going to die soon?”

He looks at her. “I’m a veterinarian.”

“I know. But do you?”

“Well, I think… You know what? I think people get hung up on statistics. The reality is that, when it comes to the individual, it’s zero or one hundred percent. And I’m struck, too, by the way that people assume a medical diagnosis is what’s going to take them out of Dodge. I could go out for a walk tonight and get hit by a bus.”

“Oh, I hope you don’t,” Candy says. “Then I’ll never get my million dollars.”

There is the sound of a door slamming, and then they hear a woman giggling on the other side of the wall. She giggles louder, whoops, and then there is the sound of the headboard banging against the wall in an unmistakable rhythm.

Candy’s eyes grow wide and she whispers, “Do you think that’s one of ours?”

“Someone from the reunion?”

She nods.

“God, I hope so,” Lester says. “I hope it’s Dorothy Shauman and John Niehauser.” Lester hates to impugn the character of John this way, he was pretty a nice guy who had the misfortune to have been seen eating boogers in fourth grade and it followed him right up to the last year of high school, but Lester always liked him. He was a math genius, which put another nail in his high school coffin, and, as if that weren’t enough, he liked to bring the newspaper to read at lunchtime while he drank coffee from a plaid thermos. He was almost as big a nerd as Lester. But to pair Dorothy with someone so that they can put faces to the sounds of moaning and groaning is irresistible. He and Candy start laughing, just a little at first, and then long and loudly.

“Oh,
God
!” Candy finally says, her hand lying limp across her belly. “Whew!” She sits up and blows her nose and says, “All right. Let me fix my mascara and then we should go back down there. I’ve kept you here so long. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, Candy. Would you do me a favor?”

“Stop apologizing?”

“Bingo.”

“I know. One of the many habits I need to break.”

“I’m
glad
we talked. I really am. I hope you know that.”

“I’m glad, too. And now you’ve got to get down there and ask that sweet-smelling woman to dance.”

Lester sits up, his face full of worry. “I am an awful dancer. Awful.” He stares at his shoes, as though it’s their fault.

Candy puts her hand on Lester’s shoulder. “Here’s what I know about Mary Alice Mayhew. She won’t mind one bit.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“Ask her for a slow one.”

“Slow’s the ticket,” Lester says, and Candy nods in a serious way like he’s talking about all kinds of things, which he supposes he is.

When they get back to the dance, they see a large number of people sitting around a few tables that have been pushed together. “What’s going on over there?” Candy asks, and Lester says, “Don’t know. Let’s go see.” He scans the group quickly to see if Mary Alice is there. No. Nor does he see her anywhere else. Also missing: Pete Decker.
So
.

When Candy and Lester reach the table, there is a sudden silence. And then Pam Pottsman says, “Allllll right. Where have
you
two been?”

Lester drags two chairs over, and he and Candy squeeze in around the table. “We’ve been getting to know one another,” he says, and the group says together, “
Ohhhhhhhh
.”

“And what are you guys doing?” Lester asks.

“We’re telling the truth,” Pam says. “Isn’t that something?”

“About what?” Candy asks, and Buddy says, “Everything. We just finished horror stories about health a little while ago.”

“Ah,” Candy says, and it’s all Lester can do not to reach over and take her hand. Then she says, “Here’s something true. I just made a friend. Which I need. And always did need.”

“Are you kidding
?
” Judy says.
“Everyone
was your friend in high school! And you had a date practically every night of the week!”

Candy nods, smiling. “Yeah, but you know what? The thing about
everybody
being your friend is that it can mean
no
one is.

“As for dating… Yes, I did date a lot. A
lot
. I took a kind of pride in it, too. I had a calendar hanging on my wall next to my desk, and I used to keep a tally at the bottom of the page, of how many dates per month I had. And I had a ritual I kind of enjoyed each time I got ready for a date. I’d wash and roll up my hair, and then dry it with one of those dryers you could put perfume in, remember those? I’d stand in front of the mirror putting my makeup on so carefully, trying this new thing or that. I’d debate for a long time about what outfit to wear. It was like a job, dating. It was what I did. I would go on all these dates, and when I came home, there would be my mother in her bathrobe, sitting at the kitchen table and smoking, waiting for me to tell her how everything went. I think she missed her own days of furious dating, and she would hang on every word I told her. But of course you don’t talk to your mother like you would a girlfriend. You don’t share certain things, you don’t ask certain questions that you want to ask. I really needed girlfriends, and none of you ever really let me in.”

“Why didn’t you
ask
us?” Nance says.

“I couldn’t,” Candy says. “It was too embarrassing to admit how lonely I was. But I’ll admit it now. I have lived a pretty lonely life, and I am ready for women friends!”

Linda puts her arm around Candy and says, “I’ll be your friend.”

“Can I…? I want to say one more thing about health,” Marjorie says, then adds quickly, “It’s not a bad thing.” She resettles herself in her chair and says, “I saw this picture in the paper the other day. It was bicyclists in a race, and the weather was awful, rain just pouring down. The riders looked so bedraggled and miserable, nothing like those cool Tour de France posters you see, where the bikers are in such impossibly good shape, and the day is perfect, and they’re taking a turn with such grace and precision. I mean, they look like ballet dancers on wheels. The riders in the photo I saw were nothing like that. They were not in good shape, they had their heads down, and a lot of them were frowning, it seemed like they were gritting their teeth, just working so hard to get through the thing they’d signed up for, never thinking it would be like
this
. And I thought, that’s what I am now. I’m a rider in the rain—out of shape, operating under less than optimal conditions, just trying to finish the race and not give up early. But I
like
myself better now. I like all of us better now. I think I had to get this old to understand some things I really needed to know. I needed to suffer some humiliation and to pick up a few battle scars. It’s made me less shallow, and far more appreciative of
everything
. I’ve finally gained some perspective that lets me laugh about things that used to make me want to tear my hair out. Getting older is hard, you lose an awful lot. But I don’t know, I think it’s worth the trade. And, Candy? I’ll be your friend, too. I always wanted to be your friend. Want to go shopping for rain gear?”

Lester’s cellphone rings. He looks to see who it is, then answers quickly. It’s Jeanine. More to the point, it’s Samson.

NINETEEN

M
ARY
A
LICE STANDS WITH
P
ETE AT THE ENTRANCE TO
the ballroom. She doesn’t see Lester anywhere, nor does she see Candy Sullivan. Well, there’s
that
reunion story. For a moment, something seems to deflate inside her, but then she reminds herself of how pleasant an afternoon she and Lester had spent. There’s always the breakfast, which he’d said he would definitely attend. “I’d never turn down breakfast,” he said. “Even the
name
is right. And then if you add bacon, well…” He looked at her with some concern then, asking if she was a vegetarian, and she told him only in her ideal vision of self, which she never lived up to; and that she had recently seen a recipe that featured bacon crumbled on top of ice cream and thought it was brilliant.

She sees Pete scanning the crowd—looking for his wife, she supposes. She touches his arm and points in as unobtrusive a way as possible to where Nora is dancing with Fred. Mary Alice doesn’t know Fred at all, and she doesn’t really know Pete that much better, but the time she spent with him this evening has made her think his wife really should give him another chance. Mary Alice sees him as an essentially kindhearted man a little derailed by his good looks and charm. But he has a generosity about him, a kind of
willingness
that, in Mary Alice’s book, anyway, makes up for a lot.

She and Pete had put Einer to bed. “Drape my socks over my chair!” Einer ordered Pete. “I only wore them half a day!” Pete complied, aligning the socks with great care on the top of Einer’s easy chair, the one he keeps stationed by the window. Pete also hung up Einer’s suit jacket, pants, and shirt, and complimented him on his choice of fabrics. Before he left Einer’s bedroom (Einer himself propped up on his pillows, as yet refusing to give in to the fatigue that was making both his mouth and his eyelids droop), Pete sat at the old man’s bedside and shook his hand, thanking him for his friendship and counsel.

“That’s all right,” Einer said. “You ever make your way out here again, you know where to find me.”

“I might take you up on that,” Pete said.

When Pete stood to leave, Einer said, “Say, how about a little touch before you go? I’ve got some good scotch downstairs. Rita knows where it is, she likes a touch herself, every now and again. She thinks I don’t know, but you have to get up early in the morning to fool this old bird.”

Pete told Einer they’d have some on his next visit, and then he and Mary Alice made their way downstairs, where they waited at the kitchen table for Rita to come home. She arrived about fifteen minutes later. “Sorry,” she said, “but boy, do I have a good excuse! Want to know what it is?”

“Tell me later,” Mary Alice said, though there didn’t seem to be too much mystery as to what had delayed her return.

On the drive back to the hotel, Pete told Mary Alice about his father, who was a philanderer of some note. “He didn’t even try to hide it,” Pete said. “His pockets were a treasure trove of evidence—he’d have matches from hotel bars, numbers written on scraps of paper; once, even, a tube of lipstick. My brother and I used to go through his pockets to spare my mom—and to see if we could figure out if he’d seen the same woman twice. We also stole whatever change was in there and spent it on candy.” When his father was home, which wasn’t all that often, he had a heavy hand with his children, especially with Pete, because Pete had the balls to give him a little crap back. Pete admitted that he had cheated on his own wife and then left her but now realized his idiocy. “I know this sounds like bullshit,” he said, “but I don’t know who that
was
, the guy who did that. I feel like all of a sudden I’m starting to come to, to realize some things I should have known a long time ago.” It was quiet in the car, and then Pete said, “You probably don’t believe me when I say that, huh?” and Mary Alice said, “In fact, I do.”

He said he had schemed to get Nora to come to the reunion, where he could see her alone and begin the process of getting her back. “I thought if I could just get some time with her,” Pete said. “Whenever I come over to the house, she’s itching the whole time for me to leave, I can tell. I wanted a chance to talk to her away from there. She doesn’t really want a divorce; she’s just hurt. And I don’t blame her! I fucked up! But I figured if she came to this reunion, if she thought about how we used to be…

“And then that
clod
had to come with her. Mr. Personality. Let me tell you, that guy doesn’t stand a chance in hell with Nora. He may be fine for now, something for her to do, a guy to take her places, you know; but believe me, I know my wife, and Fred Preston is not going to last much longer. He is on the way out. She’s bored silly.”

Well, not by the look of things. Fred and Nora are dancing to a slow song, and the look on Nora’s face is anything but bored.
Deeply content
comes to mind.

Mary Alice can almost feel Pete’s heart sink. She smiles at him, trying to think of something that will make him feel better, if only in the smallest way. But look at him, standing there with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumped, unable to turn away from the thing that is causing him such pain. What words that she could offer would provide any solace? She feels so bad for him in his golf clothes, his shirt stained with blood and salad dressing, and now as well as with the lurid orange of a Cheeto he dropped on himself as they sat waiting for Einer in the ER.

“Pete?” she says softly.

He looks over at her, his face full of weariness. “Know what my kids would say about this situation?” he says, gesturing with his chin toward his wife and Fred.

“What?”

“‘Game over,’ that’s what they’d say.”

“Your kids wouldn’t say that,” she says, though of course she doesn’t know Pete’s children at all. “They’d say, ‘Game on!’”

Mary Alice looks over at the couple again. Fred’s still got Nora held up against him tightly, and now they both have their eyes closed.

“I was going to ask the DJ to play ‘The Way You Look Tonight,’” Pete says, sadly. “That was our song.”

Mary Alice puts her purse down at an empty table and reaches for Pete’s hand. “Come on. Let’s do that.”

He hesitates for just a moment, then takes her hand and follows her to the DJ, who agrees to play that song right after this one finishes. Then Pete follows Mary Alice out onto the dance floor. “Okay, here’s the plan,” she says. “We dance with each other for a few seconds, and then we cut in on them. When the song ends, you keep hold of Nora for ‘The Way You Look Tonight.’”

“What if she won’t do it?”

“What have you got to lose?”

And so they position themselves next to Fred and Nora, dance a few steps, and then Mary Alice gives Pete the slightest of nods. He moves over and taps Fred on the shoulder. Fred opens his eyes, and when he sees it’s Pete, opens them wider. He steps away from Nora, his hands in the air, as though he’s being held up.

Pete holds his own hands up. “No worries, Fred; I’m just cutting in. Gentleman’s prerogative.”

Fred looks at Nora, who raises one shoulder: I
don’t care
. But Mary Alice can see the concern in her face when she looks at her husband: his disheveled state, his obvious need.

Mary Alice taps Fred on the shoulder. “May I have the honor?” she asks, and Fred looks once again at Nora, then reluctantly takes Mary Alice into his arms.

“So you’re Fred?” Mary Alice asks.

“Yes, that’s right,” he says. And automatically, mindlessly, he asks, “And you’re…”

“I’m Jayne Mansfield,” Mary Alice says.

“Uh-huh,” he says, his eyes glued to Pete. The song ends, and, fortunately, the next one starts right away. Pete keeps hold of Nora, and she doesn’t seem to mind. “
Someday
,” the Lettermen sing, “
when I’m awfully low, when the world is cold…”

Fred dances stiffly, badly. Mary Alice tries to make conversation, but everything she says falls flat. Finally, “I live in a tree,” she says.

“Is that right,” Fred says, but then he looks at her. “Did you… What did you say?”

“I said, ‘I live in a tree.’ The very top branches. Lovely view.”

He continues to stare at her, but before he can think of how to respond, the song ends. Mary Alice looks over at Pete and can tell instantly that their ploy did not exactly work. Nora is walking quickly back to Fred, shaking her head, and Pete is standing still, empty eyed.

“Last dance!’” the DJ says and starts playing another slow song, an instrumental that Mary Alice doesn’t recognize. And now here come Dorothy Shauman and Pam Pottsman, from opposite sides of the room, headed straight for Pete Decker. Dorothy sees what Pam is doing and actually runs over and elbows her out of the way. “Wanna dance?” she asks breathlessly, and Pete takes her in his arms like an automaton, then looks over the top of her head at Nora and Fred, holding hands and walking back to their table.

Pam stands beside Mary Alice, trying to catch her breath. She watches Pete and Dorothy dance, mindlessly anchoring a piece of hair that has fallen again from where it was pinned up. “Nuts,” she says. Then, brightening, “Oh well, there’s always breakfast.”

Ben Small comes up to Mary Alice and shrugs. “How about it, toots?” She smiles and takes his hand. They dance right next to Pete and Dorothy. Neither she nor Ben talks, and Mary Alice is pretty sure it’s so that they can better listen to Dorothy putting the moves on Pete. They hear her say, “I have wanted to dance with you all
night
, but I haven’t had the
chance
. You look great, Pete! Which I’m sure you know. You look just great! Even in… those clothes.”

Pete makes some sort of grunting sound.

“What are you driving now, Pete?”

“What?”

“What are you
driving
now?”

“Oh. A Nissan
Cube
,” he says, bitterly.

“Oh, I love those cars!” Dorothy says, and Pete says, “I was
kidding
. Jesus! I’ve got a Porsche. And a ’fifty-seven ’Vette.”

“Oh, a vintage ’Vette!” Dorothy says. “Yes, that does sound more like you.” She pulls him closer. “You know, I have to tell you, ever since I got the invitation to the reunion, I’ve been thinking about that time we had together, do you remember that
time
we had together? I do. I remember that time.”

At last, Pete looks at her, and his face is full of misery. “Yeah, I remember,” he says. “I think I got to second base.” Now he smiles the smallest smile. “You were a cute girl.”

“Well,” she says, “we’re a lot older now, aren’t we? I mean, more mature and all. More
experienced
. But we’re still kind of cute, aren’t we?”

“Dorothy,” Pete says. “Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy Shauman. Would you like me to bang your britches off? Is that it?”

And Dorothy giggles and says, “Yes, please.”

Mary Alice squeezes her eyes shut and rests her head against Ben’s shoulder.
Ah, Pete
, she’s thinking.

The song ends and there is the sound of applause, and then the faint sounds of
… cheering?
Yes. In the corner of the ballroom, Judy and Linda are doing a cheer.

“I gotta see this,” Pete says. “I always loved the cheerleaders.” Mary Alice and Ben, Dorothy and Pete, they all move to where people have gathered around the two women.

Dorothy stands watching Pete smile at them, and then suddenly she’s doing the cheer, too, her heels off, her dress held up to miniskirt level. Judy and Linda were cheerleaders, and Dorothy was always trying out, but she never made it. The truth is, she made a fool of herself every time she auditioned; she was no athlete, but she just kept trying. Now, she makes the moves as best she can, and along with her old friends chants the words to the Tony the Tiger cheer:

WE’VE got the boys on
(clap!)
OUR team
They’re grrrrreat!
(clap clap!)
WE’VE
got the spirit that
A great
TEAM
needs, it’s
Grrrrreat!
(clap clap!)

At the end of the cheer, the women leap into the air for a stag jump, but Dorothy slips and falls. Her friends rush over to her, and she says, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” and looks anxiously into the crowd for Pete, who is no longer there. Mary Alice didn’t see him go, but he is definitely not there.

Dorothy scrambles to her feet, yanks her dress down, and puts her heels back on. “Pete?” she calls.
“PETE?”

A woman’s voice calls back, “He’s
gone
, Dorothy,” with a distinct note of satisfaction. Mary Alice turns to see who it was: Nora. And Dorothy bursts into tears.

Mary Alice turns to Ben and he shrugs, then says, “Pretty good Sturm und Drang, huh?”

She smiles, shakes her head.

“You headed out?” Ben asks.

“I think so.” She walks over to the table to retrieve her purse, and Ben goes with her.

“A bunch of us are going to the lobby bar for a nightcap,” he says. “You want to come?”

“No, thanks,” she says. “I’ll be back for the breakfast, though.”

“I’ll see you then,” Ben says and adds, “Did I tell you this? You look lovely, Mary Alice.” She looks down at her dress, her shoes, this outfit she assembled with such care, and thanks him.

Mary Alice makes her way to the bathroom. She’ll pee, then head on home. She thinks she has some leftover pizza in the refrigerator; she’ll eat that. She’s hungry, she realizes.

When she walks into the ladies’ room, Mary Alice is met with a great cloud of smoke. Sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, are Dorothy, Judy, and Linda. Dorothy is weeping into her hands while her friends puff on cigarettes and attempt to console her.

“Mary Alice!” both Judy and Linda say when they see her. She suspects she’s a welcome diversion.

“Hey,” she says, and she considers for a moment backing out of the room and using a bathroom elsewhere, or even waiting until she gets home.