The Makedown (13 page)
My face, in contrast, is clear, calm, and resigned. I will not cry here. I have frozen all sentiment, with the plan of thawing it safely in the confines of my own apartment, on the pages of Hello Fatty. Ben remains silent, swishing his bourbon around his glass, avoiding eye contact.
“Well, I have a busy day tomorrow. Thank you for the drink.”
“I’ll hail you a cab,” Ben says, preparing to stand.
“That’s not necessary,” I say genuinely, without a trace of malice, before walking away from the table.
I am not mad at him. I am not mad at his mother. I am mad at me. I believed in something ludicrous and in doing so placed myself in front of a firing squad. Maybe it was intense lust or the onset of schizophrenia, but I thought I saw something in him, something that was supposed to be mine. Now I realize that I projected onto him a world of feelings I have long wanted to experience. He was merely a vessel, albeit a seriously handsome and utterly shallow one. And I was a tool he used to satisfy his mother’s wish, never worrying how it could affect me.
I need to get home as fast as possible. I step off the curb and raise my arm. The headlights make me squint. Surprisingly, I am not fighting off tears; instead, I am rather numb, with a twinge of budding pride. I walked off. I didn’t wait for him to holler last call on the pathetic excuse for a date. I saw his intense disinterest and ulterior motives and I walked out. I may not be very attractive. I may not have a powerful job. I may not have the best social skills. But I just discovered a small, miniature, tiny little badass inside of me.
“Anna!”
Great, just when I found the silver lining in this godforsaken night, the schmuck returns. A cab pulls up just as Ben reaches me.
“I . . . um . . . wanted to say,” Ben babbles, looking less self-assured than I would have guessed he could, “thank you for a lovely night.” He reaches across and lightly pecks me on my lips.
I am shocked beyond belief, but somewhere within me, I manage to summon words, “You’re welcome.”
I get in the cab. I tell the driver to take me to Brooklyn, sit back, and laugh. I think that kiss may have fucked with Ben’s head even more than mine.
F
rom beneath my 1970s flower-laden sheets, which Mother “entrusted” to me, I mull over the events of the evening. I conclude that a slight, imperceptible shift in the tectonic plates or the alignment of stars prompted Ben to kiss me. Either that or FG splashed Ben with a heavy dose of magic.
Oddly, I’m not sure if I’m pleased he kissed me or annoyed. Was that a pity kiss at the end of a pity date? Was that a genuine moment that neither one of us will ever be able to explain? Will I hear from him? Is it asinine to want to hear from him after the night I had?
I was fine when I left, even proud of the manner in which I handled his behavior, but then he had to go and brush those soft, perfectly symmetrical lips against mine. It’s as if he infected me with a chemical, recharging my attraction to him. I am deeply grateful he didn’t use tongue, or I’d be irrevocably in love with the guy.
“Ahh,” I yelp, startled by the intercom buzzing.
No one ever buzzes me, except when I’ve ordered take-out. It’s only happened once before, and that was by accident. They were looking for Mrs. Bester a floor below me.
“Hello?”
“Delivery for Anna Norton.”
“What did you say?” I ask incredulously.
“Delivery for Anna Norton.”
“That’s A-n-n-a N-o-r-t-o-n, right?”
“Yeah, lady. Anna fucking Norton, are you coming down or what?”
“I’m coming down,” I squeal as if Bob Barker just invited me down to contestant’s row on the
Price Is Right.
I throw open my front door clad in only a robe and slippers. The flannel robe is from the Gap, circa 1990s. The slippers grossly predate the robe. I hurdle down the stairs to the building’s main entrance, curiosity speeding my every step.
I fling open the door half expecting to find Janice ready for a full debriefing. But it’s not Janice; it’s something far more bizarre: flowers. Yellow roses, to be exact. Who would send me roses? No, I tell myself. It’s not possible. On the other hand, he did kiss me last night. They are definitely not from Janice. She would never deign to send flowers in a plastic vase with a color-coordinated satin ribbon. It’s a little surprising from Ben as well. I thought he was more sophisticated than that.
“Lady, are you gonna sign this or what?”
“Oh, of course,” I blurt out, realizing that I have been debating the identity of the flowers’ sender for at least a minute.
My heart pounds as I start back up the stairs. Could Ben really have sent me flowers? And if so, what do they mean? Yellow roses traditionally mean friendship, and a man as sophisticated as Ben surely knows his way around a flower shop. This was clearly a deliberate act.
Hello Fatty,
Don’t get too excited. I kissed you because we’re only friends.
Warm regards,
Ben
Or perhaps he just likes the color yellow? Is it possible that he wrote something romantic? The mere thought of a man writing me a note makes my body tingle. I plunge my nose deep into the bouquet to inhale the fragrance before pulling out the small white card. Pressure mounts, setting off a spasm in my lower back and a dull thud in my left temple.
Squinting and limping, I manage to get back to my apartment with the roses. Safely back on my futon, I pull out the card and read:
“Your father and Ming are having a bastard won ton. Hope these flowers buffer the blow. Best, Mother.”
Ming is pregnant. I choke back the visual image of Dad having sex with anyone but Mother— or really the image of Dad having sex with anyone at all. I realize all children have difficulty accepting their parents’ sexuality, but I have trouble thinking of them with anything other than Barbie-and Ken-type bodies under their clothes. Why would Dad procreate while still living in the same town as Mother? Or more accurately, why would Dad procreate
period
? The only idea more revolting than Dad having sex is Mother following his lead, but I am quite sure she’s been celibate since the divorce. Barney lives with Mother, so he would know if anything happened. According to Barney, she sleeps with her bedroom door open in case he needs something, which means she’s not even having a good time by herself.
For fairness’ sake, Dad should not be having sex if Mother isn’t even masturbating. Moreover, a man with two grown children does not need another child. The child buffet is closed. He has had enough. Why would he even want another child? He was never particularly interested in his paternal role with Barney and me. He may have remained in the house until we finished school, but he never participated in any child-rearing activities. His only role was that of silent observer.
Inevitably, Dad will be a better father to Bastard Won Ton than to Barney and me. The absence of Mother alone will improve his parenting skills threefold. A part of me is jealous that Bastard Won Ton will get a better version of Dad than I did. Growing up, my disappointment in Dad was eclipsed by my immense pity for him. He was in a suburban jail with the harshest warden east of the Mississippi River. He could have spared Barney and me years of madness if he had stood up to Mother, but he didn’t. Instead, he remained Mother’s hand puppet until joining Ming and the traveling infidelity circus.
If I am this out of sorts, I can only imagine Mother’s state. It’s possible the flowers were sent from a hospital bed, where she’s recovering from a mental breakdown.
Clearly, the flowers are Mother’s way of making me call her; reaching Mother with a lithium drip in her arm would be a stroke of luck. I can feel her telepathically guilting me right now. I force myself to pick up the phone and dial. It rings. Is it too late to hang up? Mother has caller ID. Damn. She believes that calling and failing to leave a message is the equivalent of walking by someone you know on the street and not saying hello. Mother punishes such an act with a series of late-night hang-ups. She blocks her number, then spaces out the calls so that each time the phone rings, the person will have just fallen back to sleep. I cannot endure that type of torture right now.
“Hello?”
“Mother, it’s Anna.”
“You must be proud; your father learned to ride the fortune cookie.”
Is there an appropriate response for such a remark? I don’t think so.
“Why didn’t Dad call me himself?”
“He’s too busy snapping up baby kimonos and learning how to bow to remember his only daughter.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“As hard to believe as your father having a baby with his mistress?”
“Ming is his girlfriend now. You guys are divorced.”
“They both have big old
A
s on their chests for life.”
“No one uses the word
adulterer
anymore. Jesus, Mother, this isn’t the
Scarlet Letter.
”
“Assholes, my dear. Your father is an asshole, and Ming is an asshole with a side of plum sauce.”
“She’s not Chinese.”
“She was a part of that Tiananmen Square thing. She drove the tank. You realize that your brother Bastard Won Ton will have a war criminal for a mother. Makes you appreciate me.”
“How do you know it’s a boy?”
“The hospital performs amniocentesis on all bastard children to make sure there aren’t any deformities.”
“I have to go.”
“Why?”
“I need to call Amnesty International to look into this war crimes thing.”
“I am available if they have any questions.”
“I’m not serious.”
“I am. Best, Mother.”
Standing shell-shocked in my apartment, I wonder how Mother found out. I can’t imagine Dad would call her and not me. However, Dad would call Barney. I pick up the phone and hit redial.
“Hello?”
“Mother, Amnesty is calling me back later. Can I have Barney, please?”
“Your brother is taking one of his naps.”
“Wake him up.”
“This is not China. I don’t take orders,” Mother snaps dramatically.
“I’m sorry. Will you please wake up Barney?” I say softly, desperate to appease her madness.
“His door is locked, and I don’t want him walking out here and grabbing the phone without washing his hands.”
“Fine. Have him call me back.”
Certain things ruin sexuality and all the fun that comes with it. One such thing is Mother informing me of my brother’s masturbation habits. Barney’s “naps” single-handedly (no pun intended) support the Internet porn industry. My need for a normal male distraction has never been quite so profound.
I still can’t believe Ben kissed me. With the groundwork for a childish crush already in place, I decide to take advantage of the new technology for stalking. Google is far superior to driving by someone’s house. I type Ben’s name into the box in eager anticipation of information; the mere notion of reading about Ben makes me want to leap out of my skin.
Who knew Ben Reynolds was such a popular name? There are nine thousand Ben Reynoldses in the United States alone. I remain undeterred; a few hours of research can’t stop me. In Boston, Massachusetts, a cute nine-year-old named Ben Reynolds was recently appointed captain of his soccer team. Ben Reynolds of Hampstead, North Dakota, is a sad man with a face of broken capillaries. Lay off the drink, Ben. Moving on, I find a link to a Brown University student on the crew team. Brown University’s newspaper includes a photo of my Ben and his crew team after rowing their way to victory. He is shirtless again. Modesty is not one of Ben’s defining characteristics. Not that I am complaining; his body is porn for me. I could stare all day, mesmerized by each indentation.
Logic crushes my lust abruptly. I will never see him again. Although that may be a good thing, since I could easily descend into inappropriate licking. That’s right; I want to lick his chest. I am gross. I must look away. No more smut!
The phone rings, saving me from my impure thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Mingster’s preggers,” Barney announces casually.
“Mother told me. How come Dad didn’t call us?”
“He called me last week, asked to meet at the food court.”
“Why didn’t he call me?”
“He wanted me to tell you since we’re so close.”
There is a pause, a very long pause. I decide to let this one go.
“And you waited a week to call me?”
“It takes nine months to have a baby. What’s five days?”
“Okay, Barney,” I mutter. “How do you feel about the baby?”
“I’m holding off on forming an opinion until the thing can talk. Most likely won’t have a verdict for at least two years.”
Long pause.
“I think Mother is heading for a breakdown.”
“Most accurate, but I can’t discuss now. Mother and I have reservations at Le Jardin d’Olive.”
“You looked up how to say that on the Internet, didn’t you.”
“ 10-4, Anna.” Click.
Barney is clearly my parents’ child. I recognize his inability to connect emotionally as a family trait. As kids, Barney and I used to play the most mundane of imaginary professions. While other children played doctor, lawyer, or vague rich person, we had no such aspirations and were content to play The Wherehouse (the Blockbuster of its time) or post office. We spent hours pretending to check out videos or deliver mail to each other. The mail consisted of old birthday cards from our grandparents and junk mail our parents threw away. In the case of videos, since we didn’t actually own any VHS tapes, we used books. It wasn’t conscious, but in retrospect, I recognize a desire to keep our expectations manageable. In the Norton house, no one dared dream big for fear that we would bottom out at below average. Well, at least I’ve hit my mark.
I decide to call Janice to fill her in on the rest of the evening’s events and, right after I hang up, the phone rings again. I ignore it and crash onto my bed. I don’t have the energy to listen to the details of Mother and Barney’s meal at Olive Garden.
B
rushing my teeth is especially important after dreaming that they crumbled to dust upon biting into an apple. I am embarrassed by how often I fall asleep without brushing. This is a by-product of never sharing a bed with anyone. It’s easy to let the plaque and halitosis build up when alone. Who cares if my breath stinks? It’s not as if anyone kisses me goodnight. To compensate, in the morning I perform an exceedingly thorough job of brushing and flossing.
