The Men I Didn't Marry (9 page)

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You broke up with her over nothing?” I ask, trying to keep my voice in check.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “Can we talk about something else?”

“No, we can’t,” I say petulantly. “This is important.”

“What’s so important? She was my girlfriend, now she’s not my girlfriend. End of story.”

“Adam! How can you be so flippant! I’m sure you hurt her terribly. I brought you up to behave better than that.” I take a deep breath before continuing my rant. “Mandy deserved a little more from you.” I’ve never even meet this girl, and already I’m taking her side over my son. Sisterhood is powerful, and all that. Or is it just that as a woman recently scorned, I’m feeling a tad sensitive?

“Mom, relax. Don’t you think you’re being a little O.T.T.?”

“I’m not being O.T.T.,” I say huffily. Because how could I be when I don’t even know what O.T.T. is?

“Geez, you’re being just like Mandy. Over the top,” he says, defining his terms. Look at that. If you just listen, you find out what you need to know.

We walk in silence for a minute. I’m thinking that I want to tell my son not to use Bill for a role model on how to handle a relationship. But I decide to be a little more even tempered.

“I just hate the thought of your trampling on anybody else’s feelings,” I say, with my familiar mantra. I’ve been repeating Mom’s Three Rules of Dating forever. One: Emotions count. Two: Always consider the other person’s feelings. And three: When it’s time to get physical, make sure she wants to go ahead as much as you do. We had some confusion about that last one when Adam was five and wouldn’t play soft-ball with a girl named Lizzy because he worried that she didn’t want to as much as he did. Maybe I started teaching about the birds and the bees too soon. On the other hand, my son may be the only genius nuclear physicist who actually goes out on dates.

“Why do you assume I’m the one who did the trampling?” he asks, irritated.

“Because men can be a little cavalier about these things,” I say. And then I notice the chagrined look on my son’s face.

“Okay, if you want to know, we were at a party and I caught Mandy kissing another guy in the bathroom.” Adam shakes his head. “I can’t stand cheating. I’d never do it myself, and I’m not going to let anybody do it to me.”

I squeeze his hand. So Adam isn’t Bill, after all. Or else he really is using his father as a role model. A reverse role model. And I’ve just made a bad mistake.

“I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Forgive me. I should know my son would never behave badly.”

He gives me a faint smile. “Of course not. I was raised well. And you made me read
The Feminine Mystique
when I was fourteen.”

“Which, as I recall, you hid inside your
Sports Illustrated
.” I give him a little hug. “Break ups are hard, honey, however they happen. Trust me. I know. If you need to talk about it, I can stay as long as you want tonight.”

“Thanks, Mom. That’s okay.” Adam pulls his cell phone out of his pocket to check the time. “You should go pretty soon,” he adds, with a slightly anxious edge to his voice.

Why does he want me to leave? Now that I know he’s not going out with Mandy, I wonder what he is doing tonight. I mean, it’s his birthday. Adam’s always made a big deal about being with family on his birthday.

Family. I should have thought of that. All of a sudden, I’m pretty sure I know why Adam’s worried about my hanging around. Mom for birthday lunch, Dad for dinner. Everybody gets a little bit of him, and never the twain shall meet.

But my moment of clarity comes just a little too late. Because the twain are about to come into a head-on collision. About a hundred yards away, I get a glimpse of Bill. He’s spotted us, too, and is now cheerfully striding across the field.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” Bill sings out as he gets closer.

“Oh, shit,” mutters Adam under his breath.

Poor kid, everything has suddenly gone wrong. Mandy cheated. His parents are about to confront each other. And his father never could sing on key. And then it just gets worse, because a bunch of kids who’ve been playing touch football nearby stop their game and decide to join the festivities.

“Hey, Adam, who knew?” calls out one, who looks like a linebacker. And then he, too, breaks into a chorus of “Happy Birthday,” joined by his rowdy teammates.

“These your ’rents?” asks the linebacker coming over, tossing his ball from hand to hand.

“They were,” mumbles Adam.

“What’s the matter, you divorcing them?” asks the linebacker.

“No, they’re doing that themselves,” says Adam.

“Whoa, man,” says the football player, raising his arms as if trying to block a pass—or, in this case, any more information. “Heavy, dude. Gotta go. Happy birthday. Wanna get drunk later?”

He’s off before my dear Adam can tell him that he’s only turning twenty and so wouldn’t dream of letting a sip of Bud Lite pass his lips. As his mom, I’m sure he hardly even touches apple cider.

Meanwhile, Bill has taken the opportunity to put one arm around Adam and the other around me. “Hey, this is terrific. I didn’t know we were all going to be together.”

“I didn’t either,” says Adam.

“Great surprise to see you here, Hallie,” Bill says jovially. He sounds a little too happy. Maybe I should let him know right now that he can stop trying so hard. I don’t have the Knicks tickets with me.

“So,” says Adam, “as long as we’re all here, what do you guys want to do?”

I want to strangle Bill. I want to make Adam start wearing a watch. I want to head for the hills, or at least the highway.

“I think I’m going to get going,” I say. “I don’t want to hit a lot of traffic.”

“Never any traffic in New Hampshire. It’s not even deer season,” says Bill, who doesn’t seem to see anything awkward in our all being together.

I’m feeling incredibly awkward. But maybe leaving at this point would be even worse. Besides, this could be an opportunity to show Adam how mature his ’rents really are.

Both my men are looking at me expectantly. “Hallie, come on and hang out with us,” Bill says. “It’ll be like old times. When was the last time we celebrated Adam’s birthday together?”

“A year ago,” I say tersely.

Bill laughs a little too loudly, and punches Adam’s arm. “What do you say, huh? Your mom has quite a sense of humor, doesn’t she?”

“She’s great,” says Adam, kicking a stone again. “I wish you knew that.”

“I do know that,” says Bill. He turns to me, and now he punches my arm. “You’re still great, Hallie.”

I punch him back, harder than I’d intended. And then I punch him again.

“That’s healthy, Mom,” says Adam, who’s taking a psychology class. “It’s good to get out your pent-up aggression.”

“I don’t have any pent-up aggression,” I say, punching Bill once more, just for emphasis. I seem to be developing quite a left hook. “Why would I have any aggression against a lying, deceiving, unethical, vile, contemptible, depraved, despicable, abominable, loathsome”—I can’t help it; the adjectives keep coming as if I swallowed a thesaurus— “horrid, horrible man?”

Adam clears his throat. “He’s my dad.”

I close my eyes for a second to pull myself back together. Bill has come up to celebrate Adam’s birthday. I came up for the same reason. Having his parents fighting in front of him is exactly what Adam was trying to avoid. I’m not going to do that to him.

“He is your dad,” I say quietly. “And he’s a great dad. I’m sorry, Adam.” Second apology to my son of the day.

Adam nods. “It’s okay.”

“How about if we all go out for ice cream before I leave?” I ask, figuring that I can make myself be nice for the duration of a medium-size Rocky Road cone.

“Great!” says Adam, cheering up a little.

“Great!” echoes Bill, looking relieved.

We head into the little town, where a crowd of students are lined up outside the ice cream shop. In Hanover, this forty-five-degree weather is practically a beach day. I manage to keep up a cheerful stream of conversation, and Bill and Adam both seem grateful. Before long, we’re all telling stories—and I’m actually starting to relax and enjoy myself a little.

When we finally get to the counter, I decide to go for broke and order a large-size cup with whipped cream. I can keep up these good spirits long enough to work my way through a double scoop.

Or so I think.

We sit down on high stools and Adam is telling us that his research professor may include his name on a paper he’s about to publish. Bill and I can’t help catching each other’s eyes. We’re both proud of our son. Whatever’s happened to our relationship now, we did a good job together raising our kids.

Bill’s joking around, asking if there might be an investment market in neutrinos when I notice someone familiar waiting in the line for ice cream. Who could I possibly know in Hanover? I can’t place her, but for some reason she’s looking curiously at me, too. Bill has his back to the woman, but as she moves her gaze from me to Bill and Adam, a flash of understanding crosses her eyes. She tries to sidle toward the door, but a new crowd of ice cream-seeking students has come in, and she’s trapped.

So am I. I’ve never seen the woman dressed before, but I know exactly who she is.

“Ashlee,” I blurt out.

Bill looks at me, annoyed. “We’re not discussing that now,” he says.

“Then you shouldn’t have brought her here,” I grumble.

“I didn’t,” says Bill. He turns his palms upwards, gesturing toward Adam and me. “Just our little family threesome. Do you see anybody else here?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I say, and I point an accusing finger at the young woman in the doorway, who is slumping her shoulders now and trying to make herself disappear. But a couple of guys who’ve come in behind her give her a little push forward.

“You’re next in line,” one of them says.

Ashlee’s self-assurance seems to have drained out of her. She was a lot more poised when I saw her naked.

Bill turns around, his eyes following the path of my finger.

“Ashlee, what are you doing here?” he asks, his voice rising in indignation.

“Getting an ice cream,” she says timidly. She looks thoroughly embarrassed. I don’t know which is worse for her—having stumbled into our family party or being caught eating sugar.

Now Adam turns around, too, and then he stares at Bill. “Dad, you brought Ashlee to my birthday?”

“No, I didn’t. I’d never do that,” he says indignantly.

“Then what a coincidence,” Adam says snidely.

“Obviously, they closed all the Häagen-Dazs stores between the Upper West Side of Manhattan and Hanover, New Hampshire,” I say. And then I shake my head. “Imagine that happening on the one day that Ashlee had a craving for fudge ripple.”

“A craving?” asks Adam. “Is she pregnant?”

“Oh my God, I hope not,” says Bill, suddenly coughing so hard that he practically spits out his cone.

Now that my husband’s close to hysterical, I feel a lot calmer. I run my spoon around the top of my cup and bring a small spoonful of whipped cream to my lips.

Ashlee, who’s overheard most of the conversation, now comes tentatively over to the table.

“I just ducked in here to get a small sugar-free vanilla,” says Ashlee, making it clear she hasn’t done anything wrong—even to her diet.

Adam doesn’t look at Ashlee but instead turns angrily to his dad. “So you were going to bring your new girlfriend to dinner?” he asks.

“Of course not,” says Bill firmly. “Ashlee drove up with me, but she was supposed to go to the bookstore this afternoon. I told her she could even go to a movie.”

What a generous guy. I wonder if he suggested she get the student discount.

“I’m sure your dad didn’t intend for you to meet Ashlee,” I say, as if I’m being exquisitely understanding.

Bill gives a grateful smile, glad that I’ve come to his defense. I smile back at him and then put my hand over Adam’s and finish my explanation.

“He just brought his friend along so he could sleep with her. We wouldn’t want him to have to spend a whole night in a hotel room all by himself, would we? You have to understand, Adam. Your father’s a middle-aged man who thinks he can have everything he wants.”

Right now all Bill wants is for Ashlee to disappear. And he has a quick solution. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and hands Ashlee a twenty-dollar bill. “Why don’t you go down the street and buy me a Dartmouth sweatshirt. I like the gray with green lettering. Size large, not extra-large.” He glances at me proudly, making sure I know about his newer, trimmer shape.

Ashlee looks startled by the request.

“Oh, buy a sweatshirt for yourself, too. Buy anything you want.” He pulls out another twenty and tries to hand it to her, as if a girl could go on a wild shopping spree with forty dollars. Well, it’s New Hampshire— maybe she could.

But Ashlee doesn’t reach for the money and in fact seems offended. “I have my own money, Bill,” she says, annoyed. “You don’t have to buy me off.”

“I’ll take the forty bucks,” says Adam.

Bill hesitates and then forks the cash over to him. Adam needs it since college costs a fortune. Forget the tuition. The real expenses are late-night pepperoni pizzas, cases of Bull Run, and round-the-clock games of Texas Hold ’Em.

“I’m going to head out,” says Ashlee, a little coldly, to Bill. And then to Adam and me, she adds awkwardly, “Nice to have met you.”

I don’t point out that she still hasn’t been officially introduced to either of us.

She turns on her heel, but immediately comes face-to-face with Adam’s touch football buddies, who have spotted him and swarmed over to the table.

“Hey, Adam, this your sister?” one of them asks.

“You told us you have a hot sister,” another one chimes in.

“I do have a hot sister,” says Adam, who’s apparently told them about Emily. “But this happens to be . . .” He looks at his mom’s rival for the first time. “This is someone who’s just leaving.”