This Is How It Happened (5 page)

After Carlton gave me the Juliet ring, I expected us to announce our engagement. I practiced saying my name aloud in the bathroom mirror. “Madeline Connors,” I’d say, trying it on for size.

But Carlton wanted to wait. And I understood why.

He’d been married before. His “starter marriage,” he called it. She was seven years younger. A blonde bombshell. And a Mormon, of all things.

I’d found a photograph of her once, in a shoebox Carlton kept high in the closet. Unlike my dark, Italian features, she was tall, with sumptuous blond hair running in long waves down her back. Bright blue eyes, gorgeous, supermodel smile, and dimples the size of Lake Erie. In her lap, she held a Labrador puppy.

She was the kind of woman who looked like the perfect wife, actually. Not stubby and dark-haired and tragically ethnic like me. Not to sell myself short. I mean, I was a powerhouse on two legs, a firecracker, as they say. And I was pretty in a way, if you looked closely—but I was certainly no knockout. No one had ever suggested I be prom queen. Or a Victoria’s Secret model. In fact, men usually dated me for my “personality,” my “flair,” my “Piatro pizzazz.” But I wasn’t boring in bed, either. I knew my way around a man, let’s put it that way.

That very night, I cooked Carlton’s favorite dinner. Herbed salmon with new potatoes and asparagus. I splurged on a bottle of Chianti that was much too expensive for my just-out-of-grad-school starting salary. And I had my nails done with French tips.

Carlton came in from work and we sat at our makeshift “bar.” A card table with two stools I’d put in the kitchen.

I poured his wine.

He tasted it.

“Fancy,” he said.

I walked around the table and rubbed his shoulders.

“Ahhh,” he said, as I dug my thumbs into his muscles. I took this as my cue. And asked him casually why he’d gotten a divorce.

Carlton sat up, suddenly. I walked around the table, plopped down across from him and waited.

“I bought Megan fake tits,” he replied, finally. “And she still wasn’t happy. She was the type of woman who’d never be happy.”

He raised his wineglass. Clinked it against mine. “Why are you so curious all of a sudden?”

“I thought you hated fake breasts,” I said, crossing my arms over my own chest. It’s not like I was flat as a cookie sheet or anything. But I was no double D.

He sighed. “Hey sweetie. I just walked in the door and you’re already wearing me out.”

So I dropped it.

But I didn’t drop the engagement thing. I stood up and served both of us plates of salmon, new potatoes, warm French bread, and salads with blue cheese crumbles.

We sat across from each other and ate in silence until I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

I sucked in my breath and blurted: “I don’t understand why we’re not telling anyone about our engagement.” Carlton looked up and I flashed him the Juliet ring on my ring finger.

He rubbed his forehead, a man under pressure. “Look sweetie. I don’t want to introduce you as my fiancée to my family yet. Because you have to understand, Maddy, they’ll think I’m crazy to be engaged again. So soon after my divorce.”

“You’ve been divorced for two years!”

“Separated,” Carlton corrects me. “The divorce was just finalized, remember? And I don’t want my dad lecturing me about moving too quickly. He wants me to focus on work, so we can start our own company, sweetie. Don’t you want to hit the ground running? Instead of spending all our energy planning some ridiculous, over-the-top wedding?”

“I was thinking we’d do something small,” I say. “Intimate.”

Carlton rolls his eyes. “Please. With my family. As-if,” he huffs. “I mean, my dad’ll have to invite all his goddamned employees. We’ll be lucky to have less than eight hundred guests.”

“Sounds like a circus,” I murmur. I wonder if Carlton and the supermodel Mormon had eight hundred people at their wedding. But I don’t ask.

I look down at the table, and I can’t help but think of my parents. See, that’s the problem with drunk drivers. They really take the fun out of weddings. I mean, I wonder if the guy who slammed into my parents’ car realized that if their only daughter ever were to marry, the friends and relatives on the “bride” side would be slim pickin’s. My brother will walk me down the aisle, of course. When the time comes.

But jeez. Eight hundred people? I’m lucky if I could score twenty people. The church would topple over to one side, it would be so uneven. I can hear the ushers now, “Bride or groom? No wait! Let me guess—Groom, right?”

I pour more wine in my glass.

Bottoms up.

Carlton looks up and says, “Easy with the vino, Maddy,” but I ignore him.

We eat for a few minutes in silence and then Carlton says, “Look, Maddy. We’ve just graduated and gotten our MBAs.” He scrapes his fork along his plate. “It’s time to do
Something Big
, Maddy. Start our own company. Not dick around with caterers.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I say. “And on that note—”

I stand up, excitedly, and hustle around the kitchen. I take Carlton’s plate away from him, clear the entire card table.

“Hey! I wasn’t finished with that,” he says, playfully, but I ignore him.

I’ve come up with a novel idea for a company. In fact, I’ve been working on it nonstop for a month. Tonight is the night to surprise Carlton.

In between my day job as a marketing consultant for a top-notch firm, I’ve been sweating over my computer, working up spreadsheets and models for a new company concept I’ve developed.

I grab my portfolio book and spread a few news articles in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asks. I look at him and can tell he’s getting excited. This kind of stuff is totally Carlton’s thing. He lives for it.

“See all these news articles. They’re talking about how unhealthy the school lunch programs are around the country. All these kids are eating really crappy food every day, right? And that’s what might be causing this child obesity epidemic,” I say, and I’m talking quickly now.

“And now—look at this—” I spread more articles out across the table.

“Whole Foods is the fastest growing organic foods grocery store in the country. They’ve got a sixty-thousand-square-foot store here in Austin, and are opening stores all around the country. Organic food is becoming more affordable and popular as people are concerned with their diets. So my idea is to combine this organic food craze with busy parents who don’t have time to pack their kids a lunch. These parents want their kids to eat something healthier than the awful slop that the school is doling out.”

I’m in full presentation mode, now. I raise my hands in the air, like I’ve just shouted Boo!

“My business idea, Carlton, is Organics for Kids. An organic lunch program for parents on the go.”

Carlton is silent a moment. I pass him all the charts and spreadsheets I’ve been working on. I go over all of the numbers. It takes us a long time. When I’m finished, an hour has ticked past.

“See, it can work,” I say. “All we need is a major infusion of cash, and it can really work.”

I stare down at the table, cluttered with all my data.

Carlton sifts through the papers, silently. He reads everything. And then he sits quietly a moment, closes his eyes. Like a sleeping Buddha.

Suddenly, he jumps up, knocking his chair over on the floor. He grabs me and swings me in a circle.

“Christ, you’ve done it, Maddy! This is it! No one—I mean no one—is doing this. I’ve gotta call my dad, pronto! He can get us the cash we need. He knows tons of investors. Oh my God, Maddy. He’s gonna love this. I’ll set up a meeting with him and some of his buddies. We’ll develop an entire presentation. Something formal. We need more data showing the potential market for this. Pitfalls, expenses, marketing projections—an entire business plan!”

I pull a cream-colored bound notebook from my bag and hold it in the air. I’ve done the cover myself. Using crayons and several different colors from the box, I’ve printed out the title: ORGANICS 4 KIDS: A BUSINESS PLAN BY CARLTON CONNORS AND MADELINE PIATRO.

“Surprise,” I say.

Carlton stares at the notebook. “You put my name first,” he says.

“Alphabetical,” I shrug.

Carlton grabs the notebook out of my hand and lifts me in the air again. He throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carries me into the bedroom. He topples me onto the bed, unzips his jeans, and crawls on top. I can feel his hot breath against my neck as he whispers in my ear.

“My little Einstein is about to get poked,” he says. He’s rough and crude and the zipper on his jeans scratches my leg, but I can’t help myself.

I love every minute of it.

Carbon monoxide
, I think.
That’s the easy way to go.

I pick up the phone and dial my best friend. Heather picks up on the first ring. She’s a housewife so she can get to the phone that fast.

“What do you know about carbon monoxide poisoning?” I ask.

I know it’s not good to have all these witnesses. But I introduced Heather to her husband. So I figure the least she can do is lie for me on the stand.

“Carbon monoxide? I think it’s fatal,” Heather says. (She’s really helpful, my friend.)

“Why? Is your stove out again?” she presses. “I told you to get it fixed, Maddy. Your old gas stove could be leaking and you’d never know until it was too late.”

“You’re going to make a great mom,” I say. Heather is five months pregnant, but she’s still a goddamn size 2.

“Thanks!” she says, with utter earnestness. “So, it’s Friday night. What cha up to?”

“I’ve got a date with Matthew McConnaughey.”

“Gag me,” Heather says.

“C’mon. He’s not that bad,” I say, because I don’t want to knock a fellow Texan. Especially a guy who went to my same Alma Mater.

“Be sure to bring the body condom,” Heather says and giggles into the phone. Heather, by the way, is a real girly girl. In college, she was even president of her sorority. Tri-Delt, I think.

“I’ve actually got an exciting evening planned at a lovely place called Blockbuster,” I say. “I swear the video guy’s seen me so many times, he’s starting to recommend movies. Last night he suggested a documentary about some guy who gets eaten by bears.”

“I hate it when they do that,” Heather says. I think she’s talking about the video guy recommending bad movies, but she’s actually talking about the bears.

“You know, people think bears are friendly,” she informs me, “but they’re really quite dangerous.”

“God, if it’s not leaky gas stoves, its killer bears. When will the madness ever end,” I say.

Heather ignores me. “Why don’t you come over for dinner?” she says. “Michael and I are
doing
Shabbat.” She sighs into the phone. “Oy Vay. I’ve got a lot of cooking to do.”

“Did you just say, ‘
oy vay
’?’”

“Why, do I sound stupid?”

It surprises me to hear Heather talk like this, especially considering she’s not Jewish. But her husband, Michael, is. So Heather, bless her heart, is in the process of converting. The problem is, she doesn’t have the Jewish thing down quite right. The religion, the culture, the tradition, the language—are all far beyond her grasp. As much as she tries, Heather can’t seem to shed her Tri-Delt self.

She took Yiddish classes and spent a summer in Israel doing a Kibbutz. But still, it’s as if becoming a Jew is beyond her conditioning.

Heather’s husband, on the other hand, could pass for a Bible-belt Baptist if he wanted to. Michael is a rising star trial lawyer in South Texas. The type of guy who argues the plight of the common man against the large, faceless corporate monster. So, he’s tailored his accent, a deep Southern drawl, and his image—jeans and cowboy boots—to appeal to the South Texas courtroom.

“To the fine men and women on the jury who prefer the Southern sensibility,” he likes to say. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Mr. Wasserstein rode to the courthouse each morning on a horse.

Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting at Heather’s kitchen table. She’s made me a cup of Earl Grey tea. And she’s rustling around the kitchen. Getting everything in order. Michael swings in the front door, and drops his briefcase.

“I’d sue my own wife if she weren’t so darned beautiful,” he says, in his pitch perfect Southern drawl. The drawl he’s perfected for the jury. Michael never goes out of character. Even at home.

He bounds into the kitchen, grabs Heather, kisses her on the forehead, and puts his arms around her waist.

Michael is a bundle of raw energy. We call him “Mr. Fun.”

“How’s my little Super-Jew?” he teases, squeezing Heather’s waist.

She smiles broadly, her clear blue eyes gleaming. “You’re
my-sugar-na
,” she says.

“Mishugina,” Michael corrects her. “It means ‘nuts.’”

“You’re nuts,” Heather repeats.

He rubs her belly. “And how’s Baby Wasserstein today?” he says, putting his ear against her stomach.

Heather giggles like a schoolgirl.

Michael pretends to listen to his baby. He nods his head against Heather’s belly and says, “Your mom is gonna be mad, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Our son wants whiskey,” he says.

“Stop it!” Heather shrieks and slaps Michael playfully on the arm. He smacks her on the bottom and pours himself a small glass of Jack Daniels.

It’s painful for me to watch them like this. And I see how perfectly comfortable they are. Heather’s hair is greasy and she’s got yellow stains on her shirt. Michael is sporting day-old stubble.

Carlton and I were never this real.

“How was work, Michael? Did you dazzle them with your Texas twang, today?” I ask.

“Sheee-it,” Michael says, taking a swig of his cocktail. “I’ll be anyone that jury wants me to be. I’ll wear a cross on my suit like Johnny Coch-RAIN if it helps me win a case,” he drawls.

“I saw your picture in the paper. The Top Fifty Trial Lawyers in Texas. Pretty impressive,” I say. “So I guess you’re famous.”

“I’m sign-in’ autographs after dinner.” Michael chuckles at himself and smiles his clever cat smile.

“So I hear your wife is going to be a Jew,” I say. Sometimes I like to stir the pot. And I know Michael likes it, too.

“We both want the baby to be Jewish,” Heather explains. “Under traditional Jewish law, the mother should be Jewish,” she explains.

“I don’t know if you can shed the South Carolina in you,” I say, making a face.

“She ain’t sheddin’ nothin’. She’s augmentin’,” Michael says.

This is how we always are, Michael and I. We always butt heads and Heather is the middleman. But Michael loves the tête-à-têtes. And so do I. Sometimes we argue about the Middle East and I stick up for the Palestinians. Just to play Devil’s Advocate. It really gets Michael riled up. His face turns beet red and he starts sweating buckets. Heather’s afraid it’ll give him a heart attack. But I’ve known Michael longer than she has. He loves to debate. I mean, he really lives for this shit.

“Can’t you bring up your child in the Jewish faith without actually converting?” I ask.

Heather is standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. “I want to convert,” she says, wiping her hand against her pants.

“Deep down, she’s one of the tribe,” Michael says.

“Yes. Deep,
deep
down,” I say, and we all laugh.

If you saw Heather, you’d know she was white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. She’s got all the WASP features. Blue eyes, pale skin, and blond hair cut in a cute bob at her shoulders. She seems almost Norwegian, with her long, straight nose.

Heather grew up Methodist. Her maiden name is Smith. And she looks like she used to be both the head cheerleader and the prom queen, which she was. She bakes low-fat oatmeal cookies. She eats salad like it’s a meal. She pays retail for her clothes. She drives a Saab. I mean, she’s from Charleston, South Carolina, for chrissakes.

As much as she tries to observe Jewish laws and customs, she can’t seem to get it quite right.

“What are you cooking?” I say.

“My new specialty,” Heather says. “I call it: Lotsa-Matzoh Ball Spaghetti.”

I break out into a smile.

Michael shoots me a look, puts his fingers to his lips and shakes his head no.

I get the message. We’re not supposed to poke fun at Heather. At least she’s trying. The little pregnant Size 2 WASP is trying.

Before dinner, we stand around the table. Michael pours kosher wine.

“It’s the good one,” Heather assures me. “Not the icky, grape-juicy one,” she says. Always the terrific hostess, my girlfriend. Michael cuts the challah bread and chants a prayer in Hebrew or Yiddish, or something.

We sit down. Michael and I go to town on the food. Heather nibbles here and there. She’s eating for two, which means Michael and I must be eating for four. I say something about the Gaza Strip and send Michael into an hour-long rant.

We hold our wineglasses in the air and toast the baby, Heather becoming a Jew, and Michael’s picture in the paper. Finally, we toast our friendship. All in all, it’s the best night I’ve had in a
very
long time.