Until the Real Thing Comes Along (7 page)

“Hey, wake up!” Elaine hits me with her book, and I take it from her, start thumbing through the pages. “Is this good?”

She grabs the book away from me. “Go home and get in a better mood. You’re going out to dinner with a very good man, and you’re going to look fabulous, thanks to me; and you’re going to have fun, and when you come home you have every chance of having great sex, which, I must say, you NEED.”

“I don’t know.”

“Go home.”

“Okay. Elaine?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really think that much of him?”

She starts to say something, stops. Then, “Yeah,” she says. “If it weren’t you …”

“What? If it weren’t me, what?”

“I’d try … I’d give you some competition.”

“You would?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d
want him?”

“Yeah!”

“Huh. Maybe I won’t invite you over anymore when he’s there.”

She lies back on her bed, stretches prettily. “He doesn’t go for me.”

“How do you know?”

“I can tell.”

“Of course he does. Every man does.”

“Not him. It’s you he’s interested in.”

“Huh,” I said. And said again, a few times, on the way home.

So tonight may be the night. It may be. I do a little imaginative run-through in my mind, see Mark and me in my bed together, then in his. It is like ordering bacon and eggs and not getting the bacon. You stare at the plate, thinking, Ah, jeez.

I put on my earrings, stand back to see how they look. It’s probably just that it’s been too long. I’m protecting myself, maybe that’s it.

The phone rings. After I say hello, there is a silence.

“If this is an obscene phone call, please try me at a more convenient time,” I say. “I’m in a hurry.” And then, “… Elaine?”

A ragged intake of breath. It
is
an obscene phone call! I hang up. The phone rings again. I pick it up and say, “I have caller ID.” A lie.

“Well, good for you,” Ethan says.

“Ethan! Do you have a cold?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well … Are you
cry
ing?”

Silence.

“What happened?”

“Elton Jane died. She died. Today. In the vet’s office.”

“Oh, Ethan. I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t even there.” He blows his nose. “I can’t believe I’m this upset.”

“Well, you loved her. People get very attached to their pets. Very attached. There are pet
bereavement
groups.”

“There are?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Well, I don’t know, Ethan, I’ve just read about them.”

“I can’t tell you how … The worst thing is, she didn’t
know
.”

I look at my watch, then at my other clocks. Three minutes to Mark.

“What didn’t she know, Ethan?”

“She didn’t know I was on my way, I was coming, I wanted to be there with her. Instead, she died before I got there, in some fucking
cage”

“Well … She had a very good life with you, Ethan.”

“She was a great cat. Such a great cat.”

Well.

“And she was so smart! Did you know she used to meow to go out? And those tinfoil balls I used to make her? She saved them. She had a pile in the closet. And also, every time the phone rang, she ran to it.”

He waits. For me, I presume, to make my contribution to this impromptu memorial service.

“She was really … white,” I say. “Really, very … pretty.” I begrudge that cat a single kind word. Even in death.

“Yeah, she was beautiful.” His voice is quivery. It sounds a little like he’s singing.

I hear my doorbell ring.

“Ethan? Mark’s just come, we were going out to dinner.”

“Oh, really? Where?” His voice has changed. He’s back to the business of being my social secretary.

“Someplace in Boston, near the Common. I don’t know which restaurant, it’s a surprise.”

“Oh, I know what one. I told him about it. I went last week, it’s fabulous.” He sniffs.

“Do you … do you want to come?”

“No. No, of course not. Go let him in.”

“Oh! Right. Hold on.”

I open the door, see Mark standing there, smiling. And am suddenly furious at him that he is not furious at me for having to wait so long.

“I can’t go, I say.”

“What?”

“I can’t go. Ethan’s on the phone. Somebody died.”

“Oh, God, really?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I need to go and see him…. You look great.”

He laughs. “So do you.”

“We could … you want to go another time?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, we will. We will. Soon. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Sure.” He kisses me lightly, starts to walk away, then turns back. “Patty?”

“Yeah?”

“Who died?”

I don’t say anything.

“Besides us, I mean.”

Again, I say nothing. I feel terrible. And so relieved. Then, “I’m sorry,” I say.

He nods, disappears down the sidewalk into the darkness.

I pick up the phone. “Ethan?”

“I heard that. You didn’t have to do that.”

“But I did. I … there’s something wrong with me.” I start crying. “Oh, Ethan, he was just
fine
. He was wonderful. And probably my last chance. There’s something really, really wrong with me.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe I’ll come over. Should I come over?”

“Okay.”

I am such a bad person. My spirits are just soaring.

“Wow,” Ethan says, when I open the door.

“Well.”

He eyes my cleavage. “Are you … is that
you
?”

“Wonder Bra. It’s Elaine’s.”

“Ah.”

“Is it gross?”

“No, it’s … wondrous.”

“Thank you.”

“So.” He hangs up his coat, goes over to the refrigerator. “What do you have in the way of grief food?”

“Raw cookie dough?”

“… umm …”

“We could make some mashed potatoes.”

“Yes.
Garlic
mashed.” He closes the refrigerator door, takes a Dutch oven out of my cupboard. I take out a sack of potatoes, a head of beautiful garlic. It is complete, ours for the having.

“Patty?”

“Yeah?”

“Change your dress.”

“I was going to,” I say. But I wasn’t. I’d forgotten all about it.

When the potatoes are done, we sit shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, watching TV and talking and eating out of the pan with my biggest serving spoons. It is very, very good.

We are getting ready to watch a movie when my mother calls to tell me my brother’s wife is pregnant again. I tell her that’s wonderful, the usual drill, quash the ache of jealousy inside myself. Then, “Can I call you back tomorrow?” I say. “We were just going to watch something—it’s starting in a minute.”

“Oh, sure. Tell Mark I said hello.”

“Well, it’s … not Mark. It’s Ethan.”

“Didn’t you tell me you had a date with Mark tonight?”

“Yes, I did.”

“But Ethan’s there?”

“You know what, Mom?” I say. “It’s starting right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I hang up the phone.

“My mom says hello,” I tell Ethan.

He nods, smiles; then leans back into the sofa, his hands clasped behind his head, his feet up on the table. His socks are a beige mini-print, lovely to behold. I watch them as much as the movie.

In the morning, I call Elaine. “Guess what?”

“You broke up with Mark.”

“How do you know?”

“He called me.”

A moment.

“He did?”

“Yeah. To find out what the deal is with you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I didn’t know. And I swear to God, I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“What, you love
Ethan
?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Patty, you need to stop this. It’s … an excuse or something. What is the point in wasting so much energy on someone who is never, ever going to love you back? Cut your losses and move
on”

“Fuck you, Elaine.”

She hangs up.

I call her back.

“Don’t hang up on me,” I say. “I need you.”

“Then don’t abuse me.”

“I’m not abusing you. It’s just … Ethan and me. You don’t understand. If I could just … Listen, I want to tell you something.” I sit down, cross my legs, lower my voice. “Ethan’s cat died, and he hasn’t had sex with anyone for over a year.”

“Pretty extreme reaction.”

“No, his cat died and he came over because he felt terrible and we were just, you know, really talking, and he told me he hasn’t had sex in over a year!”

“And you told Mark to kiss off.”

“Not really.” I don’t know why she wants to talk about this. That is not why I called her.

“You did, Patty! He comes over to take you out to this fabulous place and you tell him to get lost. Because Ethan’s
cat
died.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake, Elaine, why are you taking this so personally? I don’t have to love Mark, just because you could!”

Silence. I play with the phone cord a little, then stop.

“Elaine?”

“What?”

“Could you?”

“Maybe I could.”

“Well … so … take him.”

“He’s not a
thing
that you hand back and forth, Patty!”

“I know. But I’m sure if he knew you were interested—”

“He knows, okay?”

“You told him last night?”

“I told him before last night.”

“You did?”

“In so many words.”

“Wow.” This is not exactly what I mean. Well, you
bitch!
is what I mean.

“Sorry,” she says.

“And he didn’t …?”

“That’s what you threw away.”

Now I hang up. In my head, I see some random woman in some random ’40s film. She is sitting at a restaurant table with another woman. “Did you get a load of that?” she is saying. “Boy, you think you know someone.” Her hat is on a little crooked. The stream of cigarette smoke she blows hard out of her mouth is dead straight on, however.

I
am out in the backyard of an empty three-bedroom colonial trying to entertain the five-year-old son of my clients, the Dugans, who are inside fighting. He wants it. She doesn’t. This is a waste of time. If the She doesn’t want it, you can count on the couple not buying it. The She has to want it. If the He doesn’t want it, nine times out of ten it’s almost irrelevant; the She will talk him into it. But if the She doesn’t want it, forget it. Still, I told the Dugans to take some time, I’d be outside in the backyard when they were ready. It’s a nice winter day—bright sun, temperature in the mid-forties. The son’s name is Charles. Not Charlie, he informs me.

“I wasn’t going to call you Charlie,” I say.

“Everybody does.”

“Well, I wasn’t. You look like a Charles.”

He eyes me suspiciously. He’s an ugly child, which normally attracts me, but not in this case. The kid’s stuck-up. Bratty. When we looked at the house before this one, it was all I could do not to escort him from the place. Firmly. He was offering a running
commentary in front of the owners: everything was stupid. At least he was succinct.

“What does a Charles look like?” he asks now.

“Well, sort of … royal. Do you know who Prince Charles is?”

He shakes his head no.

“Prince Charles, of England?”

He shrugs.

“Well, you remind me of him. He’s quite … aristocratic-looking. And a good gardener. Do you like gardens?”

He sighs. “When are we leaving? This is boring.”

“Your parents wanted to talk about the house a little bit, remember?”

He turns, looks back toward it.

“Do you like it? Did you like what would be your bedroom?”

“No, it’s stupid.”

“Hey, Charles,” I say. “What’s
not
stupid?”

“Not
you
.”

“Okay.”

“Not
you
are not stupid.”

“Yes, I understood.”

He scowls, sits down on the light covering of snow. His shoulders slump; then he kicks his heels against the ground in a halfhearted fit.

“Do you know you’re kind of a brat?” I say. I don’t care; this couple will never buy anything.

He looks up.

“Yes,” I say. “You are. If you were older, you’d be an asshole.”

I see the couple emerging from the backdoor.

“Moooooommmmm!” Charles yells, running to her. “She called me an asshole!”

The woman, Joanne her name is, regards me from under lifted brows.

“Sorry,” I say. And am not surprised when they ask that I drive them back to the office. But I am surprised when they simply drive away. I thought they were going to tell on me. And I’d get fired. Which might be a relief. And would not particularly matter, since I’m in such a bad mood all the time anyway, lately. Everything in my life is wrong except that Elaine and I finally made up. Sort of. She’s really sorry. I have kind of forgiven her.

There is a message on my desk from the Berkenheimers. I call them back, and Muriel answers.

“Patty!” she says. “How nice to hear your voice.”

“Yours, too,” I say, and it’s true.

A long silence, and then Muriel says, “So? What can I do for you?”

“Oh! Well, I had a message that
you
called.”

“You did? I didn’t call. Wait a minute.” I hear her cover the phone, then yell, “Artie? Did you call Patty Murphy? Patty Murphy’s on the phone, did you call her?”

A moment, and then there is Artie’s voice, saying, “I’ll call you right back.”

“Okay,” I say. And hang up. And wait for about twenty minutes, without getting any phone calls. And then I leave for my manicure, which will be the only good thing that has happened to me for many, many days.

•    •    •

“Don’t start telling me how unrealistic I am,” I tell Amber.

She looks up. “Did I say anything?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m not going to say anything like that. Listen, what are you going to do? We love who we love.”

“I wish you’d tell my mother that. When I told her I’d stopped seeing Mark, she threw a dinner roll at me.” And delivered a loud lecture about how she had been patient, but what in hell was I waiting for? My father put his hand over hers, and she pulled it away. “She’s ruining her
life!”
she told him.

“Okay, Marilyn,” he’d said.

“Well she is! Someone has got to tell her!”