Living Single (14 page)
Authors: Holly Chamberlin
Chapter Twenty-two
July, Boston
J
uly in New England is nice if you’re spending your days at a lake or at the beach. But July in Boston just picks up and runs with late June’s haziness, heat and humidity. And let’s face it—haziness, heat, and humidity, annoying enough in and of themselves, also call attention to a city’s grime and its unfortunate homeless population. Crime goes up in the hot weather. The average, generally peace-loving person begins to understand the impulse to commit random acts of violence.
uly in New England is nice if you’re spending your days at a lake or at the beach. But July in Boston just picks up and runs with late June’s haziness, heat and humidity. And let’s face it—haziness, heat, and humidity, annoying enough in and of themselves, also call attention to a city’s grime and its unfortunate homeless population. Crime goes up in the hot weather. The average, generally peace-loving person begins to understand the impulse to commit random acts of violence.
At least, I do.
The only good thing about July is the opportunity to celebrate Independence Day. I went to a rooftop barbecue and watched the spectacular fireworks display over the Charles. I’m not a flag waver by nature, but I do admit to feeling pretty darned patriotic on the Fourth.
Anyway, one night, just after the Fourth, I met JoAnne, Maggie, and Abby at Jae’s, on Columbus Avenue for dinner.
Falling off the edge of caution and into a relationship with Doug had started me thinking more closely than ever about being alone. About being single. About living single. About a married woman like my mother, choosing after over thirty years of marriage to be single, again.
“Do we even think about what it means to be living single?” I said when the wine had been poured. “Not just being single but living it, day after day, month after month, year after year?”
“I do.” Maggie. “All the time.”
“I don’t think I know what you mean, Erin,” Abby admitted.
“You know,” JoAnne burst out, “I see a couple on a bus or in a theater—that’s the worst! What the hell did you buy tickets for if you’re not going to watch the show!—and the woman puts her head on the guy’s shoulder. Okay, well, news flash, I’m tired, too, okay? But I’m alone and I don’t have the option of leaning against someone. So, I’ve learned how to sit up on my own and how to stay sitting up on my own.”
I knew I should keep my mouth shut but the temptation was too great. “So ... are you saying the woman is weak for leaning against her husband? Is leaning on your husband’s shoulder a weakness. Is it wrong?”
“In public, yeah, it’s a weakness and yeah, it’s wrong because it’s insulting and it’s showing off in front of women like me who don’t have a husband to lean on!”
What?
“That’s a little harsh and judgmental, JoAnne,” Maggie said. “And self-centered. I hardly think either member of a happy couple is thinking of anyone but themselves.”
“I think JoAnne’s just jealous,” Abby said. “You’ll think differently when you’ve met the right guy.”
JoAnne glared. “Don’t tell me what I’ll think, okay?”
“Look, what if the woman’s not tired?” I said. “Maybe leaning on her husband’s shoulder is a sign of affection. Are you saying that if you were engaged or married you’d never put your head on your guy’s shoulder in public? Ever?”
“What am I, crippled?”
“Can she say that word?” Maggie said, musingly. “Because I don’t think she can say that word.”
“I’ve got something wrong with my spine, I need a brace, I can’t sit up by myself? What am I, an infant?”
Why was I opening my mouth again?
“We’re not talking about the woman going down on her husband in public,” I said, “or playing tonsil hockey, or her asking him to carry her over a puddle. We’re talking about a small sign of affection. Is all PDA off-limits with you? No holding hands, no linking arms? Just because you can’t have it no one else can? That’s not a very generous way of thinking.”
“Maybe I’m not a very generous person.”
“That’s crap,” I said. “You’re a pediatrician. By nature and by profession you help people. You do services for free when the parents are strapped. You’re there for your friends when they need you. You ...”
“Yeah, I’m a regular Florence Nightingale.”
“Can we please change the subject?” Abby pleaded. “Living single is too—messy.”
I looked sideways at JoAnne and wondered what the hell was wrong with her. She was in a big bad mood, being more than characteristically bitter. Was it all because Martin had dumped her? Had the recent cancer scare opened up some old wounds? I felt I had to ask her to talk to me—but not right then. I was too afraid of being attacked.
However, JoAnne did have something to say and she was about to say it to us all.
“Look, I’m sorry everyone, really. Shit. It’s just that I’m pissed at Martin. And ...” JoAnne took a gulp of water before going on. “And there’s something that’s been weighing on my mind since that stupid cancer scare. God, I wish I didn’t have to ...”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, JoAnne,” Abby said helpfully.
JoAnne grimaced.
“What is it?” Maggie asked.
JoAnne began. “I told Erin, right before I got the biopsy results. I had cancer as a kid, okay, and it was bad but I got over it. But it basically destroyed my family and I don’t know . . . Lately I’ve got all these—feelings—running around inside and I don’t know what the hell to do with them.”
Abby and Maggie each murmured the appropriate murmurs of sympathy.
I risked it. “You said you wanted to make some changes. Maybe a therapist is a good idea.”
“Ha. Only as a last resort.”
“I could give you a name,” Maggie offered.
“No, thanks. I shouldn’t have even said anything now, but ...” JoAnne laughed and shook her head. “I’m so confused lately, I don’t know what I’m saying half the time. I should just go home and get on my treadmill, work off some energy.”
“JoAnne,” Abby said, “are you sure you should be alone?”
Lord.
“Why?” JoAnne looked utterly annoyed. “I’m not suicidal. God. Forget I said anything.”
JoAnne gathered her things and handed a few bills to me.
“For the wine,” she said. “See you guys around.”
And she was gone.
As had become my habit, that night I spent time curled up in my reading chair, Fuzzer on my lap, an abandoned book at my feet, thinking about Doug Spears.
I couldn’t deny I found the very uncertainty of becoming involved with a married man thrilling. It bothered me for about a split second, this fact, and then I pushed aside the concern. For the first time in a very long time I felt alive. Hopeful. Excited.
Who was I to analyze happiness?
A line came to me that night, something from Shelley’s play
The Cenci,
something that had been floating around in my head for years. Shelley, the ultimate Romantic man—along with Byron and Keats and even DeQuincy—a precursor to twentieth century rock stars.
The Cenci,
something that had been floating around in my head for years. Shelley, the ultimate Romantic man—along with Byron and Keats and even DeQuincy—a precursor to twentieth century rock stars.
Anyway, the line ran:
O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge of life and death
Aside from the line’s context in the play, it seemed to describe the way those Romantics had lived their lives, choosing to be always on the giddy verge of being ostracized from “good” society; on the giddy verge of normal consciousness and altered states of consciousness; on the giddy verge of illicit love.
If uncertainty was a valid way of life for Shelley and his cohorts, I told myself, then it was certainly a valid way of life for me.
The Romantics were nothing but trouble, Reason said dismissively. Rabble-rousers. Rule breakers.
Yes, and they truly lived their lives to the fullest, Romance said, with reverence. Don’t you want to do the same?
Yes. I did.
Chapter Twenty-three
T
here’s a green market on Tuesdays and Fridays from about mid-June through mid-November, along the south side of Copley Square, across from the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel and a stone’s throw from Trinity Church.
here’s a green market on Tuesdays and Fridays from about mid-June through mid-November, along the south side of Copley Square, across from the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel and a stone’s throw from Trinity Church.
It’s a nice place to go during lunch hour even though everyone else in the area has the same idea, from other thirty-something corporate types; to Cambridge-style leftover hippies in their sixties; to tiny, ancient Asian women pushing metal shopping carts full of plastic bottles and aluminum cans; to tourists in well-pressed shorts and matching wary expressions. There’s a fair amount of elbow technique required to get to the produce itself and a good set of lungs is necessary to get your bags of goodies weighed and paid for. Having somewhat bony elbows and extraordinarily good lungs, I’m in and out of the market in minutes.
Fresh-baked breads, focaccia, and sticky buns from Iggy’s; amazing goat and feta cheese from Crystal Brook Farm, a local, husband-and-wife-run enterprise; in late July, butter and sugar corn makes its long-awaited appearance along with bunches of pungent basil which I make into pesto to freeze and enjoy all winter long, ripe red tomatoes, and bright green beans. It’s enough to make anyone want to kiss good-bye to city life and run off to Green Acres. Sort of.
For me, a noontime visit to the market is usually followed by a quick stop at Marshall’s. First, a rapid eye-run through the shoes; then, up the escalator to check out clothes, lingerie, and household items, like funky picture frames and seriously discounted sheets and towels. The purchase of novelty shoes and sandals, especially when purple and under $24.99, is a marvelous Friday pick-me-up.
Of course, these midday excursions only happen once every two weeks at most. Lunchtime for me usually means a scarfed sandwich at my desk, one hand typing madly, the other shoving tuna salad into my mouth. Marshall’s stock is still fine after six o’clock, though the green market’s pickings are by then pretty slim. A worm-chewed ear of corn. A partly squished tomato. And only one sad loaf of whole wheat bread. I’d rather starve than eat whole wheat bread. It’s the potato-leek focaccia, the olive rolls, even the simple boules that make my day.
But not my father. Whole wheat is one of his all-time favorites. He’s been known to eat half a loaf for breakfast, toasted with lots of butter. A fact I’d bet he never mentions to his doctor.
I bought a loaf of whole wheat bread at the Iggy’s stand and headed for Davis, Weston and Dean, the law firm of which my father was a founding partner, located on the twenty-fifth floor of the Hancock Tower on Clarendon Street.
The firm’s receptionist greeted me with a slightly puzzled smile.
“Hi, Ms. Leonard,” I said, choosing to ignore her puzzled smile. “Is my father available? I’ll only be a moment.”
“Oh, I’m sorry Ms. Weston,” she said. Was that a look of guilty conspiracy on her usually bland face? “Mr. Weston is not in the office today.”
Panic took hold. “Is he okay? Did he call in sick?”
Now Ms. Leonard looked slightly awkward. “No, no, he’s just—taking the day off.”
This was suspicious. My father never just took the day off. Maybe he was at the hospital having an emergency procedure he didn’t want to worry me about. Maybe ...
“I’m sure you can reach him on his cell phone, if you really need to speak with him,” Ms. Leonard said helpfully.
“He’s not home?” I blurted.
Now Ms. Leonard looked extremely uncomfortable. What was she hiding? Why was I making her so nervous?
“Um, no,” she said slowly. “Um, Mr. Weston is spending the day in Newport with a friend.”
About a second later it hit me.
Duh! I was such an idiot. Of course, Dad was in Newport with Abby. And neither had told me ...
Well, Reason said, they are grown-ups. They don’t have to report their every move to you.
But...
But what? Reason interrupted. Do you tell Abby and John every time you and Doug snatch a few hot and heavy moments together? Do you?
That’s different, Romance protested. She ...
“Ms. Weston? Are you all right?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Sorry.”
Oh, please stop the blushing, I begged my cheeks.
“It’s very warm out today isn’t it?” Ms. Leonard said suddenly. She was obviously embarrassed for me. It was so humiliating.
I know I should have been happy that Dad had someone who cared about him, someone genuinely nice. But—I wasn’t. Not completely. The disturbing thought came to me that maybe I’d wanted to be the one to care about him. Not in any romantic way, of course, but ... My mother had been number one; maybe it was my turn to be number one ... Oh, my thoughts were too tumbled and downright disturbing to deal with right then.
Maybe JoAnne had been right, back at the Barking Crab, when she’d said I’d be jealous of my father’s girlfriend.
I’d think about that later. Now, I had to say and do something or Ms. Leonard would be calling the men in the white coats. You know, the ones with the straightjackets.
Think, Erin. I couldn’t leave the bread at the office; it would go stale or be eaten by mice over the weekend. I could have given it to Ms. Leonard but ... No. I couldn’t admit I’d brought my father a loaf of bread; it would make me seem so pitiful. Or was it pitiable? Anyway, I considered dropping off the loaf at his place but that notion was immediately shoved aside by the fear of what I might find when I got there.
I don’t remember the next few minutes clearly. But somehow I took my leave of Ms. Leonard and found myself back on the sidewalk. It was almost one-thirty, high time to get back to work. I headed toward the office.
You could give the bread to one of your coworkers, Reason suggested. You could drop it off at the Women’s Lunch Place. You don’t want to waste money—or food.
I could, yeah. Or, I thought, a surge of anger momentarily blurring my vision, I could just throw it the fuck away.
Which I did.
The day wasn’t a total disaster. Just as I got home, the phone rang.
It was Doug. He was in his car, on his cell phone, heading home to Newton for the weekend.
“Hey. It’s me.”
Through the inevitable static and fuzz, I knew his voice. Who else in my life was “me” ? Well, certainly no other man. Certainly not my father. Anymore.
“Hey,” I said happily. It seemed enough.
“I just wanted to wish you a good weekend.”
“You did that an hour ago,” I said. “When you left a message at the office. Sorry I missed your call, by the way.”
Doug laughed. “That’s okay. I just had to hear your voice once more before Monday.”
“I’m glad. I hope your weekend is good,” I said, aware that that hope was partly false. Would a good weekend include loving sex with Carol, Doug’s wife and the mother of their children? A horrible thought.
But I loved Doug, even if I wasn’t ready to admit that to him. I did want him to be happy.
I just felt so alone.
I just wished he could be happy with me.
“It’ll be the usual,” he said neutrally. “But I’ll be thinking of you so I’ll survive. Barely.”
“Survive,” I ordered. “I’m seeing you on Monday.”
“Okay. I should go.”
“Okay. Bye. Thanks for calling.”
“My pleasure,” said Doug and signed off.
Doug Spears had to love me, I concluded. To put his marriage on the line, to risk losing the domestic life he’d built, to risk losing his children, God, he had to love me so thoroughly, need me so deeply ... The strength of his desire was an aphrodisiac. It made me feel like the most powerful woman in the world. His relentless pursuit—both romantically and professionally—went to my head and I was his.
I thought about possession.
To be possessed—with a thought, by a thought. To allow possession of oneself. To be a possession.
I thought of me and Doug Spears.
Was I betraying basic, hard-won feminist principles by wanting to be completely possessed by a man?
No, Romance argued. No you’re not, Erin. You’re freely choosing the state of possession.
No one freely chooses anything when they’re in a state of compulsion, a state of obsession, Reason countered.
She loves him, Romance said. She wants to be his. He completes her. He is her soul’s other half. He gives her life. He...
He’s a power junkie, Reason spat, and he’s got Erin so turned around she doesn’t know what she really wants. She says one thing and does another. Where’s the sanity in that? There’s no room for responsible decision making in this scenario. She’s a puppet and he’s the puppetmaster. She only makes a move when he says so and even then the move is totally orchestrated. That’s ownership. That’s wrong.
Hey, I protested, wait a minute. That’s not how it is!
Isn’t it? Reason demanded.
Romance cried, No! You just don’t understand!
Reason said, Obviously not, and was not heard from again for a long, long time.
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