Slightly Engaged (7 page)

“We can go home first so you can change,” Jack offers. “I wouldn’t mind getting into some jeans myself.”

Jeans?

Okay, who said anything about jeans?

Aren’t we talking about a romantic Sweetest Day Eve dinner here?

Apparently, only one of us is. The other has apparently set his sights on the kind of establishment that offers a denim dress code and a tuna-melt special.

I yawn. It’s a fake yawn when I start it, but it turns real before it’s over.

“I don’t think so,” I tell Jack. “I’m really wiped out. It’s been a rough week.”

He’s watching me with an oddly intent expression. The platform has grown so crowded with commuters that his face is about six inches from mine and he’s looking right into my eyes, frowning slightly.

“Are you okay, Tracey?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just seem kind of…edgy.”

I look around at the restless horde of uptown-bound office drones being serenaded by Karaoke Girl, who is now bellowing, “I’ve Been to Paradise But I’ve Never Been to Me.”

“Who
isn’t
edgy?” I ask. “There hasn’t been a six train in almost ten minutes.”

“No, not about the subway. About…well, I have no idea what. You just seem edgy lately. At home, too.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

I smile to show him that beneath edgy, things couldn’t be more hunky-doodle-dory.

“It’s work, I guess—it’s getting to me,” I tell him, because A) that’s partly true, and B) when you’re in the advertising industry you can believably blame everything on work. It’s second only to PMS in my stress-related-excuse repertoire.

Looking as though he’s had a mini-epiphany, Jack puts an arm around me and pulls me close, pressing his forehead against mine. “I know what you need.”

So do I.

But Grand Central Station at rush hour is no place for him to go getting down on one knee. If the train shows up he might get trampled right onto the tracks, wiping out our future kids
and
the charming October-engagement story.

“What do I need, Jack?” I ask anyway, per chance we’re not on the same page.

“A quiet night at home. We can watch that new Willie Wonka DVD I just bought in wide screen.”

Willy Wonka?
That’s
what I need? Is he
high?

Granted, I liked the book and I liked the movie—both versions.

But…

Willy Wonka?

“I’ll make that chicken thing you like,” he goes on. “And then I’ll give you a back rub. It’ll get rid of all the stress.”

“Oh.” Big fake-smile. “That sounds great.”

Don’t get me wrong, I would ordinarily welcome a back rub after a tough week at work. And having skipped lunch today, I do find my mouth watering at the mere thought of that Chicken Thing. He makes it with tomatoes and peppers and olives and serves it over diet-friendly whole-grain pasta.

But when I weigh the options—engagement ring versus Willie Wonka/back rub/Chicken Thing—guess which one might as well be full of helium?

“Let’s get strudel for dessert, too,” he suggests.

“Now you’re talking,” I say, amazed at how the mere mention of strudel can make things brighter.

You’ve got to stop obsessing over this ring thing,
I tell myself as the long-lost number-six train appears in the distance at last.
It’s not healthy.

But I can’t seem to help it.

Especially when, in the sudden shuffle of the crowd to get into position precisely where the train’s doors will ostensibly open, I spot a huge billboard of a smiling bride and groom beside the tag line
Married People Live Longer.

Is this a sign, or what?

Okay, intellectually I know it’s just part of that high-profile advertising campaign by some abstinence-advocacy group.

But emotionally, I choose to believe it’s a sign that I’ll be getting an engagement ring in the near future.

But…how near?

And why did his mother have to go and tell me it was coming?

How am I supposed to focus on anything else when every random morning I wake up wondering if today’s the day?

I’m starting to think it would be better if I didn’t secretly know he has a diamond. That it would be better if I were back where I was the night Mike and Dianne got married, when I thought Jack thought marriage was only for Assholes. At least then, I had no expectations.

Then again…maybe he still thinks that. Maybe he just accepted the diamond to humor his mother. Maybe he has no intention of giving it to me in this millennium. Who knows? Maybe he’s already traded it for an ounce of saffron and a six-pack.

The uptown local is packed, of course.

The reverse tug-of-war begins. A mass of people shove to get off; a mass of people shove to get on.

Yes, we are among the shovers.

Because in New York, you do things on a daily basis you wouldn’t dream of doing anywhere else. At least,
I
wouldn’t.

Back in Brookside, I wouldn’t dream of shouldering my way through the crowded vestibule of Most Precious Mother to snag a primo pew, scattering little old church ladies with limbs akimbo.

But when in Rome—or the subway…

Well, you get the idea. I’m a seasoned Manhattanite after three years here, and I can shove and curse and even flip people off like a native, although only when absolutely necessary.

And only strangers.

When it comes to people I know, I can be oddly complacent in that regard. If only I’d had the nerve to shove, curse and flip off my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw, before he had a chance to break my heart.

But I was still the old Tracey-sans-
cojones
back then.

As we shoehorn ourselves into the car, I am careful to align the front of my body with the side of Jack’s to avoid accidental intercourse with the total stranger crammed in beside me.

“You okay?” Jack asks.

“Fine,” I tell him, taking shallow breaths so as not to inhale fresh B.O. from a neighboring straphanger.

“We’ll stop at the store on the way home to get the stuff for my chicken thing.”

“All right.” I feel like I’m going to gag. Does this person not know he’s stinking up the whole car? Or does he not care?

“You don’t seem very into it.”

“I am!” I snap—then repeat sweetly and guiltily at his hurt look.

The train lurches, stalls.

Lurches, stalls.

Then it lurches again, just enough to pull beyond the platform and into the dark tunnel before there’s a hiss as the engine dies and a flicker before the lights go with it.

A cry of protest goes up in the car as people curse in every known language.

“Still okay?” Jack asks in the dark, his voice reassuringly close to my ear. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

I take a deep breath of disgusting B.O. air. “Uh-huh.”

If this were two years ago, when I was in the midst of my panic attacks after Will left, I would be about to throw up or pass out or both.

But the panic attacks subsided somewhere around the time Jack came along, with the help of some little pink pills that were prescribed for me by Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum. As a delightful pharmaceutical side effect, I lost my appetite and the remainder of the forty pounds I needed to take off.

I eventually tapered off the pills last winter with nary a panic attack nor added pounds, but Dr. Schwartzenbaum warned me that they could be triggered again.

The panic attacks.

The appetite too, I guess. But at least I can combat that with my old standby weapons: cabbage soup, baby carrots and brisk lunch-hour walks to Tribeca and back.

Fighting the panic attacks is a little more complicated. Sometimes I wonder what might set them off again.

Being trapped underground in a packed subway car in a dark tunnel could very well do it.

I try not to remember the old movie I once saw with my grandfather about a subway hijacking.
The Taking of Pelham 123.

I squeeze Jack’s hand, hard. He squeezes back.

See, that’s the thing. I always know that he loves me, to the point where his mere presence is reassuring. Not just in this subway crisis (I know, but to
me
it’s a crisis)—but in my life. That’s why I want to know—
need
to know—that we’ll be together forever.

Because I can’t imagine my life ever feeling normal again without him.

Surely he feels the same way.

Surely he’s ready to make that final commitment, wouldn’t ya think?

The intercom interrupts my speculation, crackling loudly with a seemingly urgent announcement.

The only words I think I can make out clearly are “grapefruit,” “Ricky Schroeder” and “explosive.”

Or maybe I’m hearing them wrong.

“What did they say?” I ask Jack.

“Who knows?” he replies amid the disgruntled grumbling from similarly stumped commuters.

Okay, I might not have heard
grapefruit
or
Ricky Schroeder,
but I’m pretty sure I heard the word
explosive.

I try not to think about terrorist attacks and suicide bombers.

Yeah, you know how that goes. Terrorist attacks and suicide bombers are now all I can think about.

In a matter of moments, I am convinced that this is no ordinary malfunction, but an Al Qaeda plot.

We’re all going to die, right here, right now. And when we do, we won’t even be able to slump to the ground because we’re wedged against each other like hundreds of cocktail toothpicks in a full plastic container.

I try to shift my weight, but succeed only slightly.

Great. Now I’m going to die standing up with what I hope is somebody’s umbrella poking into my leg. As opposed to a penis or a gun.

I try to shift my weight back in the opposite direction but that space has been filled. I can’t move.

To add to the drama, from this spot, even in this dim light, I have a clear view of yet another
Married People Live Longer
ad.

Dammit!

I know it’s not as if all the married people on board the train will be sheltered from harm in a golden beam from heaven while the rest of us losers die a terrible death, but…

Well, that stupid tag line isn’t helping matters. Not at all.

Married People Live Longer.

It might as well have said:
Single People Die Young.

My chest is getting tight and my forehead is breaking out into a cold sweat. This definitely feels like a panic attack.

Mental note: place emergency call to Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum ASAP.

I’m trapped. Oh, God, I can’t even breathe. There’s no air in here.

Yes there is. Stop that. There’s plenty of air.

I inhale.

Exhale.

See? Plenty of stale, stinky air to go around.

“Come on!” shouts an angry voice in the dark.

“This is bullshit!” somebody else announces.

Another passenger throws in a colorful expletive for good measure.

Then a woman speaks up. “That’s not helping.”

“Shaddup!”

In no time, a train full of civilized commuters has transformed into a vocal, angry mob. If there were more room, fistfights would be breaking out.

“I can’t breathe,” I tell Jack.

“Yes, you can,” he says calmly.

“No, I can’t.”

Verging on hysteria, I fantasize about shoving people aside and breaking a window.

Two things stop me. The first is that it’s too crowded to get the leverage to shove anyone. The other is that I don’t have a window-breaking weapon in my purse.

I guess I can always snatch the umbrella that’s still pressed up against my leg.
If
it’s an umbrella.

If it’s not…

Well, you definitely don’t want to grab a stranger’s penis in a situation like this.

Then again, if it turns out to be a gun and not a penis, I can always shoot my way out.

Then
again,
if it’s a gun, its owner might shoot me.

The thing is, if it’s a gun, there’s a distinct possibility that any second now, he might go berserk and start shooting. Things like that happen all the time.

Oh, God. I really can’t breathe.

“Jack,” I say in a shrill whisper, “I’m scared.”

“Why? It’s fine. We’re fine.”

See, the thing is, that’s easy for him to say. He doesn’t know about the freak with the gun.

“I’m really scared, Jack.”

“Of what?”

“You know…” Conscious that the fifty or so people standing within arm’s length might be eavesdropping, I whisper, “Death.”

“Relax. You’re not going to
die.
”

“How do you know?”

“Because—well, why would you think you’re going to die?” he asks, loudly enough to be heard in Brooklyn.

Terrific. If the guy with the gun/umbrella/penis didn’t think of opening fire yet, Jack just gave him the idea.

“I don’t,” I snap. “I don’t think I’m going to die.”

“But you just said—”

“I was joking.” Before I can muster a requisite laugh, the lights go back on and the engine whirs to life.

The train starts moving again as if none of this ever happened.

Problem over, just like that.

Panic attack averted.

At least for now.

“See?” Jack says. “I told you you’d survive.”

“We’re not home yet,” I point out. “It’s not survival until we’re safe at home.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. Actually, I’ve been in a permanent shrug since we got on the train, thanks to the close quarters. “I just really want to get home.”

Jack just looks at me for a second, then says, “You really
are
stressed.”

“I really am stressed.”

And you’re the cause of it.

All right, so he had nothing to do with the stalled subway.

But I do find myself thinking life’s minor—and major—disruptions would be much easier to handle if we were engaged.

Then I find myself thinking, in sheer disgust, that I really am one of those marriage-obsessed women after all.

I’m Kate, when she was hell-bent on marrying Billy. All she ever wanted to do was speculate on the status of their marital future, ad nauseam. Raphael and I thought she was our worst nightmare then. Little did we know she’d be even scarier once she had the ring on her finger and a formal Southern wedding to plan.