The One That Got Away
Read The One That Got Away Online
Authors: Carol Rosenfeld
the one that got away
To those who love me, even when I'm bad
“When you fish for love, bait with your heart, not your brain.”
Mark Twain
“Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.”
Henry David Thoreau
“Nothing makes a fish bigger than almost being caught.”
Author Unknown
Contents
In the days before the Internet enabled us to stalk people, memory was our primary link with ex-friends and lovers. A capricious power, memory remains drowsy until roused by some seemingly random thing or eventâa song, a diary entry, a ticket stub, a restaurant. But memory can't answer the question that sometimes tags along on the journey: what if?
My therapist once said that when you're climbing a mountain, sometimes it's good to pause and look back at how far you've come.
It's a beautiful fall day today, not unlike the day of an encounter with a woman who blazed through my world like Halley's Comet. Her name was Bridget. Bridget McKnight.
“We want the best,” William said.
“Of course.” Eduardo's tone implied that surely this was why they had chosen him to plan their wedding.
It was an ordinary morning, if such a thing exists in the bridal industry. An early October morning with lingering humidity, the last guest to leave summer's party. My boss, Eduardo, and I were having a power breakfast with two new clients, William Meany III and Patricia Blank. They were both investment bankers.
As I held out the basket of no-fat bran mini-muffins to the bride-to-be, she smiled and sipped her black decaffeinated coffee. “I'm trying to lose some weight before the wedding.”
Sighing, I wondered where, oh where, was the woman who would declare, “I want to grow into my wedding gown,” and demand muffins worthy of the name, with butter and jam.
I am well suited to be a bridal consultant, having muddy hair and a full-moon face. My legs are short enough for the shortest inseam, while my waist and hips require a trip to the women's department. It's a body that is neither good enough nor bad enough to be
noticeable, making me an inoffensive handmaiden for those who are primping and preparing for their brief blaze of glory.
“Could we do the ceremony at St. Patrick's Cathedral?” William asked.
“You're Catholic?”
“Well, no. Does it matter?”
“It could be a problem. Religions tend to be a bit territorial.”
“We'd be happy to make a contribution,” William said. “We need a place that's big.”
“What kind of numbers are we talking about?” Eduardo asked. “Just a rough estimate for now.”
“Say, four hundred, four hundred fifty.”
“I'd love to have that orchestra that played in Central Park for the reception,” Patricia said.
Eduardo said, “I believe the New York Philharmonic has a rather busy schedule.”
The only son of a well-to-do Argentinean landowner, Eduardo arrived in New York and found his first patrons among acquaintances who remembered the spectacular Buenos Aires weddings he'd helped to arrange for his sister and cousins. His dream client was an Astor or a Rockefeller, though his current customers were people who wanted to flaunt their money, or people who wanted to create the illusion that they had more money than they really did.
Eduardo wore his long, silky raven hair in a tightly plaited ponytail. He clothed his flapper's body entirely in black, flowing through the world like ink from a calligrapher's pen. His solemn demeanor was aided by round, wire-rimmed glasses he didn't really need.
According to Eduardo, his mission in life was to bring elegance, glamour, and drama into a lackluster world. He liked to say, “Many are called, but only ten percent are chosen.”
Eduardo also liked to say, “These women tell me, âI've been waiting my whole life for my wedding day.' But really, what is one day? I can feel special anytime. I just put on a gown and party.”
On the way to our next meeting, I popped into Dunkin' Donuts. To me, a proper power breakfast is one packed with sugar.
“What is that?” Eduardo asked.
“The Manager's Special.” Draped in thick chocolate icing and extravagantly garnished with rainbow sprinkles, it oozed some sort of gloppy substance that I was hoping might turn out to taste of lemon. Or apple.
Eduardo shuddered.
We were scheduled to meet Nancy McKnight, our second client of the day, and look at bridal gowns. At the previous session, Nancy had tried on practically every gown in the shop without choosing anything. “They're all so beautiful,” she'd said.
The evolution from engagement to wedded bliss can defeat even the strongest-willed woman. I have watched confident, independent women certain of wanting something simple and practical, find themselves several months and one mother later dragging a twelve-foot train down the aisle.
But Nancy McKnight was spineless from the startâincapable of making a decision about anything.
We took a cab down to Orange Blossom Thyme on Spring Street. Shopping for a gown was one of the more difficult tasks in the wedding planning process for Eduardo. He'd confided to me that he always wanted to try on a gown himself, and occasionally found himself thinking he'd look better than the bride in some of them.
Nancy was already there, and Gloria Hewett, the shop owner, was showing her some new gowns that had arrived the day before.
A woman walked into the shop, carrying a container of coffee. And in one perfect
Miracle Worker
moment I understood desire the way Helen Keller understood the word “water.”
“This is my sister, Bridget,” Nancy said, heading for the dressing room.
I stood there, willing her to take my hand.
Instead, she said, “Hi.”
A trapdoor opened in the plateau of my life and my heart fell through, flattening into a red carpet at Bridget's feet.
“It's good that you're here,” I said. “I think your sister needs some help in choosing her bridal gown.”
Nancy came out in a gown.
“This brings back memories of Halloween, Nance,” Bridget said.
“Did Nancy dress up as a bride one Halloween?” I asked.
“Every Halloween,” Bridget replied. “She didn't trick anyone.”
“So what?” Nancy said. She smiled at herself in the mirror.
“I had to escort you, that's what. No matter what I wore, everyone knew it was me because I was with you.”
As Nancy returned to the dressing room, I asked Bridget, “What did you dress as?”
“A pirate. An ice hockey playerâI blacked out some of my teeth for that one. The Abominable Snowman. The Cowardly LionâI loved that costume. I wore it to bed and played with my tail all night.”
When Nancy came out in her second gown, Bridget said, “That one looks nice.” She said the same thing
about the third and fourth gowns. The latter was one of the most unflattering bridal gowns I had ever seen on any client. Bridget winked at me. I blushed. She smiled then. It seemed to come from deep down inside her, spreading across her face like the sun coming fully up and over the horizon. None of the women I'd made love with in dreams and fantasies had ever had a face. Not until Bridget smiled at me.
Nancy called out from the dressing room, “The zipper's stuck.”
I went in to assist her.
“You have a great job,” Bridget said, as I put the fifth gown back on its hanger.
“I do?”
“You get to see women in their underwear.”
We regarded each other in comfortable silence for a long, drawn-out moment. Then I said, “Actually, the highlight of my day is when the Federal Express woman delivers.”
I opened the file with Nancy's personalized calendar and checklist. “Y'know, we should be looking for a dress for you, Bridget, since you're going to be Nancy's maid of honor.”
“Why don't we talk about that over a beer?” Bridget said.
“OK.” I pulled out my daily planner. “When?”
“She's free every night of the week,” Eduardo said. He was fingering the pleated organza train on a Caroline Herrera gown.
Bridget laughed. “Why don't we meet Thursday night at Naked Promise?”
“That's a bar, B.D.,” Eduardo said. “A lesbian bar.”
“You've never been to Naked Promise?”
“No,” I said, “but it's on my list of things I need to do.”
“Bring that list with you on Thursday night. I'd like to see it. Maybe I can help you.”
That Thursday night, Bridget stood, beer bottle in hand, scanning the room, checking out the women, who were checking her out. As far as I was concerned, she was the only woman in the room worth looking at.
Bridget wasn't that much taller than I. She was big in the way that women sculpted by Maillol are bigâwith assertive hips and a grounded stance. When she stood behind me, I thought of those Russian dolls that nest inside one another. And then I thought of a line from a song that goes, “The bigger they come, the harder they fall.” I can't explain exactly what it means to me, but it's something good.