The One That Got Away (14 page)

“Yes, but I'll know that they're going to die.”

“I want to be sure I understand what it is that you don't want. You don't want flowers on the tables at the reception. You don't want boutonnières. You don't want bouquets. Even for the bride.”

‘That's right.”

In my file I drew a daisy inside a circle and put a slash across it. I made a note—the bride has to throw something.

“Well,” Eduardo said, “We'll have to see what we can come up with. How do you feel about silk flowers?”

“I can't bear anything artificial.” Adele pressed her Lee Press On Nails to her breast. Her hair was very blonde, her makeup very heavy, and her skirt very short. I made another note in my file—no matronly gowns for Adele.

After Eduardo showed Adele out, he went directly to his office and closed the door.

I thought that in one of his other lives Eduardo must have been a Victorian maiden who was prone to the vapors. When he finally emerged, I said, “You have to think of it as a challenge to your creativity, Eduardo. You have to look at this as an opportunity to set a trend. You have to ask yourself—what would Martha Stewart do?”

“B.D., I'm going to take a long lunch with Michael at The Queen's Cozy.” Michael was the florist behind Mr. Pansy. The Queen's Cozy was a tea and pastry shop that sold tea cozy replicas of Buckingham Palace and Guardsman hats and imported tea towels with pictures of the Royal Family.

“Maybe I'll shop for some boxer shorts,” I said, remembering the young women at the beach and thinking of end-of-summer sales.

“All natural fabrics only, and no smiley faces. I'll bring you back a take-out scone with clotted cream and strawberry preserves.”

I thought about Maxine's breasts as I walked to Macy's. I thought about them in a respectful way, in the way I contemplate a work of art that inspires and moves me. I wasn't like the guy in front of me in the sandwich line last week, asking the harried man behind the counter for a nice, tender breast, then snorting and honking with his buddy until I wanted to kick him in the shins and scream, “Don't you ever think about anything else you rug-roofed, cigar-smoking creep!” By my standards, Maxine's breasts were perfection.

People were always telling Bridget how lucky she was to have a girlfriend who was a gourmet cook. But from time to time, the pleasures of radicchio, balsamic vinegar, and freshly made pasta would pale and Bridget would call and invite me out for a greasy burger. I was proud that she chose me to be her comrade in her occasional culinary rebellions.

“So B.D., what's new and exciting in your world?” Bridget asked.

“I bought some boxer shorts this afternoon,” I said.

“B.D., you constantly surprise me.”

I explained about the young women on the beach.

“Well, I hope you'll bring me along for your bare-breasted debut. I'll make sure all your admirers behave themselves. Hey, did you happen to run into Natalie and Maxine while you were at Cherry Grove?”

“Oh, yes, I saw them.” I crammed a large French fry into my mouth.

“So, are they having an affair?”

“How should I know?” I couldn't even figure out when I was on a date and when I wasn't. Could I call this dinner a date? I'd consulted Eduardo, but he wasn't much help. “I just hope you know when you're having sex, bebé,” he said.

“I just sort of figured that the three of you piled into bed together at least once a week,” I said.

Bridget looked horrified. “I'm too much of a WASP.”

The only other time Bridget so much as hinted at suspecting that Natalie and Maxine might be more than friends was back at the Fourth of July barbecue hosted by Ellen and Annalise. I was at the kitchen table, feeling the effects of my first strawberry daiquiri and sipping my second. Bridget was sitting to my left, drinking a beer, when Maxine entered the room from the doorway to my right.

“Hey, Maxine,” Bridget said “How many girlfriends have we shared?”

I looked from one to the other.

“I don't know,” Maxine replied. “Maybe we should each make a list and compare them.”

Anyone just listening would have heard only banter, but I could see their eyes—Bridget's cold with anger, Maxine's dark with defiance.

Chapter 17

“Maxine is making me dinner while Natalie is out of town and she'd like you to come too,” Bridget said.

“Are you sure? Why didn't she ask me herself?”

“I mentioned that I was going to call you and she asked me to pass along the invitation.”

“Should I bring anything?”

“Bread,” Bridget said. “Bring plenty of bread.”

“Why the emphasis on plenty?” I asked,

“So there will be something we can eat. Think of the bread as self-insurance.”

“You exaggerate,” I said.

Bridget told me she was going to drive to Maxine's and offered to pick me up outside the subway station near Maxine's apartment building.

With my transportation in place, I began trying to imagine what Maxine's apartment might look like. Would her furniture be leather? Would she have Goddess shrines? Would her bed be a double, queen, or king size? A twin was unthinkable.

The morning of the day of the dinner, I went to Zabar's and bought a large Swiss peasant bread, a large rosemary round, and a large sourdough baguette.

Bridget picked me up at the corner, as arranged.

“Want to stop at McDonald's on the way?” she asked.

“Very funny,” I said.

“I am not joking, B.D. I've known Maxine for fifteen years. She can't cook.”

Maxine buzzed us up and was waiting at the door to her apartment. She was wearing an attractive wine-colored, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, black chinos, and sneakers. “Hi! Come in.”

“I brought you some bread,” I said, offering the bag.

“One, two—three loaves! Did you bring one for each of us?”

“Actually,” I said, “I couldn't make up my mind which kind to get.”

“Should I warm them up?”

“You don't have to do that, Maxine,” Bridget said.

“It's no trouble; the oven's already on. It'll be nice if the bread is warm.”

Bridget sighed and sat down on the sofa that could open up into a futon as Maxine disappeared into the kitchen.

I wandered around the room. The table was square and set for three with woven place mats, stoneware plates and bowls, and paper napkins. There were several bookcases and a framed Georgia O'Keefe poster. I stopped to look more closely at a family portrait. Maxine was wearing a dress. It was very disconcerting to see her dressed that way. Plus I'd never pictured Maxine having a mother and a father—I thought she'd arrived fully grown, like Athena.

The phone rang. Maxine came into the living room to answer it. “Hello? Speaking. Well, I'm sorry you're in crisis but you're interrupting my dinner.” She put the phone back in its charger.

“One of your students?” I asked.

“No,” Maxine said. “A total stranger. Ever since
Lesbian Bed Death and Resurrection
was published, I keep getting these calls from lesbians who think I'm some kind of sex expert.”

“Aren't you?” I asked.

“Et tu, B.D.,” Maxine said.

“Is something burning?” Bridget asked.

“Shit! It's the bread.” Maxine ran into the kitchen.

Bridget and I followed her. The crusts of the breads were charred and steaming. Bridget gave an especially loud sigh.

We sat down at the table and Maxine began ladling a brown, lumpy substance into the bowls in front of us.

“That looks incredible,” Bridget said. “What is it?”

“Lentil soup.”

I felt a twinge of anxiety. Was it lentil or barley soup that I didn't like? The first spoonful answered my question. I tried not to think about the mushy, pasty texture as I chewed and swallowed. My bowl seemed big enough to contain one of the Great Lakes.

Maxine brought a small cutting board that held what she had managed to salvage from the burnt loaves of bread. I snatched up two of the ragged, crustless slabs as soon as the board hit the table.

No sooner had I finished congratulating myself for making it through the soup when Maxine appeared with the main course.

“It's lasagna made from whole wheat pasta, spinach and tofu,” she said, anticipating my question.

“Yum,” said Bridget. “I love tofu, don't you, B.D.?”

I gave her what I thought was a glare worthy of Maxine.

“Oh!” Maxine said, jumping up from her chair. “I almost forgot the Brussels sprouts.”

This wasn't supposed to happen to an adult. The everything-you-hate-to-eat meal was a child's nightmare. If I said I was allergic to Brussels sprouts, would Maxine believe me?

“Maxine, you've outdone yourself,” Bridget said. “I can't imagine how you can possibly top this meal.”

“I found this wonderful no-fat pistachio frozen yogurt.”

I pressed my lips together and tried not to cry. I could deal with the nuts in Rocky Road and, if desperate, would tolerate butter pecan. But I loathed pistachio ice cream, and I considered frozen yogurt a crime against nature. “No thanks,” I said. “The soup and the lasagna did it for me.”

After dinner, Maxine showed me a couple of group pictures from her feminist commune days.

“You all have the same haircut,” I observed.

“Yes, we cut each other's hair in the kitchen.”

The hairstyle, if it could be called that, reminded me of a photograph of my father as a child. It looked as though someone had placed a bowl upside down on his head and cut around the edges.

“Where's your bathroom?” I asked.

“Through the kitchen, down the hallway, second door on the right,” Maxine said. “Watch out for Paddington.”

I was surprised that Maxine owned a teddy bear, much less kept it in her bathroom. I wondered why I had to watch out for it.

I opened the door, found the light switch and flicked it on, illuminating a very large snake coiled in the corner by the tile wall and the bathtub, within striking distance of the toilet. Slowly, I shut the light, backed out into the hallway, and closed the door.