by Tom Perrotta
*
Brendan left around eight, climbing into a battered Toyota driven by one of his CrossFit buddies. As soon as he was gone, Eve went upstairs and changed into a tight skirt and tailored blouse and the one pair of special-occasion high heels she still owned. She took a selfie of her reflection in the full-length bedroom mirror, her mouth set in a sultry pout that didn’t look as ridiculous as she’d thought it would. Just for laughs, she undid two more buttons on her blouse and took a photo with the edge of her black bra showing, not that she would ever post an image like that on social media. It was just for herself—an ego boost, irrefutable proof that she could still be sexy if the occasion called for it.
Now that she was all dressed up, it seemed crazy not to go out—just for a quick drink, a little human contact. Nothing fun or interesting was going to happen if she stayed home, that was for sure.
The Lamplighter Inn was a lot busier than it had been on her previous visit, the Saturday crowd younger and louder than she’d expected. Feeling instantly self-conscious, Eve took the last open stool at the bar and ordered a dirty martini from a baby-faced bartender who looked like she’d just graduated from college.
“Is Jim Hobie working tonight?” Eve asked.
The bartender gave her a suspicious look. She was wearing a cropped shirt, and Eve could see a tattoo of a black rose peeking out from the waistband of her jeans.
“Hobie only works weeknights. You know him?”
“Not that well. Our kids went to school together.”
The girl nodded and swiped Eve’s twenty off the bar. When she returned with the change, she frowned like there was something on her mind.
“I know it’s none of my business,” she said, “but you should be careful. Hobie’s a nice guy, but he says a lot of shit that he doesn’t really mean. And then he acts like he never said it in the first place.”
“Okay.” Eve took a sip of her cocktail. “Thanks for the warning.”
The girl laughed sadly and rubbed her tattoo, as if it were a sore spot.
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Join the club,” Eve told her.
“What do you mean? Did you and him . . . ?”
“No,” Eve said. “I just meant, you know, you’re always hoping for the best and . . .”
The girl laughed. “You get Hobie.”
“Exactly.” Eve shrugged. “But it doesn’t mean you were wrong for hoping.”
It wasn’t a bad night in the end. She stuck it out for two drinks, and chatted with a couple of not-completely-horrible guys around her own age—a divorced home inspector and an ex-cop who’d retired on full disability, though he seemed to be in perfect health—both of whom were reasonably attractive and had nothing of interest to say. But at least she’d tried, that was the important thing.
*
She left the bar a little after ten and got into her car. While she waited for the engine to warm up—it was another frigid night—she took out her phone and looked at the pictures she’d taken earlier in the evening. They were really good—not just the haircut and the clothes, but the look on her face, and even the way she was standing, with her hand on her hip, and her head canted at the perfect, self-possessed angle. Everything felt right and true, just the way she wanted it.
There I am, she thought.
She selected the second photo—the sexier one—and texted it to Julian. She’d been wanting to do it all night. It was exciting to finally press Send, to turn the fantasy into action.
He didn’t answer right away, so she pulled out of the parking lot and started toward home. She’d only gone a couple of blocks when her phone chimed. Eve was adamantly opposed to texting and driving, so she forced herself to wait until she’d pulled into her driveway to read his reply.
Great pic! But you missed a few buttons
Just a minor oversight. I thought you might like it.
She got out of the car and went inside, her heart beating at a rapid clip. There was nothing quite like the suspense of waiting for a flirty text—as if the whole world was on pause, holding its breath until the next little ding! started it up again. She’d just locked the door behind her when he replied.
I fucking love it!
She sent him a blushing-face emoji that must have crossed with his follow-up:
Could u take one with your shirt off?
Eve laughed out loud, a melodic, two-martini chuckle.
Don’t get greedy, she told him.
An Invitation
As always, it was work that kept her grounded, reminding her that she could still make a positive impact in her community, and in the world. It was hard to feel sorry for herself at the Senior Center, where she encountered so many people who were dealing with problems that made her own seem trivial—chronic arthritis, early-stage Parkinson’s, severe hearing loss, the death of a beloved spouse, a Social Security check that didn’t cover even the most basic monthly expenses. The resilience of the elderly—their sense of humor and reluctance to complain, their determination to make the best of a bad (and almost always worsening) situation—was both humbling and inspiring.
That winter, Eve threw herself into the day-to-day life of the Center with renewed energy and commitment, delegating fewer tasks to her staff and playing more of a hands-on leadership role than usual. She personally revived the Mystery Novel Book Club—it had faded away after the death of its founder and guiding spirit, a retired English teacher named Regina Filipek—selecting Gone Girl as the first title and leading a lively, if occasionally frustrating, discussion of the book’s many byzantine twists and turns with a group of seven mostly enthusiastic readers.
She was also drafted into the Tuesday morning bowling league, joining a team called the Old Biddies as a temporary substitute for Helen Haymer, who was suffering from a severe case of vertigo that had left her housebound. None of the Biddies’ opponents minded that Eve was a ringer, thirty years younger than the woman she’d replaced. This was partly because they were tickled by her presence at the bowling alley—as executive director, she was a bit of a celebrity—but mainly because she was such a weak bowler compared to Helen, a former school bus driver with a 150 average, one of the highest in the league (Eve was lucky to break a hundred on a good day). She hadn’t played organized sports in high school—she’d grown up right before the golden age of girls’ athletics—and was surprised by how much fun it was to be part of a team, cheering on her fellow Biddies when they rolled a strike, bucking them up after the gutter balls, patting them on the back and reminding them that it didn’t matter, that there would always be a next time.
Tuesday mornings quickly became the highlight of her work week. She came into the office in her most comfortable jeans, took care of her email and any other business that couldn’t wait, and then filed onto the Elderbus along with her fellow bowlers. They trash-talked the whole way to Haddington Lanes, where the seniors pretty much had the place to themselves. It was an invigorating break from the daily routine, full of laughter and high fives and soft drinks.
Right before her fifth outing, Eve’s teammates presented her with an extra-large T-shirt with the words FUTURE BIDDY emblazoned on the front. Eve wore it proudly, and bowled her highest game ever, a completely respectable 117. Later that day, she called to check on Helen Haymer, and was sorry to hear that the vertigo wasn’t getting any better, though not quite as sorry as she probably should have been.
*
Eve was thinking about Amanda as she left work on a rainy Wednesday evening in early March, curious to know how she was doing at the library. She wondered if it would be okay to reach out to her with a brief, friendly email, just to say hi and let her know that she hadn’t been forgotten. It was probably a bad idea, but the silence between them felt wrong and unfinished, like a phone left off the hook.
Amanda had been on her mind a lot in the past few days because Eve needed to find her replacement ASAP—in an era of tight municipal budgets, you had to fill a job opening quic
kly or risk having the position eliminated—and the hiring process was in full swing. More than fifty applicants had submitted their résumés, many of them seriously overqualified for the low-paid, entry-level post. At least a dozen had master’s degrees—mostly in Social Work or Nonprofit Administration—and two had completed law school, only to realize that there were already too many lawyers in the world.
Eve had drawn up a short list of five candidates, and had interviewed three so far. They were all perfectly fine—competent, professional, appropriately dressed. They had relevant experience and impressive letters of recommendation. Hannah Gleezen, the young woman she’d spoken to that afternoon, was fresh out of Lesley College, and had spent the past six months doing an unpaid internship at an assisted living facility in Dedham, where she’d called out Bingo numbers, organized a hugely successful Scrabble tournament, and led a holiday sing-along that had been a real morale booster for the residents. She was earnest and bubbly, and Eve had no reason to doubt her sincerity when she said that she really liked old people and believed that her generation had a lot to learn from their elders.
“I don’t see it as me helping them,” she’d said. “It’s more of a two-way-street type of thing.”
Eve could have just hired her on the spot. The seniors would love her, and so would the staff. She was the complete antithesis of Amanda, who’d confessed in her interview that old people freaked her out, not only because of their casual racism and homophobia and their love of Bill O’Reilly—though all that was bad enough—but also because of their broken-down bodies, and the terrible clothes they wore, and even the way some of them smelled, which she knew was unfair, but still.
It had been a gamble to hire her—Eve knew that from Day One—and it hadn’t paid off in the end, but that didn’t mean it had been a mistake. She was proud of Amanda for trying to shake things up at the Senior Center, and proud of herself for taking a chance on such a wild card. She didn’t want to settle for a replacement who didn’t have that same spark, a bland, safe choice that would look like an apology—or worse, a betrayal of everything Amanda had stood for—so Eve had shaken Hannah’s hand and said she’d get back to her in a week or so, after she’d met with the remaining candidates.
The rain was cold and insidious—she could feel it snaking under her collar and rolling down her back as she made her way across the parking lot—but she thought she detected a faint undercurrent of spring in the air, the faraway promise of something better. It was late, almost six thirty, and the lot was deserted except for her minivan and a car she didn’t recognize—a newish Volvo sedan—parked right beside it, so close to the white divider line that it felt like a violation of her personal space.
The Volvo’s lights and wipers were on, which seemed a little ominous, and made it hard for Eve to see through the windshield. Squinting into the glare, she squeezed into the narrow space between the two vehicles. As she clicked her key fob—the van’s dome light flashed on to greet her—the passenger window of the Volvo slid down.
“Eve.” Julian was leaning across the interior console, wearing a green army coat with button-down epaulettes, his head and shoulders torqued at an awkward angle. “What’s up?”
As she turned to face him, her shoulder bumped into the van’s side-view mirror.
“Jeez,” she said. “Did you have to park so close?”
“Sorry.” Julian looked embarrassed. “I’m out of practice. I don’t drive very much.”
It was true, she realized. She’d never seen him behind the wheel before.
“Can I . . . help you with something?” Her tone was frostier than she’d intended. It was disorienting to see him here, at her place of work, without any advance warning. Not a practice she wanted to encourage.
“Not really,” he said. “I was just hoping we could talk.”
A car drove by on Thornton Street, and Eve felt suddenly exposed, as if she’d been caught in the middle of an illicit transaction. She cupped her hands around her face and leaned in closer.
“It’s raining out.”
“Come in.” He nodded at the passenger seat. “The heater’s on.”
Eve knew this was her own fault. She never should have sent Julian that picture the other night. It was a stupid, reckless thing to do. And now she had to deal with this. With him. And talking to him—clearing up his understandable confusion, apologizing for the mixed messages she’d sent—was the least she could do.
“Just for a minute,” she said. “I need to get home and make dinner.”
The door didn’t open all the way, on account of his terrible parking job, so it took some doing for Eve to slip into the Volvo. She felt calmer once she was inside, no longer visible from the street.
“I missed you,” he said.
Eve nodded, acknowledging the sentiment, but not quite returning it. They examined each other for a little too long, reacquainting themselves after the winter-long separation. He’d grown out some stubble on his cheeks and chin, a scruffy hipster look that added a couple of years to his face.
“I like your hair,” he said. “It’s really pretty that way.”
“Thank you.”
“I liked it before,” he added quickly, in case she’d taken his compliment the wrong way. “But this is better. You look really hot.”
Eve let out a cautionary sigh that was directed more to herself than to Julian, a reminder not to drift off course, to wander into a conversation that would be a lot more enjoyable (and dangerous) than the one they needed to have.
“Julian,” she said. “That’s really kind of you. But I’m old enough to—”
“I don’t care,” he told her.
“Look.” She shook her head in weary self-reproach. “I know I’ve done some things that have muddied the waters between us, and I’m really sorry about that. But we’re not a couple. We can never be a couple. I think you know that as well as I do.”
He conceded the point without a fight.
“I totally get that.”
“Okay, good.” Eve smiled with relief. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
Julian stared through the windshield—the wipers were still arcing back and forth—with a brooding intensity that reminded Eve of her high school boyfriend, Jack Ramos, a sad-eyed baseball player with an explosive temper. Jack had burst into tears when she broke up with him, and then ordered her to get the fuck out of his car, a yellow VW bug that smelled like dirty socks. There were no cellphones back then, and it had taken her an hour to walk home in the dark. But that had seemed like a reasonable price to pay, because the breakup had been her choice, and she was relieved to be done with him.
Julian reached across the console and took her hand. She was so surprised that it didn’t occur to her to resist.
“I was just hoping we could hook up sometimes,” he said, stroking her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. It was a nostalgic sensation, a memory made flesh. “Nobody has to know but us.”
Eve laughed. She hadn’t seen that coming. Belatedly, and with some regret, she extracted her hand from his.
“Julian,” she said. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“Why not?”
She groaned in disbelief. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Just give me one reason.”
“Are you kidding me? I mean, really. How would we even—”
“My parents are on vacation.”
Eve didn’t understand him at first. She thought he was changing the subject, conceding defeat.
“They’ll be gone all week.” He paused, giving her a moment to catch up. “Come by any night you want. Early, late, I don’t care. Just text me and come on over.”
Eve couldn’t even imagine it. What was she supposed to do? Walk up his front steps and ring the doorbell? Stand there in full view of the neighbors and wait for him to let her in? But it was almost like he read her mind.
“I’ll leave the garage door open. You can just pull right in. There’s a string with a key on
it hanging from the ceiling. You can reach it from the driver’s-side window. Give it a tug, the door goes down automatically. No one’ll even see you.”
Eve didn’t know what to say. It sounded like a good plan, simple and totally plausible, if the person pulling the string had been anyone other than herself.
“You’ve given this some thought,” she muttered.
Julian looked at her. His face was serious, full of adult longing. It was like she could see right through the college boy to the man he would one day become.
“It’s all I fucking think about,” he told her.
Coyote
Eve had no intention of sneaking out for a tryst with a nineteen-year-old boy whose parents were away on vacation. Leaving aside the difference in their ages, which was a deal-breaker in and of itself, everything about the scenario felt tawdry and vaguely demeaning—the open garage door, the ticking clock (offer valid for one week only!), the whole booty-call/friends-with-benefits aspect of what he was proposing. It smelled like a surefire recipe for regret, if not disaster. Even the memory of their semi-illicit rendezvous at the Senior Center—the cold rain, the car and the van side by side in an otherwise empty parking lot, the brief interlude of hand-holding—made her feel foolish and a little uneasy in retrospect.
She remembered reading an advice column a few years back in which the expert suggested the following rule of thumb: If you’re thinking about doing something you won’t be able to confess to your spouse or best friend, then DON’T DO IT! YOU ALREADY KNOW IT’S WRONG! This was solid, unimpeachable advice, and it definitely applied to her current dilemma. With the possible exception of Amanda—to whom Eve wasn’t currently speaking in any case—there was no one she could imagine confiding in, no responsible adult she knew who wouldn’t be horrified to hear what she’d already done with Julian—to Julian?—let alone the proposition that was now on the table.
Luckily, this wasn’t a major problem, because there was nothing she needed to discuss. She wasn’t going to drive to his house and pull into the garage, nor was she going to tug on a string (the key on the end was a nice detail, very Ben Franklin) and wait for the door to descend so she could sneak inside and compound her previous mistake—which at least had the virtue of being unpremeditated—with a more serious and deliberate error, stupidity in the first degree.
