by Sally Mandel
“Silly to feel bashful after all these years,” he said.
“I guess we’re used to having the girls with us,” Jackson said.
“Jesus, keep your voice down, man. You’re taking your life into your hands, using that term in here.”
Jackson looked at the sea of bobbing felt hats and smiled.
“What are you doing for the holidays?” Matthew asked.
“Just hanging out,” Jackson answered. “With Robin away …” He let the sentence go unfinished.
“Come spend Christmas with us,” Matthew said.
“Oh, thanks, I appreciate it, but I think I’m better off just … hanging out.”
There was another silence. Matthew was finding this more difficult than he had expected. He had figured that once he finally picked up the telephone and asked Jackson if he was free, the rest would follow easily enough. And Jackson had seemed genuinely glad to hear from Matthew.
“I’m not accustomed to …” Matthew began. He hesitated, and tried again. “I don’t have friends. Men friends. I’m used to just Maggie. There’s a lot I’d like to ask you about, but God damned if I can get started.”
Two bowls of vegetable soup swooped under their chins and settled on the table. “I know,” Jackson said. “After this … thing … with Robin, I really got myself tied up in knots. The only person I could talk to about Robin was Robin.”
“Exactly!” Matthew exclaimed. “So what did you do?”
“Spent a lot of money drinking so I could complain to the bartender.”
“Well, look, I’m sure it’s cheaper than psychotherapy.”
“There’s a guy in a place on Madison and Eightieth who’s not half bad,” Jackson said.
Matthew surveyed the roomful of women chattering eagerly together. A lady at the next table kept dabbing at her eyes with a white lace handkerchief. “They don’t have any difficulty,” Matthew observed.
“They’re analyzing their real-estate portfolios,” Jackson explained.
Matthew tried submerging himself by gradual steps. “So what about you and Robin? Are you … is she … if you don’t mind talking about it.”
On the contrary, Jackson seemed eager. His voice was deep and rich. Matthew liked listening to it.
“She’s got this job, you know,” Jackson said. “With a film company. She’s wild about it. They do a lot of public-service shorts for television, things on the environment, health care, that sort of thing.”
“Doesn’t sound like Robin to me.”
“Have you seen her lately?” Jackson asked. “She wears glasses and these godawful turtleneck sweaters. Hasn’t put on a dress in two months as far as I can tell. I figured if she wanted to work I’d set her up in a little business of her own, maybe with crafts. Needlepoint, macrame, knitting. Not a chance. She wanted to do it completely on her own.”
“But didn’t Hilary Vonderhyde get her the job?”
Jackson shrugged and smiled.
“It sounds as if you’re still in touch,” Matthew said.
“Oh yes. We date.” Jackson smiled again, but he was forcing it. He had ten years on Matthew, but sometimes he seemed even older. “It’s not wonderful.”
Matthew decided that by now he was in up to his ankles. Time to go for the knees. “Aren’t you pissed off?”
“Yes,” Jackson answered. “But not as much as I was at first.”
“But you were always so good to her, gave her every damn thing she wanted. You always treated her like a princess, unless you beat her when nobody was looking.”
“She says I gave her what I wanted her to have, not what she wanted.”
“So what does she want then?” Matthew’s voice had risen. In his agitation, he nearly knocked his water glass over.
“She doesn’t know. She’s working on it.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know,” Jackson said. “I’ve gotten to the point where I read the Hers column in the Times every Thursday.”
Matthew laughed. “Me too. What the hell, I figure I may learn something.”
The empty soup bowls turned into plates of toast smothered in melted cheese. “I keep telling myself it’s not easy for her, either,” Jackson said. “Robin can’t inflict pain without suffering herself. She’s got plenty of things to sort out right now.” He reached into his pocket, took out a roll of Turns, and popped two into his mouth.
“Maybe we should talk about the stock market?” Matthew said.
Jackson laughed. “I would guess they spend a lot of time on us. Maybe if we dedicated a few lunch hours to discussing our wives we might even figure them out someday.”
The melted cheese and toast points had transported Matthew back to the dining hall at Andover. Life had seemed manageable then. It was easy just making grades and shooting balls through hoops. “Do you think … this is none of my business … did she, was there someone else?”
“I don’t think so. I’d know if there was.”
“One would think.”
Jackson studied Matthew as the younger man tapped restlessly on the place mat with his fork handle.
“Of course, you and Maggie are an institution,” Jackson said. “It must be tough for you to understand what I’m talking about.”
“Every marriage has its rough spots, ours included.” Matthew set his fork down too hard and it fell to the floor with a clatter.
“How about a commune? Men only,” Jackson suggested.
“Sign me up,” Matthew said.
“One of those rough spots?”
“Nothing we can’t handle, but it’s a pain in the ass.” Matthew looked down at his hands. It should be so easy to let the words spill out of his mouth, but they would not come. Still, he was sitting across the table from Jackson, wasn’t he, after all those years of promising? It was a start.
They finished off their Welsh rabbit without speaking, but it was a comfortable, thoughtful silence now. For the first time in days, Matthew thought he felt a stirring of hope. It was elusive, like the tiny shimmering reflection of his watch crystal that danced on the wall beside him, but it felt good nonetheless. He looked up from his plate to see Jackson staring at him intently.
“Since we’re into it,” Jackson said slowly, “Robin’s pregnant.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
Jackson smiled sadly. “What a mess. She doesn’t even know if she wants it.”
“You have most certainly been in touch.”
“Once. We got a little boozed and forgot we’re not supposed to be lovers.”
“Do you want it?”
“I wouldn’t mind having a baby around,” Jackson replied.
The waitress handed them the dessert menu and moved on.
“Any projections about what’ll happen over the next few months?”
“Damned if I know,” Jackson answered. “I’m taking it a day at a time. The only thing I know for certain is that I’m going to have the gingerbread. Try it. It’ll remind you of the days when Grandma spent her afternoons baking goodies in the kitchen instead of producing documentary films or running for Congress.”
“With lemon sauce, no less,” Matthew read from the menu. “My grandmother was a golf pro.”
“Mine drove a cab.”
Matthew laughed and raised his glass. “Well, here’s to grandmas anyway. The myth and the reality. May they rule the world someday and give us a break.”
Jackson touched his glass to Matthew’s and drank. “If they don’t already.”
“You feeling okay, Mom?” Fred asked as they stepped out of the taxi in front of the Higgens Gallery.
“A little queasy,” Maggie said. “Must have been the Christmas pudding I had for dessert.” She ushered Susan and Fred up the steps ahead of her and wondered if David was already there. Under his steady pressure, she had finally agreed to bring the children to Eliza’s retrospective exhibit. He had convinced Maggie that the gallery was an ideal place f
or a preliminary meeting.
“It’s friendly and public,” he had said. “You can ignore me if you like, or introduce us if you think you can. Just relax, look at Eliza’s pictures, and let me stare at the kids.”
All night, Maggie had been practicing a possible introduction. “Fred, Susan, this is David Golden, a friend of mine from art class.” It seemed so simple. She had tried it aloud in the bathroom this morning, but her voice trembled so violently that she never got past the word “friend.”
“Hey, Mom,” Susan was saying. “Your stuff is just as good as this. How come you don’t get a show?”
“Patience, patience,” Maggie said. So far, no David. But there were two rooms. He could be lurking just around the corner.
Fred drew her over to an abstract of white-yellow color slicing through a black background. “Pretty excellent,” he commented.
Maggie thought of the Montauk lighthouse Eliza had spoken about on the boat. “What do you suppose she was getting at?” she asked Fred.
“Does it always have to mean something? Maybe she was just having fun with the colors.”
“I bet it has something to do with inspiration,” Susan suggested. “Kind of like the cartoon with a lightbulb going on over somebody’s head.”
“Crude,” Fred said.
Then she saw him. He was leaning against the far wall. Maggie watched his eyes move from one child to the other. There was the merest flicker when his gaze intercepted hers. Maggie felt her face flush red-hot. She was certainly not ready for an introduction today, she decided. Let this be the first step. He could see them with her, and perhaps the next time it would be easier for Maggie to initiate an actual confrontation. She steered Fred and Susan in the opposite direction. The next time Maggie checked, David had disappeared.
“Maggie Hollander,” he said.
Maggie jumped. “Oh,” she said.
“I’m David Golden,” David said to the children. “I know your mother from art class.”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “Fred, Susan, this is David Golden.”
“He said,” Fred remarked, giving his mother a sideways glance.
Susan held out her hand and stared up into David’s face. Maggie had begun to feel far removed.
“What do you think of the exhibit?” David asked.
“Extremely excellent,” Fred said.
“She has a fine sense of color, hasn’t she?” Susan said.
David nodded seriously. “It’s one of her greatest assets.”
“If you know Mom from class, you must paint too,” Fred said, as if he were not quite sure he was getting the full story.
“Sculpture,” David said.
“A sculptor! How exciting!” Susan exclaimed.
Maggie said in a strangled voice, “It was nice running into you. We haven’t seen the other room yet.”
David’s expression closed up; he waved to the children and turned away.
“He’s cute, Mom,” Susan whispered. “He looks just like a sculptor’s supposed to look.”
“And how’s that?” Maggie asked.
“Incredibly romantic, with that long hair and those wild eyes.”
“Probably hasn’t had a bath in weeks,” Fred commented.
At the dinner table, Fred passed the rolls to his father, glanced surreptitiously at Maggie, and said, “We met a friend of Mom’s at a gallery today.”
“Oh?” Matthew said. Something in Fred’s tone made him look up from his dinner.
“Yeah, the neatest-looking sculptor,” Susan said.
“He was far from neat,” Fred muttered
Matthew stopped buttering his roll. He stared at Maggie, who was poking carefully at the mounds of food on her plate. She tried to swallow a mouthful of zucchini, but it stuck just above her Adam’s apple.
“You should’ve seen the way he looked at Mom,” Fred began.
“Oh, Fred, don’t be absurd,” Susan said. “It was a terrific exhibit, didn’t you think so, Mom?”
Fred excused himself before dessert. Maggie tried to keep her eyes off Matthew’s face until she felt her expression return to normal.
Matthew caught Maggie’s hand as she started for the bathroom with her nightgown draped over her arm.
“Why, Mag?”
She looked startled.
“This.” He touched the soft folds of her nightgown.
“I’m just going to change.”
“I know that. Why do you hide in the bathroom?”
“It’s more … I’m just in the habit, I guess.”
He drew her over to the edge of the bed and sat down beside her.
“Do you have something to tell me?” he asked.
Her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head.
“Are you sure?” he pressed.
“No.”
Matthew cupped her chin with his hand and forced her to look into his face. “You’re not sure, or you don’t have anything to tell me?”
“I’m not sure.”
He released her chin, but took her hand in his. “Maggie, you and the children …” He was silent for a moment. “Are we going to be all right?” The words caught in his throat.
Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and tried to steel herself against the anguish she heard in his voice. David, she thought, what am I supposed to do now? Matthew pulled her into his arms and rocked her on the edge of the bed. She could tell by the sound of his breathing that he was crying.
Later, as they were finally succumbing to exhaustion in the dark, she heard Matthew say something. “What?” she asked groggily.
“I had lunch with Jackson Brody the other day,” he said.
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Maggie said. “Well.”
Christmas morning, Matthew handed Maggie a large envelope. Inside were two airline tickets and a brochure for the Spindrift Hotel on Key Biscayne. Maggie stared at the papers in her hand as though the writing was in a foreign language.
Fred and Susan laughed. “You know what our present is?” Susan asked. “We’re not going with you.”
“But where will you stay?”
“Here. Grandma’s coming.”
“Grandma,” Maggie repeated.
“Grandma Rhoda,” Fred said.
Maggie looked incredulous.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Fred said. “We’ll take good care of her.”
“I thought she was in Santa Fe.”
“She was,” Matthew said. “I told her it was an emergency.”
“Well, when? Oh, I guess it’s on the tickets. January third. My goodness, so soon.” Matthew was beginning to look disappointed. “Thank you, Matt,” Maggie said hurriedly. “It’s a lovely present. I’m just stunned.” She was already wondering how she would break the news to David.
“He knows,” David said over the telephone.
“How could he?” Maggie asked.
“I can’t imagine. Christ!” David’s outburst sounded uncharacteristically violent. “I wish I could throw down a gauntlet or something. I’d like to take him on face to face and get it over with.”
“I’m the one who has to sort it out, David.”
“The man’s not used to losing.”
Maggie was silent.
“Don’t let him … Oh dammit. I wish I’d stayed away from that gallery.”
“I wasn’t ready,” Maggie said.
“You wouldn’t ever be ready,” David said. “It’s not that, it’s Fred. I’m sure he guessed there was something. Can I see you before you leave?”
“No. I’ve got Rhoda here. I’m supposed to show her the ropes. It’s so silly, the children are far more mature than she is. David, I don’t want to go. It’ll be ghastly.”
“I have to say I hope so.”
“I’ll be back in a week. We’ve been apart longer than that.”
“That was before he knew.”
“Happy New Y
ear, David, my darling.”
“Happy New Year,” he said gloomily.
On the plane to Miami, Matthew said, “This week is for fun only. No decisions. Real life is hereby suspended. Okay?”
“Okay,” Maggie said.
Before dinner, they walked on the beach, picked up shells, and talked.
“What do you think about psychotherapy?” Matthew asked. “Think it could help ease the mid-life miseries?”
“I would think so,” Maggie answered. “But does this topic fall under the category of fun?”
“We’re just not allowed to get grim,” he said. “God, that sand feels good on my toes. Maybe this is better than going to a shrink.”
“I always thought you were pretty much set against it in principle,” Maggie said. She pulled her sweater more tightly around her. The sun was nearly down, sending red streaks blazing across the sky. The breeze was thick with the smell of the ocean.
“I was.” He flung a flat stone into the surf and watched it skip four times. “Not bad for an old duffer. What if I quit law?”
“Quit law!”
He laughed.
“That’s like telling me you’ll quit eating, sleeping, and breathing,” she said.
“I met a fellow the other day, used to be with a big uptown firm. He’s chucked it all and started a maple-syrup farm in Litchfield County.”
“Oh, Matt, I can’t see you in maple syrup.”
“You know what, Maggie?” He was suddenly serious. “I’m trying to climb out of a whole bunch of ruts. Don’t keep stepping on my fingers when you see them coming over the edge.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Over dinner, he asked her if she thought there was hope for modern marriage. “Theoretically,” he added.
“Some people seem to manage it,” she replied.
“Name three,” he said.
Maggie thought hard. She might once have counted the Brodys. “How about Ethel and John Miller? And the Epsteins. The Wilkersons?” She paused a moment. “Well, maybe not the Wilkersons.”
“You can only name them because you don’t know them very well.” He ordered two espressos. “Remember when we used to sit up half the night drinking wine and planning our lives? Back in that minuscule apartment when we first moved to New York?”
