A Piece Of Normal

by Maddie Dawson

  "No, I think that was our punk phase. That may have been worse. After that, I was like, hey, guys, let's go back to playing New Kids On The Block music!"

  "No. Not New Kids On The Block!" I say.

  "Well, not quite. I'm exaggerating. But I did write a song that sounded like Boyz II Men. But then we all broke up." He holds up a pretend microphone and intones, VHl-style, "Backstage, things were falling apart."

  I like his teeth, white and even. I can see that I'm feeling better, coming out from underneath the funk I've been in.

  When we get to our table, he leans over and says, "So, baby, how are you?"

  Baby. If somebody described this scenario to me in a "Dear Lily" letter, I would tell that person that the relationship had just got moved up a notch. A promotion of sorts.

  I start telling him about Dana never coming back home, but moving in with Teddy for the time being, and how maybe that's okay, but it's weird just the same.

  "It's very weird," he says. "Yuck. Ugh, in fact." He shudders. "Are they... you know?"

  "They claim not. Or rather, he says not. I haven't talked to her," I say. "So I don't think so, but who knows?"

  I shrug, and then we sort of shift gears, and I tell him about the letters that came in this morning and how it feels to sit there with the whole box of them, knowing that I might be able to come up with just the right thing that could help somebody. My cookie philosophy of advice columning. And then about how lately Casey wants the replies to be smaller and more sarcastic, how I have to remember that I'm there for entertainment purposes only.

  Someone on the wait staff calls out, "ALEX!" and brings over our food. Alex sorts out the plates, moving the bread and butter over, making room for everything.

  Then he looks right at me and says, "I'm nervous."

  I look blankly at his tostada as though the answer might be there. "Why?" I'm about to offer to trade food with him if he's thinking he might not like the tostada after all.

  "Because," he says, "I'm about to tell you that I think you should quit that job at the paper and come and work with me at the radio station."

  "You are?"

  "Yeah. I don't think they treat you right."

  I swallow. "You don't?"

  "Your column is not just about entertainment; it's about everything that happens to people. Sure, there are the letters that people read just to get titillated, or to think they know everything better than the poor slobs who wrote them. But there are all those other letters that are really deep and questioning, and you give such deep responses back to them. Like there was one... oh, I don't know, a few months ago now, where the guy was really, really concerned about why he didn't have close friends like he saw other people having, and you just wrote this elegant, beautiful letter about friendship and patience and giving off the right signals, and I swear, I hung it up on my refrigerator. I read it every day."

  I can't speak.

  "And then the other night, at that party... with your sister and Gracie. Anybody could see that that wasn't going to get solved right then, or maybe it couldn't ever be solved, and I looked over at you, and you were just calmly going about tending to the wounded. You went after Gracie to help her, as she was needing to get out of there, but then on your way you stopped and leaned down and said something to Dana, just kissed her cheek. And when I thought about it later, I realized you were like that the whole evening, ministering to people with food and wine, as if it was your calling. Your ex-husband, those old people, your sister's friends. And I... I don't know. I just want that spirit on my radio station. And"—he takes a deep breath—"I don't for one minute think that Casey McMillen has any idea what to do with you."

  "Oh, my," I say. I'm so moved I have to put down my pita bread.

  "Plus, you have a copy of Goodnight Moon, which is one of my all-time favorite books." He says, "Do you have to go back to work right away?"

  "I'm done. I answered the letters," I say.

  He leans across the table toward me, gives me a little suggestive grin that makes me shiver. "I have my motorcycle here. Will you come for a ride? We could go to the station."

  "The station?"

  "The radio station. We'll record you doing some columns. Just for fun. To see."

  And so we do. First, at his suggestion, we stop at the newspaper office and I run in and collect a bunch of letters to bring with me—just to practice reading aloud—and I tell Jackie I'm leaving for the day, and then we ride down Chapel Street with my hair blowing and tangling in the breeze and my heart banging away in my chest like it thinks it's found the way home.

  Please, I want to say. Please take away all the craziness. Let me feel normal again.

  But I don't know if I'm talking to myself or to Alex.

  ***

  The radio station is located in a little house off Chapel Street, and crammed full of people, all looking young and busy and full of fun. In the main studio, a guy is playing jazz CDs while a woman sits next to him, getting ready to read the news. Alex pokes his head in and says hi, and introduces me as Dear Lily, and everybody says hey and nice to meet you and oh, I love your column. Then he steers me into a side room and flicks on the lights. There's an engineering console in there with dials and switches and CD players all stacked up, but he motions me over to a round table with black padded chairs, all of which have huge, Tylenol tablet–shaped microphones hanging above them.

  "Let's see," says Alex. "Now I'm seeing this as possibly a call-in show, so pick a column and pretend that someone has just asked you that question. And then... well, just talk. The way you would if you were having a conversation."

  "But what would I say?"

  "Anything that comes to mind. You can use your own experiences, you can ask the caller further questions, make sure they're asking the thing they really want to be asking about, not beating around the bush... whatever. Have fun with it." He grins and sits down by the console, and takes out the first letter and says he'll read it to me as if he's the caller. "You ready? Now if this isn't a good letter, we can try another..."

  "No, no, go ahead. Let's see," I say.

  The letter he pulls out is from a thirty-five-year-old woman who's been married for five years. Alex reads it very well, not making fun of her at all with his voice, but doing it straight. She and her husband are saving their money to buy a house and then they plan to start a family. They want three children, and they'd like to have a boy first, if possible. The problem is, she says, she's getting angrier and angrier when she sees all the people, teenagers and poor people, who just push out babies by the dozens, without any planning at all. "I'm sacrificing by waiting, and meanwhile I'm reading all the right books about child-rearing and I am saving my money until I feel I can be responsible for another life—and yet, all around me, people just go into parenthood without even giving it a second thought. People don't even care! Today, in Wendy's, I wanted to start screaming at a woman who had three rowdy kids she wasn't even watching. Why does she get to have these kids, and I have to wait and prepare? Lately I hate people like that, for not being careful and responsible. How can I get over this hatred?"

  I close my eyes, listening, and then I know how to respond. Slowly, I say, "I could tell you simply that life isn't fair and often the wrong people seem to get all the goodies they want: the money, the babies, the private jets, the seats by the window at the restaurant. I could even tell you what a lot of specialists would tell you: that maybe you want to rethink buying an entire house and get busy making babies, if that's really your priority, because the house thing will fall into place in its own time, but your fertility probably won't wait.

  "But, deeper in your question, I think I hear what's really bothering you. It's the fact that we can't dictate to fate the way we want our lives to be scripted. We think we can make all the plans and that will put us in control of our lives—that we can plot and make payments and save up money, and get what we want. But all that is just an illusion, and that is what I hear in your letter.

/>   "I know who you are. I'm like this, too. You see yourself as doing everything by the rule book, and yet these others—who aren't as diligent or as practical or as smart as you, who forget to keep their payment books in order and maybe don't even take advantage of all the opportunities that you have—these people are out there living their lives, popping out all the babies, fixing supper, getting tired and cranky, taking up space in the restaurants, being noisy and unkempt and impolite, getting right in your way. And they don't deserve this good fortune—those roly-poly babies gurgling in their strollers, those toddlers learning to talk even though their parents are tired and not paying as close attention as they should. You know you will pay attention to your kids, and read them the right books and send them to the good schools and teach them love and tolerance... when you are ready to have them. In your plan, you will be the perfect mother, and your children will be perfect back. But in the meantime, how are you to stand your own feelings of hatred? That's the worst of all. You hate them, and it doesn't even matter. It just eats away at you. And how can you stand it?"

  I look at Alex. Uh oh. I don't know how she is to stand it. Maybe she can't stand it. I think for a moment that I can't stand her. I hope she doesn't get any babies. She'll be one of those moms on the soccer field that you just want to start hitting—so perfect, so judgmental...

  Alex is staring at me, and now he nods slightly, a yes, go on nod.

  I swallow. "I think you have to start pretending you love them," I say, which surprises me a little. "It'll be hard at first. In fact, at first it will be all pretend, playacting. When you feel those awful, hateful feelings welling up, say instead, 'I love this woman. She is a part of life, and I am a part of life. She didn't get to dictate her life, and I don't get to dictate my life.' It sounds crazy to you, I'll bet, but you just try it. You'll see the change. It's a subversive thing to do. You'll start to really see her as another person who made her little plans, like you're making your little plans, and hers didn't come out like she wanted any more than yours have so far. Maybe yours will. You don't know yet. We're all fearful that everybody else gets the bigger piece of cake, and we get zip. While you're at it, love yourself for admitting it, and love that woman in Wendy's with the kids she's ignoring—and then work on loving the kids, too, and the worker behind the counter who's depressed and doesn't care what you want on your hamburger (she's going to put the pickles that you specifically said not to put on there), and the manager who's going to have to fire somebody today—love them, not because they deserve it or even because they need it, but just because once you love them, then you can love yourself."

  I look over at Alex. He flicks a switch and says, "Wow."

  I am almost trembling.

  "Wow," he says again. "You nailed it. You really, really nailed it. That was fantastic!"

  Come and hold me, I think. Come over here and push this microphone away and lift me up and start kissing me.

  Instead, he gets up, but he doesn't come over to me. He starts turning dials and hitting buttons. I wait, holding my breath. He looks at me, and his eyes are like calm blue seas. He says quietly, "Lily, that was perfect. You have such empathy, such an instinct for this. And you can do it right on the spur of the moment. That's amazing."

  He pulls a cartridge out of the player and writes something on it. Then he swings a microphone away, clicks another switch, crumples a piece of paper and puts it in the trash can. I get to my feet, wobbling a little.

  "That was harder than I thought—both harder and easier. I feel as if the words just flowed out of me," I say in a whoosh of feeling. "Wow."

  "That's the way it sounded," he says. "Very natural. You were meant for this. I mean it. I can't get over it. It was beautiful." He looks at me, runs his hands through his hair, and looks at me longer. "Oh, Lily," he says. The moment has come: we are about to start kissing.

  Okay, I think. Reach for me. And when he doesn't—well, I reach for him. I almost can't help it. Mustering up all the spare courage I have floating around, I glide toward him and hug him. He just stands there, frozen into motionlessness. He's hardly even breathing.

  Maybe, I think, panicking, he's just realized that there is no job here for me after all. Or maybe he sees a huge black widow spider that's about to drop on me from the ceiling and he's paralyzed into non-action while he thinks of what to do. It's that kind of silence.

  I tip my face up toward his in the universal kiss-me-you-fool position.

  Taking just the tiniest step back away from me, he says, "Um, do you have time to go for coffee before you have to pick up Simon?"

  In Starbucks, over iced double soy lattes, it becomes clear why we had to get out of the studio: he needs to deliver a death blow.

  First, he wants to say he's sorry. He feels awful about this.

  No, it's not the radio show. The radio show will work, will be fine. He's sure Dolores will approve it. They've been wanting more community involvement, local shows. This will play. Wait until she hears the demo tape.

  Then...?

  He purses his lips, looks down, looks pained, then looks at me directly, almost wincing as though he expects me to hit him with my purse or something. "I'm married," he says.

  I notice the Starbucks speakers are playing a loud blues number by Ray Charles. "Oh," I say when I can talk again. "Well. That is big."

  He leans across the table. Before we got too close, he had to tell me... didn't want to bring it up before... but now... a vibe... surely I feel it too? He knows this is a shock... really, he's sorry. It doesn't change anything, not really. But he had to say it. And do I understand?

  I feel embarrassment squeezing my heart like a vise. He keeps talking.

  "Well, actually, it's not a traditional sort of marriage. She lives in Washington, D.C., you see. Her father is a lobbyist with the tobacco industry—" He sees my face and wrinkles his nose. "I know. Tobacco, yuck. And she does organizing stuff. I guess you could say she's a lobbyist, too. An attorney. Kind of a high-powered type, you know. So... she's there, I'm here."

  "You must be lonely for her." I can't look him in the eye.

  He laughs, runs his index finger around the rim of his latte cup, and weighs his answer carefully. "Well, if I were honest about it, I'd have to say that I'm sometimes lonely, but not really for her." He looks up. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to start complaining about my marriage, or saying that my wife doesn't understand me or any of those tired old clichés. You know: 'We've grown apart.' 'She doesn't love me anymore.' " He takes a sip of his latte. "But—well, she doesn't."

  "Really?"

  "We don't really talk much lately. She stays in her life, and I stay in mine."

  I clear my throat. "So what's going to happen?"

  "With you and me?" he says, and it's crazy, but just the way he says you and me makes all my nerve endings ping. I am far gone on him, which is so, so too bad.

  "No," I say with difficulty. "With the two of you."

  "Oh. I don't know." He looks away. "It's confusing. It's just one of those impossible stagnant situations right now. Nobody has the energy to change anything."

  "I know what that's like."

  "No, you don't," he says. "You have the strength of ten of me and Anneliese. I can see that in everything about you. You make things happen, you change things around, and you keep moving. But she and I—I don't know. We just go along. Maybe it's that we throw ourselves in our work, and then the other life stuff doesn't get taken care of. We never figure anything out. But there you have it: the tragedy of Alex."

  So her name is Anneliese. Hearing that, I picture her tall and beautiful, with ringletty black hair with tendrils curled around her face. She is slim and gorgeous, with no hair-color issues—but she's cold, a challenge a man would keep going after again and again, long after it's too hard. A lawyer for the tobacco lobby. Jesus. Probably makes piles of money, sends it to him by the armored carful. That's it: he's a kept man.

  "Children?" I say.

  "Pardon?" />
  I clear my throat. "Do the two of you have children?"

  "Oh. No. No kids. She didn't want them. Doesn't want them."

  Present tense, as if this is still a concern of his. "So," I say. He has no idea of the hundreds of calculations I've just performed in my brain.

  "So," he repeats. He drums his fingers on the table between us and looks at me with regret. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't want to let things go too far, and I needed to tell you my, uh, my situation."

  His situation. I have a moment of real clarity, thinking that I could just sail along in this crush for a very long time, and that Anneliese's name could start to make my teeth go on edge every time I heard it, and that I could really begin to go crazy when he repeated over time how he didn't have the energy to make changes in his life.

  I could become Gracie, sitting on the sidelines, waiting for somebody to make a move.

  "You know what?" I say. "And please don't take this the wrong way, but I think that I'm going to stay at the paper for the time being."

  He nods vaguely.

  "I think it'd be hard, working together. You know, if we're honest about things."

  I know he won't try to talk me out of it, won't argue that he wants me to come to the station. Not even for the show, the idea of which I know he liked.

  I stand up. It's actually time for me to go pick up Simon from day camp.

  "Do you want a ride back?" he says. "On the bike?"

  Starbucks is just down the street from Claire's, which is walking distance from the paper, where my car is parked. "I can walk," I tell him. "But thank you."

  21

  After I get my car, I go pick up Simon at day camp. I have a pounding headache and my hands are shaking, but there he is, smiling at me and playing trucks in the sandbox. He runs over and shows me a picture he has made of our family: four people standing in a row, big round heads, stick arms, and spirals of hair. "Ooh, tell me about it," I say to him, which the teacher has said is what you're supposed to say instead of, "What is this a picture of?" He sits down next to me and shows me who's who—he and I are standing together, with straight pencil lines where our mouths should be; and over in the other corner, Dana and Teddy are standing close together, looking just as pleased as punch, big red smiles taking up their whole faces.