Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

“For the wine,” she said. “See you guys around.”

  And she was gone.

  As had become my habit, that night I spent time curled up in my reading chair, Fuzzer on my lap, an abandoned book at my feet, thinking about Doug Spears.

  I couldn’t deny I found the very uncertainty of becoming involved with a married man thrilling. It bothered me for about a split second, this fact, and then I pushed aside the concern. For the first time in a very long time I felt alive. Hopeful. Excited.

  Who was I to analyze happiness?

  A line came to me that night, something from Shelley’s play The Cenci, something that had been floating around in my head for years. Shelley, the ultimate Romantic man—along with Byron and Keats and even DeQuincy—a precursor to twentieth century rock stars.

  Anyway, the line ran:

  O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge of life and death

  Aside from the line’s context in the play, it seemed to describe the way those Romantics had lived their lives, choosing to be always on the giddy verge of being ostracized from “good” society; on the giddy verge of normal consciousness and altered states of consciousness; on the giddy verge of illicit love.

  If uncertainty was a valid way of life for Shelley and his cohorts, I told myself, then it was certainly a valid way of life for me.

  The Romantics were nothing but trouble, Reason said dismissively. Rabble-rousers. Rule breakers.

  Yes, and they truly lived their lives to the fullest, Romance said, with reverence. Don’t you want to do the same?

  Yes. I did.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  There’s a green market on Tuesdays and Fridays from about mid-June through mid-November, along the south side of Copley Square, across from the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel and a stone’s throw from Trinity Church.

  It’s a nice place to go during lunch hour even though everyone else in the area has the same idea, from other thirty-something corporate types; to Cambridge-style leftover hippies in their sixties; to tiny, ancient Asian women pushing metal shopping carts full of plastic bottles and aluminum cans; to tourists in well-pressed shorts and matching wary expressions. There’s a fair amount of elbow technique required to get to the produce itself and a good set of lungs is necessary to get your bags of goodies weighed and paid for. Having somewhat bony elbows and extraordinarily good lungs, I’m in and out of the market in minutes.

  Fresh-baked breads, focaccia, and sticky buns from Iggy’s; amazing goat and feta cheese from Crystal Brook Farm, a local, husband-and-wife-run enterprise; in late July, butter and sugar corn makes its long-awaited appearance along with bunches of pungent basil which I make into pesto to freeze and enjoy all winter long, ripe red tomatoes, and bright green beans. It’s enough to make anyone want to kiss good-bye to city life and run off to Green Acres. Sort of.

  For me, a noontime visit to the market is usually followed by a quick stop at Marshall’s. First, a rapid eye-run through the shoes; then, up the escalator to check out clothes, lingerie, and household items, like funky picture frames and seriously discounted sheets and towels. The purchase of novelty shoes and sandals, especially when purple and under $24.99, is a marvelous Friday pick-me-up.

  Of course, these midday excursions only happen once every two weeks at most. Lunchtime for me usually means a scarfed sandwich at my desk, one hand typing madly, the other shoving tuna salad into my mouth. Marshall’s stock is still fine after six o’clock, though the green market’s pickings are by then pretty slim. A worm-chewed ear of corn. A partly squished tomato. And only one sad loaf of whole wheat bread. I’d rather starve than eat whole wheat bread. It’s the potato-leek focaccia, the olive rolls, even the simple boules that make my day.

  But not my father. Whole wheat is one of his all-time favorites. He’s been known to eat half a loaf for breakfast, toasted with lots of butter. A fact I’d bet he never mentions to his doctor.

  I bought a loaf of whole wheat bread at the Iggy’s stand and headed for Davis, Weston and Dean, the law firm of which my father was a founding partner, located on the twenty-fifth floor of the Hancock Tower on Clarendon Street.

  The firm’s receptionist greeted me with a slightly puzzled smile.

  “Hi, Ms. Leonard,” I said, choosing to ignore her puzzled smile. “Is my father available? I’ll only be a moment.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry Ms. Weston,” she said. Was that a look of guilty conspiracy on her usually bland face? “Mr. Weston is not in the office today.”

  Panic took hold. “Is he okay? Did he call in sick?”

  Now Ms. Leonard looked slightly awkward. “No, no, he’s just—taking the day off.”

  This was suspicious. My father never just took the day off. Maybe he was at the hospital having an emergency procedure he didn’t want to worry me about. Maybe ...

  “I’m sure you can reach him on his cell phone, if you really need to speak with him,” Ms. Leonard said helpfully.

  “He’s not home?” I blurted.

  Now Ms. Leonard looked extremely uncomfortable. What was she hiding? Why was I making her so nervous?

  “Um, no,” she said slowly. “Um, Mr. Weston is spending the day in Newport with a friend.”

  About a second later it hit me.

  Duh! I was such an idiot. Of course, Dad was in Newport with Abby. And neither had told me ...

  Well, Reason said, they are grown-ups. They don’t have to report their every move to you.

  But...

  But what? Reason interrupted. Do you tell Abby and John every time you and Doug snatch a few hot and heavy moments together? Do you?

  That’s different, Romance protested. She ...

  “Ms. Weston? Are you all right?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Sorry.”

  Oh, please stop the blushing, I begged my cheeks.

  “It’s very warm out today isn’t it?” Ms. Leonard said suddenly. She was obviously embarrassed for me. It was so humiliating.

  I know I should have been happy that Dad had someone who cared about him, someone genuinely nice. But—I wasn’t. Not completely. The disturbing thought came to me that maybe I’d wanted to be the one to care about him. Not in any romantic way, of course, but ... My mother had been number one; maybe it was my turn to be number one ... Oh, my thoughts were too tumbled and downright disturbing to deal with right then.

  Maybe JoAnne had been right, back at the Barking Crab, when she’d said I’d be jealous of my father’s girlfriend.

  I’d think about that later. Now, I had to say and do something or Ms. Leonard would be calling the men in the white coats. You know, the ones with the straightjackets.

  Think, Erin. I couldn’t leave the bread at the office; it would go stale or be eaten by mice over the weekend. I could have given it to Ms. Leonard but ... No. I couldn’t admit I’d brought my father a loaf of bread; it would make me seem so pitiful. Or was it pitiable? Anyway, I considered dropping off the loaf at his place but that notion was immediately shoved aside by the fear of what I might find when I got there.

  I don’t remember the next few minutes clearly. But somehow I took my leave of Ms. Leonard and found myself back on the sidewalk. It was almost one-thirty, high time to get back to work. I headed toward the office.

  You could give the bread to one of your coworkers, Reason suggested. You could drop it off at the Women’s Lunch Place. You don’t want to waste money—or food.

  I could, yeah. Or, I thought, a surge of anger momentarily blurring my vision, I could just throw it the fuck away.

  Which I did.

  The day wasn’t a total disaster. Just as I got home, the phone rang.

  It was Doug. He was in his car, on his cell phone, heading home to Newton for the weekend.

  “Hey. It’s me.”

  Through the inevitable static and fuzz, I knew his voice. Who else in my life was “me” ? Well, certainly no other man. Certainly not my father. Anymore.

  “Hey,” I said happily. It seemed enough.

  “I
just wanted to wish you a good weekend.”

  “You did that an hour ago,” I said. “When you left a message at the office. Sorry I missed your call, by the way.”

  Doug laughed. “That’s okay. I just had to hear your voice once more before Monday.”

  “I’m glad. I hope your weekend is good,” I said, aware that that hope was partly false. Would a good weekend include loving sex with Carol, Doug’s wife and the mother of their children? A horrible thought.

  But I loved Doug, even if I wasn’t ready to admit that to him. I did want him to be happy.

  I just felt so alone.

  I just wished he could be happy with me.

  “It’ll be the usual,” he said neutrally. “But I’ll be thinking of you so I’ll survive. Barely.”

  “Survive,” I ordered. “I’m seeing you on Monday.”

  “Okay. I should go.”

  “Okay. Bye. Thanks for calling.”

  “My pleasure,” said Doug and signed off.

  Doug Spears had to love me, I concluded. To put his marriage on the line, to risk losing the domestic life he’d built, to risk losing his children, God, he had to love me so thoroughly, need me so deeply ... The strength of his desire was an aphrodisiac. It made me feel like the most powerful woman in the world. His relentless pursuit—both romantically and professionally—went to my head and I was his.

  I thought about possession.

  To be possessed—with a thought, by a thought. To allow possession of oneself. To be a possession.

  I thought of me and Doug Spears.

  Was I betraying basic, hard-won feminist principles by wanting to be completely possessed by a man?

  No, Romance argued. No you’re not, Erin. You’re freely choosing the state of possession.

  No one freely chooses anything when they’re in a state of compulsion, a state of obsession, Reason countered.

  She loves him, Romance said. She wants to be his. He completes her. He is her soul’s other half. He gives her life. He...

  He’s a power junkie, Reason spat, and he’s got Erin so turned around she doesn’t know what she really wants. She says one thing and does another. Where’s the sanity in that? There’s no room for responsible decision making in this scenario. She’s a puppet and he’s the puppetmaster. She only makes a move when he says so and even then the move is totally orchestrated. That’s ownership. That’s wrong.

  Hey, I protested, wait a minute. That’s not how it is!

  Isn’t it? Reason demanded.

  Romance cried, No! You just don’t understand!

  Reason said, Obviously not, and was not heard from again for a long, long time.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  E—the 10th would have been my 34th wedding anniversary—or 35th? Just remembered! Hope all’s well. Marie

  For the record: I did not mention to anyone that I knew about Abby’s day trip to Newport.

  Brunch that Sunday was quite interesting.

  “You know,” Abby said when we were settled and had ordered, “I was thinking about what Erin said. About living single. I think living single means ... learning to eat meals alone.”

  Maggie looked at Abby with real curiosity. “You actually eat meals when you’re alone? Not just chips out of the bag and ice cream out of the container?”

  “Well, sure, I try ...”

  “See, I can’t do that,” Maggie said. “It doesn’t feel legitimate to be making a meal for myself. I mean, who am I that I should go to the trouble?”

  “As for me,” I said, “I’ve got things to do. I’ve got no time to waste and no one to impress. I’m hungry? Give me a block of jalapeno cheddar, I’ll nuke it, tear open a bag of Tostitos and I’m set.”

  “You’re just lazy.”

  I grinned. “There is that. But seriously: Does getting married mean learning how to eat meals together every single night? What if you just don’t feel like eating dinner? Do you lose your independence so thoroughly that you can’t even eat a half gallon of mint chocolate chip for dinner if you want to?”

  “You know what this is all about, don’t you?” JoAnne said. “Vegetables. You hate vegetables. And a meal implies vegetables. Protein, starch, and vegetables. Chicken you’re okay with, potatoes, fine, but spinach? Broccoli? Turnips? Uh uh.”

  “I like turnips,” I protested. “And parsnips. Especially if they’re mashed with lots of butter.”

  “Being married is like being home again with your parents,” Maggie said darkly and mostly to herself. “There’s always someone watching you, judging you ...”

  “I’d love a man to cook for me,” Abby said. “I think it’s sexy.”

  “But when you want to pig out you definitely don’t want a man to see you,” I said. “How can you pig out when you’re married unless he’s away on a business trip or something? You need privacy and time to hide the empty cartons.”

  JoAnne laughed. “Oh, yeah, living single has its high points. It raises the art of eating disorders to a whole new level.”

  “I like to watch the chefs on the food network,” Abby said. “I think Emeril Lagasse has the cutest smile! Bobby Flay is a bit too freckly for me, but ... Oh, Tyler Florence, he’s very handsome, and Jamie Oliver, well, I wouldn’t totally mind seeing him naked ...”

  “Are you going to be okay over there?” I said, grinning.

  “Abby’s a Food Network groupie!” JoAnne laughed.

  “Well, it’s better than being a groupie of some scuzzy rock band. Like—Aerosmith.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that,” Maggie said. “That anorexic look never did anything for me. Back when I cared.”

  “Living single means ...” I said, back to the original subject.

  Maggie: “No fight over the clicker.”

  “You could just buy a second TV,” JoAnne pointed out.

  “True.”

  “Living single means: No spontaneous sex,” I said. “With someone other than yourself, that is.”

  “How many married couples do you know who are getting it more than once every two weeks?” JoAnne raised her eyebrows. “Not many, I can assure you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The parents of my patients talk. Sometimes the patients do, too. It’s amazing what kids overhear ...”

  “No shaving cream all over the mirror.” That was Abby.

  I laughed. “Oh, my God, like you don’t get toothpaste all over the sink? I’ve seen you brush your teeth. It’s like spin art when you’re finished.”

  Abby pouted. “Okay, well, how about: Living single means no one to hold your hand in the middle of the night when you wake up screaming from a nightmare.”

  JoAnne and I shared a look; I let her take the answer. “Have you ever tried to wake a guy up in the middle of the night when you’re not promising sex? It doesn’t work. It’s something about the physiology of the male ear ...”

  “No one to hear you fart in your sleep.” Maggie, of course.

  “I have no rebuttal to that one,” JoAnne said. “Pardon the unfortunate pun.”

  My turn. “Living single means: No steady vacation partner. That’s a bummer.”

  “True.” JoAnne regarded us all. “Let’s face it, a woman will almost always dump her girlfriends for a guy. Girlfriends are backups when there’s a man around.”

  “That’s wrong,” Abby said forcefully.

  “But it’s true. We should be more selective but we’re not. We should honor our friendships but we don’t.”

  “It’s hard, living single,” I said. “I mean, it’s hard being single, but the actual living of it ... I get so tired sometimes. I just don’t want to have to do everything myself. I just don’t want to have to try so hard all the time.”

  “It could be worse, Erin,” Maggie said. “You could wind up marrying a guy who makes you feel even more alone than you ever did when you were single.”

  Was that what my mother had felt with my father, I wondered, more alone than when she’d been single? Was tha
t why she’d gone?

  “True.”

  “Don’t you think you can tell that sort of thing about a guy before you marry him?” Abby said.

  JoAnne rolled her eyes. “Have you taken a look at the latest divorce stats?”

  Maggie nodded. “You don’t know what it’s like being married to someone until you’re married to that someone. You can make a few educated guesses before the wedding but there’s a whole lot of unknown to come.”

  “Since when did you become an expert on marriage?” JoAnne asked.

  I pretended to be highly interested in my leek and goat cheese salad, determined not to betray Maggie by word or look.

  “I suppose there’s no point in keeping it a secret any longer.”

  I looked up, startled.

  “You’re married!” Abby cried.

  “No! God. I was married, a very long time ago. In grad school.”

  “What happened?”

  “It didn’t work out.”

  “Well, we gathered that,” JoAnne drawled. “Why didn’t it work out? Details, please.”

  Maggie blushed furiously. “I ... We weren’t compatible. And he really wasn’t the marrying kind after all.”

  “He cheated on you?”

  Maggie laughed dryly. “Many, many times. When I finally caught him with one of my so-called friends, I got up the nerve to leave.”

  “Wow,” Abby said. “This is unbelievable. I feel like ... like you’re an entirely different person from the Maggie I knew five minutes ago.”

  “Don’t say that, it’s not true! I’m the same as I always was. For better or worse.”

  “But you have all this experience we knew nothing about,” Abby persisted. “All we talk about is getting married and you’ve already been married! That’s amazing!”

  Maggie eyed me. “This is why I didn’t want to tell anyone.”

  “Wait, Erin knew?” Abby squealed.

  I nodded.

  “And you kept it a secret? Impressive.” JoAnne.

  “Look, Abby, I don’t know much more about marriage than you do,” Maggie went on. “We weren’t married for long and it was a disaster from the start. I did learn a lesson or two but they’re not the kind of lessons I want any of my friends to have to learn. Okay? So, now that you know, let’s not talk about it anymore. Please?”