Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  Why did Dad have to ask me this?

  “Erin?”

  “Sorry, Dad. I’m just giving Fuzzer his dinner.”

  “Is he being his usual dramatic self?”

  “Of course.”

  “So, what’s the answer? Have you been out lately?”

  “You mean, on a date? No, not really. Nothing worth mentioning.”

  Liar. My stomach began to squirm. I spooned chicken in gravy into a bowl and set it before Fuzzer, who immediately tucked in.

  “Oh. I wish you would meet someone worthy. I don’t like to think of you being alone. You’re not lonely, are you, Erin?”

  Oh, if only he knew. If only I had trust enough in his love to tell him the truth.

  “I’m fine, Dad,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

  Could I?

  “I know you can. But I’m your father. I reserve the right to worry about you. I want you to be happy. And, well, I know you’re not entirely comfortable with my seeing Abby. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your maturity about it all.”

  If Dad only knew how torn up I was about—everything.

  “Thanks, Dad. And I know you care. I appreciate your concern, really. And if I need any advice, I promise I’ll come to you.”

  Would I? I hadn’t thus far.

  “Okay,” he said. “By the way, have you heard from your mother lately?”

  “Yeah,” I said lightly. “She’s fine, you know.”

  “She’s not hitting you up for money is she?”

  How had he known?

  “No,” I lied. “Of course not.”

  Dad didn’t respond right away. Then: “Okay. Well, I guess I should be off.”

  “Plans?”

  “Nothing much. Abby wants to see some movie.” Dad’s voice lowered. “I think it’s one of those chick flicks.”

  I laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me,” I said. “And, Dad? Thanks. Really.”

  After we’d hung up I took off my shoes and lay down on the couch. I felt like a Victorian lady about to have a spell. A headache was coming on. I shivered and drew a chenille throw over my legs. A sadness settled heavily on my heart. A sadness not relieved even when Fuzzer curled up on my stomach and went to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Doug and I met for a quick lunch, sandwiches in the Common. We found a bench not occupied by a homeless man or covered by pigeon poop and sat.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I said, unwrapping my mozzarella, basil, and tomato sandwich.

  “Could I stop you?”

  “No. Why didn’t you acknowledge my thank you message for the Valentine’s Day roses?”

  Doug didn’t have a snappy comeback. He took a bite of his proscuitto, marinated red pepper, and provolone, chewed, swallowed. Finally, he said: “It struck me when I heard your message that I’d made a huge move and though I didn’t regret it, I swear, I ... I got scared.”

  “For weeks. Until you called and asked me to lunch at Radius.”

  “Exactly. Silly, huh?”

  Not at all. In fact, Doug’s very human reaction endeared him further to me.

  It never occurred to me that he could be lying. Covering the fact, for example, that he’d found a hotter prospect and had had fun with her for a while, knowing I’d probably be around, hooked by the big romantic gesture, intrigued by his ensuing silence.

  That kind of thing just never occurred to me at all.

  As it was a bright day with little humidity, when we’d finished our sandwiches we took a long and circuitous route back to our offices.

  Along the way we passed an old and slightly crumbling Catholic church, St. Luke’s. A midday service, mass or some prayer thing, was just letting out. The attendees seemed mostly to be very old Irish-American ladies. I spotted a few homeless people, as well.

  “Well, the Church is good for something,” I said dryly. “It gives the homeless an opportunity to get out of the hot sun or the bitter cold.”

  “So, you don’t go to church anymore?” Doug asked.

  “No. I’m what’s known as a recovering Catholic. It sounds less complicated than it is. It’s not a joke, believe me.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine what it involves. I won’t laugh. Just get better soon, okay?”

  “I’m trying. My friends are a big help.”

  I wondered ... Since the unhappy conversation with my girlfriends at Dish the month before, I’d been wanting to ask Doug how he’d feel about meeting my friends. In the abstract, of course. Until he and Carol separated, when he’d be free to come to my apartment and all.

  “Doug,” I said, “let me ask you something else. Would you want to meet my friends? You know, Abby, JoAnne, Maggie. Damion. I’m not setting something up or anything,” I added hurriedly, lest he think this seemingly innocent question was a feminine-type trap. “I’m just ... wondering.”

  Doug’s answer was swift in coming and final in tone. “That’s not a good idea, Erin.”

  “But ...”

  “Look, it’s very important that we be careful about who sees us together. We have to be vigilant.”

  “But they’re my friends,” I said, slightly confused. “They already know about us.”

  Doug shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Besides, it’s not like I want to become friends with them.”

  That was a bit of a shocker. “Oh,” I said eloquently.

  “And they sure as hell can’t want to be friends with me,” Doug said with a laugh.

  “I just thought, you know, because they’re important to me you’d at least maybe want to meet them, even if you can’t really meet them. I thought ...”

  “Hey.” Doug’s voice became low and intimate. “Aren’t you and I enough? Why do you want to bring other people into this?”

  Because, I thought, that’s what real couples do. They share friends and family. They share their full lives.

  I said, “I don’t. I’m sorry. Let’s just forget it.”

  And we went back to our separate offices.

  Abby had decided we all needed a little culture so she suggested we journey to a museum. She voted for the Museum of Fine Arts. Maggie suggested the Science Museum. I went with the Isabella Stewart Gardner. JoAnne won with her vote for the John F. Kennedy Library and Museum. Saturday we made the excursion. Abby drove, something she rarely did in the city of Boston itself. I kept a tight grip on the door handle and buckled my seat belt tightly.

  We made it to Dorchester without accident.

  “Wow,” I said. “Just, wow. I always forget how beautiful it is out here and then I’m shocked all over again.”

  The building itself is stunning, another of I. M. Pei’s contributions to Boston, and the brightness of the blue sky, the glittering water, the white sailboats and yachts bobbing gently, made the place seem magical. Like, well, Camelot.

  I kept this tired old observation to myself.

  We split up and wandered alone, occasionally joining for a comment or observation.

  I was standing in front of a display case that contained a marked-up draft of a speech when Abby joined me.

  “I forgot that once upon a time politicians had brains,” she said.

  “Not every politician did. And not every politician today is dopey.”

  “George Bush is. But Bill Clinton isn’t.” That was JoAnne. “Wasn’t. Just horny.”

  “Granted. Something else he had in common with JFK,” I noted. “An addiction to his dick.”

  Maggie completed the group. “Who, JFK?”

  “Yes. And Bill Clinton.”

  “Oh, who cares?” she said. “As long as his penis doesn’t affect public policy he can play with it all he likes.”

  “The American public is pretty unsophisticated about sex, isn’t it?” I said.

  JoAnne laughed. “Fixated, you mean. We’re a nation of guilty eleven-year-olds. With a few exceptions.”

  “JFK was a good president, wasn’t he?”

  “He tried, Abby. I
’ll give him that.”

  “I think Bobby was cuter,” she said.

  Maggie grinned. “You would.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” I said, watching Maggie stroll off to another display. “You know, rumor has it that Jackie and Bobby were having an affair after Jack’s death.”

  JoAnne rolled her eyes. “If you had to go home to Ethel and a passle of screaming kids, you’d make nice to Jackie, too.”

  “Meow. Anyway,” Abby said, “it’s only a rumor. Maybe they were just good friends. You know, consoling each other in their grief.”

  I sighed. “Anything’s possible.”

  “If it makes you happy to think so ...”

  “You two.” Abby strolled off again, obviously exasperated by JoAnne’s and my cynicism. Again.

  “Could we not talk about illicit romantic relationships, please?” I said when she’d gone. “For five minutes?”

  “Too close to home, honey?”

  “Uh, yeah. Though how we’re going to avoid talk of affairs surrounded by photos of the Kennedy men, I have no idea.”

  “We can always blow this popsicle stand and go somewhere for drinks,” JoAnne suggested. “I, for one, am beginning to get museum legs.”

  “You’re lazy. But I’m there. I’ll find Abby, you get Maggie, and we’ll meet in the lobby.”

  “Deal.”

  The excursion to the JFK Library and Museum had—not surprisingly—raised the topic of marriage and two hours later, at Jacob Wirth, the topic would still not lie down and shut up no matter how often I tried to introduce a new, neutral topic, like—toothpaste preferences. So, reluctantly at first but gradually with more enthusiasm, I joined in.

  The current subtopic was intimacy.

  “I want the kind of intimacy that ... that comes when you share a checking account. That comes when you buy furniture together. I mean—I want to be part of a team,” I said.

  “I should point out,” JoAnne drawled, “that lots of teammates are miserably unhappy over the lack of romance in their lives.”

  “Okay. But maybe they function smoothly on a daily basis and are friends and companions and eat dinner together every night and take care of each other when they have colds. Isn’t there something to be said for all that? Maybe all that starts to mean more than passion.”

  “You’d rather be Archie and Edith Bunker than Heathcliff and Cathy?” JoAnne said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, they’re both a little extreme, don’t you think? Come on, how can you choose between ignorance and insanity?”

  “Can’t you have all that with a friend?” Maggie said. “I mean, a roommate or a best friend? If you take the sex out of the equation, isn’t that what’s left? Friendship?”

  “I guess. But, no,” I said. “I think there’s something more than just friendship to a marriage. Look. Even if a husband and wife aren’t superpassionate, they sleep in the same bed, they hug ...”

  “They clean the sleep out of each other’s eyes.”

  “Oh, gag!”

  “They know each other’s bodies,” I went on, ignoring the goofing around, “they have this bond that’s—deeper, more tender than what exits between two people who are just friends.”

  “Or the bond that exists between two people who are just lovers,” JoAnne pointed out. “Between two people who fool around—in his office, after hours?—but who don’t go grocery shopping together and plan their yearly budgets and buy each other’s mothers birthday cards.”

  “I know,” I said miserably. “I know.”

  I said I wanted a marriage. And yet I chose to have an affair.

  Do what I say, not what I do, Reason crowed. What kind of an example are you setting for yourself? What are you trying to prove? What are you running away from?

  And how did JoAnne know Doug and I mostly had sex in his office, after hours? Were we that much of a cliché?

  Maggie asked me: “Do you seriously want to be the kind of wife who makes sandwiches for her husband’s poker parties? Do you really want to be the kind of mother who has her kids’ Christmas portraits taken at Sears?”

  I laughed. “Lord, no! I’m too jaded for that. But I do intend to use my kids’ pictures on our holiday cards. I’ll take the pictures. No goofy backdrops. Something tasteful, like my beautiful kids and a noble dog and a sleek cat in front of an elegantly decorated tree in my elegantly decorated living room.”

  “What if your kids are ugly? It happens, you know.”

  “Impossible,” I said. “My kids will be Caroline and John Jr. cute.”

  “Let’s hope their fates will be happier,” Maggie added.

  JoAnne raised her glass. “To the memory of John.”

  We joined her in a toast.

  “To his sister’s bravery in the face of adversity and loss.” Abby.

  “To Caroline.”

  “To Carolyn Bessett Kennedy.”

  Our toasts were followed by a spontaneous moment of silence.

  “You know,” I finally said, “we might not have everything we want in life, but we have each other. And that’s pretty damn good.”

  JoAnne laughed but it sounded forced. “Uh, oh. Erin’s getting maudlin. Time to cut her off.”

  I made a face.

  “Really, I’ve got to go,” she said. “It is a school night.”

  JoAnne’s departure ended the party. We took our leave of each other. I begged off driving home with Abby and walked.

  It was a long time before I got to sleep that night.

  Chapter Thirty

  Trident was making a move.

  I got a call asking me to come into their offices for a meeting.

  I carefully chose my most high-powered, media-babe skirt suit and took with me the sleek, black Levenger briefcase I reserved for truly important meetings.

  Jack Nugent was there. Doug was there, of course, carefully avoiding eye contact. A woman named Rita Berrios, VP of sales was there, too, looking less than enthusiastic about the meeting. I’d met her briefly before, a forty-year-old who’d had her first child just the year before and who seemed to radiate resentment at having to be in a corporate setting rather than at home with her child.

  Or so I imagined.

  Jack began the meeting. “I’m sure you know why we asked you here today, Erin.”

  A trick question if there ever was one! If I said yes, I’d sound like a cocky bastard. If I said no, I’d come across as disingenuous.

  I smiled a quick smile and kept my mouth shut.

  Jack went on.

  Trident was making me an offer. They were making me an offer in Doug’s office, in the very room in which he and I had sex. They were making me a spectacular offer.

  It was very exciting. I felt powerful and in possession of a powerful secret and powerfully full of myself.

  The offer was incredible. It exceeded anything I’d imagined. It seemed excessive and for a moment I wondered if Doug hadn’t used his influence to get me more than I was worth. But a brief investigation of the salaries and overall financial packages of Trident’s top people confirmed that my offer was right in line with the company’s policies.

  When the meeting was over, Doug left the room quickly. Jack walked me to the elevators.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I am about this offer,” I told him. “It’s given me a lot to think about.”

  “The job will be there, Erin. Don’t rush your decision.”

  “Don’t you think I can do the job?” I asked, only half jokingly.

  “I know you can do it,” Jack said promptly. “There’s no question in my mind as to your skills and competency.”

  “Then ... ?”

  “I’d like you to think about whether you really want to do the job.”

  Now there was an interesting question. What had made Jack ask it?

  Not for the first time I wondered if Jack knew about my relationship with Doug and if so, how much he knew. Was he worried about our behavior
while working in the same office? He had to know I was a consummate professional and that I would never allow my private life to ...

  I fought down a blush of shame. I liked and respected Jack Nugent. And he was well known as an honest businessman and a sincere family man. If he did know about me and Doug, his opinion of me must have fallen hugely.

  Jack and the ring of the elevator interrupted my thoughts.

  “Will you promise me you’ll think hard about accepting the position at Trident? Make sure in your heart it’s the right thing for you. Erin, your reputation with nonprofits is spectacular. So if joining with Trident isn’t the right thing—well, I won’t deny I’ll be disappointed. Our team could benefit from your experience and energy. But I’ll also respect your decision.”

  I nodded and stepped into the empty elevator car.

  “Okay, Jack,” I said, “it’s a deal. I’ll think about it.”

  That evening I met JoAnne to discuss Trident’s offer. Among other things.

  “Other things” took precedence.

  “You know,” I blurted, “I feel like being with Doug is, I don’t know, somehow it’s preparing me for marriage. I mean, I’m getting a sense of something ...”

  The look on JoAnne’s face told me that I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “How is dating—and I use the word loosely—a married man preparation for marriage?”

  “Not preparation, exactly,” I said. Too late to stop. “But . . . I can’t really explain it, but somehow it’s given me a—a glimpse, I guess—I can’t say this right. I guess it’s shown me how good marriage can be and reinforced my desire for a marriage of my own.”

  To Doug, I added silently.

  JoAnne sipped her martini. “Well, that makes no sense at all, but whatever. It’s your head, not mine.”

  “Yeah, it is. And I’m stuck with it.”

  “Oh, honey, we’re all stuck with ourselves.”

  “I suppose a therapist would say we can all change, become someone new.”

  JoAnne cleared her throat. Suddenly, she looked sheepish.

  “What?” I said. “Oh, I get it. You’re seeing a therapist. Finally!”

  “Jesus Christ, Erin, it’s not like I’m insane!”