Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Erin!”

  I looked in the direction of the voice. Damion.

  “Didn’t you find anything on the list yet?” he said as he hurried toward me, pushing his laden cart.

  I shook my head.

  “God.” Damion stopped and put his hand to his heart. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?”

  I tried to smile. “It was a goblin. Can we go now?”

  Damion eyed me more closely.

  “You have something to tell me,” he said. “Let’s go. You can start talking in the car.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  E—still haven’t rcvd bday gift—have you forgotten your mother? Mother

  It seemed a long, long week.

  Damion was not happy about my relationship with Doug. Of course, I hadn’t expected him to be—I’d only told him about Doug after the unsettling experience of seeing Carol in the supermarket. Damion’s clear disapproval weighed heavily on my mind. He’d assured me he wasn’t about to abandon our friendship; he’d also said that he would do nothing to foster the affair.

  Then he’d revealed something about his past I’d not known. When Damion was ten and his sister, Sarah, was seven, their up-and-coming father had had an affair with his secretary, the whole classic deal, complete with a humiliating divorce which resulted in Damion, his mother, and sister moving into cramped quarters; his unskilled mother facing a merciless job market; and Damion and Sarah becoming latch-key kids.

  The whole thing had left a bitter taste in Damion’s mouth, and if he was to be believed, and Damion never lied, to that day his mother hadn’t gotten over the hurt. That made Damion mad. That and the fact that his sister, now exactly my age, was still cruising the bar scene, playing Russian roulette with her life.

  “Maybe her behavior has nothing to do with your parents’ divorce,” I said, reasonably.

  “It has everything to do with their divorce.” Damion’s tone left no room for argument. “Did you know that neither of us has seen our so-called father for almost ten years? Why? No reason, other than the fact that he doesn’t give a shit about us, now that he’s got family number two. And did you know that my mother works two jobs? And that she doesn’t have the energy at the end of a long, hard day on her feet at the cash register to get out there and meet someone decent? Her life was over when her husband left. She had no current job skills, no personal savings. My father didn’t hit it big until after the divorce. So my mother had no serious alimony, no real money from him other than child support. Which, of course, is long over.”

  I felt bad for Damion’s mother. I felt bad for Damion and his sister. But maybe, I thought, maybe I should also feel bad for Damion’s father. Maybe he’d been terribly unhappy at home. Maybe Damion’s mother was a horrible shrew. Maybe ...

  Don’t be an ass, Reason said. You want to feel sorry for a man who hasn’t seen his children in ten years?

  We don’t know the whole story, Romance said soothingly. We shouldn’t judge.

  But Damion had judged and he’d found his father at fault. And he’d judged me at fault, too. Maybe I wasn’t as culpable as Doug, but I was definitely a willing—and guilty—player.

  It all got me thinking, and thinking got me depressed. What had Carol done, I wondered, before marrying Doug? Before having kids and staying home with them? Suddenly, I was dying to know. I hoped she had been a lawyer or financial analayst, hoped she had the sort of career to which she could successfully return. If she had to. For some reason.

  Curiosity has killed more than the inquisitive cat. It’s also killed countless good moods and otherwise pleasant rendezvous.

  I met Doug Wednesday after work. It was the only time he was able to see me that week. Work was madness and his in-laws were visiting from Florida. Home duty called. I don’t know what lie Doug had told Carol to be able to meet me for an hour or two.

  “First, a big family party,” he said, taking a long drink of his Scotch, “which I didn’t want. Now the in-laws’ visit, which I didn’t want. I told Carol now was not a good time for them to come but ...”

  “But what?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager for the answer.

  Doug set his glass down with a clank. “But it’s part of our deal, our division of labor and duties. Carol does home and family. I bring in the money to be spent on home and family.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” I blurted, and wondered if I actually meant that.

  “Who said anything about fair? It’s marriage. It doesn’t have to be fair. It just has to work.”

  “Until one person can’t take it any longer.”

  Doug eyed me warily. “I’m not saying I can’t take it any longer.”

  Shit, Erin. Stupid thing to say.

  “What did Carol do before she had the kids?” I asked.

  We were seated at the bar. The bartender brought us our meals and Doug gestured for another Scotch.

  “What did she do?” Doug repeated.

  “Yeah, like, you know, career-wise.”

  Doug picked at his food as he spoke.

  “Not much. We got married when we were in our early twenties.”

  So, Doug and Carol had been married for almost twenty years. The thought was staggering.

  “Did she go to college?” I pressed.

  “Of course. Everybody went to college. She just never had any real interest in a career. She worked part-time, she temped. She hung out with her sister and her nieces and nephews. She always wanted kids.”

  I did a quick calculation. Doug’s children were four and six years old. That meant Doug and Carol had been married for about fourteen years before she gave birth. Another staggering thought. What did they do alone together all those years? If Carol wasn’t Doug’s soul mate, what had they talked about for fourteen years?

  “Why didn’t she have kids sooner?” I said. Nothing mattered now but that I bludgeon myself with the intimate details.

  Doug put down his fork and finally looked at me. “Because I didn’t want them,” he said. “I knew it would be the end for us. Not that there was much there in the first place. For me, anyway. Carol seemed happy enough.”

  “What changed your mind?” I said, transfixed by this sad story.

  Doug laughed harshly. “What changed my mind was Carol getting pregnant.”

  “You mean ...”

  “I mean she got pregnant. She said it was an accident. I don’t know. But she was ecstatic. She quit pretending to work. It was what she’d wanted all along. To be the wife and mother, that’s it. The particular husband doesn’t really matter much to her. She’s that type. She’s not very bright,” Doug said, his tone suddenly mean.

  “I’m bright,” I said inanely.

  Doug looked at me consideringly.

  “I think you are,” he said at last, placing his hand on my knee. “Don’t let me down.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I sat slumped on the couch. I’d made no social plans for the weekend. Instead, I’d brought home some work and rented a movie and made a long list of housekeeping chores that were long overdue.

  By Saturday afternoon, I’d accomplished absolutely nothing. Unless you count eating three bagels with cream cheese for breakfast “something.”

  What was Doug doing at this very moment, out in Newton with his not very bright, sweatshirt-wearing wife Carol?

  What was my mother doing with Julio or Jorges or Roberto?

  What were Abby and my father doing at this very moment, five-fifteen on a Saturday afteroon, in Newport, Rhode Island? It wasn’t quite cocktail hour. Maybe they were still on the beach.

  Was Abby wearing a bikini? Was my father wearing a Speedo? I leapt from the couch and shook my body like a wet dog. Ugh. Ick. The image was repulsive. The beach was not a good way to go. What was? Certainly not the bedroom ...

  I put my hands over my ears and like a child sang out, “Lalalalala,” to block the sound of my own thoughts. Of course, the tactic didn’t work.

  I s
at back down on the couch and rested my head in my hands. Why was I torturing myself this way? Why was I dwelling on something so painful?

  Because I was alone and the two people I was most likely to have spent part of the weekend with were spending it together. Without me. And that just sucked.

  I made a Note to Self: “Being in a relationship with a married man is a very lonely proposition.”

  A few days after Abby and my father got back from Newport, we all had dinner at Davio’s on Newbury Street. I’d tried to back out gracefully but Abby had insisted I wouldn’t be in the way. Well, how could I not go after that lovely reassurance? Besides, I had been wanting to get my father’s—and Abby’s—opinion on the Trident offer.

  “I can’t tell you what your support means to us,” Abby said, when she and I were seated.

  Us? What had happened to Abby as an individual?

  “I really think the weekend in Newport made us closer. I feel it solidified our relationship.”

  Not mine and yours, I thought.

  “Good. That’s, really, that’s great.”

  “So, Erin, what did you do this weekend?”

  Wallowed in self-pity. Go on, Reason urged, tell her the truth.

  “Oh, the usual,” I said. “Some reading. I rented a movie. You know, some stuff around the house.”

  “That’s nice,” Abby said distractedly. She smiled past my head. I turned. Yeah, it was Dad.

  “John!” she called.

  No, I thought, it’s Dad first, John second. He’s mine first, yours later.

  “Ladies. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t get off a phone call.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, it’s fine,” Abby said, pecking him on the cheek.

  Yeah, I’ve got buckets of time to waste, I thought. Then: Should I kiss him, too?

  I didn’t.

  The waiter appeared. He was Uriah Heap. He was unctuous and obsequious and oozing.

  He was not getting a big tip from me.

  Dad ordered a Scotch on the rocks.

  “And what will your lovely daughters have?” asked Uriah.

  Abby’s eyes widened to ridiculous proportions.

  Dad cleared his throat.

  I said, “I’ll have arsenic, please. In a clean glass, hold the ice.”

  I wonder where Mom is now, I thought, as the silence thundered on. I wonder if she’d mind a traveling companion. Nothing in the hills and jungles of an Unnamed South American Country could be any weirder than what my life in Boston had become.

  Doug called late that night. I didn’t bother to ask where he was or how he was managing to make the call.

  I told him what had happened at Davio’s.

  He laughed. “That’s great. I would have loved to have been there.”

  “Yeah, ha, ha. You know, Doug, my life is a pain in the ass sometimes.”

  “Am I part of that pain?” he said.

  Yes, I thought.

  “No,” I said. “You’re the soothing balm that takes away the pain.”

  “Good. I’ve got to run, Erin.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Bye.”

  After I’d hung up I realized that I hadn’t thanked Doug for calling. I wondered what had made me break tradition.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  E—finally got bday gift—thanks! blouse too big tho—I’ve lost weight—so gave it to local woman with six kids and one dress. Now, just have to find her a skirt. M.

  Sunday brunch at Joe’s American on Newbury Street. Always a mob scene, especially in the summer, but it was Maggie’s turn to choose and the policy was not to argue anyone’s choice. Anyway, the food was always good. Basic but good.

  We were about halfway through our brunch when ...

  JoAnne put down her coffee cup. “So, Abby, have you told your mother about John?”

  My God, I thought. Why hadn’t I ever asked that?

  Abby took a long sip of her Bloody Mary before answering.

  “Well, no. Not yet.”

  “Why not?” I said.

  “I ... I want to wait until I know we’re really serious. You know how mothers can be, all full of questions.”

  “You’ve always told your mother about your boyfriends after the first date,” Maggie pointed out.

  “Right,” Abby said quickly. “And, well, I’ve learned my lesson.”

  JoAnne eyed Abby suspiciously. “I think you’re lying,” she said. “I think you haven’t told your mother about John because he’s so much older than you are.”

  Bingo.

  “Oh, Mrs. Walker wouldn’t care,” I said, not believing a word of it. “After all, she’s married to a guy fifteen years her junior.”

  “And now her daughter is dating a guy twenty-six years her senior. Interesting.”

  “I don’t know what you mean!” Abby said huffily. “And my mother’s name is Mrs. Gilliam now.”

  JoAnne laughed. “Come on, honey. You think your mother will disapprove of John. You know she wants to be a grandmother and you know she knows her chances of becoming a grandmother when her only daughter’s seeing an old man are slim.”

  “My father’s not an old man!”

  “He’ll be sixty in less than two years,” Maggie said. “That’s not young.”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?” I demanded.

  Maggie shrugged and got back to her eggs.

  “And it’s reasonable to think your mother might be concerned for you,” JoAnne went on. “She might worry her daughter will be a widow before her first anniversary. She might worry her daughter is going to wind up a caretaker of an Alzheimer’s patient before her second anniversary.”

  “It’s not true, any of it,” Abby said, but her protestation sounded lame.

  “Are you embarrassed of my father?” I asked. “Have you introduced him to anyone at the BSO?”

  “No, and no, I’m not embarrassed! Just, everybody, stop, okay? I’m just not—ready to bring John home.”

  “Or to introduce him to your friends at work,” I added grimly.

  “You’re being horrible, Erin. All of you.”

  “We’re just looking out for your own good, honey, since you don’t seem to be capable of it.”

  A moment of stunned silence. Then Abby grabbed her bag and bolted from the table.

  “Nice going, JoAnne.” I bolted after Abby.

  Behind me, I heard Maggie say, “Pass me her plate, will you?”

  I found Abby on the sidewalk, standing as if she were waiting for someone.

  “Hey,” I said. An all-purpose opener.

  “Can we walk for a bit?”

  “Sure.”

  Abby turned toward the Gardens and I followed. She said nothing and neither did I. When we reached the benches along the pond, Abby said, “Let’s sit,” and we did.

  “You okay?”

  “She’s right, Erin. All of you are right.”

  “About what?” I asked, but I knew.

  “About why I haven’t brought John home to meet my mother. And why I haven’t introduced him to anyone at work.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, Erin, I hate myself for it, I really do! It’s just—I don’t know if I’m strong enough to deal with the looks and the questions.”

  I smiled. “You’re not dating Quasimodo, Abby. It’s not so unusual for a younger woman to date an older man.”

  “I know, but ... What if John has more in common with my mother than he does with me? What if he’s totally uncomfortable going out with my BSO friends and their boyfriends? I mean, most of the women there are in their twenties and thirties. The married people only seem to hang out with other married people. No one will want to go out with me and John.”

  “Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions? One step at a time, Abby. And don’t presuppose people’s reactions.”

  Though what a twenty-eight-year-old guy-about-town would have in common with a fifty-eight-year-old divorced father, I couldn’t imagine. What would they talk about at dinner? Testi
cular cancer or prostate problems? Horrible.

  “Has Dad introduced you to any of his friends?” I asked, thinking, who? Like most long-married couples, my parents had long-married couple friends. When Mom left Dad, most of those couples had disappeared from view—after an initial show of support for Dad, the dumpee. Not unusual, I’m told. Maybe a divorced couple seemed too much of a threat to the still-married ones.

  Anyway, aside from an old law school bachelor buddy—a real bachelor, not an in-the-closet gay guy—my father didn’t have much of a social life these days. Aside from Abby.

  “I’ve met his receptionist, Ms. Leonard,” Abby said. “And, well, we were thinking of going to an industry dinner at the Marriott but ...”

  “But what?”

  Abby shrugged uncomfortably. “John changed his mind a few days before the event. He said he hoped I wasn’t disappointed. . .”

  “Were you?”

  “Kind of,” Abby admitted. “I wanted to dress up and meet his colleagues. I ... I wondered if he was ashamed of me. But then he took me out to Blue Ginger—he remembered I’d always wanted to go there—and we had a lovely time, just the two of us, so, I just never said anything.”

  “Well, that was nice,” I said, but there wasn’t a lot of conviction in my voice. Since when did my father pass on an industry dinner? He was an active member of the American Bar Association and a past president of the Boston Bar Association Committee or some such organization. John Weston was a man who knew people and liked it that way.

  A pigeon flapped its way across the Gardens, narrowly missing my head. I cringed.

  “Oh, Erin,” Abby said with a sigh, “do you think this will work, me and John?”