Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  I debated giving Abby the hope she was asking for. But it would have been false hope.

  “I don’t know, Abby. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  E—Ricardo and I are doing wonderfully. He’s helping me with my budget—you know how bad I am with figures! Hope all’s well. Maria—that’s what R. calls me.

  Maureen, my only married-currently-pregnant-twenty-something-friend, my colleague at EastWind, told me one day that week that she was eagerly waiting for her mucus plug to pass. Having determinedly avoided reading Our Bodies Ourselves, I knew nothing about said mucus plug. It occured to me, as I listened to Maureen describe in detail the event she was anticipating, that until I was ready to pass a mucus plug of my own, I did not want to know about it. Now, I thought, as I listened in horror, now I am going to lie awake at night imagining the mucus plug. Supposedly, Maureen said, it resembles a clearish slug. Or thick, clear snot.

  When I got home that night, desperately hoping not to think of the mucus plug during dinner, I started to obsess. Would I ever be able to eat a raw oyster again? Could you sue someone for ruining your appetite?

  Though it was highly unfashionable and not politically correct and all that, the truth was that I liked to know as little as possible about my body without being utterly, stupidly ignorant. I mean, I knew where pee came out. Beyond that, I liked to keep things a mystery. I figured that if something went wrong, the doctor would fix it. Of course, I hardly ever went to the doctor, either.

  My chosen ignorance I chalked up to my being of largely Irish-Catholic descent. Add to that a classic American prudishness—a more far-reaching and influential gift from our forefathers and mothers than the turkey and Manifest Destiny—and you had a recipe for supreme denial.

  What’s Irish foreplay? Bernie on top, muttering, “Brace yourself, Bridget.” Bridget on bottom, eyes closed, suffering with an overwhelming sense of guilt, beating herself for having entertained even the merest notion of lust, lacerating herself for having succumbed to temptation.

  Not for the first time I looked at Fuzzer that night with envy. How nice it would be to act on instinct and need, with no thought to the soul.

  Isn’t that what you’re doing by having an affair with Doug? Reason inquired.

  Her soul is supremely involved in her relationship with Doug, Romance replied haughtily.

  Soul or not, in the eyes of the church I was committing adultery. No matter that I considered myself no longer a Catholic. The church considered me caught until the day I died. Then, I would be handed over to God for judgment and appropriate punishment.

  Catholics are admonished to avoid not only sin but the “near temptation of sin.” They’re not even allowed in the same room with sin. If sin is somewhere in the building, Catholics are warned to leave the building immediately. Lest sin tempt them into, say, looking at a coworker with envy. Or stealing staples from the supply room. Or, the good Lord forbid, fantasizing about sex during business hours.

  Which thought led me to lascivious thoughts about Doug. Who at that moment was home with his wife.

  In some bizarre leap, that depressing thought led to memories of my own depressing presex days. Occasionally, it still amazed me that I’d ever lost my virginity. Of course, alcohol had been involved. And for days afterward I’d felt as if I were walking around with a giant red S plastered to my forehead.

  A giant red S for Slut. All anyone had to do was look at me and they’d know that I had done intimate things with a man—well, a college guy—and that I was going to Hell.

  It was horrible. Not the actual experience, which was painful and awkward but probably worse by far for the college guy. What a responsibility! But the buildup and aftermath. . . Twelve years later it still made me shudder.

  However, once the deed had been done and I realized that sex did not cause devil’s horns to pop out of one’s forehead, I worked rapidly to get over all those feelings of shame and guilt and I succeeded. It was easier than I ever could have guessed, actually.

  Maybe that meant I really was slated for a place in Hell. That was okay. Most people I knew were going to be there, too.

  I peered into the freezer the night of Maureen’s revelation, hoping to find a Lean Cuisine that included nothing even remotely resembling a mucus plug. In the end, I settled for a box of Hanover pretzels. I couldn’t even handle dipping them in mustard, brown or yellow. Spooning Fuzzer’s ocean whitefish stew almost did me in.

  I ate the pretzels dry, sitting in front of the TV, blindly watching sitcom reruns. While my mother tangoed with some leftover Casanova type in the hills of Borneo; and my lover rubbed his wife’s feet and played hide-and-seek with his kids; and my twenty-something colleague and her husband planned their baby’s future; and my father wined and dined a woman young enough to be his daughter.

  How did I get here, I wondered suddenly.

  And how do I get out?

  Doug and I had an assignation—what a great word, so many connotations—the next night. I had to stay late at the office so we weren’t able to have dinner together. I arrived at Doug’s office at almost eight o’clock. He locked his door, opened a bottle of wine, and kissed me hello.

  I so needed to spill, especially after my lapse into self-pity and depression the night before when I sat alone munching pretzels for dinner.

  “I’m in the mood to talk. Is that okay?” I said. “I feel all wound up.”

  “Fine by me,” he said. “As long as we can, you know, later.”

  I laughed at the broad comical expression on his face. “Of course.”

  Doug was generous as a listener. An hour had passed before I paused to breathe.

  Nine o’clock. The lights were off, the room illuminated by the lights from surrounding buildings, other offices, and apartments. We sat on the couch, my legs curled up under me, Doug’s legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles.

  For one solid hour I’d been yammering on about my childhood; about the double-standards imposed by the church and my old-world Grandfather Morelli; about my best friend in high school who’d gone to college on the West Coast and never answered my letters; about my best friend in freshman year of college who’d committed suicide when she got a C+ in Advanced Calculus and who in a note had left her collection of Beatles albums to me. A collection I never got because her parents refused to acknowledge the various notes she’d left for various friends. Poor Susanne.

  I’m sure the bottle of wine I’d consumed on an empty stomach fueled much of my rambling storytelling.

  “You’re sure I’m not boring you?” I said, knowing that I probably was and knowing that Doug would lie about it.

  “I’m sure,” he lied. “Go on. Your life is fascinating.”

  I laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that. But where was I?”

  “Something about priests and nuns.”

  “Oh, yeah. The poor nuns. Every nun I had in school, no matter how young she was, wore a cheap dark blue suit and ugly, serviceable shoes. Big black ugly shoes. Why did they have to do that? Every one of them, the nasty ones and the nice ones, just looked so—so poor. So neglected.”

  “What about the priests?” Doug asked.

  I grimaced. “Most of the priests my family knew seemed to spend an awful lot of time eating at parishioners’ homes and drinking at private clubs. And they dressed far better than nuns. Sleek black suits, shiny black shoes ... They just seemed to be about a much more attractive lifestyle. Some of them even belonged to the country club and played golf every Saturday! Can you imagine a nun on the golf course, wearing her habit? And what about the shoes? What would she do for shoes?”

  “And I used to regret my parents were atheists,” Doug said, kissing my hand. “Go on.”

  I did.

  “It’s odd, you know. My mother didn’t want me to be a nun, but she told me time and again that I wasn’t ‘cut out’ for marriage. Those were her words—cut out for—like everyone was born according to a predete
rmined pattern and that was that; you couldn’t change, there was no point in even trying. I think she meant it as a compliment—she always said it with a sort of proud smile—though for the longest time I had no idea why she thought not being cut out for marriage was a good thing. And I had no idea how she could tell such a thing about me, anyway. I mean, I was about nine when she started telling me what I was and was not cut out to be. I hadn’t even begun to think about thinking about my future! I remember being worried by the fact that she could see so clearly who and what I was. I wondered if I had some sort of physical trait that gave me away or something. It was all very confusing.”

  “Did anyone ever ask you to marry him?” Doug asked.

  The question took me by surprise.

  “Yes, in fact, one—no, two guys did. Huh. I’d almost forgotten. Both right after college.”

  “You said no.”

  “I said no. I wasn’t interested. Besides, they weren’t at all right for the job.”

  “But they thought you might be. Seems Mother Weston was wrong. Maybe she should stay far away in the jungle.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said, laughing. “Hey, why didn’t I talk to you about all this years ago?”

  “We only met months ago.”

  “Oh. Right. Here’s another funny thing,” I said. “If not being cut out for marriage was a good thing, then why weren’t the unmarried women we knew happier? Or more glamorous? Or invited over more often? Why did my mother and her sister, my Aunt Margaret, whisper things like, ‘Poor Alice, she doesn’t have a man,’ behind their backs? Where were the single women who weren’t nuns, the single women who were happy and proud and glamorous?”

  “In the city, having fun?”

  I laughed. “Maybe. That possibility wouldn’t have occurred to me then. See, because from when I was little I’d gotten the loud and clear message that for a woman to be single was for her to be somehow defective and pitiable.”

  “That’s not an uncommon notion, Erin.”

  Doug opened another bottle of wine, refilled my plastic cup, and settled back.

  “I know, I know. But—how did that reconcile with my mother’s being proud I wasn’t cut out for marriage!”

  “Mothers. Can’t live with them. Can’t ...”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said, briefly assailed by an image of Marie Weston whooping it up on a beach with a greasy Lothario. “Anyway, the point was that for a man to be single meant that he was a jolly and enviable bachelor. Which meant that, even if he was a priest, he was assumed to be a wonderful conversationalist and a serious gourmand and a connoiseur of fine wine. Which meant he was always invited to dinner. Unlike his skinny, dried-up and bitter female counterpart.”

  “Defective and pitiable?”

  “Exactly.” I smiled. My head felt a little funny. “You’re such a good listener, Mr. Spears.”

  Doug leaned over and kissed me. “Go on. I’m interested.”

  “I don’t remember my mother ever inviting a single woman to a meal. But charming Mr. Mahoney and raucous Father Bill, they were at our table all the time. Huh.”

  “What?”

  “Another lightbulb,” I said slowly. “It occurs to me now that Cousin Katie and Miss Adams were actually quite attractive—and a few years younger than my mother and Aunt Margaret—and that maybe the reason they weren’t invited to dinner had nothing to do with their being defective and pitiable.”

  “You think?” Doug’s smile was infectious. And his lips begged to be kissed. I kissed them.

  “Oh, I think all right,” I said. “Maybe it had something to do with their being independent and threatening. Wild single women out to steal the bored husbands of boring married women.”

  There’s something familiar in those words, my brain said fuzzily. But what?

  Doug seemed amused about something.

  “Yes, I do believe you’re on to something there, Ms. Weston,” he said. “More wine?”

  “Okay.” I held out my empty plastic cup and Doug poured. “Hey, want to hear the real twist to the whole story? Then I’ll shut up, I swear.”

  “You’ll have to because I’m going to ravish you.”

  “Good. Then, I’ll make it quick. Years later, I think I was in college, I found out that at least two of those jolly and enviable bachelors that were always mooching at our home were gay. Turns out they were just desperately trying to keep up appearances. Deeply in the closet. It’s sad, really.”

  Doug took the plastic cup of wine from my hand and began to unbutton my blouse. “What would your Grandpa Morelli have said to that bit of information?”

  I considered as I lay back on the couch and the room began to spin.

  “I think he would have laughed,” I said with a giggle.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Saturday night. Date night. Abby was with my father. Doug was with his wife. JoAnne, Maggie, and I were with each other. We met for dinner at No. 9 Park.

  “Look over by the bar,” JoAnne instructed. “The far end. Casually, casually, don’t look like you’re looking.”

  “What am I looking at?” I said.

  “Mr. December with Miss May.”

  “Oh.” How had I missed them even for a second?

  The man was probably in his late sixties or early seventies. It was hard to tell, exactly, because he’d taken pains to preserve what looks he’d had as a younger man. He was slim, bordering on skinny. His hair was silver and artfuly swept back with about two handfuls of gel. He wore a big gold watch and a big gold ring and a big gold bracelet. His navy blazer with big gold buttons was impeccable, probably from Brooks Brothers. His trousers were gray, knife-creased. His shoes, shiny and black.

  Aside from the preponderance of gold, he looked respectable enough, a seventy-year-old single man out on the town. Respectable, but also—old.

  Especially standing next to his companion. She was maybe my age, at least half his seventy. She wore a wrap-around dress that showed off an impressive cleavage and a lot of leg. High heels. Hair, blond—a very expensive color job. Something sparkly at her throat. A gift from Mr. December?

  Neither was a caricature. Still ... Mr. December put his hand on Miss May’s shoulder. Even from a distance I could see the wrinkles and liver spots. Miss May tilted her head and smiled up at him, a practiced gesture.

  I looked away.

  “Typical older man/younger woman scenario,” JoAnne pronounced. “If he has money, it’ll last. If not, he’ll have his fling until he can’t keep up with her anymore. Until going to clubs every Saturday night until three A.M. puts him on blood pressure medication.”

  “If he isn’t on it already,” I mumbled. Was my father on blood pressure medication? What else about my father didn’t I know?

  “Or she’ll have her fun—or whatever it is she’s having—until she gets totally bored with his playing Perry Como records while napping in his favorite chair with his reading glasses halfway down his nose,” Maggie said. “Or his wearing cardigans or something.”

  “Perry Como?” I repeated. “How old do you think that man at the bar is? Seventy, tops.” And, I thought, my father is fifty-eight years old, not ninety. “Besides, no real old men wear cardigans. Only fussy grandpas on TV commercials for hard candies. Butterscotch hard candies.”

  “Point is,” JoAnne said loudly, “without a lot of money to keep a young woman around, she won’t stay with an old guy.”

  “That is such an old-fashioned, sexist thing to say!” I cried. “On so many levels.”

  Though Reason told me that JoAnne had a point. Look at Anna-Nicole Smith, Reason said. Like she married that skinny old man for his personality? Look at Miss May over there. You think she’s turned on by Mr. December’s age spots?

  “Well, what else can an older guy give a younger woman?” JoAnne persisted. “If he’s not rich, I mean. Forget about kids. He’s got his family, he’s done. Forget about hanging with her friends, he’ll feel too awkward. And sex just gets more and more iffy.”<
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  “Not to mention ear hair and wrinkles and empty cans of Ensure lying about the kitchen,” Maggie added knowingly.

  “And the nasty glares of women his own age. A total assumption on their part he’s with you for sex and showing off in front of his buddies. A total assumption that you’re with him for money and are nothing better than a tramp.”

  “And the fact that he can’t eat anything spicy and can’t eat dinner after nine o’clock or he’ll be up all night with cramps.”

  “Or in the bathroom. With your Martha Stewart Living magazine.”

  “How about love?” I argued, a little bit desperate now. Suddenly, I didn’t want Miss May to leave nice old Mr. December. I didn’t want Abby to leave my father. I didn’t want some young woman, especially a friend of mine, to break his heart. What did my father ever do to deserve two broken hearts in one lifetime!

  “Companionship? Compatability?” I went on. “What if the man and woman really get along? What if they share passions, like art or ... or hiking or whatever. I don’t know. What if they fall in love?”

  “Nah. Probably just a sick father fixation on her part and a pitiful desire to recapture his youth on the man’s.”

  “That’s so unfair, JoAnne,” I snapped. “Okay, maybe it’s true about some older men and younger women, but it can’t be true about all of them. It can’t be. It’s not true about Abby and my father. I know it.”

  Was it?

  JoAnne shrugged.

  I snuck another look at May-December. He was sipping bourbon or Scotch or whiskey, straight. She was sipping a bright purple martini. Okay, there was something slightly macabre about their being together—but maybe that was JoAnne’s opinion infecting my own observations.

  I wondered if Mr. December had a daughter older than Miss May. I wondered what the daughter thought of her father going around with someone half his age.

  “Ten years, tops,” JoAnne was saying now. “That’s my limit. Only exception, the guy’s super, filthy rich. Then, I’ll go to fifteen. Okay, maybe twenty. But only if he works out regularly. And has all his hair.”