The F Word

by Liza Palmer

  “Because you don’t understand women at all?” I blurt. My cheeks flush and my entire body tenses up. The next second of silence extends on for hours. And then Ben laughs. His laugh has this cracking, rollicking edge to it. It’s the kind of laugh you’d hear booming from the back of a smoky bar where ZZ Top plays on the jukebox.

  “You’re right about that,” he says. Silence. “So … what, uh, what can I—”

  “Right, why did I call,” I say, realizing that he’s struggling.

  “I’m assuming it has something to do with my mother running into yours at the Apple store the other day,” he says.

  “You mean when she was in there trying to figure out why the audio book she bought on iTunes wasn’t being read in order?”

  “It was on shuffle, wasn’t it?”

  “It was on shuffle.”

  “When my mom bought her new laptop, I signed her up for their one-on-one classes and knew I was in the right place when the kid—who seriously looked ten years old—started with, ‘Okay, so take the computer out of the box.’ I nearly started crying,” Ben says. Another extended silence.

  “Right, well, I’m afraid I’ve called about something far less exciting than IT assistance for our parents,” I say.

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t know if your mom told you, but I work in PR and—” I hear a crash in the background on Ben’s end.

  “Lou? Hold on one second. I’m so sorry.” Ben sets the phone down. I wait. And I wait. I wipe the kitchen counter down. I load the dishwasher. And finally, “Okay, so we’re at Defcon Two here. I would like to go on record as saying it’s not usually this chaotic, but I’m going to have to cut this short. Can we—”

  “The Asterhouse Halloween fair. Your mom put you in charge of making sure all the kids have costumes?”

  “Delegation has never been something my mother shied away from.”

  “I would like to know if Caroline Lang can donate and volunteer the day of.” My voice is clear and strong.

  “Caroline Lang? As in … Caroline Lang Caroline Lang?”

  “Yes. I can elaborate further if you’d like, but—”

  “Monday morning I have office hours open. Eight forty-five. Come by and we’ll speak further. It’s a tentative yes, but I don’t want this…” Ben stops. A moment. “I want to help you, Olivia. I want to … I’m anxious to make things right between us any way I can, but I also can’t have this event turn into the backdrop of some reality show.”

  “It’s not like that at all. Eight forty-five. I’ll be there.” Ben tells me the name of his school and gives me quick directions. I scribble them down on the back of a receipt.

  “I’ll see you then,” Ben says.

  “Yes, and thank you,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he says. We sign off. I set my phone down on the counter just as Adam walks back out into the living room.

  “That was Ben Dunn from high school. I was talking to him on the phone.” My voice is robotic. I realize that had I spoken about my past to Adam at all, this announcement would have been met with much confusion. As it stands, the mention of Ben Dunn hardly registers.

  “Oh?” Adam strides through the living room and into the kitchen.

  “He’s in charge of costumes for this Halloween fair and I asked if—”

  “Cute,” Adam says. “Hey, have you seen … there was a…” He sees my scribbled directions. “A receipt.”

  “Oh, shit. So sorry. Do you need it?” I ask, holding the receipt up.

  “No, I … that’s fine,” he says. “There’s a pad of paper one inch from your hand, but I’m sure the accountant won’t mind your scrawls on the back of that receipt come tax time.” Adam’s hands are on his hips.

  “Ben’s mom and my mom ran into each other at the Apple store and—” Adam’s phone buzzes. He picks it up, answers the text, waits, and texts again. “And then they started making out with one another and they’re now lesbian lovers.”

  “You’re doing that thing where you think I’m not listening,” Adam says, tapping away.

  “Just because you can multitask doesn’t make what you’re doing less rude,” I say.

  “But, if I’m listening to you and can answer this text, then…” He flicks his eyes up briefly. A smile. And back down at his phone.

  “And this is where we start arguing about arguing. I’ve personally loved this portion of our marriage,” I say with a sigh.

  “Can it be labeled arguing if only one of us is doing it?” Adam asks, still tapping.

  “I’m not going to do this right now,” I say, walking past him.

  “Do what?” he asks, finally looking up from his phone.

  “Take the bait.” He lets out a little laugh, and I will myself not to turn around. I have to get to dinner and I don’t have time to have the same fight with my husband that I’ve had for ten years—where he avoids talking about what’s wrong by telling me to calm down. Then I try—unsuccessfully—to prove to him that I am, in fact, calm by caring less and less about whatever it was I wanted to speak with him about in the first place. As I pull my keys from the hook, I realize Adam is correct about one thing—it’s not arguing when only one of you is doing it. “I’ll see you later on tonight.” I close the door behind me and try not to follow the logic of this realization. Is it a marriage if only one of you is fighting for it? I shake my head. I’m being dramatic. I have to remember who I am. Not who I was, but who I am now. Who I really am.

  Caroline, Ellen, and I are meeting at Escuela on Beverly Boulevard. I’ve asked Søren Holm, my boss at Birch PR, to join us. It was Søren’s steadfast leadership that attracted me to his firm after moving back here from Washington, D.C., nine years ago. My excitement when Adam announced he’d found a position at a hospital right here in Pasadena was eclipsed by the prospect of having to transition back into the notoriously petulant Hollywood PR machine. But, Søren offered me a secure work environment, and in PR—with all of its nuclear moving parts—that’s almost unheard of.

  I push open the glass door and take a second to inhale the tantalizing, wafting smell of taco deliciousness. Escuela is a small restaurant that’s always packed to capacity, with an open kitchen and a ceiling decked out with hanging vintage wooden shoe stretchers. The host makes his way through the restaurant and leads me to a table in the far corner. I thank him and settle in with the menu and some water. Ellen lopes in, a huge smile on her face once she sees me. Ellen Matapang is fresh out of UCLA and has more energy than I remember ever having. She’s barely five feet tall and will probably have her own PR firm within the year. It’s because of Ellen that one of the most-used characters on my cell phone is the smiling poop emoji and that I can now hold entire texting conversations using just pug photos.

  “Okay, it’s on some of the blogs, but only observational—I mean, they’re not saying anything outright, just pointing out that Max and Willa are looking quite cozy these days.” Ellen slides in next to me, looping her purse on the chair behind her. She starts flicking through some paparazzi shots of Max and Willa on location on her phone. Willa is sitting in his director’s chair with her knees pulled up, little black Converses pigeon-toeing off the end of the chair. Max is standing over her, his worn Reds baseball cap pulled low. She’s looking up at him in such an adoring way it’s almost obscene. It’s also exactly the picture the teenage version of me fantasized about—pulling my knees up and oh, I’m so teensy and cold and my sun-kissed hair falls over my shoulders, pouty lips with no lipstick on them and dewy skin glowing through the photograph. And I would look up at him like that and he would melt. I thought that’s what love looked like. What love looks like. And apparently so do the gossip bloggers.

  I see Søren walk in and wave him over. Lean and tall, Søren is every hot dad you raise your eyebrows at once they’ve passed you in the grocery store aisle. His wife of twenty-two years is incredible and their three kids are perhaps the cutest in the entire world. Basically, if he weren’t such a lovely
man I’d loathe him.

  “We should have all of our meetings here,” Søren says, his Danish accent chopping the sentence into a rhythmic staccato. He pulls out his chair and examines the room. “I assume you saw the photos of Max?” Søren pours himself a glass of water from the decanter on the table. Ellen passes Søren her phone and he flips through the photos disapprovingly. “Such bullshit. That girl is the same age as my daughter. He really is quite vile.” He shakes his head and hands Ellen back her phone. “Please tell me you have a plan, Olivia.”

  “I just might. This is different. Bigger. Our next steps have to be as undetectable as possible. People have to come to know Caroline in a totally new way.”

  “No pressure,” Ellen says.

  “But, I have the first step,” I say. “There’s a Halloween fair happening next week at Asterhouse. It’s a local foster home. My mom knows the woman in charge and her son, who’s in charge of the costumes for the fair, is an old friend—” I catch my breath and scan the glazed-over eyes of everyone at the table. “And none of this matters, but Caroline can donate some costumes and volunteer the day of.” Everyone nods. “On the PR side, I’ll advise her to not wear too much makeup—”

  “The natural look that takes hours and a makeup artist?” Ellen laughs.

  “Exactly. Speaking of, can you call Maya? Caroline would post only a photo on her own Instagram. I’m sure her Instagram is being watched. Especially now. So we can expect the photo to get picked up.”

  “And what’s the connection to the foster home for her?” Søren asks, waving the waitress over.

  “Her foundation.” Søren orders chips and guacamole for the table. I love watching an oblivious man order from all parts of the menu, not just the salad section. As Ellen walks Søren through the coverage on Caroline, I scan the restaurant. It’s easy to see which couples are on their first or second dates because the girl is eating with abandon. She must show her new suitor that she’s “not like those other girls” and shouldn’t be labeled the dreaded “high maintenance.” No, he’ll tell his friends later, she really eats. She’s super easygoing! She’s just really sporty and healthy!

  He won’t question how a person who eats like a stevedore still manages to weigh less than one hundred pounds. He won’t notice that she goes from eating everything at their dinner dates to eating nothing because she’s “had a really big lunch.” He won’t notice that even though she talks about loving buttery popcorn and huge bags of M&M’s, the only thing she ever gets at the movie concession stand is a bottle of water. When he does start to finally put it all together, she’ll reveal just the bits she thinks he can handle. And when he uncovers the whole truth—if he ever does—he’ll tell his friends that she wasn’t like that when they started dating. Somehow during the course of their relationship she turned crazy; something that has nothing to do with him.

  The man gets off easy in this scenario. Even within the confines of the relationship, he still gets to be himself. He still gets to be beloved for who he is and live the life he had planned for himself. It’s the woman who sacrifices everything, perpetually terrified that her true self, if revealed, will be seen by her lover as some sort of demon that must be exorcised.

  When a woman calls herself fat, she’s voicing the deep fear that she is, in fact, unlovable. It’s just easier to talk about juice cleanses and Cardio Barre than the deep abiding shame we fear is threaded into our DNA.

  “We don’t have time to waste,” I say.

  “But, we can’t risk this looking like … well, exactly what it is,” Søren says with a shrug.

  “I like that it’s a small local event not in Los Angeles or somewhere … you know,” Ellen says.

  “I like that, too,” I say.

  “What’s the connection again?” Ellen asks.

  “A friend of mine from high school is in charge of the costumes,” I say.

  “I keep forgetting you grew up here. So few people do,” Søren says.

  The waitress brings over the chips and guacamole and we order a selection of tacos, a little gem salad for Caroline, and one for myself. I also order some elote, which is grilled sweet corn with spices and lime squeezed over the top. When Caroline arrives she will be seated with her back to the restaurant, to lower the risk of a photo of her putting food in her mouth.

  Just then, Caroline pushes open the door. She scans the restaurant as all the patrons try not to look at her. I put my hand up and she smiles. I watch as she moves through the crowded restaurant with a polite “Excuse me” here, a gentle hand on a shoulder there. She slinks and slides easily through. A restaurant like this used to be my nightmare. Tight. Small, wooden parlor chairs. Clusters of condiments on tables that could easily be knocked off by a passing ass.

  Søren stands and greets Caroline with a hug. I give her a warm smile. Ellen, still starstruck, lets out an excited titter. The waitress comes over and Caroline orders a sparkling water.

  “So, you’ve seen the pictures, then?” Caroline asks, shoving her purse under the table.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Could she look any younger? The black Converse? It … why aren’t people commenting on that instead of…” Caroline trails off. She looks tired. She also looks like she’s been drinking. She’s wearing minimal makeup, an oatmeal-colored cashmere wrap, and jeans with a pair of booties. Her hair is swept up and she keeps brushing a rogue hair out of her eyes as she speaks.

  “Instead of what? What have you heard?” I ask. Caroline doesn’t look at me. “Did you read the comments?” She acts like she’s looking for the waitress. “Caroline?” She shrugs and deflates.

  “I know. I know, okay? You know I’m usually really good about that, but this whole thing is just…” She waves her hands around. “Throwing me off.”

  “I was saying the same thing, actually. About her age. I don’t know why more people aren’t bothered by it,” Søren says in that calm, soothing voice of his.

  “It’s predictable, yet disappointing,” I say.

  “God forbid a woman leave her husband for a much younger man. What a wanton whore,” Caroline says.

  “However much we think we’ve progressed…,” I trail off. Caroline nods. The waitress sets down plate after plate of tacos. Poblano. Crispy beef and pickle. Carne asada. Pork ribs. Jamón con queso. Ellen scoots in her chair.

  “I haven’t eaten anything all day,” Ellen says, flipping her napkin onto her lap. “Preparing for this very moment.”

  The waitress brings over our little gem salads. A quick snap of her eyes at Caroline. The waitress is about to … she wants to say something to Caroline, but knows she can’t. Another smile. A lingering look.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she finally asks.

  “I already have the soda water, but thank you so much,” Caroline says.

  “Oh, right?! Right … I … I’m so sorry.”

  “I could easily be talked into a whisky soda if you have that kind of thing,” Caroline says.

  “We do not!” The waitress laughs way too hard. “Okay! Let me know if you need anything else. Whisky soda?!” A nod and a bow and the waitress says her goodbyes. Søren pulls several tacos onto his plate, as does Ellen. I eat my salad and even allow myself a few bites of the elote. It’s probably one of my favorite things in the world.

  “Okay. I have a lead on something and wanted to run it by you,” I say. Caroline nods, her mouth full. “There’s a Halloween fair at a foster home near where I grew up. They’re looking for costume donations so none of the kids will be left out, and maybe volunteer help the day of. I thought because of the work you do through your foundation, this might be something you’d be interested in.”

  “Would you be up for donating?” Søren asks.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Caroline says without hesitation. “That’s really … I like this a lot.” Caroline smiles.

  “Good,” Søren says, taking a huge bite of his taco.

  “I remember—God, I must have been six or seven?
Anyway, you know my home life wasn’t the greatest. It’s why I started the foundation. I would have killed for something after school. Especially something where I got to make stuff?” Caroline is quiet. Distant. “That would have been … it would have saved me.” She takes a sip of her sparkling water as I can see her starting to get more emotional than she was ready for. Her seemingly idyllic, middle-class, Midwestern upbringing taught Caroline that keeping the status quo meant she couldn’t tell the truth about how loveless her cold parents were to her and her siblings. “It was getting to be Halloween and my parents just couldn’t … wouldn’t … whatever, it got to the day of and I had no costume.” I’ve never heard this story before. “We had one of those costume parade things and the morning of, I just panicked. I wrapped a towel around my shoulders, grabbed my little rollie-suitcase, and put some too-small cowboy hat on my head, and said I was a Super Hobo.” I bark out a laugh and Caroline leans back in her chair, letting her head fall back. “Super Hobo!”

  “Super Hobo,” I repeat, gasping for breath.

  “Why? Why did … why was that my go-to?” Caroline asks, wheezing with laughter, too. Søren and Ellen don’t know quite how to react, so they’re both wearing what can only be described as amused smiles. “But, I walked my Super Hobo ass proudly around that playground, telling everyone the story of my time on the rails.”

  “I love that,” I say. Caroline’s Super Hobo should meet my Sweaty Marble. They’ve turned out to be quite the similar pair of ghosts.

  “So, if I can save one kid from having to throw together their own Super Hobo costume, maybe something good can come out of this circus after all,” Caroline says. This. This is the Caroline I want everyone to know. This is the Real Caroline Lang.

  We finish dinner as we work through our whole plan of attack. Timelines. Social media campaigns. Polaroids and sketches from Caroline’s stylist. The schedule for the Blue Christmas junket. Ellen gives us the most up-to-date intel from her Secret Underground Intern Army: Max’s PR camp and what they’re up to (stomping out fires as they come, playing up the Ice Queen angle), the buzz on Max and Willa’s movie (bad) as opposed to the buzz on Caroline’s new movie (good), and the groundswell reaction to the impending divorce (Caroline made him cheat). Ellen’s voice shakes when she repeats this last one.