by Liza Palmer
Jill and I walk quickly up the long driveway to Emma’s house that night for the head of department mixer. We stop short of the house and take it in. Jill pulls out her phone and takes a quick picture. Emma and Jamie’s house is a midcentury modern. Two stories, lots of windows and clean lines. You can see the entire interior of the house from the driveway. No privacy at all. The minimalist staircase leading upstairs and the orange lacquered credenza and pair of Barcelona chairs that grace the main entryway are all clearly visible from the driveway.
“There better be wine,” Jill whispers just as the front door opens. I shoot her the first of many disapproving glances of the evening.
It’s Jamie.
“Hi, it’s so good seeing you again,” I say, extending one hand to Jamie as I’m holding a ridiculously expensive bottle of red wine with a name I can’t pronounce in the other.
“Jamie Dunham,” he says, his icy fingers curling around mine.
“Yes, I know. We’ve met,” I say, passing him the bottle of wine.
“I know,” he says.
“Good,” I say, looking into the living room.
“Jill Fleming,” Jill says, passing Jamie a hostess gift: a basket containing far too many decorative soaps, bath salts and lotions.
“Jamie Dunham,” he says, opening the door just enough to let us both walk in. He sets Jill’s basket in the hallway and takes my red wine over to the bartender.
As usual, everyone is milling around the living room and not eating a thing. The bow-tied waiters thread through cliques of people with full trays from which no one partakes. A perfectly catered fete and no one is touching the beautiful food. Welcome to L.A. But, of course, everyone’s wineglasses are constantly being topped off. That’s something we certainly don’t skimp on. Carbs—sure. Wine—never.
“Sam might have a woman back in Tennessee,” Jill says, taking a crab cake off a full tray.
“You think I haven’t thought of that?” I say, waving off the waiter.
Jill nods. An apologetic smile and a quick shoulder squeeze. She’s deftly treading water between giving me a pep talk and keeping my emotions in check just in case this whole Sam thing goes south. She has to prepare for the possibility of both outcomes this early on.
I continue. “It’s such a catch-22. I have to allow myself to be vulnerable in order to be open to something, but being vulnerable to him opens me up to getting hurt.” Tears sting my eyes. You’re at the head of department mixer, Frannie. Lock it up.
Jill can’t contain herself. “Maybe I can ask if Martin has some—”
“Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
“How can you stand there and talk about other setups?” I ask.
“I’m not understanding,” Jill says.
“You talking about other setups makes me think that you think that this whole thing with Sam is over. That I’m—”
Jill interrupts. “Makes you think that I think . . . what are you talking about right now? I want you to be happy. If another dude makes you happy, then Sam can take a long walk off a short pier is all I’m saying.” Jill’s voice is quiet and intense. She’s serious. For once in her life. And I should be listening. I get it. I’m the queen of putting all my eggs in one basket. I always had the fear of only having one batch of eggs and one basket. Everything’s more precious when you think there’s no hope of more. Saved voice mails. Treasured notes scrawled on the backs of envelopes. Always being on hand for fear that I wouldn’t be there on the day he decided to proclaim his undying love for me. I’m afraid everything about me is fleeting.
Jill continues. “So, we’ll just play the whole setup thing by ear then?” She squeezes me close.
“That’s Jill Code,” I say, waving down the waiter again. I better eat something if I’m going to continue drinking like this.
“For lining up a rebound fuck, yes. Most assuredly—”
“Ms. Reid? Mrs. Fleming.” Emma Dunham.
“Oh, for crissakes,” Jill says under her breath. We straighten up.
“Yes, Headmistress Dunham,” I say, shoulders back, head high.
“Headmistress, I’m—” Jill starts.
“Mrs. Fleming, I don’t need an explanation. It seems you’re catching on however—at least you’re not in a public hallway during Back-to-School Night. One has to acknowledge the little victories,” Emma says, giving the smallest of smiles. She is beyond dazzling. Her blond hair is sleek and falls in a Veronica Lake–style wave down the right side of her perfectly sculpted face. She has more makeup on than usual, but it only amplifies her already glorious features. She’s wearing a simple light pink, sleeveless shift dress and a pair of silver Grecian sandals. Effortless, stunning and completely beyond anything I’d ever consider wearing.
“That’s right!” Jill says, guffawing.
“Thank you so much for having us. Such a lovely home,” I say, shaking her hand.
“Thank you. The board is anxious to speak with you two. We’re all so happy to have you,” Emma says, her eyes flitting from group to group, from Jill to me, from Jamie to the kitchen. She’s in complete control. Emma pulls over a well-heeled couple. “Jill Fleming, this is Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. Please.” Emma puts them together like an awkward pair of teenagers at a Sadie Hawkins dance. They fall into conversation easily. Weather. Markham. The usual.
“I want to thank you again for the invitation and the opportunity to be considered for the head of the speech therapy department,” I say.
“Frannie, you earned it, you don’t have to keep thanking me,” Emma says.
“I guess it’s about you believing in me then. It means a lot,” I say.
“You’re funny,” Emma says, smiling. Her smile is beautiful . . . and rare.
“How am I funny?” I feel like Joe Pesci.
“It’s just . . . your résumé is impressive, your educational background and work ethic are just as stellar, of course you’re in the running,” Emma says, taking a sip of her white wine.
“Did you always want to work in school administration?”
“Of course not.” Emma laughs. Another drink of her wine. I believe Emma Dunham is getting a bit tipsy. Jill and her duo of board members cackle with laughter. Jill is telling one of her stories. They’re riveted. The job is as good as hers anyway, so why not just wow the board while you’re at it? Not that I’m jealous. It’s just complex, right?
Emma continues. “I wanted to be a painter. I was pretty good, too.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Emma takes another drink and scans the house quickly. Efficiently. “It just wasn’t in the cards.”
I am quiet. Emma senses my trepidation. She continues. “My parents had a very clear plan for me. Rebellion was my sister’s full-time occupation, not mine.”
“That tends to be the case.”
“You have sisters?”
“No.”
“So, hypothetically speaking?”
“Yeah . . . um, yes, hypothetically speaking.”
“Clara, my sister, is the artist of the family. That’s quite enough for my parents.”
“What does Jamie think of your painting?”
“He wants what’s best for me. What challenges me. Academia offered me a respectable future and a very real career as well as . . . No, Clara paints. She’s happy and . . .” Emma laughs the tiniest, most intimate little giggle and continues. “She was always the one who questioned our parents. She questioned everything . . . she was so . . . wild. So strong willed. I loved her for that. She was always the stronger of the two of us.” Another drink and a little sway.
“I imagine it took a certain degree of strength to become the first female head of school at Markham. I don’t think they’re handing that title out to many weaklings.”
“True.”
“Have you ever thought about getting back into it? Taking some art classes?”
“Every day.” Emma doesn’t hesitate.
We are quiet.
Emma
continues. “I simply don’t have the time. And I love my job at Markham, don’t get me wrong.”
“Well, at least you can live somewhat vicariously through Clara,” I say, offering the worst argument in the history of arguments.
“Clara and I haven’t spoken in quite some time, I’m afraid.”
Shit.
“That’s too bad,” I say.
“It really is.” Emma is suddenly distant.
Shit.
I scan the photos along the mantel as the awkward silence expands between us.
“And is this your dog?” I ask, pointing at a candid photo of an elegant, poised Weimaraner with a red collar, ice-blue eyes and floppy ears.
Emma’s face lights up; she grabs the silver frame in such a way that I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she clutched the photo to her chest and spun about the room.
“John Henry. He’s . . . he’s our baby. My baby.” Emma sighs, her entire face changing. Softness, dropping any and all professional airs.
“Must be hard to walk with that hammer in his paw.”
“I’m sorry?”
“John Henry? The folk hero? Challenged the steam hammer?”
“Oh, of course. Jamie named him. He always loved the symbolism: working class, dying with your hammer in your hand after conquering the establishment. Of course, now I don’t even think about the folktale. John Henry is just my baby now.”
“He’s beautiful,” I say.
“Thank you,” Emma says, setting the frame back down on the mantel.
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“We put him in his crate for the evening. All the guests. Jamie thought it’d be best,” Emma says, looking pained.
“That makes sense,” I say.
“I hate that he’s not here. He’s my . . . he’s my everything. Embarrassing, right?” Emma blushes slightly. A small smile.
“No way. Are you kidding? At least you have a dog. I’ve always been too scared. I just . . . I just know I’ll outlive them and I . . . ugh . . .”
“Well, that’s not going to be a problem for me,” Emma says.
“Oh, well—”
Emma cuts in with a conspiratorial whisper. “John Henry is immortal, so . . .”
“Ha!” I say, laughing, caught off guard by Emma’s wry humor.
The laughter subsides. Silence. Again.
“May I use your restroom?” I ask.
“Sure, up the staircase and to the left,” Emma says, pointing me in the right direction. She lays her hand on my shoulder as I pass. Gentle. Affectionate. I give her a quick smile. I motion to Jill that I’m heading upstairs. She gives me a nod of understanding and falls back into conversation with the now large group of board members who are hanging on her every word. Great.
I walk up the stairs and to the left, just as directed. Emma watches me as I climb. I look down and realize that if someone were standing beneath the staircase they would be able to see directly up my skirt. I grab the bottom of my skirt and hurry up the stairs.
“In a hurry?”
“What?”
Ryan.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m the head of the history department. Remember?” Ryan says, taking a long swig of his beer.
“Are you already drunk?” I ask, eyeing the bathroom.
“Maybe.”
“I don’t think that’s the best idea in the world.”
“Shocking. You’re thinking about something.”
“Okay, well. This has been nice, but—”
“I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry,” Ryan says, grabbing my arm.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking from his hand and back to him. He quickly lets go.
“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Ryan says, slurring just slightly.
“I don’t want me to be mad at you either,” I say honestly.
“Then don’t.”
“Okay. Noted. Good talk,” I say, patting his shoulder and taking a few steps toward the bathroom.
“You’re making this way more complicated than it has to be, you know? We can just move on. Be happy with other people and just . . . go back to the way it was before we started dating. Friends. Can’t we do that?” Friend. How can such a seemingly lovely word also be one of the most reviled? At times I’ve thought that I would rather have someone hate me than “just want to be friends.”
“You mean go backward?”
“No, forward.”
“You just said that you wanted it to be the way that it was, meaning that it was a time in the past. You’re the head of the history department; surely you understand that concept. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“Ugh. Just . . . never mind,” Ryan says, steadying himself on the banister.
“Why don’t you go find Jessica and maybe a cup of coffee,” I say. I can’t make out what Ryan says in reply, but I know it’s mean. I can hear the bile beneath the slurred words. Tears spring up before I even know what’s happening. I notice Jill watching us from the ground floor. I see her zero in on Ryan just as he gets to the bottom of the stairs. She excuses herself from the group of board members and pulls Ryan aside. Her gesticulations are violent and her words are hushed yet passionate. Ryan is nodding; she grabs his arm, tugging him closer. I need to get somewhere private and fast.
My throat is choking closed and I’m thankful for my proximity to the bathroom. Once inside, I close and lock the door. The sounds of the party just downstairs are muffled and far away. And in the solace of this bathroom I allow myself to cry.
We can just move on. Ryan’s words echo as I try to regain some kind of composure. I thought I’d have some post-breakup epiphany where I’d all of a sudden be this whole other person. Strong. Sure. Secure. But that’s not what this is. I feel cold and confused.
I splash cold water on my face over and over again. Wake up, Frannie. Wake up. I dry my face with a monogrammed guest towel and begin the long process of reapplying the mascara that is apparently going to be my plus-one for the evening.
When I finally exit the bathroom, I take a quick scan of the upstairs. I take out my iPhone, snap another quick photo of the general splendor and text it to Jill just downstairs. I notice there’s already a text from her waiting for me.
“Had nice chat with Ryan. We now understand each other. While you’re up there, take a picture of the master bedroom and any marital aids you find, if you get my meaning.” I immediately look up, as if the text itself were all the evidence necessary to condemn me for my misdeeds. Jill is staring at me from the bottom of the stairs. She flicks her hand as if to say, “g’head.” We then have the most silent fight on record. Curt nods. Flicked, urgent gazes. Elaborate eye rolls. Shrugged shoulders and pointed fingers.
The deal is struck. My body deflates. Jill has worn me down, as usual. I’ll go. I’ll go. He’ll keep calling me . . . he’ll keep calling me . . . Great. I’ve devolved into impersonations of Cameron Frye from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I give her the most polite middle finger I can. She blows me a kiss.
The master bedroom is right off the bathroom and no one else is anywhere around. I take another scan. The mixer rages on downstairs. Look, if I’m caught I’ll just say I was looking for the bathroom. Time to start pushing the envelope a bit, Frannie.
I’m going in.
The Dunham master bedroom is . . . clean. White. Sterile. It looks like an operating room. A tightly made, all-white platform bed anchors the large room. I bet I could bounce a quarter on it. It’s the one room with no large windows. Absolute privacy. Well, that’s something. I pad around the room as quietly as possible and find the en suite. I flip on the light. I open up a few drawers to find the usual: hairbrushes, toothbrushes and deodorant. Nothing spectacular. I take a quick picture. Proof of my expedition. I lean down to the lowest drawer and open it up to reveal stacked towels. Perfectly stacked white towels.
“That’s something you’d never find in my house,
” I say, taking a quick picture of the over-the-top perfection for Jill. I’m just about to close the drawer when I hear something shift beneath the towels. I reach under and find a silver framed photo. A family. Emma’s family. They’re standing by Emma, who, it looks like, is graduating from college. She’s young. Beautiful. Her parents are exactly how I’d picture them, like they stepped right out of a yachting magazine or something. And . . . the sister. Clara. The spitting image of Emma, but . . . edgier. She hasn’t gone all black sheep yet but is definitely rocking a seriously pissed-off expression. She’s clearly separate from the rest of the family unit. But as I look closer . . . they’re all separate. They may be standing together in the picture, but each looks like they’re completely unaware that anyone else is standing close by.
I focus in on Emma’s diploma: Emma Jane Stanforth. Hm. I tuck the picture back under the towels and ease the drawer closed, sure to keep everything just as I found it.
“You looking for something in particular?” Jamie. In the doorway. And thank god I just peed or else I would have most certainly wet myself. They don’t call me Frannie Peed for nothing.
“Oh my god, you scared me,” I say, lurching up, my heart in my throat.
“I scared you?”
“Yes,” I say.
“You mean I scared you as you were rifling through our personal belongings?” Jamie says, stepping closer. Too close.
“I’m sorry. I was embarrassed. I was . . . I was looking for a tampon,” I say. Score! Huzzah! Score! Jill would be so proud of me right now.
“Oh,” Jamie says, not backing away.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back as Jamie takes another step forward. What exactly is going on here?
I continue. “And I didn’t really want to announce it but figured Emma might have some stowed away, you know, back here,” I say, attempting a smile.
Jamie is quiet.
“So . . .”
“So . . .” Jamie is inches away from me now. His beakish face is too close and his pale skin glimmers in the bright fluorescents of the bathroom. He’s been drinking.
