Significant Others

by Baron, Marilyn

  “Sites?” I asked, confused.

  “You know, porn sites.”

  “Marc would never do that,” I argued.

  “Did you ever think he would cheat on you?” Barbara reasoned. “How well do you really know your husband, Honey?”

  I thought I knew everything about Marc. But I couldn’t explain the Thanksgiving pictures of naked Trisha.

  “We’ve been married for more than twenty years,” was all I could manage.

  “Still, I’ll bet he has a private e-mail account. My guess is he’s made his personal travel arrangements over the Internet. Maybe he even has a little love nest tucked away somewhere.”

  I didn’t even want to think about that. “It sounds complicated,” I lamented.

  “Divorce takes time,” Barbara pointed out. “It’s more than just an irritation or a bump in the road. You have to be committed to this process, Honey. But you’re ahead of the game. You don’t use his name professionally, so you won’t have to change it back.”

  “What did you ever see in him anyway?” Donny asked, before he excused himself and jumped up to pull out Barbara’s chair so she could go to the ladies’ room to freshen up and call the kids.

  “Be right back, sis,” Donny said. “I want to talk to the kids before the sitter puts them to sleep.”

  I took a sip of my wine. Looking back, I tried to remember what it was I ever saw in Marc Bronstein and realized that I first noticed him because of something he saw in me.

  My identity had always been tied up with being Donny Palladino’s little sister. Few people looked at me in my own right. To most people I was an afterthought. Donny more than tolerated me tagging along with his friends like I was one of the boys. But if I developed a crush on one of the guys on his team, he’d always deliver a stern lecture to the object of my affection and quash any chance of a blossoming romance. I’d nursed some serious crushes over the years, but no one was “good enough for me,” according to Donny, and no one wanted to antagonize Donny Palladino. I always thought Donny was just being overprotective. But maybe I simply wasn’t worth the effort.

  When I first met Marc Bronstein at a college fraternity party, he’d never even heard of Donny Palladino and he didn’t know the difference between a batting average and a blitz, a sacrifice and a sack, a squeeze play and a sweep. And that was fine with me.

  Usually the first thing people noticed about me was my nose and, as my Grandmother Lewis used to say, that I was “big-boned.” My father said my nose gave my face character. Marc also thought that my nose was cute and my butt was perfect.

  I’d spent most of my life around hunky baseball players whose only goal was to make it to the major leagues. An education was just a necessary stop on the route. Marc was sexy, smart and ambitious. He had goals. He was already in law school. And after we met, I developed a goal of my own. To make Marc Bronstein fall in love with me.

  Marc’s definition of getting to first and second had nothing to do with baseball. And I was determined not to let him strike out. When I finally got my diamond, it had nothing to do with the infield. Of course my brother thought I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

  My brother thought he was an expert on marriage even though he got married very late in the game. Women were literally falling at his feet, proposing marriage and making other less traditional propositions, so he’d never felt the need to get tied down.

  But when Donny accompanied a teammate who needed moral support to an attorney’s office while he was being sued for divorce, he sat in on a property settlement session and saw Barbara in action. He described his future wife as a lioness, a fiery avenging angel, protecting a woman’s rights. When she spoke, with such conviction, he imagined her astride a stallion, wielding her sword, dispensing justice in defense of her client. Unfortunately, thanks to Barbara, his friend’s wife took him for everything he had. That meeting signaled the end of his friend’s marriage but the beginning of a new life for Donny. The moment he laid eyes on Barbara, something just clicked. He fell right then and there, and after that he never looked at another woman the same way again.

  I’d never seen anything like it. Donny and Barbara were the proverbial odd couple. He was a hulking, handsome hunk. And she was this diminutive but ferocious lady lawyer, all business. Attractive, yes, but nothing like the brainless, busty, clingy model-types Donny had gone for in the past. They had a happy marriage and three beautiful children, so now he was eager to offer advice. And his advice had always been that Marc Bronstein was the wrong man for me. Turned out big brother was right after all.

  I always thought I’d marry a baseball player or an athlete, and that was the image, the standard I’d carried around in my head since I first dreamed of love as a teenager. But when I looked at Marc Bronstein, I saw something different. He wasn’t big and brawny but compact and confident and solid in his own way. He looked good on paper. He had all the right credentials. He was everything I never wanted in a guy but at the end of the day he made me laugh, like my father, and I liked that about him.

  Most important, he was in love with me. I was so sure of that then. Where did that love go wrong? When did we drift so far apart that he felt the need to find satisfaction with another woman? I guess the joke was on me.

  Maybe that was because, with me, everything was a joke. But I wasn’t laughing now. Stanley Palladino could find the humor in any situation. In addition to my nose, I got my sense of humor from my father. Sometimes that was a blessing. But it could also be a curse. Grandma Lewis had a Yiddish expression for people like me. “Lacha la veinalach.” Roughly translated, it means “Don’t get too happy, because soon you’ll be crying.”

  Grandma Lewis didn’t know a thing about laughter. I don’t think she ever laughed a day in her life. No wonder my mother fell in love with my father. Growing up in a joyless house with Grandma Lewis, it must have been refreshing to come home to Stanley Palladino. Our lives were so empty without his laughter. In fact, the silence was practically deafening.

  My husband is cheating on me, Daddy. I’ll bet you never would have believed that could happen. I can’t find the humor in that, and I doubt you could have either.

  Betrayal hurts. And because of Marc’s betrayal, our marriage was irretrievably broken, irreparably damaged. Take your pick. I had nothing more to say to Marc. I recalled the last honest conversation we had.

  “Do I have to buy a damn house to get your attention?” Marc accused.

  I guess I had been working hard since my dad’s death. I didn’t have a choice. The truth was Marc and I had been working hard since he signed on as a summer associate with his law firm and I was starting out in the real estate field. Looking back to all those years ago, I realized we hardly had time to conceive Hannah. I was on call 24/7, catering to the whims of buyers. Apparently I wasn’t catering enough to my husband’s whims, so he found somebody who would. Trisha, whatever her qualifications, was certainly available and willing. And, she was right under his nose. An irresistible combination.

  Is that where I went wrong? I thought we had a solid marriage. Did I take Marc for granted? Maybe we didn’t spend enough time together.

  All I knew was I couldn’t stay in a marriage where I wasn’t wanted, wouldn’t stay in a house with a man who preferred another woman. Not a minute longer than necessary. I had to get out of there fast.

  I drained my glass. The curtains in the restaurant fluttered from the movement of the whirring fan. The steady motion of the blades seemed to be whispering, “Slow down, Honey.”

  “Daddy, is that you?” I whispered.

  I put the wine glass on the table as Donny and Barbara returned to the table. Her smudged lipstick gave them away. The lovebirds were at it again. Donny helped his wife into her seat and turned his attention to me.

  “I guess we should talk about the offer from Hammond Reddekker,” I began. “Marc is against a merger. He thinks Mom should just sell Palladino Properties outright and get out of the business altogether,
which leaves us out in the cold.”

  “Marc has no business sticking his nose into it,” Donny answered. “He’s not a member of this family anymore.”

  “Well, technically he still is,” I pointed out.

  “Not for long,” Donny barked. “After Barbara gets through with him, he won’t have a dime, and then just see how fast Miss Trisha melts into the woodwork.”

  I was furious at Marc, true, but the thought of him alone in the world and penniless didn’t make me feel any better. I didn’t want that for him. I was still pretty numb and trying not to feel anything, but I had to admit I still had feelings for my husband. Damn him.

  To get my mind off my crumbling marriage, I told Donny about Max’s cruise proposal.

  “Are you serious? She met this guy at a bereavement group?”

  “Yes, apparently a lot of people at Millennium Gardens hook up that way.”

  “I don’t want my mother hooking up with anyone.” Donny frowned. “And how come I didn’t know about this?”

  “I think it was a last-minute thing. Max’s significant other has Alzheimer’s, so he had an extra ticket. Mom thought it would be a shame to let it go to waste. I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

  “She just lost her husband. It’s too soon for her to be dating.”

  “It’s been a whole year. Maybe she’s ready to move on.”

  “I’d better not catch that Max guy sniffing around her,” Donny blustered.

  “He’ll be doing more than sniffing if she goes on that cruise with him. The plan is they’re going to share a cabin.”

  “That’s why we’re going to get her out of Boca as soon as possible, before the departure date. There’s no way I’m letting my mother go on a cruise with that operator.”

  “Have you met Max?” I asked.

  “No, and I don’t want to. My mother is still in mourning. The last thing she needs is a man. And neither do you.”

  Chapter Four: A Chicken in Every Freezer

  While Donny thought that a man was the last thing my mother needed, a man was exactly what Aunt Helene had in mind for her older sister. A feeling of intense relief washed over me when Aunt Helene showed up at the condo just as my mother and I got back from our trip to Sam’s Club to retrieve her wallet. I was anxious to ask my aunt more about Mom’s forgetfulness, to find out if it was a pattern, but I could hardly do that right in front of her. And besides, I had promised my mother I wouldn’t mention it to anyone.

  “Honey, you look great,” Aunt Helene said, hugging me tight.

  “For a premenopausal woman?” I quipped.

  “For any woman.”

  We looked at my mother and exchanged worried glances.

  “Why don’t I leave the room so the two of you can talk about me behind my back,” my mother offered, pretending to be offended.

  “We weren’t going to talk about you,” I denied, looking at my aunt for confirmation, “Were we?”

  “Of course not,” Aunt Helene said. “What should we talk about?”

  “How about Max, for starters?” I suggested as we sat on the living room couch.

  Aunt Helene laughed. “She must have told you about the cruise. It’s sponsored by the Millennium Gardens Social Club. A lot of the residents are going. There’s going to be a lot of hanky panky going on aboard that ship when people aren’t standing in the buffet line. It’s a hot ticket.”

  “Yes,” I said, “she told me about the cruise, but not about the hanky panky.”

  “She is right here in the room with you,” my mother cautioned. “So stop talking around me.”

  “Sorry,” Aunt Helene apologized perfunctorily, without pausing for a breath. “But even if you are in the same room you wouldn’t be able to hear us. Honey, did you know that your mother has a severe high-frequency sensorineural hearing loss?”

  “Is that serious?” I asked, stricken. Apparently there was a lot I didn’t know about my mother. She seemed to be deteriorating right before my eyes. Aunt Helene was an expert on the subject of hearing loss. She had been a speech/language pathologist before she retired.

  “I’ve been testing her for the past fifteen years. Your mother can’t hear high decibels. For instance ‘cheese’ is a high-frequency sound. Dee Dee, turn around.”

  “Helene, I don’t want to do this in front of my daughter.”

  “Just turn around,” Aunt Helene said impatiently.

  My mother obliged reluctantly.

  “Cheese,” said Aunt Helene. “Now what did I say?”

  “Tube,” my mother answered.

  I was horrified.

  “It’s okay, Honey. She’s compensated, especially if you look her in the eyes, use expressive facial movements and speak clearly. She can hear the low frequency sounds, like ‘boat’ or ‘bone’ or ‘go’ or ‘sane.’ Let’s try another one. Tick,” my aunt said purposefully.

  “Tock,” my mother answered.

  I laughed. Okay, this was all a joke. There was nothing wrong with my mother.

  “You think this is funny?” Aunt Helene asked.

  “No, but I want you to stop torturing my mother,” I insisted, turning her around and kissing her on the forehead.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought you should know.”

  “Has she seen a doctor?”

  “Yes, and he agrees with my diagnosis.”

  Okay, my mother combed carpet fringe, my brother was stuck in the 1940s, and my aunt was practicing medicine without a license. I had my work cut out for me.

  “Did you know she’s also seen a doctor for cataracts?”

  “No,” I said, alarmed. “She never said a word.”

  “If you have something to say, please say it to my face,” Dee Dee said to her sister.

  “I told her not to see Dr. Frank,” Aunt Helene said, ignoring her. “He’s not very friendly.”

  “I don’t need a friend,” my mother countered. “I need an ophthalmologist.”

  “All I know is that after my cataract surgery, when I went in for a recheck, Dr. Frank looked into my left eye and said everything was fine, and I said, ‘You did the surgery on my right eye.’ They’re operating a laser mill down there.”

  I took my mother’s hand.

  “It’s okay, Honey,” my mother assured me. “I’m not falling apart.”

  “Exactly,” Aunt Helene said. “Your mother is still an attractive woman, which is one of the reasons I came over here. There’s a big dance at the club tonight, and I’ve been trying to talk her into going. She refuses.” Aunt Helene folded her arms and looked directly at my mother.

  “I’m tired, and Honey just got here,” my mother protested. “Besides, Donny and Honey are taking me out to dinner at The Addison.”

  “But, Mom, a dance sounds lovely,” I said. “It’s just what you need. I think you should go. I’m sure Donny and Barbara will understand. We can save The Addison for another night.”

  “They’re going to have big band music,” my aunt added. “I know you like that. Didn’t you used to dance to all the big bands when we were girls?”

  My mother sighed and got a wistful look in her eyes. “That was a long time ago, Helene. I’ve forgotten how to do those dances.”

  “You’re not getting out of this. There’s a man in my building—a very handsome man—who also lost his wife recently. He shouldn’t be alone right now. I convinced him to go to the dance and told him I was bringing my very lovely, recently widowed sister. He’s from up north too. But he’s worked most of his life in South Florida, and he and his wife moved to Boca to be closer to their son and his family.”

  “I don’t care where he’s from, or why he’s here. I told you I’m not interested in dances or dating,” Dee Dee snapped, jumping up from the couch. “Just because he lost his wife and I lost my husband doesn’t automatically mean we were meant to be. If he’s that handsome, I’m surprised the vultures around here haven’t gotten to him yet.”

  “You mean the brisket brigade? W
ell, actually, Mrs. Goldman in the next building thawed out a chicken she had in the freezer. And Mrs. Klein down the hall already has a Mojo chicken from Publix ready to go, in her refrigerator. Mrs. Kennedy is roasting one as we speak, so it will be nice and fresh. He’s had roast chicken three times already this week. I think he’s ready for a taste of something new.”

  “Roast chicken?” I asked, not understanding.

  “Every widow in the complex keeps a roast chicken or a casserole in her freezer to bring over when one of the men here loses his wife or significant other,” Aunt Helene explained. “Either that or they leave a trail of brisket gravy dripping down the hallway so they can find their way back in the middle of the night. Millennium Gardens is a regular Peyton Place. If a woman is interested in getting a man, all she has to do is defrost a chicken and go out and grab him. They’re all just lonely, ready for action, and ripe for the picking.”

  “What about Max?” I wondered.

  “Well, he’s lonely too. He’s missing his significant other, Jean.”

  “Significant other?” I prompted, anxious to know more.

  “Significant others are very common down here,” Aunt Helene answered. Apparently the phenomenon was as pervasive as Early Bird Specials. Aunt Helene knew what she was talking about. Her significant other—Harold Cohen—passed away two months ago.

  “It’s a different culture in this complex,” she continued. “Many of the couples who live here are well off, but no one wants to mix up their finances, or get less Social Security by remarrying. And they don’t want flak from their children, who are worried about losing their inheritances. So instead of getting married, they become significant others. But it’s not a legal arrangement, so it raises a lot of other issues.”

  “Speaking of chickens in the freezer, I forgot I have to put away the groceries,” Dee Dee said. “We picked up some things from Sam’s Club while we were out.”