Someday, Someday, Maybe: A Novel

by Lauren Graham

  In my head, I’m struggling to do the math. It’s suddenly very important that I figure out the timeline of when Clark and Genevieve were in school together. Genevieve was going straight to law school right out of college, I remember that now. But she graduated one year before us, and Clark took a year off, which is why it makes sense, as she said, that they only overlapped there for one year. The first half of the year out of school he traveled, teaching English in South America. Then he had that internship, but I forget what the firm was called. He was a proofreader, I remember that, and he had terrible hours. What was the name of the firm? I make a deal in my head that if I can remember the name of the place where Clark worked before Genevieve speaks, then whatever she’s about to tell me won’t be as bad as I think it’s going to be. Please don’t tell me you’re dating Clark, Genevieve, please. It would make sense, I know. You’re so sweet and pretty and successful, but please don’t say it. Where did he work? If I can only remember the name of the place—

  “I hope this is the right thing to do, but since you obviously don’t know, I’d feel wrong if I didn’t tell you that Clark just got engaged to my sister.”

  While my brain accepts this simple arrangement of words, and their literal meaning, my body seems to be on some sort of delay. For a moment, while I understand what’s just been said, I mercifully don’t have any physical reaction whatsoever. Then, it hits me so hard, my knees almost buckle.

  “Oh!” I say, brightly, trying to hide the feeling that I’m being dragged underwater. “How great!”

  “It was pretty sudden. I’m sure he was going to tell you himself.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “Really. Guess I should’ve returned that last phone call, huh?” My frozen smile is stretched too tight. If it were a rubber band, it would have already snapped.

  “Franny …” She places a hand gently on my arm, but now I’m self-conscious about the uniform, and how scratchy it must feel to her manicured hand, and I pull back slightly. “I’m okay.” I say weakly. But she seems unconvinced, so I put my hand over hers, so now they both rest awkwardly on the stiff brown fabric. “Really. I’m okay.”

  The best performance I’ve ever given was in that conference room for the rest of lunch. I smiled and said congratulations to Genevieve, and I wished her sister the best. I took her drink order and remained calm throughout, even when the room filled up all at once with older men in blue suits and brown loafers demanding seltzers and coffees and the occasional cocktail. I cleared the trays of half-eaten mushy tan casseroles onto a cart with wheels, and rolled the cart into the freight elevator and back down to the main cafeteria. I said thank you to the other server, who grumbled something unintelligible back to me. I hung up my borrowed uniform in my temporary locker, and I went into the bathroom to wash my hands.

  Only when I go to splash my face with water at the sink, and catch a piece of my reflection in the bathroom mirror, do I come close to cracking just the tiniest bit.

  Everyone has moved on.

  And it’s not that I don’t want Clark to be happy. There’s even a part of me that’s genuinely pleased for him. If Genevieve’s sister is anything like her, she’s someone nice, at least. It’s what he always wanted—to settle down and start a family. I guess I tried to pretend that’s what I wanted, too, when I knew it wasn’t really. Of course I must have known he wouldn’t wait forever, must have realized somewhere deep down that backup plans aren’t what adults rely on. They’re what adolescents make when they’re not ready to grow up. It’s obvious to me now that people who might still end up together don’t go for weeks without talking. Suddenly it’s clear that making our “agreement” was just the only way we knew how to end things. But it’s a shock to have learned so much and grown up so quickly today, to realize the Clark who said “call me when you change your mind” isn’t my person anymore; now he’s someone else’s Clark.

  Somehow I find myself on the D train headed back to Brooklyn. I hardly remember walking to the station or putting my token in the slot. It’s just past three, but already the train is filling up with shoppers and commuters leaving work early, and there’s no place to sit. I grasp onto the nearby silver pole, steadying myself as the train lurches along, my hand slipping on the smooth surface, vying for a safe position along with half a dozen other hands. Today, everything about New York leaves me feeling like I’m competing for space, and just barely hanging on.

  20

  I’ll call James the minute I get in, I think, as I drag myself up the stairs to the apartment, fumbling for my keys. Tonight I won’t wait for his “catch you later, okay.” There’s no rule that says I can’t call him and ask to make plans. We’ll drink some wine and he’ll help me forget the awful day I’ve had. But when I reach the top of the stairs, keys in hand, the door is already a few inches ajar, and Dan is lying on the sofa with what looks to be an open beer bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag sitting beside him on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dan lying down fully, his legs so long that his feet dangle off the arm of the sofa. I’m so used to finding him in his regular spot, writing at the dining room table, that it’s shocking to see him anywhere else, especially flat on his back with his eyes closed.

  “Dan?” I whisper. I can’t tell whether he’s sleeping or not.

  “Hmm?” he says, eyes still closed.

  “Are you asleep?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  But he doesn’t move. I place my bag down carefully, quietly, as if despite what he’s said, he’s potentially both asleep and sick. I take my shoes off and tiptoe across the living room, up the circular metal staircase, and into my bedroom.

  I decide I’ll call James after I shower, secretly hoping that he’ll call me first. I’ll wait until I’m completely ready to go out before I’ll allow myself to even glance at the machine. If I don’t cheat, if I’m strong, it will work. I bet he’ll have called me by the time I finish getting ready.

  I shower and use the diffuser to dry my hair. I can’t hear a thing with the water running and the blow dryer on, so I can’t tell if the phone already rang. I won’t allow myself to check—not just yet. I put on some makeup and then I decide I’ll borrow those dangly earrings from Jane, requiring me to cross the landing from my room to hers. It’s a challenge, but I look straight ahead, and don’t give in, even though I’m desperate to sneak just the tiniest glance at the machine. I run back to my room across the landing, eyes up, and pull on jeans, then trade the jeans for a short black sweater dress and black tights. By the time I allow myself to peek, at least thirty minutes have gone by, and there it is! A single number “1” blinking happily in the little LED window of the answering machine.

  You have one message.

  BEEEP

  Hey there. Hi, Fran, it’s uh, it’s me, it’s Clark. Listen, I’m so sorry, I uh, I guess you ran into Genevieve today? I kept wanting to talk, but, well … I want to explain, will you call me? I feel just ter—

  I hit the stop button on the machine and the tape dies off with a pitiful beeep. Briefly, it crosses my mind to call him back, but what would be the point? I can imagine everything he’s going to say already. I’ll call him back tomorrow, next week, never.

  When I come back downstairs, Dan is still in the same odd position on the sofa.

  “Franny?” he says, without stirring.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we do something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dan is silent for a moment. “Did you just come from the city?” he finally asks, his voice strangely measured.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can we go back there?”

  I’m torn. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m still half hoping to hear from James. But then I’m struck by how bad it would feel to wait for him on the night I just learned that no one’s waiting for me anymore, and that “catch you later, okay” isn’t a plan, not a real one anyway. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thin
g if James called and got no answer.

  “Uh … okay. For what?”

  He sits up, swinging his long legs down to the floor, then rubs his eyes and squints at me, as if he’s not sure whether he’s awake or dreaming.

  “Well,” he says. “I’ve had the worst day.”

  “What a coincidence! I’ve had the worst day, too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Fran. Maybe you’ll know, then—I mean, can you help me with—I’m not sure what to do about it.”

  “What to—do?”

  “Yes. It might sound crazy, but I don’t have a lot of experience with this—with how I’m feeling.”

  “Okay …”

  “I’m not from a terribly emotional family, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “And frankly, I don’t have too much experience with, ah, failure, or the, ah, concept of failure.”

  I want to ask him what’s happened, but suddenly I catch a glimpse of what Dan might have looked like at fourteen or fifteen, with his shaggy hair and serious face and the pressure to do his best. Somehow it seems better to wait for him to tell me in his own time.

  “You’ve come to the right place. It just so happens that I’ve had quite a bit of experience with both the concept and the reality of failure,” I tell him.

  “Great. I mean, not great exactly, but thank you. Let’s do something, then.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s go see something. Let’s go to the theater or something.”

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “Dan, you can’t afford it. It’s too expensive for everyone. Let’s just go get a beer in the neighborhood.”

  “A beer won’t fix this. Let’s do something reckless. Let me take you to see a show. We’ll go to TKTS and see what’s on the board.”

  The look Dan gives me now is frankly a little unnerving; he looks so different today, so lost, so vulnerable. “Okay,” I say, because I can’t possibly say no to this strange new version of Dan who needs my help.

  On the train back into Manhattan, and then later, as we wait in line for half-price theater tickets, I try to keep him entertained. I retell the story of my day, but I give him the version where waiting on someone I went to college with was a kooky misadventure, a wacky scene from an old episode of I Love Lucy. It’s a relief to make light of it, to make fun of myself and my ridiculous polyester uniform. Telling Dan about the most hilarious part of my day makes the worst part of it fade. But even so, I leave out the news about Clark for some reason. I’m not ready to laugh about that yet—it’s too new and too raw. I can still feel where it sits in my stomach like a punch.

  Before I know it, we’re in front of the TKTS board, where we can see what’s available at half-price. The long list of shows makes my heart flutter like it’s Christmas morning, but the prices are staggering to me, even at a discount.

  “What should we see?” Dan asks, squinting up at the board.

  I want to make the right pick—I want something that will help him feel better, that will lift us both up. I want something that will take the sting of the bad day away from both of us. Then, I see it.

  “Phantom of the Opera!”

  “You’re kidding,” he says, looking at me amused.

  “Have you seen it already?”

  “No, but I would’ve pegged you for something more avant-garde, more serious.”

  “Today, I think something big and fun and fluffy’s what we need. Plus, it’s been running for six or seven years already. Who knows how much longer we’ll have the chance to see it? Let’s be like tourists in the city, just for one night.”

  Dan looks down at me, his hair falling over his eyes, and for the first time since I found him on the sofa, his face brightens and his spirits seem to lift.

  “Okay,” he agrees.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, we’ll be like tourists,” he says, almost happily.

  “Yes!”

  “What else do tourists do?” His eyes light up. “I know! We’ll go to Sardi’s after.”

  “And see how many caricatures we can name!”

  “No way,” he says, actually looking a little concerned. “I don’t stand a chance against you.”

  Even though Dan and I turn to each other in the darkened theater and roll our eyes after the chandelier falls at the end of the first act, dipping eerily close to our heads, my heart still jumps, and I have to admit it’s sort of a thrill. When the audience bursts into thunderous applause, I’m swept along for a moment against my will, if by nothing else but the feeling of being part of something, whatever that something is.

  Out on the street after the show, the night is clear and the blinking lights from the various theater marquees are dazzlingly relentless, demanding our attention. People spill from the sidewalk onto the street and the taxis compete for space, their horns complaining loudly. Dan looks at me and smiles. “Quick,” he says. “What do you remember most about the show?”

  I want to say the actors, and their powerful voices and the catchy songs; I want to talk about how beautiful the costumes were, or even marvel at how they got the boat to cross the stage in what looked like actual water, but I can’t.

  “The chandelier,” we say, in unison, and burst out laughing.

  “That’s so embarrassing! We’re only supposed to be acting like tourists,” I say, after finally catching my breath. “What’ll we do next, complain about how dirty the city is?”

  “It’s so crowded.”

  “Everyone’s so rude.”

  “How can anyone stand all that noise?”

  “And the crime.”

  “Let’s just go to the top of the Empire State Building and get out of here.”

  The dining room of Sardi’s is beautiful, with burgundy walls and little yellow shaded lamps on all the tables, but the menu is too extravagantly expensive and the dinner crowd is too intimidating, so we find two stools at the smoky bar. The bartender—dressed in a tuxedo shirt and bow tie and a dark red jacket that matches the walls—comes over right away and waits solemnly for our order. I’m oddly shy and tongue-tied in his presence.

  “I—um—let’s see now …” I’m overwhelmed by the jewel box of dimly lit liquor bottles, arranged like colorful soldiers awaiting their orders behind the bar, and my mind goes completely blank.

  “Um, uh …”

  “May I?” Dan finally asks, placing a hand gently on my arm.

  “Please,” I say, relieved.

  He clears his throat. “The lady will have a sidecar, and I would like a gin martini, dirty, shaken but not stirred, please.” The bartender nods respectfully, then glides away, and I clap my hands in appreciation.

  “Well done!” I say. “Sorry—I panicked. Maybe it was the bow tie. He seemed impressed by our choices, though, don’t you think?”

  “I think we may have won him over, yes,” Dan says with a grin.

  “I have no idea what you ordered, but I’m irrationally comforted to have the waiter on our side. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome, Fran.” I’m glad to see Dan smile, but it gives me a pang, too, to have Dan order for me in his gentlemanly fashion, as if we’re on a date. Call me when you change your mind. I shake my head, pushing the thought away.

  “Did you see the old wooden phone booths on the way in?” I ask, and he nods.

  “With the ashtrays and the built-in leather seats?” he adds.

  “And the folding glass door, for privacy?”

  “That’s how they all should be. A place to have a long, comfortable conversation.”

  “Or a long, horrible conversation with drinks and cigarettes to help,” I agree cheerfully.

  “The phone booths still had doors that closed when I first visited New York with my family,” he tells me. “In the ones in London, there’s a ton of room to sit down inside.”

  “Those are so beautiful. That gorgeous red.”

  “You’ve been?�
��

  “No. I’ve only seen pictures.”

  “You’d love it.”

  “I bet.”

  “We should go.”

  I blink at him. “We should …?”

  “What? Uh, you should go, I mean. You should go someday,” Dan says, his face reddening. “To see the phone booths,” he adds, somewhat lamely. “Sorry. Force of habit. I’ve only recently stopped being a ‘we.’ Everett broke up with me.”

  “Oh, Dan, I’m so sorry,” I begin, but our drinks arrive, and Dan waves me away with his hand.

  “There’s time enough to tell you all about it. Let’s enjoy these first.” He picks up his glass and gestures for me to do the same. He seems at a loss for the appropriate toast, then his face lights up. “To the theater!”

  “To the theater!” I agree, clinking his glass lightly with mine. I want to ask Dan questions about Everett and what’s happened, but the sidecar he ordered for me is sweet and strong, and my questions are swept away by its golden thick flavor. It slides down easily, and after a while we order another round, although this time Dan gets a scotch on the rocks.

  “Try this,” he says, sliding the glass over when his scotch arrives. “It’s meant to be sipped slowly.” I tilt the glass back gingerly and try to take just the tiniest sip, but even that burns the back of my throat, and I can’t help coughing.

  “How can you drink that?” I say, sticking out my tongue and pounding my chest dramatically.

  “My father started us young,” Dan says, somewhat ominously. Then he lets out a long breath and frowns, shaking the ice in his glass.

  “So,” he says, after a moment. “My script got rejected by that festival.”

  “You’re kidding—how can that be?” I say, truly shocked. All those nights he spent poring over his pages at the dining room table, all that effort. To me, it seems impossible that Dan could fail at anything.

  “Everett said that me not getting into the festival had nothing to do with her decision, but I think it was her last hope.”

  “Hope of what?” I say gingerly.

  “You know, that I’d be legitimized somehow. Otherwise, to her, what I’m doing has all been some sort of folly. A waste of time.” Dan drains the rest of his scotch in one gulp and puts his glass down with a thud. “The most frightening thing?”