The Last Birthday Party

by Gary Goldstein

  “Dad, what’s going on? Did I wake you?” It was Matty calling, waking his father, who had grabbed his phone off his bedside table.

  Jeremy focused. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know, eleven something. Dad, I got this weird text from Mom. Is she okay?”

  Jeremy glanced at the note still dangling from the closet door mirror, unreadable from the bed, but its meaning as clear and confusing as ever.

  “What did it say?” asked Jeremy.

  “Don’t worry about me, just call your father. I’ll be in touch.”

  “That’s it?” Jeremy sat up, swallowed hard, his mouth tasting like a melted spoon. He got out of bed and started walking in circles.

  “Dad, is she there? Would you put her on?”

  “She is decidedly not here.” Circle, circle, breath. “Honey, I think your mother left me.”

  Jeremy still called his adult son “honey,” a holdover from when Matty was a little boy, the most beautiful and magical child one could imagine, at least to his adoring parents. There was a “honey” moratorium right after Matty’s bar mitzvah, at the thirteen-year-old’s request (“Dad, it’s weird!”), but it slipped back into Jeremy’s patter a few years later without comment or incident.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” asked Matty, voice rising with each word.

  “No, son, I don’t believe I am.”

  “Fuck. Are you okay? Dad, you were kinda hammered last night, you know that?”

  “I do know. I know a lot of things now.”

  “And Mom’s really not there?”

  “Want me to text you a copy of the note she left me?”

  “No, I want to see it in person. See you in person. I’ll be right over.” Matty hung up before Jeremy could protest.

  “Mom seemed so happy at the party,” Matty recalled when he arrived an hour later. “She danced with me twice, Sven once, and then the two of us together.”

  So his name was Sven. Jeremy couldn’t keep up. His son was, to be charitable, a serial dater, which, at twenty-three, wasn’t the worst thing. But like so much else with Matty, he had a little follow-through problem with relationships. Fortunately, he was so charismatic, confident, and effortlessly handsome that his boyfriends seemed to overlook his lack of romantic longevity just to be in his sphere for as long as it lasted. Still, as Jeremy took no pleasure in predicting, the tables might one day turn on Matty, and it’d be quite the rude awakening.

  “I didn’t want the party, you know.”

  “Well, that kinda sucks, doesn’t it? I mean, it was a lot of work for her, right?” Matty shook two Equals into the coffee Jeremy brewed up in their drip coffeemaker in lieu of the French press that had taken its leave along with his wife of twenty-five years.

  “Talk to me when you turn fifty, kiddo.” Jeremy sat across from Matty at the glass kitchen table he and Cassie had had since their first apartment, a cramped if sunny love nest in Silver Lake. Look at all those scratches, he thought. Why had they never replaced it? Did it have some sentimental value Jeremy had no memory of? Were they just too lazy to change it? Maybe he might have been, but not Cassie. She was the least lazy person Jeremy had ever known. “No grass grows under that one’s feet,” his mother noted after just one lunch with her future daughter-in-law. It stood to reason, then, that Cassie would be the one to exit their marriage, but why did it take so long?

  “Dad, are you freaked out? I mean, Mom’s just fucking with you, isn’t she?”

  “Fucking with me?”

  Jeremy and Cassie rarely censored their son, let him be and say and do what came to mind. But it still jarred Jeremy when Matty talked to him like one of his buddies, even if Matty considered his father— and his mother, only slightly less so—as much a friend as a parent.

  “You read her note. You know as much as I do.” Jeremy sipped some coffee. It was surprisingly smooth. He never liked that French press, so why did he continue to use it?

  “Yeah, I doubt that,” said Matty, eyeballing his coffee cup. “Is there any almond milk? I’m done with dairy.”

  “We have almonds and we have milk. That’s it.” Jeremy knew Matty, ice cream maven that he was, would be back on dairy before next weekend. The kid was lucky he worked out like a fiend, the one thing he was consistent about. “And what do you mean you ‘doubt that?’”

  “I mean, these things don’t just happen overnight. Not really, right?” Matty swallowed his black coffee and grimaced. He glanced at his father. “Dad, I lived with the two of you for twenty-one years. I saw stuff, so I have my opinions but … well, only you and Mom can really know.”

  Jeremy gazed into his cup, not sure he really knew much of anything at the moment, his thoughts a maze of good times and bum times (hat tip to Sondheim) with the woman who he once couldn’t properly breathe without, the extroverted yin to his more circumspect yang, a force long the conduit to all things good and meaningful. And just like that: a ghost.

  “Every couple goes through … things, it doesn’t mean they have to split up over it,” said Jeremy, more to himself than to his son. He sounded detached and unconvincing.

  “Dad, did you even try to call her?”

  “She told me not to.” Jeremy looked away from Matty’s penetrating gaze: flummoxed, judgmental, sympathetic. Jeremy hated disappointing anyone, especially his boy, but he did so anyway.

  “This would seem like a good time not to follow instructions,” Matty told his father, pushing away his cup.

  “Did you call her?” Jeremy asked in a challenge as he studied his son. Matty was a perfect cross between his parents: Jeremy’s rangy height, Roman nose, floppy carob-brown hair (getting grayer on Jeremy by the month); Cassie’s blue-green eyes, olive skin, full lips. Matty’s toothy smile was all his own doing.

  “A text like that? Of course I called her,” Matty answered. “I got voicemail.”

  “We had a fight. After the party,” said Jeremy. “I don’t remember a lot about it, I was—”

  “Shitfaced, I know. You were pounding that Pinot like crazy. What was up with that, Mr. Two-Drink Maximum?” Matty grabbed his coffee cup off the table, splashed some cow milk into it, and took a more satisfying swallow.

  “It seemed like the best way to get through the night,” Jeremy admitted. And, apparently, end a marriage.

  “Well, I thought it was a really fun party. And so did Sven, who’s not a big party guy.” Matty took a seat again, glanced at his cell, slipped it in a pocket. “You must have some idea why she took off. And isn’t the guy supposed to move out? I mean, in a hetero marriage?” Matty snuck another look at his phone, smiled this time, tapped a few keys. Jeremy watched his son, envious; he was so much less complicated, more guileless than either of his parents. Was it generational or … accidental?

  “I guess it depends how much the woman wants out,” answered Jeremy, realizing the thought, like so many others, hadn’t yet crossed his mind.

  “But you are gonna call Mom, yes?”

  Jeremy was silent, had absolutely no immediate idea.

  “No, Dad, seriously, you two have to talk. I mean, like, this is major.”

  “Gee, ya think?” Jeremy was instantly sorry for the sarcasm; his son was just trying to help a helpless situation. “Sorry, honey, I’m really at a loss right now.” Jeremy rose, poured himself a second cup of coffee, his hands shaking—and not imperceptibly.

  Matty studied his father. “You’re in shock, Pop, I get it. Just let it sink in and, you know, figure out what to do, because you can’t do nothing.”

  “I don’t know, nothing sounds pretty good right now.”

  Matty drained his coffee cup. “I gotta go. Meeting Sven at the gym. It’s leg day.” He struck a mock pained expression, which made Jeremy laugh in spite of himself. “Unless you need me to stay, for moral support or, I don’t know, to make sure you don’t do somethi
ng stupid.”

  “Looks like you’re too late for that, kiddo.”

  Matty grabbed his dad in a bear hug. Jeremy pulled the kid in close, held onto him for dear life, then kissed his forehead and sent him on his way.

  Whatever Jeremy and Cassie may have done wrong, they did one thing right.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Jeremy thought about what Matty had said, about this not being the time to follow instructions, specifically Cassie’s. So after bits of lunch cobbled together from the Bristol Farms leftovers—Jeremy had to admit the Cajun shrimp was pretty great (Was it wrong that he even had an appetite?)—he decided to call Cassie. What was she going to do, just disappear off the face of the earth? She had a son, parents, a younger sister (okay, living in Santa Fe with her sculpturing spouse, but still), a job, coworkers, friends and, much as she might like to think otherwise, a husband, soon-to-be-ex though he may be. She had to resurface and, one would guess, soon. Then again, if Cassie wanted attention—and the lady liked her share—this was a good way to get it.

  Jeremy had no idea what he was going to say if she answered, though he figured he was entitled to pretty much any civil question given her uncivil departure. But, like Matty, Jeremy got Cassie’s voicemail, on which she sounded far too bubbly given the turn of events. (What, did he expect she’d swap out her greeting for something glum and remorseful?) He was about to leave a message, say something, for God’s sake, but got weirdly self-conscious and tongue-tied and hung up. Fuck, Jeremy thought, she’ll see my number under Missed Calls anyway. That was stupid.

  No, Jeremy realized, what was stupid was that he had spent half his life with this woman—more than half, they were together two years before the wedding—knew a million little things about her, things he was certain he and only he knew, and he was standing there frozen with the phone still in his unsteady hand. Fuck that, he thought, and started to dial Cassie again—until he stopped midway and put down the phone altogether. Matty was right: Jeremy was in shock. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

  Still, he thought, he should probably call someone else, tell someone else. Like his mother? She’d have something smart and fair to say, as usual. No, he didn’t want to involve her just yet. Though maybe he’d feel better—or at least feel something. It helped to talk to Matty, didn’t it? He should’ve told Matty to stick around, forgo the gym, keep his old man company. But that wasn’t Jeremy’s style. He hated asking people for things, even those closest to him, always preferring to do for himself, never wanting to put others out. It’s how he became so handy with a toolbox: Why bug someone else when you could do it yourself?

  Cassie, who certainly had her own self-sufficient streak, said people sometimes thought Jeremy was a little detached, a little cool—and not in a laidback or hip way either. But it didn’t seem to bother her. She’d even flagged it as a plus soon after they first met that unusually balmy October night outside the New Beverly Cinema, a storied revival theater on a busy stretch of L.A.’s Beverly Boulevard. Jeremy had gone by himself to see a double bill of Risky Business and Fast Times at Ridgemont High, two of his favorite movies from childhood that he’d never actually seen in a theater. Cassie was just walking past on her way, he’d later learn, to a yoga class being held at a nearby studio.

  Jeremy was about to buy his ticket when he saw this attractive, lissome woman moving toward him. She didn’t look like a moviegoer; maybe it was her athletic wear or the purposeful way she bounded up the block with barely a glance at the film nerds and hipsters swirling around the box office. Their eyes met and she stopped short in front of Jeremy, gave him a once-over and asked, “What’s playing?”

  “Risky Business and Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” Jeremy said, pointing at the display posters.

  “You’re paying to see those?” she asked with no small amount of incredulity. “How old are they now, anyway?”

  “1982 and 1983,” Jeremy answered, checking out her honey blonde ponytail and glowing skin, but caught himself before his gaze made its way any further south. “Ever seen them?”

  “I think so, somewhere along the line. Risky Business is the one with the Porsche, right?”

  “Accept no substitutes,” Jeremy said with a sly grin. She smiled back, maybe got the reference, maybe not. “Do you like movies?” he asked, just to keep things going, though anyone who wasn’t totally sure they saw a movie as memorable as Risky Business couldn’t be much of a film fan.

  She studied Jeremy, with his thick, longish hair; three-day growth, soulful eyes, and USC film school sweatshirt. “Not as much as you, I’m guessing.”

  “Yeah, I’m kind of a die-hard.”

  “I should probably see more movies. Y’know, new movies. Just to … keep up.” Glancing at the movie posters, the shrinking ticket line, then back at Jeremy, she moved in a step closer.

  “I wholeheartedly recommend it.” Even Jeremy, self-effacer that he was, could tell she was dawdling. Okay, he had his opening. Did he want to take it? My God, look at her—did he even have to ask? He could feel the window closing. Don’t think, man, act! As his pulse raced and his breath shortened he made his move. “We should go some time.”

  “When?” she asked, with a slight challenge in her voice Jeremy found both startling and startlingly sexy.

  He took a stab. “This Sunday?”

  “What do you want to see?” Another challenge?

  Jeremy scanned the living movie guide permanently lodged in his head.

  “Have you seen The Joy Luck Club?”

  As she considered the title, Jeremy wondered if she’d even heard of it. Should he have picked something more fun, more mindless?

  “No, have you?” she asked.

  “I did, yeah. But I’d see it again. It was great.” It was worth a second viewing. But what she didn’t need to know was that Jeremy never took a first date to a film he hadn’t already seen; he didn’t want any on-screen surprises to spoil the mood. In high school, he’d taken a girl he wanted to impress to see the teen-vampire flick The Lost Boys—it sounded cool, everyone was going to see it. But the movie was kinda icky in parts (who knew his date had an aversion to worms?) and she asked to go home immediately afterward. He never made that mistake again.

  “It was that good, huh?”

  Jeremy nodded a categorical yes. “You should definitely see it.”

  A knowing smile crossed the woman’s lovely, heart-shaped face, her eyes glinting in the marquee’s shimmery lights.

  “Let me rephrase that,” Jeremy said, with an uncharacteristic charge of confidence. “You should definitely see it with me.”

  “It might help if I knew your name. Just in case I need to call you something.”

  “I’m Jeremy.” He extended a hand. It hung there as the woman in the athletic wear considered it as if sensing at some primal level that what happened next might inform the rest of her life.

  She grasped Jeremy’s hand, shaking it with firm self-assurance. “Cassandra. Cassie.”

  Cassie pulled a pen and a register tape from her shoulder bag and handed them over. “Give me your number, I’ll call you,” she said.

  Jeremy, slightly dazed, wondered if he shouldn’t have been taking her number or if that even mattered. He scribbled his digits on the back of the Rite Aid receipt.

  She studied his phone number as if memorizing it, then looked up. “I’m late for yoga,” she realized, indicating a spot up the street, “but I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say,” joked Jeremy.

  “I don’t,” Cassie answered, dead serious. She brightened and took off down the block.

  Jeremy turned to the box office, took out his wallet to buy his ticket, but went home instead. Suddenly real life felt far more relevant.

  Cassie did call Jeremy the following day. They made plans to see The Joy Luck Club in Westwood Villag
e near UCLA. “I read up on it,” she said, “it sounds good.” He offered to pick her up at her West Hollywood apartment, but Cassie said no, she’d just meet him at the theater.

  “Nothing personal,” she assured him.

  “How can it be personal when you don’t even know me?” Jeremy retorted.

  “Exactly,” she said.

  It was a good thing Jeremy had already seen the film since he couldn’t concentrate all that well. He spent as much time watching Cassie in cagey side glances as he did the movie, fascinated by how she sat in her seat, held her head, gazed at the screen, or expelled little sighs at the film’s more touching moments. To Jeremy, just observing Cassie was worth the price of admission. Jesus, what was happening to him?

  After, Jeremy suggested they get a drink, but Cassie asked if they couldn’t just take a walk around Westwood Village; she hadn’t had any exercise that day and was feeling guilty.

  “If that’s the case, I should feel guilty every day of my life,” he joked.

  Cassie didn’t laugh, just eyeballed Jeremy, who certainly looked fit enough, at least to the naked eye.

  “Like what you see, or are you thinking about what gym I should join?” he asked, wondering, perhaps for the first time, if he should join a gym.

  “If I didn’t like what I saw, we wouldn’t be here to begin with,” Cassie said, with that slight challenge in her voice that held far more charm than churl. She punctuated the comment with a sexy head tilt and fleeting smile. Jeremy was entranced. “Still,” she continued, “I think everyone should join a gym. Or work out somewhere, some way. We won’t be in our twenties forever, you know?” She got that right.

  They walked and talked about the movie, how she loved it and now wanted to read the book. They discussed their work: he was a freelance film journalist writing a screenplay, she was training to become a paralegal (which wouldn’t have been Jeremy’s first guess). They chatted about their politics: both had high hopes for Bill Clinton’s first term, though she was a bit wary; and their romantic histories: he hadn’t dated anyone seriously since college, she happily ended a long-term thing six months ago and hadn’t been looking (which felt “mixed signals-ish” to Jeremy). As for astrological signs, Jeremy was a Taurus, Cassie was a Gemini; they were born exactly one year and one month apart. He’d turned twenty-three that year; she was twenty-two. God, they were young. Maybe too young for the journey they were about to take.