The Last Birthday Party

by Gary Goldstein

  Three dates and one sleepover later, Cassie revealed to Jeremy what had kept her coming back. “You’re a little mysterious,” she said. “A little reserved, but not in a geeky way. You’re not one of those men who has to tell you everything about himself from the jump. You have no idea how many of those guys I’ve met—they’re exhausting.”

  Jeremy went with it, figured “reserved” was okay with him, if it was okay with her. He purposely failed to explain that he was basically shy and self-conscious, which, frankly, is not as sexy as “mysterious.”

  “Oh,” she added, “and you don’t seem needy, which, let me tell you, is such a relief. You’re not, are you?”

  “A relief?” He knew what she was asking but needed a second to figure out a truthful answer.

  “Needy.”

  “Are you?” He was still stalling.

  “A little. But not in typical girly ways, if you know what I mean.”

  He didn’t really—and didn’t want to touch the comment with a ten-foot pole. All Jeremy knew was that Cassie seemed refreshingly independent and confident but also a tad elusive. Who was he trying to fool? He was nuts about her.

  “I have needs but I’m not needy,” Jeremy finally answered. “Does that make sense?”

  It apparently did. They were inseparable from that moment on.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Sitting alone in the dark, pondering his predicament, it hit Jeremy that he had a review to file the next morning, a Monday, for a film oddly opening on a Tuesday (instead of the usual Friday or occasional Wednesday). Worse, it was the umpteenth Holocaust documentary he’d covered since he’d started writing for the Times—the Los Angeles Times, not the New York Times, as some of his snobbier East Coast film friends would have preferred.

  Since he was one of two Times’ reviewers of the Jewish persuasion, Jeremy was often assigned movies involving the travails of his religious brethren, the State of Israel (and by extension Palestinian issues), the Holocaust (pre-, during, post-, post-post-) and most any indie comedy or dramedy (it’s a real word, look it up) about a wacky, dysfunctional Jewish family because, really, is there any other kind? In fact, there was and, for better and worse, Jeremy got to review lots of those cuckoo-clan films, too.

  Anyway, the Holocaust. Not exactly what Jeremy felt like dipping back into at this very moment; he didn’t feel like watching any movie, much less writing about it. He just wanted to sit in the shadowy living room and break his two-drink limit for the second time in as many days.

  Jeremy never blew a review deadline, and he wasn’t starting now. But he needed some kind of brain-numbing to force himself in front of his laptop to watch the viewing link sent by the film’s publicist. And since he didn’t have any weed (he rarely did, was never really a fan), alcohol it was.

  He rooted around for a bottle of red but could only find two rosés and a half-empty, uncorked chardonnay. Not unlike the leftover food, there was a curious lack of surplus wine. Who knows, maybe he’d polished it all off the night before. Not interested in the available grape choices, Jeremy considered a belt of the hard stuff. Hmm … When was the last time he’d had scotch? Maybe with his Dewar’s-drinking dad who’d been gone six years (attacked by his own heart, imagine that).

  Jeremy flashed on his old man, Larry, a blustery, impatient guy who ran hot and cold about people and things but could also be funny and sentimental and would have walked through fire for his wife and son. Jeremy felt a weird pang for his father, wondered how he would have handled what just happened with Cassie (not that Joyce would have ever left Larry—she worshipped him, maybe more than she should have). His dad always loved Cassie, their big personalities enlivening rather than embattling each other. She called him “Lar-dog,” he called her “Cat’s Meow.” They had their own language. Jeremy always thought she gravitated toward his spirited father because she didn’t have the closest relationship with her own stodgier dad; Cassie was like the daughter Larry never had and maybe always wanted, though he’d never admit that.

  Okay, a drink to Dad. Jeremy tried to reach the scotch, which lived on the tippy-top shelf of a kitchen cabinet with the other booze that Cassie stashed up there and out of the way. In reality, they were the only shelves tall enough to accommodate liquor bottles. But as Jeremy climbed their old stepladder and grabbed the Dewar’s, he lost his balance and took a tumble, landing on the floor with his right arm splayed out over his head.

  The bottle landed with a thud and, miraculously, didn’t break. Jeremy, on the other hand, felt shortness of breath and instant pain. He laid on the cold tile for a minute until he was able to get up, his breathing returning to normal. Jeremy’s shoulder throbbing, he took a seat at the kitchen table and rested. Finally, he rose again, picked the bottle off the floor, poured himself a few fingers over ice, and took a gulp.

  As the amber liquid did its little burning act, Jeremy thought again of his father and how they never got to say goodbye. By the time Jeremy and Cassie made it to the hospital (his mother called him frantically in the middle of the night), Larry was gone. What would their last words have been? What pearls of wisdom would his departing dad have left him with? What did Jeremy wish he could have said? What would he say now if he had the chance?

  He felt like such a giant fuckup: not because he hadn’t made it to Cedars-Sinai fast enough to bid a final farewell to his dad, but because Cassie couldn’t live with him anymore, didn’t want him in her life. How could he have let that happen? How did it happen? They were good people, weren’t they? A little self-absorbed and thoughtless sometimes, yes, but also responsible, reliable, and well-meaning. And good parents—no, very good parents. Jeremy took another slug of Dewar’s and considered this, his head getting fuzzy from the booze.

  He composed himself and imagined his father’s voice: “You think women like Cassie grow on trees, son? Don’t let her get away, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  Jeremy didn’t “let” Cassie do anything, she did it all by herself, but Jeremy got his dead father’s point. He grabbed his phone; this time, he’d leave a message. Or maybe she’d actually answer and they could talk things out. Civilly, like adults.

  Jeremy finished his drink in one stiff, piercing swig and rubbed his aching shoulder. He hit redial and clenched his teeth as the phone rang. Shit, voicemail.

  “Cassie, it’s me, are you there?” he asked, realizing that even if she was, she couldn’t hear him. It wasn’t like the old answering machines. What was wrong with him?

  “Anyway,” he continued, “it’s me … Jeremy. Look, I know you’re upset, I know I was kind of a jerk last night about the party, but you can’t just walk out. This is ridiculous. We need to talk, okay? I’m here, call me, would you? Please?”

  Jeremy gazed into the bits of melted ice left in his highball glass, wondering if he should have another. He also wondered when he’d hear back from Cassie, if he’d hear back from her. And where was she staying? At Ella’s? Sunil’s? Valeria’s? With her parents? No, that was doubtful. Jeremy couldn’t imagine they’d ever be her first choice for comfort, though they did have a nice place, still living in the Mid-Wilshire house Cassie grew up in. (They’d make a killing if they sold it, but wouldn’t consider it.) Or was she just crashing in her office? She did have a couch there, more of a loveseat, really, but she could make do if she was desperate. Nah, she’d probably want to be around people; she liked an audience, and would want to tell her side of the story.

  Of course, there was no shortage of hotels in L.A., but would she want to spend the money? Even the most mediocre place was expensive these days. What was he talking about? Of course she’d spend the money, if only because she figured he wouldn’t. Order up room service, eat ten-dollar macadamia nuts, soak in a hot bubble bath, burrow into one of those plush hotel beds with the feathery mattress pads. Forget your troubles, c’mon get happy.

  It was all too
much for Jeremy to think about so he got up, poured another glass of scotch, and screamed in agony as he moved his shoulder just so. Okay, this was not good. That fall, the splayed arm, the shooting pain: Did he break something? No, he could move his shoulder and his arm, stiff and tender as they were. Maybe it was just a sprain—no, a strain! Put one of those flexible ice pack thingies on it, take away any swelling. It’d be fine by morning, right?

  Shit, the movie! He had to sit down and watch it, couldn’t go to sleep till he wrote the damn review. At least it was what they called a capsule, 200 or so words that wouldn’t take forever to bang out. Okay, get on with it, Jeremy thought, so he pulled the cold pack out of the freezer, swiped his cocktail glass off the counter, and headed off to his home office, formerly Matty’s bedroom. Now Matty stayed in the tiny guest room every once in a blue moon when he happened to sleep over, mostly so Cassie would make him her famous blueberry waffles in the morning.

  Wait, was Cassie staying with Matty in his apartment? No, he would have said something, mentioned it in that last text. Unless it was too awkward or embarrassing for him, their son not wanting to take sides.

  On a more pressing note, where the heck did Cassie keep the Advil?

  One thing about revisiting the Holocaust—it can make you feel better about your own problems. What’s a little marital abandonment and shoulder ache compared to the systematic horrors of Nazi Germany? Still, watching this documentary, which looked at the last day of World War II through the eyes of a group of concentration camp survivors, was grueling: almost two hours of wrenching testimony from an array of ancient, deeply haunted men and women backed by acres of unbearable archival footage from Treblinka and Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. It all caused Jeremy to pause for a third and fourth pour of Dewar’s, which got him through the stressful journey unfolding on his laptop screen, not to mention help muffle the shoulder pain that announced itself with every move.

  He checked his watch: 11:45 p.m. How the hell did it get so late? He was usually in bed by eleven. Had he fallen asleep somewhere between Auschwitz and Treblinka without realizing it? God, he was such a fucking disaster. And he still had to write that review. He sat at his desk trying to decide what he really thought of the film aside from how tragic it was, how tragic they always were, and realized he had formed no real critical opinion of what he’d just watched, couldn’t really remember much of the past two hours if he was being perfectly honest. And there was that awful shoulder throb again. He wondered: How many Advil could you take at a time?

  Jeremy opened a new document and typed atop the blank page The Last Worst Day by Jeremy Lerner. No, it wasn’t a recap of his own horrible, terrible, no-good Sunday but the sadly appropriate title of the documentary he had yet to critique.

  Maybe he should just lie down for a minute, settle his head, and then get back in front of his laptop and bang out the review. He’d figure out what to write, he always did. And was Cassie asleep already—wherever she was?

  CHAPTER

  5

  “Jeremy, did I wake you?” It was Cassie, on Jeremy’s cell, in fact waking him from a dead sleep. He was under a tangle of covers, barely awake, momentarily forgetting why his wife was calling him and not occupying her usual spot to his left.

  “Jeremy? It’s me, are you there?”

  See, now those words made sense, unlike the message he left her yesterday. It also made him realize, in a sudden flood of gloom, why it was so crucial that Cassie was finally making contact. Had she changed her mind? He sat up.

  “Cassie! Yeah, I’m here, sorry. Didn’t you get my message to call me?” asked Jeremy. Sunlight was peeking in through the edges of the blackout blinds. What time was it, anyway?

  “Didn’t you get my message that said not to call me?”

  There was that old challenge in her voice. But without the sexy twist that used to make it alright.

  Jeremy glanced at his bedside clock: 10:08 a.m. “Oh, fuck!” His film review was due eight minutes ago, and he hadn’t written a single word.

  “Really? That’s the best you’ve got right now?” Cassie was evidently loaded for bear.

  “What? No, I wasn’t talking to you! I was … I way overslept and—it doesn’t matter. Look, when are you going to come home and end this ridiculous protest?” Jeremy threw his legs over the side of the bed, staring at the phone in his hand like it was a grenade. He felt a sudden stab in his shoulder—fuck, that again?

  “Protest? Is that what you think this is? My God, Jeremy, where have you been for the last five years?”

  “Right here. In this house. With you. Where have you been? Wait, more importantly, where are you now?” Jeremy could mount his own challenge to Cassie. She deserved at least that, didn’t she?

  “I’m … away. That’s all I’ll say. And … I’m not coming home.” Cassie’s voice had a slight quaver to it.

  “Like, right now or like … ever?” His shoulders had a visible droop.

  “Like now,” Cassie answered. “But I will be moving out.” She sounded both wistful and deliberate. As if she’d thought about it for a long time.

  Jeremy began to pace around their bedroom, evidence of his wife, his marriage, their world, in every square inch. He was at a loss for words. He really did think maybe it was some kind of protest, a passing marital thunderstorm, a … thing. Where had he been? What should he say? What could he say?

  “I don’t know what to say,” Jeremy sighed into his phone.

  “You don’t have to say anything. Just respect my decision and my need to detach,” she answered. Jeremy could hear traffic sounds in the background.

  “I have a million questions for you, Cassie.”

  “I thought you didn’t know what to say?” A car door slammed. She had either gotten in or out of her car, Jeremy guessed, realizing he had never even looked to see if her red convertible MINI Cooper was still parked in their garage next to his silver Prius. He was a really shitty detective.

  “I didn’t mean it literally,” though he kind of did. But he also did have a ton of questions for her, with why being atop the list. He started out for the garage, massaging his shoulder with his free hand. “You can’t just decide you’re leaving and not even have a conversation with me.”

  “Whether you realize it or not, we’ve been having ‘the conversation’ for a long time,” Cassie said.

  “No, not in so many words we haven’t.” As Jeremy unlocked the front door, he glanced in the foyer mirror and was startled by how wrecked he looked. Watch, he’d run into Katie or Crash or another neighbor and have to explain his ghastly appearance. Fuck it—he was out the door.

  “Please,” Cassie simmered, “you’re a writer. I think you know subtext when you hear it.” Jeremy could hear a car engine start, definitely the MINI.

  “Yes, I’m very familiar with subtext, Cassie. I just don’t think I need to be playing guessing games with my own wife.” He reached their attached garage. “Are you in your car?”

  “I am, and that’s the last question for now.”

  He punched in the keypad code. The garage door groaned open revealing an empty space to the left of Jeremy’s car. He gazed at the vacant spot, noticed dark patches of oil on the cement beneath where Cassie’s MINI should have been parked.

  “You have an oil leak, by the way,” he said with an unexpected air of superiority.

  “How do you know?” Cassie replied.

  “If you were still at home, standing with me in our garage, you’d know too. So I guess you’ll have to take my word for it. Get yourself to a gas station or something.”

  “I will … thanks.”

  There was silence, which Jeremy was not going to fill. Not this time.

  “Okay, well,” Cassie finally said, “I’ll be in touch, but really, Jeremy, please don’t try to reach me.” Another awkward beat and then: “This is the only way I can do this.”


  “What about your job? Your things?” Jeremy asked. “What about Matty?” There was a catch in his voice.

  “I said no more questions,” Cassie answered, her quaver returning. “I’ll talk to Matty, I promise.”

  Jeremy tapped the single keypad button that closed the garage door. He watched blankly as it made its noisy descent. “Final question, Cass: Just tell me, was this about the party?”

  “All I’ll say is, you failed the test, J. I’ve gotta go. Take care of yourself, okay?” And before Jeremy could respond, Cassie hung up.

  Test? What test? What the hell was she talking about? Jeremy felt more confused, more at sea, after his conversation with Cassie than during all those hours of radio silence. Had he failed, what, the husband test? The lover test? The companion test? The breadwinner test? Maybe they shouldn’t have talked altogether. This was feeling like a bad dream, but he was pretty sure he was awake. Was this what his fifties were going to look like?

  “Hey, Jeremy.” He turned around. It was Crash, walking his and Katie’s loopy yellow Labrador, Lola, who leaped upon Jeremy, her huge paws pressed against his chest like a pair of furry defibrillators. His heart could use a jump start, but not this kind. “Lola, down!” ordered Crash. She reluctantly obeyed, with a look in her eyes so contrite Jeremy almost invited her back up. “Sorry, Jeremy,” said Crash. “As you can see, our training is really paying off.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Jeremy looked at the hopeful dog, tongue flapping out the side of her mouth, big tail wagging like a metronome. Concealing the pain that had now spread from his shoulder to the entire right arm, he bent down to pet Lola, eager to make at least one being happy that morning. Crash studied his crouching, disheveled neighbor.