The Last Birthday Party

by Gary Goldstein

  She looked confused. “What do you mean ‘used to?’ Are you no longer Jeremy Lerner? Because if that’s the case, I totally have the wrong house.” She started to stand and stopped midway. “Should I go?” It made Jeremy laugh out loud.

  “No, sadly, I’m still me. But I got shitcanned last week.”

  “Oh, fuck. Your wife left you and you got fired?”

  “Don’t forget: and I’m in this stupid sling.” He remembered her dead husband and wished he could take that back. Though she had brought it up, so …

  “I can’t vouch for your wife because, well, I don’t know the whole story—or any of it, for that matter—so maybe she should have dumped you. But I love your movie reviews; you are such a good writer. There couldn’t have been any logical reason in the world to fire you. Should I write a letter to the editor? Threaten to cancel my subscription? Picket headquarters?”

  “You have a subscription? Like, a real one?” Jeremy was always surprised when he met someone who still read the physical paper, much less paid for it. Fair or unfair, it was one of his litmus tests.

  “Call me old school, but I can’t start my day without reading the Times cover to cover—on big ole messy sheets of ecologically dubious paper,” said Annabelle. “But you—your reviews were always a Friday highlight. You know why?”

  He couldn’t begin to guess, but his heart was warming by the second. “Because the real news is always so depressing?” he joked.

  “Because you’re not one of those pretentious know-it-alls who jams in ten-dollar words I have to look up and never misses a chance to name-check some obscure Russian or German director from the 1920s to show how smart they are when all I really want to know is ‘Should I waste my time on this thing or not?’”

  If she was trying to make Jeremy feel good she was succeeding—in spades.

  “Wow, thank you. Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he smiled, feeling a bit bashful but also quite sad that he was now, well, yesterday’s news.

  “You don’t have to, I just did!” Annabelle exclaimed.

  “So you like movies, I gather?”

  “Who doesn’t like movies?” Before he could answer her rhetorical question, she continued, “By the way, a couple of weeks ago? After reading your review? I saw that movie from Peru? Dreams of Light. Wow, you were so right. What a beautiful film.”

  Jeremy was startled and gratified that someone actually took his advice. He couldn’t have gotten Cassie to see that movie with a cattle prod, much less read what he wrote about it.

  “Well, I’m honored,” Jeremy said. “Thank you.”

  “I could talk about movies for hours—and I seriously do want to know why you were fired, and I’m really sorry about that, by the way—but you and I have work to do, mister,” she said, slipping on a pair of chunky, black-framed glasses that not every petite woman could pull off, but Annabelle did. “Let’s get you writing again.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  Annabelle did, in fact, help to get Jeremy writing again, or at least typing again. She gave him the go-ahead to loosen the sling’s Velcro straps just enough to still hold in his arm while allowing the fingers of his right hand to creep up to the keyboard. She warned that it may hurt a bit (it did) and he may not be able to type for extended periods (he couldn’t), but it was an option.

  “So what are you going to write?” Annabelle asked as if to say, “You got a lifeline back, Jack, so show some appreciation.”

  What was he going to write? “I don’t know,” he answered, “but at least now I can start to look for work again.”

  “Another film-reviewing job?”

  “For starters. There are some good websites out there that pay okay,” Jeremy considered, though it felt like small potatoes. “Maybe get back into teaching—once this brace is off.”

  Annabelle studied him as if there were more, as if someone like him should have a bigger plan.

  “I may also jump back into this screenplay I’d been working on,” he said, surprising himself. It felt more decisive than it sounded.

  “Wow, you write movies and you write about them. I love that!”

  When it was time for Annabelle to leave, Jeremy realized he didn’t want her to go, grateful for the company—her company if he was being completely truthful—and not looking forward to an afternoon of solitude (though Matty would arrive at five for shower duties and Joyce would be over with a home-cooked dinner for them all around six).

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but would you like a drink or something?” They were standing at the front door at this point, Annabelle fishing a car key from her mammoth shoulder bag.

  “What’s the wrong way to take that?” she asked, still unable to locate her key. “Unless you’re talking about the ‘or something’ part?”

  “No, I just … I didn’t know if it would sound weird or … against some visiting therapist rules. Though, wait,” he said, giving her a gracious out, “you probably have another client.”

  “Nope, you’re it for the day.” Annabelle whistled into her purse; there was a responsive beep. She pulled out a keychain and dangled it at Jeremy with a sly smile. “Electronic key finder. Cool, huh?”

  He nodded, and she eyed him.

  “Nothing alcoholic, okay? Because I am a professional.” A wink told Jeremy she was kidding, but he fired up the coffeemaker just in case.

  Minutes later, java mugs in hand, Jeremy gave Annabelle a tour of the backyard but not before mentioning that Cassie had pilfered the French press and milk frother before she split. He didn’t know why he was compelled to share that bit of minutia but it’s what he would have told a friend. Or maybe someone he wanted as a friend. Or, at that point, maybe anyone who would listen. Annabelle was amused.

  “Definitely grounds for divorce,” she punned, lifting her coffee mug in case he missed the connection. He didn’t. He smiled.

  After picking a few overripe grapefruits from the sagging tree for Annabelle (she asked), they sat in sling-back chairs at the patio dining table and traded a few life highlights, mostly of the more recent kind. Jeremy didn’t exactly go chapter and verse about what happened with Cassie, but he did mention his ill-fated birthday party, how scarce she’d been since she jumped ship, and the ice cream shop sighting. The latter elicited an “Uh-huh” from Annabelle that read: “You’ve been had, pal.” It reconfirmed his growing suspicions. A woman knows.

  She was incensed by the tale of how he got fired from the Times even if the image of him passed out drunk in front of a movie about the Holocaust made her eyes crinkle in amusement. Annabelle dubbed Geneva a “toadstool” and Lucien a “toady” (there was clearly a theme) and offered again to cancel her subscription in protest, but Jeremy said it wouldn’t make any difference: the Times’ customer service reps were overseas and the news wouldn’t make it across the Pacific.

  Annabelle talked a bit about her late husband, Gil; how they met (on JDate even though neither of them was “J”), their patient courtship but whirlwind city hall wedding, his tenured professorship in history at Cal State Northridge, his love of the Dodgers and the Clippers, the speed at which the lymphoma commandeered his body, and how—“and don’t take this personally”—she would give anything to have been able to throw him a fiftieth birthday party (he died at forty-eight; she was forty-six). Jeremy felt lower than dirt.

  Oh, and Gil was Annabelle’s second husband. She married her first, Andy (yes, friends nicknamed them Raggedy Ann and Andy; they hated it), in their senior year of college. She called it her biggest mistake except for dying her hair blue when she was fourteen. It lasted four rocky years until Andy decided to drop out of veterinary school and move to Nova Scotia to start a wind farm. Annabelle, looking for an out anyway, declined to join her flighty hubby (dubbed him “gone with the wind”) and went for her OT degree instead.

  As for chil
dren, Annabelle said it was off the table with Andy—they were nearly children themselves—and seemed more likely with Gil, but they soon realized they were happy just the two of them and their resolve to parent faded.

  Jeremy talked more about Matty and, when he mentioned he was gay, Annabelle said she had a “darling” nephew, Gabe (her brother Will’s son), who Matty should meet if he was looking. Jeremy said he didn’t know what Matty’s deal was with his current boyfriend, but would tell him about Gabe if Sven went the way of all the others.

  Two hours flew by, and Jeremy almost forgot that he was saddled with Big Bertha, had no new job prospects, and was on the verge of what could be a contentious divorce. Annabelle was easy to talk to and even easier to listen to.

  He found himself disappointed when Matty showed up early for shower assistance, which put a pin in their cozy tête-à-tête. For his part, Matty seemed intrigued to meet his father’s therapist, who immediately won him over when she commented on the fine state of his tank-topped torso. (Matty had come straight from, where else, the gym.) They chatted physiology a bit; Matty even asked her professional opinion on weightlifting’s stress on the shoulders, perhaps spooked by Jeremy’s injury and realizing he may not be as invincible as your average twenty-three-year-old may think. Annabelle gave him some protective exercise tips that Matty urgently typed into his Notes app.

  “See you Tuesday?” Annabelle asked Jeremy, who didn’t know they had made another appointment—and maybe they hadn’t until now. “We’ll do ‘How to cook and clean with Big Bertha by your side,’” she informed him, with her usual disarming smile. Annabelle thanked Jeremy for the “caw-fee tawk” (doing a spot-on impression of Mike Myers’ Long Island-inflected SNL character, Linda Richman), warmly shook Matty’s hand goodbye, and made her exit.

  “Well, isn’t she a breath of fresh air?” said Jeremy’s son with hiked eyebrows and an exaggerated grin. He looked like he was playing a game of charades.

  “She’s a really good OT, that’s for sure.” Jeremy felt self-conscious, as if he had to explain why he’d just spent two hours yakking with an attractive near-stranger over coffee and Trader Joe’s Peanut Butter Cartwheel cookies (a “feel better” gift from Katie and Crash) in the backyard that, until a week ago, he’d shared with his wife of twenty-five years.

  “I can see why you’re defensive about her,” Matty said. “She’s definitely got something.”

  Jeremy let out an impatient sigh. “I’m not de-fen-sive,” he said, meting out the syllables to underscore a lack of defensiveness, which only made it worse. He tightened his brace with its shoulder straps, which had loosened while sitting with Annabelle. Now they were digging into his neck again. Jesus, five more weeks to go in this fucking thing.

  Matty didn’t buy his dad’s faux outrage. “Though she may want to rethink her choice of footwear. Crocs are so over.” He checked his phone.

  “That’s your takeaway?” Jeremy didn’t know if Crocs were over, under, sideways, or right on top—just that they worked on Annabelle.

  “Only one of them! I said I liked her,” Matty answered. Now who sounded defensive? “Oh, speaking of footwear,” he brightened, “I almost forgot!” He made his way to the front door. “Be right back.”

  Jeremy stood in the living room awaiting Matty’s return, startled by whatever it was he was feeling about his occupational therapist, trying to tamp it down like a chunk of pipe tobacco.

  He was always hard on himself, too often feeling guilty until proven innocent (if only by himself). So it wasn’t such a stretch that his “awareness” of Annabelle was a little unnerving, as if he was somehow cheating on the wife he no longer had, as if she hadn’t already jumped back into the dating pool seemingly head first, hold the double entendre.

  Matty returned bearing gifts from Nordstrom Rack: a shiny pair of bright blue Nike slides and some teal woven sweatpants by Puma. “How old are those flip-flops anyway?” he asked as Jeremy kicked them off and tried on the new ones.

  “I stopped counting five years ago, which is my way of saying they could be older than you.” The slides fit Jeremy perfectly and were comfier than they looked. “Nice,” he told Matty, “thanks so much.”

  He gazed at the brightly colored gym pants, unsure.

  “What?” asked Matty, already knowing his father’s answer. “Too colorful?”

  Jeremy shrugged.

  “Dad, you’ve got to get past this black and gray and police uniform blue thing that’s the entirety of your wardrobe. I’m telling you, throw in a little color, it’ll change your life.”

  “My life has changed enough, thank you. Ready to not watch me shower?” Jeremy, teal sweats dangling from his free hand, headed to his bedroom. Matty kept pace.

  “Dad, I don’t think you’re taking in the enormity of things.”

  “Really? And I think that’s all I’ve been doing.” Jeremy sat on the edge of his bed and struggled to one-handedly remove his socks. One-fingeredly, actually: his left index.

  Matty stood over him. “Can I help you?”

  “In a minute. I’m saving you for the big stuff,” he answered, working around the bulk of the brace to get completely barefoot.

  Matty sat down next to Jeremy. “She’s not coming back. I mean, like, definitely. You do know that, don’t you?” He gazed at his father with a look so unusually measured and serious that it stopped Jeremy in his tracks.

  “You apparently know something that I’ve only been assuming,” Jeremy said as he shimmied out of his sweatpants, which was far easier to do while standing. He felt that bowling ball forming in his stomach again. He knew what was coming next.

  “She rented an apartment. A one-bedroom off Doheny, not far from her office,” said Matty. “She moves in this week.” He kept his eyes fixed on Jeremy’s, not allowing his father to look away, to interpret this update as anything but the facts.

  “When was she planning to tell me?” asked Jeremy as he moved toward the bathroom.

  “This isn’t easy for her either, y’know,” Matty said, trailing Jeremy.

  There were many pithy things Jeremy wanted to say in return, but he held back. Cassie was Matty’s mother, and Jeremy needed to respect that, respect her—or at least her wishes. Still, had Cassie given Matty permission to blab or had Jeremy just frustrated the info out of him? Either way, the news hurt, but definitive knowledge was better than the possibly-maybe-probably bullshit he’d been living with. Cassie’s literal new lease was Jeremy’s figurative one. His stomach soothed.

  “I’m sure it isn’t, honey,” Jeremy said. Matty looked relieved, the clouds moving off his face. “And by the way,” added Jeremy, “I really do like the sweatpants you got me. I’m definitely ready for some new color in my life.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Jeremy’s first post-surgery shower, despite Annabelle’s advice and Matty’s expert assistance, was a grueling, awkward, painful experience with more than its share of opportunities for disaster. From removing the abduction pillow and his clothes to keeping his right arm frozen with the help of that slippery-ass beach ball (it popped out from under him four terrifying times) to soaping up body and hair with his left hand, all while trying not to fall on the slick tile floor, it proved an Olympics-level test of physical and mental dexterity.

  Matty, God bless him, jumped smack into the fray more than a few times, popping in and out of the shower to steady, guide, and protect his nervous, birthday-suited father, ending up as drenched as Jeremy before the whole ordeal was over. As for Jeremy, once he was in shower survival mode, he couldn’t have cared less who saw whatever, a concern that seemed frankly idiotic in retrospect.

  Matty also did a yeoman’s job helping his father reassemble himself—clothes, sling, dignity—after the shower, then cleaned up the whole hot, wet mess of it all just before Joyce arrived with homemade roast garlic chicken, chunky Yukon gold potatoes, a
nd her famous braised string beans as well as a chocolate babka from Gelson’s.

  They sat at the rustic, wood-plank dining room table for a change of scenery. Joyce carved up the still-warm chicken as Matty doled out the potatoes and beans onto the country Italian dinner plates that looked expensive—and may have been at some point—but that Cassie had bought years ago for like 90 percent off in a Macy’s Cellar closeout. Jeremy wondered where these dishes would land in the detritus of divorce and decided right then and there that they were nice but not worth fighting over. He’d save that for stuff that actually meant something to him, though he couldn’t think of what that would be at the moment.

  Joyce placed a pile of breast meat plus a golden drumstick (his preferred chicken pieces since childhood) onto Jeremy’s plate, took some dark meat and a wing for herself, and passed the platter on to Matty. He dithered over the chicken parts like he was making Sophie’s choice, and then heaped healthy amounts of everything onto his plate.

  Jeremy gazed helplessly at his chicken, then at Joyce. “Mom, sorry, but could you cut this for me?”

  “Oh, of course, darling, what was I thinking?” She leaned over, diligently cutting his chicken into pieces the size of diced carrots.

  “Mom, I’m wearing a pillow brace, not dentures.”

  “Oh, right,” Joyce giggled, realizing. “Silly me.” She gave Jeremy’s remaining chicken a few quick slashes. “Now eat, before it gets cold. Both of you.” She didn’t need to include Matty, as he’d already polished off all his white meat and was halfway through his thigh. Joyce watched her grandson with pride, then turned her attention to Jeremy.

  “So, honey, tell me about this new therapist of yours,” said Joyce over bites of potato. “She sounds like a doll.”

  Jeremy glanced at Matty, the only possible source of that information. He shrugged at his father, vacuuming up his potatoes.

  “I don’t know about that, but I think she’s a really good OT,” Jeremy evaded as he speared some string beans. His left-handed eating skills had improved, though it still felt like he was doing it backward.