I'm So Happy for You

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  “I tell you—we have no American beer!” Bangs said again, this time in a shrill tone.

  “No need to get hysterical, woman,” said Jonathan, slapping his menu down on the table. “I’ll just have water.”

  “Perrier?”

  “No, the kind that comes out of the goddamn faucet and I don’t have to pay for!”

  “Jesus Cristo,” Adam muttered in a bad Spanish accent.

  Again, Wendy felt her allegiances divided. Clearly, Jonathan was acting like a jerk. But the skinflint part of her was delighted to hear that he was failing to add to the dinner bill. At the same time, she felt an overwhelming urge to please Daphne—if necessary by pleasing her new boyfriend. “Don’t you guys have Sam Adams?” she asked.

  “Sam Who-is-this?” Bangs squinted at her.

  “Sam Adams,” Wendy said again. “The beer. I know I’ve had it here. Isn’t it on tap at the bar?”

  “I will have to check.” The woman sniffed before stomping away.

  After she’d gone, Wendy expected Jonathan to thank her for calling the waitress’s bluff. But he said nothing. His eyes drifted away from the table. “So, Daphne tells me you’re a lawyer,” said Wendy, trying to draw them back.

  “That is correct,” he said.

  “Wills and estates?” she blurted out, for no particular reason.

  “I’m a federal prosecutor for the Southern District of New York.”

  “Oh!” said Wendy, straining to think of something civil to say, possessed as she was of a deep-seated bias toward public defenders, those champions of murderers, rapists, turnstile jumpers, and the wrongly accused alike. Finally, she came up with: “Well, that must be exciting work. Do you get to bust Mafia dons and stuff?”

  “Occasionally,” he answered.

  “A few years ago I got obsessed with that tabloid story about that old guy who walked around the West Village in his bathrobe, pretending to be insane so he wouldn’t have to stand trial. Remember him—the ‘Odd Father’?”

  “The majority of my work involves the war on terror,” announced Jonathan.

  Though Adam was essentially uninterested in politics, he’d found an opening. “War on terror,” he said, shaking his head as he exhaled through his nose. “I fucking hate that phrase, man.”

  Jonathan didn’t hesitate: “Are you denying that the West is engaged in a defining struggle against an international network of fundamentalist Islamicists who exhibit no respect for human life and who would like nothing more than to wipe us off the map?” he shot back.

  There was an awkward silence. “Ohmygod—Wendy—did I tell you I got carded last week?” said Daphne. She scoped Wendy’s face for a reaction.

  “You’re kidding,” Wendy answered with somewhat less enthusiasm. (She hadn’t been carded in ten years. Which made her think that Daphne had been lying when she told Wendy she kept getting younger looking.)

  “I’m not denying anything but you being a pain in the ass,” said Adam. Wendy cringed. As obnoxious as she found Jonathan, her fight with Daphne was still too fresh to risk alienating her all over again, if only via Adam. Nor had she forgotten the reason for their dinner: they were there, after all, to laud Daphne in her long overdue subrogation of Mitchell Kroker for a man who was apparently, if unfortunately, available. But Adam wasn’t finished. “Though I might also point out that the war in Iraq has nothing to do with your death-worshipping fundamentalist Islamicists,” he continued, “since, for starts, Saddam Hussein was a secular leader who, if not a good guy, never threatened a single American interest.”

  “Hussein threatened Israel,” said Jonathan.

  “So?” said Adam.

  “So I told the guy, ‘You have no idea how happy you’re making a thirty-four-year-old woman right now,’ ” said Daphne, as if her conversation with Wendy were the only one at the table. “So then—get this—I pull out my license, and it’s EXPIRED, and the guy won’t let me in! I mean it was just BEYOND.”

  “Israel’s strategic interests are America’s interests,” said Jonathan.

  “Woooooooooeeee.” Adam began to laugh in a staccato-like clip. “According to who?”

  “According to me.”

  “What are you—the fucking secretary of state or something?”

  “God, isn’t it pathetic that neither of us drive?” said Daphne.

  “Totally pathetic,” said Wendy.

  “Let me guess—you went to Bennington and majored in pottery,” said Jonathan.

  “Wesleyan, actually,” said Adam. “And, for the record, I majored in European history.”

  “And when the next holocaust comes, remind me which of your favorite liberal European democracies you’ll be jetting off to. Sweden? France?” Jonathan laughed knowingly.

  “I’m sure as hell not heading to the country you’re living in,” said Adam.

  “Jerusalem will miss you,” said Jonathan. “Or, actually, maybe it won’t.”

  “Sweetie—come on,” said Daphne, stroking his arm and seemingly mortified, as well. Or was Wendy just projecting?

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be in the West Bank, bulldozing some refugee camps. Oh—sorry—that will be you,” said Adam.

  “The Palestinians have as much right to the West Bank as the Aborigines—another nomadic people, though possibly not as homicidal a one,” said Jonathan.

  Daphne kept at it. “So I went to the DMV yesterday to get it renewed,” she said, turning back to Wendy. “And I swear, I stood there waiting for, like, SIX HOURS. I mean, it was like everyone in the city was having their license renewed on the same day!”

  “That sounds hellish,” said Wendy. But she was no longer listening to Daphne. The Arab-Israeli conflict was one of the few subjects that made her feel as if she really was a politically engaged creature, as opposed to one who cared mainly about celebrity baby gossip. “Honestly?” she said, turning to Jonathan in a burst of anger and excitement. “I get so tired of people bringing up the Holocaust to justify Israel’s occupation of the West Bank. Yes, the Palestinians have done some really odious things. But why should they have to pay for the crimes of the Nazis?” Feeling simultaneously triumphant and terrified, Wendy turned to Adam, who squeezed her thigh approvingly. Then she glanced back at Jonathan, whose face revealed further amusement. Finally, she looked at Daphne, whose eyes appeared in danger of popping out of her head. Guilt and embarrassment quickly replacing giddiness, Wendy swatted at the air and announced, “Anyway, enough politics for the night.”

  “Wendy is an editor at Barricade magazine,” Daphne said to Jonathan.

  “Not that old commie rag,” Jonathan said, chuckling.

  Again, Wendy felt fire in her chest. But Daphne’s brow was now so deeply knit that a cleft had formed between her eyes. Wendy took a deep breath and said, “So, are you guys already planning for the holidays?”

  “Well, Jonathan’s family has a house up near Stratton,” Daphne said quietly. “And I think we’re going to go up there and do a little skiing. Or”—she laughed quickly—“in my case, sitting around the fire drinking hot chocolate and reading Shopaholic novels. Anyway, I think we’re going to be there the whole time.”

  “Fun!” said Wendy as enthusiastically as she could manage. “And your family doesn’t mind you missing Christmas?” As far as Wendy could remember, the Uberoff family Christmas, which took place in Daphne’s hometown of Ann Arbor, Michigan, was a fairly big deal. Never mind the fact that Daphne’s mother, Claire, was in a wheelchair with late-stage multiple sclerosis.

  “Well, we’re going to do Hanukkah this year instead,” Daphne said, turning to Jonathan with a demure smile, which he reciprocated with a proprietary arm around her squirrelly back.

  A surge of rage toward Jonathan Sonnenberg pulsed through Wendy. Politics was one thing. Religion was another. Surely, Daphne wasn’t going to give up her heritage for a man she’d met less than two weeks before. (While there was reason to believe that her maternal grandmother had been part Jewish, Daphne was essentially
Presbyterian.) Or was it none of Wendy’s damn business what religion Daphne did or didn’t practice? And why did Wendy even care? Wasn’t the important part that Jonathan seemed to make Daphne happy?

  Bangs reappeared with their drinks, including a Sam Adams for Jonathan, which she plunked down before him, spilling some in the process. He didn’t say thank you, and she didn’t say sorry. She flipped opened her notepad and said, “To eat?”

  Adam ordered the hamburger, Jonathan the steak frites, Wendy the coq au vin, and Daphne, as she always did, two appetizers. (Daphne always claimed to have had a “huge snack” just before she left the house.)

  While they waited for their meals to arrive, Wendy struggled to keep the conversation going. Politics and religion were now off-limits. Jonathan didn’t know any of the same people that Daphne and Wendy did. Wendy had already asked him about his job. And he seemed utterly disinterested in finding out anything more about Wendy or Adam than he already knew.

  “So, have you guys been watching Iron Chef?” asked Wendy during one uncomfortable lull.

  “What channel is that on again?” asked Daphne.

  “The Food Channel,” said Wendy.

  “Oh. I’m not sure if I get that.” She turned to Jonathan. “Do I get the Food Channel?”

  “Beats me.” He shrugged. It was his last contribution to the general conversation. He spent the rest of the evening nuzzling Daphne’s neck, whispering in her ear, and, after their dinners finally arrived, nearly an hour later, eating off her plate.

  Halfway through the meal, Adam turned to Jonathan and said, “Enjoying your French-I-mean-Freedom fries?”

  “Is someone talking to me?” Jonathan asked. He turned around in his seat as if the voice had come from a neighboring table. Finding no one there, he went back to his dinner. To Wendy’s relief, Adam left it at that.

  Finally, dinner was over. The four of them passed through the velvet curtain and onto the sidewalk. A taxi pulled up as if on cue. “Good night, Brooklyn,” Jonathan announced without eye contact, before he disappeared into the backseat.

  Daphne lingered on the sidewalk. “Well, it was so great to see you guys. Adam,” she said, throwing her arms around him, “I swear I haven’t seen you in, like, a year!”

  “That’s not true,” said Adam. “I see you every time you come out to the Slope, which happens—wait—have you ever been to our apartment? We’ve only lived there for four years.”

  “Shuuut uuuup—of course I’ve been there!” Daphne said with a broad grin.

  “Suuuuure.”

  “You’re so mean to me.”

  “It’s only ’cause I love you.”

  “Yeah, sure—”

  “I do.”

  “Prove it.”

  Wendy smiled. She’d always found it gratifying to see other women flirting with her husband: it made him seem worthy of flirting with and was therefore a compliment to her. She also suspected that Adam enjoyed the attention more than he let on, especially when it came from Daphne. It was she who had introduced Wendy to Adam. The three of them had been at a party in the East Village thrown by an aspiring singer-song-writer-womanizer named Donal Wendy-Couldn’t-Remember-His-Last-Name, who wore women’s headbands in his lanky brown-blond hair. He and Adam had gone to college together. Daphne had slept with Donal once, or maybe it was twice. (It was unlikely she remembered his last name, either.) That was Wendy and Donal’s only connection. But the few times a year they’d see each other, he’d hug and kiss her hello as if they were old and close friends. (For a while, for Wendy, the city was filled with people like that—people who squeezed her tight, and said, “Yo—Wen!—Where you been?—Baby—I’ve missed you!” as if they’d actually thought about her once since they’d last met. And then, one day, it was no longer like that. One day, those same people started walking right by her like the virtual strangers they actually were. And it was jarring but it was also kind of a relief.)

  Neither Adam nor Daphne had ever satisfyingly described their meeting for Wendy. As she understood it, Daphne had plucked Adam off the sofa in Donal’s living room with little more than, “Will you come meet my friends?” Then she’d dragged him through the crowd to Donal’s bedroom, where Wendy stood talking to another now-lost acquaintance. “Wen—you have to meet my new best friend, Adam!” Daphne had said, her hand in his. “Isn’t he adorable?” She’d laid her head on Adam’s shoulder.

  Always obliging, Wendy had said, “Hey.”

  “How are you?” he’d answered.

  “Fine, except I can’t breathe,” she’d told him. It was one of those apartment parties that was so crowded you literally had to shove people out of the way—that or climb over furniture—to get to the other side of the room. (Somehow, only Daphne had managed to move freely.)

  “I have clove cigarettes if you want one,” Adam had offered. “They always drive away a few assholes.”

  Wendy had smiled, amused, and said, “I’m okay, but thanks.” From the beginning, there had been an immediate connection between her and Adam—a shared misanthropy laced with humor and longing. Was that it? In any case, Daphne had done Wendy the biggest favor that a friend could do; hadn’t she? And yet, over the years, Wendy had come to resent the fact that Daphne had found her a husband. It gave her too much power; it made Wendy feel indebted.…

  “Daphne Uberoff.” It was Jonathan, calling from the back of the cab.

  “Well, I better run.” Daphne threw her arms around Wendy. “Thank you so much for organizing this. It was beyond great to see you guys.”

  “It was great,” said Wendy.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Mwuh.” Daphne blew a kiss in Wendy and Adam’s general direction. Then she, too, disappeared into the cab.

  As Daphne and Jonathan’s taxi sped off, Adam turned to Wendy, and said, “It’s official. He’s the worst person on earth.”

  “What about that serial killer guy, Jeffrey Dahmer?” Wendy said, laughing, as they crossed Lafayette.

  “He’s dead,” said Adam.

  “He is?” said Wendy.

  “He got bludgeoned in the men’s room, like, his first day in jail.”

  “Bummer…”

  They decided to walk home. Or, really, Wendy made the decision for them. The dinner had cost more than she’d anticipated, and a car service home was likely to add another ten or fifteen bucks to the evening’s bill. Plus, it was a beautiful, crisp autumn night, the kind of night that, as a child, Wendy had associated with the knowledge that the holidays were all fast approaching, each—in theory, at least—with its own storehouse of treats. (In practice, holidays at Wendy’s mother’s apartment on the Upper West Side had mostly been dreary potluck affairs populated by a random assortment of neighbors, cat-sitters, and visiting professors at Lehman College in the Bronx, where Judy Murman taught in the women’s studies program.)

  “Anyway, serial killers don’t count,” Adam went on.

  “Bin Laden?” suggested Wendy.

  “I guess you have to give Sonnenberg credit for not incinerating thousands of innocent people in an office tower. Still, could you believe that line about the Palestinians? What an A-hole.”

  “At least he’s not married, like Mitchell.”

  “He will be soon.”

  Wendy gasped. “Oh, god, you don’t think—”

  “I think indeed,” said Adam as they headed east on South Portland. “The guy isn’t exactly a bohemian type. And he’s probably getting close to forty.”

  “I think he’s thirty-seven.”

  “Well, then, he’s probably anxious to populate his own land—you know, raise some nice Zionist children to populate Israel before those nomadic Arabs multiply the place into extinction.”

  “Stop, you’re hurting me!” Wendy covered her ears. But her discomfort had found a new source: Adam himself. She couldn’t help but wonder why her husband, essentially the same age as Jonathan, wasn’t more anxious about repopulating his own land. At the beginning of the year, he’d finally agree
d to go along with her plan to get pregnant—as far as Wendy could tell, only because she’d drilled into him the idea that time was running out. (Maybe it already had.)

  Wendy spent the rest of the walk home pretending not to be upset. “What do you mean?” she’d say when Adam asked her why she’d fallen silent.

  Forty minutes later, they turned onto Thirteenth Street in Park Slope. Exhausted, Wendy broke her rule about makeup removal and collapsed into bed. Shortly afterward, Adam joined her under the covers. She was just drifting off to sleep at twelve twenty, when the phone rang.

  Her first thought was Mitchell Kroker. He still wasn’t committing. He was never going to commit. Was Daphne ever going to move on? Returning to full consciousness, Wendy recalled that Mitch was now history and that Daphne was happily paired with Jonathan. So why was she calling so late? Had they already broken up? It seemed unlikely. Just an hour or two earlier, they’d been eating off each other’s forks.

  This time, the ringing seemed to be coming from Adam’s dresser. Wendy stumbled out of bed and thrust her hand in the direction of the receiver. Adam was snoring lightly. He could sleep through anything.…

  It was Adam’s mother, Phyllis.

  “Phyllis, hi,” said Wendy. “Is everything okay?”

  You weren’t supposed to like your mother-in-law, but Wendy actually got along better with hers than she did with her own mother. This was maybe because talking to Judy Murman frequently made Wendy feel as if she were standing trial, whereas she felt loved and accepted by Phyllis no matter what she said. Though, admittedly, there were limits to what the two discussed—typically, deeply trivial yet somehow comforting subjects having to do with shopping and cleaning. (Adam’s employment situation, for instance, went unmentioned.) “Ron’s been in a terrible car accident,” Phyllis announced, her voice breaking halfway through the sentence.

  Wendy felt as if her head had detached from her body. Terrible car accidents were supposed to happen to other people, people on the eleven o’clock news. (And Phyllis was supposed to be calling about white sales at Bloomie’s and how to wash cashmere in the washing machine—i.e., gentle cycle, cold wash, encased in a mesh bag.) “Oh, god! Phyllis. I’m so sorry,” Wendy managed. “Let me get Adam.” Her heart was beating so hard that it hurt her chest. “It’s your mother,” she kept saying to Adam. “Wake up.”