Open House

by Elizabeth Berg

  “Why don’t you let me cook?” Rita asks. “You need to go get ready for work.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I have time.” I flip a pancake. Perfect.

  “Come on,” Rita says, moving to the stove. “I’m stuffed. You eat.” She takes the spatula from my hand.

  I go to the table, drink some orange juice. “I’m sorry I have to work today.”

  “I don’t mind,” Rita says. “I don’t need a thing. I want to just read, relax. Maybe Lydia and I will go out.”

  “I have a museum tour today,” Lydia says. “But you’re welcome to come.”

  “You can come to school with me,” Travis says. “You can go instead of me.”

  “No thanks,” Rita says. “I hate math.”

  “I hate English,” Travis says.

  “Yeah, I hate that too.”

  “Really?” Travis asks.

  “Yeah, I hated everything except gym in school.”

  “Me too!” Travis says.

  Well, that’s it. They’re friends for life. Tonight, Travis will ask to speak with me alone and ask if he can move in with Rita, who will never make him do his homework and who will let him have a treehouse. Will let him build a tree house with the tools she buys him, including the band saw he found at Sears the other day and spent a good twenty minutes examining, while I stood around in the adjacent hosiery department deliberating over the three hundred thousand kinds of panty hose available. “Will you buy me this?” he’d asked me when I finally came to collect him.

  “What is it?”

  “A band saw.”

  “What do you need a band saw for?”

  Travis rolled his eyes, then turned for sympathy to a nearby male customer who was lovingly examining torque wrenches. I’d actually looked at the price before I told him no.

  I look at my watch, quickly finish a pancake. “I’d better get going. I’ll be home pretty early, about two.”

  “What are you doing today?” Lydia asks.

  “Answering phones at a law firm. Receptionist, I guess.”

  “Don’t make coffee!” Rita says. “Don’t make coffee! Tell them to make their own damn coffee.”

  “I don’t mind making coffee,” I say. “Why does everybody hate making coffee so much? I like to make coffee. It’s very satisfying. I like the smell. Plus you get to goof off, leave your desk.”

  “Well, it’s a symbol,” Rita says. “You don’t want them to assume you’re there to be their mommy, their wife. That’s what they do to women.”

  “It’s an all-woman law firm,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” Rita says. “Well. Bring in some gourmet grounds, then. And a dozen donuts.”

  “Just what I need,” I say, patting my stomach. I weighed myself this morning. I’m nine pounds up. Pretty soon my robe belt will be too short.

  AT TWO-THIRTY, I let myself in the kitchen door, call out hello. I feel bad that I’m half an hour late. But I wanted to stop for groceries. Lasagna, we’ll have tonight. I’ll put some spinach in there so I’ll feel virtuous. And Lydia has promised to make her famous caramel apple pie.

  I put the bag of groceries on the counter. “Hello?” I yell again.

  Nothing. I go to the bottom of the stairs, yell, “Rita?” And then, “Lydia?” Nothing.

  They must have gone somewhere together. Well, that’s good. Now Rita will see what I like so much about Lydia, she’ll see what a great choice she was for a roommate. Although she will be gone soon, she and Thomas are getting married in two weeks. I sigh, thinking about it. I really should find another roommate to take Lydia’s place. The rent from Ms. Blue won’t be enough. And besides, she’s too quiet, and too weird—she’s gone a lot, and when she’s home, she stays by herself in the basement almost all the time. I want someone who’ll be good to talk to, as Lydia was. I’ve had a sign up in a few places for a few days, but there have been no calls yet.

  I’m putting the last of the groceries away when the door opens, and Rita comes in with King. “Hey!” Rita says, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed.

  Oh my God, she did it. She slept with him.

  “Hey, Rita,” I say, evenly. “Hi, King.”

  He nods at me, unwinds his scarf from around his neck. “We were ice-skating. At the rink, you know, that rink off Ninety-four?”

  “Yeah, I know it. You didn’t have to work today?”

  “No, tonight. Security, at the mall. Do you want to go skating? We came back to get you and Travis.”

  “No, I . . . don’t skate.”

  “We don’t either!” Rita says. We. “That’s why it’s so great! We spent all our time on our butts.”

  “I don’t think so. But if you guys want to go back, it’s okay. Just go.”

  I see Rita and King exchange glances, and then Rita says, “Actually, I think I’ve had about enough.”

  King looks at me, then wraps the scarf back around his neck. “Yeah, I’ve got some errands . . . I’ll see you later, Sam.”

  I nod tightly.

  “Good-bye, Rita.”

  She goes to the door, hugs him. “I loved meeting you.”

  I’ll bet she did. I pull a pan out of the cupboard. “Want lasagna for dinner?”

  “What’s the matter, Sam?”

  “What? I just wanted to know if you wanted lasagna for dinner!”

  “Are you mad about something? Again?”

  I get out the olive oil, the garlic.

  “Come on, Sam. It’s me.”

  I look at her. “I just . . . he’s my new friend. And you’re . . .”

  “What? Wearing him out? Using him up? I’m sorry, he called here looking for you; I didn’t have anything to do . . .”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m just tired. Forget it.” He called looking for me.

  “Let’s eat out,” Rita says. “All of us. My treat. Really, I wanted to take you all out at least one night. Let’s do it tonight.”

  “All right.” I come over to the table, sit down. “Rita? You didn’t try to seduce him, did you?”

  “Oh, Sam.” She leans over, starts tugging at her boots. “Jesus.”

  “Well, remember you were saying how powerful it would make you feel? How you wanted to—”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “So, tell me the truth, now. Did you try?”

  She stares off to the side, considering. “Well, no. I mean, I didn’t really try.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I just . . . I asked him if he wanted to do it.”

  Cartoonlike, my mouth falls open. I knew it.

  “But I wasn’t really serious!”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Well . . . no! I mean, if he’d said yes, I—”

  “What? What would you have done?”

  “Well, I don’t know! I mean, maybe I would have done it.”

  I sit back in my chair, stunned. “What about Lawrence?”

  “Oh, Sam. We’ve been married a long time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, fifteen years. That’s a long time, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t mean how many years!” I say. “I mean . . . well, what do you mean? You’re married for a long time, so it’s okay to have affairs?”

  “This wouldn’t be an affair, Sam! It would be . . . you know, a friendly gesture, that’s all! A public service. Well, a private service.”

  “What about . . . disease?” This is not what I mean. Not at all.

  “He’s all but a virgin, Sam.”

  “And God knows you’re not.”

  A beat. And then Rita says, “I’ll just let that go, Sam. I think you know me well enough to know . . . Look. He didn’t want to. And anyway, you’re not interested in him that way! Are you?”

  “No! I told you!”

  “Yeah,” Rita says slowly. “That’s what you said.” And then, as Travis comes in the door, home from school, “Hey, buddy. Where would you like to go out for dinner?”

  “A place not fanc
y!” Travis says.

  “My man,” Rita answers.

  AT THE AIRPORT, Rita hugs me so hard it hurts. “I’m sorry,” she says. “This was not a good visit. I’m a bad person.”

  “You’re not a bad person. You’re just pathologically honest. Most of the time I like it. But it’s still a tense time for me. You know. I’m still sort of nuts. I miss David, I hate David . . . I guess I take it out on everyone.”

  “Do you really want him back?”

  “I’m supposed to say no, right?”

  “You’re supposed to say the truth.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know. In some ways, my life is better now. But David . . . Oh, I know you hated him. But I still feel so attracted to him. Or attached. Or something.”

  Rita looks at her watch, picks up her briefcase. “I know. I understand.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Look, I think you’re doing fine. I like your life now. It seems . . . truer. More honest. I like your roommate, I like your friends.”

  “King, you mean.”

  “Yeah, King. And I wouldn’t really have—”

  “I know.”

  “Did I tell you his pants fell down at the skating rink?”

  “What! No, you didn’t tell me that!”

  “Well, probably because it was so . . . you know, when I came home. But yeah, his pants fell down! Right in the middle of the rink!”

  “You probably pulled them down,” I say.

  “No, come on, it was just . . . spontaneous! It wasn’t too bad, because his coat was long enough to, you know, mostly cover him. And he yanked them back up again really fast. I fell down again, I was laughing so hard.”

  “Was he embarrassed?”

  “I guess a little. But I don’t think too many people saw. His pants were just too big. He’s losing weight, you know. Over twenty pounds, so far.”

  “Yeah, I thought so.” His face looked a little different, last time I saw him, especially around the eyes.

  The final boarding call for Rita’s flight is announced. “I’ll call you,” she says, walking toward the Jetway. “All the time.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m glad I came.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m wearing my new shirt tomorrow,” she calls. “You wear yours.”

  “Okay.” We’d bought matching blue flannel shirts. An old tradition: each time one of us visits the other, we buy something alike. I wonder what we’ll buy in our eighties. I can see us standing together in some department-store aisle, holding up flannel nighties for each other’s shaky inspection. Probably asking each other if the gowns make us look fat.

  I watch at the window as Rita’s plane takes off. It heads in one direction for a while, then reverses itself as though it has just changed its mind.

  21

  LATE SATURDAY MORNING, I AM IN THE BASEMENT CUTTING out pieces of fabric for a quilt I’m making for Travis. It’s a simple nine-patch, but I’m making it with the softest flannel I could find, in muted, masculine colors. It’s going to be beautiful. The phone rings and I ignore it. Then I hear Travis calling, saying it’s for me. “Can you take a message?” I call back.

  A moment. And then he comes downstairs to say, “It’s Martha Stewart.”

  I stare at him blankly, the scissors in my hand.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I . . . Yes!”

  “She’s the one everybody makes fun of.”

  “Shhh!”

  “She can’t hear me!”

  I go upstairs into the kitchen, and then it comes to me who’s really calling.

  “Hi, Rita.” I say. “Very funny.”

  “Pardon?” an unfamiliar voice says.

  “Oh! Sorry, I thought . . . This is Samantha Morrow.”

  “Yes, I know. I called you. This is Martha Stewart.”

  “Well, I . . . I . . .”

  “I had a message saying that we went to high school together, and you needed to talk to me?”

  “Oh, no, I just . . . I was . . . Well, it was a bad day, you know, and I just wanted to talk to you. I don’t know why. I’m sorry. We didn’t go to high school together.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  Travis, who has been standing beside me, whispers loudly, “Is it her?”

  I nod, motion for him to go away. He doesn’t.

  “So what can I do for you, Samantha?”

  “Oh, it’s . . . ‘Sam.’ ”

  “All right. Sam, then.”

  I look at Travis, who looks pointedly away, then turn my back to him. “Well, Martha, I just . . . I actually wanted to ask you some questions about . . .” I clear my throat. “Can you hold on for one second, please?” I turn to Travis, and in a dangerous whisper say, “Go up to your room for a while. Now.”

  He frowns, runs upstairs, and I hear his door slam.

  “Sorry,” I say. And then, “You know, Martha, I just want to say that it’s so nice of you to call. I’ve had this fantasy . . . I wanted to ask you some things about divorce. I—”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  “Me? Oh no, I’m nothing.”

  “You’re nothing?”

  “Well, I mean, I’m . . . I just wanted to ask you if you . . . kind of . . . fell apart after your divorce, Martha. That’s what I wanted to ask you. I thought if even you did, I could—”

  “I don’t think that’s something I’d like to discuss.”

  “Oh, I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Is that all you wanted?”

  “Yes. Although, as long as I have you on the phone . . . I’m making a quilt, out of flannel? For my son? The one who answered the phone? And I was wondering about the backing, whether to use gray flannel or red.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Gray. Red trim. What pattern are you using?”

  “A nine-patch.”

  “Good. Make sure you use a little yellow right next to the gray.”

  “Yes, I have some in there. A yellow plaid.”

  “And on the back, put one square on the lower right-hand corner.”

  “Oh, what a good idea! I will! Thank you.”

  “I’ve got to be off, now.”

  “Martha, before you go, I just want to tell you that I once met a man at a party, a psychiatrist, a very attractive man, who said that he wanted to marry you.”

  “I see.”

  “Really, he was very attractive.”

  “Well, thanks for telling me.”

  “Okay. Thank you!”

  “Samantha?”

  She said my name. “Yes?”

  “I didn’t fall apart. I spent one evening with Bernstein’s Kaddish and a bottle of ’eighty-six Montrachet. And then I got busy. Try it.”

  A click. I sit at the kitchen table, think who this might really have been. But it sounded like her.

  Travis comes back downstairs, sits with me at the table.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” I say.

  “No!”

  “Just a little?”

  “Well, God, Mom, it was Martha Stewart! She’s practically a celebrity!”

  “Don’t say ‘God,’ Travis.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Well, gee, it was—”

  “And she is a celebrity.”

  “Not really, ’cause everybody hates her.”

  “Not everyone. And anyway, we don’t really know who it was.” I head back down to the basement. Gray backing. One patch, lower right-hand side. Joke or not, something is occurring to me. You live your life, and you get to ask for things, and sometimes they are given to you.

  JUST BEFORE BED, the phone rings. After I say hello, I hear my mother shrieking, “Martha Stewart called you?” Travis. I wonder who else he told. David? I hope he told David.

  “It was probably a joke.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it was a joke. I hear she doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “Ma. I don’t t
hink it was really her.”

  “Oh. Who would it be, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I think it was her. And it only goes to show you.”

  “Fine. Right.”

  22

  THOMAS LIFTS LYDIA’S VEIL ALMOST EXACTLY AS I HAD imagined it, then kisses her with great tenderness. My eyes well up in a mix of longing and despair, my usual reaction to weddings, only worse. I reach down for my purse so that I can get some Kleenex, and notice Travis drawing on his hand. A game of ticktacktoe, apparently. I put my hand over his, shake my head no. He sighs, looks at me wide-eyed. I can nearly hear what he’s thinking: It’s so boring! Just let me draw! Why can’t I just draw! I stare back, stone-faced, until he puts the pen back in his suit pocket. For the first time, I wish he were with his father. But this is my weekend. David is away. He gave me a New York City number—for emergencies. Museums, I imagine, the two of them walking hand in hand. Dinners, plays. A nice hotel room, a view of the park.

  Travis doesn’t perk up much at the reception, either, even when he dances with Marie. I finally give up, say my good-byes, and march Travis out to the car. Snow is falling lazily, fat flakes that look like cut-up pieces of lace.

  For a long while, we say nothing. The wiper blades squeak and flop, squeak and flop. Finally I say, “I’m very disappointed in the way you behaved, Travis. You like Lydia. And you like Thomas. This was their wedding! That’s a very important day. They deserved more from you.”

  He turns on the radio, and I turn it off.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

  “Oh, my God! Don’t you dare say that again! And I would appreciate the courtesy of a reply from you. I’m trying to talk to you.”

  “You’re yelling at me.”

  “I’m not yelling.”

  “Yes, you are. On the inside, you are.”

  Well. He has a point.

  “Oh, Travis, I just . . . Didn’t you find it . . . moving?”

  He says nothing.

  “Travis?”

  “What?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “You’ll just get mad if I tell you what I thought.”

  I stop at a light, look over at him. “Tell me.”

  “I thought it was dopey, okay? I mean, aren’t they embarrassed?”

  I smile. “Why should they be embarrassed?”

  “Because they’re like . . . old!”