“His name was Steve, and no, we’re not married anymore.” We divorced years ago; you knew this.
“You divorced him?”
“I did.”
“I’m obviously behind the times. What was the reason, if I may ask?”
“He found someone else.”
She looks me over. I can see she’s thinking he probably left due to my clogs. Or my hair. Or the fact that I didn’t wear the blue linen suit enough times.
Instead she says, “The same thing happened to my Tillie. Men today are just not fit for being husbands. Not like my Jerome, that’s for sure. In those days, you married a man, and even if things were hard sometimes, you stuck it out. You knew he would stand by you.”
“Yes,” I say.
“You’ll find someone else,” she says and pats my knee.
“Actually,” I say, brightly, “I have found someone else. I’m getting married this summer.” I hold out my left hand, where my new ring is sparkling on my finger.
“Huh! Sorry, but I thought that was just costume jewelry,” she says, peering at it. “See? You’ve learned a thing or two now, and no doubt you’ve picked someone who’ll make it work. Am I right?”
“I do believe so.”
My cell phone rings just then, and I take it out of my pocket. Tenaj.
I hold up a finger to Gabora, indicating that this is an important call. “Yes?” I say.
“Did you figure out what my message meant?” Tenaj says. “And did you stop whatever it is you were doing?”
“I’m at work,” I say. “I’m afraid I can’t really talk now.”
“Of course,” she says. “Call me when you have time.”
I click off and let out an involuntary sigh.
Gabora is staring at me with narrowed eyes. “So this is your life then? You have to travel around with authors and put your own life on hold. You poor, poor thing.” She leans forward and says in a low voice, “You know, I don’t really need you now, so if you want to go live your own life, that’s fine by me. They just want to make sure I don’t say things that are politically incorrect, and I am not having it. I’m going to say what I please. So, go home. I’m fine.”
“No, I like being with you,” I say. “I’m happy to be here with you on the tour.”
“No one would be happy about this. It’s Thanksgiving week, for God’s sake. You should be home with whatever family you have, that new fiancé, and we both know it.” She turns around to look at Adam. “What’s taking that boy so long? Oh, here he comes. A person could die here waiting for a chance to get into a room around this place. And look at that rain outside! How are we going to get to the reading without getting soaked?”
Adam lopes over to where we’re sitting. I try not to notice that he has sort of a sexy walk. “We’re all set,” he says and offers her his arm to help her get up, and after a moment of considering what the ramifications of accepting help would be, balanced by the realization that he is really quite charming and handsome, she simpers and takes his arm.
“I’m really not all that old,” she says. “And just so you know, you probably have time for a haircut and shave before the reading tonight.”
He lifts his eyebrows and smiles. “Why, Ms. Pierce-Anton, you’d be shocked to know that I just got a haircut last week. I’m afraid that this is as good as it gets with my problem hair.”
“It’s all . . . tousled,” she says. “Like you just got out of bed or something.”
“Well,” he says and winks, “I’ve been going through our old files and I came across some old pictures of you and your husband. Old Jerome looked like he had some hair tousling a time or two.”
To my surprise, she laughs. Then I take one of her bags, and he takes the other, and we make our way to the bank of elevators. Once we get her settled in her room, she tells us she plans to rest until it’s time to go to the reading. “You can come and get me then,” she says. “I’ll be ready at six. And make sure this hotel provides us some umbrellas. I’ve never seen such rain in my life!”
I frown. “Perhaps we should make sure you get some dinner first,” I say. “Do you want me to call room service for you, or would you like to meet downstairs for a bite before we get in the cab?”
“I’m perfectly capable of managing that on my own,” she says. “I don’t like to eat before a reading, as you very well know.” And then, as we’re leaving, I see that she’s opened her massive suitcase and has taken out her silver flask. Ah, yes. It all comes back to me now: Gabora’s famous liquid dinner.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” says Adam as soon as we get in the elevator. Two grandmotherly type ladies in flowered dresses scoot to the back to make room for us.
“After we put our stuff away,” he says, “do you want to grab a bite at the bar? I need to recover from being bossed around for the last five hours.”
“This is her on her good behavior,” I say. “Trust me, things are going to get worse.”
“So this is like the pre-apocalypse? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
He is leaning against the wall of the elevator, studying me.
“I’m just saying there are some disturbing signs.”
“She’s going to drink before the reading, isn’t she?”
“She will drink before the reading, yes. An amount that you probably wouldn’t think wise.”
He winks at me. “Ah, we’re so in for an adventure.”
“Did you actually just wink at me?”
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
The elevator door opens, and two businessmen get in. There’s some awkward sorting out we have to do with our bags because my backpack strap gets tangled with the wheel of Adam’s roller bag. It requires some adjusting, and my Nalgene water bottle falls out and rolls across the elevator floor. Adam stops it with his shoe and leans down to fetch it.
As he hands it back to me, he says, “So it looks like I’m the only one in this trio who didn’t bring a flask along.”
“This, I’ll have you know, is a water bottle.”
“So you say. I’m feeling quite outmaneuvered here, like maybe I should go shopping.”
I stare at the numbers. The elevator is stopping on every floor for some reason. The other passengers have stopped talking.
“Okay then,” he says. “Let’s get something to eat. Because I’m sensing that the end-of-the-world zombies really might show up. We have to be able to outrun them.”
“Excuse me, but zombies are slow. They’re dead.”
“What? Which zombies exactly are you referring to?”
“You know. The movie zombies. Night of the Living Dead. They get out of the graves and come at you very, very slowly. Also, I’m not hungry.”
“Nope, nope, nope. Today’s zombies are in a rush. They run in and start killing everyone right away. You’re going to need some serious calories to help you get away from them. Also, if I may say so, I think you’re going to need some serious calories just to handle the Gabora Apocalypse, especially if that flask is going to be involved.”
“Ssh,” I say and look nervously at the ladies. For all I know, they could be Gabora fans, here with their little granddaughters to attend the reading tonight. But they seem to take the whole conversation with equanimity; one smiles at me and gives a slight tilt of her head toward Adam, because he really is awfully cute and energetic. She seems like she’s congratulating me on landing such a catch. If only she knew.
The elevator door opens on our floor just as my phone rings. I glance down at it and see that it’s Judd. I let it go to voice mail.
“You know,” I say to Adam, once we’re in the hall in front of our rooms, “I think I’m just going to unpack and have a bit of rest. Maybe we can get a bite later or something.”
“That’s the fiancé, isn’t it?” he says. “On the phone.”
“Yeah. So I’m going to have to take this. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Sure, of course,” he say
s.
Once I’m in the hotel room, though, I’m restless. I try to call Judd back, but don’t reach him. It feels like the whole world is settling in for its turkey-making plans, except for me. I’m stuck here in a driving rain with an author who is right now guzzling her weight in whiskey. I want to be on my way to New Hampshire with Judd.
I stand and look out the hotel window. Below me, the highway traffic is backed up as far as the eye can see. People going home. Red brake lights snaking along through the pouring rain. The sky is black with clouds. I’m feeling luxuriously sorry for myself when my phone rings. It’s Judd, calling back.
He’s full of news. He got in about an hour ago, and he and Hendrix are going to hit the town tonight and check out who’s come home for the holiday already. Also, Maggie has called him and said she’d like to have his family over for a post-Thanksgiving dessert and begin planning the upcoming nuptials. She is completely set on a Cape Cod wedding in the summer. Already looking at hotel rooms to reserve for the overflow because we’d have to reserve those way in advance. Judd thinks that would be just fine. What do I think?
I close my eyes. They will all be there in our cozy dining room, with the damask tablecloth and the good silver and the candlesticks—and oh gosh, the gravy boat. I love when the gravy boat comes out for its annual venture to the table! There will be company and laughter. And Judd’s parents! I can’t imagine. They are really quite elderly by now, but they always seemed old and sweetly stunned that a son had landed in their lives when they were already past time for “that nonsense.” Santa Claus didn’t even know to come to their house. He’d probably given up on their ever having a child to bring presents for.
Judd always shrugged off their reticence: “They just weren’t into me. What are you gonna do?” But he spent a lot of time at my house just the same. Where people knew what kids were for.
“What do you think?” he’s saying. “Summer sound good to you?”
“Sure,” I say. “The summer sounds great. So are you going to be telling everybody that we’re getting married?”
“Well . . . yeah. I mean, I want to. That’s okay with you, isn’t it?”
“Sure. I just want to know what you’re going to tell everyone about why we’re getting married.”
“What do you mean? Nobody asks why anybody’s getting married.”
“Well, I think in our case, people might wonder why we just came up with this plan after all these years.”
He laughs. “Phronsie. What are you actually saying?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t make us sound like losers, okay? Like this was the best we could do. I don’t like being the consolation prize.”
“Phronsie, Phronsie. How often do we have to go over this? They are the losers! They probably all have their divorce attorneys on speed dial because love ran out on them long ago. Hendrix was telling me in the car that three guys from his work are having affairs. Three guys. Doesn’t that seem a bit much? It’s rampant, this discontent.”
“Okay . . . okay, I know,” I say.
“Chin up,” he says. “Believe me. We’re the wave of the future. After us, everybody is going to want to give up romantic comedies and just get married to the person they happen to get along with.”
My phone makes a little buzz; another call is coming in. I look down. Of course it’s Tenaj.
“I gotta go,” I tell him. “We’ll talk later. Tell everyone hello.”
When I click over, there’s my mother’s breathy voice. “Oh! I thought I was going to be sent right to voice mail prison,” she says. “But it’s the real you, isn’t it?”
“It’s the real me.”
“Can you talk for a minute?”
“Okay. But only a minute.”
“What are you doing? Where are you?”
“I’m in Charleston, South Carolina, in a hotel room, and I’m unpacking before I have to accompany an author to a reading tonight.”
“Wow,” she says. “This is more information than you’ve given me about anything in a long time.”
“Yeah, well, I’m throwing caution to the wind. Why are you calling me?”
“Why am I calling you? I wanted to tell you the most hilarious thing. I’ve joined a cabaret group, and I’m singing tonight in Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn! Brooklyn, New York?”
“Yes. Is there another Brooklyn? Seriously, I do go to the big city, you know. And I thought if you were around and were free . . . you might want to meet.”
“Well . . . I’m not there.”
There’s a long silence. I am on the Maggie Team now, I want to tell her. I am not going to fall for you anymore.
“Look,” she says, as if she could hear me. “If you’ll just let me tell you a couple of things. The first is that I’m into radical forgiveness. I realized the other day that you and I are so deeply connected that we can never lose each other. And that made me so happy. I know I let you down, but I miss you. And also, that message I got for you the other day—the one that says you’re making a big mistake—I hope that didn’t upset you, darling, but I felt I needed to tell you.”
“Tenaj.”
She takes a deep breath. “Let’s be in each other’s lives again. I’ve made mistakes, but, honey, I love you.”
“Listen,” I say. “I’m sorry, but . . . I can’t . . . just now. I only have an hour or so until I’ve got to be ready to go to a reading with this author I’m here with. And I need my head clear so I can do my job. I think I need to get off the phone and rest.”
She’s silent for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “No, this is good. You have to be you, my sweet.”
“So . . . well, good-bye,” I say.
“Just . . . hold on to magic, Phronsie. Remember our days together. Remember that you will always have me in your corner. For whatever that means to you. You came from the magic and the music, remember that. You are a love child of the universe.”
I click the phone off. Then for good measure, I throw it across the room.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The morning my father told me that I couldn’t go to college in New York, I didn’t do my usual thing with him—the thing where I made myself go numb. Instead, I decided to try to reason with him.
Being numb was the way I’d coped before, like when I was told, at age ten, that I couldn’t go see my mama anymore, or when Maggie was overpowering me with rules, or when my dad gave me the look like I was a big disappointment. When he’d take Hendrix with him into town but wouldn’t take me. When he said I didn’t do my chores quickly enough. When he dismissed my writing as something not even to be noticed. When he wouldn’t come to back-to-school nights. When he wouldn’t look at the school newspaper I edited, and supposedly “by mistake” used it to start the fire. When he said that I should try to be more practical. Take accounting classes instead of writing. When he said I was just like my mother.
That was the worst insult he thought he could hurl at me: being like my mother.
But I hated going numb. It was like flipping a switch somewhere in my brain, and at first it would feel good, all that nothingness, the silence filling up my head, blocking out the words and feelings. But then being numb became something I had no control over. It was hard to stop being numb.
There was something different this time, though. It was breakfast time, a Saturday, October of senior year, and I was making pancakes, and Hendrix was setting the table, and my father was hunched over at the table already, drinking his coffee and rustling the newspaper. He’d come in from mucking out the stalls, which was Hendrix’s job, but for some reason Hendrix hadn’t done it to his satisfaction, so there was already a current of tension in the house. Like a wire was sparking somewhere and no one quite knew where it was or what to do about it to keep it from setting the whole place ablaze.
I knew my dad was in one of his moods, and normally that would have been enough to make me keep quiet. But that morning, with him kind of mad at Hendrix—aka The Golden Child, the one w
ho helped out on the farm, the one who didn’t argue—I decided maybe I could say something that might make him feel a little bit proud of me. Maybe I could cheer him up, I thought.
So I said, “Hey, Dad. Guess what? Mrs. Spezziale told me that nobody else in the senior class has a perfect four point oh, and she thinks that I should apply to a university.”
Silly me.
There was a silence. I debated whether to tell him the rest, that Mrs. Spezziale and I had already filled out the application for NYU, and that every day we met in the guidance office and decided on which other schools I should apply to. I wanted to live in New York and be a famous writer. “Dream big,” she’d said. Those were the words written on a poster on the mint-green wall of her office. I had straight As and almost a perfect PSAT score, and I was scheduled to take the SATs in another two weeks. I was a guidance counselor’s dream, she told me. We sat at her desk in the back room and discussed the advantages of small versus big, fine arts programs versus general studies, New York versus California, like it could all really happen. My English teacher had said she’d write a recommendation letter for me that would “pop people’s eyes out.” I was a writer, she said. I would be great.
I had sat there so happy in that guidance office, dreaming big, and it never once occurred to me that this wasn’t in the cards. Everything seemed possible when I was talking with Mrs. Spezziale in her office with the posters. I was a different girl, the editor of the school paper, a creative writer, a success, when I was in that room. I was going to have a life hanging out with other writers, talking about our stories, going to readings. I wanted to live in a tiny walk-up in the Village and write all day and go to clubs at night. I had put up posters of the New York skyline in my bedroom, and I ached to walk through those streets, to get out of this stupid farm town.
My father rattled his newspaper and said in a quiet, low voice, “You’re not going to a university in New York.”
“But why not?” I said.
“Because you’re not, that’s why.”
“Is it the money? Because she thinks I could get a scholarship . . .”
The Magic of Found Objects Page 17
