Obviously he hadn’t faded completely. Her mother had noticed him.
So had her father. “Brondo? That doesn’t sound Jewish. Is he Jewish?”
Melissa sighed. “I have no idea.”
“Brondo,” her father pondered aloud. “Like that actor, what was his name? Marlon Brondo. He wasn’t Jewish.”
“Brando, not Brondo,” her mother corrected him. “Look, Jill got you that rugelach you love.”
“You’re a sweetheart. Thank you.” Jill’s father slung an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. Evidently he didn’t mind that she’d revealed the truth to Doug and Melissa. She tried to gauge his mood. On a cheerful scale of one to ten, he seemed somewhere between a four and a five. The prospect of a divorce apparently hadn’t crushed his spirit. Either that, or the rugelach had taken the edge off his despair.
At sixty-four, he was still a handsome man, his face lined but not pruny, his hair silver but not thin. Dressed in khakis and a polo shirt—a golfing outfit nearly identical to Doug’s—he looked fit and sturdy. If he was cheating on her mother, Jill would smash the plate of rugelach over his head.
“Those grapes look nice,” her mother commented, scrutinizing them as if searching for insects on their curved maroon surfaces. “Did you get them at Whole Foods?”
For God’s sake. She didn’t want to discuss where she shopped for grapes. “Everyone sit down,” she said. Someone had to take charge. As usual, Jill would wind up being that someone. “Get something to drink, sit and let’s talk.”
“There’s nothing to say,” her mother remarked stiffly. “You’ve already told everyone.”
Jill dropped onto the chair at the head of the table. She studied her mother, seated halfway down the table to her left. Like her father, who was seated halfway down the table to her right, her mother looked fine. Her hair needed work; smudges of gray marked her temples and streaked through the chin-length strands. She ought to color it like Melissa’s, which looked truly spectacular—not just its feathery cut, with a hint of bangs grazing her eyebrows, but its color. A blend of dark and light browns with glimmers of gold, it reminded Jill of the variegated hues in the golden oak sideboard standing against the wall behind her mother. Her mother’s hair was variegated, too, but its drab brown and gray reminded Jill more of a rotting log than varnished oak.
Her mother’s face sagged a bit and her figure had reached the elasticized-waistband stage. For the most part, though, she wasn’t aging badly. Her mood seemed more angry than sorrowful.
The room had grown silent. Everyone was seated and gazing expectantly at Jill—except Doug, who slouched in a chair next to his father and swirled a teaspoon through his coffee in a lazy circle.
“All right. As we all know, Mom told me she and Dad were getting a divorce.”
Melissa, who’d taken her place at the opposite end of the table, emitted a tiny sob-like sound. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe you’d do something like this.”
“What don’t you believe?” Jill’s mother asked. “Half of all marriages end in divorce, isn’t that the statistic?”
“Half of all marriages, maybe. Not my parents’ marriage,” Melissa argued.
“We’re not getting a divorce,” Jill’s father said, surprising her—and, if their stunned expressions were anything to go by, Melissa and Doug. They all gaped at their father, who helped himself to a slice of the honey-coated rugelach and took a bite.
Since he was chewing, Jill’s mother took over. “What he means is, for now all we’re doing is separating. I’ll be moving into my own place. Nobody’s talking to any lawyers at this point.”
“Your own place? What place? Where are you moving? Why is Dad getting the house?” The questions shot across the table in all directions, like bullets at Normandy.
Swallowing, her father held his hand up to silence everyone. A few crumbs stuck to his fingertips. “I’m getting the house,” he said, “because she’s the one who wants to do this. It’s her idea. She wants us to separate? Fine, she can move out. That rugelach is wonderful, Jill. Not as good as my mother’s, but . . .”
“Nothing is as good as your mother’s,” Jill’s mother muttered, which made Jill wonder whether her father had been unfavorably comparing her mother’s cooking to his mother’s for the past forty-two years. Could that be her reason for walking out on him?
“Where are you moving?” she asked her mother.
“I found a nice little apartment,” her mother said.
Her father rolled his eyes, as snide as Abbie on a hormonal day. “Nice,” he snorted. “What can you find for less than a million dollars that’s nice?”
“I don’t need a mansion,” Jill’s mother retorted. “I don’t need lots of space. It’s just going to be me.”
“Overlooking a highway.”
“It’s not a highway.”
“Not to be crass or anything,” Doug said as he tore a sprig of grapes from the platter, “but how are you going to afford this nice little apartment? You’re a one-income couple, and Dad’s probably thinking about retiring in the next few years or so—”
“I’m not ready to hang up the stethoscope yet,” Jill’s father said.
“Still, this isn’t the time to be squandering your money. You should be preparing for the future. You know how much Grandma Schwartz’s nursing home costs. What if one of you became incapacitated?”
Jill’s mother glanced at her husband. “He’s already diagnosing us with Alzheimer’s.” She turned back to Doug. “I’ll pay for the apartment out of my earnings. I have a job.”
“A job.” Jill’s father snorted, punctuating his words with more sarcastic eye-rolling. “You call that a job?”
“What job?” Melissa asked, her voice still tremulous with unshed tears.
“Did I mention I like your hair?” Jill’s mother said. “Very breezy. Very pretty.”
“Tell her about your job,” Jill’s father said.
Jill’s mother sat straighter. “I’ll be a clerk at a First-Rate. You know, the discount chain.”
“A clerk?” Doug was clearly appalled. “A clerk? You’re going to wear one of those ugly red bibs?”
“It’s more than a bib. It’s more on the order of an apron. You could call it a smock,” she said. “Or a pinafore. Like the Gilbert and Sullivan opera.”
“Mom.” Doug sounded indignant. “You’re an educated, cultured woman. A musician. You shouldn’t be running a cash register.”
“I won’t start on the register. That comes after I’ve been there a while,” she explained. “Lots of educated, cultured women are clerks. As for my music, it’s not as if anyone’s going to pay me to analyze the Goldberg Variations for them.”
“But a discount store clerk?” Melissa chimed in. “Couldn’t you be a secretary instead? It would be easier on you. You could sit at a desk.”
“I’ve been a secretary,” Jill’s mother reminded them. “When your father was in medical school I worked as a secretary. I don’t know if they still call that job secretary anymore. Administrative assistant.” She shrugged. “I don’t want to do that. It’s all about serving the interests of others, making everyone else look good. You knock yourself out and your boss gets all the credit. Forget that. Anyway, I’ll meet more people at First-Rate. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun?” Doug shook his head.
“I want to earn money,” she said. “I don’t want your father paying my rent. That would defeat the purpose.”
“What purpose?” Jill asked, lowering her voice in the hope of defusing the tension that churned the air. “The hell with the job, Mom. We want to know why you’re doing this.”
“Yes,” Jill’s father agreed, giving her mother a pointed look. “We’d all like to know that.”
She scowled at him. “You and I have discussed this, Richard. I’ve told you. It’s . . .” She considered her answer, then sighed. “It’s nothing in particular.”
Jill’s father gazed at his children, eyebrows raise
d and his hands spread palm up, as if to say, See? She’s nuts.
More silence. Shocked silence. Nothing in particular? “You can’t just end a marriage because of nothing in particular,” Jill said.
“It’s lots of things,” her mother explained, sounding less defensive than thoughtful. “Big things and little things. The remote, for example. He sits in front of the TV with the remote and channel-surfs. Every two seconds, this channel, that channel. Click, click, click. It drives me crazy.”
“Dad,” Melissa whined, “for God’s sake, can’t you stop channel-surfing?”
“I like to channel-surf,” he argued. “You never know, there could be something good on another channel. Anyway, she’s not watching the TV,” he added. “She’s usually reading. What does she care if I channel-surf?”
“You can’t read in another room?” Doug asked Jill’s mother.
“I like my recliner. I like to be comfortable. And he’s going click-click-click. I ask him to stop, but he won’t.”
“I work hard all day, saving lives. In the evening I’m entitled to channel-surf,” Jill’s father declared.
“Okay, so he channel-surfs,” Doug said. “Big fucking deal.”
“Doug,” Jill’s mother scolded.
Doug shrugged an apology. “You don’t break up a marriage over something that trivial.”
“To you it’s trivial. To me it’s a thing that drives me crazy.”
“So you’re going to wear a red smock and work for minimum wage at First-Rate?” Doug faked a contemplative expression. “I think it has driven you crazy.”
Jill’s mother refused to back down in the face of his derision. Though Jill opposed the divorce—correction: the separation—she was proud of her mother for standing her ground.
“It’s not just the channel-surfing. That was one example.” She folded her hands on the table in front of her. Her nails were short and unpolished, giving her fingers a stubby appearance. If she intended to venture out into the world as a single woman, she ought to get a manicure.
Oh, God. A single woman. Would she be dating? Dating men who weren’t Jill’s father? Where would she meet these men? She wasn’t a bar type. She often lectured Abbie about all the sleazeballs lurking on the internet, so Jill couldn’t imagine her trusting an on-line dating service. And who was she going to meet as a clerk at First-Rate? Sprightly geezers who resented their wives for sending them out on stupid errands to stock up on paper towels or mouthwash when they’d rather be home channel-surfing?
“There’s his beard,” her mother said.
“What beard?” Melissa asked as she, Doug and Jill shifted their gazes to their clean-shaven father.
“He shaves every morning and leaves beard hairs in the sink. Why he can’t rinse them down the drain, I don’t know. I’ve asked him a million times but he leaves this mess for me every morning.”
“Oh, yes, a huge mess,” Jill’s father snapped. “A massive mess. Hours to clean up.” He shook his head. “I’m rushing to get out every morning—unlike some people, I’ve got to get to work by a certain time. I’ve got patients waiting for me, people whose lives I’m trying to save. And I’m supposed to take the time to scrub the sink before I leave. It’s not like you’ve got so much else to do that you can’t wash a few little hairs down the sink.”
“I’ve been scrubbing the sink since the day we got married,” she shot back. “Forty-two years, Richard, and have you ever once said, ‘Thank you for scrubbing the sink’? I’m tired of cleaning up after you. It would take you two seconds to rinse your beard hairs out of the basin, but you won’t do it. Even though I’ve asked. Even though it would make me happy.”
“I do plenty to make you happy!” Jill’s father roared.
“You do things you think would make me happy. You buy me earrings. Earrings are nice, I like earrings fine. But what would really make me happy is if you’d clean the sink after yourself. I’ve told you this and you just ignore me.”
Jill closed her eyes and reconsidered her decision not to serve liquor. She could use a drink right now. Diet Coke with rum. Rum with a splash of Diet Coke. Rum, hold the Diet Coke.
Listening to her parents bicker about something so petty yet so intimate made her feel like a voyeur. She eyed her mother’s hands again and wondered if her short nails and the dry white skin of her cuticles reflected all the years she’d spent scrubbing sinks. Jill also tried to remember whether as a child she’d ever thanked her mother for scrubbing the sinks. Or whether anyone in her own family ever thanked her. Gordon left beard hairs in the master bathroom sink all the time, and she always washed them down the drain. She had never thought about that before now. Maybe you had to scrub sinks for forty-two years before it drove you over the edge. Jill had twenty-six years of sink-scrubbing to go before she snapped.
“It’s more than just beard hairs and the remote,” her mother continued.
“It’s the bed,” her father muttered.
Melissa clapped her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear this,” she moaned. “La, la, la, la—”
“The mattress, Melissa,” her mother cut her off. “He wants to rotate the mattress.”
Doug frowned. “You’re supposed to flip the mattress every year or so.”
“Flip it, sure. But we got that pillow-top mattress a few years ago—”
“Almost ten years ago,” her father interrupted. “And it’s never been rotated.”
“Because you’re not supposed to flip it. The pillow-top has to stay on top. So he says he wants to rotate it to even out the wear and tear. His side is getting wear and tear. My side isn’t. He weighs forty pounds more than me.”
“I’m a perfect weight for my height,” Jill’s father pointed out.
“I didn’t say you were fat. I said you weigh forty pounds more than me, which you do. So we’re supposed to rotate this mattress and I get stuck with the worn-out side. My side isn’t worn out. Why should I have to sleep on the side you wore out?”
“Can we move on?” Melissa begged, her hands still clamped to her ears. “Enough with the bed. La, la, la, la . . .”
“All right. Just wait until you’ve been married for forty-two years to someone who weighs forty pounds more than you and he wants to rotate the mattress. That’s all.” Jill’s mother circled the table with her gaze. “I’ve never lived alone in my life. I grew up, I went to college, I met your father. We graduated in May and got married in June. Then we had children. And now, here we still are, side by side, rubbing up against each other all the time. I’ve never been alone in my life.”
“You want to be alone?” Jill’s father asked. “I could leave you alone. Melissa, darling, how much fun is it living alone?”
Melissa shifted in her seat. “I’ve been living alone for years, Dad. And sometimes I love it.” She shifted again, eyeing their mother. “Sometimes it’s lonely,” she warned.
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take. We all have our dreams, right? Well, this is my dream: to do something without first thinking how it’s going to affect someone else. To decide what I want for dinner without thinking, ‘Richard doesn’t like having chicken two nights in a row, so I’d better make lamb chops.’ To go to a movie without thinking, ‘Richard hates subtitles so we can’t see that foreign film.’ To not have to check everyone else’s schedule first. To not have to worry that what I want interferes with what someone else wants.”
“That sounds kind of selfish,” Doug observed.
“Yes. It’s selfish. That’s my dream. For once in my life, I want to be selfish. I want to put myself first.”
“You’re still going to have to scrub the sink,” Jill reminded her. “I assume this apartment you’re moving into has a sink.”
“But I’ll be cleaning up my own messes,” her mother explained. “No one else has ever cleaned up after me. I always clean up after everyone else. It used to be all of you I cleaned up after. Now it’s just him—” she gestured across the table at her husband “—but
I’m still cleaning up other people’s messes. No one has ever cleaned my mess out of the sink. Not that I shave, but I spit out toothpaste. And I clean up my spit toothpaste. I’m already cleaning up after myself, so I’ll keep doing that. But no longer will I have to think, ‘I clean up after everyone else and no one cleans up after me.’”
More silence.
Jill avoided her siblings’ faces. She wondered if they were all stewing in guilt the way she was. They should be. They had more reason to feel guilty than she did. She’d cleaned the sink in their shared bathroom when they’d been growing up. Doug couldn’t, of course, because as the oldest he’d always had the most homework. When she’d been in sixth grade and he’d been in eighth, he’d complained that eighth graders had tons more homework than sixth graders so she should clean the bathroom. Once she’d reached eighth grade and had just as much homework as he’d had in that grade, he’d been in tenth grade and still had more homework.
And Melissa had never cleaned the bathroom because she’d been a spoiled little princess.
Jill shouldn’t feel so damned guilty. But she did. She couldn’t recall ever thanking her mother for all the other things she’d done. Mothers were taken for granted. Jill knew that better than anyone else at the table—except, of course, for her mother.
“So, look,” she said quietly. “You’ll live in the apartment for a while, and you’ve always got the option of moving back home. As you said, you and Dad aren’t talking to lawyers. So you’ll live by yourself and clean up your own messes and go to foreign films.”
“You could go to foreign films without moving into an apartment,” Doug noted. “You could go during the day while he’s at work.”
“That’s not the point,” Jill argued. “The point is, she’s tired of the fact that Dad never says, ‘Okay, if you want to see that new French film, we’ll go see it.’”
“Why should he, if he doesn’t like subtitles?”
Goodbye To All That Page 6
