Slightly Engaged

by Wendy Markham

  Yup. I know her. And in Kate Land, paying three figures each for a couple of glorified thongs is a good buy.

  In Tracey Land, a good buy is anything that leaves cash to spare for lunch and subway fare home.

  I am pawing my way through yet another clearance rack of tankinis in my price range when Kate mentions her plummeting blood sugar. She mentions this frantically, wide-eyed beneath her supposedly straggly brows, upon which I have, incidentally, spotted nary a straggly strand.

  Sagging against a rack, she says weakly, “Hurry…please…”

  Obviously, Kate has decided that it’s high time we hightail it to the sixth floor and join the Ladies Who Lunch at Bloomingdale’s.

  Feeling defiant, I hold up a spiffy red swimsuit and say, “Wait, let me just try this on first.”

  Kate tilts her blond head, slants her aquamarine eyes, and musters the strength to drawl, “Ah don’t know, Tracey…don’t you think you’d be better off with black?”

  “I look good in red,” I remind Kate. “Red is my lucky color. I was wearing a red dress when I met Jack, remember?”

  “But this isn’t a dress, it’s a bathing suit,” protests our little sugar Magnolia with the confident air of one who looks better in a string bikini than Gisele Bundchen does. “I thought you liked black bathing suits.”

  I did…when I was forty pounds overweight.

  Maybe I’ll never be a size zero, but I’ve graduated from somber bathing suits that have longer, fuller skirts than my first communion dress did.

  “I’m trying this on,” I tell Kate stubbornly.

  “But, Tracey, I’m starving.”

  “Have a Mento.” I thrust a roll into her hand and make a beeline for the nearest changing room.

  There, I discover that the red swimsuit would definitely look better in black. Or on Paris Hilton.

  I haven’t weighed myself since I quit smoking, but I’d venture to guess that I might have put on a few figure flaws that now require serious camo in the form of memory yarn.

  “You’re not getting the suit?” Kate asks hopefully when I emerge to find her lounging, in her hunger-weakened state, against a Plexiglas divider.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” She hurries to catch up with me as I stride toward the escalator.

  “Too baggy.”

  At the restaurant entrance, we wait for a table amidst a horde of other shoppers, all of whom belong to one of the following demographics: Upper East Side, European or screamingly gay.

  “I’m getting something with noodles,” Kate announces. “I’m craving white carbs like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Yeah, who isn’t? I would like nothing better than to sit down in front of a steaming plate of pasta. Penne à la vodka. Mmm.

  “What are you getting, Tracey?”

  “Salad,” I say curtly, reminding myself that even if I’ve gained a few pounds since I tossed my cigarettes, it’s well worth it. Pink, healthy lungs. That’s what it’s all about. Not pink vodka sauce.

  We’re seated, and I order my salad and diet soda after Kate orders her noodles with a side of potatoes and a Coke. Full sugar. She never drinks diet.

  “So how’s Jack?” she asks, somehow managing to break open and butter a roll with elegant grace.

  “Jack? He’s good.” I sip some lemon water and pretend it’s a buttered roll.

  “Listen, what are the odds you two will be getting engaged soon?”

  Hmm, let’s see. Either very high, or slim-to-none.

  I settle for, “It’s hard to say. Why?”

  “Because you always said you wanted a summer wedding. And I told you Billy and I are trying for a baby. I don’t want to look fat in my bridesmaid’s dress.”

  Okay, that is so Kate for the following reasons: I never said I wanted a summer wedding; I always said I wanted a fall wedding. I never invited her to be a bridesmaid in my future wedding, though of course she will be. And even when we’re talking about my wedding, it’s all about her.

  It takes me a moment to figure out what I want to say.

  It takes me another moment to keep myself from saying it and instead tell Kate politely, “When I get engaged, you’ll be one of the first to know. I promise.”

  “Well, do you think he really has the ring, like he said?” she presses.

  “I guess so. I mean…his mother wouldn’t lie. I’m sure he’s just waiting for the right moment.” Or right woman.

  “It would be great if you could prod him a little. I could be pregnant as we speak. I told you, I’m craving carbs and sugar.”

  “You always crave carbs and sugar. And you just tried on bikinis. I saw you. You definitely aren’t pregnant.”

  “I don’t know…we’re seriously trying now.”

  “Seriously trying? As opposed to what? Having casual sex while wearing clown noses and telling jokes?”

  “This isn’t funny, Tracey. I’m serious.”

  “I’m sorry. When was your last period?”

  “Election Day.”

  “Election Day?”

  “Definitely. I remember the day exactly because Billy was down at campaign headquarters until late and he was supposed to bring me Advil and tortilla chips when he came home and he forgot.”

  Damn those madcap Young Republicans. You just can’t count on them in a PMS emergency.

  “That was like two weeks ago, Kate. If you’re pregnant, you’re maybe a day or two into your first trimester.”

  “Exactly. And by the time I have the baby, you’ll be getting married.”

  Please, God.

  “What do you think is holding things up?” Kate wants to know.

  “Jack. Jack is holding things up.”

  “Well, duh. No kidding. I mean, why isn’t he giving you the ring? You’ve got a wedding to plan. You can’t wait around forever.”

  No, I can’t. I’ve got a wedding to plan. Except…

  “Most of it is already planned,” I confess. “I did a lot of it back in September, after his mother told me.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “Tell you…?”

  “That you were planning the wedding?”

  “Sorry. I must have forgotten.”

  “How could you forget? You can’t plan a wedding on your own.” Kate shakes her head with the air of a mother who’s just caught her six-year-old backing the car out of the driveway. “What’s the dress like?”

  “White, obviously, with a medium train and a scalloped neckline. And the veil is—”

  “Not your dress,” she cuts in. “The bridesmaid’s dress.”

  But of course. Silly me. How could I have forgotten that this was all about her?

  “It’s darling,” I say pointedly. “A navy blue velvet sheath, off the shoulder.”

  “Sheath? I can’t wear a sheath if I’m pregnant. And velvet? In June?”

  “Who said anything about June?”

  “You did, Tracey. You’ve always wanted a June wedding.”

  “I’ve always wanted an October wedding.”

  She frowns. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? Trust me, I’ve always wanted to get married in October.”

  Even when I thought I was going to marry Will, in which case October would have ultimately been the only bright spot in the whole occasion. That, and the pumpkin wedding cake with cream-cheese frosting, which I have also always wanted.

  “You must have changed your mind,” Kate declares, “because I remember you saying you always wanted to get married in June.”

  “That was you, Kate.”

  “I know, but it was you, too.”

  Okay. Uncle. I give up. Let her believe that she listens intently when I speak, and that I’ve forgotten what I’ve wanted all my life. Whatever.

  “Well, I am definitely getting married in October, not June,” I say evenly. “The third Saturday. At Shorewood Country Club, on the water.”

  “Where’s that? Greenwich? On the sound?”


  Ha. “No, Brookside.”

  Pause.

  “Brookside? So…the water is…what? A brook?”

  This might be fun if I weren’t feeling fat and cranky.

  “No,” I say, “it’s on Lake Erie.”

  “Lake Erie?” She wrinkles her nose as though she smells sewage—or middle class—thus, completing her metamorphosis into one of the Ladies Who Lunch—who are now, incidentally, lunching all around us.

  “Yes, Lake Erie. They’ve cleaned it up a lot the past few decades,” I say dryly. “And we’ll disguise the floating garbage with floral arrangements.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Is the deposit refundable?” Kate wants to know. “Because if it is, you might want to consider the place where Billy and I got married instead. Remember the gorgeous water view?”

  Of course I remember the view. I also remember that it was of the Gulf of Mexico.

  Maybe it’s superfluous to point out, “My family lives near Buffalo, Kate.”

  I guess it is, because she shrugs as if that’s a minor detail. “That doesn’t mean you have to get married up there. I mean…I bet it snows in October.”

  It sure does. May, too. Once, even in June.

  But never July. Not that I can recall.

  Mental note: rethink fall wedding.

  “Is the deposit refundable?” Kate asks again.

  “I didn’t put down a deposit.”

  “How could you reserve a country club without a deposit?”

  “I didn’t technically reserve it. I just decided that’s where the wedding should be.”

  She’s shaking her head as though some killjoy just told her the world is fresh out of white flour. “You can’t just decide, Tracey. You need to reserve.”

  “I will…as soon as Jack officially proposes.”

  “Yes, and by the time he gets around to that, they’ll tell you the next October Saturday is available in the year 2018. Hell, by the time he gets around to that it might be the year 2018.”

  Har de har har, happily married underweight carb queen.

  “Here.” She hands her cell phone across the table. “Call now.”

  “I can’t call now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…”

  Hello-o! Because I’m not engaged yet.

  But I don’t say that.

  I say, “Because I don’t know the number.”

  Which is true.

  Not engaged yet also true, but why complicate matters?

  Kate grabs the phone back, presses 411 and Send, and silently returns it to me.

  The next thing I know, I’m dialing Shorewood Country Club.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. I have no spine.

  But one can’t take chances with the venue confirmation of one’s wedding date even when one has yet to receive confirmation from the groom himself. Not unless one wants to risk holding her reception at the Most Precious Mother church hall, where bingo is conveniently held only on weeknights. Father Stefan and the gang are more than willing to push the folding tables apart and cover them with vinyl tablecloths for weekend weddings. I know, because I’ve been to a number of them, my sister’s included.

  Yes, and look how that turned out.

  After being on hold for a few moments, my call is answered by the banquet manager, Charles. From the tone of his hello, I can tell that he is not, nor has he ever been, nor will he ever be, Charlie.

  “I, um, wanted to see if the club was available for a wedding in October?”

  Are you asking him, Tracey, or telling him?

  Channeling Martha Stewart, I add crisply, “Specifically, I’m interested in the third Saturday, a sit-down dinner, for around three hundred.”

  “Next October?” he asks, and I hear him flipping the pages of his calendar.

  Encouraged that he isn’t laughing, or asking whether I mean October 2018, I confirm that I am indeed referring to next October.

  I don’t really say “indeed,” though.

  In fact, what I say is something along the lines of “Yup.”

  To which Charles Not Charlie responds, “Yes.”

  To which I respond, “I’m sorry, I meant yes.”

  I am thinking that Charles Not Charlie is even more pompous than I thought, yet he can absolutely get away with correcting my grammar because he’s the one with the calendar and thus complete control over my future happiness.

  Silence.

  Then, “Pardon me?”

  That doesn’t come from me.

  But the subsequent blank-sounding “Huh?” does.

  If you’re noting that Charles and I are clearly not hitting it off conversationally, you are infinitely more perceptive than Kate, who is impatiently hissing, “So is it available or not?”

  I gesture to her that I have no idea, but alas, she has swiftly lost interest because our waiter approacheth bearing glad tidings of great noodles. And potatoes. And a wee salad on a serving plate the size of a teacup saucer.

  That’s my entrée. I’m serious, it’s like three lettuce leaves—the dark green, ruffly, limp lettuce that’s all fancy pretty but has no satisfying crunch—and two halves, no wait, three halves, of a grape tomato. Which, if you’ve been following your produce trends as I have, you know is much smaller than a cherry tomato.

  Three grape-tomato halves.

  Again with the tomato dearth.

  This bugs the hell out of me, especially now that I’ve quit smoking and many things bug the hell out of me that were previously just semi-annoying.

  Come on. Three grape-tomato halves? Why even bother?

  And what did they do with the fourth half? Did some hapless chef drop it on the floor?

  Or maybe the rule in this restaurant kitchen is a one-and-a-half-grape-tomato allotment per customer. No more, no less.

  Maybe gluttons who want more have to know enough to ask for a side order of grape tomato. I bet the Ladies Who Lunch know to do that.

  Not that any of them look like they’d splurge on a side order of grape tomato.

  No, the Ladies Who Lunch look as though they’d nibble half a grape tomato after a grueling day of trying on size zero couture, declare themselves stuffed and push the plate away veeeery carefully so as not to snap their bony wrists.

  Me, I sigh inwardly and covet my neighbor’s plate.

  Damn, Kate’s pasta looks good. But then, so does she.

  Would I rather look good, or eat pasta? Because unlike Kate, I can’t do both. Most humans can’t.

  I’d rather eat pasta. Definitely. Looks fade. Pasta stays with you. At least until dinner, which Jack and I aren’t having until late tonight.

  So it’s settled. I’m going to order penne with pink vodka sauce as soon as I get off the damn phone.

  Turning my attention back to Charles, who is ominously silent and has perhaps even hung up and moved on to better brides, I say, “I’m sorry, I guess I’m confused. Should we start again? I was interested in finding out whether the third Saturday in October is available for—”

  Charles, whose thing is obviously grammar and not etiquette, interrupts, “It is.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s available for a wedding with a sit-down dinner for three hundred?” I ask, just to be clear.

  “Yes,” he repeats, and now I get it. When he said yes to my yup, he wasn’t correcting my grammar, he was…

  Oh, never mind. The important thing is that it’s available!

  “It’s available!” I tell Kate.

  Rapidly twirling pasta around her fork while still chewing her last mouthful, she smiles and nods as though she knew it all along.

  “I’d like to book it, then, please,” I tell Charles, grateful that for once, things have fallen smoothly into place for me.

  “All right…” More pages turning. “Why don’t you come in sometime next week and—”

  “Oh, I can’t,” I interrupt, though etique
tte is usually my thing. “I’m in New York. Can I just book it over the phone?”

  Is book it not the right phrase? I wonder belatedly, noting that Charles sounds almost snide when he responds, “I usually reserve weddings in person.”

  “Um, is it possible to reserve it over the phone, though? I’ll put down my deposit on a credit card,” I add to expedite the conversation because I know that’s what’s coming next and because I’m getting really hungry for that farfelle.

  “It’s possible,” Charles replies in a tone that reminds me that it is also possible—nay, preferable—to ride a scooter through downtown Baghdad in a tutu singing “I Feel Pretty.”

  “How much would the deposit be?” I remember to ask because I am ever the efficient future-bride-to-be.

  Charles responds with a few more questions before informing me that the deposit would be…

  Insert pinkie finger…

  One million dollars.

  Okay, not really.

  But it might as well be, because I don’t have the kind of money he’s asking for—not even in the Total Available Credit box on my monthly Visa statement.

  I look up at Kate, who does, and briefly consider asking her for a loan. But that might give her the inalienable right to have a say in everything from bridesmaid’s dress to dessert menu.

  Might?

  She thinks she has a say as it is. No way am I going to hand it to her on a pasta platter.

  “How long can you hold it without a deposit?” I ask Charles.

  Not long. Not long a’tall.

  Sayonara, Chuck.

  Farewell, third Saturday in October.

  I hang up and pass the phone back across the table to Kate.

  Oh, hello there, little sad and skimpy green salad.

  I look around for the waiter, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you going to finish your pasta?” I ask Kate, who has moved on to her potatoes.

  She nods, mouth full.

  Damn. “Well, can I have a taste?”

  She finishes chewing.

  Asks, “Do you think you should?”

  Do I think I should? What the hell kind of question is that?

  “Yes, I really do,” I tell her, wishing the waiter would hurry back from the men’s room or Brooklyn or wherever the hell he went off to so that I can order my own pasta and stop begging for Kate’s. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked.”