The Spinster Sisters

by Ballis, Stacey

  I wave them good-bye at the door and head back into the parlor. The aunts are talking animatedly. I flop on the floor near Aunt Shirley’s chair and put my head in her lap. She scratches my scalp like she used to do to help me sleep.

  “What a lot of excitement!” she says. Then she pinches my ear.

  “Ow! What was that for?” I ask, rubbing the wound.

  “I can’t believe you kept it a secret from us!” she says. “Such a big thing, and you’re supposed to keep us informed.”

  “Oh Lord, Shirley,” Ruth says. “You can’t keep a secret to save your life. You’d have flubbed it in front of Jill within twelve hours.”

  Shirley hits her in the arm with a throw pillow. I laugh. She hits me on the head with it.

  “Hey, I didn’t say anything!” I say.

  “I could hear you thinking,” she says.

  “So how do you feel about all this, Jodala? I’m sure you have some opinions,” Ruth asks me. I sit up and hug my knees.

  “I’m thrilled, of course,” I say. “I love Hunter, he’s the perfect guy for Jill, and I know they want all the same things. I think he’ll be a wonderful husband and father and brother, and I know he’ll make Jill very happy.”

  “But . . .” Ruth prods.

  “But, nothing,” I say. I do have a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I’m not ready to put it into words yet.

  “Oh, Ruthie, leave the child alone. Her sister just got engaged fifteen minutes ago. Give her a chance to feel her feelings before having to articulate them for your amusement, really,” Aunt Shirley upbraids her.

  “I don’t mean to push, darling, I just know when your eyes go that particular shade of midnight blue that you are thinking serious thoughts.” Ruth backs off, knowing full well that when I’m ready, I’ll talk about it.

  “Well, I don’t know about the two of you, but all this excitement is making me hungry. Who wants pizza?” Aunt Shirley, for a gourmet, always knows when greasy comfort takeout is in order.

  “Stuffed. With sausage,” Ruth says in her clipped, definitive manner, making a decision as opposed to offering an option.

  “That will do admirably,” Aunt Shirley says, getting up to clear the cocktail glasses.

  “I’ll order from Bacino’s and go pick it up,” I say. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  I kiss them both and head up to my apartment. I order the pizza, then go to my library and sit on the low, wide chaise. Jill’s getting married. To a perfect guy and for all the right reasons. Which only leaves one question. How can we be the Spinster Sisters if one of us isn’t a spinster? And if we aren’t the Spinster Sisters, what the hell happens to our business?

  In the business of helping people to help themselves, you have to practice what you preach; you have to live the advice you give. Our whole corporation is based on the “do as we do” philosophy. What single woman in her right mind is going to listen to a married woman tell her to enjoy being single?

  And for all Jill’s glib bravery when it comes to this current rash of anti-Spinster sentiment, I worry even more for the PR mess it is going to create.

  My phone rings. “Hello?”

  “Hey Boss Lady Number One.” It’s Paige.

  “Hey, Paige.”

  “I hear Boss Lady Number Two just got affianced.” Paige has become an adopted little sister to us since she joined the company four years ago.

  “Word travels fast. Who called you?”

  “Jill did. She wanted to see if I could cover the marketing meeting in the morning, since apparently Hunter got them a suite at the Peninsula, and they want to sleep in.”

  “It’s been pretty exciting for a Thursday. You okay on that meeting? Want me in on it?”

  “I’ve got it. Come if you want, but don’t shift anything for it. It’s just an update on the new branding survey anyway. If anything exciting happens, I can brief you guys later.”

  “You’re the best,” I say. Which she is.

  “I learned from the best,” she says. Can’t argue with that logic.

  “Okay, Paige, anything else exciting?”

  “Nope. Actually a slow day. Well, Benna has some new guy she’s all jazzed about, but that doesn’t really count.”

  Benna is our office manager and receptionist, and for a smart, organized girl, she is always embroiled in boy trouble.

  “Great. I should be in around eight or so. Let’s try and have lunch, and you can fill me in on the marketing stuff then.”

  “Cool. I’ll have Benna make a late reservation. Jill said she should be in by one; we can take her to celebrate.”

  “Let’s have Benna join us. She’ll only make us repeat everything when we get back to the office. We can cut out the middle-man if we bring her with.”

  “Good idea. Where should we go?” Paige asks.

  “Let’s go to Naniwa. Jill’s been on a sushi kick lately. And Paige, tell Kim she should start thinking about how we present the news to the public.”

  “Done. I’ll see you tomorrow. And congrats, sister of the bride!”

  “Thanks, Paige. See you in the morning, colleague of the bride.”

  Paige laughs. “Bye.”

  Sister of the bride. That one is going to take a minute to sink in. When I got married, Jill was great, even though she didn’t really approve. But she supported me a thousand percent, and whatever my concerns about the effect of this marriage on the business, I have to be sure I support her with the same enthusiasm.

  I grab my coat and head out to pick up ten pounds of cheesysausagey goodness. Tomorrow I’ll think about Jill and the future of our family and our business; tonight there is pizza.

  Guess Who’s Coming to Visit?

  It isn’t impossible to remain friends with an ex. But it can also be unhealthy, so it is important to look closely at how the relationship ended when determining if you are a candidate for staying friends, particularly if the relationship was your first serious one. Was the desire to break up mutual, or did one of you fight to stay together? Did one of you do something particularly hurtful like lying, cheating, or being abusive? Were you friends first, or did the relationship begin as a romantic one? Who are the other stakeholders in the relationship: friends, family, children? If the relationship simply ran its natural course, and no one broke trust, you can retain a comfortable friendship, provided both parties agree to be conscientious about appropriate communication and interaction.

  —From Living Twenty-five by Jill and Jodi Spingold

  The first week of Jill’s engagement passes in a flurry of activity and excitement. Bouquets of flowers and engagement gifts pour into the office on a regular basis. Over half of the phone calls that come through the main line are friends offering words of congratulations. Jill, much to her credit, seems to be keeping a level head about the whole thing. She accepts everybody’s words and offerings with grace and dignity and does not at this point seem to be getting too caught up in bride mania.

  I’ve done my best to show outward signs of excitement, belying the little feeling in the pit of my stomach that signifies uncertainty and distress. I’m trying very hard not to worry about the big issues: the future of the business, how it will impact our relationship. We will be meeting in the next week with our publicist to figure out the best way to spin it, and so far, it hasn’t leaked into the press. I’ve quietly told everyone to keep as much of the negative stuff as possible out of Jill’s path. If someone major covers it, we won’t be able to protect her, but I’m damned if I’m going to let her see every snarky e-mail that comes in.

  So in spite of the engagement, the week flows pretty smoothly. Work gets done, meetings are held, and all in all, everything is good. Tonight, Jill and Hunter are going to the airport to pick up his parents and brother and then they are having a quiet meal together. We’ll all be celebrating tomorrow night, the families meeting for the first time.

  I had offers from Abbot and Ben for this evening but turned them both down. I had dinner with Abbot o
n Tuesday as promised, a lovely, quiet evening. He seemed very excited about Jill’s engagement, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he thought that perhaps being around wedding plans might make me more inclined to take our relationship seriously. Not likely. After marrying someone I never should have married, I’m not exactly eager to get terribly serious about anyone right now. As much as I like Abbot, I’m still awfully self-protective of my heart, and it is going to take a very special man to make me consider matrimony again.

  Ben took me out on Wednesday night. We went to an event at Translucent Chocolates in the South Loop, sort of an art opening slash cocktail party. It was a fine evening, lots of laughter; I love how uncomplicated and easy it is with him. A semiperfect pair, my current suitors. Abbot makes me feel so taken care of, and Ben makes me feel young and alive. Abbot pampers me, and Ben tickles my funny bone. Abbot makes love to me with all the skill of an experienced and attentive partner, and Ben and I romp like a couple of puppies in a basket, with utter abandon.

  Of course, neither of them is ideal in any sort of important way. Abbot is too set in his ways; he likes what he wants and isn’t often inclined to compromise. Fine for our current situation; we plan our time together around the things we both enjoy, and all goes well. But I can tell that we would be incompatible room-mates. His meticulousness would make me crazy. The man wipes the water droplets out of the sink after washing dishes and squeegees his shower door after every shower—even if he has a naked woman trying to get him to come to bed.

  I met Ben a few weeks ago. I got a flat tire at the gym, and by the time AAA got there, Ben had changed the tire and acquired my phone number. I’ve never dated a younger man before, and while I enjoy his company tremendously, I still admit to some embarrassment about the six-year age difference. I know it shouldn’t matter, but I can’t help how self-conscious I am when we are in public, especially since he is so affectionate. And tall. I was always a sucker for a tall guy, and Ben Kohn is the tallest guy I have ever dated. A full six feet three and three-quarters inches. Yum. With that lean biker’s body that just makes me feel like the Pillsbury Dough Girl, even though he does nothing but praise my curves. He’s very creative, which sparks my own artistic tendencies, and he is encouraging of everything I do without reserve. But he won’t argue with me, not even to debate an issue of the day. And I need that back and forth to keep my intellect feeling honed. He isn’t at all interested in any of the more elegant or luxurious or sophisticated things in life, and there seems to be a slight air of disapproval when I express a desire to indulge. But he does make me feel powerful and beautiful and strong, and his deeply held belief that I can do whatever I set my mind to and achieve excellence has a tendency to keep my spine straighter these days.

  Unfortunately, the physical chemistry isn’t quite there for me. I slept with him a couple of times when we first met, but while he is a fantastic kisser, the sex wasn’t really amazing. And since this coincided with Abbot stepping up his courting of me, I told Ben we needed to slow down and back away from the physical intimacy. We’ll kiss a bit at the end of an evening; we’ve even spent a couple of nights together, just cuddling. And he is very sweet about not pressuring me for more. In some ways, I think the fact that I’m not sleeping with him is making him pursue me even more doggedly.

  But for whatever reason, neither Abbot’s sophistication and intelligence nor Ben’s infectious energy seemed the right Friday night entertainment this week. Lucky for me, Paige had been available, and we made plans that involved Thai food and a showing of the documentary March of the Penguins, which I had never seen.

  “Some more stuff came in today about the wedding,” Paige says, handing me a folder.

  “How bad?” I ask, riffling through a small stack of papers, mostly e-mails and letters.

  “No death threats today, but we are starting to get some of the communication the PR people were worried about. Not the people who always hated us, but women who are feeling betrayed by the marriage.”

  My eye falls on the top page of the packet.

  I read your books and heard you speak and turned down the only marriage proposal I ever got in my life. So now I live alone, and I was feeling pretty righteous about it, even though I have been very lonely, because I believed that I was being strong. I’m sure you and your new husband will be very happy, but I have to say I feel like you have slapped me in the face. Slapped all women in the face who trusted you that living single was the way to go. You won’t have to live alone, but what about the rest of us? How can you still go on the air week after week and tell us to be strong and independent while all the while you’re planning your wedding? How dare you? I hope you are ashamed.

  “Oh boy. That’s not good,” I say. “Are they all like this one?”

  “Not all. Some are just mean-spirited. Some are calling you guys frauds and saying that you just did it for the money. But they are coming in at a rate that makes me think actual press isn’t far behind.”

  “Let’s have another meeting with the PR people, see what we need to do. Maybe we need to plant a couple of features with the journalists that like us to be proactive.”

  “Should I get Jill in on this one?” Paige asks in a tone that implies she thinks yes.

  “Not yet.” I shake my head. “I don’t want her troubled by this. Let’s try to take care of it quietly. And keep this shit out of her box, okay? She doesn’t need to see it.”

  Paige shrugs. I know she disagrees with how I am handling this, but I’m not in the mood. Luckily, the buzzer rings, and I go downstairs to get the food.

  The two of us are curled up on my couch, full of cucumber salad and pad see eiw from Sai Mai, and about two-thirds of the way through the movie, when my buzzer rings.

  “I wonder who that could be?” I say.

  “You don’t suppose it’s one of your boys?” asks Paige.

  “They know better than to show up without calling first,” I say as I walk over to the intercom. “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s Brant.”

  Oh, good Lord. What is he doing here? “Hey, come on up.” I press the buzzer to let him in.

  Brant and I have had a reasonably amicable divorced life. Brant fought the divorce pretty vehemently at first, but once he realized I was determined, he was resolute about the whole thing. Since neither of us owned anything, including the apartment in which we were living, and since we didn’t have any children, we decided to do it ourselves and not use lawyers. It went very smoothly, without any fighting, which I believe saved the friendship. He kept the apartment, and I moved in with Jill. He kept the cats, which had been his anyway. I was never much of a cat person. We split the joint assets right down the middle and divvied up the material possessions fairly easily. And while we both gave each other plenty of space in our lives, we do still have a presence. That is undeniable. But he can be something of a schmuck, and the longer we are divorced, the less time I spend invested in maintaining the friendship. He simply hasn’t ever really grown up, and I’m less and less interested in hearing about computer crap and how angry the new Star Wars movies make him. He can be sweet, and he is always nice to me, so I’m hard-pressed to cut him out completely. However, he should know better than to arrive unexpectedly at ten P.M. on a Friday evening.

  I go to the door and open it, waiting to see him appear around the stair bend. But the first head I see isn’t Brant’s. Instead, I’m faced with a tiny woman with large breasts, long, straight, auburn hair, and cat’s-eye glasses. Two steps behind her is Brant, smiling at me.

  She reaches the landing. “Hi Jodi, I’m Mallory,” the redhead announces, thrusting a hand at me excitedly. Super.

  “We were on our way back from dinner and noticed the lights on,” says Brant. “Figured we’d stop by to say hello.” What a dumb idea that was.

  Mallory pushes past me into my apartment, while Brant greets me with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Wow,” says Mallory. “Some place you have here.”

  “Hey, Pa
ige,” says Brant, waving at her.

  Paige raises one arched eyebrow. “Hey, Brant.”

  Brant walks into the living room and sits on a chair. Mallory is looking longingly down my hallway.

  “It really is a beautiful apartment,” she says.

  I can’t fucking believe it. “Would you like a tour?” I ask her.

  Mallory is Brant’s new girlfriend. They’ve been dating approximately two months and, according to Brant, have not slept together yet. I don’t really relish being the recipient of Brant’s dating information. But he doesn’t have very many friends, and since my business has become a success, everybody focuses on how great it is for me to be single, so I sort of feel like I owe him one. After all, he’s become even less than a footnote in my public persona, which he’s taken in stride, and even though I make no attempt to hide the fact that I have been married, most people assume I’ve always been single.

  Apparently, Mallory used to work for a PR firm here in Chicago before going back to law school. She’s had some trouble passing the bar exam and is working as a paralegal for a large firm while studying to take her third stab at it. They met at a birthday party for a mutual friend, and Brant is very excited about the new relationship. So I feel like I have to be supportive. After all, just because he wasn’t the right guy for me doesn’t mean he should have to spend his life alone. Brant stays in the living room talking to Paige while I walk Mallory through my apartment.

  Usually I’m very proud of my place. I designed it myself, painstakingly picking out furniture and fixtures. Every compliment usually goes straight to my ego. But this time is different; every kind word that Mallory offers makes me uncomfortable. She comments about the size of the apartment, the expansiveness of the rooms, the quality of the furniture and the artwork, the details in the kitchen and the bathrooms. I can just see her comparing it to my old apartment where Brant still lives. A third the size, in a lesser neighborhood, with hand-me-down furniture, and bookshelves made of planks and cement blocks. Not that Brant couldn’t afford better. Computer network guys always manage to make a pretty decent living. Brant never cared about aesthetics the same way that I did. If he has a roof over his head that doesn’t leak, heat in the winter and air-conditioning units in the summer, and the couch doesn’t fall apart when he sits down, that is good enough for him. But five minutes with Mallory makes one thing patently clear. She is ambitious. And I can practically hear the running tally in her head as she fingers the cherry cabinets and stainless appliances in my kitchen. We return to the living room, where the movie is clearly paused on my flat-screen television. Paige makes pointed eye contact with me as Mallory kicks off her shoes and curls up in a corner of the couch. I guess we’re having a real visit.