“Hey, Jodi.”
“Yeah?”
“What are we having for breakfast?”
This makes us both giggle, and soon, sleep.
“Hey,” Connor says, answering the phone. “How was the weekend?”
“Okay,” I say, stalling for time. “How about yours?”
“Pretty boring, mostly doing the quarterly taxes for the business. Whassup?”
“Nothing, I, um . . .” Shit. I fucking hate this. “I just have to cancel our date for tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” That’s it?
“Yeah, okay. No problem.”
He sure is making this easy. “Well, I’m glad it doesn’t inconvenience you.”
“Not at all.”
“Don’t you care?” I ask.
“Hey, I’m sure something came up. It isn’t the end of the world, right?”
“Fine.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Are you mad about something?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
“Don’t pull that shit, Jodi. Talk to me. I hate that passive-aggressive crap. What, is it in the genetic code? It’s fucking manipulative.”
“There is no reason to yell, Connor.”
“Well, there is no reason to not acknowledge your feelings. If you’re mad about something, just tell me.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up now. If you want to call me back and tell me what you’re pissed about, I will be very happy to listen. But I’m not going to stay on the phone listening to your wounded breathing and play guessing games as to what I’ve done wrong.”
And then he’s gone.
Fucking hung up on me.
I call back.
“Yes?” he says, obviously irritated.
“That was extraordinarily rude and juvenile, and I really didn’t appreciate it,” I say, trying to be calm.
“Well, I don’t appreciate being manipulated.”
“I’m not manipulating you.”
“Look, Jodi, you may not think I know you, but I know you enough. You’re upset about something, and Lord knows I probably did something stupid to cause it. If you tell me what it is, I can apologize and try not to do it again. But if you play this silly-ass game of making me guess and drag it out of you, I’m going to be less inclined to apologize and more inclined to be angry myself. And if you don’t want to have an adult conversation with me, then I am going to get back to work.”
“Look, Connor, while I am sure the whole universe does indeed revolve around you, at the moment, you are not the major source of my displeasure. At least you weren’t. However the pompous audacity with which you accuse me of playing some junior high game of ‘guess the problem’ has shot you right to the top of my list. In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a great deal going on right now, which might be reason for me to sound less than chipper, none of which has anything to do with you. I was calling to see how you were, to find out about the rest of your weekend. Instead you hang up on me and accuse me of dishonesty. You know what, Mr. Duncan? Fuck you.”
I hang up, shaking. Not just because I am so furious, but because he was right. He was goddamned right. I was mad at him, still wounded about his turning me down for the wedding, still stinging from his hot-and-cold routine, still hating that he could make me feel so unsure of myself and my place in his life. And I was manipulating him, testing him, canceling our date to get him to ask me why so I could admit to a date with Abbot so that he could tell me he wanted me to stop dating other people. Once again, the wisest source of sage advice makes the worst possible personal decision.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I want to call him back and fess up. I want to tell him he was right and that I’m a mess. I want to tell him that I’m broken, but worth sticking with. But I can’t. And when the phone rings, I can’t force myself to answer it.
The Harder They Fall
I miss the American dream. It used to be that the ideal
in this country was to work hard and attain success on
your own with strength of character, intelligence, and
ambition. It used to be that the ideals upon which this
country was founded, that anyone could achieve the
highest level of success, was connected to their ability
to have a great idea and put it into practice. Somewhere
in the twentieth century, that idea began to get
muddy, and more and more the American dream became
about instant gratification and overnight success.
Suddenly, fame and wealth could be attained in a matter
of moments if one could win a reality television
contest, buy the right lottery ticket, marry the right
person. This concept came into clear relief for me earlier
this week. I received a phone call from an individual
who claimed to have important information about
a local celebrity. The kind of information that sells
newspapers and magazines and tabloids and gets names
mentioned on television. I listened to the information
that was presented to me and was struck by how truly
insidious the person was who was claiming to offer me
an opportunity to share that information with the
world as if it were for the common interest. I will not
use names for the purpose of this column, but I will
present the following scenario: A young couple, after
years of struggle, decide to divorce. Sometime after
the divorce, the wife achieves a level of success that is
staggering. This success comes with a certain amount
of fame and a significant amount of money. When the
business that she has worked very hard to build starts
to really achieve its potential, the ex-husband acquires
a new fiancée. And the life that the two of them can
afford seems paltry in comparison to the life that
his ex-wife now enjoys. Is the response from the exhusband
and his new woman to seek, through their
own labor and intelligence and ambition, to try to
create something on their own? To attain a matching
level of success? No. Their response is to call a member
of the media in an attempt to place a negative article
about the ex-wife in the local newspaper. Now any
journalist who has been working in the business for a
reasonable amount of time knows that when a tip of a
negative nature comes your way, the first thing you are
required to do is to consider the source. What does
the source have to gain by this information going public?
Are they genuinely trying to perform a public service,
or are they potentially attempting to do something
for their own gain? It is amazing to me that the desire
to keep the public face of a company clean frequently
results in an enormous financial payout to people who
threaten public disgrace. When I got off the phone
with my new source, I immediately called the person
whose integrity had been questioned. And was in no
way shocked to find that indeed, the person who had
phoned me had done so in an attempt to shore up a
case for personal financial remuneration. We all want
to believe that there are people in the world who will
reach out to the press when they are in possession of
information that the public genuinely needs to know.
The public needs to know when our politicians are doing
things that are illegal or immoral. The public needs
to know when we are being failed in some way by the
people who are supposed to be serving our common
needs.
And the public is going to assume that when we
journalists give them information, it has a level of import.
It is essential for us, in serving the public good,
to maintain our own integrity by not allowing ourselves
to become puppets for those seeking to line
their own pockets out of greed and malice. I spent the
last two days doing something that I felt, as a journalist,
was a genuine public service. I contacted every major
media outlet that I could think of, spoke to every
colleague whose number was in my Rolodex, and gave
them the name of the person who had called me, the
essence of what was going on, and a sense of my pesonal
outrage that this person had attempted to manipulate
me into using my own reputation and good
name to support her own greed. I had more interesting
and meaningful conversations with my fellow journalists
in the last few days surrounding this issue than
I have had in a very long time. And for that, I am actually
grateful to the money-hungry lowlife who called
me originally. And to the woman who was the victim of
the potential attack, I say to you, you are safe, and I
hope that you will continue to do the work that you
do, and continue to stand your own ground, should an
attack like this ever come again. And to anyone who is
reading this column who has a thought about striking
it rich by extorting hush money out of people who
have worked hard to attain their success, I say shame
on you. Shame on all of us for creating an environment
that allows for that possibility to begin with.
—Jordan Blank, Op Ed in the Chicago Tribune, May 12, 2007
“Congratulations,” Abbot says, toasting me with his whiskey. He’s just finished reading the piece from this morning’s paper. We’ve already sent an enormous gift basket over to Jordan. When he called to fact-check the little bit of evil that Mallory had spoken to him about and heard the true details of the story, he was obviously enraged. And when I told him that he should feel free to print it, that the company had already decided to stand our ground where the threats were concerned, and that we were prepared to face anything, that rage increased to a level that has clearly served our purposes very nicely. We appear, for the moment, to be safe on that front. The rest of the PR crap continues at its petty pace, a few other retail outlets have dropped us, particularly in conservative markets, and the new forecast financially is an overall 22 to 24 percent drop for the fiscal year. But not total disaster, and if we can maintain, hopefully the new book will help an upswing come next spring.
“Have you heard from Brant?” he asks.
“Not a peep.” And Brant never reads the papers, so I doubt that he’s seen this, and even if he did, I don’t know that he’s smart enough to understand that it is about us. Especially as Mallory has been less than forthcoming with him as to what the situation is. Frankly, I think the whole thing is for the best. It forced me to look at what role Brant was playing in my life. And, as it turned out, it wasn’t a role that had any true meaning. It also forced the company to come together and make a decision about who we are and where we’re going, and ultimately I think both the company and I personally are going to be better off and stronger as a result.
“Well, let’s hope he stays peepless!” Abbot says.
The hostess comes over to where we’re sitting at the bar. “Your table is ready, sir. Madame, right this way.”
We carry our drinks over to the table in a quiet corner of Trattoria 10.
“Do you have theater tickets this evening?” the hostess asks us.
“Yes,” says Abbot, “eight o’clock curtain.”
“At which theater?”
“The Palace.”
“We’ll have you out of here in plenty of time,” the hostess says. “Enjoy your dinner.”
We scan over the menu, place our orders, and nibble on their delicious Parmesan crackers while waiting for our salads to arrive. While Abbot talks about his trip, I examine him. He’s looking particularly handsome in a dark gray suit, his salt-and-pepper hair clipped close to his head, and as I watch him and think about the time we’ve spent together, I’m filled with a sense of certainty that I haven’t had about much of anything in a very long time. I know, with every fiber of my being, that I have made the right choice for me. The best possible decision for us both. And I am suddenly really looking forward to sharing it with him later tonight.
“Jodi, dear, more wine?” Aunt Ruth asks me.
“No thanks, I’m good,” I say.
“I’ll take more,” Jill says, holding her glass out, and Ruth reaches over with the bottle and tops her off. It’s our last Thursday cocktail hour before the wedding, and we are all exhausted. Hunter’s family arrived yesterday in surprisingly good spirits and regaled us during dinner last night with all the details of the party plans for next weekend. Ice sculptures and a martini fountain and three different bands. Apparently, approximately 250 of Cleve and Grace’s friends, family, and colleagues are all eager to meet our quaint little family. Both Jill and Hunter were amazingly even-keeled, in spite of the fact that everything about that party seems to go against the sort of event that they themselves would ever have planned. But they are so happy and excited about the wedding that ultimately, whatever sort of over-the-top display is going to be made out East, all they can focus on are the perfect details of what will happen in two days.
“So, Miss Jill,” Aunt Shirley says, “we have something for you.” She walks over to the sideboard and takes out a simple white box tied with a white ribbon. She hands it to Jill.
“More presents?” Jill asks. “Really, it’s very unnecessary.” Her grin is in direct opposition to the protests coming out of her mouth.
“Oh, just open it already,” I say.
She unties the ribbon and lifts the top off the box. Gently moving aside the tissue, she reaches in to find a small, ivory-beaded clutch purse. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “It’s just perfect.”
“It’s the purse our mother carried when she married our father,” Aunt Ruth says.
“I found it last week when I was looking through a box for some old recipes,” says Shirley. “We had no idea it was even down there.”
“It’s the perfect something old,” Jill says. “Thank you.”
“Open it,” Shirley says. Jill undoes the clasp and looks inside. She pulls out a small linen handkerchief embroidered with blue forget-me-nots. It’s the handkerchief our mother carried at her wedding to our father and the one I carried when I married Brant. Jill recognizes it immediately.
“Well,” she says, “that means all my requirements are met. I’ve got the something old. The dress is new. I’m borrowing Jodi’s diamond bracelet, and now I’ve got my perfect something blue. All I need is a groom and a justice of the peace.”
“You seem very happy,” Shirley says, “and we are very happy for you.”
“We wish you all the love in the world.” Ruth raises her glass.
“Hear, hear!” I say, and the four of us clink glasses and toast to Jill’s future.
“Is Abbot coming with you to the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night?” Jill asks.
“No,” I say and take a deep sip of my wine. “Actually, Abbot won’t be able to come to the wedding either.”
Three heads snap around to look at me.
“What do you mean?” Aunt Shirley asks.
“Are you okay?” Jill says.
“Relax, relax everyone. I’m fine,” I say.
“I thought the two of you were going to Italy?” Aunt Ruth says.
“We were. I told him last weekend that I would accept his offer of going to Italy. And ever since then, my stomach has been in knots. I really thought it was the right thi
ng to do. He’s a good man, and I enjoy his company immensely, and he’s been nothing but lovely to me.”
“But you’re in love with Connor,” Jill says.
“This isn’t about Connor,” I say. “This is about me.”
My relationship with Brant was not a good or healthy relationship for me to be in. And when it was over, I needed to take some sort of action regarding my romantic life, which has worked pretty well up until now. This situation forced me to look into my heart to decide whether I am in a place now to really consider being someone’s partner again. To give up the freedom and autonomy that I have worked so hard to achieve in order to have someone at my side in a more permanent way. And I discovered that yes, I am ready. I naturally thought that since the answer to that was yes, and Abbot was the one who asked me to consider that possibility with him, that he was the one that I should be saying yes to.
“Because you love Connor,” Jill says again.
“No, Jill, not because I love Connor but because I don’t love Abbot. I meant what I said; this isn’t about Connor. It isn’t even about the idea of Connor. This is about me. There’s no way I could have been that enthralled to be with Connor if I was really supposed to be making a commitment to Abbot. I thought about it long and hard and realized that I couldn’t force myself to explore this idea of commitment with the wrong man. So I spoke to Abbot and apologized and told him that I changed my mind. And I was very sorry to have to ultimately decline his offer, and I hoped he would understand.”
“And what did he say?” Aunt Ruth asks.
“He was reasonably understanding. He said he was very sorry, that he wished it was different, that he had been excited at the prospect. But that as he hadn’t made any definite arrangements, it didn’t put him out, and that he wished me a wonderful life.”
“How very gentlemanly of him,” Aunt Shirley says.
“There’s no question that Abbot is always a perfect gentleman,” I say.
“So what did Connor say when you spoke to him?” Jill asks.
“I haven’t spoken to Connor,” I say. “I’m not exactly sure what I could tell him. Hey, I thought you’d want to know, somebody else offered to date me exclusively, and I turned him down, but the idea got me thinking?”
The Spinster Sisters Page 27
