Husbands and Other Sharp Objects

by Marilyn Simon Rothstein

  “Which some people?” I asked.

  “There are people I have to invite, but I don’t really want them to attend. If I hold the wedding in Hawaii, they won’t come. On the other hand, someone like Dana would go to my wedding no matter where it was.”

  “Yes, Dana would, but Hawaii is a long and costly trip. I don’t know how anyone from here could go there for less than a week. Her kids are busy. She might have to come alone.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not inviting her family, just Calvin.”

  I was aghast. What was Amanda thinking? She had to be kidding. Dana’s family was family. Dana’s kids and my kids practically grew up together. What had happened to her heart?

  “But we all went to Jeremy’s wedding.” Dana’s son had married Moxie at a country club in Massachusetts, which was where Moxie was from.

  “I—we—want a small wedding. It’s bad enough that Dad wants to invite all of Bountiful and every person in the world who has ever sold a bra.”

  “Well, at least he doesn’t want you to invite everyone who has ever worn a bra.”

  “Ha, Mom. Ha.”

  “Keep me in the loop,” I said, practically feeling myself beg. “And if you decide to get married in a barn, muck it first.”

  It was one of those warm, clear April days I’d prayed for all winter. When I returned home from work, I went to the road to get my mail. Since bills for Harvey had been redirected to Five Swallows Inn, there were only magazines, catalogs, and advertisements in the box. Your husband checks out, and even your postal experience changes. I thought about the postman. I wondered what he thought was going on.

  I started back down the driveway, thumbing through my pile until I landed on AARP The Magazine. I wished AARP would stop communicating with me. You turn fifty and get slammed on the head by an AARP card. And don’t tell me about the discounts. I started requesting the senior discount at the movies when I hit forty-five, and sadly, no one ever questioned me about it.

  Candy came up behind me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Wait. Where’s your car?”

  “I walked here.”

  “You did?”

  “It’s only a few miles,” Candy said.

  “No one walks in Connecticut unless they have a dog or . . .”

  “They’re exercising.”

  “Are you exercising?” I said.

  “No. I’m agonizing.”

  “Oh no. What did the doctor say about the results?”

  “I have a tumor on the lining of my uterus,” Candy let drop in one breath.

  “Oh, damn,” I said, moving my hand from my forehead to my chin. I held my chin only when things were really bad.

  “Yes, damn.”

  I had to tell myself to stop shaking my head before I upset her even more.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said. “Haven’t I been through enough already?”

  I wanted to ask if the tumor was malignant, but I couldn’t get the m-word out of my mouth. I concentrated on the blacktop, the pavement. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Why don’t you say, ‘Is it malignant?’”

  Because I refuse to release that word into the air, because I feel like it will spread.

  “The answer is that I don’t know.”

  “When will you know?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

  “I have to wait for more tests to come back,” she said.

  “When does that happen?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “We have to wait two weeks? How do they send the results? Pony Express?”

  “You know who reads test results now?” she said. “People in India. Somewhere across the world, someone is deciding about me.”

  I imagined a man in India. He’s at a screen all day, examining one tumor, then another. Swiping right for the next picture. He doesn’t know Candy. He doesn’t know a thing about her and what this could mean. He peers at an image of her uterus. He does it quickly because the day is almost done. He says it’s not malignant, but it is. Or he says it’s malignant, but it isn’t. He goes home for dinner. His wife asks about his day. He says he’s sick and tired of looking for tumors. He says that he is sorry he falsified his papers so he could practice as a radiologist.

  “Come inside,” I said. “We’ll have a drink.”

  “No, I am just going to walk home. I might as well move my body while I still have a whole one.”

  “Stop. You’ll be fine.”

  Why did everyone always say that? You’ll be fine. About to be thrown off a cliff? Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.

  “You’re not walking home. I’ll drive you,” I said as though something treacherous would happen if she strolled through the bucolic Connecticut neighborhood, past the quiet houses with cedar play sets. “Let me give you a bottle of water.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Of course you’re not. You’re Candy.”

  She laughed and wiped a tear at the same time.

  “You’re not alone,” I said. “I’m with you.”

  There’s a saying: “Nothing is shorter than someone else’s pregnancy.” And nothing is longer than waiting for a diagnosis, cancer or no cancer.

  Chapter 8

  In May, Jake’s parents hosted an engagement party in Wisconsin. It was for the Berger family and close friends, but we were invited as well.

  I was in the airport in Connecticut, reading a book Jon had recommended, waiting for the plane. It was delayed. First, it was delayed in Charlotte. Then the crew was late. Lastly, the plane required a new part—which I preferred they took care of before I got in the air. I hit the Dunkin’ Donuts outpost in the terminal.

  I asked for a medium coffee and begged the server not to fill it to the top.

  “No problem,” she said. Then she passed me a brimming cup. As I opened the lid, I spilled some on my wrist.

  I was wiping up the coffee with a napkin when I heard someone say to the server, “AARP. I get a free donut with a large cup of coffee, right?”

  The voice was familiar. I looked up to my right and saw Feldman. His full name was Martin Feldman, but we always called him Feldman. He had started out as Harvey’s accountant and eventually became his financial advisor. Harvey called him for everything—business and personal. When it came right down to it, he was Harvey’s best friend.

  Feldman was tall, looming over Harvey. Once, he’d told me he wore size fifteen AAA shoes. “Those aren’t shoes,” I’d said. “Those are skis.” He bought conservative clothes at Brooks Brothers, which he referred to as Crooks Brothers. His wife was also tall. She smiled once, but her face cracked.

  Although Feldman himself had amassed a fortune, it was his custom to take advantage of any freebie that might be around. He once told me it was because he had grown up in a tenement. I pointed out that there were no tenements in Kings Point, New York, and in fact, the great Gatsby had resided there.

  “Marvelous Marcy,” Feldman said.

  I hated when he called me that. Flatulent Feldman, I thought.

  “So how is Whitman, your new accountant?” he asked.

  Parker Whitman was Candy’s cousin. I had called him when I’d realized I had to protect my own interests. Then I’d fired Feldman and hired Whitman. It was a huge moment in my life. I hadn’t felt so grown up since I got my period in seventh grade. I swear, the whole experience was like peeling off tight and sticky pantyhose after a tedious anniversary party in someone’s shadeless backyard. Having had that experience too often, I understood why so many women no longer wore pantyhose—even when they were dressed up.

  The Dunkin’ Donuts girl handed Feldman his coffee and a French cruller.

  “I love AARP,” he said to me. “I remember turning fifty and receiving my card in the mail. What a milestone. I guess you’re on your way to the engagement party.”

  “Yes. And where are you off to?”

  “Doesn’t anyone tell you anything? I’m going too. It was so nice of Amanda to
invite me.”

  Amanda invited him? What happened to keeping it small? Keep it small except for the people Harvey insisted on? I had a feeling I was in a losing game, playing baseball without a mitt.

  “You know, I like to feel that I had some impact on your life,” Feldman continued.

  Some impact? Feldman’s financial advice was behind every decision Harvey made and was more than likely one of the reasons Harvey had not filed for divorce yet. And I was holding firm on Harvey owning the entire mess. I wasn’t in control of much, but I was in control of that.

  “There’s the man,” he said, pointing ahead.

  I turned around to see Harvey topped off with his toupee. He was wearing a white Ralph Lauren polo shirt, but he had gained even more weight, and the little green polo horse was spreading. In fact, the green horse looked like it was having a foal.

  Some time had gone by since I had last seen Harvey at Mad Maestro, after which we had run into Jon in the diner. I didn’t know it was possible for a human being to blow up like a helium balloon in so little time, but apparently Harvey had pulled it off. The man was out of control. What had he been eating? Small countries?

  Harvey brushed by Feldman and gave me a big hello.

  “What a coincidence,” he said, joking.

  After all, it was a small airport, and we both were on our way to the same place. What’s more, we traveled American regularly because Harvey was all about points. One year, he flew to London for the day just to maintain his Platinum status. He had flown from Connecticut to Chicago en route to Miami in order to pile up the miles.

  Harvey asked the Dunkin’ Donuts girl for a medium coffee with milk.

  Feldman said, “Get a large. Say AARP, and we get a free donut.”

  “A large,” Harvey said.

  “AARP,” Feldman chimed in.

  “What kind of donut?”

  Harvey told her chocolate frosted.

  As she turned to get it, he whispered to me, “She’s a 34D.”

  I had spent a lifetime listening to Harvey the Bra King guessing bra sizes. The worst of all had been when he sized up teachers during conferences at Atherton High—just the two of us, with the teacher behind her desk. Each time, I prayed the teacher would not be full-busted.

  I wanted to walk away, so I said I was going to the restroom. I dropped by a newsstand for aspirin and a magazine to hide my head in.

  Leaning against a wall, I called Jon.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Waiting for the plane,” I said. “I wish you were here.”

  “Ah, shucks,” he said. “But I’m sure that once I meet Amanda, I will be at the wedding.”

  I could feel my anxiety rising. “That’s months away,” I said.

  I hadn’t spoken to Amanda about inviting Jon to anything. I wasn’t ready for him to come to the engagement party. I didn’t think he would be interested in schlepping to Wisconsin for the weekend anyway. I wasn’t sure when or where the wedding would be, but I was certain that by then, Amanda and Elisabeth and Ben would know Jon, and he would be invited as my guest. Still, the idea of Jon meeting my children made me anxious. I wanted them to accept him.

  “We could do the twist, maybe even the Macarena, at the wedding,” he joked.

  I imagined his boyish grin.

  “You know the Macarena?”

  “Of course. Isn’t that the one that you dance to as the band plays ‘Hava Nagila’?”

  I laughed.

  “What are you doing today?” I asked.

  “Painting. I started early this morning.”

  I asked more questions. I didn’t want to hang up.

  When I arrived at the gate, my flight was boarding. The plane was full. I looked at my ticket. I was 10B, a damn middle seat. What lamebrain invented the middle seat? As I reached row 7, I saw Feldman in 10. He was by the window. Harvey was on the aisle. The middle seat was empty.

  Now would be a good time to die.

  I wondered whether I could be arrested as a terrorist suspect if I ran off the plane. How could a spell in Guantánamo be worse than sitting between Harvey and Feldman?

  I stopped.

  The attendant came toward me from the rear of the plane.

  “There are people behind you,” she said nicely. “You really have to sit down.”

  I can’t sit down. Can I catch another plane? Or should I just spend the entire flight in the toilet?

  Harvey looked up at me and beamed. He stood so I could pass.

  “What a coincidence,” he said. “I always hope to have a beautiful woman in the seat beside me.”

  Feldman laughed. “It’s all because of me. I reserved the end and the window seats in the hope that the middle remained empty.”

  “Worked for me.” Harvey grinned.

  “There’s no one like Marvelous Marcy,” Feldman said.

  I wanted to eject him from the plane without a parachute. Instead, I settled in and opened People. It used to be my bible. But now I didn’t know The Bachelor from The Bachelorette. Feldman was fiddling with his iPad. Before takeoff, the attendant came by and asked him to stow it.

  Talking over me to Harvey, he said, “It’s nothing but malarkey. They claim an electronic device will interrupt airwaves, and the plane will blow up. But they’ve never proven it.”

  “Feldman, please put it away,” I said.

  “Marcy, nothing is going to happen.”

  “Stow it, Feldman, or I’m telling the attendant you’re on an FBI watch list.”

  “Feldman,” Harvey insisted, and his stubborn friend finally got the message.

  Harvey leaned a bit toward me. He was already taking up a good part of my seat. “Marcy, would you mind raising the armrest? I could use some room.”

  I liked the armrest between us. I would’ve liked another airplane between us.

  “I would rather not,” I said, sticking my head in my magazine.

  “First class was full on this plane, or I would be sitting there,” Harvey said.

  I thought if I raised the divider maybe he would leave me alone, so I did. Instantly, Harvey’s body seemed to expand even more into my seat.

  About forty-five minutes in, I put my chair back and pretended to sleep.

  Harvey nudged me. “Do you want half of my sandwich?”

  Feldman was leaning against the window, snoozing.

  “I haven’t been feeling well,” Harvey said. “That donut is on its way down the chute.”

  Please don’t share.

  He gulped the diet soda the attendant had brought and asked her for another. He was thirsty due to diabetes.

  In the old days, I would have been really worried about him. I’m a great worrier. The only reason I didn’t make the US Olympic Worrier Team was that I was too worried about trying out.

  Feldman was snoring. His snores were chortles.

  “I hate the way he snores,” Harvey said.

  “He snores like someone is trying to kill him,” I said.

  Harvey laughed. “How do I snore?”

  “Like you’re choking on a porterhouse.”

  I would not want to be chased by a ravenous lion. But it would be better than seeing my mother-in-law in the lobby of the hotel. I knew Amanda had invited Harvey’s mother, Florence, to the party, but that was only because Harvey had insisted, and Amanda had assumed she wouldn’t come.

  Florence lived in Arizona. When I first became serious with Harvey, he told me straight out that she was a bitch. I thought that was a little harsh, but as I got to know her, I realized that it had been very gracious of him to say.

  The first time I met her, she was visiting New York. We had arrived at her hotel to join her for brunch at the appointed hour. Harvey called her room. She insisted that we come up. It was a huge deal to meet his mother, and I wasn’t crazy about doing it in her hotel room, but Harvey had pulled me along.

  Harvey introduced me. I put out my hand, but she ignored it. Instead, she scanned the floor, where dress shoe
s, from patent leathers to rhinestone sandals, were scattered around. “Thank heaven you’re here,” she had said. “I need you to put away my shoes.”

  Speechless, I placed the shoes in the boxes that were strewn on the bed. As I did so, Harvey took a seat in an armchair, answering his mother’s questions about the business.

  “You missed those pumps,” she said, pointing. “And don’t forget to stack the shoeboxes in the closet.”

  Did you want that alphabetically by the name of the manufacturer?

  When I spotted her in Wisconsin, I knew she hadn’t seen me, so I slipped into an alcove. Then she turned toward me and raised her sunglasses. Florence had undergone so many face-lifts, her chin was somewhere over her forehead. From years of tanning in Arizona, her face was rawhide. The woman was as cold as an iceberg but looked like burned toast.

  Seeing me, she smirked, then did a little hand wave, as though her wrist were broken.

  She approached in her flouncy floral dress. Her hairstyle, a severe bob, hadn’t changed since that first day with the shoes. She was wielding a silver cane. “Marcy, a hello would be in order.”

  “Hello, Florence,” I said. All I needed to do to even the score for years of unkindness was call her Flo. She detested the name Flo.

  “I’ll bet you’re surprised, and delighted, that I decided to attend.”

  “Well, it is a big trip for you,” I said, attempting to be cordial.

  “I came to see you.”

  She did? What now?

  She tapped her cane. “I hear you’ve decided to leave Harvey.”

  I took a step back. “That’s not exactly how it happened, Flo.”

  Flo, Flo, Flo.

  “I assume you understand that you will not receive a cent from the Bosom.”

  She’d always called the company “the Bosom.” It drove Harvey nuts.

  “After all, my grandmother started the company back when I believe your ancestors were praying they would not be rejected at Ellis Island.”

  Nice, I thought.

  Ben and his partner, Jordan, approached. Ben was good looking, and not just because he was my son. He stood six foot two, with curly brown hair, and he was born with a beauty mark above his lip. Recently, he had ditched his glasses for contact lenses. Jordan was midheight, toned, with a large, handsome face and dark saucer eyes. He wore his brown hair in a ponytail. I could easily imagine the logo from GQ above his head.