Husbands and Other Sharp Objects

by Marilyn Simon Rothstein

  Although Harvey had told Florence that Ben was gay, she had never accepted it. When she asked how Ben was, she always asked if he had met a woman yet. After a while, Harvey had stopped correcting her.

  “Grandma,” Ben said, no hug, no kiss. “This is Jordan.”

  “Jordan?”

  “Jordan is my partner.”

  “When did you start a business?”

  “Not that kind of partner,” I said.

  She looked askance. Ben shook his head. Jordan was about to say something, but Ben shook his head again.

  “Did you bring a date, Ben?” she asked.

  There we go—over the top.

  “Jordan is my date,” Ben said strongly.

  Florence looked up at the ceiling. “It’s so difficult to hear in this lobby.”

  “Hear this,” Ben said. “I am a homosexual.”

  “That means he likes men,” I said.

  Florence closed her eyes as though if she couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear.

  The next person I marry will be an orphan.

  The event was an open house, come anytime after five in the afternoon. I had no interest in sharing a ride with Harvey, Florence, and Feldman. Elisabeth, Ben, and Jordan had spent the day at the Berger home, bonding with Jake’s friends. I hailed a cab.

  The Berger residence was on a quiet, curved, tree-lined street with identical homes: pleasant, broad split-levels made of brick. There were many midsize dark cars parked in the double driveway, and more on the paved road.

  As I stepped out of the cab, I pondered how dejected and lonely I felt arriving at my daughter’s engagement party by myself. That’s not easy when you’ve been married almost your entire adult life. Flashing before me were events I had gone to with Harvey—parties for newborns, bar mitzvahs, graduations, weddings. I used to feel frustrated and disappointed, because I would be ready to go on time, but he always came home from work on his own schedule. He would have to change his clothes. We would be late. It turns out waiting and being way tardy is better than going alone.

  I wiped a tear from my eye, arched my back, planted a smile on my face, and knocked. No one came to answer the door, so I assumed no one could hear me. I opened the door to the sounds of music and laughter and walked in. There was a foyer with a coat closet and shoes on the floor. I removed my heels and stood in my stockings. I put my shoes back on and decided I would wait until someone told me to take them off. I searched the overstuffed closet for a hanger and hung up my belted spring coat in the far back so I would remember where it was.

  I worked my way down the crowded hall, which was decorated with framed pictures of my future son-in-law growing up. Apparently, he had played all kinds of sports. He had a ball of some kind in his hand in almost every photograph. I hadn’t thought of him as athletic. This was good. He could teach my future grandkids how to play sports.

  A woman in her eighties stopped me.

  “You have to be Amanda’s mother. You just have to be.”

  “I am,” I said with a smile, relieved someone had approached me. “I just got here.”

  “I’m Great Aunt Rose,” she said brightly, cupping my hands in her palms. “I love your daughter. I just love your daughter. Oh, and she is so accomplished. And smart! I can tell that she was in line first when they were giving out brains.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I like her too.”

  “So do you think they’ll have children right away?”

  Let’s get through the wedding first, I thought.

  “Have you seen Amanda?” I said, ignoring the question about my daughter’s reproductive plans.

  “Yes, she’s in the living room, unwrapping gifts. They got right to it. I know she registered, but I had to get her something thoughtful.”

  “What was that?” I asked.

  As she whispered, her eyes sparkled. “I embroidered a cover for her Kleenex box.”

  “Wonderful,” I said graciously. “Amanda sneezes a lot.”

  She smiled at me, pointing ahead. I walked through an archway to see the Berger family, neighbors, and friends on two deep sofas, some armchairs, and many metal folding chairs. Some were standing.

  At the far end of the room, which was painted cornflower blue, there was a white brick fireplace with a mantel. On the slate mantel were tchotchkes, little things that my mother used to refer to as “dust collectors.” Mug had probably stolen them. Every single one would have fit in a pocket.

  Amanda was seated on a tall striped dining room chair, piles of gifts in front of her. Her hair was up in a ponytail. She was dressed casually in cream slacks and a matching shirt. Jake was beside her, unwrapping gifts. Elisabeth, Florence, and Feldman were on low chairs. Of course, Harvey was on the Bergers’ fat recliner. Ben and Jordan were standing, looking on and making remarks to one another.

  I waved to Amanda from the back of the living room.

  “Everyone, my mother’s here!” she said loudly.

  There was silence as the guests turned to see me.

  “All the way from Connecticut,” Amanda added.

  “A round of applause for Connecticut!” a stocky man yelled out.

  I took a bow in response to the warm welcome. My family led the clapping.

  “We’re all happy you’re here,” a woman said.

  “Three cheers,” the man next to her added. He looked like her, so I knew he was her husband, because if you live with someone long enough, you look like him, even if you started out looking entirely different. I think it’s the same with people and their dogs. If I ever had a dog, he would look worried.

  Amanda returned to business. “This lovely wooden laundry rack is from Mug and Bernie,” Amanda announced, chirpier than I had ever seen her, clearly wanting to endear herself. “And look, it folds just like an accordion.”

  She demonstrated.

  Okay, so she is going overboard.

  Elisabeth maneuvered her way around the guests and came to sit with me.

  “Quite the gift,” she said quietly.

  I touched her knee. “I’ll buy one for you when you get engaged.”

  “I did meet someone, but sadly, he dry-cleans everything.”

  “Underwear?”

  “Well starched.” Elisabeth laughed.

  “Where did you meet?”

  “At a conference,” she said.

  “Is this serious? Do I need to plan another wedding?”

  “Are you kidding? After participating in this circus, I intend to elope.”

  That would be fine. Just invite me.

  As Amanda opened gifts, I looked around the living room. Above the upright piano, the Ten Commandments were posted. I guessed Mug hadn’t read the eighth one, “Thou shalt not steal.” Then again, Harvey skipped the seventh, “Thou shalt not commit adultery.” I wasn’t merely casting stones. When did I last “honor the Sabbath”?

  I went into the kitchen for a drink. Mug came in. She was wearing a boxy knit dress, navy with piping at the round collar, which I bet was from Talbots. To me, Mug looked about a size ten, but in Talbots she was probably an eight. Everything in there ran larger than in other stores. Buying a smaller size made customers feel good. I felt best at the Gap. At the Gap, I wore medium. My daughters wore small. It was good to know that on a bad day, if the supermarket wasn’t cheering me up, I could fall into the Gap.

  Mug hugged me.

  I would have to grow accustomed to that.

  I gave her a squeeze, clutching my purse, in fear for my wallet.

  “Have you spoken to the kids?” Mug asked.

  “About?”

  “They want a band.”

  I had no idea why she was bringing up music when there was still no venue.

  “Those bands are so loud. You can’t hear yourself think.”

  I wanted to be friendly, but I didn’t want to discuss the wedding. Talking about the wedding with her while the kids weren’t there could lead only to misunderstandings. I diverted.

  “Do you have
anything cold to drink?” I asked.

  She poured iced tea into a tumbler and gave it to me.

  “I love those pictures of Jake growing up,” I said.

  “A DJ is good enough. Right?”

  Okay, I give up. “The kids should have whatever they want.”

  She looked at me, annoyed.

  I had no idea what I had said that was wrong.

  “Whatever they want? Is that how you brought up your daughter? She gets whatever she wants?” Mug was still holding the tea pitcher, and she put it down hard.

  Stay calm, Marcy. Bite your lip if you have to.

  She became coarser, waving a finger. “My friend Rosemary told me that the groom’s parents are responsible for the music.”

  I had never heard of that. I would have to consult Emily Post as to who paid for what. Not that it mattered. I knew Harvey. Amanda was his daughter, and he was as old-fashioned as he was generous. Harvey would shell out for the whole shebang, hoping that the in-laws would give a substantial gift to the kids. Not happening here, Harvey.

  “A band is three times more expensive than a DJ.”

  Her estimate was low.

  “I am not paying for a band.”

  Maybe the inside of her wallet had never seen daylight, but there was also a chance she just couldn’t afford to help with the wedding. I decided to put her at ease. “Look, Mug. If the kids want a band, we’ll pay for it.”

  “What about the rehearsal dinner?”

  Since when did Jews rehearse?

  “Really, there’s no problem, Mug. I understand. I have the message.”

  She picked up the pitcher. “More tea?”

  Do I have to pay for it?

  I would do just about anything to get through this wedding in peace.

  Minutes later, I was standing to the side by myself, eating fruit salad. Florence approached, her cane tapping up to me. Now what did she want?

  “Marcy.” She said my name like it was roll call in the Army.

  “Yes, Florence.”

  She pursed her lips.

  Just spit it out, I thought.

  “I can’t fathom it. I can’t believe you are letting Amanda do this.”

  “Do what, Flo?”

  “Marry a man whose mother gives her a laundry rack.”

  Chapter 9

  The Library was a restaurant that had been an actual library until Atherton built a new one. There were books on shelves. The flowers on each table were made of printed pages. The place mats were laminated book covers. Each menu was in a Dewey decimal drawer. Mustard-colored tabs separated the small plates, salads, entrées, and desserts. I did not like small plates. I did not want a lamb lollipop. I wanted a lamb chop. One sea scallop on a dish does not look delicious—it just looks lonely.

  Dana always picked the Library when it was her turn to choose a restaurant. I met her there, and when we were seated, she didn’t wait for a menu. “Let’s order the Tuscan salad,” she said.

  The Tuscan salad was amazing—roasted garlic cloves, olives, mozzarella balls, moist polenta croutons, ripe grape tomatoes, lettuce, and imported balsamic vinaigrette. Sounds simple, I know. But if the regular sous chef was off for a day, I could actually tell by the salad.

  “We’ve built a friendship on this salad,” I said to Dana.

  “How many do you think we’ve eaten?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s the only time we ever eat the same thing anymore.”

  Since becoming a grandmother, Dana had changed. She was obsessed with looking young. She no longer depended on her fast metabolism to do its work, and she had become fanatical about her weight. She’d sooner touch a hot industrial iron than a chocolate brownie. I missed the old Dana, the Dana who consoled me with party-size bags of chips. Friendship has limits. If she gave up alcohol, we were through.

  When we met, I never knew which diet she would be on. On one of her plans, you could eat all the carbohydrates you wanted—for an hour a day. Dana ate some pasta. Then she puffed away on a cigarette. If I had sixty minutes to eat carbs, I’d pull up a stool at Sweet Heaven Bakery.

  “I have news,” I said. “Elisabeth is seeing someone new.”

  “Serious?”

  “She just met him, I think. She said that if she ever does tie the knot, she’s going to elope.”

  “Good thing, Marcy. You’ll need years to recover from Amanda’s wedding. If you think breaking up with your husband was a bloodsucking misery, wait until you live through marrying off one of your children.”

  “Jake’s mother pulled me aside at the engagement party to tell me she was not paying for a band.”

  “She’s not paying for anything. I know Harvey. He’ll pick up the whole tab.”

  “She doesn’t know Harvey. She doesn’t know me.”

  “Well, get ready. You’re about to spend every Thanksgiving with her.”

  “It’s like I just went into business with someone I don’t even know.”

  She nodded. She’d been through it all when Jeremy got married. She understood.

  “How is Wolfgang?” I asked.

  “Wolfgang,” she repeated, clearly unhappy with her grandson’s name.

  “You got to name your children. Now they get to name theirs.”

  “I hate the way that works,” she said as she moved the bread away from her and closer to me. “In any case, I hardly see him. He’s three months old, and I’ve seen him three times.”

  “Do you ask to watch him?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not changing diapers.”

  “Maybe Jeremy can bring him over when he’s constipated.”

  A waitress in an apron with the cover of The Old Man and the Sea asked for our orders. Dana asked for her salad without dressing.

  “Who are you kidding?” I asked. “The polenta croutons alone are hundreds of calories.”

  “Give her my polenta,” she said to the waitress.

  “Why don’t I help you babysit?” I asked, thinking it might be fun.

  “You would do that?” She was astounded, as though she’d met me yesterday.

  “Sure, why not? You babysat Harvey’s parrot when I was trying to unload it.”

  “Calvin is visiting his mother this weekend, but Jeremy and Moxie are coming to visit anyway. I’ll offer to watch Wolfgang on Saturday.”

  “Great.”

  Dana clapped. “If I was next to you, I’d knock your shoulder.”

  “I know you would.”

  On Saturday night, in my loosest jeans and a flannel shirt, I went to Dana’s to babysit. Jeremy greeted me with a big hello. He seemed older than I remembered him, but then again, I had a permanent picture of him in my mind.

  In it, Jeremy was sixteen. He had a mop of blond hair covering his eyes, a cutie-pie face. He had mentioned that he was looking for a job, any odd job, so I had said he could paint our guest room, which really didn’t need paint. It took a week for Jeremy to finish, during which time I had provided well-balanced lunches, snacks, lemonade, and conversation. After Jeremy left, I had to call Paint Guy to repaint it.

  As Jeremy took my coat, Moxie appeared. Since I had seen her last, at Wolfgang’s christening, she had colored her yellow hair to a deep chestnut. For this reason, she looked whiter and pastier than ever. I figured she weighed about fifty-three pounds when she got on the scale with a fifty-pound weight in her hand.

  Out of Dana’s earshot, Moxie said, “If Dana diapers the baby on the wrong end, be sure he can breathe through his mouth.”

  Ordinarily, I might have laughed at this—but no way, not at Dana’s expense. “She has three kids of her own.”

  “Jeremy says she was never home.”

  The girl certainly knew how to irritate me.

  I waved her off. “She worked hard. She was a single mom.”

  “Between marriages.”

  Put a plug in it. Why don’t you walk a mile in Dana’s stilettos—bring up three kids and put them through college—before you call in the jury? “Don�
�t worry. I won’t let him crawl out to the highway. And neither will she.”

  “That’s only because he doesn’t crawl yet,” Moxie said, deadpan.

  “You know, Moxie, it means a lot to Dana to watch your son.”

  “Do you want to know the truth?”

  Never say you want to know the truth. The truth hurts. And if it isn’t painful, it’s plain insulting. Think about it. Has anyone ever said, “Do you want to know the truth?” before confiding that you could have made it as a supermodel?

  “I am taking a chance. I’m taking a chance that my family won’t get lung cancer from Dana’s secondhand smoke.”

  “She would never, ever smoke while watching your son.”

  “I’ll tell Mom you’re here,” Jeremy said to me when he returned from the hall.

  The portable crib was parked in the center of Dana’s great room. The room was the epitome of comfort, with a taupe sectional, patterned pillows on the floor, a potbelly stove in the corner, and a sixty-inch flat-screen on the wide wall.

  Wolfgang was in the crib, on his back, asleep in blue, one-piece footed pajamas. The mattress was covered with a Winnie the Pooh sheet. No blanket. Not one stuffed animal.

  The house seemed a little cold to me. “Is there a blanket for Wolfgang?”

  “We don’t believe in blankets,” Moxie replied.

  “Is that a religious thing?”

  “A baby can get caught in a blanket.”

  “My kids always had blankets,” I said.

  “They could have suffocated, Marcy.”

  “All three were at your wedding, so I guess they survived.”

  Jeremy came into the room, then Dana. She was wearing her go-to clothing—a billowy silk blouse, a wide belt, jeans, and stilettos. It was an outfit that said, “Baby? What baby? I don’t see a baby.”

  “The movie is two hours, an hour for dinner. We’ll be back by eleven o’clock,” Moxie said, checking her watch.

  “What about feeding?” Dana asked.

  Moxie looked at me. “I’m unable to breastfeed,” she whispered.

  I decided to reassure her. “I gave my kids formula. Although I admit, I had to change the brand every time Ben got the runs. And he only got the runs when I had just bought a case of the new formula.”