Better Off Without Him (Romantic Comedy)

by Dee Ernst

  1) Open freezer, removing vodka (or gin) and taking enough ice to fill a tall

  glass pitcher, preferably from Tiffany’s.

  2) Plunge martini glasses, also preferably from Tiffany’s, into the indentation

  made from taking out the ice.

  3) Open a bottle of vermouth. Add one capful to the pitcher, swirl gently three times, then pour whatever vermouth not clinging to the ice down the drain.

  4) Pour cold vodka into the pitcher, counting out one one-hundred, two

  one- hundred, three one-hundred, four one-hundred, five one-hundred.

  5) Stir slowly.

  6) Carefully dry off two or three pitted but unstuffed olives with an imported Irish linen towel

  7) Remove glasses from freezer. Drop in the olives.

  8) Pour vodka mixture carefully into glasses. Sip or gulp as needed.

  The best thing about a martini is that I usually only need one to make everything all better. That day, I knew I was in for a long, wet afternoon.

  “So, tell me, Mona, when did this happen?” Patricia speaks in a very low and well-cultivated voice. She can also go into what I call her Junior League mode, when she barely moves her lips and her jaw is frozen shut. She can have lengthy conversations this way, without ever really opening her mouth, even for vowels.

  “This morning,” I croaked. The first jolt of vodka tends to cause my vocal chords to seize up. By the third sip, I’m usually all right.

  “What? This just happened?”

  I nodded. “Yes. He came home in the middle of the morning to tell me and to pack all his stuff.”’

  “And her name is really Dominique?” Patricia asked, her eyes bright. Being the gracious person that she is, she poured my drink first, then her own. She can fill her glass to the absolute top and never spill a drop picking it up. I don’t know how she does it. She always holds her martini glass the same way, with the bowl resting in her upturned palm, held slightly away from her body so in case she’s jostled by some clumsy oaf she won’t suffer any damage. Just like June Allyson.

  She took a quick sip. “You poor thing. Does MarshaMarsha know?”

  MarshaMarsha is my next door neighbor and another one of my very best friends. I call her MarshaMarsha to distinguish her from Brian’s sister, MarshaTheBitch. MarshaTheBitch used to be plain old Marsha, a tolerable sister-in-law, a kindly older sister to Brian, and a very generous aunt to the girls. When my father-in-law died ten years ago, Marsha realized she was Jewish and decided to do something about it. The Bermans had always been members of the Ultra-Non-Observant Temple, which means they remembered the High Holidays, but didn’t necessarily do anything about them. But when Marsha decided to embrace Judaism, she wanted the rest of the Berman clan to join in.

  Phyllis, the new widow, patted Marsha’s hand gently and explained that for over forty-five years she had been faithfully praying to God that she would die before her husband, or, better yet, have them die together, hand in hand, and since God had chosen to ignore her, she wasn’t going to start making the extra effort now. Rebecca, the younger sister, who was a practicing Wiccan and had been for almost ten years, may have done something involving burning herbs grown at the waning of the moon, because Marsha developed a mysterious and nasty rash that lingered for weeks. Brian laughed, the girls balked, and I, being a non-observant Catholic, refused to get involved in any way. Of course, Marsha blamed me for the family’s eventual descent into hell, and she began referring to me as the Goy Slut who Brian had (insert heavy sigh here) married. This after being in my wedding party all those years ago. So, she became MarshaTheBitch

  But MarshaMarsha remained MarshaMarsha. She didn’t mind, although I’m sure she inwardly winced at Brady Bunch reruns. Her real name is Marsha Riollo, and she is an absolute doll.

  As I shook my head, Patricia went to the back door, yanked it open, and yelled for MarshaMarsha. MarshaMarsha, having four boys under the age of twelve and the reflexes of a Navy SEAL, was in the house before the echo died away.

  “What?” she asked. “Did something happen?” Her eyes went quickly to the martini glasses. It was a familiar sight in my kitchen, actually, but since it was barely one in the afternoon, she realized that something must be amiss.

  “Brian left,” Patricia announced. “Can I get you a drink?”

  MarshaMarsha sat beside me and grasped my hand. “Oh. Mona, really? Is that why the car was here this morning? I saw Brian drive up and I thought, well…” She shrugged. I know what she thought. Her husband, Alphonse, a successful chiropractor with an office right in town, often walked home for a nooner with his adorable Italian wife. And she is adorable, round and pretty, with curly dark hair and big, brown eyes.

  I sniffed and knocked back what was left of my drink. “He left me for Dominique. She’s thirty. And French. And a size four. My life is over. I’m going to die with eight cats and no husband.” And then I put my head down on the table and really started to cry.

  I don’t know how long I sobbed, but when I finally lifted my head, MarshaMarsha handed me a much-needed wad of tissues. I dried my eyes, blew my nose a lot, and took several long, deep breaths. Then Patricia handed me another martini, which went down much smoother than the first one. The second always does.

  “You,” Patricia said distinctly, “need to call Brian’s mother.”

  I stared at her. “Phyllis? Why do I need to call Phyllis?”

  “Because,” MarshaMarsha said, “she’s his mother, and in her eyes, he can do no wrong. You need to call her and tell her what happened before he does so she knows what a snake he really is. If he gets to her first, she’ll think this is all your doing and start telling all the relatives how happy she is that he finally got out of his hellish marriage.”

  “Oh, my God. Really?” I was shocked. “No, Phyllis likes me. She would never approve of his leaving.”

  MarshaMarsha was shaking her head. “Honey, believe me. When it comes to mothers-in-law, the Italians and the Jews are only separated by their opinion of pork. I know. Call her. Tell her. And then ask for her help in getting him back, so your family doesn’t end up on the cover of Broken Homes Monthly.”

  I looked at Patricia for confirmation. She was holding the phone in her hand. I nodded. She hit speed dial and handed me the phone.

  Phyllis Berman, at 78, is still physically spry, mentally agile, and happily living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, in the same sprawling, three-bedroom apartment that she raised her family in. When her husband, Lewis, died, we were all a little worried about her living alone. But Phyllis posted an ad on the bulletin board at Brooklyn School of Law. She had two empty bedrooms and an extra bathroom, so she turned them into a very nice suite and, for the past ten years, has had a series of young and accommodating law students living with her. She charges them an incredibly nominal rent, and in exchange, they help with errands, keep her company at mealtimes, and make sure she takes all her required medications. It’s a perfect arrangement. And she gets free legal advice whenever she wants or needs it.

  Phyllis is another one without caller ID. I don’t know how people do it, but she says she likes being surprised.

  “Phyllis, it’s Mona.”

  “Mona, my favorite daughter-in-law,” she said. It’s an old joke, but she loves it.

  “Phyllis,” I said, my voice a little shaky, “I’ve got some not-so-good news. Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes. Mona, is it Jessica?” My poor daughter.

  “No. Phyllis, I don’t know what to do. Brian has met another woman.”

  There was a very long pause. “My Brian? Another woman? No, Mona, I think you must be mistaken. Brian works very hard, you know. If he hasn’t been coming home some nights, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  “He’s been coming home fine, Phyllis.” I said, my voice getting stronger. “That’s not it. He told me himself.”

  Pause. “What did he say exactly, dear? I mean, men are entitled to have friends. If he met somebody nice, s
o what? Don’t jump to any hasty conclusions. Invite her to dinner. I’m sure that once you get to know her, you’ll find her to be a delightful person.”

  This was becoming much harder than I had anticipated. “Phyllis. Listen to me. Brian told me that he has met another woman and that he’s in love with her.”

  “Hold on, dear. I need to get a drink of water.” I could hear a thud as she set the phone down. I stared at the receiver in amazement. I glanced at MarshaMarsha and Patricia, both of whom had that I-told-you-so look.

  Noise on the phone. Phyllis was back. “Now, Mona, sometimes men reach an age where they, well, question their manhood. Sometimes they need a little fantasy to get over the hump.”

  “Phyllis, this is not a hump. Well, actually it is, but it’s not any hump that I’m a part of. Brian came home this morning, packed his clothes and left the house.” I was almost shouting. “He told me he was leaving me for a thirty-year-old French woman he met at work. Her name is Dominique and he’s moving in with her.” I forced my voice back down to a normal pitch and managed to conjure up a little sob as I drove it home. “He’s got a lawyer.”

  “Lawyer? He’s got a lawyer?” Phyllis finally got it. “Probably that slime-bucket Hirsch Fielding, who thinks nobody knows he changed his name from Feldstein. I knew his mother, Sadie. The poor woman turns over in her grave every time her worthless son takes on another client.” She was silent. “I can’t believe that my son would do this, Mona. I am ashamed. For a man to leave his wife and family like this. Thank God Lewis isn’t alive to see this day.” She had been sounding a little frail, but she suddenly got back into gear. “If you need anything, you let me know. I know you’ve got money of your own, but you call, okay? And if my daughter the religious fanatic tries to give you a hard time, you tell me. Okay?”

  “Oh, Phyllis, thank you,” I said gratefully. “I was afraid for a minute that you wouldn’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand? You two got married by a rabbi in the sight of God and the family. Brian should know better. He is a disgrace. And I’ll tell him that when he calls.” She slammed down the phone. I hung up more gently.

  “Well?” Patricia asked.

  “Thank God I went with a rabbi instead of a priest,” I said.

  MarshaMarsha nodded. I noticed that sometime during my crying spell, she had acquired a martini. She patted my hand again. “Everything happens for a reason, honey. Honest. You may not know what the reasons are, but it will all become clear.”

  Patricia, who does not necessarily hold to the Life-Is-A-Cosmic-Plan idea, rolled her eyes. “Whatever. But I know who you should call next. David West.”

  I squinted at her. “Who’s David West?”

  “My divorce lawyer. Believe me, with all the business I give him, he’ll probably take on your case pro-bono.” Patricia just finished up with husband #3. I think the reason she has always kept her maiden name is that she values economy of motion, and who wants to keep filling out all those name-change forms?

  I nodded. Now, you may be asking why, in such a time of stress, I didn’t do what every other woman would immediately do, which is call my mother. Sadly, the wonderful and ever-supportive Evelyn Quincy passed many years ago, shortly after the death of her beloved husband, Jerry. Now, I do have a sister, who, being older, might have been a good substitute, but Grace and I are not really that close. She lives on a commune in Oregon. She’s lived there since she ran away from home in 1976 with a hash-smoking sitar player named Shadow. She’s a grandmother now, and Shadow makes hand-made musical instruments that sell for several thousands of dollars, but she is still just a little bit flakey, and has never forgiven me for not giving up Nestle Crunch Bars years ago, when there was a big to-do over something, I forget what, but it really got under her skin and I just shrugged it off and kept on eating chocolate.

  Just then, there was a rattle at the back door. Somebody was turning the doorknob. I flew out of my chair and threw open the door, shrieking, “Brian,” but it was not Brian. It was Ben Cutler, my plumber. He stopped smiling as I dissolved into tears again.

  “Mona? What’s wrong?” Ah, Ben. He’s tall, maybe, 6’2”. He’s almost 40, but in great shape, with broad shoulders and amazingly sexy arms, muscular, you know, from throwing all those toilets around. He’s got very dark, straight hair and bright blue eyes and a dimple you could get lost in. In a work shirt and tool belt, he stops traffic.

  “Brian’s gone,” I wailed, and threw my arms around his neck, sobbing some more. He put his arms around me, very nicely too, and patted me on the back.

  She could feel the heat of his hands through the sea-green silk of her bodice, and the long, hard length of him as his arms tightened, drawing her closer, his lips in her hair. Her heart was pounding, and she could feel the rush of blood as she lifted her mouth to his.

  “There, there,” he murmured, or something equally ineffective. We stood like that for a few seconds, then he, as I would have written, gently disengaged himself from my desperate grasp.

  He looked down at me sternly. “Take a deep breath, Mona.”

  I did, several times, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Ideally, he would have handed me a starched, white handkerchief, smelling faintly of tobacco, musky sweat and old whiskey, or, better yet, wiped my eyes for me, but men don’t carry handkerchiefs anymore, whiskey-smelling or otherwise.

  “Where did he go?” Ben asked.

  “To Dominique’s. With all his clothes.”

  Ben looked around. He knew both Patricia and MarshaMarsha, of course, not just because he’s spent so much time at my house, but because I have recommended him to all my friends and he has seen the insides of their bathrooms as well.

  Patricia folded her arms across her breasts. “It’s true, Ben. The stinker took a powder. We were just discussing lawyers.”

  Ben frowned, then his eyes lit on the martini pitcher. “Any extra?” he asked. Patricia, a born hostess even if it’s not her house, jumped to the task of finding another glass and cracking open a new jar of olives.

  Now, before you get the wrong idea, Ben does not usually waltz into my kitchen and settle in for a cocktail. But between my hysteria and Patricia’s pronouncement, he probably figured it was a good move.

  Ben steered me to my chair and pushed me back down. Gently but firmly. His hands were on his hips and his head was tilted slightly to the side. The sunlight was behind him, casting his handsome, rugged features into dark relief…wait. Perhaps I’m getting a bit off the track. He looked down at me, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Are you telling me that Brian has left? Really?”

  All three of us nodded. MarshaMarsha, I noticed, was sitting up a little straighter and was slowly caressing the long, smooth stem of her martini glass.

  “I can’t believe it,” Ben continued. I gazed up at him, waiting for his next words of comfort, but Patricia handed him a martini, momentarily distracting him. He took a sip, nodded his approval, and drank some more. “This is terrible, Mona. Terrible. Why any man in his right mind would leave a woman like you is beyond all belief.”

  If I had been on my third martini, instead of my second, I very well might have thrown myself at his feet in gratitude, not to mention a teeny bit of lust. As it was, I just nodded and tried to look brave and plucky.

  Ben appeared to be thinking about something. He was frowning slightly, sipping slowly, and he finally nodded.

  “You need a good lawyer,” he said at last. “First thing. My last wife had a great one. Cleaned me out.”

  MarshaMarsha leaned forward. “Oh, you’re divorced, Ben? I never knew that.”

  “Oh, yeah. About four years now.” He was running his tongue over his lips, relishing the memory, or perhaps going for that last bit of martini, and all three of us took in a long, collective breath.

  He set down his empty glass. “I came over about the tub. But I’ll come back. This must be awful for you.”

  Awful? Why was he saying awful? Sitting
there, looking up at him, I was having a lovely time. I realized, with a jolt, that I had never been around Ben while under the influence of two Carmichael Martinis before, and that my judgment was, to say the least, severely impaired. Brian had left. I was despondent. I had no right to be smiling up at my plumber.

  “It’s okay, Ben,” I said at last. “You’d better go up. I want things around here to be as normal as possible for the girls.”

  Ben nodded and headed up the back staircase. Patricia slumped slightly against the freezer as he left.

  “Has he always looked that good?” she asked.

  MarshaMarsha nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

  “God,” Patricia muttered. “Why did I never notice?”

  “You were probably married last time you saw him,” I said. “And sober.”

  “I’m sober now, darling, not to worry. You’re slurring a bit, though. Speaking of the girls, how are you going to tell them?”

  “He wanted us to do it together,” I told her. “Miserable bastard.” I gazed into my empty glass and felt a new swell of misery. “They’re going to be so upset. They love their Daddy.”

  MarshaMarsha pushed her empty glass toward Patricia with significant force. “Your daughters will be fine. They’re really very good kids.”

  “Miranda will say it’s my fault,” I said in a muffled voice.

  Patricia tut-tutted as she played with the ice. “Darling, be reasonable. How can she possibly blame you for this?”

  “She’ll find a way. Remember last January, when the blizzard closed down the roads and she couldn’t get to the Green Day Concert? That was my fault. And it was my fault when the cat coughed up a hairball on her dress for the Freshman Formal last year.” I sank my head back down on the table. “She blamed me when Heath Ledger died.”

  “Mona, when things are the worst, people rise above. I bet your daughters will surprise you,” MarshaMarsha said. I heard Patricia make a noise that, in another, less genteel person, might have been called a snort. Patricia has no children, and while she takes a keen interest on all her friends’ offspring, she harbors no delusions about the human spirit, especially the human spirit as found in teen-aged girls.