What Nora Knew

by Yellin, Linda

  “It’s so easy for men,” Kristine said, switching feet.

  “Way too easy,” Angela said. “Did that woman make you want him back?”

  “He hadn’t gone anywhere yet.”

  “Dumping a guy’s like putting an item back on the sale table at Saks,” Angela said. “As soon as somebody else picks it up, you want it.” Angela’s pedicure lady said something to my pedicure lady and the three women laughed. “You should find some guy and have wild sex tonight.”

  “Who? Her?” Kristine said.

  “Who? Me?” I said.

  “You need a new affair to forget your old affair,” Angela said.

  “Russell wasn’t an affair. He was Russell.”

  “When’s the last time you hooked up just for fun?” Kristine asked.

  I reflected, then said, “I once had this crazy thing with a customer I met while working at Hertz. He’d leave dirty messages on my voice mail.”

  “What kind of car did he rent?” Angela asked.

  “A convertible. His messages said things like ‘I want you top down’ and ‘turbocharge my pop-off valve.’ ”

  “And that turned you on?” Kristine said.

  “No. But the convertible did. I was young and he was Hertz Gold.”

  This led to Angela’s and Kristine’s offering up examples of their own wild affairs. To inspire me.

  “A docent at the Guggenheim,” Kristine said.

  “A divinity student!” Angela said.

  “The floor manager in glassware and fine china.”

  “This supercute meteorologist from Terre Haute. We met at a convention.” Angela’s cheeks pinked.

  “Married?” I said.

  She shrugged. “Oh, well.”

  “Uncle Freddy.” Kristine smiled. “Only he wasn’t really my uncle.”

  I didn’t want wild affairs. I didn’t want tawdry affairs. I didn’t want slapdash, superficial, rash, foolish, any affairs. I wanted to feel cherished. I wanted to feel adored. I wanted someone to look at me as if the sun and moon set on me or rose on me or whatever it is you want planets to do when someone thanks their lucky stars for you. I wanted someone to get me and then love what he got. Most of all, I wanted to believe, re-believe, that was possible.

  “You’ll meet someone,” Angela said. “Love is in the air.”

  “And ragweed,” I said. “Spores. Pollen. There’s all sorts of grief out there.”

  18

  Emily Lawler was standing in my cubicle. She was tanned, and dressed in a flouncy, lavender skirt with a lavender floral top. “Want to see my vacation photos?” she asked.

  Emily was not a flouncy, lavender kind of girl. I was immediately suspicious. Of what, I didn’t know, but something was strange. “I’m holding out for the slide show,” I said.

  “A lot happened.”

  “A lot happened here. Nobody disturbed me.”

  “You’d miss me, you know, if I weren’t here.” She sat down in my guest chair.

  “I’ve already tested that theory. I survived.”

  “I did a fabulous interview for my column last night.” If it’s possible to convey smugness in the pronunciation of one word, that’s what Emily did when she said column. “Emily Literati,” she added, in case I didn’t know just which column she meant. She stretched out her legs, crossed her ankles, and sat back with her head resting in her hands, elbows up.

  “Anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to drop by uninvited?”

  “One of my best columns ever,” she said.

  “Thanks for sharing. And thanks for bragging.”

  “Cameron Duncan? I believe you were once on a panel together.” She sat up straight, folded her arms across her chest. “Of course, you weren’t supposed to be on a panel together. He was pretty amused when I told him what happened. Y’know, that thing about you stealing my appearance.”

  “Cameron’s easily amused.”

  “His new book sounds amazing. Mike Bing’s girlfriend won’t be killed off. Mike’s ready for commitment. Like in Spenser novels, Spenser’s psychiatrist girlfriend.”

  “So now Cameron’s copying Robert Parker?”

  “It’s an homage.”

  “And Cameron’s cool with you telling the ending of his book, that the girlfriend lives; it’s okay if you blab that news?”

  “Oh, no. That’s completely confidential. I’m not revealing a thing.”

  “You’re off to a good start.”

  “We shared many secrets.”

  “You and Cameron? Secrets?”

  Emily smiled, looking heavenward like that was where she hid her secrets. Miss Innocent, Miss Smug. “He’s not conventionally handsome, but I think he’s really handsome, don’t you? And what self-effacing charm.” I’d never noticed him being self-effacing. I thought of him as cocky and presumptuous. “We talked for what seemed like hours,” Emily said. “About his growing up in the Midwest, how it affected his values; what it’s like for a guy to have all those sisters; my column and how much he liked writing his column when he wrote for Ellery Queen. We share a bond you couldn’t understand.”

  “A columnists’ bond?”

  “He’s so sensitive. You should have heard him—not that you would have been there—he was talking about love and romance, and old expectations that get in the way of love. How many men think about these things? He said cynicism’s self-protection, a defense mechanism used by cowards who give up on love because they’re afraid love’s given up on them. Mike Bing’s new girlfriend will fall so in love with him that she’ll stop being a cynic.”

  “And because of that, she deserves to live?”

  “Because of that she gets to be an ongoing character.”

  “Well, thanks for the update.” I looked at my watch. “Gee! Check out the time! And I have so much to do! I wish we could gab longer about your great night last night, but I’m swamped.”

  “Have it your way,” flouncy, lavender Emily said, standing up. “Cameron is so sweet. He made me an origami flower out of a napkin. Do you want to see it?”

  I said, “Let me just imagine it.”

  * * *

  A week later, Deidre had me enlisting to be a Rockette. Her ideas were becoming diabolical. I couldn’t wait for her to assign “I Was a Crack Addict” or “I Was Buried Alive.” This latest one involved something called the Rockettes Experience—two hours of my learning to high-kick in a chorus line. It’s how the Rockettes keep themselves employed until Christmas.

  Dancing is not my sport. Some people are naturals. My sister Lisa, for instance. Any type of music you pop on a stereo and her body can’t help but react; she starts tapping her toes, swinging her hips, snapping her fingers. Within minutes, she knows all the steps to a rumba, the latest moves for hip-hop. If we were passing a fire station with a radio playing some frolicky music, I’m sure she’d do a pole dance. Whatever family DNA existed in the dance-talent gene pool, Lisa snatched up all the goodies. Jocelyn and I, we’re sideliners.

  In seventh-grade dance class, boys wanted to dance with me because I’d developed early and ballroom dancing was a good excuse for a twelve-year-old boy to accidently smash against the budding breasts of a twelve-year-old girl; perhaps the first and only time I was truly popular. But after I trampled Artie Brodsky’s feet box-stepping and severely damaged Allan Greagsbey’s instep during a jitterbug (don’t ask me why they were still teaching the jitterbug in 1984; George Orwell couldn’t predict the Roslyn public school system would still be teaching the jitterbug in 1984), having established myself as a bona fide klutz, even the prepubescent boys decided my boobs weren’t worth it. My relationship with dancing became one of avoidance. School party? That was me in the parking lot, making out with my date to avoid dancing with my date. Live-band bar mitzvah? Meet me at the sweets table; I’ll be hanging out there.

  I even tried ducking out of my own wedding dance. But as luck would have it, Evan considered himself a regular Arthur Murray. If Evan had married Lisa, the two of them co
uld have spawned a superstrain of miniature Michael Jacksons and Twyla Tharps. I should have tossed my wedding veil over my sister’s face and made her go onto that dance floor, because no way was Evan going to miss his shot at showing off his footwork to all his litigator buddies. Unfortunately he was dragging along a white-laced lummox. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot! Some days I think the marriage headed downhill right after the band started “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I made the mistake of telling Deirdre that story one day, how my own flesh and blood booed me off the dance floor, tossing cocktail shrimp and lamb chops at me until I got out of Evan’s way and let him finish with his big one-knee slide into the cello player. Maybe I’m not remembering the details exactly right, but Deirdre thought there might be some humor opportunities in my learning to be a Rockette, and now I was sitting in my cubicle trying to register online.

  Turns out Rockette experiences were in big demand, sold-out a month in advance with only one date still available, probably because it was a totally undesirable date, the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. I’d be dancing with out-of-towners. And hopefully the website didn’t really mean that part about the class’s only being offered to advanced dancers trained in tap, jazz, and ballet. I signed up anyway. By the time I got there, they’d already have my money; it would be too late to send me to the principal’s office or wherever Rockette students are sent when caught lying.

  About then’s when I stopped and felt a wave of Russell Withdrawal. If I threw out my back or kicked myself in the face, I couldn’t call Russell. Hi! Remember me! We used to date up until two weeks ago when I decided I could do better than you, which I probably can’t, but I was wondering if you’d unfurl my spine? I was more likely to die of humiliation than die die in a dance class, but I missed the comfort of having my own personal medical-type person at my disposal.

  I also missed walls. Emily’s head appeared. “Everyone loves my Cameron Duncan interview,” she said. “Have you read it?” She was wearing snowman earrings.

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “Just everyone.”

  “What’s with the Frosty the Snowman baubles?”

  “A gift from Rory.”

  “Summer sale?”

  I asked if she’d read my skydiving piece.

  “I’d love to, but I’m so busy with everyone calling to compliment my piece.” On cue, I heard her office phone ring. She must have been dialing herself on her cell phone. “See what I mean!” She slipped out of view.

  I hadn’t spoken to Cameron since he showed up behind my back at Café Lalo. If you’ve ever given yourself a secret writing project, essays you haven’t shown to any other human on earth, the writing you consider your real writing, reflective of the real you, and then you finally, in a moment of insane weakness, let a smooth-talking author talk you into sending those essays to his personal e-mail and you don’t hear anything back, you’re going to be pissed. At him for starters. But even more at yourself.

  I pulled up Emily’s interview on my computer and read the opening sentence: Last week I hung out with my friend author Cameron Duncan. Already I wanted to barf. I heard Emily squealing, “Really? You love it!” I skimmed through the interview. I wanted to finish reading it before she finished her phone call so she wouldn’t catch me reading it. Emily was laughing. “Honest? The best interview ever!” Unless her caller had some serious hearing problems, she was raising her voice for my benefit.

  The interview had nothing to do with Cameron the writer. Emily’s questions focused on sensitive, understanding Cameron, beloved by women readers who wanted to mother him or ravage him. Lay it on thick, why don’t you, Emily.

  Men with limited experience with women—perhaps they married their high school sweetheart or originally studied for the priesthood—they are the men who later have affairs; they feel like they’ve never lived. But if you’ve been privileged to know many women, you’ll gain self-knowledge about what you want and who that special someone needs to be. After that, recognition comes swiftly. Almost instantaneously. There’s only one thing left to do.

  I asked him, “What’s that, Cameron?”

  He said, “You need to kiss her.”

  “Oh my God, I could kiss you!” I heard Emily saying. “Thank you, Cameron! You’ve changed my life!”

  I clicked off the article. Interesting, maybe. Life changing? I think not, Emily Lawler.

  My phone rang. Outside call, the ID window said, about as useless a piece of information as you can get. Inside call in our office means someone standing up and calling across the cubicles. I picked up the receiver, said hello. My first few months at EyeSpy I’d answer the phone with Molly Hallberg! Reporter! or, when I was in the mood and had extra time, Molly Hallberg! Entertainment reporter for online newsmagazine EyeSpy! But after my mother complained and Kristine guffawed a few times, I just went with Hello, Molly Hallberg.

  “Hello, Molly Hallberg,” the caller said. “Exemplary skydiving piece. Made me want to walk up to a third floor.”

  What was this guy doing? Working his way through our cubicle jungle? Wait until he found out a guy named Keith came next. “Hello, Cameron,” I said. “Thank you for reading my article.” I wished I felt as cool and professional as I tried to sound. I wanted to ask him about my essays while at the same time I wanted to tell him he was a jerk.

  “I was thinking about our coffee date,” he said.

  “Coffee date? That wasn’t a coffee date, that was a coffee run-in.”

  “What time can you run into me again? You owe me a lunch.”

  “I don’t remember it quite that way. Aren’t you too busy getting interviewed?”

  “Oh, did you read Emily’s piece?”

  “Is there a pop quiz?”

  “Let’s get back to us.”

  “Us?”

  “Your essays.”

  “Oh. My essays.”

  If anyone ever tells you they want feedback on their writing, substitute the word feedback with praise. No writer wants feedback. Asking for feedback is an invitation for constructive criticism or, worse, plain old criticism. My essays were still in my computer; they couldn’t seem to get any further than that, but I had nightmares of the New York Times reviewing my book, nightmares that usually ended with my flying to Brazil for plastic surgery to change my identity.

  Mind-boggling mindlessness!

  Insomniacs rejoice!

  Trees died to print this shit?

  Not meant for human consumption.

  If Mr. Simon and Mr. Schuster were alive today—they’d wish they were dead.

  The Rockettes were high-kicking on my computer screen. What did they care? Their reviews were always great.

  “Can’t we talk now?” I said. “What’s wrong with over the phone?”

  “Lunch is better.”

  “Okay. A business lunch,” I said. “Just for feedback.” I meant praise.

  “Our place?”

  “We have a place?”

  “Cafe Lalo.”

  “That’s not our place and I’m no longer hanging out in that neighborhood.”

  “Boyfriend trouble?”

  “A short business lunch. That’s it.”

  “I promised to stop in the Barnes and Noble on Eighty-Second Street Saturday afternoon,” he said. “To sign books.”

  “Your books? Or just anyone’s?”

  “Meet me there at noon?”

  I agreed. In a loud voice. Loud enough to be heard over the wall. “Yes! Looking forward to seeing you, Cameron!”

  19

  Saturday, Angela was sitting on my bedroom chair, tweeting for her grocery-store client and eating a Twinkie for breakfast. She was wearing pajama bottoms and a tank top, her hair uncombed. Charlie hadn’t slept over the night before or she’d be in lingerie. “How’s this sound?” she asked, reading off her telephone screen. “ ‘Flo sez slice onions under cold water to avoid tears. Vidalias now 2.29 per lb.’ ”

  “Compelling.” I was debating between flats or sandals
for my lunch with Cameron. Flats said business. Sandals said I don’t want you thinking I thought about this too much.

  Angela began tapping again. “Flo’s also got a good one for burgers, how you shouldn’t put the grilled ones on the same plate you use for the raw meat, but I haven’t cut that one down to one hundred and forty characters yet.”

  “I have faith in you. Does this work?” I held up a straw handbag. “Or this one?” Held up a canvas handbag.

  “You’re thinking about this too much,” Angela said. She pointed to the canvas one. “Looks more bookstore-ish.”

  “Fine. With the flats.”

  “Why’d you never show me your essays?” she asked.

  “You’d tweet them.”

  “Not unless they’re short.”

  I sat down on the bed. “He made me show them to him.”

  “You like this man.” Angela sounded both accusatory and pleased.

  “He’s trouble,” I said.

  “Perfect! Sleep with him.”

  “Sex doesn’t help me get over a man. Sex makes me think I love men I don’t. He’s a congenital dater.”

  “Mike Bing’s not.”

  “Angela, Mike Bing is not real.”

  “Let’s see what he’s up to,” she said, tapping. “Ten thousand followers are standing by.” She made a face. “Oh.”

  “Oh?” I hated her oh-face.

  His tweet said, Off to lunchtime obligation. Hoping somebody’s ego can handle it. Mike Bing says brace yourself. Could be uncomfortable.

  * * *

  He was late. Not technically late, but I arrived early. I waited for him at the crime table, reading the cover copy on Sarah Greer’s book. When he came hurrying up to me, he apologized, explained he’d stopped in to say hello to the manager. “She’s a friend,” he said.

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “She’s young. Enthused. Very supportive.”

  My idea of a bookstore manager is someone who walks around in a three-piece suit with a boutonniere, lovingly straightening books and making recommendations to little old ladies. “Did you ask your supportive, young friend why your books aren’t on the crime table?”

  “They’re upstairs on their own table.”