What Nora Knew

by Yellin, Linda

  “Column? You’ve got a column?”

  He smiled his dopey, crooked smile, shook his head like Isn’t life funny? “We discussed it a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “She wants to announce it when she’s back from her vacation and start after Labor Day. Something edgy, daring; she sees it as an advertisable proposition. Wants to name it GuyEye.”

  “GuyEye? What guy? You’re the guy? Are you stealing my column?” Cameron looked hurt and confused, but not as hurt and confused as I felt. “You don’t need a column! You have your novels. That’s my column!”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “This is not me joking. You stole my column! This—this—” I flailed my arm in the direction of the pier, the movie screen, the Hudson River, and all of New Jersey. “This is you being you making an idiot out of me! How could I buy into all this you-me-beneath-the-stars crap? You’re a salesman. And a thief! Half the things you say or write about you’ve stolen, so why should I be surprised you’d steal my idea? My column. Or do you consider this a goddamn homage? ‘Don’t get upset, Molly. Isn’t it flattering when I rip off your concept, Molly! Nobody else complains to the beloved Cameron Duncan. Why should you, Molly?’ ”

  By now, other people were watching.

  I snatched Cameron’s baseball cap off my head and flung it out into the Hudson. Well, I thought I flung it. It landed three feet from the pilings and floated back toward the pier.

  Cameron was gripping the railing with both hands, gaping down at the water. I don’t know if he looked unnerved from the height or unnerved by his hat’s sinking to its death.

  “Thanks for the movie,” I said. “Enjoy your grand gesture!”

  I stormed off, leaving him standing there alone, looking like What the hell did I say?

  22

  Deirdre wasn’t halfway out the building and off to vacation before the headphones were off and the music cranked up. By the time her elevator hit the lobby floor, the photo editor and the traffic coordinator were conducting chair races in the aisles, spinning around the cubicles doing wheelies, while the interactive designers placed bets. Water guns appeared from nowhere, squirting over the walls in surprise attacks. All inner-office correspondence was conducted via paper airplanes. The EyeSpy employees were busting out like third graders throwing erasers at the substitute schoolteacher. Only there was no substitute teacher. Deirdre was so hands-on she’d never leave her responsibilities in anyone else’s hands. Instead, she trusted us.

  I was the first to whip out the paper cups, contributing cheap vodka to the cheap wine, gin, and tequila that made up the office makeshift bar. I was so crazy-mad upset about Deirdre giving Cameron my column idea that I couldn’t see straight. I was so drunk, I couldn’t see straight.

  However, there was one happy sight in my blurred vision: Emily was packing up her cubicle. By day three of Deirdre’s vacation, around the time my headache cleared, Emily had made real progress with mowing through her hoard. “Free books, everyone!” she called out.

  “It’s my mother’s birthday next week,” Santiago the videoconference engineer said. “What have you got?”

  I could hear Emily and Santiago sorting through possibilities. “Does she bake? Does she have low-self-esteem issues? Is she interested in Henry Kissinger?”

  “About time you cleared off that floor,” I called over the wall. “Your space has been an ongoing fire hazard!”

  “Well, I’m off to be with my hunka-hunka burning love,” she called back. “If this joint burns down, don’t bother sending a postcard!”

  Emily’s jubilant disposition was an affront to my miserable one. How was she able to have such faith in her Rory that she could toss her entire life into the air?

  Somebody tossed a paper airplane into my office. It landed on the floor behind me so I didn’t see the pilot. I picked up the plane and read the note scribbled on the wing: You okay? I looked up to see Keith standing in my doorway. “May I?” He pointed to my chair.

  “Sure.”

  He sat. Cracked a few knuckles. Leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. If he were gray-haired and thirty years older, he’d look like a grandfather about to tell a bedtime story. “You’re not you the past week,” he said.

  I looked over both of my shoulders to see what other me might be standing there and turned back to Keith. “Who am I usually?”

  “Somebody with zest,” he said. “You’ve got no zest.”

  “I’m zestless?” I didn’t realize I had zest, so how could I lose it? “I’m fine. I’m really fine, Keith. Thanks for your concern.”

  “You have friends here. Other friends besides Emily. Try not to be so distraught about her leaving.” I didn’t say a word. There were no words. “And if you’ve got man problems, you can talk with me anytime. My wife has a nice cousin in Westchester if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “A cousin in Westchester. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Not that he’d want to meet a woman without zest, but I’m sure you’ll snap back.”

  “Thanks, Keith, I’m glad we had this talk.”

  He stood up, reached over, and patted me on the head, then asked, “Did you bring any vodka today? We’re running low.”

  “I’ll pick some up at lunchtime.”

  Keith walked out as I heard Emily saying, “Woo-hoo! Y’know, I am gonna miss this place!”

  * * *

  When Emily wasn’t handing out books, she was planning her good-bye party, making suggestions for where it should be held, hinting what she’d like as a good-bye gift, and bemoaning that Deirdre was on vacation and nobody had thought to ask for a contribution to the gift fund before she left.

  “Why do we have to go to all this fuss if you’ll still be reviewing books and writing your column?” I asked, raising my voice. I was at my computer researching a piece on New York pretzel carts.

  “Who needs a stapler?” Emily called out. “You can’t have it until Friday, but first come first serve!” She popped up over my wall.

  “I do not need your stapler,” I told her. “You are dismissed.”

  “I have some books for you.”

  “Thank you, Emily Literati, but I’ve got enough to read.”

  She used two hands to hold up a book, making it dance along our ledge. “How’s this?” I read the title: He’s Just Not That Into You. Emily replaced it with a dancing Anger Management for Dummies. She laughed. “Just kidding!” she said. “Except about the dummy part. You’re not as smart as you think.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She disappeared. The photo editor, pushed by an art director, whipped past my cubicle on an office chair. Cocktail hour was about to start.

  A pink-covered paperback came tumbling over the wall. Heartburn. By Nora Ephron. Followed by Emily’s paper rose.

  * * *

  Despite my numerous invitations (zero), I chose to spend the weekend holed up in my apartment feeling sorry for myself. So far, this was one hell of a summer. I’d broken up with my boyfriend. Liked a guy I shouldn’t have liked. Lost a column I never had in the first place. And my nemesis Emily had squeezed fifty bucks out of me—along with everyone else at the office—for her farewell drinks and a new silk blouse. Who even wears silk blouses at a ski resort? Why didn’t she ask for a down vest?

  Her party wasn’t half-bad, though a bit redundant after a week of debauchery in Deirdre’s absence. I hugged Emily good-bye. She hugged me good-bye. Like one of those scenes in the movies where mortal enemies find common ground just as it’s too late.

  “We can skype,” I said to Emily.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Why?”

  Her parting words to me were “You’re a blind fool, Molly Hallberg.”

  I didn’t ask her to elucidate, and it was too late to get my $50 back.

  On Monday I’d tell Deirdre how mad—no, I’d say disappointed—I was about the column. Saying mad could get me
fired, a scenario I hoped to avoid until I found a new job. Maybe I’d be a Rockette. My class was only two weeks away. Right in time to audition for the Christmas show. Who didn’t love Rockettes? And as a Rockette, I might even meet a new boyfriend. I heard Santa Claus is nice.

  I was thumbing through the TV guide, planning my weekend activities, when Angela dropped by before leaving for the Catskills with her swim coach. She suggested maybe I should go back to SpeedLove, only for real this time, as me, instead of undercover as Jeri Jacobs, and meet someone good. “I’d meet the same guys Jeri Jacobs met,” I said. “You got the one good one.”

  Kristine called Saturday afternoon while on break at Bloomingdale’s. She groaned into the telephone. “The mattress salesgirl is dating a chiropractor.”

  I was in my bathroom balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder and polishing my toenails, one foot up against the ledge of the tub. An accident victim waiting to happen. “How did you come upon this news flash?” I asked.

  “She’s telling everyone. I think she’s having it printed in Sunday’s flyers.”

  “And why’d you feel compelled to tell me this?”

  “Closure,” she said. “I thought you’d like closure.”

  “I already had closure. Now I have to think about it some more.”

  After we hung up, I thought about Russell long enough to realize I no longer thought about Russell. That made me feel guilty. Didn’t he deserve a mourning period? Apparently I didn’t either. I hoped he and his mattress saleslady would be happy together. She could hand out his business cards. He could tell clients their backs needed a firmer mattress and hand out her business cards. Russell could borrow her Bloomingdale’s discount. It sounded like a good match. I moved on from there to feeling sorry for myself.

  Self-pity’s actually an excellent way to pass the time. You don’t have to dress for the occasion. Makeup’s not required. Ice cream’s often involved. Nobody demands you hold up your end of a conversation. The only conversations you have are with yourself.

  You realize you’re turning forty in two months, don’t you?

  Oh, God, I’m turning forty.

  You don’t like to think about it but it’s hanging there like a big casaba melon about to drop on your head. Single in your thirties? People cut you some slack, maybe you’re concentrating on your career. Traveling the world. Getting a grad degree. Single after forty? They start to wonder.

  I’m not single. I’m divorced.

  Semantics. Either way, you’re alone. You’ve turned into a cynic. You stopped believing in love. You’ve been using your divorce as an excuse for five years to choose men you don’t care about so you don’t care if they leave. What’s with that?

  Unfair! Russell and I had some nice moments together.

  We’re aiming higher than nice moments. How about someone who gets you? Makes you sparkle? Feel challenged, alive, adored? Brings some romance into your life! How about some magic?

  I know who you’re talking about and I can’t trust him.

  You admit you felt magic?

  Yes. Maybe. Okay. Maybe magic.

  We don’t decide to trust. We decide not to be afraid. Those movies you love—and while we’re at it, you can’t love Nora Ephron’s movies and be a good cynic—in every one, Meg Ryan trusts something within herself. How else does she get on that plane to Seattle or get past Tom Hanks ruining her bookstore? How else does she marry Billy Crystal? She gets her happy ending because she tries something different and ends up with someone she didn’t imagine.

  Well, Tom Hanks wasn’t a liar. He never stole Meg’s idea for a column.

  Fine. Good luck curling up with your column. Hopefully your indignation will keep you warm at night.

  * * *

  I spent Saturday doing all the things you tell yourself you’ll do if only you had time to do them. I dropped off a pair of heels needing new heels. That was it. For weeks I’d been complaining I had way too many errands to catch up on, and they boiled down to ten minutes at the shoe repair. I organized my sock drawer by color. Then reorganized it alphabetically. Checked expiration dates in my medicine cabinet. Checked expiration dates in my fridge. Half my life had expired. Forty, forty, I kept thinking. I’m turning forty. My mother wanted to throw me a party. My father said he’d barbecue. They’d suggested a party while I was still dating Russell and could guarantee I’d have a date. I’d said, sure, okay, I wouldn’t mind a party. But a party when you bring a boyfriend is one thing. A fortieth birthday party with only relatives is pitiful. Just imagining that party made me sad. Which led to laundry.

  There’s nothing like spending a Saturday night in a laundry room to underline you’ve screwed up your love life. I suppose some people have actually fallen in love in laundry rooms. Their eyes meet across a crowded folding table and there it is. Recognition. Simpatico. You’re a mess? I’m a mess! We’re in love. I was embarrassed for Dennis the doorman to see me in the laundry room on a Saturday night. We have a security camera our doormen can watch from the lobby. So far it’s led to the discovery that the man in 5B steals women’s panties and the woman in 7A snatched another neighbor’s Tide. But otherwise it just makes you self-conscious that your doorman’s watching you do laundry.

  I hunted down quarters, picked a book, stuffed my soap and dryer sheets into my laundry bag, and dragged it down the hall into the elevator and to the basement. I normally don’t drag, I carry, but I was in a draggy mood. To my surprise, Lacey and Kevin Gallo were downstairs, the two of them holding hands while watching the spin cycle on their dryer, like new parents gazing into a nursery ward. We greeted each other.

  “Hello, Lacey.”

  “Hello, Molly.”

  “Hello, Kevin.”

  “Hello, Molly.”

  “Kevin and I are moving out,” Lacey said.

  “You just moved in.”

  “The walls in this building are too thin. We can hear your television at night.”

  I didn’t point out that they were two-way walls. Not only could I not keep a boyfriend, I was driving away neighbors. Their dryer buzzer went off. Lacey opened the door and removed some of the most pornographic underwear I’ve ever seen. I wanted to swallow detergent.

  At this point a judgmental outsider might note that I had no business pitying myself, that I was the one who broke up with Russell; I was the one who threw Cameron’s baseball cap in the Hudson; I was the one who married that no-goodnik Evan Naboshek in the first place. But it wasn’t my past decisions that were depressing me; it was the fear that I’d continue to make lousy choices in the future. What sign from on high did I have that I’d ever figure love out? What would it take to feel hopeful and optimistic, bullish instead of foolish? Hopeful people get on a standing-room-only bus and look around for an open seat. Hopeful people step on a bathroom scale and say it’s water weight. Hopeful people don’t carry umbrellas just in case or buy life insurance. Was I willing to go through the rest of my life not feeling anything, even if all I ever felt was hopeless hope?

  Lacey and Kevin left with the x-rated undies. I started two washers—thankful that I didn’t have to compete for their availability. I settled into one of two orange plastic chairs, waved hello to the security camera, and picked up Heartburn. That same judgmental outsider might question why I’d want to sit in a laundry room rather than return to the comfort of my own apartment. Normally, I do that. But I’m hideous at timing laundry. I’m always zipping back downstairs and discovering there’s still fifteen minutes left on the washer, and I end up standing there twiddling my thumbs. Or I arrive late and somebody else has pulled my wet clothes out of the washer, not because that somebody else is a thoughtful and considerate neighbor, but because the somebody pounced on the washer as soon as the buzzer went off. Leaving my clothes in a big soggy heap.

  As long as nobody was around to force me into being sociable when I preferred being miserable, I’d sit and read and wait for my laundry and spare myself the stress of running up and down. I have
long been an advocate of staying home with a good book over going out with a bad date. Not that any men, good or bad, had asked me for a date that night, but if one had, he would have found it impossible to compete with Nora Ephron. The washer tubs filled with water while a seven-months-pregnant Nora took off for her father’s apartment in New York after learning her husband in Washington, DC, was having an affair. She called herself Rachel in her novel and called her husband Mark, but everyone knew the story was true and whom she meant. Suds foamed, the washing machines did that agitator thing that makes them shake and ruin brassieres, and Rachel went to group therapy, used a kreplach joke as a metaphor, and wove in recipes for key lime pie and bacon hash. A robber followed her off the subway and robbed her therapy group at gunpoint. I held up the book toward the security camera and pointed at it for Dennis’s sake. The way my chair was angled, I was afraid he wouldn’t see I was reading, that he’d think I was some madwoman sitting alone in the laundry room throwing my head back in laughter while watching towels spin.

  I’d read the novel before, of course, but that was years earlier, before I had my own husband cheat on me, my own heartburn. Evan liked to think he was a public figure, but unless you were suing someone for divorce, you probably never heard of him. A famous husband cheating on you, your second husband in a row to cheat on you, while you were pregnant yet; this was a woman who earned her right to distrust men, to not trust herself or her instincts. But she kept believing, hoping, doing her best. During the bleach cycle Mark showed up and brought Rachel and their two-year-old son back to Washington. I was so engrossed in the book that I forgot to add the softener sheets. I stopped the dryers, added the sheets, and went back to reading about Nora—I mean Rachel—discovering Mark and his lover were looking to buy a house, and Rachel smashing a pie in Mark’s face at a dinner party.

  Back upstairs in my apartment, I hung my T-shirts on the bathroom shower rod. I folded my towels and bed linens and left the rest so I could continue reading. Rachel went into labor, knowing her marriage was ending, asking Mark to talk about the birth of their first son, when Mark and she were both happy in the marriage; not just her. A vinaigrette recipe later, healing from her second cesarean, she left DC with her children and headed back to New York to start again. And she did. Of course she did. She had faith in love; she believed in romance; and she found the Nick to her Nora. A real-live Nick. A crime writer. Whose real name was Nick. You could sense her joy in When Harry Met Sally. You could see it in Sleepless in Seattle. You could feel it in You’ve Got Mail. Her dogged determination to create happy endings. We can get it right; we can surprise ourselves with our courage and heart. And when we do, hearts will light up on the sides of buildings, Jimmy Durante will burst into song, kisses will be shared in flower gardens, and we’ll dance to “Auld Lang Syne.” And with time, we’ll find ourselves sitting beside our beloved on a red velvet love seat, sharing memories of how we first fell in love.