by Anna King
“Then you shouldn’t.”
“You mean that?”
She nodded and tried to look enthusiastic for me. “We could brainstorm job possibilities. What about teaching?”
I tilted my head and stared blankly out at the dining room. “I don’t know about that.”
The waiter cleared our appetizers and poured more wine.
I said, “I can’t solve everything all at once here. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
Jen smiled. “My big news is that I’m planning to murder my mother, but this time I mean it.”
“You look like you mean it,” I said. Indeed, her lovely face had twisted like a pearl-pink seashell. “What’d she do this time?”
“Arranged a blind date, including the actual time and date, to some guy whose mother she played doubles with at the club.”
Oh, by the way, Jenny came from mega-wealth.
“You’re forty-eight years old! Hasn’t she figured out that she’s not allowed to do that?”
With a dry smile, she said, “Sure, except that I’m a forty-eight year old cripple. Big difference.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Exactly what my mother thinks.” She giggled, but didn’t make it to a full laugh.
Our entrees arrived and we took a moment to contemplate the display. Jenny had ordered me sea bass, which arrived looking like it was wrapped to go under the Christmas tree. I poked here and there, trying to figure out the best way to unwrap the damn thing. Finally, I plunged my fork in, watching awestruck as the whole edifice collapsed. Made me feel quite destructive.
I allowed Jenny time to taste, critique, and applaud her dinner before trying to return to the subject of the blind date. I didn’t think her mom should pull this kind of stunt, but I did sympathize with such a desperate mother-act. There had been moments in our long friendship when I’d dreamed of locking Jenny in a closet with one of the men who admired her. Leave ’em in there, with only bread, cheese, and champagne for twenty-four hours. Jenny was, as far as I knew, a virgin. This struck me as monstrous, though, obviously, it was none of my business. If I had to guess, and it would only be a guess, I’d say Jenny didn’t find it monstrous at all.
“I assume you nixed the plan?” I said finally.
“Do you remember at one of your weddings—”
I interrupted, “Very funny.”
“Yup, anyway, I think it was to husband number two, and my mother told you that you couldn’t wear that beautiful red gown you’d bought for the occasion—”
I nodded and sipped my wine, wishing I could forget.
“Because she said red was absolutely not appropriate for a bride, even if it was a second marriage?”
“Umm,” I muttered.
“And you actually listened to her, except with only two weeks until the wedding, you ended up with that hideous dress from Filene’s Basement—”
“You never told me it was hideous!”
“I did, actually.” She grinned, enjoying my discomfort. “If you recall, I looked awful, too. Mom made me wear that blue and white eyelet dress better suited for a five-year-old and, unbeknownst to me, she decorated my wheelchair for the trip down the aisle so I appeared to be riding some kind of Bride mobile, you know, like the Pope mobile?”
We started laughing louder and harder than is entirely correct behavior for a fancy restaurant. For the first time, I noticed that the dining room was filled with elegant people. I reached over and gripped Jen’s arm. “Stop it!”
“Moral of the story: it’s very difficult to say No to my mother.”
I thought, Especially if you don’t really want to.
“When’s the big date?”
“This Saturday.”
“I assume he knows you’re in a wheelchair, right?”
She opened her beautiful eyes wide. “I sure hope so.”
“Are you going out to dinner?”
Jen shook her head. “Nope, he’s got tickets to the ballet.”
“Wow.”
“He probably didn’t think about how sensitive I might feel at watching a bunch of beautiful ballerinas dancing on their long legs.”
I slapped her arm this time. “He’ll realize it right in the middle of the performance. If you peek at him, he’ll be blushing furiously.”
She put both hands over her mouth, trying to control the snorts of laughter.
“Well, maybe it won’t be too bad—what’s he do for a living?” I said.
“I’m not telling you.”
“What?”
She repeated, “I’m not telling you.”
“Oh shit, he’s a writer.”
“Bingo.”
“Would I know his name?”
“Nonfiction—a journalist—writes political stuff. His name is Tom Callahan.”
“Actually, I think we have the same publisher. What’s he look like?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Nice, at least in the book’s photo.”
I could see she was dismissing him already. “Maybe you should keep an open mind. Life can change when you least expect it.”
“Yeah, like my best friend, the almost-famous writer, is no longer a writer and instead I’m going to have to tell everyone she’s joining the Peace Corps.”
“Exactly.”
I drove my ancient Volvo station wagon home and parked it on the street in front of my house. I’d been imagining a book contract any week now and having the funds to buy a new car, something smaller for maneuvering in a city. Not that I really cared about cars.
Inside my house, where I’d purposely left a few lights on, I turned right into the bedroom. The mahogany four-poster bed that came with renting the house because the owners insisted that it couldn’t be taken out, dominated most of the room. A black chintz-covered wing chair was in the corner, with a small table and brass lamp next to it, and a tiny fireplace. The window on the front of the house was draped by full-length blue and white striped raw silk that I’d extended three feet on either side so that most of the wall now undulated from the open window’s night breeze.
I tore off my clothes, hung them up hurriedly in the wardrobe and tiny closet, then dashed down the basement stairs naked. I turned on the taps full-blast and started filling the bathtub. While I waited, I went to check my e-mail. To my surprise, there was an e-mail from someone I’d never heard of, whose name was Rabbitfish. Befuddled, I stared at the word, trying to figure out if it was really possible that I was receiving an e-mail from a person named Rabbitfish. I checked the subject line and saw that it read “Anon415467.” That’s when I realized it was an e-mail sent in answer to one of my Missed Connection’s posts. I had also posted a message about the jogger running in front of me the other day, who’d turned into the cemetery. So, Rabbitfish could be either The Sky or the jogger. Somehow, I just knew it was The Sky.
I don’t know how I knew. Guess I’m smart.
I sat in my chair without moving a muscle. I remembered that my post had asked how he’d known Isaac was a former husband. I thought, who was this guy? With such few words, mere strokes, he exuded insouciance. Why should that be appealing? How could dispassion seem so passionate?
I started typing.
Guess so.
I hit the send button. He would now have my name, Rose Marley, but I wasn’t worried about it. My phone number and address were unlisted. No harm could come to me through e-mail.
I lit the candles around my subterranean bathroom and prepared for a long soak, during which I would meditate. Five years earlier, it had seemed as though every magazine, newspaper, book, and person brought up the subject of how good meditation was for finding peace and tranquility. So, in one gigantic puddle-jump, I’d read the articles, bought the books, and begun to meditate. I actually liked it, although it had taken awhile to figure out my best method was in this old bathtub. Just before getting into the tub, I remembered to run back to my computer and tune into the internet Wiccan channel, which usually
broadcast the kind of hypnotic, rhythmic music that sounded like the earth’s heartbeat, or something equally bizarre. I recognized that I rather looked down on the Wiccan movement, not to mention its music, but hey, the beat worked for meditating.
Since I was at the computer, I clicked on the Mail icon, expecting no answer from Mr. Sky Rabbitfish. Yet there was. I swallowed with excitement and tried to remind myself that I was forty-eight years old, far too mature for these kinds of love palpitations.
Playing hard to get, are we?
I jumped out of the chair and paced up and down, aware of the way my breasts bounced around. This guy made me very conscious of my body’s many parts, especially since I was naked. A quick half-dozen retorts popped into my mind and I almost typed one of them right away, but in a show of self-control, or maybe fear, I walked back into the bathroom, calmly switched off the overhead light, and climbed into the tub. Because it was such an old bathtub, and located below ground level, it reminded me of a sarcophagus. In a good way, of course.
I sank beneath the hot water, all the way up to my neck, which meant I floated slightly. At five-five, I was almost too short for my toes to touch the far end of the tub and there was always a moment when I felt like I was in my own private swimming pool, about to sink beneath the surface of the water. I lay still, thinking.
Basically, I had to conclude that something quite weird was going on. I didn’t actually know that this man was The Sky, with whom I’d briefly corresponded through Match.com. Just because he’d answered my post on the Missed Connection board, and commented that he’d seen my former husband sit down with me, also didn’t mean anything. Maybe I’d been wrong when I was so sure that the man at Au Bon Pain was The Sky. Or maybe I was right, but the man answering my MC post wasn’t the same man. Not only was this weird, it was complicated. Some other guy could have seen me at exactly the moment when Isaac sat down.
I kicked my legs and paddled my arms, keeping afloat. Finally, the confusion became too much for me. I sat up in the tub and reached for the soap. After a thorough scrubbing, I scooched down in the water again and used the washcloth to swish off all the soapy residue. I heard the music from the Wiccan station, a plaintive weeping sound like a wild cat stuck in a tree. Finally, I turned sideways in the tub, sitting up with my legs folded beneath me and my hands together in my watery lap. I closed my eyes.
Playing hard to get, are we? Playinghard toget arewe, playinghardtogetarewe, playinghardtogetarewe, playinghardtogetarewe?
So much for emptying my mind.
My eyes flew open and I stared at the candle flickering across the room, where it balanced on the sink. Sometimes, when I had trouble getting into a meditative state, a candle’s flame could help me go into a trance. I watched the flame without blinking, until my eyes watered. The wailing wild cat music kept screeching, coming perilously close to making me screech along with it. Resolute, I closed my eyes again.
You, sir, are the one playing hard to get.
I don’t play games.
Are you The Sky from Match.com?
I’ve been married three times; what’s your grand total?
I quit being a writer. I am, therefore, no longer too too.
For some reason, I appear to have fallen in love with you.
For some reason, I appear to have lost all reason.
For some reason, I appear to be alone in my bathtub.
I gave up on meditating. I rose to take the rather daunting step up and over the bathtub’s rim, grabbing a towel as I made the maneuver. I dried off quickly and wrapped my white terry-cloth robe around me. I practically ran into the next room to turn off the damn Wiccan music. Then, naturally, I clicked on the e-mail from Rabbitfish again.
There were many things I wanted to write him, but I knew I was scared of what was happening, disconcerted not merely because he was behaving so strangely, but also because I couldn’t understand why.
Yeah, he was a nutter.
On that note, I wandered back into the bathroom and rubbed cream over my arms, paying special attention to my elbows, then my legs, and more extra attention to my ankles and knees. Finally, my face. I took my flannel nightgown from its hook on the back of the door, and dropped it over my head. Though we’d been having such warm spring weather, it still got cool at night, particularly in a two-hundred-year old carriage house with the heat turned off .
In my study, I went over to the computer and reread his e-mail. I couldn’t resist. What can I say? I’m far from perfect, especially when my romantic sensibility is engaged. Also, as a writer, I’d come to trust my judgments about people. So, yeah, he was a nut case, except … he wasn’t. I knew it. He called to me and I was unable to resist answering the call.
I think I know you.
I hit SEND.
I couldn’t really explain why I wrote that. He could, and probably would, judge me as crazy. Maybe that would put an end to the whole nonsense. I turned off the computer and printer, then switched off all the lights. A light from the steep stairway shone down and lit my way as I climbed the stairs. In my bedroom, I reorganized the pillows so that I would have a nest in the center of the bed and I poked the switch on the electric blanket. The window on the front of the house was wide open, which I left that way, but I closed the window in the back because there was only a dark alley out there and it tended to creep me out. I snapped the lock on the window into place. By the time I’d climbed into bed, the blanket had become toasty.
I expected to lie in the dark, worrying about what to do with myself professionally, now that I’d received Jenny’s blessing to quit the writing gig. I started to compose a letter to my agent and, zap, I was asleep. I woke up sometime in the middle of the night, in a state of complete confusion. I wasn’t sure that I’d really been asleep at all, but the glowing dial of the alarm clock read 3:12 in the morning. I turned over and tried to pretend that, number one, I wasn’t really awake, and number two, that I didn’t have to pee.
Finally I gave up on all pretense and hauled myself out of bed and down the rickety stairs to the basement bathroom. After I’d gone to the bathroom, I felt even more awake. I went into my study and switched on a single lamp, then booted up the computer. By this time, I knew I’d woken up because I wanted to see whether Rabbitfish had answered my e-mail. And there was a reply from him, which had been sent only fifteen minutes earlier, at 2:55 a.m. Seemed like an odd time to be writing e-mails.
I am not knowable. Sorry to disappoint you.
Obviously, I could think of zillions of answers, some silly, some serious, and a few funny. I left the computer on, but turned off the small lamp, waited a few minutes until my eyes had adjusted to the dark, then carefully headed back upstairs to bed. I crawled under the covers, punched the pillows to make them plump up invitingly, and settled in. I’d made a resolution. No more e-mail exchanges with this Rabbitfish character.
4
I SPENT THE NEXT couple of days immersed in the painful process of informing my publisher, agent, children, former husbands, and all manner of friends and relatives, that I was no longer a writer. I must have said the words, “I quit,” at least a hundred times. Unfortunately, the very next question everyone invariably asked was What are you going to do? I didn’t have a clue, which was what I said over and over again. This response didn’t resonate well. On Saturday morning, I carried my morning coffee out to the front steps of my house and sat down, wrapping my nightgown around my legs. I heard the phone ring inside, but I ignored it.
Somehow, I had to come up with a plan. But how? I was suffering from a bad case of I-don’t-care-itis. This had never happened to me before. I was a typical baby-boomer, not to mention a woman who’d had to rely on herself financially simply because she’d somehow managed to screw up three marriages. I felt vaguely as if I’d gone to take a nap two days ago, and had yet to wake up again. I sipped my coffee and enjoyed the warm early morning air. I began to believe that devil winter was gone.
Which got me nowhere fast, beyond ap
preciating the moment. I stared down at my bare toes and tried to imagine some childish game as a way to decide what I could do for a second act job. I’ d figured out that I should make at least some money, so a purely volunteer position wouldn’t cut it. I had health insurance that was privately arranged because of my freelance writing career, but it was expensive. I decided that it would be nice to have health insurance provided.
I wiggled my toes.
Okay, I thought, every toe will be a possible job. I went through the first ones quickly, wiggling each toe as it was named. Teach, public relations, real estate, administrative, secretarial. That was one foot. Waitress, maid, government, library aide, bartender. That was the second foot. Boom, there it was, smack dab in the wee baby toe.
Bartender.
I hopped up, tossed the rest of the coffee into the bushes by the side of the steps, and ran inside. At my computer, I looked up bar tending courses and clicked on the information for the closest location in Harvard Square. In minutes, I’d signed on for the next series of classes, beginning Monday.
I thought about sending a mass e-mail to my entire Address file, announcing my new career, but decided that I was being slightly precipitous. The course was only one week long, and I could tell people slowly, when they asked what I was up to. I’d say, “Oh, I’m enrolled in a bar tending course in Harvard Square. I’ve always wanted to be a bartender, ever since I was a little kid.” Also, it might be good to wait until I actually landed a job.
Nevertheless, I felt rather electric. I was thrilled by the idea of being a bartender and I wanted to tell someone. Oddly, the someone I most wanted to tell was Rabbitfish. I’d successfully avoided answering his last e-mail, in which he said he was not knowable. In one of those spasms of joy (or fear?), I sent off an e-mail.
I’ve quit being a writer. I am going to become a bartender and make big tips. I am very excited.
After I sent the e-mail, I remembered the phone ringing earlier, so I checked my voice mail. There was a message from Jenny, sounding strangely discombobulated. “Rose, please call me. I think I’m getting sick or something, and I don’t know whether I should cancel the date tonight with Tom Callahan.”
