by Anna King
A silence settled on the group as Tom maneuvered over to the couch and bent to place Jen into the corner seat. I knew Jen would find the quiet embarrassing, so I began to talk about how I’d thrown a martini glass at my bar tending instructor, Al, and had cut his cheek so badly that he’d been hauled away in an ambulance. Now there was another kind of silence. I looked at Jen for support.
She said, “Isn’t this the guy you said was so handsome?”
“Naturally.” Isaac raised one eyebrow.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
Instead of answering me directly, he said, “Will he have a scar?”
“Probably.” I tried to give a nonchalant smile. “I’ve been waiting to hear back from him.”
I felt the stares of my kids as if I’d been accused of murder. Unfairly accused, that is. “Hey, it was an accident—I was nervous because the test is timed and everything depended on my doing well. Plus, it was the first test I’d taken in about thirty years!”
Elliot said, “If we give you a drink, will you stop talking?”
I nodded. “For sure.”
“Get her a drink, then,” Alex snapped. The two of them had always been argumentative with each other, while Noah functioned as the peacemaker.
“I can make my own drink, and everyone else’s,” I said. “I am now officially a bartender at The Harvest Restaurant.”
I gathered up drink orders and limped back to the kitchen to prove myself, though I wasn’t sure why I felt it incumbent to do any proving at all. I began to pour drinks and tried to rally my spirits. I felt awful about Al, and telling the story, far from making me feel better because I’d confessed it, had done the opposite. If I could have remembered his phone number, I’d have called right then.
Tom appeared in the kitchen. “Jen sent me back to help you.”
I handed him a bottle of beer and a glass of chablis. “This is for you two.”
He held them for a second, without moving.
“I know Jen tells you everything,” he said.
“I’m not sure about everything.” I began to mix two vodka martinis.
“You really are good at making drinks,” Tom said.
“Thanks.” I shook the martinis with renewed vigor and thought about how Tom was more socially awkward than I’d expected. Jen’s infatuation had implied a god of some sort, but instead I saw a man of clumsy charm, with an emphasis on the clumsy. Taking pity on him, I said, “Is something worrying you?”
He shifted his weight and I saw the strength of his body. If his eyes were like a cow, his physical presence was more like a bull.
“Jen is pushing me away.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why did she tell me, before we came here tonight, that this was our last date?”
“You misunderstood.”
Noah sidled past Tom. “Drinks, Mom?”
I handed him two martinis. “One for Isaac and one for Jane. Come back for more, okay?”
I saw him peek at Tom and figure out that we were having one of those important talks that shouldn’t be interrupted.
When he’d left, Tom said, “I definitely did not misunderstand. I’ve been dumped before and that’s what she’s doing.”
Cold gripped my stomach. I made a scotch and soda, packing it with ice. “This makes no sense.”
“She didn’t talk about it with you first?”
I grabbed a knife and stabbed at the ice. “If she’d mentioned it to me, I would’ve given her hell.”
He ventured a tentative smile.
“Take her the wine and drink your beer,” I said. “Let’s get her a little smashed and then I’ll talk to her.”
I finished the drinks, and with Noah’s help, passed them around. The living room was pleasantly crowded, so I sat cross-legged on the floor. I sipped my martini and leaned forward to put it on the coffee table.
Isaac stood up from the couch. “You want to sit down?”
“I am sitting down.”
He smiled gently. “Okay.”
“You’re a lot less argumentative,” I commented. “Is that due to Buddhism or monkism?”
Elliot jumped in, obviously worried that I was going to be rude in some way. “Monkism isn’t a word.”
Isaac just smiled. I suspected his silence had to do with monkism.
“Since this is a going-away party for you,” I said to him, “why don’t you tell us what you’ll be doing?”
Noah coughed. I looked at him defiantly. I’d about had it with my kids constantly trying to censor me.
Isaac took a gargantuan swallow of martini. “Okay,” he said.
Silence again. This from the guy it used to be hard to shut up.
Jen said, “You could take us through a normal day—tell us what will be happening.”
“We rise at four o’clock in the morning for a two-hour meditation,” Isaac said.
“Fucking hell,” Elliot swore.
I reached for my martini, trying to imagine getting up at four o’clock in the morning and then embarking on two hours of meditation.
“Without coffee.” Isaac grinned, almost sheepish.
“Are you sure about this?” Alex said gently. She was considering Psychiatry and with everyone but her mother, she’d been practicing.
“I’m sure I want to try.”
Tom said, “Why?”
I had to swallow a laugh. Tom’s expression showed a guy so fed up with women that he actually recognized the desirability of becoming a monk.
Jane must have thought the same thing because, unexpectedly, she giggled.
Isaac held up the martini glass, sloshing drink around. He gazed into the clear alcohol, as if hypnotized. He might be pretty good at the meditation stuff. “I don’t know why exactly,” he said. “ But, basically, I’ve concluded that there’s more to this life than how I’ve been experiencing it. I don’t know whether I’ll stick it out—I guess if I’m honest, I’d probably have to admit I usually get into things and then discard them.”
A guffaw exploded out of me before I could stop it. Noah glared in my direction, but Isaac started to laugh, too.
“Just ask Rose,” Isaac said.
Isaac turned to Tom. “What do you do, Tom?”
I smiled broadly at Noah, reminding him with my eyes that I wasn’t the only one to ask about a person’s profession. Even the great monk-to-be, Isaac, could be prosaic.
“I write nonfiction, mostly on political subjects.”
Jen said, “His last book was about the Democratic party, Double D Cup.” She grinned, and I could hardly believe that she was dumping Tom. On the other hand, I knew her well. She could be brutal once she made up her mind.
“That’s a great title,” Alex said.
I checked everyone’s glasses and noticed that we needed refills, so I stood up and got new drink orders. Jane came with me, clutching empty glasses.
In the kitchen, I bustled around.
“Can I help?” Jane asked.
“Would you peek at the casserole in the oven?”
She grabbed an oven mitt and opened the door. I felt the blast of heat in the small kitchen. “What am I looking for?”
“Is it bubbling around the edges?”
“Big-time.”
“Turn off the oven, then.” I rattled the martini shaker and asked, “Do you know what else we’re having?”
“There’s a big salad and some rolls.”
“What if we wrap the rolls in aluminum foil and pop them in the oven?”
She got to work.
“You’re great to boss around,” I said.
Jane smiled, rueful. “Maybe that’s why I’m a nurse and not a doctor.”
“We have a bossy boots gene in our family,” I said, by way of apology. I knew Alex was significantly worse than me in that department.
“Uh-huh.” She glanced at me. “Do you understand that title, Double D Cup?”
“I guess it’s a play on the “D” of the
democratic party and, umm …” I trailed off.
“I could ask,” Jane said.
I handed her a martini. “This one’s for you—can you carry another one out to Isaac?”
She nodded and took the second.
“Wait until I’m out there if you do.”
I made two more drinks, rushed to the living room with them, then dashed back to the kitchen to grab a beer and pour another glass of chablis for Jen. In the living room, I sat down on the floor and picked up my original martini, still half full. I leaned toward Alex and filled her in on the dinner prep.
The conversation had broken down into smaller groups, with Tom and Noah being the loudest. Isaac was talking earnestly to Elliot, their bodies leaning close. Though Isaac had clicked with all three kids, he’d been especially close to Elliot, perhaps simply because he was the oldest of them when we got married.
Of everyone, only Jen seemed like she was in her own world, disconnected from any of the others. I got up, crossed over to her end of the couch, and perched on the arm next to her. She leaned her head briefly against my arm, suggesting a certain receptivity towards me, plus that the wine was doing its magic.
I bent over so that our heads were near to one another. “How’s it going with Tom? I think he’s wonderful.”
I was way too smart to let her know that Tom had come to me.
She whispered, “I’m breaking up with him tonight, but don’t let on that you know.”
I banged her head against mine, deliberately hard.
“Hey!” Her left hand rose and rubbed at the spot.
“Why?” I hissed.
“He’s insisting that I try the newest prosthetics.”
I took a massive gulp of martini, buying time. This Tom had guts, I’ll say that for him. Jen had a major philosophical stance on the subject of prosthetics. I’d only discussed it once with her, and that had been enough to terrify me into a forever silence. Basically, she refused to have anything to do with them and her reasons were peculiar, complex, and unconvincing.
“Did you tell him you don’t approve of them for yourself?”
“Of course!”
I waited.
“He just keeps on about it, says I’m being irrational and pigheaded.”
“You are, of course, but that’s your prerogative.”
“I thought you agreed with me about them.”
“Not exactly.”
“But you didn’t say—,”
I interrupted, “I thought it was none of my business. You obviously felt strongly about the issue, and it wasn’t as if I could pretend that I had any ability to know what it’s like to be without legs!” My voice rose at the end of the sentence. As luck would have it, everyone else chose that moment to inhale or exhale.
Without legs bellowed through the living room.
“Christ almighty,” I muttered.
Noah burst out laughing. “Mom, you are so predictable.”
I shouted, “I don’t plan these things.”
“It sure seems like you do,” Alex said.
“I think your mother is very nice,” Jane said, “and you guys are way too judgmental.” She glared at Alex, Elliot, and Noah.
“I do tend to put my foot in the middle of things,” I said.
“In this case, there were no feet involved,” Jen said dryly.
Everyone started to laugh.
“Okay, I’m going to get dinner on the table,” Alex said.
Isaac stood up. “Let me help.”
Suddenly everyone was standing and moving around. Tom gave me a panicked look. He must have thought that he’d chosen exactly the wrong person to confide in.
Jen calmly took a sip of wine. She had the most amazing ability to always appear cool, no matter what. In seconds, we were alone.
Hesitantly, I said, “I do think he needs to respect your point of view on this. After all, it’s your body.”
“He says that since I’m crippled and, therefore, make demands on him, I have an obligation to pursue anything that would significantly affect our relationship.” Her voice was hesitant, as if in speaking his argument out loud, she’d been forced to understand its rationale.
“It’s true that you’ve never had a committed relationship where you could consider another person’s needs as equal to your own.” I sipped at my martini, trying to appear nonchalant. The truth was that I’d always been devoted to Jen, and, yes, her lack of mobility had made demands on me for years. But I’d never thought that she’d been selfish. Now, I wondered.
I glanced at her and saw that her eyes swam. I reached over and touched her. “I think you need to relax. In fact, both of you need to relax.”
Tom appeared in front of us, with a plate of food for Jen.
They stared at each with such total misery that it was obvious how in love they were. Which, in and of itself, suggested a weird commentary about the nature of love. So it was.
Anyway, I decided to take a chance. “May I say something?” I said.
Now they looked terrified.
Finally, Jen nodded.
“Tom, this is too much, too soon.” I stared at him.
His eyes lowered and he muttered, “Okay.”
I continued, “And, Jenny, you are going to have to be open to someone else’s opinion. I don’t think Tom’s idea that you at least consider prosthetics is so off-base, just that he’s bringing it up rather early in your relationship.”
I sighed with pleasure at how wise I was, especially when Tom leaned over and kissed Jen full on the mouth. I was a mere twelve or so inches away from them, and for a minute my curiosity so overwhelmed me that I stared rather rudely. I heard her whisper, “Sorry.” That’s when I finally stood up and went to get myself some dinner.
Everyone else had already helped themselves and scattered through the apartment, perching in spots where it was convenient to balance a plate. I looked at the ravaged serving dishes. Bits of lettuce and salmon casserole trailed on the tablecloth. Someone came up behind me.
Isaac said, “Rose, I wanted to catch you alone for a minute.”
“Yeah?” I turned my body partially toward him.
“I need a place to stay tonight—all my stuff is gone, including the bed.” He shifted and leaned so that his left shoulder briefly touched me.
“But I’ve got the boys in the guest room—”
“I thought I remembered that you had an inflatable mattress and space on the floor of your study.” He smiled. “I’m not trying to get you into bed, but I have to admit I don’t really want to stay alone at a hotel on my last night.”
I sighed and turned back to the food to pick up the casserole serving spoon. “I guess that would be all right.”
“I truly thank you.”
This new Isaac might be more polite, but his good manners made me squirm. I took a smidgen of casserole and a pile of salad. I’d lost my appetite. Or, gained it, if you get my drift. In the face of his adamant denial of sexual interest, I felt compelled to seduce Isaac.
14
I USED THE WORD seduction with due deliberation. Though it was an old-fashioned art, I was all for seduction. Where was the glory and fun when you crash into bed with a willing partner? Women today were missing out on so much, simply because they didn’t know any better. I couldn’t blame them. The art of seduction was no longer being taught. Somehow, women were under the misguided impression that they were supposed to be good, and decent, and compassionate. Certainly, I’d learned the hard way that it was important to be good and decent and compassionate towards oneself, but the men you bed? Forget about it.
Admittedly, I’d been a natural at it in my youth. It was like I’d been born to flirt. My professorial parents were mortified at the way I cocked my head, opened my eyes wide, flashed my dimple (I only had one, thank God), even when I was seven years old. My advantage had been that I wasn’t pretty, much less beautiful, and that meant I’d needed to discover another plan of attack. You didn’t have to be physically attractiv
e to be a great flirt. All you had to do was flirt. I’ve never entirely understood women’s hesitation. Flirting wasn’t a covenant between you and the Other, with rules about its ultimate meaning and implications. The whole point of flirting was its very pointlessness.
I had to admit, though, that age had slowed me. I was conscious of the wrinkles and somewhat dimmed skin tone. I knew it didn’t matter what you looked like, or your chronological age (read about Mae West’s seductions when she was seventy years old), but I had to confess that I’d become more circumspect. Again, it wasn’t because I was determined not to go to bed with someone in my celibate state—that was irrelevant to seduction. Seduce for the accomplishment, even if you didn’t take full advantage of your success.
Howsoever.
In this situation, I was committed to follow-through on the seduction. My rationale, which I reviewed in my mildly drunken head as I drove home with Elliot and Noah, was twofold. First, Isaac said he didn’t want me, and I had to prove him wrong after all the wrongs he’d done to me. And, second, there was the small matter of ongoing celibacy. I was, quite frankly, afraid I would dry up and atrophy. I imagined my vagina as a sponge that was plopped in an old bucket stored in a garage. I wasn’t sure that a lone vagina was appealing, anyway, but dry the sucker up and you’ve got a problem.
My unsuspecting and/or dumb sons didn’t have a clue. They insisted that Isaac join them for another round of drinks. Noah built a fire in the living room and with much tromping up and down the stairs, making my wee house shake to the foundations, they finally sprawled around the room. My ankle felt much better, probably due to the efficacy of alcohol (either the alcohol cured it or simply made me unable to feel it), so I inflated the air mattress in the basement, dumped sheets, comforters, and pillows in the middle, then went into my bathroom to get ready for bed. My usual flannel nightgown hung on the back of the door, which wasn’t, perhaps, the most seductive of outfits. On the other hand, obviousness wasn’t a good idea, not with all the guys drinking together. Even the hem of a silk nightgown, hanging out from under my bathrobe, would be a signal. So, I rubbed cream all over and put on the nightgown. Then I looked into the mirror. The juxtaposition of fully made-up face and flannel nightgown was oft-putting. I scrubbed off the make-up and applied night cream.
