by Kim Izzo
“I know, this sucks,” I said, obviously. “I was a wreck all weekend. Still am.”
When at last Ann wiped away her tears, I sat down and put my arm around her. That’s when Iris came into the room, her purse over her shoulder; from her eyes I could see that she, too, had spent the past half hour crying.
“I’m going out,” she said and left without even looking at us.
“Bingo?” Ann asked after Iris had gone.
“What else?” I said. “At least she has some distraction. Maybe we should all take up bingo.”
“I couldn’t afford it,” Ann said matter-of-factly. “Not the way Mom plays.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went with her once and she spent close to a thousand dollars in one sitting.”
I was taken aback.
“Do you think she spends that much every time she goes?” I asked.
“I have no idea, why?”
“Nana said she was having money trouble,” I admitted. “What else does she spend money on but bingo?”
“And slot machines,” Ann reminded me.
Iris also took regular bus excursions to local casinos. I had thought it was just a good way for her to get out of the house.
“Do you think she has a gambling problem?” I asked, suddenly horrified.
Ann shrugged and changed the subject. “I brought over a new marinade to try,” she said and crossed the room to her overnight bag. She pulled out a mason jar containing a thick greenish substance with flecks of herbs in it.
“You’re doing marinades, too?” I said, part of me relieved to be discussing something else besides my grandmother’s cancer and my mother’s mysterious debt.
“Why not? Everyone is marinading now,” she said with authority. “Besides, I want five products to take to the National Food Fair in Chicago.”
I vaguely recalled this goal of Ann’s. It was supposedly a big deal for food producers because lots of grocery chains and specialty food store buyers showed up.
“When is it again?”
“January,” she said quietly. Neither of us spoke but I’m sure we were both thinking the same thing. Would our grandmother be alive then?
“Marianne is going to have her baby soon and I’ll need another lasagna,” I said sadly. It was strange the way things pop into your head during a crisis. Who cared about lasagna? Yet it was suddenly an insurmountable problem and I wondered how I’d cope trying to make one on my own. Ann touched my shoulder, understanding what I was saying.
“Don’t worry, there’s lots of sauce around here,” she said and opened one of the kitchen cupboards to illustrate her point. It was stacked with jars of the stuff. “I can help you.”
Ann moved in with us, and the extra pair of hands was needed far sooner than anyone imagined. The cancer seemed to have a life of its own, a parasite with a schedule. We had found Nana a palliative-care doctor who made house calls, which had become necessary because she became so incredibly thin and much too weak to travel. It was as if the diagnosis had slashed away every ounce of will she had. She accepted her impending death stoically, telling us that everyone’s time came and that after ninety-three years she was ready.
I wasn’t so ready. Every night before I went to bed, I kissed my grandmother’s forehead and turned off her light, but she no longer had a book in her hands. The morphine had seen to it that she didn’t need to read to fall asleep.
I buried myself in Pride and Prejudice, but even Austen held little solace for me. I found myself reading the same page ten times before giving up and instead, staring at the Smoked Trout walls until the color became a pinkish-gray blur, I switched off my light.
7.
Self-Help
What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken!”
—Persuasion
I had filed the perfume story to Haute but had neglected to even think about the Jane Austen story. In one week I would be forty, my grandmother was quickly slipping away, and yet I had to continue working. So on the Saturday night before my birthday I opened my laptop and just stared at the blank screen. And kept staring. All my knowledge and love of Austen’s novels and I had nothing to say.
I lay my head on the table, closed my eyes, and sighed, thinking of how in the end Elizabeth Bennet married Mr. Darcy out of love. The article’s premise wasn’t right. It was a happy coincidence Darcy was rich. Then again, rich is relative. Given my current state even Mr. Collins—moderately secure, but unattractive and socially inept—looked good. I opened my eyes and sat up, stunned by my sudden clarity. Maybe Jennifer’s ruthless approach to life and love wasn’t so off base. Times had changed. I wondered if, unlike in the novel, a modern-day Elizabeth Bennet would turn down a Mr. Collins? I picked up my cell phone. It was Saturday night and that meant the answer would be holing up in a bar somewhere in Manhattan.
“I’m so glad you called!” Jennifer shouted at me above the loud music. We were in a hipper-than-thou club called Condo 11 in the Meat Packing District. As I looked around I realized that I was one of the oldest people in the room. The crowd was stacked with young women, some dressed very well, others in very little, and the young and not-as-young men appeared aloof and disinterested. In other words the situation was desperate. Jennifer wore a slinky minidress covered in shimmering silver paillettes with equally shiny Gucci stilettos from a few seasons back. She waved into the crowd and two girls galloped over. One was blonder than Jennifer and was squeezed into a purple velvet dress so tight that the only thing she could possibly be wearing underneath was a Brazilian wax job. The other was brunette and more conservative, slightly, in her choice of a little black dress that gave her cleavage plenty of fresh air.
They stuffed themselves into our booth and Jennifer pointed to each one. “This is Tina,” she said and the blonde smiled at me. “And this is Arianna,” to which the brunette stuck out her hand. “And this is Kate.” Jennifer finished off her introductions with, “You three have a lot in common.”
I looked at her blankly, given that I was wearing a knee-length skirt and a cashmere turtleneck.
“You are all victims of the economic downturn,” she said nonchalantly. Turns out that Tina and Arianna had both lost their jobs at investment firms and were on the lookout for a solution to their personal financial crises. Several minutes of sympathetic small talk later Tina sat up and smiled brightly.
“Well, at least we’re young enough to bounce back,” she chirped.
“Kate’s almost forty,” Jennifer said darkly.
“No!” Tina exclaimed in disbelief.
“You’re so well preserved,” Arianna added kindly. I wanted to be flattered but the truth was I was horrified. I immediately slipped into journalist mode and asked them what they thought their solution was. As predicted they wanted an easy out, one that came fully equipped with a wedding band.
“Why else get married except for money?” Tina asked rhetorically.
“I’m living off my savings but that will run out soon,” Arianna explained with an expression of grave seriousness she once reserved for trading stocks. “So we’re here to meet potential husbands.”
“Here? In a bar?” I asked astonished. “Wearing that?”
They looked more puzzled than offended. “Men like how we dress,” Tina said.
“Yeah, we get noticed,” Arianna added.
“I’m sure you do but you’re not taken seriously,” I said, trying to soften my tone.
“We aren’t applying for a job,” Tina said as though I was the fool in this conversation.
“Yes you are,” I said. “If what you really want is a marriage, then men need to take you seriously as a potential wife.”
“We read Forbes and The Wall Street Journal,” Arianna shot back. “We’ll land our billionaires; we speak their language.”
At that, the two of them slid out of the booth and back into the crowd. I felt my jaw go slack. I couldn’t help thinking that if these two were consi
dered high rollers on Wall Street, no wonder it crashed. I looked at Jennifer and saw that she was grinning slyly.
“I see what you mean,” I said, referring to her out-of-work friends.
“Yup. Dumb as posts in certain areas, right?” she said. “They can decipher the most complex financial systems but old-fashioned romance is too high-tech for them.”
“They do need help,” I admitted, realizing that I had lots of opinions on the topic. I knew then I was the perfect writer for the story.
“When is the article due?” I asked, raring to start.
“We want to run it in our June issue. You know, wedding season,” she said. “So I’ll need it by the end of March.”
“Is there a travel budget?” I asked, suddenly inspired.
“I’d have to check,” she said and cocked an eyebrow. “Why? I thought there’d be plenty of material here in New York.”
“I’m just thinking,” I said and tapped my pen on the table. Then I added wryly, “If I’m trying to be a social anthropologist and observe the mating rituals of tycoons, my chances are better if they’re away from the doom and gloom.”
Jennifer nodded thoughtfully. “You probably have loads of frequent-flier miles from your beauty editor days.”
“I do,” I agreed, thinking on my feet. “And I can write up reviews of hotels and restaurants for the magazine to keep costs down.” That was the pleasure of writing for a top magazine like Haute. With advertising budgets slashed, luxury properties fell over themselves for editorial coverage, so all-inclusive complimentary stays were a slam dunk.
She grinned knowingly. “I like how you think. Let me clear the rest with Marianne and our travel editor.”
The trip home seemed endless but it gave me time to reflect. My predicament was the same as the other girls’ and perhaps the solution was, too. How easy my life would be if I could fall in love with, and marry, a rich man. I fantasized about having all my needs taken care of, the lack of stress, and the joy of being the spoiled bride of a man who could afford such a luxury. The thought made me giggle. I felt very young again and that pleased me. Why shouldn’t I marry a man who would take care of me the old-fashioned way? Maybe Jennifer’s friends were right.
Then the same question I had posed to Marianne and Brandon threatened the fantasy. Is it too late to find a good husband? Was forty too old? Tina and Arianna had the advantage of youth, but after tonight I wasn’t convinced that was all it took. My added experience gave me an advantage. I told myself I was more sophisticated and elegant. There was nothing stopping me from getting out there and charming an eligible man. Even my grandmother said it wasn’t too late. Why should younger women have all the fun? Surely I had a few more seductions left in me? Suddenly this Jane Austen article wasn’t so ridiculous. Jennifer was right. I had found a third subject to make marrying well a trend. Me. And I vowed to do it in style.
8.
Maybe I Was Crazy
Be honest and poor, by all means—but I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those that are honest and rich.
—Mansfield Park
Are you joking?” Marianne said as if waiting for the punch line.
“Not one bit,” I said and forced a confident smile. We were seated by the window in Avenue. Brandon shook his head. It was clear by his dour expression that he wasn’t fond of my plan to find a rich husband, either.
“Don’t you need a job?” he asked.
“That’s kind of the point,” I said flatly. “I can’t find a job. I’ve looked. Called everyone I know. Apparently I won’t find a job. Besides, it was Marianne’s idea.”
“What?” Marianne shouted.
“Okay, it was Jennifer’s, but you agreed to it,” I pointed out.
“Hold on, what?” Brandon asked and gave Marianne a scathing look.
“I’ve been assigned a story about making an eligible match,” I explained. “To see if Austen’s strategies still hold up. I’m writing it in the first person.”
“Define ‘eligible,’ ” Brandon commanded.
“Successful, confident, worldly,” I rattled off, intentionally avoiding the word “billionaire.” “I’m going to be forty. If not now, when? This is my last chance to marry well.”
Marianne and Brandon stared at me in silence. I didn’t know where to look or what to do, so I began to fiddle with the cocktail napkin on the table. But twisting it around my fingers didn’t calm me. Instead, as I watched the white paper scrunch and tear, I was struck by how prominent the veins in my hands had become, my knuckles looked bigger, the skin more lined. They say a woman’s hands are the first to go.
“The sooner you stop believing your life is a Jane Austen novel, the better,” Marianne stated bluntly.
I ripped the napkin in half and sat on my hands.
“The older women in her books don’t fare so well. You have to be one and fucking twenty to have a happy ending. Not one and forty,” she continued on her tirade. “You’re not Elizabeth Bennet, you’re her mother.”
Ouch. The pregnancy hormones sure kept her moody.
“I agree with Marianne. You’ve read one too many novels, watched one too many movies, my love,” Brandon cooed at me as though I were an infant. “You’re upset about your grandmother and you’re out of work. It’s natural to feel mixed up about your life, what it all means.”
“You’re having a midlife crisis,” added Marianne.
“I’m not having a midlife crisis,” I retorted.
“It’s classic,” Marianne disagreed. “Only instead of a convertible sports car you want the man who can buy you one. It’s a phase.”
“And you can’t just dump your life and take off,” Brandon insisted. “Especially now, your family needs you.”
“I didn’t dump my life,” I answered grimly. “My life dumped me. And I’m not talking about leaving now. The article isn’t due until the end of March. By then …” My voice trailed off, thinking that my grandmother would be gone long before spring.
“You’ve avoided marriage this long,” Marianne continued. “If you’re going to be married, why not marry for love and be happy?”
“Who says I can’t fall in love with a rich man?” I asked, but Marianne just screwed up her nose.
“I’ll see you next week at your birthday,” Marianne answered with a forced smile and gathered her things to leave. Clearly she was angry.
I pointed to her stomach in an attempt to lighten the mood. “With that?”
“He’s not due for two more weeks,” she reminded me. Marianne was a control freak. No kid of hers would arrive before she allowed it to.
9.
Sense of Entitlement
One man’s ways may be as good as another’s, but we all like our own best.
—Persuasion
It was on an absurdly and unseasonably hot October Sunday that my birthday, at long last, arrived. I woke up with a gentle breeze wafting through my open window, the sheer cream drapes blowing across my toes. When I was little we called this Indian summer; I’m sure it’s not politically correct anymore, but it’s what I remember and the only term I know for it. One thing for certain, it was the kind of autumn day that makes you want to leap out of bed and get outside to soak up those final drops of sunlight before the damp chill of November steals all the warmth away. Throughout the day I walked into my grandmother’s room to check in on her until finally, in the late afternoon, she opened her eyes and held out her hand to me.
“Hi, love,” she said and smiled weakly.
“I’m going out for dinner,” I said and brushed her hair with my palm. “Will you be okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “You have a nice time.”
As I dressed for dinner I tried to remind myself that I had no reason to expect my grandmother to remember my birthday. Not with the frequent doses of morphine clouding her mind.
When I arrived at Marianne’s condo I found the door slightly ajar, so I sn
uck inside. There were Marianne and Lucy, poring over fertility charts. I scanned the room and spotted the men, Frank and Brandon, Marianne and Lucy’s respective spouses, out on the deck drinking.
“You must be so relieved that you got pregnant without all this,” Lucy said with a hint of envy.
“It will happen,” Marianne told her encouragingly.
I coughed but no one heard me.
“Your baby is going to be gorgeous,” Lucy gushed.
“I heard the word ‘gorgeous’; you must be talking about me,” I joked, realizing how hopeless it was for a forty-year-old to divert attention from a baby, even an unborn one.
“Hey, happy birthday!” Marianne shouted and threw her arms around me. Brandon and Frank came in when they saw me.
“Have some pink Veuve,” Brandon said cheerfully and popped open a bottle. Drinks in hand we raised our glasses.
“Happy fortieth birthday to our beautiful Kate,” Brandon toasted.
They repeated it in unison and I blushed. But I was also very grateful. Being surrounded by my friends made me feel normal again.
“Thanks, all of you,” I gushed. “This means a lot to me.”
For dinner, Marianne had outdone herself with a homemade beef Wellington. I was plied with pink Veuve in lieu of the cabernet someone had brought to go with the beef. But it was getting late and I wanted to spend the last few hours of my birthday with my grandmother.
“I think it’s time to call a cab,” I suggested.
“You can’t leave without your present,” Marianne chimed in. “It’s got a theme to match your Jane Austen story.”
I perked up at this.
“While we think this finding a rich man scheme of yours is a bit nutty,” Brandon explained, “we do think you need to get away, go someplace warm, have an adventure … and if you find love along the way, even better.”
