“Hey, Mrs. Potter,” Russ says. “Great meatloaf.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“You want to stay for dinner?” Claire says.
“No,” Laney says, louder than she probably meant to. “I think I’d better be leaving. I’ve got to … leave. So, thanks anyway.”
“Okay. Well, thanks for being such a good friend to my brother,” Claire says without a trace of irony.
“Don’t mention it,” Laney says, practically bolting from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say at the front door.
“I’m still shaking.”
“Kind of bursts the bubble a little, doesn’t it?”
She gives me a quick hug, putting her lips on my ear. “I’ll just blow another one,” she says. And then she’s out the front door, running across the lawn like she’s being chased by wild dogs.
When I get back to the kitchen there’s a place set for me, and Claire and Russ are quietly eating their meatloaf. “Okay,” I say. “She’s gone.”
They continue to eat and feign disinterest until Claire points her fork at me. “That’s it,” she says. “From now on, I’m sleeping in Russ’s room.” And then the two of them lose it, beating the table and laughing until there are tears in their eyes, until I have no choice but to join them.
“Listen, Russ,” I say after a bit. “I wish you hadn’t seen that.”
“Thankfully, I didn’t,” he says, wiping his eyes. “I just heard some of it.”
“My ears are still bleeding,” Claire says.
“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
“My impression is that you were banging Mrs. Potter, who I’ve always thought is hands down the hottest housewife in New Radford. Which part of that is wrong?”
I collapse into a chair across from him. “All of it,” I say wearily. “It’s all wrong.”
“If you feel that bad about it, send her my way, dude. I’m grieving too, you know. I would tap that in a heartbeat.”
“Right or wrong, if she can screw like she can cook, then I’ll sleep with her myself,” Claire says, sliding me a plate. “This meatloaf is delicious.”
“You certainly earned it,” Russ says, and they burst into another paroxysm of laughter.
“Listen,” Claire says after a while. “There’s nothing wrong with some misdirected sex every now and then, but Russ and I feel that it’s time for you to start looking for more suitable partners.”
“You’re in on this too now?” I say to Russ.
“What she said,” Russ says with a smirk, cutting himself another slab of meatloaf.
“Now, according to my extensive research, your best bet is someone named Sabrina Barclay. Do you know her?” Claire says.
“No.”
“Good. Then it will be a blind date.”
“No, thanks.”
“No choice, Dougie. You agreed to put yourself in my hands, and this is happening. Just say yes.”
“Does your extensive research include anything aside from your single conversation with Mandy Seaver?”
“The woman’s a realtor. She has an eye for detail.”
“How do you know this Sabrina will even want to go out with me?”
“You don’t have an ex-wife or kids to deal with. You’ve been forged by tragedy, touched by an act of God, not stained by a bad divorce. And you have a full head of hair. You’re young, slim, and sad. Trust me,” she says, chewing on some bread. “You’re beautiful.”
“Young, slim, and sad,” I repeat. “Who knew?”
“Also, I already spoke to her.”
“You made a date for me?”
Claire takes a bite of meatloaf. “I’m taking care of business, Dougie.”
“Claire.”
“Don’t Claire me. You have no downside. Worst-case scenario, you hate her and drop her off after a quick dinner. Best-case scenario, you get laid by someone who isn’t married, which I think we can all agree is a step in the right direction, don’t you think?”
I sigh. “What do you know about her?”
“She’s an aerobics instructor, she’s built like a centerfold, and she’s independently wealthy from her divorce settlement.”
“So, nothing really.”
“It’s just a date, Doug. A few hours that I think you can spare from your crammed schedule of napping, drinking, and staring into space. Plus, thanks to you, Stephen knows about the baby and I will never know a moment’s peace now, so you owe me one.”
“That was inevitable, don’t you think?”
“So is this.”
I sigh and look over at Russ. “And you’re really okay with all of this?”
He chews thoughtfully for a moment, and then brings his hand down decisively on the table. “You saved me from Jimbo, man. In my eyes, you can do no wrong.”
“Seriously, though,” I say. “I want to know how you really feel about me starting to date.”
Russ sits back down and looks at me, blushing slightly. “My mom was the real deal, you know? It’s going to take you a long time to find someone even remotely good enough to take her place, so the way I see it, you’d better get started.”
“You’re sure?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Okay, then,” I say to Claire. “When?”
“Friday night.”
“Friday night it is.”
Claire smiles and raises her glass in a toast. “To Sabrina Barclay. May she be of open mind, heart, and legs, and partial to sad, skinny men.”
Russ raises his Coke can and smiles. “Sabrina Barclay,” he says.
“Sabrina Barclay,” I say, raising my own glass to bang their drinks. And so we toast Sabrina Barclay while eating Laney Potter’s meatloaf and all the while I’m thinking about Brooke Hayes, and this heady stew of women either means that I’m not remotely ready to get back out there, or else I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
26
“ … AND I SWORE TO GOD THAT I WAS THROUGH with blind dates, but your sister was so convincing, you know? You’re lucky to have her. I wish I had someone like that looking out for me. The truth is, when you’re divorced and living out here, you really have to be open-minded and willing to meet people. I mean, I tried the internet dating thing, but it’s just a big headache, you know? You spend hours at the computer just trying to screen out the freaks, and then, when you think you’ve finally found someone who seems to be worth an actual date, you find out that he used a picture from ten years ago, before he lost his hair and gained thirty pounds, or that he lives in his mother’s basement, or else he’s a married guy just looking for something on the side—you wouldn’t believe how many married guys try to date on the internet. Why don’t they just call a hooker? Anyway, what was my point? Oh yeah, just that you have to be open to meeting quality people when the opportunities come up, because there are just so many nut jobs out there—Oh, excuse me, yes, please. Can I get the salmon special, but broiled and without the sauce, and can I have steamed vegetables instead of the mashed potatoes, I’m off carbs right now. Thank you—Anyway, your sister told me that you haven’t really gone out much since your wife died—is it okay to mention your wife? I’m sorry, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t, I can’t stand when I go out with a guy and all he wants to talk about is his ex. It’s just boring already, right? I mean, everyone’s got their spin, everyone wants you to know that the divorce was totally not their fault, that they were the wronged party and blah, blah, blah. I had my own divorce, and I’ve seen enough to know that in most cases, no one is ever really innocent, and if you try to tell me you are, I’m just not going to trust you anyway, so save your breath. Maybe you’re not the one who cheated, but there’s plenty of ways to ruin a marriage without cheating, right? It just happens, and as long as you feel you’ve learned from your experiences, I don’t really care if you think it was your fault or not. I’m not interested in the past or the future, I only care about the here and now, who you are today and what y
ou’re looking for now, you know? I didn’t cheat on Gary, although God knows I had my opportunities. When you work in a gym and you wear tight clothing, you get plenty of opportunities. And Gary didn’t cheat on me, at least, that’s his story and he’s sticking to it, although he did get into another relationship pretty darn quick if you ask me. All of my friends think it was going on before we got divorced, but you know what? I’m so beyond that now. If it was, more power to him. We were done so long before that. I think after we had Jason, that’s my baby, he’s seven now … What? I know. No one can believe I have a kid. It’s called sit-ups, although I think I’m just a genetically thin person. My mother was very thin, and I have her body, except that I have boobs, thank God. She’s completely flat. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, after we had Jason, Gary and I just went in different directions. We just wanted different things, you know? He wanted to keep having kids and just, you know, stay home and become middle-aged, and I wanted to be out there living again—oh, great, thanks. It looks delicious. Is that the fat-free balsamic dressing? Perfect.—So, what was I talking about? I’m talking too much. Let’s talk about you a little. I love that column you write. I’m always in awe of people who can write. I get blocked writing thank-you notes after Jason’s birthday parties. Did you always want to be a writer? … What did your wife do, if you don’t mind my asking? Crap! I did it again. I swore to God I wouldn’t mention her if you didn’t, there’s nothing worse than spending a first date talking about each other’s first marriages. I guess it’s just that you’re the first widower I’ve dated, so it’s a whole different dynamic. You don’t have all this baggage that we divorced people come with, you know? … Oh, I’m sure there’s baggage to go along with that too, I mean, everyone’s got baggage, right? But there’s just something about a guy who’s been married before and isn’t filled with hate and anger … Really. At whom, God? … Oh! Really? I don’t think I know any atheists. I mean, I could certainly understand it, after what you’ve been through … Look, I have my doubts like everyone else, but I just find it impossible to believe that he isn’t there in some form, you know, that everything doesn’t happen for a reason. I mean, I have to believe that, or else it’s all just chaos. I’m not a fan of organized religion, I mean, I went to Catholic school, but that was just because my parents thought I’d get a better education there. To me it’s all the same, really. Jesus, God, Allah, Buddha, whatever. Somebody’s got to be driving the spaceship, that’s all. Otherwise what’s the whole point? … Yeah, I suppose there doesn’t have to be a point, but I’m much happier believing there is one. Wow. Religion, exes, we’re breaking all the first-date rules, aren’t we? I hope I’m not coming off like a complete asshole. I’m really not, it’s just hard when you sit with someone you don’t know at all, you know? … Thanks. And you’re much cuter than I expected, although you do have the benefit of comparison to a lot of really bad dates. So tell me, am I the first real date you’ve had since, you know, your wife passed away? Really? Oh my God. I don’t feel too much pressure now! Kidding. I’m kidding. Still, I do feel somewhat responsible to make sure you have a positive experience. I mean, you never forget your first date, right? The first guy I dated after I got divorced was this guy Charlie I knew from the gym and it was an absolute disaster. He spent the whole night giving me a detailed account of his entire sexual history, from the first time he masturbated to the girl he’d slept with the week before, and then he was actually shocked when I didn’t want to sleep with him. And now I’m your first date. What will you say about me? … What? Ha ha! You’re really very funny, you know that?—Oh, no dessert for me, thanks. I’m fine. But you feel free to get some for yourself.
“That was nice, thanks. Oh, I love this song, can you turn it up? I love Beyoncé. It’s left over here, on Blackstone. Right. I mean, correct, not a right turn. And this is it. Thanks. I know it’s big for just the two of us, but I’m really attached to it. Also, if I sell it I have to give half to Gary, and I’m sure as hell not going to pay for his fiancée’s new Mercedes … Hey, would you like to come in for a while? Jason is at Gary’s this weekend … Listen, I like you, Doug. You’re sweet and handsome, and I can already tell you’ve got a big heart. I don’t mind admitting that I’m very attracted to you, and I think we would have a very good time together. I know you’re just getting back out there, and I don’t want you to think it would be any kind of commitment. And it’s not like I’m some whore who jumps into bed with any guy who buys me dinner. I can’t go there if I don’t feel a connection, and I really do feel a connection to you. It’s fine if you don’t want to, I’ll understand, but I just wanted to extend the invitation, you know? No strings attached, and I mean that. If we only become friends, that’s fine too. Also, I’m a very sexual person, very passionate, and I’ve been told that I’m great in bed, so, there’s that too … You sure? Okay, I understand. No, it’s fine. That’s why God invented vibrators, right? I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Listen, I hope you don’t think I’m this horrible slut, because it’s not like that, it really isn’t. It’s just that decent guys are few and far between, trust me, so when one comes along, I try not to play any games … Okay. It’s fine. Believe me, I totally understand. Let me give you a kiss … Mmmm. Sure you won’t change your mind? Okay. Well, it was great to meet you, it really was. Call me, okay? I’d love to do it again … Me too. Okay. Have a good night. Can you just wait and make sure I get in okay? I hate coming into an empty house. Thanks. Okay, bye. Give me one more kiss … Mmmm. Oh my God, you have amazing lips. Okay. I’m going now. Say hi to your sister … ”
27
THE TOWN OF NEW RADFORD HAS ONE OF THE best public school districts in the country. We have well-funded libraries, beautiful parks, clean streets, an exemplary police force, and great shopping. What we don’t have anywhere in the vicinity is a single decent strip club. Someone tried to open one a few years ago, but nothing galvanizes an upper-middle-class bedroom community faster than the threat of tits and ass. Local lawyers offered their services pro bono to file all the legal motions, the wealthier financial professionals funded the opposition, the minivan set picketed the proposed site, and the local family associations and religious institutions united and mobilized to cram the zoning board hearings with raucous crowds to make sure the application and all subsequent appeals were shot down. Ironically, these same men who gave of their time and money to keep the strippers out are now forced to drive the forty minutes into Manhattan when they want to be grinded on by topless dancers in G-strings.
Even before I was married, I never liked going to strip clubs. Not for any grand moral reason, or because it objectifies women—I believe in a woman’s right to choose to be objectified—but because I can’t help seeing myself through the eyes of the dancers; a dumb, sexless mark too pathetic to achieve female contact on his own terms. But after Hailey died, the married guys saw me as the perfect excuse to make these trips. Going to a strip club might be a seedy and wretched act of misogyny, but bringing me along transformed it into a humanitarian mission, a noble act of friendship and compassion, the men gathering to buck up the sad, lonely widower in their midst. It was the flimsiest of justifications, but when naked women are involved, that’s generally all a man needs. And so, with this rationale tucked neatly away as ammunition for the imaginary defense they would never present to their wives, they would call me, advising me that it would do me some good to come out and party with them. I knew that sitting with a group of middle-aged married men and watching them chat up the young, naked dancers writhing on their laps would only make me feel shittier, but sometimes it was easier to grin and bear it than to explain that to them. And so the night finally came that I found myself being dragged along on one of these little outings like a team mascot; not one of the players, but there to foster team spirit.
At first I figured I would just sit at the bar, or on the couch, get drunk on the watered-down drinks, tap my foot in time to the eighties hard rock, and take a mental nap until it was over, but
then I learned yet another incontrovertible truth about being young and bereaved: everyone wants to buy the widower a lap dance. Like waving a pair of powdered tits in my face will somehow ease my pain. And suddenly I found myself shouting down the men in my party, who were throwing money at the girls and telling them to show me a good time, and then fending off the aggressive advances of the strippers themselves, who had sensed the dynamic and were ready to work the situation for all it was worth. And so I followed the dancer they’d selected for me down the dimly lit hall to the VIP room, but as soon as I was out of view, I ducked out of the club and used the batch of twenties my well-meaning friends had shoved into my hands for the dances to take a cab back to New Radford. And that was the last time anyone asked me to go to a strip club.
“We’re going to a titty bar,” Max says. “As soon as we finish here.”
Max is Mike’s younger brother, a good-looking guy in his mid-twenties, the kind of guy who still says things like “sweet” and “dude” and, of course, “titty bar,” and who earlier informed me, apropos of nothing and without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, that one of his fraternity brothers “has this banging house in the Hamptons, and on weekends it’s wall-to-wall models, man. You should totally come, dude. I’ll hook you up.” Whenever he speaks, I can picture him in his fraternity T-shirt, chugging beer through a hose, paddling the naked asses of freshman pledges, and date-raping semiconscious sorority girls.
It’s Monday afternoon, and the members of Mike’s wedding party have all gathered in the dressing room of Gellers Tuxedo Studio in lower Manhattan, to be fitted for our gray waistcoats and tails. I had hoped that Mike would have better sense than to dress his groomsmen, but I forgot that Mike is not calling the shots, and Debbie wants all the ushers dressed up as Kennedys. In addition to Max and myself, Mike’s wedding party contains Paul, a hedge fund guy, and Rich, an investment banker, both from the neighborhood, who never stop taking cell phone calls and urgently checking their BlackBerries. And then, awkwardly enough, there’s Dave Potter, Laney’s husband, who is Mike’s partner and whom I should have anticipated but somehow didn’t, maybe because I’ve trained myself to forget he exists.
How to Talk to a Widower Page 16
