by Sally Koslow
“Not exactly. Let’s just say you don’t want Basil on your bad side, not if you’d like to install a washing machine or get your new couch delivered on a Saturday. He’s the imperial wizard.”
Jennifer’s analysis of this ant colony might be mildly intriguing, but no other good would come of having her hang around. When Arthur left the room, I deployed the most basic of Jules’ Rules: To make someone disappear, ignore them. I turned my back on Jennifer to fill a vase, which I took with casual propriety from a cabinet in the wet bar, and concentrated on cutting the roses’ stems under running water, meticulously plucking away thorns and excess foliage. After two minutes of silence, Arthur reemerged from the bathroom, zipping his fly, and Jennifer stood to say goodbye. “I’ll call as soon as I hear anything,” she promised as she flounced away.
“Why ya leaving, Jen?” She looked at me cross-eyed and walked out. “Now she’s probably pissed, and where’s that going to get me?” a petulant Arthur asked after the front door closed. He walked toward me and put on a hangdog expression. “Why’d you scare her off?”
Corollary: Don’t feel obligated to answer a question merely because someone poses it. “Twinkie?” I asked as I stood back to admire the flowers’ lush fullness, not, I hoped, unlike my own.
He looked at me as if I’d said, Industrial-strength sodium stearoyl lactylate, darling? “How can you eat that crap?” This from a man who considers pork and beans a company meal.
“I offered you a snack cake, not a glass of weed killer,” I said as I bit into the spongy confection.
Arthur pulled me toward him, which I allowed, and tried to kiss away my incipient foul mood. He obviously wasn’t up for a fight, and neither, frankly, was I. For all his faults, Arthur was not without talent in bed, and that’s where I wanted to wind up, as soon as possible. One thing led to another, and then another.
“Doll, is it my imagination, or are you even more voluptuous than the other day?” he asked as he unhooked the oldest, most stretched-out bra in my lingerie drawer. I’d been wearing it on the loosest hook, but it still created cleavage dangerously rivaling Aretha Franklin’s and, when removed, left an angry red ring around the softness of my rib cage. I wanted Arthur’s question to be another I left unanswered, but he persisted. “Seriously,” he said. “You look different.”
“You and your imagination.” I aimed for nonchalance, but this was like saying, Omigod, Arthur, your hairline is receding, I never noticed.
“Getting your period?” He leaned back and looked at me.
We were now in the vicinity of land mines. “Artie,” I said, moving my hands to parts of his body that I felt certain would lead us away from the line of fire if serviced, “you’re right, maybe I’m late. I’ve never been regular.” Another lie. My periods were as reliable as a utility bill.
He started fondling the tattoo on my breast, but his touch on my swollen flesh felt like sex abuse. I flinched.
“A tad PMS-y, are we?”
A tad retarded, are we? I’m having your goddamn baby, you cretin. One minute I’d be visiting the site for Planned Parenthood and every other earnest resource where I could be counseled on Trying to Decide. The next, Sisters Chastity, Consuelo Lingus, Butch, and Dildo—the bitch quartet that haunts my high school memories—had lined up to hiss, Julia Maria de Marco, we will not allow you to sin. You are not going to harm your precious unborn child. You are not going to even fucking think about it. Just try. All the nuns I ever knew then joined them in a line of shrill, frowning sopranos, their rulers keeping time with the message: You fornicating ho, what did you think would come from banging thirty different guys in almost three decades?
Perhaps they didn’t say bang. Maybe the word was boff or hump, but I got the message. Sisters of Mercy, my fat ass.
I backed away from Arthur. “No!” I shouted.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
To my absolute horror, I started to weep. I probably looked worse than Jennifer during one of her spastic laugh attacks.
“Shit, Jules—what’s wrong?” Arthur looked genuinely concerned, until I swear I saw him smile. “Is it Jennifer?”
I wanted to strangle him with my bra until his eyes popped out. “That loser?” I said, wiping away my tears.
Arthur leaned back on his sturdy haunches and looked smug. “You’re worried she’s got me covered on the nights you aren’t here.”
To think that the innocent lump of cells multiplying inside me had half of this douche’s genes was, in itself, a compelling pro-choice argument. “Arthur, I don’t give a shit what you do with Jennifer,” I said, drawing out her name until it was as long as a plumber’s snake. Yet I realized it wasn’t entirely true. I suddenly did care. “Except the way the two of you are trying to trash Quincy’s chance to get the apartment.”
“Julia de Marco, what are you implying?”
“I’m not implying, Arthur Weiner.” I managed a snarky laugh. “I believe I’m being explicit.”
“Fuck, you don’t think I deserve that co-op as much as a complete stranger?” He sounded as hurt as he did angry.
“She’s not a stranger, not to me,” I blurted out. “Quincy is my friend.”
“Oh, really?” he said. “‘Quincy is my friend,’” he mimicked. “So what does that make me?”
“I’m going to have to get back to you on that one.”
I took a moment, dressed at my leisure, and left the bed, the room, and the apartment.
CHAPTER 23
Chloe
After California, I decided I required a makeover, inside and out. Not the kind involving Infallible Lustrous Never-Fail Lip Color and a haircut that cost double what my first semester of college had. I wanted to become a tough cookie, someone who would never again get scammed by a friend. In my survival-of-the-fittest world, I needed to reconstitute myself as more lean mean protein, less sugar and boggy fiber.
I’d begun to inhale self-help books and motivational tapes, often while I walked on the treadmill. Before bed, TiVo’d Oprah episodes became my sound track for a vigorous free-weight workout that balanced the yoga I started practicing five times a week. I’d also dived deeply into Internet chat rooms, but since I wasn’t a pedophile, gambler, sex addict, or date rape victim—just your basic wuss for whom a fearless act is wearing a red strapless dress—I found no help there.
This morning, as I stirred fat-free milk into my coffee—if I was going to evolve, my seven pounds of baby weight weren’t going to make the trip—I started to list my goals. Get Dash into Jackson Collegiate was number one, followed by Find new job, despite the fact that I had no more natural ambition than a parakeet. As I composed my third goal, Start working with a therapist and/or life coach, Xander walked into the room and kissed me behind the ear. He smelled of mouthwash and lime aftershave. His uncombed dark blond hair, wet from the shower, dangled over his forehead and tickled my neck.
“A life coach?” he asked. “What’s that? More to the point, why?” Xander is a man too busy to be introspective. There’s the firm, his athletic club, his Harvard B-school alumni organization, golf, his rare-book collection, and subscriptions to the Financial Times and three other newspapers he reads cover to cover. Dash and I factor in there, too. But mostly there’s his stability. Xander makes a mountain look like mush.
“I thought I could do with a little improvement,” I said after I kissed him on the cheek, walked to the fridge, and removed a pint of raspberries. I washed a handful, blotting each jewel gently with a paper towel before I used them to adorn my organic Greek yogurt mixed with health-food-store granola. I stood back and admired my virtuous breakfast.
“If this is a pointless quest for perfection,” Xander said as he poured his coffee, “that’s …” About the time people abandoned carbs, he’d cut out cursing. Déclassé! “Nonsense,” he said finally.
“It’s not nonsense,” I said carefully. “I need to clarify and achieve goals.” Like you do instinctively. Xander won’t admit he’s in constant
refinement, a process so embedded into his character he wouldn’t recognize the effort.
“You sound like those programs you watch,” he said, and gulped coffee, then stared at the mug. “What is this?”
“Decaf.”
He poured his coffee in the sink and reached for his briefcase. “The problem’s not with you and me, is it?”
“I never said I have a problem. I simply want to talk things through with someone who’s …” Smarter? More analytical? “Objective.”
“Talk to Jules,” Xander suggested. “That woman’s got the answer for everything.” My husband hasn’t forgiven her for telling him all the reasons not to buy a Jaguar, this after he’d just bought one. That his alter-ego car has logged only slightly less time in a mechanic’s garage than in our own has merely made Xander resent Jules more. “Or Talia. What’s that term, BFFs? Isn’t that what you two are?”
“Who are you?”
“What? A guy’s not allowed to read in the john?”
I made a show of looking at the clock. “Didn’t you say you had an early meeting?”
“That I did, you endlessly fascinating creature.” Xander kissed me and began to walk toward the door. “To be continued,” he said. “I should be home early tonight. Eight-fifteen at the latest.”
I returned to my notepad. To my knowledge, not one branch of my family tree, not even a distant, twittering leaf, had ever been treated by a shrink. McKenzies have a hard enough time talking to one another. Yet seeing a professional seems like the right step when you can’t change on your own. Quincy saw a grief counselor after she lost her baby; Jake made her go after she’d worn only pajamas for a solid month. Talia has dropped in and out of every stripe of therapy—psychoanalytic, cognitive, Gestalt, short-term, long-term, and possibly occupational. Maybe it was a shrink who’d encouraged her to think only of herself!
I decided a psychiatrist wasn’t the answer. Wouldn’t a brain-probing pro judge me and declare that I was squandering my husband’s money and would be better served by tutoring children less privileged than Dash or pulling weeds in Prospect Park?
I went to call Quincy. It was seven forty-five, and eight until two was her sacred writing zone, which she claimed to blast through with only bathroom breaks, because later in the day, she said, her brain was a turnip. Or was it a rutabaga? Whatever the root vegetable in her metaphor, respect for Quincy’s schedule was precisely why I tried her then, not later. That and the fact that I was curious to know if what Maizie May had blabbed could possibly be true. Once my mojitos had worn off I mistrusted everything that girl had said.
Quincy answered after several rings, her voice thick as paste.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Are you sick?” I was ready for her announcement.
“I had one of those nights … I guess I finally nodded off again. What time is it?”
I told her.
“No!” she yelped. “Maizie and I have a meeting this morning.”
“You okay?” She sounded not only sleepy but skittish, as if I’d caught her with a man who wasn’t Jake.
“Forget about me,” Quincy said. “Tell me quick. Everything copacetic?”
“Couldn’t be better,” I lied. “We should plan a lunch.” We hadn’t been face-to-face since … could it really be Maine? “How did that co-op interview go?” I remembered it had happened while I was away. I hoped she wasn’t angry that I hadn’t asked about it sooner.
“Excruciating—and the vote’s still not in,” she answered, yet quickly added, “Listen, I can’t talk—got to get downtown to see the diva. I’ll e-mail you later and we’ll figure out lunch in a week or two?”
“Sure.” I clicked off, deflated. I could have used some solid, grade-A Quincy just then, regardless of whether or not she made her announcement. Exposure to Quincy made me feel more grounded, as if I, too, had read Keats.
I did my goodbye routine with Dash and Jamyang, who were off to the park, then I washed my bowl, refilled my mug, read the Style section, sorted junk mail, rapped my knuckles on the marble counter in frustration, and finally called Jules. “Forget it, Arthur!” she snapped halfway through the fifth ring.
“I’m not Arthur.”
“How fortunate,” she said. Jules breathed heavily, a dragon flaring her nostrils.
“Want to talk about it?” Not that I felt even a tickle of certainty in having answers for whatever “it” was.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin. Let’s leave it at saying you wouldn’t want to be me today.” She groaned. “Or any day.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “I need your advice.”
“What room are we redecorating now?” she asked with dramatic weariness. We have a deal. I run my decorator’s suggestions past Jules—a good thing, or my living room walls would look like fried eggs, not lemon mousse.
“This time it’s personal. I need a makeover.”
“I wouldn’t say this to just anyone, but in your case, Chloekins, you can’t go wrong with blonder,” she said after the briefest of pauses. “You’ve gotten too ashy. With those blue eyes, go one down from Happy Honey, but definitely not all the way to Innocent Ivory. Want to use my colorist? He’s—”
Normally I take pride in not interrupting, but this time I did. “It’s the inside me I want to work on.” I sounded more strident than the woman I hoped to become.
“But you’ve got it all—Brooklyn’s best address, the cute kid, the hunky hubby. Whatever would you want to change?” This was Jules being facetious; she’s no more a fan of Xander than he is of her.
“What do you say I buy you lunch and explain?”
I expected her to work me in next month, but she named a bistro tucked away in Soho and said she could meet in three hours. If that alone didn’t tell me something was off, her appearance did. Jules-the-hand-model’s nails looked as if she’d recently raked an arboretum’s worth of leaves, and instead of the usual chocolate-brown waves that swirled over her shoulders like frosting, her hair hung in a limp ponytail. She was wearing large red glasses and a baggy black shift topped by a cardigan in a color that looked like a swamp. Yet I found my way to a compliment. “Those glasses,” I said. “People will think you run an art gallery.”
“Liar. I’m a living mug shot.”
I began to study the menu as if it were notes for a driving test I’d flunked five times. Jules choked on water she’d gulped. I tried to overlook the behavior of this Jules impostor. “Red or white?” I said. We were, after all, in a café known for its wine cellar.
“Nothing for me, thanks.” She ripped into the bread basket, soaked a hunk in olive oil, took a bite, and hailed a waiter, announcing, “I’m starving.” At least her usual appetite and command with waitstaff were intact. Within twenty seconds a young man who might have walked off a runway stood next to our table.
“Bonjour,” he said in an accent that sounded like French crossed with Italian. “My name eees Michel. Care to hear de specialties doo jo-o-r?”
“We’re good, Michel,” Jules answered, though I’d never known her not to deliberate over daily specials as if they were stocks she was thinking about buying.
“Mademoiselle?” the waiter asked, turning toward me.
“Ah, well, I’ll have the salade niçoise. Dressing on the side, please.”
“Grazie, mademoiselle.” He swiveled his narrow hips toward Jules. “Madame?”
Jules let the insult slide. “The five-napkin hamburger,” she said, “charred on the outside, rare in the middle but not too bloody, and on a separate plate, please, the fries, very crisp, with vinegar, not ketchup.” When our waiter had walked away, she turned to me. “What’s with this ‘on the side’ nonsense?”
I am a teaspoon to Jules’ ladle, who seemed to have put on a few pounds. “Trying to improve my eating habits,” I admitted.
“Ooh, fun.” She liberated another chunk of bread. “Tell me, what’s the crisis that brings us to this table?”
“It’s less a
crisis than a quandary.”
“Chloe?” Her look said, I’ve got places to go and people to see.
“The time has come for a confidence upgrade,” I announced. “I was hoping for a pep talk. At least some sort of rule you could quote.”
“Like Never announce you’re on a diet when your friend has polished off the bread?”
“Exactly.”
Jules leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and peered directly into my eyes. “Forgive me for busting your chops. I’ve got my own stuff going on, that’s all. As a matter of fact, I do have a thought. I’ve always believed you get confident by finding the voice inside you that’s had the answer all along. Go with your gut.”
I played back the words. My mother’s diction, patrician and silvery, came through, but mine was lost in a din. “What if you can’t hear that voice?” And are afraid of what the voice is saying?
“Give yourself time. Listen harder and ignore your fear.”
I’m sure my face was as blank as a vanilla wafer. “But how?”
Jules starting roaring. “This is rich. You actually think I have answers. Can’t you tell I’m bullshitting you?” Only when she’d finished gobbling her burger did she speak again. “You have all the clear thinking and force of personality any woman requires. You just need to activate it, and I’m going to give you a test to get you started.” Jules took a deep breath. “I want you to listen and say exactly what’s on your mind, but not until I ask you to.” She emphasized her point by wagging a fry. “Ready?”
I always failed pop quizzes. “Okay,” I said, with serious reluctance.
“Think about a close friend, the first who comes to mind. She’s got her good qualities, but in your heart of hearts you’ve never thought being cut out to be a mother is one of them.”
Since Talia had wronged me, she’d become my mental home page. I imagined her with Henry—reading together, taking him by the hand as they crossed a street, comforting him when he cried, and beaming as he climbed a slide. Did I secretly believe she was a rotten mother?
