With Friends Like These

by Sally Koslow

  “Mr. Jonas is expecting you,” she said. I giggled again. The receptionist walked me down a narrow hallway and led me into a long, dark room.

  “Chloe Keaton?”

  “Mr. Jonas?” A man spun around in his chair and stood to shake my hand. Winters Jonas was utterly bald! I pictured him in his bathroom, trying to get a smooth shave. It couldn’t be easy, especially on the back of his skull, but I hadn’t noticed any scabs or Band-Aids. “We have on the same jacket!” I said. His was black, too.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “True.”

  Was the floor crooked? Probably. This building was the kind of firetrap that in downtown Manhattan passes for charming. I looked up and smiled at Winters Jonas, who smiled back. I felt better than I ever had in my life. Apparently I was getting adept at this job-hunting business!

  “So, Chloe, tell me about yourself,” he said.

  I knew my lines. “I’m a skilled leader,” I began, trying to embrace my traditional femininity while I advanced my goals. This meant crossing my legs at the ankles and keeping the smiles coming. “I enjoy the respect of my peers. My skills are unsurpassed, but the talent of which I am most proud is my ability to build and mentor a team.”

  Did it matter that the only team I’d ever led was for tennis at Miss Porter’s? Mr. Jonas seemed to buy it. “What’s your MO to achieve this?”

  “My mojo!” He pinned me with his dark blue eyes, but I wasn’t going to let that throw me. “I roll up my sleeves and lead through my own example of passion, high energy, creativity, and hard work.”

  “Chloe, let’s have a look at your portfolio,” he said. We did, chatting at every page, augmented by laughter, a lot of laughter. The interview lasted an hour!

  That evening, when I woke from a nap, Xander asked me to report on the appointment. I couldn’t recall a thing. I wasn’t even sure how I’d gotten home.

  CHAPTER 28

  Jules

  Arthur didn’t know it, but—cue the theme from Law and Order—Mr. Cheap was on trial. Every hour, I changed my mind about the poor knucklehead. I woke up believing I had emotional leprosy ever to have allowed myself to get in the family way by him, but as soon as I had my tea—coffee was on hiatus for Mama Jules—I softened. Honestly, who’s a ten? My Artie Fartie worshipped at my bunioned feet. The guy thought even my most brain-dead prattle deserved to be nominated for an Emmy. Goddess status worked for me, and as Calvin Coolidge said—or was it Mark Twain?—I could live for two months on a good compliment.

  While Arthur was in Texas on business, perhaps he’d read up on how to be a better boyfriend. He’d slipped way out of character and made a reservation at as snooty a French restaurant as a West Side zip code would allow, although I happened to know that Carmine, the maître d’, was Italian.

  My pop once told me you can always trust a guy named Carmine, the only time the weasel spoke the truth. His theory has been ratified. Carmine of Picholine will murmur in my ear to tell me to steer clear of the wild Scottish grouse because it’s loaded with birdshot, and that the olive-oil-poached cod is bland as paper but, ah, the sheep’s milk ricotta gnocchi with parsley pistou—ecstasy. When I’m wearing my personal shopper hat, Picholine is the venue where I fête clients to thank them for dropping thousands on clothes I’ve selected for their lumpy carcasses. And evidently Arthur had taken note. Tonight we were meeting at eight-thirty, which gave me ample time for preening.

  I decided it behooved me to spend the rest of my afternoon being ministered to at the good–as–Madison Avenue salon I’ve never told a soul about. I asked Sophia, the shop’s sainted owner, for resuscitation—deep conditioning, haircut, blow dry, hydrating facial, deep-tissue massage, and when I came clean to her about my maternal state as well as my evening plans, she insisted on throwing in makeup gratis, clearly her version of a mercy fuck. I departed feeling lusciously transformed in the way that a woman can feel only after having dropped hundreds of bucks on female necessities, and I’m not talking Kotex Overnight Maxi Pads, especially not now.

  I’d hurried home and dressed strategically, choosing a sensual swish of red silk, second cousin to a caftan. It featured a plunging neckline, which I garnished with a long toss of amethysts that nestled in my bosom: as I tell clients, a décolletage without jewels is like a museum wall without a Caravaggio. I anointed myself with the Joy eau de parfum I reserve for first nights at the opera, grabbed my velvet shawl, hopped in the car, and at precisely eight twenty-five pulled into a garage. The restaurant’s door was framed by a Thanksgiving still life of corn stalks and squash. Time was marching on, along with my little bugger. I’d best march, too.

  I pushed open the door and was met by the twinkle of chandeliers wide as Scarlett’s hoop skirts. I took in the excruciatingly tasteful tamped-down shades of gray and taupe. They aren’t my colors—oyster tones depress me more than Chihuahuas in turtlenecks—but the décor was the visual equivalent of an antianxiety drug, which I needed badly. I didn’t know what Arthur had going on, but I knew what I did, and I promised myself I wouldn’t leave that night without speaking what was in my heart, most likely why my necklace was set to vibrate.

  Carmine led me to an intimate corner table. A guy whom it took me a second to recognize as Arthur was already seated. There must have been a sale at a trading post. He was wearing a fitted black suit, an embroidered black shirt, a shiny black tie, a belt with an embossed silver buckle featuring a long-nosed animal I couldn’t quite make out, and a black Western hat. Had Willie Nelson died or was Arthur merely fed up with country music hunks getting all the sartorial breaks?

  He stood and leaned in my direction. We were eye to eye, even with me in four-inch heels. I glanced downward. Boy howdy, Arthur was wearing cowboy boots. Had he packed a lasso? My mind traveled to a dirty place that wasn’t El Paso. I looked into his eyes, grinned, and kissed him back. Bitch and moan as I may, my Arthur isn’t a slave to fashion, or many other conventions. You’ve got to like that about a guy.

  “Evening, Sheriff,” I said.

  “You gorgeous thing, I am one lucky dude,” he said. “I could eat you up.”

  I suppose the sociable response was “Right back at you,” but I had to know. “Arthur, what’s tonight about?”

  He grinned. “Don’t jump the gun.” While I looked for a holster, he added, “I missed you, that’s all. You miss me?” I answered by stroking the back of his hand with its short, pudgy fingers. “I know you think when I’m away all I do is pay for porn, but the truth is, this time my mind was mostly on you.”

  Like the dandruff-sized diamond in the middle of Arthur’s black onyx pinky ring, buried in that remark was something special. “What exactly were you thinking, partner?” I asked. Arthur appeared ready to answer, but then the waiter showed up.

  “Champagne for both of us,” Arthur boomed.

  “Will that be a bottle, sir?” the waiter asked.

  “Two glasses will be fine.” He pointed to the most modest choice on the menu, and turned again in my direction. “You haven’t commented on my duds.”

  “You look good, actually,” I said, which was almost true. “But you’ve got to lose the hat.”

  He shot me a pout, yet tenderly parked the Stetson on the banquette. Our drinks arrived. “To us,” he said, raising his glass. As our flutes touched, he winked. “I’ve got something for you.”

  Arthur ducked his head under the table, which allowed me to gulp some champagne and spit it into my water glass. As his pate’s shiny top reappeared, I spied a box whose size alone is known to inspire female palpitations. Despite that fact, what I felt was a sudden flurry in my belly followed by a small twister that spiraled quickly upward until I felt an urge to gag, which I tried to suppress.

  This brought about a facial expression Arthur apparently read as glee. “Now that’s what I call a reaction.” He grinned.

  My insides did a samba. Arthur centered the ring box, a flip-top job, in front of me as I pushed myself up from the table and managed to whisper, “Excuse
me—bathroom run.”

  I broke out first in a sweat, then the chills, and regretted that I’d left my shawl on the back of the chair. I would have liked to have swaddled myself and taken a nap, perhaps for the next eight months. I was in no shape to make the kind of decision that an engagement ring demands. I sat in the stall with my head in my lap for as many minutes as I felt I could remain without Arthur sending in a posse, then got up and wiped away most of Sophia’s mascara, gone sadly awry. I tried to return to the table holding my head high, but my legs had turned to Play-Doh. Perhaps my wobble set off seismic waves, because Carmine ran to my side and extended his wiry arm. “You look pale, Miss de Marco. Is the food not to your liking this evening?”

  “Carm, I’m sure the food will be superb,” I said. “We haven’t even ordered yet.”

  “In that case, stay away from the sea scallops,” he murmured without moving his lips as he escorted me to the table and pulled out my chair. A ring box still waited.

  “Doll, you okay?” Arthur asked, genuine concern creasing his high forehead.

  “Fine,” I lied. “All better now. Sorry.”

  He patted my arm in a fatherly way, not that I’d had any personal experience with how that actually felt. We picked up our menus and studied them in silence. The waiter appeared to take our order.

  “What’ll it be?” Arthur asked.

  “I’ll go with the pear and endive salad, and …” Each choice sounded more richly revolting than the next. “I’ll pass on an entrée, thanks.” Relief blossomed on Arthur’s face: I would not be ordering the $145 five-course game tasting menu. My queasiness had subsided. My misgivings had not. “I’m going to try the sweetbreads to start,” he said, “and … the sea scallops.”

  I shook my head.

  “I meant the lamb,” he told the waiter, checking for my approval, which I granted. “Now, where were we?” Arthur pushed the box in front of me. “Open it.”

  For a proposal, I doubt I would have scripted “Julia Maria, I adore you, the most divine creature who’s ever lived, and I want you to be my wife for all our days on earth and life eternal. I will, forever, be your devoted slave and protector.” But I also wouldn’t have gone with “Let it rip,” as Arthur suggested.

  I reached for the box as his sturdy thigh rubbed against mine. I undid the white ribbon while I fantasized about a princelier paramour sliding his hands under a virginal negligee and slipping it off my creamy shoulders, revealing my breasts in their standard, highly enviable prepregnancy condition. Discreetly, I scanned the restaurant to try to memorize the surroundings. Roses, check. Candles, check. Classical music, check.

  “Jules, doll,” Arthur said as I was about to the flip the lid, “you should know I decided this was you. Well, you and me.”

  Just as I’ve never contemplated my fantasy will-you-marry-me speech, I’m also not a girl who’s conjured a mythical engagement ring. I haven’t, in fact, been a girl for a long time. Even at eleven, I felt ancient and wise. Chloe has a round two-carat stone, tasteful, unimaginative, and vastly overpriced, she and Xander being the only people I know who stroll into Harry Winston and buy a ring retail. Talia and Tom wear plain matching bands that Talia’s dental technician uncle, Seymour, made from purloined gold fillings. Quincy—if I can still count her as a friend—wears a Victorian antique, a sapphire that matches her eyes.

  What kind of ring said Jules? Perhaps, befitting my age, several carats of rock in an emerald cut. That, however, definitely didn’t say Arthur.

  A rule I’ve chosen not to abide by is that sometimes a woman has to compromise. Yet I knew I’d settle for a chunk of cocktail bling in any color of the rainbow as long as it wasn’t brown or beige, and providing it was at least the size of an olive. I lifted the lid.

  Inside the box was a bigger, heavier twin to the pinky ring on Arthur’s hand. The diamond chip was larger, just. If Arthur’s diamond was a no-see-um, this was a gnat.

  “Put it on,” he urged. “Let me help you.” He removed the ring from the box. It didn’t fit my fourth finger. He pushed it onto my pinky, sat back, and waited for my gratitude, or at least a snappy comeback. “We’re a real pair, don’t you think?” Arthur was on his own joy ride.

  “Ya think?”

  Rule number fourteen: Nature abhors a vacuum. Create a pause and someone will fill it. Arthur squirmed and turned his eyes toward his empty champagne glass. This didn’t bring me closer to understanding if my brand-new trinket was only that or a proposal. I needed to know: I felt foolish enough being me right now without making a presumption of grand proportions. I continued to gently glare.

  “Jules, okay, here goes,” Arthur said, after a throat clearing that sounded like a garbage truck doing its business. “The way I see us, we’re the perfect combo, like, hmmm, a hot dog and mustard.” He waited for me to approve his simile. I was able to control myself. “Think about it. We have great sex. We both love to eat and laugh and watch basketball and Turner Classics. Neither one of us is getting any younger, and as my mother always said, two can live as cheaply as one. So, I was thinking …” He sucked in air—and his stomach—dramatically. “Should we take the next step?”

  I employed my well-honed echo technique. “The next step?”

  “You know, living together.” He shifted in his seat, which allowed me to get a better look at his buckle. Armadillo. Nasty, plug-ugly critter. I was afraid it would jump off his belt and bite off my hand.

  “Where, exactly, would we live?” He didn’t respond. “Did you see yourself moving in with me?” He didn’t have a driver’s license and wouldn’t know mulch from corned beef hash. Arthur Weiner was as hard to picture in Westport as litter.

  “Okay, I’m being theoretical now,” he said, as if an idea had occurred to him that very minute. “What if you were to sell your house and we pooled our … funds … and bought a place together and I’d invest my profits … for the future?” I waited for more. “Maybe we could get that apartment we saw in my building.”

  You don’t say. “The one Quincy and Jake are dreaming about?”

  “Forget about that—it’s not going to happen,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “I have it on good authority that the board decided the Blues were in collusion with the brokers and the old lady’s business manager. They got rejected. The pittance they want to pay was way below market value. Bad for the building to give the joint away. Depresses the value of everyone else’s property. Though if anyone gets a deal, it should be an insider.” With each statement, his face got redder.

  “Can you prove this collusion?” I asked.

  Arthur waved away the question. “Listen up. I’ve got it all worked out—we could buy the apartment, flip it, and move into something far bigger and better. Like I said, we’re a pair. Sonny and Cher, Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, Bonnie and Clyde.”

  Perspiration gathered in my cleavage. “Didn’t those people all wind up divorced or dead?”

  “Jules, what do you want me to do, get down on bended knee?” Arthur looked exasperated, and frankly, who could blame him, the way I was yanking his chain? “The point is, we’re a twosome.”

  It had been years since a man had given me even bad jewelry. This ring was hideous and insignificant, but it was an invitation. I sat back and stared at my almost-full glass of champagne. Who did I think I was?

  “The thing is, Artie, we’re more than a twosome,” I said softly, staring into his dark brown eyes. “We’re a threesome.”

  He looked puzzled, then unaccountably pleased. “You want a threesome?”

  “Do I have to spell it out? I’m pregnant.”

  “You’re what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Not funny, Jules.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Shock and confusion contorted his face as he leaned away from the table, away from me. “You can still get pregnant?”

  “Yes, you fuckwit, and it’s yours.”

  Carmine was there to revive Arthur when he passed out. />
  CHAPTER 29

  Quincy

  I opened one eye and watched Jake survey the corpses of four dozen balloons. It looked as if a school of salmon had washed up into our apartment to die. “Q, was there a terrorist attack?”

  I pulled my grandmother’s afghan, yellow faded to beige, over my head and stroked Fanny’s back. “There was,” I mumbled, “I’m the terrorist.”

  He walked to the couch and curled next to me. Jake is a furnace, and I could feel his warmth through the nubby wool. “I wish I could have been here to see you murder the balloons.”

  “You don’t,” I said. After I hung up with Horton, after I screamed and cursed and cried, I attacked each balloon until it surrendered. As I poked and stabbed, I imagined them as members of the committee that had rebuffed us without explanation. But the last two balloons weren’t members of that jury. They were Jules and Arthur, who got it with a razor blade. I sliced my thumb in the process.

  “Want to talk about plan B?” Jake asked when a few minutes had passed. He smoothed my hair.

  “No.” The word slipped out as a groan. I had no energy to snap.

  “Would that be no as in later or no as in not ever?” I didn’t respond. I needed a good, long sulk before I decided the answer, and Jake knew better than to cajole. “Got it,” he said as he pulled away. I heard him go into the bedroom, but soon he emerged and gently closed the front door behind him. My arms were wrapped around my midsection, my mind trying to wish away disappointment, my eyes pressed shut.

  When I opened my eyes, the room was dark. I’d fallen into a black hole of a nap. I lay in the stillness, chilled, yet devoid of desire to rouse myself. Regardless, my bladder had a clearer idea. I pushed up slowly on one elbow. That’s when I felt it.

  The sensation was neither sharp nor throbbing, clouded by déjà vu. As I shifted position, a warm stickiness dampened my thighs. I didn’t even glance downward. I didn’t want to bear witness. A woman who couldn’t have been me walked to the bathroom, pausing efficiently to grab her cell phone. After she dialed, she pulled down her jeans and pale yellow cotton briefs and squatted on the toilet.