The Last Dreamer

by Barbara Solomon Josselsohn

  Turning to her left, she saw that Dan and his wife had arrived and were talking with Marc and the Angerses. She wondered if Marc was stressed because he hadn’t had as much time alone with Richard as he had wanted. She looked around for him so she could make sure he was okay, but then she saw him approaching two women in business suits. She recognized them from past company functions; one was a lawyer who worked in Marc’s department and the other was in finance or something. They were both in their late 30s and looked as though they jogged eight miles each day before going to work. Marc began talking, gesturing comfortably as he spoke, and the two women listened attentively and nodded. At one point Marc seemed to have said something funny. The two women laughed, the one on the left grasping his elbow and dropping her chin, her silky dark hair spilling down around her face.

  Iliana watched Marc take in the laughter, rocking back on his heels and putting his hands in pants pockets. He looked like he was enjoying himself, and suddenly she found herself wondering how happy he was with his stay-at-home wife. Sure, she made his life easy by taking care of the house and kids, but did he find the women he worked with more exciting? Was he disappointed that she had not made more of herself? She remembered how interesting he had found her that day they met on the train. He thought it was so cool that she wrote for a living, and he wanted to hear all about her job. Later, when he moved from the law firm to Connors Holdings, they found it serendipitous that she wrote about retailing and his company bought and sold retail chains. They often talked shop at home, and he liked to hear her thoughts about how different sectors of the retail industry were doing. Was apparel going soft? Were home furnishings picking up? Sure, they both had agreed that she should stay home with the kids; but was he now a little let down by the woman she’d become—just as she was?

  Shaken, she turned in the other direction and slowly walked around the perimeter of the room. She didn’t want to go over to Marc just now; she didn’t want to be the kind of wife who takes her husband’s hand when she sees him talking to attractive women. The place had become crowded in the last few minutes, so no one really noticed her, and the few who did nodded and stepped out of the way, as though they assumed she was heading somewhere intentionally. She stopped near a small table with a fruit platter and took a few grapes, snacking on them as she continued to saunter. Ultimately she ended up at the bar and put down her glass, which was already nearly empty.

  “May I take this?” the bartender asked.

  She nodded and the waiter placed another cosmopolitan in front of her. Before she could say, “No, thank you,” he went on to serve two women to her left. She didn’t want the drink; she typically never finished one mixed drink, let alone two. But Marc was still talking to the other women, and she felt uncomfortable standing there by herself, doing nothing. She needed something to do with her hands.

  “So, are you all packed?” one of the women was asking.

  “Almost,” answered the other, a round-faced redhead. “Our furniture left this morning. I have a few boxes still to pack, just some really fragile things I didn’t want to give to the movers, and we’re driving out for good on Sunday.”

  “And how about the wedding? Everything set?”

  “Pretty much. My mother can handle most of the details, and I’ll fly out in the spring, you know, to get my dress fitted, finalize the menu, things like that.”

  Iliana took a sip of the drink, wishing there were some stools around so she could sit. She lifted one foot to rest it on a ledge at the bottom of the bar, but the ledge was much narrower than she realized, and her foot ended up sliding to the floor. The rest of her body lurched forward, and some of her drink spilled onto the bar’s glossy surface. The redhead and her friend looked over.

  “Oh, excuse me. Clumsy,” Iliana said, accepting a napkin from the bartender, who quickly mopped up the mess. She knew she was getting tipsy. She could feel herself slightly swaying. The room was starting to seem slightly out of focus.

  “It’s so hard not to spill with this kind of glass,” the redhead said amiably.

  “That’s true,” Iliana said. “Hi, I’m Iliana Passing, Marc Passing’s wife.”

  “This is Rosanne Green, Bruce Green’s wife, and I’m Gwen Freelander, Keith Rein’s fiancée,” the redhead said.

  “Oh, Keith Rein—he’s going to be running the new Cleveland office,” Iliana said. “Marc told me all about it.” The bartender put a fresh drink in front of her. She vowed not to touch it. She could hear herself starting to slur her words. “Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”

  “In June. But we’re moving this weekend.”

  “How are they taking it at work?” the other woman asked.

  “It’s been hard, but I think they appreciate that I’m tying up all the loose ends,” Gwen answered. “Just have a few more things to take care of with the new play.”

  “Play?” Iliana said, curious. “What do you do?”

  “I’m an intern with a Broadway casting office, Telesido Brothers. They’re really successful. They’re working on a new show that may have Meryl Streep in it.”

  “Really?” Iliana said. “What an exciting job.”

  “And Hugh Jackman is coming in next month to have lunch and talk about a new project. I was hoping I’d be made an assistant casting director by then. Kills me to be leaving now,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Then, why are you?” Iliana asked seriously, leaning toward her.

  The woman moved back a step. “Because I love my fiancé,” she said, sounding affronted. “And because I’m building a life with him.”

  “Of course you are,” her friend said. “And if you don’t meet Hugh Jackman this time, you’ll meet him the next. Don’t worry, a woman with your skills—there’ll always be a way back, whenever you decide to return.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Iliana said under her breath. She raised her glass, and her drink sloshed over the side.

  “Excuse me?” Gwen said.

  “I’m just saying it’s not so easy. Trust me, I know. I have a lawyer friend who left her job to raise her kids. She says no law firm would ever want her now.”

  “So what are you saying? I should break off my engagement?”

  “No, but couldn’t you stay here anyway? I mean, there’s no guarantee his job is going to work out. Why give up yours?”

  “Come on, Gwen, I think we should go,” her friend said.

  “No, I want to answer that,” Gwen said. Then she looked at Iliana. “I worked hard to get the job I have, and no, I’m not thrilled about leaving. But I’m smart enough to know that marriage is about compromise. I’m smart enough to know that life isn’t always perfect, so you examine your options and you make the best decisions you can.”

  “I don’t mean to be a jerk, I’m just being honest,” Iliana said, grasping the woman’s wrist. “You may think you can always go back to work, but the sad truth is, it’s a myth. When you’re ready to go back, they don’t want you, and besides, with a family, it’s too complicated—” She raised her foot to place it on the ledge again, forgetting how narrow it was. When it slipped down this time, she fell forward with such force that her drink flew into the air.

  She squeezed her eyes shut just before the glass shattered on the bar, spewing shards and fruity liquid in all directions. When she opened them, Marc was behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

  “I think it’s time to go home,” he hissed coldly in her ear.

  In the car, she looked at the wad of wet paper towels wrapped around her middle finger. A faint, dark circle had formed where blood had seeped through.

  “I think the bleeding is stopping,” she said. Marc continued to drive, both hands on the steering wheel. “Hope I got all the glass out. I’ll check again at home.”

  She watched the glittering lights of the approaching Triboro Bridge. “Those glasses were awfully thin,” s
he said. “You know. To shatter like that.”

  “Huh,” Marc said.

  “You mad at me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry if I caused a scene,” she said. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

  They drove a little farther in silence.

  “Come on, Marc, I said I was sorry,” she said. “It was an accident. A drink got spilled. Angers didn’t even see it, and neither did his wife.”

  “Oh, Angers’s wife saw. She saw the whole thing.”

  “Okay, great, she saw the whole thing, and she’ll tell her husband about it. And you can blame me for the rest of your life, and make sure the kids blame me, too. You didn’t get promoted because I dropped a glass. The kids won’t go to college because I dropped a glass.”

  “No, I won’t get promoted because you got drunk—”

  “I did not get drunk—”

  “You got drunk and started harassing Keith’s fiancée—”

  “What, were you spying on me?”

  “No, I came over because I thought you might want some company. And before I could shut you up, you were carrying on, the great champion of women, telling her to keep her job and to hell with her fiancé.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “Is that what you think she should do, Iliana? Is that what you wish you did?”

  “No, Marc! I don’t think that at all!”

  She turned and looked through the car window up at the sky. Planes were lined up as far as she could see, brilliant white lights lined up in the night sky as they made their way to LaGuardia. “I mean, sometimes I think it would be easier if I had never left the magazine,” she added quietly.

  “I knew it!” Marc shouted. “I knew that was where we were going. I made you leave your job, I ruined your life—”

  “Can’t I tell you how I feel without your jumping down my throat?”

  “Because let me refresh your memory, Iliana. Your career wasn’t exactly skyrocketing when you left.”

  “Excuse me, my career was—”

  “Oh, come on, you worked for a marginal magazine, you got one promotion in eight years, and you were going nowhere.”

  “What?”

  “Face the facts, Iliana,” Marc continued. “The new guy was the rising star. You had plateaued, and it was just as well that you left.”

  “No, you face the facts, you son of a bitch,” she said, turning to look at him. “I worked my hardest to do a good job at Business Times, and if I didn’t move up the editorial ranks fast enough for you . . . if I wasn’t successful enough because I fell in love with you and took my eye off the ball, it doesn’t mean . . . it isn’t . . . it’s not okay . . .” She was so upset she couldn’t even continue. How could Marc, of all people, sit there and denigrate her entire professional career? She had never felt so stupid and worthless in her life. She pressed her fist against her mouth and turned back to the window.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  When they arrived home, she followed Marc into the house, wiping her wet cheeks with her hands. Matthew was asleep on the family room couch, a half-filled milkshake on the table next to him. She gently woke him and walked with him upstairs, then reminded him to put his violin where he’d remember it in the morning. She peeked in on Dara, who was fast asleep in her bed.

  Coming back downstairs, she picked up Matthew’s cup and brought it to the kitchen sink. Marc was staring into the refrigerator, one hand holding a slice of bread with cheese and the other on the door, as though he were waiting for more satisfying food to make itself known. He often did this when they came home from somewhere; it usually meant that he wanted her to step in and make him a sandwich or warm up some leftovers. In the early years of their marriage, she thought it was sweet that he wanted her to take care of him, that she could show her love by supplying domestic things, like comfort food, fluffy new bed pillows, or a medicine chest stocked with his favorite body wash and shaving lotion. But tonight she found it repulsive. How could he hurt her so badly and still be in this posture, clearly expecting her to walk over and fix him a bite?

  Turning away, she wandered into the dining room. Yes, she knew that just last week, she had promised to commit herself entirely to her husband and kids. The situation with Dara had convinced her that wanting anything more was dangerous. She hadn’t intended to trash-talk marriage at the cocktail party, and she hadn’t intended to get into a fight with Marc in the car. But she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, and Marc couldn’t either, and now they were fighting again. Wasn’t it Einstein who said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different outcome? How could she continue to tamp down her dreams and hope things with Marc would get better, when tamping down her dreams was exactly what kept making them get worse? What was she doing wrong? What could she be doing better?

  Sitting down at the table, she woke up the computer. An icon appeared that indicated she had an email. She opened it. It was from someone at the New York Times:

  Dear Ms. Passing:

  Great idea, love that this successful guy was an old teen heartthrob, but a little too feature-ish for us. Why don’t you try the magazine section? They eat up stuff like this. Try Julius Criss. Use my name. Good luck!

  Allie Paulson

  Senior Editor, New York section

  The New York Times

  Iliana sat back in her chair and stared at the screen until the words blurred. She had completely forgotten that she had sent an email to the Times proposing a Jeff Downs story—but here was a pretty exciting response. Allie Paulson hadn’t ignored her query or rejected it. Allie Paulson of the New York Times had liked her pitch! Why don’t you try the magazine section? Use my name! Iliana smiled as she realized that she had believed in her story enough to send it out to the Times and not just to Stuart, and as a result, she had a link to the editor of the Times magazine. And eventually she might actually get an article about Jeff Downs into the New York Times after all. Then Marc would have to see her in an entirely new light.

  In a flash, the email changed everything. Thank you, Allie Paulson! she whispered to herself. She could hardly wait until the next morning. She could hardly wait to call Jeff’s office and confirm a trip to Mount Kisco on Thursday.

  Chapter 10

  “Well, if it isn’t my old friend Iliana.”

  He was sitting in a booth in the narrow coffee shop where Rose had said he’d be. He was reading the newspaper, his chin tilted up to keep his glasses from sliding down. At first she didn’t recognize him. The sunlight easing through the window blinds in long, hazy stripes made his hair look gray and seemed to add lines to his face, and her eyes passed right over him as she surveyed the restaurant. She blinked when he stood, wondering why a stranger was approaching her. Although she had met with him twice, she still had been looking for someone much younger.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, holding her shoulders and bending his knees so they were eye to eye. “Cold? Hungry?”

  “I could use some coffee,” she said.

  “Jim, could you get my reporter friend some coffee?” he called to a short, elderly man behind the counter, then looked back at her as he added, “Just milk, no sugar.” He remembered how she liked her coffee. She smiled.

  He took her coat and hung it at the back of the shop. She was wearing a blue V-neck sweater over tan pants, with a wide black belt. She loved that she now looked good in belts. She thought the last time she’d worn one was before she was pregnant with Matthew.

  “I hope you don’t mind meeting here,” Jeff said as they sat. He looked as good in a black crew-neck sweater and jeans as he had in a shirt and tie. “It seemed a good idea, since it’s right off the highway, and they’ve got the best coffee in Westchester. And look!” He held up his newspaper, and she saw it was the Times. “They sell your paper. The
good old-fashioned print variety. I forked over cold hard cash today in honor of your visit.”

  “I appreciate it,” she said, nodding. Hopefully it really would be her paper. She had whipped out an email to Julius Criss right before she left for Mount Kisco that morning:

  Allie Paulson from the New York section suggested I get in touch with you. She and I have been in contact about an article idea that she thinks might work in the magazine section . . .

  “You know, I’ve been looking for your byline,” he added, more seriously.

  “Freelancers . . . don’t always get bylines because they tend to write shorter pieces,” she said smoothly, after a beat. “And I’m still getting to know the editors, since I took all that time off to be home with my kids. So I’m not the first one they call for assignments.”

  “Oh,” he said, nodding. “Makes sense.” She wondered why he accepted her explanation so easily. If their roles were reversed, she thought she’d probably have questioned him more.

  “But this piece will be a bylined piece,” she added. “In fact, they are taking a look at it for the magazine section.”

  “The magazine? That means it will be fairly long, right?”

  She nodded. “I think so!”

  “And I guess that’s quite disappointing, considering the look on your face,” he teased.

  Iliana laughed as she realized that yes—she was happy. She was pleased that Allie Paulson had liked her query and suggested she send it to Julius Criss.

  “The New York editor thinks the story may work in the magazine,” she said. “She loves the idea of bringing in your past. ‘Love that he was an old teen heartthrob,’ that’s what she said.”

  “Old heartthrob, huh?” he said, as he pantomimed taking a bullet to the chest. “Boy, you sure know how to hurt a guy.”

  “No—I mean, it sounded better coming from her—”