Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  Just another reason to feel inept, thought Marjorie. Her mother had gone to Fairway Market, bought food, and prepared a no doubt amazing meal—no big deal. Where had Marjorie been at that time? Pulling on underwear in Mac’s doorway? Getting fired?

  She stroked Mina the Cat in silence, as her mother lifted the artichoke pot’s lid, pulled off a leaf, and handed it over. Marjorie tasted it and nodded.

  Turning off the burner, Barbara faced her in proper greeting, brushing her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “You look pale. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Um,” began Marjorie, suddenly undone by her mother’s touch. “Um, um, um.”

  Barbara’s forehead crinkled in concern, and it occurred to Marjorie that she might have caused the three jagged lines traveling faintly across her mother’s otherwise youthful face. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Did something happen?”

  Through crossed blue eyes, Mina the Cat stared her in the face too.

  “I’m okay—” Marjorie’s voice faltered. “I just didn’t have … a very good day.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, trailing off into the dry creek bed of her jaw. She wiped it away. What a disappointment she must be. “It’s nothing.”

  As if sensing a coming storm, the cat leapt off of Marjorie and scampered to the safety of the living room.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

  “I’m fine.” Marjorie exhaled, a vibrato wheeze. “Only, I think I can’t breathe.”

  Barbara put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and led her to the couch. “It’s okay,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  That’s when Marjorie’s father arrived. And, from the look on his face, he wished he’d waited a couple minutes. Chipper Plum disliked confrontation; he contributed opinions—gruffly—only on politics and TV. Years before, he’d perfected the art of zoning out when tension arose between his two favorite women, answering “What?” with genuine confusion when asked to take sides. Now, with his long limbs and pale skin, he stood by, evoking a birch tree. But there was no hope of escaping undetected. Instead, he adjusted his round wire-rimmed glasses and ambled to Marjorie’s unoccupied side. “What happened?”

  Marjorie took another shaky, accordion breath. She needed to offer an explanation, lest her parents imagine something catastrophic. Anything but the truth would do. “It’s the Middle East,” she tried, covering her eyes with her palm, “It’s just so messed up over there.”

  “Over where exactly?” asked her father doubtfully.

  “You know. There! Syria, Egypt, Morocco … whatever.”

  The Plums exchanged a look.

  “If it’s any consolation, sweetie, Morocco is in an unrelated part of Africa,” said her mother. “They really did a horrible job of teaching geography at that school of yours.”

  “Well, it’s everything. I mean, what’s wrong with this world? Did you know that they might cancel Parenthood? Sometimes I just want to give up.”

  “You’re having suicidal thoughts because of a TV show?” said Barbara.

  “It’s not like it’s Cheers,” said Chipper seriously, whose deep love of television history made the complaint more plausible.

  “Oh, forget it,” Marjorie wheezed. “I can’t even lie effectively! I got fired. That’s why I’m upset … fired, fired, fired.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Stay calm.” Barbara pulled a travel-size Kleenex pouch from her purse and offered a tissue.

  “Mom. I’m not crying! I’m hyperventilating!”

  “Right. Remember what I learned at that seminar about anchoring yourself in the present when you feel anxiety? Look around the room and identify what’s physically here to stop the emotional spiral.”

  “Mom!”

  “Just try it!”

  As a life coach, Barbara Plum stayed abreast of current self-improvement trends. (She did not, however, adopt New Age fashion or beauty principles—never a tribal pattern or patchouli-scent did infiltrate.) Long before, she had audited a Mindful Meditation class, which framed her approach not only to unhinged clients but also to her daughter, who had begun having panic attacks thanks to Brianne’s flagellation. Marjorie resisted these strategies, mostly because her mother suggested them.

  “C’mon. We’ll do it together. There is the oak farm table with a splintered slat protruding from one leg. There’s the black leather Austrian Thonet chair with scratches from Mina’s nails down one side, and the Kilim Persian rug with … Oh Christ, did the cat throw up over there?” She turned to face her husband. “Chipper, our living room is a mess! We need to get everything fixed!”

  Marjorie sighed. “I think we’ve strayed off topic.”

  Chipper scratched his head. An anxiety attack wasn’t terrible—not by comparison to a fight. Still, raw emotion was not his forte, having grown up in Darien, Connecticut, where people had the courtesy to use restraint. Residents wore Docksider boat shoes, blue button-downs, and pleated khakis, and had the inbred good sense not to sob or shout in public, except on rare occasions when they mixed white wine spritzers with the wrong prescription pills.

  Chipper’s family was unique in that they weren’t Episcopalian or even Protestant. His people were Mayflower Jews with nicknames like Fifi and Mims, who decorated a suspiciously large and cone-shaped pine “Hanukkah bush” in blue and white lights every holiday season. Rumor had it that Plum had been changed from Plumberg by Chipper’s great-grandfather “Just call me Mike!” Moishe, though the family retold a vague story (accompanied by dismissive hand gestures) about immigration through Ellis Island. “How fortunate,” one dense neighbor commented to Chipper’s mother, Judy, “that your name was changed for the better and not worse! Where did your family emigrate from? Dublin? I much prefer Plum to O’Plummer!”

  Having overheard this exchange at ten years old and having a general, albeit unclear, idea that dishonesty was at play, Chipper henceforth referred to his mother as “Mrs. O’Plummer,” which drove her nuts. (She may not have wanted to advertise her Judaism, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be Irish!) And, as an adult, he felt a connection—not the irritation of a phantom limb—when he glimpsed his missing foreskin, solidarity instead of self-loathing in the face of anti-Semitism, pride not envy when he read the works of great Jewish scholars and intellectuals like Hannah Arendt and Martin Buber, literary figures like Saul Bellow and Philip Roth. He worshipped Sandy Koufax, lusted after Lauren Bacall and, later, modeled his humor after Lenny Bruce. He felt Jewish.

  In his teens, he joined the 1960s revolution and became his version of a hippie (all politics; no suede fringe), though he grew his straight blondish hair—which seemed to confirm his family’s passing lie—out to his shoulders. It was not until the late 1970s, when he was twenty-nine years old and still eschewing bell-bottoms, that he met Mrs. O’Plummer’s worst nightmare: his Brooklyn College teaching assistant, Barbara Davida Schwartz (Marjorie’s mother). He fell in love and, within weeks, was learning hands-on about his own heritage from her deeply Jewish family: “Try the gefilte fish! It’s a vehicle for horseradish!”

  Ultimately, Chipper and Barbara took their religion lightly, hitting synagogue only on high holidays (“L’Shana Tova!”), and stocking the fridge with sour dill pickles. Marjorie was bat mitzvahed (more gifts of sterling silver Tiffany jewelry). And her Grandma Plum did attend, though she declined to don a doily on her graying head during the service.

  Chipper rebelled in another way too: Instead of studying law like his older brothers, he became an academic, a media studies professor. His infatuation with radio, film, TV, and other “vast wastelands” had been fostered every time his parents felt lazy and plopped him in front of the boob tube as a child. “Lucille Ball was my babysitter,” Chipper was fond of saying, though he mostly watched precursors to modern reality shows, like Queen for a Day, on which women spun sob stories in exchange for sympathy and fabulous! prizes.

  Chipper had shed any residual affection for the golf shirts and bow ties of his youth. But his aversion to emotion remained
. And so now he fought the urge to flee.

  Barbara shot him a stern, knowing look. He returned it with a growl, but they both knew she was right. And Chipper always did the right thing.

  Marjorie had calmed down enough to tell the (edited) story.

  “What a nightmare,” sighed Barbara afterward.

  “How can that horrible woman do such a thing?” cried Chip.

  Ultimately, they decided, over drumsticks and artichokes, that a change was for the best. At least Marjorie believed that until her mother agreed.

  “It’s a terrible industry anyway.”

  “Mom. Brianne is horrible, but let’s not damn them all.”

  “You should have quit ages ago. I mean, ages.”

  “Maybe I am better off,” said Marjorie, “but I don’t have a job or money or any idea what to do next. I can’t work in PR, and that’s all the experience I have!”

  “Fake it ’til you make it, Bozo,” suggested her father. Suddenly, the term of endearment felt downright insulting. “Do whatever’s necessary. Take a cue from Tootsie!”

  “Dress up like a man?”

  Born into extreme privilege and having always known his path, Chipper had never worked a nine-to-five office job in pursuit of a dream. He gave terrible career advice.

  Barbara sighed. “We’re talking about a real career instead of barhopping for a living.”

  “Hold on. You encouraged me to take this job!”

  “You were nineteen.”

  “This is insane revisionist history! You were over the moon. It was like your ship had come in—and docked at the top of the social stratum.”

  “We’re not talking about my ship. We’re talking about your dinghy.”

  “Suddenly there’s a difference?”

  Marjorie had accepted Brianne’s job offer and remained for many reasons, but her mother’s elated whoop at the news of her rising status had contributed.

  “We thought you’d have moved on by now.”

  “Fine.” Marjorie was revolted by her own petulance. “But what am I going to do?”

  This question was a misstep. After all, people paid Barbara Plum to answer it.

  “I’ll get a piece of paper. We’ll make a list!”

  “Barb,” Chipper pleaded. But the train had left the station. She was already at the counter, sifting through an old cookie tin for a working pen. He turned to Marjorie for reason: “This seems like a poor idea.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe I need to do this.”

  Giving up, Chipper grabbed the New York Times for protection and leafed to the op-ed page, where there would likely be less dissent. Barbara sat back down, her chair screeching against the tile floor in warning.

  “Let’s begin with a list of obstacles. Then we can address next steps, one by one, so as not to overwhelm.”

  “Well, let’s see…” considered Marjorie, sprinkling her sweet potatoes with coarse salt.

  Barbara caught her daughter’s hand midshake. “Enough.”

  “Really, Mom? Right now, you want to lecture me on sodium intake?”

  “If you want to be bloated on top of everything else, go ahead.”

  Both women rolled their eyes.

  Consumed by appearances, Barbara was more like Chipper’s own mother than he allowed himself to suspect. She came from a working-class Queens family, whom she loved and respected, but she wanted more. She had fallen for Chipper based on animal magnetism and shared sense of humor, but had also likely been attracted to his obvious smarts (glasses!), upward mobility, and those same WASPy looks his mother fostered.

  There had been another man before Chipper: a carpenter, who dreamed of owning a peach orchard upstate. Barbara fantasized with him about the pies she would bake, the fires he would build. But she knew she could never be satisfied with that life.

  With Chipper, Barbara built the future she’d imagined and gave birth to a beautiful daughter, whom she couldn’t help reminding to stay as perfect as she’d come out—to capitalize on those looks, brains, and private school connections, to remember lipstick, stand up straight, get back on top!

  Still, once in a while, when Barbara bit into a ripe peach, she felt a pang for the path not taken, though she did not remember why. One could live only one life and hers would be with the well-bred professor, who could never pass up an episode of M*A*S*H.

  “The first problem is that I have no money,” said Marjorie.

  “Okay, got it. No money.” Barbara scribbled on the yellow notebook paper in cursive.

  “And nowhere to live.”

  “Nowhere to live.”

  Marjorie looked hopefully at Barbara; Barbara looked back blankly.

  “What else?”

  “Mom.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have nowhere to live.”

  “I know.” Barbara scanned the list, checking her work. “I got that one.”

  Marjorie steeled herself. “I may need to move back in with you guys, just while I save some money.”

  Barbara set down the pen and folded her hands in front of her in a “professional” way that drove Marjorie insane. “That may be a problem.”

  “A problem? Why?”

  “Because we’re renovating your bedroom.”

  “Into what? A gym?”

  “No. Into another bedroom. For guests, who aren’t sixteen.”

  “You’re converting my bedroom into a bedroom?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When were you planning on telling me that?”

  “Tonight.”

  “So the artichokes, my favorite, were to butter me up?”

  “No. I don’t need to butter you up. This is my house.”

  Mina the Cat sauntered into the room, caught a whiff of the tension, and raced away, ducking under the radiator. Chipper pulled the newspaper closer to his face.

  “You know, Mom, you don’t need to make me feel more alienated.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “When is this starting?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Yes. And I realize this might not be convenient, but I need you to go through your stuff and decide what you want.”

  Marjorie turned to father and instead found herself face-to-face with an article about drops in coffee prices in relation to Colombia’s economy.

  “Dad?” Chipper did not respond. “Dad!”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you know about this?”

  “Of course, he knows about it! It’s his home,” said Barbara. “And you haven’t stayed over in six months. Were we supposed to dedicate your room as a shrine?”

  Marjorie covered her face with her hands. “Okay, okay, okay. What am I going to do?”

  Barbara looked surprised. “Well, honey, that’s why we’re making a list!”

  “Mother! I don’t need a list! I need a job, never mind an actual career, but those issues seem less pressing, since I have nowhere to live!”

  “Well, that’s sensible.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

  “No. That is sensible. And I have an idea.”

  Barbara disappeared into her office and returned with her iPhone in hand. She copied a number on a fresh sheet of paper and handed it to her daughter.

  “What’s this? The number for the nearest mental hospital?”

  “Very funny. It’s my friend Patricia Reynolds’s info. You remember her from the symposium at Bard.”

  Marjorie racked her brain. “Wait. The drum circle woman? With the hemp recipe book?”

  “She’s very nice.”

  “Mom!”

  “Well, she is. Anyway, Patricia just sent out a message saying that her youngest, Fred, is looking for a roommate.”

  “A mass e-mail? That sounds desperate.”

  Barbara’s look said, Takes one to know one.

  “Have you met this kid?”

  “No.”

  Marjorie examined the paper, as if i
t might offer a glimpse of her future. “Mom. This number has a 347 area code.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Brooklyn.”

  “I believe that’s true.”

  “Mom! Please, stop playing dumb. You’re the one who says we ‘don’t do’ Brooklyn.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Actually, you did,” Chipper said. The coast seemed clearer now, and he did love ribbing his wife.

  “Well, fine. That’s right. We don’t do Brooklyn.” Barbara paused. “But now you do.”

  Barbara and Chipper grinned at each other across the table.

  “That’s funny?” said Marjorie. “Why is that funny?”

  Chipper snorted—Marjorie had inherited that habit from him—sending both elder Plums into hysterics.

  “You guys are insane!”

  They just laughed harder. Eventually, Marjorie joined in. It was either that or cry.

  7

  Marjorie left her parents’ house with the best of intentions.

  On the train, as a one-man band played “Empire State of Mind” on his accordion and kazoo, she typed another list on her phone:

  TO DO

  • Get job.

  • Save money.

  • Consider deep-seated psychological issues behind sleeping with M.

  • Figure out what to do with life.

  • Learn to tolerate Brian, so oldest friendship isn’t over.

  • Never drink again.

  • Don’t drink for a week.

  • Buy face wash. You’re almost out. (Not life-changing, but acne isn’t going to HELP your future.)

  The passengers opposite nodded off or read books from The Hunger Games to Fifty Shades of Grey (safely hidden inside e-readers); they skimmed bibles—New Testament, Old Testament, Koran, Weight Watchers points booklets.

  Marjorie liked to invent backstories for these strangers: Someone somewhere yearned to kiss the sixteen-year-old girl in the brown suede moccasins with dangling tassels. Someone had surely had his heart broken by the young man with hair gelled into a static tsunami. Someone remembered a youthful crush on the elderly Asian woman, stoic beside a rolling cart filled with plastic bags of unusual vegetables.