“Fred. I hear you. I probably do need a psychiatrist or like a whole panel of therapists. But this was an anomaly. This isn’t who I am.”
“I don’t think you know who you are. And as long as you straddle two identities and act passive about your life, you’ll never figure it out.” Fred sighed. “Honestly, I almost called your mother.”
“My mother?”
“To keep this hidden, to be deceptive in that way? It’s destructive. I just—I can’t have that around me right now.”
Marjorie’s stomach dropped. “You want me to move out.”
A silence. “I guess so, yeah. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t have the answer.”
Marjorie willed her voice to stay steady. “Okay.” What else was there to say? She couldn’t blame Fred. She’d acted unstable, horrible.
“I gotta go.”
“Okay.” They each hesitated, as an announcement came over the airport loudspeaker: Flight 852 to Cairo is now boarding. Marjorie wished she could hop on board and disappear. “Fred, I am really sorry.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you are.”
Marjorie’s eyes brimmed with—she knew unearned—tears, about to crest the ridge and flood her cheeks. She’d lost Belinda, Fred, even Gus, and, worst, the new life she’d come to love. And it was her fault; she’d taken it all for granted.
The boarding process began. On the redeye, she couldn’t sleep; she was too uncomfortable. She didn’t touch her pretzels, read her book, or watch TV. And when the flight landed early the next morning, she shuffled like a zombie toward baggage claim. The recycled air had sucked her dry: skin, throat, eyes.
At the taxi stand, the dispatcher asked where she was headed. She hesitated for so long that he prompted: “Manhattan? Brooklyn? The Bronx?” as if she needed a menu.
There was only one place left to go.
39
Marjorie rang the doorbell and waited, her suitcase beside her like a pewter bodyguard. She heard footsteps, and then the door swung open to reveal Mac in a T-shirt and boxer briefs, sleep written across his face.
He welcomed her with a sardonic smile. “Look who’s here.”
They had been together for over a month now, and yet she still felt like she was arriving for an illicit one-night stand.
“Look who.”
“You’re a sight for sore eyes. Or … is it an eyesore? I can never remember which is a good thing.”
“I think I’m supposed to be a respite for your sore eyes.”
He grinned. “I missed you, smarty.” He leaned across the threshold and planted a kiss on her lips. “Actually, I really missed you.”
“You were lying the first time?”
“I didn’t realize how much.” He opened the door wide. “Come on in. I didn’t expect you until tonight.”
“I was ready to come home.” She grabbed her bag (since he didn’t) and dragged it inside. She watched him pull a bottle of Advil from a kitchen cabinet. “Rough night?”
“John wants me to invest in this spiced rum company. It’s pretty good with pineapple juice. Too good.”
“Of course you like it. It’s sweet.”
“I like you and you’re not sweet.”
“No, I’m not. I’m disgusting. Plane, heat, ugh.” Marjorie slipped off her shoes and collapsed on the couch with a thud. It was impossible to relax in this room with its sharp angles.
“What?” he called.
“Nothing.”
Mac returned and sat down beside her, leaning back against the couch. “So, you’ve been a little … I wanna say freaked-out lately, not to put words in your articulate mouth.”
Marjorie was taken aback. So he had noticed. “Oh, you know me.” She waved him off.
“Yeah. I do.” Mac had no intention of dismissing the topic. He let the silence compel her to answer. Was this a skill born of countless interventions for his sister?
Despite the context, it felt good to be known. Marjorie picked at the frayed wrist of her sweatshirt. “This has seen better days. Days, days, days.”
“Ah. The nervous repetitive tic. Now I know you’re stalling.”
She exhaled. “Fine. You win. I guess maybe I’ve been a little … unsure.”
“Ha! I knew it!”
She looked at him, surprised.
“What? I did.”
“You seem oddly cheerful about it.”
“I’m new to this relationship thing and, I’m just saying, I was right.” He shrugged. “Plus, someone is freaking out and it’s not me.”
Marjorie laughed, despite herself. Only Mac O’Shea could turn a glitch into a personal success, spin straw into gold. She shoved him lightly and he caught her hand.
“Look, don’t worry. I’m not bringing up the moving in thing again. I learned my lesson.”
Marjorie felt drowsy. She tipped her head onto his shoulder and closed her eyes, as she had a hundred times since they were children. It was so comfortable.
“Hey Mac,” she murmured. He smelled faintly of some expensive, sporty men’s cologne. His arm slid around her; his hand rubbed her shoulder. “About our cohabitation, the invitation still stands?”
“Sure.” The word vibrated through him, lulling her further.
“Then I accept.”
“Oh, yeah?” She could feel Mac smile, his muscles contracting. “Okay, then.”
She opened her eyes and peered up at him. “I missed you, stupid.”
“Good to know, Madgesty.”
As she settled her head onto his lap, he murmured, “Hey, while you’re down there…” She smacked him and he snickered, as she fell into a dreamless sleep.
A decision made in haste and out of desperation is not well-endured.
Marjorie woke up a couple hours later on the couch to a shrill call from her mother that she ignored. As she rubbed her eyes, she remembered her conversation with Mac and her first impulse was to flee.
The shower was running. She cracked the door. “Mac! Just running out!”
Steam escaped. “Where to?” he called back.
Good question. “Um, coffee.”
“You can use my espresso machine.”
“Too lazy.”
“I can do it for you when I’m out?”
“No, I want an iced half-caff cappuccino … with vanilla. Too complicated.” She’d never had anything of the kind.
“Mmm. Sounds good. Get me one too!”
Outside, a bus belched exhaust; she breathed it in like sweet country air. She wasn’t sure whom she felt more upset about betraying: Mac or herself? She just felt off.
Fumbling for her phone, Marjorie called the one person to whom she could confess without judgment. “Pickles? It’s me.”
“Oh, honey bunch,” she cooed after Marjorie imparted the story, along with fresh tears. “That is tricky to say the least.”
“Obviously, I need to tell Mac about Gus.”
“No you don’t.”
“I don’t? Are you sure?”
“If there’s one thing I’m positive about, it’s that. Telling him would only make him insecure. And an insecure Mac O’Shea sounds ugly. And like it might involve strippers.”
“True.”
“This was a one-time thing. Was it not?”
“No. I mean, yes. Gus and I are not an option.”
Pickles paused. “Are you choosing Mac because Gus is not an option or because you want Mac?”
Marjorie shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m panicked about moving in with Mac or if … there’s a lot going on. What do you think?”
“Oh, Madge, you know I can’t answer that. Maybe it’s not coincidental that this happened after Mac asked you to shack up. You could be afraid of a good thing?”
“So you think I just panicked?” Marjorie felt relieved. She was off the hook. She could write this off as a blip, return to her old life with Mac, be happy.
“I don’t know. I’ve been watching you and Mac circle each other for years. When you fin
ally took the plunge, I never thought you’d be the one to panic. But if this Gus guy—”
“Let’s not talk about Gus.” Marjorie spotted a coffee shop and headed across the street. She needed to get Mac that vanilla drink she’d invented—what was it again? “Let’s talk about you: Actually, can you tell me how you knew that you wanted to marry Steve?”
“Me? Well, obviously, we fell in love. But also I guess I knew he could give me the life that I wanted, not my mother or anyone else. Everyone said I was too young and crazy, but I knew.” Marjorie heard the squeak of a rocking chair; maybe Pickles was nursing. “Make sure your choices are your own, love, or you’ll never be happy.”
It occurred to Marjorie for the first time that Pickles’s early marriage and neurotic obsession with her children was in opposition to her own upbringing. She’d come of age recklessly because her parents had not bothered to parent. In a show of bravery and self-knowledge, she chose something different; she opted for structure and kale. Suddenly, Marjorie not only forgave Pickles for her sermons on raw food and cloth diapers, but she respected them. (She’d still avoid that mommy group, though. Those women terrified her.)
“Thanks, P.” Marjorie pulled the door to the coffee shop open; air-conditioning gusted out.
“Look, Madge, you may not want to hear it, but I think you and this Gus guy—”
“Oh! There’s Vera by the scones!” Marjorie would have done anything to stop Pickles from finishing that sentence, but she really did spot her former roommate by the bakery display right then. “Gotta go! Call you later.”
“Wait! Vera is—” cried Pickles. But Marjorie had already hung up and was waving to her old friend.
Vera didn’t seem to see her. “Vera! Vee!” It wasn’t until Marjorie was within a couple feet that she realized Vera was not alone. Brian drooped at her side like a slug. “Oh. Hi.”
Vera shot her an icy look. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yeah. I’m—what are you doing here?”
“We live around the corner. What are you doing here?”
“I’m just coming from Mac’s. This is where you moved? I thought you hated Meatpacking and thought it was cheesy?”
“I hate a lot of things. This neighborhood isn’t one.”
“Okay…”
“So, Mac sent you out for his coffee?” Vera smirked at Brian, who grunted back.
Marjorie lowered her voice to a whisper, out of Brian’s range. “Vee, I don’t understand. Why are you acting like we’re not friends? I thought we were okay.”
“I’m not acting, Marjorie.”
The words stung. So that was all it took: Vera was back on Brian’s short, fat arm. Maybe she was embarrassed at having confessed the details of his philandering, then taken him back. Who knew? Either way, the bonding session at Pickles’s house had been a temporary fix. For Marjorie, it had only underlined their disparate values, anyway.
“I better go,” Marjorie said.
“Hear your master calling?” Vera laughed, a single sharp chord, then she and Brain left without a backward glance.
Marjorie left soon after too, stunned, without coffee. She was upset; she’d wasted valuable time chasing a relationship with someone unworthy while she took people like Fred for granted.
Her friendship with Vera was dead; the old Vera mourned months, even years, before. The buddy Marjorie missed—with whom she’d shared secrets and hugs like sisters—no longer existed. Sometimes what once seemed lifelong proves changeable and, finally, disposable.
40
This was the never-ending day. Back at the apartment, Marjorie found Mac lying in bed, messing around on his iPad. He looked up for a moment, then back at the screen.
“No coffee?”
“Sorry. They didn’t have what we wanted.”
“Ah. Too bad. Maybe I can figure out how to make it here.”
“Mac, I have to tell you something,” she began.
“Shoot.”
“Can you put that down for a second and listen to me?”
Mac raised an eyebrow and put the device down. “Done, Miss Plum.”
“I have to confess…” She steeled herself. “I got Fred fired.” The words were hard to fathom even as they emerged from her lips. “The truth is, I can’t go back to Fred’s. I pretended to be her and took over a tutoring job of hers. The company and the parents found out. She’s not speaking to me and they threatened legal action.”
“Why?”
“Why did I do it?”
“No. Why would they sue you for tutoring their kid?”
“I guess because … I don’t know.”
“Did you do the work?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then they’re overreacting.” He patted a spot next to him on the bed; she sat. “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s just blown out of proportion. Fred will get over it.”
“You think?” As Mac rubbed her back, Marjorie tried to appreciate his support, but she couldn’t help judging him for not judging her more harshly. She’d done something pathological and strange—betrayed people she cared about, people who took care of her, whom she would now perhaps never see again. Yet he was prepared to forgive and forget without question. What did that say about her? What did that say about him?
“So, that’s it,” she said. “You can go back to reading … whatever that is.”
“Reading?”
“On your iPad. Was it The New York Times? Is there election news?”
“Oh!” he gestured to the device. “No. I only read the sports page, if anything. I was playing Words With Friends.”
Everything hung in the balance. The world spun wildly with potential change, threatening to propel itself from its axis, its inhabitants at once threatened and emboldened by climate change, global economic collapse, unemployment, terrorists, civil liberties, education, Medicare, Social Security, scientific innovation, women’s reproductive rights, gay marriage, gerrymandering, military defense, war, taxes for services, taxes that no one wanted to pay. Greece—an entire country—was rendered a cautionary tale. US citizens were buying guns, selling stocks, blaming George W. Bush, blaming President Obama, blaming Wall Street, blaming a CIA conspiracy and little green men. People from trailer parks to mansions bit their nails in fear of too little income, of winding up on the street (or a less pretty street, as the case may be). America as a superpower seemed to hang in the balance. But Mac O’Shea didn’t bother to follow the news.
He picked his iPad back up and resumed playing.
Who the hell was this guy, whom Marjorie might eventually marry? She knew his dignified profile, his unintentionally austere posture. She’d spent years watching him clown during Human Sexuality seminars and breeze through Precalculus pop quizzes with the answers in his back pocket like the entitled boys before him. She’d seen him try not to cough from a first Marlboro Medium cigarette and get too drunk at a first teenage house party. But who was he really?
He tugged on his ear. Suddenly, she found the habit so irksome that she wanted to rip the lobe off and throw it across the room.
That was when she noticed. Maybe the timing was coincidental. Or maybe an atomic shift caught her attention. Whatever it was, Marjorie glanced at Mac’s screen and noticed a pop-up ad, which he clicked closed to reveal a Web site: Unscramble.com. He reviewed his tiles, typed in the letters, pressed Enter, and waited while they rearranged themselves into viable words.
Marjorie hadn’t caught Mac with another woman, stealing cash, or shooting intravenous drugs. He hadn’t done much of anything. And yet she was outraged.
“You’re cheating,” she said, her tone acid.
“What? At the game? No I’m not.”
“Yeah, Mac. You are. You’re using that Web site to find words. If that’s not cheating, then what the hell is?”
“Whoa. First of all, calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! It’s condescending.”
“I’m condescending?” He smirked and returned to his
game.
“Hey! Wipe that self-satisfied look off your face.”
He looked up, surprised. “What the fuck is your problem? Why are you starting with me?”
“My problem is that you’re a cheater—to your core. Cheater, cheater, cheater. Sorry if I don’t respect that.”
“Because of Words With Friends?”
“You can look at me like I’m crazy, but yes. What’s the value in winning if you cheat?”
“When you play online, all bets are off, the rules change. Dude, what’s up with you?”
“Stop changing the subject!”
“What is the subject, Marjorie?” Her full name fell off his tongue with a clunk, crashing on impact. “My online Scrabble game against John?”
“You need to cheat to beat John? That’s even more pathetic.”
He narrowed his eyes. “So now you’re insulting my best friend. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged, picked Franny and Zooey up off her bedside table—its edges satisfyingly rough against her thumbs—and pretended to read. “Take it however you want.”
Mac slammed his iPad into the mattress, then pressed Marjorie’s book down toward her chest, so he could look into her eyes. His face was blotchy and pink. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him, except maybe freshman year when a senior threw a strawberry at him in the lunchroom and hit him in the eye. “Fine, Marjorie. I look up words. Here’s a news flash, everybody does it.”
“Not everyone, Mac. Just the people you spend time with.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how scrupulous you were. Tell me again about pretending to be a tutor and getting Fred fired?”
She had supplied the fodder, and he had a point. But it was dirty play. “Seriously?” she whispered, her eyes brimming. “Can’t you see that I’m … that I can’t—”
As the tears came on, she caught the overflow in her hands, ineffectual dams.
Mac exhaled. “Marjorie, you know who I am, who I’ve always been. I’m sorry I brought that up, but I don’t know what to say. I’m trying. Just tell me what the hell is wrong. How can I make you fun again? Please.”
Marjorie sniffled. He was right. He didn’t deserve her scorn. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what my deal is lately.”
Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Page 27
