by Irene Zutell
Get a grip on yourself, Alice, I tell myself. I gulp at my beer.
It’s always been my problem. As cool as I try to be, my body betrays me. My voice cracks. My hands shake. My face turns purple. My ears go magenta. My emotions are always written in bold all over my face: Nervous. Scared. Confused.
The yeasty smell wafting from the beer keg next to me makes my mouth parch. I fill my cup up again. Gauge yourself, Alice. You don’t want to be slurring, dancing naked, and making an ass of yourself. I am a middle-aged woman who has gone through childbirth and divorce. I change my mother’s diapers. Why shouldn’t I be able to talk to an old boyfriend without being blitzed out of my skull?
He looks better than I remember. Maturity has been a kind accomplice. It has chiseled away the boyish awkwardness from his features. His face seems more angular. His hair has grayed, but in a sexy, Richard Gere kind of way. He looks calmer, wiser, self-actualized.
I want to secretly watch him for a few minutes, but then someone approaches. I don’t remember his name, I just recall that he was annoying then and is most likely annoying now. A person’s look might undergo a major metamorphosis, but it seems the personality he was born with remains pretty much intact, or accentuated.
“Hello,” I say, overly friendly to compensate for the fact that I have no idea what this guy’s name is.
“Hello, Alice,” he says, a weird smirk plastered on his face. “So, what’s it like being a celebrity?” His beer and cigar breath bangs into my face.
“Huh?”
“I was at the dentist a few months back. People magazine was the only thing they had. I never look at those types of magazines, but I was bored and there was nothing else there. So I flipped through it. And there you were. I was so completely freaking out. I told everyone in the waiting room that I knew you. I was like, I went to school with her and now her husband’s banging Rose Maris! That’s so fuckin’ cool.”
This loser will go back to whatever cheesy upstate New York town he lives in and tell the locals how he spent the weekend with a celebrity. I thought it was an L.A. thing—people qualifying their lives by their close proximity to the famous. A few days before I came here, Gabby went for a checkup. Out of the blue, the pediatrician boasted how he had just removed a splinter from Dakota Fanning’s sister’s hand. Every dry cleaner’s, hardware store, and Chinese take-out joint has 8x10s of “stars” who allegedly patronize their businesses. My gyno practically has a shrine to Heather Locklear where his diplomas should be. I suppose that brings many women comfort. “Oh, he examined the vagina of the former star of Melrose Place! He must be good!”
“Great,” I say as I walk away.
I scan the quad for George. I spot him immediately again. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a light blue T-shirt. I wonder if he remembered that I told him blue was his best color. I suddenly feel ridiculous in this snug-fitting sundress. I wonder if I have love handles that I couldn’t see in the hotel mirror. I wonder if I need a fresh coat of makeup. It’s been hours since I’ve applied it. I rummage through my bag for my lip gloss and quickly rub on a fresh coat.
The minute I saw him, I was in love again. It’s as if the all those years have evaporated. I can barely remember Alex.
As I watch George talking with some professor, I imagine our future. We’ll rekindle what we once had. Then we’ll get married and have a blended family. We’d have to come up with cute nicknames for the Gabbies. We’d tell everyone about our romance. How we never got over each other. How we were always meant to be together. We’d live in a place where there were no tabloids. No People magazine.
“He was asking about you,” Lauren says.
“Who,” I ask, but I can’t help smirking.
Lauren chortles. “Yeah, right. I’m not playing that game. We’re too old.”
“Is his wife here?”
“Not only is she not here, he doesn’t have a wedding ring on.”
“Really? Well, maybe he’s one of those guys who never wears it.”
“Oh, please. He’s here for you. Why don’t you go over and talk? He’s over there, talking to someone who’s really drunk. Go over and rescue him with something witty.”
“Let him come here.”
“What are you, still in college?”
“When in Rome . . .”
“By the way, did you see Nick? He looks horrible. All bald and fat. I can’t believe I obsessed about him for four years.”
“You girls are so catty.”
I recognize the voice immediately—a slight twang of that upstate “A” that seems to emanate from the top of the nose. My heart palpitates again. George has snuck up on us. It’s funny. I spent all weekend searching for him and suddenly he appears at my side. I don’t know what to do. I turn slowly and feign confusion, like I have to place his face. This is ridiculous, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve been caught off guard like this.
“George,” I say, standing there, my arms glued to my sides.
His eyes bore into me. “Hey there, Ally.”
We look at each other and freeze. Then he swoops in to peck me on the cheek. I move my head in the wrong direction and our lips meet air. So he moves his lips to the other side. I turn my head again and we miss. I laugh a little too hard. Then I remain still while George kisses me on the cheek.
“No wonder you guys broke up. You can’t even get a simple kiss right,” Lauren says. “Oh, look, there’s Professor Blackwell. Think I’ll ask him why he didn’t give me an A on my Shakespeare paper.” She giggles and heads down the quad.
“So is that why we broke up,” he asks.
I scrunch my face in mock concentration. “Hmmm, I think it might have had something to do with you throwing me off your car on the Upper West Side.”
“I would never do something like that, unless provoked,” he says, staring hard. “You look great.”
“So do you.”
A few hours later, we are by the lake, sitting on the dock. I’m wearing his college sweatshirt and my heart’s still pounding, even faster than it does in Pilates class. What am I doing here? We had stood on the quad talking until we were the last ones there. Everyone had headed on to bars or bed. It was awkward. We didn’t know where to go next. I knew we didn’t want to go on to the loud bars where everyone would be wildly drunk by now. But we couldn’t say, “Let’s go back to the hotel.” And I certainly wasn’t ready to call it a night. So George casually asked me if I’d like to take a walk to the dock where he used to crew. It had been a small, splintered raft back then, but now it was glinting metal island with a bunch of canoes, kayaks, and sailboats stacked on it.
We stood on the dock as it gently rocked, staring out at the blackness. Then George sat and I followed.
“I forgot how beautiful it was out here. Actually, I don’t think I knew it then.”
“Me either.”
“So, do you like L.A.?”
“Yeah, well,” I start like I always do, about to heap L.A. with fulsome praise, but then I stop. I don’t need to lie to George. “Not really. I live in the Valley, which is just a collection of strip malls and tract houses. It’s pretty ugly. I miss the East a lot.”
George stretches and leans back on his elbow. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you in fifteen years,” he says. “I suddenly feel like we’re seniors waiting for graduation and life to begin. You look exactly the same, Ally.”
I snort out a laugh.
“You do.”
“People have been saying that to me all weekend. But they’re lying. You know how I know?”
“How?”
“Because I’ve been saying the same thing to them—and I’m lying.”
George chuckles. “You’re too cynical. You were the most beautiful girl in college and you still are. Or maybe it’s because you live in L.A. and have more Botox than the rest of us.”
“I’m probably the only person in L.A. over thirty who hasn’t injected botulism into her forehead,” I say. “You know what? Suddenly
I’m the oldest person no matter where I go. People call me ma’am. No one cards me anymore. I don’t know when this happened. One day it seemed to just hit me that I’m old. There’s nothing subtle about it. You’re busy with kids and work and whatever. Then you catch your breath and it’s gone.”
Why am I babbling on like this?
“What’s gone?”
“That thing you had that made the world stop and stare. Now someone else has it and they’re flaunting the hell out of it. And part of you wants to scream, hey, I had it once, too! Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“There are people who always have it no matter what. Like you, Ally.”
He is so close to me. I can feel his warm breath hitting my face, the soap on his skin. I could kiss him right now. Instead, I whisper, “Thank you.”
A few hours ago, I took a shower and put on my new black lace bra and panties. Then I stared at myself in the hotel room’s floor-to-ceiling mirror. I studied the silver stretch marks at the tops of my hips and the pouch of skin that hangs on my stomach and won’t disappear no matter how many crunches I do at the gym. I turned around and examined the cellulite on my butt and the tops of my legs. And my breasts—back then they were so perfect and perky. Now, if I take off my bra, I’m afraid they’ll drop to my knees. How could I ever get naked for another man again? It’s too traumatic. I remember reading A Streetcar Named Desire in high school and not understanding Blanche’s need for darkness. Now I do. If I’m naked, I want to be shrouded in black. I can’t imagine ever being as uninhibited as I was fifteen years ago, when I just assumed my body was flawless.
But part of me doesn’t care. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve had sex. What’s to stop me tonight? A crazy, fun fling with a man I loved, who I may still love and may even have some kind of future with. I can feel the charge between us. Pent-up desire. Nostalgia. Horniness. Call it what you will.
“Don’t you see, Alice? What you’re doing to his wife is no different than what Rose did to you. He’s a married man. You have enough baggage. Don’t pick up more,” Dr. Phil would say.
What’s the deal with George anyway? We’ve talked about our kids, but he has yet to mention his wife. He’s acting like a guy who isn’t married. What’s he doing by the lake with me anyway? He’s never come out and said he’s divorced or separated. And I’m too afraid to ask. I could just assume he’s divorced and then continue on with a guilt-free fling. Then, if he is married, I could feign shock or surprise, but I wouldn’t have committed adultery. At this moment, ignorance would be blissful. Unfortunately, I’ve never been an ignorance-is-bliss type of person.
My heart pounds. “So, George, what’s your wife like?”
George gulps hard. For the last few hours, he’s been back in college with his girlfriend, sitting on the dock where he starred as the best strokeman on the team. It’s like I threw a cold bucket of water on him.
“My wife?” he says as if he’s forgotten he has one.
“Ah, yeah.”
“Well, we’re getting divorced, Ally. The truth is, I never stopped loving you. She knows it and I know it. I came here this weekend to win you back. To start over where we left off. Will you give us another chance?”
“She’s great,” he says matter-of-factly.
I nod.
“She’s a really good mother. She takes great care of the kids. When I checked in on them earlier, they were all doing some big papier-mâché craft thing. She really knows how to keep them occupied. And she’s probably the most organized person I’ve ever met.”
I realize I would hate her. I also realize that’s hardly a ringing endorsement for a spouse. She’s organized. She’s good with crafts. I can’t help but smile.
“What?”
“It’s just a weird way to describe your wife. That’s sort of how one would rave about a nanny.”
“I’ve never stopped loving you, Ally.”
“It’s just that . . . well, I’ve never stopped loving you.”
What?
When does your fantasy ever match your reality? I don’t know what to do or say. I’m paralyzed. I wonder if I’m dreaming this. Maybe I drank too many beers back on the quad. Maybe I’m passed out somewhere. Nothing ever goes exactly the way I play it out in my mind, in case you haven’t noticed.
What would have happened if we’d stayed together? George would never have cheated on me. He’s not the cheating type.
Wait, what am I saying?
George stares at me, waiting for me to say something.
“I don’t think it’s working out,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“We never talk like this. I wish she’d get me. Sometimes I feel she doesn’t know who I am. I wish she could look at me and know what I was thinking.”
“Most people can’t do that. That’s why we have voices.”
“That’s what bothers me the most. When I tell her something and she says, ‘What do you mean?’ She’ll give me this quizzical look, and I’ll pray to myself, don’t let her say it. And then it comes out. ‘What do you mean?’ And I feel my heart breaking a little bit. She just doesn’t get me and I don’t get her.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. Is this the lament of everyone who’s been in a marriage for a long time? Is this the kind of stuff Alex complained about me with Rose?
“We were so young. I didn’t know what I had with you was as perfect as it was.”
Is he drunk? Why is he telling me this?
“George, it was so not perfect. Do you remember how insane I was?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, still. It was damned good. I was young and didn’t know how rare it was. I thought I could find it again easily. But, well, you’re pretty rare, Ally. The rarest.”
It’s so dark I can barely see George. But I can feel him so close to me, our arms not quite touching. If I moved just a fraction, I’d feel his skin graze my arm. We sit, not saying a word. I listen to the gentle slapping of the water against the dock. My heart seems to be pounding in my throat. We sit like this for a few minutes. Then George clears his throat.
“You know, I wish I’d stopped, turned around, and picked you up off the street you were barfing on, and helped you, and worked it out.”
“Oh, you did see that. I always wondered if . . .”
He takes a deep breath and wipes his eyes quickly. Was he crying? I can just see the outline of his head, but I can feel him looking at me, waiting for me to say something, but I can’t. Anything I say right now will be fraught with too much meaning and it petrifies me. So after a few minutes of quiet, except for the sound of crickets and the water sloshing around the dock, he moves a little closer. Our arms graze. It’s too much. I can’t sit still anymore. I turn my head toward him and we kiss.
It is a perfect kiss. Nice, soft, and slow. We kiss like this for a long time until we can’t stand it anymore and we go at it, our mouths opening wider, our kisses harder and more furious, our breathing heavy. Our hands everywhere. I don’t want to stop. It’s magic here. The stars above. The water gently lapping below.
“Let’s go back to my room,” George whispers in a raspy voice.
“Okay.”
We kiss for a while longer. Then we stand up and walk towards his hotel, holding hands and leaning into each other. I’m lightheaded and wobbly. My body is numb. I feel the thrill of expectation. I can’t believe this is really happening. I can’t remember the last time I felt this excited or made out like that for so long. My cheeks are stubble-burned, my lips are swollen. That hasn’t happened in years and years and years. The cold lake air blows through my body. I can’t remember when I felt this awake.
I don’t care about stretch marks or cellulite or falling boobs. George adores me. He’s thought about me all these years. He’ll still love my thirty-eight-year-old body.
The hotel is right ahead of us, just a block away. Every step closer toward it feels full of expectation. As if even the steps we are taking are somehow part of our
foreplay. We don’t speak at all. George massages my hand. I feel like I may pass out.
We are in front of the hotel. George holds open the door. This is it, I think. This is the moment when your life changes forever. Once I walk through this door, nothing will ever be quite the same.
And then his cell phone rings.
It doesn’t have to be a big deal. I can ignore it. He can move into the lobby and take the call, and I can pretend it is a buddy from college wondering if George wants to meet up for some drinks at Chauncey’s or Holidays or somewhere.
He is holding the door, so he can’t answer it immediately. His phone keeps ringing.
But the thing is, it isn’t a ring at all. It isn’t the Nokia Tune or the Cingular Tune or the nostalgia ring or a Stones or Beatles song, or any tune or song or ditty or melody whatsoever.
Instead, it is a child’s voice. “Pick up, Daddy. Pick up, Daddy. Pick up, Daddy.”
He fumbles in his shirt pocket as the recording of his Gabby’s voice chimes. Finally, he locates the phone, moves into the lobby, and gives me a sheepish look. “Just a second,” he mouths to me.
He whispers into his phone. It could be anybody. A friend. A neighbor. His office. His wife. It doesn’t matter who it is. Despite what he feels or what he’s saying or what he isn’t really certain of, George is married. He has children. He has a little girl who records a message for his phone so that he’ll always be reminded of her, no matter where he is—at work, out with friends, at a reunion. A little girl who is innocent in her love and in her belief that the sound of her voice could only bring joy—never guilt, never pain. Only pure happiness.
And I know—even though it’s been a lifetime, because we do know each other so well, and I know he feels it, too—I don’t have to wait for the phone call to end to say good-bye to him. He can’t do this. He understands I can’t either.
That tinny child’s voice broke the spell.
I don’t say a thing. He knows when he turns around, I’ll be gone. So I begin my three-block walk to my hotel. We never had to explain anything to each other then, and even now, we don’t have to say good-bye. Because it is good-bye. I know I will never see him again. We won’t e-mail. We won’t talk. We probably will never go to another reunion.
