Dumping Billy

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Elliot, turning to Brice, repeated the request. “Brice, get her a glass of water. This is better than One Life to Live.”

  Brice didn’t budge. “One Life to Live? This is better than The Young and the Restless.” He turned to Michael, still in the corner behind the table. “Put down the linen,” Brice told him. “You get the water.”

  Michael seemed all too happy to leave the scene, and he disappeared into the kitchen. Bina gave another wail.

  “Bina, you have to calm down,” Kate said. “And you have to tell us what’s wrong.” Bina took some trembling breaths and got the sobbing under control. It occurred to Kate that she might have had an accident; maybe she was ill. “Does something hurt?” she asked.

  Bina nodded.

  “Do you need a doctor?” Kate continued.

  Bina nodded more vigorously. “Yes. Jewish and unmarried. The kind who likes my type and who’s looking for a serious commitment.” She broke out into sobs again.

  Elliot and Brice moved even closer to the circle. “Uh-oh,” Elliot said. “Kate, check out her hand.” He and Brice exchanged meaningful looks.

  Kate, not quite understanding, thought of their manicure that afternoon. “Bina, have you hurt your hands?” She looked down at Bina’s hands but didn’t see anything more alarming than the French manicure.

  “Not her right hand, Kate,” said Brice. “Her left hand. Second finger from the pinkie.”

  Kate finally understood. She wrapped her arms around Bina and said, “Oh, my God. Jack . . .”

  “Jack choked,” Bina told her. “He had the ring in his breast pocket. I could see the bulge the box made.” She began to cry again. “Oh, Katie! Instead of asking me to marry him, he asked if we could spend this time apart . . . exploring our singleness.”

  “That son of a bitch!” Kate, who thought that she understood enough about people and their motivations to be surprised at nothing, was shocked. While Jack had finished school and moved into corporate life, Bina had waited, worked, and collected every issue of Bride. She’d watched as all her other friends became engaged, she’d relentlessly thrown shower after bridal shower, a virtual preconnubial fountain. And now, when it was her turn at last, Jack had choked? “That goddamn son of a bitch!” Kate was ready to spit.

  She looked up to see that Michael had returned from the kitchen just in time to hear her undeleted expletives and recoil at the outburst. Lucky she hadn’t called Jack a motherfucker, she thought as she watched him approach the sofa and gingerly offer Bina the glass of water. Bina ignored the offer.

  “I can’t believe it!” Bina said, wiping ineffectually at her face and only making the raccoon eyes worse. “He got the ring from Barbie’s father. Mr. Leventhal gave him a break. It was princess cut, Barbie said—just under a carat and a half.” She paused for breath while Michael gaped and Elliot and Brice shook their heads in sympathy—and almost in unison.

  “Everyone will know,” Bina said, and began sobbing again. “I can’t believe he’d do this to me. Just drop me. And shame me in front of everyone.”

  Kate took a napkin from the table, dipped it into the water, and held up her friend’s face to mop up. “Bina, honey,” she said with all the assurance she could muster, “you’ve been going out with Jack for six years. You grew up together! He loves you.” She wiped mascara from under Bina’s eyes. “Blow your nose,” she said, and Bina did. “Look, this is just a temporary thing. Sometimes it happens. Picking a life mate is a serious decision. It isn’t that Jack doesn’t want to marry you. It’s a lot more probable that he just got frightened. I’m sure he’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow he’ll be in Hong Kong. With my ring! I’ll be dumped in Bensonhurst and he’ll be the Christopher Columbus of singleness,” cried Bina, who had a penchant for wildly inappropriate metaphor when under pressure.

  “Maybe you should drink the water,” Michael said awkwardly, and pressed the glass into her hand.

  Bina looked down at the glass. “Is there strychnine in it?” she asked without lifting her eyes.

  “Uh . . . no,” Michael replied.

  In a single smooth motion Bina dumped the water out over her shoulder and down the back of the sofa. “Then what good is it to me?” she said to no one in particular. She fell back onto the sofa and burst into a fresh batch of tears.

  “That was a gesture,” Elliot said, grabbing a napkin.

  “On Fortuny fabric,” Brice added. “This is so Brooklyn.”

  “I knew I’d love Brooklyn,” Elliot said.

  Kate looked up over Bina’s head and gave the two of them a warning squint, her blue eyes narrowed to lizard slits. She wondered if she could get her friend home to her own apartment, but either getting a cab or walking back with Michael seemed impossible. Better to deal with it here and then go home. But first she needed to free the frightened Michael and stare off the spectating twosome—though, to be fair, it was their own home. “I’m sorry, guys,” Kate said, looking up at the three men. “It looks like we might have to put off dessert.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Brice said. “In times of pain, nothing works better than drowning your problems in profiteroles.”

  Elliot nodded, but Michael began backing toward the door. “I think you’re right, Kate,” he agreed, relief shining from every pore. “I’ll just see myself out.” He picked up his briefcase and headed out the door into the foyer. “Have a nice evening,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

  Kate jumped up. “Just a minute, Bina,” she said, giving another narrow-eyed glance at the guys as a deterrent, and ran to the hallway. She was just in time to see Michael step into the elevator. “Hold it!” she called, got to the button, and pressed it. Michael stood in the fake mahogany cab like an insect suspended in amber. “You’re leaving like that?” she demanded.

  “Like what?” he asked, looking down at himself as if she were commenting on an unzipped fly.

  “My friend just had her life shattered and you go out the door saying, ‘Have a nice evening’?” Kate had learned not to expect too much of a date in the early stages of their mating dance, but Michael was way out of tempo. “Have a nice evening?” she repeated, mirroring him.

  “Kate,” Michael began, “Bina is your friend, not mine. I don’t really think it’s my place—”

  “To be what? Nice, kind, caring? Can’t you just pretend to be sensitive?”

  Kate realized she was holding him hostage and took her finger off the button. The door closed slowly across his miserable face. She turned away, hoping he would press the open button and return, at least to give her a kiss and a moment of sympathy, but the elevator door remained as smoothly closed as Michael’s emotions. She shook her head to clear it. She had to return to Bina.

  She entered the apartment and found, to her surprise, that Bina had stopped crying. She was sitting up on the sofa beside Elliot, who was holding her hand and sharing his own heartbreaks. “. . . and then he said, ‘I’m going back to my place to get my things and move in.’ I was thrilled, just thrilled, so I said, ‘Can I come and help?’ And he kissed me and said, ‘No, sweetie. It won’t take but a few hours.’ And I never saw or heard from him again.”

  Bina shook her head in mute sympathy.

  “Just as well,” Brice said. “Street trash. It’s all worked out for the best.” He kissed the top of Elliot’s head. Kate saw Bina blink.

  “Well, let me bring out the profiteroles,” Brice said, and headed for the kitchen.

  “Meanwhile I’ll get a blanket,” Elliot offered, and disappeared into the bedroom. Bina nodded gratefully to Kate.

  Kate, with nothing else left to do, sat beside her. “I’m sorry,” she said, comforting her friend now that they were alone. “You must be devastated.”

  “Oh, Katie, how could he do this? Who does he think he is? The Magellan of certified public accountants?” Bina asked. “How could he?”

  Kate looked into her imploring eyes, but she had no easy answers. “Even if he leaves for Hong
Kong, he’ll have that long flight alone, he’ll miss you, he’ll remember the good times and how much he loves you. . . .” She paused, hoping that all she conjectured was true. She wanted to comfort Bina, but not lie to her. If an eight-year-old like Brian had to face the death of his mother, Kate believed it would be best for Bina to face the death of her relationship with Jack, if that’s what it was. But it couldn’t have suffered a mortal wound. Bina was lovable, and Jack, slow moving as he was, had always seemed to adore her. “I’m sure he’ll call. Even if he leaves for Hong Kong, I bet he sends you a ticket to join him and proposes there,” Kate ventured hopefully.

  “Men are just funny. . . .”

  “Not homosexual ones,” Elliot said as he walked back into the room carrying a knitted afghan throw. “We’re fucking hysterical.” He knelt beside Bina and wrapped her up in it. Brice came out of the kitchen carrying a full tray, which he put down gracefully on the coffee table. Arrayed before them were four dessert plates, the plate of profiteroles, a silver server of piping hot dark chocolate sauce, lace-trimmed napkins, a crystal shot glass, and a frosted bottle of Finlandia. “All for you,” Brice said.

  Bina looked at the tray. “I’d love some dessert, but I don’t drink,” she told him.

  “You do tonight, honey,” Brice said, and poured her a shot. “Chocolate and alcohol together beat the shit out of Prozac.”

  Bina looked at him, at the brimming shot glass, and to Kate’s utter surprise she took it from him and knocked it back.

  “Good girl!” Elliot said. “And here’s your chaser,” Brice added, and handed Bina the pastries. “You know what they say: Just a spoonful of sugar . . .”

  Bina picked up the plate to dig in.

  “Wait just a minute,” Brice said. “The doctor is in.” He took hold of the silver pitcher, raised it theatrically, and poured the bitter chocolate over the ice-cream pastry.

  Kate looked at the three of them, entranced, not sure if she was experiencing pleasure or discomfort. Her two worlds had merged here on the Fortuny upholstered sofa, and all one could have said was that it seemed quiet on the western front. Then Brice filled the shot glass again and handed it to Bina, who, docile as a kosher lamb, drank it down. That broke Kate’s trance. “Guys, this is more serious than something a drink and an overdose of carbohydrates will cure,” she told them.

  “Honey, there’s nothing that will cure this. But alcohol and sugar will temporarily dull the pain,” Brice replied. “Trust me. I know.”

  Bina, fully involved with her dessert, looked up from it with a dazed expression on her face. Elliot wiped the chocolate from around her mouth with the lace napkin.

  “Who are these guys, Katie?” Bina asked, looking at Elliot and Brice with some confusion. “Are they therapists, too? They’re very good.”

  “No, dear. This is my friend Elliot, who works with me at school, and his partner, Brice,” Kate told her. Bina smiled, but it was obvious that Kate’s words were merely washing over her. She realized just how drunk Bina was.

  “Why am I here?” Bina asked. “And why are they roomoots?”

  She slurred her words, and only God knew how slurred her mind was. Again Kate wished that she hadn’t mixed Brooklyn with Manhattan. They were parallel universes and, like parallel lines, should never touch.

  Despite her concern, however, Kate was slightly amused watching Bina’s expression—surprise mixed with curiosity and a soupçon of horror—as she looked from Elliot to Brice and back. At Bina’s next words, however, her amusement dissolved, and she cringed in anticipation.

  “Oh, so you’re the—”

  “Mathematical one,” Elliot finished for her.

  “And I’m the emotional one,” Brice said with an exaggerated sigh. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  Kate had to get Bina home and onto her own couch before it became necessary to carry her. She knew once Bina was forced to stay here, Brice and Elliot would dig themselves in deeper. They were kind, but they couldn’t help Bina now, and Kate knew she had a big job to do.

  “You’re coming to my apartment,” she said. “It isn’t far, and you could use the fresh air.”

  “She’s welcome to stay here,” Elliot offered, and Kate knew his kindness was mixed with equal parts of curiosity.

  “Show’s over,” she said. “Say good night, Gracie.” She pulled the dazed Bina up from the couch and began to walk her to the door.

  “Good night, Gracie,” Elliot and Brice chorused.

  Chapter Eight

  Later, Kate could not remember much about the nightmare of getting Bina back to her apartment that night. It was called “selective memory” in her textbooks—some things were just too gruesome to keep in your consciousness. In the four long blocks from Elliot’s apartment to Kate’s, Bina alternately wept, sang, tripped, wailed, and sat down at one point on the sidewalk, refusing to move. Kate didn’t think Bina had tried to throw herself in front of a bus or wet herself, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure of either. It was lucky that Max had been home and heard her trying to get Bina up the stairs. Asking no questions, he took over. Kate didn’t remember if he carried Bina up the stairs in his arms or over his shoulder. She did remember holding Bina’s head as she vomited violently and washing her up. Max left her to that thankless task. Kate made an executive decision not to put Bina in her bedroom but instead to tuck her up on the sofa. Made in haste, it was a decision that Kate would not regret.

  The next morning Kate was up early, brewing coffee, laying out the Tylenol, and waiting to call in sick to work. One look at the bedraggled, unconscious Bina gave Kate a pretty good idea of how she was going to spend her next twenty-four hours. She took down her favorite coffee mug. It was the only gift she could remember her father giving her. A ceramic one, the handle shaped like Cinderella. When she was little Kate used to imagine that Cinderella was bending over the top of the mug and looking into whatever liquid would be put there, as if it were a wishing well. She thought of calling Mrs. Horowitz or even trying Jack before he left, then thought better of it. Kate didn’t mind being involved, but she didn’t want to become the puppeteer pulling strings. Bina—despite many childlike qualities—would have to decide on her own what actions to take, and Kate would support her as best she could.

  When the phone rang, Kate glanced at the caller ID, picked up the receiver, and without preamble said, “Yes, she’s still sleeping. No, I’m not going into school today, and no, you can’t come over.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” Elliot’s voice said briskly. “Can I at least drop off a couple of bagels on my way up to Andrew?”

  “Forget it. I don’t think Bina is going to want to eat anything, and if she does, I have plenty of saltines.” Kate poured the hot coffee into her Cinderella mug. She was careful, as always, to avoid the little blond head peeking over the rim.

  “God, Brice and I feel so bad for her.”

  “At least you’re not feeling as bad as her . . . I mean, she is. Bina doesn’t have the genetics to handle a hangover,” Kate told him. “You shouldn’t have let Brice pour that booze down her throat.”

  “Well, he’s not apologizing for getting her drunk, and I think it was the best thing for her,” Elliot began.

  “Well, it wasn’t the best thing for me,” Kate retorted, peeking at Bina. It wasn’t a pretty picture. “I’ve had quite a mess—literally and figuratively—to clean up.”

  “Oh, the poor girl,” Elliot said, his sympathy real. “How can I help?”

  “Short of teaching Michael to deal with human feelings and finding Jack and slapping some sense into him, I don’t think there’s much you can do,” Kate told him.

  “Yeah, I told you Michael was a dud. What went on between you two in the hall? I’ll bet he got a pounding.”

  Kate thought of Michael’s face before the elevator door closed and chose to change the subject. She spilled some coffee as she moved her mug to the counter beside the refrigerator. “I don’t think there’s much anyone can do, but
I’m taking a sick day.”

  “Maybe you should call it a mental health day,” Elliot said. “Except for once this one isn’t about you. Do you want me to take the day off, too? The kids have standardized testing most of the day. I can keep you company and help with Bina.”

  “Forget it. I know you’re just afraid you’re going to get my cafeteria duty,” she joked. “Anyway, you had your first and last dose of the Bitches of Bushwick. It ought to be enough Brooklyn to last a lifetime.” Before he could protest, she added, “I have to go. She’s waking up.”

  “I’ll call you later,” she heard him say as she put the phone down.

  She quickly poured a glass of club soda—her favorite remedy for the dehydration of a hangover—and walked from her kitchenette into the living room with her mug in one hand and the drinking glass in the other. Bina groaned, put a hand to her forehead, and then opened her eyes, which she closed again quickly. “Oh, my God,” she said, and Kate wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the light or a remembrance of things past. She groaned again.

  “It’s okay, Bina, drink this.” Kate held the glass in front of her friend, and Bina squinted at it.

  “What is it?” she croaked.

  “Well, it’s not vodka,” Kate told her. “Come on, sit up and take your medicine.”

  Bina did as she was told, took the glass, drank three or four big gulps, and then began to choke. She put the glass on Kate’s coffee table, and Kate moved it onto a coaster before she went to Bina’s side. “Omigod,” Bina repeated. And Kate knew that this time she had remembered Jack and the night before. Bina looked up at her. “Oh, Kate. What am I going to do?”

  Kate sat in the wicker chair and reached for her friend’s hand. “Bina,” she said, “what happened last night?”

  “You were right about the French manicure,” Bina said. She shook her head, and Kate could see the physical pain register on her face. She went back to the kitchen and brought her three Tylenols and a couple of vitamin Cs.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting them into Bina’s hand. “Take these. You’ll feel better.” She left Bina again and went back into the kitchen, where she took out her emergency stash of saltines. Bina had just downed the last pill when Kate returned. She didn’t want them all to lie there on an empty stomach, so she handed Bina a saltine. “Eat it,” she said.