by Ann Bauer
Nate had left for a summer program in California and would be back just days before the wedding. George was either working or out on the golf course. Olive had her coterie of women friends. And Jobe, Carmen’s soon-to-be husband? Ever since the night of their formal engagement—when he’d given her the sapphire-and-diamond ring that once belonged to his grandmother—he’d been fading like a dream, only the idea of which remained. She rarely saw him. And in only a month he’d gone from geeky to professorial. His beard was thickening and he was absentminded in a way that Carmen suspected might be partly put on.
The previous night, for instance, he’d acted completely blind-sided when she came out of her room dressed in a frilly summer dress that Olive had insisted on picking up for her while they were wedding gown shopping. “Going somewhere?” he’d asked. And though she felt like running back into her room and stripping the stupid thing off, she’d answered, “The Science Center benefit. Remember? Your mother gave us the tickets last week?”
“Oh,” he said, looking perplexed, though Carmen distinctly recalled a long conversation with Olive about how Jobe should start showing up at events like this one, his role as a professor important to the local scientific and academic community. Carmen was to be the ingratiating beauty on Jobe’s arm, she understood. Now she waited—carefully coiffed and made up—while he rooted through his closet to find a jacket that didn’t need ironing.
Once there, they’d been the youngest people in the room by about twenty years. Carmen talked to only three people all night, ate the sauce-smothered chicken, and sat next to Jobe without touching or speaking. At one point she’d felt his hand brush her inner thigh under the tablecloth and she’d actually fantasized for a moment that he would stroke her, sliding his fingers under her dress and into the space between her legs, as Rory had. She’d promised herself to Jobe and was doggedly trying to spark some excitement between the two of them. It could be done; Olive had said as much. If both of you tried, it would be possible to grow love. But he’d apologized and withdrawn, acting as if he’d touched her only by accident. Were there reasons for his hand to be lurking under the table, in the vicinity of her clitoris, other than to get her off during dessert?
She had no desire to repeat the uncomfortable quality of that night, but she was bored. All her friends had left town already, or they were working in post-college jobs and internships. They had new lives that did not include command appearances at benefits or stiff fiancés. And Carmen could have that, too. She could walk out of this house right now—at least she assumed she could; it was possible it would suck her back in or crumble upon her—but then what would she do? A year ago, she’d been able to book a trip to Europe and simply take off. But this felt like a lost skill; it had been replaced by something else. She had sold her youth for the opportunity to live here in comfort and now she was permanently, eerily stuck.
Her hand was on the wooden banister, which was smooth and cool and curved. She stood contemplating then made a decision. Marching up the stairs, she tried to adopt her old Detroit ways. “Jobe,” she called. “Where are you? Jobe? I’m coming to get you and we’re going out.”
He wasn’t anywhere. She checked his room and the kitchen. Where he went every day was a mystery: He had an office at the university but there was nothing going on there at this time of year. She looked at the clock: 5:43. She would wait until seven, Carmen decided, and if Jobe didn’t call her or come home, she would pack her things and leave. No note, no explanation. She’d just walk out the door and let him figure it out. Just thinking about this made her feel better. Flipping through the TV Guide, she found a channel with a program she could tolerate that ran from six to seven. Perfect. She would watch and when it was over, she would be done as well.
It was rerun time, when the local station ran shows from the previous year, but she’d never seen this episode of Cagney & Lacey before. By the quarter-hour commercial, she was hooked. Here were role models who could help her, especially the smart-mouthed blonde one. She was pretty, too. Living in New York, working as a police detective. This wasn’t a good possibility for Carmen but it demonstrated that there were possibilities. A smart, attractive, free-thinking woman could strike out and live somewhere on her own.
At the precise moment Jobe opened the front door, the episode’s cliffhanger was about to be resolved. This presented a dilemma. Should Carmen stand up and leave the television, go find her future husband, and tell him they needed to talk? Or should she take a chance he’d stick around for the next ten minutes and watch the rest of the show?
She heard him go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. Option two, then. If Jobe was going to eat, he’d be around long enough for her to finish and find out who’d murdered the prostitute. The ending was not as satisfying as she’d hoped—the killer was exactly the person she thought it would be. She switched off the TV and rose, going into the kitchen. Jobe sat at the table with a plate of unrelated foods in front of him: crackers, carrots, a leftover cookie, a slice of deli turkey spread with mustard. She looked away.
“Hey, what are you doing tonight?” She tried to keep her voice casual, but there was a high note of something in it. Fury, panic. Why after a year of hovering had he suddenly proposed, then withdrawn? She wanted to shake him and ask this question.
“Nothing that I know of,” he said. “Why? Is there something you’d like to do?”
“I’d like to do something,” she said. That sounded dumb.
Jobe must have thought so, too. He had his puzzled I’m-trying-to-be-helpful look. “Okay, let’s do something. What?”
“Something crazy. I want to do something totally off the wall.”
“Such as?” He was trying in his way, placating her, and Carmen felt as if she might cry. This was it: the ultimate test. If Jobe could not come up with an idea that surprised her, she should walk. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the moment he would burst out of his mathematician suit and become the gangling puppet he’d been that night when they danced.
“I want … I want, like a road trip or a night where we do something new—something neither of us has ever done before.”
He removed his jacket, revealing a faded black T-shirt with sweat stains under the arms. This was a tiny bit of progress and she seized it, grabbing his arm. “Come on. We have plenty of money, which most people don’t. We’ve got a Saturday night. There is nothing stopping us from doing anything we want to do.”
“That’s true,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. I just don’t know what it is. If you just tell me where you want to go, I swear I’ll take you. Wherever it is.”
He’d caught it, some of her frantic feeling. She could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. Jobe was frightened. Carmen was nearly sure of it. And that was at least a start.
“A road trip,” she said.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. What’s close? But not too close.”
“New York?”
Carmen shook her head. “Nope, I was there with your mom a couple months ago. I mean some place different. Somewhere neither of us has ever been.”
“Philadelphia?”
“Maybe.” He was being weirdly accommodating, which took some of the fun out of this. But the idea of getting in a car and escaping still had its appeal. “What’s south?”
“Virginia.”
“Perfect! I’ve never been to Virginia. I’ve never even thought about Virginia. What’s the best city?”
“I’m not sure.” Jobe rose carefully from his half-eaten plate, like an old man. She couldn’t figure out whether this was an affectation or he’d suddenly aged four decades when he was handed his degree. He went into the den, a leathery book-lined room that always made Carmen think of the game Clue: Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick. Jobe took an atlas from a shelf and flipped through its oversized pages. “Richmond,” he said. “Or Greensboro, but that’s in North Carolina and it’s a ways.”
“How far is Richmond?”<
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Jobe used his thumb and index finger to measure the distance, then squinted at the key. “Two and a half hours, maybe three,” he said. “Greensboro is …” Again, pincerlike, he gauged the distance with his long, skinny digits. “Another three, plus. So a total of maybe six, by the time we’ve stopped for restrooms and snacks and such.”
Carmen was nearly reclining against the doorframe. “How do you manage to make a spontaneous trip sound like a science project?”
Jobe looked up quickly and for one awful moment, Carmen actually thought he was going to cry. But he didn’t. He stood in place, swaying, with a twisted expression as if he were deciding something. And then he spoke. “Maybe we should just forget all this,” he said.
Carmen’s chest filled with something, blood probably. Her heart picked up speed and there was a rushing in her ears. “Do you mean going to Richmond?” she asked. “Or do you mean something else?”
“I mean everything.” He sounded not angry but tired and Carmen took a step forward but stopped, no longer supported by the doorframe, facing him, computing the various outcomes of this moment. There were so many; Jobe surely was better at this.
“It’s all so fast,” he continued. “You come to visit and then you move in here and next thing you know, we’re getting married. No one really stopped to think.”
“Think about what?” This was it. A door was opening. Jobe was opening it for her. And all she had to do was walk right through. It was that easy.
“About whether or not this is the right thing to do.”
“Can we sit?” Carmen asked gently, head inclined toward the couch. They went to it together, Jobe still holding the atlas. She felt nervous; there was no telling what would happen. She could leave this room a free woman, and without having to betray Olive or break Jobe’s heart. It was he who was breaking up with her, for absolutely no reason. She hadn’t, technically, done anything wrong.
“Are you saying you don’t want to marry me?” It was strange how much she cared about the answer.
Fear crossed his face, the look of a small animal about to be clubbed. Instinctively, Carmen inched closer and slid one arm behind his spiny back. “I do….” He fell silent and she let the surprising relief this brought her seep down. Her hand on his back was making small motions, touching his bones and the spaces in between. “But I’m not sure it’s right. I’m not … I don’t think you’ll stay.”
“What?” Carmen sat up abruptly and withdrew her hand. “You still think I’m just some gold digger? I’m going to stick around long enough to get some money then run off?”
“No.” Jobe shook his head and looked down at his lap, bowed thighs in khaki pants. “I don’t think that at all. I think you’ll get tired of me, of road trips that get planned down to the last Cheeto.”
She laughed, a sound like a hiccup. “I wouldn’t complain about that, believe me. I love Cheetos!”
He grinned and the handsome Jobe appeared, like a scarecrow whose head had been switched for one less grim. “Me, too.”
“You’re kidding. You never told me that! Why don’t we ever eat Cheetos?”
“My mother.” He grimaced. “She’d, you know, have a stroke. They turn your fingers orange. It’s not refined.”
“Fuck refined.” Carmen swore his eyes shone when she said it. To test this, she moved closer and whispered in his hairy ear. “Fuck all of this. Take me to Richmond, buy me Cheetos. Fuck me.”
It was an experiment—that was all. She sat back and watched, curious to see what would happen. Jobe placed the atlas on the table next to the couch and turned to her, his face grave. “Are you sure?”
The door was still open. Carmen sat for a moment, thinking about walking through it. She could collect her things and leave, call a cab, and go … where? Back to Detroit, to explain to her father and sister why she hadn’t married the kind, exceedingly wealthy mathematician? Olive would understand and she might make an effort to stay in touch. Jobe, however, would probably never speak to her again. He would sink into his teaching, his research, and diligently forget her. Eventually, he’d find a girl who would love him—some homely, brilliant, professorial type—and she, not Carmen, would wear the beautiful pearl-studded dress.
“Let’s go,” Carmen said. And despite his mustard-and-deli-meat breath, she kissed Jobe roughly, prying his lips apart with her tongue.
It would be that easy, she told herself as she threw a pair of jeans, a bathing suit, and a T-shirt into a cloth string bag. All she needed to do was bring Jobe her way, loosen him up. That’s what he’d said he wanted, in the beginning. She could make this marriage work out—make her whole life work out—if only she kept coaxing him. There was no need to give up Olive and Baltimore and everything they’d planned.
Carmen sailed out of her room with the bag slung over her shoulder and headed down the stairs. Jobe was waiting for her at the bottom, in the foyer. His face was wary; he’d put his jacket back on. “We’re stopping at the store on the way out of town,” she said, purposely bumping him as she walked toward the door. “We need Cheetos and beer.”
The dress was perfect. Carmen hardly recognized herself. Behind her, a woman hired by Olive was arranging Carmen’s hair, making it like a soft, silken crown, weaving tiny pearls that matched the bodice of the dress throughout.
From across the room Esme sat watching. Carmen’s sister wore a lavender dress—a color Carmen only vaguely remembered choosing—and matching shoes. Esme probably hated her for this, Carmen thought as the woman pinned something to the top of her head. Though, really, her sister had very little to complain about. Olive had insisted on picking up the costs for both bridesmaids, Esme and Carmen’s childhood friend, Tina, saying young girls shouldn’t have to foot the bill for dresses they would, no matter what anyone said, never wear again.
“I thiiinnkk,” the hairdresser breathed out, “we’re just about done. What do you say, matron of honor?”
“Awesome,” Esme said. Her head held straight so she wouldn’t dislodge any of the woman’s careful work, Carmen couldn’t tell if her sister was being serious or sarcastic. There was such a fine line. Besides, she was out of practice. The Garretts didn’t talk to one another the way she was used to; there was no irony, it wasn’t part of their lexicon. She might have bantered with Nate, once or twice. But it had occurred to Carmen since Esme and Tina arrived that all the acid-tongued cynicism she knew from back in Detroit was lost on her new family. No wonder she so often felt as if she had nothing to say.
There was a flurry as Olive was called to approve—she came in, smiled and nodded, then rushed back out—and the woman picked up her box of tools and left. Then they were alone, the two sisters, staring at each other in the mirror.
“It does look really nice, Car,” Esme said finally.
“Thanks.” So she’d been serious! Baltimore must have this effect on people. “Um, how are the kids?”
Esme beamed. “They’re amazing. I love being a mom. You’ll see.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You two haven’t discussed it? Having children?”
Carmen concentrated. Had they? It was ridiculous to have gotten this far and have no idea. She could call Jobe now, only—she checked the clock—they were supposed to be getting married in twelve minutes. It was probably too late.
“Oh, sure. It’s just … you never know how things are going to work out.”
“No, you don’t. Anyway, I was pretty surprised to hear you were getting married. I mean, you’re not exactly the type.”
“What’s ‘the type?’” Carmen felt like a talking doll, perched on her seat, using only her mouth so the rest of her would stay arranged.
Esme shrugged. “Me,” she said. Then: “Jobe wasn’t what I was expecting.”
Suddenly the room felt chilly. Someone must have turned the air conditioning up. “What were you expecting?”
Again Esme shrugged in the mirror, her plump shoulders moving up and down, shifting the neckline of
her purple gown. “I don’t know. One of your usual boyfriends: jocky, flirty, mean. This guy’s really …”
Carmen waited. It seemed in this moment that Esme’s pronouncement might help steer things, give her a clue.
“Nice,” her sister finished.
But there was no answer in that. “So where’s Tina?” Carmen asked.
It had been a little embarrassing to call, out of the blue, and ask her best friend from high school to be her second bridesmaid. But it was necessary because Jobe had two brothers. Will—a charismatic computer mogul who looked thrillingly wolflike—had flown in from San Francisco to be Jobe’s best man. He was walking with Esme; that left it to Carmen to find a partner for Nate. But she had left her college friends abruptly in Ann Arbor, too ashamed to tell them why she was dropping out. And when she’d called her former roommate, the girl had acted as if she couldn’t believe Carmen was getting married to some professor in faraway Maryland. Plus, Tina had seemed happy to do it when Carmen offered to pay for the ticket and a hotel room. She’d even asked if her boyfriend could come, at his own expense, of course.
“Tina’s with Brad.” Esme used one finger to edge her mascara, open mouthed, in order to elongate her face. She had dark, veiny eye circles under her makeup. Marriage had aged her sister, Carmen observed. Fast. “Those two are just horny little bunny rabbits. Did you notice?”
Carmen stared at her beautiful self in the mirror. How could she have missed Tina and Brad? They had that lusty, magnetic thing going on. When Tina walked by, Brad—a tanned, blond computer technician who wore dock shoes and sunglasses on a leather string around his neck—would stare, hungrily, after her ass.
“We went to Richmond a couple weeks ago, Jobe and I.” Carmen knew, the moment she spoke, that this was an odd thing to say. Like when a small child will suddenly announce what he had for lunch. But she couldn’t seem to stop. “It was fun. I mean, he loosened up and we just hung out….” She stopped to remember what, exactly, they had done. There were Cheetos in the car, their late-night drive to a low-roofed, no-name motel that made her feel risky and wild. She’d changed—putting on the mask of an actress she saw in a movie once—the moment Jobe opened the door. Pulling the grimy key from the lock, she had pushed him inside and talked low.
