“A woman over 40 just can’t eat those things if she wants to remain thin.” she had told me crunching on a carrot stick.
“Fat it is,” I announced greedily stuffing my mouth with three fries at once.
I reached into the front pocket of my bag, careful to hold it steady and not crush M with it. Not that there was much to crush but a hole would be disastrous. My hand turned up empty. No change for tolls in there, but there were tons of paper receipts. I unfolded them one by one, flattening them out in front of her like she would be interested in seeing them. Most of them had faded with time but there was one I recognized from the month my divorce was final.
It was an order for five of my clay goat sculptures. At the time, that order had been a lifeline. It turns out that even in wealthy areas like the Cape, not many people want clay goats. Goat videos are so popular on the Internet; I figured for sure they’d sell like those stupid wooden sheep people put on their lawns in the 90s or the concrete ducks people dressed up that stood sentinel on front porches across the Midwest and New England.
When Mike and I divorced, my art hadn’t taken off. “Savings” was a word I laughed at when people brought it up. M had offered me money and then changed her words to “loan, if you’re more comfortable with that.” I told her I was but there was no way I could see ever being able to pay her back. I was a goat sculptor for crying out loud. No one with the title of “goat sculptor” is ever going to need a financial investor because there will never be any money in the bank. All the money will always be floating out the door the minute it crosses the threshold on its way to some billing entity.
But that receipt for the sale of the entire collection--nurse goat, firefighter goat, fisherman goat, teacher goat, the pretty “Brad Pitt” goat, and my favorite Billy the Kid, had marked my ability to support myself. Or at least start to. And I will always be appreciative to that crazy goat fan who bought them all. “My goat Henryefactor” bought several a year, and when you added that to the people on Etsy, I was able to make enough of a living to feed myself. Sure, there were times when I used some of the child support to buy Mountain Dew that I wouldn’t let the kids drink but in the grand scheme of bad things you can do to your ex, that’s not a large crime. Most of it went to the kids….and the house. At least I got the house.
If your husband leaves you for a younger woman, you should always insist on the house. If you do it nicely, he will probably agree. There’s a lot of guilt involved in that scenario. Ask for the car too, or one of them. If his new girlfriend is really pretty and you’ve let yourself go, or you spend too many nights not sleeping and too many days drinking the Dew, ask for alimony too. I didn’t do the last one but I did ask for a one time “parting” gift. If it’s good enough for the Newlywed Game, it’s good enough for me.
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Fredericksburg had changed a lot since I was there the summer after my freshman year. M’s brother hadn’t changed at all. Still the stuffy guy I had tried on like Cinderella’s slipper. But unlike Cinderella’s slipper, he hadn’t quite fit. Guess that makes me an ugly stepsister. I’m still working on that analogy but he was part of my awkward “twenties” where I tried on a few too many “slippers.” None of them good fits.
I didn’t want to go and see him and his perfect wife, Cherish, but I felt obligated. He had texted me several times wanting to know what happened that last day. Stupid cell phones. I hate that I was the last one listed on her call log.
So even though Fredericksburg was slightly out of the way, okay, like 227.3 miles if you’re mapping it, I felt like I owed it to him. It was like she had run away and I was the only one who seemed to know where she could be.
Still it sucked, and I said so out loud as I drove down 270. I really need to stop talking to myself so much. I forget how smartphones are nowadays and damn if that stupid thing didn’t go and call my ex. And it’s not like you can hang up when that happens. God, I miss home phones before caller ID.
“Sary?”
Now, why does he ask it in the form of a question? He knows damn well it’s me. His stupid phone tells him that but whatever….
“Hi Mike.”
“Kids are still at school. Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“Why’d you call? Not that I’m not happy to hear from you. I’ve been worried about you.”
These days everyone “worries” about me. That’s what they do when your best friend dies. Losing your best friend at this age is like getting divorced. Everyone looks at you with a certain amount of pity because they know you’re never going to find another BFF this late in the game.
But it’s not all bad. It’s also why my super workaholic ex agreed to take the kids and my cat for an undisclosed amount of time. I guess he figured it was do this or worry about the kids at my place. For the record, I never drank when they were awake.
“Centralia is not nearly as cool as the Internet makes it out to be.”
“Centralia?”
“Yeah, I thought she’d like to see it on our way to the great burial ground.”
“That’s a little morbid, don’t ya think?”
“How so?”
“Driving around the U.S, with your friend...”
“It’s only morbid because she’s in a bag. Otherwise, it would make a great Sundance Movie Festival entry.”
“Your sense of humor is not always a good thing, Sary.”
“I hate when you call me that.”
“It’s your name.”
“Sara is my name, not Sary. You called me that when we were married. You shouldn’t call me that now.”
“But it’s your name.”
I could tell he was doing that thing with his teeth that he would do when he was getting frustrated with me so I decided to get him off the phone quickly.
“Why did you divorce me?”
“Sary...Sara...what’s going on?”
“What made me so unloveable?”
I giggled but masked it with a quick sniff to make it sound like I was holding back the tears. He hates emotional confrontations and he still feels guilty over asking for a divorce. So I use that every once in a while when I don’t want to have a serious conversation about my well-being.
I grabbed a tape from behind her baggie and flipped it onto the floor. Damn it all. It’s so hard to get good tunes going while driving 75 down the highway in a 55 zone.
“You’re not unloveable. Far from it.”
For some crazy reason, he was still on the phone. So I switched gears.
“I can’t talk about this right now. I’m too upset.”
I hung up quickly before he could say anything. He called right back and I sent it to voicemail. Then I dictated a text to let him know I needed to concentrate on driving and that I was just really upset about my friend. I could almost hear Maddie to tell me to stop messing around with her dad. But after knowing someone for over 23 years, it was just too hard not to. Maddie gets me even the most of the time she doesn’t approve. She would’ve seen exactly what happened there. For that I almost feel guilty.
Almost.
If I didn’t feel so amused about the whole butt-dial conversation. But…
I’m easily amused. And then I married him.
Who said that? Lauren Bacall? “Some women are so easily amused and then they marry him.”
I had to get off the phone anyway because I had to prepare for seeing Palmer for the first time in 20 years.
The Rich Declare...it’s friday, i’m in love
“You look just the same.” Palmer said as he sipped his old man drink.
I smiled surprised he could be so mean on our first meeting in over two decades.
“I thought you said this place wasn’t dressy.”
“It’s not.”
I looked around the room and there’s not another single woman in yoga pants. He looked up and down at my attire as I stood awkwardly at his side. I tried to pull my coat around me but seeing as it was just a windbreaker, the
re was no way to cover up. Note to self always bring a trench coat. It can dress up even yoga pants.
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#277 she’ll never feel the joy of putting on yoga pants.
#278 she’ll never be able to tease her brother about how much hair he’s lost in 20 years.
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“Where’s Cherish?”
“With her boyfriend... at the Dry Bar.”
I smiled weakly. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. M had told me she thought her sister-in-law was looking to trade up.
“I’m just pulling your leg about the boyfriend. Not like I’d have to worry anyway, right? Any guy at the Dry Bar would be more into me than her.”
I smiled appropriately for his joke, although he probably expected more so I threw in a late “haha, right” for good measure. I thanked the universe that he’s not a mind reader because he would probably find it very offensive that I’m thinking he’s not nearly pretty enough to be gay.
“So…” he pulled out a chair without getting up. “How’ve you been? Besides the obvious.”
I shrugged. How do you answer that? I’ve consumed my weight in wine over the past ten weeks? No one wants to hear that. So I went with...
“Fine. You?”
I hoped he still liked to talk about himself as much as he used to otherwise it would’ve been a very long night and not even yoga pants would’ve made me feel comfortable.
“My company is going like gangbusters. We’re selling it. Did you know that?”
I shook my head in a non-committal fashion and hear M telling me, “That asshole brother of mine is selling that stupid idea of a company for more money than I’ll make in my entire life.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He slid his drink to the side and pushed his phone closer to me. There’s a brightly colored image on it. “Clarice did this. And she’s only 5.”
His voice went high in the end so I couldn’t tell at first whether he found that impressive or thought she should be doing more by that age. It’s been half a decade but I am still stuck on the name they chose for that kid. Here she is a miracle baby who lived in a frozen wasteland while they cycled through like 5 of her brothers or sisters before she stuck.
It took them forever to conceive and they name her after Agent Starling in Silence of the Lambs. Okay, maybe they didn’t knowingly do that but have you ever heard the name Clarice outside of that movie or maybe a Muppet? Yeah, see? I’m not as judgemental as you seem to think. I’m right on this one.
“Very talented.” I figured that was a safe answer. I got lost for a sec wondering what frozen embryos sacrifice. You know what I mean? Ever freeze bread and then eat it later? It comes out just as soft but doesn’t quite taste right. What are we sacrificing with these tiny frozen humans? What about them is “not quite right?” I’ll tell you right now, she’s no Picasso. Here’s hoping to her being a beauty. I raised an imaginary glass to myself and the girl’s future.
He swiped and I was face to face with an overweight child with a turned up nose and stringy hair the color of dishwater. I sent out a revised message to the universe and asked that she at least be smart. Smart and wealthy would be enough.
The waitress brought my drink and I took a long, full swig, hoping that by the time I finished the awkward silence about me not telling him how pretty she was will have passed.
It didn’t because he was still looking at me expectantly.
“So cute.”
“Isn’t she?” He looked at his own daughter’s picture for an uncomfortable amount of time. Then flipped to another one. This one with glasses. Thick ones.
“She got these last week. She’s getting so big.”
The last part sounded like he was talking to a puppy. His tone was giddy. He looked at me seemingly annoyed that I wasn’t sharing in his proud moment over what he and Cherish “made” with the help of the best reproductive specialists in DC. It’s not like she’s the Mona Lisa.
Actually, she does kind of resemble her but heavier, with a smaller upturned nose, less hair. She’s the kid you’re dying to cut bangs on because her forehead is about eight finger-widths long.
She will never be pretty.
I would apologize to God for saying something like that about a child who’s barely out of diapers but I’m pretty sure he would agree. Maybe that was even the reason he was keeping them from procreating the natural way.
I thought of Daisy Buchanan in the Great Gatsby saying she wanted her daughter to be beautiful and stupid because that was the best thing a girl could be. She was probably right. Beautiful and smart is a curse. Maybe that was M’s problem. She was Princess Grace beautiful but denied it. She said she was just the kind of beautiful that money can buy and that she owed all of her beauty to someone else. I argued but seeing Palmer again made me wonder if she wasn’t being hard on herself but brutally honest. M had a way of telling things just like they were.
“So what do you do now?” he asked the phone. I wasn’t sure at first if he was talking to me or dictating a text.
Then he looked up. I started to answer and he looked back down again smiling at something on screen. I caught the waitresses eye and held up two fingers. She nodded like she understood my dire need.
“I sculpt.” I answered not caring if he was talking to me or the phone.
“No, for work.”
“Yeah. I sculpt.”
“What? Like statues?”
“Sort of.” I fingered my wine glass hoping there will be an impressive answer in the wine’s legs running down the side.
“Like for churches or sculpture gardens?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“What then? What do you sculpt?”
“Goats.”
“I’m sorry?” Normally when people of his upbringing say “I’m sorry” it’s followed with “I didn’t catch that” but with him it felt like he was merely making me say it again as a form of punishment for not wanting to go out on a second date with him years ago.
“I sculpt goats.” I said. “Sometimes they wear clothes.” I added for clarity.
“Clothes?”
“I did a run with clay clothes and then one with material clothes that you could switch out.” I tugged at my hair wishing I had showered more recently than I had. “That didn’t really catch on like I thought it would.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
For all his education and finishing school, Palmer could make you want to storm the Bastille. That was something M used to say. He had a way of viewing you from an ivory tower that made you feel very small. Goats or not.
“Do you pay the bills that way?”
“Some months. Most, actually now that I started making the clothes out of clay and not removable.” I don’t tell him the last one I sold was to Mike’s mom but I didn’t want to discount my Henryefactor either. Whoever he or she may be.
“Well. Good for you.” he said that with the same tone you reserve for a child who just told you they want to be an astronaut guinea pig when they grow up.
“Another?” he asked pointing to his glass. I nodded because there’s no other way I’m getting through this evening sober.
“You can stay at our house. We’re within walking distance. Don’t want to get into a car after too many of these.” He pointed to my glass as if I would assume he was talking about the chocolate cake. The waitress brought another round. He thanked her by name and I noticed his hand touched hers when she took his glass.
Maybe M was wrong. Maybe it’s not the girl with the stripper name who’s chasing after someone else. I’ve never understood cheating. Just leave. This isn’t the 1700s. We're not indentured servants. You’re not happy. Get out. But I’m in the minority in my thinking, I realize this.
“So, what’d she say to you? I know you guys talked for two hours before the accident.”
Nothing like cutting to the chase when the person in the hot seat is mid-way through her third glass of wine. I sh
rugged.
“Honestly, I don’t remember.”
This, of course, is a total lie. I have replayed that last conversation in my head ad nauseum. He’s not buying it either but he let it go.
“So, where are you headed?” he asked.
“Tonight?”
“No, you’re staying with us tonight. Afterward? Jen said Luke sent you her ashes.”
“Some of them.” I clarified not wanting to make a liar out of Jen but not wanting to get Luke in trouble either in case he didn’t have rights of dissemination from his royal highness, Lord Palmer.
Luke and Palmer don’t talk. Something about Palmer calling Luke an “idiot cowboy.” Palmer hated that Luke was struggling to try to grow his ranch when he could just tap into grandpa’s oil money trust. M should’ve never told Palmer about that. For some reason he probably would’ve approved of Luke more if he didn’t know he had money. Palmer had said you can’t help not having money but you can be an idiot cowboy who doesn’t leverage his assets.
“Right. I told her to tell the cowboy I didn’t want any of that morbid business.”
“Why does everyone keep using that word?”
“What? Cowboy? He is one or pretends to be.” He looked past me.
“No. Morbid.”
We stared at our drinks.
“Taos maybe.” I said.
“Taos?”
“Might go there. Not tomorrow. Eventually. I always wanted to hear the hum.”
“You have kids, right?”
I nodded. “Mike has them.”
“How is Michael?” he formalized everything.
“Better than when I was married to him.”
“Why’s that?”
“He gave up smoking, drinking, and lost about 50 pounds.”
Mike smoked the entire time we were married and yet, smoking was the thing we always fought over. He yelled when Maddie told him about finding my cigarettes and yet he smoked daily. But he did it at the office so it didn’t count. There were a lot of things he did away from us that didn’t count.
West of You Page 5
