A Clean Slate (16 page)

I felt my neck growing red and blotchy. I made myself move again and spent ten minutes in front of the mirror powdering my face and neck, applying and reapplying lipstick and gloss, and growing more and more furious with Ben. He'd probably known I'd be laid off, that I wouldn't make partner and that
he
would, and yet he hadn't said a thing. To top it off, he'd been dating that bitch behind my back.

I must have muttered something out loud, possibly something profane, because an older woman at the mirror next to me gave me a disapproving frown.

“Excuse me,” I said, back into parent-pleasing mode. “Sorry.”

I skulked toward the door, dangling the bouquet at my side, not caring anymore that I'd been able to out-jostle Therese, and just as I swung it open, I saw him. He was
standing across the hallway, looking very much like he was waiting for someone.

“Where's Therese?” I said, drawing myself up tall and looking around as if trying to say,
She better not be around these parts or I'll kick her ass.

“She's in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?”

“She's getting ice.” He pointed to his cheekbone. “You elbowed her in the face.”

“Oh God. I'm sorry.” But I wasn't. I was apparently some immature high school bully, because I laughed.

Ben snickered, too. “I'm going to pay good money to get my hands on that videotape.”

That stopped me cold. “So you can see two women duke it out for you, is that it?”

“No.” He lost his grin, and I knew I was right.

“Look,” I said, poking him in the chest just to keep up the high school bully image, “I need to know something.”

I was pleased to note that he looked a little scared.

“When did you meet Therese?”

“The second weekend in June.” It was the truth. I could tell by the way his mouth was relaxed. When he lied or exaggerated something, he pushed his lips together.

“All right. Question two: When did you know you were going to be made partner?”

“I told you. Last week.”

“No, that's when they announced partnership, but when did you first find out you were going to get it?”

He sighed. “Someone mentioned something in the spring, but—”

“In the spring?” I said, interrupting him. “Before you broke up with me?”

“Yeah, but it wasn't for sure, and I didn't want to count on it, so I didn't say anything.”

“How convenient. Did you know that I wasn't going to make partner?”

“No.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“I swear,” he said.

“Did you know I'd be laid off?”

“No,” he said, his voice emphatic.

I scrutinized his mouth. Still relaxed. I believed him, and for a second I felt a little better. Then a thought dawned on me.

“But you
did
break up with me on my birthday, on the same day that I got laid off!”

Ben stared down at his loafers, the ones I'd bought at Field's along with his olive suit. He said nothing.

“How could you do that to me?” My voice got high, and I had to warn myself not to cry.

Ben looked up at me with a pained expression, and I could have sworn that he was on the verge of tears, too. “What was I supposed to do, Kell? I'd finally made a decision that I couldn't give you what you want, and then you get laid off.”

“Couldn't you have waited a few days? A few months?”

“No, I couldn't. You made it damn clear that you wanted a ring by your birthday or it was over. Those were your terms.”

I huffed a loud, exasperated breath, but he was right. I'd given him that ultimatum, the one that seemed so stupid now. Why threaten someone you love about something so big?

“I'm sorry it worked out like this, Kell, but you've got to believe me. I didn't know you were going to be laid off. I really didn't even think I would make partner, certainly not ahead of you. You're one of their best.”

“
Were
one of their best.”

“Do you want some help finding a new analyst position? I could make some calls.” His eyes brightened. “Actually, I think Tammon Investments is looking for a retail analyst.”

A couple of women came down the hallway toward the bathroom, and Ben and I both stepped against the wall. He was close enough for me to smell the minty shaving cream scent of his face, the scent that used to make me want to kiss that dark brown spot on his cheekbone.

“I've actually got a job.” I took a step back, away from how good he smelled.

“What? That's great! Where?”

“I'm a photographer's assistant.”

“Kell, that's amazing! It's what you always wanted to do.” Ben was beaming. There was no mocking look on his face, none of the hidden disparagement I thought I might find from him or the others at Bartley.

I nodded, failing to mention that my job with Cole involved intimate knowledge of porcine snouts. But Ben was right. It
was
amazing. It had been only one week since I tried to put my key in my old town house door, since that day I realized I couldn't remember, and already I had a new job—not to mention a new wardrobe.

“Wow,” Ben said. “I'm really happy for you.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Suddenly our conversation ground to a halt. A man pushed past us into the rest room. Down the hallway, I could hear the band break into a banging version of “La Vida Loca.”

“So…” Ben said.

“So I should go.”

He nodded. “I'm just going to use the bathroom, and then I should find Therese.”

“Right. See you.”

“Yeah. See you.”

I turned and walked down the carpeted hallway, the sounds of the music growing louder and more up-tempo while I felt slow and sad in comparison. At least I'd gotten some answers from Ben. I should feel better that I'd cleared the air.

It was only as I reached the ballroom that I realized that I hadn't asked Ben the most important question of all—why didn't he want to marry me?

O
n Sunday, Laney and I took a rumbling El train to her family's house for the weekly Pendleton lunch. I'd drunk too much wine at the wedding, particularly after my WWF match with Therese and my chat with Ben, so I was looking forward to a good, old-fashioned hangover food-fest with Laney's mom, her four older sisters and her younger brother, Timmy.

“I need Advil,” Laney said. She was slumped in one of the curved plastic train seats, occasionally rubbing her eyes. She was wearing old Levi's and a navy parka over a huge turtleneck sweater. You never had to dress up for the Pendletons. It was one of the things I adored about her family.

I dug through my shoulder bag. Because of the nagging headaches I'd been getting lately, I knew I had some ibuprofen in there somewhere. These pulsing aches in my temples made me nervous, made me wonder if they were somehow
connected to that depression I'd had over the summer, if another bout of it waited for me around the corner. I tried to tell myself that the headaches were simply a product of tense muscles brought on by having to wrestle with William, or maybe the stress of having to put up with Cole's attitude, but both seemed like rather lame excuses.

I pushed my fingers through my purse, past my photo magazine, wallet, sunglasses, a tampon, packets of sweetener and other assorted items until I located two stray orange tablets and put them in Laney's hand.

“You're a goddess,” she said.

We smiled at each other, and I started thinking about the first time I had visited the Pendleton household, during my sophomore year in high school. It was amazing how sharp my memory was about that day, when I couldn't even remember the past summer. We'd taken the train after school, something I'd been afraid to do by myself, and then walked the five blocks to their modest bungalow home, which looked the same as everyone else's on their block. As we got closer, though, I realized that although the squat frame house and its low-hanging shingled roof might mimic that of their neighbors, there was something different about the Pendleton's place. A feeling, a vibe. We got closer, and I realized that it was more of a host of sounds. I stopped on the cement sidewalk in front of the house, trying to make sense of the sounds—a woman shouting, the bouncing beat of a pop song, some tinkling piano keys, a rush of laughter, the squeal of a little kid.

“What is it?” Laney said, stopping to look at me, her face genuinely puzzled.

“Nothing.” I shifted my backpack to the other shoulder and followed her up the crumbling asphalt driveway toward the garage. I had met Laney only a few weeks before, my first real friend in Chicago, and I didn't want to insult her by pointing out the cacophony.

The noises grew louder as we picked our way through the discarded bikes, old newspapers and a cornucopia of toys in the garage, and entered through a door that led right into the kitchen. It was a bright room with wide sea-green tiles and cheap, dark-wood cabinets. It would have been a rather ugly place if it weren't filled with food—muffins still in their tins on the counter, bags of chips on the octagonal table, something wonderfully garlicky simmering on the stove—and people, mostly women, all laughing and moving about the kitchen.

Laney jumped right into the fray, stuffing a handful of Cheetos into her mouth, punching a little boy on the arm. I stood where I was, almost huddled in the doorway, tingling with a mixture of apprehension and awe. At our apartment, I might hear my mom giggling with a date or Dee talking softly on the phone, but we weren't a loud family. There were only three of us, after all, and none of us was particularly musical or rowdy. So that scene in Laney's kitchen, the sheer sound and activity, overwhelmed me, and yet I was envious of it. Even more, I envied the way they were all so comfortable with that noise, with themselves, with the other people in their family. They had their issues, but they worked well together. They talked over each other and kidded each other and handed out food. It was like watching a raucous but finely tuned circus with ten simultaneous acts under the big top.

The Pendletons invited me into the chaos that day, and I eventually grew more comfortable there. Still, I always had to prepare myself before I visited. I had to remind myself that it would be crazy, that I would leave exhilarated and stuffed with food but with ringing ears.

So as Laney and I walked the few blocks from the El station, I made those reminders to myself again. I took a few deep breaths and shook out my shoulders. It was cold, with mid-October bringing a sharp, chilly wind to the city, and
we both had our hands in our pockets, our scarves around our necks.

“They'll be so glad to see you,” Laney said, turning to look at me in that stiff-necked way people do when they're bundled up.

“Me, too. It's been a long time then?”

“Well, the last time was definitely before your birthday.”

“I can't believe I didn't see your family all summer.” It was like not seeing a nearby beloved grandma for five months. Laney's family had, in a sense, become my larger, rowdier extended family, an inclusion I cherished, since I had no extended family to speak of. My mom had fallen out with her parents after she married my deadbeat dad, much to their chagrin, and my dad's family never took any interest in me. At least that's what my mom had told me.

I've never told her, but I do have one memory of my dad's mom. I couldn't have been much older than four, possibly the last time I saw her. I think my mom had a date and no one to baby-sit, so she dropped me off at my grandmother's as a last resort. I don't remember much about the house or whether she played with me or whether she sang me any songs. All I remember is that she fed me lemons. She cut up a lemon into fourths and told me to bite into it. My face scrunched up at the acidic tartness. I felt the sting of the juice running down my chin, and she laughed. Thinking back on that time, she sounds cruel, and yet I loved that she was laughing. She had dyed brown hair, curled up tight from rollers, and she wore a pink sweater. And I loved how she laughed and laughed and laughed. I don't know why I've never told my mom that. I don't know why a woman would feed lemons to a child.

“The upside of not seeing my family,” Laney said as we walked down her street, “is that you don't have to pretend you remember anything. I assume you don't want to tell them about the memory issue?”

“Nope. Too complicated, and you know…”

“I know, they'll all have their two cents to put in and they'll never let you forget it.”

“Exactly.”

We turned a corner and the house came into view. A few seconds later I was being hugged and smooched by a pack of women in the Pendletons' warm, crowded kitchen, which was filled with the inviting scent of spicy tomato sauce. Laney and her sisters look very much alike. They all have the dark hair and animated dark eyes of their Italian mother, with the fair skin and mischievous nature of their Irish dad. Their father, a wonderfully sweet and funny man, who I sometimes liked to pretend was my own dad, had passed away a few years ago from colon cancer, an event that darkened their sparkling household for a while, but they all seemed to be doing well again.

“Where the hell have you been, Kelly?” said Frannie, the sister who was only a year or so older than us. She was bouncing a baby on her hip, looking like a less fashionable version of Laney in her gray sweatpants and stained ivory sweater. “Are you helping Laney drink Chicago out of all its tequila?” She laughed.

I gave her a polite grin. Frannie is the one member of the Pendleton family that I've never liked very much. I think it has something to do with the fact that she's so close in age to Laney and me. In high school, being one year older is everything. Frannie ran with a crowd that Laney and I saw as achingly cool, and she'd mutter things like “yearbook geeks” when we patrolled the bleachers on a Friday night, interviewing people.

After we grew up, I disliked her even more, but for different reasons. I no longer felt that Frannie was superior to me. In fact, once she got married right out of college and popped out three kids in quick succession, I felt superior to
her.
I think it was some kind of coping mechanism,
some response to what she represents—the ugly side of marriage and kids. Her husband is the prototypical pompous ass who spends more time with his buddies than he does his family, and their kids are not the nicest tykes I've ever met. Her eldest, Nick, Jr., a boy of six, threw up on me last year and then giggled like a hyena. Is it wrong to hate a child?

I know it doesn't have to be that way. I know that some people get married and have children and then blossom. They have even more fun than they did before, albeit in a different style. But here's the thing—how do you know which group you'll fall into? You don't. And so last year, the closer Ben and I came to being engaged (at least in my mind) the more I disliked, even feared Frannie, as if her unhappily married and mothering self could somehow rub off on me.

Laney doesn't see Frannie the same way. She's always felt like we did in high school—inferior. In fact, Laney feels inferior to all her sisters because they're grown-ups, she says, and they don't take her seriously. They have families and responsibilities and perfectly furnished suburban homes, while Laney's eight-piece set of margarita glasses is the only matching kitchenware she owns.

Two of Laney's sisters sat on the countertop now, yelling to their kids, when they tore through the kitchen, and giving Laney shit about dating yet another musician. Laney's eldest sister, Nancy, stood near the stove laughing with their mom, a sweet woman whose curvy body and wavy hair managed to be both sexy and comforting.

Timmy, who had just turned twenty-one, ambled into the room, oblivious after all these years to being one of the few males. “Yeah, Kell,” he said, “what've you been doing lately?” Timmy had grown out of his gawky teenage self and into a man who knew that his tall frame and broad smile were undeniably appealing. He flashed me a rather sexy grin, and I wondered for a second what
it would be like to fool around with a twenty-one-year-old. Not Timmy, of course. He would always be a kid brother to me, but maybe I could have my first one-night stand (if that hadn't already happened with the two-freckled man) with a sexy younger guy. Maybe I should try the bar scene again. Maybe Timmy had some friends who would stop by. Maybe I'm getting a little carried away here.

“I haven't been doing much,” I said, trying not to think about sex with Timmy's buddies, most of whom probably lived in their parents' basement, as Timmy did.

“Sorry to hear about you and Ben,” Nancy said, looking over her shoulder as she stirred a red sauce on the stove.

“And the job,” said Mrs. Pendleton.

I waved a hand as if it were no big deal, but I felt embarrassed at the thought that Laney had been coming home every Sunday with tales of woe from my life, probably telling the family what a depressed psychopath I'd been all summer.

Laney, who must have read my thoughts, whispered in my ear, “They only know the basics.”

I smiled at her. “Yeah, I've just been taking it easy for a while.”

“I almost called you a few weeks ago,” Nancy said. “Rob and I were going out of town for a weekend, and I thought you might want to baby-sit for some extra money. But we found someone in the neighborhood.”

“
I
would have baby-sat for you,” Laney said, before I could reply. “And you wouldn't have had to pay me. Why didn't you call me?” She sounded hurt. Laney was forever offering to watch her nieces and nephews, but no one ever seemed to take her up on it.

Nancy waved a wooden spoon in the air. “You're busy. You're always going out, and you've got your boyfriends.”

“That doesn't mean I wouldn't have cancelled my plans to help you out.”

“No big deal,” Nancy said, but as Laney slumped into a chair, I could see that it was a big deal to her.

“So seriously, what have you been up to, Kelly?” Frannie asked.

I leaned over and squeezed Laney's shoulder. “Just staying home a lot.”

“Well, I saw you when we ran into each other in front of the Radisson Hotel,” Frida said from her perch on the countertop.

I looked at Laney's sister, drawing a blank. “What?”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you, Lane,” Frida said, “but you remember that, don't you, Kell? It was at the beginning of the summer.”

I tugged the scarf away from my neck. The room was hot, and the tomatoey smells were cloying now. “I, uh, I can't remember.” It was true, of course.

Frida's forehead creased. “We talked for a while. I can't believe you don't remember. You were meeting your friend.”

“What friend?” I exchanged looks with Laney, knowing we were both thinking the same thing—the two-freckled guy. Was he the friend I was meeting?

Frida chuckled. “I don't know who it was, but I was thinking that it was probably someone who was helping you get over Ben.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You were so secretive. You didn't seem to want to tell me anything about this friend or what you were doing, but you were coming out of the Radisson Hotel, after all.”

Timmy made a knowing sound as if to imply that I'd been having an afternoon of crazy hotel sex, and all the sisters laughed.