Ask Again Later (5 page)

Falling in Love

LOST PEOPLE ARE DIFFERENT.
They will drive around in the same circle over and over rather than try a new path. Their fear of getting more lost paralyzes them into staying lost in the area that's just become familiar. It supersedes their ability to chart a new course. They circle and backtrack and stay comfortably lost because it's less scary than seeing something different than what's presently in front of them.

The weekend I fell for Sam happened over a year ago. He was still married. We were all working at the same firm—me, Sam, and Susanna. They invited me to their house in East Hampton for the weekend. Sam had a broken ankle. Men over thirty-five have a way of kidding themselves and thinking it's a good idea to play pick-up basketball with men under the age of thirty-five.

Susanna and I walked from Lee Street, over to Lily Pond Lane, and down to Main Beach. We left Sam and his ankle behind. It was cold and sunny. The air seemed so clean. It's the kind of day that seems like nothing can go wrong.

“We're getting divorced,” Susanna said.

“Good one,” I said.

“No, really. We are,” Susanna said.

“You seem like you're…together,” I said.

“Oh, I haven't told him yet!” Susanna said.

“Then why are you telling
me
?” I asked.

“I had to tell someone,” Susanna said.

“Someone?”
I said.

“I'm dreading it. He's a really good guy,” she said.

“Work things out,” I said.

It's shocking, in hindsight, that I felt so free to give advice I could never implement myself.

“It's too late. I'm moving to Chicago,” Susanna said.

“Who's in Chicago?” I asked.

She didn't answer. Maybe no one was in Chicago. Maybe Chicago was her clean slate. What am I saying? Brutal winters. Chicago can
only
mean someone else.

I was staying in their first-floor guest room. I woke up in the middle of the night. I could hear a car starting. Then a loud thud and some swearing. I walked into the living room.

“Ouch! Son of a bitch!” Sam said; as he bent to lift some firewood that he dropped, he tripped over the track of the sliding-glass door. More firewood fell, and a log landed on his bad ankle, knocking him to the floor.

It was painful to watch. So I turned away.

“Hey, are you going to be okay?” I said, still not looking.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay,” Sam said. “You can look. Did I wake you? Of course I woke you. Sorry. I thought maybe you'd left with Susanna.”

“Susanna left?” I asked, turning toward Sam.

“Yes,” Sam said, “she left.”

We crawled around on the floor together, picking up
firewood. When we were finished, still on our hands and knees, his face was close to mine. In that moment, he seemed like he'd be an easy person to be married to. But what do I know?

“Thanks,” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“I mean thanks for not asking questions about why one of your hosts left at midnight,” Sam said.

I keep expecting to hear her car in the driveway. She won't be on the road five minutes before she realizes what a mistake she's made, and who she has given up.

I went back to the guest room and stared at the ceiling and eventually fell asleep.

At two
A.M
. I heard some cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen. I brushed my teeth and went out to take a look.

“Can I help with something?” I asked.

“I'm making waffles. Want some?” Sam said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Did you know she was moving to Chicago?” Sam said.

“I really like waffles,” I said. “Where do you get a heart-shaped waffle iron?”

“Wedding gift,” Sam said.

I look at the floor. “Oh,” I said. “She's making a mistake.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Sam said. “But thanks.”

“My grandmother used to have a maple tree in her backyard,” I said. “About two feet from the ground there
was a spout sticking out of the tree, and we'd leave a cup under the spout overnight and collect the maple sap the next day. I remember reading that one tree can produce forty to eighty gallons of sap a year.”

Are you starting to understand why I work sixty hours a week and don't have an active romantic life?

“I'm sorry. I know what you're thinking.”

“What was I thinking?” Sam says.

“For the love of God, lady, let me eat my waffles in peace,” I said.

“No. I was thinking I was glad I invited my aunt to the wedding,” Sam said. “I think she gave us the waffle maker.”

I washed the dishes. Sam dried them. It was three-thirty in the morning, and that was the most fun I'd had in a long time.

“I should get to bed,” Sam said. “Rest this ankle.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said. I didn't want him to go to bed. I wanted to stay up all night and talk. I can remember the sound of my own disappointment—Oh, okay. I was embarrassed by it. I was having a lot of fun while his marriage was falling apart.

“Hey, we can keep talking. I have to get my foot elevated, though. I can lie here on the couch. I probably wouldn't be able to fall asleep anyway,” Sam said.

There are five bedrooms in the house. He fell asleep on the couch with his ankle raised. I fell asleep on a chair with a robe draped over me.

Onboard Navigation

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON
I drive us back to the city in his car. I turn onto Route 27 and think about things I am grateful for…at the top of the list is a broken ankle and women who make bad decisions. Why did my good luck have to come from someone else's bad luck? There must be a finite supply of luck, I decide.

Sam starts to punch our destination into the onboard navigation system. Happiness? Contentment? New York City, actually. The navigation system speaks. It has a British accent. I distrust it immediately. It sounds too smooth. Like a player.

“I know where I'm going,” I say. “I don't need that.”

“If there's traffic, we might need an alternate route,” Sam says.

“I'm surprised you'd trust a computer to get you from point A to point B,” I say.

“Ah, the lady has trust issues,” Sam says.

“Not really,” I say. Trust issues doesn't do my extreme phobia justice.

“A computer has no motivation to send me down the wrong path,” Sam says.

I've made a rather large error here, I realize. Without meaning to I've revealed one of my more unattractive traits.

“Why are my hands hot?” I say.

“I think the steering wheel heater is on,” Sam says. He pushes a button that turns off the heat on the steering wheel.

“Does that mean that the rest of the car was so perfect that they had time to tinker with the small stuff? Or did they spend way too much time on novelty items and now I have to worry that a tire might pop off?” I say.

“You watched a lot of cartoons as a kid, didn't you? Tires don't pop off,” Sam says.

We hit traffic on 27, and I request an alternate route. The British voice starts spewing commands. My peripheral vision tells me Sam is engrossed in a contract markup. The navigational voice precedes nearly everything he says with an “if possible.” If possible, make a U-turn ahead. If possible, take the next left. If possible? Where was this voice when I needed it? Where was this voice when I was making all those wrong turns in my twenties?

“Take the next turn on your left in two hundred yards.” I ignore the command. It makes no sense. That can't possibly be correct. But the voice is unbending. “If possible, make a U-turn ahead.” I ignore it again. Hoping it'll go away or assume I made the turn already. But no, this Brit is determined. “If possible, make a U-turn ahead. If possible, make a U-turn ahead. If possible, make a U-turn ahead.”

We are in dirt-road territory at this point. We're venturing into the uncharted areas of Long Island. We are
literally off the map. The voice gave up a few minutes ago. The navigation screen reads “Return to public road. Do not proceed. Make U-turn.”

“Okay!” I say.

“Are you looking for a place to turn around?” Sam asks, looking up from his papers.

“No,” I say. “I think I can squeeze between those trees.”

“If I'd known we were going off-roading, I'd have worn a cup,” Sam says.

I stop the car. I back up about sixty feet and turn the car around.

The voice returns. “Left turn ahead,” it says.

“Is it me, or does the voice sound a little suspicious?” I ask. “Almost sounds like he's winging it and making stuff up as we go along.”

“You're the one who landed us in the middle of the woods—not him,” Sam says.

“So you were listening to that whole conversation we were having?” I say.

“Yes,” Sam says.

I make a left turn. I follow the verbal commands of the navigation system. We're out of the woods in no time and back on 27. No more adventures in mistrust for me. Two hours later we're in Manhattan.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the voice says.

Carlyle Hotel

SAM IS STAYING
at the Carlyle for two nights. Susanna says her clothing will be packed and she'll be in Chicago by Tuesday. Quick. Simple. Or quick, anyway.

“Thanks for driving. It was an interesting route. I've never been in the middle of the Pine Barrens,” Sam said.

“What can I say, I'm fun to have around,” I said.

“Yeah, you are. Want to have a quick dinner?” Sam asked.

“Sure,” I said.

We're in the bar. We order red wine and burgers and water. Between the time we sit down and the time we order, something changed.

“You just realized you're getting divorced, didn't you?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I was thinking that this is a lot of fun. I should come here more often. Then I remembered that I'm staying here for a few nights because my wife is moving out. Wow.”

“I'm sorry. I really am,” I said.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“Should I change the subject? Or should I try to trash-talk Susanna?” I asked.

“Change the subject,” Sam said.

“Okay. Single greatest movie ever made?” I asked.

“No contest,” Sam said.

“
Lawrence of Arabia
?” I said. “Wait. You're a guy. You'll say it's
The Godfather
.”

“You're sexist, and you're not even close!
Everyone
knows
Citizen Kane
is the finest film ever made,” Sam said.

“Completely forgot about that one,” I said.

“‘A fellow can remember a lot of things you wouldn't think he'd remember. You take me. One day back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry. And as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in. And on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on,' he says. ‘I saw her for only one second. She didn't see me at all. But I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl,'” Sam said.

“How on earth do you remember that?” I said.

“How do you ever forget it?” Sam said.

It's what happens when loss is always there with you. When you see the antidote to the loss, the moment becomes palpable and illuminated. You can't avoid knowing it is in the room with you. The idea that a life's wound could be healed is exciting treachery. Too good to be true.

I'm Not a Waitress

I'VE ACCOMPLISHED A LOT
for one day. I trashed my career
and
left an amazing man in the lurch. If I put my mind to it, maybe I can cure Mom's cancer today, too. Tomorrow I'll pace myself.

Mom is still seated on the davenport with a photograph of an anonymous male model watching over her. It looks as though she has not moved since I left the apartment. But she must have. She's wearing another new outfit. Reading glasses rest on her nose. In her left hand is a glass of champagne; in her right hand is the phone. On her lap are several opened address books, including one dating back to the seventies.

“Maryanne, it's Joanie. I hope you're well. I have cancer. Give me a ring when you have a few minutes; I could use some cheering up. They say they caught it early, but I'm sure they say that to everyone,” my mom says. She hangs up. She starts dialing another number using the eraser end of a pencil so she doesn't maul her recent manicure.

“Who's Maryanne?” I ask.

“She used to do my highlights until her arthritis got too bad. Now she's babysitting her grandchildren. For money,” Mom says.

“Beats touching people's hair all day,” I say.

On the upside, when my mom needs something, she doesn't hesitate to ask. On the downside, it's rare that she doesn't need something. She'll call friends to tell them she's lost her keys and ask if they have any ideas where she should look for them. In her game book, there's no such thing as
too
passive-aggressive.

Mom gives me the international shut-up-I'm-on-the-phone sign. She holds the phone to her ear and covers her
other ear with a pillow as if to drown out a shuttle launch.

“Richard! Joanie here. Bad news. I have cancer,” Mom says. She nods a few times. Her face starts to smile.

“How sweet of you! Yes, I'd love company,” Mom says. “What stage? I have no idea. Hold on, I have all the details written down somewhere. Honey, grab my papers for me.” I hand her a notebook. She glances at the pages and speaks into the phone again. “Stage one. Okay, I'll see you soon.” She hangs up the phone.

“How many people have you called?” I ask.

“I really couldn't guess. I've been at it a while. Would you like some champagne?” Mom says.