Been There, Done That (35 page)

“The troops are here!” Dan announced, barging into the ridiculously small room with Jacob and Joshua. Joshua wore a sweatshirt that read, I’M THE BIG BROTHER!—a hand-me-down from Jacob. He clung to Dan’s neck.

Jacob pranced over to my side and peered up. “That him?”

“That’s him,” I said, squatting down to give him a better look. The receiving blanket fell open, revealing Thaddeus’s white plastic navel clamp. I felt an instant bond.

“He looks like Yoda,” Jacob said.

“No, he doesn’t!” I insisted. (I thought he looked more like Larry King.) “He looks like a baby. A beautiful baby.”

“I like Yoda better than babies,” Jacob said.

“Ah. Then Yoda it is. And he’s a boy. Your mom gets to be the only girl in the family.”

“Nu-uh,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “You’re part of the family, and you’re a girl, too.”

That’s when I fled for my diet soda because, honest to God, I started to cry.

forty-one

I never had to crawl to Sheila for a recommendation.

As things turned out, my fifteen minutes of fame weren’t all bad. Mitch Lambert, the owner of Mission Accomplished, saw my picture in the paper and got my number from Dennis. “You ready for a career change?” he asked with little preamble. I was.

Before I went in to talk to Mitch, I fantasized about a future in furniture design and glamorous research trips to Paris and Milan. I thought Greece had lots of potential, too: all that bright white and vibrant blue. Instead, Mitch offered me the job of Communications Director. That meant writing press releases and ad copy (no advertorials yet, but I’m waiting), creating brochures and placing ads, which I finally convinced a skeptical Mitch were the key to achieving greater editorial space. When he asked me whether or not it was worthwhile to buy a full page in
Salad
, which in the midst of financial hardship was offering bargain basement rates, I didn’t hesitate. “Nobody reads
Salad
. Trust me.”

I also write the company newsletter, which always includes a feature that begins, “We’re all proud of our employee of the month!” It took just three short months for me to get my own employee of the month award—surprising, since management is usually passed over in favor of store clerks and warehouse guys. I made fun of it to my friends, but secretly I was proud. I hung my plaque on the side of my tan cubicle, which was bought just for me and smelled like a new car.

For the first month, my line to everyone outside of the company was that my job was just a stopgap measure designed to get me through tough times until I could resume my writing career. But then a funny thing happened. I woke up one Monday morning and realized I couldn’t wait to get into the office, which was located in Boston’s tony Back Bay, above Mission Accomplished’s flagship store. I’d just learned a new graphics program, for use in laying out a brochure about sectional couches. Over the weekend, I’d thought about the layout, the copy, the paper stock. The project demanded neither the art of literature nor the craft of reporting, but it was something I never imagined work could be. It was fun. Besides, if truth be told, more people would probably read my couch brochure than had ever read one of my
Salad
articles.

So, after all those years of calling myself a writer, I changed my tune. “I work in PR and marketing for Mission Accomplished—you know, that furniture store.” And, surprisingly, no one’s eyes glazed over. I was still an Interesting Person. That’s the thing about jobs for “creative types.” You can’t afford a house or a decent car, but lawyers and accountants will always buy you drinks because they assume you are somehow smarter or nobler than they are—even if you’ve spent your day writing about coil springs.

My job certainly impressed Max. He was a junior associate at Dan’s firm, short and fit with close-cut brown hair and crinkly blue eyes. His five o’clock shadow revealed flecks of red. He had a tendency to rock back and forth on his feet when he had to stand too long, like he was filled to the brim with sparkling energy that might burst out at any moment. “He might be a little young for you,” Dan warned with utter sincerity. Marcy guffawed.

They invited him to Thaddeus’s bris so he could meet me. “I thought it was a weird thing for him to invite me to,” he later confided. “But he’s my boss, so I couldn’t say no.” The thought of Dan being anyone’s boss jarred me. It was just so, well, grown-up.

Max and I fell into an every-Saturday-night thing, then we added Tuesdays and occasional Thursdays. I had long since stopped believing in love at first sight. Now I tried to convince myself that “growing into love” was not only possible but positive: mature, logical and long-lasting.

Max taught me to play tennis (at least passably), and we shared a passion for ethnic cuisine. At twenty-seven, he seemed like AARP material after the college life. He preferred television to books but was considerate enough to wear earphones if I was trying to concentrate on something else. Off the tennis court, he didn’t make my pulse quicken, but maybe that was a good thing.

Shortly after I started my job, Tim showed up at my door. It was a Friday night, and I was expecting Dennis, so I answered without even peering through the peephole. I blinked and realized with bitter satisfaction that I didn’t want him there.

“Can I come in?” He asked after a moment of silence. I nodded and moved out of his way. He strode over to the couch and sat down. He looked up, waiting for me to sit. I didn’t. He stood up, not wanting to feel himself at a disadvantage from being lower than me. Dogs are like that, too.

“I just came from the hospital,” he said.

Stupidly—this was Tim, and Tim made me stupid—I thought of his parents. “Is someone ill? Your mother’s okay, isn’t she?” I asked, genuinely concerned. I’d get over Tim, but I’d never get over losing his parents from my life.

“I went to see the dean. He’s out of intensive care now.”

“Oh. Right. How is he?”

“They wouldn’t let me see him. But the nurse said he’ll be okay, though he’s going to need some plastic surgery. Dog took off most of his ear.”

I winced. “Did you really think he’d want to see you?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t a social visit. I’m after a story.”

“What story? His pain and suffering? Or his wife’s? There wouldn’t even be a story if we hadn’t gotten involved. Doesn’t that bother you?” At her husband’s urging, the police had never filed charges against Mrs. Archer. They didn’t have any proof that she’d instigated the attack, although they insisted she have the dog destroyed. Knowing how she felt about her dogs, she probably considered Altoid’s execution a worse punishment than her own incarceration.

Tim ran a hand through his hair. “Of course it bothers me. But I started this thing; now I’ve got to see it through. I’m just doing my job.” Where had I heard that before? “
New Nation
’s reputation has really suffered. Advertisers don’t want to touch us. I’ve got to salvage what I can out of this story.”

This was my moment. I could tell Tim that I’d cracked the case after all, that Gerry, his big source, had been at the center of everything. I could tell him that I’d put Gerry out of business—without hurting the town or the girls involved. Dennis and I had handed the tape over to the Mercer Police, who said they’d heard rumors about the ring but never believed them. Dennis described the girl he’d seen as “kind of average weight, brownish hair.” That was okay: with the tape in hand, the police were able to extract a confession from Gerry. With my encouragement, they decided against pursuing the girls. “You start arresting Mercer students, you’re apt to set off another media frenzy,” I cautioned. “Besides, Gerry’s the real criminal. With him in jail, they’ll be too scared to carry on.”

But I didn’t tell Tim any of this. “Count me out of it,” I said.

“I already did,” he said softly.

I stared at him. “Then why are you here?”

“I just thought I should try to make peace or something.”

“Is that supposed to be an apology?”

He blinked. “Actually, no.”

I nodded. “You want something? Coffee? Water?” He shook his head. I willed him to say something. He didn’t. I willed him to leave. He didn’t do that, either.

“You should probably get going,” I said rudely. “If you’ve got a flight to catch. Or—” It hit me: of course he didn’t come all the way up to Boston just to see me. “Are you staying at Jennifer’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” The familiar stab: just when I thought it was gone forever. “So you’re still together?”

“Yeah.”

I tried to think of something nice to say about her. She’s nice? No. Funny? No. A good dresser? God, no. “She’s a good writer.” I gulped. I hated to admit such a thing.

“What?”

“Her writing. It’s good, I think.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Haven’t you read it?”

“Just her fiction. And you know me and fiction—I’m not much of a judge.”

“But you can tell if it’s good, can’t you?”

He shook his head dismissively. “I don’t read much fiction except for mysteries. So what do I know?”

“What genre? I mean, I always thought Jennifer wrote literary fiction.”

He shook his head. “Science fiction romance.”

I paused. “You mean she writes science fiction and she writes romance? Or she writes romantic science fiction?”

“Romantic science fiction.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing. What does that mean? Alien dating?”

He started to smile. “I think the term is ‘intergalactic mating.’ Or sometimes ‘cross-species pollination.’”

“Oh my God.” I smiled in spite of myself. In spite of everything. “Cyberbabies?”

“No babies,” he said. “Fully grown pod people. They emerge from eggs following a twenty-year gestation. Makes life a lot easier for their parents.”

“But what a disaster for all those diaper manufacturers and Montessori schools.” We laughed, and I remembered how it felt. Once, we’d laughed together often. But that had been a long time ago, maybe years before he left. More soberly, I asked, “If Jennifer’s such a lousy writer, why do you stay with her?”

“I didn’t say she was lousy,” he said. “I said it wasn’t my thing. And, anyway, I don’t really care what she writes. I just care about who she is. She’s so . . . honest. She really doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks. I’ve never met anyone like that before. She’s just so totally her own person. And I think she’s good for me. She makes me look at life differently. Makes me think about what matters.”

I cut him off before he could start telling me how great she was in bed. “If you don’t care about her writing, why was mine such a big deal?”

He stared at me, confounded. “Because I thought it mattered to you. I just wanted something to matter to you. Something other than me.”

The doorbell rang. I jumped. I’d completely forgotten about Dennis. I opened the door and Dennis strode in. “There’s a faucets and fixtures show in Medford. You want to go?” He stopped dead when he saw Tim. “Hello?”

“Dennis, this is Tim. Tim, Dennis.”

“Ah,” Dennis said, the light dawning. “Tim.” The unspoken end of the sentence—“the unfeeling shit who broke your heart and ruined your career”—hung in the air.

Tim sprang up from the couch. “I’d better get going.” I nodded. At the door, he hugged me stiffly but for longer than I would have expected. My gut began to hurt.
Just go. Just go. Just go.

Tim looked up at Dennis and back at me. “I’m glad you found somebody,” he whispered solemnly. I opened my mouth to set him straight, then shut it and nodded. Everybody deserves a little dignity now and then, even me.

When the door shut (softly; far too softly), Dennis took me in his arms before I’d begun to sob. But then I let loose. When I was done soaking his silk shirt, he strode into the bathroom and came back with a box of tissues. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose only to find it hopelessly stuffed. Dennis pushed my hair back from my face. “The guy from the college was
much
hotter.”

 
 
It was another Friday night, months later, when my phone rang.

“It’s Jeremy,” he said. My pulse quickened, and I hated myself for it. We exchanged stiff hellos. Then he said, rather flatly, “I got a job in Boston. Starting in July. I just thought you should know. Like, in case we run into each other or something. I just didn’t want you to be surprised.”

“Well, congratulations,” I said. Damn that pulse. “I’m working in the Back Bay now. Will you be anywhere near that?”

“Framingham.”

I paused, confused. “That’s, um, not really Boston. It’s about a half hour, forty minutes away.” Surely he knew that already. “The chances of us running into each other are pretty slim.”

“Right,” he said crisply. “But you never know. And like I said, I just didn’t want you to be surprised.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” The silence was so painful, I wondered why neither of us made a move to end the conversation. Finally, I spoke. “Are you seeing anyone?” Who said that?