Better Off Without Him (4 page)

Now, you might ask, why would I, being a Quincy by birth, be impressed by that? Because I’m not one of those Quincys. My Polish great-grandfather, coming over to America and standing in line on Ellis Island, was told that his name was too long and too hard to pronounce. The clerk helpfully suggested that my GGF take five letters from his last name, and use those as his Americanized name. GGF looked at his wife, who picked out Q,N,Y,C, and I. They rearranged the letters, and presented the new name to the same nice, helpful clerk, who pointed out that, in America at least, if you really wanted a Q in there, you’d need a U as well, and the Quincy family, later of Belleville, New Jersey, was founded. If those were the letters they wanted to keep, you can imagine the ones they left behind. Surprisingly, the DAR has never approached me or any other members of my Quincy family tree. Those DAR babes know the score.

Back to Patricia. She is very beautiful, which, in addition to the really rich part, is a little hard to get past, but once you do, she’s a wonderful person and the best friend you could ever want. We’re friends because, being a Carmichael, she’s a patron of the arts, and in Westfield, New Jersey, writing historical romance is actually considered art, and about fifteen years ago we met at a Westfield Salutes the Arts festival. I didn’t know who she was, I just knew by looking at her that she was way out of my league. You’ve seen the type, probably in Bloomies or Saks. She’s one of those impeccably dressed women, with very expensive-looking ash blond hair, amazing bone structure and knock-your-eyes-out diamonds in very classy settings.

She approached me, a martini glass in one hand, and when she found out who I was, she told me she was a fan of my books. I didn’t believe her. I thought I knew my demographic, and it didn’t include her. But she insisted, smiled, and leaned in very close.

“You must tell me,” she asked in a low and husky voice. “All those marvelous sex scenes you write? Do you really have that good an imagination, or are you the luckiest woman in New Jersey?”

After an ice-breaker like that, I was smitten. We met a few times for coffee after that, but our friendship was cemented one afternoon when we had lunch at the Highlawn Pavilion and she taught me how to drink.

The Highlawn Pavilion, for those who don’t know it, is a breathtaking mansion with an even more breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline. She picked me up for lunch in her baby Mercedes, and we were soon ensconced in a deep banquette, surrounded by quiet, luxury and the promise of excellent food. The waiter, a very proper-looking gentleman, who knew Patricia and addressed her by name, which impressed me like you would not believe, asked what we wanted to drink. I said a Tequila Sunrise. The silence at the table fell like a dead hippopotamus. The waiter did not write anything on his little pad but instead turned to look at Patricia. So did I.

Patricia leaned forward slightly and spoke gently. “Really, darling, wouldn’t you rather have a martini?”

I was game, but ignorant. “What’s in a martini?”

Patricia took a small breath. “Well, it’s very simply made, you see, which is why it’s so perfect. There’s gin, very cold, and a splash of vermouth, also very cold, and an olive. Very cold.”

“Mmmm.” I looked back at the waiter. “It sounds lovely, but I don’t like gin.”

The waiter’s face actually cracked, as though I had just told him his mother died. He looked back to Patricia. So did I.

Patricia, being extremely well bred, smiled serenely. “No problem,” she said. “Vodka?”

Ah.

“Vodka martini,” I said obediently, and the waiter, looking like he had just been spared having to throw himself in front of a speeding train, bowed and left.

We’ve been drinking them together ever since.

Patricia does not have caller ID in her house. She has staff to screen her calls for her, so it took a minute or two to get through. “Mona? Love, how are you?”

“Oh, Patricia,” I started, then found I could not go on.

“Mona. Is it Jessica?” See, I’m not the only one.

“No. Well, there’s Lauren. She hit a student over the head with her DNA.”

Patricia, who was over last week and had the girls preview their project for her, took a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, I’m sure she must have had a good reason.”

“She did. It’s fine now, actually, but, Patricia? It’s Brian. He left me.”

There was silence. “He left you? But, darling, why?”

“He met someone else. Dominique.”

More silence. Then she chuckled. “Oh, Mona, not to worry. Obviously, this is some feeble cry for attention. There are no real women named Dominique.”

This is why she’s my best friend. “Yes, she’s real. She’s French.”

“Oh, my God. Mona, darling, I’m coming right over. Make sure the vodka is cold.” Another reason why she’s my best friend.

I went into the kitchen and sat. Four years ago, when we did our big kitchen/family room remodel, I insisted on a full-sized refrigerator and, right next to it, a full-sized freezer. I told Brian it was so that I could stock up on sirloins and swordfish from Costco, and could always have more than just one flavor of ice cream on hand, but the real reason was so that I could stash four one-liter bottles of Grey Goose at the bottom, where they would always be perfectly cold and ready for anything.

It took her fourteen minutes to arrive, which meant she hit all the lights. I was still sitting in the kitchen when she burst through the back door. She gave me a very long and hard hug. Then she stepped back. “Mona, I’m here now. We’ll get through this. Do you have olives?”

I nodded. Patricia knows her way around my kitchen, and in no time flat, had the martinis made. She poured mine and slid it across the countertop. I took a long, icy swallow.

The classic martini is a very simple thing, but they always taste better to me when Patricia makes them. I have tried her technique many times, but it’s never quite the same. I think it’s something in the way she fondles the ice. Here’s how she does it.

1) Open freezer, removing vodka (or gin) and taking enough ice to fill a tall

glass pitcher, preferably from Tiffany’s.

2) Plunge martini glasses, also preferably from Tiffany’s, into the indentation

made from taking out the ice.

3) Open a bottle of vermouth. Add one capful to the pitcher, swirl gently three times, then pour whatever vermouth not clinging to the ice down the drain.

4) Pour cold vodka into the pitcher, counting out one one-hundred, two

one-hundred, three one-hundred, four one-hundred, five one-hundred.

5) Stir slowly.

6) Carefully dry off two or three pitted but unstuffed olives with an imported Irish linen towel

7) Remove glasses from freezer. Drop in the olives.

8) Pour vodka mixture carefully into glasses. Sip or gulp as needed.

The best thing about a martini is that I usually only need one to make everything all better. That day, I knew I was in for a long, wet afternoon.

“So, tell me, Mona, when did this happen?” Patricia speaks in a very low and well-cultivated voice. She can also go into what I call her Junior League mode, when she barely moves her lips and her jaw is frozen shut. She can have lengthy conversations this way, without ever really opening her mouth, even for vowels.

“This morning,” I croaked. The first jolt of vodka tends to cause my vocal chords to seize up. By the third sip, I’m usually all right.

“What? This just happened?”

I nodded. “Yes. He came home in the middle of the morning to tell me and to pack all his stuff.”’

“And her name is really Dominique?” Patricia asked, her eyes bright. Being the gracious person that she is, she poured my drink first, then her own. She can fill her glass to the absolute top and never spill a drop picking it up. I don’t know how she does it. She always holds her martini glass the same way, with the bowl resting in her upturned palm, held slightly away from her body so in case she’s jostled by some clumsy oaf she won’t suffer any damage. Just like June Allyson.

She took a quick sip. “You poor thing. Does MarshaMarsha know?”

MarshaMarsha is my next door neighbor and another one of my very best friends. I call her MarshaMarsha to distinguish her from Brian’s sister, MarshaTheBitch. MarshaTheBitch used to be plain old Marsha, a tolerable sister-in-law, a kindly older sister to Brian, and a very generous aunt to the girls. When my father-in-law died ten years ago, Marsha realized she was Jewish and decided to do something about it. The Bermans had always been members of the Ultra-Non-Observant Temple, which means they remembered the High Holidays, but didn’t necessarily do anything about them. But when Marsha decided to embrace Judaism, she wanted the rest of the Berman clan to join in.

Phyllis, the new widow, patted Marsha’s hand gently and explained that for over forty-five years she had been faithfully praying to God that she would die before her husband, or, better yet, have them die together, hand in hand, and since God had chosen to ignore her, she wasn’t going to start making the extra effort now. Rebecca, the younger sister, who was a practicing Wiccan and had been for almost ten years, may have done something involving burning herbs grown at the waning of the moon, because Marsha developed a mysterious and nasty rash that lingered for weeks. Brian laughed, the girls balked, and I, being a non-observant Catholic, refused to get involved in any way. Of course, Marsha blamed me for the family’s eventual descent into hell, and she began referring to me as the Goy Slut who Brian had (insert heavy sigh here) married. This after being in my wedding party all those years ago. So, she became MarshaTheBitch

But MarshaMarsha remained MarshaMarsha. She didn’t mind, although I’m sure she inwardly winced at Brady Bunch reruns. Her real name is Marsha Riollo, and she is an absolute doll.

As I shook my head, Patricia went to the back door, yanked it open, and yelled for MarshaMarsha. MarshaMarsha, having four boys under the age of twelve and the reflexes of a Navy SEAL, was in the house before the echo died away.

“What?” she asked. “Did something happen?” Her eyes went quickly to the martini glasses. It was a familiar sight in my kitchen, actually, but since it was barely one in the afternoon, she realized that something must be amiss.

“Brian left,” Patricia announced. “Can I get you a drink?”

MarshaMarsha sat beside me and grasped my hand. “Oh. Mona, really? Is that why the car was here this morning? I saw Brian drive up and I thought, well…” She shrugged. I know what she thought. Her husband, Alphonse, a successful chiropractor with an office right in town, often walked home for a nooner with his adorable Italian wife. And she is adorable, round and pretty, with curly dark hair and big, brown eyes.

I sniffed and knocked back what was left of my drink. “He left me for Dominique. She’s thirty. And French. And a size four. My life is over. I’m going to die with eight cats and no husband.” And then I put my head down on the table and really started to cry.

I don’t know how long I sobbed, but when I finally lifted my head, MarshaMarsha handed me a much-needed wad of tissues. I dried my eyes, blew my nose a lot, and took several long, deep breaths. Then Patricia handed me another martini, which went down much smoother than the first one. The second always does.

“You,” Patricia said distinctly, “need to call Brian’s mother.”

I stared at her. “Phyllis? Why do I need to call Phyllis?”

“Because,” MarshaMarsha said, “she’s his mother, and in her eyes, he can do no wrong. You need to call her and tell her what happened before he does so she knows what a snake he really is. If he gets to her first, she’ll think this is all your doing and start telling all the relatives how happy she is that he finally got out of his hellish marriage.”

“Oh, my God. Really?” I was shocked. “No, Phyllis likes me. She would never approve of his leaving.”

MarshaMarsha was shaking her head. “Honey, believe me. When it comes to mothers-in-law, the Italians and the Jews are only separated by their opinion of pork. I know. Call her. Tell her. And then ask for her help in getting him back, so your family doesn’t end up on the cover of Broken Homes Monthly.”

I looked at Patricia for confirmation. She was holding the phone in her hand. I nodded. She hit speed dial and handed me the phone.

Phyllis Berman, at 78, is still physically spry, mentally agile, and happily living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, in the same sprawling, three-bedroom apartment that she raised her family in. When her husband, Lewis, died, we were all a little worried about her living alone. But Phyllis posted an ad on the bulletin board at Brooklyn School of Law. She had two empty bedrooms and an extra bathroom, so she turned them into a very nice suite and, for the past ten years, has had a series of young and accommodating law students living with her. She charges them an incredibly nominal rent, and in exchange, they help with errands, keep her company at mealtimes, and make sure she takes all her required medications. It’s a perfect arrangement. And she gets free legal advice whenever she wants or needs it.

Phyllis is another one without caller ID. I don’t know how people do it, but she says she likes being surprised.

“Phyllis, it’s Mona.”

“Mona, my favorite daughter-in-law,” she said. It’s an old joke, but she loves it.

“Phyllis,” I said, my voice a little shaky, “I’ve got some not-so-good news. Are you sitting down?”

“Yes. Mona, is it Jessica?” My poor daughter.

“No. Phyllis, I don’t know what to do. Brian has met another woman.”

There was a very long pause. “My Brian? Another woman? No, Mona, I think you must be mistaken. Brian works very hard, you know. If he hasn’t been coming home some nights, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“He’s been coming home fine, Phyllis.” I said, my voice getting stronger. “That’s not it. He told me himself.”

Pause. “What did he say exactly, dear? I mean, men are entitled to have friends. If he met somebody nice, so what? Don’t jump to any hasty conclusions. Invite her to dinner. I’m sure that once you get to know her, you’ll find her to be a delightful person.”