Crushing Crystal (19 page)

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Authors: Evan Marshall

BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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Chapter 19
T
he loft was as still as fog after Reilly left. Until now, every time he left I knew he was coming back. Knowing he would never return created a sense of loneliness in our home. And to some degree in me.
I never wanted to hurt Reilly. Perhaps he and Jennifer were right in their observation that my motives weren't purely benevolent. Maybe my own need to control things played a role in my devising Operation Wife of Reilly. It was also true that I couldn't bear being cast as the villain who left her husband for another man. But easing Reilly's pain was also a driving force behind my plan to find his next wife. I may be a lot of things, but lacking compassion for the dumped I am not.
The last time I felt this alone was when Matt returned from Europe the summer after we graduated, and I realized he was never going to contact me to resume our romance. After the first three days, I figured he was visiting with his family and getting over the jet lag. After a week and a half went by, and his mother took my third phone message, I had to face the fact that I was being blown off. The worst part was never hearing the words confirming that we were through. When a guy tells you, “We're through,” it's like someone dropping a boulder on you. But at least you know there's a boulder on you. When they just disappear, it's like a slow stream of sand being poured over your head. At first, you can brush it off. Then you get irritated with all the sand in your hair. Next thing you know you're spitting sand from your mouth and rubbing it out of your eyes. And finally, you realize you're buried alive. Given a choice, I prefer the boulder.
That June I was at my mother's house getting ready to leave for Wharton's summer term when I found myself under a blanket of Matt's sand. I wouldn't leave the house for fear that I would miss his call. I was afraid that if I moved forward it would be tougher to rewind and get back to the place where Matt and I were happy together.
For my first few months at Wharton I tortured myself wondering why Matt left me. I imagined he met up with a busload of Italian reform school escapees who had sex with him from Milan to Sicily. Madame Magdalena's gymnastics and blow-job squad.
I worried that Matt seeing Europe showed him what a provincial simpleton I was. I wondered if he fell in love in Paris and eloped with a woman named Simone, who was a gifted painter instead of someone who just goes to museums and looks at other people's art.
I decided that when I visited Matt in Los Angeles in February I would ask him what happened between us that summer we went our separate ways. I don't know if understanding why he left me would help, but at least it would put some finality on it. Or would it? Might knowing start a whole new set of problems for us? Problems were the last thing I wanted, the last thing I could afford now that Reilly was gone. Well, now that even Reilly knew he was gone. Perhaps I should leave well enough alone, I thought. I had everything I'd always wanted from him right here and now. What good could come from digging up the past?
For the next week, I worked extra long hours and spent more time than usual at the gym to avoid coming home at night. I visited every museum in Manhattan, and when I was done with them, I traveled to Brooklyn and New Jersey. I was counting the days until my dinner with Chad, Sophie and Jennifer when we were each required to bring a schedule of classes we wanted to take together (Jennifer's new year's resolution). Jennifer is the only person I've ever met who actually keeps her resolutions. I once questioned whether it was contrary to her creative nature to have a list of resolutions categorized into personal, professional and physical, then divided into items A through G. It reminded me of a little old lady cutting her meat into minuscule portions. Jennifer said the only way she could muster up a single original thought was to dump the entire logical side of her brain onto a piece of paper, laminate it, and keep it in her top desk drawer for daily referral. I knew for a fact that if Jennifer decided we were taking classes, improving and reinventing ourselves for the new year, there was no escaping it. We were all taking classes. Probably the ones that Jennifer chose too.
 
 
Matt hadn't called for three days, and I didn't bother trying to get in touch with him. I was convinced that he somehow knew that I was a liar, a cheater who tried to pawn off her undead husband on another woman. I was sure I'd tip my hand and cry if he simply asked what was new. There was also a part of me that was starting to get very pissed off that he never brought up our first relationship. More specifically, the end of our first relationship. I could understand if he wanted to end things. We were headed to opposite coasts, after all. I could accept that. It wasn't as though I would've freaked out on him, crank-called him in the middle of the night or boiled his pet bunny. Matt even knew two of my ex-boyfriends at U of M and neither of them had any horror stories of my inability to accept the demise of a relationship. I've always prided myself on clean and amicable breakups where we'd go out for a cup of coffee or a bagel, talk about what a good run we've had of it, but how it was time to end. He was the only one who just flat-out disappeared on me. The fact that he didn't seem to need to explain himself simmered my lips every time we spoke. If he thought I'd forgotten or didn't care, he didn't know me at all, I told myself in the privacy of my own thoughts. Or, if he knew that I cared, but chose to ignore the topic, he was a callous jerk. Perhaps that was a bit harsh. He knew he fucked up. He told me so at homecoming. And for him that was enough explanation. Enough chatter. Men didn't need to delve into every nuance, every word said, every action taken during a relationship. He said he fucked up and that's all that really matters now anyway. Leave well enough alone, Common Sense advised.
If you really want to think about something that matters, figure out why you treated Reilly like a stock being traded on the open market,
she chimed in again.
Why Matt gets off with a slap on the wrist while Father gets life for the same crime? If you slammed your fists on the table and told Matt to get out of your life, would he?
I hesitated on that thought.
The fact that you even need to think about it is a problem, Prudence.
 
 
“What am I going to eat?” I asked myself that night as I stared into my cluttered kitchen cupboards. “God, it's bedlam in here.” I removed every jar and can from the cupboards.
Out came the crushed garlic.
Out came the Spanish olives.
Out came the capers.
The pasta.
The honey mustard.
The creamy horseradish.
Out came the olive oil.
Out came the balsamic vinegar.
Out came the penne.
One by one, everything from my cupboards was evicted and placed on the kitchen table. When I ran out of room there, the floor became the new home for my food.
Then I methodically arranged everything in size order, and categorized items by food type and package color. Tomato paste cans sat next to tomato soup, then transitioned to canned vegetables.
“Why would spaghetti be next to canned peaches instead of with other pastas?” I exasperated. “This whole kitchen needs to be reorganized.” By midnight, I was sitting on the floor surrounded by food, mapping a placement chart for food, appliances and dishes. “Hey, I haven't seen these in years,” I said of a few bottles of vitamins that were hiding in the back. Then I realized that I probably had quite a few prescription and over-the-counter drugs that had expired, and decided that after I was done with the kitchen, I'd tackle the bathroom cabinets.
By four that morning, every item had a logical place in my kitchen. It looked like a Marine captain lived in my home. Freshly dusted cans stood next to each other at attention. I opened and closed the cupboards several times to get the rush of seeing the orderly contents. I also wiped down the inside of my refrigerator and defrosted the freezer. The cleaning woman just doesn't put this level of care into keeping my home well-organized.
“Now, I can eat,” I said, proud of my accomplishment. I cooked a Lean Cuisine Chicken Carbonara and tossed a teaspoon of parmesan cheese on top as a reward for my hard work. Midway through the meal, I could think of nothing else but what a mess my linen closet was. I tossed the rest of the dinner in the trash and opened the closet door. “Just as I thought. It looks like a hurricane hit this place,” I said to no one. The sight of the towel edges facing outward was dizzying. The way rose towels were scattered around in between steel-colored ones, instead of being grouped together, enraged me. “How did I let things get to be such a mess!” I shouted. As I threw towels and sheets and pillowcases onto the floor, I began to cry hysterically. “This place is a fucking mess, an absolute fucking mess.”
By sunrise, I was scrubbing the shower curtain rings with Reilly's old toothbrush sobbing uncontrollably about how my cleaning woman would have seen the mildew if she really loved me. Then I took a shower, got dressed and brought seven full garbage bags to the curb for trash pickup. Before I left for work, I called my dentist and scheduled an appointment to have my teeth laser-whitened. I wanted the Botox after all, I called to tell Dr. Kaplan. Facial paralysis is highly underrated.
Chapter 20
L
ater in the week, I met Jennifer, Chad and Sophie for dinner at Mercer Kitchen. When I arrived, they were in the midst of a heated discussion about what classes they were going to take. They had a catalogue from the Learning Annex and a schedule of events at the 92nd Street Y, and were reading highlights from classes.
“So you wanna be a porn star?”
Jennifer read
. “Learn the ins and outs of this exciting recession-proof industry.”
“Here's one I want to take,” said Chad. “
Dr. Evan Michilo can help you contact the dead. Do you ever feel like a loved one is trying to give you a message from the other side? Learn how to tap into your inner medium and receive wisdom from heaven.”
“You guys, I thought we were being serious,” Sophie said, fully on board with Jennifer. “Stop playing around and let's find a few courses that really sound interesting to us.”
Taking a few courses would be the perfect way to fill the next two weeks before I left for California. The emptiness of my home was the worst environment for a guilty conscience. The loft was immaculate except for random thoughts of the men in my life, which crept from every corner like roaches infesting a filthy kitchen.
Jennifer gasped. “Love this one.
Bitchcraft for fun and profit. Have you ever wondered why the bitches of the world get all the power, money and sex? Learn how to harness your natural bitch power and use it for personal gain. No woman should be without the tools offered in this class. Wonderbitch Vilma Zeeter has been featured on
Oprah, The Tonight Show with Jay Leno
and
The View.”
“This one sounds funny,” I said before I was about to read a class on “self-pleasuring.”
“I wasn't kidding,” Jennifer interrupted. “This would be a good one for all of us to take. Except you, Chad. I've always thought I was too nice for my own good. People take advantage of you that way.”
“Bitchcraft? For us?!” I asked. “Until last week, I was juggling a husband and a fiancé. Jennifer set up a gallery exhibit to sell my husband, and Sophie,” I thought for a moment. “Well Sophie, you're a bitch too.”
She was genuinely shocked. “
I'm
a bitch? How exactly am I a bitch, Prudence?”
“How exactly are you a doormat, Sophie?” I said, gesturing to her fork poised to kill me. “I don't think you're a bitch, you're just, well, you know. No one's taking advantage of you, Sophie. You're, you're, you take care of yourself.”
She rolled her eyes, annoyed. “I am always putting other people's needs before my own. I am the furthest thing from a bitch you'll ever find.”
“Come on you guys,” I said in an effort to make it seem as though the entire table were involved in this squabble. “Do you think men sit around defining themselves like this? I'm a bastard. No, no I'm really a martyr. They're having fun, drinking beer, watching sports. They're living life in the moment. Let's take a lesson from them and forget about stupid labels. Let's be more like guys.”
Silence.
“Why'd we do that?” Jennifer asked as if I'd just suggested scouring the sale rack at Alexander's.
“Because,” I said as if it was enough of an explanation. Realizing it wasn't, I continued. “Because they are much happier. Men don't over-think things the way we do, and because of that, they're much more satisfied in life.”
“Oh sweetie,” Sophie softened and rested her hand over mine. “They're idiots, that's why.” Sophie spoke as though I was a child to whom she was reading a bedtime story. “Men are dog-shit simple, that's all. Just because they're happier, doesn't mean they have any good reason to be.”
“Okay, I think I've had about as much male bashing as I can from the three non-bitches over here,” Chad said. “Sophie, take the class, clearly you're a candidate for sainthood, it's a wonder they haven't made you into a statue at a convent. Jennifer, Prudence, who couldn't use a little information on how to be better bitches? Hone your skills girls.”
“The class doesn't tell you
how
to be a bitch,” Jennifer explained. “It teaches you how to use it so you're not like some sprinkler shooting water in different directions. You're the hose that takes water through a tight cylinder and controls a definite stream.”
“Next Wednesday?” Sophie asked. “I'm in.”
A combination of boredom and fear made me sign up for the class too. What else was I doing? Did I really want to be the only untrained bitch in my group?
“And why am I not allowed to come?” asked Chad.
Jennifer read, “
Absolutely no men.”
“Oh please,” Chad laughed. “Bet they have a real big problem with men trying to crash this one. I'm just so sure that's how every guy wants to spend his evening, among a pack of black-belt bitches.”
 
 
On Wednesday night, we arrived early to get seats together for Vilma's bitch class. She started at exactly six-thirty despite the fact that women were still trickling in, struggling to find a place to sit. The room was filled to capacity with just under a hundred women who ranged in looks from mealy-mouth simp to whip-cracking dominatrix.
Vilma said nothing as she wrote on the white board, “Power.” Then right below it, “Money.” And below that, “Sex.” Then she drew one long, red oval that encompassed the first letters of each word. “Get it?” she snapped.
Her words were delivered slowly and precisely. Every syllable threatened cruel derision. “Before you harness the power of bitch, you must first
be
a bitch,” Vilma began in a harsh tone. Vilma was a short, slender woman with bright red hair that was the same color as women's penitentiary uniforms, and cat glasses with rhinestones at the points. She wore a deep red silk button-down blouse, black suit pants and sharp leather boots with heels thinner than knitting needles. On her blouse was a small gold pin of a bulldog with long eyelashes and feminine lips bearing teeth.
“And to be a bitch, you must do two things. One, look like a bitch.” The class began furiously taking notes. “Two, act like a bitch. Let me warn you now, if you do not look like a bitch then there is no point acting like one because no one is going to buy it. Ask yourselves, what does a bitch look like? Bad news, then good news. The bad news is that in order to be a bitch, you must be beautiful. The good news is that every woman has what it takes to become beautiful. It takes time. It takes money. It takes pain. And it takes sacrifice. But if you want to be beautiful, there is a way.”
So far so good. Vilma didn't seem like such a bitch after all.
“You!” she snapped and pointed her stick at a plump woman in the third row. Slowly enunciating each word, Vilma stated, “You are fat. Why?”
“Um, it's genetic,” the woman answered. “My mother and my grandmother are both heavy too.”
“Nonsense. Your mother and grandmother are both
fat
because they have no self-control and these hungry heifers love Twinkies more than they value the power, money and sex they could have by being a bitch. So far, no one has had the guts to tell them that the only thing standing in their way of enjoying the good life of a bitch is their own blubber.”
I sank deep into my chair.
“You!” she demanded the attention of another woman. “With the straight brown hair and bangs. You've been wearing your hair like that since fifth grade, haven't you?”
The woman nodded in agreement.
“And now, not only do you have a wretchedly outdated look, but you've let yourself go gray. Three words of wisdom, and please don't prove me to be throwing pearls before swine—Bitch cut. Dye.” Then she handed the woman a business card of a hair stylist who specializes in bitch hair makeovers.
“And you,” Vilma barked at another woman. “Why no makeup?”
Confidently, she answered, “I don't have time for vanity.”
“Out!” shouted Vilma. She waited. “Do you think I'm kidding? Bitches don't have a sense of humor, nor do they have a sense of mercy. Get your naked face out of my class before I call the cops and have you arrested for indecent exposure.”
This woman was awful!
After the woman left, Vilma continued unfazed. “We'll have a whole section on the bitch wardrobe, hair and makeup and I'll pass out a resource directory where I list my contacts at every major department store, hip boutique and salon. Do not, I repeat, do not treat these people like servants. They are bitch missionaries and have the power to change your life,” Vilma said. “Oh yes, if you're concerned about money, we have a special beauty improvement bitch loan of up to ten thousand dollars through Chase Manhattan Bank. I know bitches in high places.”
Vilma took a sip of water and took a deep breath. “Now, if I have not made myself clear already, there are three things that women who harness their bitch power have that other women don't—more power, more money and more sex. People exalt the bitch. They're not sure why, but they yield to the bitch. Some of my colleagues say it's fear of the bitch. Others say it's awe of their confidence. I say, who cares? When you've got more power, more money and more sex, you shouldn't waste your time trying to figure out other people. Enjoy
your
life.”
Vilma scanned the room. I was terrified that she would single me out as another bitch flunky, but instead she called me up to the front of the room with a note of friendliness. Like she found a kindred spirit.
“This is what I am talking about,” she said, pointing to me with her stick. “What's your name?”
“Prudence.”
“Nice. Snooty yet ironic at the same time. I like it. Now Prudence, as you can all see, is not a naturally beautiful woman, but look how she maximizes everything she's got through her wardrobe, hair and makeup. And let's be honest, Prudence, we've had a little work done too, haven't we?”
“Yes,” I said softly.
“No need to be ashamed. You think enough of yourself to invest in your beauty. Good for you. Now class, note the suede pants and expensive buttons on her blouse? It makes a statement. That statement is ‘I'm rich' and believe me that's a statement you want to make when you're a bitch. The hair is fabulous,” she said, running her fingers through it. Incidentally, we had identical haircuts. “Notice the details. She's got nice black hair,” she said, turning conspicuously to the woman with bangs. “And look how she wears these blue contact lenses. Next to the hair, they have sort of a satanic look, wouldn't you say? Subtle, but a nice touch. Now, I'm willing to bet anyone in this room one hundred dollars that Prudence has a six-pack set of abs. Any takers?” She paused and scanned the room for hands. “No, well let's prove me right because I know Prudence, the poster child for bitchcraft isn't going to let us down. I'd guess she spends at least an hour at the gym every day.”
How did she know?
“Do you know how I know this?”
My classmates shook their heads. I saw Sophie smile and give me a thumbs-up.
“Because everything else about her appearance tells me that she is a self-centered narcissist who will do everything within her power to look good. If she can dye it, cut it, wax it, peel it off, exercise it, or stick a collagen needle in it, sign Prudence up.”
She forgot the dead guy in my lips.
Vilma commanded, “We must applaud her for it.”
A room full of women cheered for me. My friends stood in the fifth row shouting “Brava!”
“Prudence doesn't let the fear of pain get in her way of looking good, does she?”
The class responded like an army troop, “No, bitch!”
“She's not afraid to spend her money on her beauty, is she?”
Again, they shouted. “No, bitch!”
“And when it comes to spending time on her physical appearance, does Prudence whine that she's got more important things to do?”
“No, bitch!”
“Unbutton your blouse, Prudence,” Vilma said.
I was torn. On one hand, the head bitch liked me and I didn't want to let her down. On the other hand, I didn't want to disrobe in front of a room full of strangers.
“Prudence,” Vilma said again, noting my hesitation. “Why do you work out? And don't tell me it's for your health.”
“No, Vilma, it's vanity.”
“You work out because you want to look good. And you want people to notice you. Well Prudence, this is a dream come true. We are all looking at you and want to gasp with awe and envy over your beautiful stomach. Unbutton the blouse. You are among bitch friends here.”
Oddly enough, Vilma's pep talk convinced me to unbutton my blouse and tighten my abdominal muscles so they would look especially defined for my bitch compatriots.

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