Momfriends (24 page)

No matter how chill and laid-back Kirsten came off, there still was something about her that thought her way was the way. Neither of them got that people lived differently and that was ok. I didn’t know anything about having kids, but I knew that about people. Everyone had a different idea. It was so weird that the three of us were out together, because it seemed as if Claudia and Kirsten couldn’t be more opposite.

Maybe it was all part of their diabolical plan to sit on each side of my shoulder and pull me over to their side of the motherhood force. The idea cracks me up once again and I lay facedown in my bed hysterical. So hysterical that I let out a loud fart and the next thing I know Steve is standing in the doorway with a smile.

“You really knocked it out of the park tonight, didn’t you?”

I don’t stop laughing.

“You realize that it’s only nine forty-five, right?”

“What?” I pop up and look at my alarm clock on the side of the bed – we haven’t used the thing since Abe got here. It’s dusty but I can see the time and he is right. This is the kind of drunk I used to be at 3 A.M., but it’s not even ten and I am considering asking him for a pail by the bed just in case.

But I don’t have the chance, because I lay down again, laughing and then I pass out. But the last thought that runs through my head is the best. I picture Kirsten and Claudia on either side of me at the table in the restaurant. And realize the truth, it wasn’t friendship they are after. Maybe I am plastered, but the truth seems crystal clear.

They are competing for my soul.

Chapter 13

Claudia Boosts Morale

I always hated the company picnic. Every July we in the New York office were invited out to Deanna’s summerhouse to be reminded that we were most certainly the have-nots. Yes, she had a house in Southold, which I gathered wasn’t as fabulous as the Hamptons proper, but she still had a tennis court, basketball courts, a giant pool and live-in help. I suspected she enjoyed rubbing our nose in her wealth and knowing that even though we knew she didn’t need to work, she showed up every day and worked her tail off.

I hated missing the day of work and being forced to make small talk with my colleagues over potato salad. I hated having to figure out what to wear. I hated the awkward attempts people (myself included) made to look casual that resulted in seeing things like their knees and their various amounts of body hair.

I hated that I had to bring my kids and last year they were screaming and the year before I was pregnant and miserable. I hated the idea that this year there was going to be tantrums and people would add more to whatever impression of me that they had.

But most of all, more than hated, I dreaded the idea that Keith and Peter were going to be the same place. And even though I secretly hoped Peter begged off, which with his work schedule was a real possibility, Emily and Jacob were going to go and whatever idea Keith had of me as an individual woman who was sexy would be shattered by the reality that was my children.

And then on top of it all, I still had to figure out what to wear.

I took a lunch hour and went shopping and somehow wound up with a sleeveless beige sweater and a light white skirt with large brown and pink flowers. I never dressed up so much. Usually I wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt, but I had recently flipped through a makeover show where the host said that shorts should only be worn by beachgoers and preschoolers. I was changing my style. The whole time I was shopping I wondered about what Keith would think of my clothes, how his eyes would float over me. I wanted to look good for him.

This was my secret that I still carried with me everywhere. I was becoming addicted to our run-ins in the hallways of our office. We still hadn’t been able to reschedule our lunch date. We had finally made a plan to go to a place he knew in the meatpacking district when I had to leave early because Jacob got sick. But somehow every day one of us found a reason to be on the other one’s floor. And maybe it would have been that way anyway—we worked for the same company—but I knew that I was doing it on purpose, making excuses to be there, to go by his desk.

I was constantly aware of any possibility for coy banter between us. The coyness was only on his part. I felt that half the time when we bumped into each other, I turned mute. I felt so transparent that I didn’t think I could say anything without giving myself away. And yet each time I saw him, his eyes twinkled and looked over me in a way that I knew (maybe because of the constant soft-core soap operas that were on in our office) meant he wanted me.

But how could he? Every morning I surveyed my body in the mirror when I got out of the shower and tried to imagine how it could elicit any passion in anyone. It certainly didn’t seem to arouse those feelings in Peter. I didn’t blame him. My breasts sagged, my arms had the beginnings of wings, my stomach was round and covered with stretch marks from carrying two babies. I was old. Just about the only thing I liked about myself, the only thing I might have considered an asset, were my legs.

I’d studied ballet as a girl, not because it was my passion, but because my mother insisted and somehow I managed to maintain the muscle tone in my legs. It was one thing to be grateful for. And lately, I worked it, wearing more skirts and buying dresses that I once considered too short. I was still completely professional, but I let my hemline rise above the knee higher than it ever had. I was showing a little leg, as my mother would say when she thought some other female was being sexually inappropriate. But I didn’t care. I did all this for Keith for those looks from him I craved.

I felt so out of control. Every night I stayed awake, cataloging all that happened between us that day and all that could possibly happen between us the next day. But then, I was left with the reality. And there was no reality. Nothing was going to happen between us. I was married. I had children. I was no fool. This couldn’t lead anywhere. If something happened, there would only be negative consequences that I couldn’t even imagine. And though all of this made complete sense, every night as I lay in bed next to my snoring, stable husband, the next day I was back to wanting my fix.

The most confusing part was that for the first time ever I wanted something without being able to see the outcome, without being able to imagine ten moves ahead to a final goal. Was I happy to forever banter with him? Could I live on the things he said to me? The contact in the elevator? Would the end result be that we finally had a disappointing lunch? Did I want to have an affair? Did I want to run off like one of the soap characters to some remote locale? I didn’t know. I didn’t even properly know how to want something unless the result was predetermined.

It was maddening.

But maybe it didn’t matter. Because it was all going to end when he saw me with Peter and our children. No matter how short my new semi casual skirt was. It was done. And that’s why I was dreading the picnic this year. It signified the end of something that was making me feel different, that was occupying my time in a different way. Luckily it was on a Friday so that I would have two days to try to forget it all.

When we passed each other in the hall on Thursday, he asked me if I was going and I said yes. Mind you, we kept moving, turning around when we passed each other and walking backward, as if we would immediately fall into each other’s arms if we stopped.

“Well, looking forward to seeing you there,” he said, flashing a wide grin. It was a prefect opportunity to mention Peter, but I had no idea how to do that without feeling awkward.

“Me too,” I said, instead. He had to know I was married. And everyone knew that families were invited. Maybe he had a girlfriend I was going to meet. Oh, I might just die if that happened. I might drown myself in Deanna’s giant pool.

Especially when I realized that if he did bring a girlfriend I was going to be the pathetic one. When I went to pick up the twins at day care, it was pretty clear that Emily had Jacob’s stomach bug from the previous week and Jacob seemed to be on the verge of getting it again. There was no way they were going to be able to go day care the next day.

Peter had already taken the day off, so we agreed that he would stay home with the kids because the company picnic was important politically. And while I was making a case that I really didn’t need to make, because Peter was the one who suggested it, there was a part of me that definitely felt guilty. Inside I was celebrating the fact that I was going to be alone at the picnic, unencumbered by anyone, able to be looked at, able to look.

And so there I was the following day in my new outfit, straight out of some soap opera story line I had seen once too often. Children off being cared for, outfitted in a color-coordinated ensemble and the man I was interested in present and available. There was no girlfriend in sight. Even the locale would have made the viewers proud. There were cumulus clouds in the sky and fancy hors d’oeuvres. Deanna’s Hawaiian-shirted wait staff made me feel as though I was in charge of some vague corporation that made some vague beauty product the way our heroines often were.

In the morning, I barely saw Keith. He was off playing basketball. Part of me wanted to hang out by the fence around the court, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I couldn’t believe he wanted to waste time playing basketball when we had all this time alone together. But again, I didn’t know what I really wanted, and all the while I was wishing we could hold hands and walk down to the ocean, I was aware that this was a work event. I couldn’t behave like a teenager. I spent the morning schmoozing with my colleagues.

By lunchtime, it was beginning to feel like any other company picnic and I wondered why I made the effort when I could have used the twins’ illness as an excuse to avoid coming. I had jitters from too much caffeine and a stomachache from eating too much breakfast pastry. I called Peter to check on them, and though he sounded exhausted, he said they were both doing better and down for their naps. I felt slightly less guilty.

“Having fun, Claudia?” Deanna said. I turned around and there she was. “We miss the babies.”

“Yes, Emily has a stomach bug that she caught from Jacob, and I’m pretty sure she gave back to him. You know how it is.”

“Oh, it’s awful,” Deanna said. “Just horrible, because they can’t articulate it when they’re that little and you know they feel awful. And you want to crawl into bed and snuggle them forever.”

I nodded. Was she suggesting I should have bagged the whole thing to lie in bed in a pool of vomit? How would that have looked for my career? I couldn’t win. Maybe I was incapable of this emotion. It all seemed so forced. This was a script I hadn’t read about how to gush about your children. All my life I had attempted to be professional and not overly dramatic. I thought women who were too emotional weren’t taken seriously. At least, that was the way it was throughout my whole school life, but now I couldn’t be emotional enough. You were meant to say awkward, intimate things to perfect strangers to bolster your reputation as a good mother. Why wasn’t there a damn manual for this?

“The food is wonderful as usual, Deanna,” I said. I briefly considered trying out “D” as a diminutive name. We’d been working together for almost ten years, but I didn’t want to take any liberties.

“Oh, you know, it’s the caterers. All I did was pick up the phone. Are you going to join us for some softball later? We executives have to show up this time. I don’t want another year of getting spanked by a bunch of admin assistants and mailroom guys.”

“In that case I should probably sit it out,” I said. Deanna did a double take. She didn’t get my joke. “Just kidding.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you make a joke, Claudia,” she said. In all this time? What was she implying? She smiled. “Oh, there’s Sal from Standards. I should schmooze. Christ. Well, I guess I’ll see you at the softball game. Let me or one of the cute waiters know if you want something. They all want to be soap stars so if you see one that seems particularly pant-worthy, let me know.”

“I sure will,” I said. “Pant worthy” was the latest buzz phrase from marketing about what our viewer wanted. In the tough economic times, we had more viewers than ever. They were there for the fantasy and that meant that the men had to be hunkier than ever, or pant-worthy. And speaking of panting, I knew before I turned around that Keith was coming over.

“Hi there,” he said. His tone was so familiar, and I had that transparent feeling again. I felt aware that anyone around might be able to figure out whatever it was that was going on between us. I wished they would clue me in. I wished someone would. I looked at Keith. He definitely wasn’t pant-worthy. He was still sweaty from his basketball game. And his hair, which was thinning at the top, looked too long and unkempt for his age. He looked like a man approaching middle age that no woman had decided to marry.

But then it wasn’t about the way he looked. It was how he looked at me. And even though I could rationalize that none of this could be worth any scandal, I found myself agreeing to go for a walk down by the beach with him.

“I need to make sure I get back in time for the softball game or Deanna will have my head.”

“I didn’t peg you for an athlete,” he said as we started down the wooden steps that led to the water. He was letting me walk in front of him on the narrow path, and I knew it was to look at me. And for the first time in my life, I enjoyed it. I didn’t feel nervous around him as soon as we got away from the eyes of my coworkers.

“I’m not,” I said, glancing back at him, as his eyes quickly rose up from ass to my face. “It’s, you know, one of those things we have to do. I’m sure Deanna will recruit you too. It’s your first year; you are full of potential.”

“I sure am,” he said. And I was not bold enough to look back at him.

We got down to the water and I took off my sandals. Why hadn’t I gotten a pedicure? I should have done it when I went shopping. I made a point to bury my toes in the sand.

“Do you want to walk for a bit?” he asked.

“Sure.” This beach was a thin strip of sand beneath the cliff that Deanna’s house was on. The water beside it was rocky. It wasn’t a place one went to sunbathe or swim. There wasn’t much of a walk to take, but I walked along with Keith, listening to him talk about the intricate points scored in his pickup game. I looked out at the waves, not wanting to look at him just yet. I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket, but I didn’t want to answer it. I couldn’t get an update about the twins in his presence. But I suspected it was my mother. Each time I talked to her these days, I had this feeling that she could tell what I was up to.