On the Verge (18 page)

For everything my sister is, she is also kind of a baby. I guess I tend to think of myself as more of an expert on the real world because I’ve held a full-time job for almost a year and my
sister has always been at school or volunteering in some impoverished part of the world. She is good-hearted, if a little disillusioned. Sometimes it’s hard to be patient with her. I know, I’m awful. She is flustered when she comes through the door, because she had trouble finding her way over from Penn Station (ten blocks!).

Roseanne comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish-towel. She smiles at Monica, whom she’s only met a few times. “How was your trip?”

“Hard. It was hard for me to leave Chuck.” All of the sudden I get a quick flash that this entire visit is going to consist of Monica looking wistful and trying to engage me in conversations about Chuck.

“That’s too bad,” says Roseanne, who has suddenly turned into Ms. Compassionate.

“Wanna check out the rest of the apartment?” The last thing I want to do is talk about some over-the-hill folk singer all weekend. Monica plops her bag down and walks around. I can’t read her expression.

“Wow! It’s not so bad. I mean it’s decent-size.”

“Well, it’s actually really big by New York standards.”

“And cheap,” Roseanne adds.

“No, honey, it’s great.” I hate it when she calls me honey. Monica is only five years older than me. I am vowing not to lose patience with her. I watch her staring out the window onto 7th Avenue. “It must get really loud though.”

“Not bad,” I lie. “It’s a great apartment.”

“Can you go out on this?” She means the fire escape.

“Well, we won’t go out now, it’s too cold, but we like to call it our veranda.”

“Or balcony.” Monica nods and stares out the window. I can tell she is thinking of Chuck. Whatever.

“So, Monica, what do you want to do today? Shopping? Want to go see the tree and shop?”

“Sure, that’s fun. I’m never in New York. I’ll feel like a tourist.”

“Well, we’ll see enough of those today. Let’s eat first. Roseanne made breakfast.”

“Yeah, I made honey walnut pancakes and fresh fruit toppings.”

“Oh, that sounds good, but I’ll just have fruit salad.”

“Oh, I can make something else. Eggs?” Poor Roseanne.

“No, that’s okay, I’m vegan.” What?

“What?” I can’t believe she’s such a freak. “Why, Monica?”

“Well, Chuck is. I just think it’s a better way to be. It’s almost hypocritical of me to feel as I do about global ecology and then munch on animal products.”

“Vegetarian?” Roseanne asks, confused.

“No, vegan,” I tell her, “no animal products of any kind—milk, cheese, eggs, honey. Nothing that comes from an animal.”

“Humans should not be drinking cow’s milk, Eve.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I just think that’s a little drastic.” Then it occurs to me. “What are you going to do Christmas Eve?” We have like seven different fish dishes on Christmas Eve.

“I’ll just eat the pasta.”

“Mom is going to flip. Dad is going to lose it. Aunt Sadie will take it as a personal insult if you don’t eat her calamari salad. This could be a huge issue.”

“Monica, here’s your fruit. I have plenty.” Roseanne is always chipper. Damn her!

“Thanks.” Roseanne gives me a motherly look so I won’t start a fight with Monica. When did I let Roseanne become my Jiminy Cricket?

We sit and eat. I ask for seconds on the pancakes. I only manage to get half a delicious pancake down because I’m stuffed and I’m probably only trying to eat to rub it in Monica’s face. Monica chats away about Chuck (I can’t handle it.) She assures me that I am going to love him—but that’s what she said about the Marxist and about the religious freak she met while volunteering in Appalachia; in fact, that’s what she says every time there’s a new guy in her life. I’m trying to be patient.

Once we get out, it’s hard to believe how crowded the city is. There are tourists everywhere, all walking at a snail’s pace. It’s so frustrating. Roseanne doesn’t care; she eats up Fifth Avenue. I actually kind of get a warm feeling when we look at the tree in Rockefeller Center. It’s Christmas, after all, and even with the crowds, there’s something magical about it.

My sister tries to get me to go ice skating, although she knows my aversion to physical activity. She and Roseanne form some kind of tag team and after an hour of waiting on line, I am circling the rink, gripping the sides. Roseanne and Monica are busy doing figure eights in the center of the rink with the pros. Once in a while they remember me and skate over to try to coax me off the wall or to call to me from the center, but I refuse. I am making my way steadily around the rink. I keep running into the same
children. They mock me, these kids, because eventually they all get the hang of it and start skating in the center of the rink. I hate kids. I hate looking stupid.

Being alone, I can’t help but think about Rob King and kissing him at the party. When I think about it, I get that familiar queasy feeling. I try to imagine what it would be like to date someone like that. He’s not your average guy—I mean he is, but, he isn’t. It’s a little scary, anyway, I shouldn’t think about it. I won’t get my hopes up.

Finally, the excruciating hour of skating is over and Monica and Roseanne help me off the rink. I notice some of the kids snickering at me. Monica and Roseanne are totally pumped about the whole thing, like those annoying writers at work who talk about the “biker’s high.” Whatever. If it isn’t artificial it shouldn’t affect my mood. Despite their obvious competency on the rink, they still defer to me about where we should go now. I suggest Tiffany’s.

There’s another line for that—just to get in! It feels like a club, where the security guard/bouncer looks us up and down and waits for some people to leave, before letting us in. The thing I like about Tiffany’s, once inside, is the accessibility of it all. Who knows who you’re shopping next to and how much money they have. You want to hate it for being so snobby, but it’s not like you can’t get in, so you have to sort of love it and wish you had enough money for several pretty blue packages.

I catch Roseanne talking to a real cute guy from Texas, so I steer clear of them. I look around for my sister and begin to think she got fed up with all the consumerism and left, but then I see her checking out the engagement rings. There is not an ounce of disdain on her face; in fact she looks relaxed and almost content. Even with all the social ills in the world, my sister manages to look content for a moment. I walk over quietly, but I hear my sister tell the sales assistant that she is just browsing. When she turns, our eyes meet and she smiles at me. We go up to look at silver.

I pick out a pendant for Tabitha for Christmas. It’s about seventy dollars. I throw it on the plastic. As soon as I get out my card, my sister, who was momentarily an unknown beautiful and calm woman, turns back into the sister I know and tolerate.

“Eve, you are such a consumer, I can’t believe you are going to get such an excessive gift for anyone. Never spend that much money on me—unless it’s to donate to a charity.”

“I won’t spend that much money on you ever, Monica, don’t
worry.” Tabitha’s pendant is in a box inside a tiny blue fuzzy pouch. I will keep the little bag for myself.

We decide to go to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It’s Monica’s idea, although she diffuses it by explaining to Roseanne her misgivings about the Catholic church. She says she just likes the aesthetics. I don’t like church that much, either, but my grandmother used to always take us to St. Patrick’s Cathedral at Christmas. She gave us money to light a candle and say a prayer. It used to be a few coins, but now it’s a buck. I sit at one of the little alcoves with the statues.

I don’t think prayers are like birthday cake wishes, I think you could pretty much tell people what you’re prayers are. I mean don’t people always say “I’ll pray for you” and stuff like that (I would never say that). But anyway when I light my candle it seems pretty much fair ground to pray for whatever I want. I ask for pretty standard stuff, a new job, health for my family, my dad and grandma especially, health for my friends, no rodents in the apartment, a happy holiday, a better year, my sister to get some direction and not marry this bozo, and (then I’m trying to wrap it up), I know that I would be lying to myself and to who knows who else if I didn’t at least mention Rob King calling me, so I pray for that, too.

“I didn’t know you were so devout,” Monica says when we are all sitting on the stairs of St. Patrick’s. “Can we go soon? I’m cold.” I ignore her.

Monica can’t believe all the women who are wearing fur coats. “What are they gonna do, when the revolution comes and they are left out in the cold?”

I would like to ask her what revolution she is talking about and if it will conflict with her studies. I don’t say anything because we are on the church steps and my sister is so sensitive, I think anything I say would throw her into a tirade.

We decide to get take-out and head home. We stop at a gourmet market and get some prepared stuff. Roseanne decides to buy some fresh pasta and have Tyler (Mr. Texas) over for dinner tomorrow. She’ll have a little dinner party. Tabitha can come over and talk to Tyler (a soap opera name, if ever there was one) about The Lone Star State. She starts running down a list in her head.

“Ro, you shouldn’t get all this stuff. We can get it right on 23rd. Just get the pasta if it’s so great here, but really do you want to carry all this stuff home?” Suddenly my sister looks like she is about to expire, she is completely horrified.

“We’re not walking, are we? It’s so far.”

“Monica.” I take a tone I’ve heard my mother take when they are on the phone, I’m amazed I can do it so well. “It’s twenty-eight blocks and a couple of avenues to our house. It’s all flat land. Come on!”

“But it’s cold.” She rocks herself a little like a kid who has to pee. “Besides, we’ve been walking all over, all day.” I cannot believe this is my sister.

“Monica, what are
you
gonna do when the revolution comes?” That said, we walk home in silence.

We are watching
COPS
on Fox, trying to decide where to go. Tabitha is over and she wants to go somewhere good. I realize that I’m going to be pretty poor by the end of December with all this spreading of Christmas cheer. Monica is also being a big baby (surprise!) about going out. She complains that everything is too expensive in New York. We decide to drink at home—we have some beer, vodka and Collins mix. If we are still functioning we’ll go to Dusk, a bar on 24th where the English bartender calls us “sweetheart” and gives us every third drink free. It’s swank enough for Tabitha, although I have to bribe Monica into going by promising to get her some drinks.

Roseanne isn’t having much luck putting together her dinner party. Tabitha seems down with it until she hears Tyler is from Texas. It’s strange the way she changes her mind suddenly. “I have no desire to trip down Memory Lane with a redneck.”

It’s beginning to look like Monica and I are going to have to make ourselves scarce during the dinner party.

COPS
is taking place in a real white trash neighborhood in Texas. We ask Tabitha if that’s her hometown. She doesn’t laugh. An overzealous cop is handcuffing a potbellied criminal who is wearing dirty jeans. His partner is asking the guy in a black heavy metal concert T-shirt humiliating questions. Later these two sensitive guys are shown counseling the wife of one of the criminals. My sister is outraged.

“Do you realize how wrong this is?”

“Totally,” Tabitha, to my surprise, agrees, “I mean when you think about it someone could just come in and wardrobe these people, it would be great product placement and we wouldn’t have to be subjected to seeing these dirtbags.”

I just start filling up everyone’s glasses again. Maybe if I can get Monica drunk she won’t be so hard to deal with. I actually
think it’s working because I start to hear a little Jersey accent come out in her voice.

We make it to the bar. It’s dark and trendy and just small and selective enough to make us feel like we have our own exclusive place. We drink cosmopolitans—even Monica—and dance a little to the DJ’s trip-hop. I know when my sister is totally drunk because she keeps twirling around and saying, “I’m so cosmopolitan.”

She also calls Chuck from the pay phone on my mom’s credit card. When she comes back she says she misses him a lot and wants to go home. We aren’t very far from my apartment, but I have a feeling if I give her the keys and send her on her way, I might never see her again. I tell the girls to stay, but Roseanne says she wants to get beauty sleep for her date tomorrow. I assume Tabitha will leave, too, but she wants to stay and chat with the bartender about Paris. She is leaving in a week.

When we get back, my sister throws up all the vegetables she ate for dinner and I hold her hair and rub her back. I force her to drink water and remind her how cosmopolitan she is.

We go shopping in the village all day Sunday. I pick up a couple of presents for Adrian and Roseanne. For Adrian, a belt with an awesome buckle; for Rebecca, a cookbook and a sexy black shirt. My sister and I go in on a couple of appliances for our parents and decide that I will pick up some Broadway tickets. We also get some little things for our family. Monica buys Chuck a huge coffee table book on Frank Lloyd Wright architecture and a sweater.

“Are you sure you aren’t spending too much money on him, Monica? You don’t want to turn him into a consumer.” I can’t help but bring it up.

“How could I spend too much money? There is no way to place a value on all he’s given me.” When my sister says cheesy crap like that, I have to think she is not too far removed from all the people she looks down at.

My sister definitely has an agenda for our day, she wants to extract details about my sex life and insinuate nonstop the possibility of her marrying this Chuck guy.

“Are you being careful, Eve?” My sister got her major in public health. She has always considered herself an expert and maybe the only person on earth who knows about condoms. From the time I was fourteen, she has been trying to push condoms on me and extol their virtues. My sister’s big quest in life is to find out how many sex partners I’ve had and if I’m having more satisfying
sex than she is. She has an elaborate method for doing this. She doesn’t come out and ask me what she wants to know; she hints at it. She also has a habit of asking me the wrong questions in the wrong places. “Eve, are you being careful with the boys you see?” she asks over tempeh burgers at lunch. “You can be creative, you know, you don’t always have to have intercourse.”