Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (18 page)

Gabe heard his mother call me a liar when he’d phoned his parents to ask about another wedding date. When I came into our bedroom with his French toast to get a read on how the conversation was going, he was already off the phone shaking his head.

“I have something to ask you,” he huffed as my diaphragm puffed all the air out of my lungs at once. Here we go again. It already hurt to breathe. “Did you ever tell anyone you pay for our rent by yourself?”

“No. What the fuck?”

Okay, so here’s the deal. As far as they were concerned, we were still engaged, living in medical school housing. It was my understanding that his parents gave a lump-sum check to the school for his tuition and housing. Once we were married, though, they warned, they’d continue to pay for his tuition, “to honor that responsibility, but we’ll take no part in supporting your decision to be married.” They also wouldn’t contribute one cent to the actual wedding, despite having more money than God. “It’s the family of the bride’s responsibility. We’ll throw the engagement party.” That was as likely to happen as Rome ever taking a shit in a public bathroom.

I knew an entire day would be spent thinning out her masterful paintings with turpentine fumes. She had tied up the canvas neatly, using pinking shears and magic tape, wrapping her version of the truth nicely behind wheels of polka dot ribbon. It was packaged just as she liked it, and that was the way it would be.

“What does it matter who said it, Gabe? She’s very reliable, and I would take her word over Stephanie’s any day of the week,” Rome had said to him over the phone earlier.

After some coaxing, she admitted it was Debbie Sheraton. My mind reeled, clicking through a View-Master of hospital dinners, baby namings, mah-jongg moments, and then finally…I spoke with Debbie at Rome’s fiftieth birthday party. She asked how my job was and if I was planning on going to graduate school. “Yes, I want to go eventually, but I’ll wait until Gabe finishes medical school because someone’s got to pay the rent.” It’s a fucking figure of speech.

“Uh, I don’t want to hear any excuses,” Rome said. “Gabe, you always have an answer for everything.” That’s when she hung up on him, and I walked in with the French toast triangles.

After hearing it all, I cried at the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, thinking, my God, they must really hate me—they don’t even want to hear my side. I’d like to say any normal person would have taken a step back and seen what she was getting herself into. She would have known she’d have to deal with these people for the rest of her life. Instead, with each word of caution from Gabe’s parents’ mouths, my resolve in my decision to marry him only strengthened. Tell me I can’t do something, and I’ll do it.

Gabe sat silently with the receiver in his hand, pressed close to his pursed lips. He was afraid to speak, as if his voice would sever one of the marionette purse strings his family controlled. I cannot believe I didn’t have second thoughts. I wanted what I wanted, and that was that. I was so Rome with red hair.

Fuck this shit. “Gabe, let’s just tell them. They’re always going to have an excuse, and I don’t want to live like this, walking around wishing I could wear my ring in public. It just feels wrong.”

“We’re not telling them now, Stephanie.” He said it as if he were reading facts from a newspaper, with no room for opinions.

“But I hate this. I hate not being able to be honest with my family. I hate not being able to let everyone know.”

“Don’t start. I don’t need this now. You know I have to study for this test. Maybe you don’t realize how important this is. It will determine where I do my residency. Don’t you understand, it all comes down to this test?” I felt selfish. I also felt unmarried.

“I feel like that tree in the woods.”

“Jesus, fuck. Are you deaf? Did I just not tell you I’m not doing this with you? They’ll pick a date, eventually. Don’t let this get to you.” Asshole, it’s your job to not let your mother get to me. Try saying something. Try defending me.

I’d be the bigger person and swallow it. I picked up the phone, sobbing, and called Rome. She acted happy when she heard my voice. “Oh. Hi! How are you?” It was her Stepford voice, and I could almost smell her plastic wires.

I laid into her. “Rome, you know exactly how I am, and I can’t imagine you’re very happy either. There have been a string of misunderstandings in the past, and I’m very sorry if I have upset you in any way. I love your son, and we are going to be a family. We need to wipe the slate clean and make some changes to try to work things out.” Then I stopped, and breathed, and listened, wiping the snot off my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Well, Stephanie, I’ve just about had it with you.” I could now see her scowling through the phone, those vertical lines around her mouth tightening together, like a band of frosted pink soldiers. “Every time we ask you for dinner, you have an excuse. The last straw was when you were at our house and I asked you to stay for dinner, and you said you weren’t dressed appropriately, and when I suggested someplace casual where you’d feel comfortable, you said you weren’t very hungry.” I looked up from the bed to see how Gabe was taking this. Did he want to hear what was going on? He’d left the room, probably to find refuge in front of a muted football game.

“Gabe overpromised and told you I would be there when he didn’t consult me. The time you’re talking about, Gabe told me he wanted us to be alone that night and have a romantic dinner, and I yelled at him on the car ride home because he didn’t say anything to you about it. He made me look like the bad guy.” I caught my breath and waited for something like, “Oh. I had no idea.” Instead:

Silence.

“Still, what are Marvin and I to think, Stephanie? We used to be so close to Gabe, and now we feel like he’s an orphan. I think you see us as the enemy because our family is so close and your family is in pieces.” By “pieces” she meant divorced. She meant a supportive mother living in Florida who was overjoyed for Gabe and me, and a father in New York who’s my best friend. No, check that. She meant divorced. If she were in front of me, I would have kicked her in the vagina. She continued, “And, don’t you dare repeat this, but what are we to think when your mother is in town and she doesn’t even bother to pick up the phone and say hello? It’s not normal. When two people are getting married, there are supposed to be phone calls.”

Last time I checked, the phone worked both ways. “I totally understand how you must feel, but Rome, my mother has things on her mind besides this wedding. You shouldn’t take it personally.” You know, she has an actual life in Florida. She doesn’t twist her moustache counting the ways I’ve wronged her. “She doesn’t know about these things. My family isn’t as formal as yours.” It’s not always about you, you motherfucking, self-absorbed, neurotic, hyphenated twit. “Really, Rome, she just doesn’t know any better.” Let it go. He’s twenty-six years old. Say it with me, lady…LET. IT. GO.

And later, when my mother did actually phone Rome asking for her guest list for the bridal shower, Rome insisted she and Gabe’s sister Jolene were already planning one. “You know, at our country club.” Rome was terrified, because my mother is Puerto Rican, that the shower would be a punch bowl, crepe paper with bunting and streamers type of affair. Perhaps she imagined a piñata. When my mother assured her that she, too, had a subscription to
Martha Stewart Living
, and it would be a classy tea-sandwich luncheon at my aunt’s home, Rome said only five people would be attending from her side, “because, well, I don’t think Gabe and Stephanie are letting us invite many people to the wedding, that is, when they finally pick a date for it.” Oh yes, poor you. Poor sad Rome—everything happens to you.

It went on for two hours, until I realized we were traveling in circles. “Look, I didn’t call you to argue. I just want things to improve. All I can suggest is, if you have a problem with me, or if you hear something from someone again that upsets you, talk to me about it, not Gabe.” Clearly Gabe was useless in making anyone feel better about anything. He could’ve reassured Rome: his love for me would never diminish his love for her. He also ought to have set the limit. “Stephanie is going to be a part of this family whether you like it or not, Mother.” Instead, he avoided the entire thing, playing the mime, and few things are more frightening than juggling clowns or mimes. Strengths: juggling, creating imaginary walls to hurdle, and always looking sad without communicating. Welcome to my marriage—Rome was the ringleader, and I was suddenly “the other woman.”

Rome hung up the phone with a “fine.” Of course, no one ever means they’re fine when they say it. Fine. Yeah, okay, right. Fine. See if I care. Then the guilt slips in like tax. She didn’t want to believe Gabe had a lot to do with the way things were. I knew the only way to improve familial ties was to make her feel less like she was losing a son and more like she was gaining a daughter. Maybe if she felt more involved, she’d feel less threatened.

Hello Seventh Floor, Bergdorf’s Gift Registry.

“SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK?” SMELLY WAS EYEING ME
through the mirror as she smoothed the twill fabric over her ass. “Stephanie, come on. Does this suit make my ass look fat?” For the love of God, clothing can’t make your ass look fat. Your ass makes your ass look fat. Smelly is
Town & Country
hot. It’s as if she were born on a balance beam, with a blue satin ribbon strung through her yellow hair. She’s too WASPy to be fat.

“No, Smell, you couldn’t look fat in a funhouse mirror. Do you even eat anything beside red apples and skim milk? Please don’t do this to me today. I need to feel confident on my date tonight, and if we’re comparing you fat to me fat, I’m going to cancel my date and run home to watch Ab Roller commercials.”

“Oh, please. The boy loves you. LOVES.” She was right. I knew Oliver Durán would love me no matter what I weighed. I spent my whole life trying to be thin, so I could attract a man who’d love me even if I got fat. I found him, and he was taking me out to eat carbs and courses. At a size six, I knew he’d love me just as much if I were a size sixteen. It’s the fat litmus test. To reward the boy, I’d flash a little heaving breast. Bring on the deep plunge necklines. I swear, there’s an outfit for everything. The boy was about to get his and then some.

“Mary, this top is perfect. Now, what do you have in the way of skirts?” I’m asking Mary to aid and abet the dirty. Welcome to personal shopper land, where the irony always fits.

THERE’S NOTHING QUITE LIKE THE FEELING OF ARRIVING
home with an entire outfit folded behind tissue paper, tucked into Bergdorf’s bags. My apartment was clean, smelling of wood polish, and Linus was asleep in a wan shaft of sunlight. I was excited about my date until I listened to my messages. The reservation had fallen through. “Baby, I thought we’d cook.” This meant I’d cook, and he’d clean. If we were staying in, I’d need to create something to be excited about beyond candles and a good Sauvignon Blanc. I was feeling spicy. Lobster Fra Diavolo.

“Babylove, how can I help?” Oliver’s clean hands slipped along my arms and tightened around my wrists before slipping beneath my white shirt to rest on the small of my back. It wasn’t a deep plunge skirt of a night. The Bergdorf goodies would have to wait.

“Hug me like you mean it, and not like you’re trying to feel what kind of thong I’m wearing.” After he held me, I kissed Oliver on his sweet nose.

“Okay, put me to work. I know my role around here.” He dipped his head in a deep gesture of servitude. “What needs chopping?” All I wanted was sex. “Linus, do you need chopping?” He laughed at his joke with a short wicked laugh. “Think Linus would mind if I chopped him up tonight?” I don’t know why Oliver always made “let’s kill Linus” jokes. I ignored Oliver’s attempts at humor. I wasn’t with him for his funny.

Oliver was everything Gabe wasn’t. They always are, the rebounds. He was nurturing and gentle. He’d take Linus for runs so I could have alone time, and when we were in bed, he rubbed my belly, telling me he couldn’t wait to one day see me pregnant with his baby. He adored me and showed me exactly how a woman should be treated.

Maybe it was the drape of his navy shirt, resting on his shoulders, as he stood in my kitchen, cracking lobster claws, feeding Linus the cartilage part that grosses me out, but I believed in that moment that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this nurturing man. As I watched him so quietly from the pantry, he kept looking over his shoulder from the kitchen asking me what was wrong. Everything was so right.

There he was, in his socks, hovering near my sink, draining whole peeled tomatoes, breaking them in the palms of his hands, letting the jelly and seeds seep through his fingers, pulling the pulp into strips. Viscous and lovely. I wanted good dirty sex with the man who knew how to get dirty. I’d be wary of anyone who can cook and keep their hands clean. When they do have “intercourse,” it’s probably clean and orderly, like boxes of soap.

“Can we cook a little later, Oliver?” It’s playtime. “Please?” I was purring.

“Oh, I see. Stephanie is frisky, huh?” he asked without disengaging our stare as he washed his hands. His pale eyes were like bits of green sea glass. “Baby, we need to talk first.” Oh God, the dreaded four letter word,
talk
.

“Talk is cheap. Let’s be lewd instead,” I teased as I yanked on his polo shirt, summoning him to the bed, just beyond my hallway of a kitchen.

His face went grim. “If we’re going to do this, and God knows I want to, I need to know you’re not going to be doing it with anyone else. I need to know you’re my girlfriend.” He looked twelve years old when he said it. After being married, the word
girlfriend
is just so pom-poms and letter jackets.

“Your girlfriend? Oliver, that’s so
Bye Bye Birdie
. You’ve got to pin me to pin me?” I was certain I wanted Oliver over all the others, but boyfriend?