Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (20 page)

I DIDN’T THINK IT GOT MUCH MORE EMBARRASSING, THE
key phrase being “I didn’t think.” Coming in second to last place in a New York Road Runners Club
Run for Fun
is pretty humiliating. Because we walked the race together, once we approached the finish line, Oliver watched me sprint ahead of him toward it.

“If you’re going to lose baby, lose big,” he said casually as he walked over the finish line, throwing his fists into the air above him. Then he hugged me and whispered, “Thank you. I’m so proud of my baby. You really got into it at the end, didn’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, knowing the torture you were inflicting on me was coming to an end really kicked my ass into high gear.”

“Could we not talk about your ass again?” I hit him on the back and tried to wiggle free from his embrace. “I’m kidding, baby. You haff a loffley bum, just loffley.”

Something in me opened up during the race, and I actually enjoyed it. I’d never share with Oliver just how much pleasure I derived that day in fear that he’d plan more future mornings on roads, making his important mine. Instead, I ended up goading, “Happy now?” while thinking I was finally just that. Happy now. Not running toward or away from anything, just alongside someone who wanted me there.

GABE WANTED ME NOWHERE NEAR HIM THE DAY WE WERE
to tell his parents we’d been married. He was edgy, pacing in our apartment, and when I asked him to help me decide which outfit to wear, he snapped. “Who gives a shit, Stephanie?” Oh grand, this day called for a party dress, something bright with polka dots, certainly.

Okay, fine. It called for a suit. It’s important to always own at least one suit you can wear to an interview or funeral. A visit with my in-laws was like both, but none of my suits fit anymore. I’d recently put on twenty sticks of butter. Okay, that’s not really fair. You can’t “recently” pack on twenty pounds. I mean, it doesn’t take a week to do. Its thickness builds gradually, like a storm. When I’m happy, I relax, enjoy myself, and yeah, basically get fat. Thin is usually a symptom of miserable, so when I’m actually slender, I rarely enjoy it. My weight floated from one hundred and twenty-three pounds to one hundred and forty-five pounds by August, which meant I was happy, settling into married life. If the honeymoon phase is anything like college, I’d done what was expected of me. The good wife for two and a half months one-upped the Freshman Fifteen with the True Love Twenty. So all was fair in love. It was time to go to war.

If it were September, I’d have gone military chic in a Balenciaga battle jacket, parachute pants, and a camouflage headscarf, ready for combat. But it was August, too early for head-to-toe olive-green drab. I did have new initials now that I was married. Married meant J. McLaughlin and P.K. Bradley. Sexy had a relief pitcher—her name was Lily Pulitzer. My clothes needed to look the part of wife when we told Gabe’s parents I was just that. His wife. They still didn’t know. Conservative. Feminine. Polite. Pearls, twin set, capri pants, and loafers. If my clothes were “just so,” Rome would have less to judge. When she wasn’t starving herself at Bergdorf’s, the woman was feasting on a diet of hearsay and judgment and avoiding introspection and accountability as if they were carbs.

Time with Gabe’s mother was always an interview with trick questions and sweaty palms. “What will you do, Stephanie, if the only place he matches for a residency is in Kansas?” What do you think I’ll do, witch? Scream out for Auntie Em and file divorce papers with The Wizard?

I’d go with him, what the fuck else would I do? Why the hell would she ask a question like that, other than to try to stir something up with her broom handle? I wanted to pull the hair from her chinny chin chin when she said things like that.

“DO YOU WANT TO HEAD TO MY PARENT’S HOUSE BEFORE
or after dinner?” Hi. Neither A nor B. It was a test I’d never pass. Maybe I could dress my way out of it. The confrontation demanded more strength than Pulitzer could offer. I’d need formidable. I’d go governess. Prim, proper, Poppins. Mary Janes, a swan-neck collar, crispy white. Gloves would be pushing it. I brought along a vintage Gucci handbag that had belonged to my grandmother. I’d clutch it for strength. I needed to control something. I could control, at the very least, what I wore, as if Rome’s hatred for me would go unnoticed when she saw I was cut from the same Italian cloth. I wanted to fit in, so they’d like me. So they’d tell their son he made a wonderful decision, tell him he’s so lucky. Tell him to “never let that one go.”

It was Tuesday, August 8, 2000. Gabe still hadn’t completed his medical boards; he decided to put them off another year. This meant he could no longer use the excuse that telling his parents would interfere with his exam preparation. And, since still no date ever seemed to align with an open slot in the Rosens’ calendars, we decided to end the charade and reveal our actions to them in person. Gabe started in with the excuses as we rounded his parents’ expressway exit.

“I just don’t think I can do this, Stephanie.”

I didn’t understand. My father is my best friend. It was always easy for me to communicate with my parents. So it was next to impossible for me to comprehend just how scared Gabe was of the people who brought him into this world. This made it absurdly easy for me to make his issue mine, worrying his inability to express himself to them was a reflection of his love for me. “If you really loved me, it wouldn’t be so hard for you to say.” Then I’d sit with that thought for a while and realize, no, it really wasn’t
our
issue. It was
his
, and that was hard because it meant I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t improve, couldn’t therapy it, couldn’t do anything but nothing. And I wasn’t good at that then, the letting go. So, really, I should have known exactly how Rome felt. She couldn’t let go of anything. No wonder Gabe loved me—I was his mother.

“Do you want a secret divorce to go with our secret marriage, Gabe?”

“No, of course not. I love you.”

“If you love me, then why is it so hard for you to tell them?” We hadn’t told anyone. I hadn’t told my sister, my father, anyone, because I’d made a promise to Gabe.

“Steph, I don’t doubt the way I feel about you. I love you. I know that.” He took my hand. “Not just ‘she’s great, I love her’ but I really love you, deeply. I love staring at you in bed while you laugh at TV shows. I love kissing you when you’re asleep, even though I know you have no idea that I’m doing it, that kind of love.”

“Then what’s the problem?” I pulled my hand away.

“I just want to handle this the right way. I don’t want another mess with them. Everything with them has been a nightmare. I just want to wait until I feel more comfortable telling them. Is that so bad?”

“Yes. Sorry, but yes. It is. We’re married, Gabe. You made the decision to marry me, so stop whining about it and be married to me. Be my husband.”

I can’t believe I was one of those adults, in that car, having that pathetic conversation. After over two months of excuses, boards, “my mother this,” “sweetheart that,” I had no idea how I allowed myself to get entangled in such a fucked-up situation. Convincing a little boy to grow up: I could add it to my dating resume.

I married a momma’s boy. I don’t know what’s worse, being a momma’s boy or the woman who marries one. How do you handle dating or marrying a boy like that? You leave. You invest in some high-tech, aerodynamic running shoes, and you sprint your ass as far away as you can get. You don’t stay in the car, alongside him, and try to convince him to open his side. You don’t play the understanding, “You poor thing, I know just how you must feel” martyr. You fucking run because he won’t grow up. His whole life Mommy and Daddy made everything right for him, and a man who hasn’t had to really risk hasn’t had a chance to build character.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I know you deserve more than this. I just don’t think I can do this today.” This is the point where red fury replaced any type of compassion I could feel for him.

“Look, you feel sick because your parents have made it clear they’re against our being married. You know what? You shouldn’t fucking care. I’m your wife. You just turned twenty-six. You can make decisions without checking first with Mommy and Daddy…” I knew it wasn’t helping, my berating him for still being a boy. He might have defended himself or tried more excuses. I couldn’t hear anything anymore. I was in what my father called “the red zone.”

A car’s tachometer gauge measures how fast the engine is turning in RPM. It enables manual drivers to shift at the optimum RPM for best fuel economy or acceleration. When the tach moves into the red zone, you may be causing damage to your engine. It’s a no-no. Welcome to my world.

Growing up, when I became fixed with anger and frustration, my father would warn calmly, “Stephanie, there’s no talking to you right now. You’re in the red zone. Nothing I can say will penetrate, and you’re only hurting yourself.” He wouldn’t talk with me until I could form full sentences that didn’t include the word “hate.” But I’m angry, so you’re going to listen to me right now! “You’re all emotion right now. There’s no talking to emotions, no reasoning with them.” He would hear none of it, which only revved me up more. Eventually, I’d stall.

I wouldn’t stall this time. Gabe wouldn’t let go of the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. I felt like a mother, convincing her red-faced son to let go of her leg on his first day of kindergarten. Could I trick him into a round of patty-cake and make for the front door?

“I’m going in now, Gabe, with or without you. Are you coming?” He stared at me blankly. I wanted to rip him from the car and guide him to their front door, my hand resting on the crown of his head. That’s it. Thatta boy. Easy does it.

“Okay,” he said in a shaky voice, “I’m ready now.”

We’d never stopped by their home without calling first, so this unexpected visit would immediately set them into uncomfortable. We needed time to explain, to tell it on our terms, so we took care to slip off our wedding bands. Gabe rang the bell and took a step back.

I wiped my hands on my skirt. On my hips. Folded them together. Let them fall. I reached for Gabe’s hand, but he pulled away. This was a great start.

“Well, this is certainly a surprise,” Rome said in a voice so tight I thought it would snap. She glanced immediately at my left hand, then to his. “What, what are you doing here?” She kissed us formally. “Marvin, it’s Stephanie and Gabe. We still have time,” she yelled from the foyer. “The Diamonds are on their way over. We’re going to dinner at the club.”

“Oh, we didn’t mean to intrude,” Gabe stumbled. “We were just at Stephanie’s father’s house and thought we’d say hello.” Lie.

“Please, you’re my son. It’s never an intrusion. Do you guys want to join us for dinner? God, would you look at me?” She patted her head, suddenly aware of the curlers loomed on her head. Without waiting for an answer, she began to walk toward her bedroom.

In her brief absence, Gabe whispered to me, “Why don’t we tell them after dinner?”

“No fucking way in hell. You’re stalling. I swear to God, Gabe, I’m not going anywhere until you tell them.”

“They’re rushing around right now. It’s not a good time.”

“I can’t believe you.” I wished I were wearing pointy shoes.

“Can I offer either of you a cold beverage?” Rome asked, now back from her bedroom, with sanguine lips and a soufflé of hair.

“Nah. Where’s Dad?”

“Oh, he’s just putting on his shoes. You’re coming to dinner, right?”

“Sure.” Enough already. Who cares about dinner? Tell them!

Marvin joined us in the foyer. “Hey, kids.” He shook Gabe’s hand and kissed me on the cheek. I felt more at ease with him now in the room. “So you’re coming to dinner with us and the Diamonds?”

“Yeah, why not?” What was he waiting for? I felt like we were in a three-legged race, our shoelaces knotted, pulling each other in different directions as we raced toward the finish line. I should have chosen the burlap sack race, won, and upturned the sack over Gabe’s head and clubbed him.

“Can you two sit down for a second?” That had to be the hardest part, right there, formalizing it. Bad news always follows a request to be seated, as if hearing the news would bring the onset of fainting spells.

“What is all this about?” Rome asked, pretending to look at the time on her watch. “We really don’t have time. The Diamonds are—”

“Romina, we have time to sit,” Marvin scolded before lifting the legs of his slacks as he sat.

She knew what was coming. She wanted to stall. “Are you two sure you don’t want something cold to drink?”

Gabe sat silently for what felt like a full minute. I smiled with a forced face of apology, wishing he were holding my hand.

“As you both know, it has been a nightmare trying to set a wedding date. And it was becoming so much more about the wedding than our marriage, and we wanted you two to be the first to hear it, from us, in person…”

“You’ve set a new date?” Rome interrupted hopefully.

“We didn’t want you to say you heard this through the grapevine, and we didn’t want to tell you over the phone.” He reached for my hand. “We got married on Saturday.” I closed my eyes and waited. I was expecting something to explode. I opened one eye, then the other. Maybe they hadn’t heard him. They were still sitting. Their legs were still crossed. There was no fainting. It was the calm before the storm, I was sure of it.

“I can’t say that we’re surprised,” Marvin said flippantly. “It’s been years in the making.” No, this is the part where you hug and congratulate us.

“We still want to have a wedding reception,” Gabe added, “to celebrate when it works with your schedules, and we don’t want you to think our decision had anything to do with you. The whole thing was just a debacle. We want you to know, it’s not about you, and we were worried you’d take it personally.”

“Of course it’s not,” Marvin assured us without getting up.