The Friends We Keep (10 page)

27

 

There are two types of people: those who like to go to parties and those who like to give parties. I'm absolutely one of the latter. I love being the hostess. I'm far less comfortable being a guest. Aside from my own wedding (where I was, in a way, the hostess), I can't think of one party I've ever enjoyed.

Knowing this about myself, you'd think I'd stay far away from the singles “mixer” being held in the basement of the local nondenominational church. You'd think that but in this case, you'd be wrong.

I suppose it was news of Brad's impending marriage proposal to Carly that propelled me out of the apartment and into the church basement where about thirty other middle-aged singles were gathered to talk about nothing while nibbling limp crackers and sipping flat soda out of plastic cups.

So, there I was, dressed, I hoped, appropriately (I'm sure Eva would have criticized the length of my skirt) in order to present myself to total strangers as a potential mate. My anxiety level rose the moment I crossed the threshold. But to turn around and dash away, especially when two women had noted my arrival with brief smiles, seemed cowardly and also, somehow rude. I walked directly to the table on which were laid out the meager refreshments (The church, I thought, must devote most of its money to family-oriented programs.) and reached for a cup of soda. My throat felt dry as sand.

Over the rim of the cup I surveyed the room. The women outnumbered the men. No surprise there. Two men in their sixties were deep in conversation; one wore a fishing cap studded with flies. And I suspected they weren't there to meet women as much as to hang out with a fellow sportsman. A few women looked to be near seventy. It made me unbearably sad to think of any person that age being “on the market,” as Eva might say, for a companion.

One woman seemed much younger than the rest of us and I wondered why someone barely thirty and fairly attractive would need to meet a man in this depressing place. Had she simply gotten tired of the harshness of bars and the absurdity of five-minute dating? Finally, there were a few men in their forties and fifties, men I might consider eligible. But though each periodically surveyed the room, no one's eyes lingered on me. Feeling increasingly ridiculous (Someone had put on a tape of some old Billy Joel music, which seemed wildly inappropriate.), I was just about to leave when a tall, handsome man with an air of authority appeared at my side and said hello.

I wished he hadn't. With effort I looked up at him.

“Hello,” I managed to say.

“I'm Ted.” Ted nodded but didn't put out his hand. I was glad. My own hands felt uncomfortably sweaty.

“Sophie.”

More silence.

“Do you—”

“I'm not very good at parties,” I blurted, inadvertently cutting him off.

“Really?” Ted asked. His eyes wandered across the room, as if scouting a more interesting guest. I really couldn't blame him for wanting to move off. Anyway, I wasn't attracted to him. He reminded me of some of Brad's corporate buddies, a bit too perfect for my taste.

But maybe not for Eva.

“This might seem kind of odd,” I said, “but I know someone I think you might like.”

Ted looked back to me with some interest. I'm sure he was relieved I wasn't suggesting a date with me. “Well,” he said with a charming smile, “it does seem a bit unusual. You don't know anything about me.”

“So, tell me a few things.” Now that the focus was off me, I felt almost relaxed.

He did tell me about himself and I told him about Eva, not the strange things or the inconsistencies, but all the good and impressive things, like how successful she was and how beautiful.

Ted handed me a business card. “I'd love to hear from her,” he said. “She sounds fascinating.”

“Great. I'll call her right away,” I promised.

“Great. Well . . .”

“Well, I guess I'll be going,” I said, suddenly awkward again. “I'm not much for parties.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.” Ted's eyes were already roaming.

I threw my plastic cup into the big trash barrel by the door and left. The night, I thought, hasn't been a total waste. I just might have found Eva's new Mr. Right.

28

 

“Is this a good time to talk?” Sophie asked.

“No,” I said, scanning the piles of paperwork on my desk.

“This will only take a minute, I swear.”

I rolled my eyes. “What? I'm timing you.”

Sophie spoke in a rush, as if she believed I was following the second hand on my watch.

“I met this wonderful man last night at a singles mixer at the church down the block. Eva, I think he'd be perfect for you!”

First of all, no one perfect for me would be found at a singles mixer sponsored by a church. “No thanks,” I said flatly.

“Oh, Eva, don't be silly. Let me just tell you a bit about him.”

What part of “no” do perky people not understand? Why do they feel they're immune from dissention?

“Sophie,” I said, a bit impatiently, “I mean it, I'm not interested.”

“But why?” Sophie asked. “I thought you wanted to meet someone.”

“I never said that. You made an assumption. And by the way, you've exceeded your allotted phone time.”

“You won't even meet him once, maybe for coffee?”

“I don't like to be fixed up,” I countered.

“He's very nice. And he's a doctor.”

“I don't date doctors.”

“He's very handsome.”

“I prefer ugly men,” I lied. “They work harder to please a woman.”

“He has nice hair.”

Then I did look at my watch. This conversation had gone on far too long. “If this guy is so perfect,” I said reasonably, “why don't you go out with him?”

“I didn't feel a spark,” Sophie admitted.

“Are you sure you didn't feel a spark, Sophie? Not just a little one? Why don't you meet him for coffee? I hear he's very nice.”

“Okay.” Sophie sounded hurt. “I get your point. I'm sorry. I was just trying to be—”

“Yes,” I said, in a kinder tone, “you were just trying to be helpful, I know. Thanks. Really.”

“Okay.”

“Look, I've got to go.”

“Okay,” Sophie said again.

I disconnected the call. I'd been a bit rough with Sophie. I felt bad. Worse, I felt bad about feeling bad.

This friendship thing, I thought, turning back to my computer, is a hell of a lot of work.

29

 

“I thought you were going to bring your laundry?”

“Mom, I'm not a kid. I can do my own laundry.”

I thought of Jake's weekly visits home during his four years at college, visits that were as much an excuse to drop off his laundry as anything else. “How often?” I asked. “How often do you do your laundry?”

“Often enough.”

“Hmmm.” Maybe, I thought, I'll use the key he gave me and surprise him one day. Who could complain about a drawer of clean underwear and socks? “So, how are classes going?”

“Good.”

“Just good? Do you like your teachers? Do they give you a lot of homework?”

“Mom, it's grad school. Not third grade. It doesn't matter if I like my professors or not. And I'm there to work, not to slack off.”

“Okay,” I said. What did I know about graduate school? “Have you met anyone nice? A girl, I mean.”

Jake opened the fridge and peered inside. “Actually,” he said, “I'm too focused on my classes to have time for a relationship right now.”

I sighed. “I don't understand people who spend all their time and energy on work! You sound just like Eva. The other day I tried to set her up with a very nice man and she wouldn't even agree to meet him for coffee!”

Jake closed the door and turned to me. “Oh? Did she say why?”

“She said that she wasn't interested in meeting anyone right now. I mean, coffee! How long could that take, half an hour?”

“Well, maybe she just wasn't in the mood. You can't force love, Mom.”

“Oh, I know. I'd just like to see her happy.”

“I'm sure Eva can take care of herself,” Jake said. “But what about you, Mom? Why don't you go on a date?”

Why, indeed? Because no one had asked me.

I told Jake about the singles mixer and about how, in the end, all I'd gained from the experience was a deeper conviction of how I hate going to parties.

Jake reached out and hugged me. “Don't worry, Mom,” he said. “There's a good guy out there for you. Of course, he'll have to pass my inspection, first.”

I pushed him away playfully. “That's assuming I'm going to ask for your opinion!”

“You're getting my opinion whether you ask for it or not. End of discussion.”

“You sound like your father.”

“No way! Though I guess a commanding tone of voice can be useful.”

“Speaking of Dad,” I ventured, “did he ever ask for your opinion on his girlfriend? Carly?”

“Of course not,” Jake said. “Has Dad ever asked for anyone's opinion on anything?”

“There's a point. Anyway, you never did tell me what you think of her. It's okay, I won't be upset if you tell me she's nice in addition to being a knockout.”

Jake considered before speaking. “Mom, she'll never be you.”

“You've become quite the diplomat,” I said.

“Yeah, well, divorce will do that to a kid.”

Oh. I reached out and took Jake's hand. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm sorry for whatever trouble the divorce has caused you.”

Jake squeezed my hand and let go. “Mom, it's okay. Really. I shouldn't have said that.”

“And I shouldn't have put you in an awkward position by asking about your father's girlfriend. Subject over?”

“Yes, please.”

Later, when Jake came back from the bathroom, he said he'd noticed that the overhead lightbulb needed replacing. I'd avoided dealing with it, even though it was a minor project. I showed Jake the kitchen drawer in which I kept extra bulbs and he hauled the step stool into the bathroom.

I stood alone in the kitchen and thought about how all my life I'd been reliant on men, specifically on my father, and then on Brad. And now, on Jake? Maybe, I thought, I shouldn't be in such a hurry to meet someone and get serious. Maybe it would do me some good to be independent for a while. It was an uncomfortable thought. I'd always seen myself as the kind of person who worked best as a partner. Brad might have earned the money and fixed the toilet when it broke—after some nagging—but the reality is that I raised Jake pretty much alone. And while Brad was taking meetings and doing lunches, I was taking care of the house and doing all of the cooking and the cleaning and the chores, like running Brad's suits to the cleaners and taking Jake to playdates and buying and sending Christmas and birthday gifts for the families. And I appreciated my responsibilities as much as I appreciated what I wasn't called upon to do.

Still, thinking of Jake replacing a lightbulb I was too—I don't know, lazy?—to replace, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd missed out on something by never having lived on my own.

“All done,” Jake announced, joining me again. “Anything else need doing?”

I thought of the knobs on my dresser drawers that needed tightening and said, “No, thanks.”

30

 

“I hope this isn't a bad time,” Sophie said. “I can call back.”

“No,” I lied, “it's fine.” The middle of a workday is never a “good time” to chat. But I always manage to take the calls I shouldn't.

“Oh, good. I just wanted to confirm dinner on Wednesday at Marino's.”

“Confirmed. Have you talked to Eva?” I asked.

Sophie sighed. “Yes, she's meeting us.”

“Why the sigh?” I asked.

“I worry about her, John. She wouldn't even consider meeting this nice man I tried to fix her up with.”

I'll admit this information pleased me. In spite of my better judgment and in spite of Eva's obvious lack of interest in me, on some level I still hoped I might have a chance with her. It was partly the thrill of the chase. But it was something else, too, something indescribable that drew me to Eva.

And then I remembered the vibe I'd caught when the three of us had had dinner. Somewhere, there was a man in Eva's life—or there was about to be. And I knew it wasn't going to be me.

“Maybe she's seeing someone,” I ventured, trying to be rational.

“No,” Sophie replied emphatically. “We're friends. She would have told me.”

I wondered. Did Eva consider Sophie a friend? Even if she did, I wasn't sure Eva felt she owed anyone the truth about her life.

The reality was that after all the years of silence none of us really knew each other. What was Eva hiding? What was Sophie hiding? For that matter, what was I hiding?

“I just wish Eva would get over that guy who broke her heart. She's letting her past haunt her.”

“What guy who broke her heart?” I asked, thinking immediately of the paragon Eva had gushed about when I'd seen her a few years back.

Sophie gave me the story in sum. The timing worked. The paragon was indeed the man who broke Eva's heart. According to Sophie.

I wasn't so sure Sophie's interpretation of Eva's emotional state was accurate. Maybe Eva wanted to be unattached. Maybe she liked being single. Then why did she hide behind the story of a broken heart? Was the façade of the tough, invulnerable woman really only a façade?

I dismissed the questions. There's no point in guessing what's going on in someone's head. Ask them to explain and you still might never know the truth.

“It's good of you to be concerned about Eva,” I told Sophie, “but I don't think she needs our help.” Or, our interference, as Eva was likely to view “help.”

“Maybe,” Sophie conceded. “Anyway, I should go. I know you're busy. So, I'll see you on Wednesday at eight o'clock.”

I assured her that it was penned in on my calendar.