The Friends We Keep (15 page)

42

 

To hell with Eva. First she was rude on the phone; then she was a pill at dinner with Sophie.

To hell with her.

That's what I was thinking when I decided to ask Jana to join me for dinner. Jana might not be Eva, but at least she wasn't Eva.

I'd met Jana months earlier at a party given by another partner in the firm. It was one of those command performance situations but it wasn't too painful. Stuart's wife goes all out with the food; her catering bill must be astronomical.

Anyway, I was introduced to Jana shortly after I arrived. We talked for a while, mostly about work. She told me she was an independent florist with a business supplying corporate accounts. At the end of the conversation she gave me her business card. I didn't promise to call. As a result I didn't feel too badly about so much time having passed since the party. Of course, first I had to find her card, which I did, finally, at the back of the top drawer of my desk, stained with ink from a leaky pen.

Jana remembered me and agreed to meet for dinner. Her pleasing voice on the phone brought back my impression of her as being an interesting combination of businessperson and creative type. True, I had only a vague recollection of what she looked like, which didn't seem like much of a promising sign . . . But a man needing to get a particular woman out of his mind is a desperate man.

We agreed to meet at a popular restaurant that specialized in fish. (Jana had told me that she didn't eat red meat.) I was on time. Jana was early. She waved to me from her seat at a small table in the bar. I nodded in return. I was pleased to note that Jana was rather attractive. Except for the being pregnant part.

I'm not sure when I've ever felt like such a massive idiot. And, let's admit it, a massive, slightly angry idiot. I'd been duped but good.

But there I was, towering over the little table at which sat my pregnant date, and someone had to say something.

So Jana did. “Hi,” she said brightly. “It's good to see you again, John.”

“Yes,” I said stupidly. And then, “Good to see you, too. Our table is ready . . .”

Jana got to her feet with agility; she was very pregnant but not yet in the lumbering stage.

I swear I didn't know if I should come right out and state the obvious or wait for Jana to address the topic.

She did, as soon as we were seated in the main room and the waiter asked for her drink order. “I'll have a cranberry juice and seltzer,” she told him.

I ordered a double scotch on the rocks. What did I care if Jana thought I was a boozehound? A man in shock needs a bracing beaker of the necessary (this, adapted from P. G. Wodehouse).

“I'm almost at the third trimester,” Jana said when the waiter had gone, “and my doctor says then it'll be okay to have a glass of wine on occasion. But not yet.”

I nodded. “Of course. Not yet.” And then I thought, for God's sake, John, just spit it out. “So, I have to ask you Jana, at the party, when we met . . .”

“I was already three months along, but I wasn't really showing.”

“No,” I said, with a bit of laugh, “no you weren't. At least, not that I could see . . .”

“Yes, well, it's not like pregnant women should have to wear a sign around their necks announcing their condition.” Jana's tone was unmistakably defensive.

“Of course not,” I said. “I didn't mean to imply . . .” That you lied. I wonder if Jana could be considered guilty of false advertising. She was single; she hadn't misled me about that. But she did have a mini-me on the way. Still, full disclosure often didn't happen until the actual first date. And this was our first date.

“I guess you're wondering about the father,” she said.

“Well, I . . . Yes, I guess I am.”

Jana shifted in her seat. I've heard that many pregnant women suffer from hemorrhoids.

“Well,” she said, “I was tired of waiting around for Mr. Right so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to a sperm bank, chose a donor, and, presto, I got pregnant. Well, it was a bit more complicated than that. But I'm sparing you the messy details.”

Thank God for small favors. “Well,” I said, “congratulations. I think you're very brave. I mean it.”

“Very brave or very crazy.” Jana looked down at her plate a moment before seeking my eyes again. “Look, John, do you think we can still enjoy dinner?”

“I think so,” I said. I wasn't at all sure, but it would have been caddish to end the evening so abruptly.

I tried. I did. Jana was a gifted conversationalist. The fact that she had a great smile and eyes a compelling shade of gray-blue was like icing on the cake. Before long I realized that if it wasn't for the pregnancy, I would ask her out again.

If it wasn't for the pregnancy.

I need to clarify at this point. I'm not opposed to dating a woman with children from a previous relationship; in today's world, that would be a ridiculous standard to set.

But this particular situation didn't sit well with me. It bothered me that Jana was carrying a stranger's baby. And it bothered me that I was bothered. Was I, at heart, a moralistic, narrow-minded, prig? Was my liberalism only a façade?

And there was something else. Did I really want to sign on for the final trimester of a pregnancy with a woman I hardly knew? Did I really want to be there for the messy birth and the postpartum woes?

No. I didn't. And that bothered me, too. Of course, if I was in love with Jana . . . But if I was in love with Jana chances were good that I would be the father of her baby or that Jana wouldn't be pregnant at all, delaying the start of a family until after the wedding.

Too much. It was just too much for my suddenly disappointing self to take on.

We finished dinner. Neither of us ordered coffee or dessert. When the plates and glasses were gone, the emptiness was palpable. The distance between us seemed to clamor for attention.

“I'm sorry, Jana,” I said, hoping for a kind reception but not expecting it. “I really am. I like you, I enjoy your conversation, I think you're attractive and obviously you're intelligent. It's just that—I don't think I can see you again.”

“Because of the baby.”

“Yes.”

Jana sighed and folded her napkin. “Well, I won't lie, John. I'm disappointed. I like you, too, but I'm not entirely surprised.”

“No, I suppose you're not.”

“I made this decision,” she said, almost as if to herself, “and it can be difficult, trust me. But I'm not at all sorry that I'm having this baby.”

“Good,” I said unnecessarily. “I mean, I'm glad.”

We sat in almost companionable silence for a moment before Jana spoke again.

“It was good to see you again, John. And it was nice getting out of the house for something other than work and birthing classes. My social life,” she said, with a trace of wistfulness, “hasn't exactly been exciting lately.”

“It was good to see you again, too, Jana,” I said honestly. “Again, I'm sorry I can't be . . . I don't even know the word I'm looking for,” I admitted. “I'm sorry I can't be open enough to pursue a relationship with you.”

“Maybe after the baby is born,” Jana said. “Maybe I'll call you then.”

The look on my face caused Jana to laugh. “Only kidding. Sorry. I guess it wasn't very funny.”

I was immediately flooded with guilt. Strictly, I'd done nothing wrong. But you don't grow up in a Catholic home and expect to live a day without the nagging sense that you could have handled a situation with more grace or generosity.

I wondered if I should offer Jana assistance of some sort. Not money; that was something her family might offer, if she had any family. And what about friends? Maybe, like so many Americans these days, Jana had plenty of casual acquaintances but few real friends, the kind who would pick up her groceries or accompany her to the hospital or stay with her child for a weekend if she needed to be away.

“So,” I said when the awkward silence had grown almost unbearable, “are your friends and family ready to rally around?” Maybe, I thought, I could stop by Jana's apartment once a week after the baby was born. Help out with the cleaning.

Jana laughed. “Don't worry, John. I'm not your problem or your project.”

“I didn't mean to suggest that you needed my help,” I said, though I suppose that's exactly what I had been suggesting.

“I'll be fine,” she said, patting my hand as if I was the one facing the looming trial of single parenthood. “And I guess I should have told you about the pregnancy when you asked me to dinner.”

“Yeah, it probably would have been a good idea.”

“You probably wouldn't have gone out with me at all, though, would you?”

Why start lying now? “No, I guess I probably wouldn't have.”

“I'm sorry,” Jana said again.

“Don't be. It's fine.” I looked at my watch. “But it is getting late. Let me get the check.”

“Pregnant women need their sleep, huh?”

“Yes, and so do lawyers who have to be in court at nine
AM
.”

Jana reached for her purse. “I want to pay for half,” she said. “Please let me, John.”

The look on her face convinced me that it was important to her.

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

Jana and I parted amicably but once home and in bed, I felt a sort of sorrow descend on me. After a certain time in your life, you're no longer certain that things actually will look brighter and more hopeful in the light of day.

Fittingly, I began to wonder, and to worry, about my capacity for real intimacy. Maybe Eva is right, I thought. Maybe I'm really not the marrying kind after all. Maybe I will wind up living in a basement apartment of a niece or a nephew, hauled up to the dining room for Thanksgiving and Christmas. And if that was my fate, I had better get back to living large now, before it was too late and no woman would have sex with me unless she was well paid, in advance.

43

 

Mark had that shiny, just-out-of-the-shower look, and his clothes were always neat and pressed. Otherwise, there was nothing special about him; he looked like lots of fortysomething men, slightly balding and slightly fleshy, generally nondescript.

I'm not so beautiful that I would hold this against him. And Mark and I did have two important things in common. We were both divorced and both parents. Three things in common, if you considered the fact that we were both studying for our real estate license. Surely, we could find something interesting to talk about.

“Yes,” I said to his offer of dinner one night during a break in class. “That would be nice.”

We met at a new restaurant, one that Mark had chosen. Mark shook my hand. At least he hadn't tried to kiss me.

We weren't seated more than five minutes—the waiter had only had time to greet us and take a drink order—when Mark's cell phone rang.

I'd made sure to turn mine off before coming into the restaurant. Wasn't that the polite thing to do? I shot a nervous glance around the room, expecting to be met with annoyed stares. But no one seemed to notice Mark talking on his phone, not even the waiter. (Well, he must have noticed but clearly he didn't care as he set our drinks in front of us.) I took a breath and reminded myself that things were different now, that I'd been out of the social world for some time, and that it was normal for a man on a date to spend time on his cell phone.

The first call lasted over five minutes. It was from his daughter (Mark explained this after the call but I'd easily figured it out.) and seemed to involve a struggle over a curfew. In the end, Mark gave in. (How could I have helped but overhear?)

“My kids,” he said, “live with their mom. It's a hassle keeping an eye on things at that house. I don't want to be one of those dads who aren't involved in their kids' lives, you know?”

Yes, I did know. I also knew that Mark hadn't apologized for the interruption to our date.

The waiter took our dinner order and call number two came in, this time from Mark's son.

By then, I was losing patience. Maybe this was the way people conducted themselves on dates these days. I could accept that as fact but I didn't have to like it. And I didn't have to like being virtually ignored.

Here's a sampling of the “conversation” that took place between Mark and me that evening:

Me: “My son is in graduate school studying for a degree in—”

Mark: “Damn, I just remembered . . . One minute.” Mark stabbed a key on his cell phone. “Tiffany? It's Dad, yes, again. Look, I forgot to tell you to use my AmEx and not the MasterCard when you order those shoes, okay?”

Me: “Jake plays on the university's baseball—”

Mark: “Trenton is a good kid, really, but sometimes he just gets overexcited. I mean, was there really a need for the teacher to file an assault charge on him? Okay, so he threw a piece of chalk at her. Come on! Boys will be boys, is what I say. Anyway, my lawyer is advising me to keep my mouth shut but I'm seriously considering slapping a harassment suit on her.”

Me: “I'm finding our titles class—”

Mark: “Oh, wait, it's Tiffany again. Hi, honey, what's up?”

The evening wore on in this way until I was tempted to do something drastic like go to the ladies' room and not return. But I'm too trained in politeness so instead I sat and endured. And I ate. Mark's meal went largely untouched.

When the waiter finally asked if we'd like to see a dessert menu, I replied with a firm, “No.”

“Coffee?” he suggested.

“No, thank you,” I said. If Mark wanted coffee, let him get a cup at Dunkin' Donuts—on his way home to tuck his spoiled, violent kids into bed.

When the check came I sat with my hands in my lap. Mark paid with the air of someone very used to picking up other peoples' tabs—i.e., with the air of an abused father.

Once on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Mark took a deep breath, as if relieved our date was almost over. And then he surprised me by saying: “So, when can I see you again?”

What kind of woman, I wondered, would sign on for such rude behavior?

“I'm sorry,” I said. “We won't be going out again.”

“But we get along so well,” he protested. “We're both parents!”

And that, I thought, is the only thing we have in common: tuition bills. “What's my son's name?” I asked him.

Mark opened his mouth to reply and then he closed it. He had the decency to blush, but red cheeks weren't going to change my mind about a future with this man.

“I mentioned it several times over the course of the evening, but clearly, it wasn't important to you. Good night.”

I began to walk away and Mark took a quick step after me. “No, no,” he said, somewhat desperately, “it's just that I don't get out much and—”

I said, “Good night, Mark,” and walked on. So much, I thought, for all the care I'd put into my outfit. So much for the fifteen dollars I'd paid for a blowout. So much for the predate jitters that had resulted in a last-minute visit to the bathroom.

I passed a small, cozy-looking restaurant. At the bar a woman sat alone, reading a book and sipping a glass of wine. For a fleeting moment I entertained the idea of stopping in as well. But I'd never eaten alone in a restaurant or sat alone at a bar. I tried to remember the last time I'd even gone to a movie by myself and couldn't.

I walked on, sorry that the date hadn't been promising, proud of myself for the way I handled the parting with Mark, and determined to work on my being-alone skills.