The Friends We Keep (16 page)

44

 

Ellen was busy. I was busy. But the need to get my head back to someplace even close to the idea of marriage as a real possibility was overwhelming. So I decided to interrupt my hardworking assistant.

I never claimed to be entirely selfless.

I stalked out of my office and stood squarely in front of her desk.

“I know this is a ridiculous question,” I said, “but I'm going to ask it anyway.”

Ellen looked up from her computer. She smiled and swiveled a bit in the expensive, ergonomic chair I'd gotten for her the previous Christmas. “A ridiculous question is my favorite kind, Counselor.”

“Good. Do you like being married?” At the look on Ellen's face that said,
“You're not coming on to me, I hope, because I will have to eviscerate you,”
I added quickly, “I don't mean do you love Austin, because I know you do. I mean, do you enjoy being married? As opposed to—er, not being married.”

“First,” Ellen replied after giving me a long and curious look, “that's not a ridiculous question. Second, yes, absolutely. I think marriage is a good thing. At least, it's a good thing for me. Which is not to say it sometimes isn't incredibly tough. Frankly, if it weren't for my admirable self-control, I'd be serving a life sentence for having stuck an axe in Austin's head. Several times.”

“And Austin?” I asked.

Ellen waved her hand. “Oh, he'd have been executed years ago.”

I perched on the edge of Ellen's desk and crossed one leg over the other. And I remembered with a wince that I'd strained a hamstring the previous day at the gym. “And yet,” I went on, trying to ignore the pain, like a real man, “it's worth staying legally bound?”

“For me and, I'll venture to say, for Austin too, yeah. It is.”

I thought about that for a moment before saying: “Okay, here's the real ridiculous question. Do you think marriage is a somehow . . . superior state to the other options?”

“The scary thing,” Ellen said promptly, “is that a lot of people wouldn't find that question ridiculous in the least. And their answer would be a resounding ‘yes.'”

“But not yours.”

“No,” Ellen laughed, “not mine. I don't believe that marriage is an inherently blessed state or that it's inherently superior in any way to being single or to having a life partner without benefit of a legal document. All that ‘smug marrieds' nonsense angers me as much as it does a woman my age who isn't married. What's there to be smug about? Why is being married something to brag about?”

I shrugged and Ellen went on, warmed to her subject. “Just because you have a ring on your finger, and a piece of paper to prove that you're bound in the eyes of the court to another human being, doesn't infer any greatness on you.”

“Witness the husband of our latest client,” I said. The guy was a dirtbag. The one time I'd seen him, at a distance, down the hall at the courthouse, it was all I could do not to fly at him with a knife. Not that I carry a knife, but you know what I mean.

Ellen nodded. “Exactly. When you think of all the reasons people marry, it's insane to blanket the state of matrimony with sanctity. And when you consider all the reasons couples stay together, well, then you're even more lunatic to promote marriage as a State of Righteousness.”

“Consider our esteemed colleague Gene and his long-suffering wife. There's nothing righteous about that union.”

Ellen shuddered. “That's a travesty. Especially when you consider that there can be—can be, mind you, not necessarily—there can be virtue in hanging in for the long haul, but only if there's a sustained state of mutual love and respect.”

I let my mind wander. Mutual love and respect. Easier said than accomplished, especially over years of daily wear and tear. I thought of my parents and wondered if I should ask them what makes their marriage work. No. I wouldn't bother. My father, embarrassed by such a personal question, would make a joke on the order of
“Keep saying, ‘Whatever you say, dear.'”
My mother, on the other hand, would demur by saying something on the order of
“Don't be silly,”
and then ask me if I wanted something to eat.

Maybe the articulation of a marriage's secrets wasn't necessary to prove its success. Still, I appreciated Ellen's attempts.

I tuned back in as she said, “Marriage is a state of incessant vigilance. The slightest inattention can result in disaster.” Ellen sighed. “Frankly, it's exhausting. And yet, its benefits can be worth all the effort.”

“Sometimes,” I said—finally approaching the crux of the matter, my reason for starting this conversation—“sometimes I wonder why I haven't taken the leap of faith. I've stumbled upon a few notions—”

“Like the fact that you enjoy sleeping with a variety of women.”

“Yes,” I admitted with a laugh, “like that, though in all honesty, it doesn't have the charge it used to. I actually find myself bored more often than not. You know what I mean. Or, maybe you don't.”

Ellen nodded. “I do know. I was single for a long time. Too much of anything can be, well, too much. But back to you. Here's what I think: I think you're like the incredibly devoted kindergarten teacher with no children of her own at home. By choice.”

“How is that like me?”

“Look, you spend hours each week giving your services free of charge to women in need. Right?”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“You're a good brother and a devoted son.”

“I try.”

“You're a great guy to work for and I'm not angling for a raise. You have female friends. Clearly, you like women and they like you. So, why do you avoid the final act of intimacy? By which I mean commitment. Marriage.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that would be the question.”

“So, I can't help but think that something about that ultimate act of selflessness—‘Here, I'm giving you my days and my nights and in return I'm pledging to love and honor you until one of us dies'—I can't help but think that something about that vow scares the life out of you.”

I laughed. “Doesn't it scare the life out of any sane person?”

“Of course,” Ellen admitted. “But millions of sane—well, let's say healthy or typical—millions of people make that vow, some downright eagerly. Sure, about half of them wind up in divorce court but they give it a go.”

“So, why not me? What's my problem? You haven't really suggested an answer to that burning question.”

“It's not my job to. As your friend—and I'm assuming I can use that term—”

I nodded.

“As your friend it's my job to ask leading questions, to encourage you to think. Why do you give and give and give to women and yet not allow a woman—a wife—to give back to you?”

I considered before answering. “The giving I do to women—clients, friends, sisters, my mother—isn't as ultimate as the kind of giving a wife is entitled to. A wife has a right to everything. Maybe . . . Maybe I feel there's nothing left of me to give?”

“I don't know,” Ellen said. “Is that what you feel?”

I laughed nervously. “I'll have to think about that.”

“While you're thinking about that, think also about what you ask in return from the women in your life. Or do you ask for nothing in return? And if so, why?”

“That's something else I'll have to think about,” I admitted.

Ellen smiled. “Your work is cut out for you, John. Now, we started this whole conversation by your asking what you called a ridiculous question: Do I like being married? Now, here's my own ridiculous question, but maybe it's not so ridiculous: Have you ever been in love?”

“Of course,” I replied immediately, but I swear no memory came to mind, no name or face—except one, a possibility.

Ellen looked at me closely, as if sensing some ambivalence in my reply. “John,” she said finally, “you can rest assured that if you don't marry I won't consider you a failure. I will, however, wonder what your life might have been like if you had tied the proverbial knot. And I'll be sorry that you never found out.”

“Because you think I have husband potential?” I asked with a smile.

“Yes, but that's beside the point. Because I like and respect you and I suspect that being in a good marriage would bring you a lot of joy. But that's just my two cents.”

“Your two thousand dollars,” I corrected.

Ellen grinned. “You can always claim a meeting and walk away. You can always fire me for butting into your personal life.”

“If I fired you, who would rehash the latest episode of
The Daily Show
with me?”

“Oh,” Ellen said with a smirk, “you'd find someone.”

“I'd rather not take the chance.” I got to my feet, hamstring twanging. “Thanks, Ellen. I'm a little shaken up by our chat but I guess that's a good thing. To be shaken up every now and then.”

“It's human nature to grow complacent in our happiness or our unhappiness.”

“Vigilance, right? Must be vigilant.”

Ellen suddenly checked her watch. “Crap. I totally spaced on the time. I promised Austin I'd be home by seven so we could have a quick dinner together before he leaves town. He's flying to San Francisco tonight and won't be back until Friday.”

“You'd better not tell him you were late because you were having a conversation with your boss about the sorry state of his personal life.”

“That's exactly what I'm going to tell him,” Ellen said, grabbing her bag and the jacket off the back of her chair. “When he hears my story he'll feel sorry for me and I'll be off the hook.”

“So,” I said, “honesty is the best policy here?”

“In some cases it doesn't hurt. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Ellen. And thanks again.”

Ellen stopped at the open door to the hallway and looked back. “Sure,” she said. “Now, don't do anything I wouldn't do tonight.”

45

 

“You know, of course, that this can't last. What we've got going here.”

I didn't look at Jake when I spoke those words. Our legs touched under the sheets. My hands were folded across my stomach.

Jake turned to me; I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He sounded utterly surprised. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, Jake, come on. Isn't it obvious?”

“Not to me it isn't,” he said. Surprise had become annoyance, maybe confusion. “Besides, why do you want to talk about things ending when they've barely begun?”

I sighed, wondering why I really had to explain. “Because things—relationships—always end,” I said. “It's foolish to pretend otherwise. I find it's healthy to acknowledge the truth right up front. Then you can enjoy the relationship while it lasts without loading it up with all these romantic fantasies and unrealistic expectations.”

Jake sat up and there was no choice but for me to look at him while we talked. “How can you say that all relationships end? Okay, lots of marriages do end in divorce but enough of them don't. At least, until someone dies, but that's hardly the same thing.”

“A relationship can be dead,” I countered, “a long time before the participants pick up the smell of corruption. People live side by side in misery for decades, and to what purpose? At least some people have the sense to get out while they still have a life left to live. I just think it's easier to go into a relationship—of whatever sort—expecting eventual necrosis. It can,” I suggested, “make the experience all the more poignant while it lasts.”

“You're a pessimist, Eva.”

“No, I'm a realist, Jake. You're a romantic.”

“No,” he said vehemently, “I'm a realist. I see the glass as half-full and getting fuller.”

“And I see it as half-empty and draining all the time. I still think you're a romantic.”

“Fine, you want to call me a romantic, then call me a romantic if it makes you happy. I believe that you should—no, I believe that you
have to
go into a relationship believing in its eventual success. That takes a leap of faith, sure. But otherwise, why bother make a connection with anyone at all? Why not just convince yourself that every person is an island and jump off the first high building you come to?”

“Do you see,” I asked, “how ultimately incompatible we are? We could never sustain a relationship over time. We see the world in such very different ways.”

Though once, I thought, I was a little more like you—or so my friends tell me.

Jake ran both hands through his hair. It really was fabulous hair. “Sometimes,” he said, “opposing points of view can make the relationship more exciting.”

“Not over the long haul,” I said, with conviction. A united front is what makes life bearable. My parents had shared a worldview. If they taught me anything about romance it was that a true partner was someone who saw the world through the same colored glasses as you did. (Not that I had experienced that sort of romance or partnership. Not that I had ever looked for it. I shoved away the uncomfortable thoughts.) “Anyway,” I said, “it's a moot issue, our becoming a real couple, for a million reasons. One big reason is that someday you're going to want to have kids.”

And I'll be too old to bear them for you. For anyone.

“No, I won't,” Jake stated defiantly. “I've decided I don't want kids.”

“Jake, you're twenty-one, you have no idea of what you want. Someday you'll meet the right girl and next thing you know you'll be moving to the suburbs, buying an SUV, and saving for the kids' college education.”

“How can you say that?” he cried. “How can you say I don't know what I want?”

I hadn't wanted to make him mad. I hadn't wanted to hurt him. I'd only wanted to educate him—and to prepare him for the end of us. I softened my tone and tried to show the . . . maternal-like concern I felt for my friend's son.

“Because I'm older than you are, Jake,” I said. “I've been twenty-one and believe me, the person I was then is not the person I am now.” A sharp needle of nostalgia pierced me just then; vague memories stirred and took on color. I actually gasped at the power of the sensation.

“Your point?” Jake asked sulkily. He hadn't noticed anything amiss with me.

“My point,” I said after a moment, “is that things change. You get disappointed. Your energy becomes more focused on what you can accomplish and not on what you wish you could accomplish. You start shutting down certain dreams you had for your life because they seem ridiculous. Maybe your heart gets broken a few too many times. Maybe you break your own heart. Maybe your luck goes bad and for a while you're forced simply to survive rather than to live, and the habit sticks. Trust me, Jake, you have no idea what your life will be like when you're thirty, no idea what it will be like when you're forty. Absolutely no idea.”

I lay there on Jake's bed, suddenly very tired.

“I have some idea,” Jake said. “I know I won't be as bitter as you are.”

I looked up at him, surprised. “You think I'm bitter? Oh, Jake, not at all. Just clear-eyed and clearheaded. I'm smart enough not to wallow in regret.”

“You can call it what you want but I call it bitterness.”

“Fine,” I conceded. “But answer me this. Can you honestly say that when I'm sixty you'll still find me attractive? You'll be forty, Jake, still relatively young and vital. It's a lovely fantasy you've got harbored in your head, kiddo, but it's just a fantasy.”

Jake didn't answer the question. Instead, he said: “Don't call me kiddo. I'm not a kid, Eva. It's insulting when you call me things like kiddo and boy.”

“It's done with affection, Jake,” I said, and realized that I meant it. “But I'm sorry, I won't do it again. At least, I'll try not to. I don't like to make promises I might not be able to keep.”

Jake looked away. Quietly, I got up from the bed, dressed, and went home.