The Friends We Keep (18 page)

49

 

“So, what are some of the good things about marriage?”

Ellen looked up at me as if I were an odd art installation or something else problematic. “Didn't we just have this conversation?” she asked.

I perched on her desk, my usual spot. “We had a conversation in a similar vein,” I admitted.

“I should charge you by the hour for my advice.”

I reached for my wallet and withdrew a credit card. “Use my corporate account and have lunch at M. Kaye's tomorrow. You know how to forge my signature.”

“In that case,” she said, closing the file on which she was working, “I'm more than happy to answer your question. But I'm afraid I can't tell you about anyone's marriage but my own. What Austin and I have is unique to us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, “I know every marriage is different. But what are some of the things you like about your marriage? I don't mean to be too personal,” I added hastily.

Ellen frowned. “Why all the questions? Are you taking a survey?”

“Something like that, for my own edification. So?”

“Okay,” she said. “Here's a good thing: Austin and I both like to go canoeing. Being married, and liking each other, mind you, allows each of us to do something we like—in this case, canoeing—together.”

I nodded. “The best-friend aspect, of course.”

“Someone to bitch to about your horrible day at work.”

“Not that you ever have cause to complain about your boss.”

“Of course not,” Ellen said, eyes wide.

I wondered. It was possible to be lonely in a crowded room. It was possible to be lonely all alone. But was it really possible to be lonely in a good marriage? Probably, I thought. But maybe not for long.

“Since you're conducting this informal survey,” Ellen said then, “you might want to take a look at your parents' marriage, or at your sisters' marriages. What seems good about those relationships?”

“I never gave my parents' marriage much thought,” I admitted. “Until recently. And I've come to the conclusion that food is their primary mutual interest. And, I suppose, their kids. But really, I think it's mostly about homemade pasta. They work together in the kitchen like a well-oiled machine. I'm not criticizing, by the way, when I say they're bonded by something as mundane as food. My parents are very close. Whatever they have works for them.”

“Keep in mind that it probably took years for them to develop into that smoothly functioning team.”

“Of course. And I'm not saying they never fight. My mother nags. My father doesn't listen. He says he doesn't listen because she nags and she says she nags because he doesn't listen.”

Ellen laughed. “It's one of the realities of a male/female relationship. Mars and Venus and all that. In my opinion it's absolutely unavoidable.”

Was it?

“My sisters,” I said, “seem to have chosen well. Frank and Mike adore their wives. And they respect them. Of course, my sisters pretty much demand the respect, but, at least when I'm around, it's forthcoming.”

“Ah, when you're around. There's the problem with forming opinions about other people's relationships. No matter how much you think you know, there are volumes more that you don't. And what you think you know, based on observable behavior, might be mostly an act for the benefit of outsiders.”

“Which is why,” I said, “that outside of my professional capacity I keep my mouth shut when it comes to making comments on other people's relationships. At least, I try to keep my mouth shut. I don't always succeed.”

Ellen raised an eyebrow at me. “I've noticed. But you're right to try. Unless someone's bleeding from the eyes and the partner's knuckles are bloody, it's wise to keep your advice to yourself. If people need help, they'll ask for it.”

“Unless they're suffering from debilitating low self-esteem or any of the other psychological or emotional problems we see every week.”

“Of course,” Ellen conceded. “I was talking about the average person, not some poor woman plagued by deep-seated insecurity caused by an abusive childhood, or someone manipulated into submission by an evil control freak. With a tiny dick.”

“It does make you wonder . . .”

“About the tiny dick? Please. Any man who mistreats his wife or girlfriend has an issue with his penis. It's a no-brainer.”

“You've conducted studies?” I asked.

“I've been around,” Ellen said with an air of superior knowledge. “And we women talk. Of course, not all men with tiny penises are demonic assholes. In fact, I remember one guy from college, he was awfully sweet and he had this incredibly small—”

“Uh, Ellen?”

“Oh.” Ellen had the grace to look chastened. “Right. Okay.”

“And all this started when I asked you what you liked about your marriage.”

“Hazelnut gelato,” Ellen announced. “I'm mad for it and whenever I feel blue Austin brings home a pint for me. He doesn't even ask for a spoonful. And most times I don't give him one. But he still continues to know when I'm down, even if I've said nothing specific—and to show up with the gelato. That's one thing I like about my marriage.”

“That's a big thing.” What, I wondered, would I like a woman to bring me when I felt blue? I'd never thought about it.

“You bet it is,” Ellen agreed. “And here's another big thing. Whenever I ask Austin if a particular dress or pair of pants makes me look fat he replies immediately and automatically, ‘Of course not!'”

“He's well trained.”

“That, and he knows I don't mind being lied to about certain topics. See, I'm not really asking for his opinion when I ask about the dress or the pants; I just want to hear the answer I want to hear. Austin has learned to distinguish a real question from a—let's call it a phony—question.”

“Some men might call it a trick question,” I pointed out.

“Not once they've memorized the answer,” Ellen countered. “And his reply isn't really a lie, is it? It's all part of a game, a routine, the “Ellen and Austin Show.” Every couple has their own little variety show. Believe me, it helps pass the time—arguing about the same old same old, using the same catch phrases, repeating favorite quotes from
The Simpsons
. It's good stuff, routine.”

And speaking of routine . . . I slid off the desk. “I'd better get back to work,” I said. “Thanks for the chat. And don't forget to return that credit card tomorrow.”

Ellen grinned. “I won't. But you might regret having given it to me in the first place.”

50

 

I met Ben for lunch two days later. His tousled hair, his startling eyes, his way of looking right at me when we talked—it was all there again, those feelings I'd had the first time we met. Not that I was surprised. When he'd called to make the date his voice over the phone had made me smile.

And as we talked, as I learned more about him, I couldn't help but notice the glaring differences between Ben and Brad. Ben's demeanor, his way of listening, it seemed that everything about the way he walked around in the world set him apart from Brad. It made me feel . . . hopeful.

When we'd decided on what to eat (Was it meaningful that we chose the same dish? Brad and I never did.), Ben told me that he owned an apartment in the Back Bay (not far from my own in the Fen) and that he had two cats, Rousseau and Cellini
.

“
Brad wasn't fond of pets,” I said, wondering if I should be mentioning my ex-husband again. “When Jake was ten he wanted a puppy but Brad said no.”

“That's too bad,” Ben said, neutrally.

“I'm more of a cat person, though. I had a cat for a long time when I was a girl. His name was Rutledge. I don't remember why.”

Ben smiled. “Are you thinking about getting a cat now that you're on your own?”

The question affected me like a good shake. “I hadn't even thought about it,” I admitted. “How odd. I guess that I can get a cat, now that—now that Brad's not around.”

“It takes time to get used to living alone. And to living not in relation to a particular person's particular habits.”

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose it does. It's only been a few months, since, well, since everything's been final.”

“So, you're new to the horror that is the midlife dating scene.”

“Yes,” I said. And I thought: This is a date, isn't it? Maybe it's not—how would I know? Maybe Ben is about to give me advice about dating and if so, should I assume he just wants to be my friend? But do single men befriend single women only for the companionship? “It feels really weird,” I blurted.

Ben laughed. “Of course it does. There's something wrong about being in our situation. You have to find the absurd humor in it or you'll sink into depression.”

“I'm not the depression type,” I said honestly. “So I guess I'd better find the humor right away.”

“You will. There are a lot of . . . interesting people out there.”

But I'm not interested in them, I thought. I'm interested in you. And I need to know some things about you.

“So,” I said, “you were married only once?”

Ben nodded. “That's right. Since my divorce I've had a few relationships that lasted more than a year. But none of them worked out, ultimately.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, but I wasn't sorry at all.

“Fortunately, the breakups were civilized.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Well,” he said, “except for one.”

I wasn't sure I should ask for details. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear details.

Before I could open my mouth to say whatever it was I was going to say, Ben said: “I suppose that after dropping that tantalizing bit of information I owe you a more complete explanation.”

“You don't owe me anything,” I said, but maybe he did.

“Be that as it may . . . What happened was that I ended the relationship after about eight months. To me, it was obvious we weren't working as a couple, but she didn't see it that way.”

“Oh,” I said.

“She often didn't see the obvious, at least, in terms of human relationships. Otherwise,” he said, “she was very smart. She was quite successful in her career.”

I nodded, not necessarily encouraging Ben to go on but not deterring him, either.

“Anyway, she was upset when I ended things. Finally, of course, she moved on.”

“And you haven't heard from her since?” I asked carefully. Even a big city could be a small town. “You don't run into her?”

“No, our social and professional spheres are quite separate. I have no idea what's going on with her. I hope she found someone more suitable than I was.”

“More suitable,” I said. “In what way?”

Ben laughed. “A man who doesn't want a commitment.”

I said with a smile, “I thought all women were supposed to want a commitment.”

“Yes, well, not this one. She told me that she'd never been in a long-term relationship before me. It seemed a bit odd. I don't think she had any understanding of what a committed relationship requires.”

“Sacrifice,” I said automatically. “Negotiation. Communication.”

Ben laughed again. “I'm exhausted just thinking about it.”

“But,” I said, watching carefully for his reaction, “the payoff is worth it.”

“It can be, sure.”

“So, that relationship is entirely over?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” Ben looked at me suddenly with some embarrassment. “Maybe I shouldn't have brought it up. But the fact is I still feel bad about how things ended. It never feels good to hurt someone, even if the wound is delivered unintentionally.”

The waitress arrived just then. As Ben ordered for us, I wondered: When had I last hurt someone? I'd certainly annoyed Brad over the years of our marriage, but right then I couldn't remember the last time I'd had to apologize to him—by which I mean, I couldn't remember the last time Brad and I had had any important argument in which I'd said something mean or hurtful. Even our divorce and the conversations that led up to it were relatively bloodless.

Apologies arise when there's a sense of accountability. To say, “I'm sorry” to someone—for a deed more significant than an accidental bump on the elbow—implies that there's been some significant interaction. It implies that you recognize a relationship and respect it. An apology arises from a social contract; a rule has been broken and an apology is an attempt to fix it. It's also an act of recommitment to the relationship.

For the last ten years of our marriage, Brad and I had been living apart, though under the same roof. We'd been the proverbial two ships passing in the night, aware of each other's presence but only as a darker shadow in the general darkness.

But that relationship was over. Now I wanted the chance to make a mistake with someone so that I would also have the chance to apologize. I wanted to mean something to someone, to have an effect on that person. I wanted to matter.

The waitress moved off and Ben smiled at me.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That I'm very happy to be here.”