The Friends We Keep (19 page)

51

 

A framed photo of a little boy stood on a side table. The frame was decorated with blue and purple teddy bears. I picked it up to look more closely. “I assume this is Jake?” I asked.

Sophie had invited me over for a drink after work. With nothing better to do—I'd cut Jake back to only two nights per week—I accepted her offer.

Sophie poked her head out of the kitchen. “Yes, when he was almost three. Wasn't he adorable?”

He really had been a cute kid. Dimples, big eyes, the whole thing. “Yeah,” I said, “he was.”

“He was the spitting image of Brad at that age. It was only when he got to be about five that he started to look a bit like my family.”

Genetics. Interesting stuff. I returned the photo to the side table and settled onto the very comfortable couch. Aside from the tacky frame, the apartment was furnished tastefully. I don't have the skills to decorate but I know them when I see them.

Sophie emerged from the kitchen carrying a platter of cold shrimp with three different types of cocktail sauce. I reached for a shrimp as the platter touched the table. Sophie perched across from me on a caramel-colored leather armchair.

“Jake was potty trained very early,” she announced. “He was so proud of himself! I remember him announcing to total strangers in the supermarket that he could ‘make' all by himself. It was so cute!”

I'll bet. I just love strange kids telling me about their bowel movements. “That's nice,” I said. Really, what else was there to say? Luckily, talk of bathroom activities doesn't affect my appetite. I downed another shrimp.

“Oh, yes, Jake was early with everything: crawling, walking, talking.” Sophie laughed. “He'd kill me if he knew I told anyone this, but I just can't help myself. Do you know what he called his penis?”

Oh, God, she had to bring up the subject of Jake's penis. I was inordinately fond of that organ but had no desire to discuss it or anything about it with my lover's mother.

I just shook my head.

“He called it his weepee. Isn't that hysterical!”

“That's hysterical, all right,” I agreed.

Sophie popped off to the kitchen again and returned with a silver bucket in which a bottle of wine nestled. All those years that Sophie played the corporate wife/semiprofessional hostess were really paying off for me. The woman knew her wines and she cooked a mean roast beef.

When she'd poured us each a glass I attempted to introduce a subject other than baby Jake. But before I could suggest a discussion about the president's latest verbal gaff, Sophie launched back into her favorite topic.

“You know,” she said, “Jake will definitely want to settle down someday, get married and have a family. I just hope he marries the right sort of woman.”

Meaning, I thought, a woman weak enough to be controlled by her mother-in-law.

“Oh,” I said. “And what kind of woman is that?”

“Well, someone educated, of course. Someone kind and loving, that goes without saying. But also someone really—I don't know, cozy. Yes, that's the word I'm looking for.”

Cozy? Well, I reminded myself, it's not like you want to marry the kid. Still, I was a bit disconcerted to hear that for her son, my friend envisioned a woman almost entirely different from me.

The doorbell rang. Sophie hurried to the door and peered out the peephole.

“It's Jake!” she announced happily.

Oh, shit, I thought. I should have known this was within the realm of possibility. I finished my glass of wine in a gulp.

Sophie unlocked and opened the door. “Jake, what a nice surprise! Come in.”

Jake leaned down to hug Sophie and caught my eye over his mother's shoulder. Instead of a wink like he'd given me at the ball game, Jake gave me a wide-eyed look that said,
“Believe me, I had no idea you were here.”

“Oh,” he said when he'd pulled away from his mother's fierce embrace. “I didn't know you had company. Sorry.”

“Oh, don't be silly, it's just Eva. You remember her from your game, don't you?”

Jake nodded. “Sure. I remember. Hey.”

“Hey,” I said, my voice surprisingly even.

“To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” Sophie asked brightly. “I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow for dinner.”

“Uh.” Jake pointed to the duffel bag over his shoulder. “I just thought, I mean—”

Sophie laughed. “Of course I'll do your laundry. Just put the bag by the machines and join us for a bit.”

With a distinctly sheepish expression, Jake loped off into the depths of the apartment.

His mother was still doing his laundry? I found this both annoying and somehow embarrassing, for both Jake and me.

“Isn't this nice?” Sophie asked rhetorically.

What could I answer?
“No, actually, this is incredibly uncomfortable for me, as I am, in fact, having sex with your son. ”

Jake returned and looked from the couch to an empty chair well out of my reach. As he bolted for the chair I bolted to my feet and excused myself to the bathroom. Maybe, I thought, we could spend his entire visit in separate rooms.

In the bathroom I checked my watch. A normal bathroom run shouldn't take more than two or three minutes. If I hid out for much longer than that I'd run the risk of Sophie knocking on the door in concern. When the second hand indicated that just over three minutes had passed I took a deep breath and stepped into the hallway.

Jake appeared from the direction of the bedroom. Before I could take another step he'd pushed me against the wall and his lips were on mine.

I pushed him back but he still held my arms. “Get off me!” I whispered fiercely.

Jake grinned. “Don't you think this is kind of fun?”

“No, I don't. Let me—Let me go!” I shoved Jake and his hold broke.

“You really do work out, don't you?” he asked with a low laugh.

I gave him a nasty look. “You couldn't tell before this?” Men can be such blind idiots.

I hurried back to the living room. Sophie was just emerging from the kitchen with a plate of something in puff pastry.

“Where's Jake?” she asked with no trace of suspicion.

I shrugged. Jake then appeared from the hall and made an excuse for running off, after promising his mother he'd be on time the following night. I didn't meet his eye when he offered his farewell.

When Jake was gone, Sophie perched on a chair and, a propos of nothing, she said: “I still can't believe you're in advertising. I swear I thought you'd have published, oh, a dozen books by now. Or maybe be teaching literature in a private high school.”

I smiled stiffly to hide my annoyance. You'd think I'd signed a contract back in college, pledging that I would pursue my stated goals, and that I'd broken that contract. What did they want me to do—apologize?

“What does it matter that I'm not doing what I wanted to do when I was twenty?” I said. “How many people get to live out their dreams? Besides, those old dreams don't count anymore. I like my life just the way it is. Really.” I looked Sophie squarely in the eye. “It's perfect.”

Sophie looked back at me doubtfully.

All right, not even I believed me. It was time to redirect the conversation.

“So, how's the dating game going?” I asked. “Have you met anyone?”

Sophie refolded the linen napkin on her lap. “Oh, no one special,” she said in a voice that said,
“I'm evading your question.”

Fine. So we each had our little secrets.

I left after a second glass of wine. Sophie didn't press me to stay for dinner.

52

 

I just couldn't face another bad date, not without some time to lick my wounds.

But Eva? Was asking my prickly, insult-wielding old friend to join me for a night out really a wise thing to do, especially in my battle-weary state?

Maybe not. Probably not. But I had two free tickets to the new David Mamet play. And, I'll admit to a typical male stubbornness. It drove me crazy that I couldn't break through Eva's misconceptions about me as a person. Since college she'd persisted in seeing me as an unethical cad, and though almost everything else about her seemed to have changed, this one notion had remained fixed.

I wanted to change Eva's mind about me. I wanted her to see me as I really was: flawed, yes, but also good. At least, I wanted her to see me as someone who tried to be good.

Which brings us to the next million-dollar question. Why was Eva's good opinion of me so important? I'm not the type of guy who needs to be liked by everyone. I'm not the type who needs everyone's good opinion. Too many people are simply not worth my efforts to impress . . . the wife-beaters, the murderers, the people who don't pick up after their dogs. If that makes me a snob or an elitist, then, fine, maybe Eva was right in that regard.

Still, Eva was one of the people I wanted—needed?—to like and respect me. Maybe, I thought, just maybe, if she spent more time with me she might come to see that she'd misjudged me.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast. Sometimes, I've learned, hope should be blindfolded, gagged, and chained to a chair.

I made the call, pretty much assuming that Eva would say no, and unceremoniously at that. But she surprised me.

“Sure,” she said immediately, “I'd love to go. Reviews of the show are great. Thanks.”

“Great,” I said, taken aback. “How about we have dinner first? Maybe at Donna Q's?”

“Sure,” she said again. “I was there last week. The service is still working out its kinks but the food was fabulous.”

We made plans to meet at the restaurant and hung up after a pleasant good-bye.

Well, I thought, sitting back in my chair with a grin and congratulating myself on my persistence, this could be the new beginning of a beautiful friendship.

53

 

I was thrilled about the opportunity to see the new Mamet. The run was entirely sold out and so far, none of my clients had been of any use in digging up even one lousy, partial-view seat.

True, this did mean I'd have to spend the evening with John, and that prospect didn't excite me at all. I fully expected to be criticized, mocked, and subjected to tales illustrating how selfless and talented he was. But third-row seats! For third-row seats I could deal with an egomaniac for a few hours. And, as I'd told John, the food at Donna Q's really was amazing. The striped bass with roasted minivegetables in a butter sauce would help ease the pain of listening to stories about John's precious little nieces and nephews.

Really, I thought, it was a pretty good deal in the end. But sometimes, even I can be wrong.

 

He started in on me at dinner. I like to check my watch every once in a while. Big deal. But to John, it was.

“You've got somewhere better to be?” he asked, with a nod at my wrist.

“I just like to keep track of the time.”

“You've checked your watch every ten minutes since we sat down.”

I eyed him. “You've been timing my time checks?”

“Time flies when you're having fun. I sense you're not having fun.”

“Maybe I would be having fun,” I shot back, “if you stopped being so annoying.”

John took a sip of his wine, then said: “Don't worry. We won't miss the curtain. I'm never late to anything important.”

“How mature of you,” I mocked, though didn't I share the same habit of punctuality, and wasn't I proud of it?

John frowned disapprovingly, something he's quite good at. “You've changed, Eva,” he said.

“And you haven't changed one bit,” I snapped.

But he did look good, even better than he'd looked in college. A woman would have to be dead not to find him attractive. This pissed me off.

“You used to be a lot less nasty.”

“And you're still the same holier-than-thou, know-it-all you always were.”

“Ah, yes, the one thing that hasn't changed is your lack of correct perception.”

And then, the words came flying out of my mouth like bullets flying out of a gun. “I'm seeing someone, you know, and he's quite a bit younger, only half my age.”

I couldn't quite read the look on John's face as he processed this information. It was a mix of anger, disapproval, and maybe even disappointment.

And then, suddenly, his expression returned to its usual calm and he said: “Why are you wasting your time?”

“Wasting my time? Have you got a better way for me to be spending the nights?”

It was a challenge that I didn't really mean to issue.

John's expression remained neutral. “Of course not,” he said evenly. “Why would I?”

“Are you implying,” I asked, pressing him for a fight (but why!), “that I should be out looking for a suitable husband? Are you saying that my time is running out, that I'm getting too old to be single?”

“Of course not,” John said again.

But I know a lie when I hear one. I'm sure he was thinking that my time would be better spent attempting a relationship with a man who was classified as suitable husband material. Someone, for example, like him?

“Are you saying that my lover is only having sex with me out of pity?” I persisted. There, I'd expressed the slight but nagging fear that Jake was, indeed, having sex with me out of a general sense of pity for single women over forty.

“No,” John said with exaggerated patience. “That's not at all what I'm saying. But if the shoe fits . . .”

I didn't reply to John's nasty comment. Instead I gripped my fork and wondered what, exactly, Jake wanted from me, really. Just sex—or did he hope to get something more tangible and lasting from me, like a good job after graduation? Money? Was my twenty-one-year-old lover using me for material gain?

“Look,” I blurted, “don't tell Sophie I'm seeing someone.”

“Someone,” John countered, “or someone her son's age?”

I felt sick. Had John guessed the truth? No. He was just being his usual superior self.

“Just do me a favor and don't tell her I'm seeing anyone,” I repeated.

“Don't worry,” John said, with an annoying little wink. “It will be our little secret.”

“So,” I said with a bright and phony smile, “how's the wife search working out for you?”

“Just fine,” he said, but I wasn't going to allow him to dismiss the subject so easily with that obvious lie.

I laughed. “Sure. That's why you're sitting here tonight with me. Face it, John,” I pronounced, “you're not the marrying kind. You're far too self-absorbed.”

Again, John's usually placid expression darkened into a mix of black emotions. Well, I'd wanted a fight, hadn't I?

“That's entirely unfair,” he said with barely restrained fury. “How can you call me self-absorbed when I'm trying to add meaning to my life by making a commitment to someone? What about you? Indulging in a strictly sexual affair is displaying an enormous amount of self-concern.”

“What makes you think my affair is all about sex?” I demanded.

“Please, Eva. What could you possibly have in common with someone twenty years your junior? Unless, of course, you both share an avid interest in some arcane topic like, I don't know, the mating rituals of
Tyrannosaurus rex
. Then, well, I can see the mutual attraction.”

It was useless to argue this particular point so I replied to another implicit charge against my character.

“Well, I'm not hurting anyone, am I?”

“I don't know,” John said promptly, “are you? How's your boy toy going to feel when you toss him aside for the next new attraction?”

Another unanswerable question. I knew I would be the one ending the affair. And I knew Jake would be hurt. I knew these things like I knew my name was Eve. Eva.

God, John was a pain in the ass. I made a big show of looking at my watch again and announced, “We should get the check if we're going to be in our seats before curtain call.”