The Friends We Keep (23 page)

66

 

What a week it had been!

I got my second client (!); went out after work one night for drinks with two of my new colleagues; bought a set of weights and an exercise video (which told me I also needed a mat and a ball and a whole bunch of other stuff, which I then went out and bought), and started working out (I wasn't even that sore!); and listened to some CDs I hadn't listened to in years. (Brad hated country music; I guess over time I'd just stopped playing it; now I remembered how much I loved it.)

On Monday the owner of the dry cleaners on the corner showed me photos of his new granddaughter—his fourth! He and his wife are such nice people. On Tuesday, I went to the museum and stumbled upon a docent giving a lecture about French Impressionism (my favorite). I didn't learn anything new, but it was fun, nonetheless.

On Thursday—I made a mental note to tell Eva—I chatted with a woman who lives down the hall, a retired teacher, and somehow the conversation led to other people in the building (which ones were odd, who played music too loudly, that kind of thing) and she mentioned the guy who'd asked me to dinner. It seems he hit on all the single women in the building! We shared a good laugh about that and made a promise to have coffee sometime soon.

But the highlight of the week was going to a book reading /signing with Ben at the college's bookstore. Ben knew the author, a poet, and introduced me afterward. I met several other people he knew, including some devoted students, and had such a good time. I bought a copy of the book, of course (the first book I'd ever owned signed by the author) and started it that night. I've never been much for poetry but I found myself enjoying the work and thought, not for the first time since moving back East: What other old assumptions about myself might be ready for the garbage?

My daily life was becoming rich in a way it hadn't been since college. I wondered if the change was more one of attitude than circumstance; I thought it might be. Brad hadn't been holding me back from getting “out there.” I had. Brad hadn't told me not to play country music. I'd made that “decision.”

But now, I thought, surveying my beautiful apartment, everything is different. Now, things just keep getting better.

67

 

“Oof!”

The sudden weight on my back made me stumble.

“Paul! I told you not to jump on your uncle like that!” Chrissy scolded. “He's getting old.”

I dumped my sister's eight-year-old onto the couch. “And I love you, too, Chrissy.”

Teri, passing through the living room from the dining room, grinned.

The football game that I was trying to watch with my brothers-in-law went to commercial. Frank hauled himself from his chair. “John, want a beer?” he asked.

“Sure, thanks.”

“Mike?”

Mike nodded and Frank went off to the kitchen.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Chrissy's hand appeared before my face. “I got a postcard from Mom and Dad today. Look.”

I sunk onto the couch next to my nephew and took the card. Mom's terrible scrawl made me smile. “You can read this?” I asked.

Chrissy shrugged. “Enough to know they're having a good time but getting lonely for home.”

I squinted again at the writing. “Amazing. I get nothing.”

Chrissy took the postcard from me and brought it to Mike, whose reaction was close to mine.

Four-year-old Jean Marie sat on my right foot and grabbed onto my calf.

Paul turned to his sister, who had perched on the arm of the couch. “Why doesn't Uncle John have a wife?” he asked.

“Not all men have wives,” Lucy said with all the wisdom of a ten-year-old. “Some men have husbands.”

“Why?”

Lucy shrugged. “They just do.”

“Can I have a husband when I grow up?” Paul wondered.

“When you're grown-up you can do anything you want. That's what Andrew told me.”

Ah, yes, the twelve-year-old perspective. Andrew and his twin, Scott, displayed a lot of their mother's I-know-pretty-much-everything attitude.

“Can you have cookies for dinner?” Paul turned to me. “Uncle John, do you have cookies for dinner?”

“Sometimes,” I lied. From across the room Chrissy shot me the look. “But not often.”

“Well, I'm going to have cookies for dinner every night!”

“And ice cream!” Andrew and Scott shouted together.

“Personally,” I said, risking another look from a sister, “I'm partial to pizza for breakfast.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Ew! Gross!”

Jean Marie let go of my leg and scrambled to her feet. “I like pizza,” she announced. “It has cheese.”

Teri reappeared at the entrance to the living room. “John,” she said in a singsong voice, “could you help me in the kitchen?”

Crap, I thought. Frank appeared with the beers and shrugged. Mike looked away from the TV to give me a grin that said,
“Ha ha.”

I followed Teri into the kitchen. Chrissy was close on my heels.

“So, Uncle John,” she said. “Why don't you have a wife? What's holding you up?”

“Nothing's holding me up. I just haven't met the right person yet. Don't rush me.”

“He's very particular,” Teri said.

“He's fussy.”

“I'm not fussy! I just don't want to make a big mistake.”

“Nobody's perfect, you know.”

I groaned. “Yes, I know nobody's perfect. Look, can we drop this interrogation and get back to the party? Please, I beg of you.”

Teri sighed. “Oh, all right.” She handed me a bowl heaped with guacamole. “Take this out to the table, will you? And don't put your fingers in it! Jeez!”

“I didn't put my fingers in it! Besides, my hands are clean.”

“You were just down on your hands and knees in the living room,” Chrissy pointed out.

Teri glared. “Are you saying my carpet isn't clean?”

I slipped out of the kitchen before my sisters could accuse me of having started the squabble. Family. Things would be pretty boring without them.

68

 

I'd done a lot of thinking in the days leading up to this dinner with Eva, a lot of thinking about the way I behaved with her, about the way she provoked me and the way I fought back.

And here's what I'd come up with: Maybe, I realized, Eva didn't really want to fight me but felt that she had to, for reasons only she could explain. Maybe she was struggling with some deep fear or unhappiness and if so, my combatative behavior in return was only proving her point—that I was an enemy, someone she needed to fend off, someone against whom she had to protect herself.

Maybe, I reasoned, the best way I could be of help to her—as a friend—was to listen uncritically for a change, to sympathize, to refrain from offering “solutions” to what I saw as her problems or her flaws. In short, to turn the other cheek when she lashed out, to keep quiet when she baited me. And, most importantly, to stop judging her against the standard of the young woman she once was, the young woman of my memory. Making that comparison and constantly pointing it out to Eva was entirely unfair. The fact that Eva had changed wasn't a fault. The fact that I was unable to accept it
was
.

Of course, grand determinations are easier talked about than executed. I was nervous; I doubted my ability to follow through. But with a skill perfected over years of having to perform in court, I wrangled the nervousness into adrenaline and, wearing a new tie bought just for the occasion, I walked through the door of DeMado's, Eva's choice, one of the five most expensive restaurants in the city, right on the nose of seven.

Eva, of course, was already at the bar. She looked . . . perfect. But when did she ever look anything less? Maybe, I thought, first thing in the morning. That was an Eva I would very much like to see.

“You were early,” I said, stupidly, pushing aside bedroom images.

“And you were right on time.”

“Do you think punctuality is a lost social skill? Half the people in my office wander in between nine-thirty and ten.”

Eva shrugged. “Maybe we're the odd ones these days, but I refuse to give up the habit of being on time.”

“Me, too. But maybe we refuse to give it up because we want to stand out from the crowd. If everyone suddenly became obsessed with punctuality, do you think we would start oversleeping and missing reservations?”

“Absolutely not! But I'll admit it's another thing we have in common, the habit of standing out from the crowd.”

“Habit?” I said. “Or the need? Or the desire?”

Before Eva could reply the hostess appeared to lead us to our table. I was glad. I thought I might have gone over a line with that last remark, “accusing” Eva of a psychological weakness.

A waiter took our orders almost immediately. For such an upscale place, I noted, the service was a bit rushed.

“I'm starved,” Eva said when he had gone. “I hope the food comes as quickly as the waiter did.”

I refrained from voicing my opinion.

“I fired my assistant,” Eva said abruptly. A challenge?

“Oh,” I said, neutrally. “Do you have a replacement yet?”

“Of course. She starts next Monday. I just couldn't take the incompetence of this other one. And she always acted as if she was—afraid. Okay, I'm a tough boss but I'm not an ogre!”

“Of course not,” I said. I could have pointed out that sometimes Eva was, in fact, an ogre, but I didn't. “Do you have a temp for the next few days?”

“Well, I'm not doing the menial stuff myself! Not anymore, anyway. That's how I started, you know. At the bottom.”

I nodded. “And you've done quite well for yourself. You should be proud, Eva.”

Our food came just then, another perfectly timed interruption, preventing the possibility of Eva's misconstruing my compliment as less than genuine. Well, at least postponing an attack based on her misperception. (Maybe, I thought, the quick service wasn't such a bad thing after all.) We ate for a while in a silence that felt almost companionable, speaking only to comment on our meals, which we both were enjoying.

“You eat too much red meat,” Eva said, pointing with her fork at my almost-finished filet. “It's going to catch up with you.”

“You're right,” I replied. “I do.” She was right, I did eat too much red meat; but only weeks earlier I would have fought her comment with a snide reply about her own eating habits. Or maybe about something else, because actually Eva did eat very well.

She paused, fork halfway to mouth, and looked at me funny.

“What?” I asked.

Eva seemed to consider, then shook her head and resumed eating.

When the plates had been cleared and we'd both declined coffee and dessert (I'd been considering the caramel tart, but after Eva's comment about my diet I thought better of it.), Eva asked: “So, you're not going to tell me I was wrong?”

“About what?”

“About firing my assistant for being incompetent? About not giving her a fourth chance? About not sending her to class for more computer training? About not treating her with kid gloves so she wouldn't be afraid of me?”

“No,” I said, “I'm not. Even if I did think you were wrong in letting her go, which I don't—an office is a place of business, not a nursery school—I wouldn't say anything, because I'm trying to be a less . . . didactic person.”

“Huh. Interesting. What brought about this decision for change?”

I shrugged. “Stuff. Things. You know.”

Eva gave me a funny look. “What about the ability to articulate? Decided to lose that, too?”

“Obviously.”

I laughed. She laughed. Pretty good, I thought.

“You wanted dessert, didn't you?”

I feigned shock. “Me? Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You could have had it, you know. I didn't mean the red meat comment as an insult. More as—a helpful warning.”

“I know,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

The bill came then and I reached for it. My fingers had just lifted it from the table when Eva put her hand atop mine, holding it there. Her hand was beautiful, and warm. I looked up at her.

“Please,” she said. “I'd like to split this.”

“You don't have to do that, Eva.”

She rolled her eyes at me, but her hand still covered mine. “I don't have to do anything, but I want to pay for half.”

“I owe you for running out the other night.”

“You don't owe me anything.”

We sat there, hands touching, looking at each other, for what seemed like a long time. I wanted it to be longer. I considered arguing back, to keep us there, but better sense prevailed.

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

Eva smiled and released me. “We should leave a good tip,” she said.

“I always do. My mother waited tables for a few years. We needed the money. I heard the stories.”

“I didn't know that about your mother, about your family.”

“Eva,” I said, “there's a lot you don't know about me and I bet some of it might just interest you.”

She laughed. “Oh, really? Well, we'll see.”

Possibility! Maybe Eva no longer regarded me as an enemy. Maybe she was beginning to acknowledge me as a friend.

I didn't kiss her at the end of the evening. I wanted to and I believe she wanted me to, but I didn't. Truth was, I was a little wary. Eva was still Eva, truce or not; I knew that she could sting.

But I don't think she hated me for it. I think that we parted with a sense of promise, with a sense of more to come. I know I did.