The Friends We Keep (30 page)

91

 

“Hi. You're on time.”

John looked . . . good.

“I'm always on time,” I replied.

John closed the door behind me, and locked it. “Nobody's always on time. Trains get stuck in tunnels, heavy rains cause pileups—”

“Yeah,” I said, “I get it. How about, I try always to be on time?”

“Acceptable. Want the grand tour?”

John's apartment was beautiful, masculine without being clichéd; there wasn't a stuffed dead animal in sight. It had a welcome feel about it and yet it was as neat as a pin. Magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table; the materials on his desk were perfectly aligned, just as they were at his office. (I'd noticed, in spite of my fury.) The bathroom was spotless. His bedroom was a refuge in dark blues and greens.

“You did this all by yourself?” I asked dubiously when we'd returned to the living room. “No help from your mother or a bevy of adoring single women just dying to leave their mark?”

“Fixing up an apartment to look like it's lived in is hardly rocket science, Eva.”

“No,” I said, “I suppose it isn't. Anyway, I love the couch. And that chair. And that print over the table.”

“Sophie hates it.”

I laughed. “I can see how it wouldn't be her kind of thing. Too depressing.”

John squinted at the print in grays and blacks. “You think it's depressing?”

“I'm not an artist, John. As you've already pointed out. Nor am I an art critic. I think it's a little depressing, but that doesn't mean I don't like it.”

“Sophie called it ugly. Only after I pushed her for an honest opinion.”

I followed John to the kitchen. The smells were wonderful. He cooked, he cleaned, he decorated, he had a good job. Someday, I thought, John would make someone the perfect husband. I didn't say this to him. I wondered how his search for the perfect wife was going, but I didn't ask.

While John busied himself with final dinner preparations, I perched on a stool at the kitchen's concrete-topped bar.

“Maybe I should hire you to fix up my place,” I said.

John looked up from whatever it was he was chopping, some kind of green, and frowned.

“No, I mean it,” I said. “I could use the help. You've seen how I've been living.”

“Friends don't let friends hire friends,” he said. “Or something like that. I'm not eager to be your employee.”

“Because I'd be such a lousy boss?”

I couldn't quite read the look in his eyes just then. “If you say so,” he said, and went back to chopping.

I watched him work. I know I'd ribbed him about his lousy diet but he really was in fabulous shape, especially for a man in his early forties, when so many men tend to get dumpy. I crossed my legs; this was my body's silly attempt to toss aside carnal thoughts about my friend. “Can I help with something?” I asked.

Without looking up John said: “Can you dice?”

“No.”

“Mince? Julienne?”

“No. And no.”

“Then sit there and drink your wine.”

Dinner was on the table before long: prime rib, salad, red roasted potatoes with herbs, all very simple and delicious.

“You and Sophie are spoiling me,” I said. “I hadn't had a home-cooked meal in years before you guys reemerged.”

John smiled and poured a sweet dessert wine. “It's not that hard to cook, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “I can cook. Not like you, but I can manage the basics.” I paused, considered, wondered if it would be safe, realized there was only one way to find out. “I had to learn how to cook,” I said. “After my parents died. Maura was only eleven. She couldn't live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

John touched his glass to mine. I noticed the tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. They suited him.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I forget that you had such huge responsibility right out of college. It must have been very hard.”

No accusing me of self-pity. Just . . . recognition of what my life had been like.

I shrugged, pretending his response hadn't pleased me as much as it had. “Yeah, that was me, in effect a working single mom. There was a distant cousin, an old woman named Vivian. She came around every month or so with a care package, but after about a year she moved to Florida. Which didn't bother Maura,” I added. “She didn't like Vivian. Vivian smelled of mothballs.”

“That old?”

“That preserved.”

“If you know how to cook,” John asked after a moment, “why don't you cook for yourself?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe . . . Maybe because it reminds me of those first years alone with my sister, trying to do everything, constantly feeling that I was letting her down, letting myself down. Or maybe because it feels too . . . lonely. Or maybe like too much effort just for one person.”

“Three possibilities.”

“Yeah. Anyway,” I said breezily, a bit exhausted from having revealed so much, wanting to steer the conversation into brighter territory, “it doesn't matter. Now I can bum dinner off you.”

“And Sophie?”

A good question, and we were back to the dark. “She hasn't called me back. I left a message saying I wanted to apologize for being so insane that morning.”

“I'm sure she'll call,” John said, with the reassuring tone I'd heard him use with our friend. “It's only been a few days.”

I wasn't convinced but I smiled as if I was.

“I should be getting home,” I said, rising. “Thanks, John. The meal was fantastic.”

John rose, too. “Even though I served red meat?”

“Did you see anything left on my plate?”

John brought my coat and bag from a closet in the hall. “You are a devourer.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering if that was entirely a compliment.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” John asked at the door. “Or I could call you a cab.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “John. I'm not a child.”

“Did I say you were a child? You're a woman alone at night in a city. I'm allowed to worry.”

“I'm a woman alone in a city every night and every day. Are you going to start escorting me to and from the office? The grocery store?”

“Point taken.”

“But thanks,” I said with a smile. “For the concern.”

I kissed him good-bye. It was a quick and friendly kiss, on the cheek, close to the mouth but not there, not again, not yet.

92

 

Not ever.

Because I couldn't let it happen to me. I couldn't fall in love, not with John. Never with John. He would challenge me, I knew it. He would raze my defenses, leaving me vulnerable. He would love me no matter how hard I fought him. Hadn't he already begun to prove that?

It sounded horrible. Wonderful. Horrible. Intimacy would destroy me. It would save me.

I wasn't ready. I was afraid.

I didn't want to make the call. But I had to.

“Hello, Sam.”

There was silence before Sam said, “Oh, hey. What's up?”

What's up?

“I thought,” I said, trying hard to sound nonchalant, “that you'd be a little happier to hear from me.”

There was another disconcerting silence before Sam replied. “Oh, well, yeah. You just caught me by surprise is all.”

“So,” I said, loathing myself, “how about getting together sometime this week?”

“Uh, right. Let me look at my schedule a minute . . .” And then, abruptly: “Uh, no, sorry, this week doesn't look good.”

“Okay. How about next week? I can do Tuesday afternoon or Thursday evening.”

“Uh, next week?” Sam coughed. “Next week doesn't, no, I'm totally booked.”

I took a deep breath. “Sam,” I said, “what's going on?”

There was another moment of ominous silence before Sam replied. “Eva, I can't see you.”

“Either you're enduring an outbreak of herpes,” I said, “or there's a woman.”

“A woman. I met someone.” Sam sounded apologetic.

“So?” Silently, I begged: Please, Sam, you've got to do this for me. You've got to help me erase him from my mind. “What's the problem?”

“There's no problem, Eva. I'm going to ask her to marry me.” Whatever hint of apology I'd detected in Sam's tone was gone. Now, there was a hint of pride.

“Oh,” I said, evenly. “Well, congratulations. I'll remember to send a bottle of expensive champagne.”

“There's no need, Eva. In fact, you probably shouldn't.”

“I know. I was only joking.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“So, how long has this grand romance been going on?”

“Do you really want to know?”

No. But Sam had to know that I didn't care. “Of course,” I said. “Everyone loves a love story.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I met her about a month before you called things off between us. When you wouldn't see me anymore because of that other guy, it kind of gave me an excuse to spend more time with her. She's really nice. I think you'd like her.”

What made people say such ridiculous things? Of course I wouldn't like her. Of course I would loathe and despise her.

“Mmm,” I said. “So, were you sleeping with her when you called me a few weeks ago, desperate to get together? You do remember that night, don't you?”

“Yes. But I regret it. I shouldn't have cheated on her. I mean, we didn't have an exclusivity agreement at the time, but still. If she knew about it now she'd be really hurt.” Sam paused. “You'd never tell her, would you?”

“Of course not, Sam. Don't be ridiculous.”

But I thought: What about me? My feelings didn't seem to matter in this ménage à trois. Suddenly, I was fighting back tears.

“Thanks,” Sam said. “I know you would never do something so mean, but . . .”

“So,” I said brightly, amazed at my own acting skills, “what's the lucky girl's name? What does she do? Is she anybody?”

Sam laughed. “Eva, you're such a snob. Her name is Alison and she's working in a gallery on Newbury Street while she's getting her master's in fine arts.”

“She's quite a bit younger than me, of course.”

“Of course.” And then Sam scrambled. “Wait, I didn't mean that in a bad way. It's just that, you know, I want to have kids soon so . . .”

“Don't worry, Sam. I never thought of you as anything other than a good lay.”

“I know.”

“Well then, I guess—”

“So,” he interrupted, “how's it going with that other guy? I'm thinking maybe not so good, what with your calling me.”

“Oh, that's over,” I said airily. “It wasn't meant to be anything permanent. Besides, he was getting too clingy and you know how I hate clingy men.”

Sam laughed ruefully. “Oh, I know. Sometimes I think you don't have any use for any sort of man.”

“Don't be absurd. Look, there's no point in continuing this conversation. Congratulations, Sam. I'm sure you'll make a fine husband.”

“Thanks, Eva,” he said. “I'm going to try.”

“One more thing, Sam. Is she as good as me in bed?” Like it mattered.

“No, Eva,” Sam said mildly. “But we can't have everything, can we?”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Besides,” Sam went on, ignoring my flippant reply, “what I'm giving up in passion I'm making up for in other ways. Alison actually likes to be seen in public with me.”

“A poor attempt at levity.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Anyway, take care of yourself, Eva.”

“Of course,” I said, but I wondered if I had the slightest clue how.

93

 

Juggling a plate of brownies covered in aluminum foil and a plastic bag stuffed with new shirts I'd picked up for Jake at Marshall's, I extricated my keys from my bag. Who wouldn't want to come home from class to find fresh-baked brownies and new clothing waiting for him?

I smiled to myself as I opened the door and closed it softly behind me. I hate loud noises. Brad was always slamming cupboards and letting the toilet seat drop and raising the volume on the TV. It drove me crazy. Jake was a much quieter person than his father, more like me.

I put the brownies on the counter and surveyed the tiny kitchen. Dishes in the sink, an open box of cold cereal on the counter, a half-empty bottle of energy drink. Well, Jake might be quiet like me but he hadn't gotten my neat-freak gene. I closed the box, emptied the bottle, and left the dishes for a moment. With the bag of new shirts, I headed for Jake's bedroom. The door was partially closed. That's another thing that annoys me. A house looks neater when doors are either fully shut or entirely open. I pushed the door open with my palm.

“Oh, shit!” Eva's hands flew to her face, as if covering it in shame. As if she could feel such a thing.

My boy, my son, lay on the unmade bed, naked but for a sheet around his waist.

The bag of shirts fell to the floor.

“Mom!” Jake cried, clutching the sheet to his chest. “It's not what you think!”

“Yes, it is,” I said absurdly. “It's exactly what I think.”

Eva, fully dressed, extended her hands toward me as if in supplication. “No, no, Sophie, you don't understand! I was just about to break up with him!”

“What?” Jake cried. “You were?”

“You're supposed to be in class,” I said.

“Yes, yes, that's why I came over this afternoon, to break up with you!”

“I don't understand!”

“I'm paying a lot of money for tuition,” I said. “Why aren't you in class?”

“Not now, Jake!”

Eva stepped closer to me, her face a mask of panic, and for the first time I noticed the lines around her eyes, a tiny skin tag on her neck. “Sophie, please—”

“You decrepit old bitch,” I said, with amazing calm.

Eva froze, her ridiculously huge bag hanging off her shoulder, her eyes wide. And then she rushed past me, out of the room, out of the apartment. I heard the door slam.

“Uh, Mom? Could you turn around so I can . . .”

“Oh, God,” I said and whirled to face the wall, hands over my eyes.

I heard some squeaking as Jake got out of the bed, then some muttering as, I imagined, he looked for his clothes. It seemed forever before he said: “You can turn around now.”

“No,” I said. “I don't think I can.” And I dashed from the bedroom, through the living room and out into the hallway.

Jake called out but I didn't turn back.