The Guy Not Taken (3 page)

•   •   •

This was the summer of 1988. I was nineteen years old, thick of thigh and sunburned of face, home from my freshman year at college. My parents, who’d still been, at least nominally, together in the fall, had both dropped me off on campus in September, but when the school year ended, I took trains back home—the little train from campus to the Princeton station, a bigger train from the station to New York City, then an Amtrak train up past New Rochelle and New Haven to Hartford. My sister met me on the sidewalk and drove me home to Somersby, and our big yellow house with the black shutters on Wickett Way.

Nicki had gotten her license that spring, but she still looked like a little kid pretending to drive as she sat behind the wheel of our mother’s green station wagon. “Brace yourself,” she said, as she swung the car, tires squealing, down our street and into our driveway. The paint on the house was peeling, the lawn was ragged and overgrown, dotted with dandelions and Queen Anne’s Lace. Someone—Nicki, I suspected—had backed into our mailbox. The wooden post supporting it was splintered and listing to the left, looking like at any minute it would just give up and collapse onto the street.

Things inside weren’t much better. By my first night home, I’d realized that my brother had basically stopped speaking; my sister seemed to be a perpetual ten seconds away from punching someone; and my mother spent more of her time under water than on land. When she wasn’t doing laps, she was teaching summer school algebra to kids who’d flunked it the first time around, and ignoring the telephone.

I mowed my way through June and July, reading the entire oeuvre of Judith Krantz in my spare time in the air-conditioned
library, scrunched into a carrel along the back wall, trying to avoid my current neighbors and former classmates. When Jon got invited to a dance at the country club, I used a library book to figure out how to tie a tie. When the water heater broke, I cashed in the State of Israel bonds from my bat mitzvah and gave my mother the money to repair it. I’d been expecting an outsize emotional outpouring of gratitude, something like the scene in
Little Women
where Jo sells her hair to pay for her mother’s trip to her sick husband’s bedside. Instead, my mother had just slipped the money under her towel, nodded her thanks, and done a shallow dive back into the deep end.

She swam, and seemed not to notice that the azure-blue tiles were falling off the edge of the pool and the water was an odd shade of green now that we could no longer afford the maintenance service and couldn’t get the chemicals quite right ourselves. She’d do laps until eight or sometimes nine o’clock at night, after the sun had set and the thick night air came alive with fireflies. Once a flock of bats had exploded up from the field behind the house and fluttered over the water, flapping their wings and squeaking. She’d churn out lap after lap, mile after mile, as the telephone shrilled and then subsided, and the three of us sat on our lounge chairs, bundled up in damp towels, watching her.

•   •   •

Nicki shocked all of us by making, and keeping, an appointment for an interview at Friendly’s, where she was hired on the spot as a scoop girl. It was, she assured us, ideal for her. She’d be working in front of freezers, to keep her cool, and behind a long, stainless-steel counter, to keep the pesky people at bay. Waitresses passed her written slips or called out their requests; Nicki made the requisite dish, and then flicked a switch that lit up a number on a flashboard, and the waitress would come and whisk the sundaes and cones and Fribbles away.

I’d stop by for lunch between lawns and find Nicki, clad in a short blue-and-white gingham dress and a frilly white apron, bent over the caskets of fudge ripple and strawberry delight, the muscles in her skinny arms working valiantly to dislodge the ice cream. “Get out of there, you!” she’d mutter into the tubs. When she’d gotten the ice cream loose she’d stand up with the dish in her hand, pivoting swiftly on sticky sneakers between the hot fudge dispenser and the plastic containers of jimmies and Reese’s Pieces and maraschino cherries.

On her chest, like medals for valor, she had pinned brightly colored Friendly’s-supplied buttons, a new one each week, bearing slogans like “Buy one get one free! Ask me!” or “Try a cone-head!!” The one pin that should have been a constant was the plastic rectangle reading simply “Hi! I’m” with a space left for the employee to write in his or her name, but Nicki, perversely, would change names every night. She’d be Wendy on Monday, Juanita on Tuesday, and Shakina the day after that. She hated the implied familiarity when customers requested things from her by name, and she took a great deal of delight in watching people who would mistakenly approach the counter thinking she would serve them, or help them in some way, struggle with unfamiliar monikers to which she’d never respond on the first try.

•   •   •

Spying on Nicki at work became a regular summer event for me, Jon, and our mother, one of the few pleasures those hot months held for us. After dinner and
Jeopardy,
Mom would survey the family room. Jon would usually be sprawled on the brown leather couch in khaki shorts and a too-tight polo shirt, tossing a tennis ball toward the ceiling with his Walkman headphones over his ears. Milo would be dozing on the floor, and I’d be in a corner of the couch with a book or a magazine in my lap.
I’d take the quizzes in
Cosmo. It’s in your kiss! Does your smile say “Sexy?” Are you the life of the party or a wet blanket?

“OK, kids,” Mom would say, “who wants a Fribble?” We’d pile into the station wagon, drive past the leaning tower of mailbox, and make the fifteen-minute trip to Route 44, past the brief strip of chain stores and fast-food restaurants, and turn into Friendly’s parking lot.

Nicki’s manager was an ex-teenage wasteland turned bornagain Christian named Tim, with the ravages of bad acne still apparent on his newly baptized brow. He knew us well. Dispensing with the menus, he would lead us to a booth that offered the best view of Nicki scooping ice cream, refilling the napkin dispensers or salt shakers, or grimacing as she wiped off the counter or directed lost diners to the bathrooms.

One Thursday night, as Nicki squirted whipped cream on top of banana splits, a birdlike old lady waiting at the cash register tried to get her attention.

“Excuse me,” she called across the counter in a high, reedy voice. Nicki ignored her and reached for the hot fudge. With shaking hands the woman fumbled her chained bifocals to her eyes. “Miss?” she called, squinting at the name tag. “Esmerelda?”

Mom set down her coffee spoon. “Esmerelda?”

The old woman waved her check at Nicki, who shook her head. “I don’t do checks,” Nicki said. “Just desserts.” The old woman heaved a well-practiced sigh. “Young people today . . .” she began, as Tim, sensing trouble, hurried out of the kitchen. Nicki turned, ladle in hand, and glared at the old woman.

“Begone!” she thundered. A glob of hot fudge flew off the ladle and was headed straight for the woman’s withered bosom when the manager interposed himself between topping and target. He snatched the bewildered customer’s check. “It’s on the house tonight, ma’am. I apologize for your wait.”

Nicki bent contritely over the wet walnuts as Tim sponged fudge off his shirt. “Behave,” he muttered. “Esmerelda.”

“Hey, Nicki,” Mom called, “not too friendly.” Jon pointed his spoon at her. “Begone!” he said, and I laughed. “Nicki Krystal, defender of the young people today.”

Nicki clicked on the Fribble machine, which roared into life with a wall-shaking racket.

“You know who has power?” she yelled over the din.

I did. “Whoever’s got the money.”

Nicki shook her head. “Nope. It’s actually whoever’s making the food.”

Nicki lasted for almost the entire summer at Friendly’s. In August, after his fourteenth birthday, Jon got a job, too. He’d wake before the sun was up and pedal past the pristine, sprinklered lawns and freshly painted houses, with his tennis racket strapped to the back of his bike. There were a few farms in town happy to hire fourteen-year-olds to pick strawberries and green beans and corn, and he worked at one of them. By noon, the sun would be high in the hazy sky. Jon would collect his pay in crumpled dollar bills and head off to meet his friends.

Work wasn’t going well for me, not because of my foundering feminist ideals, but because of the weather. The dry spell stretched through July into August, and my hours at Lavish Landscaping dried up right along with all of that corporate grass. I’d pick up babysitting jobs when I could find them. When I couldn’t, I’d stay home, angling fans on either side of the heavy fringed rug in the family room for some cross-ventilation, glued to the couch by inertia and my own sweat, waiting for Mom to come home. When her car turned into the driveway, I’d unstick my legs from the leather, pull on my own suit, and swim with her until my arms burned and my legs felt numb. Then I’d turn on the underwater lights and sit with my
feet dangling in the water until she was done. I’d ask careful, leading questions.
Had she heard from my father? Had the lawyer called yet?
She gave vague answers without meeting my eyes, without seeming upset or sad or worried or anything that would have been appropriate.

Even when she was inside and upright, dumping chicken and Italian dressing into the chipped green bowl to marinate, or whispering to her lawyer behind the closed door of the stifling, curtained living room where no actual living ever went on, her movements and her speech had a dazed, distant quality, as if she were observing the world through goggles and three feet of artificially warmed, weirdly green water.

Her friends were constantly on the phone, but none of them seemed to stop by anymore. The neighbors would watch us as we backed the station wagon out of the driveway or crossed the street to get the mail from the ruined mailbox, then look away quickly, as if divorce was some kind of contagious skin condition that they could pick up just by looking. The telephone would start ringing at seven in the morning, a constant reminder of our father’s absence, and it would ring all day long.

My father hadn’t left the way other neighborhood dads had, with regret, a nice speech about how he’d always love us, and a new address at a condo across town. He had simply gotten up from the table after Thanksgiving dinner, tossed his napkin into the congealed gravy on his plate, and said two words: “That’s it.” My mother, at the other end of the table, had gone pale and shaken her head. Tears filled her eyes. I felt my stomach clench. I’d heard them fighting at night, his hissing whispers and her tears, and I knew that for the last month he’d come home late, and for the last week not at all, but I’d been telling myself I was worrying about nothing, that they were just going through a rough patch, that things were going to be fine.

“Ready for dessert?” Nicki had chirped, and Dad had glared at her so furiously that she cringed in her seat.

“That’s it,” he’d said again, and walked away from the table, set with the fancy white lace tablecloth and the good china, laden with roast turkey, sausage stuffing, asparagus and corn-bread and bottles of wine. He stomped through the kitchen and the laundry room and into the garage, slamming the door behind him. We’d sat there, stunned, as the garage door opened and his sports car roared into life. “That’s it,” he’d said . . . and that was the last we’d seen of him. But his mail—and, then, his creditors’ calls—still came to the house on Wickett Way.

The calls always started the same way. The person from the collection agency would ask to speak to Gerald Krystal. I would say, “He’s not here.”

“Well, when do you expect him?” the caller would ask.

“I don’t.” Then I’d recite his office number, which would provoke angry sighs.

“We already have that number. We’ve left numerous messages.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but he’s not here, and that’s the only number we have for him.”

“It can’t be,” a man from Citibank whined in my ear one morning. He had a grating New York accent, and he’d called at 7:10 a.m. “He’s your father, right? You must have some idea how to reach him.”

“That’s the only number we have,” I’d repeated woodenly.

Citibank tried seduction. “There’s no point in lying.”

“I’m not. That’s the only one we’ve got.”

Citibank pressed on. “Doesn’t your father ever stop by? Doesn’t he call you?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. He hadn’t called. Not once. Not here, not at college, not me, not Nicki, not Jon. I thought
I could understand a man not wanting to be a husband anymore—certainly I’d seen enough of my high school friends’ fathers bail over the years, taking up with colleagues, with secretaries, with, in one memorably scandalous incident, the guidance counselor at our high school. What I couldn’t understand was a man not wanting to be a father anymore. Especially not our father. I’d scoured my memories, turning each one over beneath the hard light of hindsight, but I couldn’t convince myself that he’d never loved us, that the first sixteen years of my life had been an elaborate sham.

He’d taken us all on special trips, little adventures. He’d drive me to the library three towns over that had comfortable couches and the best collection of current fiction. He and Nicki made visits to the toy store, where she’d spent hours playing with the marionettes and the Madame Alexander dolls. He took Jon to hockey games and football games, and to help Mr. Kleinman down the street, who was engaged in a never-ending and, so far, quixotic attempt to steal cable. (“Gendarmes!” Mr. Kleinman would shout when he thought he’d spotted a police car, and Jon and my father, who’d sometimes made it as far as a third of the way up the telephone pole, would drop their pliers and wires and sprint back to the safety of our garage.) My dad would remember the names of our teachers and our friends, and our friends’ teachers, too. He told Nicki she was smart. He told Jon he was an excellent athlete. He’d told me I was beautiful. And he was the one who’d taught all three of us to swim.

“You could save him a lot of trouble if you’d just tell us how to reach him, honey.”

“That’s the only number we have.” I twisted the phone cord around my finger and swallowed hard against the lump in my throat.