The Marriage of Sticks (3 page)

I never asked about other girls before me, but contrary to his reputation, James never did anything I didn’t want. He was gentle, loving, and respectful. A sheep in wolf’s clothes. On top of that, he was a wickedly good kisser. Don’t get me wrong—just because we never did
it
doesn’t preclude a few thousand delicious hours horizontal, hot, and hungry.

Because we were such different souls, he seemed delighted by my prim, skirt-down-over-the-knee worldview. He knew I wanted to be a virgin when I married and never tried to force the issue or change my mind. Maybe because he was so used to girls saying yes to everything he wanted, I was like an alien to him—something peculiar, worth studying.

As is so often the case, our relationship ended when we went off to different colleges in different states. Those first months apart, I wrote him furious, impassioned letters. He responded with only stupid two-line postcards now and then, which was perfectly in keeping with his bad-James part. Gradually college and its different faces, as well as the rest of my new life’s diversions, slowed my letters to a trickle. When we saw each other again that first Christmas vacation home, it was warm and tender, but both of us had new lives elsewhere. Our reunion was more nostalgia than building toward any kind of future.

Over the next years I’d heard things about James from different sources, but never knew which were true and which third-hand information. Someone said he worked in a boatyard, another that he’d finished college and gone to law school. If the last was true, he became a very different J. Stillman from the one I had known. They said he lived in Colorado, then Philadelphia; he was married, he wasn’t. Sometimes when I was restless in bed at night, or low, or just dreaming about what might have been, I thought about my old love and wondered what had happened to him. The first thing that came to mind on reading the invitation to our class reunion was
James Stillman.

For old time’s sake, Zoe and I had dinner at Chuck’s Steak House. We’d worked there together as waitresses one summer and walked home late all those warm nights with nice tips in our pockets, feeling very adult. Chuck had died years before, but his son took over and kept the place looking exactly the same.

Earlier, Zoe had said she had many things to tell me, but since that afternoon a kind of delicious time warp had set in. Both of us were content inside it talking mostly about
then
and little about now. A half hour sufficed for catching up on where we were in our lives. This was to be a weekend for memories, photo albums, “Whatever happened to…?” and the sighs that come with remembering who you were. At dinner neither of us expressed much interest in talking about what we’d become or where we hoped to go with our lives. Perhaps that would have come after the reunion—a natural summing up after seeing old classmates and putting the weekend and the experiences into context. But as things turned out, that summing up was done for us.

After Chuck’s, we returned to Zoe’s house. Both of us were dying to get into the tent, our old mood, those times. We hurriedly washed, changed into our pajamas, and by the hissing light of the Coleman lamp, talked until two.

The next morning she got up before I did. The first thing I remember about that momentous day was a violent tugging on my arm. Not knowing what was happening, I tried to clear my head and sit up at the same time. I forgot I wasn’t in a bed but wrapped in the cocoon of a sleeping bag. Held on all sides, I started thrashing around, which only tightened the bag around me. By the time I extricated myself, my hair was standing out from my head, my face was heated to two hundred degrees, my pajama top was wide open.

“Miranda!”

“
What?
What’s the matter?”

“Are you all right?”

Early as it was, I went instantly on the defensive. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. The way you were thrashing around. And everything you talked about last night, the way you see things now.…You have such a good life. You’re successful and you said it yourself; things’ve worked out. But you’re not happy. The way you talk—”

“How
do
I talk, Zoe?”

“Like you’re old. Like you don’t expect anything better to happen because you’ve lived too long and seen too much to have any more hope. I’m luckier than you. I don’t think life’s very friendly either, but I know we
can
control hope. You can turn it on and off like a spigot. I try to keep mine on full blast.”

“That
sounds
good, but what happens when things go wrong? What happens when you’re disappointed time after time?”

“It kills you! But you go on and when you’ve got the strength, you start hoping again. It’s our choice.” She reached over and took my hand. It made me very uncomfortable.

“Maybe I’ve just learned to be careful.”

“Would
careful
you have the guts to fall in love with a James Stillman today?”

The question was so accurate, so right into my bull’s-eye, that I started crying. Zoe squeezed my hand tighter but didn’t move.

“I saw a woman last week in a wheelchair by the side of a road. Right there on the side of the L.A. freeway with all these cars zooming by. I was so frightened for her. Out in the middle of nowhere. What was she doing? How did it happen? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her and I didn’t know why until right now.

“It was me, Zoe.”

“You? How?”

“I don’t know. Her helplessness, the danger, the
wrongness
of her being there. The longer I live, the more careful I get. It’s like you stop using certain limbs because you don’t need them, or because you only used them as a kid to swing on trees. Then one day you realize you can’t even
move
that leg anymore—”

“And you end up in a wheelchair.”

“Right, but even that’s okay because everyone else around you is in one too. Nobody we know climbs trees anymore. But sooner or later we come to the freeway and we’re alone; no one to help and we’ve
got
to get to the other side. We’re stuck, and it’s dangerous.”

“So you’re stuck?”

“Worse; I’m
careful
and I don’t know how to stop it. I wouldn’t fall in love with James now. I’d get one sniff of what he’s like and run away. Or push my wheelchair as fast as I could to get out of there. He’s too dangerous.”

“ ’Cause he
has
legs?”

“And arms and…a tail! He could swing from trees with it. That’s what was so wonderful about him, what was so wonderful about those days—I was using all my arms and legs and loved it. Today I’d be too scared of the risk. I wish I knew the flavor of my happiness.”

She looked at me while I continued to cry. Life had come to a stop on a nice summer’s day in my oldest friend’s backyard. I had no desire to go to the reunion now, even if James was there. Seeing him would only make things worse.

WHAT THE DEAD TALK ABOUT

“D
O YOU EVER WONDER
what the dead talk about?”

We stood elbow to elbow in front of the mirror in her tiny bathroom, putting the final touches on our makeup. “What do you mean?”

She turned to me. One of her eyes was perfectly done, the other bare and young-looking. Made up or not, her eyes were too small to contain the amount of life behind them. In a corner of the room a small radio played Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.”

“I was just thinking about my parents—”

“No, go back to what you said: what the dead talk about.”

She pointed her mascara stick at me. “Well, I believe in an afterlife. I don’t know what kind, but I’m sure something’s waiting. So if there
is,
is it one big place? Do you get to be with people you knew? Assume for a minute that you do. I was thinking about my parents. What if they could see us now, getting ready to go out tonight? What would they say?”

“They’d say it was cute.”

“Maybe. But now they know so much more than we do. Whenever I see a hearse go by or hear someone’s died, that’s the first thing that comes to mind: Now they
know.
Always, the first thing. Now they know.”

“Hmm.”

“Even the smallest, most forgettable little…termite of a person. Some guy who sat on the street in Calcutta all his life, begging, dies and suddenly knows the biggest answer of all.”

“A lot of good it does him when he’s dead. Why are we having this conversation, Zoe? Are you trying to get us in the mood for the reunion?”

“I’m thinking out loud to my oldest friend.”

It was my turn to stop. “Do you have a lot of friends? The kind you can really talk to, cover a lot of ground with?”

“No. It gets harder the older you get. You’re less patient. You need so much patience for a good friendship.”

“All right, you’re the optimist: What
does
get better as we get older? You get wrinkles, you’re less patient, you’re supposed to know more, but that’s not true. At least not as far as important things are concerned.”

She didn’t hesitate a second. “Appreciation. I appreciate things much more. My kids when they’re around. Or sitting with Hector in a bar that smells musty and old…things like that. I was never aware of what things
smelled
like when we were kids, you know? Too busy wondering if I looked right or what was going to happen next. Now I’m just happy if the minute is right. When there’s peace in the air and I don’t want to be anywhere else in the world. I always wanted to be somewhere else—even when I was having a good time. I was always sure there had to be better.”

We looked at each other and, as if on cue, slowly shook our heads.

“Don’t you wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now? Say, ‘Zoe, it doesn’t get any better than this so
enjoy
it, for God’s sake.’ ”

“It wouldn’t make any difference. I tell that to my kids all the time but they look at me like I’m nuts.”

Finished with the makeup, we carefully looked each other up and down.

“Why are we so worried about how we look?” she asked. “All the men will be wearing plaid pants and white loafers.”

In as deep a Lauren Bacall voice as I could find, I said, “James Stillman would never wear white shoes.” Then I added, “
I’m
not worried about tonight: twelfth-grade me is.”

“Bullshit!” We both laughed. “Let’s go.”

Even though it was evening, her car had been sitting in the sun all day and it felt as if we were riding inside a deep fryer. Neither of us said much because we were trying to steel ourselves for whatever was coming.

The parking lot at the country club was full of cars, but not so full that it didn’t send a chill up my spine.

“What if we’re the only ones who came?”

“No way. Look at all the cars.”

“But Zoe, there aren’t many! What if only Bob Zartell and Stephanie Olinka come?”

Just saying the names of the two most awful people in our class made me laugh. It was terrible, but I couldn’t help it.

“Bob Zartell is worth a zillion dollars.”

“Get out!”

“Really! He owns a huge condom company.”

“Condoms? That adds new meaning to the word
dickhead.
”

We parked and got out. I was already so sweaty that I had to peel the dress off my back. A bunch of dark sweat patches would make my grand entrance complete. Why hadn’t I gotten tan before tonight? Or worn more of a power outfit, one that radiated money and cool?

Before I had a chance to think more such happy thoughts, Zoe put her arm through mine. “Let’s go.”

The only other time I had been to Spence Hill Country Club was in tenth grade when a girl invited me to spend a summer afternoon there. She had a face the color of wet cement and a personality to match. After a few hours, I got so tired hearing about how she hated everything that I excused myself early and went home. What I remember most about that day was arriving home so happy to be there that I sat in the kitchen and talked with my mother till dinner.

“Here we go, Miranda.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Zoe? Zoe Holland?”

We turned and there was Henry Ballard, the nicest person in our class, looking exactly as he had fifteen years before.

“And Miranda! Both of you. How great!”

It was the best way to begin the evening. Henry, like Zoe, had been everyone’s favorite. In a moment, we were all gabbing away while people walked around us into the building. Some said hello, others smiled, some we even recognized. For the first time all day I felt relaxed. Maybe everything was going to be all right.

“I guess we’d better go in?”

He nodded, but turned and looked behind. “I’m just waiting—ah, there he is!”

A nondescript guy in a beautiful blue suit waved and hurried toward us. Zoe and I exchanged glances but neither could place him.

“Sorry I’m late. I dropped the car keys; they hit my knee and slid
under
the car.” The man smiled and their look said everything.

Why did it jolt me? Because Henry had played football and dated sexy Erma Bridges? Because I’d once made out with him at a movie and could still remember how gently he kissed? Or because some obnoxious part of me couldn’t accept he’d lived a life where he’d learned he liked men and ended up kissing them the same tender way we’d once kissed?

“Zoe, Miranda, this is Russell Lowry.”

We shook his hand and talked as we moved slowly toward the door. Henry kept touching Russell in the way one does when a relationship is new and still sending off sparks. I’ve never been able to figure out if those touches are to reassure yourself the person is still there, or just the delight of knowing they’re close enough
to
touch whenever you like.

“Henry told me about you. He made sure I was well prepped on who’s who tonight so I don’t make any serious faux pas.”

I stopped and asked, “What’d he say about me?”

Russell narrowed his eyes and pretended to be scrolling through a mental file. “Miranda Romanac. Smart, attractive rather than pretty. Big crush on her in tenth and eleventh grades. Several serious make-out sessions. Most of all, Henry said you were the first girl he ever wanted to hang around with.”