This Christmas (11 page)

I paid the driver and gave him an extra ten dollars.

“Sorry it was a bumpy ride,” he said, thanking me for the tip.

“No it wasn’t. Your driving was perfect.”

“You sure are sweet, lady. Most people woulda been bitchin’ nonstop about those last three potholes.”

I grabbed my purse, my umbrella and checked again to be sure I put my wallet back in my purse. “There were no potholes. Everything was as smooth as silk. Thanks again.”

I walked into the restaurant to find Gwen seated and chatting with our waiter. She placed her hand on his conspiratorially and the two laughed. She saw me and popped like toast, waving her hand and smiling. “Sarah, this is David; he’ll be our server today,” Gwen said giddily. “He’s pre-med
and
Jewish.”

“She only loves me for my resume,” David said. “Can I get you something to drink? Catch up with Gwenny?”

“I don’t drink,” I said flatly.

“Since when? We drank sherry yesterday,” Gwen reminded me.

“I’ll give you two a moment to decide,” David said, excusing himself.

“Don’t you think he’s a little young for you?” I said, trying not to sound annoyed. I can’t imagine why her flirtation with the twenty-year-old waiter would irritate me, but it did.

“Quite a bit too young for me, thank you for rubbing it in,” Gwen said, laughing. “But my niece Jessica is transferring to NYU in three weeks, and I think David would be perfect for her.”

“Why, because he’s Jewish?”

“No, because he’s a scuba enthusiast, loves cooking, is into jazz, and is a complete cutie pie.”

“Oh,” I said. She showed me.

Every night, I go to sleep early thinking that when I wake up, my spirits will naturally lift. I convince myself that I’m overtired, though honestly I’ve been doing less than ever before. And sleeping more.

“Why do you look like that?” Gwen asked. “Are you ill?”

“Like what?”

Gwen looked shocked by the question. “Like
that
. No makeup, messy hair. Your outfit looks like you threw it together while trying to escape a fire.”

“I’m busy with the holidays. I don’t have time for primping,” I said. “Look, there’s Sophie.”

Gwen turned to wave Sophie over to our table and quickly shot, “Since when is showering primping?”

“Hey, girls,” Sophie said, leaning in to kiss Gwen, then me. Decidedly warmer than yesterday, she asked if I had a cold. “Your eyes are all bloodshot. Were you crying?”

“
It’s a Goddamned Wonderful Life,
” Gwen explained. “Gets her every time. I tell her not to watch that sap, but she can’t help herself.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Sophie tilted her head and sat. “Jen can’t make it today, but she gave me her list of names and said to remind you that we’re putting our trust in you two. I told her that I
know
you’re doing this with Prudence’s best interests at heart, and that I already made a bunch of threats that we don’t need to rehash, right?”

Gwen and I nodded. David returned to our table and Sophie and Gwen ordered wine. “Let’s share a bottle,” Sophie suggested.

“Sarah doesn’t drink anymore,” Gwen said.

“Are you an alcoholic?” she asked. I raised my hand to my chest in shock.

“Do I look like an alcoholic?” I said, realizing I should have taken the time to shower and put on a decent outfit.

“Sarah, don’t take offense. I didn’t want to be the one to toss you off the wagon if you’re a recovering alcoholic. Let’s order a bottle,” Sophie persisted.

“Do I strike you as an alcoholic?!” I asked again.

“I don’t know. You could be. Are we going to go white or red?” Sophie looked up from her wine list.

“Let’s get champagne!” Gwen suggested. “I think I may have found my niece’s future husband in our server, David.”

“The one with the cute butt?” Sophie asked. Gwen concurred.

“Excuse me!” I interrupted. “I would like to know why Sophie thinks
I’m
an alcoholic. I have never had a problem moderating anything in my entire life.”

“Is she always like this?” Sophie asked Gwen.

“Like what?” I demanded. Tears filled my eyes again and I would not have a holiday classic or blind woman to pin it on this time.
Breathe deeply
, I instructed myself.
Recite the Greek alphabet, then count from ninety-nine to one by threes
.

“Sarah, are you okay?” Gwen asked. “You look like you’re going to pop your cork.”

I slammed my hands on the table, a gesture so new to me I believe my palms were shocked. “First, you say I look sick,” I pointed to Sophie. “Then you say I look depressed. Then you say I look like an alcoholic. I never knew how superficial people could be. I opt for a more natural look one day, and suddenly I’m ready for the Betty Ford Clinic!”

Gwen and Sophie eyeballed each other carefully. Gwen was the first to speak up. “Honey, no one said you’re depressed. Are you?”

“Of course not!” I said. “Things have never been better. I have a new husband, a beautiful, healthy son, a thriving career. What would I have to be depressed about other than being told I look like a wreck and a drunk?!”

Sophie chimed in, “Hey, my father is a recovering alcoholic. He’s more buttoned up than you, Sarah. Well, than how you usually are. And my ex-husband is a total drunk and he looks pretty together most of the time. All I meant was that if you were on the wagon, more power to you, that’s all.” Sophie placed her hand on mine. “Order whatever you want.”

On cue, David arrived. “A bottle of Cristal,” I said. After he left, I leaned in to ask Sophie if her ex was really an alcoholic.

“You don’t have to whisper, Sarah,” Sophie said, smiling. “He can’t hear you in San Diego.”

It amazed me how open people were about their lives. I’d known Sophie for less than three hours and she told me more about her life than I’d told my closest friends. No one knows Rudy was an alcoholic. Well, they don’t know it from my telling them. My own parents don’t know that Rudy had a passenger in his car the night he crashed. I was like a treasure chest at the bottom of the sea locked and wrapped with chains. Sophie was like a wishing well with secrets tossed about as carelessly as pennies.

That’s one of the reasons I only attended two Al-Anon meetings. I hated how everyone would tell every personal detail of their lives as if there were no boundaries to their privacy. I detested how everyone would say, “Hi, Sarah!” in unison after I introduced myself. And I loathed how people said, “Thank you for sharing,” when someone finished speaking. It was like being licked by strangers.

I was compelled to hear more about Sophie’s husband. Specifically, how she came to leave him. “Sophie, please tell me if I’m being too personal, but did you leave San Diego to get away from your ex?” I asked.

“That’s personal?” Sophie said laughing. “Yep, I told Bob that he had until July Fourth to get sober or I was leaving. I thought that was a good date to declare his independence from alcohol or my independence from him.” Gwen and I nodded. This woman was like a superheroine. Like, Super Ass-Kicking Girl with fire that shot from her boots so when she kicked your ass, it burned too.

David poured our champagne and I began to relax. I was laughing with friends. Tonight I would have Chinese food with my fabulous new husband and our wonderful son. We would watch a goofy movie on a plasma television set in a fully owned brownstone on the upper West Side of the most fabulous city on the planet at the most wonderful time of the year. I once was blind but now I see. “Waiter, another bottle please.”

As Sophie, Gwen, and I finished our lunch we forgot to discuss the plan to find a new man for Prudence. Okay, we were a little drunk. Sophie leaned down to grab her purse. “I’ve got it,” I said, offering to pay. Sophie smiled and pulled a manila folder from her bag, opened it, and passed a sheet of paper each to Gwen and me.

“An agenda?” I asked. Sophie confirmed.

Gwen glanced at the items and said, “Wow, impressive. ‘Objective: Find soul mate for Prudence. Deadline: January 1. Budget: Unspecified.’ Do we need a budget?”

“Sarah does,” Sophie said. “Prudence spent close to ten thousand dollars to find you.”

“You make her sound like a mail-order bride,” Gwen said. “Why do we only have two weeks to find this guy?”

“I’ve got to be honest with you, Sarah. We’re all going to lose steam for this after two weeks, so let’s just make a strong push over the holidays and be done with it by the New Year. Besides, the holidays are the perfect time to smoke out all the single guys. We should have a Christmas Eve party. Whoever’s alone that night definitely doesn’t have a wife and kids.”

“No parties,” I said. “Reilly told me about Prudence’s Wife of Reilly party and he said it was humiliating for him.”

“Eh”—Sophie waved her hand dismissively—“he was caught off guard by it. It was a beautiful party.”

“It sounded dreadfully tacky,” I reaffirmed my position on events.

“What about a New Year’s Eve party?” Gwen suggested.

“Oh, that’s good!” Sophie said.

“No, it’s
not
good! Parties are in very poor taste.”

The two glanced at each other. “
Parties
are in bad taste?” Gwen asked. “Because you and I have been to some lovely events together, Sarah.”

“Charity events, Gwen.”

“Think of
this
as a charity event,” said Sophie.

“No, no, no! No parties,” I demanded.

“Okay,” they said, in united annoyance.

“We need to think outside the box, Sarah,” Gwen insisted.

Sophie rolled her eyes. “That expression is so, so cliché it’s actually
in
the box,” she said, before asking if I’d considered going online. “There’s a new site that I think you’ll like. It’s supposed to be an upscale Manhattan group. Go to Singleinthecity.com and check out the men’s profiles. A friend of mine tried it and said the men were terrific. Some real hotties.”

Hotties?

Gwen took out a sheet of paper and suggested we share our list of single men we thought would be a good match for Prudence. “I’ll start. I think the first name isn’t going to be a surprise to Sarah because he’s a complete hottie.”

Now Gwen uses the term “hottie” too? The woman is being absorbed into Sophie’s persona like a spill into a Bounty paper towel
.

“He’s charming, he’s successful, and, as I said, extremely handsome,” Gwen said, as though she expected the introduction to be followed by a drum roll.

In a deadpan wry delivery, Sophie urged Gwen to spit it out. “The suspense is killing me. I can barely stand it another moment.”

“Doug Phillips,” Gwen blurted, with a smile. I think she may have even blushed.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“Doug Phillips. The name sounds so familiar. Why do I know him?” Sophie said.

“Why not Doug Phillips?” Gwen said, pouting. “No parties, no Doug Phillips. I have to say, Sarah, you’re not much fun these days.”

“Dark hair, chiseled features?” Sophie snapped her fingers, remembering. I nodded to confirm that she was thinking of the right guy.

“I dated him last year! Right after I moved to New York. Kind of slick but good for a few laughs,” Sophie said, recalling her two dates with Doug.

“Were you aware that he is married?” I asked, knowing this was a pivotal moment in our friendship. Rudy cheated on me. Prudence cheated on Reilly. That made me the virtuous one, the one who’d never do such a thing. I couldn’t very well have a friend who knowingly ran around with married men. It’s simply not who I am.

“Married?!” Sophie shouted indignantly. “That fucker.”

“Since when?!” Gwen gasped. “Doug’s dated Kiki, Meredith, and Mimi.”

“Since nineteen ninety-four,” I said.

Gwen was practically in tears, as if it were she who’d been unwittingly roped into the affair. “Are you absolutely certain? You know how gossipy people can be.”

“I heard it straight from the whore’s mouth,” I said. Or at least that’s what my lunch mates claimed I said. “Gwen Weinstein, why are you sitting there agape?”

“It’s just that I’ve never heard you use that type of language. The
whore’s
mouth?”

“I said the
horse’s
mouth,” I claimed.

“No you didn’t,” Sophie chimed in. “You called that fucker a whore. And you know what, you’re right. He never mentioned being married. There are a lot of women who’d go out with a married man, but at least they should have the right to give their informed consent.”

“Informed consent?” I slammed my hands on the table. This season was going to be the end of my soft palms. “Sophie, we’re not talking about a medical procedure. This is adultery. And lying. This guy
is
a whore. And a…a complete fucker.”

“Well, don’t get me wrong; I’m pissed as hell at the guy, but let’s face it, lying and adultery, well, the two usually go hand in hand,” Sophie said, with a shrug.

“So Doug’s off the list,” Gwen said, hoping to move us along to bachelor number two, or in this case, bachelor number one.

“I’m not done!” I said. “I think we should buy some billboards and plaster his face all over town to let people know what a fucker this guy is.”

“And I think it’s time to cut Sarah off,” Gwen said, giggling. “It’s nice to see you cut loose, but I think you’re going to have a dreadful hangover from this.”

“I am
not
that drunk, ladies.” I shook my head like a dog drying off after a bath. It was a wonderful sensation watching the light from bulbs trail themselves, like little comets of green and red. “I’m serious, we need to buy billboards all over downtown and warn women against this jerk.”

“I think the
Jesus is the Reason for the Season
people have bought up all the space for December,” Gwen said. “Then they do the
every season
follow-up after that.”

“We could do a Christmas theme,” I slurred. “We could go religious even, like Jesus died for our sins, but one fucker is using up all of our sinning credit”—I waved my arm like a game show hostess revealing prizes—“then there’s Doug big face.”

“Waiter, we need some coffee please,” Sophie said. “I don’t know why
you’re
so upset, Sarah. It’s not like you dated him or anything.”

“And why aren’t you
more
upset, Sophie?!”

“Because I expect nothing more from men,” she said matter-of-factly. “They lie, they cheat, they gamble, they drink,” she said, in a tone like she was bored reciting the list. “Expect nothing, and you’ll never be disappointed.”

“How about Isaac Franklin?” Gwen said, again hoping to switch gears. “He’s definitely available. I was at his wife’s funeral months ago.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “That’s uplifting. What’s he like?”

Gwen described Isaac as a “little older” than Prudence. A “young” sixty-three, she later admitted. “Don’t let the age fool you. He’s very active. Isaac bikes one hundred miles a week, runs in marathons, and is a squash champ.”

“Gwen, have you ever met Prudence?” Sophie asked. Gwen shook her head. “She’s not interested in this gray lightning of yours. She hates sports and she doesn’t want another guy pressuring her to try new outdoor activities.”

“That’s right,” I recalled, “Reilly told me about Prudence going skiing with her boyfriend and how she wound up on crutches for weeks.”

Gwen perked up immediately, which seemed an odd reaction to the story. She wrote herself a note with the name “Esther Finley,” a widow who lives in her building.

Sophie said Prudence was looking for someone exciting and sophisticated, “Someone who she’ll have a lot of sexual chemistry with,” she said.

“Oh, how ’bout Boris?!” Gwen suggested. Filling Sophie in, she explained that we knew Boris Zel-kind from high school. His claim to fame was his allegedly corn-on-the-cob-sized penis. Three girls who had sex with him all swore up and down that it was the thickest thing they’d ever seen and named him “Wonder Cock,” or as it was printed in the yearbook, W.C. Boris sells commercial real estate and is rumored to once have been engaged to a heroin-chic supermodel known only as Udon, like the noodle. His sense of humor was sharp and dry, but delivered with such bite, it often sent the girls in our school scurrying off to the bathroom in tears. As I was deliberating whether or not Prudence would have finally met her match with Boris, Sophie weighed in.

“Prudence doesn’t want some guy with a big dick,” Sophie said. “Well, that wouldn’t be her sole criterion.”

“He’s very funny,” I defended Boris. “And he likes skinny women. Udon was even thinner than Prudence.”

“I think the problem here is that you two don’t really know Prudence,” Sophie said. “She wants somebody exciting and sexy, yes, but not a married prick or this Wonder Cock friend of yours. And she certainly doesn’t need the captain of the Viagra biking team. Prudence is an artist now, and to some degree she always has been.”

As Sophie continued with her characterization of Prudence, I drifted off into thought. I needed to absorb what Sophie had just said about Prudence having always been an artist, and only now starting to come into that part of herself. I wondered if there was part of me that I wasn’t realizing. I was terrified to consider that perhaps I was really a musician, only I had never taken a crack at it. Maybe I was a natural athlete but had never tried sports. I took some comfort in the realization that if I truly were an artist, I would have felt drawn to it at some point in my life. Some force would have pulled me in the right direction. But I was unsettled by the feeling that, like Prudence, perhaps I too was resisting who I really was for the sake of propriety, expectation—and fear. Sure, I was making a good living writing newspaper and magazine articles. My bylines appeared in the best financial journals in the country, often the world. But I also remembered that up until college I wrote a great deal of poetry. My teachers all said I had a gift for it, but both my parents discouraged it, noting that all poets wound up depressed and poor. They tolerated it. When I was finished with my homework and assigned reading, I was allowed to write. When I was in high school my father got me a summer internship at a brokerage house, which he insisted I take instead of accepting a seat at the Young Poets Workshop at Hampshire College. The final straw was when I brought home a B- in poetry in my junior year of college. What my parents didn’t realize is that this was actually a good grade in that class. We had a borderline insane visiting poet from Nicaragua who thought everything American students wrote was superficial nonsense. Ava Pelotta’s was the most intense, electrifying, and unpredictable class I’d ever taken. She would come in to class with an old worn-out shoe, throw it on the conference table, and say, “In my country, a young boy was killed wearing this one shoe. He was shot while you were complaining that you didn’t want the Mayor MocCheese toy in your Happy Meal! Write.” She’d bury her head in her hands and weep for the entire hour and a half. She’d write comments like, “Crap!” or “Utter bullshit” on our assignments, and frankly, most of the time she was right. I worked harder in that class than I ever had and, although B- was the lowest grade I’d ever received in my entire academic career, was quite proud that I hadn’t ranked a D like the majority of my class.

Once I wrote a poem about two leaves in autumn. They were friends and had frolicked about together all summer. When September rolled around, one leaf fell to the ground. The friends were heartbroken to be separated. The leaf on the ground relentlessly tried to return to his familiar limb. His efforts were always fruitless. After weeks of trying to return to his branch, he saw something miraculous. His friend, along with several other leaves, fell to the ground. He never could defy gravity to return home, but if he was patient, the leaf would be with his friend once again. The teacher’s comment: “Trite.” All of my life, teachers told my parents what a bright student I was. Such a hard worker. So respectful of teachers. Ava hadn’t received the memo that I was perfect. I worked harder than I’d ever imagined I could in her class. Not by studying hard or memorizing the works of great poets, but by digging two layers deeper than I knew I existed within me to write poetry she wouldn’t dismiss as childish nonsense. By the end of the semester, she wrote “Nice” on three of my poems and gave me the highest grade in the class.

My parents insisted that I not take any more poetry classes because it would “tank my GPA.” My father said it would be impossible to get into a decent journalism program if I had a low grade in writing classes. Plus they were paying the bills so there really was no refuting their decision. “You’ll thank me for this someday, Sarah,” my father said. “Take it from someone who knows how the world works. You can’t let some crazy lady mess up your future because she has a political agenda.” To add insult to injury, my father called the dean of the English department and got her to change the B-to a “pass” on my transcript. The day I feel grateful for this has yet to arrive.

Sophie’s voice returned me to the present. “So you have to think about a man who’s going to be sophisticated and exciting. Well read but not academic. Fun but not an idiot who thinks tickling a woman shows how playful and cute he is. And if he has a big dick, I’m sure we won’t hear any complaints.” She sat upright with a spark. “Hey, why don’t we do this? Prudence and I are going out tonight. Why doesn’t Gwen come along and get to know her and what she likes. Sarah, you should Google her and get to know her that way. And while you’re online, check out
Single in the City
and see if you can find a few good men there.”

That afternoon, Hunter threw a snowball at me. We built a fortress in front of our home and tossed snowballs at passersby. They were so softly packed, they broke open like fireworks immediately after we launched them. As we watched
Freaky Friday
that evening, I wondered what it would be like to switch bodies with Prudence Malone.