Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (11 page)

“I’m surprised I caught you.”

“Me too, sweetie. Me too. Surprised to function most days with these rug rats harassing me! But you called at precisely the right time: Riley just went down after her afternoon feed. Just need to note which boob she nursed on in this app, then I’m yours. How the hell do iPads work, anyway? Which boob, which boob,” she sang. “I’m like a cow, sweetie. A total
cow
!” She let loose her shrill laugh, rumored to have shattered crystal at Bill Clinton’s second inaugural ball. “He can inaugurate me anytime,” a young Pickles had sassed at the time, having no real idea what she meant.

The Schulman family—bolstered by generations of Schulman Farms packaged deli meat money—had been longtime Democratic delegates, although Barack Obama had caused internal struggle for the older generation. Claiming not to be racist and actually
tolerating
a young black man as president of the United States turned out to be different beasts. But then Pickles’s older brother came out of the closet and, with gay marriage in the balance, the family had no choice but to succumb. Plus, Pickles’s Grandma Rue had to admit that “the homosexuals” did throw the most well-orchestrated weddings. The family got over the hump. In fact, Pickles’s mother, Binky, was—at this very moment—choosing between peonies and roses for a fund-raiser supporting the incumbent POTUS.

Binky’s involvement was in part at Barbara Plum’s suggestion long before. At the height of Clinton’s economic boom, hordes of wealthy women—including Mrs. Schulman—descended on the Plums’ apartment every Tuesday morning at 10:00 for Fairway muffins and direction toward enrichment with solutions ranging from new hobbies (political activism!) to divorce. The girls had first met as preteens at one of these “boring” life-coaching seminars, when Pickles’s mother forced her to tag along while she was on spring break from school. They became fast friends, sharing a love for cropped tops, caprese salads, The Notorious B.I.G., Smashing Pumpkins, the movie
Clueless,
and “Serial Killer Week” on Discovery Channel.

“One second, hold on, almost there, okay! Go!” Pickles rambled. “I’ve turned the blasted thing off and am ready to convene. How are you? Did I ask how you are?”

Marjorie had to smile. Pickles’s enthusiasm was contagious, even if it meant she sometimes forgot to listen. Her closest friends knew that on the flip side there could be low lows, punctuated by hopeless sobbing. But mostly she was the picture of joie de vivre.

“I’m fine. You?”

“Divine, honey. You know how I do. Only you don’t sound
fine
at all. You sound down in the depths. Am I right? Are you Dumpster diving? Do tell. Let Mama fix it.”

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“At the beginning. Where else?”

“Okay. You know Mac?”

“I haven’t lately been lobotomized, despite what pregnancy brain might suggest, so
yes.
”

Of course she knew Mac. When Pickles got caught with pot and unceremoniously kicked out of her Upper East Side girls’ academy, she was accepted at Marjorie’s high school. (The new Schulman Athletic Center was erected the following year.)

“What’s up, sweetums? I’m not gonna lie. Mentioning Mac is ominous from the get.”

Better to rip off the Band-Aid. “I slept with him.”

Silence.

“It wasn’t like me.”

“I was going to say. Historically, you leave the poor decision making to me.”

“I’m going through a tricky time; try not to judge.”

“Not me, sweet pea. We’re all just trying to get by. A little worrisome, though. You know I love to live vicariously through your single lady antics, but…”

For years, Marjorie had played rapt spectator to wild child Pickles. She wasn’t beautiful (though she never knew it) but projected effortless sex appeal, a by-product of minor damage. Below sly almond eyes and an otherwise nude face, her wide lips were always brightly painted. And thanks to her flat belly and heart-shaped “French” butt, she looked as hot in a fitted T-shirt and low-slung bell-bottoms—skin peeking out between the two—as most do in black microminis.

Pickles made bad choices, falling into (and out of) love too easily. She dragged on cigarettes like lifelines, tossed back whiskey without wincing. She developed obsessions—often inspired by new boyfriends—like opera or video art or helping starving children from Haiti to Detroit. Then, as the shimmer faded and reality set in, she would decide that her causes didn’t need help as much as she did and she’d swoop Marjorie away to a Schulman compound in Sun Valley, Idaho, Tuscany, or St. Barts. Boundless resources had not helped tame her.

But almost six years prior now, Pickles had made another, less expected plunge: She got married, youth be damned. She’d made a shockingly strong choice. Her husband, Steve—an MBA, absorbed quickly into the family business—was sweet, smart, stoic, and took pleasure in Pickles’s flights of fancy. Soon after came children.

The kids changed Pickles. One minute she was treating some boy toy to Vegas lap dances and the next she was taking bourgeois pole-dancing classes with her “mommy group.” Marjorie was glad that Pickles ditched her old ways, having feared that her old friend might panic and flee when confronted with the sometimes ugly realities of marriage and motherhood. It was just hard to picture her covered in spit-up—that didn’t originate with some wasted drummer.

Ultimately, Pickles dove into child-rearing full throttle too, which proved obnoxious. For the first time, she had followed through with something, and that made her miraculous—worthy of applause. During the first pregnancy, Marjorie shared her friend’s excitement, shopping months early for impractical baby clothes from J Brand jeans to Steven Alan dresses. But the obsession proved exponential. Before the baby’s birth, Pickles had already spurned anything that wasn’t bamboo, organic cotton, hemp, or deemed otherwise acceptable by holier-than-thou mommy blogs. If possible, she would have constructed her whole world from kale.

And it only fed the beast when—out of politeness—an acquaintance called pregnant Pickles “glowing,” referenced “the miracle of life,” or acted as if her health was of national importance. Both Vera and Marjorie began dreading Pickles’s phone calls, during which she bragged about how easily she got pregnant (
“The first time we tried, sweetums!”
), as if the act had required skill instead of biological luck.

Leading up to labor, she’d preached about natural birth (
“Who needs medication? I’ve done enough drugs!”
), quoting her doula and midwives (yes, plural). When push
literally
came to shove, though, and the baby refused to budge after five hours and enough Pitocin to induce a small elephant, she settled for a C-section. And for that too she was self-congratulatory:
“I’m so relieved: Everything is still intact down there!”

Her son Jasper’s actual arrival did nothing to quell the beast, though perhaps the self-adulation had quieted down some since the more recent birth of Riley. By then, she had lectured so much about fair trade sweet potatoes that even her mother, Binky, had to roll her eyes—no easy feat with all that Botox. And Marjorie had started reaching out less and less. This call was a wary crossing of a burning bridge.

“The Mac thing is a hot mess, but it’s actually the least of my problems. Are you ready for this? Vera is moving in with
Brian.
” Marjorie awaited commiseration. None came.

“Right, right.”

“You knew?”

“I did.”

“For how long?”

“Gosh, I’m not sure. Maybe she told me six weeks ago at brunch? This lovely raw food spot near me. The best flaxseed—”

“You had brunch? Without me?”

“It’s not unheard of to convene without one of the trio, love. You and Vera have been living together for years without me.” Pickles hesitated. “She specifically wanted to see me alone.”

Alarms blared in Marjorie’s head. Phone cradled between her shoulder and chin, she crossed to her desk and began shoving stacks of unread books into a box. “So what did she say about me?” she asked with forced calm.

A palpable pause. “About you?”

“Pickles, I’m not dumb. She obviously wanted to vent.”

“She mentioned being worried about you, that’s true. But mostly she wanted to talk about what was happening in her life … without having to feel bad.”

“Wait, what does that mean?”

Pickles sighed. How had she happened into this mine field? One day, these girls would have babies and realize how way too exhausted she was for this.

“She feels—mind you, I’m not saying this is
true
—that you aren’t happy for her successes. That you’re still struggling with not being high school ‘Madgesty’ anymore, wondering why you can’t have your heart’s desire without effort. That you’re drowning and pulling her down with you to the bottom.”

“The
bottom
?” Marjorie choked.

“
Bottom,
so to speak.”

“This is all because I don’t have a boyfriend. Being single at our age is like her worst fear. I’m a cautionary tale to her.”

“Now, Madge. No one said that.’”

“No one said that
out loud.
”

“We just feel that, with your lack of direction, you’re a bit …
immature.
”

“Oh, now it’s
we
? Why? Because I haven’t settled for a Brian? Because I don’t have kids?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?!”

“You’re a bit developmentally arrested.”

“Is that like being mildly retarded?”

Pickles lowered her voice to a whisper: “‘Retarded’ is really not the accepted word these days.”

“What else did you diagnose me with?”

“Nothing. We finished our kombucha mimosas and left. I took Jasper to samba class and—”

“Jasper takes samba?”

“He’s very graceful.”

“He’s three.”

“Look, sweets. I didn’t mean to upset you. You can always talk to me.”

Marjorie took a shuddered breath and collapsed into the ergonomic desk chair her father had insisted on her having; it served mostly as purgatory for dirty clothing. “Sure.”

“So when is Vera moving out?”

“Tomorrow. But she didn’t tell me until yesterday, which is crazy because—”

The baby started crying in the background. Marjorie could practically see her friend fading away like Michael J. Fox in that
Back to the Future
Polaroid, a movie she, Vera, and Pickles had first watched together in eighth grade.

In the face of futility, Marjorie continued, “I wasn’t given any notice.”

“Uh-huh,” said Pickles absently.

“And, here’s the thing, Pick. At work yesterday, I was—”

“I’m so sorry, love. Got to run. Riley is wailing, and if she wakes Jasper that will be the end of me, ruin tomorrow for him and the nanny. But it’s been so fantastic to hear your voice; I adore you. Let’s talk next week! Love to your parents!”

The line cut off with a crisp click.

“… Fired,” finished Marjorie into the deafening silence.

13

Marjorie slept as late as possible, then awoke to the sounds of packing blankets unfurling, furniture banging, and cardboard boxes being heaved into the arms of what she assumed were two burly men in lifting harnesses—“Luther and Curt of Platinum Movers,” she heard them announce.

She hid in her bedroom for the rest of the morning, while Vera and Brian navigated their move. She was
developmentally arrested.
They could hardly expect more.

An hour in, Vera—the self-proclaimed model of poise and evolution—shrilled that her iPad had been stolen. (Curt had actually placed it on a window ledge out of harm’s way.) Marjorie shook her head in disgust and decided to drown out the existential (and actual) noise with the final two episodes of
Downton Abbey,
Season 2.

Hours, gowns, and constitutionals later, Mary and Matthew had reached a more than satisfactory resolution despite war, mayhem, and class distinctions. Clearly, Marjorie had been born in the wrong century. She untangled her cross-legged limbs, stood and, hesitantly, turned down the TV’s volume.

No sound. No Curt. No Luther. No binging of the service elevator. She cracked the door and peeked out into the living room. No one.

Maybe she should have wished her longtime best friend a disingenuous “Good luck!” But making peace would mean sharing recent setbacks with Vera, and by default Brian and whomever he told.
No way.

She crept out, the floorboards creaking with each socked step, and slid to the front door, Tom-Cruise-in-
Risky-Business
-style. Through the peephole, the hallway looked warped as if through a kaleidoscope. There was no sign of life: no dollies, no red tape spools with serrated edges, no empty Gatorade bottles.

Marjorie exhaled and faced the empty living room; only a flea market side table and cheap IKEA halogen lamp remained. Like undesirables at a school dance, dust balls mingled at the edges with leftover surge protectors: cream and beige. A diorama of Marjorie’s objects sat in one corner: the framed photo, the starfish, a broken conch shell (was that hers?), the champagne. Marjorie considered chugging it, but her recent hangover still lingered, too close.

That was when she heard a noise from the kitchen. Was that the ice maker?
Tell me that was the ice maker.

Before she could flee, Brian—disgusting as always in his grubby Syracuse University sweatshirt—nearly plowed her down, a water glass in hand. She jumped out of the way, suddenly aware that she was braless in a sheer tank.

“Oh. You’re here.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then dried it on his Tony Soprano track pants.

“I just woke up,” Marjorie lied, feigning a yawn. “I thought you guys had left.”

“We’re about to. Vera’s waiting downstairs.” Brian grinned, squishing his layers of neck fat together like piled jellyfish. “We figured you didn’t come home last night.”

She didn’t like that he was smiling. “Of course I came home. Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know or care, but Vera worries. I figured you were with O’Shea, but I guess he spanked some other chick at the Babe Cave this time.”