Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (7 page)

Chipper had shed any residual affection for the golf shirts and bow ties of his youth. But his aversion to emotion remained. And so now he fought the urge to flee.

Barbara shot him a stern, knowing look. He returned it with a growl, but they both knew she was right. And Chipper always did the right thing.

Marjorie had calmed down enough to tell the (edited) story.

“What a nightmare,” sighed Barbara afterward.

“How can that horrible woman do such a thing?” cried Chip.

Ultimately, they decided, over drumsticks and artichokes, that a change was for the best. At least Marjorie believed that until her mother agreed.

“It’s a terrible industry anyway.”

“Mom. Brianne is horrible, but let’s not damn them all.”

“You should have quit ages ago. I mean,
ages.
”

“Maybe I am better off,” said Marjorie, “but I don’t have a job or money or any idea what to do next. I can’t work in PR, and that’s all the experience I have!”

“Fake it ’til you make it, Bozo,” suggested her father. Suddenly, the term of endearment felt downright insulting. “Do whatever’s necessary. Take a cue from
Tootsie
!”

“Dress up like a man?”

Born into extreme privilege and having always known his path, Chipper had never worked a nine-to-five office job in pursuit of a dream. He gave terrible career advice.

Barbara sighed. “We’re talking about a
real
career instead of barhopping for a living.”

“Hold on. You encouraged me to take this job!”

“You were nineteen.”

“This is insane revisionist history! You were over the moon. It was like your ship had come in—and docked at the top of the social stratum.”

“We’re not talking about my ship. We’re talking about your dinghy.”

“Suddenly there’s a difference?”

Marjorie had accepted Brianne’s job offer and remained for many reasons, but her mother’s elated whoop at the news of her rising status had contributed.

“We thought you’d have moved on by now.”

“Fine.” Marjorie was revolted by her own petulance. “But what am I going
to do
?”

This question was a misstep. After all, people paid Barbara Plum to answer it.

“I’ll get a piece of paper. We’ll make a list!”

“Barb,” Chipper pleaded. But the train had left the station. She was already at the counter, sifting through an old cookie tin for a working pen. He turned to Marjorie for reason: “This seems like a poor idea.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I need to do this.”

Giving up, Chipper grabbed the
New York Times
for protection and leafed to the op-ed page, where there would likely be less dissent. Barbara sat back down, her chair screeching against the tile floor in warning.

“Let’s begin with a list of obstacles. Then we can address next steps, one by one, so as not to overwhelm.”

“Well, let’s see…” considered Marjorie, sprinkling her sweet potatoes with coarse salt.

Barbara caught her daughter’s hand midshake. “Enough.”

“Really, Mom? Right now, you want to lecture me on sodium intake?”

“If you want to be bloated on top of everything else, go ahead.”

Both women rolled their eyes.

Consumed by appearances, Barbara was more like Chipper’s own mother than he allowed himself to suspect. She came from a working-class Queens family, whom she loved and respected, but she wanted more. She had fallen for Chipper based on animal magnetism and shared sense of humor, but had also likely been attracted to his obvious smarts (glasses!), upward mobility, and those same WASPy looks his mother fostered.

There had been another man before Chipper: a carpenter, who dreamed of owning a peach orchard upstate. Barbara fantasized with him about the pies she would bake, the fires he would build. But she knew she could never be satisfied with that life.

With Chipper, Barbara built the future she’d imagined and gave birth to a beautiful daughter, whom she couldn’t help reminding to stay as perfect as she’d come out—to capitalize on those looks, brains, and private school connections, to remember lipstick, stand up straight, get back on top!

Still, once in a while, when Barbara bit into a ripe peach, she felt a pang for the path not taken, though she did not remember why. One could live only one life and hers would be with the well-bred professor, who could never pass up an episode of
M*A*S*H.

“The first problem is that I have no money,” said Marjorie.

“Okay, got it.
No money.
” Barbara scribbled on the yellow notebook paper in cursive.

“And nowhere to live.”

“Nowhere to live.”

Marjorie looked hopefully at Barbara; Barbara looked back blankly.

“What else?”

“Mom.”

“Yes?”

“I have nowhere to live.”

“I know.” Barbara scanned the list, checking her work. “I got that one.”

Marjorie steeled herself. “I may need to move back in with you guys, just while I save some money.”

Barbara set down the pen and folded her hands in front of her in a “professional” way that drove Marjorie insane. “That may be a problem.”

“A problem? Why?”

“Because we’re renovating your bedroom.”

“Into what? A gym?”

“No. Into another bedroom. For guests, who aren’t sixteen.”

“You’re converting my bedroom into a
bedroom
?”

“That’s right.”

“When were you planning on telling me that?”

“Tonight.”

“So the artichokes, my favorite, were to butter me up?”

“No. I don’t need to butter you up. This is
my
house.”

Mina the Cat sauntered into the room, caught a whiff of the tension, and raced away, ducking under the radiator. Chipper pulled the newspaper closer to his face.

“You know, Mom, you don’t need to make me feel
more
alienated.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“When is this starting?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?”

“Yes. And I realize this might not be convenient, but I need you to go through your stuff and decide what you want.”

Marjorie turned to father and instead found herself face-to-face with an article about drops in coffee prices in relation to Colombia’s economy.

“Dad?” Chipper did not respond. “Dad!”

“Yes?”

“Did you know about this?”

“Of course, he knows about it! It’s his home,” said Barbara. “And you haven’t stayed over in six months. Were we supposed to dedicate your room as a shrine?”

Marjorie covered her face with her hands. “Okay, okay, okay. What am I going to do?”

Barbara looked surprised. “Well, honey, that’s why we’re making a list!”

“Mother! I don’t need a list! I need a job, never mind an actual
career,
but those issues seem less pressing, since I have nowhere to
live
!”

“Well, that’s sensible.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

“No. That
is
sensible. And I have an idea.”

Barbara disappeared into her office and returned with her iPhone in hand. She copied a number on a fresh sheet of paper and handed it to her daughter.

“What’s this? The number for the nearest mental hospital?”

“Very funny. It’s my friend Patricia Reynolds’s info. You remember her from the symposium at Bard.”

Marjorie racked her brain. “Wait. The drum circle woman? With the hemp recipe book?”

“She’s very nice.”

“Mom!”

“Well, she is. Anyway, Patricia just sent out a message saying that her youngest, Fred, is looking for a roommate.”

“A mass e-mail? That sounds desperate.”

Barbara’s look said,
Takes one to know one.

“Have you met this kid?”

“No.”

Marjorie examined the paper, as if it might offer a glimpse of her future. “Mom. This number has a 347 area code.”

“Yes.”

“That’s
Brooklyn.
”

“I believe that’s true.”

“Mom! Please, stop playing dumb. You’re the one who says we ‘don’t do’ Brooklyn.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Actually, you did,” Chipper said. The coast seemed clearer now, and he did love ribbing his wife.

“Well, fine. That’s right.
We
don’t do Brooklyn.” Barbara paused. “But now
you
do.”

Barbara and Chipper grinned at each other across the table.

“That’s funny?” said Marjorie. “Why is that funny?”

Chipper snorted—Marjorie had inherited that habit from him—sending both elder Plums into hysterics.

“You guys are insane!”

They just laughed harder. Eventually, Marjorie joined in. It was either that or cry.

7

Marjorie left her parents’ house with the best of intentions.

On the train, as a one-man band played “Empire State of Mind” on his accordion and kazoo, she typed another list on her phone:

TO DO

• Get job.

• Save money.

• Consider deep-seated psychological issues behind sleeping with M.

• Figure out what to do with life.

• Learn to tolerate Brian, so oldest friendship isn’t over.

•
Never drink again.

• Don’t drink for a week.

• Buy face wash. You’re almost out. (Not life-changing, but acne isn’t going to HELP your future.)

The passengers opposite nodded off or read books from
The Hunger Games
to
Fifty Shades of Grey
(safely hidden inside e-readers); they skimmed bibles—New Testament, Old Testament, Koran, Weight Watchers points booklets.

Marjorie liked to invent backstories for these strangers: Someone somewhere yearned to kiss the sixteen-year-old girl in the brown suede moccasins with dangling tassels. Someone had surely had his heart broken by the young man with hair gelled into a static tsunami. Someone remembered a youthful crush on the elderly Asian woman, stoic beside a rolling cart filled with plastic bags of unusual vegetables.

She caught Marjorie’s eye, frowned, and spit a wad of phlegm on the subway car’s floor.

Once downtown, Marjorie walked east on Houston’s broken sidewalk, emboldened by a possible solution. She bypassed NoLIta and walked toward the Lower East Side. The one-time Jewish ghetto had been childhood home to Marjorie’s grandfather Jacob; there, he had attended the city’s oldest synagogue, bought lox and pickled herring at the still thriving Russ & Daughters. Now the neighborhood was packed with hipster boutiques and restaurants with forty-five-minute waiting lists, and, of course, bars like DIRT.

Marjorie stood outside, suddenly doubting the wisdom of her idea. She wound her hair into a twist and then let it fall. She turned to leave. But just then, up walked John. Their shared nod from the night before was the most interaction they’d had in eight years; now they’d be forced to make small talk.

“What’s up, Madge?” He shot her a lazy smile. These days he was a gentle giant at six five and round. He bent way down and pecked Marjorie’s cheek. “How you been?”

“Fine.” She bit her lip. “I got fired today.” What possessed her to share?

“Oh, man. Sucks. Been there. Bunch o’ assholes. Or, I don’t know, but I’m sure.”

“Thanks, John. That’s sweet.”

“Surprised that happened, though. Always seemed like things came easy to you.”

“Oh. Did it?” Shame so innate that Marjorie barely knew it existed bubbled up and threatened to spill. “I guess not anymore.”

“Ah, well. Bet you could use a drink. Where you coming from?”

“Dinner with my mom and dad.” Why did that feel embarrassing too—like she was thirteen years old and needed to pretend she didn’t
have
parents?

“I always liked your ma.”

“You did? That’s nice.”

“Yeah. Nice rack too.”

Marjorie’s mouth dropped open in disgust. But, as John pulled open the door, she had no choice but to walk through.

She paused on the threshold. Everything felt like a bad omen: askew piles of napkins bearing the gastropub’s logo—a vintage-style hoe; men with fresh pints entranced by flat screens, the word “fussili” misspelled among the chalkboard specials.

The same mustached bartender looked up at her, then glanced nervously over to where Mac was standing with the brunette—a poor man’s Jessica Alba—from the evening before.
Of course.
Marjorie forced a breezy smile.

Actually, she was enraged. He couldn’t have waited twenty-four hours before whoring himself out again? Mac and John exchanged pounds in greeting. He turned at John’s gesture and—spotting her—waved without qualification, and approached. He looked uncharacteristically sloppy: shirt buttoned wrong, cuff stained.

“What’s up, Madgesty?”

“Nothing, Mac. Cute girl you got there.” She couldn’t resist a comment.

He glanced back at Alba 2.0. “She’s no you.” He grinned. “Speaking of which: you back for more?”

“Did you really just say that?”

“You better believfe it.”

“You’re wasted.”

“Not too washted … to, you know, perform.”

“I’m gonna go.” Marjorie turned to leave.

“No, stay, stay. I’m just fucking around! Have a sense of humor already. What’s up?”

Marjorie took a deep breath. She had nothing left to lose. “I was wondering if Tom Selleck needs a barkeep.”

“’Scuse?”

“The bartender with the mustache. I need work, quickly. I got … I had to leave my job today.”

“What do you do again?”

“Mac, seriously? We’ve thrown three different opening parties for your restaurants.”

“Right. I see what you’re saying.” He sank into the closest booth.

“What am I saying?”

“That you need a job, so … okay.”

“Really? It’s that easy?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, my God, Mac.” Marjorie exhaled. She could keep her Manhattan apartment! She’d find a roommate online, murderers be damned. She resolved to buy an extra coconut water at the corner bodega to demonstrate her commitment to the neighborhood. “This means so much.”