Ask Again Later (16 page)

I want to strangle him. Now. In public.

“Bob is
three
offices down,” I say. “You think I'd date a Mormon with four kids? Thanks.”

“Oh. Will. He's a smart one,” Dad says. “Young, though.”

Wearer of conservative shirts. Keeps diplomas hung in corner, as if embarrassed by an abundance of education. Lips that appear to be perfect for kissing. I could go on, but my father is staring.

“Yeah,” I say. “He's smart.”

“Does he still have his friend?” Jim asks. “The girl?”

“His girlfriend?” I ask.

“Yes. I thought he was involved with someone,” Jim says.

Will's apparently shown
everyone
the half-naked photos of his girlfriend.

“I think it ended,” I say. At least that's the story he's telling.

Chiclets

WILL IS AT
the newsstand in the lobby. He's deciding whether to buy Chiclets or Tic-Tacs. This seems sweet to me. That he's taking this meaningless choice seriously. What will he treat his mouth to today? His tongue has been so very good to him. And his teeth and gums, too. They all deserve a pick-me-up…will he favor them with a delicious smorgasbord? Gum and mints? Or perhaps something to harass his teeth—Jujyfruits?

“Emily, I need to ask you something,” Will says.

“Chiclets,” I say. I hope he picks the fruity kind. Peppermint and spearmint just seem too noncelebratory. The workhorses of the breath-freshener family.

“Do you think any kissing will occur tonight?” Will asks.

I stare at him for a while. “Tonight?” I ask.

“Between you and me,” Will says. “On our date.”

“Oh,” I say. Good lord, what have I agreed to? “I don't know,” I say. But that question alone makes me seriously doubt it.

“You don't
know
? Sounds like a yes to me! Do you have a strong preference between wintergreen and peppermint?” Will asks.

“Strong preference? No,” I say.

I stare at him. I stare at him because when our knees touched yesterday I did feel something. It was exciting.

Before I meet Will for dinner, I stop at a pay phone. I call Sam. If he answers, it means I will cancel dinner plans with Will. But Sam doesn't answer. Maybe he's in the shower. I wait ten minutes. I call again. Still no answer. I leave a message.

“Hi. Emily here. I was calling to say…‘Hi, Emily here,'” I say. “Maybe I'll call again in a few minutes.”

I hang up the phone. I'm still doing it. I'm calling Sam to keep me away from Will, and I'm here to meet Will in hopes that it will keep me away from Sam. One foot out of two different doors.

Red Formica Table

WE MEET IN
the West Village at Two Boots for pizza. He kisses my cheek as he opens the door to the restaurant for me. I'm not sure if he's being sincere, or mocking this “date.”

Will is wearing jeans and a T-shirt and running shoes. There is a rubber band around his calf to hold his pants out of the way of his bicycle chain.

My clothing is all wrong for this part of town. I'd have to buy a new wardrobe if things ever developed between us.

We take a seat at a red Formica table.

“Beer?” Will asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“I hope you'll trust me to order,” Will says.

“It's pizza,” I say.

“Which is why I feel supremely confident,” Will says.

The waitress comes over to the table. Will orders.

“Two light beers. Two salads. Dressing on the side for the lady. That okay with you? I know the ladies prefer the dressing on the side,” Will says.

“Have a lot of experience with the ladies, do ya?” I say.

“And one Hawaiian pizza,” Will says.

The waitress scribbles on her pad and disappears. I look around the place. A couple in their thirties is eating pizza with their twin boys. The rest of the tables are filled with teenagers.

“Should we talk shop?” Will asks.

“Okay,” I say.

“Who spends more time on the phone? Me or Wendy?” Will asks.

“Too close to call,” I say. “You're both kind of chatty.”

There is an awkward pause. Will contemplates the pepper shaker.

“Are you starting to think we ruined the romance by moving this outside of the office?” Will asks. “I was really enjoying all of that sexual tension at work.”

“Have you talked to your girlfriend recently?” I ask.

“She won't call me back,” Will says.

“Oh,” I say. “What did you do?”

“Told her I loved her,” Will says. “What's your story?”

“No story,” I say. “Nothing I'm telling you anyway.”

For a moment I feel tempted to excuse myself from the table and go to the nearest pay phone and call Sam again to tell him about the date I'm on. About the rubber band on Will's pant leg. Maybe he'd get in a cab and rescue me from this funny earnest person who seemed more like a younger brother than someone to kiss.

“So, do you love her?” I ask.

“I don't know. I thought I did,” Will says. “But it's not easy to love someone who won't return your phone calls.”

“Right,” I say.

Will comes around to my side of the table and sits next to me on the Formica bench. He puts his hand under my chin. He kisses me. I kiss him back.

“Get a room!” one of the teenagers yells.

Bicycle Built for Two

AFTER TWO BOOTS,
we ride Will's bike to Grange Hall for another glass of wine.

“I think it's time for me to go home now,” I say. “Thanks, Will, it was a fun night.”

“Yeah?” Will says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Can I give you a ride to Hudson? You can catch a cab going uptown,” Will says.

I climb back onto the front handlebars, and lift my feet up, and balance myself.

Romance at the workplace is not a good idea. Extremely light emphasis on the word “romance,” please. Will is not ready for marriage or love or even a bicycle built for two. I could stagnate here, I suppose. Choosing Will is an emotional cop out. But at some point I must learn to finish and not just start.

When I get home, I play my messages. There's only one.

“Hi, Em. I'll try you again, even if you call only when you can't really talk,” Sam says.

A Pet

I RETURN FROM
lunch on Monday. On my desk is a mystery. A small fishbowl. Inside is a goldfish, swimming in circles. Exploring. All alone and going nowhere, like someone else I know.

I dial Will's extension.

“Hello?” Will says.

“Did you buy the goldfish?” I ask.

“No,” Will says. “I'm with a client. Wait, who's buying you goldfish? Man, that's really good. Flowers are nice, but a goldfish is so much better.”

“Maybe it's not for me,” I say.

Or maybe someone grew bored with it and dropped it off here. The way people drop unwanted cats off at farms?

Jim walks by.

“Do you like him?” Jim asks.

“You bought the goldfish?” I say.

“Yes,” Jim says. “I thought you could use some company out here.”

Is this his polite way of saying my wiretapping has got to stop?

“Thanks!” I say. “That's very sweet.”

My reaction to the fish surprises me. I'm elated to have this bowl sitting on my desk. I must be lonelier than I thought.

“What are you going to call him?” Jim asks.

“I don't know,” I say.

“He's a happy guy,” Jim says.

“How can you tell?” I ask.

“Can't you tell? I can just tell,” Jim says.

He did seem to be happily swimming, but what are his options?

I move him to the left of my desk so his bowl is not directly below the air-conditioning vent. I sit back in my chair and watch Happy.

 

EVERY DAY AT
about two, the air conditioner gets too cold, so I open the window and hear the sounds of traffic below on Sixth Avenue. A man on the street is holding a public sermon warning, announcing that Jesus is coming. I imagine the cold air spiraling out of the window, dancing down the building, and caressing his cheek, like the hand of God. A reward for believing.

Like a Diamond in the Sky

I'M SITTING AT
my desk when the phone rings. My line. My direct line never rings. Marjorie doesn't even say hello. She starts a tirade.

“Guess what the in-laws got him?” Marjorie says.

“Got who?” I ask.

“Baby Malcolm,” Marjorie says. “As a gift for being born.”

“Carton of Marlboro Lights?” I ask.

“
That
would have been
useful
.” Marjorie sighs.

“Sterling silver something?” I ask.

“Too girlie,” Marjorie says.

“Gift certificate to a steakhouse?” I say.

“Nope. They named a star after him…and sent us the official certificate of authenticity. It even came with a map,” Marjorie says.

“That's kind of sweet,” I say. “He can't even sit up yet, and he's already got his own star? That kid's life is going to be great!”

“Would a cute outfit have been too much to ask for? We don't have two nickels to rub together, and they're buying real estate in outer space?” Marjorie says.

“It would be difficult to be your mother-in-law,” I say.

“Why?” Marjorie says.

“Because sometimes it's difficult being your sister,”
I say. “It's not their fault you guys spend every cent you have. How much money have you spent on purses alone this year? More than most people spend on a car! You have a personal shopper for fuck's sake! When you're too busy to do it yourself, she's out there spending money
for
you. It's insane. You don't get to complain about not having money when you blow through it the way you do.”

“Remind me not to call you when I need a sympathetic ear. And it's not always easy being your sister, either. All this time you're spending with Mom and Dad can't be healthy. You're neurotic because you spent too much time with Mom after they divorced. Now you're just compounding your problems by working for Dad…. It's not normal,” Marjorie says.

“Aren't you even curious what he's like? Why their marriage fell apart?” I ask.

“Not really. I don't live in the olden days,” Marjorie says. “If you have children, you'll discover that there's a whole lot less time to worry about yourself and your parents. It's a happy relief to know the world doesn't revolve around Joanie and Jim. Anyway, I didn't call you to start a fight.”

“I know. Just remember, it's nice that Malcolm has grandparents who are thinking about him. He's a really sweet baby, isn't he?” I say.

“Yes, and I already miss being pregnant,” Marjorie says.

“It must be a very hopeful time,” I say.

“Well, that and I had the metabolism of a teenager. I used to be able to eat a baguette and a wheel of Brie for lunch,” Marjorie says.

Pimp My Bowl

ON THE WAY
to meet my father to share a cab to work, I pass Petland Discounts. It must be where Dad bought Happy. I walk inside. It smells of dog. Happy traded up in a big way. He's the office darling.

I walk over to the fish equipment aisle. I select a net. Some water purifier. I'm about to go and pay when I see something Happy
has
to have. A treasure chest. The lid is propped open and a bounty of coins and jewels spill out. I buy some hot pink gravel and a floating thermometer and some live plants. Nothing's too good for Happy.

I see a miniature scuba guy. It offends me. I instantly recognize it as something that would scare Happy—being trapped in a bowl with a small man dressed in latex.

An hour later, Happy's home is transformed. It's so nice I wouldn't mind living in there.

I open the top drawer of my desk. I pull out a card. Mom's oncologist Dr. Kealy gave me the name of his favorite mammogram guy. They never miss anything, he said. If I have time to decorate a fishbowl, I probably have time to get a mammogram. Besides, Happy needs me.

Colic

WHENEVER I CALL
Marjorie, it's a bad time. Big Malcolm is never home, and her baby nurse du jour has just quit, just stolen, or just broken something irreplaceable and needs to be fired.

“I'm a terrible mother,” Marjorie says with a certain amount of pride and resignation. “At least I can admit it!”

“Do you need some help?” I ask.

“Yes. I need help, then I need cameras to watch the help. Then I need help firing the help. The first baby nurse took my engagement ring,” Marjorie says.

“That's horrible. Where was the ring?” I ask.

“Hidden. I wasn't wearing it when I was pregnant because my hands were so swollen. So before I went to the hospital I put it inside of a sock, with some cash, and then put that inside of a rain boot in my closet. The money is gone, and so is the ring,” Marjorie says. “She was here a few days before Malcolm was born to get things organized. She must have ripped the place apart as soon as I went into labor.”

“What did the agency say?” I ask.

“Said I shouldn't have left any valuables around the house,” Marjorie says.

“That's helpful,” I say. “Why don't I come over?”

Little Malcolm is crying in the background throughout the conversation.

“You really don't want to. All this baby does is cry,” Marjorie says. “No wonder Big Malcolm never comes home. I wish I didn't have to come home. I'm starving, and I can't seem to find time to order food.”