Auld Lang Syne (8 page)

“That is always good, is it not?”

We were quiet for a minute, gazing at the dying fire. Gracie had decided to be magnanimous about Armando’s shameful inattention and curled up with her tail over her nose.

“What resolutions did you make for the new year?” I asked him.

“To make love to my wife more often,” he responded promptly, and his stroking hand found my thigh.
“Starting now.”

I returned his smile. “No sense putting these things off,” I agreed.

Seven

“By the way, how did you leave things with Charlie yesterday? I was so worried about having to tell
Strutter
about your conversation with him, I forgot to ask you.”

Emma and I were stumping around the Broad Street Green Tuesday morning, almost glad to get back to our normal routine after the excesses of the holidays.

“He didn’t want to go back to school this morning, I can tell you that.”

“I can imagine,” I sympathized. “I seem to recall a few mornings years ago when you and Joey weren’t eager to face your friends, like the time the two of you got into a brawl on the school bus and were suspended from riding it for a week, or when Joey got braces.”

“And the time in the eighth grade I burned off my bangs with the curling iron,” Emma grinned, “but being asked to dance by your same sex best friend you didn’t even know was gay in front of the entire school? That’s a whole new level of awful.”

“Awful for both boys,” I agreed. “After all, Duane assumed Charlie was totally up to speed and ready to support him when he came out. Otherwise, Charlie never would have accepted what in Duane’s mind was a sort of a date for the dance.”

“Was that realistic or just wishful thinking on Duane’s part? Those two guys have known each other forever. How could Duane have thought Charlie was anything but hetero?”

“Good point. When you go through puberty together, you’re pretty clear about your best friend’s gender preference, I’d imagine.”

“Except maybe for the bi’s,” Emma mused.

“Buys? I’m not following.”

“As in bisexuals,” Emma explained in her be-patient-with-clueless-old-mom voice. “Those can be pretty tough to spot.”

My head started to swim, as it did so often these days when I conversed with people under thirty.
Best to get back to the immediate problem.
“So what did you advise him to do?”

Emma shrugged. “I told him to man up.”

I cut my eyes at her.
“Probably not the best choice of words under the circumstances.”

She glared at me. “Not everything in life is a double entendre, Ma. Grow up. What I told him was that it happened, it’s not going to go away, and everyone else who was there is probably as uncomfortable as he and Duane are. They don’t know how to act or what to say, so they’re going to take their cue from the two of them. Charlie and Duane are going to have to set the tone. Above all, they need to stick together and remember
they’re
best friends, just like they were a week ago.
The less drama at this point, the better.”

I kept forgetting that my daughter was all grown up and more perceptive than I could ever hope to be. “That’s pretty good advice,” I said, impressed.

“It’s a different world now,” she went on, unintentionally emphasizing my sadly outdated frame of reference. “Kids today are way savvier about these things than they were in your day or even when Joey and I were teenagers.
Lots more media exposure.”

I had to admit that was true.

“The good news is, Duane is out now,” she went on. “No matter what happens next, he doesn’t have to hide who he is anymore. That’s got to be a huge relief.”

“For him, maybe, but how about poor Charlie?
He must feel like the dumbest cluck in the world, not to mention that about eighty percent of the kids who were at that dance now assume he’s gay, too,” I protested.

“I seriously doubt that. How did
Strutter
take the news?”

“Oh, she and J.D. have known about Duane for years. They figured Charlie would pick up on it soon enough. I guess I’m the only parent-type who didn’t know, speaking of dumb clucks.”

At this, Emma laughed outright. “Shades of Rick Fletcher,” she teased, referring to the young gay man I’d set my sights on for her a few years back. “Your gay-
dar
never was fully functional.” She looked at me slyly. “Are you absolutely sure Armando …?”

“Absolutely,” I squelched her and picked up my pace to end that particular line of inquiry.

As was customary following the frantic festivity of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s, we New Englanders returned reluctantly to our workaday chores, overindulged and cranky. Confronted with higher numbers on our bathroom scales and lower numbers on our bank accounts, we faced the remaining weeks of winter stoically, dragging ourselves back to our desks and the gym to honor our New Year’s resolutions and await the return of the robins.

My high-tech Weight Watchers scale had informed me this morning I had not lost any weight. Worse, I’d gained a pound, which I meanly attributed to
Strutter’s
Jamaican dinner on Monday evening.
 
As peeved as I was about my lack of progress on the diet, I was not pleased to see Margo, who made maintaining her weight appear effortless, glide down the office stairs. If possible, she looked
more svelte
than ever.

“
Mornin
’, Sugar,” she greeted me
sunnily
, oblivious to my pique. “Did you and
Strutter
have a nice walk yesterday?”

“How do you do it?” I snapped at her without preamble. “You don’t go to a gym, to my knowledge. You don’t have a personal trainer, play tennis or do
Zumba
. As far as I know, the most strenuous activity in your week is giving yourself a pedicure. You eat like a bull elephant, yet you never gain weight. How do you pull that off?”

Margo paused in her preparations to begin the day and peered at me over the top of her stylish reading glasses, which were Sarah Palin red. A perfectly groomed finger hovered over the power key on her laptop as she assessed my outburst.

“I don’t recall ever
seein
’ a bull elephant
paintin
’ his toenails, but thank you for that attractive analogy,” she giggled, deciding not to take offense.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” I huffed. “Most women our age have to struggle on a daily basis to maintain our figures, but you don’t seem to be bothered about it at all. I’m serious, Margo. What’s your secret?” I flounced into my chair behind the one desk in our modest office.

Margo settled onto the sofa facing me and powered on the neglected laptop. “See, that’s the thing, Sugar. When it comes to
losin
’ weight, everybody’s
lookin
’ for some secret formula. They buy billions of dollars worth of diet books and diet programs and diet pills, and they’re always disappointed. They might lose a few pounds, but those always come right back, and they usually bring a few friends with ‘
em
.”

I drummed my fingers on the desk top.
“Uh huh.
I’m sure there’s a point in here somewhere. I know all about the things that don’t work. I’m asking you what it is that does work for you.”

In deference to our long friendship, Margo regarded me with continued patience. “Eat less, move more,” she said. Her eyes dropped to the open laptop as her fingers tapped the necessary keys to open her e-mail. I waited for her to expand on this pronouncement, but no details were forthcoming. Eventually she noticed my silence and raised her head.

“Eat less, move more?” I prodded.

She removed her reading glasses and gave me her full attention. “Honestly, that’s all there is to it, no matter how complicated the diet gurus try to make it. It’s a basic calculation. If you consume fewer calories than your body burns, you’ll lose weight. It’s as simple, and as difficult, as that, because most of us enjoy good food and want to eat more of it than we need. The real trick is
figurin
’ out how many calories we can reasonably expect to burn off each day and
stickin
’ with that number.” She grinned sympathetically. “’Course, it doesn’t hurt that John is away this week, and I’ve never been one to enjoy
eatin
’ alone.”

She replaced her glasses and turned back to her e-mails while I pondered her words. As usual, the former debutante’s advice was forthright and practical.

“That makes sense. I can do that. Thank you,” I told her now, my snit receding.

“I know you can, Sugar. I have complete faith. Why, in a month or two you and I will be
bathin
’ suit
shoppin
’ to give our men an eyeful.” She punched the Send button on her e-mail and got to her feet. “In the meantime let’s fill up our tummies with a cup of fresh coffee. I brought in some nonfat hazelnut creamer that’s positively to die for.”

Strutter
arrived to find us chatting companionably in the coffee room, which also housed our overworked photocopy machine and office supplies. I had taken the opportunity to fill Margo in on the situation with Duane and Charlie. Although Margo was not a mother, and we were all glad about that, she had great instincts and compassion to spare for those of us who were.

“Damn, talk about lousy
timin
’,” was all she had a chance to say before we heard
Strutter
arrive, but it was enough to know her heart was in the right place.

One look at
Strutter’s
face let us know things had not gone well with Charlie this morning. Wordlessly, Margo handed her a mug of coffee.

“Did Charlie make it to school?” was all I asked, my stomach knotting in advance of
Strutter’s
response.

“He did, but not happily,” she said tersely. Her shoulders sagged, and she set the coffee mug back on the counter. “I think this is about the most helpless I’ve ever felt as a mother. If there was one single thing I could do for him, I would, but there’s no way I can make this better. I want to go down to that school and stand between him and anyone who gets in his face. I want to give Duane a hug. I want … oh, I don’t know.” She broke off and yanked an envelope of sweetener out of the cupboard.

“We know, Sweetie, and J.D. must be
feelin
’ exactly the same way.” Margo offered her some hazelnut creamer, and
Strutter
shook her head. She reclaimed her mug, but judging from the tremor in her hands, coffee might not be the best idea at the moment.

“J.D. is fit to be tied. J.D. is homicidal. I would not want to be the young person who is misguided enough to attempt to make either one of those boys
feel
worse today than they already do. But J.D.’s hands are tied, too. All we could do this morning is try to get Charlie to lighten up a little, see what a great private joke this will make in years to come between him and Duane. He pretended to cheer up a little, but he couldn’t fool me. He’s sick at heart, and as for poor Duane, I can’t imagine what he’s going through, knowing he’s embarrassed his best friend like this. I keep thinking of all those Internet stories about teenagers who are out-
ed
publicly and wind up committing suicide.” She gulped once and sniffled audibly.

I gasped. “That’s not possible, not Duane. I’ve known that boy for years, too, and he’s way too smart and level-headed to do a thing like that. Besides, he out-
ed
himself, remember? He had to know a dramatic move like the one he made was going to generate a reaction, right?”

If possible,
Strutter
looked even more forlorn. “I don’t know if he did or he didn’t, because he didn’t talk to me. His parents might not have been sympathetic, but he could have talked to J.D. and me, and we would have been able to head this off, set him straight. But he didn’t come to us. Why didn’t he, Kate?”

Then our dear, clear-thinking, practical friend put her coffee mug down once again and fell apart. In all the years I had known
Strutter
, I’d seen her cry only once before, but it had been memorable. As this storm broke Margo and I grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her down the stairs to the Mack Realty office, shutting the door firmly behind us lest an untimely client appear to witness the meltdown.

When Margo unleashed tears, she sniffled discreetly into a tissue and somehow managed to avoid smudging her mascara.
Strutter
was not a tidy weeper; she was a category four hurricane. We got her to the sofa and let her rip, periodically replacing the soggy tissues in her fist with fresh ones while rubbing her back and making soothing noises. After a while the full-out blubbering slowed, and she regarded us sadly but calmly through swollen, red-rimmed eyes as she honked yet again into her tissues.

“Thank goodness for Kleenex. The last time you pulled this, all you had to mop your nose on was your sweater sleeve,” I told her. “Feel a little better now?”

Margo, ever thoughtful, whipped back up the stairs and returned with fresh coffee and Advil. “Bet you have one hell of a headache, though,” she remarked conversationally as she shook two gel caps into
Strutter’s
palm. “I think
it’s
nature’s way of
distractin
’ us from whatever we were
cryin
’ about in the first place.”