Knitting Under the Influence (23 page)

“No, thank you,” he said.

Lucy came back into the room. “This it?”

He nodded and she handed it to him. Their fingers didn't touch. “Thanks. Goodbye, everyone. Lucy, I’ll call you later.” He turned and left, closing the door hard behind him—not quite a slam, but almost.

There was a moment of silence. Then: “No one wants to stay with us today,” Kathleen said. “I think it's all your fault, Sari. Offering a man a bagel. What's wrong with you?”

“I’m just a social klutz, I guess.” Sari glanced up at Lucy. “You okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah.” She sank down into a chair. “Slightly pissed, but okay. He's not right, is he? About the cat?”

“Definitely not,” Kathleen said. “It's your apartment and your life. Who the hell gave him the right to say you shouldn't have a pet?”

“I don't like cats,”

Sari said, “but I’ll defend to my death your right to have one.”Lucy stared at the knitting needle that was picking up stitches from the yarn wrapped around Sari's thumb and forefinger, like she was mesmerized by it. Then she said, “I don't know what's going on with me and James. Sometimes he just—” She stopped.

After a moment, Kathleen said, “I still think he's one good-looking dude.”

“And smart and obviously good at what he does,” Sari said.

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “But he can be kind of a dick.”

And by the way her friends didn't say anything, just suddenly got very involved in their knitting, she knew they didn't disagree.

VI

S
ari checked her e-mail when she got home from the knitting circle. And there it was—her daily e-mail from [email protected].

The subject line was, “Worried about Zack.” She went to delete it the way she normally did, but accidentally hit “read” instead.

She was fairly certain it was an accident.

She read the first line.

“I’m beginning to realize you don't actually give a shit about Zack,” it began.

She closed it down immediately and this time had no trouble finding the delete button. She sat at her desk, her head in her hands, for a long time.

VII

B
y the time James stopped by the lab on Wednesday afternoon to check in on that week's progress, he and Lucy hadn't spoken for three days—not since Sunday morning. They were cordial, though, and kissed each other quickly on the lips in front of David, who politely busied himself changing the rats’ water.

“You look tired, Lucy,” James said, and she said, “I
am
tired. David wouldn't stop jumping on me in bed last night.” The human David looked up with a laugh.

“So,” James said when the joke was explained to him, “you're to blame for this kitten.”

David went over to the sink. “I guess so.” He turned on the water.

“You disappoint me, Lee,” James said. “I thought better of you.

“Yeah, well, I disappoint a lot of people,” David said cheerfully. “You're in good company.” He washed his hands, dried them, and tossed the towel in the trash. “Shall we knock off now, Lucy? I know it's early, but I have to pack. I’m driving to my folks’ later tonight.” He headed to his desk.

“Sure,” Lucy said. “Happy Thanksgiving, David.”

David slipped his laptop into its case. “Happy Thanksgiving, Luce. Later, James.”

James raised his hand silently and David left. There was a long pause. Then Lucy said, “Oh, I edited that grant proposal.”

“Great.”

“It's in good shape. I’ll e-mail it to you tonight.”

“Fine.” There was a pause. Lucy sat down at her desk and shut down her computer.

Then James said, “You want to have dinner?”

She closed the laptop lid. “I’m meeting Sari.”

“Oh,” he said.

“You're welcome to join us.”

“No, thanks.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, rattled his change. “You want to come over to my place afterward? Maybe spend the night?”

“I should go home,” she said. “David will have been alone all day.”

“That would be David the cat.”

“Obviously.”

“You know,” he said with a half smile, “women who choose cats over men end up crazy old ladies who live alone with a hundred cats in a smelly old house.”

“I’ll risk it,” Lucy said. “You could come over to my place though. We could rent a movie.”

“I’d hate to come between you and the kitten.”

“Then don't come,” Lucy said. “I don't care.”

“Lovely,” he said. “Thanks for that.” He moved toward the door. “Does this mean we're done?”

“Done with this conversation?” she asked, standing up, holding on to the edge of her desk. “Or done for good?”

“Why don't you tell me which you'd prefer?”

She looked down at her curled-up fingers and said again, “I don't care.”

“There's an answer, right there.” He shook his head. “All because of that stupid cat…”

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

He shrugged and his mouth twisted suddenly. She was touched to see that he was hurt. She let go of the desk and moved toward him but then he shifted abruptly and said, “You're pathetic, you know that? It's easy to love a kitten—all you have to do is stroke it and it'll purr. Forget about being challenged. Forget about being a good person. Just go pet something soft and let the rest of the world go to hell.”

She drew back instantly. “Just because you don't get it—”

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “We live in a world where mediocrity and stupidity are the norm. You're just joining the crowd.”

“God, you're full of yourself,” she said. “And wrong, too.”

“I’m not wrong, and that's what you can't stand.” He reached for the doorknob.

Lucy said suddenly, “I found out who was vandalizing your car, you know. And sending you all those e-mails and everything.”

He wheeled around. “Are you serious? Who?”

“I’ve known for weeks,” she said, “but I wasn't going to tell you.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because,” Lucy said, “I couldn't trust you to do the right thing.”

He took a step toward her. “You wouldn't know what the right thing was if it jumped up and bit you in the ass.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “I make a lot of mistakes. But at least I can admit it.”

“Congratulations,” he said. “You're a successful loser. How proud you must be.”

“Sure,” she said. “Whatever you say, James.”

He took a deep breath. “You know what? We're not going to do this. We still have to work together. And I respect you as a scientist. I always have and I always will.”

“Me too you,” she said.

“All right, then. Let's keep things on that level from now on.” A pause. “Will you tell me who it was?”

“No.”

He turned back to the door. “Goodbye, Lucy. Have a nice Thanksgiving.”

“Thank you. You, too.”

He left. Lucy leaned against her desk, feeling shaky and angry and like she wanted to cry. But she fought it and finished getting ready to go out. She was meeting Sari in half an hour at their favorite Thai restaurant. Sari would make her feel better. She always did.

They had to wait for a table, and by the time they were seated, she had already told Sari the whole story.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Sari said. “Breaking up is always rough.”

“But it was the right thing to do, right?”

“If it felt right to you—”

“Come on, Sari, don't give me that shit. Tell me the truth. You never really liked him, did you?”

“He was a little hard to take sometimes,” Sari said. “But he had a lot going for him. I could totally see the appeal.”

“On paper, he was perfect,” Lucy said. “He was everything I wanted.”

“Are you heartbroken?”

Lucy thought for a moment. “No.”

“Really not?”

“I only have eyes for David.”

Sari's eyebrows soared. “For
David?”

“The kitten, not the guy,” Lucy said.

“The kitten? You named your kitten David?”

“Yeah. It was David's idea.” She had forgotten she wasn't going to tell Sari.

“That's cute,” Sari said. Her eyebrows still hadn't come back down. “Really. You named the cat after the guy who gave it to you. That's really adorable.”

“Shut up,” Lucy said.

“I’m sure it's not meaningful at all.”

“Shut up. It's not. He made me do it.”

“After giving you the gift of this pet you're crazy about and sleep with every night and broke up with your boyfriend over.”

“Shut up,” Lucy said.

The waitress came over and they ordered—pad thai for Sari, a shrimp salad for Lucy, with the dressing on the side.

“Anyone else on the horizon?” Sari asked after the waitress had left. “Like, for example, someone named David who's not a cat?”

“It's not like that with him,” Lucy said. “For one thing, he has a girlfriend. And, even if he didn't, I’m not attracted to him.”

“I think he's kind of cute.”

“He's a nerd,” Lucy said. “I dated enough nerds in college to last me a lifetime. I want to look across the pillow in the morning and be turned on.”

“I want to look across the pillow in the morning and not be alone,” Sari said. Then, “Oh, man, Luce, I’m sorry. I hate when people do that—make everything about themselves.”

“Nah, it was your turn anyway,” Lucy said. “You were looking a little sad when you got here. Everything okay?”

“I just got this e-mail from Jason Smith. He's pissed off that I stopped seeing Zack. And I feel guilty enough about it—” She made a face.

“You're too softhearted,” Lucy said. “That's your problem. You don't owe him anything, Sari.”

“I know. It's just—” She stopped. “Nothing. It's just nothing.”

The waitress came up then with their food. Both girls stared at their plates without eating for a moment. Sari slowly brought her water glass to her lips.

“Oh, shit,” Lucy said suddenly and savagely. “Oh, fuck, Sari!”

“What?” Sari said, so startled she almost dropped her glass. “What's wrong?”

“I just remembered—”

“What?”

“That fucking sweater,” she said. “I’ve been working on that fucking sweater forever and now I don't have a boyfriend to give it to anymore. Kathleen was right. I can't believe it, but she was right. Knitting a sweater for a guy curses the relationship.”

Sari laughed. “You scared me. I thought it was something a lot worse than that.”

“Do you know how many hours I’ve spent on that sweater?”

“Well, find a new boyfriend who's the same size,” Sari said. “Or … would it fit your father?”

“My father weighs three hundred pounds,” Lucy said. She poked at a piece of cucumber. “Hey, Sari?”

“What?”

“I think I really want to rip it all apart. Tear it to shreds.” She made fists out of her hands. “And then stomp on the last little bits of it. Come back with me and watch?”

“Throw in a glass of wine and I’m there.”

“I am never knitting anything for anyone ever again,” Lucy said. She cut a shrimp in half with one quick slash of her knife. “But don't tell Kathleen I said she was right.”

7

Unraveling

I

K
athleen woke up at seven a.m. on Thanksgiving morning and decided she'd been working in an office for too long—not since high school had her body been so trained to wake up early that she couldn't sleep in late, even on a holiday. But the end of all that early rising was in sight. One way or another, she figured her days at Porter and Wachtell were numbered. Maybe even in the single digits.

She hadn't decided yet if she would be leaving the company at some point soon because she was going to marry the owner's son or because she
wasn't.
The only thing she knew for sure about her future was that it wouldn't involve any more coffee pouring or errand running. Those activities had lost their fascination, as had the water cooler gossip.

It was possible, she thought now, stretching and yawning on her airbed, that her loss of interest in the job proved that she hadn't changed and that she was still the same old Kathleen, easily bored and in search of the next new thrill. But she preferred to look at it as yet another sign of her budding maturity, that she could now assess a situation and accept calmly and rationally that what had once suited her no longer did.

Which was definitely true about her job.

The real question was whether it was also true about her love life.

Did being mature mean you continued to work at a relationship that had lost its interest and its excitement, because you knew that ultimately the rewards of constancy far outweighed its disappointments?

Or did a fully realized human being cut her losses and move on when the glow had faded?

Kathleen hadn't been pursuing this goal of maturity long enough to know the answer. She was hoping that Thanksgiving at the Porter household would give her some clues—if not about what she
should
do, then at least about what she
wanted
to do.

She lingered as long as she could in bed, but when she finally got up, it was still only eight-fifteen. She wasn't due at Kevin's parents until three that afternoon. Kevin was already there—his parents liked their children and grandchildren to spend the nights before Thanksgiving and Christmas at their more or less ancestral home. Spouses and children were included in the overnight slumber party. Girlfriends—even those invited to the holiday dinner—were not.

With nothing else to do, Kathleen decided to go for a long run. By the time she got back, she was dizzy from exercising without having eaten anything. She searched her kitchen but could only find an ice-frosted pint of ice cream and some cheese that had turned green.

She figured she'd have better luck upstairs.

Sam was still in his bathrobe and pajama bottoms. He greeted her with a scowl. “You don't have to beat the crap out of the door. I can hear you even if you knock like a civilized human being.”“I’m hungry,” Kathleen said.

“Good of you to come by to tell me.”

“Come on,” she said. “Get dressed. Let's go get something to eat.” She had showered and was now wearing torn jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. She'd change into something nice before dinner.

Sam shook his head. “It's Thanksgiving morning, Kathleen. Nothing's open.”

“I passed a McDonald's on my run and it was open.”

“I’m not going to McDonald's on Thanksgiving morning.”

“Why not?” she said. “Against your religion or something?”

“Just come in.” He stepped back with a sigh of resignation. “I’ll make eggs.”

“Good. I’ll go see if the Macy's Day Parade has started.” She headed toward the hallway.

“It's the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade,” he said. “There's no such thing as Macy's Day.”

“Whatever.”

“How you can waste your time watching that—”

She turned. “Oh, come on. It's an American tradition. Did you know my sisters were on a float one year?”

“Wow,” he said. “You must have been so proud.”

“I’ll be in the den,” she said. “Can you make my eggs sunny-side up? With the yolk runny?”

“You're not eating runny yolks on my sofa,” he said. “I’ll make them, but you have to come back in here to eat them.”

She rolled her eyes. “You spill something once and it's like some natural disaster.”

“You spill every time you're here,” Sam said. “That's not an accident, it's a pattern.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She went and stretched out on the sofa and watched the parade until Sam called that the eggs were ready. She ran back into the kitchen and was sitting down, reaching for her fork, before he'd even put her plate on the table.

“So why are you alone on Thanksgiving?” she asked him through a mouthful of eggs. She was crazy hungry.

“Put the napkin in your lap,” he said, glaring at her from under his thick dark eyebrows. “And remember to use it.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“And stop talking with your mouth full. I’m not alone on Thanksgiving, Kathleen. I’m having breakfast with you, and, in just a few hours, I’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner with my ex-wife and daughter and former in-laws. Any other questions?”

“Your former in-laws?”

“Yes.” When she just stared at him blankly, he said, “Patricias parents.”

“I’m confused.”

“Do you need me to draw you a chart?”

“No,” she said and stuck another forkful of egg in her mouth. She swallowed. “I get
who
you're seeing. I just don't get
why.
Do you like seeing them?”

He laughed out loud. He, of course, had carefully spread his napkin over his lap. He was still in his bathrobe, but his manners were as impeccable as always. “No, actually, I don't. You ask the right questions, Kathleen, I’ll give you that.”

She wiggled in her seat like a child given a compliment. “So why go?”

“Because I want to be with Joanna, and that's where she'll be.”

“Why not ask her to come and have Thanksgiving alone with you?”

“Because she likes being with the whole family. And I don't want to take something she likes away from her.”

“Huh,” Kathleen said. “Can I have some more eggs?”

“Did you finish those already? Jesus, you're a pig. That was three whole eggs. Extra-large.”

“I’ve been up since eight and I went running. And I think I forgot to eat dinner last night.”

He sat back and regarded her. “Does it ever occur to you to stock the refrigerator with food and actually cook for yourself? You have a fully functional gourmet kitchen down there, you know.”

She shrugged. “I don't know how to cook.”

“It's not hard. You just follow directions. People teach themselves to cook all the time. All it requires is a tiny bit of effort and forethought—although it is possible you're not capable of either.”

“I’m capable of enough forethought to ask you for more eggs before I’ve eaten all my toast.” She tilted her head with a smile that showed all her teeth, top and bottom.

“Someone must have told you you were cute when you were little,” Sam said, “and we're all paying the price now.”

“No one ever told me I was cute when I was little,” Kathleen said. “That's what people said to the twins. I was the responsible one.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“No, really, I was. Somewhere along the way, I got less responsible, I guess. But the twins are still cute. I don't know what that leaves me.”

“You have the biggest appetite of any girl I’ve ever seen,” Sam said. “That's something.”

“Does that mean I get more eggs?”

He stood up. “Come on. I’ll show you how to make them, so next time you'll do it yourself and let me eat in peace.”

“I don't want to learn how,” she said. “I want you to make them for me.”

“You're going to learn.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

By the time she left his apartment, she could cook eggs three different ways. Sam said he'd teach her to do an omelet next, but added that he wasn't convinced it was within her capabilities.