She Poured Out Her Heart (17 page)

Bonnie got off the phone and looked for something to throw or break, but what good would that do, and who would be able to tell the difference in this hellhole of an apartment? She'd lived here too long, telling herself she didn't care that it was small, unfashionable, grim, even using it as proof that she didn't care about appearances, as if she was above, or below, all that, as if she'd been playing some elaborate joke on herself. And now all she had to show for it were her little bits of artsy junk, the furniture that was, at best, funky-amusing, the kitchen with its slopped-over stove burners, the sad and messy manifestation of her sad and messy life.

She picked up the phone again and called Jane. It was eight thirty, not late for most people but borderline for moms with little kids. The phone rang and rang, and just as it was about to go to voice mail, Eric answered. “Hello?”

“Eric? Hey, I'm sorry, I thought I was calling Jane's cell.”

“You are. She's trying to get Grace to sleep, she has a fever.”

“Is she all right? Nothing Daddy Doctor can't handle, I hope.”

“Yeah, she's . . .” The phone must have gotten away from him. There was a sudden fumbling racket.

“Eric?”

“Sorry, yeah, it spiked at 103, but you know, high fevers in kids aren't as concerning as they are in adults.”

Bonnie did know that, or at least she used to know it. She said she hoped it was nothing serious, and Eric said he was pretty sure it wasn't. He sounded tired, rattled, abrupt. Bonnie said to tell Jane she called, and they hung up.

Her phone rang again a minute later. It was Jane's house phone. “Hello?”

It was Eric. “I'm sorry, I forgot to ask you how Charlie's doing.”

“Oh, thanks. I guess his knee's better. And he's on some medication for his liver. My mom's staying at his place to help him out, which is sort of a mixed blessing. You know, if it's not one thing, it's your mother.” She had wanted to complain about Claudia to Jane, but it would have felt whiny to do so one more time to Eric. “I'll tell her you were asking about him, she'll be all kinds of ecstatic.”

“Ha, well, that's nice. I'll tell Jane, maybe she'll be more impressed with me.”

“Yeah?” Bonnie said, careful to have her voice convey exactly nothing.

Eric exhaled. “Scratch that. Nobody's required to be impressed.”

“I'm not sure if I—”

“No, really, I spoke out of turn. I'm glad Charlie's feeling better.”

“Let me guess, Jane's freaking out because of Grace's fever and you can't convince her it's not a crisis.”

“Something like that.”

“Don't take it personally. It's a Mom thing.”

There was the sound of water running in the sink, then he shut it off. Ice cubes. A drink?

“I wish,” Eric said, “that she'd keep things in proportion when it comes to the kids. It's a fever, not the plague.”

“She's very responsible. Very involved.” It seemed like a good idea to say something in Jane's defense.

“Yeah, she is.”

A gap of silence. “I hope Grace will feel a lot better soon. I'm sure she will.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Another silence. Bonnie was ready to say good night and hang up, but instead she asked, “Are you all right?”

“It's been a long day and I'm feeling sorry for myself, but I guess I still qualify as ‘all right.' But thanks for asking, that's sweet of you. I should go see how Grace is.”

“Sure. Say hi to Jane.”

“Will do. Good night, dear.”

“Good night.” Bonnie put the phone down. She didn't much like the thoughts she was thinking.

She was so accustomed to Jane and Eric being fixed points in her world, especially since they'd moved back to Chicago. My married friends who live in the suburbs and he's a doctor. They didn't see each other that often, but they were all busy, and it never seemed that necessary, since after so much time, they could always pick up where they left off. But you could not count on anyone or anything in life to stay the same and she ought to know that by now. So maybe Eric and Jane were having themselves a little fuss, people did that. So she and Eric had a bit of a moment, or two; it was what it was and nothing more and she needed to be stern with her fool self.

It wasn't like she didn't have enough to keep her busy. One of Chicago's Finest had lost his shit and beaten a homeless guy who had been creating the usual minor disturbance. It was the kind of cop overreaction that happened for all the familiar cop reasons of stress and one too many crumby encounters with the more combative segment of the general public. It wasn't even the worst such incident. But this one had been captured on cell phone video and showed the officer sitting astride the man and head-punching him for a solid minute, and now it was all over the place, and there was general outrage, and editorials implying or
outright saying that nothing ever changed, and all the community outreach and so-called training was just a lot of noise.

It didn't do any good to point out all the times the cops didn't beat anybody up in the performance of their difficult, life-threatening duties. Or for the officer to argue that the video didn't show the homeless guy whaling away on his girlfriend, and then when the officer attempted to render assistance, the guy spitting on him and trying to knee him in the balls. Also not recorded: the homeless guy's girlfriend (“the female subject”) wading in and straddling the officer's back and locking her legs around his neck (the female subject's lack of hygiene described in regrettably nonprofessional terms by the officer), and the subsequent use of pepper spray to subdue her. (Along with another departure from professionalism on the officer's part in his unsolicited remarks as to where on the person of the female subject he would have liked to administer pepper spray.)

Bonnie was good at staying calm in these difficult situations and doing what had to be done in terms of damage control. Putting it all behind her, moving forward. Anyway, she was only a consultant, an advisor, she had no power to discipline or to change policy. She made her suggestions, helped draft the press release. Stood ready to protect and defend her turf, since she was invested in the program, and she honestly believed it accomplished good things. And it did, in general; it was only when you had to deal with the unfortunate specifics that doubts crept in.

She was thirty-two now. She felt, if not exactly old, at least no longer young. When she'd started her job it was the crisis part of it that had engaged her, the proximity to what was risky and outlandish. Now she had migrated over to the management side, fund-raising, grantwriting, justifying her own existence. Patience, argument, strategy: those were her tools, the skills she'd developed over time. She achieved results in less flamboyant and more lasting ways. At the same time, she missed her younger, impulsive, unafraid self. She hadn't necessarily wanted to grow
sadder and wiser. Well, she probably wasn't any wiser. That was some consolation.

From time to time she thought about getting married, having children, wondering if she even wanted to do such a thing. It wasn't yet too late. Of course she'd have to find a partner, or at least a sperm donor ha ha, but no. Bad jokes aside, she'd want a man who voiced the intention to stick around. That is, if she made an actual decision in the first place.

And where was she supposed to find this future mate, this accomplice in willful self-delusion? The men she knew (through work, through her occasional bouts of self-improvement via gyms, gallery talks, etc., through, it must be admitted, nights spent in bar-trolling) were not notable in wanting to marry. They had expensive hobbies or engrossing jobs or both. They squirmed at the mention of children. Or maybe they had already been married and were not anxious to repeat the experience. They'd already had a first batch of children with whom they were on precarious terms.

Or sometimes they were still married, although this was not always disclosed at the outset, and even then you could go along with it and be Low Expectations Girl. But Bonnie had not done so, aside from a dispiriting episode or two, not because she was so morally upright—she was pretty sure she was not—but because she didn't see why these guys ought to be able to get away with it. Not to mention the unsavory parade of cover stories and excuses. Who would have thought there were so many marriages of pure convenience out there, platonic and sexless? So many wives with so many obvious, damning character defects? Maybe it was easier back in the good old guilty days, when they just hid their wedding rings and you weren't expected to help them validate their excuses.

Jane called the first week of December to ask Bonnie what she was doing for Christmas. “Do I have to do anything?” Bonnie said. “Christmas has turned into such a misery. But”—she amended herself—“you have little kids, you get to do all the fun Santa stuff.”

“Grace is too young, but Robbie's into it, big time. Of course, since we
don't go to church or anything, it's basically this extravaganza of greed. We tried telling him that we celebrate Jesus' birthday because Jesus was an important person, but that sounds pretty feeble. Anyway, Eric thinks we should have a Christmas party.”

“He does?” Bonnie tried to calculate a response. “What do you think?”

“People are always inviting us over, so, sure. Probably the week before Christmas.”

“You don't sound entirely sold on the idea.”

“It's either this or wait until the kids are in college.”

“I bet the house is going to look nice all dolled up.” With the help of Eric's parents, he and Jane had bought a bungalow in Elmhurst, small but charming, with a deep, covered front porch, hardwood floors, a fireplace, and a kid-friendly backyard. “I bet they have some ordinance, you can't put a blow-up Santa on the roof. Let me know if I can bring anything. I mean, something that doesn't require cooking. A salad, or bakery stuff. Italian beef so you can make sandwiches.”

“Thanks. Maybe some wine.”

“No, really, let me bring actual food. Jane! Don't overdo it! Back away from the refrigerator! Order a bunch of pizzas. People always like pizza.”

“I just want it to be nice,” Jane said vaguely. “It'll be fine. I have plenty of time and I'll be really organized. I was thinking, a seafood buffet for starters. How hard is that? It's mostly ice. Then some kind of main course dishes. And a big dessert table. Everybody expects sweets at Christmas.”

“How many people are you thinking?”

“Twenty, twenty-five. Or more. I haven't got a good feel for it yet.”

“You know what's big these days? Hiring a chef. They come in with their own knives and pots and pans. They take over the kitchen and you don't have to do a thing.”

“Like that's going to happen.”

“At least get Eric to help.”

“Ditto.”

“Can you hook up with a cookie exchange? You know, you bake a batch and then you trade cookies with everybody else? Don't they have those things in the suburbs?”

One of the kids was acting up and Jane said she had to go, which was the usual exit for their conversations. Bonnie hung up and wondered if she should talk to Eric, try and head off what sounded like a bad idea in the making. She was pretty sure that Eric had not demanded a seafood buffet. More likely, he'd mentioned a party and now Jane would turn it into something completely exhausting and then blame Eric for it. But that was their business, and anyway, Bonnie didn't want to find herself joining forces with Eric one more time, talking about Jane as if she was a problem that needed solving.

She didn't know anything about marriages, Jane and Eric's or anyone else's. All you ever saw were the public moments, the submerged or surfacing fights, the lovey-dovey. People did their real living behind closed doors, which was why the couples you thought were so happy ended up divorcing, and the miserable ones hung on forever. Of course there were the things Jane told her about Eric, and from time to time, things Eric told her about Jane. These were most often in the nature of complaints of the letting off steam variety, nothing that sounded fatal. Jane was too tired. Eric was too busy. The kids were good kids but they were a handful. Jane didn't appreciate. Eric didn't help. The kids didn't behave. Jane always. Eric never. Kids!

Did love get worn down over time? Did it change form like a chemistry experiment, from a fizzy potion to an inch of tar in the bottom of a beaker? Most likely she had the entirely wrong idea about it, all her stupid trashy notions. Grow up, she told herself. Nothing was as simple as she'd thought it was back in her comic book days.

She bought Christmas presents for Robbie and Grace, and for Jane and Eric, a gift card to a grown-up restaurant nearby, in case they managed such a thing as a date night. Two days after the party was their
seventh anniversary. When Bonnie pointed this out, Jane said, “Really? What's that in dog years?”

“Stop,” Bonnie said. “Stop with the bitter jokes. You sound whiny. Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? I kind of don't.”

“All right. I need new material. Noted. Listen, I'm seeing somebody.”

“You are?”

“A psychotherapist. He's got me on these antidepressants, I think they're helping. So I want you to know, I'm making an effort here.”

“That's great.” Bonnie tried to cover her mistake. She had assumed Jane meant, seeing a lover. “It's great that you're trying for some positive changes. Because really, you have so much going for you. You and Eric and the kids. You ought to be completely happy.”

“Yes, I ought to. Oughtn't I. See you at the party.”

Bonnie couldn't decide what to wear. There would probably be some women there in pants and holiday sweaters. It was, after all, the suburbs. Maybe some glammier cocktail dresses. It wasn't a night to wear too much black, or high boots with a leather miniskirt, or anything else that would mark her as an interloper. And although it was bound to be mostly couples, you couldn't help thinking there might be some cute young single doctor on the premises. Maybe not even young. Maybe not even cute.