Omit One

 

By Curt Alliaume

 

 

 

 

 

 

OMIT ONE. Copyright © 2002 by Curt Alliaume. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author. For information, address Curt Alliaume, 1 Wheaton Center #812, Wheaton, IL 60187.

 

Acknowledgments

 

            Writing this has been fun, because I’ve been able to add bits and pieces from interactions I’ve had with folks in the past. Accordingly, I wanted to acknowledge the following people (some of whom are still best buddies, others of whom I haven’t heard from in years): Julienne Bramesco, Bruce Calkins, Ann and Max Magliaro, Kristine Rumery, Laura and Brian Stroehlein, and Bill Wong. None of the characters in this story are based on anyone real, but some of the scenes are based on things that have happened to us during that time. If you don’t see your name up here, but do see something that sounds familiar, let me know and I’ll make sure it’s fixed.

 

 

For Karen, who I wish I’d met in high school.

Chapter 1 – Jeff

 

 

            The bane of any author’s existence is the book signing session. In some cases, the author is asked to read part of the book before the signing begins, and the author must cope with the twenty or thirty sets of eyes set on him as the reading proceeds, while battling the talking and shuffling, not to mention scanner beeps, from the other people in the store who have no interest in the book. Just as bad is when there’s no reading, just an author sitting there with a pile of new books, hoping enough people would stumble into the store to keep them from sending a pile of copies back to the shelves – and then back to the warehouse, and eventually to the remainder tables, where the book that originally was to sell for $24.95 now sold for $4.98.

            If the individual signings are bad, the book tour is worse. The author is interviewed on radio and television by a series of talk show hosts, maybe a quarter of whom had actually read the book (the others either got the pertinent information from a production assistant or read the flap copy), and embarks on a series of book signings. By the eighth or ninth stop on the tour, all the author wants to do is go home.

            I was just about at that point, or maybe a bit beyond. Having just completed a ten-city tour in support of my fourth book (and first for a new publisher), Time for Me to Fly, I was sandbagged by my publicist at Donlevy Books, Jennifer Eichenberger. She had decided that it would be a great ideal for me to do a signing in my home town of Bedminster Heights, New Jersey. Unfortunately, Jennifer hadn’t reckoned with the fact that the opening of a Barnes & Noble superstore the next town over had driven the local bookstore out of business, and B&N couldn’t fit me into their schedule at any of their stores in the area. Or Borders, for that matter.

            So, on a Friday afternoon in late October, I found myself doing a signing at Elliott Brothers Books, a store in Westfield, New Jersey, a lovely town, but nearly a half hour away from Bedminster Heights. I had been to Westfield a few times before, but not since 1987 for a wedding. The only people who lived in the area that I would have told to come by were my parents, and they were on a cross-country trip in their luxury camper.

            When I got to Elliott Brothers Books (thankfully, they had sent a car service to pick me up in Brooklyn), I found a small-to-medium size bookstore, with fourteen copies of my book on a table sitting outside the store – facing the mall parking lot. At least I got a cheery greeting: “Hi! You must be Jeff Rutledge! I’m Deena, the assistant manager!”

            “Where are the Elliott Brothers?” I asked.

            “Oh, they’re dead,” she said. “Everett Elliott died when he crashed his car into a Roy Rogers on the Jersey Turnpike 15 years ago, and Alvin Elliott died three years ago in a rest home. In fact, the Elliott family sold the store a couple of years after the first one died, because Alvin never had children, Everett’s son Nathaniel went into investment banking and let his son inherit the bookstore, and that son, David Elliott, discovered he could make more money hosting online porn sites.” She scrunched her nose and laughed. “It’s really complicated! Anyway, we thought, since it’s such a pretty fall day and the store is so packed with shelves, it would be better to have you sit out front, so you could draw people in. Does that work for you?”

            I looked around, and realized even if it didn’t work for me (which it really didn’t), there weren’t many other options. “Sure, that’s fine,” I said.

            “Cool! And you’re here from what, 1 to 4 p.m.?”

            “Yeah. But I can stay as long as you need me to if people keep coming, or until we run out of books. And let me know if you want me to sign any others in addition to the ones people buy.”

            “Oh, sure, yeah, that would be great!” Deena said, laughing, and revealing a pierced tongue. I made my best effort to keep from shivering in revulsion, and hopefully succeeded. To research my third book, Recovery Period, I had spent a night at a piercing and tattoo place in Greenwich Village (the one that advertises, “With or without pain”), and it was a pretty gruesome experience.

            By quarter of three, I had dealt with a grand total of four different people – two who had genuinely bought the book, one who had been confused and wanted to know where the store with the nearest bathroom was, and one who wanted to get another book gift-wrapped. And I hadn’t had enough foresight to bring a magazine or something to read, nor did I want to go back into the bookstore to read someone else’s book (which left my own book to read, and I pretty much knew how that turned out). I also felt really stupid sitting there smiling at the passers-by, and it was getting pretty windy. So I pulled out my cell phone – noting that I had forgotten to recharge it that morning, and the battery was pretty low. If I was going to be bored, dammit, I was going to drag others down with me. Starting with Keith.

            “Keith Gillespie,” I heard at the other end.

            “This is turning out about as badly as I thought it could have,” I told him.

            “I have maybe five minutes to talk before I have to go to a meeting,” Keith said. “And I figured it was Terri again… she’s calling me about eight times a day now. How horrible is your day?”

            “I haven’t talked to anyone for a half-hour, and that woman wanted me to gift-wrap her tin of breath mints. This is insane! Why am I here? There isn’t anybody I know in Westfield, the people I went to school in Bedminster Heights I don’t keep in touch with and have no idea I’m a writer, and my parents are somewhere in New Mexico!”

            “Look, as bad as this is, you have to admit these guys have really helped you out. As your financial advisor, I can tell you selling 18,000 hardcover copies on one book is a hell of a lot better than selling 16,000 hardcover copies on your first three books combined.”

            “True, and they know how to get the book out there, and they’re happy to publish what I like writing, and aren’t asking for more hard-bitten detective novels. But I should have had the nerve to say, ‘Thanks so much for thinking of this, but I think we’ve gotten the book out there as much as we can, and the time probably would have been better spent writing at home.’ Granted, I would have spent about half of this time watching bad daytime talk shows and the other half doing freelance stuff, but still…”

            I trailed off, waited for a response, didn’t get one, and realized my cell phone had completely run out of juice. I placed the phone in my backpack, and started thinking about how quickly my driver would be back. I couldn’t imagine what was left of the Elliott Brothers would care; Deena hadn’t checked on me since I had been deposited out front. No doubt she had been adjusting her (ughh) tongue stud.

            “Uh, hi,” a female voice said, coming from the opposite direction I was facing – off to the left of the parking lot, looking out into the street hoping the car service would arrive. Not recognizing the voice, I turned around, ready to (hopefully) sign a book.

            And it turned out to be a familiar face – it was the girl I had carried a torch for during nearly all of my high school days, who I had never had the nerve to ask out. Fully grown, and still gorgeous.

            Marnie Leonard, the pretty girl I dreamed of for years after I received my high school diploma. When I first met her, we were in an English class, taught by Mrs. Rhodes, who had gotten tenure 37 years before and was going to make darn sure she held onto it. The result, unfortunately, was that way too many Bedminster Heights students graduated ninth grade (and often 10th, 11th, and 12th grades) without the slightest idea of how to put together a decently-written paper. To this day I have no idea how I became a writer, given the writing background I’d had. Thank goodness my parents had gotten all those Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, so I could throw together a good plot without worrying about background or going over 250 pages.

            The two of us had been put together in a group of four for a two-day project to make a presentation on The Scarlet Letter, along with two other classmates. These two were Regina Zempel, a popular actress and track and field athlete who promptly claimed Hester Prynne as her exclusive domain when they did a dramatic reading, and Wally D’Agostino, a burnout who was unable to attend most of the sessions, either during class or after school. We were a complete mismatch – I was withdrawn and nerdy, Regina bossy, and Wally catatonic. I didn’t know much about Marnie, who had gone to a different middle school than I did. She seemed fairly bright, but was somewhat overshadowed by Regina – Regina had blonde hair, had reached her full 5’6” height by that point, and was pretty well developed by that point. Marnie, at 5’2”, still had a bit of a growth spurt left (of course, I was only two inches taller myself).

At the end of the second day, we were to meet after school to plow ahead and finish before the next day’s presentation. Regina stopped by at 3:10 to announce she had to go to track practice, and she would handle all of the presentation the next day to make up for it. Wally never showed up. And Marnie was pulling Kleenex out of her purse every thirty seconds to blow her nose.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’ve had the flu coming on for a day or two, and it’s decided now would be the worst possible time for me to have it, so here it is,” Marnie said. “But we’ve got to finish this. What about Dimmesdale?” She then sneezed violently.

“Uh, I don’t think you really need to worry about The Scarlet Letter today. You’d be better off going home and letting yourself be sick.”

“Probably, but Regina and Wally aren’t here, so it’s just you and me, and I don’t want to mess up my grades for this class –”

“Look, don’t sweat it. Actually, you’re sweating right now.” This may have been the first time I had said something even remotely clever to a girl, and I hadn’t even intended to.

“Oh, crap. I knew I felt warm, but I didn’t think I was that bad. Anyway, I’ll stay another hour or so, and then I’ll go home.” At that moment, her nose started running visibly. “Oh, shoot!” she cried, and grabbed another Kleenex. I hadn’t seen many other people’s snot before (aside from my own family), and decided it wasn’t particularly attractive even coming from a cute girl.

“Go home,” I said. “When do you have lunch, sixth period?” She nodded while wiping her nose. “So do I. I’ll write what I can, and we can meet during the last half of lunch tomorrow and review before class. We’ll be fine, believe me.”

            So I stayed up until 11:30 that night writing, deciding to have Regina handle all the talking; that was was what she did best, Marnie would be suffering from her cold and I would probably freeze up in front of everybody else. I couldn’t figure out a way to work Wally in, but would try to talk with him at lunch as well. (The frustrating thing was that Wally had been a good guy, if a little dense, until the middle of eighth grade, when the first try at pot turned him into a less interesting person.) After two drafts, I wrote it all down again in my neatest handwriting, and went to sleep, hoping for the best.

Unfortunately, the next morning Marnie’s mother called at 7:15 to say that Marnie had been up sick all night and had a 102º temperature, so she wouldn’t be coming into school. And Wally was nowhere to be found at school all morning. I gave up, handed the text to Regina at eighth period English, listened to her complain that she was having a hard time with my writing, and hoped that something good would happen.

            Fortunately, Regina was at her best, becoming Hester Prynne completely (she would wind up getting pregnant her senior year before suffering a miscarriage, so it wasn’t entirely out of character). Charmed, Mrs. Rhodes gave all four of us As, even Wally, who managed to drag himself into class. (He would be sent to private school for sophomore year, and never heard from by any of our classmates, not even maintaining what few friendships he’d once had.)

            Two days later, Marnie stopped me after English was done. “I didn’t deserve an A for my contribution,” she said. “Actually, you’re the only one who deserved one.”

            “It’s okay,” I replied. “Regina did a great speech – I never could have stood in front of the class and said stuff. You were sick, but you contributed a lot when you were here. And as long as we all got good grades, what’s the diff?”

            “The diff is you were the one that put in the hours. Yeah, Regina presented it, but that’s the only thing she really did. Wally did nothing. I didn’t do nearly as much as you. Take some pride in what you’ve done and take some credit!”

            “But there’s nothing to be gained from that – the best that I’ll get is maybe a couple of extra points, since we all got As, and you, Regina, and Wally lose a lot of points. It’s not like this will be printed in the Star-Ledger or something tomorrow. And the reason you didn’t have as much to contribute is because you were sick, and there’s no way that should count against you. I mean, even the way things turned out you contributed a lot more than those guys.

            She gave me a big smile. “Thanks. You’re really a good guy. See you around.” And she left. And I locked the smile she gave him into my memory – both shy and disarming, and that could do nothing but make the recipient of her smile return the favor – and developed the hots for Marnie that moment.

            But I never followed up on it. I didn’t speak to her much the rest of the year, and she wasn’t in any of my classes sophomore or junior year, and just in gym senior year, by which time I had become all arms and legs and developed a mild case of acne, which made me even more withdrawn. (Not to mention I was plotting my future in college, where I could get away from all these people, and writing fiction furiously, none of which would be seen by members of my class. Most of it involved severed limbs.) I would look at her longingly in the halls as she hung out with her friends, and while not noticing any guys hanging around her, I figured my chance was gone. Even after we graduated, I would think about her occasionally (fortunately, my social skills had gotten a touch better as the years moved along). Now, 19 years later, I could find out what had happened.

            Too bad she had a couple of bands on her left ring finger, including one with a decent-sized diamond on it. Of course she’s married, I thought. The first time she’s seen me after my skin’s cleared up, and it doesn’t make any difference. I made a mental note to eat a three-piece KFC meal that night. Extra crispy. Maybe buy an eight-piece box and eat the whole damn thing.

            “Uh, hi… we went to high school together, didn’t we?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager to see her.

            “Yeah!” she replied, laughing. “I was absolutely sure you wouldn’t recognize me. I’m Marnie Bandemeier, but I was Marnie Leonard years ago – years and years ago. You know, I just loved Recovery Period.”

            “Thanks,” I replied. “Actually, I’m with a new publisher now and have a new book out. But this signing hasn’t gone as well as I’d hoped – or my publicist, no doubt.”

            “I didn’t even know you had a new book out!” she said, picking up a copy. “Is it any good?”

            “No, I thought I’d write a real piece of dreck and see if H.L. Mencken was right… I’m sorry, that was mean of me.” I had become more sarcastic since high school, in case any of you were wondering.

            “Actually, it was a dumb question, so I would have been disappointed had you not said it. Writers are supposed to have quick wits. Actually, I never took you for the writing type in high school. You never said much of anything.”

            If you weren’t so hot, I thought, I might have said something to you. Good thing I didn’t say it. “Actually, I was probably a little shy in high school, but I find writing is a good way to say stuff you wouldn’t normally say in real life.”

            “I’m surprised you picked up any good writing tips in high school,” she said. “Remember Mrs. Rhodes? Oh my God, it took me a whole year of writing classes at Smith to unlearn everything she taught me!” She started laughing. “Maybe that’s why I went into interior design, so I don’t have to write anything down. Although I haven’t done that for ten years. It’s amazing how demanding just one daughter can be.”

            Married and with a child, I thought – not that married with no children, or two or three children, would have made much difference. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

            “Sarah. She’s eleven and a half. Oh, I have pictures!” She opened a large green-and-black purse, withdrew a wallet, and opened it to a photo section. I watched as Marnie flipped though, commenting along the way: “That’s Sarah, that was taken about a year ago… That’s Sarah, me, and Stephen at Disney World… That’s Sarah and Stephen in our back yard…”

            Sarah looked similar to Marnie – medium-brown hair, laughing blue eyes, and an infectious smile, although the smile looked a little less than genuine in some of the photos. Stephen Bandemeier looked to be about 5’11”, maybe six inches taller than Marnie. He had dirty blond hair that appeared to be receding slightly, glasses in some of the photos but not in others, and was wearing a different color sweater in each picture. Marnie appeared to have gained a bit of weight over twenty years, but her smile was just as warm and inviting. They looked like a typical upper-class family.

            All of this depressed me completely. Twenty years after graduation, and I was living alone in a second-floor railroad apartment in Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn. Yes, I was a published author, and Time for Me to Fly was doing much better than my first three books. That aside, I still wasn’t making a lot of money, was still doing freelance copyediting and proofreading to ensure I could make ends meet (which left less time for writing), and had been divorced from Claudia for three years. Meanwhile, the girl of his high school dreams had the perfect life – well off, married, family, and still attractive.

            “And that’s it,” Marnie finished up. “Of course, I have lots more at home.”

            “Where is home nowadays?” I asked.

            “Right here in Westfield,” she said. “I had read in the paper you were doing a signing today, and I had liked Recovery Period so much. I just remember checking it out of the library –”

            “Wait, you took it out of the library?” I couldn’t help smiling at the thought. “You see, I actually make more money if you buy the book…”

            “I was waiting for it to come out in paperback, and I haven’t seen it yet.”

            “I don’t think you’re going to see it in paperback. I did my first three books for Fenner and Boyle, and only the first one was reissued as a mass market paperback. In fact, the first two are out of print altogether, because I switched to Donlevy for this book.”

            “That’s right… I remember seeing on the page opposite the title page –”

            “Ad card. It’s an excuse to advertise the other books you’ve published.”

            “Right, that you had written two others. What are those like? I’ve only read Recovery Period. But I want to buy this one, as long as you sign it.”

            “Sure, I can do that. Actually, do you have a few minutes? Maybe, uh, we can get a cup of coffee or something and I can explain what I’ve written.” It’s not asking her out, I told myself, it was just reuniting briefly with a high school classmate that I would never see again.

            “Sure, that would be great! There’s a Starbucks at the other end of the mall. I’ve got to leave by 4:30 for Sarah’s soccer game, but I can hang out until then.”

            “Okay, great. I’ve got to do two things – get the car service driver to come back a little later, if he can, and ask the store manager, or whatever she is, if she wants me to sign the rest of these books.”

            “Why would you sign the rest of the books if there hasn’t been anyone who’s bought them?”

            “If you sign the books, the book store can’t return them to the publisher, so they have to sell them, and eventually I get the royalties. The longer you stay in book publishing, the more sneaky ways you learn to make money.”

Chapter 2 – Jeff

 

            “Actually,” Marnie said, stirring her half-caf latte, “you can catch me up on what you’ve done since high school. I can take the long version.”

            “I’m not sure you’ll want the long version.”

            “Actually, I do, but it’s not entirely for reasons you’d think. We’re already starting to work on the 20th reunion – it’ll be next June, just before regular high school graduation. And I got roped into being one of the people who has to track down everybody else – there’s only two of us, and we have to find all 275 people.” She smiled, and made a check mark in the air – “One down – I know where you are.”

            “You don’t have my home address or any of that.”

            “I know who your publisher is,” she said, waving her signed copy of Time for Me to Fly in the air. (I had signed it “Good to see you again! Best wishes, Jeff Rutledge” – somehow, saying “God, you’re still hot” didn’t seem appropriate.) “I can just send the invitation to you care of Donlevy. And don’t tell me you wouldn’t go to your 20th reunion!”

            “Marnie, high school was very different for me than it was for you… actually, I’m not sure you want to hear the whole version of this.”

            “I’ve got time.” She smiled and sipped her latte. “Look, Bedminster Heights High wasn’t all peaches and cream for me, either. I had a pretty good time, sure, and I didn’t come out of it needing to be in analysis twice a week or anything, but it wasn’t all great.”

            “I know, and high school wasn’t all horrible for me. But I put a lot of it behind me once I graduated. I went to college and made a lot of new friends, many of whom I still have today. I even live in a building owned by one of my college buddies and his wife – they live on the third and fourth floors, and I live on the second. And I don’t keep in touch with anyone from high school – you’re actually the first person I’ve talked to from our graduating class in ten years or so.”

            “Why is that? Why was college so different?”

            “Because it provided the opportunity for a new start,” I said, sipping my chai tea and wondering 1) why I was telling her all this, and 2) why I couldn’t get a decent cup of everyday, normal tea in Starbucks. “I grew up in Bedminster Heights, went to elementary school, middle school, and high school there. By the time you’re in high school, you’ve pretty much been tagged with whatever label you earned between fourth and seventh grades – in my case, nerd. And it’s almost impossible to escape it, not that I did anything to really merit shedding the label. So I went along with it, and then college gave me the opportunity to start over. At least I was able to do that, I suppose.”

            “Okay. You’re out of high school, and you move on to Penn. What happens there?”

            “Better things. I was an English major there, with a Government minor – which didn’t give me much of a chance to get a job, but I really got into what I was studying. I made lots of friends. I joined a fraternity – a pretty dorky fraternity as they went, but a fraternity nevertheless. I dated girls! Of course, they pretty much had to ask me out.” Marnie laughed at that, and I confirmed my decision not to mention to Marnie about his high school crush – I didn’t want her to feel all weird about it.

            “When did you start writing?”

            “I did a little writing all throughout middle school and high school, but I didn’t really pick it up seriously until college. I took some creative writing courses, and the professors actually encouraged me, and got me published in the school literary magazine. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do when I graduated, but I got a job in the city as a production editor at McPherson-Reed.”

            “What are production editors?”

            “They’re the people who check all the words in the text and the jacket and make sure they’re spelled right, or pass them on to freelancers who take care of that. It’s not tremendously complicated work, but it’s hugely important – books that should have been best sellers have become enormous flops because a critic for The New York Times notices his copy of the book has a bunch of typographical errors. Or worse, factual errors.”

            “Are you still doing that?”

            “No, I finally left two years ago, after being there for 13 years. The excuse was I had to have a job where I’d only have to be there 40 hours a week, and the rest of the time I could focus on writing. But I was working more like 45 hours a week, and bringing home freelance work as well, because being a production editor doesn’t pay much. I was making somewhere around eleven thousand, two hundred to start, and 13 years later, I was making about thirty-five thousand, plus another twenty thousand or so by freelancing twenty hours a week. At age 35, you’re wondering where you’re going. Plus the whole thing with my wife…”

            I trailed off, wondering why I was telling her this. She certainly didn’t need to know how much money I was making, which wasn’t much, and hadn’t intended to let my failed marriage slip out. Too late now.

            “You’re married?” Marnie asked.

            “Divorced, three years ago. We were married for six years. When did you meet Stephen, by the way?” A bad attempt to change the subject.

            “Oh. Um, a year out of college. I was working in Morristown as an office assistant at an interior design firm, with the idea that I’d get more involved in designing eventually. My girlfriend Linda – oh, of course you know Linda, she was in our class – anyway, her husband Rick was in law school with Stephen, and they kind of fixed us up.” She stopped and smiled. “We got married in 1986, just a little over a year after we met, and Sarah came along two years later. At that point, I stopped working, first to be with Sarah – Stephen was just getting out of law school, he’d passed the bar, and he’d gotten an offer from Stover and Feely in the city, so we were a little short on cash, and day care would have been even more expensive… so we decided I’d take a year or two off and raise Sarah while we paid off the law school debts and Stephen got rolling. And I just never went back.”

            “Sounds like life has treated you pretty nicely,” I noted.

            “Well, I have no complaints!” she said, smiling brightly. “I mean, Linda and Rick are doing great, but remember my other friends from high school, Mary Beth and Debbie? Mary Beth’s never been married, although she’s had quite a few boyfriends over the years – quite a few!” She laughed to herself. “And Debbie’s marriage broke up last year, and she hasn’t found anybody since then.”

            I remembered Mary Beth, Linda, and Debbie – the three of them and Marnie were pretty inseparable during high school. In fact, there were inseparable to the point where I rarely saw Marnie alone. Not that it would have made much difference; he doubted he would have approached Marnie anyway.

            “So you got published, obviously, at some point,” Marnie said, finishing her latte.

            “Yeah, finally. God knows how many proposals and samples I sent to agents. Finally, one of the editors I was a good friend with at McPherson-Reed left to work for an agent, and she wanted me to finish a manuscript and give it to her right away, as long as it was genre fiction, because that’s the easiest to sell. And that’s where Dead Right and Mackie Alliotta came from. I hated the book myself, but it sold better than Fenner and Boyle expected, so they signed me up for two more books – and that’s what let me quit being a full-time production editor and just do freelance occasionally. Occasionally I still have to eat more Rice-a-Roni than I’d like to, but that’s been the way it’s been almost since I went into the real world, so why should things change?”

            Marnie laughed. “I know how that feels. I lived at home for awhile after graduating, so I had a little money saved up, but Stephen had nothing – so we were living like college students again, except mom and dad weren’t supporting us.” Of course, I thought, that was 11 years ago, and no doubt she and her husband had a very nice house in Westfield.

            “And I really like my new publisher. God, Fenner and Boyle were annoying – to promote Tales From Late at Night, they made me write a web log for six months. I had all sorts of trouble coming up with stuff worth writing about, and I’m sure about 15 people read it.”

             “Oh, God!” she said, jumping up while looking at her watch. “I’m already late – I should have left ten minutes ago! You don’t have a cell phone by any chance, do you?”

            I shook my head. “I have one, but it’s completely dead. There’s a pay phone just at the corner.”

            “I’ll call Sarah from there. Look, this has been fun – really! Can you write down your address and phone number? And I’ll give you mine – not just for reunion, either. How often do you get out here?”

            “I visit my parents once in a while,” I said, taking a pen out and starting to write. “Do you get into the city at all?”

            “Almost never – I’ve got Sarah on weekdays, and the last thing Stephen wants to do on weekends after spending hours on the trains is go back. But you never know.” She finished writing, grabbed my address, and laughed. “I forgot you always had horrible handwriting! Okay, I’ve really got to go. Call me, and we’ll do something!” She gave me a quick hug, and then waved. “Get home safely! See you soon!”

            I smiled, waved goodbye, and remembered I’d have to catch a train, since my car service driver had someplace else he had to be by five p.m. I also reminded myself to never, never mention the web log again – when I was running out of things to write about (writers lead boring lives, and half of my posts were along the lines of “I wrote six pages of my book, and I proofread someone else’s book”), I had mentioned my crush on Marnie. Although I didn’t mention her by name, I had no doubt she’d be able to figure out who I was writing about if she ever saw it – not that Fenner and Boyle would bother posting a failed author on their site anymore.

            Also, how the hell had she remembered that I had bad handwriting?

Chapter 3 – Marnie

 

            “How in the world did I remember he had bad handwriting?” I said to myself, driving home. “When did even see his handwriting?”

I rushed into the house, right past Sarah. “Mom, you’re late,” Sarah told me, as if I wasn’t terribly smart. Ever since Sarah had gone into fifth grade, she had become snarkier, as if Stephen and I had lost half of our IQ points and they all had magically gone her way. This didn’t really surprise me too much – I had felt the same way about my mother around that time – but it didn’t make me particularly happy.

“I’m just going to grab my old high school yearbook. Did Daddy leave a message saying when he’d be at the game?”

            “No.” I was pretty sure that was intended more toward Stephen than me. He had been working late most nights, and had only caught a couple of Sarah’s Saturday morning soccer games. I knew that he was in the middle of some complicated merger work or something – I could never really understand exactly what he does, except he works all day and makes a lot of money if it goes well. But still, soccer was becoming Sarah’s passion, and she was missing him.

            “Look, honey, let’s just get out to the field and we’ll hope your father gets there soon. You’ll still be there in plenty of time.” We started walking out to the car.

            “Yeah, but I’m missing the beginning of warm-ups. The girls who get there for warm-ups earliest are usually the ones who play the longest.”

            I decided not to tell her about about running into Jeff in Westfield; she wouldn’t care. At least Debbie would be interested; she and Joey – who was six years younger than Sarah, but still followed her around all day – never missed a game.

            Except Debbie wasn’t as interested as I thought. “Jeff Rutledge? Oh my God, Marnie, he was such a dweeb.”

            “Yeah, I know he was a little bit nerdy, but he was always a nice guy. And he’s cuter now than he was. He’s got a mustache, he’s taller, and he’s doing something interesting with his life. I ran into him at Elliott Brothers, where he was signing his fourth book.” But that wouldn’t have explained why I remembered his handwriting, and he didn’t actually sign my yearbook.

            “He’s a writer? Never would have expected that.”

            “You should meet him. You might even like him. Who knows, you –“

            “Oh, please. You’ve been trying to fix me up with guys for over a year, and your taste in men is really, really different than mine. I only want guys who’ll give me a hard time, judging by my lovely experience with –“

            “Shhh! Don’t let Joey hear!” Joey was standing a few feet away, watching Sarah intensely as she finished the last of her warm-ups.

            Debbie lowered her voice. “My lovely experience with Jack,” she finished. “I don’t want sweet guys. I don’t want guys who give me a hard time, either. Maybe some of the guys Mary Beth seems to find, who give her a hard time of a completely different sort.” I laughed out loud – Debbie may have been bitter, but she still had a dirty mind.

            “I am not trying to fix you up,” I told Debbie, which wasn’t true at all – if the opportunity presented itself, I would do just that. “I just think it’s fun meeting all the people we went to school with again after all these years. Aren’t you looking forward to Reunion?”

            “No! Are you kidding me? ‘There’s Debbie – remember she used to be so hot? Now she’s a single mom, living on alimony payments and trying to make do as an office manager.’ I know you want this to happen, Marnie – you’ve got the perfect life going on. But there are people like me – the ones where high school was as good as it got, and it went downhill from there. Or the people like Jeff, apparently, where high school was so horrible that they don’t want to go back to relive those memories. And that may just be a large portion of our class.”

            “Okay, I admit I’m probably a little more enthusiastic than I have a right to be,” I told her. “But seeing Jeff today was the tip of the iceberg. I want to see how these guys are doing.”

            “Just don’t be disappointed at what you find out. You may see a lot of bald, beer-bellied guys and women with long bottle-blonde hair. Actually, that reminds me – would your hairdresser have a good color for me?”

 

           

           


Chapter 4 – Jeff

 

            I sat in my apartment and looked at the computer, which sat there and made me feel guilty. Originally, I’d planned to write another half chapter of the new book that night, but I was still a little surprised by the day’s events. As she had years before, Marnie Leonard – now Marnie Leonard Bandemeier – had thrown me for a loop.

            She looked about the same. She hadn’t started to go grey (although only her hairdresser knew about that for sure), and hadn’t gotten really fat (but she was definitely a little heavier than she was in high school – then again, so was I). She still had that amazing smile, and still had a way of making me feel like I was the most important person in her life at that moment, even though it clearly couldn’t have been the case. I had rarely thought of her in the past 15 years or more – he had the girls he had gone out with (or wanted to go out with) in college, the first couple of years at McPherson-Reed, and of course Claudia, my former wife – but now he would have no one on his mind but Marnie for weeks to come. Even if she was already married to someone else.

            My cat, Churchill – who Claudia and I named to satisfy our Anglophilia; she got Thatcher and Thackeray in the divorce – hopped up on my lap and started purring. It was good having a pet around the house; otherwise I would have started talking to either myself or the TV set. Granted, Terri was upstairs with their baby during the daytime, but Terri was busy taking care of Norah half the time and sleeping the other half, so disturbing her didn’t seem like a great idea.

            It was 7:30 p.m. on a Friday night, however, so that meant checking in on my neighbors was okay. Keith and I had been buddies since college, and the circle expanded after we graduated when he met Terri while working at E. F. Hutton (the same circle that introduced me to my now ex-wife, but I don’t hold that against them). We weren’t quite a Mutt-and-Jeff team, but at 6’4” he towered over me by almost half a foot, and with a big shock of reddish-brown curly hair, he was more noticeable than I’ll ever be.

Terri Gillespie, formerly Terri Lederman, was a delight – a free-spirited dark-haired girl from Long Island who didn’t edit much of what she said. I admit I was attracted to her myself, especially when she showed the pictures of her and her friends topless at Club Med (taken from the back, of course). But there was no question she belonged to Keith. They married in 1989, and bought a brownstone in Carroll Gardens, renting out the bottom two floors and keeping the top three for themselves. I took over the second floor after Claudia and I split up.

            The only problems Terri and Keith ever had were happening right at that point, unfortunately. It was obvious to me that Terri dearly loved Norah, but was going crazy staying at home and chasing after an eight-month-old. But what was obvious to me wasn’t obvious to Keith, who was convinced the best way for a child to grow up was to have a parent at home – and since Terri had agreed to it, and wouldn’t admit how bored she was, she was stuck.

            “Hey, how you doing?” Keith said, opening the door. “You want a beer? Terri’s just putting Norah down.”

            “Not if I’m disturbing anything,” I said, poking my head in. “I mean, if you and Terri were planning on doing a couple’s night or something…”

            “I don’t think so; we were going to find a movie on cable.” I came in and opened the refrigerator – like I said, I’ve known these guys for a long, long time. “And both of us our really beat. Norah’s an angel, but she’s just exhausting us.”

            Terri came downstairs at that moment. “We are not allowed to make any noises above a low mumble,” she said. “All of you will be quiet. You will not have more than two beers apiece. Anyone who violates these rules will be castrated – I don’t care if it’s my husband or our best buddy.”

            “I can be quiet; I’m only going to stay a few minutes,” I said, taking a pull on my beer. “Weird day today.”

            “It got worse after I talked to you last?” Keith asked.

            “No, better, but just weird. You ever remember how I’d occasionally mention the girl in high school I had a crush on?”

            “With you, the crushes all tended to blend together after awhile,” he said, grinning.

            “Nice. Anyway, she shows up today. Turns out she really liked Recovery Period, and remembered me.”

            “You get her phone number?”

            “Yes, but she’s married and has a pre-teen daughter, so I don’t think much is going to come out of it. She’s one of the people organizing our 20th reunion, which I really don’t want to be a part of – given she’ll be the only person there I’ve talked to in the last ten years.”

            “So what? Nobody stays married forever,” Keith said, settling back into the couch. “Hey!” Terri responded instinctively, which was followed by the yowl of Norah.

            “I didn’t yell,” Keith said, grinning. Terri shot him a dirty look and ran back upstairs. “Seriously, man, if you don’t feel anything for her, that’s fine – cultivate the friendship, and she might fix you up with someone. But if you do feel something for her, maybe you’re better off staying away. You’ll only be killing yourself inside.”

            “I don’t know what I feel about her,” I told him. “She’s still pretty, and she’s still got the beautiful smile, and she’s really friendly. But she’s married, and I’m sure she won’t contact me again until Reunion happens, and then I’ll probably never hear from her again. I mean, why would she want to be in touch with me?”

            “Maybe she thinks it’s cool that she gets to hang out with a published writer,” he said. “Or maybe she’s lonely and bored, and just wants a friend from the past. Who know what people’s motivations are? You just have to accept them at face value until you know if they have ulterior motives.”

            “I don’t know. I don’t think my being a published writer gives me any special cachet. Her husband’s a highly-paid lawyer, she has a kid. Why would she want to hang out with a guy who’s divorced and scraping by, just because he’s got a few books out? It doesn’t make sense.”

           


Chapter 5 – Marnie

 

            “I did it!” Stephen shouted, running through the door at 8:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night.

            “Did what?” I asked. I’d already gathered up the dishes. Sarah was in her room with the radio running full blast.

            “You are now looking at the newest partner at the law firm of Stover, Finley, and McCoy!” he shouted, dropped his briefcase and laptop computer on the table. “It took 12 years, but I finally pulled it off!”

            “Honey, you did it!” I shouted, running into his arms. “I’m so proud of you! All your hard work…”

            “Yeah, I finally showed those guys what a real lawyer can do,” he said happily. “Let’s celebrate this!”

            “Um, okay,” I said, “It’s a little short notice, but we could go out for a late dinner, or go away for the weekend…”

            “No, I’m talking about something really big. Like a huge party. Tell everyone that I finally did it!”

            I smiled at him, but I didn’t really want to throw a huge party. It didn’t seem right to throw a party to celebrate a promotion like this ourselves – it sounded like we were gloating. Which, of course, we were. But I also knew that if I voiced my doubts to Stephen, he’d go into a sulk and make me feel horrible about the whole thing, which I really didn’t want him to do.

            And a party would be lots of fun. It would give me an opportunity to invite lots of different people over, not just parents of Sarah’s friends. I figured I could get some of my high school classmates together to get the ball rolling for our 20th reunion, and get those people to recruit others. Reunions don’t work if you only get six people in a room, I thought to myself, and it was my job – well, partially my job – to get the ball rolling.

            So I organized the party for the first weekend in December – making it a combined Christmas/partner party, thus taking some of the gloating edge off – and got in touch with as many high school classmates as I could. Linda and Rick were in Phoenix and couldn’t make it out, of course, and Mary Beth lives in the suburbs of Seattle, but they promised they’d be out for reunion in June. Debbie, of course, would come, and we set up Sarah’s room for games for the kids. (Sarah, of course, was less than thrilled about this arrangement – “I don’t want Joey following me around all night, Mom!”)

            Getting Jeff out was more difficult than I thought it would be. He promised he would come when I called him with the news, but he seemed less than enthusiastic about the party. “I’ve really got to try to get five or six chapters done on the new book by that weekend,” he said. “It’ll be hard to squeeze in a trip to New Jersey as well.”

            “Just try to get a few hundred extra words done every day,” I told him reasonably, even though I didn’t have the faintest idea what I was talking about. “Stay up an extra half hour every night and write five hundred words during that time.”

            “That works in theory, but I often get bogged down when it comes down to actually doing it.”

            “How? By reading something else? Surfing on the Internet? Watching Friends reruns?”

            “Hey, Friends has given me a lot of inspiration! And considering I’m the model for David Schwimmer’s character, I think I deserve a few timeouts now and then.”

            “Okay, some breaks are needed. Some – like watching daytime television – probably are not. But please do try to come out. I’d like to see you again, and I think it would be fun.”

Chapter 6 – Jeff

 

            Marnie had lied. I was not having fun. In fact, I was having worse than the opposite of fun (which would be no fun) – I was having negative fun.

            Most of the people who were at the party were parts of couples. Rich couples. Lawyer husbands and stay-at-home-and-spend-the-money wives, as far as the eye could see. Plus a decent number of single women, but all of them in their mid-20s and not interested in me. Nice food, pretty people, and an endless number of Y2K jokes weren’t what I had in mind. In fact, I found the whole thing pretty depressing – it’s never fun to be a single person around a bunch of couples, but it’s even worse between November 15 and January 1. It’s enough to make you want to crawl in a hole over the holidays until all the parties are over. And throw in that it was just a few weeks until the year 2000 – I just didn’t want to contemplate the whole thing.

            Actually, the most fun I had for the first few hours was meeting some of the kids of the people at the party. Debbie Mackowiak’s son Joey was an easy-going five-year-old who had never been to New York before and wanted to know what Yankee Stadium was like. Sarah Bandemeier was pretty withdrawn at first, but asked me later if it was hard to be a writer. I talked with her about that for five or ten minutes until Joey chased her down again.

            The frustrating thing was, I knew the only person I really could talk to at the party was Marnie, but of course she was the hostess, so she wouldn’t be able to take most of her time to hang out with me. And Stephen had no interest in me whatsoever – he was hanging out with his lawyer buddies. So that left Debbie.

            Debbie Mackowiak was one of the hotter girls I grew up with. She was in my middle school starting in seventh grade, and was one of the first to develop significantly in the chestal area. Being as I was not one of the popular crowd, she didn’t pay much attention to me, and I returned the favor. There just wasn’t much opportunity for me to say anything to her.

            Now here she was with a six-year-old and no rings on her fingers. Marnie had noted she was divorced. I really didn’t want to talk to her – we’d had nothing to say to each other for six years in school, so why should things change?

            But Marnie was not a hostess to let anyone sit around alone. So she grabbed me by the shoulder from behind, and said, “There’s someone you’ll want to say hi to! Debbie, you remember Jeff Rutledge, right!”

            Debbie looked up from her drink. She wasn’t talking with anyone, either. “Yeah, sure. Hi, Jeff.”

            “Jeff’s written four books. Remember the one I told you about, Time for Me to Fly? Jeff, I just love Warner Kendrick. Will he be in the next book?”

            “No, Time for Me to Fly was a kind of stand-alone – I don’t see any of these characters coming back for an encore any time soon. After writing that detective trilogy, it seemed like a better idea to write a bit where there’s a definitive beginning, middle, and end, and you leave the characters at a definite stopping point, rather than a crossroads. Actually, I found out a few weeks ago that my old publisher, Fenner and Boyle, will be reissuing all three of the books in May as trade paperbacks, so that’s a little extra money in my pocket.” Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

            “Oh, I’ve got to see what Stephen’s doing. I’ll be right back!” Marnie rushed off.

            Debbie looked at me. “She’s been trying to set me up with guys for the last two years. It’s not going to happen.”

            I was a little taken aback. “I didn’t realize I’d said anything to make you think it would.”

            “Nah, it’s not you. Marnie’s theory is she’s married, and she’s happy, so everybody else should be married, and then we’d all be happy. Since both of us are divorced, we’re both from the same area, and we’re both friends of Marnie’s, we’re natural targets. I’m just not in the market right now.”

            She didn’t look like she was in the market. Debbie at age 37 was no longer hot. She had put on about 35 pounds – not obese, but definitely not taking care of herself. The occasional lascivious grin had turned into a rueful smile. I had never liked her much, but I couldn’t help feeling for her.

            “No, I understand. So what happened to you?”

            “I dated a lot of guys until I was 28 or so, then I married someone because I thought I had to get married, and he turned out to be a loser. And I have no interest in getting back in the game. I love my kid to death, and he’s what I want to focus on right now.”

            “At least you have a kid. Claudia and I couldn’t agree on when we were going to have a child – she wanted one, but I thought we didn’t have enough money, and she started making a lot more money, then she didn’t want to have one, and I felt like it was because of the money, so I started working like a maniac, and… ugh. It just didn’t work out.”

            Stephen came in, holding an empty glass. “Hey, Debbie. Freshen your… beer.”

            “No thank you, Stephen.”

            He turned to me, and obviously couldn’t remember my name. “Hey. Need another drink?”

            “No, I’m good, thanks.” He grinned, then turned and smiled at a woman who looked to be in her late twenties. “Where have you been all evening? I’ve been looking for you.” She smiled and walked into the kitchen, with Stephen following and staring appreciatively at her rear end. I didn’t really want to see that.

            I turned back to Debbie. “I’m sorry about how things worked out for you. All divorces suck big time. But, as I said, at least you have a kid. I have Churchill.”

            She gave me a quizzical look. “I hope that’s a pet of some sort, rather than a warped admiration for a dead British guy.”

            “No, that would be my cat.” I laughed. “Worshipping the actual Winston Churchill would be even more pitiful.”

            Loud shouting came from the living room. “Can I have your attention, please?” Stephen boomed out.

            “Oh, good. Stephen’s gonna speak,” Debbie said. I looked at quizzically, and she whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”

            “First, I’d like to thank you all for coming,” Stephen said.

            “Or however you reacted,” I said under my breath, stealing an old Martin Mull joke. I didn’t think anyone had heard me, but Marnie, who was standing nearby, snorted and turned toward me with an outraged grin. I had no idea Marnie liked dirty jokes. You learn something new every day.

            “I’m thrilled for the opportunity to talk to you as a full-fledged partner. I’ll enjoy those six weeks in the Caribbean even more.” Lots of laughter.

            “I couldn’t have done it without the others in my life – the legal assistants, secretaries, and my wife, Marnie.” Marnie ranked with the secretaries? Debbie turned away, rolling her eyes.

            “Anyway, thanks very much, and here’s to a bright future filled with lots of attorneys fees!”

            “Hear hear!” the lawyers shouted back, and the crowd applauded and broke up. Was I missing something , or was that the most self-congratulatory speech ever?

            I cornered Debbie after that. “What gives?” I asked.

            “Let’s just say Stephen’s not my favorite person in the world and let it go at that,” she said. “Which is kind of a problem, because Marnie is my favorite person in the world. She was amazing to me after the divorce from –” pause, shudder “ – Jack. And she talks to Mary Beth and Linda once every week or two, and they live on the other side of the country! And obviously you’ve gotten on her good side, too.”

            “I’m not quite sure how – I just happened to be doing a signing for my book.”

            “All I know is, when you’re her friend, you’re her friend for life. She will not let you go unless you do something so awful she can’t forgive it. But she doesn’t let people just fade away – she’ll do the work to make sure you’re still in touch.”

            “She really is a good person,” I said. I looked into the kitchen and saw Stephen hovering over a different younger woman, this one with reddish hair. Marnie would have to be a good person to put up with this horndog, I thought.

            “Marnie’s the best,” Debbie replied. “Look, you seem like a reasonably nice guy, and we ignored you in high school because – well, we were snobs. Or at least Linda and I were. But with Marnie, you’re set for life. She’ll do anything she can to keep you happy.”

           


Chapter 8 – Jeff

 

            So where does a novelist who’s just had his best-selling book ever go to spend the Christmas holidays?

            Yes, to his mother and father’s house. Where he can spend half the day in his childhood bed, reading old dog-eared paperback reprints of Mad magazine, and watch cable to his heart’s content.

            Which wasn’t exactly what my parents had in mind when I came home for a week. My parents, into their seventies (and with a daughter three years older than I that they saw for three weeks every summer), were active. They walked six miles a day – three in the morning, three more in the afternoon. They had a camper they drove all over the country. They ran for the school board and the town board. (They never won, but they ran.) They entertained and were entertained by others.

            And they certainly didn’t expect their son to sit around in his sweats for an entire day the day after Christmas. But I wanted to. I was in the middle of a terrific writing frenzy and had just finished proofreading a 720-page World War I epic novel. I needed a break in a big way.

            Just as important, I needed a break from others in my life. Keith, Terri, and Norah were off visiting his family over the holidays and wouldn’t be back until after January 1. My publishers were off until January 1 as well, so I didn’t have to hear the siren song of my editor saying the manuscript was due. And I figured Marnie would spend the whole Christmas holiday with her family – she had said her mother was coming up over Christmas with a hint of dread.

            So I happily sat around the day after Christmas (which was a Sunday) in my sweats, watching NFL games on television and eating Wheat Thins. All the while, my mother looked at me as if I was a zombie from outer space. Finally, when this continued into Monday at 11 a.m., she finally broke.

            “Doesn’t it bother you that you’re just sitting around doing nothing today?” she finally asked me.

            “If it really bothered me, I wouldn’t be doing it. I need a nothing day. Yesterday was great. The day after Christmas, unless you’re a competitive shopper, is always a letdown.”

            My mom, Paulette Etherton Rutledge, was not likely to accept this. My parents had grown up during the Depression. To them, sitting around and doing nothing was not an acceptable was of comporting oneself – you got up and did what needed to be done. Since Franklin Roosevelt had saved the country in their youth, they became lifelong Democrats (of course, so was I) and dedicated themselves to a long litany of liberal causes. But liberal didn’t mean lazy – it meant hard-working, and donating one’s time when one had it to spare. And it certainly mean getting off your ass and getting to work.

            Which is what my mother reminded me. “Well, if you don’t want to go and do good things for your relatives, such as writing thank-you notes, you can certainly do good things for others. Did I mention we’re volunteering at the soup kitchen twice a week? We can go down there tonight for five or six hours. That would certainly get you out of your post-Christmas doldrums.”

            Mercifully, the phone rang. “See, that may be opportunity knocking at this very minute,” she said, getting up. “Perhaps your publisher wants you to do a signing or something.” She got up, answered the phone, and her face promptly changed to a puzzled expression. “It’s for you,” she said. “Who’s Marnie Bandemeier?”

            “She’s an old friend from high school, Mom,” I said, grabbing the phone and covering the receiver.

            “Is she a possible future daughter-in-law?” my mom retorted. My mother hated that Claudia and I couldn’t make the marriage work.

            “I think her husband would be a little upset about that,” I said, and then answered the phone.

            “Thank God your parents are listed,” Marnie said. “Don’t you ever answer your cell phone?”

            “I never charge my cell phone, Marnie. I thought you were away for the holidays.”

            “We’re back, and I need to exchange stuff at the mall. Debbie’s coming with me, and since you’re in town, I thought you might want to meet us there.”

            Did I want to see Marnie. Yeah, of course I did. Did I want to see Debbie? Not particularly, no. Would I go hang out with Marnie if Debbie was part of the package? Yeah, I would. “Sure, what time?”

            Two hours later, I was hanging out in front of the J.C. Penney at the Mall of Scotch Plains, waiting for Debbie and Marnie to show up. Unfortunately, they were both late, I’d neglected to bring my cell phone with me, and there wasn’t a pay phone in sight. At least there was a giveaway newspaper rack near the J.C. Penney. Did you know that Meryl Fortnick’s potato salad recipe won 2nd prize in the West Virginia State Fair in 1957? Fortunately, Meryl’s since moved to New Jersey, providing many pounds of carbs for us since then.

            Finally, Debbie came up, carrying two bags full of packages. “She’s late,” Debbie told me. “Sarah had a late piano class that Marnie had to wait on, because Stephen was going to take the day off but got called in… it’s a whole stupid who’ll-pick-up-the-kid thing.”

            “So are we supposed to just stay in front of Penney’s and wait for her, or do we have an appointed time to meet her, or…”

            “Relax, worrisome,” she said, pulling a cell phone out of her pocket. “When she gets here, she’ll call us. And unlike some of us, I keep my phone with me and charged.”

            “It happens to the best of us,” I said, a little nonplussed that Marnie wasn’t around and Debbie could mock me freely.

            “According to Marnie, it happens to you all the time,” she said, flipping the phone shut and putting it back in her pocket. “How is it possible that you never remember the phone, and when you do it’s never charged? What are you, the absent-minded author?”

            I gave up. Debbie was in a foul mood, which actually matched her mood through most of high school. Although really something to look at – great body, pretty face, huge Jersey hair – she always seemed to be walking around with a chip on her shoulder, pissed over what had happened that day with her parents, her friends, her boyfriend, or whoever. Time hadn’t changed her; she just wasn’t perpetually pissed.

            First stop, Penney’s. Debbie tossed two sweaters – one for her, one for Joey – back on the returns counter, and asked for store credit. She then left, and went on to Montgomery Ward, and exchanged a pair of pants for store credit. Same thing at Sears – store credit for two of Joey’s shirts. She barely spoke a word during that time.

            “Totally focused,” I noted as we left Sears.

            “Well, I’ve got to be,” she said. “These clothes aren’t right for either of us – they come from well-meaning relatives, or my idiot ex-husband who doesn’t keep track of what size Joey is. And I don’t need to get him more clothes right now, so if I take store credit, when he does need more stuff, I’ll be ready.”

            “But it doesn’t make a very interesting Christmas for him if so many of his presents disappear all of a sudden.”

            “One thing you learn very quickly about young boys; they don’t give a shit about clothes. As long as they aren’t super-ugly and fit, they’ll wear anything. And they don’t really want clothes for Christmas; that takes away from the toys.”

            She went to The Limited and T.J. Maxx, then announced she was through – nothing left to exchange, and no need to buy anything. I hadn’t bought anything, nor had I been asked if I was interested in buying anything (which I really wasn’t). But my whole point of going was to see Marnie, who was by then forty-five minutes late.

            “What do you want to do now?” she asked me.

            Go home was my immediate thought, but I decided I didn’t need to be that rude. “When was the last time we tried calling Marnie?” I asked.

            “Haven’t called her yet,” Debbie said, fishing her cell phone out of her purse. “Let’s try it again.” Debbie speed dialed, and waited.

            “Hey, Marn, where the hell are you?” Pause.

            “Oh, hi, Sarah, I didn’t realize it was you.” Debbie rolled her eyes, while I made a mental note not to use expletives if I ever called Marnie. “Can you put your mom on, please? Thanks.” Pause.

            “Marn, is that you?” Pause. “Where the hell are you?” Pause. “Summit? Jesus, why are you there? Couldn’t you find a decent piano teacher in Westfield?” Pause.

            “Look, what difference does it make that she was your piano teacher? Good God, you took piano lessons 25 years ago – isn’t your old piano teacher dead by now?”

            “Well, okay, she’s your great-aunt.” Pause. “And she introduced your parents.” Pause. “And this is her major source of income. But the point’s still valid! You’ve got to find someone closer to home. Anyway, what’s the story?” Pause.

            “Well, bring her with you? Are you worried about her hearing stuff you wouldn’t want her to know? Jeff can tone it down!” Pause, while I rolled my eyes. “Okay, I know it’s me you worry about. But I can tone it down! Somewhat.” Pause.

            “Okay. Twenty minutes. We’ll meet at the Friendly’s in the mall; that’ll give Sarah a chance to have an ice cream treat.” Pause. “Okay, it’ll give me a chance to have an ice cream treat. And a burger. See you in twenty.” She shut off the phone. “God, she has terrible phone presence; don’t know where she gets it from. Anyway, we’re meeting her and Sarah at Friendly’s in a little bit. Why don’t we go there now and get started on lunch, and they can catch up.”

            “Sounds fine with me.” I was starving, and Friendly’s was a favorite childhood place. Mostly based in New England, they’re a cut above fast food, even though most of their menu is burgers and fries. It’s the ice cream and shakes that bring me in – meals for those who aren’t getting enough cholesterol in their diets. Unfortunately, no one has ever seen fit to put any of them in New York City, so I only got to go to one when I was out of town.

            Fortunately, the lunch crush had ended, so we were able to grab a four-person booth pretty easily – despite a dirty look from our waitress, who probably had heard “Oh, they’ll be here in a few minutes” dozens of times before. Debbie ordered a Big Beef Mushroom, Swiss and Bacon, then added a cup of clam chowder to start things off (“It may be awhile before Marnie and Sarah get here; we don’t want to get too far ahead of them”), and threw in a Fribble, which wasn’t called a milk shake (and made me think of McDonald’s shakes, which aren’t milk shakes at all). I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke.

            I sat silent for a second, contemplating what was going on. I didn’t particularly care much about Debbie one way or the other, but I wanted to maintain good relations with her for Marnie’s sake. Pissing off Marnie’s friends seemed like the surest way to piss off Marnie herself, and I didn’t want to do that – besides my obvious if completely inappropriate interest in her, she was slowly drawing me out of my shell. Even if Debbie wasn’t the perfect match for me – and she wasn’t, as far as I was concerned – maybe Marnie could find someone who was more to my liking.

            “So what’s the deal between the two of us?” Debbie asked. “Are you still hot for me, or what?”

            That certainly got my attention. “Excuse me?” I asked, nearly doing a spit take with my water.

            “I figure Marnie’s still trying to make us a couple,” she said, smiling, “and you’re more attractive than I thought – although really, Jeff, that mustache has got to go. And I’m feeling really horny this time of year; must be those Y2K hormones coming on strong.”

            “Huh,” I said, surprised by this.

            “I do my own birth control, by the way,” she said, signaling the waiter to bring the drinks over.

            “Uh, you’re joshing with me, aren’t you?” I asked, my voice rising half an octave.

            “No, not really,” she said. “I’m horny and I want to get laid, and men are always horny and want to get laid by my experience. So the best thing to do would be to have a no-strings-attached thing New Year’s Eve, rather than going to one of these stupid parties alone. Whaddya say?”

            At that moment, Marnie and Sarah came bustling up to our table. “Sorry we’re so late!” Marnie said, taking off her parka. “Traffic was insane, and Aunt Getty was behind schedule – ”
            “Aunt Getty like J.P. Getty, or the gas stations?” I asked, still trying to regain my equilibrium.

            “Yeah, but in her case it’s short for Gertrude,” Marnie said, finishing the removal of winter garments and sitting down next to me. “She’s a pistol, though, even though she’s 84 years old. And she makes the kids work.”

            “Which really sucks, by the way, if you happen to be a kid,” Sarah added.

            “Oh, you love playing the piano,” Debbie said, sitting Sarah down next to her, which made her grimace.

            “Oh, you’re so wrong, Aunt Debbie,” Sarah replied. “I’m getting a large chocolate milk shake. And something with French fries.”

            “That’s fine,” Marnie said. “You’re entitled, because most people don’t have to take piano lessons two days after Christmas.” Also, Sarah was very skinny and could certainly stand to take on the extra calories. She obviously took after her father – not that Marnie was fat, but she didn’t have Marnie’s darker skin and hair, and she looked like she’d be taller than her mother as well.

            Marnie and Sarah ordered, Marnie and Debbie chatted, Sarah looked bored, and I tried to sort out my first sex-with-no-strings proposition since I was – well, since ever, actually. Getting between the sheets with Debbie, while not a dream come true exactly, would solve several problems: it would keep Marnie from trying to fix us up (because we basically would be fixed up, if only temporarily); it would get me laid, which hadn’t happened since Claudia left me; it would allow me to know (if not to brag to friends) that I had finally slept with a desirable girl from my high school class (they didn’t have to know that she wasn’t so desirable any longer, unless I was doing this at reunion).

            The fact that I didn’t have any interest in Debbie, of course, would seem to override most of this. As much as I wanted to have a physical relationship with someone, that someone wasn’t Debbie. Certainly it would be Marnie if she were available – but she wasn’t.

            “Mom, can I get a sundae after lunch?” Sarah asked.

            “A small one, one of those Happy Endings things,” Marnie replied. “You don’t need a huge sundae if you’re already getting a shake.”

            “I’ll split a big sundae with her if you want,” Debbie said.

            “No, thanks, Aunt Debbie, I’d rather have my own,” Sarah said. Debbie betrayed no emotion at being rejected (of course, having a teenager want their own sundae is barely a rejection), but I could see her stiffen just a touch. No doubt it had been a rough year or two for Debbie as well.

            Later, when Debbie took a trip to the ladies’ room and Sarah had stepped away to peruse the ice cream choices, Marnie looked at me with a conspiratorial grin. “So, what’s going on with you and Debbie?” she asked.

            “Uh, were you expecting something to go on between me and Debbie?” I replied. “Just because you guys were a little late doesn’t mean anything happened, Marnie.”

            “Oh, come on,” Marnie said. “Debbie’s attractive, and she’s eligible. You’re attractive, and you’re eligible. And I know she isn’t going out with anyone, and I know you’re not going out with anyone, and it would be terrible not to be doing anything New Year’s Eve.”

            “Funny thing,” I said. “We actually did talk about doing something New Year’s Eve.” I didn’t want to say it would be no-strings-attached sex, telling Marnie that would be both Debbie and I look bad.

            Marnie practically squealed with glee. “Oh, you guys should definitely do something,” she said. “It would be so much fun for both of you.”

            “What are you and Stephen doing New Year’s Eve?” I asked.

            “Oh, some incredibly dull party that will be mostly people from his office,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and slumping down in the booth. I don’t even particularly want to go, and I haven’t been able to find a babysitter yet for Sarah, so I might not go at all. Stephen will have fun, of course, but that sort of thing doesn’t interest me very much. But seriously, you should do it with Debbie. I think she’d really like that.”

            Later, after we picked up the checks, I had a spare moment out of earshot of Marnie. “Hey, that thing you mentioned earlier?” I asked Debbie.

            “You mean the sex date?” she answered. “Come on, call a spade a spade, Jeff.”

            “Let’s do that,” I said. “Sounds like fun.” Even bad sex is better than no sex, I rationalized, and certainly Debbie brought more experience to the table than I ever could.

            “Cool,” Debbie said. “Come on out about 7 p.m. Friday night. As I said, don’t –” Marnie suddenly came over. “Don’t be late,” Debbie said. “The seating is at 8:30, and we wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity.”

            “Oh, cool, you guys are going out!” Marnie said. “This will be such a good New Year’s Eve!”