When he took a bite of his fortune cookie, I said, "Don't eat it—Jesus! Now it won't come true!"
And he spit it out in his napkin.
I said, "You know what I've always loved about you?"
"What?" he said, resting his chin on two balled-up fists in imitation of a swooning schoolboy.
"You're willing to swallow your pride to make me laugh," I said. "Or spit it out in a napkin."
—•—
I said, "The good news is that these are the last manuscripts from my archive."
I said, "The bad news is that these are the last manuscripts from my archive."
He said, "Let's go to bed."
I I I
I once read that no matter how long an alcoholic was sober, as soon as he went back to drinking he would be exactly where he was when he'd left off. That's how it was with Archie and me.
I filled his closet with my clothes. My shampoos and conditioners lined the ledge of his tub. He stocked his refrigerator with diet root beer and carrots.
We ate dinner together every night, out or in.
Before bed, from the upstairs bathroom he'd announce, "I'm taking my Antabuse!"
I didn't know what to say. I tried to think what the right answer might be. Then, I'd call out, "Thanks," as though I'd sneezed and he'd blessed me.
I knew he wanted to have sex if he put on aftershave before bed. I called it his forescent. The sex itself was manual labor. I was there for what happened afterward—the tenderness that didn't come any other way.
Sometimes, we slept face to face, with our arms around each other; one night I woke up and his mouth was so close to mine I was breathing his breath.
—•—
The only friend I told at first was Sophie, the anti-Archiest of them all. I was afraid to, but she didn't even seem surprised. She said, "Does he make you feel better?"
I said he did.
"He's not drinking?" she said.
I told her about Antabuse and the poker chip from AA.
She looked over at me, and thought. Finally, she said, "But don't give up your apartment, okay?"
I told her that my aunt's apartment wasn't mine to give up, and that it hadn't occurred to me to move all the way in with Archie.
She said, "Call me if it does."
—•—
Archie asked if I'd told my parents about him, and I said I hadn't. "How much longer are you going to keep me in the closet?" he said. "It's dark in here. And I keep stepping on your shoes."
—•—
I was going home to the suburbs for the weekend, and Archie gave me a copy of Loony for my father. Then he said, "Let's go."
"Let's go?" I said.
He carried my bag around the corner to Hudson Street and hailed a cab. He actually got in and rode with me to Penn Station. He acted like I was a sailor, shipping out.
While I stood in the ticket line, he went to Hudson News and got Tropical Fruits Life Savers and goofy magazines—DogWorld, True Confessions, and Puzzler—for my train ride. We held hands walking to the staircase for my track. It was hard to go. I said that I worried he'd be lonely. He kissed me and told me not to worry. He said, "I'm the last person you should be thinking about."
—•—
That weekend looked just like the ones I'd spent at home before finding out about my father. But I knew now what was underneath. We had lunch out on the patio. We talked and read. Puttered. We ate dinner by candlelight. We acted like we might go to the movies and never went.
When I woke up on Sunday, my mother had been up for hours, gardening. Over breakfast, she told me she was having the house painted in a few weeks. She showed my dad and me the paint chips, all varying shades of white, and pointed out which white was for which room.
"Alabaster seems too formal for our bedroom," he said, joking.
"It is sort of pretentious," I said. "And coconut for the bathroom? I don't think so."
My mother was good at being kidded; she rolled her eyes in pretend annoyance. Then she said, "I want the house to look its best," with a fervor that stopped me.
My dad heard it, too. "The house looks good now, Lou," he said, to the tune of This is paint were talking about.
I went with him to do errands, and we stopped for fruit and vegetables at what had once been the Ash-bourne Mall. Lord & Taylor was now a farmers market, and the department where I'd bought my first bra now sold organic produce.
In the parking lot, I saw the Ashbourne Witches, a mother and two daughters, who still had long shag haircuts and still drove a rusted red Rambler. They'd terrified and thrilled me as a child, when my friends and I spied on them; the lore was that the Witches returned clothes they'd worn.
He thought it was as funny as I did. He said, " I guess that's the worst thing a suburban girl could imagine."
—•—
It wasn't until just before I left that I remembered to give him Loony. I didn't mention that the book was from Archie.
My dad seemed pleased, reading the jacket. He flipped through the first pages, and I saw at the same moment he did that Mickey Lamm had inscribed the book for him. "That was the reading I told you about," I said.
He drove me downtown to the train station. He kept the top down on his convertible but rolled up the windows, so it wasn't too blowy for us to talk. Mostly, he wanted to know about my life in New York. Was it getting any easier with Mimi? What did I like about my job? Was I still considering getting a dog? How was Sophie? Had I met anyone interesting?
—•—
When I got to Archie's that evening, he said, "How'd it go?" I told him that my father seemed pretty good, a little tired maybe, but otherwise his usual self.
Archie was still waiting, and I realized just before he said, "You didn't tell your dad about us?" that he'd expected me to.
That's why he'd had the book inscribed.
I thought aloud why I hadn't; I said something like maybe I was trying to protect my father as he'd protected me.
Archie glared at me. "You're equating me with a fatal blood disease?"
"That's not what I mean." Then I realized the truth: "I wasn't thinking about you," I said. "I was just being with my dad."
He gazed at me. "You've grown up, honey."
It felt good to hear it. I thought maybe he was right. Then it occurred to me that if I really had grown up I wouldn't want to be told.
I V
Mimi came by my office and asked if I was free for lunch, and I said, "Sure." She was in a girlsy-whirlsy mood, and linked arms with me walking to the restaurant.
I felt like I was going to have a great time with her, and I was surprised when I didn't.
She wanted to talk about men—"boys," she called them, regardless of age. All the ones in her life seemed to be in love with her, except maybe her husband. He loved her so much that he hated her.
She told me that she'd recently had dinner with her second husband, a Southerner, who still called her "Sugar-pie." Just as sweet was the author who'd taken her to the Yankees' game last night; she hoped he'd stop by the office today, so I could meet him.
Archie had told me I could probably learn a lot from Mimi, and I wanted to. I looked at her eyebrows; how did she get them so perfect?
I nodded as she spoke, which was all that was required, until she asked me if I was seeing anyone. I said that I was, and when she said, "Who?" I could tell that she already knew. Even so, when I told her, I felt like I'd sold something I should've kept.
After lunch, she said that she was getting her hair colored and wouldn't be coming back to the office.
I said, "Your hair is dyed?"
"Colored," she said. "Never say dye."
—•—
Following Archie's advice, I had lunch with an agent I liked. The agent had once worked with Mimi and sang her nickname, "Me-me-me-me."
It was almost three o'clock when I got back. There was a note on my chair from Mimi: "Come visit."
When I went to her office, she didn't of
fer her perfume.
"Sorry I'm late," I said. "I had lunch with an agent."
Her voice was like dry ice. "If you're going to be late, just let me know, okay?"
"Sure," I said, which came out shir; around her I sometimes developed a no-running-water Appalachian accent.
She said, "There's a novel Dorrie acquired that I want you to edit, Jane."
I'd edited a dozen novels by then, but knew I was supposed to be excited and tried to act like I was.
She said, "No one's expecting you to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."
I said, "So, you're expecting a vinyl purse?"
She said, "Just make it the best sow's ear it can be."
—•—
I thought the novel was silk, as it was. But knowing how Mimi felt about it, I spent a whole week editing the first chapter. Before I went on to the second, I decided to show it to Archie.
He told me that I was hyperediting, treating it as though it was a test.
"It is a test," I said.
"You're thinking about Mimi," he said. "Think about. . ." He turned to the title page. "Mr. Putterman."
As soon as he said it, I knew that he was right and I was glad I'd asked him. I beamed at him.
"You love me," he said. "Don't even try to deny it."
—•—
I got lost thinking about Mr. Putterman; I didn't delete a comma without picturing his reaction and asking myself if it was necessary. I averaged about a page an hour, and the next time I looked at my watch, I saw that I was already forty-five minutes late to meet Archie.
I arrived at the restaurant, saying, "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
Archie didn't seem annoyed. "I was just beginning to worry," he said. "Let's get you something to eat."
Later, though, in bed, he said, "Are you asleep?"
"I was," I said, our standard joke.
"You don't want to be late, honey." He smoothed my hair. "It tells the people you care about that they can't count on you. That's not the message you want to give—especially now, with your dad sick."
"You're right," I said. I asked him to help me.
"Just think about the person you're affecting," he said. "Think about Mr. Putterman."
—•—
I met Sophie at Tortilla Flats, where my ex-boyfriend Jamie worked as a bartender—just while he decided whether to open a restaurant of his own, direct movies, or apply to medical school again. We were friends now, though I hadn't seen him since I'd gone back to Archie. When I told him I had, his face didn't change. Then he looked at Sophie with an expression that said, Look out for her. And she shrugged, I'm doing the best I can.
At the table, she and I talked about everything but Archie, until our second round of margaritas.
"Since you haven't brought up sex," she said, "I'm assuming there hasn't been a miraculous improvement."
I said, "It doesn't feel like a problem the way it used to."
"That is a problem," she said.
—•—
Archie and I went up to his farmhouse late Friday night. I was sleepy, but I stayed awake to talk to him while he drove. He didn't ask me to play the old car games—Capitals, Presidents, Twenty Questions, or Ghost—which collectively revealed my lack of knowledge on every subject.
Instead, he asked quizlike questions about my father: what trait I admired most in him (equanimity); what expression he'd said to me most while I was growing up ("Don't take the easy way out, Janie"); what my earliest memory of him was (sitting on his shoulders during a parade).
When Archie said, "We'll have our own little girl one day," my eyes went wide in the dark.
—•—
We woke up to chilly rain. We ate breakfast at the diner and then wandered around town. I went into Fish 'n' Tackle, thinking I'd make earrings out of lures, but they were all too shiny or feathery, too lurey.
In the afternoon, Archie lit a fire. I read Mr. Putter-man. He read Mickey's new book. By early evening, we were both restless.
He said, "Why don't we go out for dinner and a movie?"
I said, "Methinks a better plan was never laid."
He suggested asking Caldwell, his professor friend, to join us. I made a face.
"You look like Elizabeth when she was thirteen," he said.
I said, "Caldwell seems about a hundred and thirteen."
"Don't be ageist," he said.
"He has a bad personality," I said. "He interrupts."
"He's fascinating if you get him talking about Fitzgerald," Archie said. "He wrote the best book on Scott in the field."
I said, "I'll read it."
He shook his head.
"He never asks me questions," I said. "It's like he can't even see me. I'm just your young thing. I'm just the blurry young person sitting across the table."
He kissed me and said, "You are a blurry young person."
V
I planned to spend the long July Fourth weekend with my family instead of with Archie and felt guilty about it. I told him, but it came out so jumbled he thought I was inviting him to the shore with me.
"It should just be your family, honey," he said, and offered to lend me his car so I wouldn't have to take the bus.
"Thanks," I said, and told him that my brother was driving down from Boston and picking me up. But I pictured my parents' reaction to Archie's white Lincoln Continental pulling into their driveway.
—•—
"I'm trying to think how to tell my dad about us," I said.
"How about this," he said, and imitated me: " 'Good news, Papa! I'm with that charming fellow Archie again!' "
I didn't answer.
"What?" he said. "You think I'm bad news?"
I said, "If Elizabeth was going out with some guy who was twenty-eight years older, tell me you wouldn't be upset."
"Your father knows me," he said. "I'm not just some guy who's twenty-eight years older—at least that's not the way I see myself."
—•—
I didn't know how my father saw Archie.
A few months after Archie and I had broken up, my mother mentioned a friend whose daughter was involved with an alcoholic. My mother pronounced alcoholic like it was an on the same cell block with rapist and murderer, and meant crazy and violent and lock the door.
My father didn't say anything, and it occurred to me that he knew, or at least suspected, that Archie was an alcoholic.
—•—
Friday evening, I took my duffel bag downstairs and dropped it by the door. Archie was reading in the den. I leaned over and kissed him and said, "I should take off." He seemed confused. "Is your brother here?" "No," I said. "He's picking me up at my apartment." "Why?" he said. "Why isn't he picking you up here?" "Honey," I said. "You know I haven't told my family yet."
"Jesus," he said. "Not even Henry?"
He shook his head and went back to his book. He turned the page, though I knew he wasn't reading.
I stood there, waiting for him to talk to me. When I looked at the clock, it was already seven, which was when my brother was supposed to pick me up.
"I don't want to keep you," Archie said, and his voice was mean.
I said, "I was just trying to think of Mr. Putterman." He said, "I'd like to be Mr. Putterman once in a while." I said, "You'll have to stop being Mr. Motherfucker first."
V I
I was anxious in the cab. It was almost seven-thirty when I got to my apartment, but there was no sign of Henry. No note on the door. No message on the machine.
I called the shore and told my mother we'd be late, and she said her usual, "Don't worry, whatever time you get here is fine."
I looked out my window down at Eleventh Street. I watched a young family packing up their huge jeep and leaving for the weekend. I suddenly got scared about how sick my father might be, and how little time I might have to spend with him. I thought, Whatever time we get there is not fine.
I decided I'd talk to Henry about being late. But when he finally arrived, he had a g
uest with him, Rebecca.
We didn't talk at first because Henry had the AM radio on for the traffic report. He said along with the announcer, "Ten-Ten WINS Radio, you give us twenty-two minutes, we'll give you the world."
Outside the Holland Tunnel, Rebecca turned around in her seat to talk to me, and I saw that she was pretty, though you could tell she didn't think about it. She was husky with brown skin, large dark eyes, and a tiny gold dot in her nose. She told me she was a landscape painter who sold water purifiers to pay her rent.
When she said, "You should get one," I thought she'd caught me staring at her nose dot. But then she told me that the water in New York was even worse than Boston's as far as chlorine, lead, and particulates were concerned.
V I I
In a few hours, we were on Long Beach Island, driving past the Ocean View Motel, Shore Bar, Bay Bank, Oh Fudge!, and the frozen-custard stands with their blazing signs in yellow or pink. Then there were just houses and a long stretch of darkness until we pulled up to the pine trees that hid our house from the road.
My father had replaced my mother's antique, practically lightless lanterns with floodlights, and the path was incredibly bright. For a moment, I forgot about my dad's illness and was just glad to be home; walking into the glare of the floodlights, I made my usual joke, "At-ti-ca! At-ti-ca!"
Inside, the three of us were drive-dazed. We stood in the kitchen. Henry opened the refrigerator.
My father came out in his pajamas and seersucker robe. He kissed my brother and me, and told Rebecca he was glad to meet her. He looked a little pale, but I reminded myself that he hadn't been able to play tennis since he'd had shingles.
My mother appeared in her bathrobe, her hair flattened on one side and poofed out on the other. In a sleepy voice, she asked if we'd like cold chicken, which was what she always offered.
Henry and I split a beer, and Rebecca said she'd just have water, which naturally led to the topic of water purifiers. Even though it was after one o'clock, she attached one to our tap to show us how great they were.
My father was coughing, and I worried that he had another bronchial infection. Then I worried about him seeing me worry. I got him a glass of water and one for myself.
Rebecca watched us drink. "It tastes better, doesn't it?" she asked.