What’s wrong with her!” I asked, slumped on Perry’s couch after his parents left. “Is she always like this? Was it me? I mean, I’ve gone through life not worrying about the kind of impression I’m making, because . . . I don’t have to worry! I do fine. But with your mother, I couldn’t say or do anything right.”
Rhetorical questions all, no answers needed, because I knew what motivated her: She was a son worshipper. No one would ever be good enough for her one and only; certainly not me, whose moral turpitude could be googled by any Cincinnatian in possession of a smartphone.
Perry kept repeating, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry you introduced us?”
“If you’re this upset . . . maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have told her about us”—I motioned back and forth between us—“and just said I was an acquaintance in the building throwing a party for another acquaintance in the building.”
He plopped down next to me and said, “What a crock. We’d be having an entirely different argument if I didn’t tell them about”—both hands energetically mimicking my back-and-forthing.
That was true, but I still had some ranting left in me. “We’re not arguing. I’m stating the obvious, that she’s made up her mind, and I’m a bad choice for . . . whatever she thinks we are. I can’t be the first woman you ever brought home, so to speak.”
Perry said, “You want to know about her choices? They’d picked out a wife for me, a daughter of some mixed-doubles-friends of theirs. Not that it was ever framed as ‘your future wife’; not that I ever saw her except for one Sunday dinner at the club, parents looking on. That was their plan: I’d come to Cincinnati. We’d run into her and her parents at the country club. Then this, the disgrace. End of nonstory.”
“Did they not know about your Gladstone girlfriend?”
“When my mother asked over the years if I was dating anyone I’d say, ‘Yes, someone I met at work,’ ‘Someone I met through a friend,’ ‘Someone I met on a plane.’ She was fine keeping it at arm’s length.”
“Ice-cold arm’s length! Why bother being nice to Perry’s comfort woman? Surely he just selected Best Available?”
“What would you like me to do?” he pleaded. “Both my father and I told her she was being rude. In her own fashion, she got it. She’s never going to change. They live in Cincinnati. I don’t care what she thinks.”
I was losing steam, as he was sounding so reasonable. “You could write her a letter. . . .”
He got up, crossed to the table, sat down, pushed up his sleeves, and pantomimed putting pen to paper. “Dear Mother,” he intoned. “Good work: Jane hates you. Don’t expect any more invitations from me. Sincerely, your son, who makes up his own mind. PS Any normal mother would be happy for me, if you don’t count the pitiful state of everything else in my life. PPS Don’t disinherit me.”
I said, “I hate hearing that you think your life is pitiful.”
“Isn’t it? Where am I going? To work every day? And how would I ever have gotten that work? ‘Sorry, sir, I can’t come for an interview. Can we do it on Zoom or Teams or FaceTime or WhatsApp because I’m on home confinement for a few more months’?”
I said, “You’re going to land on your feet. We’ll be a job-hunting team. And may I point out how you’ve enriched yourself? All the books you’ve read? How many online courses have you taken? Art history, Russian history, ancient history . . . how many Ken Burns documentaries have you watched? Not to mention . . . our one-on-ones.”
But even as that teased a smile, even as I was cheerleading, I knew this: Perry saw his crime as stupid, unethical, regrettable, embarrassing. I saw mine as minor, forgettable, and my punishment the whim of a priggish judge. We had identical sentences but very different degrees of shame.
* * *
There were several voicemails from Jackleen, which, regrettably, I didn’t play back until Sunday night. The first was “I have huge news. Call me!,” followed by increasingly impatient orders to do the same with a final, sarcastic “Busy much? Call me, for crissakes!”
I reached her, explaining that between the party I’d been obliged to throw and—a guaranteed interest-piquer—meeting Perry’s parents—
“Jane! Okay! Later! Duncan and I are back together.”
Not sure from her tone, I asked, “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s very good. It’s great.”
“When? How? Who initiated what?”
“Friday night. We had dinner at Vice Versa, which used to be ‘our place’—so when he asked me to meet him there, I kind of knew. Then he ordered an appetizer to share, our old favorite. You don’t share an appetizer with someone you’re estranged from.”
“Everything’s good, then? Settled?”
“He came prepared. We talked about the issues that led to the breakup. Yes to a baby: just one. If I don’t get pregnant in six months, we’ll consult a fertility specialist. And as far as me helping you, he realizes that wasn’t his concern.”
That was blunter than previous breakup diagnoses had been. I couldn’t help grumbling, “For putting food on my table? That issue?”
“He regrets that! And it’s not like you’re treating yourself to filet mignon and caviar.”
What to say? Thanks for my chicken thighs and ground chuck? Instead, I asked, “Has he told his charming daughters?”
“They were on alert. He texted them—a photo of my hand with the ring on it.”
“Ring!” I squealed. “Right at the restaurant? You said yes? Is it beautiful? Did it fit?”
“Yes, over dessert. It’s so beautiful.”
“How did the girls take it?”
“They’re all in because he’d been moping. They kept saying, ‘You’re in love with Jackleen. We’ve never seen you like this. What are you waiting for?’”
If the difficult daughters had given their blessing, who was I to withhold mine? I said, “Duncan really stepped up. I’m impressed. The right restaurant, the right appetizer, the ring in his pocket. Talk about a vice versa!”
“I’m texting you the photo . . . right . . . now.”
I squealed again. “It’s gorgeous. And may I say—huge!”
“Two carats and flawless.”
“He knows your taste, that’s for sure.”
“We’d window-shopped when we were still together, so he had a good idea.”
“So much for the famous twin ESP. If I’d known why you were calling, I’d have picked up before it rang! I thought you were just checking in.” I repeated my alibis: party on Saturday that I didn’t volunteer for, and brunch today with Perry’s parents, whom I was meeting for the first time.
“You met them as in . . . ‘this is Jane, my in-house . . . friend’?”
I couldn’t let that pass. “‘House friend.’ Is that like hausfrau?”
“Don’t be so touchy. I only meant, how did he introduce you?”
“It went from ‘We’re invited to a party downstairs, and the host is a good friend’ to ‘She’s a very special friend, so read between those lines.’”
“Were they happy about that?”
I said, “You’d think. That’ll be another conversation.”
“Now is fine. They’d better appreciate how lucky their son was to find a catch like you in the same building.”
I said, “Not so much. Not after googling me.”
“Did you point out that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?” Jackleen said.
“Perry did, more or less.”
“But still, meeting parents is a big deal. I’d say it’s been a red-letter weekend for the Morgan girls.”
“No comparison: ring on your finger, a green light for having a baby, and a thumbs-up from future stepdaughters!”
She asked if I was okay with all of that. And oh, by the way, another thing that was negotiated: If I needed a letter of reference when the time came for me to petition the New York Bar Association for readmission, Duncan would write one. He promised.
Except Duncan hadn’t ever passed the bar. I said, “Thank you. I hope that wasn’t one of your contingencies.”
“I had all the cards,” she said. “I was in an excellent bargaining position. You’ll call Duncan? Tell him you’re happy for us?”
“Of course. Were Mom and Dad thrilled?”
“They knew before I did! Duncan called to ask Dad for my hand.”
Interesting. My parents had not been fans of inhospitable Duncan. I said, “Dad must’ve been caught off-guard, thinking, Last I heard they’d broken up.”
“He was. But you know Dad, always diplomatic. He gave a provisional blessing, based on my saying yes. We called them as soon as we left Vice Versa to say it was official.”
“I’ll call them as soon as I get off with you.”
“Good idea. Mom was worried how you might take it.”
“I’ll tell her how I took it—like a champ!” And to sound even more sisterly and involved, having ignored two days of messages, I added, “I’m picturing a beautiful wedding in Harrow, maybe at the college chapel, and hopefully I can be your maid of honor—in person!”
Wasn’t it easy enough to say reflexively, “Maid of honor, no question.” But what I heard was “It’s too soon to know what kind of wedding it will be, or where, or if we’d want attendants.”
I refrained from a readout of my thought bubble: Really? Maybe Duncan has a twin sister who needs a boost, who needs to get dressed up after being confined for half a year. Or maybe one of your nurses or PAs or your receptionist could stand up for you, wearing whatever backless fuchsia dress you chose.
“Janie? You still there?” And again: “You’re happy for me, right, despite everything?”
By “everything” she didn’t mean Duncan-redux. She meant was I okay with her perfect life, while I was making due with best-available. How to answer? Nicely, because this was not the conversation to end with sarcasm. Unrelated to her big news, yet sounding magnanimous, out popped “I couldn’t be happier.”