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Fordham was thrilled that before she even got out of bed, Whitty and Dorie had left to go shopping. Two dates in one day. She wondered if she could pull it off. She hadn’t told anyone about her date with Brandon, and she wanted to keep it that way. She was too embarrassed. Maybe going out with the just-started-shaving set was working for Madonna, but Fordham wasn’t a celebrity, and her behavior had to answer to three higher powers— her mother, her daughter, and her best friend.
It wasn’t just the age difference that bothered her. She also didn’t like the idea of going out with someone she would rather jump on than speak to. They couldn’t possibly have much in common. He was just a kid working around a lot of meat. She barely ate meat anymore. The decision screamed “desperate” in a voice she no longer recognized as her own. She wondered if she was a terrible person for wanting her ego stroked by a gorgeous Adonis. Maybe she was. And worse, maybe she had actually abandoned hope of finding true love.
“No,” she told herself out loud. “Not all hope.” Her common sense might be on vacation, but the submission from Prince Charming kept her from being totally jaded. She read it every day—sometimes twice a day. Sometimes more, depending on how miserable she was feeling. It was a testament to love that reminded her that there were good men out there and in time, if she was sprinkled with fairy dust, she would find one of her own. Until then, she gave herself permission to be a little aggressive on the playing field.
She checked the clock. She had less than an hour. Without hesitation, she grabbed the coral sweater that had been hanging over a chair since Back-to-School Night. The skinny jeans were in the closet in first position next to the black dress. She clipped her hair back on one side and let the rest fall forward, perfect for how she was feeling. She studied her face in the mirror. There wasn’t enough concealer in CVS to cover the twenty-plus years between her and the kid waiting to be her date. She was just going to have to suck it up.
***
THEY SAT AT A SMALL table near the front door of her favorite Italian place on the other side of the county. There was much less of a chance she’d run into anyone she knew there, and she could relax a bit. Recessed lighting gave the room a lift that compensated for the cloudy day.
A waiter handed Fordham the wine list. “Soda for your son?”
Brandon blushed and said a quiet, “No, thanks.”
Fordham was less mortified than she expected to be. Brandon was just a kid. He went through every roll in the breadbasket, licking the butter off his knife when there was no room left on the bread. He couldn’t seem to figure out when to talk and when to eat, so he did both at the same time. Every other sentence, crumbs would tumble out of his mouth onto the table. The waiter could have easily assumed he was fifteen and tall for his age. Fordham felt sorry for Brandon and was suddenly thinking more about him in a diaper than a condom.
“Wow, so you were, like, married for a while,” he said, trying to inconspicuously sweep the table with his napkin.
“Yes, not even like. I really was.”
“Yeah, so what was it like?”
“The Pamplona Run.”
“Um, I don’t... um, I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It’s the charging of the bulls. I avoided red nighties and sudden movements.”
“Your husband must have been bummed. Red nighties are hot. I once met this crazy Spanish girl on Tinder. She tried to choke me with hers.”
“No...”
“Yeah!” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Oh man, it was scary. I threw up right on her floor.”
The waiter came with Fordham’s side salad and Brandon’s linguini marinara. Fearing the ruination of her coveted sweater, she put on her jacket. Brandon frowned.
“I’m just chilly.”
Brandon heaved a sigh, which Fordham interpreted it as, Cool, she’s old. She just has iron-poor blood, which isn’t my fault. He loaded a massive helping of linguini around his fork.
She casually shifted her chair, pretended to shiver, and zipped her jacket up to her chin. “So, Brandon, tell me... do you still look for dates online?”
“No, I like the deli counter. Potato-salad girls are usually pretty available.”
That was interesting news, since Fordham rarely ordered potato salad. Maybe he was into her for being a coleslaw girl.
“My mom used to be the online-dating queen,” he said.
“How so?” She retrieved her always-handy pen and memo pad from her bag.
“She wanted to get married. Badly. She was on all kinds of dating sites. One was really weird—Bruncheon-Bunnies-dot-com. People would go to Sunday buffets to meet and stuff their faces. Ever hear of it?”
“No. Doesn’t sound like my thing.”
“Yeah, well, that’s good. My mom gained, like, ten pounds meeting different guys over eggs Benedict and Belgian waffles. She stopped going.”
Fordham jotted down some notes. If she needed another source for submissions, this site was a possibility. “Fascinating. Is she still searching?”
“No. She found a husband. Only took a few months. They were both on some dog lovers’ site. Which was kind of weird ’cause we never had a dog.” He pointed to her notepad. “What’s that for?”
“It’s a project for work. You think your mother would mind if I interviewed her?”
Brandon paused to consider. “How ’bout one date in your red nightie for one date with my mom?”
Fordham tossed her notebook back into her bag. “Listen, Brandon—”
“Uh-oh. I don’t like sentences that start with that. I got thrown off the football team in high school cause my grades sucked, and that’s how the coach told me. He said, ‘Listen, Brandon—’”
“I’m not your coach. I think you’re sweet and cute, and you slice a mean corned beef, but this isn’t going to work. I’m just not the Mrs. Robinson type.”
“Why? Is she a vegetarian?”
Fordham chuckled as she got up, leaving money for the bill on the table. “Thank you, Brandon. I really needed this, but I have to go.”
He got up to give her what she anticipated would be a romantic kiss, but his foot got caught on the base of the table and forced him back into his chair. Fordham was relieved that no lines had been blurred or crossed and was almost out the door when he shouted, “Come in early next week! We’re having a big sale on bologna!”
***
FORDHAM HAD THREE HOURS to get out the door and into her car. She scanned her room in disgust. There were stockings, shoes, and clothes everywhere. “Whitty in a few years.” She sighed, comforted by the fact that her daughter preferred reruns of Full House to Keeping Up with the Kardashians. She didn’t have time to get maudlin about Whitty growing up. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to wear.
Dressing for a wedding was challenging enough without the added stress of it being a blind date. She touched a little zit on her chin and checked the mirror to assess the damage. The pimple was nothing, but missing the mustache hanging over her lip before she’d left for lunch was unforgivable. The lighting in her room could have been bad, or maybe she needed glasses. She wondered if Brandon had noticed it. Not that it would have mattered, but if he had, she could only imagine what he would tell his friends. “Hey, I went out with an older woman who looked like Mark Twain.” They might not even know who he was talking about. She didn’t care.
She found the tweezers hiding under the finishing powder. The doorbell rang just as she was twirling a big chunk of hair around a brush. She considered not answering it. But it kept ringing.
“Just a minute.” The brush wouldn’t unwrap. It was strangely affixed to one side of her head. She caught her image in the hallway mirror. Very Lady Gaga. She opened the door, relieved to find Dorie and Whitty.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” Dorie had the garage-door opener in her hand. “Needs new batteries. Whitty, honey, go find a couple of double-A batteries, and a little later, I’ll take you to the movies. ”
“She has a Scrabble tournament,” Whitty said to Fordham as she headed into the kitchen. “She’s letting me watch a movie so I don’t bother her while she loses.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence, dear granddaughter,” Dorie called after her.
“Guess she has you figured out, Mom. But don’t you always win?” Fordham was still playing with her hair.
“I usually do, but I told you, there’s this one guy I can never seem to beat. I think I’m playing him later.”
“Well, I have faith in you.” The brush was finally out of her hair.
“And where are you going?”
“To a wedding. Remember the favor I’m doing for Evie and Marv? Marv’s cousin, Paul Nudelman.” Fordham stood at the mirror, closely inspecting her tweezed mustache. “Do you need me for anything else? I have to finish getting ready.”
“No, go do your thing. I have to call back the chairwoman from the Y Group, anyway. You know, the gal who sets everything up so she can take anything she wants.”
“The one with the tattooed eyeliner and the hairy birthmark who swiped the dessert platter when we were sitting shiva for Daddy?”
“Her. Sometimes it’s cake, sometimes it’s someone’s husband. Whatever’s available. She wants me to donate your father’s clothes for the next auction.”
Fordham winced. Arnie’s clothing was the only thing they had left of him after the creditors were finished. “What’s she donating—bad taste?” Fordham asked, raising her voice. “Why do you bother with this woman?”
“I have no clue. Habit, I guess. I’ve known her for years. By the way, she wants an invitation. She keeps complaining that she never sees you and Whitty.”
“You can tell her we’re still recovering from our recent flood, but when the ark is built, we’ll find another ass and invite her on board.”
Dorie laughed so hard she got the hiccups and had to get a glass of water.
Whitty came back into the room with an Xbox controller. “What were you talking about?”
“Nothing important,” Fordham said. “Do me a favor and play later. I need you to help me figure out what to wear.”
“Because that’s really important,” Whitty said smugly.
“Don’t be mean. I need to be in a good mood.”
Whitty gave Fordham an apologetic kiss on the cheek and followed her into the bedroom.
“Wow, your room is a mess. Maybe I should tell Mom-Mom to come in and ground you!”
Fordham giggled as her daughter inspected the dresses on the bed.
“I think you should wear the pink one,” Whitty said, holding up a candy-pink satin dress with a row of crystal beads under the bust. “Pink is a happy color. It works for a wedding.”
Fordham gave Whitty a kiss on the cheek. She was lucky to have her daughter’s support no matter how many times she disappointed her.
“I was thinking of wearing the black one,” Fordham said, holding it up to her body.
The dress was the best hundred dollars she ever spent. Clingy and short but tummy-bulge forgiving, with just the right amount of cleavage showing, it said Take me to bed or Introduce me to your grandmother equally well.
“You always wear the black one. It’s so cliché.”
“Exactly why it’s perfect. I don’t want to stand out in any way, shape, or form. Besides, we’ve been eating all that ice cream I bought last week, and black will help me hide some of the aftermath.”
“You don’t look fat.” Whitty studied Fordham’s image in the mirror. “You just always think you do.”
“Come on. You can tell me the truth,” Fordham said hesitantly.
“Okay, you look fat, since you won’t believe me anyway.” Whitty sat at Fordham’s vanity and braided her hair. “Do you think you’ll like this guy?” she said, fastening a ponytail holder.
“I expect to finish the ice cream when I get home.”
If Brandon had been any indication of where her dating life was headed, she could bring along a sweat suit to change into after the appetizer and be home in time to watch Cake Masters with Whitty.
“Guess you’ll be keeping the black clothes at the front of the closet.” Whitty undid her braids and twisted her hair into a bun with a metallic clip. “Mom, do you think Dad will be back from Istanbul for my graduation?”
“Oh, honey, I don’t know. That’s a long way off. I’m sure he wants to be there.”
“I’m not,” Whitty said, taking the clip out of her hair. “He’s been gone for over a month, and he only called me once, and he never emails me at all.”
“Well, you know, in Turkey, if they catch you stealing, they chop your fingers off. So look at the bright side.”
Whitty sneered at Fordham.
“You know I’m only kidding,” Fordham said. “Sort of. Whitty, your father loves you very much, and I’m sure when he has the chance, he’ll be in touch.” Fordham wasn’t sure she was telling Whitty the truth, but it seemed a good time to see the glass as half-full.
“I guess.”
“What made you ask?”
“The dream I had last night. We were on a plane, and I was eating a turkey sandwich—don’t laugh—and you were sitting next to Antonio Banderas, flirting and doing that hair-toss thing you do.” Whitty started batting her eyes and tossing her hair in different directions.
“This sounds more like my dream,” Fordham said. “Did Antonio have a little goatee?”
“Shhh! And Dad was the pilot, and he said he was landing right away so he could fly someone else’s plane—and then we had to find a new pilot.”
“Well, anyone could wear that uniform better than your father. Whitty, honey, I know you miss your dad, and I’m sure he misses you too. But honestly, I think we’re floating along just fine.” Fordham held up the pink dress and then the black dress for the fifth time.
“Wear the black one.”
“Thank you!” Fordham said, utterly relieved.
***
THOUGH SHE HAD NO CLUE how it had happened, Fordham was dressed and ready to go with time to spare. The conversation with Whitty about her graduation was still weighing on her mind, and there was no time like the present to do something about it. She scrutinized herself in the full-length mirror and comfortably decided a video call to Gil’s emergency number would be in order.
“Fordham, it’s two o’clock in the morning,” Gil said with his eyes half-closed. “Someone better be dead.”
“Charming, as always,” Fordham said, trying to determine if the lump next to Gil was a person.
“What the hell do you want?” Gil yawned away from the camera.
“I want you to be civil for a minute and listen to me. It’s about Whitty.”
Gils eyes opened, and he shook his head a few times as he started to look more awake. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah, she’s okay, but she misses you.”
“Please don’t tell me that’s why you called!”
“So you’d rather I called to tell you she’s dead?”
“Fordham, you know damn well that’s not what I meant.”
The lump beside Gil stirred, and Fordham was surprised at how little she cared. “Are you coming to her graduation?”
“She’s in fifth grade. What the hell graduation is that?”
“The kind they have after fifth grade.”
Fordham could see a bottle of champagne and two glasses sitting on a table near Gil’s bed. Now I’m jealous. It appeared that Gil had moved on while she was still taking baby steps, getting ready to meet Evie’s catch of the day.
“I doubt I’m coming,” he said, tossing the blanket to the side.
Their camera signal wasn’t great, but a pink blurry thing caught her eye. She did a double take and realized, though it had been years since she’d seen it, Gil’s mouse was out of the house. If things on screen were supposed to appear bigger, his mouse had missed the memo.
Fordham continued without missing a beat, empowered by his sudden exposure. “She wants you there. And if she means anything to you, you’ll figure out a way to be there.”
“When is this friggin’ thing?”
“June.”
“It’s September, and you’re throwing this shit at me now?”
The lump growled something inaudible, and Gil yelled at her to shut up.
Fordham smiled with gratitude that she was no longer on the receiving end of anything he had to offer. “She was practically crying, Gil. She thinks you care more about work and money than you do about her.”
“Yeah? Where’d she get that from, Fordham?”
“Hey, don’t shoot the damn messenger. You haven’t emailed her. You haven’t called her. I was ready to do you a favor and tell her you had malaria or something, but that would have upset her too much.”
Gil let out a stream of breath that rumbled between his lips. “I’ve been pretty busy here.”
“So I see,” she said, hoping not to sound as if she cared.
“Screw you and your self-righteous bullshit,” Gil shouted. “If you had played your cards right, things might have worked out differently for us.”
Fordham wasn’t sure if he meant sex or money, but it was getting late, and she’d had enough. There was her evening with Paul Nudelman to consider. “I’m thinking I’d have given you the royal flush under any circumstances.” Fordham ran her finger over her chin and immediately covered a small pimple with her hand.
“Yeah, right. Believe what you want. Who do you think you’re talking to, a moron?”
Fordham held back the obvious answer. “You sound angry, Gil.”
“A lot less since I left you.”
She wanted to call him out on his misinterpretation of events, but with all the coke he’d been doing back then, he probably didn’t remember the truth. “I just called to say your daughter misses you, and she’d like to be penciled into your agenda when you can find some time between business and pleasure.”
“Yeah, go fuck yourself, Fordham.” He was seething. “I’ll let my daughter know when I can.”
Fordham let Gil end the call then went to the kitchen for a drink. She was fairly sure she had won that round, but it was pretty clear that they were both still stuck in a state of resentment. She had some water then slipped into her heels and let go of the last ten minutes.
***
SHE FELT CONFIDENT in her black dress, even if her sweaty palms made the steering wheel harder to maneuver. She turned on the radio and tried to get into the music. There was no reason to be nervous. This date wasn’t going to be any different than any of the others Evie had sent her on. She was going to walk in feeling hopeful, see him, be immediately disappointed, and find a way to cut the evening short. Even if it meant leaving a wedding, if she was miserable, she’d find a way out. She knew the drill all too well, which totally explained her persistent anxiety.
“Stop this bullshit already,” she said loudly enough to drown out the traffic update. In a few more turns, she’d be there. She steered with one hand and used the other to freshen her hair. Suddenly, she yelped in pain. One of her big dangling hoop earrings hooked onto the lacy strap of her dress. If her outfit ripped, she’d have a valid reason to turn around and go home. She was tempted, but she couldn’t do that to Evie.
She challenged herself to fix the problem without pulling over. The cars behind her kept honking, and as each driver passed, there was an exchange of obscenities. The release felt good. She set the earring free just as she pulled into the parking lot.
“I’m not doing this for me. This is for Evie.” She spoke to the rearview mirror as she checked out her face. But she wasn’t ready to leave the car. She opened the glove compartment, pulled out a copy of her favorite submission, and read it—twice.
Stephen Stills once said, “There are three things men can do with women: love them, suffer for them, or turn them into literature.” I’ve already loved... and suffered, so it seems fitting to complete the journey now that I’m ready to move on...
As always, reading those words produced a sense of calm. Her true love might not be at this wedding, but he was out there somewhere.
There was no valet in front of the large, gaudy catering mill, so she had to park near the dumpsters. It was drizzling, but she didn’t bother to cover her head. The damp air felt good against her cheeks. This would all be a joke by morning. She was pretty relaxed and not the least bit flustered when she tripped at the entrance. Luckily, the doorman caught her and let her lean on him as she checked her shoes. If she and her clothes got home in one piece, she’d consider the evening a success.