| |
“Paulie, what’s your date’s name again?” slurred Paul Nudelman’s sister—and Marv’s cousin—a plain, chubby woman in her forties with drinks in both stubby hands. “Something about toys... Fisher Price?”
“It’s Fordham. Fordham Price,” she interjected before Paul could answer.
“Yeah, that’s right. This isn’t a name,” the woman said with conviction.
Paul rolled his gray eyes and continued buttering a dinner roll.
“I’ll let my mother know. And the IRS,” Fordham said with a cautious smile.
“The IRS,” Paul said, mocking a serious Southern drawl. “There’s no ducking those guys. When they shoot, they win because they all... hail from Taxes!”
Paul laughed heartily. Fordham worried that his slight frame would fly off the chair.
“Paulie, why isn’t your girlfriend laughing?” the chubby woman asked as she dragged her wiry husband onto the dance floor. Fordham followed the couple with her eyes as they found a place to do the twist.
“So what makes you laugh, Fisher?” he squawked. “You know I mean Fordham, right?” Paul wiped his black-framed glasses with a dinner napkin then placed them on the skinny bridge of his long nose.
She wanted to say, This date, but held her tongue. “Oh, you got me.” She laughed to buy time. She wasn’t sure how to continue their conversation.
Paul surveyed the table and motioned for the waiter. “Waiter, I need five waters, four dinner rolls, three napkins, and two lemon slices.”
“Of course, sir, but just so you know, we’re all out of the partridge in a pear tree.”
Paul ignored that. Fordham caught the waiter’s wink.
“We should probably dance,” Paul said, “I can dance. It’s just that last week, I pulled two tendons. Then I aggravated my fifth lumbar carrying a dozen file boxes. And then—”
“Actually, I need to use the powder room,” Fordham said, getting up from her seat.
Paul followed, making a beeline for the dance floor.
She wanted to go home and relax, watch TV with Whitty, and be done with this day of double Mr. Wrongs. But she couldn’t. It would make Evie look bad if she left before dinner. She resolved to deal with it a little longer, a task made more daunting watching Paul do the Chicken Dance with his parents.
The walk to the ladies’ room was a good opportunity for Fordham to clear her head. She was happy to see a lounge area with a loveseat. The room was empty except for the attendant wearing a black uniform.
“You need anything, sweetie?” the woman said. “My shift is up.”
“Yes, actually I do. Do you know anything about online dating?”
“That is a question I can safely say I have never been asked in here.” The woman laughed.
“It’s for a project I’m working on.”
“Can’t say I know much. I’ve been married to the same guy since chatting was something you did on the telephone. I got lucky. He works and still has a full head of hair. The only reason I’m handing out toilet paper on Saturday nights is so I can buy him a home theater for our anniversary. My sister’s the one who knows the computer stuff. She met a guy on some dating site for people who are into stocks—or stockings—I don’t remember which, but they’re getting married. It’s her fifth and his seventh. Me, I think marriage gets cheaper by the dozen. Here, sweetie.” She pressed a packet of aspirin into Fordham’s hand. “You look like you could use these.”
There was only so long she could stay in the ladies’ room. After a quick check in the mirror, she was laboring her way back to the party when her heel gave out. Despite her spontaneous balancing act, she tripped forward right into what she immediately recognized as a man’s zipper. Horrified, she quickly lifted her head only to have her earring latch onto his belt buckle. To make matters worse, she couldn’t maintain her balance and fell to her knees. She closed her eyes in utter embarrassment as the man cupped her chin to raise her head and set her free. But his attempt didn’t work, and she had no choice but to face her unwitting target. Her heart skipped a beat when she found herself gazing at Whitty’s principal.
“Dr. Prince! Oh, I am so sorry!”
“I know you.” He paused for an eternity. “Whitney Presser’s mother. The woman with the text. From Back-to-School Night.”
Fordham swallowed a gasp, despite Dr. Prince’s easiness at having her hitched to his crotch. She would have felt less awkward if he’d just left his epiphany at “Whitney Presser’s mother.”
“Fordham. Fordham Price. With earrings I’m returning to Nordstrom’s tomorrow.”
They worked together efficiently, and in moments, she was detached and upright on one foot. The other damned shoe was useless. The heel was broken clean off.
“Interesting to meet you again, Fordham. Great name.”
“Thanks. I never got lost at a playground.”
“Now what?” he asked.
Fordham went into her bag and pulled out a tube of Krazy Glue. “Usually for broken nails,” she said while doing a quick repair job on her shoe.
“I’m impressed,” he said, taking her hand when she was done.
Fordham wasn’t quite sure what the gesture meant, but she wasn’t about to pull away. “Thank you so much, Dr. Prince.”
“I’m David,” he said, taking the shoe and checking the repair, “and I’ve always believed you can tell a lot about a woman by looking at her sole.” He handed the shoe back to her.
Fordham laughed. “Got to hand it to you, I’ve never heard that one before.”
“Pretty bad, huh?”
Nothing could be that bad when she was staring into David Prince’s warm blue eyes. But he didn’t have to know that, at least not yet. “Yeah, but I’ve actually heard worse.”
“Well, now I feel redeemed.”
“You should, considering you’ve been helpful from head to toe.”
“So what brings you here tonight?” David asked.
“A huge favor for a very close friend. What about you?”
“I’m at a bar mitzvah in the Loring Room.”
“I’m at a wedding in the Boring Room.”
They chuckled in unison.
“Long night?” David asked sympathetically.
“If the marriage lasts this long, they’ll be in good shape.”
Fordham put the shoe down to step into it. David got down on his knee to help her. It could have been a Cinderella moment, but then Pam showed up.
“David?” Pam said, her voice icy. “The boys want you. I wasn’t sure where you went.”
“Pam, this is Fordham Price. She’s Whitney Presser’s mother.”
“Yeah, we’ve met,” Pam said curtly.
Fordham wondered if it was past Pam’s bedtime. The women shook hands limply as a young boy came running out of a room.
“Uncle David! Come here! They want to lift Big Mike up on a chair, and they need you. Come on!”
“Okay, I’m coming.” He waved at Fordham while Pam wrapped her arm around his. “Have a good night.”
“You too,” she said.
She headed back to the room, trying to avoid anything that could make the evening get any worse.
***
IT WAS A JOY TO BE home in sweats and slippers, accessorized with a carton of Ben & Jerry’s. Sleepless in Seattle had gotten to the part where Rob Reiner was telling Tom Hanks about the importance of his butt. Fordham licked the spoon. Sleepless always worked after bad dates. Somehow, it cleansed the offending aura. If love could work out for Meg Ryan, Fordham still had no shot in hell, but fate and destiny were universal constants, and that comforted her.
After that night, she was going to have to talk to Evie and reconsider this whole matchmaking business. It was too forced and unnatural. People shouldn’t just be thrown together like broccoli and onions in some wok concoction. They should get to discuss their ingredients before attempting to become a dish. Her analogy brought Rachael Ray to mind. She paused the movie and went into the kitchen to add pretzels to her ice cream. Whitty was sitting on the couch when she returned.
“You’re watching this again.” Whitty was holding an empty glass.
“Hey, monkey. What are you doing up?”
“I dunno. Guess I had a dream I was thirsty. Bad night, huh?” Whitty said, searching Fordham’s face for clues.
“Get a spoon. I’m indulging in guilty pleasures. Phish Food and I are having a heart-to-heart. Is Mom-Mom sleeping?”
“Yeah. So come on, tell me about your date.”
“It wasn’t a date. It was a favor. We ate. He danced. I laughed, mostly at him, and then I left. And now your Aunt Evie owes me big.”
“Oh, one of those. Was he really ugly?”
“No, not ugly. But definitely not my type.”
Fordham wasn’t sure she even had a type anymore. Her type used to be long hair, beard, mustache, medium build, and a confident swagger. Now she’d be best served switching her criteria to just a nice guy that didn’t make her gag when facing him over dinner.
“Was he rude? Was he pond scum?”
Since turning ten, Whitty had shown a greater interest in Fordham’s dating life and often asked her to share highlights. It was cute but also reasonable for Whitty to want to know about who might take on the role of a dad while hers was absent. So far, there’d been no one who even came close to filling that role, but Fordham wondered how Whitty would react should that time come.
“No... more like plankton. Very bland, very boring plankton.”
“Sorry. You sound disappointed.”
Whitty was half-right. Fordham was disappointed about men in general. She sensed Whitty wasn’t crushed by the news of her bad date.
“There’s only one more pint of chocolate chip left in the freezer.” Fordham gave Whitty a nudge. “Kidding. I’m fine. Just tired. Oh, you know who I saw tonight? Your principal.”
“Dr. Prince was at the wedding?”
“Not exactly. He was at a bar mitzvah in the next room, and we kind of bumped into each other in the lobby.” She snickered. The next time they saw each other, she would be embarrassed, but she was looking forward to it anyway.
“Cool. Did you talk?”
“A little bit. Nothing much. He actually belonged at his party. He was with your homeroom teacher.”
“Her? Really?” Whitty sounded bummed. “I think he’s nice.”
“Yeah.” Fordham steered the conversation elsewhere. “Did you have a nice time with Mom-Mom?”
“It was fun. She bought me a couple of shirts. She was pissed ’cause that guy won at Scrabble again, but she was in a good mood by the time we went to the movies and had pizza.”
“Hmmm, pizza. So we both had a cheesy time!” Fordham tickled Whitty.
“Eee! That was sooo lame!” Whitty said, tickling Fordham back.
By the time the credits were rolling, Whitty was fast asleep. Fordham got a tissue to dab her teary eyes and then watched Whitty dream. It was hard to believe her preadolescent daughter was once a baby, totally dependent on her to make every decision, from what to eat and what to wear to where to go and how to get there. These days, she rarely asked Fordham for help or advice. She seemed to thrive on doing her own thing, which made Fordham both proud and wistful.
But for Fordham, little had changed. The moment Whitty was born, she became the center of Fordham’s life and inspired her to want to be everything a good mother was supposed to be. When she was a toddler, that meant moving to a new house. There was no question that a ranch house would be far more convenient than the colonial they lived in. Those steps were too much for any toddler to handle, and for Whitty, they were exceptionally frustrating. One day, when she was about two, Whitty threw all her toys over the safety gate. They formed a mound and blocked the front door. Gil insisted that they put up a For Sale sign the next day.
Gil could be impulsive, but Fordham had agreed with him that time. And finding a new house would mean they would have to spend more time together. She wanted that. He was always so busy working that they were more like roommates than spouses. She had difficulty remembering the last time they had sex. Moving, she’d decided, would make them closer and get them on the same page.
It was strange, especially after their conversation, to think of Gil as anything but an adversary. She could hardly remember that at one time, she’d wanted to be closer to him. She didn’t think about it often, but she had to admit that he’d seemed to want to be a good father, at least in that moment.
The house with the too-steep stairs had sold quickly. She and Gil hit the market at just the right time and netted a huge profit. Gil was more than ready to show the world how important he was.
“This is it,” Gil said when they arrived at Mont Blanc Estates.
Since they’d been to a dozen houses he didn’t like, Fordham was prepared to make an effort. It was, however, tough. “Do they do anything other than cobblestone driveways? And with all those security cameras, I’ll feel like I can’t step outside to get the mail without putting on makeup.” When she saw the house itself, she said, “This place doesn’t feel homey, Gil. It feels tense. Like people throw tantrums more than they do parties.” Fordham had hoped to get her husband’s attention. She’d succeeded.
“Stop being such a snob. You’re condemning these people because they’re rich.”
“It isn’t that. It’s just a feeling.”
“I want it, Fordham. And it’ll be great for Whitty.”
Which really meant, Get used to it. We’re moving. A month later, the papers were signed, and the house was theirs.
***
FORDHAM’S PHONE WAS buzzing, and she grabbed it before it woke Whitty. It was Gil again. A very small part of her was glad that she still hadn’t taken off her makeup. She clicked on the call, but it was dark, and she could barely see him. She went into the kitchen for privacy.
“I had a date, and I’m still awake,” she said, realizing she sounded more like a child than she had intended.
“I’m not playing games,” Gil said unconvincingly.
“Sure. What do you want?”
“Whitty.”
“She’s sleeping. Now it’s two in the morning here, but I’ll spare you the obscenities.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Gil sounded businessman serious. “I was thinking about it when we hung up, and it would be good for Whitty to come live with me. I got the bucks, and she could experience another culture.”
“I work full-time. I’ll take her out for Mediterranean food more often.”
“You’re afraid to ask her,” Gil said.
Fordham hadn’t seen that one coming. Maybe he had a point. She and Whitty were close, but the allure of a whole new world could be an offer too appealing to pass up.
“She needs consistency, not just joyrides in a Ferrari or whatever you’re doing there.” Fordham found a moldy lemon in the refrigerator and chucked it out the side door into the yard. “We’ve been down this road before. My uncle still works for the IRS, and you still have plenty to hide. Give it up.”
“You’re jealous. I make good money—I get it. That’s why you’re threatening me. But think about it, because it sounds like you’re busy with work, screwing around, and whatever. You could use the break.”
“Thank you for caring, Gil. I really find it touching.”
“What can I say? I’m a good guy.”
“I gotta go. The cat just threw up for me.”
***
FORDHAM SANK BACK INTO the couch. Ella, their frisky tabby, leapt into her lap to get to the remnants of her ice cream. After a few licks, she was purring and gave Fordham an affectionate nudge. Fordham kissed Ella’s nose before the cat jumped away to pursue a fly. Fordham clicked off the movie and realized she had to stop dredging up the past every time she watched a happy ending. Sure, she was lonely, but she had made the right decision, and it was foolish to get maudlin just because she hadn’t found the right man. More importantly, she had email to read and a book to edit. The quicker she got through the submissions, the sooner she would be done with this project. At the last check, there hadn’t been much to choose from. She printed out a few to have a closer look.
Her cell phone buzzed, and she shuddered at the notion of going another round with Gil. She was ready to dance when she realized it was Evie calling.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, don’t kill me,” Evie said. “Marv just interrupted my afterglow for an emergency. Paul’s sister fell on the dance floor and broke her tooth. Did you meet her? Paul’s not even back yet.” Evie’s voice got higher. “Oh my God, Fordham. Are you with him?”
“No, I’m not with him! The date’s over. I met his sister. I met his uncle. I chatted with his aunt. My evening is beyond complete.”
“So on a scale of one to ten...?”
“I swear, Evie, no numbers. None. Is that why you called—to find out if I was with Paul?”
“No, that isn’t why I called, but if you wanted to tell me something, I’d listen.”
“There’s nothing to tell. He was everything I expected him to be, and we really don’t have to do this again.” Fordham was scanning the submissions as Evie spoke.
“Fine. Whatever. Listen, I just got tickets to R.E.M. for tomorrow night. A patient of Marv’s can’t go, and Marv isn’t into it. Wanna go?”
“Yes. But I can’t. Sorry. I barely have time to go to the bathroom, much less a concert. Actually, if you have time, I want to read you a funny submission.”
“Good. I could use a laugh.”
“Okay. Her name is Wendi.” Fordham began to read. “I was at my wit’s end with the dating scene. At forty-five, I had exhausted every possibility for a human relationship. I preferred my cats. They didn’t give me a hard time as long as they were fed. The guys I had been choosing were losers. And worse, I allowed each of them to hurt me in his own special way.”
“Oh, yeah. This is really hysterical,” Evie said. “Tell me when she puts the razor blade to her wrist.”
“It’s going to get better. So shhh.” Fordham continued to read. “I did some soul-searching to figure out what message I was really sending out to men. Based on my experiences, what did they see as my wish list? What I discovered was truly appalling, but for fun, I decided to make it public. I wanted to keep it very low-key, so I selected a totally obscure dating service. This was my post: Are you seemingly calm and charming on the outside but seething uncontrollably inside? Do you take refuge in mind-altering substances? If so, we must talk. I am a single forty-five-year-old woman seeking an obvious control freak who brings new meaning to the word ‘critical.’ If you have a problem with the way I breathe, all the better. Your disdain is my ambrosia.”
“She must have known Gil,” Evie said.
Fordham definitely wasn’t ready to get into any of that part of her evening. She continued with the woman’s ad. “Insensitivity and an overall cynicism toward humanity are crucial. A hot temper and a rebellious, stubborn streak make me cream. If you’re too self-absorbed to think you’re not self-absorbed, we must meet for an evening of empty, meaningless sex.”
“I’m telling you, Fordham, it sounds like she was dating Gil.”
Fordham shushed her and read the next part. “Also, make sure you have an array of cute mannerisms and catchphrases for when we meet. I am totally shallow and get sucked in by inane bullshit all the time. Please, please call now. Begging is one of my specialties.
“PS. Anyone who responds to this is either sicker than I am or has one hell of a sense of humor. Since I can never tell the difference, let’s talk!”
“Pretty funny,” Evie said. “Is there more?”
“A little.” Fordham went back to the page to read the conclusion. “Man, was I shocked when Pierre, a normal, wonderful Parisian living in Paramus, New Jersey, contacted me. He said I had the funniest, most sincere profile he had ever read. We met almost a year ago and have been together ever since. Last night, he proposed! There really is a lid for every pot. My story needs to be shared.”
“That was great,” Evie said. “But be honest. Did you write it?”
“No, of course not,” Fordham said. “I wouldn’t do that, and besides, I don’t know any men from Paramus.”
“It really does sound like this woman had a relationship with Gil.”
“Who knows, and who cares? She belongs to Pierre now. Anyway, I have to go back to my big push on the submissions. Have fun at the concert.”
Fordham returned to her pile of papers. They were stacked by age group, and the pile for the over-forty set was substantially thicker than the others. She continued to read the submissions, and once again, the over-forty pile grew. It seemed the book was trying to tell her there needed to be a shift in direction. She would have to discuss it with Abe.
She let Whitty stay on the couch and covered her with an extra blanket. As Fordham headed to her room, she shut down her phone.