Everywhere That Mary Went Page 6

  He looks stung. “I didn’t even think of that, Mary.”

  I sigh, suddenly exhausted by the intrigue, the guessing, the strangeness of my life of late. “I don’t get it, Ned. The last time we had dinner was in law school.”

  He looks down for a minute, studying his wingtips. When he meets my eye, his gaze is almost feline in its directness. “I wanted to call you back, but by the time I got my courage up, you were practically engaged.”

  It sounds genuine. I feel flattered and wary at the same time. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I try not to look like a trout, however.

  “Isn’t that right?”

  “Not exactly. I met Mike after you and I went out. And I didn’t get engaged all that fast.”

  “No? You looked to me like you fell pretty hard. I remember seeing you doing research in the library, you looked like you were on cloud nine. Unless it was the sheer joy of working for Bitterman.”

  “Not likely.”

  “How could you stand that guy? I know he’s supposed to be a legal genius, but what a jerk. I heard from Malone he was a tyrant in the courtroom.”

  “And out of it. He threw a fit when I wouldn’t do the research for his second article. Reamed me out in his chambers.”

  “Why?”

  “The law should be my first love, he said.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  I think of Mike.

  Ned clears his throat. “Anyway, you looked like a woman in love, even to somebody as dense as me. I figured I didn’t have a prayer, so I settled for being friends. What a guy, huh?”

  “What a guy.”

  His hands shift inside the pockets of his bumpy seersucker jacket. “So. Please don’t make this any harder than it is. Let me take you to dinner.”

  “I don’t really go out, Ned. I mean, I don’t know if you’re talking about going out, but I—”

  “Why do we have to label it anything? Let’s just have dinner together. We’re old friends, classmates, and we went out once. I’ve been remiss in not getting hold of you sooner, but — well, there was a lot going on.” He shrugs uncomfortably. “Let’s go eat, huh?”

  I can’t decide. The silence is excruciating.

  “Come on. It won’t kill you.”

  “Tell me one thing. What kind of car do you drive?”

  “Talk about a non sequitur!” he says, with a deep laugh. It’s a merry sound, happy and relieved, and shows his teeth to advantage. They’re white and even, I bet they grew in that way. “Okay, I confess. I drive a Miata.”

  “What color?”

  “White.”

  “Do you have a car phone?”

  “You want to see my W-2? I can afford dinner, you know.”

  “That’s not why I’m asking, and we’ll split dinner.”

  “So why are you asking? And no, we won’t.”

  “Just tell me, okay? Please.”

  “Of course I don’t have a car phone. The Miata is as pretentious as I get.”

  So I agree, reluctantly.

  Dinner turns out to be no fun at all in the beginning, when I’m busy worrying about whether Ned rents the car he follows me around in. Then he orders me a Tanqueray-and-tonic, and it eases my anxiety on impact. I begin to enjoy the restaurant, an elegant one overlooking Rittenhouse Square, and Ned’s conversation, which comes more easily than it used to. In fact, he’s changed a lot, as far as I can tell. He seems freer, more lively. We trade firm gossip, and he confides that he’s always been intrigued by Judy. An enigma, he calls her. I find this funny, since she’s no fan of his either. By the refill of my drink, I confess that Judy calls him Cool.

  “Why does she call me that? I’m not cool at all.”

  “You are cool, Cool.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  He laughs. “This is mature.”

  “Admit it! Look at you, you’re a preppie hunk. You’re like a J. Crew catalog, only alive.” I realize I’m flirting, even as I speak. It not only scares the shit out of me, it makes me feel profoundly guilty. I celebrated my first motion with Mike, and here I am, celebrating my second with Ned. And I’m still Mike’s wife, inside. I clam up.

  Ned doesn’t notice my silence and launches into his life story. He tells me about his wealthy Main Line family and his father, who’s the managing partner of the Masterson firm. When he’s finished his Dover sole, he changes the subject, as if he suddenly became aware that he’d been soliloquizing. “Only two months to go until P-day. June 1st, the partnership election.”

  I move a radish around on my plate.

  “I didn’t think June would be a good month for you. Isn’t that when your husband—”

  “Yes.” The anniversary of Mike’s death is June 28, but I didn’t think Ned knew that. “How did you—”

  “I remember. I went to the funeral.”

  “You did?” I’m not sure I want to talk about this.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind. I wanted to go. Mike seemed like a very nice guy. I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t think you ever met him.”

  “Sure I did. You introduced us when he came by school to meet you for lunch. He rode his bike over. He rode a bike, right?”

  I nod yes. I line up my forks, squaring the tines off at the top.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned—”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Well. Let’s see, at least one good thing will happen in June.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re making partner.”

  “Please. You make it sound like a done deal.”

  “It is. You’re a shoo-in. You don’t have a thing to worry about.”

  Then I remember what Berkowitz said about Ned’s coming in to see him. “I heard they were only making two partners in litigation, not three. Did you hear that?”

  “I try not to believe every rumor I hear, there are so many flying around. First I heard they were making three, then I heard it was down to two. This morning I heard that the Washington office was going to push through one of the lateral hires. It’s ridiculous.” He shakes his head.

  “A lateral? In Washington? Shit.”

  “I’m sure they’ll make three from Philly, Mary. The department’s had a great year.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” I note that he doesn’t mention his meeting with Berkowitz on this very subject. I regard this as a material omission, and it makes me doubt him all the way through the dessert, shaved chocolate somethings.

  Later, Ned insists on walking me home, since it’s only a few blocks from his house. We walk in silence on this muggy night, so humid that the air forms halos around the mercury vapor lights. Rittenhouse Square is almost deserted. The runners have run home, the walkers have walked. Only the homeless remain, sleeping on the park benches as we go by. I look around for the dark car, but it’s nowhere in sight.

  Suddenly, before we’ve reached my doorstep, Ned kisses me. I’m totally unprepared for it, and his hesitant peck lands on my right eyebrow. I feel mortified. I worry about whether my neighbors saw. I worry about whether Alice saw. I even worry about whether Mike saw. I hurry inside, muttering a hasty good-bye to Ned, who looks concerned and sorry as I close the door.

  I gather my mail from the floor and am about to stick it under my arm when I remember that, as of this morning, the United States mail is no longer my friend. I set down my briefcase and look through the letters, holding my breath. Bills: Philadelphia Electric, Greater Media Cable, Allstate, Vanity Fair. Two more catalogs, sent to DiNunziatoi and O’Nunzion respectively, and then a small white envelope, with no return address. My name is on the front, spelled correctly in block letters, and so is my home address. The stamp is an unfurled American flag.

  Just like the note at work. I swallow hard.

  I run my finger across the front. Laser-printed, not typed.

  I tear open the envelope. Inside is a small white piece of paper:

  I’M THE
PERFECT ANSWER TO ALL YOUR

  REAL ESTATE NEEDS!

  And here’s the perfect recipe:

  Artichoke Dip

  1 8 OZ. can artichoke hearts

  1 cup mayo

  1 cup parmesan cheese

  garlic powder optional

  Mash artichokes, mix everything together.

  Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. Serve with pita

  bread!

  Call SHERRY SIMMONS at JEFMAR REALTY!

  Christ. Artichoke dip.

  I crush the paper and trudge up the carpeted stairs. I’m getting so paranoid I’m losing it. What’s the matter with me? Mike hasn’t been gone for a year and I’m kissing another man. What’s the matter with Ned? Is he trying to start up a romance, when one of us is about to be fired and the other canonized? I unlock my door with a sigh and flick on the light switch. I toss my briefcase onto the couch and plop down next to it, opening up the first bill.

  Philadelphia Electric. You need a Ph.D. to break the code on your rate charges. I’m trying to decipher the tiny numbers when the phone on the end table rings. I pick it up without thinking. “Hello?”

  There’s no response. No static.

  I’m not paranoid. It’s real. “Leave me alone, you fucking asshole!”

  But the only reply is a click.

  “Goddamn it!”

  I slam down the phone, my chest tight, and then grab it from the hook just as quickly. I hear the high whine of the dial tone. It runs interference for me, like a swift and burly lineman. See if you can get through that, you prick. Alice, who’s been dozing like the Sphinx on the quilted couch, blinks slowly and goes back to sleep.

  Get a grip, girl. I keep hold of the phone. The dial tone gives way to a woman’s voice, speaking patiently and sweetly, like a young mother to a toddler. “If you want to make a call,” she says, “please hang up and try again. If you need assistance, please hang up and dial your operator.”

  I lean back and breathe easier, listening to the young mother’s voice. She sings her lullaby again. I let it enter and pacify me.

  But she’s squelched by a jarring BRRRRRRRRRRR.

  I sit bolt upright.

  “Goddamn you!” Furious, I get up and shove the receiver between the cushions of the couch. Alice’s eyes open wide, ears flat against her sleek head. Then she leaps out of harm’s way.

  “Goddamn you to hell!”

  I smother the receiver with another cushion, and another, so that the couch looks like it’s been trashed. But still I can hear the sound.

  It won’t leave my head.

  8

  I can’t sleep. I adjust the light level, the covers, the air-conditioning. I take off my T-shirt and put it back on again. I gather my hair in a ponytail on top of my head, then yank it out. I try everything. Nothing works.

  My head is full of visions, faces that swim up at me out of the dark. Starankovic’s wounded mask. A baby-faced Hank, tears coursing down his cheeks. Ned, with his cat’s eyes, lying with me like an incubus. Finally, Mike’s robust face appears, with its coarse, working-class nose stuck in the middle. Framed by untamable brown curls, animated by eyes full of love. But you love me for it, he’d said. I bury my head under the pillow, which helps no more than the cushions over the telephone.

  I feel wretched as I watch the night bleed into the dawn. Angry. Tired. Guilty. I feel the need to do penance, to make up for my date with Ned, so I get up to clean the bathroom. Penance, if you don’t know, is the notion that the soul can be Martinized While-U-Wait, like a camel skirt. Probably the most bizarre concept I’ve ever heard, after original sin. The idea that a child’s soul turns black the instant of its birth is something even Angie couldn’t make me understand. But I scrub behind the toilet seat just the same. Despite my best efforts, I’m still Catholic after all these years.

  I scuff into the living room in my pink slippers, dust mops for the feet, and exhume the telephone receiver. I hang it up and rearrange the cushions on the couch. Alice watches me, looking faintly suspicious.

  “Who asked you?” I say.

  I scuff into the kitchen and crack a pressurized can of Maxwell House. The can opens with a fragrant hiss, then the telephone rings.

  “Fuck!” I send the can opener spinning across the kitchen counter. Is it the caller? At this hour? I pound into the living room, my adrenaline pumping, and tear the receiver from the cradle. “Who is this?”

  “Mary? It’s Ned!”

  “Oh, jeez.”

  “I know it’s early, but that’s quite a greeting.”

  “Someone keeps calling me and hanging up. It’s not you, is it?” I’m only half joking.

  “Did you push star sixty-nine?”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you push star sixty-nine after someone calls you, the phone calls them back.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m cool, remember?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I cringe.

  “Okay. Well. Let me say why I’m calling before I lose my nerve altogether. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about what happened after dinner. About pushing things like that. I couldn’t sleep, I felt like such a bozo. I’ve always liked you, Mary. Been attracted to you. But still, I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

  “Uh… that’s okay.”

  “I really am sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I would love to see you again. If you want to see me again, that is. I promise I won’t attack you. I mean it.”

  I pause. I don’t know how to say what I need to say. That I haven’t dated in ten years? That the last man I dated before Mike was Ned? That I’m not ready yet? That I may never be?

  “Okay, fine,” Ned says suddenly. “Whatever you want. Maybe after June you’ll change your mind. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “Okay. I guess.”

  “We can be friends until then. Would that be okay with you?”

  “Fine.”

  “God, I hate this talking about feelings. It can be so bloody exhausting.”

  “So cut it out. Be like me.”

  He laughs softly. “I’ll see you later then, at work.”

  “Sure.” I hang up, feeling somewhat empty. I like him, but I’m not ready for what he wants. And he’s a mystery to me, still. Why didn’t he tell me about Berkowitz?

  Meeeooow! It’s Alice, wanting to be fed. She saunters into the kitchen, tail high.

  “You only talk to me when you want something,” I say, and follow her in. I pour some allegedly gourmet cat food into her bowl. “You don’t call, you don’t write.”

  Alice ignores me; she’s heard it all before. I squat down and watch her. She eats with her eyes closed, but still manages to find each little kibble fish. It’s her best trick, I decide, stroking her silky back. She’ll tolerate my touch until the kibble fish are gone; then she’ll return to the windowsill. Her next feeding will be the next time she acknowledges that I pay the rent around here. I’d give her away in a second, to a science lab, if it weren’t for Mike. He found her in a trash can and brought her home in the pouring rain, wrapped in his denim jacket. She didn’t move the whole time, so Mike thought she was dead.

  “If she’s dead, why did you bring her home?” I asked, ever the pragmatist.

  “I couldn’t leave her there, like she was trash,” he said. “I’ll bury her tomorrow, before school.”

  He put her in a Converse shoe box and put the shoe box under the bathroom sink. The next morning, Mike found her in the bathtub, staring in wonder at the dripping faucet. He named her Alice in Wonderland; she imprinted him on her cat brain as Mommy. They were crazy about each other.

  After Mike died, I got the idea that he would want to see Alice again, at least to say good-bye. I know it sounds crazy, but I drove the animal to the cemetery and made my way through the graves with the bulky cat carrier until I got to the plain gray headstone that says LASSITER. It doesn’t say BELOVED HUSBAND on it, because I couldn’t bear to see t
hat chiseled so finally on his headstone.

  I set Alice’s carrier down at the foot of Mike’s grave and opened the door of the carrier with shaking hands. Out came Alice, sniffing the summer air. I watched, teary-eyed. I didn’t know what to expect, but I hoped it would be something magical and profound. It was neither. What happened was that Alice took off, springing between the monuments like a jackrabbit. I shouted for her and gave chase, leaping in my espadrilles over mounds that constituted ANTONELLI and MACARRICCI, by the flying eagle that said TOOHEY and the weeping cherub that marked FERGUSON. Alice kept going and so did I, because the last thing I wanted to do was lose Mike’s cat in the frigging cemetery. I caught up with her by the CONLEY mausoleum. She scratched me all the way back to LASSITER.

  Brrrnng! The telephone rings loudly, jolting me out of my daydream. I stand up and set my jaw. I’m ready for you, asshole. Star sixty-nine. I run in and pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  No answer, then click, and a dial tone. No static. My heart begins to pound. No static means he’s not in the car. He’s at home, wherever he lives, lying in bed. Thinking about me. I pound the buttons for star sixty-nine.

  I hear one ring, then another. What am I going to say to this guy? There’s another ring, then a fourth, and a fifth. He’s not answering.

  I hang up the phone. This has got to stop. I look around the empty apartment, suddenly aware of my aloneness. I stow the coffee in the freezer and slip out of my T-shirt in the bathroom, away from any windows. I lock the bathroom door before I shower. I’m no dummy; I’ve seen Psycho.

  I dress quickly and leave for the office. In the cab, I keep an eye out for the sedan, but it’s not in evidence. As soon as I get in, I ask Brent to change my home number.

  “Hallelujah,” he says.

  “Let’s have my office number changed, too.”

  “Now you’re talkin’.”

  “Did I get anything more evil than usual in the Evil mail?”

  “No. And no calls from weirdos, either. Except the ones who work here.” He hands me a packet of yellow phone messages.

  “What is it with these people, they don’t sleep?” I look over the messages. Martin, Jameson, a couple of clients, someone named Stephanie Fraser. I hold up the message. “Do I know Stephanie Fraser? Is she at Campbell’s?”