The Year of Needy Girls Page 14

  At the bank, she pulled up behind a blue Dodge Caravan in line for the ATM. She fished her bank card from her wallet and watched as a skinny boy walked down the sidewalk, clutching his droopy pants. For a moment, she wished Deirdre were with her. They would turn, raise eyebrows, and without a word, each would know what the other was thinking. And in that moment, SJ understood why so many bad marriages continued even after it was clear to everyone except the couple that it was better off over. Because the world was made for couples. How much easier it was to have another person ready to attend events with you, help you with all the chores of running a household, to eat dinner with. Florence had pointed out on several occasions that you could have all those things with a roommate or good friend, you didn’t need to enter into a relationship in order to have companionship, but SJ thought there was a big difference. Having a lover, SJ thought it was too obvious to admit, meant having a sort of intimacy with another person that seemed necessary now that she had it. Even when SJ thought of leaving the relationship, even when she admitted that she probably wasn’t in love with Deirdre anymore, that maybe she really never had been. Even then she still hung onto the fact that there was one other person in this world who knew her, really knew her. Losing that felt like giving up too much. Now, taking her receipt from the ATM, SJ reasoned that breaking up wouldn’t necessarily mean you were giving up that intimacy, not altogether, but you were severing a tie with the one person who knew you best. Just thinking about that possibility gave her the beginnings of a headache.

  * * *

  SJ could smell the dinner as soon as she walked in but couldn’t identify right off what Deirdre had cooked. She heard the radio, NPR, in the kitchen, Deirdre humming some tune.

  “Hey,” SJ said, dropping her black courier bag on the couch. “I’m home.”

  Deirdre turned and smiled. “Hey. So you are.”

  Deirdre always looked cutest when she was cooking, and SJ half-wanted to hug her, wrap her arms around Deirdre from behind, but that wouldn’t give her the courage she would need to say what she knew she had to say.

  “You’ve cooked up a storm, looks like.”

  “Veal piccatta and risotto. Chocolate mousse for dessert. There’s wine there if you want. Open on the table.”

  SJ turned and saw the bottle of chardonnay and poured herself a glass. “So, this dinner,” SJ said. “You have some particular reason?”

  Why SJ asked the question, she wasn’t certain. She knew why Deirdre had cooked the dinner. Okay, so she was stalling for time. Or maybe she wanted to hear Deirdre’s take on things, what the last few days had been like from Deirdre’s point of view.

  Deirdre turned down the flame and wiped her hands on her apron. “We’ve hardly seen each other lately,” she said. “I know you’re frustrated with me—” She put her hands up when SJ started to protest. “Okay, really? Because what else was I going to do with my time, home all day? I couldn’t just sit on the couch. I would’ve cried. I would’ve been one pathetic mess when you got home!” Deirdre wiped at the corners of her eyes. “I need a hug.”

  SJ hesitated for a second, then put her glass down and opened her arms. “Come here,” she said. And when Deirdre walked into her embrace, SJ went into automatic. She pulled Deirdre in tight, and held her against her chest. Breathed in the familiar citrus smell of Deirdre’s hair, the warm sweetness of the skin on her neck, felt Deirdre’s arms holding her, the most secure feeling SJ knew. She ran her fingers through Deirdre’s hair and was conscious of the thought: I won’t be able to do this anymore. How odd to know a body this well, the feel of the muscles in the arms, each freckle and mole. The way the hair felt, coarse and thick, the exact point of the shoulder blades, the ribs, the way the spinal cord protruded like braille down the length of the back, the way the back sloped into the buttocks. SJ held her breath for a minute as if she could keep the essence of Deirdre within her.

  Deirdre looked up, expectant. Kissing was harder, demanded more. But SJ tried to smile and act like there was nothing she would rather do than lean in and kiss Deirdre.

  “Mmmm. I’ve missed you,” Deirdre said, and kissed SJ again on the cheek.

  SJ patted Deirdre on the back. “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “Good. There’s a lot of food!” Deirdre laughed. She let go of SJ and walked back to the stove, grinning. “Table’s already set but can you put out the salad?”

  SJ lifted the wooden bowl from the refrigerator and felt her stomach knot up. She wasn’t hungry at all. But she had the absurd thought that she didn’t want the food to go to waste. She didn’t want Deirdre to think she’d made it all for nothing. She poured them both fresh glasses of wine. “So,” SJ began, “Martin wasn’t too understanding?” More stalling. How could she do this? She sat at the kitchen table.

  Deirdre stirred the risotto. “He kept saying he had no choice. He said he’ll investigate thoroughly and . . . But you know what? Here’s the funny thing.” Deirdre turned toward SJ, her face so wide and open and innocent it hurt to look at her. “So I’m home, and I don’t know what to do, and I decide I’ll make this meal, so I’m cooking and it’s beautiful in here, the light I mean, and I’m sort of—well, not exactly happy but I’m okay. And I realize—what? What’s wrong?” Deirdre frowned.

  SJ shook her head. “Nothing. Go on.” She tried to appear interested, which she was, or would have been two days ago. Was that true? Two days ago she would have cared about what happened with Deirdre’s job and now she didn’t? Could that be possible? SJ didn’t think human beings were wired that way, but how was it that she could barely keep focused on what Deirdre was telling her?

  “So, I’m thinking how funny that I’m okay. I mean really, I’ve almost just been fired, I should be miserable.” She stirred hard with a wooden spoon and squeezed a bit of lemon into the pan.

  “Yeah,” SJ said. “Yeah.” She played with the salt and pepper shakers, an Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe that she had given Deirdre for Christmas, one of their first.

  Deirdre went on: “I just . . . I don’t know . . . I think I realized something. I think I figured out that in a strange way, is this at all a good thing?” She looked back to gauge SJ’s reaction, but SJ wouldn’t look up. She couldn’t bear it. They were headed for a train wreck. Deirdre spooned the risotto into a bowl. “I’m thinking that, you know, on the bright side, maybe now we get to have more time together, focus on us?”

  Crash. SJ took a deep breath. She spread both hands out in front of her.

  “I know it doesn’t mean that everything will be fine right away, I know that,” Deirdre hurried on. “You’ve got every right to be mad at me.”

  SJ started to speak, but Deirdre interrupted: “I know we have a lot of work to do, but the thing is, I want to do it. I’m excited about this . . . What?” Deirdre pulled out a chair.

  “Just . . . stop talking, will you?” SJ put her head in her hands.

  “What’s wrong? What—”

  “Please, really. Stop. Talking.” The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds. The smell of sautéed garlic and onion. The pounding of her own blood against her temples. “I rented an apartment today,” SJ said without looking up.

  “What?” Deirdre sounded confused, not angry.

  Please don’t make me say it again.

  “SJ, look at me.”

  “I rented an apartment today.” SJ said it clearly. Lifted her head.

  “Why?” Deirdre frowned, scrunched her eyes. “I don’t get—”

  “To live in.” SJ stood and paced.

  “To live—?”

  SJ continued to pace, afraid that if she stopped, she might break apart into pieces.

  Deirdre sat facing the window. SJ thought she could see Deirdre’s back moving with each measured breath.

  “SJ, what are you saying?”

  So this was how these things really went. You were made to spell it out, say every little thing. No wonder so many people stayed in bad marriages. Who could bear to go through t
his? You wanted to say: Just beat me. Go ahead and whip me now. Because that’s what it was like. You were saying the hardest words anyone would ever have to say and the person you were saying them to was the person you used to love but didn’t any longer. But how does love disappear? That person was making you be explicit, forcing you to admit what you couldn’t, even to yourself. What you wanted was innuendo. What you wanted was to say, I’m sorry. What they made you say was: I don’t love you anymore. And SJ couldn’t do it.

  “I think we need time apart. I need time apart.” She wanted to bolt right then and not have to face Deirdre anymore. But she also wanted Deirdre to see things her way, to see how this decision might be best.

  “You’re breaking up with me?”

  SJ could hear the disbelief in Deirdre’s voice. The—and SJ almost laughed at the absurdity of having the word pop into her head—incredulity. Yes, she wanted to say: This is incredible, I know; but yes, I suppose it’s true. “I know it’s a bad time—”

  “A bad time! Could there be a worse time? This is unbelievable.” Deirdre folded her arms.

  The risotto congealed in the bowl. The veal dried in the pan.

  “I just think we need to figure some things out, and it’ll be better if we’re apart when we do it. For me,” SJ said. “For me, it’ll be better. I’m sorry.” Deirdre wouldn’t look at her. “I’m sorry,” SJ repeated. “I really am. But I don’t know, I just couldn’t keep on like this. You must have felt it too?”

  Deirdre turned around then. “But I was willing to do something about it! I didn’t decide that because things were hard, I would leave. Don’t think I haven’t thought about leaving, because I have. Christ, SJ, who doesn’t? Don’t you think most couples go through hard times? Do they split up? No, they work it out!” Deirdre stood now too, and marched over to the stove. One by one, she picked up the veal cutlets from the pan and tossed them into the trash. “So much for that.” She grabbed the bowl of risotto from off the counter and scraped the whole mess on top of the veal. She threw away the butter too, and the herbs still sitting out on the counter.

  “Listen . . .”

  “No, you listen. I can’t believe what you’re saying. I can’t believe you’re actually doing this. You’ve rented an apartment? Already? Was Florence behind this?” Deirdre picked up a wooden spoon and tapped it against her palm.

  “Florence had nothing to do with this. She thinks I’m crazy—”

  “Which you are.”

  “She thinks—well, it doesn’t matter what Florence thinks. What matters is that I’m not happy and if you’re honest, you’re not either.”

  “And you don’t want to work on it?” Deirdre stopped tapping the spoon. “Because we can, you know.”

  SJ sat back at the table. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “God.” Deirdre put the spoon down and sat too. She shook her head and then started to cry. Big fat tears. Unstoppable.

  “I’m sorry,” SJ said. What else was there to say? She was sorry. But she couldn’t help how she felt. And she knew Deirdre well enough to know that she wouldn’t—couldn’t—change. That teaching would always be her priority and the relationship second. So Deirdre needed to be with someone who didn’t mind that arrangement. SJ was sure there were women like that; but she wasn’t one of them. And, Deirdre needed to be with someone who loved her, who truly loved her. They both did.

  “You’d think,” Deirdre said through sniffles, “that being an only child, you’d like how things are with us—you know, lots of independence and stuff.”

  “You’d think,” SJ said. She drank her wine.

  “But damnit,” Deirdre pounded her fist on the table, “couldn’t you have figured this out a bit sooner? Why in hell did we buy this house? What were you thinking?”

  SJ remained silent. She wanted to reach out and touch Deirdre’s arm, but Deirdre seemed to read her mind.

  “Don’t touch me.” She shook her finger at SJ. “You’re having an affair!”

  “No—”

  “You are. I can tell.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous? Me? You’re the one who walks in the door of our very new house—the one we just bought together less than a month ago—and tells me you’re moving out. Right? Isn’t that what you said?”

  SJ stood.

  “Don’t you dare leave! No way. You cannot just come in here and lay something like that on me and then leave.”

  SJ sat back down.

  “Admit it. You’re seeing someone else.”

  “I’m not.”

  Deirdre started crying again. “At this point, you can admit it.” She wiped her face and pushed her chair back from the table. She stood and walked into the living room.

  SJ heard Deirdre flop onto the couch. She poured more wine into her glass and took a gulp. It would have been easier if she had left on Friday, when Deirdre first confessed about Anna Worthington. She’d been angry, especially that Deirdre had put herself in such a stupid position, but angry too because she wasn’t at all certain that Deirdre didn’t really kiss Anna. SJ might have felt stronger then about her decision to leave. But now she just felt tired.

  part two

  october

  October 1

  To the Editor, Bradley Register:

  How many of us can imagine those last horrific hours of little Leo Rivera’s life? (“Suspect Arrested in Leo Rivera Case,” Sept. 27). I don’t think that many of us could—or would want to. And no parent can begin to imagine what Mr. and Mrs. Rivera must be going through right now.

  One can only hope that the person convicted of these horrible crimes will be sentenced to death. Any fair-minded citizen would agree that the death penalty is certainly warranted in a case such as this one—a senseless, premeditated murder of a young, innocent boy. There is no argument to be made to justify such an awful crime.

  Concerned Citizen

  Bradley, MA

  Chapter One

  Deirdre put down the newspaper. She always read the Sunday Styles section of the New York Times first, the human interest stories about people she didn’t know, people with lives so unlike hers she sometimes had a hard time imagining they were real. People who spent weekends renting cute cottages in places like Montauk or Fire Island, so remote to Deirdre that they might as well have been in Europe, people who casually hopped on trains to leave Manhattan with baskets full of foods that Deirdre couldn’t yet find in any of her local supermarkets. Crème fraîche. Tapenade. Cans of roasted oysters. What would these Manhattanites think right now if they could peek into her crazy life that seemed so topsy-turvy, someone’s idea of a bad novel?

  There wasn’t much to see, frankly. Deirdre, curled on the couch, wearing her striped pajamas, drinking coffee, reading the New York Times. And SJ flung in the upholstered chair opposite the couch, one leg dangling over the arm, chewing the pencil eraser, a week’s worth of New York Times crosswords piled on her lap.

  Deirdre sipped her coffee. She folded the section of the newspaper to look at the weddings, normally her favorite part of the Sunday paper. Today was disappointing, with only one full-page spread of announcements, and only half of those with pictures. Why didn’t more people get married in the fall? What was it about spring and weddings? All teachers knew that fall was really the beginning of the year and not January. Fall and not spring was the season of newness, the bright crimsons and oranges a sign of change and possibility. Anything could happen in the fall. But the spring—to Deirdre, the spring meant the end, a death of sorts, and certainly not a time to start a new relationship. Spring signaled that it was time to look back and assess the year that was finished. She sighed.

  “What?” SJ put down her pencil.

  Deirdre flashed the paper. “Hardly any weddings,” she said. “I hate that.”

  “I’ll never understand why you read those anyway.” SJ picked up a crossword. “Five-letter word for make amends.”

  Deirdre scanned the p
age before her. She liked to predict which couples would stay together and which were destined to break up. She could tell from the photos, the way the couple held their heads together, or the way they looked at the camera, their eyes a mirror for what was going on inside their heads. There were the ones who posed stiffly. Then there were the ones who just looked wrong, like they had come from two completely different worlds and, no matter what, would just not go together. Deirdre loved the stories of long-lost love, of people who had known each other in their youth, lost contact, and somehow had found a way to be together years after they’d assumed their love was over. Those stories were the most inspirational and sometimes even made Deirdre tear up. SJ thought she was ridiculous, though SJ was hardly a romantic, Deirdre reminded herself, glancing now at SJ erasing one of her words.

  “I wonder what our picture would look like?” Deirdre said aloud, then immediately regretted it.

  SJ held her pencil aloft. She started to speak, then stopped.

  Deirdre snorted. “Oh—atone. That’s the word you’re looking for.”

  SJ turned back to her crossword. She counted the number of squares she needed to fill for the next word.

  Deirdre didn’t know any gay people who’d had weddings. She had heard of some of course, but she had yet to attend one. SJ thought the very idea was silly, but Deirdre loved it. She had to admit that partly she just wanted the chance to be center stage, to have a big fuss made over her. She definitely saw herself as the bride, and though she didn’t see SJ as a groom necessarily, mentally she assigned SJ a minor role, put her in the background of her wedding scenario. Deirdre wanted an excuse to wear something outrageous that she’d never have the courage to buy otherwise, and a reason to throw a fancy, lavish party. Their circle of friends was smallish, so the wedding would never be a big affair, but Deirdre saw herself inviting Agnès from France, a few colleagues, Paul and Kris, and her parents. She’d want Forest there, in an ideal world. Sophie and Mark. And years afterward, she and SJ would have the pictures to look back on as a kind of proof that their relationship had meant enough for their friends to come together from their various lives and had been important enough for a ceremony to be given in their honor.