Back In the Game (7 page)

Chapter 13

“W
hat is this?”

Jerry looked down at the stapled pages on the table in front of him.

A girl at work had set me up. Jerry Truman was her accountant, divorced with no children, thirty-six years old. He was balding, wore glasses, and was a teeny bit overweight. He looked like a nice man, the kind just made for bouncing a toddler on his knee.

Right then we were sitting at a table for two at a high-end restaurant Jerry had suggested. It was good to know he could afford to eat at expensive places. That meant he could afford to keep me and my baby in a nice house in a nice suburb.

“It's just a little questionnaire I came up with,” I explained, “you know, to help me evaluate a man. The questions are mostly about your health, some stuff about family history, you know, all the basics. Do you need a pen? I have one if you do.”

Jerry shook his head. I don't know why he seemed so shocked or baffled. Good health is important in a potential sperm donor. I mean, in a potential father.

“I'm not filling this out,” he said finally. “I don't even know you. What right do you have to be asking me such personal questions? This is supposed to be a date, not a visit to the doctor.”

“I'll give you another moment to think about it,” I said. I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. And once there I began to wonder. Maybe Jerry had a point. Maybe the first date was too early to be asking such probing questions about a family history of mental illness. Jerry seemed like a nice guy; he came well recommended; maybe, I thought, I should let him wait until our second date to complete the questionnaire.

I leaned over the sink and looked at my reflection in the mirror.

My eyes were still bright; the whites were still white. My hair was still thick. My skin had retained its elasticity. But below the shoulders my biological clock was ticking wildly.

Why, I wondered, couldn't men understand this? Jerry, I realized, was just like Duncan, just like all the rest. Men have all the time in the world to make a baby, but we women aren't so lucky.

I washed my hands vigorously. Germs are everywhere.

Maybe, I thought, there's another reason Jerry refused to fill out my questionnaire. Maybe he's hiding something like a deadly infectious disease! Isn't it illegal not to tell a potential sexual partner that you're ill? If not actually illegal, it's definitely unethical.

I dried my hands carefully and reapplied a little hand lotion from the bottle I always carry in my purse. Men like a woman with soft hands.

I walked back to our table. It was empty. I assumed Jerry had gone to the men's room. I sat and waited and sipped my wine. I noticed that Jerry's glass was full; he hadn't taken even a sip. Maybe, I thought, he's not a drinker. That was another good quality in a potential father.

Minutes passed.

“Miss?”

I looked up at our waiter. He held out a white letter-sized envelope. “The gentleman asked me to give you this.”

Inside the envelope was twenty-five dollars. It covered the two glasses of wine and a tip. The waiter melted away. I left the money and the envelope on the table and caught a cab home.

 

Later that night I picked up the most recent issue of
Mommy
magazine and tore out a subscription card. It helps to be prepared and, given the fact that I hadn't been around babies since Colin and Clara were small, I felt I really needed some reeducation.

Plus, with the subscription you got a free sippy cup.

 

I met Larry in the produce section of Star Market. He was well dressed, well groomed, and filling a plastic container at the salad bar. I noticed that he avoided the high-fat choices like the avocado slices in favor of low-fat items like the sliced tomatoes.

Tomatoes and tomato-based products are very good for the prostate. This guy looked no older than thirty-eight or thirty-nine, too young to be actively worried about his prostate, but obviously he was mature enough to take preventative measures.

A strong candidate for fatherhood if I'd ever seen one!

I followed him to the peaches and admired the way his manicured hand gently squeezed the fruit for freshness.

“I just love peaches,” I said. I picked up a jumbo-sized peach and sniffed it.

The guy half smiled and turned to walk away.

“Could you help me pick a good one?”

The guy half turned.

“Were you talking to me?” he asked.

I smiled dazzlingly. “Yes. If you have a moment, that is. Would you help me pick a good peach?”

He hesitated. And then he said, “That one you have in your hand has a brown spot.”

I looked at the fat fruit. So it did.

I laughed tinklingly. “I'm so bad at choosing fruit!”

Well, I had him from there. He took a half step forward, stopped, then came right on over to me.

A few minutes later I left the store with a bag of peaches— which I don't really like all that much—and Larry left the store with his heart-healthy lunch and my phone number.

We met a few nights later at Bar Europa. The questionnaire was in my purse. This time, before springing it on my date, I decided to address the issue right up front. As soon as we'd ordered a drink, I told Larry that I was getting a divorce from a man who wouldn't give me a baby. I told him that I was looking for a husband and a father to that baby.

Most men like the direct approach.

Larry laughed. “I don't know if I'm flattered or offended,” he said.

“You should be flattered,” I told him. “I'm very choosy.”

Larry drank down half of his scotch. Then he looked right at me like I was a piece of fruit he was assessing for potential sweetness. Then he shook his head.

“You're too old to be having kids,” he said.

I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly. “Excuse me?” I replied. I suddenly noticed that the light in the bar wasn't the most flattering. Was there a weird grayish cast to my skin or something?

Larry laughed again. “Look, when I'm ready to get married, I'm going to pick a woman in her midtwenties. That's when a woman should have kids, when she's young enough to get pregnant without all those expensive medical procedures. I don't want to have to pay a doctor to get my wife pregnant. Besides, young women get their figures back. Someone like you? Well, let's just say I'm not interested and leave it at that.”

Do you know what? No one had ever said anything so horrible to me in my entire life. I really didn't know what to say or to do. So I stated the obvious.

“I guess this date is over.”

Larry slipped off the barstool. “Yeah. But, you know, good luck with finding a guy who'll go along with this whacky scheme. Hey. You don't expect me to pay for the drinks, do you?”

“Of course not,” I replied, with as much dignity as I could, considering I felt absolutely awful, fat and old and stupid.

Why, I wondered, as Larry hurried off, had he ever gone out with me in the first place?

When I got home that night, I made myself a cup of tea and went online. After some searching I found what I was looking for—a chat room for Mothers of Advanced Maternal Age. Though I was still only thirty-four, I'd be thirty-five before long and then I'd officially qualify for this group.

I stayed in the chat room until almost midnight. The women were nice and very comforting. It didn't matter what Larry had said. What did he know, anyway? I was not too old to have a child, maybe even two children. The members of this chat group knew the truth. They knew that a woman could have a baby well into her forties.

If she has enough money and isn't afraid of needles.

Chapter 14

“D
o you want me to answer?”

Alfonse nodded toward the phone. I'd seen the number flash on the screen. It was Simon's cell phone.

“No,” I said. “Let the machine pick up.”

But I'd forgotten to turn the volume down. And there was Simon's voice, filling my home, again.

“Gracie? Hey, are you there? Look, I know you didn't forget my birthday; you never do. It's next Wednesday and a bunch of us are getting together at Café Trash. I haven't seen you in ages. Be there? Around ten.”

Alfonse touched my shoulder. “A friend?” he asked.

Was he jealous? I turned to look at my young lover. No, no dark emotions in his eyes.

“Not really,” I said. “He used to be.”

Alfonse smiled and grabbed his backpack from the floor by the door. “I can come by tonight?” he asked. “After work?”

I smiled back, distracted, thinking mostly of Simon. Simon never asked. Simon always took. “Sure,” I said. “I need to be up early tomorrow though.”

“Okay. We will go to bed early, then!” He winked and was gone, my boy toy.

The apartment seemed terribly quiet all of a sudden.

I turned on the radio. It was set to NPR. But after a few minutes of depressing news from a starving continent, I turned it off again.

I'm not proud of the fact that at that moment my personal problems felt more important than the problems of hungry children. But they did.

I looked at the door to the bathroom. You could hardly see where I'd patched the hole Simon had kicked in it. Living with Simon had made me quite skilled in home repair.

Simon.

I could bring Alfonse to Simon's little gathering, I thought. There was no reason I couldn't. But even in the depths of that lonely moment I knew that the only reason I'd show up at Simon's birthday party with Alfonse was to show him off, to make Simon jealous, which, I was pretty sure, would be a futile effort.

Simon is not the jealous type. He doesn't care enough about anyone other than himself to be possessive.

Who knows, maybe that's a good thing in the end, not caring.

I walked over to the phone. My finger hovered over the “erase all messages” button.

Besides, whether I went to the party alone or with Alfonse, I knew what would happen. One by one Simon's friends would slip off into the night, say they were going outside for a cigarette and not return, and I would be left with the bill. It had happened too many times for me to doubt it would happen again.

I depressed the button. No more Simon.

 

The program was called Art for All. The Web site informed me that the program was new, privately funded, and free to all kids twelve and under. There would be two summer sessions. The staff was mostly volunteer. The director position hadn't yet been filled. The duties included helping to design the mini-courses, handling administrative matters such as grant writing, and working directly with the kids. The salary was nominal.

It didn't matter. If I'd wanted to make a lot of money, I wouldn't have gone into teaching in the first place.

I applied for the job via the Web site.

Two days later I received a call from the Art for All founder, a Cambridge-based philanthropist. She asked me to come to her home in Porter Square for an interview.

I did. She offered me the job on the spot. I said yes.

It certainly wouldn't be a relaxing summer, but that was okay. The way I figured it, the busier I kept myself, the less time I'd have to wonder what Simon was up to.

Chapter 15

“H
e has no butt,” Nell whispered.

It was true. Alfonse was boyishly slim. But that didn't seem to bother Grace, who, let's face it, weighs like ninety pounds herself.

“Since when do you notice men's butts?” I asked.

“Since I've been back in the game, I've realized that I like a man with a nice butt.”

“You don't want one too big,” I said.

Nell gave me an odd smile. “Of course not, Laura.”

We were at Grace's apartment for a little party. Grace wanted us to meet Alfonse. Personally, I thought the whole thing was a big waste of time. We all knew Alfonse would be gone before long. But, you know how it is. Sometimes you have to humor your friends.

Grace joined us, a smile on her face. On the other side of the living room, Alfonse and his three friends stood in a huddle, drinking some foul-looking stuff from odd-shaped bottles. I guess it was one of those hip drinks you see advertised on television. You know, in commercials where everyone looks like a super-gorgeous model. Anyway, since we'd arrived, the three friends hadn't said more than “hey” to us, and even that “hey” was said like they didn't mean it.

“Grace,” Jess said, “the place looks really nice.”

Grace smiled again. I had to admit she seemed pretty happy since Alfonse had come along. All that sex, I guess.

“Thanks,” she said. “I finally got around to repairing some of the damage Simon caused.” Grace pointed to our right. “I repainted this entire wall. Remember the time he used bicycle grease to make a self-portrait?”

“Ah, yes,” Jess said. “The great bicycle grease experiment.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “The great medicinal marijuana experiment. An altered state of consciousness might help some people create, but not Simon. Even he thought the drawing was horrible. When he recovered two days later. But of course he was too lazy to paint over it.”

I popped another pig-in-a-blanket in my mouth. I'd brought them and so far I was the only one eating them. People can be so weird about food. Like there's something wrong with a classic like pigs-in-a-blanket? My mother served them all the time!

I looked at the newly painted wall. It was a shade of green I couldn't name. Not my taste at all. Anyway, I tried to imagine a picture of Simon in bicycle grease. I couldn't. I swear, I really don't know how Grace put up with all that nonsense from Simon. If Duncan had ever scribbled on a wall, I would have called the men in white coats.

Then, again, Duncan wasn't the type to act out. Really, he'd never once embarrassed me in public or left the toilet seat up when I asked him to put it down or farted at the dinner table. He even wiped the sink clean every time he shaved.

I shoved aside the somehow disturbing memories of Duncan's many positive traits. I would find another man with even more good qualities. Soon. Think positive!

Alfonse called out to Grace just then and she went scurrying off to join him.

“Doesn't Grace see that Alfonse is just another version of Simon?” Nell said in a stage whisper. “When is she going to stop dating boys and find herself a man?”

I watched Grace and her boy toy interact. He touched her cheek fondly. She kissed his cheek in response.

Well, Alfonse was okay. I mean, he was polite and all and he definitely looked cleaner than his friends. He gazed at Grace a lot. I personally don't like that sort of thing; it kind of creeps me out, but Grace didn't seem to mind it.

But like I said, Alfonse's friends were another story. I frowned at them. They thought they were so cool but I thought one was skankier than the other.

“That one with the soul patch is very rude,” I said. “Did you see the way he pushed past Grace in the kitchen before?”

“They're beyond rude,” Nell said. “They're indifferent to us. They know we exist, but they just don't care. They're not the least bit interested in us as women.”

Jess frowned. “They're not the least bit interested in us as people. Has one of them said a word to you besides that half-hearted greeting? Has one of them asked any of us a question? Even offered a social smile? It's disgusting. I hate being so ignored.”

“On the other hand,” Nell said, “do we really want to be recognized and acknowledged by these kids? Who are they? Why should we care about them?”

“We shouldn't care about their opinion of us, but it's hard not to.”

“I have an idea,” I said. “After this, let's go to Bar Loup. It's just full of single guys and it'll be fun. Really. Maybe we'll all meet someone!”

Jess shook her head. “No thanks. I've heard of Bar Loup. It's a meat market. Besides, after this I'm going home to bed. It's already ten o'clock and I've got a busy day tomorrow. There's end-of-semester work piled on my desk.”

I looked to my sister. “Come on, Nell, how about it?”

“And run the risk of bumping into one of my kids' friends? No, thanks. But you go, Laura. Have fun. Maybe you'll meet your baby's father.”

“I can't go to a club alone! I'll look—desperate.”

Nell smirked. “Aren't you?”

I know she's my sister but sometimes I really hate her.

Anyway, Alfonse and his friends left soon after that; they were going to hear a friend of theirs who performed experimental music, whatever that is. We girls stayed and helped Grace clean up.

“Don't you want to go with Alfonse?” I asked. I picked up a soiled napkin with my fingertips and dropped it in the trash. Ick.

Grace laughed. “I might be comfortable being with him in the privacy of my own home, but I'm not entirely comfortable being out in public with him. I know, how provincial of me, but I'm doing what I can. Besides, he and his friends stay out way too late.”

“Aren't you afraid he's out flirting with other women?” I asked.

“No,” Grace said, “I'm not afraid. He probably
is
flirting with other women. But I can't really do anything about it, can I? I mean, we don't have a commitment. I don't want a commitment, not with a twenty-one-year-old. And frankly, if he's flirting with a nineteen-year-old, I don't want to know about it.”

“What if he's sleeping with a nineteen-year-old?” Nell asked.

“Then I definitely don't want to know about it.”

I looked at Grace, shocked. “You don't care if he's seeing other women?”

“Of course I care,” she said, dumping half a glass of beer in the sink. “We have protected sex, but if he's sleeping around, there's still a risk I could catch something. Okay. Can we change the topic? I'm feeling all queasy now.”

“You know,” I said, “dating services are allowed to screen for STDs. Anyway, I think they can.”

Jess laughed. “Everyone lies in personal ads and with dating services,” she said.

Sometimes she's so cynical.

“Not everyone,” I protested.

“Everyone. It's the extent of the lie that matters. I mean, if you tweak the truth, if you describe yourself as voluptuous instead of fat, that's just good marketing, that's smart self-promotion. But if you claim to be forty when you're really sixty, well, that's false advertisement.”

“A lie is a lie,” my sister said. “But I see your point.”

Grace leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her chest. She's really flat, maybe like a 32A.

“I read somewhere recently,” she said, “that non-Jewish men and women are looking for dates through Jewish dating services. Sometimes, they're open about being Christian or atheist or whatever they are. Sometimes they even promise to convert. But sometimes they say nothing about religious affiliation until they're actually on a date with someone. And then, ‘Hi, I lied; I'm not the nice Jewish man you hoped I was.'”

“That's just wrong,” Nell said. “What kind of woman would stay with a man who starts a relationship with such a big lie?”

Jess shrugged. “ A desperate woman. A woman with no self-esteem.”

I considered. A nice Jewish man. Why not?

“You know,” I said, “the Jewish tradition is very family oriented. Maybe I should try one of their dating services. I would join their church. I don't really care about God.”

My sister gave me one of those annoying looks, the kind that make you feel like you just said something really stupid, even though you know you haven't.

“What?” I challenged. Nell turned away and began to load glasses into the tiny dishwasher.

“You'd have to agree to raise your children in the Jewish faith,” Jess pointed out. “And in that case you'd have to at least pretend to care about God.”

“Well, duh, I wouldn't marry a really religious man, like someone who keeps kosher, or someone who's, I don't know, Orthodox.”

Nell whipped around to face me. “News flash, Laura. A religious man wouldn't marry you, either.”

Grace unfolded her arms. “But what if Laura happens to fall in love with a man who keeps kosher?”

“She won't,” Nell snapped. “This quest of hers isn't about falling in love. It's about having a baby. The man really doesn't matter. Only his seed matters.”

I felt like I'd been slapped. “That's a horrible thing to say! And it's not true. Of course I want to fall in love again.”

“Do you?” Nell turned back to loading the dishwasher.

Jess patted my shoulder. “I'm calling it a night. Does anyone want to share a taxi?”

I thanked Grace and left with Jess. I didn't say good-bye to my sister.