Fate and Ms. Fortune (6 page)

My dad finally checked in and threatened that if I was going to harbor the wifely fugitive, I was an accessory to the crime and should no longer expect financial aid from him. “And tell your mother, same for her. If she’s such a big shot, let’s see her do this all on her own.”

Later we’d review the concept of community property, but
for now I had to convince him my mother didn’t really want a divorce, just a chance to be heard. And that maybe if he paid more attention to her, she’d leave him alone about his map collecting.

“What’s wrong with having a nice, quiet hobby?” he bellowed. “Better than playing mah-jongg every week. ‘Ooh. Harvey! I won twenty dollars,’” he mimicked.

By now my cell was ringing nonstop. Fortunately, I was hearing back from my two best friends. Unfortunately, they weren’t friends with each other, so I had to repeat the story. The good news was that they were so different from each other, I would likely get two opinions of the same problem, like doctors who specialized.

Rachel Waldman was my big sister at Alpha Epsilon Phi, and like a wise, older sibling, knew her stuff when it came to matters of the heart. It also didn’t hurt that she frequented famous psychics, thereby increasing the odds that not only was her advice spot on, but divined.

Trouble was, Rachel had three-year-old twins and was not as readily available to rescue me now that she was (a) putting in fourteen-hour days on the partner track at Hellman and Gray LP, (b) fighting with her ex over custody, and (c) trying to hire a new nanny, as the last one was caught at the playground having sexual relations with another nanny.

Then there was Julia Volkman, the tall, geeky girl from down the block who predicted as early as third grade that I would be rich and famous because I was so brave and funny, unlike her, who cowered behind me and never thought she’d find anything at which she was good.

Go figure that she would be the quintessential ugly duckling who blossomed into a top fashion model turned designer for Ralph Lauren, and who could buy waterfront homes and horses where ever they were sold.

Though busier and more successful than anyone else in my circle, Julia was diligent about getting together to keep our friendship intact. Only problem? She kept lots of friendships intact, which was nice except that “Don’t repeat this” was her signature phrase. So when you finally met her roommate’s boyfriend’s mother, you could forget first impressions. You already knew about her young lovers, and, no question, she knew about yours.

Bottom line? I had two dear friends, though neither could offer the kind of rabbinic wisdom that would solve this problem. But on this they agreed. If my parents didn’t reconcile, I would have the only roommate in Park Slope who expected Medicare to pay for her vibrator.

Then came the knockout punch. A call from Madeline the matchmaker. You remember her. The pregnant wife of tall, dark, and handsome, who was certain that the man of my dreams was her brother-in-law, Kenny. A guy who used to be able to walk and talk on his cell phone at the same time. But don’t worry. His prognosis was excellent.

Madeline wanted to know if I’d decided whether or not to call him because he seemed to be falling into an even deeper depression, and she was so sure that if I spoke to him, it could be just the thing to snap him out of his funk.

“But no pressure,” I said.

“It’s just a phone call, Robyn. Think of him as a guy who came back from Iraq and he’s been badly wounded. He has nightmares. He can’t hold a job…”

“Wow. Have you ever considered a career in sales?”

“You know, you seemed like such a nice person when we met.”

“I am a nice person. It’s just that at the moment, my mother is leaving my father and moving in with me, and because he thinks I’m on her side, he’s threatening to cut me off, which is awful because in a few weeks I’m making a court appearance before a judge who doesn’t care that my ex-husband is in jail
and left me penniless. Oh, and when I show up for work tomorrow? I have one boss who needs me to babysit his twenty-two-year-old wacko stepdaughter, and another who might chop me into little pieces because she thinks I’ve been spreading rumors about her. So how can I possibly help a drowning man when I’d like to jump in with him?”

“What if I made this worth your while?”

“You mean pay me?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“Are you serious? Just to go out with your brother-in-law? That’s insane.”

“Fifteen hundred. Final offer.”

“I get it.
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,
the home game…Look, I may be broke, but I am not going to prostitute myself…Oh my God…that’s it, isn’t it? He’s been laid up for months but hasn’t been laid, and you thought, What the hell, he’s horny, she needs cash…”

“I’m sorry. It’s nothing like that…Okay, look. This may sound selfish, but I’m very worried about Seth. With the baby coming, I wanted this to be a really happy time for us, but he’s so worried about Kenny, he’s not thinking about anything else. So I thought, maybe if we fixed him up with someone like you who’s really pretty and funny…it could turn everything around.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Oh my God, yes. Don’t you know that? The blue eyes? The high cheekbones?”

“To be honest, my life is such a mess right now, I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Really? I told Seth I thought you’d be great together. You have so much in common.”

“Like what? We’re both righties?”

“No silly. That you’re both so funny…I’m sure you’ll find lots of stuff to talk about. Where did you grow up?”

“Fair Lawn, New Jersey. Oh. But I was born on Long Island.”

“Really? So was he. The family’s from Oceanside.”

“Are you serious? That’s where I was born. But we moved when I was four.”

“See? Okay, where did you go to school?”

“Penn State.”

“Oh my God. Him too.”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious. But then he transferred.”

“Really. When was he there?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. But he’s thirty-three now, so he would have been there in—”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“Didn’t I say you had so much in common?”

“Yes, but if he’s so gung-ho about being fixed up, why can’t
he
call
me?”

“Oh, he’s not gung-ho. I am. You know guys. Totally clueless.”

“Then forget it.”

“He’s just nervous…he got dumped recently. He needs a tiny, little push.”

“Let me save
you
some time and
me
some aggravation. Men don’t like being pushed.”

“I know. So when you call, don’t say anything about a date. Make something up. Maybe you got his name from Penn State. Yes, that’s it. You’re on the reunion committee and—”

“You just said he transferred.”

“Oh. Good point…But it’s fine. He’ll say there’s a mistake and you’ll just keep talking.”

“Look, I may do a whole thing about lying in my act, but I’m a very honest person.”

“Fine. Tell him the truth. Your ex is in prison, you are so in debt a judge might throw you in jail with him, you live with your mother, your job requires powdering people’s faces, and
to make ends meet, you stand in front of strangers making a complete fool out of yourself.”

“Wow. My life does suck…Okay, I’ll call. But I’m not taking the money.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Madeline. These days I’m so broke, I have to return everything I buy.”

I
MARRIED
D
AVID FORTUNE
on my thirtieth birthday, certain I had given myself the greatest gift ever. He was a six-four fair-haired lad with a resilient laugh and a strapping hug that could knock the demons from my soul. He was quick on his feet, fast with his wit, and deferential to all.

He was also a man’s man, whether wearing his North Face jacket and jeans, or an expensive designer suit. And always, his cologne matched the moment. Testimony less to his Seventh Avenue savvy than his ability to remove expensive bottles from his father’s dresser.

Everyone adored David. And why not? A room didn’t come alive until he entered, his massive form sashaying through the crowd, always tendering a smile, a kiss, and an inquiry as to the well-being of others. For if there was one thing he understood, it was how to win people over. And winning, more than breathing, was the name of the game.

Call me naive, particularly as we met at a cruise casino, but in the two years we dated, I didn’t know he was an addicted gambler. I knew he loved the night life, and the day life too. I knew he was upbeat and funny, and true to his last name, never without a wad of big bills.

But what did a Jewish girl from New Jersey know of addictions? The only thing my mother was compulsive about was cleaning, and my dad would rather have ridden a horse backward than throw money away on a bet that it could win a race.

I suppose that’s why I fell so hard for the guy. He was nothing like my sullen, life-is-full-of-disappointments dad. In fact, David didn’t just embrace life, he inhaled it.

Want to know his idea of fun? Getting up early on a Saturday, taking me out for a big breakfast, driving to Atlantic City in his little red Fiat, then spending the next two days enjoying the excitement, the entertainment, and, more than I knew, the gambling.

Precisely because my parents didn’t understand the point of these excursions, I relished every invitation to join him. “Mom, c’mon. Where else can you see the Righteous Brothers and Yakov Smirnoff on the same bill?”

I never told them about the hours I spent throwing quarters into the slots while David parked himself in front of a card game that lasted two straight days. Or how much I hated the smoke, the boob-job waitresses sniffing around for big tippers, and the sight of drunks genuflecting before tables full of dice.

Yet did the little bell in my head go off? The one that would have said, Robyn, wake up. Your friend is losing thousands of dollars a day. Of course not. Because just like at home, I had not only turned off my alarm, I’d thrown it against the door to make it stop ringing.

I had fallen in love with Mr. Stranger Danger himself, and though there were things I saw with my eyes, I could not deny what I felt in my heart. No other man had made me laugh as
hard, feel as loved, or experience such exhilaration. For David truly believed that life was one big grand opening, with amazing prizes awarded to the luckiest customers.

Unfortunately, at the point I was living in fear of creditors, phone calls, and goons knocking at the door, I had to face facts. My husband was a conniving, substance-abusing, gambler who could not function in a world that expected him to act responsibly. Or let a day pass without betting on a horse, an athlete, a stock, a playing card, or, to my disbelief, the score of a high school football game in a Texas town he couldn’t even find on one of my dad’s maps.

And yet after a year of the three Bs—badgering, begging, and bribing—he still refused to acknowledge his mounting problems, our runaway debts, and his inability to show up sober. Finally, after it became necessary for Nate and Arlene of Denial, New York, to hire a Park Avenue lawyer to defend their drug-dealing son, I retained legal counsel myself, and filed for divorce.

Now only six, painful months since that decree, I was holding the telephone number of Ken Danziger, a man who, like David, was supposedly handsome and charming, flat-out funny, but also, coincidentally, an emotional train wreck.

Could you blame me for crumpling his number? Madeline may have been right that we had a common bond, but it was that we were both so beaten up from our previous matches, neither of us was ready to get back into the ring.

You know how early I wake up. But guess when I go to sleep if I’m not on the comedy circuit or watching
Jeopardy!?
Seven o’clock. Yep. I have the bedtime of a two-year-old, though no one to read me a story or rock me to sleep until I stop crying.

So on that Sunday when my mother established that
mi casa
was
su casa,
by evening she was acting like the new camper who
couldn’t wait to find out the evening activity. Maybe dinner and a movie, she suggested. Or a walk through Prospect Park.

“Another time,” I said. “I’m wiped out.”
You know how some weekends just fly by? Well, this wasn’t one of them.

Sorry, but I wasn’t one of those daughters who could spend the day with her mother and be sad when it was over. I was more the type who turned to Lamaze breathing to get through her painful zings, which, like contractions, came closer and closer together as the day progressed.

“Do you brush your teeth every day? Maybe have your father bleach them again.”

“Is your left breast larger than your right? Aunt Marilyn’s are lopsided like that, too.”

“I saw this machine on TV that’s good for flabby arms. I wrote down the number for you.”

So you can imagine that after a disastrous Saturday night together, Sunday was hardly a reprieve, as I spent it dodging insults while looking for places to put all her belongings: her iron cookware (they would double as weapons should we return while a robbery was in progress), her books (did the fact that half of them were about sex tell you anything?), a planting from her rubber tree (I swore I killed that thing when I watered it with a bottle of Asti Spumante), a seven-foot high antique desk that she’d bought off a truck (hopefully nobody reported one stolen), and finally, her new computer, which came accompanied by a kid who thought he could make a quick hundred by hooking up four wires and a plug.

But out of pity for us both, I finally agreed to a two-hour dinner break, knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep with her yakking on the phone or watching TV. “We’ll get a bite to eat, maybe share a bottle of wine, and then it’s lights out,” I said.

To my surprise, dinner was very pleasant, considering we were seated two tables away from a man I’d recently tried to
pick up who rejected me on the observation that my wallet and my breasts were equally flat.

Granted, it was odd referring to an outing with one’s mother as pleasant when she had just announced the breakup of her marriage. But it spoke to the consolation powers of brick oven pizza and a bottle of Pinot Noir…until the conversation clouds thickened.

“What do you mean you’re searching for a man?” I nearly knocked over my glass. “It’s too soon for that. It’s like the handgun law. You have to fill out a permit and wait two days.”

“Not a new man. An old man.”

“You already have one of those. His name is Harvey.”

“No. No. Someone I once knew.”

“Like who? An old boyfriend?”

“Exactly. An old boyfriend…I was engaged to.”

“I get it. You mean you want Daddy to be like he was when he first proposed.”

“Okay, buckle up, Toots. This ride’s a little bumpy…I was engaged before I met your father. A young fellow I knew at Queens College. We fell in love, he proposed, then he gave me this tiny little nothing of a diamond, but according to my uncle Mort, it was a perfect stone so who cared…Close your mouth or you’ll catch flies…Right after that, he goes into the army and ends up serving in Cuba…Anyway, I was thinking it might be nice to find him, say hello…”

I looked to see if anyone else had heard this confession. “That so did not happen…did it?”

“Of course it happened. Who makes up a story like that?”

“Then why didn’t you marry him?”

“’Cause a year later he comes back to the States, and P.S., now he’s got this Filipino gal he met at a bar in Miami, and he tells me they’re in love.”

“Oh my God. It’s blowing my mind that I didn’t know any of this…”

“You weren’t the only one. I never told your father either. It all happened before I met him. I figured what the hell business was it of his?”

“Are you serious? Wouldn’t you have wanted to know if he was previously engaged?”

“Get real, darling. Who else would have married him but me? He was plenty green in the bedroom, if you know what I mean. One Trick Harvey I called him…”

“Oooh. Oooh. Oooh.” I covered my eyes as if avoiding seeing the scene of an accident. “May I remind you we’re talking about my father here?”

“Sor-ree, darling. We’re just old married women talking, that’s all.”

“But what was the big deal if Daddy knew? It’s not like broken engagements were a sin.”

“You didn’t know my mother. She got herself all worked up that the rabbi wouldn’t marry us and I’d end up an old maid like my cousin Ruthie. Although ask anyone. I was a hell of a lot prettier than her. I don’t care how many hats my uncle Mort bought to cover her face.”

“Okay, but other people had to know you were engaged. Aunt Marilyn, your friends…”

“Sure they knew. They swore not to tell.”

“You’re making this up. Aunt Marilyn couldn’t keep a secret if you paid her in shoes.”

“It’s the God’s honest truth.”

“So you want me to believe the subject of old boyfriends never came up?”

“Oh, it came up. I just kept my mouth shut.”

“Okay, now that I don’t believe.”

“What can I say? Times were different…Sometimes I watch that Judge Judy and I think, What the hell is wrong with people, telling the whole world where they have tattoos, and how they made love in an airplane lavatory…Do I need to hear this? Anyway, by the time your father and I got engaged, I wasn’t exactly a spring chicken.”

“How old was old?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Jeez.”

“Your father thought I was twenty-two…”

“You sound like a used car. Turn back the odometer or you won’t get a second look.”

“Exactly. In those days, a man wanted right out of the showroom, if you catch my drift.”

“So wait. That would make you…sixty-six, not sixty-four?”

“Give or take.” She coughed. “But what does it matter? You’re as young as you feel, and people tell me all the time, Sheila, what’s your secret? You don’t look a day over sixty.”

It was true. She didn’t look her age, but now she wasn’t acting it either, which was hard to fathom. This was Commander Inspector Drill Sergeant Holtz I was talking to. If she wasn’t barking orders, she was clobbering me with life lessons.

This was not a woman who would abandon her parental post, let alone fit the description of a young woman in love, with all its requisite affection and giddiness. And for someone who couldn’t keep her opinion to herself, how could she have hidden a secret past?

“I gotta tell you, Mom. I’m in shock. You know how many times I got grounded because I lied to you? And remember when you made me miss a whole month of
Knots Landing
because I forged your signature on my report card? Now I find out you’re this big hypocrite.”

“Who’s a hypocrite? I didn’t lie. I married your father and put the past behind me!”

“Are you saying you married him but you never loved him?”

“He wasn’t the best-looking guy, but he was good to me, he was plenty smart, he worked hard, and oy, my folks were so happy…their daughter marrying a professional, which, believe me, was a big deal back then. Especially after my cousin Doris married a surgeon. We never thought we’d hear the end of that…”

“Stick to the story. You married Daddy but the whole time you were thinking of…”

“Marv…Marvin Teitlebaum.”

“Marvin Teitlebaum? I’m sorry. That is not the name of someone who makes your heart beat faster. That’s the name of your electrician, or someone from temple who runs bingo.”

“Believe me, he was quite the catch. Very tall and debonair…”

“All right. I’m done listening. It’s a helluva story, but this could all be a big waste of time. He could be dead by now.”

“He’s not dead…He lives in the Phoenix area…has two children, a son and a daughter, three grandchildren, maybe more now, I don’t know…His wife died in a car accident…”

“Wait. You’ve spoken to him?”

“No. I hired a private eye. My friend Sonny’s brother’s next-door neighbor. He located Marvin in Scottsdale. Even took pictures, but I said he should hold on to them. Then a few months ago, I found out the spy guy died and his wife threw out the old files. But at least now I know where to start looking.”

“This is crazy! You can’t just walk out on Daddy to go chase a man who abandoned you.”

“What do you always say? I’m like obsessed with the idea? He’s all I think about.”

“You’re a married woman.”

“It’s not fair.” She mimicked the fifteen-year-old me. “Everyone else is getting to go.”

“I don’t care what everyone else is doing…Under my roof you go by my rules. Now go to your room and don’t come out until you’ve thought about the terrible mistakes you’re making.”

“I never talked like that.” She laughed.

“Like hell you didn’t…God, I can’t believe what you’re thinking of doing.”

“See? And I thought for sure with all your craziness, you’d understand.”

“But you already know the rest of the story. Marvin left you. He married someone else.”

“I’d like to know if he ever thought about me…if he had any regrets…You read stories in the paper all the time about people finding their long-lost loves.”

“Exactly. But he wasn’t lost. He ran away.”

“I don’t care.” She shrugged. “I want to ask him straight to his face. ‘Marvin, why did you do it?’”

“Mom, c’mon…even you’ve got to admit you’re not an easy person to get along with…He probably got scared and—”