On the Verge (5 page)

I wait until after dinner. The only notable thing about dinner is the way my mom keeps fussing over me and mentioning how nice it is to have me home, because I’m never home and all that mother guilt babble that mothers love to dish out. They were just getting over my sister Monica being a perpetual student and now, this. I’m debating whether or not to give in to the tears caused by my mom’s ambitious attempt at Cajun cooking. Maybe it will work in my favor and they won’t be so heartbroken when I break the news. Janet is not the best cook and she’s certainly not shy with the spices.

I decide straightforward is the best approach for delivering my news. I’ve never been a very good actress. I can barely fake an orgasm. (Not that I condone that in any way.)

Mom is just stacking the dishes. She does this with a sense of urgency the moment she senses we’re done. She hasn’t made a single comment about Dad not finishing his whole piece of blackened chicken. This is a good sign. Dad takes out his first cigarette. His health problems are the real thing. He has only just quit smoking during meals; that is, while he eats. My mother is waiting for me to bring the dishes into the kitchen, so I seize my moment.

“Mom, Dad.” That’s how they always started stuff like this on
The Brady Bunch.
“Roseanne is going to be coming down for a while. Is it okay if she stays with us?”

“Of course, honey. We love Roseanne. How’s her job?” My mom likes Roseanne. She’s my mother’s example of how much happier someone is when they listen to their mother and finish school in four years—
and
she majored in business.

“Well, Mom—” I’m choosing my words carefully “—she’s actually not very happy with it. She’d like to be doing more.”

“She’s a smart kid,” says my father, puffing away.

“Is she coming down for the weekend?” My mom already suspects something.

“Well, she’s coming down this weekend. But I thought she might crash here for a while, because she is going to relocate to New York.” My parents look at each other. They have some kind of telepathic conversation. When my mom turns to look at me she is speaking for both of them. It’s amazing how they do that.

“Honey, we are very happy for you that your friend wants to move down. We know you miss college a lot and you’re a little lonely.” Are they talking about me? Do they have any idea what
they’re saying? “But, you know, we are not a hostel. We had our share of that with Monica.”

When my sister got her first masters—in philosophy—she decided that she and seven of her closest friends were going to practice communal living out of my parents’ basement. It lasted two weeks, until one of her friends declared, after my mom made them French toast with store-bought syrup, that she couldn’t live “like a pauper” anymore. She ran hysterical from the house and had her family’s chauffeur pick her up at a 7-Eleven. He drove down from Connecticut. All those ideals shot away by the lack of Vermont maple syrup. It gave Monica something to think about.

“Mom.” I feel myself starting to get excited and I am not going to succumb, especially since I haven’t gotten anywhere near dropping the real bomb, yet. “Okay, Mom, you know Roseanne isn’t like any of Monica’s pseudo-intellectual, pseudo-hippie friends. She’s only going to be staying here until we find an apartment.” Shit. I shouldn’t have said “we.”

They don’t even bother to have their telepathic conversation this time. My mother mouths the word “we” and shakes her head. She is a lot easier to read than my dad. Her mouth turns into a nasty line and she gets a frown in the middle of her brows. My father is his stoic self, although his face tightens a bit.

“Why do you want to live in that dirty city? With those people, those dirty people?” I can’t imagine who these dirty people might be.

“Mom,” I say, as if she were my two-year-old, “I understand all of your concerns, but really, the only person I’m going to be living with is Roseanne. No dirty people.” Of course they don’t need to know about the ambiguous “dirty” encounters I might have.

“Why would you want to leave here? I can’t understand you or your sister. Your father and I give you everything. Everything. We would never charge you rent. We don’t beat you. I cook all your meals. Maybe I should have breast-fed.” I can see my mother slipping into hysteria so I turn to my father who is on his third cigarette.

“Everything, you get everything. It’s like a vacation for you two. It’s like…” He’s struggling here to think of a place. “It’s like the Rivieria.” Ick. I think I understand now why my father lets my mother do all the talking. She may be emotional, but she puts a much better spin on things.

“Dad!” I start to say that the closest he has ever been to the
Rivieria is Epcot, but I have vowed to be calm. I look at both of them. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. I take their hands. In my mind I hear the triumphant score of a million made-for-TV movies. I take a deep breath and try to blink up a tear.

“You know, I love you guys, I do. You’ve given me everything. You are the best parents ever.” I make eye contact with both of them. Parents love this stuff. “Monica and I (well, not really me) have been draining money off you for years. Dad, you went out on your own at sixteen, don’t you always tell us that? Mom, it wasn’t easy for you with two screaming kids but you made ends meet, didn’t you? Now, I want to give you guys a break. I also want you to be proud of me. I want to support myself. It’s important for me. I promise I’ll get the safest best apartment I possibly can. I just need your love and support. And I need your help.”

Have I pushed it too far? Did I lay it on too thick? Have they seen through me? I look back and forth to each of them and then…my mother starts to cry. At first, I’m not sure if she’s crying because she’s genuinely moved by the whole thing or because I’ve just given her the biggest pile of bullshit she’s ever heard. I look to my father who seems really uncomfortable with all the emotion, fingering his pack of cigarettes and contemplating another smoke. My mother squeezes my hand and wipes a tear. What a scene!

“Honey, of course we will help you. I’m so proud of you.” She gets up to hug me. I hug my dad. What a happy family.

“I guess I’ll get the daybed out of the garage,” says my father, pushing his chair away from the table, poised for escape.

When my mom finishes gushing I head upstairs and call Roseanne to tell her we are all set.

I spend the rest of the night in the bathroom making ugly faces.

T
o be fair to my parents, I spend all of Friday cleaning the house in anticipation of Roseanne’s arrival. Tabitha was really annoyed that I didn’t go to this chi-chi West Village gallery opening with her. She also didn’t appreciate it when I said I’d offer her a twenty for every straight guy she encountered. She got off the phone all huffy.

Rosie got to my place around eleven on Saturday morning with her rented Ryder truck. Sometimes I forget how blond she is. She looks like a cross between Reese Witherspoon and a country and western singer. She had a little too much lipstick on for the hour, but I wasn’t going to be catty. She noticed my hair right away. I was pleased.

“Eve, you cut your hair. You look so…”

“Urban?”

“Well, I guess.” I could barely hide my delight. My dad and I helped Roseanne move her stuff in. Four hours later, my mom insisted we come in for risotto. She was trying to outdo herself for Roseanne.

I think I’ve forgotten to mention what an amazing cook Roseanne is. I guess this tidbit is not as sensational as the blow job in the bathroom. When we were in college she would make elaborate meals in our toaster oven. When we moved out of the dorms, she would organize dinners and throw themed cocktail parties. She used to craft little place cards for everyone and make pastries. We’d tease her about having her own brand of linens to sell to a major department store. My mom loves to pump her for little cooking tips.

“You know, Roseanne, my risotto never comes out the way it tastes in the restaurants.”

“Well, Mrs. Vitali, I think it’s delicious. It’s all in the stirring. You have to stir constantly.”

“I know, I did, but it still tastes blah.” Aggh, my ever descriptive mother.

“Well,” says Rosie, obviously scanning the recipe file of her mind. “For a cheese risotto like this one, you might want to throw in a few golden raisins just for a little sweetness.” Who would think of that? Golden raisins? Only Roseanne.

“Would that be good? I mean I’m sure you know best.” My mother is practically drooling over the happy homemaker Rosie has the potential to be.

“Just a few would do the trick. Remember risotto really is just sexy Rice-a-Roni, so play with it.” My father clears his throat. The last time “sex” was spoken at the dinner table was when Monica was getting her master’s in Social Thought and dating that guy who said he was an anarchist. It wasn’t pretty. My father excuses himself and makes his way to the garage to look at the lawn mower.

“Thanks, for all your help today, Mr. Vitali,” Rosie says sweet as pie. My dad nods and heads out to the garage.

I had made plans to go into the city and hit a downtown bar with Tab, you know give Rosie a little taste of the city, but by the time Rosie and I get finished organizing my (now, our) room, we are ready to collapse. Tabitha is not happy.

“Again?”

“Tabitha, we’re tired.”

“Isn’t she a marathon runner or something?” God! I’ve really said too much.

“Not exactly. I’m really tired. Call Adrian.”

“I can’t deal with another night of the unbridled lust of a bunch of gay men.”

“Luis?”

“That’s an in-person story. I don’t see how you can stand to spend an entire weekend out there in dump land.”

“Okay, we’ll meet you for brunch tomorrow. Okay?”

“I wouldn’t want to pull you away from the hairspray.”

“Tabitha!”

“Fine, fine. Let’s go to the place on Spring with the nice mimosas. Around one. Will that be enough beauty sleep for you?”

“I’m going now.” When I get off the phone, Rosie is painting her nails red. This is definitely going to be culture shock.

What an understatement. The next day, we arrive at the place and order mimosas. Tabitha is late as usual. Rosie is taking it all in.

“Wow, it’s amazing.”

“Yes, they do a lot of photo shoots here. It’s a real beautiful
people crowd.” Everyone is kind of giving Roseanne a dirty look because she is not wearing black.

“Is your friend Tabitha like that?”

“Yeah, she’s very glam.” Rosie nods, mulling this over.

“She sounds a little snobby to me.” I will never learn to keep my mouth shut.

“No, she’s great. She’s not like anyone we went to school with.”

“Can we go to FAO Schwartz?” I pretend I don’t hear her.

Forty-five minutes pass and Tabitha still hasn’t arrived. She isn’t trying very hard to make a good impression on someone she’s hopefully going to be spending a lot of time with. Rosie checks her watch, but we keep ordering more mimosas. “Doesn’t this girl know about the half hour rule?”

“I know, Ro, but it takes a while to get down from the Upper East Side.”

“She might have accounted for it when she left the house.” Not a good sign. But, before I can defend Tabitha’s honor, Herself shows up. She’s a vision in brown this morning—and where did she get that leather jacket?

“Sorry, I’m late.” This to me and an extended hand to Rosie. “Tabitha.” They shake hands and eye each other. Does it really have to be this strenuous? Can’t we all just get along?

“Was it a rough night?”

“You could say that.” She hasn’t yet removed her sunglasses. “I went out with Ahmed.”

“What about Luis?” She looks from me to Rosie and back to me.

“I just can’t date people in the service industry. You should have seen the restaurant he suggested we go to.”

“I’m sure it was hideous.” This isn’t doing much for her image. The waiter comes over, but Tabitha, still undecided, waves him off as she “needs a minute.” I try not to see Rosie roll her eyes. I sigh.

“C’mon, Tabitha, I’m starved.” I am really trying to keep it together.

“You could have ordered.”

I grip my mimosa glass. “We didn’t. We waited.”

“Fine,” says Tabitha. She closes her menu and takes out a cigarette. Rosie absently waves some smoke away. The waiter takes our order. Tabitha smirks when Rosie orders an egg white omelet with grilled vegetables.

“The omelets are great,” I say, making an attempt.

“Of course you never get egg whites. Wanna cigarette?” Rosie excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

“Is she going to puke?” I hope I didn’t tell Tabitha about Roseanne’s former eating disorder.

“Tabitha, what’s your problem?”

“What problem?” I shake my head. The waiter pours us more mimosas. These drinks are never stiff enough, but usually I’m still slightly toasted from the night before. I snag one of her cigarettes and smoke fiendishly.

“And that outfit,” she rolls her eyes, “high fashion.”

“Tabitha. Maturity. Come on.”

“Fine, I’ll play with your little friend.” When Rosie returns, Tabitha stubs out her cigarette and removes her glasses. If you were a student of Tabitha body language like I am, you would think this was a good sign. We’ll see.

“So, what field are you interested in?”

“Finance. I was a finance major and I worked for a small consulting firm in Hartford.”

“Do you have any leads?” Our food arrives and the waiter mistakenly puts Roseanne’s food in front of Tabitha. “No,
this
is not for me.”

“Well, I’ve written some letters and I have two interviews set up for this week. I’m also in contact with an agency.”

“Those agencies are such a pain.” Tabitha shoves a huge forkful of eggs Benedict in her mouth. I think she is flaunting her appetite, if you can believe it. “It’s pretty admirable of you to just hop on down without a job or any hope of one.” (Is this a compliment?)

“I figured it was the only way to get motivated.” Tabitha asks the waiter for more bread.

“You know.” She pauses to get our attention before she speaks again. “I do have a friend at Deutsche Bank. Remember Johann?” I nod, remembering the awful fashion sense.

“Is he still talking to you?”

“I stopped talking to him.
Danke.
” Rosie smiles at that. “Anyway, see how your other interviews go and if nothing comes, give me a call and I’ll call Herr Johann. If you want.” Is she being helpful?

“Thanks.” Rosie is genuinely grateful, but of course this happy moment of togetherness can’t last. “I can’t wait till we find a place and then we can join a gym.”

“What fun,” Tabitha outdoes herself on the sarcasm and excuses herself to powder her nose. I stare down at my Belgian waffles.

“Is she always this…way?” Rosie asks.

“I know, I know, I know. She just takes some getting used to. She doesn’t mean to be abrasive. Really.”

Tabitha returns at the same time the bill arrives. Rosie reaches for it but Tabitha grabs her hand.

“Hey, I got it.” We protest, but it’s really hard to change Tabitha’s mind, also, she who pays has the power. I am starting to breathe a sigh of relief that this all seems to be going smoothly and we are just about to embark on Phase 2: shopping. Then Roseanne sees one of the actors from some series on the WB. It isn’t pretty; she starts to hyperventilate. At first we aren’t sure what’s going on. Rosie extends her hand as this quasicelebrity walks by. She turns red and starts saying over and over “star, star, star, star.” We quickly lead her out of the restaurant to calm her down. Tabitha smokes and shakes her head. I think it’s going to be a long, tough period of adjustment.

Rosie and I don’t get back until 7:30 just in time to catch the end of
60 Minutes
with the ’rents. Luckily my mom has saved us her leftovers of Thai Chicken Satay. Rosie refrains from making any suggestions, perhaps she feels it’s hopeless. And again another Sunday night in a life full of Sunday nights.

The woman I presume is Lacey Matthews shows up at work as I’m on the phone with Roseanne reading her a list of apartment possibilities. She’s been searching for apartments and jobs nonstop. No luck, but it’s still too early to worry. Besides we’ve been having fun. Lacey has to be in her thirties, but she’s got the young chic going. If there was a juniors department of the designers she likes, she’d shop there, but instead she’s wearing Betsey Johnson. She has this huge bag and it’s moving. I get a flash of Zeke, but that’s dirty.

“Call me back, Ro, after you see the two-bedroom on Columbus.” I hang up and smile at Lacey and eye the bag. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Lacey Matthews.” It doesn’t take much more for me to decide that I don’t like her. Just the way she pauses after she says her name, to let it sink in, annoys me. I’m usually a lot friendlier but I forgo the “greats” because I know I’m being sized up. One of those funny woman things.

“You have an appointment with Herb, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She smiles, she definitely has had dental work.

“What’s in the bag?” The lost maternal instinct comes out. Lacey, who moments ago was all hard-core New York, gets one of those stupid high-pitched voices reserved for babies and kittens.

“Oooh, its just Maxie. Maxie! Maxie?” I peer into the bag. A puppy all right, not exactly my type. This one acts too much like a cat. Lacey continues with her excited voice. “He’s so little, too young to leave at home with his siblings.”

“Your kids?” I ask, already knowing the answer will make her look down at her belly. All those crunches and the trainer? No, abs as flat as a board. She is reassured. I am just a naive little assistant who doesn’t understand what kids would do to all her ab work.

“No kids, not yet.” Yes, of course, she is still hoping to meet the right breeder. That hope will kill her. You need hips for the mothering thing. She has body sculpted hers off. Besides, New York is not exactly a place for the unattached. Luckily, I’ve got age on my side. Nope, poor Lacey is lucky if she gets one of her homosexual friends to donate some sperm. But, I digress.

Herb has a nasty habit of wandering off and not telling me where he is going. Since I am supposed to keep his schedule I wind up looking like a big ass when people ask me where he is. Tabitha has a homing device on the Big C, but I have no idea where Herb is until he comes back—usually all sweaty and smelly, having just taken an eight-mile jaunt around the city “to get my blood flowing.” Apparently deodorant inhibits his creativity somehow.

I kind of wish he was returning from a bike ride right now, because I think I would enjoy watching Lacey pretend Herb’s creative man scent didn’t bother her. Instead, Lacey is sitting in his office listening to his stupid sitar music while I track him down.

Herb is two floors down talking with Jarvis Mitchell, one of the big guys. Jarvis handles all the sporty type magazines Uncle Pres owns. He gives me this weird look when he sees me as if he is surprised that he would have someone like me who has to keep track of him.

“Sorry to interrupt.” I always say that when I interrupt him and I wait for him to accept it like most people would, but he never does. “Lacey Matthews is in your office.”

“Lacey?” It is obviously too much for Herb to keep all of his
expanding creativity in his head along with the name of the person he asked me to call.

“Mike Greaney’s friend,” Jarvis Mitchell reminds him. So that’s how Lacey gets to write for us. Mike Greaney is another big guy.

“Oh, right,” says our fearless leader. “I guess I better go be an interrogator.” Now, I stand awkwardly as Jarvis and Herb say their goodbyes. I’m not sure if it would be rude to leave, so I wait. I say goodbye to Jarvis as Herb is walking out, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Herb and I walk up the stairs (he wouldn’t dream of taking the elevator).

“So I left Lacey in your office with—” I imitate Lacey’s long pause “—Max.” I’m setting this up to wow him with a witty comment about dogs now that I know Lacey isn’t a friend of his.

“Oh,” says Herb so that I know he isn’t paying attention to me at all. When we get to his office Lacey is all smiles and I leave them to their introductions and their cooing over Max. Whatever.

When I get back to my desk, there are three messages waiting for me. The first: “What’s up, it’s me.” (Tabitha) “Guess who is going to be reviewed in the
Times
this weekend? If you guessed your lost love elizabeth, you are right. Aggh, what could have been, had you only had one more drink.”

I delete that one, sending it to the message graveyard, never to be heard from again. The second: “Eve, hey, it’s Zeke. I know I haven’t talked to you in a while. I was out of the city but I’m back now. Wanted to take you out for some tapas.” (Yes, he says it with the correct Spanish accent just like a newscaster.) “Give me a call.”