The Hole in the Middle (25 page)

“Is that what happened with Richard?”

“I think so. In hindsight, things started changing when my career took off. He was cranky about my hours and my travel schedule, but I assumed it was because I wasn't around to go to dinner parties and openings with him. I thought he missed my company, but he was uncomfortable with my success. He wanted me to be smart and successful enough to make him look good, but not enough to overshadow him. Through our entire marriage, I thought I was evolving into the partner he wanted, but what I was really doing was destroying what he loved best about our relationship.”

“Which was?”

“Hero worship. When I stopped providing it, he decided to move on. And judging from his new girlfriend, he's figured out that he's going to have to move further down the food chain to get that kind of attention.”

“Far be it from me to defend Richard, but I don't think your relationship would have lasted this long if that was all it had going for it. You
did
share common interests, not just the ones that Richard dictated. Maybe not conceptual jazz, I'll give you that, but lots of other things that kept you going in the same direction all these years.”

“I guess,” she says, sadly. “But looking at it now, it seems like our shared purpose was in trying to compensate for each other's insecurities. It wasn't a strong enough foundation to withstand a shock, and it was never going to fill me up or make me feel complete, even if Richard hadn't made the first move out the door.”

We sit in silence for a few moments. “Another bottle?” asks Zoe, and waves to the waiter.

“What's Megan?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Sorry?”

“Megan. What archetype is she?”

Zoe laughs, and it's good to see. “A Material Girl–Amelia Earhart combo. I'm not sure what the proportions are.”

“Laura?”

“Jane Austen–Mother Teresa.”

“Sara?”

“Mother Teresa–Jerry Maguire.”

“Nora?”

“Pure Jane Austen. But I'm still not done with you,” says Zoe. “I got off track. We were discussing your love triangle.”

“Don't call it that.”

Zoe ignores me. “As I was saying, you are a Jane Austen. And Jesse, whatever his faults, is your intellectual equal as well as being a good husband, father, and all-around nice guy.”

“Agreed. So why does Will Shannon have any hold on me when I have a perfect husband, according to your theory?”

“Three reasons. There's your Amelia Earhart, as we discussed. Will has always been fundamentally unattainable, which makes him irresistible to you. Then there's your other secondary archetype, the Groucho Marx.” I burst out laughing, but Zoe's exposition continues unabated. “You don't want to join any club that would have you as a member. Jesse chose you. Therefore there must be something wrong with him.”

“And?”

“And lastly, part of you believes that you settled for Jesse because you don't see that he rescued you.”

“He didn't.”

“Of course he did,” says Zoe. “He rescued you from Will.”

I don't have a snappy recovery line, so I change the subject. “I didn't get a chance to tell you that we hired a new VP yesterday.”

“Barry the Blowfish's friend?”

I smile. “Happily, no. It's a woman. Lil staged a coup on the committee. Barry nearly had a stroke.”

The wine arrives, and Zoe raises her glass. “To the Blowfish,” she says. “Karma's a bitch.”

“Amen to that,” I say, and we clink.

“Do you have a lawyer yet?” I ask.

“I'm doing some research,” she says. “I'm looking for someone with a scorched-earth, retributive, make-him-wish-he-never-met-me kind of approach. Let me know if you have any recommendations.”

“I'll think on it,” I say.

“I meant to ask you,” says Zoe. “Have you filled your prescription yet?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not talking about the one for your sinus infection.”

“Oh,” I say. “Not yet. I've been busy.”

“You're stalling.”

“I'll get around to it,” I say defensively.

“No time like the present,” says Zoe. “I'll escort you to the pharmacy myself. But first, we deal with more pressing priorities. Trust Dr. Zoe. She knows what you need.”

Half an hour later, I'm teetering in front of a full-length mirror in black strappy stiletto heels, with a zipper up the back. Zoe looks on approvingly. “Perfect!” she declares.

“These shoes aren't really my style, Zoe,” I say. “When would I wear them?”

“First of all, these are not merely shoes, Sophie. These are fuck-me shoes,” says Zoe.

The clerk nods. “It's an industry term,” he affirms.

“Second of all, you will wear them out tonight to the party, and after that you'll wear them whenever you feel like it, which will be a lot more often than you can imagine right now.”

“Tell me the truth. Are these made by young girls in developing countries who are forced to work in factories instead of going to school?”

“I seriously doubt it,” says Zoe. “They're really expensive.”

“Zoe, I can't afford to spend a fortune on shoes.”

“You can't put a price on the health of your marriage. You need them. It's an emergency situation.”

“About that,” I say. “According to you, I've found my perfect mate. So how does your theory explain the fact that it's not exactly romance central at our place these days?”

“My theory just tells you if you got off to the right start, Sophie. You still have to
try
.”

“Shoes are not going to fix whatever is wrong with my marriage.”

Zoe sighs. “I've known you for twenty-two years, and still you underestimate the power of shoes. Have I achieved nothing?”

“I'm drunk. My judgment is impaired. I'll think about it and come back another day.”

The clerk looks concerned.

“You will not,” says Zoe, pulling out a credit card and handing it to the clerk. “The shoes are on Richard. Consider it repayment for all of the times you had to listen to him go on about the marginalization of organic cheese farmers.”

“Are you really telling me that the perfect marriage is within my grasp with the help of sexy shoes and antidepressants, Zoe? I thought we'd dispensed with that particular fantasy sometime after the 1950s.”

“You might also try some red lipstick,” says Zoe. “The no-makeup thing isn't really working for you.” She puts an arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Relax. This isn't an intervention for Jesse. It's for you. You need to get out of your own way and start having more fun. I mean, what do you want that you don't already have?”

saturday, december 7, 2013

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I think about Zoe's question. What
do
I want? I have a long and growing list of things I don't want, like turning forty and having a fifteen-year-old cancer survivor know more about achieving happiness than I do, but my desires are harder to pinpoint. It's more efficient to focus on need, and what I need at this moment is something to wear to Lil's party.

I rummage around in my closet, considering and rejecting a host of blameless garments by throwing them on the bed. As the closet empties, though, I start to find treasures that I'd forgotten I owned. I slide my grandmother's mink coat along the rail, and there, just behind it, I find the old Dior dress. The tailoring is stunning, and it occurs to me that it's probably worth some money. I hold it out in front of me and wonder if I can still fit into it. I slip it over my head, tentatively, but it hangs in a way that assures me it's not ridiculous to try to do it up. I have to struggle with the zipper at the waist, but not for long, and with a final tug at the nape of my neck, I turn and examine myself in the mirror. The dress is curvier than I remembered, but no one would say it doesn't fit. It's womanly, for sure, but not matronly, so I dig through my accessories drawer and find a triple strand of vintage crystal beads. Then I turn my
attention to my face: mascara and blush and red lipstick and some liquid liner so ancient that I'm slightly worried about its safety. And then I slide into Zoe's shoes and fasten the straps. I'm assessing the finished product in the mirror when I see Jesse appear behind me.

“The babysitter's here,” he says.

He looks exhausted. I could be brittle and polite, which is my standard post-fight stance. But any residual anger I feel is overshadowed by a sickening sense of remorse. How could I have been so distracted that I failed to notice what was happening with his business? It's like I've been cutting class on our marriage lately, only to be hit with a surprise quiz worth twenty percent of the final grade.

“Are we OK?” I ask.

“I honestly don't know,” he says.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Not even a little bit,” he says, coolly. “You look very nice. Let's try to have a good time. I'm going to call a cab.”

Our taxi pulls up in front of Lil's house and I get out and stand for a moment on the sidewalk while Jesse pays the driver. The past feels palpable tonight, and I can almost see my twenty-year-old self bounding up the front stairs and reaching into my pocket for my key. I wonder what she would think of my life now. Jesse breaks my reverie. “It's cold out here, Soph. Let's go in.”

The door is unlocked and we let ourselves in. The house is packed with people of all ages, most of whom I don't recognize at all. “Do you want to take our coats upstairs?” he says. “I'll try to find us some drinks.” He turns without meeting my eye and heads for the kitchen.

I find the coatroom at the end of the second-floor hall, my old bedroom, and I hear Lil's unmistakable voice behind me.

“Taking a trip down memory lane?”

I turn. “Hi, Lil,” I say. She is radiant in silk palazzo pants and a beaded jacket.

“Come upstairs for a minute,” she says.

“I should get back to Jesse.” Will has obviously told her about our conversation, or at least the part of it that concerns her. And tonight, I'm in no condition to withstand the full onslaught of her persuasion.

“I won't keep you long,” she promises, managing, despite my intentions, to spirit me upstairs and into her apartment.

“Have a seat,” she says, disappearing for a minute and then returning with two champagne glasses and a small bottle. “We need to toast our great victory!” We clink glasses and drink. “Thank you for your help,” she says.

“It was my pleasure,” I say, warily. “Margaret will be fabulous.”

“And are you going to stay and work with her?”

I sigh inwardly. Trust Lil to get straight to the point. “I haven't decided yet.”

“So William told me. The foundation job would be perfect for you, Sophie. I practically designed it for you. You need a change. What's the obstacle?”

I hesitate. “I'd be reporting to you and Will. I have a suspicion that it might be too . . . close.”

“Too close to me, or too close to Will?”

I parry. “Independence is important to me,” I say.

“Hmmm.” Lil stands. “Let me show you something,” she says.

We go into her bedroom. She sits down on a bench facing the blue portrait above the bed and pats the seat next to her. I sit.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“It's gorgeous,” I say, hoping that we are talking about the painting.

“It's a portrait of me,” she says. “It was painted in 1950, when I was twenty-two, the year before I was married.” She pauses. “I've never told anyone that.”

“Oh.” I can understand why. The painting is intensely intimate, and knowing that Lil is the subject makes me feel uncomfortably voyeuristic. She glances at me and continues.

“I hired Isaac to give me painting lessons. He had a studio near the university and took private students to pay his expenses. He was an extraordinary talent. I insisted that he paint me.” She smiles. “He was scandalized.”

“Why?”

“My parents were well-off society people, and he was a struggling Jewish artist. He had seen much more of the world than I had. His family had been through terrible things during the war. You probably know that he changed his name to Wallace from Weinberg.” I nod. “He wanted people to notice his art, but he was a very private person. He had no appetite for defying social conventions.”

“You did?”

“I was an incurable romantic. And I was madly in love with him. I would have run off with him, happily, and turned my back on my family and all of the comforts of my life.”

“But you married Monty,” I say.

“Isaac didn't return my feelings. He finally agreed to paint me, but that was all it was. And if I couldn't have him, it didn't matter to me who I married. I thought I might as well make my parents happy.” She sighs. “I was very young, although I didn't appreciate it at the time. I thought I would feel numb for the rest of my life.”

I contemplate the raw sensuality of the figure in the painting and the lush flowers blooming behind her, in throbbing shades of red. Everywhere the canvas vibrates with passionate emotion. How could the creator have been indifferent to the subject and still have produced such a painting? “Are you sure he didn't love you?” I say.

“No,” she says. “I've been looking for an answer to that question in this painting for the past sixty years.”

“And?”

“And I've come to the conclusion that the line between unrequited and unresolved love doesn't matter that much. Both leave scars.”

I can see that we're not talking just about Lil and her painter any longer. “And when you have those scars, shouldn't you keep your distance from the person who gave them to you? Shouldn't you, at the very least, avoid taking a job working for him?”

“It all depends,” she says. “What if it's the right job? If you didn't take it, you might be giving that person just as much influence over you as you fear he would have if you took it.”

“Food for thought,” I say. My throat feels tight all of a sudden.

I stand and she does too, putting her hands gently on my shoulders and turning me so that I face the full-length mirror on the wall opposite. “I always liked that dress on you,” she says. “But it fits you better now than it did then.”

I clear my throat and try for levity. “It's the babies,” I say. “I'm fatter now.”

“You're a woman now,” she says. “And this is a dress for a woman, not a girl.” She squeezes my shoulder. “The past is always with us,” she says, gesturing to the painting. “But it doesn't have to drive all of our decisions. Scars or not, you need to live your life. Shall we go back to the party?”

We walk down together to the second-floor landing and look down at the crowd, friends of Lil's representing every age and stage of life, and all of them honoring her request to dress in their holiday finery. My eyes are drawn to a contingent of impossibly young-looking guests who can only be Lil's boarders and their friends. The men, having made an early start on the free alcohol, are clustered in packs, the most significant concentration being in front of the television in the den, which is now set to a football game. The women, vibrating at a much higher frequency, flutter about, cheeks flushed with champagne, tossing their hair and giggling and looking over their shoulders at the men, who are engaged far more deeply in the sport on-screen than the one playing out in the room. The mating ritual reminds me of my early anthropological studies of my roommates, and I smile. “I can see why you never tire of having tenants,” I say.

“Riveting, isn't it?” asks Lil. “My young friends give me such a healthy perspective on life.”

Against my better judgment, I say, “That time in my life feels more present right now than it has in years. I used to say that you couldn't pay me to relive university life. I was so anxious about the future all the time, terrified that one misstep would condemn me to a life of lonely nights watching movies in a crappy apartment, folding sweaters for a living.”

“And now?”

“And now I remember how vivid it all was—even how things smelled and tasted. I think I was more alive then.”

“That's the hole in the middle,” says Lil.

“Sorry?”

“My cousin Eleanor used to call your stage of life ‘the donut years.' The first half of life is about getting as far away from your past as you can. And then, just when you've established yourself as a full-fledged adult, a hole opens up in the middle of life and the past comes rushing back in. By the time you're my age, if you aren't careful, the past is more real than the present.”

“What do I do?” I ask.

“You make your peace with it,” she says, and we watch the crowd below for a few moments in silence. I pick out a few people that I recognize: Marvin Shapiro from the Baxter, and a collection of writers, artists, and actors that have been part of Lil's circle for decades. Jesse is in the thick of it, talking to Margaret, and to Will.

“Margaret's here?” I'm a bit surprised. “That was nice of you. You wanted to welcome her to the fold?”

“Not exactly,” she says. “I've known Margaret for years. Marvelous woman. I just didn't think I would mention it while the whole search business was going on.”

Not for the first time tonight, I wonder how well I know Lil. Jesse looks up and waves hesitantly.

“I'll tell you one thing,” says Lil. “That one has been madly in love with you since the first time he laid eyes on you.”

“You think?”

“I know. Hold on to him with both hands.”

“Are you giving advice?”

“Certainly not,” she says. “I never give advice. It's rarely useful and always boring. Now, come and meet my tenants.” We make our way down the stairs and into a crowd of young people. “Here's my current crop, full-time and itinerant,” she says merrily. “Aren't they adorable?”

They are, too, and a couple of them blush at Lil's gentle reference
to their status as regular evening guests. “Introduce yourselves,” Lil says. “I need to do my rounds.”

I turn my attention to a young woman with a diamond stud in her nose and jet-black hair that can't possibly be natural. She holds out her hand. “Chelsea Moss. Full-time, not itinerant.”

“Sophie Whelan,” I say. There's something familiar about Chelsea's delicate bone structure. “Moss?” I ask.

She sighs and says in a resigned tone, “You've met my mother?”

“Janelle?”

“That's the one,” she says, grudgingly.