The Pursuit of Alice Thrift (16 page)

I said, “You must think I'm hopeless and friendless and devoid of common sense and insight.”

“Don't be silly. I'm enjoying myself immensely. When do I ever get the chance to give solicited advice? So here it is: Let nature take its course. Don't talk yourself out of anything. Give him a chance. Keep him under wraps if you think your friends won't approve. If the doubts continue—and I mean real doubts, not ones borrowed from your friends—you can always break it off.”

I heard a muffled conversation taking place between them, then Henry's voice back on the line. “Jackie wants to meet you. And I don't think she means with a sliding-glass panel between you. I think she's hoping you'll come for dinner some night when neither of us is on call.”

I said, “Really? You'd invite a total stranger to dinner?”

He said, “I raised three daughters and she raised two sons. We don't think it's a big social undertaking to feed an extra mouth or two. And neither of us would categorize you as a stranger after this particular conversation.”

The “extra mouth or two” worried me and rendered me silent. How many strangers would I have to converse with over dinner?

“Bring your friend,” he continued. “We want to meet him. Jackie and I are good judges of character. And a little nosy. Our kids weren't quick to bring their paramours home—still aren't—so we've got some repressed parenting bottled up. Just let us know if either of you is vegetarian or kosher or lactose intolerant.”

I said, “I know you won't like him.”

Henry said, “Now, wait a minute. As long as you asked for my advice, I want you to consider this: Almost every day of my working life I meet patients—pregnant women with whom I share a common goal and almost always an eventual happy ending. And round about their sixth month, they bring their husbands in, or partners, or whatever the fashionable term is this decade. I'm almost always surprised. Most of these men are nervous; the ones who aren't nervous seem either stupid or overconfident or too blasé about what the fetus represents, which is responsibility or adulthood or the end of freedom. What it's made me is nonjudgmental, because if I let my first, second, and third impressions prevail, I'd spend a lot of time worrying about my mothers' postpartum lives. Eventually I see everyone in labor and delivery, and of course some still give me pause, but for the most part, if they've come this far and they're having a child, I get a glimpse into the core of them, and it leaves me feeling pretty damn good.”

I thought of Ray leading me across the hall in search of a friend; I thought of his voice, muffled and confused, calling for help from the bathroom floor. And further, there was that little matter of how much I liked his hot cheek against mine, and his lips working their way down my spinous processes.

“There must be something to recommend him,” Henry prompted.

I said, “Well, I don't have to be charming or interesting around him. He seems happy to keep the conversation rolling. And he notices what I need—a telephone, an answering machine, a computer, health and beauty aids, friends.”

“So you're saying he's thoughtful.”

I said I wasn't sure. But yes, Ray seemed to care about me and even worry about me and my life skills.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” he said.

In the background I heard, matter-of-factly if not clinically, “Ask her what she's using for birth control.”

He must have declined with a strenuous shake of his head, because Jackie came back on the line and said, “Henry's fading fast. I think he wants me to wind this up.”

I said I was getting beeped myself. Dinner would be lovely. Thanks.

Why had I said that? Dinner would
not
be lovely. I dreaded this dinner. Ray would interpret the invitation as our coming out as a couple. Jackie, the common-law, support-staff girlfriend, would be so tolerant and egalitarian that I'd leave thinking Ray's good qualities superseded his bad. And at the head of the table would be Dr. Shaw, the patron saint of odd couples, the national spokesman for Doctors Without Sleep Who Have a Life.

I quickly added, “But, unfortunately, I'm going to have to decline due to my awful schedule.”

“Nonsense,” said Jackie. “Saturday night, seven sharp. Bring the boyfriend.”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I said, but she'd already hung up.

18.
The Life of the Party

RAY SEEMED SUSPICIOUS THAT I'D INVITED HIM TO A DINNER
party in a doctor's private home on what he deemed a swanky street in Brookline.

“How come?” he asked. “Why me?”

“As my date.”

“Was I invited specifically, or is it one of those ‘Alice Thrift and Guest' deals?”

“Specifically.”

“Because . . .?”

“Because that's how normal social intercourse proceeds: You meet new people, they get to know you, they invite you to dinner.”

“Is he your doctor?”

I said no; Dr. Shaw—Henry—was my friend. As an obstetrician, he was outside my orbit professionally, but at least I could claim him and his life partner, Jackie, as . . . work pals.

“Who else is going to be there?” Ray asked.

“Just us.”

“When?” asked Ray.

I said, “This Saturday,” hoping to hear that he had long-standing plans with cousins, or that business was taking him out of town to a confectionery convention at the Javits Center.

“I accept. Do you know if they're allergic to nuts?”

I said I didn't know. I had to run. I was in the ER today, and ambulances were arriving every thirty seconds.

“Can I see you tonight?” Ray asked.

I said—because it was easier than expounding on exhaustion and laundry and romantic uncertainty—yes. But did we have to go out? Would he mind if we did nothing?

“Stay in?” He chuckled. “No problem. Why would I want to go out when all I've been thinking about is you in your pink pj's; no, correction: you with your pink pajamas in a ball at the foot of your bed.”

I was supposed to be calling an underage patient's next of kin—concussion and abrasions from skateboarding, not life-threatening—but was struck immobile by Ray's depiction of me as an object of sexual desire.

“You there?” he asked.

Nurses and residents were milling around the desk, eyeing the phone. I whispered, “I can't talk.”

“But you've been thinking of me, too, right? My clothes in a heap. No pj's, no nothing?”

“Affirmative,” I said.

“I'll bring dinner. What are you in the mood for?”

“Anything.”

“Love ya,” I could swear I heard as the receiver left my ear.

HE ARRIVED WITH three large subs in the Italian genre, cut into quarters so we could mix and match. He also arrived with a gift-wrapped pillow. “Top of the line,” he said proudly. “Goose down, but not the scratchy kind with the quills poking through.”

I said, “Let me pay you for it.”

Ray said no, absolutely not. And hadn't my parents taught me that you don't offer to pay someone when they bring a gift?

I said, “It doesn't seem right that you have to spend your money, especially in the off-season, on basics for my barren apartment.”

“You don't have time to shop,” he argued. “I do.” He put the subs down on my kitchen counter along with the bottle of Chianti he'd brought, and put his arms around me. He kissed me, then backed away to ask what I was thinking and why I looked as if I were trying to solve a math problem.

“Don't be silly,” I said. “I wasn't thinking about anything.”

“Don't you like the way I kiss?” he tried again.

I said, “I do like the way you kiss. In fact, that's exactly what I'm trying to assess—what happens when we kiss and why.”

“Doc,” said Ray. “Are you for real? Do you seriously have to look at everything under a microscope? I'm not saying that for my benefit. I'm saying it for yours. Have you ever just sat back and enjoyed something? I mean, anything? A movie? A funny joke? A lobster dinner?”

I said, “I'm sure I have.”

“I'm not complaining. But I don't want to be a social worker, either. I'd like to think this is a two-way street.”

I said, “I'm trying.”

“Maybe the answer is, Don't feel the need to tell me what you're thinking when it's a dose of cold water.”

“I know that,” I said. “But a person who is afflicted with my personality can't just will herself to be a good conversationalist.”

He asked if I ever watched television.

I said I had on occasion. Why?

“Because. It shows how normal conversation flows back and forth and how people act when they're in love or maybe just have the hots for each other. Or how they tell a patient he's terminal, or how they shoot the shit during a coffee break at the hospital.”

“What program is this?”

“Any daytime drama. There's a lot of raw emotion and passion. But at the same time, you would know that the person who's delivering the lines doesn't really mean it, either. They're acting. They're faking it. Life is like that: You have to put the song across even when you don't feel like it.” He winked. “Even when you're the most exhausted person who ever lived.”

He walked over to the counter and narrated as he unwrapped the subs. “Eggplant parm, meatball, and sausages and peppers. They make their own. A little soggy, but that goes with the territory. Ever gotten anything from Manero's on Hanover Street?”

I said no, I hadn't, but added—with conspicuous feeling and verve—that they looked scrumptious and that I was starved.

He found two plates, divided the sandwiches artfully, and asked, “Where to?”

“I have tray tables,” I said.

“Not my style. We'll lower the bed and eat on that.”

I said okay, but let me strip it and put down place mats.

“Ever eat in the nude?” he asked.

I said no, not since infancy.

“This way we can go for broke—let the sauce dribble down our necks and then we can take a bath together.”

I said all right. Nude dining and tandem bathing—sounded like it would be both liberating and romantic. Had he brought more condoms?

Ray smiled. He said, “Yes, doctor. I most certainly did. You think Ray Russo would ever dream of having anything but safe sex with you?”

I said I appreciated his taking that particular responsibility since I'd feel self-conscious buying contraceptives at the hospital pharmacy. Had he also brought a corkscrew? Would we need napkins under these circumstances? Should I disrobe now?

THERE WAS A
knock at the door during dinner, shocking me into imagining the scene through the eyes of a potential visitor: two adults feeding each other chunks of messy food, detritus of which was staining their faces and points below. At the moment the knock came, Ray was on his knees, tracing my areola with a piece of sausage.

Calmly, he put his finger to his lips and shook his head.

I opened my eyes wide, a question: I shouldn't answer?

He mouthed, They'll go away.

Reflexively, nervously, I sang out, “Who is it?”

“Sylvie Schwartz!”

Ray shrugged: Damage done. It's all yours.

I called back, “Sylvie? I can't come to the door right now. I'm . . . indisposed.”

“Did I wake you?”

I said, “Um, no. I mean, I'm in bed, but I can't come to the door.”

“Whoops. No problem. Just thought I'd ask if you wanted to get sushi or some Thai food.”

I said, “Thanks so much for asking. Any other time would be great.”

“Don't worry,” said Sylvie. “I get the picture. Sorry to interrupt.”

Ray made a face that seemed to be saying, See what happens when you don't play dead? You're busted.

“I'm glad you came by,” I called out.

Ray rolled his eyes.

“Have fun,” she answered.

After she'd retreated and her door had closed, I said, “That was really nice of her to follow up on her promise, don't you think? She said she was going to invite me to dinner, and now I know she's sincere.”

Ray said, “You're getting more popular by the minute. Pretty soon I'm going to have to take a number.”

I said I understood that reference—
take a number
—like patients in the fast-track clinic of the ER.

“I was thinking
deli counter,
” said Ray, “but sure—same thing.”

“I couldn't just ignore a knock on the door. I mean, it could have been someone in distress. And even though tonight wasn't convenient, there's bound to be other times when I'll really welcome her company.”

“I'm surprised you didn't invite her in and offer her the leftovers.”

I pointed out that that would involve opening the door and, even if I had a robe on, she'd see the stains on my face and neck. And him in my bed.

“You wouldn't be ashamed of that fact, would you?”

“Do you mean ashamed of you? Or did you mean embarrassed to be caught incorporating food into my foreplay?”

“Me,” he said. “Raymond J. Russo.”

“That would be hypocritical, wouldn't it? Inviting you over but hiding you from my neighbors? I wouldn't do that.”

Ray sighed. “Just say something unscientific that'll make me feel good. That's all I'm asking for here. That I'm a guy to you, and not a lab partner.”

I said, “You are definitely a guy. Don't forget I meet men every day, and this has never happened before. Also, you might recall that I was the one who called you on Sunday night—”

“The night you'll never forget? The night the earth moved and all the animals in the forest stood up on their hind legs and listened to the sound, far away, of Alice Thrift thrashing around on her Murphy bed?”

He was being metaphorical, so I didn't contradict the ludicrous laws of nature he advanced. He was also being amorous, trying something new along my neck, nibbles interspersed with flicks of his tongue. “There's eggplant and meatball left,” he murmured. “And one juicy piece of hot sausage that's getting bigger by the moment.”

Another colorful figure of speech. Ray was chock-full of them.

A SURVEY OF
my closet on Friday night was discouraging. There was my graduation dress, black, but sleeveless, purchased in anticipation of a hot June day under a polyester robe. I put it on and went across the hall.

“What's this?” Sylvie asked.

“I'm going out tomorrow night.”

“What's the occasion?”

“A dinner party at Dr. Shaw's. OB? Lives with his office manager, Jackie?”

“Good for you,” she said, and—because I was pinching the material at my hip and looking dubious—“What's your question?”

“Can I wear a sleeveless dress in February?”

Sylvie opened her door wider and I walked in. It was my apartment's twin, but a polar-opposite fraternal one. There were plants by her windows, artwork on her walls, apples and pears in a bowl on a real table, copper pots and pans hanging from hooks above her stove. “Wow,” I said. “This looks like a real home.”

“Yours will, too,” said Sylvie. “You just need the time.”

“And some taste,” I said.

“First,” said Sylvie, “the dress. Very basic. You can't go wrong. But one suggestion, if you don't mind. Accessorize.”

“Such as?”

“Hold on.”

She went toward her closet, and returned with a garment that reminded me that clothes didn't have to look like school uniforms. It was a black sweater—soft, even a little fluffy; it had black beads sewn here and there, not enough to embarrass me, but just enough to dress me up.

“Here. Like this.” She guided me into it, then pushed the sleeves halfway up my forearms. “Room to show off a big bold bracelet. And the bolero length is excellent. It accentuates your waist.”

I said, “Really? I can borrow this?”

“Definitely. What about earrings?”

I touched my earlobes. “No holes.”

“Not a problem,” said Sylvie.

She disappeared again. I heard drawers opening and closing. She returned with a basket holding what she said was her past—a Girl Scout lanyard, a needlepoint choker, Mardi Gras beads, pop beads, clip-on earrings, and frayed friendship bracelets. She dumped the contents onto the kitchen counter, and spread it into a single layer. I vetoed a daisy cluster of jet and rhinestone earrings and declined papier-mâché parrots the size of laboratory mice. I started to say that I could probably find screw-back pearls in my own junk basket. Sylvie looked up from her sorting to study my lobes. “Ever consider getting your ears pierced?” she asked.

I backed away a step and said no, never.

“One hole per lobe,” she said. “Not Swiss cheese like mine. A nice hoop would look very nice when your hair's pulled back. Nothing gaudy. Just that added little
je ne sais quoi.
”

“Maybe,” I said. “At some point when I've finished my training.”

She laughed. “In case one fell off into the surgical field?”

I said, “The surgeons I answer to don't wear earrings.”

“Speaking for myself, I never leave the house without them,” said Sylvie. “In fact, I'd be happy to do the honors right now.”

“What honors?

“Hul-lo. Pierce your ears. Me. Now. I've done all seven of mine.”

“But I'm going out tomorrow night,” I said. “I don't want my ears to be bleeding.”

“Nonsense,” she said.

I didn't want to say aloud that she was an internist in training, not a surgeon, and that I wasn't sure about the hygiene of a kitchen operation.

“Sit,” she said. “I'll get my instruments.”

Obediently I backed down onto a kitchen chair. Sylvie bustled around, inordinately happy it seemed, and came back with a terry-cloth hand towel, several alcohol prep pads, and a sewing needle. Another trip brought a bottle of pHisoHex and a pair of gold earrings, little balls with a diamond chip in each center. Finally, ice cubes in a cereal bowl. “First, we always use earrings with at least fourteen-carat-gold posts. Second, we choose something that I don't wear anymore.” She was at the sink now, scrubbing—hands, fingers, nails, sides of fingers, repeatedly, even working her way to the elbows. From the cabinet below the sink she removed surgical gloves—contaminating herself, I noticed—then set them aside on a paper towel. “I know, I know—not exactly OR standards,” she said, “but I think I'm aseptic enough for the task ahead.”