Til the Real Thing Comes Along (15 page)

Then why did she miss him, canonize him, the way people frequently did with the dead? Rewrote them, punched them up, made
them more grand or more glamorous or more lovable than they could possibly have been? Maybe because, despite those fights
over what her father would have called honest disagreements, Arthur had been wonderful with her so much of the time. Fun.
Someone to laugh with the way she remembered her parents laughing together. And the early struggles had been romantic. Arthur
liked to tell friends that when he and R.J. first got together they were so poor that they registered for Styrofoam. He liked
to describe his favorite French meal by putting on a Pepe Le Pew French accent and raving over what he called
frontage chaumibre dans ma robe de bain.
Cottage cheese in his bathrobe.

She realized she was shivering, and just as she turned the water on full blast, she thought she heard the phone ring. Whoever
it is will call back, she told herself and lathered up.

“Some guy,” Jeffie said, as she emerged wearing her yellow robe. “He left two numbers—one’s his office and one’s his house.
He says he’ll be at the office number for a while.” He handed R.J. a corner of his lined notebook paper where he’d written
the name, David Malcolm, and a number. Later—she’d call him later. David Malcolm. She had no idea who that was. Would have
bet that she’d never even heard the name before. Maybe it was a Dinah fix-up. Shit. She’d made Dinah promise never to do that
again. She opened the refrigerator and looked for something to munch on while she cooked dinner. Maybe she should call this
guy back, whoever he was, just to get it over with so she could have her dinner in peace and not have to think about it any
more or wonder if he was a bill collector.

She dialed the phone in the kitchen, nibbling on a piece of Parmesan cheese she’d found in a Ziplock bag in the cheese drawer
of the fridge, and waited while the phone on the other end rang. Four times, five times. R.J. looked at the kitchen clock.
It was after six. This Malcolm guy must be gone for the day.

Not gone. There. A secretaryish voice answered.

“David Malcolm’s office.” A direct line.

“David Malcolm, please,” R.J. said.

“May I say who’s calling?”

“R.J. Misner,” she answered. “I’m returning his call.” David Malcolm. David Malcolm. There was a long silence, and then a
man got on the phone.

“R.J.,” he said enthusiastically, like an old friend who hadn’t seen her for a long time. David Malcolm. David Malcolm. She
had no idea. Not even a vague picture in her mind. “I met you at that party a few weeks ago. At Jason Flagg’s. Oscar night.
We talked just before you left. I asked Sarah to get me your number from Jason—but this is the first chance I’ve had to call.”

Who was this? It had to be the Ronrico rum guy. My God. Handsome. The one who told her she was dosed. What could he possibly
want?

“Who’s Sarah?” His wife.

“The woman I was with. You remember, you told her that before you wrote comedy you were tall and blond. I thought that was
adorable.”

His face. R.J. tried to conjure up a picture of his face. All she could remember was handsome. So attractive-looking she was
certain at first that he must be an actor. Freckles. What in the hell did he want from her?

“I saw the Patsy Dugan show and watched your credits go by. What parts did you write?”

“What parts did you like?”

“The opening.”

“I wrote that.”

“The part where she’s alone in her apartment.”

“I wrote that too.”

“The part where I saw your name go by,” he said.

Cute, she thought.

“I’m calling because I’d like to have dinner with you one night,” he said.

Huh? R.J. thought. “Who’s Sarah?” was all she could say, aware she’d asked him that already.

“Just a friend,” he said.

She didn’t know what else to say.

“What about dinner?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m sort of busy these days.” Not a lie. She wouldn’t tell a lie—she was working on her writing
and she was sort of busy. “And I, well, I don’t think I’m really… I don’t really want to go out and have dinner with anyone
and I…”

God. She sounded like an idiot. And felt like one too.
But it was better to feel that way now and not have to sit in a restaurant somewhere with this guy one evening and tell him
her life story and have him say, “Oh, yes, I read about your husband’s death in the papers. Did they ever catch the man who
shot him?” And she would have to say, “It wasn’t one guy—it was four, and they caught one, only he wasn’t the one who pulled
the trigger, and he was underage and… no, they never really…” Arthur, she thought. How did this happen? How did I walk down
the aisle with you at age twenty-three, full of idealism about love and marriage and the future, and here I am at age thirty-seven,
sad and tough and not interested in or believing in the very thing I wanted most all my life. A marriage like my parents had.
With passion and mutual support and friendship and laughing, lots of laughing. This guy on the phone wouldn’t know about that
kind of thing. He was probably afraid that if he laughed, his handsome face would crack. He didn’t seem to have much of a
sense of humor at the party. In fact he was insulting. Very insulting. What did he want from her?

“No” was the last thing she said to him. He said, “I understand,” in a voice that meant he didn’t, and they both hung up the
phone.

R.J. opened the refrigerator, took out a package of chicken breasts, washed and seasoned them and put them into the oven to
bake. Washed and dried the lettuce leaves, cleaned and cut up some vegetables, put them in the steamer and turned on the fire
and, while her dinner cooked, walked into her bedroom to check for any dirty coffee cups she might have left there from her
morning work time. Arthur used to tease her about talking to herself, something she used to do a lot. Since Arthur’s death
she didn’t talk to herself so much anymore, but she did find herself talking a lot to Arthur. She tried to confine it to times
when she was out of Jeffie’s earshot. Now, here in her bedroom as she gathered a coffee cup, the plate that had held her morning
toast, the wrapper from her packet of megavitamins, she said, “Arthur, I turned this guy down for lots of reasons but the
biggest was because I just don’t want to be bothered anymore. A bad way to be, at the tender age of thirty-seven, but it’s
true. I no longer know the good guys from the bad guys, or even if there are any good guys. And it’s not some feminist issue
about men being the enemy. I’m
just meeting all the bad ones,” she said, picking up a crumpled Kleenex that had fallen to the floor next to her bed last
night. She sat on the bed. “I mean, this guy sounded okay, you know, a nice person and all… but I don’t want to date anymore.
I want to get married. I want to be married. I want to stay married forever. And I don’t even meet anyone I even want to have
a conversation with. I don’t think I should go out with him, because the truth is he isn’t even a candidate. He’s too handsome
to have a sense of humor, and I’m sure he’s not Jewish and… Arthur, I’m starting to sound like some neurotic yenta, and I
don’t know what to do.”

The phone rang again.

“A drink,” David Malcolm said before R.J. could even produce the word
hello.
“A drink on a night when you already have another date later. So you can’t even be tempted to make it longer than it takes
to drink one drink. And you’ll already be dressed for your real date so you won’t have to worry about wasting all that effort
for me in case you hate me.”

Cute. A cute approach. But Hobart had been cute. And so had Barry Litmann.

“I can’t,” R.J. said. And that was how she felt. It was not even so much that she didn’t want to, but that she couldn’t. Didn’t
have the wherewithal to be hit over the head anymore.

“One glass of wine. I’ll even meet you there so you can exit gracefully. Arturo’s. In your neighborhood, R.J.”

No. Everything told her to say-no.

“How’s Saturday?” he asked. “A good night. A date night. Tell your date to come for you at eight and meet me at seven.”

“Saturday,” R.J. said, simply repeating what he’d said. He took it as acquiescence.

“See you there.”

“Handsome,” R.J. thought as she sat at the little cocktail lounge table across from David Malcolm. Like the paper-doll groom
in bride-and-groom cutouts she’d had when she was little. Great haircut, square jaw, nice clothes. Similar to the coat and
tie the groom paper doD wore to the rehearsal
dinner. But she didn’t care about handsome. Never had. She cared about constant, which she was certain handsome men never
were, and she cared about sense of humor, which handsome men probably never took the time to develop, and the fact was that
she cared a lot about a man in her life being Jewish. She had never been out with a man who wasn’t Jewish.

Even all these years later, at age thirty-seven, with both her parents gone to their final resting place so that neither of
them could tell her she shouldn’t do it, as they surely would have if they were alive, this date felt as if it were against
the rules. They both ordered white wine. The first few minutes were nice. Small talk. Dancing around kind of small talk. The
usual. I’m from Pittsburgh. I’m a native Californian. Carnegie Tech. Wharton. I’m a writer. I’m in manufacturing. Nice to
meet a civilian. Pardon? Someone not in show business. The wine came. “To you,” he said. All she got out was “yeah.” They
both drank; then there was a long silence. R.J. broke it.

“So what do you want from me?” she said.

“Is that how you learned to start a new relationship?”

“Pretty much. Yeah. I mean, what’s the point of small talk. I’m too old and way past it. You told me at the party I was closed.
You’re right. We both agree. Now you’re knocking on the window. How come?”

“I like a challenge.”

“Meshugge,”
she declared.

“God bless you,” he answered.

“I didn’t sneeze. I said
meshugge,
which means—”

“I know the definition of
meshugge.”
He smiled.

“Oh, yes? What is it?”

“Meshugge,”
he said, “is when a charming twenty-nine-year-old WASP takes out a defensive, terrified thirty-seven-year-old Jew, and tries
to convince her if she puts her dukes down they could have a good time.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “You’re not twenty-nine? That part’s a joke. Right?”

“Not a joke,” he said. “I’m twenty-nine.” And he put his hands up in a gesture of mock guilt.

R.J. raised her index finger and said into the air, “Taxi.”

“You’re calling a taxi?”

“Only because my other choice of what to say was “check, please,’ and I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I’ll cover the drinks.”

“Why even finish them?” she said brusquely. “We have about as much chance for romance as the coyote and the roadrunner.”

“An interesting choice of analogy,” he said. “Two creatures in combat. Why do you automatically assume that there has to be
conflict? Why not opt for mental health? Try optimism. You might get a pleasant surprise. Ever read a book by Norman Vincent
Peale?”

This guy can’t be for real, R.J. thought. He’s not going to talk about Norman Vincent Peale.

“No, but if he’s a writer I probably dated him,” she joked.

“I doubt it,” he joked back. “He’s too healthy for you and probably you’d think he was too goyish.”

That was funny. Coming from him it was funny. He was a nice kid. Attractive and smart for a kid. He was a kid. Twenty-nine.
And for some reason he saw something behind her flippant answers that he liked. No, she told herself. See how you’re getting
sucked in again already with the faint hope that the guy is human. That he’s some handsome prince who can save you from yourself.
From turning into an even crustier old broad than you already are. You are grabbing on to that last shred of hope you keep
pretending you don’t have, that there really is a man who wants sunset walks and happy ever after. No. Every time she’d held
on to that hope she’d been fooled, hurt, defeated. And Jeffie had suffered in the wake of her stupid decisions. She wasn’t
going to make another one. Not for what was simply some handsome kid.

“My God, it’s nearly eight,” he said, looking at his watch. “I’ve really gotta run. I’m going to be late if I don’t.”

He put a ten-dollar bill on the table, took a last sip of wine from his glass, and helped R.J. to her feet.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said. “It was nice having the opportunity to talk to you like this.”

So tight-assed and formal. So polite. And it hadn’t been nice at all. She’d been a giant pain and they both knew it. David
Malcolm looked even better in the bright lights of the parking lot than he had in the soft illumination of the cocktail lounge.
Like a boy, though, R.J. thought. A handsome boy. If Dinah saw him she would say, “Use him up, honey. Have a little fun with
him and when he leaves to
marry some debutante, which is who he’s looking for, wish him well, wish the debutante well, and keep moving.”

“I’ll talk to you,” David said when they were standing next to R.J.’s Mustang.

“Mmmm,” R.J. said, wondering what odds Jimmy the Greek would give for his ever calling her again, let alone a relationship
flowering. After she got into the car and rolled down the window she realized David was still standing there smiling at her.

“You’re tough,” he said. “Real tough.”

Tough. Arthur had called her that many times. Years ago when they first met. And when he died, everyone told her that’s why
she would survive, because she was tough. David Malcolm leaned against the door of her car and said, “Tough is good for gun
molls, street punks, negotiators at a bargaining table, and all-weather shoes. But it’s not so great for steaks, abalone,
or women who don’t want to scare away potential friends. Lucky for you, I see right through it.” Then he squeezed her nose
and walked away to his car. Squeezed her nose?

She drove home, went to her room, and sat down at the card table. The words
he will never call me again
repeated themselves over and over in her head, and she tried to remember all the dumb things she’d said to him. So what do
you want from me? Wonderful. He was right. She sounded like a gun moll. Norman Vincent Peale. If he’s a writer I probably
dated him. Ugh. It wasn’t even funny. Just mean and defensive. Shitty. And he could see through it. Lucky for her. What did
that mean? That he wouldn’t hold it against her? Maybe not. But he wasn’t ever going to call her again. She rolled a piece
of paper into the Smith-Corona, having absolutely no idea why. She didn’t have an idea in the world. When the phone rang she
said, “Thank God,” out loud, meaning
thank God something had saved her from having to write anything,
and she answered it.