To My Ex-Husband (6 page)

FEBRUARY 11

A rare occurrence: A phone call, not for Annie, but for me. An unknown male voice. “Hello, Emily? My name is Sid Pomerantz. I'm a friend of Marilyn Beck. I'm single, and you're single, and this is one of those conversations.”

I laughed. Cute, I thought. But practiced, rehearsed. I wasn't talking to an amateur tonight. Quickly, we got through the preliminaries. How long each of us had been single, number of children, their ages—the stats. I soon ran out of questions. There was nothing further to do, as far as I was concerned, but meet the man.

Sid, however, was just getting started. Did I play tennis? No, I couldn't say that I did. Did I ski? No. But, I added in a moment of playfulness, I had had a great deal of fun recently sliding down a steep, snowy hill on something that looked like the lid of a trash can.

Sid was not amused. This was not just “one of those conversations” at all; it was an interview. I was being screened for acceptability. And, not incidentally, I was failing. It was quickly established that I did not take winter vacations in Utah, did not sail in the Bahamas, did not work at developing my true fun potential at all, while he was positively killing himself having a good time. I myself began to wonder what Sid had been wondering all along: What
did
I do?

I was a woman who slid down a hill on the lid of a trash can. I did not even have a toboggan or a sled. But Sid was nothing if not patient. Perhaps, he must have decided, I could be educated. I could develop an adventurous, competitive edge. We made a date for the following Saturday night.

So there I was, back in circulation. I was going to have a date. Just the word sent an unpleasant sensation up my spine. It carried with it a long, anguishing history of major disenchantment—alternating with minor disenchantment—from which, now that I thought about it, I'd never actually recovered. I'd expected by this time, you understand, to be living a rather peaceful and civilized life, anticipating the simple comforts of prunes and Polident. Now I was in the thick of it again.

I suppose it wasn't an atypical experience for a woman in my position, preparing for a blind date. Still, it had been twenty-two years since I'd last had a blind date, twenty-two years since I'd literally closed the door of my Cambridge apartment on the expectant tongue of a drunken bore from Harvard Business School at three in the morning.

Yet, as I ran around the neighborhood last Saturday afternoon, borrowing jewelry from my friends and soliciting advice, the years fell away, and all the attendant horrors of blind dating returned.

Only my roommate had changed since the days I set my hair in brush rollers and marinated in Sardo. It occurred to me, in occasional fits of anguish, that Annie and I were living the same life. We ate the same dinner at the same time and received the same messages. That is, no messages. He who preferred to remain anonymous would call back. I found myself listening to lectures I once delivered on the callowness of not leaving one's name. These were the words I swallowed along with the rest of my dinner—while pondering the possibilities, and inquiring casually (for a mother can never be too cool) as to the particular nature of what's-his-name's voice. I hadn't even met what's-his-name yet, who turned out, of course, to be Sid, and already Annie was walking around saying, “Emily Pomerantz. Hmm. That's not a bad name.”

There were obstacles to overcome, though, before Mr. Pomerantz and I could get married. As I approached the bewitching hour, I began to worry not only about my appearance, but about the appearance of the house. Try looking at your environment through someone else's eyes, and insecurity abounds. I wanted to create the impression not merely of looking like a certain kind of person, but of
being
a certain kind of person, all because I was given to understand that
he
was a certain kind of person. As I've pointed out, the odds were bad. There were supposedly eight other women competing for this man.

All of which meant that I had to do something at once about that huge crack in the wall above the mantle. To us, it had been a cozy level of disrepair that we had come to accept, even appreciate, in our house as well as in each other.

Suddenly I had to get rid of it. I didn't want to appear to be the sort of person who didn't take care of things any more than I wanted to appear to be the sort of person who didn't take care of her body, who let herself go. I moved the vase of irises from the center of the mantle to the end of the mantle, where the crack was. It gave the room a casual, unself-conscious, if disturbingly asymmetrical, look.

Then I noticed the books on the bookshelves. A couple of them were reference books that had little numbers on the bindings, books that I had never returned to my college library. Not wanting to appear sloppy or disorganized, I tossed them, along with the carpenter's level and the hammer that I'd neglected to put away weeks before, into the chest that I'd been using to store Christmas ornaments and blankets. The little secret was safe so long as he didn't open the chest.

Next, I took the Linda Ronstadt record off the turntable and replaced it with
The Marriage of Figaro
, figuring on the strength of instinct that he was less a popular-music fan than a classical-music fan. Then, in deference to our telephone interview, I left the children's tennis rackets plainly in view. (If he had little in common with me, he might at least, as a selling point, have something in common with them.) By the time the doorbell rang, everything that could possibly be offensive had been removed. An exception might have been made for Dickens. (I didn't know if he was an animal person.)

I answered the doorbell with an optimism borne of confidence. I had dressed simply but elegantly. My hair, having done nothing to betray me, bounced buoyantly like the locks in a shampoo ad. I looked as terrific as I was ever going to look, and Annie, fortunately, was not around to tell me that I could have doubled as the headmistress of a girls' boarding school. Sid would be pleased.

What I had neglected to consider in this whole process, despite the odds, was this: What would please
me
?

The man could not have been nicer, if overly proud of his car, a red BMW convertible, which purchase I imagine was the result of a middle-aged testosterone rush. At least it hugs the road at 75 mph, which is more than I can say for my neck. I'm glad the top wasn't down. I'd have looked like Shirley MacLaine in
Terms of Endearment
, after her hair-raising ride with Jack Nicholson.

We had dinner in Chinatown, where I stunned him with my voracious appetite, which he accepted graciously, even appreciatively, as “amazing.” I have to say, it's nice to go to dinner with someone whose first words upon sitting down aren't, “How about splitting an appetizer?”

Nevertheless, “Emily Pomerantz” is not to be. I couldn't say why, exactly, but there's a sadness in his face that I sense is bone-deep. We said good night awkwardly, with a handshake. As he drove off, I wondered just what you say when you're certain, beyond any doubt, that this will not go anywhere, ever; that your feelings do not warrant a second date. What is the best way to convey that?

Trust Harvey to come up with the answer. “You say, ‘I'm pregnant by my father, and we've decided to keep the child.'”

FEBRUARY 14

Valentine's Day, a day of cinnamon hearts and lace, sweets and sweethearts. I peruse the personals, searching for something that speaks to me, something singularly appropriate, like this:

Single male—with crow's feet, “passion handles,” and rapidly receding hairline—who has been known to get winded flossing his teeth, seeks female counterpart. If you are a self-proclaimed “true centerfold,” a “fiery brunette,” a “Dolly Parton-type blonde,” a “Vanna White lookalike” or a “warm, vital, vivacious vixen” with great legs who combines beauty and brains, or are, in any manner of speaking, a perfect “10,” you have no business answering this ad.

Respondents should be cuddly without being well-endowed and be able to claim at least a few wrinkles and gray hairs. Nice legs acceptable; varicosities and spider vines preferred, plus a healthy supply of cellulite. You should have a nice, warm smile, but periodic periodontal difficulties are acceptable. Anyone under doctor's orders to “keep moving” has an edge. The prescription can be used as a metaphor for life.

FEBRUARY 15

Nina showed up late yesterday afternoon, just as the sun was going down and taking my spirits with it. I opened the door with my customary enthusiasm, expecting to see a meter reader, and there she was, standing proudly, almost officially, like a messenger from Western Union in six inches of melting snow and smiling broadly as she extended her arm, presenting me with a gorgeous piece of heart-shaped mocha cake.

Nina. My valentine. Women and the art of friendship.

MARCH 4

Is it possible to have an illicit relationship with your husband? I ask because it is a bit bizarre, running into you at parties, and having these flirtatious little moments with you, hanging around in doorways, exchanging meaningful glances over the rims of our wine glasses. If I didn't know anything about you, I'd be intrigued. I'd go home and call Nina, tell her in weighted, breathy tones that I'd
met someone
.

In fact, that sort of sexy, fifty-something woman with the gray hair, the violinist who lives in your building, asked me whether I knew you. She seemed interested. I said you were my husband. “Ohh,” she said, her eyes following you around the room as we spoke. “We're separated,” I said.

Her head spun back in my direction. “Really?” She was fascinated, less by you than by the fact that we were friendly enough to be at the same party. She thought there was something rather exceptional, even admirable, about that. Maybe the word she was looking for was “civilized.” No “Correspondent,” no third party, just two nice people who like each other, even love each other, but want different things and so don't live together, but flirt—on a good day, when they're not feeling angry or hurt.

I said I
would
be intrigued. Except that I know what this is all about. We're off-limits to each other now, and interested because of that. Are we suddenly going to be like other couples, who fall into bed when the husband comes over on Saturday to fix the garage door? I don't know why we should be any different; I just know that I want to be. Forgive me, but I see it as so much masculine maneuvering.
I can still bed her
, that kind of thing. I have actually heard those words. Yes, it takes two to participate. Usually, one is vulnerable, the other horny.

MARCH 15

About my birthday. I was touched that you called to ask whether I'd had a nice time. It was truly one of those occasions that filled me with a sense of being lucky, and rich. I find my friends more reassuring than anything I can name, not because they say sweet and flattering things to me, but because they don't. They're absolutely straight—and generous and funny and kind. Harvey made me the most exquisite garland of wildflowers and grasses. All night, I wore my garland and drank champagne and felt like a vision from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. I felt secure and safe and loved. It was hard to leave. The party was a reminder that, in spite of much evidence to the contrary, I am capable of doing something right. I have chosen these people to be my friends.

On the way home, my car loaded with the little treasures that only people who know you well would think of, I thought of you. I wanted you to have what I have, wished you had had the time, or taken the time, to cultivate more close friendships. I'm alone, but I'm not lonely. It seems to me that you are lonely, and that is the difference between the lives we are making for ourselves. It's a difference that hurts me. It's not what I want for you, and though it isn't for me to say, I don't think it's what you want for yourself, either. And yet the decisions you make set you apart, and alone. Years ago, Harvey told me people really do get what they want. A simple, truthful statement on the surface. I'm still trying to understand how it works.

p.s. The other night when I stopped by with some of your books, I noticed an envelope on your desk. The handwriting was unmistakable: You'd had a letter from Esther. I didn't bother to mention it at the time, but I'd been wondering about Esther. I sent her a book for Christmas, but never heard anything from her. Now I know why. She's your friend, I mean that's the way it seems to have divided up. I got Nina and Stephen and Harvey and June. You got Esther. That's nice, I thought. I can afford to let go of Esther. It isn't that I won't miss her; I will. I'd miss her just for the books. She always found the greatest books, slightly bizarre, the characters on some kind of an edge, like
Housekeeping
. For some reason, I could never get into the last few that she has sent us, the Annie Dillard, for instance, or the Isak Dinesen. Ask her how she liked the Fay Weldon book I sent,
The Life and Loves of a She-Devil
.

APRIL 5

How long did you think it would be before Nancy would say something? A secret of that magnitude, and you confided in Nancy, a.k.a. Gossip Central, before you told me. The woman is a walking bumper sticker. All I had to do was mention that I'd noticed when I went to your apartment that you'd had a letter from Esther. “I think it's really nice that Nick is corresponding with Esther,” was what I said.

Nancy leapt at the opening.
“Well,”
she said. “You'll have to ask Nick about Esther.”

So I took her up on it. And now I know about Esther. But it was Nancy's moment in the sun, all right. She basked like a snake on a riverbank, her tongue flicking at the opportunity as though it were a fly.

As the messenger, Nancy's an easy target. Nancy, my former best friend, Nancy, who disguised her essential misery with her immense charm. She never forgave me for not being fat.