Husbands and Other Sharp Objects Read online

  “Is your boyfriend around, Mom?”

  I hadn’t ever thought of Jon as a boyfriend. I hadn’t thought about what to call him. I was sure he had a word to describe us.

  “He’s here,” I said.

  I smiled at Jon. He smirked, up-to-the-minute on the gist of the conversation.

  “You know what?” Amanda said. “I just peeked out, and there’s so much snow. Snow the first week of April, so New England. I think I’ll stay in,” she said, and added her good-bye.

  When I hung up, I realized that I was relieved she didn’t want to meet Jon. I wasn’t ready for it.

  “So she doesn’t want to come over, because I’m here,” Jon said, resigned.

  “I’m sorry. But I have to say I don’t think it would be enjoyable.”

  “Why? Isn’t Amanda delightful? Doesn’t she take after her mother?”

  “Actually, she’s more like her father. By the way, she referred to you as my boyfriend.”

  “I am your boyfriend.”

  “You are?” I said, touching his face on my way to the fridge. “In high school, I wanted a boyfriend so badly.”

  “You didn’t have a boyfriend in high school?” he said. His voice had a tone of disbelief, which made me feel good about myself.

  “I went on one date,” I said, taking ice cream from the freezer. The half gallon had three flavors. Jon liked strawberry. I preferred vanilla. We shared the chocolate. If that wasn’t the makings of a great relationship, what was?

  “His name was Arturo, but I had to tell my parents his name was Arthur so they wouldn’t know he wasn’t Jewish.”

  “What was he?” he said, enjoying the story.

  “He was Italian and Catholic. I grew up in a diverse area of Queens. Everyone in my neighborhood was either an Orthodox Jew, a Conservative Jew, or an Italian.”

  “So, what happened?”

  I spooned out the ice cream and walked over with his bowl and the can of whipped cream. I squirted some on his nose.

  “We went to a diner and to the movies, but all I could think about was how I had lied and put one over on my parents. I was guilt-ridden and had a rotten time. When we returned to my house, he tried to kiss me on the stoop. My mother blinked the porch light on and off, on and off.”

  He went over to the switch and turned the six-bulb light over the kitchen table on and off.

  “Just like that.”

  “Wow. That’s chutzpah.”

  “When it came to me, she had no barriers. I don’t even think there was an embryonic sac. I hear her all the time. Right now, she’s saying, ‘That’s how you talk about your own mother?’ Anyway, when the light started blinking, I went into the house. My father was reading the newspaper in the living room in his Archie Bunker chair. He called me in. He rolled the New York Daily News into something you would hit someone with. He held it in his right hand and said, ‘Don’t ever date a non-Jew again.’”

  “That’s amazing,” Jon said.

  “Downright chilling,” I said. “Except once I had a kid of my own, I got it. My parents wanted what they thought was best for me. Besides, back then, people were so xenophobic. My friend Caterina was Italian American, and her parents wouldn’t let her see a boy whose parents were from a different region of Italy.”

  “Well, I’m Jewish, and I would have asked you out in high school.”

  “You lived in Portland, Maine,” I said, enjoying the vanilla ice cream.

  “I would have come to Queens. You could have taken me to see the Mets.”

  I thought about how wonderful that would have been to go with Jon to see the Mets, to run into everyone from high school, to introduce him as though I had boyfriends all the time.

  He stood. “I have to get going. I have a ton of student essays to read by tomorrow.”

  “So which great novel are these essays about?”

  “Philip Roth, American Pastoral.”

  “I love that book. It proves my most time-tested theory.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Your children will do you in.”

  “Not fair. There are lots of novels in which the parents do the children in.”

  “Yes, but in literature, the children usually rise above that. Speaking of books,” I said, “how about a first sentence?”

  “Name your book.”

  “Moby-Dick.”

  “A whale of a good choice,” he kidded. “Now let me see.”

  “Oh, come on. Even I know that one. ‘Call me Ishmael.’”

  “Aha, but there’s an epigraph preceding those three words. ‘The pale Usher—threadbare in coat, heart, body, and brain, I see him now.’”

  “Is there anything you don’t know?” I asked, staring at him in wonder.

  I went to the closet for his ski jacket. A Connecticut Lottery ticket fell from the pocket to the floor. He was standing right next to me, so we both bent over to pick it up. We looked at each other and smiled, as though doing the same thing at the same time was a good omen about our relationship.

  “Trying to win the lottery?” I said.

  “I’ve already won,” he said, pulling me close.

  Then to my delight, he threw out a first sentence.

  “It was then I knew that she was the one.”

  “What’s that from?”

  “Nothing. I just made it up.”

  He kissed me good-bye. I wanted him to stay. What if I had met him when I was young?

  Chapter 4

  On Friday, Amanda showed up at the house. She was dressed in all black—pants, long-sleeve shirt, and boots. She wore black sunglasses.

  “I’ve never seen you in a total blackout,” I said.

  “I’m making a statement. I no longer wear colors. I wear black, cream, or white.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted something signature. You should try it. It makes you feel very gallant and decisive.”

  “I might just do that. Black, cream, or white for me.”

  “Can’t you pick your own colors?” she said as she pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

  “Not really. You took all the good ones. I can’t make my signature color chartreuse. I live in Connecticut.”

  “You could do green and navy,” she said. “I’d love a drink, by the way. Do you have Wild Turkey?”

  “Wild Turkey for you, Grey Goose for me. I adore the animal kingdom.” As I went to the liquor cabinet, I said, “So, tell me about Jake.”

  “He was going to Seattle for a deposition, and Dad gave him my number.”

  “I got all that at the airport.”

  Amanda reminded me of that World War II sign, “Loose Lips Sink Ships.”

  “Does Jake get to Seattle much?” I asked.

  “He came west twice, but I’ve visited him in Connecticut maybe four times.”

  She was in Connecticut without calling me? I didn’t say a word. The hardest part of being a mother is keeping your mouth shut.

  “I would have called, but we were . . . you know. Just to be fair, I didn’t call Dad either.”

  Now I felt better.

  “I have some incredible news,” she said. “I’ve been offered a new position.”

  “Nordstrom is promoting you?”

  “No. I’m going to a start-up. Retail Rebellion. I’ll be vice president.”

  “I don’t know of it,” I said, trying not to act disappointed. She was leaving a major retailer to take a job at a company I had never heard of. My mother’s voice came to me: “Tell her to stay at Nordstrom—they’re so nice there. Once, I returned a pair of shoes I had worn for two years.”

  “Like I said, it’s a start-up. We’ll be selling similar lines but at just 10 percent above wholesale. That’s the retail rebellion. And, of course, it’s all online.”

  “It sounds like taking a chance,” I said tentatively. I was into brick and mortar. Strolling through real stores—department, specialty, and my favorite, grocery—was therapeutic for me.

  �
�Mom, do you see why I don’t tell you things? Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she said, exuding confidence.

  I wasn’t convinced, but I wasn’t in the retail business. I was just married to it.

  “Right now, retail establishments, especially large department stores, are floundering.”

  “But Nordstrom is solid.”

  “Guess where the office will be when we start everything?” Clearly, she had decided to move forward in the conversation.

  “I hope you’re not moving to Hong Kong.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Connecticut.”

  I jumped out of my seat. “Oh, that’s fabulous! I love your new job. Don’t even think twice about taking it.”

  “Excellent opportunity!” my mother cheered from heaven.

  “When do you start?” I asked.

  “Not until we have space. When I tell my boss that I’m leaving, she’ll ask where I’m going, and when she hears to a fashion start-up, my bonsai plant will be in a carton outside my office door.”

  I no longer cared if it was a Retail Rebellion or a Wholesale War. “Do you want to stay with me until you find an apartment? I would love the company.”

  “I’ll be living with Jake.”

  That was fast, I thought. It’s nice to meet you. Let’s live together. I tried not to raise an eyebrow, but it’s a natural reflex of being a mother.

  “Another reason this opportunity is perfect,” Amanda said.

  She had lived with other men, including Arnold the Famous Producer. And some other nut named Cody, who sniffed her sweaters when she was gone. I have no idea how she found that out.

  “In fact,” she continued excitedly, “we’re going to have dinner with Jake’s parents the Friday night after next. They’re flying in from Wisconsin.”

  “Who is ‘we’re’?”

  “Jake, me, his parents, Dad, and you.”

  “That sounds great. Let me check my calendar.” I reached for my phone to look. “I’m sorry. I’m going to the theater that Friday night,” I replied, without considering the import of the invitation—that if Jake’s parents were flying in to meet us, things were serious. “Can’t do it.”

  “I knew you were going to cause a problem,” Amanda said as her face dropped. “What’s the story? You don’t want to be with Dad?”

  Here we go, I thought. “Not at all. I just have tickets.”

  She rolled her eyes. She frowned. She pouted.

  I imagined her pretending to pull her hair out, which was what she did as a kid when she’d had enough of me. Brat.

  “Tickets to Hamilton,” I stressed. “Candy and I bought them months ago. Can’t we make it another night?”

  She waved her arms like wings. “They’re flying in. Don’t start a revolution, Mom. It’s Hamilton. Candy can find someone else in the world who’s willing to see Hamilton.”

  “Of course. But I want to go. I don’t know when we’ll be able to get tickets again.”

  “What’s more important? A dead Founding Father or me?”

  “I just don’t understand why it has to be that day.”

  “You’re the only one who can’t make it.”

  Yes, and I am sure I was the only one who wasn’t asked about the date in advance.

  “This is very important to me,” she said.

  “Amanda, let me think about it.”

  “You have no idea what a big deal this is. His mother doesn’t like to fly. If we alter the date and cancel the plane tickets, she may never come.”

  “Hasn’t she been to Connecticut to visit him?”

  “No. Never.”

  I stood and poured more vodka with orange juice. I noticed the date on the juice cap. Best if consumed by three weeks ago.

  “Are you listening?” Amanda said in the same voice I would have used when my children were in grade school. Maybe I was better off when she was sneaking into town to see her boyfriend and not telling me she was around.

  That night, I took the theater ticket from my desk and reviewed it. Seat C8. I was third row, center. I hated to give up my seat, but maybe this Amanda thing was some big deal. If it was, I didn’t want to miss it. Furthermore, my separation from that rat bastard Harvey—although it was totally his fault—had done a lot of damage to my family already.

  True, our three kids were grown-ups, people with their own lives, but I knew the situation was difficult for them. It was hardest for Amanda, who idolized her father. Worse, she had always believed I was an impediment to anything smart she wanted to do—including getting into cars with college boys when she was sixteen. The divorce volcano had erupted, and I didn’t want to be the obvious cause of repercussions.

  Like any mother in the history of motherhood, I was into martyrdom. I thought about other mothers who’d sacrificed for their children. Recently, I read in the paper about a young mom in California who got a flat tire. With her twins in the back seat, she stopped the car near the edge of a cliff. The car began to roll forward. Her brakes wouldn’t work. She pumped frantically, then raced out of the car and dashed to the front grill to push it back, to save her children.

  The moral of the story was if I could surrender the last slice of life-changing banana cake from Sweet Heaven Bakery because my son, Ben, was two and a half and whining, “Me want it,” I could give up a ticket to Hamilton.

  The following day, I promised to meet Amanda at the health club. I could use some exercise. I drove to the front door of the gym, looking for a spot. Nothing. Cars were jammed together. I couldn’t believe it. I had to park in another lot. I’d be exhausted before I showed my gym pass.

  Finally, I found Amanda and claimed the treadmill next to hers.

  “I had to park at Trader Joe’s,” I said.

  “Mom, Trader Joe’s is next door.”

  “How much exercise do I need in one morning?”

  I walked three miles per hour, zero incline, as Amanda ran a mountain. She was perspiring so much, the front of her sleeveless T-shirt was soaked. Admiring her determination, I decided to intensify my speed to four miles an hour. I would’ve upped the incline as well, but I was too young to die.

  She turned her head to look at me. “Way to go, Mom.”

  I could feel myself beaming through my sweat.

  “That was great,” I said, huffing as we stepped off and headed to the lockers.

  “Is that the fastest you ever went?” she asked.

  “I think it was.”

  “So, did you decide between the American Revolution and me?”

  I took a breath. “I’ll be at the dinner.”

  “You could sound happier about it,” she said.

  Kids—sacrifice wasn’t enough. You had to be happy about your sacrifice. Yes. I will tear down the twelve-foot electrified fence with my bare hands so you can have a better life in America. But that’s not all. When the shocks course through me, and my body looks like a twisted rag, I will smile.

  I decided to tell her how I felt. Ever since the separation, I had made a pact with myself to speak more forthrightly to my family and friends. It was hard for me to do.

  “I’m not happy with this situation,” I said.

  This was a big statement for me. When the words “I’m not happy” came out of my mouth, I was proud. Good for you, Marcy, I thought. Good for you. Progress.

  “You need to ask before you plan something like a dinner party and assume I am available.”

  “Since when?” she said.

  “That’s enough, Amanda. The next time tickets are available to Hamilton, I’ll be the oldest living woman in America—stone deaf and blind and unable to control my bladder for two hours.”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” she said as we entered the locker room.

  “How’s that?”

  “I’ll get two tickets to Hamilton—one for you and one for me.”

  “See you in the next century,” I said.

  Amanda laughed. Of course she laughed. She had bulldozed me, a talent she had inherited from h
er father.

  “Where will the dinner be?” I asked.

  “Mad Maestro. Dad loves Mad Maestro.”

  We sat on the benches to remove our sneakers, T-shirts, and shorts. “Amanda, I have some news of my own,” I said. “I’m thinking of moving out of the house.”

  “You can’t move out of the house. It’s our house,” she said adamantly as she unhooked her sports bra.

  “It is, but I am the only one living there,” I said, thinking how she returned home about four times a year for three days at a time. And how with this visit, she was staying at Jake’s.

  “True, but I like coming home to that house. It gives me comfort.”

  She was my tough kid, and I’d never thought of her as a child who needed much comfort. But okay.

  “Elisabeth and Ben will be very down on this. Elisabeth was annoyed when you asked her to clean out her room.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about it.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “To a smaller place.”

  “Is that to punish yourself?”

  “Amanda, you have to understand that things have changed.”

  “Exactly. So we shouldn’t change any more things,” she said, walking off in a towel to the shower.

  Several days later, after Amanda had returned to Seattle, I followed Dana’s advice. She had been correct at lunch. If my heart was set on moving to the yellow house, I needed to talk to Harvey first. I thought it best to do this in person, so I called and asked pleasantly whether we could meet.

  “When?” he asked. I could feel over the phone that he was smiling in the face of what he thought would be an immense opportunity.

  “Now?” I said.

  “Where are you?”

  “In Atherton. Near Starbucks.”

  “Great. I was headed out for bras.”

  Harvey was the Bra King. He had a chain of lingerie stores as well as a wholesale business based in Connecticut that took him around the world. His business, which was started by his great-grandmother, was called Bountiful Bosom. Recently, in an effort to sound contemporary, Harvey had shortened the name to Bountiful. This was something I had been suggesting for years, but Harvey only made the change when it was recommended by an advertising agency. A lot of our relationship had worked that way. If I said the sky was blue, he would call in a consultant.