Val had laughed. “You look at a calendar. So to speak.” Then her face had grown serious and she’d said, “Irene, try to look at this objectively. It’s a good thing for Sadie to grow up! Won’t it be kind of nice to have the place all to yourself? If you want a little afternoon delight, no problem. You can turn on all the lights in the middle of the night. You can play all your music all the time. If you don’t want to shop for groceries, you won’t have to. You won’t have to cook.”
“I like to cook!” Irene had said.
“Fine. Make ten thousand cookies to send to the dorm. Irene, Sadie is going to leave you, no matter how you feel about it. Don’t make her feel guilty about what should be a really exuberant time of her life. She’s going to college! Be proud of her! Be glad she’s grown into such a lovely and responsible young woman! She’s ready to be on her own! Trust her!”
“Yeah, you can say that, Valerie. Because when your kids went off, you weren’t left alone.”
“That’s true,” Valerie had said. “Still. You’ve always tried so hard to be a good mother, Irene. Don’t stop now.”
Now Irene throws her napkin onto her plate. “All right, Sadie. Go rock climbing. But would you …? I would like you to call me when you get to the top. And then when you’re down again.”
“Mom.”
“I mean it. I don’t care how weird it makes you feel that you have to call your mother. Find a way to do it.”
“Okay.”
Irene signals for the check. She crosses her arms, imagining Sadie clinging to a toehold, having lost her footing, someone above her saying, “Hang on!” Then she imagines Sadie standing up on a bluff, looking out over a view so beautiful it makes her chest hurt. “Maybe I’ll try rock climbing,” she says.
“Yeah, okay, Mom.”
“So … how was Dad?”
“Good. Great.”
“Is he … Is he okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just … generally. Is his work going well? Is he happy?” How does he look? Is he seeing anyone? Did he ask about me? Did you tell him anything about me?
“Yeah. Dad’s always happy.”
Sadie’s phone rings, and she ignores it, not easily.
“We can go,” Irene says. “Auntie Vee’s coming over.”
“I’m going out,” Sadie says quickly.
But Irene already knows. What else do you do when you’re eighteen, have been away from home for a while, and have just gotten back? Go out again. See your friends. She remembers some things.
After they get home, Sadie throws her bags into her room, tells her mother she’s going over to Meghan’s, and all but runs out the door. A few minutes later, Valerie arrives. “So what’s the crisis?” she asks, and Irene goes into the kitchen and takes down the extra-large martini glasses.
“Uh-oh,” Valerie says, slipping into one of the benches at the banquette. “You said minor crisis.”
“Don’s gone back to his wife.”
“Jeez. That was fast.”
“Well, you know what? Actually? Not fast enough.”
Valerie says nothing at first, just sits watching Irene make the drinks. But then she very quietly says, “Are you okay?” and Irene says, “Yeah!” in a self-evident way, as though Valerie had just asked if people had noses.
Irene puts their drinks on the table and sits heavily on her side of the banquette. She and Val clink glasses, and sit drinking, each lost in her own thoughts.
Then Irene says, “I’m …” Her voice is tremulous. “I’m just …”
Valerie nods. “I know.” She reaches across the table to lightly squeeze her friend’s arm.
“And I’ve been listening to Ray LaMontagne.”
“Oh, no.”
“You know the part in ‘Jolene’ where he says, ‘Still don’t know what love means’? I still don’t know what love means, Val.”
“Yes you do. And haven’t I told you a million times not to listen to Ray LaMontagne when you’re sad?”
“Well, in full disclosure, I listened to Lucinda Williams, too.”
“Oh, my God. I hope you had suicide prevention on speed dial.” Valerie’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh. Oh, Irene, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I said that.”
“It’s okay.”
“… Can I ask you something? Do you ever think about her?”
“My mother?”
Valerie nods.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“What do you think about?”
“I think about a lot of things: how she looked, things she said. Times she was actually tender to me; she used to cut my cinnamon toast into the most perfect little triangles. But mostly I wonder how she felt when she went out to the garage that day. I wonder how it sat in her that she wouldn’t be coming back in. It must have been the loneliest feeling in the world.”
“So you forgive her.”
“Yes. I forgive her. I learned a long time ago that the bargain she must have struck that day was between her and something much bigger than me or my father or the life she lived with us. She was a woman who could neither give nor accept love. It must have made being here awfully hard.
“Anyway. Ray and Lucinda. Ray and Lucinda! I like to listen to sad music when I’m sad. It seems honest. It makes me cry, and sometimes a good cry is the only thing that can make you feel better. But you know, it’s not even that I’m sad so much as … I feel like I’m too old, suddenly, for so many things I guess I thought I’d have forever. I’m just, you know, tired. You know what I mean? Not in my body. In my heart.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Plus, I’m a little mortified.”
“Yeah, I know you are.”
“Why do I keep doing this, Val? Why do I keep trying to find someone?”
“Because you don’t want to be alone.”
“Yes I do,” Irene says. “I do now. I’m done. There is no hope. I’m worn-out. Used up. My body is a freak show.” She drains her glass. “I’m having another martini. You?”
“No, I’d better not. I … Oh, all right. Might as well. I’ve gone this far. I’m starting to lose feeling in the roof of my mouth. Now I’ll have to take a cab home. I hope I get a nice driver and not one of those hostile ones.” She hands her glass to Irene, then says, “And your body is not a freak show.”
“It is,” Irene says. “And so is yours.”
“It is not!”
Irene says nothing. Takes a big sip of her drink, then another. Then, “Let me see it,” she says.
“See what?”
“Your body.”
“You’ve seen my body a million times.”
“Not lately. Not for years.”
“Well, I’m not showing it to you. Really, Irene!”
“Seriously, Valerie, I need to see another older woman’s body. Compare and contrast. I’ll bet Don went back to his wife because of my body.”
Valerie rolls her eyes.
“Come on,” Irene says. “I just want to see if I’m normal.”
“Fine. You show me your body, and I’ll tell you if you’re normal.”
“How will you know?”
“How will you? And anyway, if you want to see naked women, just go to any gym’s locker room.”
“Valerie. I don’t belong to a gym, you know that. Every time I join a gym, I go six days in a row and then never again. I hate gyms. They’re evil. They’re like Las Vegas. I mean, they’re going to win: you’ll pay, but you won’t go. They know that. If everybody who paid went to the gym, there’d be no room. I’ll bet for every person there, there are fifty who never come. Or a hundred!”
“Okay, Irene. Calm down.”
Irene takes in a breath, stares out into space. Then, “How about this,” she says. “Let’s both take our clothes off and just be really, really honest with each other. Although for you it won’t count.”
“Why not.?”
“Because you’re married.”
“Just because I’m married doesn’t mean I don
’t care about my body!”
“I didn’t say you didn’t care about it. But you don’t have to use it. Sexually.”
“Of course I do!”
“You don’t have to use it to attract.”
“Again. Of course I do.”
“Yeah, but not like I have to.”
Valerie considers this. “True,” she says.
“So get undressed.”
Valerie looks around the kitchen. “You mean … Here?”
Irene goes to the window and shuts the blinds. Then she goes back to the banquette to sit down. Drums her fingers on the table. Raises her eyebrows.
“I’m not going first,” Valerie says.
“Well, I’m not, either.”
“It was your idea!”
“Yeah, but you’re married.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Valerie takes another drink, then stands and takes off her top and her skirt, her tights. “I can’t believe I’m doing this! I’m leaving my underwear on. I am not taking my underwear off.”
Irene leans back and appraises her friend. “What kind of bra is that?”
“Chantelle.”
“Nice. Looks like it gives good support.”
“It ought to, with what it costs.”
“I’d pay a lot for a bra like that.”
“So go and get one.”
“I will. But take it off. And your underpants, too.”
“Irene. No.”
“But I can’t see really important stuff!”
Valerie puts her hands on her hips. “Like …?”
“Like if you’d trip over your boobs without your fancy bra or if you’re thinned out down there. You know? I mean, I look positively denuded!”
Valerie stands thinking, then clasps her arms and shivers. “It’s cold in here.”
“Only if you don’t have clothes on.”
“This is ridiculous.” Valerie pulls her tights back on, her skirt and top. “I have to leave soon.”
“That’s okay. I saw what I needed to.”
“What?” Valerie slides back into the banquette. “What did you see?”
Silence.
“Irene. What did you see?”
“I saw, Valerie, that you have no petechiae. Which means I’m not sure we can be friends any longer.”
“What the hell is petechiae?”
“They’re these gross little red spots. Something about the integrity of your blood vessels being compromised when you age. They’re on my boobs and my stomach. Little red spots.”
“Let me see.”
“No. It’s gross.”
“I showed you my body!”
“Some of it.”
“So show me some of yours!”
“Fine!” Irene leaps up and removes all her clothing. “There!” she says. “There it is! All of it! See? I’m horrible. Tell me the truth, I’m horrible, aren’t I?”
“Oh, Irene.”
“What?”
“You’re not horrible.”
“Well, I’m certainly not attractive. Am I?” She spins around in a clumsy circle, then, a little dizzy, sits back down in the banquette across from her friend. “Ew. This leather feels weird against bare skin.”
“It’s leather?” Valerie says. “I thought it was vinyl.”
“Oh, right,” Irene says. “It’s fake leather. But it still feels weird.” She stands up and starts to get dressed, hoping Valerie will find something to praise, something that, up until now, Irene herself has not seen, or noticed, or understood was attractive. But what her friend says is, “Sweetheart. This is not the time of our bodies.” Her voice is sad.
Irene stands there, her white cotton, waist-high panties in her hand like a flag of surrender.
“I mean … Don’t you keep the lights off, anyway?” Valerie says.
And then, alarmed, they both turn to the sound of the front door opening. “Forgot something!” Sadie calls out and comes into the kitchen to find her mother holding a pile of clothes up against her naked body.
“Whoa.”
“Hi, Sadie,” Valerie says.
“Hey.”
“We’re just comparing bodies.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. I gotta get my phone, I forgot it. See you.”
Neither woman moves until Sadie goes out again. Then Irene dresses silently. When she sits at the table again, she says, “Well, there you go. Eight weeks of income for some therapist, easily.”
“I don’t think so,” Valerie says.
“Really?”
“I don’t think she cared.”
“Really?”
“You know what it’s like when you’re that age. You don’t think of anyone but yourself.”
“If I were eighteen and came home and found my mom naked in the kitchen with her best friend, I’d care plenty.”
“So you’ll tell her later what we were doing. She’ll get it. She’s a good kid.”
Irene sighs. “I know she is. Hey, she’s going rock climbing for a whole weekend, unchaperoned. What do you think?”
“I think it’s great.”
Irene says nothing, but her face says, Wrong answer.
“Do you remember what you were doing at eighteen?” Val asks.
“Probably still playing with dolls.”
“Noooo. As I recall it, you were screwing the drummer in that awful band every hour of every day.”
“Not every hour of every day.”
“Well, it sure seemed like it.”
“It was a different time. Not so dangerous. And sex was … it was like a handshake.
“You know, I’d play dolls now if anyone would play with me. Want to play dolls?”
“Nah. Paper dolls, I’d play. Because I’m only interested in changing their outfits. Remember those little hats paper dolls had, with the slits you put over their heads?”
“You can change outfits on real dolls, too.”
“Too much work. I liked the tabs. Easy on, easy off.” Valerie looks at her watch. “Listen, I have to go. Forget about Don. You’ll write one of your dopey ads and be seeing someone in a week. I just wish you’d write a real ad, sometime.”
“I do write real ads!”
“No, you write facetious ads because it’s so hard for you to say anything serious when you feel something deeply. And also so, if you get hurt, you can say, ‘Ha, I didn’t mean it anyway.’ ”
“Thank you, Dr. Val. Will we be seeing you on the Oprah Winfrey Network soon?”
“It’s true that you do that! And as long as I’m being Dr. Val, don’t worry about Sadie. She doesn’t have to listen to you anymore, anyway. Legally, I mean.”
“I know. Don’t tell her.”
“Believe me, she knows. And you know what else? You need to let her do some serious hating on you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she needs to feel free to hate you. Otherwise, she’ll never free herself from you.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say. You have sons.”
“Well, sons do it, too! My sons had to hate me so they could leave and grow up. And they still hate me sometimes. They really hurt my feelings, sometimes! I’ve told you about stuff they’ve done. Come on, Irene. You know that’s the way it goes. Kids are cruel to their parents. You did it, too. When your father used to come and visit, you’d be mean to him, if not in deed, then in thought. Then after he left, you’d be racked with guilt because you loved him.”
“Who said I was so mean to him?”
“You did!”
“Well.”
“I have to go, hon.”
“I know.”
Valerie comes over to Irene and hugs her. “Oh, buck up, bucky, things aren’t so bad.”
“Yeah. Thanks for coming over. And for the burlesque show.”
Irene watches from the kitchen window as Valerie walks down the sidewalk and rounds the corner. She dumps out the remains of both her and Valerie’s glasses. Turns on the TV and walks away from it. It’s only the sound she wants,
the illusion that someone is in the next room.
At nine-thirty, Irene climbs into bed and opens the cookbook Henry Bliss assigned her to read. She’s to pick out the most enticing-sounding appetizers and make copies of the recipes. “Make sure they’re exotic and beautiful!” he told her. That’s what he always tells her. Last time she gave him recipes, he held one up between two fingers and far away from himself, as though it were not only distasteful but malodorous. “Pizza loaf?” he said. “I ask for elegant appetizers, and you bring me a recipe for pizza loaf?”
“I tried it!” Irene said. “It’s good! And it has pesto and tapenade! Isn’t that a little exotic?”
Henry said, “Irene. Everyone in San Francisco knows about pesto and tapenade. They’re like salt and pepper!”
“Well, I don’t think everyone knows what tapenade is,” Irene said, and Henry closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he said, “You’re a Minnesotan. Your people just discovered that lemon juice doesn’t have to come from a green bottle. But that doesn’t mean everyone’s so benighted!”
One of these days she’s going to hand him the recipe for pigs in a blanket. For Lipton onion soup dip, which she happens to think is divine.
By the time Sadie comes home, Irene has fallen asleep with a cookbook opened to a page with a recipe for glazed tofu that calls for yuzu peel and shiso leaf and dashi kombu. She awakens to the sound of her daughter’s voice, and gets out of bed to go and stand before Sadie’s closed bedroom door. She knocks gently. She hears Sadie say, “I’ll call you back,” then, “Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah!”
Irene pushes open the door and stands there. She’s not quite sure why she’s come. Maybe she’s still asleep. “Okay,” she says. “Good night.” She starts back to her bedroom.
“Mom?”