The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 23: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2011

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I think about Zoe’s question. What do I want? I have a long and growing list of things I don’t want, like turning forty and having a fifteen-year-old cancer survivor know more about achieving happiness than I do, but my desires are harder to pinpoint. It’s more efficient to focus on need; and what I need at this moment is something to wear to Lil’s party.

I rummage around in my closet, considering and rejecting a host of blameless garments by throwing them on the bed. As the closet empties, though, I start to find treasures that I’d forgotten I owned. I slide my grandmother’s mink coat along the rail, and there, just behind it, I find the old Dior dress. The tailoring is stunning, and it occurs to me that it’s probably worth some money. I hold it out in front of me and wonder if I can still fit into it. I slip it over my head, tentatively, but it hangs in a way that assures me it’s not ridiculous to try to do it up. I have to struggle with the zipper at the waist, but not for long, and with a final tug at the nape of my neck, I turn and I examine myself in the mirror. The dress is curvier than I remembered, but no one would say it doesn’t fit. It’s womanly, for sure, but not matronly, so I dig through my accessories drawer and find a triple strand of vintage crystal beads. Then I turn my attention to my face: mascara and blush and red lipstick and some liquid liner so ancient that I’m slightly worried about its safety. And then I slide into Zoe’s shoes and fasten the straps. I’m assessing the finished product in the mirror, when I see Jesse appear behind me.

“The babysitter’s here,” he says.

He looks exhausted. I could be brittle and polite, which is my standard post-fight stance. But any residual anger I feel is overshadowed by a sickening sense of remorse. How could I have been so distracted that I failed to notice what was happening with his business? It’s like I’ve been cutting class on our marriage lately, only to be hit with a surprise quiz worth twenty percent of the final grade.

“Are we OK?” I ask.

“I honestly don’t know,” he says.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Not even a little bit,” he says, coolly. “You look very nice. Let’s try to have a good time. I’m going to call a cab.”

Our taxi pulls up in front of Lil’s house and I get out and stand for a moment on the sidewalk while Jesse pays the driver. The past feels palpable tonight, and I can almost see my twenty-two-year-old self bounding up the front stairs and reaching into my pocket for my key. I wonder what she would think of my life now. Jesse breaks my reverie. “It’s cold out here, Soph. Let’s go in.”

The door is open and we let ourselves in. The house is packed with people of all ages, most of whom I don’t recognize at all. “Do you want to take our coats upstairs?” he says. “I’ll try to find us some drinks.” He turns without meeting my eye and heads for the kitchen.

I find the coatroom at the end of the second floor hall, my old bedroom, and I hear Lil’s unmistakable voice behind me.

“Taking a trip down memory lane?”

I turn. “Hi Lil,” I say. She is radiant in silk palazzo pants and a beaded jacket.

“Come upstairs for a minute,” she says.

“I should get back to Jesse.” Will has obviously told her about our conversation, or at least the part of it that concerns her. And tonight, I’m in no condition to withstand the full onslaught of her persuasion.

“I won’t keep you long,” she promises, managing, despite my intentions, to spirit me upstairs and into her apartment.

“Have a seat,” she says, disappearing for a minute and then returning with two champagne glasses and a small bottle. “We need to toast our great victory!” We clink glasses and drink. “Thank you for your help,” she says.

“It was my pleasure,” I say, warily. “Margaret will be fabulous.”

“And are you going to stay and work with her?”

I sigh inwardly. Trust Lil to get straight to the point. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“So William told me. The Foundation job would be perfect for you, Sophie. I practically designed it for you. You need a change. What’s the obstacle?”

I hesitate. “I’d be reporting to you and Will. I have a suspicion that it might be too….close.”

“Too close to me, or too close to Will?”

I parry. “Independence is important to me,” I say.

“Hmmm.” Lil stands. “Let me show you something,” she says.

We go into her bedroom. She sits down on a bench facing the blue portrait above the bed and pats the seat next to her. I sit.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, hoping that we are talking about the painting.

“It’s a portrait of me,” she says. “It was painted in 1950, when I was twenty-two, the year before I was married.” She pauses. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

“Oh.” I can understand why. The painting is intensely intimate, and knowing that Lil is the subject makes me feel uncomfortably voyeuristic. She glances at me and continues. “I hired Isaac to give me painting lessons. He had a studio near the university and took private students to pay his expenses. He was an extraordinary talent. I insisted that he paint me.” She smiles. “He was scandalized.”

“Why?”

“My parents were well-off society people, and he was a struggling Jewish artist. He had seen much more of the world than I had. His family had been through terrible things during the war. You probably know that he changed his name to Wallace from Weinberg.” I nod. “He wanted people to notice his art, but he was a very private person. He had no appetite for defying social conventions.”

“You did?”

“I was an incurable romantic. And I was madly in love with him. I would have run off with him, happily, and turned my back on my family and all of the comforts of my life.”

“But you married Monty,” I say.

“Isaac didn’t return my feelings. He finally agreed to paint me, but that was all it was. And if I couldn’t have him, it didn’t matter to me who I married. I thought I might as well make my parents happy.” She sighs. “I was very young, although I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I thought I would feel numb for the rest of my life.”

I contemplate the raw sensuality of the figure in the painting and the lush flowers blooming behind her, in throbbing shades of red. Everywhere the canvas vibrates with passionate emotion. How could the creator have been indifferent to the subject and still have produced such a painting? “Are you sure he didn’t love you?” I say.

“No,” she says. “I’ve been looking for an answer to that question in this painting for the past sixty years.”

“And?”

“And I’ve come to the conclusion that the line between unrequited and unresolved love doesn’t matter that much. Both leave scars.”

I can see that we’re not talking just about Lil and her painter any longer. “And when you have those scars? Shouldn’t you keep your distance from the person who gave them to you? Shouldn’t you, at the very least, avoid taking a job working for him?”

“It all depends,” she says. “What if it’s the right job? If you didn’t take it, you might be giving that person just as much influence over you as you fear he would have if you took it.”

“Food for thought,” I say. My throat feels tight all of a sudden.

I stand and she does too, putting her hands gently on my shoulders and turning me so that I face the full-length mirror on the wall opposite. “I always liked that dress on you,” she says. “But it fits you better now than it did then.”

I clear my throat and try for levity. “It’s the babies,” I say. “I’m fatter now.”

“You’re a woman now,” she says. “And this is a dress for a woman, not a girl.” She squeezes my shoulder. “The past is always with us,” she says, gesturing to the painting. “But it doesn’t have to drive all of our decisions. Scars or not, you need to live your life. Shall we go back to the party?”

We walk down together to the second floor landing, and look down at guests, notably a large contingent of impossibly young-looking people who can only be Lil’s boarders and their friends. The men, having made an early start on the free alcohol, are clustered in packs, the most significant concentration being in front of the television in the den, which is now set to a football game. The women, vibrating at a much higher frequency, flutter about, cheeks flushed with champagne, tossing their hair and giggling and looking over their shoulders at the men, who are engaged far more deeply in the sport on-screen than the one playing out in the room. The mating ritual reminds me of my early anthropological studies of my roommates, and I smile. “I can see why you never tire of having tenants,” I say.

“Riveting, isn’t it?” asks Lil. “My young friends give me such a healthy perspective on life.”

Against my better judgment, I say, “That time in my life feels more present right now that it has in years. I used to say that you couldn’t pay me to relive university life. I was so anxious about the future all the time, terrified that one misstep would condemn me to a life of lonely nights watching movies in a crappy apartment, folding sweaters for a living.”

“And now?”

“And now I remember how vivid it all was – even how things smelled and tasted. I think I was more alive then.”

“That’s the hole in the middle,” says Lil.

“Sorry?”

“My cousin Eleanor used to call your stage of life ‘the donut years’. The first half of life is about getting as far away from your past as you can. And then, just when you’ve established yourself as a full-fledged adult, a hole opens up in the middle of life and the past comes rushing back in. By the time you’re my age, if you aren’t careful, the past is more real than the present.”

“What do I do?” I ask.

“You make your peace with it,” she says, and we look down at the crowd for a few moments in silence.

I look back down at the crowd and pick out a few people that I recognize: Marvin Shapiro from the Baxter, and a collection of writers, artists and actors that have been part of Lil’s circle for decades. Jesse in the thick of it, talking to Margaret, and to Will.

“Margaret’s here?” I’m a bit surprised. “That was nice of you. You wanted to welcome her to the fold?”

“Not exactly,” she says. “I’ve known Margaret for years. Marvelous woman. I just didn’t think I would mention it while the whole search business was going on.”

Not for the first time tonight, I wonder how well I know Lil. Jesse looks up and waves hesitantly.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” says Lil. “That one has been madly in love with you since the first time he laid eyes on you.”

“You think?”

“I know. Hold onto him with both hands.”

“Are you giving advice?”

“Certainly not,” she says. “I never give advice. It’s rarely useful and always boring. Now, come and meet my tenants.” We make our way down the stairs and into a crowd of young people. “Here’s my current crop, full time and itinerant,” she says merrily. “Aren’t they adorable?”

They are, too, and a couple of them blush at Lil’s gentle reference to their status as regular evening guests. “Introduce yourselves,” Lil says. “I need to do my rounds.”

I turn my attention to a young woman with a diamond stud in her nose and jet black hair that can’t possibly be natural. She holds out her hand. “Chelsea Moss. Full time, not itinerant.”

“Sophie Whelan,” I say. There’s something familiar about Chelsea’s delicate bone structure. “Moss?” I ask.

She sighs and says in a resigned tone, “You’ve met my mother?”

“Janelle?”

“That’s the one,” she says, grudgingly.

“No kidding!” I say. “You must be the one who went to Harvard.”

Chelsea snorts. “Is she still telling people that?”

“That you went to Harvard?” I ask. “Didn’t you?”

“I interviewed at Harvard. I think it’s safe to say that it was a more significant event in my mother’s life than it was in mine. We did mock interviews every weekend for months beforehand. She grilled the parents of every kid she knew who had interviewed at an Ivy League school so that she could anticipate the questions and prepare detailed answers for me.” Chelsea rolls her eyes. “She’s a little controlling. I think she may have blocked out the fact that I went to music school instead.”

“So,” I say, casually, “Family dinners were a big deal in your house growing up?”

“Not in the sense of being the most significant event of my life, no,” she says. “Dropping out of music school, moving to New York and starting my own band was.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “You really shouldn’t let her get under your skin. Although she’s good at it, I’ll give you that.”

“So what are you doing now?” I say.

“I’m trying to make a living as a musician, so I do a few things. I do some vocals for a jazz quartet and teach some private students. And I just started my own band.”

Her roommate joins the conversation. “Chelsea’s being modest. Her band is amazing. They’re turning away bookings.”

“What kind of band is it?” I ask.

“We do eighties covers,” she says. “I love those old songs. My mom used to play them all the time.”

I can’t help myself. “What year were you born, Chelsea? If you don’t mind my asking, that is?”

“Nineteen eighty-eight,” she says.

“Great meeting you,” I say, and strike out for the kitchen on the theory that Jesse will eventually gravitate there and I’ll have someone my own age to drink with, but first I bump right into Marvin Shapiro. He looks relieved to see me. “Sophie!” he says. “What a nice surprise.” He’s sweating profusely. “It’s really very warm in here,” he says, dabbing his bald patch with a cocktail napkin. “I meant to thank you for all of your help managing the publicity for Dr. Viggars. Did you see the feature in the paper today?”

“I did,” I lie. “I thought it was terrific.”

Marvin beams. “I’m so pleased to hear you say that,” he says. “It’s certainly causing quite a stir!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Dr. Viggars has been getting requests for radio and television interviews all day. Apparently, he’s the hottest topic in the blogosphere today, not that I have a particularly good sense of what that means. But he’s younger than I am and he says it’s a good thing. This will be excellent for his career.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to muster some semblance of enthusiasm. “Well, that’s great. He deserves it.” I pause. “Marvin, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“About the study,” I say, “How concerned should I be about the amount of television my son is watching?”

Marvin looks at me kindly. “Sophie, parenting is all about instincts, and judging from what I know of you, your instincts are excellent. It’s an interesting finding, that’s all. It’s not a reason to change your parenting strategy.”

“Certainly not,” says another voice, and Margaret appears at Marvin’s elbow with a drink. “Here you are, Marvin.

“Bless you,” he says fervently, taking a long gulp.

“How do you know Lil? I didn’t realize that you were friends.”

“I’ve known her for years,” says Margaret. “I was one of her first students. I don’t want to tell you how long ago.”

“You lived in this house?”

“For three years, during nursing school. It hasn’t changed much since then. Lil gave me the most extraordinary break on the rent in return for my looking after a pair of diabetic cats.”

“Cats?” I can’t imagine Lil with pets.

“They weren’t exactly her cats,” says Margaret. “A dear friend of hers had died and she felt duty-bound to take in the poor woman’s pets. They needed insulin injections twice a day, and had a raft of other health problems, but Lillian felt too guilty to euthanize them. They were in quite a sad state. Eventually the poor things expired, but Lil never raised my rent.” Her face lights up as she smiles. “You know, I was just telling your husband this story in the kitchen. He’s very charming.”

“He can be,” I say.

“That’s the best you can hope for,” she says. “Right, Marvin?”

“Absolutely,” he says, clinking his glass against hers, and I realize that Marvin has plans with Margaret for the evening that don’t include chatting about diabetic cats. So I excuse myself, and wander off in search of my husband.

I pause at the entrance to the kitchen and watch Lil, Jesse and Will in conversation. I can tell from here that Jesse has turned off the charm; he looks as though he wishes he were anywhere else, and I’m reminded suddenly of the quiet endurance that my father used to exude at cocktail parties. I don’t think about my dad that often; for so many years, it hurt too much, but lately I’ve found myself wondering what he would say about some of the choices I’ve made. I’ve never asked myself what he would have thought of Will, though, and I’m surprised to realize that I’m dead certain of his answer. You’re easy to love, sweetheart, he would have said. Anyone who thinks it’s complicated isn’t right for you.

I sidle up to Jesse.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello there,” he says. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“We were telling Jesse about our plan to recruit you to the Foundation,” says Lil.

“Oh?” I say, chagrined. The last thing I need tonight is to reopen our earlier fight by reminding Jesse that this conversation about my future employment has been going on without him for some time.

Will turns to Jesse. “It would be a great move for her, don’t you think?”

“That’s up to her,” says Jesse. “I have no doubt that Sophie would be wonderful at anything she decided to do.”

“I said I’d consider it,” I say. “But I haven’t had a chance to talk it over properly with Jesse yet. It’s been a crazy week.”

“Isn’t it your decision?” Will tone is playful but there’s no mistaking the challenge in his question.

Most of the time, the events that alter and define us are invisible, mere background noise in the dramas of other people’s lives. Usually, you can get away with saying I have something in my eye, or I stayed up too late last night watching reruns, and no one will suspect that you just broke up with your boyfriend or had a fight with your mother or bombed an interview. But there is no anonymity in the way Will and Jesse and Lil stand and wait for my answer. This is one of those rare occasions when I won’t be able to rewrite a version of events in which I behaved better, or was at least funnier and better-looking. All of us know that my answer matters.

I lace my fingers through Jesse’s. “It’s a family decision,” I say, and I feel him relax, while Lil smiles and Will looks away.

Jesse squeezes my hand. “Lil,” he says, “Would you be horribly offended if we ducked out early? We’re bagged.”

“Certainly not,” says Lil, beaming her approval. “If my date looked like yours, I’d leave early too. Off you go, my dears.” She gives us both a kiss.

It’s quiet out on the street now, and there’s no traffic at all. “Can you make it a couple of blocks in your shoes?” Jesse asks. “It’ll be easier to grab a cab on the main road.”

“I’m tough,” I say.

“You’re not really,” he says, and we start walking. “I was chatting with your future boss. Margaret, is it? I didn’t realize that you had finished the search. She seems great.”

“I hope so,” I say. “I’m ready to swap pompous, insulting and unlikeable for great. That’s a change I could get behind. At the moment, I’m just happy not to be on the search committee any longer.”

“But you’re thinking about leaving.”

“Maybe,” I say. “There’s a lot to consider. I want to talk it through with you, but not now, OK?”

“OK,” he says, and we walk the length of the next block without speaking, fingers laced together. “I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. I squeeze his hand. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about Anya.”

“I’m sorry too, Jesse. I didn’t know what was going on with the business. I don’t know why I reacted like that. She gets under my skin.”

“I know she does. I’m beginning to see that she tries to do that to you. Sometimes I think she’s a bit lonely. But you must know there’s nothing going on between us. I would never let anything threaten our family. It’s the only thing that matters.”

“I know,” I say, hope rising so hard in my throat that I can barely speak. “I feel the same way.”

Jesse strokes his thumb along the side of my hand, and we make our way out to the main road and hail a taxi. There’s a lot more to be said, but we won’t say it tonight. This tentative peace between us is sweet and hard-won and desperately needed.

At home, Jesse goes to check on the boys while I take off my makeup, wriggle out of my pantyhose and kick off my shoes. When he returns, I’m sitting on the bed, examining the damage.

“I talk a good game,” I say, “But I think I might be crippled tomorrow.”

“Your friend Zoe would say it’s a small price to pay for fashion.” Jesse sits down next to me and pats his lap. “Let’s have a look.” I lie down and put my feet across his lap, and he massages my arch with his thumb.

“That she would,” I say. “She calls these ‘f*ck-me’ shoes.”

Jesse’s eyebrows shoot up.

“It’s an industry term,” I say. “Mmmm. That’s amazing. I might actually walk again.”

“What were you and Lil caballing about at the party?”

“Oh, nothing. She likes you. She thinks you’re a catch.”

“Smart lady,” he says, moving his hands up to work the muscle in my calf. “What did you say?”

“I said that she has no idea,” I say, in my best attempt at a sultry tone.

Jesse’s hands move a bit higher. I bite my lip and close my eyes. “You know,” he says, conversationally, “I could do a much better job if I didn’t have all this fabric in the way.”

“Hmmm. Can I help you with that?”

“No, no. I’ve got it covered,” he says. I feel the bed shift as Jesse stretches out beside me. He slides one hand under my shoulder, wraps the other around my hip and pulls me onto my side so that I’m facing him. I open my eyes and hold his gaze; it’s dark and steady and knowing, and I swallow hard. And then he grins, and with one fluid motion, scoops me up, rolls me on top of him and unzips the back of my dress. “Did I mention that I like your new shoes?” he says.

And for the first time in ages, as I lean down to kiss him, I know exactly what I want.