Cheapskate in Love

chapter 19





After Helen left the salon that morning, she went to a luncheon with two of her long-time friends, Joan and Sandra, whom she was in the habit of meeting at least once a month. All three enjoyed their get-togethers, and they looked forward to the next one with eagerness. Their meetings were a better aid to happiness and well-being than any medicine or doctor’s visit. With talking and laughing, their cares would whither away.

On this occasion, they gathered at an elegant French restaurant on Long Island, near the town where the hair salon was located. The decor of the restaurant was modern with simple, sturdy, dark-colored furniture and huge, primarily red bouquets scattered around a light, neutral-toned space. The atmosphere in the restaurant was calm. Because it was less than half full of diners at this time of day, it was also rather quiet. The most animated discussion was coming from their table, where the entrées had already been served. Joan and Sandra were trying to understand what Helen was doing in a certain part of her life. However, as friends sometimes do, they were talking and judging much more than they were listening and accepting. Joan had a fiery and impulsive character, which would seem to give her the verbal advantage in any social situation. But Sandra, who was empathetic and devoted to both women, was the wealthiest of the three and unintentionally somewhat domineering. She held the most sway over their conversations, without stirring any resentment from the others. They could always see that she meant well. It also helped that she usually paid for their meals.

“I don’t understand,” Joan burst out. “I simply don’t understand. It’s incomprehensible. It’s like, it’s like, it’s like a Democrat becoming a Republican.” She gestured, shaking both hands in the air wide apart, her left hand holding a fork and her right a knife. A native Indian dancing to warn off evil spirits would make the same motion with two rattles.

“Joan, no politics,” Sandra said sternly. “Remember, we decided those conversations were always in bad taste. Political discussions are rarely civil nowadays and practically never informed, especially on one side, and we all know which one that is. There’s no need to talk about that party. No need. We can rise above their ignorance and dishonesty, and we will.” For a moment, however, Sandra slipped on her ascent. “How they can think they are doing something for this country by trying to destroy it with their fear-mongering, cowardice, and selfish lies is beyond me. Thank God, money has not made me blind. But that’s enough of that. We’re not going to be sidetracked. There’s enough people stuck in the mire of petty politics.”

“I know, Sandy, I know, but I can’t think of anything else stranger,” Joan admitted.

“Strange is certainly the right word,” Sandra agreed. The two women looked at each other, nodding their heads in mutual understanding. Then they turned to look at the source of their bewilderment, and she looked right back at them.

“It’s not so strange,” Helen said. “It’s hard to explain, though.”

“Whatever do you see in him?” Joan wanted to know. “I’ve met him. Does he have some redeeming trait that I didn’t notice? He certainly doesn’t resemble Cary Grant, so don’t try to tell me that his looks swept you off your feet. If you ask me, and I know you’re not doing that, his physical appearance is like an ice-cold shower. Not the sort of thing you want too much of.”

“Joan, he has two excellent characteristics that I’m aware of, which we should by no means overlook or depreciate. First, he has a job. Second, he pays his own rent. Those are always good qualities in a man. And they’ve been a bit more rare in the economy we’ve had for a while.” Although Sandra thought such qualities were commendable in a man, she did not consider them so laudable in a woman. She had not worked for a living nor paid rent in a long, long time.

“Funny, Sandy,” sniffed Helen. “He has many good qualities.” She was certain, however, that she would never convince them of that, since they had already formed an opinion about him on the basis of a few incidents.

“Like what?” wondered Joan.

“Well, he’s thrifty,” Helen declared. “He knows how to hang on to a dollar.”

“Miserly,” Sandra said, contradicting her. “Anyone who gives you a cheap bouquet another woman rejected is a miser. The economy may be poor, but we’re not living in the South Sudan yet.”

“A miser and a jerk, I say,” commented Joan.

Helen was undisturbed by their opinions. She smiled, as she remembered what had happened that evening. “Oh, he wasn’t trying to be romantic,” she told them. “He was dejected. He had just been dumped again. He was sad and lonely. He didn’t have to give me the flowers. But he acted like a gentleman, at least for a while. He ran off when he felt the situation was becoming too sticky, too close for him. The flowers were sort of pretty for corner deli flowers.”

“Uh-huh,” said Joan, stabbing her salad with her fork. “He sounds like a real gentleman. With a refined taste in flowers. A regular Prince Charming.”

“I think I need another glass of wine, if we’re going to continue this conversation,” Sandra said. “Maybe it’ll make more sense to me then. But you,” and she pointed at Helen, “have had enough. Probably too much. No more for you.”

“Say what you like, but I’m convinced that Bill is attracted to me and likes the attention I give him.”

“And that’s why he’s always running from you?” Joan asked.

“And ignoring you? And telling lies? And pushing you away?” Sandra continued.

“Yes, exactly,” Helen answered.

The other women let out loud sighs of disbelief.

Helen attempted to persuade them. “He knows that his feeling for me is so strong that he has to actively resist it, or he’ll be overwhelmed. Like most men, he’s afraid of his emotions. He’s not only running from me. He’s running from himself.”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” observed Sandra, who was trying to see Bill as Helen saw him, “up to a point. If we were talking about some other man, I’d agree with you. They are scared of expressing what they feel, but that doesn’t seem to be Bill’s problem. His problem seems to be that he has the emotional capacity of a clam. He doesn’t have anything to express.”

“What about George, Helen?” Joan interjected. “He was so different. So kind, so protective. Did he ever act like Bill? Mine never did. There was a kind of instant spark between us. We were in love before we knew it. He can act like an oaf, but he doesn’t act like that toward me. He’s never done that. And he wouldn’t, because he knows what’s good for him.” She waved her knife and fork in the air again, this time in a threatening manner.

“Bill is much like George was,” Helen replied. “The only difference, I think, is that George met me when I was young and beautiful.”

“We are all still young and beautiful,” Sandra contradicted her forcefully. “Every one of us. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

Helen and Joan smiled at Sandra’s flattery. It was a delightful thing to hear.

Helen continued. “I think Bill’s divorce really scarred him psychologically. In all the years he hung around with George, he never talked about his ex-wife. Never. He joked about how cold she was a few times, but that’s it. I think he was so wounded by the experience that he hasn’t been able to go forward emotionally. I also think he knows that he contributed to the problems that lead to the divorce, although he won’t admit it. He won’t accept any responsibility for what happened or acknowledge that he shared in the blame, so what he’s done is regress. Humans have to go in some direction while they’re alive, and he’s gone backwards. He’s retreated to a psychological state, a mentality he had before the divorce, and he’s stuck there, hiding from everyone, but mostly from himself. Since he doesn’t want to recognize the passage of time or act his age, only younger women—who, of course, have to be good-looking, because that makes them seem younger—can feed his delusions. That’s why, I think, if he could see me somewhat as George did thirty years ago, I think he’d forget all about the Lindas and Tanyas he’s always chasing, acting like a fool. He can’t really think that women fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five years younger than him have any actual interest in him. He’s not stupid.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Joan remarked. “We tend to overestimate men all the time, simply because they’re men, and they’ve ruled the world up until now. Bill’s just another guy.”

“I think he knows,” replied Helen, “that if he was rich, his situation would be different. There are younger women who would stay with him. They’d gladly put up with him to spend his money. But because he’s only middle class with a modest lifestyle...”

“You mean poor lifestyle,” observed Sandra dryly. “He acts like a borderline beggar.”

“He does,” smiled Helen, “He enjoys it, too, I think. So much so, that I’ve never seen him with an American girlfriend. I’ve heard him say that foreign women are more interesting, but I think he believes they are less materialistic than Americans and more likely to give him a chance. His girlfriends have been mostly Asian, Hispanic, or Russian immigrants.”

“He’s so shallow,” Joan scoffed. “Foreigners always think Americans are rich, so they would have higher expectations of him. They’d also be less forgiving of his faults, I think, especially his cheap ways.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Sandra began. “And I have a suggestion. But first we better all have another glass of wine. It may help open our minds and make what I have to say more intelligible.” She waved her right hand energetically high above her head to get the waiter’s attention.