“They’re pregnant,” George said, continuing to ignore her comments. “Isn’t that terrific?”
Lizzie, down for the count, didn’t reply. Honestly, she was tempted to stamp her foot in utter frustration.
Alicia stood up. “Look,” she said, gesturing to the plaque on the bench, “this is lovely: ‘Commemorating the Sixtieth Anniversary of Helene and Franklin Brown, December 23, 1927, from Their Children, Grandchildren, and Great-Grandchildren.’” She squeezed Blake’s arm. “I hope someone buys a plaque for us when we’ve been married that long.”
Against her better judgment, Lizzie said, “Really? I can’t imagine being married to anyone for that long.” Except Jack, Lizzie said to herself.
“Are you kidding? Why?”
“Well, Alicia, for one thing, wouldn’t you run out of things to talk about after so long? It seems as though it would get awfully boring. You’d know everything about the other person already.”
“I like that about marriage,” Blake protested. “The more I know Alicia the more I love her.”
Alicia gave Blake’s arm another presumably loving squeeze. Lizzie barely succeeded in restraining herself from sticking her finger in her throat and gagging loudly.
Just when it was unclear to her whether she could control herself or whether her behavior would regress even further to that of a cranky two-year-old, George and Blake exchanged a meaningful look. Another meaningful glance in front of Lizzie in Tulsa, Oklahoma! Something was definitely going on.
“Come on, Alicia, honey,” Blake said, “let’s get some lunch. We’ll see you guys later.”
“Sure,” George said. “I’ll call you. Maybe a movie later this week?”
Lizzie stood watching them as they left. They were exactly at the right heights so that they could walk with Blake’s arm around Alicia’s waist and her head on his shoulder. They were in step—left foot, right foot, left foot, not missing a beat. It was disgusting, really.
“Sometimes I almost wish I was like Alicia, or that I was Alicia,” she said to George. “Dumb, blond, and happy. Knowing everything there is to know about makeup and hair and how to dress. I mean, I hate the way she dresses, but I still wish it.”
“Oh, Lizzie,” George said, pulling her down next to him on the bench. “I think you’re just about perfect just the way you are.” He resumed his whistling; Lizzie slumped back into her bad mood.
After a few minutes George stopped whistling. “Gosh,” he said. “Look at that.” He pointed. “There’s something under the bench.”
Lizzie peered down through the slatted seat at a brown paper bag. “Ugh, just leave it, George. It might be a dead rat or something. It might have rabies.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m pretty sure that you can’t get rabies from touching a dead rat. And in any case, who’d put a dead rat in a bag and leave it here? Or put a dead rat in a bag at all? Blake or Alicia probably dropped it and didn’t realize it.”
“Please, George, don’t touch it; it’s filthy.” Lizzie noticed that her voice was more than a little shrill and wondered why she was getting so upset. Oh, yeah, it had to do with a trip she had taken with her parents to Toronto when she must have been about five. It wasn’t a vacation, of course. Instead, Mendel and Lydia had driven there to present papers at a conference, taking Lizzie along because most unfortunately Sheila couldn’t stay with her while they were gone. It was raining then too, Lizzie recalled now. Mendel and Lydia decided they’d go to a nearby restaurant rather than eat at the hotel. While they walked there, Lizzie bent down and ran her hand through the water that had pooled at the side of the street. Mendel went ballistic, grabbing her arm and yanking it away from the puddle, yelling at her not to ever do that again. People stared at them; she still remembered how terribly frightened and mortified she felt.
Of course George didn’t get angry. In fact, he didn’t pay any attention to Lizzie’s concerns. This was because he knew what was in the paper bag. He leaned over to reach for it under the bench. “Lizzie,” he began. “I love you, you know that, right? And I get what you said to Alicia, that you can’t imagine being married to someone for sixty years, but what about if we just took those years one at a time, together?”
He opened the bag and handed her its contents.
It was a gorgeous ring, a large diamond-cut sapphire (although Lizzie wouldn’t describe the stone that way, not knowing the lingo; all she knew was that it seemed enormous) surrounded by smaller (but still substantial) diamonds. Despite the size of the gems, the ring wasn’t gaudy. It didn’t call attention to itself. It was refined, graceful, tasteful, and simply elegant. It was the sort of ring that you should probably keep in a safe-deposit box and take out only for special occasions. It was the kind of ring passed down from a grandmother to her favorite grandchild. It looked nothing like Lizzie, nothing like anything she’d ever dreamed of being, or wearing. This ring was meant for someone who was Lizzie’s polar opposite.
“Oh, George,” Lizzie said weakly, not knowing what else to say.
“Will you marry me, Lizzie? I can’t imagine a life without you in it. Do you like the ring? It was my grandmother’s, and I had the stones reset in a more modern setting that I thought you’d like.”
“It’s beautiful, George.” Lizzie mustered all the enthusiasm she could, which was not a lot but was enough to make George happy. “But can we not think about getting married yet—can we concentrate on being engaged? Just engaged, for a while, so I can get used to the idea?”
He put the ring on her finger—it fit perfectly, of course (trust George to have found a way to make sure of that). Tears started rolling down Lizzie’s face and George, being George, thought she was crying from happiness.
*?George & Lizzie Tell Allan & Elaine the News?*
Elaine and Allan were over the moon when they learned of the engagement. Lizzie and George found them in the den. Allan was taking a nap with his head on Elaine’s lap, and when George told them the news, they both tried to get up off the couch at the same time, with the result that Allan’s head collided with the book that Elaine was reading and Elaine, in her eagerness to stand up, knocked over the mug of tea that she’d had been drinking, which soaked into the couch, her clothes, and the carpet.
“Oh, my darlings,” Elaine said, undismayed by the potential stains. “We’re just thrilled at the news. We were so hoping that George would propose on this trip so we could be with you to celebrate.”
They sat around admiring Lizzie’s ring. “You did a wonderful job picking out a new setting, Georgie,” Elaine said. “Do you like it, Lizzie? It was my mother’s.”
“It’s amazing,” Lizzie said. That was probably objectively true. “I love it.” Maybe not quite totally the truth, but still, what could Lizzie say?
“So when’s the wedding going to be?” asked Allan.