“Wait! Please wait,” Mary begs, doing a maneuver that somehow replaces the wedged arm with her full body.
“I actually just walked in, so I really need to check on Eve.” Mary doesn’t change her expression or stance; she’s on a mission. They all are. Random women “drop in” with offerings from soup to wine to homemade cheesecake. Maybe I’m paranoid and they’re only being charitable, but it’s a statistical aberration that none of these philanthropists are still married. I know Maddy would be calling me a cynic, but the most plausible explanation for Mary’s benevolence is discontent with her spousal maintenance package.
Mary bites her lip. I think it’s supposed to be sexy, but it looks like it hurts. “That’s so sweet,” she says. “I hear you’re a great dad. Eve’s a great kid. I see her drive by sometimes. Really, really great. Just great.” Her limited vocabulary makes the conversation more irritating. Whenever Eve talked like that, Maddy took out a thesaurus and had her look up replacement words. I consider leveraging the tactic now.
“Did you know I don’t have children of my own?”
Jesus Christ. Did she seriously just bat her eyelashes? And how would I possibly know that? Until two minutes ago, I didn’t know her name was Mary. “Nope.”
“Yeah, no, I never took the plunge. So I have time to help out if you ever need a hand.”
Great. A crazy lady with a strategy. Launching a defense against divorcées with kids wipes out everyone except her. “Okay, well, thanks again.” I step forward so Mary has no choice but to step back or be trampled. As soon as she’s over the frame I swing the door shut.
How am I considered a good catch? You’d think these women would be at least marginally concerned by Maddy’s proactive exit. How do you overlook that my first wife opted to eat pavement over one more day with me? I head to the kitchen for a cocktail. Eve is at the table with a giant grin on her face. Fucking perfect. She overheard that entire discourse. I decide to preempt her jab. “We should put a sign on the door that says, ‘Food won’t make us feel better. Go away.’”
“I don’t know, Dad,” she teases, “those were some impressive legs. I think Mary is a hiker.”
What the hell do I say to that? It’s not like I reach out to these vultures. I get a tumbler from the cabinet. Eve huffs. I’m growing accustomed to her sounds: a huff preludes criticism. I put ice in the glass, waiting.
“Good to see you can find time for a stiff drink given your busy schedule.”
And there it is.
I assume she’s referring to the fact that I didn’t go gallivanting around the mall last night. My shoulders and neck tense, but I manage to walk away, drink in hand. Fuck that. I got up at five this morning, ran five miles, and worked a fourteen-hour day; I can have a goddamn bourbon. Or four. As long as I get up at five again tomorrow, what the hell does it matter?
If only Maddy and I had discussed her day-to-day communication with Eve. How did she know when to remain silent? Laugh instead of yell? Pick a serious talk over a punishment? And what compelled Eve to heed what Maddy said after she’d decided what the hell to say? It’s such a goddamn cluster. I observed Eve growing up without much thought as to how she was raised. That was all Maddy.
We met at a coffee shop in Boston. Maddy was head down in a book. Later I learned that was the rule, not the exception—if Maddy wasn’t working she was reading. There was a fly buzzing around her head that sounded like it was attached to a bullhorn. I could hear it from the line ten feet away. There was no indication Maddy had a plan or even that the noise bothered her, but when the fly dared to land on her book she slammed the pages together, victorious. There was quiet applause from surrounding tables. She looked up, startled to realize people had been watching. “I hate that sound,” she mumbled to no one, flicking the fly off the page with a napkin.
After paying for my coffee, I approached the table. “I don’t want to disturb your reading, but do you mind if I sit here?”
“You can,” she answered, immediately turning her eyes back to her book, “but there are plenty of open tables, so I don’t know why you would.”
I am not a pathetic puppy-dog guy, but I was intrigued enough to sit unwelcomed and slowly drink my coffee. Maddy was beautiful in a classic Hollywood sort of way: pale but not ghostly, thin but not skinny. Her blonde hair was organized, not hard with hair spray as was common at that time, but instead pulled up softly on the sides. Her lips were defined and shining in solid red.
She paid absolutely no attention to me. A half hour had passed when I got up to leave. “I’m not usually so rude,” she said, her eyes still dedicated to the book.
“Just my lucky day then?”
Maddy snorted, a real pig snort, then covered her nose with her hand and snorted again. “I don’t believe in luck,” she said playfully. “Well, I believe in bad luck, but I don’t believe in waiting around for good luck.” It was like having a conversation with an inspirational poster.
“Does that mean I shouldn’t leave?”
She shook her head. “No, you probably should. I can’t put this damn book down. It’s that good.” She thought a second before adding, “Plus, the last guy I dated was a complete disappointment.” I ignored her advice and sat back down. I was hooked.
We had a tumultuous courtship. One of us always cared more than the other. Sometimes she returned my messages, other times not, then it’d flip and she’d call every day. That was when I pulled back, canceling plans or not answering the phone. I was afraid of marriage. My parents never seemed at all pleased by the arrangement. The hitched guys at my office tried to talk me into proposing, but their arguments weren’t persuasive. One guy likened getting married to going from a lawn mower to a landscaper. I still lived in an apartment, so the analogy eluded me. Looking back, I think he was getting at how women execute an entire life plan whereas men mostly consider their next meal.
Eventually we got to the point where it was time to get married or move on, and I couldn’t imagine moving on. With Maddy, I was at peace. When she fell asleep first, which she usually did, I’d stay awake to sync our breaths. Sometimes it was easy, a steady pace in and out, but sometimes she went from short to long to nothing for seconds at a time and I’d have to focus to follow her cue. It was my way of handing over control without letting her know. I’m textbook Type A; it was the best I could do.
I packed a small picnic we never ate and took her to a rocky beach on the South Shore. She loved the sound of water hitting rocks. Simple music, she called it. I think she must’ve known what was about to happen because she acted uncharacteristically aloof and spoke in tired clichés. “Well, what a perfect day for this. There’s barely a cloud in the sky. I’m surprised more people aren’t—”