Ms. Taken Identity (19 page)

Katharine Longwell as my fairy godmother? “This is great. I appreciate that. I mean, we both do.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.”

But we both know she has—in a big way. She smiles and reaches out to clink my wineglass.

I finish my sip, then stifle a yawn, but not quickly enough, because it catapults Katharine into one of her own, a long catlike
thing, as she arches her back and stretches her arms over her head, and the dress pulls tighter across her chest. Apparently,
from the looks of things, she’s sleepy
and
chilly.

“Mitch, this is the point where I’m supposed to drive you back to your hotel. But I’m just too damned tired. And Brent is
off, doing whatever he does.” She puts a hand on my thigh. “How about you just spend the night here?”

Oh, god:
now
it’s happening. “Here?” I ask, an octave too high.

“Here, Mitch. My place. Casa Longwell.”

“Oh, hey, Spanish. ‘
Mi casa, tu casa, sí?
’” I cough. “Hmm. Sure.” I give a little bounce on the sofa. “Comfy. No bed for me. Right here is just fine.”

She laughs. “You’re not sleeping on the sofa, Mitch. I’ve got something much better in mind.”

She gets up and stands in front of me and offers her hand, which I accept (
what the hell can I do?
), then leads me down the hallway, shoes in one hand, mine in the other. We stop in a doorway. She flips on a light. I squeeze
my eyes shut.

“Well, what do you think?” she asks.

Nothing, since I’m still in the dark. But slowly I squint them open, till I can make out hardwood flooring, forest green walls,
and
a bed
. It’s humongous.

“You should find everything you need in the bathroom. Fresh towels, a robe, even slippers. Though the other guest room has
a bigger TV.”

Other
guest
room? My heart begins to beat again. “No, this is perfect. I love it.”

She tilts her head, shakes out her hair, gives me a sidelong glance. “Of course, if you’d prefer to join me in my bed, that
would be fine, too.”

When I was a kid, I’d occasionally put up a stink when my parents told me it was time for bed, insist I wasn’t tired, plead
for another ten minutes of TV time, argue that Scott got to stay up later. Did it work?
Never
. Because when you’re eight years old, you do as you’re told.

That’s how I feel right now.

“Katharine, uh, how do I say this? I’m extremely, um, flattered by the offer. You’re a stunning woman. But the thing is, well,
I’m sort of seeing someone at the moment.”

“Ah. So what’s her name?”

“Marie.”

She gives me a smile. “I’ve always liked that name.
Marie
.” She says it with the care of a poet, gives extra air to the long
e
sound, and hearing someone say it that way makes me realize how much I love the sound of those syllables. “Is it serious?”

I freeze, since I’m worried it’s some sort of trick question, like if I say yes, she’ll ask me if my relationship with Marie
is more important than helping out my cousin; but if I say no, then why won’t I sleep with her? There’s no good way out of
this, not one that won’t result with her hissing at me to give back the clothes I’m wearing, right now, on the spot, since
she paid for them, and forget about getting any help with
Catwalk Mama
, because it’s stupid and terrible, and did I think she was doing it out of the goodness of her heart; and I’ll be left to
hail a cab in my boxers and black socks and despicably reeking manuscript. So I just think of Marie.

“Very.”

Her face warms. “Then she’s a lucky woman.” She grazes my wrist with her free hand. “Goodnight, Mitch.”

She starts down the hall, but before she makes it to her room, she begins to unzip her dress, just to let me know what I won’t
be seeing. I don’t even allow myself a look.

In the morning we go out for breakfast, and more stares, but after what she said last night about being grateful for the attention,
I’m getting better with it myself, and I even smile a couple times. Let them wonder who I am. She gives me a hug, then Brent
drives me to the airport, and by noon I’m on my way back to St. Louis. Sitting at thirty thousand feet, I recap my weekend.
Jason made love to a beautiful woman. Bradley has a good chance of getting her novel published. Mitch,
well
… his luck hasn’t changed a bit. But the people he lives with are certainly doing well.

Y
ou don’t have to be Ebert or Roeper or even Gene Shalit to know what a montage is. It’s that part in the movie where music
plays and there’s a collection of mini-scenes that zooms you around from place to place and you get the sense a whole lot
is going on. The most famous one ever done, probably, is the training montage from the original
Rocky
, where Rocky jogs train tracks and back alleys and does one-arm push-ups and punches out sides of beef in Paulie’s meat locker,
and all the while that
Rocky
theme urges him on, horns blaring—da na NA/DA NA na—pushing him harder, faster,
higher!
till at last he bounds up the steps of the Philadelphia art museum two or three at a time, gets to the top, and looks out
over the city and raises his arms in victory, and the gospel choir belts out, “Gonna fly now! / Flying high now” Watch it
again sometime and see if you don’t want to get up and throw a few jabs yourself.

But most of the rest are crap, cheap and lazy ways to push a story along, and the chief pushers, so to speak, are the romantic
comedies and their pathetic dating montages. How many times have we seen a couple take a barefoot stroll on the beach, or
end a slow dance with a kiss, or meander down the boardwalk eating ice cream, or have dinner on the rooftop of his apartment
(with the obligatory scattered rose petals and ten thousand lit candles placed on the table and rooftop ledge and fire escape
and every conceivable inch of the place, including the head of every pigeon, and how does this guy have time to light so many
candles
and
cook a gourmet dinner
and
sprinkle all those rose petals
and
get his hair so
GQ
? You’d almost think he had the help of a movie crew).

That’s why one of my all-time favorite movie scenes is the dating montage from
The Naked Gun
. Leslie Nielsen is a wrinkled old cop and Priscilla Presley is smoking hot, which means, of course, sparks fly between them
when they meet, and before you can say, “He’s a wrinkled old cop and she’s smoking hot,” she’s calling him “Funnyface” and
they’re a couple.
Roll montage!
The music is Herman’s Hermits “I’m into Something Good” and the two lovebirds run hand in hand on the beach… and clothesline
another couple; he accidentally sprays a splotch of mustard on her blouse… and they titter their way through a condiment
fight; they look out with wonderment from the bridge of a ship… that happens to be moored to the dock; they come out
of the theater doubled over with laughter… and the marquee lets us know it’s
Platoon
. And when the music stops and the montage is over—complete with song title and artist’s name in the lower left hand corner,
like it’s a video on MTV—Priscilla turns to him and says, “I had a wonderful day.” A wonderful
day
! A wonderful
day
!
Ha!
As if couples in love have nothing better to do than giggle and chortle and titter their way through the seconds and minutes
and hours of their days, frolicking in frivolity and mirth and hilarity, acting like wacky kids.

Apparently they don’t.

To my great surprise and embarrassment, this is more or less exactly the way it goes for Marie and me over the next few weeks.
We spend all our time doing wildly fantastic and enjoyable things, it’s all bliss and smiles, and I do feel like a wacky kid,
and if I were watching any of this in the theater, I’d throw my popcorn at the screen and threaten to burn the whole place
down unless I got my money back. Consider yourself warned, then, if you’re the kind who can’t stomach crappy dating montages
(trust me, I understand) and turn away for a moment. For those still with me, here’s a little something I’m calling “Marie
and Mitch: October into November.” I’ll get it going with a little feedback from John’s guitar, let Paul and George and Ringo
jump in when ready, the tune is “I Feel Fine,” and when you feel those harmonies start to get under your skin, go ahead and
play the images, at your own pace.

Café Provencal: The two of us out for dinner, she wearing something sleek and form-fitting, me wearing something ironed, and
we’ve had our entrées, feeding each other a sample of this and that off our own plates, and now the waiter comes by with the
dessert cart and we give each other a delicious smile: we’ve got a taste for something decadent, but it isn’t on his cart.

Her bedroom: Sex.

Dance studio: She wears shorts and a T-shirt, I’m in a T-shirt and jeans, and we’re both sweaty, rehearsing for the Showcase,
and Adonis is working with us, getting me to hold my lines when I complete a turn, arms fully extended, and I don’t get it,
I can’t get it, it doesn’t feel right; and then I get it and he claps and Marie claps and I polish my fingernails on my chest
like it was nothing at all.

Her shower: Sex.

Art museum: We stroll through the modern wing, past the Pollack and Lichtenstein and Warhol, and come across a pile of rusty
pipes and plaster and nails, and we stand there and stare and scratch our heads: plumbing mishap or a piece of art?

Her kitchen: Sex.

St. Genevieve: We’re out in her convertible, top down, and I’m driving, and the leaves on the trees are an explosion of crimson
and gold and orange, and the dirt road we’re on leads through miles and miles of the same, and I turn to her, and her hair
is like a ribbon in the wind.

Bed and breakfast, on a blanket, in front of a crackling fire: Sex.

It may seem like we’re making a porn flick, but we’re not. That’s just the limitation of the montage format, since it gives
you the impression that the featured activity is happening every thirty seconds. Which it isn’t. Most days. But since this
is a PG-13 montage and we’re talking about Marie, I’m not going to get explicit with any of the details—this is all strategically
placed bedcovers and body parts and camera angles—other than to say that more often than not, we hit our marks at exactly
the same time, if you know what I mean. Not the most stirring montage in the history of cinema—for sheer adrenaline, Rocky’s
your man—but as far as I’m concerned, you can have sweaty Stallone. I’ll take my sweaty Marie.

Now, to answer a few questions.
Is he Jason or Mitch?
Jason, for a little while longer, till the time is right. (Think about it: you wouldn’t tell your significant other about
your fungus toenail on the second or third date, would you? “Hey, come here and look at this black stuff.” Gross, inappropriate,
a relationship killer. But wait long enough, till you’re riding high and past the point where revealing minor flaws is anything
to worry about, and then just mention it in passing, and you’ll be lucky if your honey even raises an eyebrow.)
How is he handling that supposed job situation?
Simple. I set the alarm for six and get up and get dressed—business casual—and head off to my workplace, which happens to
be my apartment or the library or my classroom, and I don’t feel all that guilty, since I
am
working. In fact, I’ve never been so productive with the writing in my life. Finally,
Are they living together?
The answer to that is no. N. O.
No
. I do spend a lot of time at her place, maybe three nights a week or more (we never spend time at my place: “my roommates
are
such
disasters”), but I’ve decided I’m not going to make the same mistake I made with Hannah, let a mostly behind-the-scenes accumulation
of books and CDs and jeans and boxers constitute such a momentous step as living together. When that day comes, and let me
tell you, it will, I’ll gleefully blow a wad on champagne and dinner and some kind of expensive gift—jewelry, no doubt—because
it means, finally,
Yes! We’re living together!

So, as you can see, from where I’m standing (or sitting or lying, depending on what the two of us are doing), things couldn’t
be better. But what about Marie? How does
she
feel about all this? Hmm. You really want to know? Then hit the repeat button on your iPod and listen to the lads from Liverpool
one more time and pay attention to that second line. Better yet, let me sing it for you: “She’s happy as can be, you know.”

Yep, it’s going that well.

A couple weeks into November, Bradley and Skyler invite me over for dinner. I’m happy to accept, since I haven’t been spending
much time with either of them: Bradley’s been busy with work and Skyler; I’ve been busy with
work
and Marie. We’re barely past the
hellos
and
don’t you look greats?
when I realize something’s off. Skyler’s not much of a cook, Bradley can barely boil water, but tonight they serve an artichoke
dip appetizer and roasted salmon topped with mango salsa, which you can tell took time, and there’s a tablecloth on the table
and no paper plates. And the two of them are so…
giddy
. I’m missing something. But none of it’s so over the top—no Wedgwood china or Waterford crystal, no one’s suggested a game
of Twister—that I feel compelled to ask,
Why the better spread? What gives with all the giddy?
Besides, I don’t want to give the impression that the food usually tastes like cardboard, or they’re typically sticks in
the mud. So I stay quiet.

Skyler talks about the nursery, and Bradley talks about the house he’s working on, how his next project will be the attic.
For my part, I try to be as honest as possible, which means I tell them the teaching is fine (it is), my family is doing well
(they are), and I’m working on a book (I am), though I beg off sharing any of the details. The only time I’m forced to do
anything that comes close to fibbing is when Bradley asks about my love life, and I shrug and grunt and make a face that,
if you were really on top of it, you could easily recognize as “I’m in love with your sister, even though she thinks I’m someone
else,” but for whatever reason, he and Skyler take as “not so great.” Do I want another go with Trista? No thanks.