Slim Chance (10 page)

When I got home, I was so excited about the dress that I wanted to try it on and show Bruce right away. I could tell he was in a bad mood, and thought it might cheer him up.

“Are you sure you want me to see it?” he asked.

“It’s not like the wedding dress,” I said. “You can see me in it before the party.”

I went into the bedroom and changed. Bruce probably hasn’t given any thought whatsoever to what he’s going to be wearing. He’ll probably break out one of his tired old suits again. I’m sure they both needed to be dry-cleaned.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get the grand reaction I was hoping for.

“So…what do you think?”

He seemed terribly confused. “Umm, it’s…nice?”

One of the reasons I fell in love with Bruce is that he’s honest. But the flip side of that is that he can’t lie.

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just, a bit, you know, sexy.”

“Sexy bad, or sexy good?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Sexy, as in Auntie Prue will have another stroke, or sexy, you’ll want to ravage me in the poolhouse?”

“Again, I’m not quite sure,” he said, stifling a laugh.

“Sexy, the police will pick me up before I get to the party, or sexy—”

“Enough, Evie! I said I don’t know.”

I felt my face flushing red with embarrassment.

“I think it’s a great dress,
and
it’s a size ten. If it was too small, I wouldn’t have bought it, but Nicole said it was flattering. And keep in mind I still have two weeks to lose a few more pounds.”

“I think Nicole may have been having a bit of fun with you.”

“What a horrible thing to say. I’ll just pretend you said it’s lovely and that I look wonderful.” What did he know? I wasn’t about to let a guy who wears shirts with button-down collars dictate my fashion sense. It’s not like he even has the slightest clue how hot animal prints are this year (
Mademoiselle,
January: “Show Your Stripes: Leopards and Tigers and Zebras, Oh My!”)

“Was it expensive?”

“Don’t push me, Bruce,” I warned him. “You’re on thin ice as it is.”

“Seriously.”

“It was on sale,” I said. Five percent counts.

“How much?”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars, but I don’t have to justify that to you. I’ve been busting my ass at work lately. And I think I deserve at least something for being so good about going to the gym. This is the first item of clothing I’ve bought since, you know.” How dare he tell me how to spend my money?

“First of all, you get paid the same no matter how hard you work, and secondly, haven’t you only lost eight pounds?”

“You animal!” I shrieked at him. “Why don’t you just punch me in the face!” Then I burst into tears. That usually works quite well at getting him to see my side of things, but he wouldn’t have any of it today, for some reason.

“What about those shoes, Evie, and the matching bag? I’m happy that you’ve lost some weight, but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re a bit tight for money right now. Maybe it would be a good idea if you started cutting back on a few things.”

“Like what?” I sniffed. “I didn’t have a bag that matches, otherwise I wouldn’t have bought it.” Duh.

“So keep the damn bag, if it makes you so happy. But what about your personal trainer? You’re spending seventy-five bucks a pop, Evie, plus the gym membership.”

“Work pays for half, remember?” I sobbed.

“That’s still almost two hundred dollars a week. We can’t afford that right now.”

“Who are you to say what we can or can’t afford?” We had agreed, since we got engaged, to pool all our money together, since we were going to be married soon anyway.

“I take care of everything around here. When was the last time you paid a bill, or even looked at our bank balance? All you do is withdraw and charge, withdraw and charge. You have absolutely no idea how much money is coming in or out, and I do.
That’s
what qualifies me!”

“Well…well…” I struggled to remember some sort of bad fiscal judgment on his part. “Well you’re the one who went out and bought an expensive diamond bracelet, not me!”
Oops!
Didn’t mean for that to come out. There was certainly no sense in shooting myself in the foot.

He looked at me like I was nuts.

“I mean, that was fine, because it was a once-in-a-while thing.” I scrambled to undo the damage. “And that’s what this is—a dress for our engagement party! Why don’t you just say what you really mean—you make more money than I do! And you don’t think it’s fair that I get to spend it!”

“No, that’s not what I think at all. What I think is that you never learned the value of a dollar, and that you can be a spoiled brat who takes everything for granted.”

“Thanks,
Dad!
” I gasped, and ran into the bedroom and sobbed on the bed for a while. After about half an hour, when I had calmed down and was ready to forgive him, I heard the front door slam. Was it me? I don’t know if I’d ever seen Bruce that mad, except maybe for the time I read his journal. But he never actually ran away.

Since Mom and I had been getting along so well since
Christmas, I thought maybe she could help me understand what was going on with him.

“Mom, Bruce just ran out on me.”

“What?”

“No, not
left
me, left me, but ran out of the house. We had a big fight.”

“What happened?” she said, as the waves of relief washed over her.

“I don’t really know. One minute we were talking about my new dress, and the next, he was freaking out and yelling about money.”

“Oh dear,” she said, and thought about that for a while. “You must have done something to provoke him?”

“As usual, you know just what to say. Aren’t you supposed to be on my side? You don’t even know what
happened.
” I was crying again.

“Don’t you screw this up, Evelyn,” she said in what to her must have seemed like sympathy. “Bruce adores you, and he may very well be the best thing to happen to you in your whole life. Think about it from his perspective for once—he’s probably going through some things, too, just the way you are.”

“I’m not going through anything,” I said. “I’m fine.” How could she tell?

“You can be so foolish. Marriage is a blessed union, dear, but it’s also a
partnership.
You have got to realize that it is not always going to be about Miss Evelyn Mays and
her
problems and who’s done
her
wrong. When you and Bruce are husband and wife, it’ll be up to you to make sure he’s okay and that his needs are met.
Forever.
Understand?”

“So, I’m just supposed to completely subjugate my personality in order to make sure that Bruce’s feelings aren’t hurt. And we’re not even married yet!”

“Exactly. Things are just going to get worse. So you let him worry about things like money.”

“That’s very progressive of you, Mom. Well, thanks for your
help. You’ve made me feel a whole lot better. I’m going to go put my head in the oven now.”

“You have an electric oven, dear. You’d know that if you’d ever used it.”

If Sylvia Plath’s mother had been half the support mine is, she’d probably have been too broken down to even bother killing herself. But I did wonder if maybe I’d been a little hasty to get so pissed at Bruce. I did have a pretty ugly credit card bill every month—he was right about that. I guess I’d been counting on getting promoted for so long, that maybe I was living a little beyond our means.

When Bruce came home a few hours later, he went right to the computer and didn’t say a word to me for the rest of the evening. I spent the whole night on the couch eating celery sticks and watching a
Biography
marathon on A&E. Between Pope John Paul II and the Marquis de Sade, I tried to extend the olive branch.

“I’ll return the purse!” I called out from the living room.

Silence.

“I’ll buy cheaper shoes!”

Still nothing.

If that’s how he was going to be about it, then I might as well keep everything and order a matching bra and panties. I’d noticed an eye-catching cheetah-print set in the Victoria’s Secret catalog the other day. If I did decide to buy it, I vowed never to let him see me in it. (
Cosmopolitan,
June: “What Lies Beneath: Sexy Lingerie Just for You.”)

Bruce slept with his back to me the whole night. Sunday morning I went out and picked up some coffee and even some bagels, as a concession to him, but he didn’t touch them. He just read the paper in silence. Whoever said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach wasn’t dating a WASP.

“Can we please not be in a fight anymore?” I pleaded.

“Fine. We’re not in a fight anymore.”

“Can’t we just agree to disagree?” That’s a favorite line of mine, because if you agree to disagree, everybody saves face.

“Don’t you want to be right?” he asked, still not looking up from the paper.

“I don’t care anymore.”

“Are you actually admitting that you’re wrong?” It was so unlike him to hold a grudge like this.

“Whatever it takes. I’ll return the dress.” I liked it and all, but this just wasn’t worth it.

“It’s not the dress, Evie. You can dress however you like. I don’t have to like it. It’s the way you spend money that upsets me.” He folded the paper and put it down.

“Aha!” I yelled, and jumped up. “So you admit that you don’t like the dress!” Finally.

“You’re really impossible, you know that?” he said sadly. “We have to work this out. I don’t want to go into our marriage with this big thing hanging over our heads, and then fight about money for the rest of our lives. I am dead serious here. You have to learn how to take responsibility for your finances, and start paying down your credit cards. I’m a teacher, Evie, and I’ll never make as much money as my dad. So if I want to give our kids all the things I had growing up, which I do, then we’re going to have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

“Inherit it?”

Bruce couldn’t help but laugh. “No, you idiot, by saving and planning.”

“Or maybe a little of all three?”

“Fine,” he said. “You call Claire and tell her we’ve already got her coffin picked out.”

“I will, if you agree to stand idly by for years while I slip trace amounts of arsenic into your mother’s Metamucil.”

“Deal.”

T
he week before the party, Auntie Lucy called from England to say that she and her husband Roderick would in fact be attending. It was incredibly exciting—I hadn’t seen her since Mom and I took that horrible mother-daughter trip to London three years ago, and she’s never even met Bruce. Mom, on the other hand, was a bit worried. When she heard that Lucy and Roderick were staying with my grandfather instead of her, she was insulted, of course, and nervous that it would somehow lead to a fight of some sort. She was also suspicious—she couldn’t understand why they were schlepping all the way here for the engagement party, when they were planning to come to the wedding in August anyway.

On Thursday night, we met them at a restaurant near Mom’s.

“Evie!” Lucy shrieked when she saw us walk in. She jumped up from the table to greet us. I could see Mom gesturing to the waiter, probably apologizing for the outburst.

“Auntie Lucy!” I gave her a big hug. “I’m so happy you came!”

“It was no trouble, dear,” she said, squeezing my hand. “We wouldn’t miss your party for the world.”

It was so good to see her. Although they’re supposed to be
identical twins, Lucy looks much younger than my mother, probably because she’s a lot heavier, and has enough sense to color her gray.

“Hello, Roderick,” I said, extending my hand.

He shook it weakly. “Hello, Evelyn. Good to see you.”

Bruce cleared his throat.

“Is this the groom-to-be?” Lucy asked, looking him up and down. “Handsome guy, Evie. Well done!”

“Ohmygod, sorry! Yes! This is Bruce.”

“Hello,” said Bruce cautiously, unsure what to make of this jolly, chubby version of my mom.

“Bruce, Bruce,
Bruce!
—I feel like I’ve known you forever. Come and give your old auntie Lucy a hug,” she said, grabbing him and shaking him back and forth like a rag doll.

“Lucia, please, will you sit down,” said Mom. “Roderick, how do you put up with her?”

Roderick shrugged his narrow shoulders. They’re living proof that opposites do attract. He and Lucy met when Roderick was selling junk bonds in New York in the ’80s. They had a few wild years, got married on a whim in Barbados, and have been blissfully happy ever since; well, at least we take Roderick’s silence and general willingness to do whatever Lucy says for happiness. When the bottom fell out of the market, he and Lucy moved back to England (to escape some unhappy creditors, Mom says) and Roderick, a broken man, has been working at his father’s sanitary napkin factory ever since.

It sounds horrible, but Lucy was more than happy to leave, since she spent a good deal of her time looking after my bitter old coot of a grandfather. Why he was willing to accept Roderick, as non-Italian as a fellow can be, and not my father is beyond me.

“Roderick doesn’t seem well,” my mother whispered to me, as Lucy listened raptly to Bruce’s life story.

I looked over at him. Pale, wan, slouchy.

“He looks the same to me,” I said.

“Something’s not right… Mark my words,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, still smiling at Bruce’s perfect SAT score story.

It was only eight o’clock, and Roderick was nodding off a little, but, to be fair, he’d just been on a plane for six hours listening to Lucy’s incessant chatter. It burns me that Mom always has to find the negative in everything. Here was her sister, whom she hasn’t seen in years, and all she can do is have psychic fits about which illness Roderick is about to drop dead of. But Mom’s never happy unless someone else is miserable. It gives her faith that she’s not alone in her agony. She clips obituaries of anyone under fifty-five and puts them in alphabetical order in a folder beside her bed. When Bruce asked her why, she said she’ll stop doing it as soon as she turns fifty-five.

“What about you, Lucy?” I asked.

“Same, same,” she sighed. “Still working at the museum. A new exhibition’s coming in next month—‘French Dollhouses, From the Reformation Through the Revolution.’ Unfortunately, it’s not as interesting as it sounds, but that’s a whole other story. I’d love to retire, to tell you the truth, but we’re still saving up for the girls’ college fund,” she winked and nudged Bruce in the ribs. The “girls” are Shmoopie and Lulu, her two West Highland Terriers. They’re ridiculous little white things, but she loves them as much as if she’d given birth to them herself.

I must admit, we did have a good time, despite Mom’s knowing glances in my direction. What she thinks she knows, I cannot say for sure, but I was careful to ignore her for most of the evening. And because I spent three hours at the gym—I left work early for the first time since that whole Pruscilla thing broke—I treated myself to a cannoli, even though my final weigh-in before the party was tomorrow.

I took the day off work on Friday (unpaid, since I was still on probation), and went to the gym early.

“I had dessert last night,” I confessed to Jade as I stepped on
the scale. “But I haven’t had so much as a sip of water today. And I’m PMS-ing. I’m so bloated, it’s not my fault if I gained.”

Jade shook his head. “You’ve lost three pounds.”

“Really?” It couldn’t be.

“Are you sure you’ve been eating?”

“Sporadically.” I couldn’t lie to him. A trainer is like a therapist—there’s no sense in lying to them, because you’ll only end up hurting yourself. “I think it’s because my stomach’s shrinking. I’m just not as hungry.”

“You’re down thirteen pounds in five weeks.”

“It’s a miracle!”

“Don’t starve yourself, Evie.”

“I’m not.” Well, I wasn’t—starvation was definitely an over-statement. Admittedly, I knew I wasn’t exactly eating
well,
especially this past week. I’d had a latte for breakfast every day and an apple for lunch. Dinner I let myself go a little, and usually had one of those Lean Cuisine frozen meals. Sometimes I felt a bit woozy, sure, but then I’d just lie down for a bit. I didn’t mind the hunger so much; the only thing nagging at me was that I could feel myself caring less and less whether I was being healthy or not—just as long as the pounds kept flying off. But maybe it wasn’t so bad. I
was
taking a multivitamin. “Didn’t you tell me that the weight comes off quickly at first?”

“Yes, but it’s been over a month now. Slow down, be patient.”

“It’s working. I think it’s because I’ve never exercised before and my body is finally learning how to reject the fat.”

“That’s a theory they never taught us in personal trainer school, but if that works for you, fine. Just take it easy, okay?” He was so concerned.

“Do they really have a personal trainer school?” I imagined a class full of Jades showering after a gruelling session.

“I was kidding.”

“Oh. You think I should cut back my workouts? I’m coming five times a week.”

“I didn’t say that. You’re motivated now. You’re seeing results. That’s good. You don’t want to lose your momentum.”

“Am I getting in shape faster than your other clients?”
I crave your approval. Please, please give it to me.

“You sure are,” he said, and finally smiled. “I knew I was good, but this is crazy. You’re my
best
client, Evie.”

The way he said
best
sent chills up my spine. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you, Jade.”

“You’re welcome. Have a great time at your party. And promise me you’ll eat something!”

“Of course!”

It was wonderful to put on my new dress and feel good in something for the first time in ages. As a concession to Bruce, I’d returned the matching bag and bought something a little cheaper, a nice black Kate Spade with leopard-print on the inside (
Vogue,
December: “Bargain Bags for Under $300). I sprayed some perfume on liberally, and asked Bruce to do up the clasp on my bracelet.

“How do I look?”

“Great.”

“You see? The dress is good. You like it now, right?” I asked.

“Yup,” he gagged. “But you’re wearing too much perfume.”

“I have to put a lot on or it’ll wear off by the time we get there.”

“Ah.”

“You could have used a haircut,” I said. “And maybe some new shoes.” Bruce has no sense of fashion at all. If it weren’t for me, he’d still be wearing the pink Polo shirt I found him in.

“I think we should both try not to drink too much tonight, Evie.”

“Fine,” I said. There was no time to fight, Claire was picking us up any minute.

“I’m serious. No drinking.”

“
Okay,
already.”

On the way there, Bruce warned me again to be on my best behavior.

“Do you not trust me or something?” I asked. “You think I’m going to make an idiot out of myself in front of your parents’ friends?”

“No, I just want to make sure we all have a good time, so let’s not let things get to us tonight.”

“That’s good advice, Bruce,” Claire said.

“You know my mother’s going to be very nervous,” he continued. “She wants everything to be perfect.”

“Perfect shmerfect,” I said.

By the time we finally got there, I was the one who was nervous. Bruce looked a little green, too, but that was probably because of Claire’s driving. My feet were already killing from my new shoes, and I’d only walked from the car to the front door. I rang the bell before we walked in, just to make Bertie think someone had arrived early.

She came running into the hallway in a panic.

“Oh thank God, it’s just you. Hello, Claire, nice to see you again.”

“You, too, Bertie,” Claire said as we walked in.

“The house looks wonderful, Mom,” said Bruce. “Very Narnia.”

Her so-called “planner” had really gone to town. Little white lights twinkled everywhere, and fake trees covered in fake snow lined the hallways. Everything glittered. Even Bertie, who was wearing a light blue Chanel suit trimmed in white fur.

I took off my coat and handed it to Rosita. Bertie’s face twisted into a painful grimace.

“Oh my God, Evelyn! What are you
wearing?
”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not real ocelot.”

“I can see that. Ocelots aren’t made of polyester, dear,” she said, unable to tear her eyes away. I’m sure she could tell that I’d lost a lot of weight, but it was clear that she was far too self-
absorbed to bother complimenting me. She rushed off into the kitchen to make sure the caterer had started to warm the hors d’oeuvres.

Bertie hired a photographer for the night and we were planning to have formal pictures taken with the whole family, but Mom, Lucy and Roderick arrived late, of course, so there was no time for anything but hasty introductions. Roderick and Mr. Fulbright went off to see his new pool table, and Mom and Aunt Lucy tried to sustain a conversation with Brooke and Wendy. Apparently, Diana had some sort of zit and, in a fit of teenage angst, was refusing to come out of her room.

As the guests began to arrive, I had the distinct feeling that I was going to make quite a gracious hostess one day. I flitted from group to group, making polite conversation and offering witty observations. Bertie’s friends all seemed to like me, thank God. I just wish Bruce had been around to notice. Predictably, he barely made an appearance, and was probably tucked away in his dad’s game room playing pool, so I accepted the gifts and congratulatory wishes as best I could on my own.

Mom was being sullen, and hadn’t moved from her spot on the couch. Every time a waitress would pass her with champagne, she took another glass.
She better not make a fool out of herself tonight in front of everybody.

“Lucy, will you keep an eye on her, please?” I whispered when nobody was around.

“Love your dress, Evie. Don’t worry about her. She’s just a little upset that Daddy wouldn’t lend us the car, so we had to take a cab.”

“You took a cab here from
Brooklyn?
”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“Why wouldn’t he lend you the car?”

“Because he said that he didn’t want your mother in it.”

“And you told her?”

“Are you nuts? She figured it out on her own.”

“Oh God, Lucy. Please just make sure she doesn’t puke on
anything,” I said. “She’s starting to look a little woozy.” I saw her drop a stuffed mushroom cap on the white carpet. Like a blue bullet, Bertie darted over from the other side of the room and picked it up.

“Don’t worry, Evie. She’s all right.”

Before dinner—a fantastic buffet of crab cakes and lamp chops and rosemary baby potatoes—Bruce’s dad gave us a nice toast, and everybody clapped. People seemed to be having a good time. Especially Claire, who was whispering intimately in the corner with some old guy she met who knew Grandpa from when he was a lawyer. I was a little pissed at Morgan, who told me I looked like a call girl, but she was already drunk by the time she arrived, so I just chalked it up to alcohol.

There was no sign of any real trouble until I saw Diana running down the stairs crying and into the kitchen. She could be such a scene-stealer, the little brat, in her barely-there slip dress. And all this over a zit. There were so many people milling about, that hardly anybody even noticed her.
Serves her right.
Then I saw Roderick teetering at the top of the stairs, obviously wasted off his ass. His face was bright red, and he was talking to himself.

I looked around frantically for Bruce. He’d finally emerged from seclusion and was now trapped between two of his dad’s co-workers. But he saw Roderick, too, and immediately flew up the stairs to pull him away before anyone else noticed. I followed Diana into the kitchen, where she was hugging Rosita and crying as waitresses swirled around her with silver trays.

“…and then…and then…he tried to touch my boob,” she sobbed, “and…and…I said
no
…and…and…”

Rosita looked at me, obviously alarmed.

Shit. This can’t be happening.
I backed out of the kitchen, and scanned the room for Bertie. She was talking to some of her garden club friends, thank God. As long as Diana remained hysterical in the kitchen, there was still plenty of time to make everything right before anyone found out.