Smart Women (12 page)

“I was a reporter on the
Miami Herald
for a long time and then I quit,” he said. “I went to live in Israel for a year, on a kibbutz, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. And then I came home and wrote a book. That was a couple of years ago and since then I’ve been writing freelance articles, mostly investigative reporting. I like the way your mouth curls up. You’re very pretty, you know that?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“It’s better if we don’t get personal, I think.”

“Why is it better?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ll write you a letter about it, okay?”

“Sure, okay. You want my address?”

“I know where you live.”

“But I pick up my mail. My box number is three-five-nine.”

“Three-five-nine,” she said. “I’ll remember that. I’d like to read your book.”

“I’ll bring you a copy.”

“Okay. But right now I’ve got to go to bed. I get up early.”

He stood up. “When are you going to have me over for dinner? That’s what you’re supposed to do when someone new moves into the neighborhood.”

“Is that in the Rule Book too?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Page forty-two.”

“I see.”

“Of course, I could have you over too. I make a mean spinach lasagna, an outstanding chicken curry, and I’m working on a stuffed zucchini.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“So . . . when?”

“When, what?”

“When should we get together for dinner?”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“I swim every afternoon at the University pool. Would you like to join me some day?”

“I’m not much of a swimmer. I get water up my nose.”

“I’ll get you nose clips.”

“Then I’d look like a frog.”

“What’s wrong with frogs?”

“They’re green and slimy.”

“You’re right,” he said.

She walked him down the stairs and to the front door.

“I’m reading Proust,” he said.
“The Captive.”

“I never got past the endless minutiae of
Swann’s Way.
”

“So you’re not a romantic,” he said.

“Says who?”

“If you were you’d like Proust.”

“Not necessarily,” she said, opening the front door. They stepped outside into the darkness. She kept forgetting to replace the burned-out bulb in the hanging lamp next to the door. “Why are you telling me all of this anyway?”

“I want you to know me, I guess. I want you to like me.”

“I do like you. Now go home.”

“How about a soak first?”

“No, not tonight.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Maybe never.”

“That would be a real shame.”

She shrugged.

“Margo . . . I’d like to kiss you goodnight.”

“No,” she said.

“Can I shake your hand then?”

She put her hand out. He took it. His touch sent tingles up her arm, weakened her legs, sent a flash between them.

Adolescent. Romantic imbecile.

“Goodnight, Margo,” he said.

“Goodnight, Andrew.” She pulled her hand away just in time. In another second she’d have been in his arms, her mouth on his. Instead, she turned and walked back into the house, closing the door behind her.

Just like Leonard,
the voice inside her head said as she was brushing her teeth.

Are you crazy?
she argued.
He’s nothing like Leonard.

The same tingles . . .

That’s just physical attraction.
She spit out toothpaste.

You’re telling me?

So I admit it. I’m attracted to him. But he’s nice too.

You didn’t think Leonard was nice?

Yes, I did . . . in the beginning . . . but it turned out he was neurotic.

And how do you know this one isn’t?

I don’t. How could I? We hardly know each other.

Ah ha! That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.

Margo got into bed.

No more affairs going nowhere, she promised herself. From now on she was only interested in men who wanted to settle down. Men who were divorced or widowed or had never been married, although she preferred divorced. That way she wouldn’t be fighting ghosts and he’d have had some experience with whatever marriage was and was not. He’d have kids at least as old as hers, maybe even older. She was not interested in merging families. She had only one more year, after this one, with kids living at home. Then it was to be her turn. She wasn’t about to give up that kind of freedom for some guy with kids. And he would have had plenty of experience with women, her steady man, and with life, so that settling down with her would be a pleasant relief. Not boring, of course, and not routine. But he wouldn’t need to prove anything either. They would see eye to eye on important subjects. He would be politically liberal, but no longer an activist. He’d have gotten that out of his system in the sixties. He’d welcome a nice place to live, a real home, but he wouldn’t get crazy over it. He wouldn’t be a collector, like Leonard, who couldn’t get a divorce because he was afraid of losing his de Koonings, his oriental rugs, his Ming vases. They would share a simple life, with plenty of laughter, plenty of passion, but without crazy expectations.

That’s how it would be with her steady man.

Andrew was probably in bed now, thinking about tonight. Thinking about her. If they had kissed, if she had gone next door with him, they would be in bed together now, their bodies, naked, wrapped around each other. She would like to have kissed him. His lower lip was fleshy and inviting. She would have nibbled on it. It would have been nice to run her hands through his soft-looking hair, to kiss the back of his neck.

That’s enough, Margo! Go to sleep.

Sleep . . . how can I possibly sleep?

Close your eyes, for a start. Then count sheep. Count lovers. Count anything. But get off the subject of Romeo next door before you start thinking you’re Juliet, at forty.

12

M
ICHELLE HAD A RASH
on her legs. The doctor said she had probably gotten flea bites over the summer and they had caused this allergic reaction. He prescribed a white cream, which she was supposed to apply twice a day. But most mornings she forgot because she was always in a hurry to get to school. So all during the day her legs itched and she scratched until they were bloody and sore.

School wasn’t bad this year. She liked her English teacher. She liked her Chemistry teacher. She liked Gemini, a new girl in her class. She thought they might get to be friends. Real friends. She was even getting along with her mother, who had changed for the better over the summer. This year Margo wasn’t on her case all the time and they hadn’t had one major battle since Michelle got back from New York.

Puffin was coming to dinner tonight. Puffin was in her class too, but they had never been friends. Puffin was so spoiled flitting around town in her Porsche. A princess from Texas. Michelle didn’t see how her mother could be friends with Clare, Puffin’s mother, but they were. “I don’t judge my friends by their children,” Margo had said one time, “any more than you judge your friends by their parents.”

“But Mother,” Michelle had argued, “she’s a product of her environment. Clare must have made her the way she is.”

“Clare has gone through many changes, Michelle,” Margo had said. “And Puffin will too. It’s not her fault that her parents have so much money she doesn’t know what to do. Shopping to her means going out and buying a Georgia O’Keeffe. Try to remember that.”

“I still don’t like her,” Michelle had said. “I don’t like her attitude toward life.”

“You’re entitled, “ Margo had said.

And so Puffin was invited to dinner. And then Margo decided to ask Andrew Broder too, the Brat’s father, because he was new in town and seemed lonely. When Michelle heard that, she asked Margo if she could invite Gemini, who was also new in town. Gemini was a Pueblo Indian from New Mexico. She was living with the family of an anthropologist from C.U. who had met Gemini a year ago while he was doing research at her pueblo. He had convinced Gemini’s family to let her come to Boulder because she was a gifted student and deserved the best educational opportunities. Gemini’s mother and four older sisters were well-known potters—the Gutierrezes. Their pots sold for a fortune. Margo was always admiring them in the Indian gallery on the Mall.

Gemini was definitely headed for Harvard, Yale, or M.I.T. and she knew she’d get in any place she wanted, and with a full scholarship too, because she was a Native American and all the best schools were knocking themselves out trying to recruit Native Americans. A few years ago it had been blacks, but now nobody was that interested in them.

Gemini wasn’t her real name. She chose it because it suited her new life in Boulder. Michelle and Gemini had a lot in common. They were both good students, they were both virgins, and they agreed that Stuart and his preppie friends were fools who, as Gemini put it, did not know the way of the world. Michelle wasn’t sure what that meant, but she thought it had to do with having your priorities in order. Having your values straight. And Michelle certainly did, which was probably why Gemini had decided to hang out with her.

So there would be six for dinner. Michelle baked whole wheat bread and, for dessert, brownies. Margo made chicken marengo, her old standby, and Andrew Broder brought the salad and the wine. Michelle did not like the way he and Margo kept looking at each other.

Puffin did not talk, she exclaimed. “Oh, Margo . . . this chicken is simply fabulous!”

“Oh, Stuart, I think you look so nice with your short haircut!”

“Oh, Mr. Broder, I hope you like Boulder as much as we do!”

And Michelle did not like the way Stuart kept looking at Puffin. Puffin was such a flirt. It was disgusting. Gemini didn’t say anything. She ate quietly, taking it all in. She got rice stuck to her hair.

Margo drank too much wine and got silly. God, Michelle hated it when her mother got silly. It was intensely embarrassing. Why couldn’t Margo see that? Once, Andrew Broder reached out and covered Margo’s hand with his own. Oh, it was coming all right. Her mother was getting
gaga
over this guy. Michelle thought back to that night last spring, that night she had given Margo hell for renting the Hathaway apartment for B.B.’s ex-husband. If only Margo had understood that Michelle had just been trying to protect her. She had felt what was coming, even then. She had felt that her mother was going to get involved in somebody else’s life again. God, she hated that word,
involved.
If only she had been able to make Margo understand that she had been thinking of her own good. Margo should have learned her lesson the last time, with Leonard. That was all Michelle had meant. But no, Margo courted disaster. That was a line from one of the books Michelle was reading for English class. She couldn’t remember which one, but it was certainly fitting.

Puffin and Stuart drank wine too. Puffin was practically in Stuart’s lap by the time Michelle carried in the brownies and ice cream. Of course her mother didn’t notice. She was practically in Andrew Broder’s lap. Gemini watched it all without a word. She got ice cream in her hair.

They all helped clear the dishes, but then Margo shooed the kids out of the kitchen. Too small for all of them, she said, so just she and Andrew Broder would clean up. Oh, Mother, Michelle thought, who are you fooling?

Puffin and Gemini stayed until eleven, then Puffin drove Gemini home. After about fifteen minutes the phone rang and Michelle and Stuart picked up at the same time. It was Puffin, calling Stuart. They stayed on the phone for about an hour, Michelle thought. She wasn’t sure because she fell asleep reading
Billy Budd.
She wasn’t sure what time Andrew Broder left either. And she had meant to check up on that.

13

S
ARA WAS FINALLY GOING TO
spend the night at her father’s. She couldn’t wait to tell Jennifer her good news. But when she did, Jennifer said, “That’s weird, Sara . . . because last weekend, when you begged to stay over at your father’s, your mother exploded, right?”