This Christmas (10 page)

“Information?” Gwen asked, as if the notion was absurd. “Why would Sarah want information about Prudence?!”

I know Gwen meant well, but her defensive questions only gave Sophie an opportunity to advance her case.

“Oh, why are women ever curious about other women?” Sophie asked.

It was unsettling to be so obviously transparent to strangers. Sophie immediately knew my invitation was loaded with ulterior motives. What else could she see in me? Did she know I was coming unglued? Did everyone?

Gwenny jumped in, again trying to save me. “Well, now that you’ve brought her up. How is Prudence?”

“Ladies, you seem nice enough, but the gig is up. Why don’t you come clean and tell me what you’re up to?” Sophie shot back. How I longed for the moments we shared over Elmo-fur coats.

“We were just curious, that’s all,” Gwen said, gently setting her teacup on the table.

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” I said, silently reminding myself that I’d decided against finding Prudence a new husband. As soon as my guests left, I was going to hop in a cab and make my way to Saks for some retail therapy. It was time to focus on my own mental health instead of filling my head with diversions from my holiday blues. “It was inappropriate for me to ask about Prudence. I hope she’s well, and please send her my best.”

“You have a beautiful home,” Sophie said. I lived with my parents in this brownstone on West Seventy-fourth Street for my entire childhood before they moved to Greenwich, Connecticut and sold it to me well below market value. My parents did things a bit backward, retiring to the suburbs, but they’ve always marched to the beat of their own drummer. When everyone was carrying on about Aruba, they stayed true to Barbados. When all of their friends were engaged in mortal combat to get reservations at the city’s newest, trendy restaurant, they remained loyal to their favorite chef at Lutece.

“Thank you,” Gwen replied. “Since Prudence got the loft in the divorce settlement, Reilly was lucky to marry a woman with a location like this.”

“Back to discussing Prudence now, are we?” Sophie asked.

“Sophie, I do apologize. I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” I said. “I know you’re new to New York, but apartments are a pretty big deal here. A good one is harder to find than a good man, so we tend to prattle on a bit about our digs. All Gwen was saying is that a man in Manhattan is lucky to go from a loft in SoHo to a brownstone on the upper West Side without so much as a stint in a residence hotel.” Gwen and I laughed, but Sophie did not join us.

“I had to screw three doormen to find my place,” Gwen joked.

“Oh, Sophie, she’s kidding. I’ve known Gwen since high school and she’s a complete prude,” I said. Gulp. “I mean she doesn’t have casual sex.”

“It’s always a black-tie event,” Gwen said uncomfortably. The tension flooded my living room.

Sophie reached for her purse and started to stand. “Clearly you two have some sort of ax to grind with Prudence, and I’m not going to be any part of it. I may be new to New York, but I can spot bitches with an agenda in any city.”

I felt a lump in my throat and tears begin welling in my eyes seconds before I burst into tears. Crumbling, I sobbed, “She’s right!” I bawled into my palms. My hand lotion smelled so nice, I wish I could’ve enjoyed it. “I am a bitch.”

“No you’re not, Sarah!” Gwen said, straightening upright in her chair. “Look, missy, I don’t know where you come off calling us bitches or saying we’re plotting a scheme against precious Prudence, but you are dead wrong!”

Sophie scrunched her mouth to one side, skeptically. “Sarah just said I was
right
. She called herself a bitch!”

“She’s out of her mind!” Gwen defended, sort of.

“Look, I owe you both an apology,” I interrupted. “Sophie, you were right. I did want to know about Prudence, but it’s not what you think. I wasn’t going to do anything malicious. I just wanted to find her a new husband.” I sighed at the absurdity of it. “I don’t know what’s going on with me these days, but I’d feel more comfortable if she had a new man in her life. But none of that matters because as soon as you rang the doorbell, I decided I couldn’t go through with it.”

“Why do you care if Prudence has a husband?” Sophie asked. “Prudence dumped Reilly in case he failed to mention. I see her every week and she’s never brought up his name once.”

“She hasn’t?” I sniffed gratefully. “Didn’t he mean anything to her?”

Sophie laughed. “Look, I’ve been trying to fix up Prudence for months now, but she’s not interested. Ever since she got back from Italy last summer, all she wants to do is work on her wire sculptures. Jennifer and I have tried to fix her up on dozens of blind dates, but she refuses. She says she did enough dating to last her a lifetime. She says if the right man is out there, he’ll find her.”

“Really?” Gwen asked, fascinated and appalled. “Does she know she has a better chance of getting struck by lightning?”

“I think that theory was disproved in the nineties,” Sophie returned.

“What are wire sculptures?” I chimed in now that my eyes had dried.

Sophie exhaled deeply as if she was contemplating whether or not she trusted Gwen and me. “You two wanted to find Prudence a new man out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not just that,” Gwen shot, in an attempt to establish credibility. “Sarah’s lost her mind and she says this will calm her nerves.”

“Have you considered Paxil?” Sophie asked.

Gwen shrieked with delight. “That’s what
I
said! Sophie, bitch’s honor, I’m telling you, Sarah wouldn’t harm a fly. Look how easily you made her cry. Do you honestly think she has some nefarious plan for Prudence?”

“And what about you?” Sophie asked. “What’s in this for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why are you spending your time concocting plans to set up your friend’s new husband’s ex-wife? What’s your angle?” Sophie asked.

“My angle?” Gwen repeated. “I have no
angle
. This is what friends do for each other. My friend said she’d feel better if her new husband’s ex-wife had a new husband, so I said, darling, it sounds absolutely insane to me, but if it’ll bring you out of your funk, count me in.”

“I helped Prudence with this last time. It’s a big job,” Sophie said.

“It’s the season of giving,” Gwen explained, folding her arms.

“What do you do?” Sophie asked.

“What do you mean what do I do?”

“For work? What’s your job?”

Gwen knit her brows. “I’m a philanthropist. I have lunch.”

“Oh,” Sophie said as if that explained everything. “And just out of curiosity, when you said bitch’s honor, does that mean you’re a graduate of—”

“Vilma Veeter’s Bitchcraft class?” Gwen finished, as though they were two sorority sisters just discovering each other’s Pi Beta Phi charm bracelets.

“Yes!” They clasped hands.

“You remember the pledge, right?” Sophie asked.

“How can I forget?”

“Excuse me,” I chimed in. “Do you mind if I ask who in good God’s name Vilma Veeter is and what bitch’s honor means?”

“Another time, Sarah,” Gwen dismissed, still clasping hands with Sophie. “Shouldn’t Sarah take that class?”

“She’d never cry like that again,” Sophie said, laughing. “Seriously, Gwenny,”
Gwenny?!
“you remember what Vilma said about the Bitch’s Code of Honor. If you’re lying to me, you’re saying it’s okay for me to take revenge, right?”

“Of course,” Gwen assured.

“You’re saying that if it turns out you’re lying to me, I can throw a rock through Sarah’s beautiful window here, right?”

“Absolutely,” Gwen said, filling with the enthusiasm of promise.

“If you are planning anything that will hurt my friend Prudence—a fellow bitch by the way—”

“No doubt,” added Gwen.

“If you do anything that hurts her, I will strike back by Photoshopping Sarah’s head onto Paris Hilton’s sex tapes and blasting them over the Internet,” Sophie said.

“Absolutely!”

“Wait a second,” I said. “I don’t want my face on Paris Hilton’s naked body.”

“Then don’t screw my friend,” Sophie said.

“Yeah, Sarah, it’s simple. Don’t screw her friend.”

A moment later, I found myself locking middle fingers with my two compatriots and reciting some crazy Bitch’s Pledge of Allegiance.

“Okay, so here’s the deal,” Sophie began. “You remember how Prudence took off the day after your wedding last June? Well, while she was in Rome, she volunteered for a mosaic restoration project, where she met this artist who taught her how to twist wire every which way. So now she’s making sculptures full-time. She quit her job in accounting and everything. I don’t think she’s had a single date since she and Matt broke up.”

“Matt?” Gwen asked.

“The guy Prudence dumped Reilly for,” Sophie said.

“And you say she has no regrets?” I asked. “She never misses him?”

Sophie began, “I think she missed him more when they were married.”

“What does that mean?” Gwen asked. “Do we have any sherry?”

While searching for something sweeter for Gwenny, I explained that Prudence was suggesting that Reilly was an absentee husband. Pouring, I defended him. “Well, I don’t find that to be a problem.”

“Oh, okay, I’ll be sure to tell her that he’s changed his ways,” Sophie said. “Maybe she’ll want him back now.”

“You obviously passed the bitch class,” I said, smiling.

“If you two want to help find Prudence the man of her dreams, by all means you’re welcome to help. Jen and I have been trying to find her a man for months now, so consider yourselves on the committee. But I’m warning you, if you cross me and screw Prudence, it’ll be the worst mistake you ever make.” She walked to the doorway that led to the lower level of my home. “Oscar, time to go!”

Gwen mouthed,
I like her
. Oddly enough, I did too.

That night I dreamt I was Paris Hilton, but as luck would have it, I wasn’t ripping loose enjoying her party life. My wrists were bound with telephone wire and I was tied to the hand strap in the back of a Checker Cab. As I struggled to free myself, the driver turned around and asked if I needed help. The driver was six-year-old Thomas, one of Hunter’s classmates. Of course, it was unusual that a child was driving a taxi, but Thomas has cerebral palsy and is confined to a wheelchair so it was that much more implausible that he was a cabbie. Because he speaks with an electronic device, I’ve never heard his voice before, but in my dream, Thomas had an English accent and began singing the Happy Snowflake song. Then he crawled into the backseat to help me untie my hands. “Watch the road!” I shrieked, as car lights swept into us. I bolted upright into consciousness, waking Reilly beside me.

“Another bad dream?” he asked, placing his hand on my back.

“It was nothing,” I said and urged him to go back to sleep. Thomas had been on my mind a lot recently. Weeks ago, he and his family were featured on the cover of
New York Times Magazine
because his father, Richard, fought to reform the city school system to create an immersion program for kids with disabilities. More than that, the child was on my mind because I saw them on Friday at the school holiday party. I couldn’t help notice how his father posed such a stark contrast to me. He bounced all over the place, amusing the children. He made silly faces and seemed as though he were genuinely filled with delight to be with his son’s classmates. If anyone could feel sorry for himself, it was Richard, whose son’s list of challenges dwarfs my myriad of trivial complaints. Yet he seemed thrilled, while I was weighted with the troubles of the world.

Sophie, Jen, Gwen, and I were scheduled to have lunch the following day while Hunter and Reilly saw a movie about Santa Claus as an action hero. In the animated film, the North Pole is the target of attack by a band of rogue reindeer led by Rudolf, who was tired of being laughed at and called names.

The four of us were supposed to bring a list of names of single men we thought would be a good match for Prudence. Thomas’s father, Richard, came to mind as a good one for Prudence until I remembered he was already married—to an attractive doctor, no less. Only one of the fathers in Hunter’s class was single and he was so fat, he looked like Shrek with white skin. As Reilly snored beside me, I began listing all of the smart, interesting, single men I’d interviewed over the years.

At seven in the morning, I bolted upright in bed. This time, it wasn’t a bad dream but, rather, an idea I was surprised I hadn’t thought of earlier—Doug Phillips. Doug is an absolutely stunning-looking stock broker who would give Prudence all the attention she ever needed. He was so full of compliments that every time I saw Doug, I felt like the billion bucks he probably earned for his clients that day. I remembered Doug telling me that he got into the office no later than six every morning. When I heard Reilly’s shower running and
Sesame Street
on downstairs, I realized that I could call quickly from my cell phone. I stepped out onto the bedroom balcony that overlooked the small yard, forgetting for a moment that it was winter. But only for a moment, as the terra-cotta flooring sent chills through my bare feet straight up to my arms. The crisp air filled my flannel nightgown. I let down my ponytail, so I’d at least have a scarf of hair.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Doug answered.

“Hi, Doug, it’s Sarah Peterson,” I said, not sounding quite as confident as I’d hoped I would.

“I know who it is. Whaddya think, I answer the phone like that all the time?” It occurred to me that he just might. “Happy holidays. It’s been a while. Doin’ a story?”

“No, actually, I was calling for, well, not for business,” I said.

“Then for pleasure? Excellent,” Doug said. The fact that Doug looks quite a bit like Pierce Brosnan makes his persistent flirting bearable. Okay, enjoyable. The truth is that even though I know better, I always held the hope that Doug was sincere when he flirted with me. That maybe he did think I was gorgeous. That maybe when he looked at me as though I were the only woman in the world it wasn’t a well-rehearsed routine. That maybe I was the only woman who could tame this dangerous cad. Thankfully, my head was always in charge of my heart. Doug asked me out three times before I met Reilly, and while it was always incredibly tempting, I knew it would lead to heartbreak—mine. So I declined. Unfettered, Doug always asked again. Until he didn’t. But whenever I saw him, he made it clear that he found me attractive.
Gorgeous
was what he called me, as if he knew just what words would make me tick. I’ve been called pretty. Reilly even says I’m beautiful. But Doug was the only one who’s ever characterized me as gorgeous. Gorgeous is flowing waves of platinum blond hair, not a gold bob. Gorgeous is bedroom eyes, not home-office specs. Gorgeous is Victoria’s Secret, not L.L. Bean. I am pretty. I feel certain of this. I feel equally certain that I’m not gorgeous, though when Doug says it, I honestly believe he just might mean it. Rudy used to call me Hot Stuff when we were together. I miss the lies of sexy men.

“Well, I
am
calling for pleasure, Doug, but not mine,” I said, reining in my desire to add a cool, smoky tone that suggested smoldering sex between us.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Doug said, laughing. “Most guys don’t know how to please a woman, but I promise you that’s not the case with me, Gorgeous,” he said. How such smarmy shit can sound charming was beyond me.

“Do you realize it’s seven in the morning?” I said. “Seriously, Doug, I have a friend I want you to meet. I think you’d be perfect for each other.”

“What’s she look like?” he asked. I heard him begin to peck at his keyboard in the background.

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. I suppose it was reasonable for him to want to know about Prudence’s appearance. Maybe I was most surprised by how quickly he got over me.

Snap out of it, Sarah!
a stern inner voice reprimanded. It was mine! I was back. Please, dear God, don’t let this be a cameo appearance. I need my old, level-headed self back in the driver’s seat.
You have a fine husband in Reilly O’Shaugnessay. Stop flirting with this womanizing freak show and get back to work
.

“Her name is Prudence and she’s an accountant. She used to be, at least. Now she’s an artist. Oh, right, she’s got short black hair and blue eyes. She’s really very pretty. Very thin, though.”

“Can you send her over digitally?” Doug asked, now all business.

“Send her over digitally?”

“Her photo,” he clipped. “Does she have a website or something with her photo on it?”

I heard Reilly step into the bedroom and knock on the glass door to the balcony. With his towel wrapped around his waist, he shrugged his unclothed shoulders as if to ask what I was doing outside. I held my finger up, signaling that I’d need only another minute.

“I don’t think I have a photo of her, but she’s very pretty,” I said, hurried.

“No offense, but a woman’s idea of pretty usually isn’t the same as a guy’s. Can you tell me someone famous she looks like?”

“Um, Parker Posey?”

“Who?”

“Hillary Swank?” I offered. “Look, why don’t you go out with her and see for yourself what she looks like, and what
she’s
like while you’re at it?!”

“Because, Gorgeous, time is money and if I’m going out to lunch with Penelope—”

“Prudence,” I corrected.

“Whatever. If I go out with a woman, it means I’m not doing something else. I want to make sure my time is well spent. I have a short list of things I like to do. Making money, playing basketball, watching the Yankees, getting laid—all high on the list. Wasting an hour with some woman I have no chemistry with—
not
on the list. Now, if it was you we were talking about, there’d be no questions other than where and when.”

“Doug, I really ought to mention that I’m married now, so this little flirtation we have going is no longer appropriate,” I said, feeling quite satisfied that I’d taken part ownership of a game that had been his. It was the old responsible Sarah coming back to life. As I hung the Olympic medal of moral superiority around my own neck, I realized it had been a while since Doug spoke. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. But I knew. Poor Doug was devastated that I was married now. It hit him in a place he hadn’t known existed. I was the cause of this womanizing louse realizing that he had a deep chamber within his heart reserved for true love.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I just thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“I’m married too.”

“Since when?!” I shouted loud enough that Reilly heard. Now fully dressed, he gestured to see if I needed his help.

“Since ninety-four,” Doug said. “I guess you don’t want me to go out with your friend anymore,” he said, though his statement had a twinge of a question mark.

“No! I certainly do not, you, you, you adulterer!”

“Okay, then, never mind with the picture,” he said.

“Never mind with the picture?! Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Merry Christmas?”

I slammed down the phone and returned into my warm home. “What’s wrong?!” Reilly asked, surprised to see me stampede around the house, especially at this hour. “Bad interview?”

“Very bad interview,” I said.

Reilly shrugged. “I assume we’re doing carryout again tonight?” I was struck by the guilty realization that I hadn’t prepared a meal for my husband or child in nearly a month. Who had the energy to cook every day? Okay, no one was asking me to cook every day. Just recently I wasn’t able to do much of anything
any
day.

“Meaning what?” I shot defensively.

“Meaning I’ve got a coupon for the new Chinese place on the corner and was wondering if you wanted to give ’em a try,” Reilly returned.

I cried the tears of decompression, which can easily be mistaken for tears of joy. I wrapped my arms around my new husband’s neck and sobbed into his sweater. “Do I tell you enough how wonderful you are?”

“Sarah, what’s the matter?” Reilly lifted my chin and looked into my eyes. “You’re not yourself these days. I’ve never seen you get so choked up about Chinese food.”

“It’s not the food, Reilly. It’s how sweet you are. I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed being loved this way. I guess I’m realizing that I never was loved this way before you.”

“And that makes you cry?” he asked.

“Yes,” I sniffled. “I know I don’t make much sense these days. Believe me, crying over being loved is the least of my craziness this holiday season.”

“Do you want to see someone?” Reilly asked.

“I most certainly do not!” I shot before I realized he was talking about a therapist and not another man.

“Let’s not dismiss it out of hand, Sarah. Maybe you’re having the holiday blues, but if by the New Year you’re still not feeling well, we need to talk about counseling for you.” I nodded in agreement. “I’ll pick up some Chinese on the way home, and I promised Hunter we’d watch
Freaky Friday
tonight. Y’in?”

“
Freaky Friday?
Isn’t that a girl movie?”

“You said
All Santa’s Deer
was too macho. I thought you’d be happy to see him get into a chick flick.”

I smiled and agreed. “I’m lucky to be your wife. Hunter’s hockey bag is packed by the door. I get him at three, right?” Reilly nodded his head. “Six for dinner, seven for the movie?”

“Ten for—” Reilly raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Pencil me in,” I said.

“Pencil? You expecting a better offer?”

“Reilly, there is no better offer,” I said, plopping myself onto the bed and weeping again.

“What’s wrong now?!” Reilly said, putting his arm around me.

“I don’t know. You get going. Hunter’s not dressed yet, nor has he eaten,” I admitted. “His bag is packed, though!”

“Sarah, I hate to ask this, but is Hunter’s bag packed with the same gear that was in it from yesterday’s camp?”

“Yes. He doesn’t need new skates today, does he?”

“Honey, he needs new socks and shirt. His mouthpiece needs to be cleaned. Forget it; I’ll take care of it myself,” Reilly said, in a tone that suggested it may be he who would cancel our ten o’clock appointment.

As my taxi was stopped at a red light, I watched a blind woman cross Twenty-third Street with her dog. The day was as gray and icy as New York could get. Not the picturesque city Christmas featured in postcards, the ones where the Flatiron Building looks like a generously iced slice of cake sitting on a plate dotted with electric gumdrops. As they fought the cold, most people held an expression of steely determination. The happiest person who crossed in front of my taxi was the blind woman, who, when reaching the sidewalk, grabbed a treat and held it out for her dog. She patted his head, laughed, and continued their walk.

Where was she going? Why was she out walking and not in a warm taxi like me? And how could she stay happy in the face of blindness? I felt like such a failure of a human being that I was reduced to tears over trivialities like Doug Phillips and Chinese food when people had real problems to deal with this holiday season.

“Ma’am?” the taxi driver asked. “You okay back there?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, realizing that I was crying again. “Oh, thank you. I’m okay,” I said recomposing myself. “I always get a little sad around the holidays.”

“You and my wife,” the driver said.

Oh, then you certainly mustn’t drive yourself and your mistress to your death and leave your wife behind with an infant or she may find this time of year especially difficult in the future.

“You know us women,” I said instead. I despised myself for not being more like the blind woman who was enjoying the present instead of dwelling on whatever hardships were behind her. I had Reilly now. My son had never been happier. My family was finally complete. It seemed that if ever there was a time to be celebrant, it was now.