What Doesn't Kill You (11 page)

Soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. I was sure it was Diane remembering something she meant to tell me, probably about somebody else, so I answered, “What'd you forget?”

And he said, “Thomasina?”

The inside of my ears started sweating when I heard my name—my whole name, in that voice. I mean, my head was spinning from the day, Gerald was laid out on his belly trying to reach the outlet behind the love seat, and I'm flutterated because Ron said my name over the phone. This made no sense. I don't know why, but I kept feeling like Gerald would be able to tell I was talking to another man, not that I didn't have every right to, especially since it was just J.J.'s godfather.
Then I remembered I hadn't said anything yet, so I eased as far away from Gerald as the cord would let me and I said, “Yes,” like it was one of those people taking surveys who manage to call when you've got a mouthful of string beans. I knew I couldn't keep up the charade for long, so I made my answers short, which meant that when he said, “How about dinner next Saturday—say seven-thirty?” it was easier for me to answer, “That's sounds fine” than to explain why it wouldn't be a good idea. Or to ask why in the world he kept after me. Truthfully, there was younger, cuter talent out there—maybe not cuter, especially when I really got myself together. But I hadn't exactly been cooperative. I could not figure out why he kept on coming. Guess I'd have a chance to ask him, on our…get-together. I wasn't prepared to use the
D
word. Dates imply romance, and we weren't having any of that.

So I hung up, straightened out my face, freshened Gerald's drink and made myself pay attention to his lecture about spyware and firewalls. Great, the easier things get, the more I have to worry about. Anyway, before the General Tso's chicken and shrimp lo mein arrived I was hooked up. While we ate, I told Gerald about my day—except for the money part. We never discussed finances, although I wouldn't have minded if he slid a couple of bills my way when the delivery guy showed up, not to be petty. Soon I realized that the tuning-out thing works both ways. He had turned on the TV and entered the basketball zone. At least until after we ate. Then he nodded off on the sofa with his head in my lap. I was actually glad. I wasn't really in the mood for chit chat or even doing the do. My mind was on composing my résumé, what bills were due, how strange it was going to be working for somebody else…

Next thing I knew I was waking up to an infomercial about
making millions buying property with no money down. Maybe I should have listened. Anyway, I shot up like somebody on fire, which was usually enough to get Gerald rockin' and rollin', but sleepy head was slow to get it in gear. Guess none of us move as fast as we used to, but I certainly was not interested in his getting busted for breaking curfew, which was usually midnight. Beyond that it would take more than “It was Bruce's birthday…” or “Roger sold fifteen over projection…” to get him off the hook. So I got Gerald together, checked for makeup and sent him home—never my favorite part of the evening. I was always closest to admitting it wouldn't be bad not to wake up alone and wondering what he said to his wife when he got in their bed. But I had plenty to think about without dragging a dead horse into anybody's Spine Align Comfopedic.

So I threw myself into mounting my career campaign—sounded a lot like war. I realized later it was. I worked to assess my on-the-job strengths, analyze my skills, define my objectives—it felt a lot like I was back in the guidance counselor's office, and I wasn't sure I had any more idea what I wanted to be when I grew up than I did then. I did exercises to uncover my natural talents. Seems I'm detail oriented, but so's a brain surgeon, and I didn't see med school in my future.

You're supposed to arrange your work experience in chronological order, starting with the most recent. First, last and in between it was all the same, so I went to a chapter called “Rev Up Your One-Company Credentials.” They make it sound like you're some kind of trifling, unambitious deadweight if you work for the same place more than two years. But to avoid looking like one, they suggest you break up your service by describing the growth in your responsibilities, using Dynamic Words—
was
or
did
will not do. Why see when you
can observe? Only a wimp would suggest, when you can innovate, formulate and transform. Made me want to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Then there was the tricky question of salary history. To me, it was a no-brainer—I wanted people to know up front what I was worth. But all three of my guides suggested leaving out the specifics, so I followed their advice.

After I worked out what my résumé should say, I came to the typeface dilemma—did I want to be dependably serif or innovatively sans serif? The font should speak to the position. Now, really, what does that mean? But I worked at it—must have tried every one on the machine including different languages. The Cyrillic alphabet is very attractive as letters go, and frankly I wasn't sure it was any more confusing than whatever mumbo jumbo I had written to describe twenty-five years on the job in short, punchy sentences.

I must admit I was feeling very efficient, setting up files on my own computer, creating my own system, the way I did for Olivia. She would never have known where anything was without me—stop it. Anyway, I'd be at my desk by nine, dressed at least for casual Fridays because finding a job was my job. I was laying the foundation. In a week or so I had several printable and scannable versions of my résumé and I was trying to decide whether to tackle the text-only and email versions—because I found I needed four résumés, not just one. But it was time for a break, so I went in search of the perfect paper. That involved shopping, something else I'm good at. By the time I got home with my deckles and linens and laids, oh my, in a neutral array from ice-white to banker's gray, there was a dingy number-ten envelope waiting for me with the startling news that I would receive only ten weeks of unemployment. Ten?! Oh no. We were
nipping this right in the bud. You let a mistake hang around, next thing you know it's gospel.

So I hit the phone, and I was not filing a complaint with some automated, humanoid programmed to say “please,” “thank you” and “have a nice day” like it gave a rat's rump. Somebody was going to speak to me. I hit “0” until I got a living, breathing, person, Ms. Cavanaugh, which I knew because I took her name and her supervisor's and everybody else's who tried to tell me the twenty-six weeks of eligibility started from the date of unemployment, not from the date of filing. You mean I'd be penalized for being a conscientious citizen and not using taxpayer money until it was absolutely necessary? Yep. That's exactly what they meant.

You want to talk about upset? I was ready to march on Washington, but who was I going to tell? Not my family—they were worried enough already. Gerald would say something like, “You'll be alright, baby,” which was either a vote of confidence or a prerecorded announcement. I was not ready to turn this into some kind of soap opera for my friends.
The Middle-aged and the Jobless? All My Bills
? I don't think so. And what could I expect from Julie except “I tried to tell you.” So I kept my protest to myself.

Needless to say, as the weekend approached, I was not in a social frame of mind, so I tried concocting a halfway reasonable excuse to back out of my “appointment” with Ron. That's when I found out he had told J.J., who told Amber, who called to let me know she knew, sounding so excited you'd have thought she won the lottery. She asked where we were going, what I was planning to wear. She never asked what I was wearing when I went out with Gerald—she'd barely look at me. And I didn't push it. Nobody likes to see disapproval in her daughter's eyes,
or hear disappointment in her voice, so it became easier just to go get it over with.

For wardrobe I went with basic black—slacks and a sweater, nothing fancy because I didn't want to look like I was trying. But I didn't want to seem like I didn't care either, so as a last-minute touch of pizzazz I draped a purple silk scarf over my shoulders. A glance in the hall mirror confirmed I looked perfect for a nondate with my daughter's husband's godfather. The one plus: for the first time in years, it didn't matter who I ran into.

Then I was out the door. None of that waiting on pins and needles for
him
to ring the doorbell, like a schoolgirl on a Saturday night. Of course, he offered to come get me—even sounded disappointed when I said I'd be coming from an appointment so it was easier for us to meet. Which was
technically
true—after we'd spoken I made a six o'clock at Ten & Ten for a change of polish. Just like I'd convinced myself that by not using the
D
word it was
technically
not one. I mean, it wasn't a date if I met Julie, or Amber and J.J. at a restaurant. Why was this any different? Except deep down I knew I was
technically
full of it.

Ron chose Fujiyama—I'd driven by the place a thousand times but never eaten there. I mean, I'm from New York. I grew up ordering egg foo yong and fried rice from the local greasy wok, then discovered Szechuan dishes in the '80s when we all did. As for Japanese cuisine—I may have had tempura once, but raw fish, soybeans and horseradish? Right up there with canned eel. A little exotic for me, and for Gerald ravioli was a walk on the wild side. He liked his beef big and well-done, his chicken roasted, fried or smothered in cheese, hold the curry and chipotle, and vegetables required lots of butter. Besides, the restaurant was in the forbidden zone—less than
a mile from my house. Yes, I keep mentioning Gerald; he'd be present whether I liked it or not. And even though I told myself that going out with Ron was
theoretically
not cheating on Gerald, it was hard to shake the feeling it was wrong, which I understood was
theoretically
the basis for my relationship with Gerald. But there was something uncomplicated about Gerald and me. We were honestly dishonest. I liked it that way. I know it sounds pretty screwed up, but it wasn't if you really think about it. I didn't know what Ron was about. So between
theory
and
technicality,
I convinced myself Ron was just about dinner.

The only space in the lot was between two SUVs, and I squeezed in, trying not to feel overwhelmed—by the behemoths on either side, by my jobless, soon-to-be checkless state, by my shrinking bank account, by this evening. Did I look OK? What if he was late? Should I wait at the bar? Did they have bars in Japanese restaurants? What would I order? What would we talk about? The engine idled, burning gas I couldn't afford, so, after a final check of the mirror—yep, exactly the same as when I left home five minutes ago—I counted down: four, three, two…and launched myself into orbit.

The rock-and-roll beat hit me before I opened the door. Good. There would be no whispering sweet nothings. Ron, standing watch at the bar, flashed me a “come to Papa” grin soon as I walked in. Damn. He intercepted me in three giant steps, said, “Nice to see you—on purpose” and planted a welcome kiss on my cheek before hello got past my lips. Then I inhaled. I was almost toast. He said I looked great—one worry off the plate. Normally I'd have said, “So do you,” because he did—gray slacks with a navy turtleneck that eased over his chest, hugged those biceps—stop. I was keeping this platonic,
which is kind of hard after you've already slept with a man, even by accident. So I just smiled and said thanks, which proved I could still talk.

The hostess in her red kimono led us across a bridge over the indoor pond. Ron rested his hand on the center of my back and explained that the hibachi room offered a wider selection than the sushi bar—which I only half heard because I was trying to keep the tingle that shot up my spine from making me fall in the water.

Seating in the dining room was communal—eight guests and one chef to a table. Whew! Saved from a cozy corner table for two where I'd try to keep the conversation light while doing my best to convince Ron that his interest in me, though flattering, was misguided. That I appreciated it, really, but his efforts would be better directed toward some PYT who'd be happy for his attentions and to be his wife, then make him lovely babies that they could raise together and live happily ever after. Isn't that how it's supposed to go? Anyway, our side-by-side chairs between the party—and I do mean party—of four women who were on at least their second round of apple martinis and the couple who looked like they'd been married thirty-five years and run out of things to say didn't leave me much wiggle room. Ron thanked Erika, our hostess-san, and greeted Jason, the hibachi guy, who said, “Good to see you.” Clearly, Ron was no stranger here. Then I was wondering who a man I didn't want to be out with in the first place had brought here to dinner the last time. Me, jealous? Is that stupid or what? It used to happen years ago, when Gerald would say something about his wife, a place they had been, a movie they had seen, and I would feel hot and prickly—upset because it wasn't me. Clearly, it was time for my handy dandy bud nippers, because this was not taking root.

Seats, menus, cocktails—no champagne this time. I was keeping my wits, and all my other stuff, firmly under control, so I ordered tea. Ron asked for the usual, which turned out to be sake—served chilled, the way he had it in Hokkaido.
Hokkaido?
He'd been to Japan? Before I could ask, Jason commenced our dining experience in a blur of flying knives, spatulas and flaming food. I remembered the Thanksgiving turkey-cue and Ron and J.J.'s charter membership in the Brotherhood of the Blaze, so a restaurant with fire at the table made perfect sense. I conveniently ignored the heat waves wafting up from the grill, just like I was ignoring the ones radiating from him. No need to fan the flames.