On Turpentine Lane(78)

When I said, “This one might be my favorite,” Dad told me they’d hoped it would be purchased by a synagogue or hang in the offices of a Jewish philanthropy. Tracy had named it, in happier times, Fleeing the Pogrom.





46





Why So Touchy?


ON OUR WAY TO work, from the passenger’s seat, reading aloud from his phone, Nick asked, “What’s this? Brooke wants me to thank you for playing Cupid.”

I said, “It’s probably an old text referring to Stuart—back when he moved in with her.”

“No. It just came. For, quote unquote, playing Cupid? That’s not some random phrase. Did you set her up with someone?”

Oh, God, I had; I’d spoken the name Reggie O’Sullivan, an involuntary utterance after Stuart’s attempted matchmaking. I said, “When Stuart asked if I knew any single guys, Reggie’s name slipped out. I was fresh off a conversation with him, his last day at work—remember? Answered forlornly how he didn’t have a girlfriend? Then I forgot about it in all the excitement of kidnapping my father.”

By this time, we’d reached campus and were parked in the reserved spot that had come with Nick’s promotion. I switched off the ignition, and asked, “Are you sure Brooke wasn’t being sarcastic? As in Gee, thanks, Faith, for fixing me up with the douchiest guy you know.”

Nick handed me his phone. “Be my guest. Ask her.” I typed Faith here. Nick gave me your message so just wondering if you were being ironic or sincere.

The dotted gray cloud told me she was composing a reply. Soon it appeared. Sincere.

You’re seeing each other? I wrote back.

Her answer was a winking emoji. “It’s true,” I told Nick. “She wasn’t being sarcastic.”

“It’s asinine,” he said. “Ridiculous.” But clearly not delivered in the good-humored way in which he most often disparaged our old boss.



After work, in our kitchen, salad greens being rinsed, the radio was on, a local anchor reporting from Red Sox spring training. I said, “Spring! I wish.” Then, feeling the need to fill the void, I continued, “One year my father took Joel and me to spring training. Dad caught a foul ball and told the player that I’d caught it, so sign it to me. Now I think that Dad was easy with the white lies. Imagine if I’d known then what was ahead.”

“His affair, you mean.”

“Everything. Who could have predicted that fiasco? Tracy! Talk about an unlikely couple.” And thinking of my brother living with Stuart’s ex-sister-in-law, and the unmentionable Brooke and Reggie, I added, “A lot of that going around.”

Nick was standing by the cupboard, one hand on the stack of plates, suddenly motionless. “Is that how you see us: ‘unlikely’?”

“Not in a bad way. I mean, yes, we were both involved with other people when we started working together, so it wasn’t the likeliest hookup.”

“Hookup, really? Like Reggie and Brooke—that match made in heaven?”

“Those two again? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no comparison.” But I couldn’t leave it at that. I had to throw out, “Why so touchy? What is it about my accidental matchmaking that annoys you so much? Is it Reggie with Brooke? Or anyone with Brooke?”

“I don’t deserve that,” he said. “I’m not the one with the Brooke hang-up.”

We’d never before exchanged a single harsh word. “Would that be a crime, to feel insecure about the previous live-in girlfriend—correction, hot live-in girlfriend—who came knocking on our door wanting you back? I wouldn’t call that a hang-up. I’d call it normal girlfriend anxiety.”

I looked up to gauge his reaction, expecting to hear more words I’d have to worry about. But he was smiling.

“You’re smiling,” I said.

“I could be.”

“Then we’re not having a fight?”

“If this is your idea of a fight, then you were raised in the most civilized home in America.”

Was that true? I said, “I think you’re right, up to my father’s artistic period.”

“I know I’m right.” He gestured around the kitchen. “Haven’t you noticed what we have here? It’s calm. It’s easy. It’s pretty great.”

“Do you mean us?”

“As opposed to the ancient linoleum and sixty-amp service? Yes, us.”

“In that case, whew.”

He asked if I’d tortured the salad long enough. I stuck a finger in the bowl for a vinaigrette assessment. “Needs a little lemon,” I said. “I think there’s one in the right-hand crisper.”

“Sure,” he said. “Coming up.”

Relief was making me brave. “Watch out for the elephant in the room,” I called.

That stopped him, just as I’d intended it to.

I said, “I’m going to make a declaration. Here it comes . . . not to scare you, not that you have to answer, but I’ve been meaning to tell you that I really love you.”

It took a few long seconds before I heard an unsatisfactory “Thank you.”

That had inspired nothing except a change of subject. He said, “You know, I’m not really in the mood for salad and—what else was it going to be?”