My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

5.

For lunch, Michael suggests we meet at Jake’s Place, a hole-in-the-wall deli tucked away in one of the endless strip malls along Coast Highway. I’ve never understood the appeal, but he loves their pastrami Reuben and orders it every time, accompanied by a platter heaped with well-done fries. As we greet each other with a stiff hug, I am struck by the way Michael’s resemblance to his father increases with age. He has my coloring, but his dark eyes and full lips are the spitting image of Henry’s as a young man.

When the food arrives, I wrinkle my nose at the sight of my sandwich: pre-sliced turkey, wilted lettuce, and a pale hunk of tomato on dry whole wheat toast. I am living in the wrong time and place. Had I been a magazine editor several decades ago in Manhattan, I’d be enjoying a martini lunch right now with a young executive from one of the big PR firms, dining on a three-course menu of things stuffed with other things: lobster-filled avocado, Dover sole with scallop mousseline. And for dessert, profiteroles filled with vanilla ice cream and drizzled—no, make that lathered—in hot, rich, dark chocolate sauce.

I nibble on the tasteless turkey, focusing as intently as if it were a Michelin-starred meal. Anything to delay conversation. I haven’t seen Michael for longer than I care to admit, and I’m not sure where to resume with him. Relations have been strained for the past year, ever since Henry moved in with his little tart. Okay, I know now she isn’t a tart, and she certainly isn’t little, but still – I never expected my only child to embrace the new arrangement with such enthusiasm. So I find it easier to maintain a safe distance. I try to see Benny every week or two, usually when Michael is off on one of his frequent business trips. I relieve Heather for an hour while she goes to an appointment or runs a few errands.

“Mind if I have a fry?” I ask, helping myself before Michael can respond. Even cooked well-done, it is bland and mealy on the inside. At least I’m not tempted to eat more. Michael, however, is shoveling the fries into his mouth with mechanical efficiency. I note with despair that at twenty-seven, my son has his father’s sagging belly and puffy jawline. Poor Michael. He’s inherited Henry’s looks and my irascible nature.

Between scarfing fries, he gets the conversational ball rolling. “How’s the apartment coming along? Have you settled in?”

“Yes and no. I still have piles of boxes everywhere, and more stuff stowed away in a mini-storage locker. There’s no way it will all fit into my cozy apartment, that’s for sure.”

“You didn’t have to move into such a small place. For that matter, you didn’t have to move at all.”

“We’ve been over this,” I say, trying to keep my tone upbeat. “I didn’t want to live there alone, after—I needed a fresh start.”

“Benny liked visiting the house.”

My marital home was conspicuously large for a family of three, let alone a single woman. Michael knows a big house and fancy cars aren’t important to me like they are to his father, but he would have me remain in his childhood home to indulge a toddler’s whim.

“Benny’s three. I’ll bet he’s forgotten about the house already. Besides, I’ve set up some toys and books for him in a corner of the living room. And my new health club has a pool where I can take him. He’ll love that,” I say, borrowing Whitney’s suggestion. “How’s your place?” I ask, segueing (I think) into neutral territory. “When are you starting the kitchen remodel?”

“Sore subject.” This is how Michael responds whenever he wants to block off a particular avenue of discussion. He has an ever-growing list of sore subjects, at least a couple of hundred by now.

“Never mind.” I rack my brain for a topic that won’t lead to bickering and hurt feelings. “Tell me what brilliant and adorable things Benny is doing these days.”

“He’s great,” Michael says, grinning for the first time. He talks about how verbal Benny has become and how clever about many things. “Yesterday he said, ‘Daddy, I want to make a picture of the park. Mix the yellow and blue paint together so I can paint the park green.’ Can you believe that? He knows red and yellow make orange too.”

“I’ll bet even Picasso hadn’t figured that out at three. Benny’s a great little guy. You and Heather should be proud of him and proud of yourselves as parents.” It’s true. I smile thinking of my grandson and my daughter-in-law, a young woman who has my affection and respect.

Now Michael is beaming. “Thanks, Mom. I have to give most of the credit to Heather. She spends so much more time with him than I do.”

When he rewards me with a smile like this, one that lights up his entire face, it makes my heart clench with joy and sadness at the same time. Joy at sharing such a warm moment; sadness because it’s rare for him to radiate pure glee. Michael has always been subject to mood swings and bouts of sullenness, a tendency that’s grown worse since the divorce. I have wondered a thousand times whether Henry and I caused Michael to turn out this way. How much blame must parents bear for their children’s problems? Lately, his ill humor is often aimed at me without explanation, as if I had been the one to jump ship and paddle off with a new partner.

“How’s work? Business still strong?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. Ridiculously busy. We acquired a company that makes safety surfacing for playgrounds. It’s a good extension of our product line since we already sell to schools and municipalities.”

“What are you going to name it?”

“Nothing. I mean, it will just become part of Schuyler Enterprises.”

Schuyler Enterprises is Henry’s family business, founded as a manufacturer of office furniture by Henry’s father, who ran the company until his death. Henry and his older brother, Steve, now share the helm. As Mister Inside, Steve runs the business end of things and handles all the hiring and firing. Henry avoids any distasteful activity that might make him less lovable. A born salesman, he adores schmoozing customers, hosting hospitality events, and handing out promotions and bonuses to the sales force he heads up. What Henry lacks in looks, he more than makes up for in amiability and charm. Under the two brothers, Schuyler has branched out into additional markets: schools, libraries, community centers, theaters. The expansion strategy has paid off. Thanks to Schuyler, we all enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, even post-divorce.

“How about calling the new product line Schuyler Surfaces? Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, Mom, but I think we’ve got it covered,” Michael says with more than a hint of sarcasm. What he means to say is that I’ve relinquished the right to offer strategic marketing guidance to Schuyler Enterprises.

This has nothing to do with the divorce. Years ago, when Michael was still a young boy, Henry’s family wanted me to “hop aboard” (Steve’s actual words) as Schuyler’s advertising and PR manager at more than double my editor’s salary. I dismissed Steve’s recruiting efforts, and the Schuyler men took my incomprehensible rejection as an affront to the family. A model wife would not deign to be so ungrateful and uninterested. Henry never could understand why I clung to my unglamorous, low-paying editorial job, or why I had to add insult to injury by devoting further time to free-lance work. “You know, Margaret, you don’t have to lift a finger if you choose not to,” he said countless times.

“I like to lift all my fingers and tap away on the keyboard.”

But whenever I worked late, traveled on business, or spent hours at the computer on weekends, Henry would make unfunny cracks in front of Michael about my tireless dedication to the powder-handling community of America. Now, after Michael rejects my marketing idea for the company, my mouth sags in an unintentional frown.

“Mom. Don’t give me that look.”

“What look? There was no look.”

“I think there was.”

“I swear, I’m totally lookless.” Now, he gives me a look. “Is Alice still working for the company?” I ask.

This takes him by surprise. “Yes.”

“Tell me about her.”

“I thought you didn’t want to meet her or hear anything about her. That’s what you’ve been saying all this time.”

“I don’t want to meet her.” Of course, I don’t mention the inebriated brush with Alice at The Kitchen restaurant. “But I’m ready to find out more about what she’s like.”

“Why?”

“I was married to your father for twenty-eight years. Now he’s with someone else, and she’s spending a lot of time with my family both at work and outside of work.”

“We’re not exactly your family.” As soon as he says this, Michael knows he’s gone too far. “I meant, Dad and Alice are, like, a separate unit now. I didn’t mean the rest of us.”

I’m not so sure. But I ignore his hurtful comment and say, “It’s important for me to learn more about her. I shied away from it for a long time, but I accept that I have to face it.”

“She’s friendly. Down-to-earth.”

I already know this. “Is she still doing inside sales? Or did your father promote her to the marketing department?” I’ll admit, I’m trolling to see if she has glided right into the job I refused all those years ago. Why not? She’s glided into every other aspect of my former life.

“He’s given her a few marketing assignments. But her job title hasn’t changed.”

“Ah.”

“Alice is very selfless. She volunteers at a soup kitchen on Sunday mornings.”

“Oh, isn’t that nice.” I’m laying it on pretty thick, and Michael again grows suspicious.

“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’ve made it clear how you feel about volunteerism, Mom.”

I shrug with genuine chagrin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“A few years ago, one time when Heather and I were at the house, I overheard a conversation between you and Dad. He wanted you to serve on some charity board, and you told him your work didn’t leave you with time for ‘fluffy stuff’ like that.”

I try to laugh it off. “Oh, you know how I am. Sometimes I say things without thinking them through. Don’t take it literally.”

“That’s not all you said.” He is determined to air some age-old grievance. “Dad told you not to be so selfish with your time, and you said all people are fundamentally selfish, even if they’re doing good works.”

I have to admit that sounds like something I would say. But he’s taking it out of context. “What I meant was, we all try to do the things that make us feel good,” I say. “Like, if a woman juggles three volunteer jobs, she’s ultimately doing it for her own satisfaction – not just to help others, but because she derives pleasure from the work.”

“Suppose a woman had to choose between herself and her child,” Michael says.

“Choose how? Like, there’s only one ticket to the Lady Gaga concert, and the choice is who’s gonna get it?”

His eyes roll. “Let’s set the stakes a little higher, okay?”

“How high?”

“Life or death.”

Now I have to struggle to keep my eyes from rolling.

“Let’s say they both have some deadly virus,” says Michael, “and there’s only enough of the anti-viral medicine to save one life. If the mother sacrifices herself so her child can live, you can’t tell me that’s a selfish act.”

This whole line of discussion is bizarre, but I want to treat it seriously so I consider my response. “Maybe the mother knows she can’t live with the knowledge that she’s condemned her own child to die. Deciding to die in her child’s place is unselfish in one way – but it’s also self-serving because it’s the only choice she can stand to make.”

“But what if the child—”

“Michael, please. Can’t we lighten up?”

He picks up a fry but then tosses it back onto the plate to signal his annoyance with me. “Oh, right. You want to get back to pumping me for information about Dad’s relationship, don’t you?”

“I’m not pumping you. I’m simply curious about your opinion of Alice.”

“I already told you, she’s friendly. But I’m not gonna get in the middle and act like some kind of informant. If you have questions, ask Dad yourself. Or ask them both. Alice is very kind and direct. She’s not a game-player.”

Unlike his mother.

Things go downhill from there. Michael lets his churlish side take over. At first, I try to keep the conversation alive with light chatter about the gym, but he starts scrolling through the messages on his phone. Slighted by his inattention, I grow silent too. I guess he’d rather be in the company of someone warmer and free of cynicism. Someone like Alice. I envision her on her birthday, receiving an avalanche of Hallmark cards festooned with adorable kittens or sprays of colorful spring blooms, and the sentimental messages inside that say Birthday greetings to a wonderful, caring person. The few cards I get invariably feature cartoon figures who are swearing, farting, or giving someone the finger. Sometimes all three. That’s the difference between Alice and me. That, in a nutshell, is why Alice is the popular favorite with Henry, Michael, and his family – and I am on the outside looking in.

As often as Michael and I grate on each other’s nerves, I love him fiercely and would, in fact, give my life for him if faced with such an ultimatum. I could never tell him this, however. He’d dismiss it as another instance of his mother being a sarcastic wiseass. He only sees the tough, pragmatic side of me – not the side that hurts from his cool insensitivity.

Later, on my beach walk, I’ll replay our lunch conversation in my head, rewriting the dialogue to edit out all the remarks Michael found disagreeable. If only I could read from a script every time we had a conversation, the outcome would be much more satisfying. He would emerge less hostile – and I, less wounded.

Back in my office that afternoon, I go through emails and phone messages. I play back a message on my office voicemail.

“Hello, Margaret dear. This is Nancy Ostrowski. From next door.”

I would know that raspy old voice anywhere. She and her husband, John, were my neighbors for over twenty years.

“Will you call me back, please? I need to talk to you about something.”

A week after I moved to the apartment, she had phoned to inform me that the automatic sprinklers in my former yard were turning on several times a day at odd hours, and since the new owners hadn’t yet moved in, she wasn’t sure who to tell. “Sorry, can’t help you with that,” I’d said to her at the time.

The Ostrowskis were a thorn in my side for years. Or at least, he was. John’s always been a cranky old man who complained with relentless displeasure about everything we did. I thought we were courteous neighbors overall, but it didn’t matter. He was a cantankerous geezer who took pleasure in finding fault no matter what.

I don’t miss him for a minute. As for Nancy, I can’t say I either like or dislike her, though I pity her for having to put up with such a nasty man all these years. Meek and diffident, she has a peculiar way of walking with her narrow shoulders hunched, her elbows bent and fists clenched, as though she is fending off blows. I suspect she’s calling to tell me about the sprinklers again, or some other irrelevant problem I can’t be bothered with right now, so I save the message and resolve to get back to her another time.

Walking from the kitchen with a glass of water, I stub my toe on one of the many boxes I’ve stowed outside the door to my office. I need to do something about all my crap. Maybe I should talk to that woman, Effy—I mean, Judith—next time I run into her at the gym. I could use a professional organizer.