Read Crushing Crystal Online

Authors: Evan Marshall

Crushing Crystal (14 page)

“That's so unfair, Chad,” I protested. “People have busy lives. This is a legitimate way to meet people. Not everyone can fall in love the old-fashioned way.”
“Old-fashioned way, nothing!” Chad said. “Listen, I met Dan while he was backstage doing makeup for drag queens for the Leather Fest variety show in Bangor, Maine. You don't hear that one too often in the ‘how we met' stories in the old Ann Landers column. Please. My point is that the personal ads are for people who look better on paper than in person.”
“Chad, that's so cruel,” I shot.
He dabbed his fake tears with an invisible hankie. “How callous of me, love,” he sniffed. “So, when exactly are you going to tell Reilly you killed him to be with another man, anyway, oh great goddess of compassion?”
“Don't even start,” I defended. “This is the most humane way to handle the situation.”
“Humane?” Jennifer laughed. “Sounds like you're euthanizing a sick cat.” They all laughed, as I wondered if they were interested in helping me with my predicament, or simply considered my romantic foibles fodder for their caustic comedy.
“I know a lot of people who've met their husbands this way,” Sophie told us. “Either in the paper or on-line.”
Jennifer sat upright in her seat. “That's what you ought t'do, Pru. Set up a Web site through one of these on-line matchmakers. Takemyex.com, brought to you by Matches.com. What'd'ya think? For the cheater with a conscience.”
“That's actually not a bad idea, love. Not the cheaters part, but I kind of like the on-line recycling aspect of it,” said Chad. “Okay, go on, more, more.”
My cell phone rang on the walk home. Matt. I had left three messages and was dying to catch up on the last twenty-six hours with him.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Oh hi, Father. No, I just didn't expect it to be you . . . No it's fine . . . What can I do for you?” Father said he was sorry I was not going to be able to spend Thanksgiving with him, but was looking forward to Christmas.
Yada yada yada.
I looked at my watch, subtracting three hours from New York time. Where was Matt anyway? Why hasn't he called? The call waiting interrupted as Father was telling me to send my mother his regards. This undoubtedly was to remind me that she had forgiven him. Subtext: why can't I?
“Can you hold for a second, please?” It was Matt. “Hang on a second, I've got to get rid of this call.” Click. “Okay then, Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Father. I've got to take this call. I'll talk to you another time, okay?”
Hearing Matt's voice was like sliding into an easy chair after a long day. I had absolutely nothing to say, nor did he, but we spent a good half hour chatting about that vitally important nothingness. Smiling foolishly, I walked down the street hugging the love of my life to my ear.
 
 
The next day I went into Dr. Kaplan's office for my plastic surgery consultation. He was
the
man to see for eyelids, but was also known for his wonderful work with asses. When I arrived at the office, I was caught off guard by the sight of Father's wife, Carla, sitting in the reception area buried behind a copy of
Redbook.
I looked down at the floor and gave the receptionist my name in a muted voice.
“Malone?” she said loudly. “How are you spelling Malone?”
Can you please keep it down?! How many ways are there to spell Malone anyway? It's the same way you spelled Carla's last name, you half-wit!
“M-A-L-O-N-E,” I said in a whisper as I leaned forward and cupped my face with my right hand.
“And how do you spell Prudence, Miss Malone?” said the twentysomething terrorist behind the marble counter. “P-R-U-D-I?” she began to guess. I tried to bring her voice down by lowering my own even more.
“E, it's an E not an I,” I corrected.
“So it's P-R-U-D-
E
-N-S,” she said, loud as ever.
Perhaps there is a broadcast system we could air this on so the whole fucking building can hear my name!
“No, it's Prudence. P-R-U-D-E-N-C-E.”
She contorted her smooth face. “I've never heard that one before. Prudence, did you say?”
Yes and my good friend Discretion is coming in later so I suggest you learn her name too.
“And you're here for a lid consult and collagen, right Miss Malone?”
Can you please stop using my name, you half-wit?
“I'm not having collagen injections today,” I muttered.
“Oh, yeah, I'm sorry. It says here you weren't happy with your collagen injections last year and now you want to talk to the doctor about lip implants, Miss Malone.”
What type of time would I be looking at for assault and battery?
“Yes, that's right,” I said.
When she looked up from her notes, the receptionist focused only on my lips. I was no more than a skinny set of lips to her now.
“Okay Miss Malone, you can take a seat now. The doctor will be with you shortly.”
I sank into the mauve velvet couch and reached for a magazine to hide behind. My stomach churned at the thought of making eye contact with Carla. On the other hand, I did gain a sense of satisfaction knowing that even lovely little Carla felt the time had come to plop a few grand on the counter, and concede the old gray mare just ain't what she used to be.
“Hello Prudence,” Carla said as she placed her magazine softly on her lap.
“Oh, hello Carla,” I said trying to pretend I hadn't noticed her before.
“Funny running into you here,” she said.
Hilarious.
“Are you here for a fanny lift?” Carla asked me.
“No. Eyelids. What about you? What are you in for?” I asked, hoping perhaps we could at least agree to keep each other's secret.
“Me? Goodness no,” Carla answered. “My girlfriend is having a laser peel and I'm driving her back to Larchmont.”
Oh sure, you're just the chauffeur. I've heard that one before.
Then a middle-aged woman who looked like a burn victim was escorted out into the lobby, and led to Carla. A nurse handed Carla instructions on caring for her friend, and informed her that a follow-up appointment had already been set.
“Bye Prudence,” Carla sung with victory. “See you at Christmas. Good luck on your fanny lift.”
Dr. Kaplan and his nurse, Sylvia, entered his hunter green carpeted office. The doctor's desk was massive mahogany and diplomas from several medical schools hung on the floral papered walls. He explained the eyelid lift procedure and said he could schedule the surgery for early next week.
“How long of a recovery time am I looking at, doctor?”
“You'll be back to your old self in a week, and in the meantime, you'll have these small bandages on your eyes,” he explained as he showed me the paper-thin tape I would wear.
“I don't want to look like my old self,” I laughed. “That's why I'm here.”
Both Dr. Kaplan and Sylvia remained expressionless. “Right,” he said. “Poor choice of words. You'll be fully recovered in a week. Did you want to see what you'll look like after the surgery?” he asked, gesturing at his computer.
“I would,” I said excitedly.
Sylvia shot a photo of me on her digital camera, started fiddling around with the computer, and within a few minutes, there was an image of a bright-eyed new me on the screen.
“You are going to love how you look without those bags under your eyes,” Sylvia said.
“You could pack for a family holiday in those babies,” the doctor said.
Hey buddy, you'd be out of business without women's vanity so watch the attitude.
Sylvia clicked a few buttons and soon before-and-after images of my face appeared on the screen. They talked about the bags under my eyes like they were cancer they were eager to remove. “Your going to wonder why you let this condition advance for so long once you see the difference,” said Sylvia.
“Can you show me what the lip implants will look like too?” I perked.
The doctor explained that there was a new lip injection available that he'd like to try on me before going with the Gortex implants.
“We use human cell tissue,” said Dr. Kaplan.
“Like stem cells?” I scrunched my face.
“Not exactly. We're using cadaver cells very successfully for cosmetic use these days.”
“Dead people?” I asked.
“Cadavers,” he corrected.
Dead people.
“I can do it today if you'd like,” offered Dr. Kaplan.
I felt like a contestant on
Jeopardy
who had to come up with an answer in thirty seconds. I practically heard the music in my head.
Then I remembered that Matt would be in New York in just two weeks. When he arrived, I wanted to look like a new woman. A pouty little vixen with the eyes of a teenager.
“Okay, I'll do it,” I announced.
I'll take dead people for $800, Alex.
Chapter 14
O
n Thanksgiving morning, I woke up to the sound of my purse ringing. I groped the floor, found my cell phone and picked it up before realizing that Reilly was asleep next to me.
“Hello,” I said in a daze.
“Sleeping late, Malone?” Matt said. Equal parts thrill and horror. Reilly began to rustle, then rolled over. After having shared a bed with him for eleven years of our marriage and the eighteen months prior to that, I knew that I had another ten minutes or so before Reilly would wake up on his own. He lay on his shirtless back, practically motionless and had a two-decibel conversation with himself using only the letter M. “Mmmmm?” Reilly asked himself if it was morning already. “Mmmm mmm,” he said, assuring himself that it was but that he didn't have to wake up right that minute. “Mmmmm?” asked what day of the week it was. With another “Mmm” he reminded himself that today was a holiday. “Who's that?” Reilly asked, jarring me with his unexpected inquiry.
“Jennifer,”
I mouthed.
“Big problem.”
I pointed to the kitchen to let him know I'd take the call there, then motioned that he should go back to sleep.
“Who's that?” asked Matt.
“Hmm?” I stalled, walking into the kitchen.
“I heard a man's voice,” Matt said, a bit annoyed.
“Oh, he'd be happy to hear you say that,” I dismissed. “That's David Sedaris reading one of his essays on NPR. My alarm just went off. Have you ever heard any of his essays?” I decided I would keep talking about David Sedaris until Matt changed the topic, satisfied that the only other man in my bedroom was a gay essayist sharing his experiences as an American in Paris. “I just finished one of his books and I was howling all the way through it. There's this one where—”
“Only two more weeks till I'm there,” Matt interrupted. “You know what I want to do when I get there?”
Umm, not talk about David Sedaris' book, I guess.
“No,” I answered.
Matt laughed. “Okay, do you
want
to know?”
“Yes, that would be great,” I said like a bad actress reading a bad script.
I forgot that I'd put on a kettle for tea, so when it whistled, I startled, momentarily thinking a train was going to hit me.
He laughed again. “I want to make up for all the sex we've missed over the last six weeks. I had this dream that we did it on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Wouldn't that be awesome?”
Get off the phone now! Find some reason to end this conversation right this second.
“Indeed,” I nervously laughed.
“Yeah, indeed,” Matt mocked my formality. “So, Malone. You sportin' that just-rolled-out-of-bed look?” Matt said mischievously. “What've you got on?”
Shit! This is not a good time for phone sex. Think, think, think.
“Not much,” I returned. I heard Reilly stretching himself out of bed. I never noticed before how loud an activity this was.
Get off the phone!
“You know what I got you?” Matt asked.
Why do I have the distinct feeling it's not going to be a food processor?
“What?” I asked, trying not to sound terrified.
“What do you call those sexy little numbers that's like a bra but keeps going down all the way to your waist?”
A bustier?!
“Yes, I know what you're talking about. I'll enjoy that very much,” I said, proud of my comeback.
By the grace of God, Reilly motioned that he was going to take a shower.
“Can you hang on for a second?” I asked Matt. I waited until I heard the water running, then returned to my conversation a free woman.
“Malone, you know what I'd be really thankful for on this day of gratitude?” Matt said. I could see his smile through the phone. “Tell me what you're going to do to me when I get there.”
I silently thanked God for allowing me to get dirty with my boyfriend while my husband got clean in the next room. My entire body pounded like a conga drum being beaten by a tribe leader. I couldn't figure out whether I was terrified of getting caught, or enthralled by Matt's request for holiday morning phone sex.
 
 
On the cab ride to Penn Station, it was clear that Reilly suspected nothing, which I found both a relief and an annoyance. Before boarding, he stopped at the magazine rack and scanned the reading selection. “You want something to read?” he offered. I shook my head no. “Mentos?” he held up the candy cylinder. “Anything?”
Just out of this sham of a marriage.
Reilly and I boarded the late morning train, and arrived at my mother and Wally's house a little after noon. In just an hour and twenty minutes, we would be in a different universe. Upstate New York. On the ride up, I questioned the wisdom of my plan to find Reilly a new wife.
This is getting too risky,
Common Sense advised me.
This morning was a close call. Too close. Just tell him you want a divorce, throw away the lonely hearts letters, and move on with your life with Matt.
That's the easy way out,
another part of me argued.
Sure, this is hard work, but you're doing something good for another person. It's worth the effort. Reilly is a good man who deserves a fresh start with another woman.
Prudence, you had the impulse to shove a pack of Mentos up Reilly's ass at the train station. How fair is that?
Common Sense chimed in again.
“Reilly?” I said to him tentatively as he read his magazine.
Don't do this on Thanksgiving! Then, every year he'll remember that he was the big holiday turkey. Wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, be nice.
Reilly waited for me to continue. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I smiled.
Home had not changed a bit since I left for college. Cab drivers stood at the train station, jovially engaging disembarking passengers, offering them rides in their station wagon “limousines.” My mother's husband, Wally, was leaning against his car parked outside the train station. He wore a light brown corduroy suit with western-style seams that he almost certainly purchased at a 1974 rack sale at JC Penney. He held one hand in his pocket and struggled to lift the other one to wave. Wally and I get along just fine. He's just exceedingly low energy.
I've known Wally almost my entire life, though he and Mom didn't marry until I was nineteen years old. Wally is the town veterinarian and has seen our family through two dogs, six cats and a bunny. I always wondered what my mother saw in him. He is either unable or unwilling to speak in sentences that exceed two words. It's almost as if he's playing a game where he'd be penalized for three- or four-word responses. And Wally only responds. Initiating conversation is far beyond his social capabilities. Mother once confided that she knew that Wally wasn't the most dynamic guy around. “But he's kind and decent, and I really do enjoy his company,” she explained. “I don't want to grow old alone.”
I remember the first time I met Wally I was about five years old and our family dog was ill. Father and I took Bambi in to Wally's office. When we got into the exam room, there was a long silence between the two men. Father waited for Wally to ask what was wrong with the dog. Wally waited for him to tell him. Finally Father broke down.
“She's just not her usual self, you know, Doc? She's sluggish and she has no appetite,” Father explained.
I remember thinking Wally was some God-like figure who could bring sick animals back from the dead and make the world right again. Years later, my outlook had changed quite a bit, and Wally was merely a doctor. When I was fifteen, and Bambi died, I figured Wally wasn't even a very good doctor either.
“Happy, happy turkey day,” Mom said as she greeted Reilly and me at the front door. She stamped us both with her lipstick, and took our coats to hang on the rack. “Prudence, why are your lips all swollen up like that?”
“They're not swollen, they're full,” I corrected.
“Prudence got injected with cells from a dead person,” Reilly told my mother.
“What on earth is he talking about?” Mom asked.
“Oh, don't pay any attention to Reilly,” I said, swatting my arm in his direction.
“That reminds me, honey,” Mom began solemnly. “Mr. Flanhery, your gymnastics coach from high school, died last month.”
That was the first time it really hit me that the formerly living person who was injected into my lips had a name, a job and people who missed him this holiday. I was only somewhat comforted by the fact that it was highly unlikely that my overly flatulent gym coach had made his way under my skin. Who was this dead person Dr. Kaplan injected in me anyway? How much did we know about him? Or her? I thought about demanding a bio of the cadaver who was now resting in peace in my lips, but didn't want to make Dr. Kaplan angry right before he cut my eyelids open.
In her own way, Mom was a slave to beauty too. She wears her dyed brown hair in a style you can only get by sitting in a beauty parlor every Saturday morning, and sleeping with a hair net on. Her nails are always perfectly manicured in a festive color. She never, and I mean never, leaves the house without makeup. If the house were on fire, she'd be sitting at her vanity table painting on lip liner as the flames lunged at her. This Thanksgiving, she wore a gravy brown wool dress with a burnt orange pilgrim-style collar.
Wally sat in the family room watching a football game and shouted at the television. He was so deep in his favorite old chair that he looked like a melted marshmallow on the top of Mom's yam dish. Wally rested his crusty bare feet on a well-worn ottoman.
“Holding!” he shouted angrily at the television. He would stay parked in his chair until the absolute last possible moment before the meal. Often, I thought we should give him his silverware while he was still sitting so he could just run to the table, holding his fork and knife above his head when the plates hit the table.
Reilly looked around the house, noticing every new souvenir my mother had picked up from her travels. How could the man notice an ornamental plate hanging in the foyer, yet be completely unaware that I was having an affair? “Beverly, we brought you some pumpkin pies from that bakery near our place,” Reilly told Mom. What I loved about Reilly was also what I hated. He was just so damn nice.
“You kids are too good to me,” she said, taking the pies into the kitchen. Mom can never just say “thank you” when people extend themselves for her. She always carries on about how it's too much, we're too good, she doesn't deserve it. Sometimes I just want to shout, “Shut the fuck up and eat the damn pie!”
Do I have any pills to help take the edge off? I am going to hurt someone very soon. Wine on table. Must pour.
Mom and Wally's home is decorated in early American, with a spinning wheel in the living room and a large oak grandfather clock in the corner. The couch and love seat are striped and the walls are cluttered with family photos and sketches of animals.
Mother is so animated her voice sounds like a dainty little minuet being played on the piano. Wally, however, sounds like one low note plunking down every so often. If a ballet company were asked to interpret the relationship, the performance would start out with a lovely little dancer twirling, leaping around the stage before someone dropped a dead cow from the rafters.
“So, Prudence tells me you were in Amsterdam recently, Reilly. Then it's off to Tokyo?” Mom asked. “Wally and I are planning a trip to Hong Kong soon, isn't that right dear?”
“Yep,” Wally answered.
“Yes, unfortunately most of my time is spent locked up in a hotel meeting room somewhere so I don't get to see much of the culture,” Reilly said.
“Oh please,” I slurred.
All eyes turned to me. Except, of course, for Wally who had more urgent matters to deal with. “Yams please.”
I passed Wally his yams and continued. “You're so full of shit, Reilly. Who are you kidding here? You want to enjoy the culture? Please! I've been begging you to go to Italy for eleven freaking years, but you'd rather go to Aruba because you've already seen the inside of the conference room in the Rome Hilton. Let's just have a bullshit-free holiday, shall we?”
Mom tried to keep an everything-is-normal expression on her face, but anyone could see she was thrown off by my drunken confrontation. After a moment of contemplation, Mom decided to continue on the topic of travel. Undaunted, she continued. “Wally and I haven't been to Italy in years. We were just talking about what a magical place Florence is.”
That sounds just like something Wally would say too.
On the train ride home, Reilly asked me if I wanted to take a trip to Italy this summer.
I will be taking a trip to Italy this summer,
I sniped silently before realizing that I exceeded my own capacity for horrible that day
.

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