Read Crushing Crystal Online

Authors: Evan Marshall

Crushing Crystal (28 page)

“I've got to tell you, Matt, I don't really like kids that much. I like Sophie's little ones enough, but I only see them once or twice a month. I can tell you right now, I wouldn't find them all that cute if I had to see them every day.”
Matt and I decided we could wait to resolve this issue. We had already covered so much ground that night, I was willing to give it a rest. Surely, I could avoid the topic again until I hit menopause when I'd toss my secret pills out the window and say, “Shucks, honey, we sure did give it our best, but my old eggs and your decrepit sperm just couldn't get it together.”
Or maybe I'd give the idea some more thought. “Kids,” I said aloud, trying to bolster myself from my natural repulsion from the sound of the word. “Kids,” I said again. “One kid,” I said before taking my final sip of tea. “One kid.”
Is one too many?
“One child could be lovely,” I tried to convince myself.
Just like one bullet could be lovely.
“One child.”
Refrain.
“One child.”
Maybe.
Chapter 33
I
called Sophie and asked if she wanted to spend Saturday together. As luck would have it, that weekend was the first truly springlike weather New York had seen all season. When I looked out the window, I saw people wearing shortsleeved T-shirts and tying sweaters around their waists. One eager woman donned a straw hat with pink flowers around the rim, and Chad was riding his bicycle down Prince Street ringing his silver bell for no reason whatsoever. A few weeks early, spring was in the air.
Anyone who has spent a single March in New York knows to take advantage of the outdoor weather while it lasts. One day last March, it was so hot that Reilly and I actually ate breakfast on our roof. Three days later, it snowed.
“I want to take the kids to the park today,” Sophie suggested. “Would you be okay with that, Pru?”
“Of course, I love kids,” I assured her.
I was finally ready to leave my crutches at home and limp around the city. I took a taxi to Washington Square Park where I'd meet Sophie, Oscar and Devy at the playground near the arch. Sophie waved from the edge of the sandbox until I saw her, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with a gangster girl red headband. The kids sat filling and emptying a rainbow of plastic pails with sand. They were building a beach, Devy told me.
A child in the playground called to his mother to push him higher in the swing. When she refused, the three-year-old began crying uncontrollably. He jumped out of the swing and threw himself on the playground floor. His face was scrunched up and red like a newborn's and he gasped between each dramatic sob. His arms and legs began kicking the ground as he cried louder and more out of control. “Please Mommy, please push me higher,” he cried before swallowing deep and guttural breaths. Watching him made me feel like I was going to throw up, and I couldn't hold back my own tears.
“What's wrong with you?” Sophie asked.
“I don't know.” I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “Sophie, I have no idea. I just feel sorry for that kid. I mean look how much he wants that swing ride.”
“So push him on the swing,” she laughed. “Do you want to call Child Protective Services and report the mom for not pushing the kid high enough? Come on, honey. Sit down and tell me what's going on.”
“I have no idea, Sophie.” I continued crying, terrified I might not be able to stop.
 
 
That evening, Sophie and I went to Jennifer and Adrian's engagement party at his apartment on Riverside Drive, where the two planned to live after their September wedding. “Have you met Adrian yet?” I asked Sophie on the taxi drive uptown.
She nodded. “Love Adrian. He's so attentive, you just can't help feeling a little jealous,” Sophie told me. “Jennifer told me he was the first guy she's ever met who fights fair. I wouldn't even know what to do with a levelheaded guy like that, would you?”
I shuddered. “Sounds boring.”
“Boring?!” Sophie laughed. “You must meet Adrian. I won't say another word except that Jennifer has met her match with this one. Hey, speaking of, how was your visit with Matt?”
The moment of truth. Or revision. “Not great. Not terrible, but we didn't get a lot of time together, and of course, my accident put a damper on things, but I do have some good news. Matt's agreed to move to New York after we get married.”
“That is good news, Prudence. When's the big day anyway?”
“Fourteen weeks from tomorrow,” I said. “At the sweetest little chapel in Ann Arbor, then we're having the reception at the same restaurant we ate dinner at when Matt took me to his fraternity formal. You've never been to Ann Arbor, have you?”
“What would ever bring me to a college town in Michigan?”
“Anyway, it's just beautiful in June. It's right before the weather starts getting humid and a thousand trees are fully bloomed. God, I can't think of a more romantic setting for us to marry. You're coming, of course.”
“Of course.”
When we pulled up to Adrian's apartment, a doorman in a long coat and an old-fashioned hat approached the taxi door and opened it for us. The building was a six-story brick with a hunter green awning that matched the doorman's uniform. “Are you here for the Fields party?” he asked when he saw the gifts in our arms.
We nodded.
“Mr. Fields is on five,” he told us. “Follow the corridor until you reach the elevator, ladies.”
Adrian's apartment looked like a sitting room at the United Nations with Victorian love seats, eastern European crystal stemware resting on marble-top tables, and a small vase in the corner that looked as if it were from the Ming Dynasty. Silk screens with Egyptian themes lined the hallway walls and the candle holder sitting on Adrian's white grand piano was Greek-style octopus. A dwarf sat at the piano playing tunes from classic films, as an inside joke for all who knew about Jennifer's scheme to win Adrian's affection.
Adrian was an exquisitely handsome black man with about a centimeter of brown hair and sharp bone structure. He was a tall man with a broad chest that was even more pronounced by his thick ivory Shetland wool sweater. Adrian was talking to a woman with a red head wrap when he saw Sophie and me, and lifted his glass as if to tell us he'd be there in a moment.
“You must be the famous Prudence Malone,” he said in a deep rich voice that could fill a room with music just by saying hello. “Sophie,” he said leaning in to kiss her. “You look lovely as always.”
He just said “lovely” and it sounded manly, exotic and brutal at the same time. This man is the African God of Yum.
“Adrian, I've heard so many wonderful things about you,” I said, extending my hand.
Lame. I have zero yum factor.
“My Jennifer always tells me what dear friends she has in you two,” Adrian returned.
“My” Jennifer. “My” Jennifer. I would change my name to Jennifer right now just to pretend this man was talking about me.
“I'd like to spend some time talking with you, Prudence. You will be staying for the after-party, won't you?” Adrian said.
After-party? What after-party?
Sophie answered, “Of course we're staying, Adrian. Go greet your other guests. Prudence and I will be around the rest of the evening.”
“What after-party?” I asked Sophie. “Jennifer never mentioned anything to me about an after-party.”
“Well, of course you're invited to the after-party, Prudence,” Sophie smiled. “Don't be ridiculous. If you're not invited, who is? We all are, silly. Chad and Daniel are coming
just
for the after-party. Since when do you need a formal invitation, Prudence? We're best friends. It's a given that we're invited. Don't start sobbing on me again, okay?”
Jennifer rushed over, apologizing for taking a few minutes to get to us. “Everyone wants to talk to the bride-to-be, and you can't very well just brush them off.”
“It must be hell for you to be the center of attention like this,” I laughed.
“Treacherous. And all these gifts, torture.”
Sophie raised her finger to ask a question that just occurred to her. “You're not going to wear a boring old wedding dress, are you? I mean people are expecting—”
The music stopped as Adrian tapped his empty wineglass with a shrimp cocktail fork.
He's got good crystal.
“Can I have your attention for just a moment please?” Adrian asked.
I'm quite sure you have everyone's attention with that voice of God.
“I'd like to make a toast to my Jennifer. Many people wondered why we got engaged so soon after we met. And I'm sure some of you had your own theories.” The group of thirty guests laughed at the implication. “There's a very good reason I asked Jennifer to be my wife right away. By our third date, I was completely and totally addicted to this woman's charm, her wit, her insights and observations, the way she looks at the world and how she says exactly what's on her mind. Every day I'm with Jennifer, she reminds me of all of the beauty—and the drama—that life has to offer, and just by being herself, she reminds me of so many things I've forgotten to appreciate. With Jennifer, I am a wide-eyed child, I am a reborn man and I am a fool in love. So, I'm hooked and there's no rehabilitation that I want, or that could ever break this wonderful habit I've formed—loving you, Jennifer,” he said, raising his glass to her.
Jennifer wiped her eyes and held her glass to him as the rest of the guests toasted the couple and sipped their champagne.
“Many of you know this already,” Adrian continued. “But on our first date, Jennifer and I went to see
Casablanca
—her
favorite
classic film,” he laughed. “So I'd like to suggest this as our first dance together tonight,” Adrian said, signaling the pianist to play “As Time Goes By
.”
Chapter 34
T
he next week I was still thinking about charming Adrian's toast to Jennifer and wondering if Matt would ask our wedding guests to raise their glasses to my “awesomeness” at our wedding. Chad accused me of having a crush on Adrian because, as Jennifer showed us her engagement ring, I commented that “he” was gorgeous. Our friends laughed at me as I feebly tried to cover up my mistake by asking, “Aren't diamonds referred to as he? You know, like boats are she?”
Adrian winked and mouthed that it was okay. Jennifer smiled and said, “Y'had it right the first time. He is gorgeous.” Then she turned to kiss him and the group let out a collective “Ahhhh.” Without question, Adrian was a breathtakingly handsome man, but it wasn't him I was smitten with as much as I envied what he gave Jennifer.
My
Jennifer.
Father called to remind me that I was on his calendar for a movie that week. “You probably like those art flicks, right? The ones where two mimes find a piano in the ocean and it's supposed to have some deep meaning,” he teased.
“You'd think, huh? Actually, I'm kind of in the mood for a good suspense flick. Do you want to see
The Keyhole?
My friend Sophie said she couldn't stop thinking about it for days after she saw it.”
Father agreed to meet me in the Village on Wednesday night after work for a sandwich and movie. Honestly, I think he would have gone to an S&M slave cave clearance sale if I asked him to. He was so eager to spend time together, which I was greeting with equal parts skepticism and hope. Before I could stop myself from asking, I blurted that I wanted to know why he was suddenly so interested in spending time with me.
“You're my daughter,” Father answered. “I'd like to have a relationship with you.”
“Well, you say that as though it should be obvious. Let's not gloss over the fact that you weren't always interested in running for Father of the Year. Why the sudden turn-around? Are you dying or something?”
Father was silent. Oh my God. I couldn't believe I had just been so cavalier about his fatal illness. He was dying, I realized.
“No Prudence, of course I'm not dying,” Father said. “What a thing to say. I'm perfectly healthy. I just love you. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
Shall I count the ways?
“Why now?” I shot.
“I hate to sound like I'm at an antiwar rally or something, but if not now, then when?” he returned. “I can't change the past, Prudence, but I can try to make a future for us. Now is the soonest I can start working on that.”
“My Father the fortune cookie,” I laughed. “I just wish you'd thought of doing this twenty-five years ago.”
“So do I, Prudence. So do I.”
“Okay then, I'll meet you at seven-thirty at the Waverly and we'll just grab a bite at that diner down the block, okay? Wednesday, right?” I asked.
“Wednesday. Seven-thirty. I won't be late.”
You already are, Father.
The next day was Matt's birthday. Keeping with the tradition we'd set fifteen years ago, I called him the night before so I could be the first to wish him a happy birthday.
Matt wasted little time letting me know that he was less impressed with this year's birthday gift than he was with my hotel-room party in Fort Lauderdale.
“I got your gift,” Matt said coolly. “Very telling.”
“I have something more personal I'm sending this week, but I thought this could really come in handy with your new film and all. It's a very practical gift, Matt. I think you'll thank me for it one day,” I apologized.
Okay, so maybe a personal liability insurance policy might not be on the Top Ten Romantic Gifts list, but Matt did say the Pasteur clan was threatening to sue over the slanderous things his film said about the scientist. Dealing with a lawsuit would take Matt's time and attention away from his filmmaking, so helping him avoid all that was really a way to support his art. When the insurance policy quietly wrote a check to the Pasteur kids, and the lawsuit was settled, Matt would be able to walk away with his finances intact. In the meantime, I refused to apologize for being levelheaded.
“I'm sorry, Matt. Do you hate me now?” I asked.
“I don't hate you, but I think your gift sucks,” he said. “What are you saying, Malone? You think I'm going to get sued?”
“Honey, anyone who's anyone has been sued. I believe in you, so yes, I think sooner or later someone's going to sue you. Wouldn't you rather have an insurance policy to protect you against a frivolous charge?”
Matt said nothing. Then, I heard him typing in the background.
“Are you typing?” I asked.
“No,” he shot back.
“You've got mail,” America Online Guy said in the background.
“Matt! You're checking your e-mail?!”
“I'm not checking my e-mail,” Matt snapped. “I was checking out something I wanted to buy online and I guess an e-mail just came in.”
Okay, you are definitely missing the point!
“Okay, well I want to wish you a happy birthday. Can you sign off please?”
“Sure,” he sighed. “So how's life in the big city?”
“Good. I booked the chapel in Ann Arbor and I need to get your guest list by the first of April so I can get the names and addresses to the calligrapher, okay? I put in for my vacation time for our honeymoon. I think six weeks gives us enough time for three countries, what do you think?”
“Three sounds cool,” he said.
Shouldn't the e-mail guy have said “Good-bye” by now?
“Do you want me to just choose the menu for the reception, or do you want me to have the Gandy Dancer fax the dinner choices to you too so you can help decide?”
“You can handle it, Malone. To tell you the truth, weddings are kind of female territory. I'll handle the honeymoon, but all the wedding stuff isn't really my thing. Besides, I wouldn't want to choose the wrong dessert and have to worry about any of the guests suing me.”
“Matt, I've already explained myself. You live in the most litigious state in the country. You work in the entertainment industry, and let's face it, you just made a film dragging Louis Pasteur's name through the mud and that's going to piss some people off. It already has.”
Matt was silent again. I only knew he was alive because of the heavy sighs of a malcontent. Finally, he spoke. “Malone, your gift just makes me feel like you don't believe in me.”
“Matt I do believe in you. I also believe in insurance. The two aren't mutually exclusive. Besides, I got you something else too,” I bluffed.
“What?” Matt asked skeptically.
“It's a surprise,” I told him. “Please don't be angry with me. It was a gift of love, really.”
I lay down on the sofa and flipped through the March issue of
Modern Bride,
eyeing the summer wedding dresses. There wasn't a single model in this magazine that looked older than twenty-one. Nor did any of them look like they just had a fight with their fiancés over a poor choice in birthday gifts. Each page was filled with pictures of women who looked as if they didn't have a care in the world other than reciting handwritten vows that they personally etched in gold ink on antique parchment. These brides looked so serene and content with their lives. They looked like Jennifer. But white.
 
 
I spent most of the month of March alone in my apartment. I still showed up for work, the gym, but declined Jennifer, Sophie and Chad's dinner invitations. I could make it through the workday, but always rushed home eager to spend the night by myself.
At the time, I convinced myself that my healing ankle and wedding plans were the reason I needed to be in my cocoon for a while. The truth is that I spent quite a bit of time staring at my brick walls and crying as I watched blue stars dancing over my bed. There were days when it was so quiet in my home that when the phone rang, it startled me. Sometimes I cried so hard, I would actually throw my entire body into the ground like a widow hurling herself into her husband's grave. The only good thing about my crying spells was that they exhausted me so, I was able to get to sleep easily every night.
The more I questioned whether Matt and I should marry, the more elaborate my wedding plans became. When I remembered how he dragged me skiing the month earlier, I called the restaurant and upgraded the hors d'oeuvres. When I thought about the friends he chose in Los Angeles, I fired the string quartet and replaced it with a ten-piece swing band. I thought about hobbling to catch the bus to the Getty and ordered an ice sculpture. I thought about that moronic film he was making and frantically called the florist to tell her I couldn't get married without orchids. And when I recalled how Matt just disappeared after college, I called the boutique that was holding my gown and told them I wanted the four-thousand-dollar Richard Tyler dress instead.
After my third week of seclusion, Sophie, Chad and Jennifer showed up at my door with a picnic basket and insisted on taking me to the park for lunch. “If you won't come to us, we're coming to you, love,” Chad said. I stood at the door in my gray sweats and Reilly's oversized button-down shirt and the Yankees cap he left behind.
“I'm just so busy with wedding plans I haven't got time to primp on Saturday morning,” I explained.
“Okay first of all it's noon and second, I don't think brushing your teeth is classified as primping, Prudence,” Chad shot. “Look, I hate to live up to stereotypes about gay men, but let's get you into the bathroom and do something with this hair. Sophie, wardrobe. Jen, load the dishwasher please and toss the pizza boxes, then get into the lav for makeup.”
And with the clap of Chad's artistic hands, women began scurrying around my apartment cleaning the mess, rustling through the closet and smoothing foundation onto my face. Sophie popped in with three outfits I'd forgotten I had. “Your closet is paradise, Prudence,” she said. “I had trouble narrowing it down to these three, everything is so damned cool.”
“Know what Adrian says about you?” Jennifer asked before telling me to look to the ceiling so she could apply eyeliner. “You've got sophisticated elegance.”
“What kind of man talks that way?” I laughed.
“My man!” she shouted. “My. Man. Eyes up,” as she applied mascara.
“You know, I think I may be depressed,” I told them.
“Gee, y'think?” Chad said as he scrunched styling gel through my hair. “I mean just because you're holed up in a filthy apartment looking like a fraternity boy, crying all the time doesn't mean you're depressed. All brides act this way.”
“No, I think I really am, Chad,” I insisted.
“And you've lost your sense of humor. Now I'm depressed,” he said.
“I'm surprised you're not telling me that you told me so, Chad,” I said.
“I've been saying behind your back, love,” he smiled. “Jennifer, Sophie, haven't I said a thousand times that I predicted this miserable outcome?”
“I tuned you out in the mid-nineties, Chad,” Jennifer answered.
“Very cute,” he shot. “I'm thinking plum for the lips, no?”
“I'm not sure if getting all prettied up and going for a picnic is the right way to deal with this, guys. I think I should stay home and try to figure out what's going on with me. Don't you think that's a better idea?”
Sophie knelt down beside the toilet where I was sitting. “Prudence, you've been doing that for three weeks now, and I'll bet you're going to do it for another few. We're not telling you to end your depression prematurely. Maybe it's something you need to go through for a little while. We just miss you, so can you do us a favor and take a break from it just for today? Jen, will you put the Oscar Madison duds on Prudence's bed so she can slip right back into them tonight? And Chad, this stuff will wash out of her hair, right?” She opened my medicine cabinet and placed the makeup remover on the sink. “There, you're all set. Depression awaits you when you return. Do we have a deal?”

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