“You okay?” asks the salesman, coming back as he sees me recklessly dangling one of his two-thousand-dollar babies.
I abashedly put the guitar back down. “Sorry, just thinking about The Who,” I say.
“The what?” he asks.
“The Who.”
“From where?”
“You’ve never heard of The Who?” I ask, wondering if being in Tennessee is the same as being trapped in an Abbott and Costello movie.
He grins. “Just playing with you, ma’am. I knew exactly what you meant. I love The Who. In fact, if I ever have my own band, I’m thinking of calling them The Whom.”
“Crossover band,” I say with a laugh. “For fans of rock, country, and grammar.”
He grins. “I might lose the rap audience. They’re not big on grammar.”
“Well, you keep at it. I hope you finish school and get that band one day.”
“Thank you.”
I leave the store, grateful to the young salesman for cheering me up with his little joke. I walk for a while and go into Centennial Park, where I spot a bench and sit down. This section of the park is mostly empty and the shrubbery is barren, though I notice a few brave flowers trying to bloom in the dim winter sun. I sit back on the bench and close my eyes. I’ve built up two decades worth of rage at Dick, and what good has it been? Nothing grows from the seeds of resentment. Anger is destructive—whether it makes you want to smash guitars or smash someone’s political career.
I came down to Nashville with half a thought of ruining Dick. But now that I’m here, I’m not sure what that would accomplish. His dropping out of the race won’t improve my life, won’t bring back Amy, won’t even help the kid in the guitar store become a musician. I don’t ever have to forgive Dick, but it would certainly feel better not to keep hating him. Adam and his professors might not be able to prove it in their physics labs, but negative energy saps the strength right out of you. I’m tired of holding on to the fury.
Thoughtfully, I take out my cell phone and play with the buttons for a while. Finally, I dial Dick’s office and after a long wait on hold, I’m finally put through.
“Yes, Hallie,” says Dick hesitantly.
“I’m in Centennial Park. I need you to meet me here.”
Now the pause is so long that I’m thinking it will be spring by the time he answers.
“Don’t worry, it’s a public place. I’m not going to shoot you,” I say, trying to hurry things up.
“That’s something of a relief,” he says.
I describe exactly where I am, and Dick reluctantly agrees to come find me. “Can you tell me what you want, Hallie?” And then nervously, “Are you looking for a payoff?”
“All you have to pay is penance,” I say.
Dick arrives sooner than I would have expected, and I catch sight of him walking with his head down, a plaid Burberry scarf wound around his neck. He shoves his hands into his pockets and moves toward me. It’s odd that for all these years I’ve thought of Dick as the powerful one who rammed into my life and did whatever he wanted. Now I’m the one in the proverbial driver’s seat, but my goal is no longer to smash Dick’s world.
“I’ve spent a lot of years thinking how much I hate you,” I tell him when he stops in front of me.
Dick shuffles uncomfortably and digs his hands deeper into his pockets. “I don’t hate you.”
“Why would you?”
He gives a faint smile. “I have a feeling you’re about to show me.”
“No, I’m not.” I shake my head. “But I’ve always thought you don’t deserve to have anything good happen. Tell me the truth. Have you been happy?”
Now Dick looks even more uncomfortable, obviously not wanting to say that except for my being here, life has really been pretty okay. He pulls a picture out of his wallet and shows me three tousle-haired little girls.
“Whether I deserve it or not, I’ve been blessed. I’d be pretty ungrateful not to be happy every time I look at my children.”
Despite myself, I smile at the photo of his sweet, eager-faced daughters in their matching blue-and-gold soccer uniforms. “Maybe one of them will be the next Mia Hamm,” I say, handing it back to him.
“The little one’s pretty uncoordinated, but I haven’t told her that yet,” Dick says, tucking the photo away. “My wife says I’m an overprotective father. But it’s because I know how quickly bad things can happen.” He looks at me meaningfully, then sighs and sits down next to me.
We both stare off into the distance, and I try to think of reckless Dick as a doting dad. “Your kids are lucky. My kids are lucky. Amy wasn’t,” I say.
Dick looks down. “If I could bring her back for you, I would.”
“You can’t, I know that. I heard what you said before. All you can try to do is change what can still be changed.”
“It’s a hard lesson to learn.” He rubs his hands together, warming them against the chill. “So given where we are, what can we try to do now?”
Good question. Vague ideas have been whirling in my head all afternoon, and now they start to take shape.
“I met a kid today in a music store who’s trying to put himself through college and start a band,” I say slowly. “Why not do something for him?”
“We can hire his band to play at my campaign rallies,” Dick suggests.
“Not enough. I was thinking you could pay for his college—in Amy’s memory. And not just him. Take some of that family money of yours and fund ten music scholarships in Amy’s name.”
He thinks about it for a minute. “I’d be glad to do that. Very glad.”
“And an endowed chair at Vanderbilt,” I say, my plan building steam. “I want there to be an Amy Lawrence Professor of Country Music.”
“I should have done something like that years ago, I guess.”
“Do it now,” I say.
“I will. We can think of it as my way of telling you I’m sorry.”
“Sorry. Something you never bothered to say.”
Dick puts his head in his hands. “My parents wouldn’t let me talk to you after the accident and then they hauled me out of town to a rehab center in Arizona. Eventually, I woke up and realized what I was doing to myself and everybody I cared about. When I got out and finally tried to call, you never answered.”
“By then there was nothing for us to say to each other.”
“Both of our lives were turned upside down. And there was nothing either of us could do. We’d been in love and then we couldn’t even talk. It’s awful to feel so helpless.”
“I had plenty of ideas about what I could do. Pulling you apart limb by limb was high on my list.”
“And there were plenty of days back then when I wished you would.” He looks at me plaintively. “What else can I do now to make amends?”
I clasp my hands so tightly in my lap that my knuckles are almost white. Am I really ready to let go of my anger? I was always able to displace some of my sorrow about Amy into hate for Dick. It almost seemed that forgiving him would be letting myself forget my sister. But now I’m hoping for better ways to keep Amy’s spirit alive.
“One more thing you can do,” I say slowly. “Get yourself elected to Congress. And when you’re there, do something that matters.”
Dick looks at me, his eyes filled with relief and appreciation. “Thank you. Maybe this sounds naïve, but I really do think I can make a difference.”
“I hope you can,” I say. I look out across the park and in the distance I can make out the columns of Nashville’s very own Parthenon, an exact replica of the one in Greece.
“Only thing I ask is that once you’re in Congress, you don’t ask the American people to build the great state of Tennessee a fake Roman Colosseum to go with the fake Greek Parthenon,” I say, trying to make a little joke to relieve the tension.
Dick smiles and reaches across the bench to seal the deal by shaking my hand, but instead I give him a hug. When we pull back, both of us wipe the corners of our eyes, embarrassed.
“I mean it about no Colosseums,” I say sidestepping any more deep feelings. “I’ve never understood why you southerners copy other countries’ landmarks. You don’t see the Greeks building statues of Robert E. Lee.”
“A Colosseum down here wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” Dick says, pretending to look around for the best place to build it. “And we don’t copy, we improve. Ever hear of Foamhenge in Virginia? It’s a full-sized replica of Stonehenge but lighter. Made entirely of Styrofoam instead of rocks.”
“One of the great landmarks of the world, minus the heavy lifting. At least nobody got a hernia building it this time.”
We smile at each other. “You would have made it as a southern belle after all,” Dick says.
Tears spring to my eyes as I realize that for many reasons, I’m sorry I never got the chance. Dick squeezes my hand and then stands up. “Hallie, thank you again. More than I can ever say.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, and for once, it really is. I lean back against the bench. After thinking about Amy for a tumultuous day and two tumultuous decades, I’m grateful to feel a moment of peace.
Visiting Amy’s grave usually makes me sad, but when I get back from Nashville, the cemetery is the first place I go. For once, I don’t feel like crying as I walk through the wrought iron gates, and the slight dusting of snow gives a peaceful glow to the bucolic grounds.
The cemetery is old, and making my way through the well-kept paths, I notice a pair of elaborately carved headstones commemorating “a loving husband and father” who died in 1897, and his “devoted wife and companion,” Mary Alice, who lived until 1917. Twenty years without him. I try to imagine how she felt to be alone for those final years. Was she scared to be by herself or did she make a new life? I wonder if she ever again had someone to cuddle with at night. So long ago, there couldn’t have been many options for a woman on her own.
Wandering along, I glance at other headstones and I’m struck, as I always am at a cemetery, by how fleeting life really is. The time you have is never enough. My meeting with Dick was surprisingly freeing and I feel now like I can celebrate the moments I had with Amy rather than regretting the ones I’ve lost.
I step hesitantly toward Amy’s plot, and brush my hand gingerly across the headstone.
“For you,” I say, as I place the yellow roses I brought.
I sit down on the damp ground and pull my knees up to my chest. I think Amy would like to know about Dick, so I tell her the story of my last two days. I imagine her smiling when she learns about the Amy Lawrence Professorship of Country Music. Amy was always modest and funny, and I can almost hear her teasing me for being so sanctimonious. “That’s cool,” she’d say, “but what’s it mean? Does someone get to major in Loretta Lynn?”
Without thinking, I give a little laugh, and a security guard nearby looks at me sternly. I want to tell him that you can’t be sad forever. All you can do is try your best and go on.
Moving on is what I’ve been attempting to do since the day Bill left. And I have to believe that the journey to the men of my past has put me on the right course for my future. Did I really think that Eric or Ravi or Kevin would provide me with a fairy-tale ending? It would have been nice, and people do marry their first crush later in life. Even if it didn’t work out for me, there is a romance to reconnecting.
I was even half willing to reconnect with Bill, but that pretty clearly won’t work out, either. Bill and Ashlee. Bill and dandy Candi. Bill and whoever’s next, which won’t be me. I was a good wife, always supportive. I picked up the dry cleaning, made that stupid lasagna, and—how many points is this worth?—trimmed his ear hairs once a month. I didn’t deserve to be so dismally dumped.
I reach over and touch Amy’s headstone again. Alas, who says you always get the good life you deserve? All you can do is take the hand that’s dealt and play it the best way you know how. Flying home from Nashville, I napped easily on the plane, knowing that I’d faced Dick and forgiven him. I’d be justified in waiting another two decades to forgive Bill, since he hasn’t earned anything better. But for my sake, I’m ready to forgive him now.
Standing up, I look at the dates under Amy’s name and think of the people just like me who’ll be walking by a generation from now, thinking how sad it was that a girl died so young. But maybe they’ll be wise enough to understand the real lesson of her short life—that there’s nothing any of us can do but make the most of the time we have.
Chapter NINETEEN
DESPITE THE INTENSITY of the previous few days, life goes on as always. I speak to the kids, take on two new cases at work, and make myself hot oatmeal in the mornings. That’s something of a change, and a definite nutritional improvement over my usual chewy bars for breakfast. At the office, I get a bouquet of flowers from Charles and Melina, telling me they’ve just opened their own publicity agency. If I ever star in a movie, they promise to represent me for free.
Bellini has news of her own—or, more accurately, a complete and utter surprise. “The barista asked me to marry him!” she squeals as she hops out of a cab on the street corner where I’m waiting to meet her after work.
I’m so stunned that I drop the Pottery Barn bag I’m holding and don’t even care when I hear my fourteen-dollar gold-leaf Venetian vase shatter.
I know Emily Post advises that you don’t say “congratulations” to a bride, but she probably wouldn’t approve of my response either.
“You said ‘No,’ didn’t you?” I ask.
“Why would I?” Bellini asks jubilantly. “You saw him in that nude play. He’s the handsome, um, Venti guy.”
I’m sure there are worse reasons to get married, but I can’t come up with any right now.
“I didn’t realize you two were that close,” I say, thinking that I don’t even know the barista-slash-Venti guy’s real name. And I’m not completely convinced Bellini does, either.
“I didn’t know we were that close, myself,” she says, which makes me a tad concerned that he’s just become the eleventh of those nine or ten guys she thought she’d marry after the first date.
“How exactly did he propose?” I ask.
“We’d just had a night of unbelievable sex, and he put his hand on my thigh and said, ‘What do you say you and I get married?’ That’s definitely a proposal,” she says defensively.
“Never believe what a man says when he has his hand on your thigh,” I counsel, offering the same advice that I’d give Emily.
“For your information, he asked me again in the morning, when we were brushing our teeth,” Bellini says.
Now I’m getting a little anxious. A proposal made while flossing under fluorescent lights is about as serious as it gets. Maybe I need to be more supportive.
“If you want an underwater wedding, I can get you a good photographer,” I say helpfully.
Finally Bellini laughs. “Don’t buy the waterproof rice just yet. I was flattered, but of course I finally said ‘No.’ He’s fun to be with, but I don’t think he’s my soulmate. Plus, I don’t want my babies to be weaned on moccachinos.”
I grin and give her a little hug. “You’ll find the right guy eventually.”
“I know,” she says optimistically. “If the young, sexy barista wanted to make it official, one day I’ll be able to marry someone I really love.”
As we’ve been talking, Bellini and I have walked halfway down the block, and now she leads me upstairs to a small, softly lit showroom with beds of every shape and height lined up along each wall.
“You remembered I wanted to get a new mattress!” I say. “I’m tired of sleeping with the memory of Bill. His imprint’s still in the foam.”
“And a new bed for me, too,” she says. “I realized one of the perks of marrying the barista would be the bridal registry. I’d finally get a matching set of china and have an excuse to buy a luxurious king-size bed. But it suddenly seems so old-fashioned not to get it for myself.”
“I guess if you can jump into bed before marriage, you can buy yourself a bed before marriage, too,” I say.
Bellini laughs and looks at the display of expensive mattresses. “These styles are sold only in London, and now they’re being introduced to the U.S. market. You happen to be at an exclusive showing. For the trade only.”
It never ceases to amaze me that you have to be an insider to do anything—including getting a good night’s sleep. I enthusiastically bounce on one mattress, then notice the price tag and bounce right off.
“Twelve thousand dollars?” I gasp. “Is it spun out of gold?”
“Silk, lamb’s wool, and cashmere,” says Bellini, who’s obviously done her research.
“Nicer than my sweater,” I say, tugging at my merino wool blend.
“There’s something about the way the seams and rivets are encased that you never wake up with lines on your face, which is important at our age,” says Bellini. “Queen Elizabeth sleeps on one.”
“Queen Elizabeth?” I ask skeptically. “She’s not exactly an advertisement for dewy-faced youth. What does Nicole Kidman sleep on?”
“Botox,” says Bellini with a grin.
I tentatively sit back down on the royal mattress. “Is this a Duxiana?” I ask, having heard the radio commercials for what’s allegedly the world’s most comfortable bed.
Bellini plops down beside me, and miraculously, my side of the bed doesn’t move. “It’s a Hypnos. That Duxiana is yesterday’s news,” she says, her scornful tone making it clear that the once-vaunted brand is now the Hilton Hotel of beds—a nice place to sleep, but certainly not the Ritz. “Luciano Pavarotti sleeps on a Hypnos. So does Vladimir Putin.”
“The new Russia,” I say, shaking my head. “A twelve thousand-dollar bed kind of makes you mourn the fall of Communism.”
Bellini laughs, but then she says, “Really, a good mattress is worth any price. You spend a third of your life in bed.”
“Or in your case a half,” I tease.
“In a good week,” she winks.
I roll onto my back trying to decide if this highfalutin mishmash of stuffing and springs would really help anybody sleep better. Someone once told me that sampling a mattress for five minutes in a store won’t tell you what it’s going to be like to spend every night with it for the rest of your life. Same could be said about men.
“You could save yourself some money and buy a Sealy Posturpedic and a box of Sleepytime chamomile tea,” I suggest to Bellini.
“Or Ambien and a vibrator,” says Bellini, more practical than I would have expected.
I snuggle against a pillow, thinking of imparting to Bellini my newfound wisdom about making the most of what you have. But on the other hand, a little yearning isn’t a bad thing. Especially if it’s for a nice bed and someone great to share it with.
Bellini props herself up on her own pillow. “What do you think, Hallie? After all you’ve been through, do you still think marriage is a good idea?”
“You mean just because I’m getting divorced?” I realize I haven’t said that word aloud yet, and it feels strange coming out of my mouth. “I never really thought my marriage would end. When I said ‘I do,’ I meant it to be forever. I do, I did, I would, I will. But life takes funny turns. No matter how hard you try, you can never predict what will happen.”
“All the unknowns make it tough,” Bellini says. “If the barista turns out to be Matt Damon, do you think I’ll be sorry I didn’t marry him?”
“You’ve always wanted to go to the Academy Awards. But what if all he wins is Starbucks’ Barista of the Week?”
“I’d still be proud of him,” she says loyally. “But I guess in either case, I wouldn’t be in love. I mean, you don’t wish you’d married Eric even though he turned out to be so rich.”
“No, but I wish I had his New York apartment.”
“Prime real estate has always been a reason to get married. Leave it to you to let integrity get in the way.”
“You’re right. How could I pick love over four bedrooms with a Central Park view?”
“Because you’re you.” She smiles. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this when we’re lying next to each other on a mattress, but having you as a good friend is better than settling for a mediocre man.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I should warn you that I don’t chop wood or kill spiders.”
“That’s okay. At least you don’t leave the toilet seat up.”
Emily calls to tell me the classes she’s picked for her second semester. I listen carefully and realize there’s a decided lack of art, literature, feminism, or history.
“Let me get this right. Game theory, macroeconomics, financial markets, and a special college seminar on selling rice to China?” I say, looking at the notes I’ve scribbled as she talked. “Don’t the Chinese already eat rice three times a day?”
“Exactly. The challenge is to expand the market.”
“What happened to your interest in Susan B. Anthony and the Brontë sisters?”
“This is the new feminism, Mom. It’s not about theory anymore. It’s about how to take care of yourself and feather your own nest. Most women end up alone. Look at you.”
“Yes, look at me,” I say. “I’m not exactly sitting here eating cans of cat food.”
“I know, Mom. You always have Bumble Bee tuna in the cabinet.” She sighs dramatically. “I figure if I major in econ, I’ll be ready for whatever life brings.”
“Your life will bring a lot of wonderful things. Mine did,” I tell her, quickly adding, “and I’m expecting many more wonderful things.”
Emily’s silent for a moment. “Mom, I have to tell you the truth. Adam’s friend Evahi was in New York and she happened to run into Daddy. He was on a date with some girl.”
I feel only the tiniest twinge. Emily’s not exactly delivering a news bulletin.
“Honey, that’s okay. Daddy and I aren’t together anymore.” Ever since that day I went shopping with Bill and heard him on the phone with yet another conquest, I’ve understood that over is over.
“Mom, Daddy’s turned out to be so shallow. It drives me crazy that he keeps hurting you.”
“He doesn’t. I’m over being hurt by things I can’t change.” Apparently I’ve learned something even from Dick.
“Don’t you just hate him?”
I think about it briefly. “I don’t. And you shouldn’t either. Daddy loves you. Remember what he always said?”
“He loves me more than all the stars in the Milky Way.”
I smile, remembering how Bill would read Emily bedtime stories when she was little. Then, hugging her tightly, he’d talk about the vastness of the universe and how his love for her filled every corner of it. How could I hate a man like that, even now?
“Families might get screwed up, but we’re still a family,” I tell Emily.
“Yeah, I get that.”
“Have a little faith in your prospects. This is the time in your life to study what you love and assume that everything will turn out the way you want.”
Emily seems to think about it. “Okay, I hear you. But I’m still taking the econ classes. One of the teaching assistants is really cute.”
After my conversation with Emily, I decide it’s only fair to everybody to make the end of my relationship with Bill official. I mull it over to get used to the idea and finally call Bill to suggest we go to a mediator instead of wasting our money on divorce lawyers. He hesitates.
“I’m not sure I even want to get divorced.”
“Bill, our marriage is done. We both know that.”
“I’d really rather stay married,” he says.
I know enough not to be flattered. “Give me two reasons.”
“That’s easy. Number one: If I’m married, I can still come to the house and chop down the occasional tree. And number two: None of the women I date can expect me to become her husband.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “Bill, I can’t help you with your women. But if you want to stick around as my now-and-then gardener, you’re welcome.”
“You’re being really understanding.”
“I’m trying.”
There’s a long pause. “We should get together to talk about this, right? I guess we have some things to settle. Like custody of those Knicks tickets.”
I snicker. Who would have thought that would be my great leverage? He’d probably swap me the Knicks tickets for a Picasso drawing, if only we had one.
“We do need to talk.”
“Come on over. I just bought a twenty-five-year-old Highlander Scotch that I can open.”
“I don’t drink scotch,” I remind him.
“Then how about we watch the Super Bowl? I got a new flat-screen LCD television.”
Fancy scotch that’s older than his girlfriends, expensive flat-screen TV? Bill’s like the Merck Diagnostic Manual’s description of a man at midlife. Easy to understand why we don’t fit together anymore, though if I’m coming to terms with all the men from my past, I guess Bill counts as one of them.
I get to Bill’s apartment on Sunday afternoon and am greeted by sixty inches of Terry Bradshaw screaming in SurroundSound.
“Great place, huh?” Bill asks, ushering me in. “One of the partners in my office has had this pied-à-terre for years. Told me to use it as long as I want.”
“And you bought a new TV?”
“A man’s got to live,” he says expansively.
I look around, wondering if a man can really live on scotch, beer, a store-bought container of guacamole and a ripped open bag of Tostitos, which seem to be the only edibles in the apartment. Oh, no, I underestimated him. Bill proudly brings out a plastic grocery platter of greasy spicy chicken wings, blue cheese dressing, and a few anemic stalks of carrots and celery thrown in for decoration. So this is who buys the $24.99 Superbowl Special. If Bill can’t eat every meal at a diner, he’s going to turn his apartment into one.
Bill sits down and motions for me to join him on the leather sofa. We’re both mesmerized by the almost life-size football players crashing around on his big-screen TV. I know we’re nowhere near kickoff, but there are forty years of Super Bowl highlights to catch up on, not to mention the really interesting part of the games, the commercials. I understand why advertisers use half-naked women to hawk products to men, but what’s with the Budweiser frogs, the Clydesdale horses, and the
Monster.com
monkeys? Talk about appealing to animal instincts.
“Adam called a little while ago,” Bill says, dipping a Tostito into the blue cheese. “We reminisced about those father-son Super Bowl parties we used to have.”
“You miss him, don’t you,” I say, realizing how close Bill has always been to the kids.
“Yeah,” he says wistfully. “Those were great times we used to have.”
“We were a great family,” I agree.
“Sounds like Adam and that new girlfriend, Evahi, are having fun,” says Bill.
“She’s a very sweet girl,” I say.
“No, I mean
fun
,” says Bill with a sly grin.