The Never Never Sisters (12 page)

She pretended to think, holding up one finger as if counting, scratching her head,
hamming up her head shake. “Not really. I think two. Not that I’ll admit that ever
again.”

She waited for the laughter to die down before continuing, looking at the Rabinowitz
end of the table. “Here’s the thing about Frankie. Last week I asked him what he wanted
for his birthday, and he told me to pick out a nice piece of jewelry for myself.”
Her voice wavered, and instead of continuing, she blinked, hard, her face caught in
that ugly spastic moment heralding tears. I held my breath, uncertain what would happen
next.

“That’s probably because he likes to play dress-up when you’re out of the house.”
That was Cherie.

“Maybe.” She raised her glass, and I could see her returning from the precipice of
wherever her toast had been leading her.

“Didn’t he ask for fishnets last year?” Darren said loudly.

“And coral red lipstick,” said Cherie.

“With that P.S. that you were out of L’Air du Temps,” interjected Michael, obviously
pleased with himself at joining the repartee.

Sloane sighed—shoulders rising, face blank. The effect was that of someone who wanted
to roll her eyes in disdain but couldn’t even manage the effort.

My mom’s expression had hardened into default: a mask of
Been-there-done-that
. She wagged her finger at my dad. “And you never did have a good explanation for
my missing false eyelashes.”

My dad nodded, as though saying,
This isn’t really funny, but sure I’ll play along
.

“Happy birthday,” she said. “Here’s to another sixty-two more years.”

“Here, here.” We all raised our glasses. Where had she been going, I wondered, and
what did she mean by marrying him and staying with him—as though those were two separate
decisions? I’d always thought I’d understood my parents’ marriage.

For good reason, my mom had been looking for someone stable and secure. I loved my
dad, but I’d counseled couples like my parents, where you saw it so clearly—one of
them was just hanging on for the ride of his life.

Later, when the caterers were clearing plates of cake and everyone was getting up
to go inside to the couches for more fruit drinks, I leaned across the table to Sloane,
who also looked like she was lost in thought. “It’s almost over.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked as though she hadn’t even heard me.

“Going to work.”

“Want to meet me for lunch?” She swept her eyes around the patio. “Just us.”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

SLOANE WAS WAITING
at the noodle place she’d picked, a tiny restaurant in the East Village with two long
tables in the middle of a rectangular room.

“Hey.” As I squeezed onto the bench in the small space across from her, the woman
on my left wordlessly inched over.

“It’s kind of like eating on a bus, but they’re supposed to have the best noodles
in the city.” Sloane passed me the menu, a cream card about the size of a photograph
that announced in tiny rounded gray type:
NOODLES WITH CHICKEN, NOODLES WITH VEGETABLES, NOODLES WITH BEEF
. “I hear they get pretty”—she slammed her hand against her palm,
chop-chop
—“so I already ordered for us—one of each kind. Okay?”

“Good.” I looked around the restaurant, wooden and austere in a modern way—low ceilings,
prison gray walls. “How do you even know about this place?”

“I don’t remember. Online? That’s where I get most of my scoop. But it’s a legend;
I’ve wanted to try it forever.”

“Online?”

“I read a lot of reviews.”

“For food?”

“Food, art, travel. We have a blog.”

“Wow.”

“Nothing big. Just posting about culture.”

“You also have the chocolate shop?”

“The blog isn’t a big deal yet. We have, like, only three advertisers so far. The
shop is my full-time job. The owner’s a friend, so she’s given me a little ownership
percentage, and I manage it. Artisanal chocolates and wines.”

I nodded. “Cool.” The wine part begged questions that I didn’t want to ask, so I focused
on the waiter, who was hoisting a tray of three steaming bowls of noodles and cramming
them all in the little space between us. There was a collective wriggle as our neighbors
pushed aside their water glasses and napkins.

Sloane pulled out her phone and snapped pictures of the dishes. Then, she separated
two chopsticks, rolling them together and using them to lift a portion of noodles,
slick with julienned vegetables, onto both plates. She pushed one over the table to
me. “Try this first.”

She chopsticked a bite-sized amount and carried it to her mouth. “Ohmygod,” she said,
swallowing. “That is incred—What? Why are you just watching me? What?” Her face sagged.
“I’m being really bossy, aren’t I?”

“No. I mean, yes, I suppose you are, but it’s fine.”

“It’s not. I’ve changed, I swear. I’m not as bossy as I was when we were little.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You don’t remember?” I could tell from the blank moment between us and the way she
put her chopsticks down that she felt something—hurt?—about it. “You used to tell
on me constantly.”

“To Mom?”

She nodded, mimicking a high-pitched voice. “
Mommy, she’s bossing me
. You always called her mommy. It made you sound much younger than you were.”

“I
was
young.”

She shrugged. “Still.”

“What did she do when I told on you?”

“Always, always, always took your side.”

“I sound so annoying.”

“I thought you were, but in fairness, I
was
bossy. Still am. So says Giovanni.”

“I wasn’t thinking that—the bossy thing. I was just wondering when you’d eaten here
before.”

She shook her head. “First time.”

“You have some serious noodle mojo, then.”

She smiled. “Noodle Mojo. That’s not a bad title for a post.”

I tasted the noodles. “These are insanely good.”

“I know. Try the beef.”

I handed her my plate. “Serve it up.”

“So I enjoyed meeting Dave last night.”

Something must have crossed my face, because she put her chopsticks down again. “What?”

I shook my head.

“I swear, you made a face when I mentioned your husband. Not a good sign.” She smirked
in a not-unfriendly way, and I tried to smirk too, but something happened, and my
mouth jerked up too far. Soon my chin was quivering and my eyes were tearing.

“You want to talk about it?” Sloane picked up her chopsticks.

I dabbed my eyes with the small black cocktail napkin, and Sloane propped herself
up on the table, her elbows two sharp compass points. “What is this about?”

“It’s not really my . . . secret to tell.”

“Telling me is like talking to a wall.” I couldn’t help but look pointedly at her
chest, which was as flat as mine, and she flared her nostrils in impatience. “I meant
I’m not a gossip. I’m not going to tell our parents or the Ridiculobinowitzes or whoever.
I can just listen.”

Plus, who would believe her if she broke my confidence? Sloane didn’t exactly have
a good track record for honesty, although I did believe her right now, the way she
was staring at me almost encouragingly from across the table. My problem, I realized,
would seem to her like child’s play, like my dad’s complaint about the lack of towels
to the workers busting their asses at the Orlando Motor Inn. I still remember their
faces, eyebrows aloft, straight-line mouths: This
is your problem
?
Cry me a river, vacationing white man
.

I started at the beginning with Dave’s suspension and told her everything up to his
work-phone lie the day before. “So, what do you think?” I leaned back, anticipating
her reassurances that I had a great husband and shouldn’t look for trouble. I expected
them because that’s what my mom would’ve done; it’s what Lucy would’ve done; it’s
what Dave would have done (setting it to Bob Marley, of course—“Three Little Birds”).
It’s what
I
would’ve done had I been on the other side of the table.

“Oh, he’s lying to you.”

The way my stomach went into free fall when she said it out loud—I knew it was the
truth. “How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “Common sense. There’s no way someone gets suspended from work without
knowing why. No employer would do that, not even, like, evil congloms. Thinking anything
else is just plain denial. Why do you think he got suspended?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, you must have an idea—what do lawyers do to get suspended? With them it’s
all about ethics, right? Maybe he messed with confidentiality? Or was a little too
buddy-buddy with a judge?”

“He’s corporate. He doesn’t really work with judges.”

“Well, what, then?”

I avoided her eyes. “I don’t know.” Dave had denied it and I had tried to believe
him, but the certainty came to me in a rush: he was involved in the financial scandal
that was all over the news. He had to be. I had something more probative than factual
evidence or his admission: how well I knew him, and how much sense it made given his
sleazebag mentor and his burn to succeed and please—so molten hot that I was sure
in the wrong hands it could be shaped like glass. I forced my gaze to Sloane’s and
tried to appear like there weren’t fireworks exploding under my skin. “Let me think
about it.”

“The question, even more than what he did,” she said, leaning forward, “is, do you
care that he’s lying?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I sat back and considered. How could I not care?

“I mean people have relationships that work for a lot of different reasons. Yours
might be able to withstand some murkiness surrounding his . . . work situation.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We don’t lie to each other. That’s not who I thought we were.”

“And that honesty about everything, that’s crucial to who you are as a couple, even
if he’s lying for a good reason?”

I considered this. I had lied to Dave before: about how many bikinis I actually owned
before buying a new one, say, or that time I went to one of Lucy’s parties and flirted
with Matt Mossy, the curly-haired star of that Broadway show about rock stars. He’d
kept bringing me mojitos before finally serenading me softly with his biggest number,
“Take Me Home Tonight, Little Mamacita.” He ended it by putting his hand on my shoulder
and saying, with a perfectly straight face, “Seriously. Take me home tonight.” From
his confidence, I could tell the line usually worked for him. The exchange was indelibly
etched into my memory, and I wanted to giggle every time I saw his picture, but I’d
never told Dave. But Mossy had been nothing. Whatever this was—and certainly if it
was something involving insider trading—I would’ve told him. I couldn’t
not
have told him.

“Yes.” I had to respect Sloane’s technique. She was the anti-Pressman, forcing me
toward an unwelcome thought. “That honesty is crucial to who we are as a couple.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Have you just asked him?”

“I can’t.” I couldn’t tell her that I had and didn’t believe his response.

“So then . . . you could look into it yourself?”

“Jesus, no.”

“What?”

“I sound like one of my clients.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Um, they come to me because they have marital problems.”

“Not to sound harsh, but I think you have marital problems too.”

“But not like them. Trust me, it’s different. Dave and I are . . . fine in the ways
it matters.”

She slurped a noodle into her mouth. “You know who you should call? Giovanni’s friend.”

“Percy?”

“Right, I forgot that you met him. Percy. As in Percy Stahl of Stahl Investigations.
He’ll help you.”

I dropped the noodle that was refusing to wrap around my chopsticks and aimed at another
one. When you really thought about it, there was nothing shocking about the idea:
people hire experts all the time—to fix their computers, decorate their apartments,
even strengthen their marriages. As I always told my couples, knowing when you need
help is a sign of wisdom. Even if doing so forces you to confront the fact that your
spouse just might be the next Bernie Madoff.

Sloane sensed that I was considering it and gave one final push. “I guess it depends
how much it bothers you,” she said. “Not knowing the truth.”

I stopped home before returning to work. Creeping into the apartment in slow motion,
I eased the door closed behind me and slid my feet across the wooden parquet like
a cross-country skier. Dave’s door was open a crack, and I lurked in the hall, listening
to him talk about interest rates.

As I’d awkwardly hugged Sloane good-bye, I pretended that I was still making up my
mind about what to do. Normally, I’d run big decisions past Dave first, but because
I couldn’t do that, I had come home hoping for a sign that he was lying to me. I wasn’t
picky—I was prepared to take anything, and as I listened to him on the phone, droning
on about percentage points, I figured this would do. It was proof that when I wasn’t
home, he sat alone in the office with the door wide-open, doing his job—his highly
technical, somewhat boring, not-in-the-least-bit-shady job.

I skied back down the hall and shut the front door with a slam to announce my arrival.
Peeking in his doorway, I waved. He made the “I’m on a call” motion, pointing exaggeratedly
to his ear. I tried to look surprised and retreated.

A few minutes later he met me in the kitchen, where I unscrewed the top of an aluminum
water bottle over the sink. “Hey. How was lunch?”

“Good, actually. Sorry for the interruption.” I turned on the faucet.

“Actually, I’m in the middle of something. Is it okay if I get back to it?”

“Of course.”

“So, see you . . . later?”

“Yeah, about six.”

He retreated back into his office and I followed, watching as he shut the door behind
him. He did it slowly, as if maybe I wouldn’t notice if he was very quiet about it.
I noticed, though. A closed door to seal me off.

There was the sign.