Ask Again Later Read online

  “No,” Marjorie says. “I’ll enjoy doing that.”

  I am no longer needed here. But being needed felt great while it lasted.

  Light on Affection

  I TAKE INVENTORY of my current situation and place in the world. I have a mind-numbing job—luckily temporary. I have a law degree, coupled with a fading interest in the law. My mother is doing pretty well. I can move back into my own home…. No word from Sam. No acknowledgment of the postcard I sent him. Will walks by.

  He says what he always says.

  “Emily, want some coffee?”

  “No, but thanks for asking,” I say.

  Which is what I always say. But this time, I want a different outcome, some hope. “But I’d love a Perrier,” I say.

  I believe this is just the sort of optimistic yes-you-can-do-something-for-me response Will has been waiting for. He brings me the Perrier.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Sure,” Will says. “Hey, I want to show you something in my office.”

  His shirtless torso? His chiseled scales-of-justice-lifting biceps? No, instead we look at some photos he’s taken. Exhibit A: his sensitive side.

  We sit on his couch. Our knees touch. We both react as if we’ve just touched a hot teakettle with bare flesh—and move away from each other in a panic. He opens an art portfolio. They are nice lawyer-turned-weekend-photographer-type photos. He developed them himself. There are shots taken in Central Park. Street musicians. Trees. The Great Lawn. Several photos fall out of a pocket of the book. I pick them up, and he reaches over to take them from me.

  “Oh, come on, let me see them,” I say. “I’m sure this is what you really wanted to show me anyway.”

  There are six photographs of a brown-haired woman with large eyes and a healthy amount of cleavage. In one shot she’s lying in bed, covered by a sheet but not wearing clothing.

  “Your sister?” I ask.

  “Funny woman!” Will says. “Former girlfriend.”

  “She’s very pretty,” I say.

  “It’s all makeup and trick photography. She’s hideous in real life,” Will says.

  “When did she dump you?” I ask.

  “A few weeks ago,” Will says.

  When we finish looking at the photos, he closes the black folder and ties the string that closes it.

  There is a knock at the door. It opens, and Wendy is standing there with a manila envelope and a staff list. Still seated on the couch, Will’s knees fall into mine again. I don’t move this time. Neither does he. Our knees rest against each other, under his portfolio.

  “I knew there was something going on in here. Don’t worry, I’ll never tell,” Wendy cackles. “I’m collecting money for cake and Chinese food. I need seven dollars from each of you.”

  “Whose birthday is it?” I ask. “Must be someone important if you’re springing for Chinese food.”

  “Mine,” Wendy says.

  “Couldn’t someone else plan your party?” I ask. “I can collect money if you want.”

  “Control freaks don’t let other people plan their parties,” Wendy says. “That’s not the way it works.”

  I give Wendy a ten-dollar bill and tell her to keep the change. Will walks over to his desk. The top left drawer is filled with coins.

  “Did you ever figure out how many scoops equal five dollars?” Will asks.

  “You were going to do that calculation,” Wendy says.

  “Let’s call it two,” Will says.

  “I told you I’m not taking coins anymore,” Wendy says.

  “Suit yourself,” Will says, closing the drawer.

  Wendy leaves.

  “I should go back to my desk,” I say. “Thanks for showing me the photographs of the park and the nearly nude shots of your ex-girlfriend.”

  “Can we have—do you want to go out sometime?” Will says.

  “Sure,” I say. “Sometime.” Sometime? Vague and open-ended—just the way I like it.

  “Tomorrow night?” Will asks. He can’t be more than twenty-five, and he’s acting even younger.

  “Tomorrow?” I say. It’s a surprise. I don’t like surprises.

  But I have no readily available excuse, and I have nowhere else to go. “Sure.”

  I walk down the hall toward the bathroom, to see what I look like. What did I look like when Will was just looking at me?

  I pass the kitchen. I watch from the doorway as my father fixes his stare on the microwave oven. Wendy scolds him about spoiling his lunch. Why eat popcorn when Chinese is on the way? He laughs.

  An office wife is really the answer. She is the perfect mate for him. She can look up to him. He’s a good boss. He’s even a thoughtful boss. He can empathize with his bored and unhappy employees because he’s bored and unhappy on the job, too. A person living with him might never see how empathetic he can be. He’s a better person at work than he is at home. He’s figured this out. That’s what impresses me most. He’s figured it out.

  Father’s Keeper

  I LOOK NICE TODAY. My father wonders why, but he can’t bring himself to ask. He either doesn’t want to know about any potential sex life I might have, or he thinks saying I look nice will point out that most of the time I’m lucky if my shoes match.

  He likes it that we share a cab to work. He and his girl going off to fight crime in the big city. We can pretend he wasn’t AWOL for the last twenty years. The cab ride is one of the few uncomplicated things we share. So we both try to enjoy it. This is the level to which things have come. We don’t want to talk about the past, or my mother, or my career, or his depression. Instead, let’s become absorbed in this fabulous cab ride. You don’t realize how much of the world is cordoned off by glass until you are seeking protection. Running for cover. There is a thick sheet of plastic separating us from the driver, and then there is all of the invisible stuff that separates my father and me. I like the straightforwardness of the plastic divider. This is my side, that’s yours. No ambiguity. No guessing.

  “They call that a safety precaution?” I say mockingly to Dad, motioning toward the divider.

  “Doesn’t hold a candle to the Plexiglas shield you enjoy each and every day,” Dad says. “Do you want to have dinner tonight? Your mother could join us.”

  “Thanks. I wish I could, but I have plans tonight,” I say. And if I didn’t, I might just pretend I did to avoid such a weird interaction.

  “What kind of plans?” Dad says, in a tone that could possibly be indicating he’s up for whatever kind of sassy arrangements are on deck.

  “Dinner plans,” I say.

  “Do I know him?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah, he works four offices down the hall from you,” I say. “You hired him.”

  “Bob? He’s a married man. I didn’t know he was having trouble at home. I don’t think that’s the sort of thing a bright young woman should be getting involved with,” he says, as if he were talking about someone other than me. “I always thought he was a stand-up guy. A model of good behavior.”

  I want to strangle him. Now. In public.

  “Bob is three offices down,” I say. “You think I’d date a Mormon with four kids? Thanks.”

  “Oh. Will. He’s a smart one,” Dad says. “Young, though.”

  Wearer of conservative shirts. Keeps diplomas hung in corner, as if embarrassed by an abundance of education. Lips that appear to be perfect for kissing. I could go on, but my father is staring.

  “Yeah,” I say. “He’s smart.”

  “Does he still have his friend?” Jim asks. “The girl?”

  “His girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Yes. I thought he was involved with someone,” Jim says.

  Will’s apparently shown everyone the half-naked photos of his girlfriend.

  “I think it ended,” I say. At least that’s the story he’s telling.

  Chiclets

  WILL IS AT the newsstand in the lobby. He’s deciding whether to buy Chiclets or Tic-Tacs. This seems sweet to me. That h
e’s taking this meaningless choice seriously. What will he treat his mouth to today? His tongue has been so very good to him. And his teeth and gums, too. They all deserve a pick-me-up…will he favor them with a delicious smorgasbord? Gum and mints? Or perhaps something to harass his teeth—Jujyfruits?

  “Emily, I need to ask you something,” Will says.

  “Chiclets,” I say. I hope he picks the fruity kind. Peppermint and spearmint just seem too noncelebratory. The workhorses of the breath-freshener family.

  “Do you think any kissing will occur tonight?” Will asks.

  I stare at him for a while. “Tonight?” I ask.

  “Between you and me,” Will says. “On our date.”

  “Oh,” I say. Good lord, what have I agreed to? “I don’t know,” I say. But that question alone makes me seriously doubt it.

  “You don’t know? Sounds like a yes to me! Do you have a strong preference between wintergreen and peppermint?” Will asks.

  “Strong preference? No,” I say.

  I stare at him. I stare at him because when our knees touched yesterday I did feel something. It was exciting.

  Before I meet Will for dinner, I stop at a pay phone. I call Sam. If he answers, it means I will cancel dinner plans with Will. But Sam doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s in the shower. I wait ten minutes. I call again. Still no answer. I leave a message.

  “Hi. Emily here. I was calling to say…‘Hi, Emily here,’” I say. “Maybe I’ll call again in a few minutes.”

  I hang up the phone. I’m still doing it. I’m calling Sam to keep me away from Will, and I’m here to meet Will in hopes that it will keep me away from Sam. One foot out of two different doors.

  Red Formica Table

  WE MEET IN the West Village at Two Boots for pizza. He kisses my cheek as he opens the door to the restaurant for me. I’m not sure if he’s being sincere, or mocking this “date.”

  Will is wearing jeans and a T-shirt and running shoes. There is a rubber band around his calf to hold his pants out of the way of his bicycle chain.

  My clothing is all wrong for this part of town. I’d have to buy a new wardrobe if things ever developed between us.

  We take a seat at a red Formica table.

  “Beer?” Will asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I hope you’ll trust me to order,” Will says.

  “It’s pizza,” I say.

  “Which is why I feel supremely confident,” Will says.

  The waitress comes over to the table. Will orders.

  “Two light beers. Two salads. Dressing on the side for the lady. That okay with you? I know the ladies prefer the dressing on the side,” Will says.

  “Have a lot of experience with the ladies, do ya?” I say.

  “And one Hawaiian pizza,” Will says.

  The waitress scribbles on her pad and disappears. I look around the place. A couple in their thirties is eating pizza with their twin boys. The rest of the tables are filled with teenagers.

  “Should we talk shop?” Will asks.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Who spends more time on the phone? Me or Wendy?” Will asks.

  “Too close to call,” I say. “You’re both kind of chatty.”

  There is an awkward pause. Will contemplates the pepper shaker.

  “Are you starting to think we ruined the romance by moving this outside of the office?” Will asks. “I was really enjoying all of that sexual tension at work.”

  “Have you talked to your girlfriend recently?” I ask.

  “She won’t call me back,” Will says.

  “Oh,” I say. “What did you do?”

  “Told her I loved her,” Will says. “What’s your story?”

  “No story,” I say. “Nothing I’m telling you anyway.”

  For a moment I feel tempted to excuse myself from the table and go to the nearest pay phone and call Sam again to tell him about the date I’m on. About the rubber band on Will’s pant leg. Maybe he’d get in a cab and rescue me from this funny earnest person who seemed more like a younger brother than someone to kiss.

  “So, do you love her?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I thought I did,” Will says. “But it’s not easy to love someone who won’t return your phone calls.”

  “Right,” I say.

  Will comes around to my side of the table and sits next to me on the Formica bench. He puts his hand under my chin. He kisses me. I kiss him back.

  “Get a room!” one of the teenagers yells.

  Bicycle Built for Two

  AFTER TWO BOOTS, we ride Will’s bike to Grange Hall for another glass of wine.

  “I think it’s time for me to go home now,” I say. “Thanks, Will, it was a fun night.”

  “Yeah?” Will says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Can I give you a ride to Hudson? You can catch a cab going uptown,” Will says.

  I climb back onto the front handlebars, and lift my feet up, and balance myself.

  Romance at the workplace is not a good idea. Extremely light emphasis on the word “romance,” please. Will is not ready for marriage or love or even a bicycle built for two. I could stagnate here, I suppose. Choosing Will is an emotional cop out. But at some point I must learn to finish and not just start.

  When I get home, I play my messages. There’s only one.

  “Hi, Em. I’ll try you again, even if you call only when you can’t really talk,” Sam says.

  A Pet

  I RETURN FROM lunch on Monday. On my desk is a mystery. A small fishbowl. Inside is a goldfish, swimming in circles. Exploring. All alone and going nowhere, like someone else I know.

  I dial Will’s extension.

  “Hello?” Will says.

  “Did you buy the goldfish?” I ask.

  “No,” Will says. “I’m with a client. Wait, who’s buying you goldfish? Man, that’s really good. Flowers are nice, but a goldfish is so much better.”

  “Maybe it’s not for me,” I say.

  Or maybe someone grew bored with it and dropped it off here. The way people drop unwanted cats off at farms?

  Jim walks by.

  “Do you like him?” Jim asks.

  “You bought the goldfish?” I say.

  “Yes,” Jim says. “I thought you could use some company out here.”

  Is this his polite way of saying my wiretapping has got to stop?

  “Thanks!” I say. “That’s very sweet.”

  My reaction to the fish surprises me. I’m elated to have this bowl sitting on my desk. I must be lonelier than I thought.

  “What are you going to call him?” Jim asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “He’s a happy guy,” Jim says.

  “How can you tell?” I ask.

  “Can’t you tell? I can just tell,” Jim says.

  He did seem to be happily swimming, but what are his options?

  I move him to the left of my desk so his bowl is not directly below the air-conditioning vent. I sit back in my chair and watch Happy.

  EVERY DAY AT about two, the air conditioner gets too cold, so I open the window and hear the sounds of traffic below on Sixth Avenue. A man on the street is holding a public sermon warning, announcing that Jesus is coming. I imagine the cold air spiraling out of the window, dancing down the building, and caressing his cheek, like the hand of God. A reward for believing.

  Like a Diamond in the Sky

  I’M SITTING AT my desk when the phone rings. My line. My direct line never rings. Marjorie doesn’t even say hello. She starts a tirade.

  “Guess what the in-laws got him?” Marjorie says.

  “Got who?” I ask.

  “Baby Malcolm,” Marjorie says. “As a gift for being born.”

  “Carton of Marlboro Lights?” I ask.

  “That would have been useful.” Marjorie sighs.

  “Sterling silver something?” I ask.

  “Too girlie,” Marjorie says.

  “Gift cer
tificate to a steakhouse?” I say.

  “Nope. They named a star after him…and sent us the official certificate of authenticity. It even came with a map,” Marjorie says.

  “That’s kind of sweet,” I say. “He can’t even sit up yet, and he’s already got his own star? That kid’s life is going to be great!”

  “Would a cute outfit have been too much to ask for? We don’t have two nickels to rub together, and they’re buying real estate in outer space?” Marjorie says.

  “It would be difficult to be your mother-in-law,” I say.

  “Why?” Marjorie says.

  “Because sometimes it’s difficult being your sister,” I say. “It’s not their fault you guys spend every cent you have. How much money have you spent on purses alone this year? More than most people spend on a car! You have a personal shopper for fuck’s sake! When you’re too busy to do it yourself, she’s out there spending money for you. It’s insane. You don’t get to complain about not having money when you blow through it the way you do.”

  “Remind me not to call you when I need a sympathetic ear. And it’s not always easy being your sister, either. All this time you’re spending with Mom and Dad can’t be healthy. You’re neurotic because you spent too much time with Mom after they divorced. Now you’re just compounding your problems by working for Dad…. It’s not normal,” Marjorie says.

  “Aren’t you even curious what he’s like? Why their marriage fell apart?” I ask.

  “Not really. I don’t live in the olden days,” Marjorie says. “If you have children, you’ll discover that there’s a whole lot less time to worry about yourself and your parents. It’s a happy relief to know the world doesn’t revolve around Joanie and Jim. Anyway, I didn’t call you to start a fight.”

  “I know. Just remember, it’s nice that Malcolm has grandparents who are thinking about him. He’s a really sweet baby, isn’t he?” I say.

  “Yes, and I already miss being pregnant,” Marjorie says.

  “It must be a very hopeful time,” I say.

  “Well, that and I had the metabolism of a teenager. I used to be able to eat a baguette and a wheel of Brie for lunch,” Marjorie says.