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Authors: Evan Marshall

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BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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“Do you know how many people get their MBA from Wharton?” I felt like shouting at him when he declined my invitation. “Fine,” I said instead. If he couldn't see that he should have been proud, I was not going to waste my energy trying to convince him.
He was on time for our meeting at the coffee shop in my office building wearing a smile as if we were the best of friends. As ugly a person as I thought he was, I could still see that he was a handsome man in his business suit and silver hair. He has a broad face and sparking blue eyes. And Carla, for all of her flaws, sure could pick out a tie. Father looked as though he should be in an upscale restaurant with other old guys instead of ordering a grilled cheese at the counter of a lobby coffee shop.
“Would you like a sandwich?” he offered.
“No thank you. I'm on a tight schedule today. I'll have a cup of coffee.”
“As I mentioned to you this morning, I am going to retire at the end of the year and I was hoping we would have a chance to reconnect,” he said.
I said nothing.
“I know you hate me, Prudence, but I am your father and I think it's time we make amends.”
“I don't hate you,” I said in a neutral tone. I knew exactly where my disengage button was and pressed it firmly every time I saw Father.
“I know I made mistakes when you were growing up. I know my divorce with your mother hurt you deeply, but we can work on it, can't we? I'm not the same man I was when you were younger. I am willing to admit that I made mistakes, serious mistakes, but I want us to have a real relationship again. The way we were when you were a kid.”
When I was a kid, Trenton Malone was a hero to me. He always seemed to be doing something important. Flying off somewhere to make some big deal happen. I struggled to understand his recounts of hostile takeovers and more friendly mergers of companies he'd negotiated. I'd nod as though I comprehended everything because he seemed so genuinely impressed that a nine-year-old understood his rather complicated business dealings. I remember the first time he asked me if I knew what something meant, and I lied and told him, of course I did. “You do?” he beamed. “That's my girl.” And that's all I needed to hear before I secretly started reading business magazines at the library. He started to think of me as a business-savvy little knockoff of himself, and took a keen interest in my math homework and lemonade stands. He told me that I'd sell a lot more of anything if I framed my pitch to address how my product met the customers' needs instead of asking them to do me a favor by buying my lemonade, or Girl Scout cookies or whatever. “If your eating delicious cookies would help you empower young girls and improve your community, wouldn't you want to do it?” I'd ask my neighbors. Typically they'd laugh. “When you buy Girl Scout cookies, you not only get yummy treats for your family but you help your local troop earn much-needed funds for activities that help prepare us to be future leaders of America.” Then, I'd pause strategically. “Where else do you get the chance to build the future of this great nation by eating cookies?” I could feel his pride radiating off of him as he practically mouthed our script.
He even praised my approach to trick or treating, which was a great way to get him to come along with us, I discovered. It may sound a bit cold, and perhaps it wasn't the warm and fuzzy memories that most fathers and daughters share, but this bond of success, of the ability to make things happen, was ours. It was our privately held company. Daddy and Prudence Inc.
Though I was recalling better days with Father, I stared blankly, then waved at a coworker passing by. “I don't know what to tell you. I'm thirty-six years old. I don't really need a father at this point in my life.”
“I know you've got a lot of anger toward me. My therapist says I emotionally abandoned you and that you've got every right to be enraged with me. Maybe it would help if you told me how you felt.”
I was silent. I hated when people suggested that if we all bare our souls, spill our guts and reveal our feelings, then everything will be okay. Tell him how I felt? Please. There's no way I was about to get into some feeling fest with him. There was no way I'd ever shed another tear over this imbecile my mother had the misfortune of marrying.
I laughed. “You needed a therapist to tell you that?” I began. “First, let's set the record straight, you didn't just emotionally abandon me, you physically disappeared.”
“Prudence, that's not fair. I called constantly, but you refused to speak to me.”
“Of course I refused to speak to you!” I shouted. “Of course I refused to speak with you,” I said softly this time. “What would I have said, ‘How's the wife and kid?' I was twelve years old, what was I supposed to say? Did it ever occur to you to get on the train and come out to see me? To bang on the door and demand that I talk to you? You just gave up.”
Too much. Shut up. This is exactly what he wants—Blubber-fest.
“Good, this is good for you to share with me,” he encouraged.
“Fuck you. I don't need your psycho-babble bullshit. I told you I don't need a father at this point in my life. What are you complaining about? It's not like I never see you. We have our little blended family get-togethers twice a year. It's not like I've written you off, which believe me, a stronger person would have.”
Recompose
. “You know what you can tell your therapist? Tell her that when I was fourteen years old I used to tell people that you were a CIA agent on a secret mission in Cuba, and that I had no idea when you'd be back because you were protecting their families from the Communists. And you know what else? Those were my proudest stories of you. Lying about you was the only way I could stand talking about you.” I got up to leave. “Listen, I'm sorry I don't want to ‘reconnect' with you. Maybe you could take up model trains or something in your retirement instead.”
I didn't even feel like crying, which was invigorating. His last few attempts had me fighting back tears, but this time I felt nothing. He suggested we go on a family trip, which almost had me, until I realized his idea of family included the Phase Two clan as well. He did make a rather heartfelt toast at the party Reilly threw for me when I made partner. I almost got misty before realizing he was drunk. And then there was the time he got into a fight with Wally at my rehearsal before the wedding. I'd asked Wally to walk me down the aisle because he'd been more of a father to me than Father at that point. We didn't really connect, but Wally was there. Presence is highly underrated. Anyway, I invited Father who had assumed he was going to be the one walking me down the aisle until the wedding planner started going over the details with Wally. Well, Father just about lost it. He said he was my father and that he was the one who should be walking me down the aisle. For a split second, I dared to hope that I actually meant something to him. That this ritual was significant to him because I was his daughter. In a flash, I started thinking of ways to gently ask Wally to step down from his position, which I might add, he would have done quite gracefully. Then Father started shouting that he didn't want all the guests thinking this “jackass country veterinarian” was the father of the bride. “This is a goddamned slap in the face, Prudence!” his voice echoed throughout the church. “This is just a humiliation!”
It sure is,
I muttered. Reilly's family was staring with awkward smiles on their faces, not knowing exactly what they should say or do next, if anything. I looked anything but bridal as I stormed across the chapel like one of Darth Vader's troopers. “Look, this isn't about you, Father.” I spoke low, through an underbite of rage. “Having you give me away is not something I want to relive on the happiest day of my life, got it? If you and the airbrushed bimbo brigade want to see place cards on the table tomorrow, I suggest you drop this immediately.” And he did. No “I'm sorry, that's not how I meant it . . . Let me try to explain it better . . . My approach was wrong, but my feelings were hurt.” He just dropped it. And every time he did, I hoped a little less. The less I hoped, the less it hurt. In my office lobby was the day my hope ran absolutely dry. I felt nothing and it felt fabulous.
Chapter 9
I
couldn't believe how many letters Reilly's personal ad generated in just two weeks. When I went to the post office, there was a note in my box alerting me that I had more mail than they could fit into the space I'd rented. A portly woman carried out a full plastic carrier of letters. “If you're expecting this much mail you're going to have to pay for a large box,” said the postal clerk. “You must have three hundred letters here. What are you selling?”
My husband.
“Thank you,” I said, struggling to lift the box from the counter.
After work, I went to Sophie's apartment, where Chad and Jennifer planned to meet us after dinner. As soon as the kids went to bed, we'd review Reilly's letters, and find a few good women for him. Sophie's apartment looked like her life. Despite the fact that she had young children, her carpets were unstained. Her white walls were free of fingerprints. The rooms were done in sets of clean, modern furniture, modified just enough to differentiate it from the showroom displays. Her apartment building had been around for decades, but with a fresh coat of paint and new fixtures, her place looked as if no one had lived there before.
As we were eating our pizza, I told Sophie that I planned to have my eyes and lips done. “Why do you want to do that?” Sophie asked. “Your eyes look fine to me.”
“Look at these huge bags,” I leaned in toward her. “I look tired all the time. And look at these,” I said, pointing to the lines around my eyes. “And my lids look like paper bags. After the lift, they won't look so droopy.”
“Your lids don't look droopy,” Sophie said, a bit bored.
“Yes, they do. I want them wide open and bright-looking.”
Devy raised her hand. She and Oscar had just started kindergarten and brought their school protocol wherever they went now.
“Yes Devy,” I said.
“Will you see any better?”
“What?” I asked.
“When your eyes are more open, are you going to see better?” asked Devy.
“No. No, honey I won't see any better. I'll look better, though.”
“Oh,” she shrugged and went back to picking the cheese off her pizza.
“Maybe I'll do Botox and get rid of this line,” I said, pointing between my eyebrows.
Sophie laughed. “You can't be serious, Prudence. You'd pay someone to shoot botulism into your face and paralyze your forehead? My friend in San Diego did that and she couldn't feel her head for three months. I've only heard one idea nuttier from you, but have faith, the week has just begun.”
 
 
After the kids were in bed, Sophie asked me if I'd heard from Matt recently.
“Every day,” I beamed.
“And when is it that he's coming to New York?” Sophie asked.
“I arranged his visit for the same week Reilly will be in Toyko,” I told her.
“Where is he going to stay?”
“At the loft.”
“At
your
home?” Sophie gasped. “Isn't that risky?”
“The day Reilly leaves, I'm going to take all of his clothes downstairs and leave them in the gallery office. All photos, shaving kits, shoes, Speed Stick will go in boxes to be moved back as soon as Matt leaves, which gives me two full days to move Reilly's stuff back in.”
Sophie didn't say a word, but her face showed that she disapproved.
“I know it sounds cold,” I apologized.
“It really does, Prudence,” Sophie said.
“What's colder, this, which he'll never know about or walking out on him? I realize how strange this whole thing sounds, but desperate times call for desperate measures.” I knew I'd hit a sore spot with Sophie as soon as the words started coming out of my mouth. Walking out on her husband Bob was exactly how she made her migration east. I don't know the details. None of us do because Sophie quickly dismisses all inquiries about her divorce from Bob, her husband of eight years. She offers one of her stock blithe one-liners that make her sound like Mommy Golightly, and it's clear that the conversation is going no further. Miss Free Spirit has her limits.
“I guess I don't understand what makes these times so desperate,” Sophie said.
Sophie went into the kitchen and started boiling water for tea. She wiped down the counter with a cloth and tossed it into the sink when she was done. “Sometimes I think we must be the ones who are crazy for not understanding why you're doing this. Maybe you're the most generous woman in New York for going to such great lengths to make Reilly happy.” I knew there was more. “Other times I think this has nothing to do with Reilly at all.”
Meaning what?
One of the things I hated about having an affair was that my friends felt it gave them free license to play my therapist. Chad, Jennifer and Sophie were constantly sharing their theories on what issues I was “playing out” with Matt and Reilly. If Chad asked one more time what my relationship with Matt was “really about,” I'd jump on his back and snap his neck. Now Sophie was my self-appointed guru.
“You've got to take a good hard look at what's driving you to do this,” Sophie offered.
“I know what's
driving
me, Sophie,” I said sharply. “I love him. I love Matt and I want to be with him.”
“That part I can live with, but what's behind this ridiculous plan? You've had to notice that no other women are out there doing this? We live in a very large city, Prudence. A city where people are known for doing their own thing, no matter how offbeat. Have you ever heard of any other woman doing this?”
“Maybe they should!” I defended. “I don't know why basic human kindness is considered diagnosable by you three. I completely understand why I'm doing this. What's
driving
me,” I mocked her.
“Look, there's no need for you to get snotty. I'm just suggesting you take a look at what's motivating you to act so, so extreme.”
“Is that how you handle things, Sophie? Examining every step you take?” I said, terrified of her reaction.
“You're right, Prudence. You should only take advice from people who are perfect.”
 
 
Jennifer and Chad arrived at Sophie's just after ten, twenty minutes after Sophie's last words. The two had just been to the opening of a restaurant where one of Chad's friends is the head chef. “You two missed a great party,” he reported. “Lisa is a genius in the kitchen. I would've eaten the garnishes if they weren't so gorgeous.” He looked at Sophie. Then at me. “Why so tense? What did I miss?”
“I'm sorry, Sophie,” I ignored Chad.
“I'm sorry too.” She playfully pouted her lip before scampering across the room to hug me.
“What did I miss?” Chad said again.
Jennifer looked tired, but was eager to read the letters women had written to Reilly. “Let's divvy these up, read through 'em and make three piles. Yes, no and maybe. Plan?”
The idea was to quietly read the letters to ourselves, then sort them for callbacks or rejection. That plan fell by the wayside within ten minutes. “Must share this one,” Jennifer was the first to call out.
“Reilly my dear,
I know we have not met, but my psychic says we are destined to be together because we were lovers in a past life . . .”
“Freak,” said Chad. “This one is even better.”
“If you choose me as your wife, I will do whatever you want so we can be happy. I will love you, cherish you and keep you close to my heart. We will have good times and bad times, mostly good . . .”
“Who is this woman, Darva Conger?” he quipped.
“Who?” we all asked.
“You remember that dippy blonde from
Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?”
“Toss that one,” I instructed. “She's too accommodating. Reilly needs someone a little more—”
“Conniving?” Chad finished.
“No,” I teased back. “Someone with a spine. Ditch Darva and let's move on.”
The floor became our “no” pile. One-word dismissals, like “desperate,” or “loser” were quickly followed by letters flying to the floor. Some women sent photos, which made it harder to reject them as quickly because it was a reminder that we were talking about actual people. Some women were attractive; others less so. A surprising number mailed in Glamour Shots, the studio where they doll up women and produce a soft muted photograph that make them look like 1940s film stars. Or cowgirls.
“Listen to this one,” Chad offered.
“I've got long red hair, I love the outdoors and I am loyal through and through.”
“Sounds like a golden retriever,” he said, tossing her letter to the floor.
“Talk about a has-been who never was,” shot Jennifer, reading a list of close calls with fame a woman had experienced ten years ago.
“This woman is naked!” shrieked Sophie.
“Who?” we all asked.
“This lady sent a naked photo,” she laughed. The picture was of a young bottle blonde in a Santa Claus hat and a wide open red velvet jacket with white cotton trim. She was posed on a stuffed reindeer, holding a whip. Sophie was right. Other than the jacket and hat, the woman was completely nude.
“
I want to be your nasty Santa,”
Sophie read.
“Whether you've been naughty or nice, I've got a special gift for you this Christmas—a ride on my one-horse open sleigh . . .”
“This lady is a slut,” Sophie said.
“What happened to your sluts-as-free-thinkers philosophy?” I asked.
“This one wrote a poem for Reilly,” Chad said of another letter. He cleared his throat.
“There once was a man named Reilly . . .”
“Good Lord, it's a fucking limerick.” He rolled his eyes. “Okay, let's see where Miss Cutie Puss goes with this.
“The thought of him makes me all smiley . . .”
“No, no, no, no,” he speedily dismissed. “Next.”
“This one sounds normal,” I chimed. “She's a lawyer, she's divorced . . . Let's see, let's see,” I said, skimming the page. “Okay, she sounds like a keeper.”
“Did she send a photo?” asked Jennifer.
“Nope.”
“Red flag,” she said. “Good-looking women include photos.”
“I want to keep her,” I whined like a child who brought home an alley cat.
“This one sounds sweet,” Sophie announced before reading the next letter.
“Too sweet,” we all agreed after hearing the rest of her sappy note.
“Her stationery stinks like perfume,” Chad added.
“This lady sounds like she's pissed off at Reilly,” Sophie said.
“If you want some little cupcake who's going to agree with everything you say, I'm not for you. If you want some tootsie to fan you with a palm leaf, look somewhere else.”
“What is she talking about?” Chad asked. “We never said anything about fanning Reilly with a palm leaf.”
“Who said she would have to agree with everything he says?” Sophie defended.
“Where's this attitude coming from?” Jennifer asked.
“If she's so pissed at Reilly, why is she answering his ad?” I wondered aloud.
“Bipolar,” said Chad, grabbing the letter and tossing it to the floor.
“Traditional values,”
I read, sticking my tongue out at the pink letter.
“Likes to have fun,”
read Sophie. “This city is full of sluts.”
“Needs commitment-oriented man,”
Jennifer read. “How 'bout meeting the man before you demand a ring, bitch.”
“I like long walks on the beach and romantic dinners by candlelight.”
We all groaned.
“Open-minded.”
Bisexual.
“I need a strong man,”
Chad read. “Because I am a weak woman,” he finished for her.
“I don't cook,”
recited Jennifer. “Who asked you to?”
“My last boyfriend had sex with my mother,”
I read. Way too much information for an intro letter.
Sophie cleared her throat.
“I am a classy lady who enjoys the finer things in life.”
Gold digger.
“
I am drop-dead gorgeous so people are always telling me I could be a model.”
BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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