Shiny Things

It was an old story, and, really, what could Tamara say? So, she kept her eyes on the road, driving with exaggerated concentration as dusk trickled down through the woods and curtained the valley off to her left, and beside her JoAnn went on and on, detailing her ex-husband’s indiscretions. They were three hours out of Boston, en route to JoAnn’s condo in northern New Hampshire for the weekend, and Tamara had spent most of the drive keeping a studiously controlled expression, presenting what she hoped was the right mixture of sympathy and concern. As a rule, she avoided unfiltered emotion, not because she hoped to hide from the seedier sides of human nature, but because she expected others to be hardier and more pragmatic.  JoAnn’s sudden neediness made her feel as though she was skirting a pool of quicksand, and a wrong step might suck her in. But the women had been friends since high school, and Tamara knew that JoAnn deserved more from her than detached platitudes. But, really, what could she say?

She glanced at JoAnn, whose lap was littered with damp tissues that sent hair-tiny white fibers into the air.  They drifted in the current from the heating vents and eventually settled like dandruff on JoAnn’s black wool coat. Here was her best friend, a successful middle-aged woman, red-eyed and pitiful. How could she have been so naïve? When Kevin and JoAnn had split up, JoAnn had believed the “We’ve just grown apart” and “I just don’t love you any more” excuses that Kevin had offered, hurtful enough as they were, until the divorce came through and his past lovers began to ooze out of the woodwork like nagging ghosts to haunt her.

    “And did I tell you what happened just last month? I stopped at Filene’s after work, and then I went to that Irish pub on the Common for something to eat. So, I’m sitting at the bar, and that barmaid, you know, the one with the frizzy red hair, tells me how I did the right thing, dumping Kevin (as though I’d had the pleasure), because ‘guys like that never change.’ Can you believe it? The fucking barmaid knew that he was fucking around!”

    Tamara squinted into the darkness.

    “This is the road coming up on the right, isn’t it? Windy Ridge?”

    “Yeah, that’s it. Count five driveways. See that third house on the right? That’s Avery and Pam’s. We’re due there for dinner at seven. Go past their place two more driveways and pull in on the right.”

    JoAnn blew her nose once more and gathered the tissues together.

    “I’m so glad you came. It’s pretty lonely up here without company. When I told Avery that I was thinking of selling, he invited us to dinner right away. I don’t know whether he wants to talk me out of it or just wants to handle the sale.”

    The steps to the side door were clear but wet and freezing around the edges. They lugged their bags through the door and across the kitchen linoleum, and JoAnn headed for the shower. Deciding that her khakis and sweater would be fine for dinner, Tamara put away their groceries and then fixed herself a drink and walked into the dark living room. Through the picture window, she could see the lights from several tiers of houses falling away down the slope. The streetlights gave off a glaring light that made the outside air seem brittle; Tamara imagined that she could reach out into their glow and break off a piece. After a while she drew the curtains and crossed to the fireplace, fiddling with the pilot until a bright flame spread under the ceramic logs and jumped to life. JoAnn’s muffled voice, singing, floated into the room. 

    Crying one minute, singing the next, she thought. And that was how she knew that JoAnn would eventually be alright. Her friend had always been a master of the art of compartmentalization. Through Homecoming court, sorority rush, six years of college, and fifteen years of managing a business and the health care of her ailing mother, JoAnn had always been able to put down or pick up a project at a moment’s notice.  She poured her energy into groups and committees as if they were jars of preserves, neatly labeled and distinct, and she went from jar to jar as necessary, never seeing that each container kept the boundaries of her life unnaturally ordered. Now that the container of her marriage had lost its seal and spoiled, JoAnn would clean up the mess adeptly, isolating the emotional damage and never letting it spill over into any other area of her life, just as she had signed the papers to buy out a competitor on the very day she buried her mother in Watertown, tearful at the graveside, gracious at the wake, and off to the closing by three. 

 Tamara hadn’t been surprised to hear of Kevin’s infidelity. She’d always been unnerved to find him watching her at odd times with intent, slate-grey eyes that made her think of a coyote whose attention has been caught by a rustling in the brush. But JoAnn had always believed she had a “good” marriage, and didn’t look for rust around the lid. The same mistake she had made herself, really, with Sam, relaxing her guard, letting her feet drift off the ground.

    More than five years had passed since Tamara had met Sam in the USAirways lounge at Logan airport.  He had just flown in from Las Vegas that day in late May, and she was preparing to fly to Miami to enjoy a perk of her travel agency job, the career she’d turned to when she couldn’t find a decent job remotely related to her major in archaeology. She was in a period of high hopes and optimism, enjoying the new turn of her life but with her usual pre-flight butterflies when she stopped into the lounge for a drink.

    The room was dim and crowded, with low-hanging brass globes suspended above polished oak tables. Tamara sidled up to the bar and waited a few minutes for the bartender’s attention before securing a double rum and Coke. Looking for a seat, she saw that the only vacant spaces were odd seats at high tables or in groups of circled armchairs. She spotted an arrangement with a single occupant, a man of slight build in a pilot’s uniform, sitting with his head back and his eyes closed.  She stooped to slip into the opposite chair but caught her foot on the carpet and landed heavily in the seat. A splash of Coke hit her below one eye, and an automatic “Damn!’ jumped from her lips as she set the drink down too hard, and it splashed again onto the table.

    “Hello to you, too,” Pilot-man said, regarding her with dark eyes that seemed suddenly wide awake.

    “Sorry. You can go back to sleep. I’ll try to be more graceful when I leave.” She dabbed at her face with her cocktail napkin.

    “I don’t know. I might miss something amusing. Just kidding. I’m Sam, friendly skies co-pilot. No, ‘friendly skies’ is United, I must be something else. Addled, maybe, addled and a little too exhausted to drive.”

    Tamara briefly shook the hand he offered, which felt warm and squishy.

    “Tamara Condorino, travel agent and vacationer. And, no offense, but I’m glad you’re not flying my plane.”

    “No, addled only comes after I step off my last flight. Otherwise, I’m in total control. I’m off until Monday, so now I’m allowed to collapse. Pleased to meet you.”

    Caught off guard by his self-deprecating manner, Tamara felt like a spectator as the conversation took off and led effortlessly to a date, and then another, and another, until she found herself in a “relationship” that seemed just too perfect. She should have been more suspicious. They had too much in common—hating George H. W. Bush and his whiny voice, loving to ride the subway on Sunday mornings to a late brunch, collecting Impressionist prints, and avoiding the starkness and incoherence of post-modernism. They soon discovered that they’d grown up in neighboring towns on the outskirts of the city and had probably attended some of the same basketball games in high school. And on her first visit to his townhouse, she was amazed to find that they both owned complete collections of Crosby, Stills, and Nash. It all seemed so serendipitous that somehow Tamara had glided past that all-important turning point that marks a relationship as “serious.”  They were together whenever he was in town, he called religiously when he was flying, and Tamara forgot, just really forgot, to ever ask whether he was seeing anyone else.

    Months passed. They watched the students return to the city and the crew boats glide, arrow-straight, on the Charles. Customers clogged the phone lines at the travel agency, making holiday travel plans. After a murderous week at work, Tamara turned her key in the door of Sam’s brownstone and was instantly soothed by the gleam of the polished cherry floor of the entranceway. She dropped her duffel at the foot of the stairs and walked to the kitchen for a drink. Sam would fly in early in the evening; they had a reservation at Salvadore’s for a late dinner in the North End. She’d taken to coming early to his place on weekends; being away from her own clutter felt like a vacation. She’d curl up with a cup of tea in his study, swathed in the subtle masculinity of his books and music, the model airplanes that hung in the corner, the smell of the cracked leather recliner.

    She opened the dishwasher for a clean cup and saw the card lying on top of a bowl of opened mail. She wouldn’t have noticed it particularly if not for the picture, Monet’s Regattas in Argenteuil, the same print that hung in a heavy black frame opposite the bed in Sam’s bedroom. Tamara stared at the card, and the coincidence of the print swelled like a tumor in her chest until she had to put down the cup, close the dishwasher, and reach for it.

        Dear Sam,

        Thanks so much for fixing Aaron’s bike. You’re becoming quite a hero to             him. Every time he plays with the airplane out in the field, he comes in             talking about all the places he’s going to fly when he grows up. Maybe I’ll         take him out of school next Wednesday for a trip to the space museum.             Seeing it with you will mean a lot to him. We can talk about it when you             call.

        Love, 

        Cheryl

    The note seemed almost innocent. It could have been written by a sister or a cousin or even an old friend. But Sam had two brothers, no sister, and had never mentioned any Cheryl or that he’d visited anyone on his mid-week layovers. When she asked, he said he spent his time reading, lounging by the hotel pool.  If the visits were innocent, wouldn’t he have mentioned them? And there was one last thing. On the inside of the card, on the back of the picture, an arrow was drawn, aimed at the edge of the paper, and a short phrase, punctuated with a heart, completed the tale:  My new favorite picture. She’d been here.

    Tamara wanted to throw up, but instead she placed the card on the counter, found its envelope, postmarked Houston, and wrote on the back: It seems that we are not sharing the relationship I thought we had. Your head and heart are somewhere else altogether. Don’t call. 

And he hadn’t.

    The lump in Tamara’s chest grew into an abscess that oozed and festered for weeks as she poked and prodded it with unanswerable questions and slabs of blame, heaping helpings for both of them. Sam had had the curse of near-perfection.  So he’d been just a bit over fastidious, and he had that odd habit of always washing his face after they made love that made her feel as if she was somehow yucky by comparison. But there was a quality to his voice when he spoke to her, as though she were an old and trusted friend, that drew her in. He told her stories of growing up in New Bedford with his alcoholic father and two brothers, and how the experience had convinced him that he didn’t want to risk having children that he might end up letting down in some way. He’d confided in her and lied to her at the same time. Yet, no amount of sifting through every moment and every conversation could reveal a warning sign that she might have purposely overlooked in her infatuation. His duplicity defied logic.

    After months of self-recrimination, Tamara finally decided--because she had to decide something in order to move on--that intimacy is a lie and an illusion that forces you to believe that you are sharing a moment, a week, or  a lifetime with someone who sees things just the way you do, feels exactly as you feel, and can be trusted to continue feeling that way, when the harsh truth is that two people are always two, never one, and while you are feeling the exhilaration of total surrender, your partner is likely thinking about picking up the dry cleaning or fantasizing about the girl who sells coffee at Haymarket Square, and, in any event, is always seeing the view from the other side of the bed. And when even the illusion of intimacy wears off, there’s nothing more left to a relationship than a lifetime of negotiation, or, in a few lucky cases, amiable companionship. So, Tamara concluded, the whole mess really was her fault for having slipped so easily back into the fairy tale of believing there was such a thing as “Mr. Right.” She should have known better.

    JoAnn and Tamara arrived at the neighbors’ doorstep promptly at seven. The door opened and a burst of warmth and steam and the aroma of tomato sauce spilled over them. Avery Nester, the realtor who’d sold Kevin and JoAnn their unit, took their coats and launched into an apology.

    “Pam called an hour or so ago to say that she’d be late. There was a wreck on Route 5 near Gorham, and they needed extra nurses for some emergency surgeries. She’s hoping to make it for dessert, but she said not to wait. What can I fix you to drink?”

    He led them to the living room and motioned for them to sit down. Tamara glanced around the room and experienced the off-balance sensation of deja vu. The fire in the fireplace and the fireplace itself were duplicates of the one they’d just left. All of the bookshelves and doorways and windows were in the same places, and the furniture was arranged in the same patterns. Tamara thought that this was odd, considering Avery and Pam lived in their place year-round--had they received a deal on the decorating as a perk? Maybe they just weren’t very creative. She thought that a person might be able to wake up in the middle of the night in any one of the condominiums and find their way around without running into anything. The only obvious difference between JoAnn’s unit and the Nesters’ was the western theme of the décor, introduced by a huge picture of the Rocky Mountains over the fireplace and continued in the rough-hewn style of the furnishings. 

    “Ah, real mountains,” Avery sighed as he caught her eyeing the picture. “I spent some time ski-bumming after college, and we would have moved out there if I could have convinced Pam to live that far from her folks.  Maybe someday. Scotch, rum, gin?”

    “Do you have any wine?”

         “Red or white?”

    “Red would be great.”

    “The same for me,” JoAnn volunteered, as she and Tamara settled themselves on opposite loveseats.

    As they sat, Tamara noticed that JoAnn’s suede skirt, which rose just above her knees and pulled drum-tight across her thighs, looked a little constricting, but her black, scooped-necked sweater balanced her figure, and a brown and tan medallion with matching earrings combined to create an exotic look. It occurred to Tamara that, with her business success, sense of style, and wide range of acquaintances, JoAnn wouldn’t lack long for companionship. 

    “Is there something we can help you with?” Tamara asked when Avery appeared with their drinks and a tray of cheese and crackers.

    “No, I’ve got it all under control.”

    “Avery’s always been the cook of the house,” JoAnn commented. “When he showed Kevin and me the condo, I was very impressed by how well he knew his way around a kitchen.”

    “Pam grew up cooking for her brothers and sister—her mother worked at the Timberland factory, and her father built docks for people around the lake. She says that with seven in the family, someone was always complaining about her cooking, so she swore that when she moved out, she’d never cook for anyone again.” He laughed, “And, by God, that’s one promise she’s stuck to!”

    He took a long gulp from his drink, the ice clinking loudly like broken glass, and they all laughed. JoAnn turned the subject to the real estate market, which was booming so much that Avery hoped he’d be able to retire by the time the market started to cool, as long as he worked hard and saved carefully for a couple more years.

    “At least, that’s the plan. It’s always good to have a plan…” Avery’s voice faded as he excused himself to check on dinner.

    “Isn’t he nice?” JoAnn murmured. “Not a bit snobby, like some realtors. Kevin and I had them over after the closing. Turns out he’s from a very monied old family, but he hasn’t taken a penny from them since college.”

    “Okay, ladies,” Avery called, “if you don’t mind serving yourselves from the counter on your way to the dining room, I’ll bring the wine, and we can eat.”

    They piled their plates with generous portions of chicken marsala, salad, roasted asparagus, and crusty bread, and the conversation turned back to Avery’s retirement plans. He’d never been more than an intermediate skier, he confessed, and had been pretty shaken up when a friend had a serious accident and cracked a vertebra in his neck the previous winter.

    “I ski like an old man now, but I’m doing more snowmobiling. Have you ever been?”

    Tamara shook her head.

    “You’re kidding! You really ought to try it! JoAnn will tell you—it feels as much like flying as skiing, only you’ve got more protection.”

    “But, actually, I’m afraid of flying.”

    “Okay, wrong comparison. How about sailing? It’s like sailing—the wind in your face, the landscape flowing by…”

    “I’ve never sailed either, but it sounds like fun. So, you don’t have any snowmobile horror stories?”

    “Not unless you’re afraid of crows!”

    Tamara’s mind became gauzy with too much food and wine and the warmth of the room that steamed the windows and made her sweat. Avery recounted a long tale about being stranded four miles into the woods when he lost the key to his snowmobile.

    “I ate my lunch and threw out the leftovers, and the crows were everywhere; I don’t know what’s happening; they don’t even seem to migrate anymore, and they steal everything. I think they’re reincarnated sociopaths. So anyway, I walked off the path a ways to have a little visit with nature, if you know what I mean, and when I got back to the snowmobile, my keys were gone. The damn birds took them right out of the ignition! I searched for about an hour in case they’d dropped them nearby, but by then it was getting late, so I finally took out my flashlight and walked back to the house. I’d forgotten my cell phone, and Pam wasn’t too happy when she got home and didn’t have a clue where I was.”

    The phone rang, and Avery went to the kitchen to answer it. As the women started to stack the dinner plates to one side, they could hear Avery’s end of the conversation clearly.

    “Again? … No, of course I don’t want you to fall asleep on the road… Alright, whatever. Say ‘hi’ to Julie. How about we eat out tomorrow night? I’ll make a reservation at the Lonely Elk… Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

    “Pam,” he explained, setting a pie and a carton of ice cream on the table. “I’m afraid of skiing, and now she’s afraid of driving these roads at night. She’s decided to stay over with a nurse friend since she has to work the 7 to 3 shift tomorrow anyway. And, by the way, she sends her greetings.”

    “What are her retirement plans?” JoAnn asked.

    “She doesn’t have any really. She says she loves her job, and she’s afraid she’ll get bored. Once in a while she talks about going overseas to work with a relief agency, something like Doctors without Borders. I keep telling her, there are plenty of free clinics here in the states. Damn, some of these little towns up here don’t have half the health services they really need. She doesn’t have to go to a third world country to help somebody. But I guess that’s not romantic enough for her.”

    He plopped a scoop of ice cream onto his pie and shrugged, reminding Tamara, not for the first time, of an abandoned puppy. His “Again?” echoed in her mind, and she wondered how often Pam wasn’t making it home at night. To divert her suspicious mind, she asked, “So what do you do for entertainment around here? The nearest movie theatre must be about, what, fifty miles?”

    “Ah, you’ve come to the right person for that answer. Remember, I’ve got to convince people to spend time here. Condo owners usually ski up the road at Deer Run, but if you head in the other direction, it’s only fifteen miles or so to the Timber Lake Resort. They have an indoor pool, bowling, a full gym and spa, three restaurants—they’re like a mini village. And non-guests can pay a fee to use their facilities. I guess JoAnn hasn’t been doing much bragging about our great location.”

    “Actually, I’ve never been there myself,” JoAnn confessed. “Kevin and I split up just a couple years after we bought, and then everything was in legal limbo for awhile. I’ve only managed to get up here a couple times since.”

    “Well, ladies, the night is still young. Why don’t we head over for an after dinner drink?”

    “You’re kidding,” Tamara said. “You’ll be up all night cleaning up this mess.”

    “Nah, I’ll just throw everything in the sink to soak and take care of it tomorrow.”

    “Sounds like fun,” JoAnn said, “We’re here to have a good time. Why not?”

    “Sure.” Tamara acquiesced, as her plans to curl up in front of the fire with the latest Inspector Gamache mystery faded. But there was no doubt that JoAnn could use some cheering up. Who was she to put a damper on the evening?

    A short time later, the trio emerged from Avery’s red Jeep and entered the immense stone lodge. After stopping at the desk for a resort map and a handful of brochures for JoAnn, Avery led them across the lobby toward the entrance to the restaurant, which was flanked by two carved wooden bears, standing in a perpetual bow and smirking a welcome under a yellow neon sign that read “The Lair of the Bear.” The loud twang of electric guitar engulfed them as they entered, like the defensive line of a football team, forceful and insistent. They found a table near the fireplace and turned toward the singer, a short pot-bellied man in a tent-sized grey sweatshirt, who stood alone on a slightly raised platform holding the microphone in both hands like a freshly formed snowball.

    “Karaoke night!” Avery called across the table.

    A waitress in a University of Maine t-shirt that stopped three inches shy of her low-slung jeans took their order. Tamara shivered at the sight of so much exposed skin in January.  The girl tossed back her sleek brown hair as she turned and headed for the bar, and Tamara caught sight of a small heart-shaped tattoo whose tip grazed the dark crevice of the girl’s butt. Feeling old, Tamara looked away and inadvertently noticed Avery’s gaze following the waitress’s firm rear end as it disappeared around the end of the bar. Turning further in her chair, she let her own gaze wander around the room. The worn wooden floor and shuttered windows provided a casual warmth, reinforced by glinting copper oil lamps on each table. The crowd was older than Tamara expected, poised on the younger edge of middle age, but still a few years younger than she and JoAnn. The men seemed to prefer a uniform of jeans, hiking boots and denim or plaid shirts, while the women seemed fearless of the season in tight, sleeveless tops and dresses. They leaned across tables toward the men and laughed loudly or planted a hand on their partners’ thighs. Did these women have any idea how desperate they looked? This place was a few levels more racy than the classy resort bar she’d envisioned. The waitress returned with their drinks, and Tamara caught JoAnn’s eye and raised her eyebrows. With a slight shrug, JoAnn raised her glass and turned back toward the stage.

    Tamara took a sip of Kahlua. It swirled, icy and sweet on her tongue, and then evaporated in a flash of heat in her throat. The performer held his last note long and loud and then threw his head forward in an energetic bow. He was quickly replaced by a pair of women, a blond whose thighs and breasts strained against her shiny velvet pantsuit, and a more petite woman in a sequined blazer and black stretch pants. Their music started, and the duo launched into a wailing rendition of “Stand by Your Man.” At the next table, a skinny woman with heavy make-up and garishly drawn eyebrows sat herself in the lap of her companion, threw her arms around his neck and began singing into his ear, too loudly, Tamara guessed by the way the man pivoted his face away from her mouth.

    “Interesting crowd,” she yelled. “I expected more preppy types.”

    “Yeah, well, this karaoke night attracts more locals. The resort guests go for the live band in the other club. On Saturday night there’re more skiers in here, but the singing is a lot worse. By this age, most people won’t go up unless they know they can carry a tune. A lot of these folks practice during the week, too, like they’re getting ready for a paid gig.”

    The duet finished to another round of applause. Someone yelled, “Go Lisa!” and a woman in an Indian print skirt and a tight leotard took the microphone. She swayed in a slow, easy rhythm as her music welled up.

    “So, you come here pretty often? Do you sing?” JoAnn asked.

    Avery looked sheepishly into his drink. “It gives me something to do on winter nights when Pam is working. And I do a number once in a while. But I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”  

    “Well, no one would expect you to sit home alone all the time.” JoAnn said. “We’d love to hear you sing, right Tam? Go on. It’ll be fun.”

    Tamara nodded, downed the last of her Kahlua, and excused herself to the restroom. 

    “If the waitress comes back, do you want another?” JoAnn asked.

    Avery seemed to be nursing his drink slowly, so Tamara nodded.

 The restroom was chilly and smoky. Tamara sat on the cold toilet seat and studied the square grey tiles. How did I get here, she wondered as the floor undulated gently below her. Avery seemed a decent enough guy, but she had the feeling that the evening was getting beyond her. The shrill singing, pounding music, and drunken pick-up scene wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she accepted JoAnn’s invitation to the mountains. She thought of the cozy living room back at the condo and wished she were curled up on the big, leather chair in front of the fire. She decided to down her new drink quickly and try to draw the evening to a graceful close. When she returned to the table, there was a fresh drink waiting, but JoAnn was alone.

    “Avery’s gone to put himself in the line-up. He should come up in about a half an hour. He’s going to sing “Summer Time.” JoAnn laughed, and her earrings shook gaily. “This is kind of fun, don’t you think?”

Tamara sipped her Kahlua and then switched to coffee. By the time Avery’s song came up, an hour had passed as she tried to stifle yawns and look mildly interested in the story Avery was telling. Something about a moose that wandered into a gift shop, or maybe it was a grocery store…

 She started when the DJ called Avery’s name and the possibility that the night would finally end brought her to full attention. When Avery took the stage, Tamara was surprised to find that his singing wasn’t half bad, if not a bit tentative, but by the time he wove his way back to the table, she was already pulling her coat from the back of her chair. 

Both of the women complimented Avery on his performance, which led to a long session of small talk about chorus tryouts and school performances that lasted for the entire thirty-minute ride home. Having never sung in a choir, Tamara was spared the task of joining in, save for the occasional monosyllabic reaction. 

Avery dropped them off with an offer of a snowmobiling outing the next day, and Tamara was relieved when JoAnn said that they really needed a day to just sit around and relax. 

“Thanks,” she said to JoAnn as they mounted the stairs. “That is so true.”

 Wide awake and sober, Tamara slipped into her nightgown and brought the gas logs back to life. As she settled into the recliner, JoAnn came into the room, make-up removed and hair pulled into the low bun she’d slept in for as long as Tamara had known her. She curled up in one of the loveseats. 

“I would have died for a bed an hour ago, but now I’m wide awake. The cold air must have woken me up,” she said. “Avery’s nice, isn’t he? But he seems a little sad.”

    “He looked like he was enjoying himself tonight,” Tamara answered. “And so did you.”

    “What do you mean? Weren’t you?”

    “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean anything. You’re right, though, he does seem sad. It’s a shame that he and Pam don’t spend more time together. I think he’s the type of person who really needs to be around people. Like you.”

    “Hmm. I’ve never thought of myself that way.”

    “Really? Look at all of your committees and charities. Whenever I call you, it’s a couple of weeks before you can even squeeze in a lunch date.”

    “Well, someone has to do that stuff. Besides, it’s good for business. And you could be just as busy if you wanted to be.”

    “Right. That’s my point. I don’t want to be. I like people better from a distance.”

    “Well, I guess that works for you. At least you’ve saved yourself the pain of recovering from dumped wife syndrome. Do you even date at all anymore?”

    Tamara stared into the fire, reluctant to have the conversation turn to her personal life.

“Once in a while. But I gave up looking for Prince Charming a long time ago. Really, look at you and Avery. He’s married but facing a retirement where he’ll probably end up alone anyway, and Kevin took all your trust and plans and pulled the rug right out from under you. I sometimes think that marriage is just a big bait and switch. No one seems to end up with the partner they originally fell in love with. So, I’ve trained myself not to let my happiness depend on anyone. Do you think that’s pitiful?”

    “I don’t know,” JoAnn shrugged. “But still, some people manage to stay together. It can’t be impossible. Look at our parents.”

    “I wonder about that, too. But they were raised in a time with so many more rules. They didn’t think they had a choice, and they didn’t grow up worshipping the god of personal fulfillment. Besides, I don’t think men had fewer affairs back then. There was just a lot more compromising. And I refuse to compromise.” 

    “For someone who’s never been married, you sound like you’ve been there. Did I miss some great affair in your life?”

    Tamara shifted uncomfortably in her chair. There didn’t seem to be any way to keep this conversation from coming back to her.

“Well, I was going to tell you.  It all happened that summer when you were caught up in opening those stores in western Mass, and I was just getting started at the agency. By the time we saw each other that Christmas, I didn’t want to think about him anymore.  It just seemed easier to bury the whole thing. Over and done with.”

    “Or over but never done with, you mean. Part of me will never, ever, forgive Kevin. What was his name?”

    “Sam,” Tamara said, and the pool of quicksand she had so carefully skirted on the ride up appeared before her. The mere act of speaking his name made her stomach queasy, but there was no turning back now. She took a deep breath and, in a matter-of-fact tone, summarized the events up until her last, brief visit to Sam’s brownstone.

“… When I got back to my apartment it seemed so empty. All that excitement I had when I was packing for the weekend just seemed to hang in the air.”

She’d thrown her duffel on the bed on top of several outfits she’d rejected and flopped into a chair. Scene by scene, she’d replayed her arrival at Sam’s apartment as though she could pinpoint a moment where she’d fallen asleep and dreamed this nightmare. Then she’d imagined his return, touching down on the runway, pulling his suitcase through the garage, ascending the granite stoop to his door. How long would it take him to find her note? She’d had him fixed in her mind, key in the door, when she remembered that she still had the key he’d given her. She reached into her purse and pulled it out, still on its USAir keychain. She slipped it off and threw the keychain in the waste basket, vowing to boycott USAir for the rest of her life. But what about the key? It shone with a clean brassiness in her hand. She could mail it to him, but he’d know she’d gone through that much effort to show a decency he didn’t deserve. Unresolved, she’d stuck it out of sight in the space in her wallet behind her checkbook, where it stayed for weeks while he didn’t call, didn’t show up at her doorstep, and made no excuses. She thought that, perhaps, his silence was the ultimate admission of guilt, an acknowledgement that he had no right to expect forgiveness, but, of course, she knew it could just be that he didn’t care enough to even try to explain.

    Thanksgiving had come and gone, and Tamara remembered plans they’d made to put a fresh-cut Christmas tree in the corner of his living room, where the lights would show through to the street. She avoided his neighborhood. Then, on the Saturday before Christmas, as she’d made her way along one of the sidewalks that cut across the Commons, her gloved fingers threaded through the handles of several shopping bags, she spotted a small evergreen surrounded by birds. The tree’s branches were adorned with pinecones slathered in peanut butter and birdseed, ropes of cranberries and colored popcorn, and foil-wrapped cardboard shapes. A sign hanging from a piece of wire near the top read, “Mrs. Holcomb’s Class, Grade Three.” 

Tamara set her packages on the nearest bench and watched the birds, a pair of cardinals and some chickadees, as they attacked the children’s offerings. Reaching into one of her bags, she pulled out a roll of shiny, red ribbon. With the nail scissors she kept in her purse, she cut off a short length. Then she opened her wallet and retrieved the key. Looping the ribbon through the hole at the top, she knotted it tightly. The bright brass of the key and the red ribbon looked appropriately festive. Satisfied, she crossed the dead winter grass to the tree, hung the key on the highest branch she could reach, stood back, and watched it shine in the pale winter sun. It seemed at home among the dark berries, gold popcorn, and shiny ornaments. Feeling relieved, Tamara gathered her packages and headed for the subway.

    “So you never heard from him again.”

    “Right.”

    “What if he had a good excuse?”

    “I might have talked myself into believing him. There is no good excuse.”

    “Maybe he just wasn’t ready to commit.”

    “Either way, he was lying to two women who trusted him.”

    “You’re right, I guess.” JoAnn stretched her stockinged legs, wiggled her toes, and then gathered them under her again. “So here we are—two single old women, facing a solitary old age.”

    “Yes, I suppose. But, all in all, I’m not unhappy. I think I made the right choice, not spending my life chasing after fairy tales. And there are worse fates.”

    She looked to her friend for agreement, and was surprised when JoAnn averted her eyes and stared into the fire. Tamara tried to read her expression…sadness… and something that took Tamara a moment to place. Pity? Was it pity? Was JoAnn now pitying her?