Jackie Rose - Slim Chance

“I’d resent that if it weren’t true,” Bruce said. I laughed silently.

“Evelyn, dear, please don’t joke,” she sniffed. “Marriage is a holy institution.” So now she was pious.

It just wasn’t worth the aggravation. “Jeez, Mom, I never said you should be in an institution, I just thought maybe you should go and see someone. I think I’ve heard more than enough about this whole therapy thing. God, I wish I’d never brought it up.” It was either tease her or lose it completely.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she sighed, exasperated. “Bruce loves you so much, Evelyn. And you love him so much.” Was that a direct order?

“So?”

“Marriage is a blessed union,” she continued. “Your whole lives are opening up before you. And it all starts with a wedding. A wedding! Oh, your grandmother will be so delighted. She’ll just flip out. Bruce, you’ll be making an old woman very, very happy.”

“C’mon, Mom, you’re not that old,” I said.

“Acch, you know what I mean, Evelyn. She really will be so happy to hear the news. Bruce, call her right away. Right now.”

Claire, my father’s mother, is pretty much the only family I have, aside from Auntie Lucy, Mom’s twin sister, who lives in England with her lame husband Roderick. After my dad died, Claire took Mom in for a few years, to help out with me and to get her back on her feet. If she hadn’t been around, I don’t know how Mom would have survived, especially since her own parents wouldn’t have anything to do with her. It’s not that I don’t understand the impulse to reject my mother; I do, but what a bunch of assholes they must have been to leave a grieving widow out in the cold just because my dad wasn’t Catholic. I know she tried to make peace with them a few times; after her mother died, when I was eight, she even brought me over to meet her dad, but he wouldn’t open the door. So Claire just kind of became her surrogate parent, united in grief and all that, I guess.

She’s the quintessential cool old lady, painting and taking classes and teaching self-defense to other rich old bags on the Upper East Side. My grandmother has also always been the arbiter between Mom and me. If it wasn’t for Claire, I probably would have killed her by now, especially after she wouldn’t let me go out West to school.

“We’ll call her right now,” I said.

“A wedding, at last! It’s going to be a real celebration,” Mom went on, her voice rising. I could hear ice cubes clinking in a glass. “Just like a fairy tale!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Bruce interjected, sensing danger. We’d already decided that we wanted something very low-key, very elegant. I could just picture the big church wedding of my mother’s dreams—our worst nightmare.

“Well, whatever you want. As long as it actually happens, I don’t care,” she lied. “That you love each other, that you’re together, that you’ve opened your hearts to love—that’s the most important thing.” This from a woman who’s refused to go on a date in almost fifteen years.

Pruscilla worked me to the bone all week, to the point where all I wanted to do when I got home was eat dinner and go to bed. Okay—so that’s what I do every night. But this week I’d really planned to go for a jog every day after work and take at least three yoga classes at the Y (In Style, May: “Why the Stars Choose Yoga To Stay Fit”).

All this to say that I’d been engaged for over a week and had hardly told anybody yet. Not that I have a ton of friends; I prefer to limit my circle to a select few. Aside from Morgan, the only people I ever really hang around with are my roommates from college. Morgan doesn’t really like any of them too much. She thinks they’re all about getting ahead and giving it. I’d long ago given up on trying to integrate her into the group. Besides, they didn’t like her much, either.

When I did finally get around to sharing the good news, not everyone was as enthusiastic as Mom and Morgan. When I told Nicole, who might more aptly be called my arch rival than my friend, all she could manage after a weak “OhmygodI’msohappyforyou” was, “Didn’t you just tell me last week that you were ready to move to L.A. with or without him?” It was true, I had said that. But it was only because I’d just found out that day that I didn’t get that internship with The Tonight Show. It was a load of crap, frankly, because I knew I could write funnier stuff than the drivel they churn out every night. I didn’t even tell Bruce about it, but I assumed he’d move out there with me if I did manage to get a job like that.

After letting me know in her own subtle way that she knew that Bruce and I have our problems, all Nicole really wanted was to be reassured that she was going to be a bridesmaid. “Of course you will!” I assured her. She’s heavier than I am. Not a lot, but enough.

Annie couldn’t get off on Sunday afternoon, so we all agreed to meet her at work. The girl has the voice of an angel but the nose of a toucan, so getting work on Broadway (or even far, far off Broadway) was proving to be a little more of a challenge than her drama teacher had let on. Now she was waitressing at Grinds, an unpopular little café in the East Village. Over coffee and cheesecake (saboteurs, all of them!) the consensus seemed to be that I am a fabulously lucky girl to have found Mr. Right in New York City before the age of thirty.

“You really look different,” breathed Annie, almost dropping my slice of Double Chocolate Oreo onto my lap. “You’re positively glowing.”

“Oh, come on,” Nicole said, rolling her big brown eyes. “It’s not like she lost her virginity—she’s just getting married.”

“Well, I do feel different. Like all the work we’ve put into our relationship has finally paid off. My whole life seems clearer now,” I said matter-of-factly. “Everything’s changed. For the first time ever, I can see the years stretching out in front of me and I’m not completely terrified, because I know that Bruce and I will be together forever.” Annie’s eyes widened at the romance of it all.

Okay, so I may have been laying it on a little thick. But it was hard not to when Nicole was so obviously jealous.

“The only thing different about you will be your ass if you keep eating cheesecake like that. And you’re talking like you just won an Oscar. ‘And I’d like to thank the Academy for helping me accept the proposal, and to Bruce, for the ring, and to…’”

“Knock it off, Nic,” Kimby snapped. “This is a big deal.”

“Yes, please. If you girls are going to get into a catfight, at least let me get my camera,” said Theo with a wave of his hand. Kimby and Theo are from the same sad little town in Iowa. They’ve been virtually inseparable since senior year of high school, when they tied for Homecoming Queen. They still live together, unable to deal with New York alone, even though Theo is making it big as a photographer and Kimby’s tours of the Museum of the Modern Art have garnered much acclaim.

“I don’t see you turning any cake down,” I pointed out.

“Maybe not,” Nicole said with a grin. “But I’m not the one who has to look better than I ever have in my entire life by next summer.”

“Meow,” whispered Theo.

“Well then you can just give me back my Thigh Master, then, since it’s just obviously collecting dust at your place,” I said. That might have been a bit mean. She’d had it for about two and half years, and very little progress had been made, although this probably wasn’t the right moment for pointing that out. I’d already decided that I was going to have to be extra nice to everyone for the next little while (Martha Stewart Weddings, Fall: “How To Be a Gracious Bride-To-Be”).