Amie Barrodale - You Are Having a Good Time

“Oh God. This is appalling.”

“What? I’ve offended you.”

“The fucking pianist-errant.”

“The penis what?”

“Amol. He was accepted to Harvard Law, but he heard another student playing jazz music and he dropped out and moved to Morocco. Now he has a piano strapped to a pickup, and the last time I heard, it had rolled off and smashed up a Camaro.”

“You mean the Wonkey Donkey.” He laughed. “Well, that one’s a bit complicated, actually.”

“She’s seeing him?”

“They ‘hook up.’ Let me recommend an essay to you. It’s by Tom Wolfe, called ‘Hooking Up.’ It basically explains it to our generation.”

“Why are they so crazy about romance, Dr. Sheppard? I mean, you and I, we understood, it’s not about expression or freedom but finding someone who cultivates your dignity. Like Stephen for me, or Isabel for you. That’s all marriage is. What is it with these kids wanting to be artists?”

It was with the intention of reassuring her that he had begun, but when she mentioned Isabel, it caught him off guard, and he told her, “She was a beautiful woman. She is a beautiful woman. We’re separated, you know. Or I guess you don’t know that. It’s not something I talk about, outside therapy. And then all our friends are scared of me now.”

“The lone wheel?”

“The what?”

“You don’t have a place, a position in the world, so naturally they’re nervous.”

Two hours later they were still talking, and he had told Kitty everything that he knew about Debbie.

* * *

Over the next year, their shared secrets evolved into a bond. They conspired. Kitty called to ask about Debbie; he waited for those calls. Sometimes he texted if there was a problem that was pressing, and within a few minutes his phone rang.

Debbie improved. She went from a size ten to a size four. She was still too big to borrow clothes from her mother, but she began to dress like a woman. She wore dresses, and when she did wear an oxford shirt, it was bright white and starched, and she wore it with tight jeans and riding boots.

But Debbie didn’t seem to be aware that her shoes were unpolished. It was a pity, because anyone could see at a glance that all of her boots were exceptionally fine — some designer and some handmade. He didn’t know how to bring it up. During meditation one morning, he caught himself envisioning a trial. He was on the witness stand, defending himself. “And why,” a female lawyer asked, “did you choose that expression?”

* * *

“What are you over there thinking about?” Debbie asked.

“Oh, I was thinking about an apartment. I made an offer on an apartment. The seller accepted it. I’m supposed to hear later today if I can buy.”

“A loan.”

“No, it isn’t a loan.” He stopped himself. He hadn’t told Debbie that he and his wife were separated, and he didn’t know how to now. It wasn’t a secret he had meant to keep, but now he had known her for more than a year, and it seemed funny to say all at once that he was in the midst of a property settlement and divorce. He said, “What were you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing.”

He waited. She said, “When you make that face, I have to tell you what I’m thinking.” And then she was quiet again. “Do you have bad credit or something?”

He let that go. He said, “Have you ever heard of shoe polish?”

“I don’t go in for patent leather.”

Dr. Sheppard looked at his shoes. “It’s a parade gloss. But you really can’t treat your shoes like that; it’s bad for the leather. Look.” He got down to show her. He lifted her shoe and turned it. “See this cracking you’re getting? You literally slap these shoes against the ground into water, salt, dirt, grease, and grime thousands of times a day. It’s not like your skin — the leather of your shoes only receives the nourishment you give it.”

She let him handle her legs and boots.

“Did you even condition these after you bought them? Surely your mother did.”

He went around to his desk and opened the top drawer. He dug around. “Shit,” he said.

“Dr. Sheppard.”

“Hold on — stay here, I’ll be right back.”

He went up front and came back a few minutes later with two rags and a jar of Vaseline. He closed the door.

“Don’t start with me,” he said, and he got down on his knees and worked Vaseline into her right and then her left boot. She was quiet while he worked.

When he was done, she said, “Thank you.”

“Oh.” He waved a hand dismissively, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

* * *

Dr. Sheppard was talking to Kitty while lying on the couch of his office. He said, “Kitty, I took them off her feet before polishing them.”

“Well, for chrissake, yes. I should hope so. I mean, I presumed. But nevertheless. Wait, you took them off? You mean she took them off.”

“Yes, naturally. She did. Anyway, I brought up marriage with her.”

“Did she attack you?”

“No, actually. She cried. She asked me how she could meet men.”

“Good. What’d you tell her?”

“I told her, you know.” Dr. Sheppard didn’t want to lie again, but the truth was, he wasn’t sure what Kitty wanted to hear. “I told her that she had to be open to it.”

“Open … She needs to get out of her apartment. She needs to lose a few.”

“She’s a size four!”

“I know, I know, with Trish, the Paltrow nutritionist. Do you believe Gwyneth had a fat ass? That’s the kind of thing a savvy woman can conceal. But I told her you can’t be on twelve hundred calories. It’s just not effective. I want a daughter who can wear belts.”

“I don’t know, Kitty. There’s a limit. Apparently Trish is over there measuring out servings of butter. I don’t eat butter, myself. My trainer doesn’t encourage it, but I mean, I think apart from the butter, she’s doing all she can.”

“Don’t knock butter. Butter isn’t a problem food. The problem foods are fruits and veggies. If you start in on one of those party platters, there’s no stopping. Watch next time you’re at one of your little … functions. The fatties gather around the celery. I don’t touch it.”

“What, may I ask, do you eat?”

“Whataburgers. I have one a day.”

“Kitty Summer eats Whataburgers?”

“It works. I order them dry. If I’m very hungry, I’ll get a packet of mayonnaise.”

“Like with your husband in Stockholm.”

“And then on my birthday I eat an entire white cake.”

* * *

“Dr. Sheppard? It’s me. Can you talk? It’s late here.”

He looked at his watch. It was after nine, so it would be 3 a.m. in France. He was still at the office, but for all Debbie knew, he was at home. For all she knew, his wife could have been right beside him.

“Who is this?” Dr. Sheppard said.

“It’s Debbie. Like you don’t know,” Debbie said. “You’re the worst. But hold on. I’ve gotta keep my voice down. My mother’s drunk. Hold on.”

He heard Debbie shuffling around. She said, “I’m back.”

“How is France?”

“France is cool. I mean, it’s okay. You know how it is, you get to the hotel and after about an hour there’s nothing to do but drink. It’s hard to actually enjoy it. Listen, is it okay that I’m calling you? I miss you.”

“Is there an emergency…”

“It’s weird, I think I need a session. Can you do a telephone session? What time is it there? Are you in the office still? It’s late here. Are you already at home? Are you in bed or something?”

“What was it you wanted to discuss?”

“I thought about you when I was taking my shoes off at security.”

Dr. Sheppard settled down into his chair.