Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

Right! I said, and reached into my bag. Poverty and Landlessness .

Thanks, Jeanette said. I’ll give this to Dotty.

She’s a fine girl. You deserve maximum credit.

Thank you, Jeanette said, looking inside the book and smiling.

I could use some pointers right about now.

Andi?

Yes, I said, and before I knew it, I was sniffling into my MOM! handkerchief. I’d intended to grovel with more dignity.

Jeanette sighed.

You’d better come in. And take this, she said, handing me back the book. It’s Ahmad’s. See? she said, and pointed to the frontispiece, From the library of .

Oh, I said, wiping my nose on my Barnard T-shirt. No kidding.

•

Jeanette pulled out the Chex Party Mix and made us strawberry daiquiris. Never too early for drinks, she said, as long as we call it brunch.

I told her about Mirabella, Connecticut, the choice it seemed I’d made.

Ahmad’s in a tough spot, she said. He doesn’t want to lose you, or Andi.

Why would he lose Andi? I said. He’ll only lose her if he moves to Connecticut!

It’s not that simple, she said, and pulled a Marlboro out from under the coffee table, lit it with a gold lighter that read, Saleswoman of the Year 1996 . She kept a pack scotch-taped there, available for “emotional emergencies.” Listen, she said, after offering me one (I said no), maybe you won’t move to Connecticut, maybe it was wrong of him to use Andi to get to you, but she’s part of his life. Whatever you decide, you’ll have to come to an arrangement.

She sucked on her cigarette, closing her eyes in bliss.

He can offer her so much more than I can, I said. What if she refuses to live with me?

Jeanette smiled: she knew I was thinking of Dotty. When Jeanette’s ex got custody, Dotty kept returning to Jeanette, sometimes in the middle of the night, carrying toys and, ever sensible, a store of apples in her knapsack.

Andi loves you. You’re her mother.

It’s not that simple, I said.

Yes, it is.

It is?

Yup.

I took that in.

I meant what I said about Dotty, by the way. You should be proud.

Dotty is a worrisome child, Jeanette said. She wants the condo association to organize a gold cooperative for Y2K. Can you believe it? We should convert our savings into gold and buy a safe together. These are people who can’t decide what color to paint the foyer!

Dotty’s got her head on straight. She’ll be fine.

She is good, isn’t she? Jeanette asked, smiling slightly, as if not to tempt fate.

Speaking of apartments, Jen: two bedrooms in Manhattan. With a study — what are we talking? We’d need a real kitchen, of course. And two bathrooms. Eventually Andi’s going to need her own bathroom.

Jeanette just looked at me.

You don’t want to know.

I do, I said. At least I think I do.

She named some numbers.

I’m not talking Fifth Avenue, Jen! I’m talking my neighborhood, so Andi doesn’t have to change schools.

Jen shook her head.

That is my neighborhood?

That’s Harlem, honey. Up and coming, or so they say.

Maybe I will have one of those cigarettes, I said, trying to laugh. It had been a long time since I’d looked for an apartment. After I left my husband at thirty-five, I moved in with my father; when he died, I went to India. I came home pregnant, and Ahmad took me in. It had been since I was a grad student! Twenty years!

I don’t handle the kind of properties you’d be looking for, Jeanette added. No margin in it. I could possibly introduce you to someone, if it comes to that.

I nodded halfheartedly as Jeanette lit our cigarettes two at once, Leslie Howard style.

So, she said, as if getting to the point, love interest?

Jeanette despaired of seeing me properly coupled: singleness such as I’d enjoyed much of my life was not, she assured me, a state favored by nature.

No, I’d invariably say, blue food is not favored by nature, but the she-lion hunts alone!

Jeanette bristled at that: she often served blue food.

Between cigarette-induced coughs, I confessed to confusion about Benny.

(He sounds nice, she said. He’s taken, I said. What’s taken can be untaken. Jeanette! All’s fair! I didn’t want to explain how I couldn’t compete with someone like Marie, how one man couldn’t be interested in both her and me. He’s lying to me, I said. He deserves a chance to explain. Is he cute? and so on.)

Okay, the rabbi’s out, she eventually agreed. Anyone else?

I shook my head.

Shira! You gotta get out there!

I’ve suffered from a lack of female guidance, I admitted.

You want female guidance? I’ll give you female guidance!

She stubbed out her cigarette and inspected me.

Stand, she said. I complied. She looked pointedly at my midsection and said, You’re spending too much time at Cuppa Joe’s. Only a true friend would tell you.

I looked down, pressed my hands against my belly, acknowledged there was more give and take there than there used to be.

More? she asked. I nodded meekly. What kind of bra are you wearing? From the looks of it, it’s one of those athletic bras that smush you down.

I looked down again.

No, I really am this small.

Jeanette tsk-tsked me. No one’s ever that small, she said, and gave me a short course on miracles. Push yourself up by your bra straps!

Isn’t that deceptive?

Poor dear, she said, shaking her head. Men are beasts. They’re wonderful, adorable beasts, and we love them, but they need to think they’re getting titties, big titties.

Even if they’re not?

Especially if they’re not.

I didn’t understand, but promised to think about it. Then we made more daiquiris.

You know my ex has prostate cancer, Jeanette said, as she dumped frozen blueberries into the blender. Did Dotty tell you?

Dotty doesn’t talk about her father. Is he okay?

I don’t think so, she said, reaching for the rum, which was still on the counter. I bear him no ill will, you know. I should. I should want to pull his fucking prostate out with my teeth.

Ghoulish, Jen! I like it!

She cracked up as she reached back inside the freezer for ice. But I say, live and let live. Ever tempted to rake your exes over the coals? she asked, tearing open a packet of daiquiri mix.

I knew what she meant: Would I defame one in a story?

You know what they say? I asked.

Tell! she said, and poured what must have been a quart of Nutrasweet into the blender.

If you put an ex in a story, give him a small you-know-what and make him impotent. He’ll never say it was him! No one gets sued!

From that elevated point, we ascended farther, discussing size in general — one of us claiming it made no difference, the other claiming it made all the difference in the world — then size in particular, as in our exes, the hypothetical endowment of movie stars, politicians. All in all, an edifying afternoon. When I left, we promised to have lunch, watch weepies over what Dotty once called “white” ice cream, and never fall out of touch again. (Yes, that’s how we referred to our falling out, as a falling out of touch .) Because we were true friends, true-blue friends! Drinking true-blue drinks and eating true-blue food!

These were hysterical concepts, so we clung to each other at the front door, shouting and laughing. I was still laughing as I descended in the elevator. True friends, blue friends, true-blue false friends! And was struck sober on Third Avenue.

Maybe there were no false friends in Romei’s work. Maybe the false friends were true friends. Was this possible?

Taxi, Miss?

I stared at the doorman.