Settling In

Spring is Mother Nature’s gift for surviving a horrible winter. Late May hasn’t had much rain. After the snow melted, there was only sun and warmth. I’m wearing a new little black dress and silver strappy sandals as I sip champagne in the second floor annex gallery of the Guggenheim in New York City. Tonight marks the opening of Jessica’s month-long exhibit. Her paintings and sculptures unfold the history of her creativity from flowers to old women to Jesus Christ as Superman, cape and all.

She stands amid critics from The New York Times and Time Magazine and Art Today. She grins coyly at one journalist, gently pushes another in the shoulder, and then blinks, reciting her answers slowly. Tall and lean in her gold halter top, brown suede skirt, and pink feathered mules, Jessica is in heaven.

The only piece missing from her outfit is her wedding ring. She and John Baker didn’t work out the first time around back in college. The second time didn’t stick either. Luckily, in hastily getting married in Vegas, they had forgotten a few key elements in the rules of marriage. Like having an official certified Elvis perform the ceremony and not a drunk guy who emits an Elvis aura. Like signing an official marriage certificate. Jessica doesn’t seem to mind being the center of attention all by herself. John Baker is gone as quickly as he arrived, and Jessica hasn’t skipped a beat. Already she’s collected five cards of men who say they’re interested, in her art of course. None of them had wedding bands on.

I’ve gotten a card myself. The museum scene is always a den of singles on the prowl. These men are well-dressed, well-spoken, and kind. They also don’t attend NYLISC, don’t work for NYLISC, and have most likely never heard of NYLISC, always a plus. One guy with a regal air asked me how I knew the artist. I told him about teaching and he told me about how he admires those of us who teach. Another in a crisp royal blue shirt who looked like Matt Farr from the Math Department said he liked my strappy sandals and I joked that I’d be lost without them. We got into a conversation about my height. One other asked if I was a writer; I said “English Professor” and he bet that I have a lot of stories to tell. All very nice men to chat with and flirt with. The one who reminds me of Matt gave me his card. I gave him mine. It may be too late for me and Matt Farr, seeing as how we passed the point of dating and have come into professional friendship; so I can maybe now delve into a hot fling with his clone. For the most part, though, I’m hanging back, out of the spotlight tonight.

Sparkled and spangled, Leah remains on the arm of her date, Bobby. He’s in a blue sport coat to match her blue sparkling, spaghetti strap gown. He graduated two weeks ago and already landed a much-vied-for position as a junior editor for Minder and Minder Publishing. Bobby isn’t here as her boyfriend. He’s here as her date. Talk about taking it slow. They threw their relationship into reverse. With Bobby starting a new job, he can’t put the effort into a serious relationship that he would like to. However, they can’t stay away from each other. So dating it is. Plus, there’s a new dynamic with not having to hide anymore. I wonder what that’s like. So they’re taking things slowly once more. They stand on the outside of Jessica’s circle, sipping champagne and admiring the smaller framed paintings. Leah’s gams have never looked better.

Elena, in a gray, black, and white silk dress, flows in from the elevator with Jack in a tux. Black and white and gorgeous. They are perfection. She sees me off to the side of the action and B-lines with Jack in tow. “How are you, sweetheart? How’s this shindig going?”

Jack grabs two glasses of champagne from a server and gives one to Elena. “Hey, kiddo. You having fun?”

I nod. “I’m taking in all the action. You’ve done a terrific job.”

Elena nods excitedly. “Once the museum people felt assured that I wasn’t going to forever change their lighting concept, they let me have my way. It’s great.”

Jack hugs her. “You know it is. Especially as a debut. Good thing we got those business cards made up. Neiman Marcus can kiss your ass and mine when this night is through.”

Elena, fed up with Margaret Henner at Neiman Marcus, has ventured out on her own, becoming a party planner. Since the accessory party at my place, she received so many compliments that she started to get “ideas.” Her ideas developed into this red, black, and white, canopied, low-lit, high-lighted affair. Jessica commissioned her to throw the best art opening in NYC, and Elena has pulled it off quite nicely.

And who else would do the catering besides Sophia? In a black gown with red stilettos, Sophia is walking around in circles, making sure all the trays are filled with mini-bagelos, escargot on melba squares, and Tuscany buffin bread. Standing to the side of the catering table, signing the occasional autograph and reviving the occasional swooning woman, is David Nellson in Calvin Klein.

Elena ushers me towards the crowd. “Let’s mingle.”

I sip my champagne and remain planted where I stand. “Already did.” I open my purse to reveal the card of the Matt Farr clone. “Now I’m here for the artwork.”

She eyes me, eyes Jack, and then says, “Honey, you can’t not pick up, huh.”

“It’s a gift,” I roll my eyes. “Now if only my pick ups weren’t complete disasters.”

“Sure. Well, you’ll keep working on that tomorrow night. Jester’s Court. Karaoke. Right?”

“From the glamorous life of art galleries to the even more glamorous karaoke bar. Of course I’ll be there,” I snicker. “I plan on not downing a gallon of alcohol this time.” She agrees it’s a good idea and leaves with Jack as I continue to take it all in. The art. The lights. The critics and candy and champagne. I circle the perimeter of the room. So many black dresses, gray hair, silver glasses, and patent-leather shoes.

In the din of the party, I hear the theme to The Muppet Show. I look around to see where it’s coming from. Why would Elena pipe in Muppet music? No one is reaching for a phone. Wait a second. I hold up my bag. It’s my cell that’s going off. What the? I’ve had it programmed to some Bahama tin-drum music. I’m pretty sure Bobby Kline found a way to change the ring tone, and most likely, Leah was involved.

I dig out the phone quickly as to not dredge up too much attention, but it’s too late. One missed call. The phone then beeps at a decibel I didn’t think possible to be heard by human ears. Bobby and Leah are so in for it.

I bump into Sophia. She eyes me. “Taste the food? How is it?”

“Perfect, as usual.”

“What’s with your phone? Who you calling?” She nudges me. “One of the guys I saw you chatting with?”

“No, actually, it was just ringing.”

“So you’re the Great Muppet Caper.”

I shake my head. “Bobby’s doing, I’m pretty sure. Let me listen to the message.”

I press the phone into my ear and plug the other one as I lean against a wall, trying to be discrete. Sophia’s playing with David’s belt and he’s tasting some chocolate dip.

Hey, there, Cinderella, remember me? Probably not. Then again, how many times have you been in a taxi that paid you, huh? Anyway, if you do remember me and if you’re still available and you’re still interested, I’m back in New York. Will be for a while. By the way, my name’s Eddie, I don’t think I ever told you that. If I did, then it’s a reminder. Right? So, call me when you can. It’d be great to hear from you.

I press 9 to save the message.

“You know, Elena’s going to plan the wedding.” Sophia flashes her ring at me, as if I had forgotten she’s engaged. I don’t answer. I’m too stunned. She asks, “Who called? It wasn’t Big Gay Thomas, was it?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Are you okay?”

“More than.”

“Well who the frig was it?”

I drop my phone into my bag and notice that I can’t seem to stop the smile that comes on strong. “Frig isn’t a word, you know.”

“I’m going to kick you if you don’t tell me.”

“It was Cash Cab guy!” I feel it in my tinglies when I say Cash Cab guy.

“Shut. Up.” Sophia grabs my phone.

“Totally was. I can’t believe it.”

David comes up behind Sophia, takes my phone from her, and hands it back to me. “Who’s Cash Cab Guy?”

Sophia reminds him of the game show and he laughs about it. I tell them again, “I can’t believe he called me.”

Sophia says, “I can. You’re hot stuff. A business card and a voicemail. Both with good potential.”

David says, “That sounds about right.”

I’m shaking. I grab a buffin, bite into it, and swallow. “I can’t believe it,” I repeat.

“Call him back now,” Sophia orders. “Invite him out here.”

I think it over. No, tonight is for friends and for Jessica. “No, I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Sophia nods. “Okay, so back to me. Is the buffin good?”

“Hee. Yes. It’s fine. Everything is perfect, like I said.”

“And as I said, you know Elena’s going to plan the wedding.” Again, with the ring.

“That sounds perfect, too.”

David asks, “Did you tell her the other news?”

I grab her arm and whirl her towards me. “Tell me you’re pregnant and I’ll pass out.”

She wiggles free. “No! I’m moving. We found a place with the hugest kitchen you have ever seen!”

I can’t help frowning. “That’s great!” My stomach drops. How could she have not told me first?

“Don’t worry,” she touches my arm, seeing the hesitation in my eyes, “I’m still close to you. About half an hour. You can’t get rid of me.” And then she whispers, “They heard it from David. I was waiting to tell you first.” My stomach relaxes.

“Oh,” I put my hand to my chest and bounce, “now that’s greater than great!”

“Of course, it won’t matter over the summer. Just when we need a moving crew, you up and leave.”

“Why do you need a moving crew? David’s rich. Hire people.”

David snorts, very un-supermodel like, “Rich is relative. Why have others do what you yourself can do?”

Sophia leans towards me, pretending to whisper, “You can take the boy out of the small town, you can’t take the small town work ethic out of the boy.”

“You mean ‘man,’ sweetie.” David puffs up his chest and lays one on Sophia’s lips.

“Yes. Man. How could I forget?” They lock lips for another minute and then Sophia gets distracted by a shortage of mint truffles.

David puts an arm over my shoulders and half-hugs me. “She’s going to miss you this summer. We all are.”

I hug him back. “Jessica won’t. I’ll be with her.”

He clucks his tongue. “Always one to nitpick at the details, aren’t you, Marie? Just accept that everyone loves you!”

I jump. “Okay. I accept it! I’ll miss you guys, too. I’ll be back in plenty of time to help plan the wedding.”

“That is if Elena lets you help. She’s got this party thing down to a science. Wouldn’t mess with her.”

I lean away from him, hand on my hip. “Are you telling me the rough and rugged David Nellson fears the innocent Elena?”

He cracks up. “I fear the whole bunch of you gorgeous, intelligent women!”

I hug his arm. “Good answer!”

A tap on my shoulder. “Hey! Where have you been hiding?” It’s Jessica, not so much taller than I am tonight because of my very high heels.

“I’ve been around.” I throw my arms around her. “Everything looks great! You’ve really made it! You’ve been annexed!”

She pushes me. “I know!” She throws her arms up. “I can finally kiss that NYLISC shit hole goodbye!”

Leah joins up with us. “Just like I did!” Leah found a new job as English Department Chair at a state school on Long Island. I always knew she would go back to English-—it’s in our blood. After the utter insanity that ensued at the end of last semester, most of the full time faculty in every department left. Some had nowhere to go, left as a statement. NYLISC had a very difficult semester, seeing as how no one wanted to work there after a semester with a record number of student protests and administrative insanity.

Jessica and Leah do their happy dance. Bobby, used to this dance, joins in, linking arms and do-see-do-ing along with them. David, not being one to shy away from a good jig, twirls himself around them in circles. I wish I brought my camera. Then again, Elena has cameras set up discreetly throughout the reception room to put together a fancy home movie of the opening. As if the news coverage weren’t enough. Paparazzi are outside waiting for a glimpse of David.

Sophia runs at us from across the room, narrowly escaping a collision with a server, and jumps in with her robot dance without skipping a beat.

I wave around. “Okay. Okay. Enough with the happy dance! No more NYLISC talk. Let’s focus on the near future instead.” I put my arms up and they refuse to stop dancing until I join in. Not wanting to disappoint, I tear off my strappy sandals and do my best early-90s running man, throwing in the cabbage patch for good measure. Old women with pearls and old men with crooked bow ties observe with confusion. Some of the younger crowd bounce and sway, not exactly joining in but totally getting it. The guy who looks like Matt Farr catches my eye and lifts his glass at me with a wink. The art critics seem to enjoy this impromptu modern dance. Finally, we calm down and go back to mingling as if the dance never happened.

Matt Farr’s clone circles around again, catching and maintaining eye contact. He smiles wide and says, “How lucky am I? Here I was thinking that I exchanged numbers with a beautiful woman. Now I come to find that you’re not only beautiful, but talented, too.”

I lean in. “The 90s were a good decade for me.”

His head throws back, mouth wide with laughter. Little lines around his eyes crinkle. He winks. “Call me. Or I’ll call you first.”

I nod. “Either way, we’ll talk.”

He walks away into the crowd. I turn to find Jessica ducking behind David to avoid a random woman seeking out “the artist.” “I don’t want to talk to any more strangers!”

Sophia drags her from behind David. “You need to talk to people. It’s your opening. Leave ignoring people for France when you don’t understand the language.”

My heart flutters at the mention of France. Ah, Paris. In a month’s time, Jessica’s expo will pack up and move into the Georges Pompidou Centre. Her exhibit will replace that of Sophie Calle. Following Sophie Calle means you’ve made it to international acclaim. Jessica Blessing has been blessed.

I jumped at the chance of staying in Paris for three months. Jessica didn’t want to be alone. I charmed myself with delusions of romance of the safe variety. I’ll become an expatriate and live the bohemian lifestyle. I’ve had enough of living the neurotic life. Academia needs a rest. I took this Spring semester off and began working at a bookstore full time. I’ve never loved retail so much. I organized book signings and got books on discount. I taught some writing seminars there, too.

NYLISC offered me the time as a sabbatical. They said I could come back when the dust settled. They needed dedicated instructors to revamp their English Department after the unfortunate demise of Charmagne Clepper, who has dropped off the planet. No arrests were made, no law suits filed. No review boards either, thankfully, considering what I did was completely unethical. Cockknocker simply disappeared and I got a letter in the mail “reassigning duties” to me, if I wanted. I told them I would get back to them once I got back from Paris. They tried to sweeten the pot, said they had a chair position open that they’d like me to fill. A chair position without having a PhD? Unheard of in all of academia. So I caved and said I’d be back in three months as Chair. In three months, I’ll change my mind.

So here I stand, amid good friends, creative friends, intelligent friends, amid strangers and sparkles and warmth. I have the phone number of an eligible man who seems intelligent and nice, and a guy waiting for a call back who is definitely intelligent and nice. Still, I’m putting that on hold for a while. In my nightstand, I have a ticket to Paris. On my nightstand, I have a framed picture of me and the girls. Ahead of me, I have engagement parties, weddings, house warmings. And possibilities, opportunities, choices. But I won’t think about that right now. Right now, I want to stand here under the pink glow, back in my silver strappy sandals, feeling ten feet tall, unstoppable, all by myself, knowing what is mine, and all that could be.