after the gory details. “That’s nice,” I say. “I’m all right.”
“You had that big party.”
“Yeah. It didn’t go so well.”
“Really?” I was afraid he might have read about it, but evidently he hasn’t. Or he’s being polite.
“There was a fire-eater. A centerpiece went up in flames. Not good.”
“Oh, man,” he says. “And it was your thing, and they think you’re responsible.”
I feel tears well up in my eyes. His empathetic summation casts me rather nicely as victim, and I wallow for a moment in the feeling of having been egregiously wronged.
“That New York grind, man,” he says. “It can wear you down.”
So right! I think fiercely. He is so right !
“I think you need a vacation.”
“What do you pro”—I start to say “propose,” but my brain catches up to my mouth halfway through—“suggest?” It’s a coquettish question, one I might ordinarily have considered beneath me, but nothing is beneath me now.
He sighs into the phone and doesn’t answer right away. “Maybe you could, ahh—take a little trip up here,” he says finally.
My heart pit-pats. Did I hear that right? Did he just invite me up there? He did, didn’t he? “Do you think that would be—smart?” I ask.
He laughs. “Nobody ever died trying something new.”
For a moment my analytical brain switches into gear. What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course people have died trying new things; they do it every day. Think of all those novices on Everest! Or driving cars, for that matter! But this is not the time or place for my analytical brain. It is not the time for thinking at all.
I flash through my options. I could go back to school or, godforbid, stay in Nutley and try to find a job in New Jersey. I could start temping again, I suppose, though what seemed insouciant at twenty-three isn’t quite as attractive at thirty-three. What else can I do?
As I see it, there’s only one thing. Escape. Isn’t this what you call serendipity, when you meet the man of your dreams just as your life is falling apart? I have never done one truly impulsive thing in my life. Follow your bliss. Listen to your heart. All of those slogans that once seemed so sappy suddenly resonate. Seize the day. Reach for the stars. If I don’t grab this moment, it will pass by me like so many others.
When I look at it this way, I feel I’ve been handed an incredible opportunity, one that most people my age are too settled or focused or successful to take. It’s a risk, perhaps, but what is life if not a series of risks? It’s when you start avoiding risk that your life becomes calcified, codified, boring.
That is not what I want!
What I want is a good man who loves me, a sense of unfolding possibility, and that little cottage on the Maine coast with roses climbing artfully around the door frame. So maybe this was meant to be. Not, I mean, the thousands of dollars of damage to the museum—that was unfortunate. But the series of events that have led me to this moment.
One day, perhaps, this will be the pivotal moment in the story that Richard and I tell our grandchildren. And when we get to the part about the fire-eater, we’ll all laugh and laugh.
CHAPTER 7
By the time I actually hear the words “Mary Quince would like to see you in her office,” I am already packing books and three-ring binders from my shelves into a box.
“Sure,” I tell Mary’s secretary as casually as if she’s invited me to lunch. “I’ll be right there.”
Mary’s face is even whiter than usual. “The fire insurance was an egregious mistake. And, unfortunately, grounds for dismissal.”
“I know,” I say.
“I hope you’ll find something that you really want to do. I don’t think event planning is it, do you?”
Over the next few days, I call my landlord and talk him into letting me sublet the apartment, find a sublettor on craigslist. com, crate up my stuff, and haul it to my dad’s garage. When I finally tell him and Sharon
“You had that big party.”
“Yeah. It didn’t go so well.”
“Really?” I was afraid he might have read about it, but evidently he hasn’t. Or he’s being polite.
“There was a fire-eater. A centerpiece went up in flames. Not good.”
“Oh, man,” he says. “And it was your thing, and they think you’re responsible.”
I feel tears well up in my eyes. His empathetic summation casts me rather nicely as victim, and I wallow for a moment in the feeling of having been egregiously wronged.
“That New York grind, man,” he says. “It can wear you down.”
So right! I think fiercely. He is so right !
“I think you need a vacation.”
“What do you pro”—I start to say “propose,” but my brain catches up to my mouth halfway through—“suggest?” It’s a coquettish question, one I might ordinarily have considered beneath me, but nothing is beneath me now.
He sighs into the phone and doesn’t answer right away. “Maybe you could, ahh—take a little trip up here,” he says finally.
My heart pit-pats. Did I hear that right? Did he just invite me up there? He did, didn’t he? “Do you think that would be—smart?” I ask.
He laughs. “Nobody ever died trying something new.”
For a moment my analytical brain switches into gear. What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course people have died trying new things; they do it every day. Think of all those novices on Everest! Or driving cars, for that matter! But this is not the time or place for my analytical brain. It is not the time for thinking at all.
I flash through my options. I could go back to school or, godforbid, stay in Nutley and try to find a job in New Jersey. I could start temping again, I suppose, though what seemed insouciant at twenty-three isn’t quite as attractive at thirty-three. What else can I do?
As I see it, there’s only one thing. Escape. Isn’t this what you call serendipity, when you meet the man of your dreams just as your life is falling apart? I have never done one truly impulsive thing in my life. Follow your bliss. Listen to your heart. All of those slogans that once seemed so sappy suddenly resonate. Seize the day. Reach for the stars. If I don’t grab this moment, it will pass by me like so many others.
When I look at it this way, I feel I’ve been handed an incredible opportunity, one that most people my age are too settled or focused or successful to take. It’s a risk, perhaps, but what is life if not a series of risks? It’s when you start avoiding risk that your life becomes calcified, codified, boring.
That is not what I want!
What I want is a good man who loves me, a sense of unfolding possibility, and that little cottage on the Maine coast with roses climbing artfully around the door frame. So maybe this was meant to be. Not, I mean, the thousands of dollars of damage to the museum—that was unfortunate. But the series of events that have led me to this moment.
One day, perhaps, this will be the pivotal moment in the story that Richard and I tell our grandchildren. And when we get to the part about the fire-eater, we’ll all laugh and laugh.
CHAPTER 7
By the time I actually hear the words “Mary Quince would like to see you in her office,” I am already packing books and three-ring binders from my shelves into a box.
“Sure,” I tell Mary’s secretary as casually as if she’s invited me to lunch. “I’ll be right there.”
Mary’s face is even whiter than usual. “The fire insurance was an egregious mistake. And, unfortunately, grounds for dismissal.”
“I know,” I say.
“I hope you’ll find something that you really want to do. I don’t think event planning is it, do you?”
Over the next few days, I call my landlord and talk him into letting me sublet the apartment, find a sublettor on craigslist. com, crate up my stuff, and haul it to my dad’s garage. When I finally tell him and Sharon
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