Old Boyfriends

But I couldn’t make myself sleep during the day without taking a Xanax, and I didn’t want to do that. So I threw on a green linen jumper over a white T-shirt, stuck my feet in my favorite espadrilles, and ran to Cat and M.J.

“It’s on you, Barbara Jean,” said Cat in that schoolyard bully way she sometimes gets. “Are you in or are you out?”

If they each hadn’t been holding one of my hands, I would have said “Out.” I would have. Except that when Cat and M.J. gang up on you, there’s really no way to defeat them, at least no way for me to defeat them. But it’s not because I’m a wimp. It’s because they make me brave. They grab hold of my hands, and all of a sudden Cat’s loud bravado and M.J.’s determined optimism spread through me like the enticing aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls on a Sunday morning when the girls were little and all lived at home.

“I’m…in,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret it.

“Yes!” M.J. cried. “Here, let’s have a toast.”

We lifted our coffee mugs and clinked them together. “To road trips,” Cat toasted.

“To losing weight,” I added. “And fast.”

“To friends,” M.J. said. “And maybe old boyfriends, too.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. We had plans to make, a diet and exercise regimen and a travel itinerary to arrange. Cat would have to take time off from work. We decided to drive M.J.’s Jaguar. Cat was ecstatic about that. She hates to fly, and we would need a car when we got there anyway. So we’d make it into a real road trip, and if I wanted, we could stop to see Margaret in Arizona.

I calculated that if I restricted my caloric intake to below a thousand a day I could lose eight pounds in the next three weeks. Maybe even ten.

But only a thousand calories? I’d already eaten that much for breakfast.

That night I told Jack about our plans. I had returned home midafternoon, and in a frenzied burst—of guilt, I guess—I cooked his favorite Fiesta shrimp pasta for dinner. I also prepared a pot of gumbo—his mother’s recipe, not mine—and a pork roast stuffed with garlic. Tomorrow I planned to make a pan of spinach lasagna as well as a pot of Chicken à la Bushnell. That way I could freeze more than a dozen meals for him to eat while I was gone. All he would have to do was supplement them with salads and a hot roll or two.

“Why are you driving there?” he asked. “That’s a four-or five-day trip, assuming nothing goes wrong.”

“What can go wrong? As long as we stay on I-10 heading east we can’t get lost.”

He made a sarcastic sound. “The way you three jabber, you’ll miss a turn and end up in Idaho before you notice.”

“We will not!”

He got up from the table and without responding, headed for the television in the den.

I hate when he ignores me like that. It’s like getting in the final word, without saying anything. I wanted to scream, but of course, I didn’t.

After I loaded the dishwasher, I followed him into the den. He was reading the latest issue of U.S. News & World Report with the television on.

“I’ll leave the freezer stocked so you won’t have to worry about meals.”

“That’s all right,” he said, without looking up. “I can always order out. Just leave the phone number of that place you use.”

“The place I use?” I stared stupidly at him. “What place?”

“I don’t know the name. Meals on Wheels. Something like that.”

My heart did this great big, guilty flip-flop in my chest. He knew I sometimes used Gourmet Wheels? I was ready to abandon the trip right there. The one value I still had to Jack was my cooking ability. But if he knew about Gourmet Wheels and they were good enough for him, what did he really need me for?

He tossed the magazine on a side table and glanced at me. “So, when do you leave?”

“Um…next Friday,” I mumbled. “I’ll call you every night.”

“Okay.” He reached for the remote control and flipped through the channels. “You’d better tell the girls. Oh, look. They’re rerunning that Jackie Gleason biography, the one with the guy from Raymond.”

I went into the bedroom, closed the door and burst into tears. Then I called Cat and M.J.

We stayed on the telephone for two hours. You’d think we were teenagers the way we talk. Cat can make anyone laugh, she just has that way about her. She’s sarcastic and totally irreverent. She could be a stand-up comic if she wanted to, which always makes me wonder about her upbringing. I read Roseanne Barr’s biography, and Louie Anderson’s, and I know that the best comedians usually come from awful childhoods. The fact that Cat hardly ever mentions her family actually reveals a lot about her. But all she’s ever told us is that she grew up in one of those small towns strung up and down both sides of the Mississippi. For the most part they’re just clusters of little frame houses and the occasional trailer park, the kind that always attract tornadoes. My guess is that her father worked in one of the chemical plants.

As for me, I, too, sprang from that part of the state, only my grandfather owned six hundred acres of land there, an old sugar plantation that had been in the family since the early nineteenth century. He sold it right after World War II to one of those same chemical companies, and he made a lot more money from the sale than he ever did raising sugar.

Thanks to Pepere, my family has lived well ever since. He bought a huge Greek Revival house in the richest New Orleans neighborhood he could find, the Garden District, then proceeded to join every private club and exclusive society he could. He lived like a king for ten more years until he walked in front of a streetcar. He lingered three weeks, then died.

A month later my father eloped with my mother, a woman his father hadn’t approved of, and moved her into his father’s house. He lives there still, but alone now. Memere died when I was six. Mama died eight years ago. But at seventy-seven Daddy is going strong. He’ll be overjoyed to have all of us stay with him.

Cat and M.J. were pretty pleased by the idea, too. I just hope they don’t become awestruck when they see the way I grew up. The problem is, our house is huge. Magnificent even. It’s been written up and photographed for innumerable publications, as much for its architectural value as for the antiques that fill every nook and cranny. Mother bought only the best. Her entire life was dedicated to proving that she was good enough for the La Farges. Even though Grandmother was never as unkind to her as Grandfather had been, I don’t think Mother ever felt good enough for either of them, let alone the rest of her in-laws. So she did everything she could to make herself seem good enough to belong in their family.

Mother took classes in all sorts of subjects: art, music, antiques, and she was on so many committees and foundations I don’t know how she kept up. Our house was used for every kind of society fete you could imagine. But she only picked the charities that made her look like a generous benefactress or patron. Forget political fund-raisers. She was terrified of offending someone by taking a position on anything that might be controversial. But crippled children or multiple sclerosis or art education, the museum or symphony or ballet association—those were her charities.

To be fair, she did a lot of good. She was even nominated for the Times-Picayune’s Loving Cup. But she didn’t do it out of love. She did it to look good.

I always knew I was a disappointment to Mama. I hated all that society posturing, and I didn’t want to join a sorority at LSU. But of course I did. She planned my wedding to meet her standards, then helped us pick out an appropriately grand house to live in. But she was always on me about my clothes, my friends and especially my weight. It was a relief when Jack was transferred to California and I no longer had to see her every day.

Fortunately my brother married a woman even better connected in New Orleans society than he was. They were married just before Jack and I moved, and she and Mother became inseparable. I was sick with jealousy for years. Six years, twice a month with Dr. Herzog, to be exact. Then Mama died and so did my jealousy, though I still see Dr. Herzog now and again for other reasons. Anyway, my brother and his wife live in a monstrous Palladian-style mansion on St. Charles Avenue, so Daddy’s house is practically empty. We girls would have the entire second floor to ourselves.

Cat yawned into her end of the phone. “Some of us have to work tomorrow. Y’all can talk all night if you want, but I’m turning in.”

“’Night, Cat,” I said.

“’Night, Cat,” echoed M.J.

After the click M.J. started laughing. “You should see her face. She can’t stand to miss anything, so you know she must be tired.”

“So am I,” I said. “Tired and excited and scared.”

“Me, too,” M.J. said.

“Are you going to stay there? In New Orleans, I mean?”

She was quiet. All I heard was the faint rhythm of her breathing. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But maybe. Except that I need you and Cat. What would I do without y’all? So no. I don’t think I can stay.”

All it would take was the right man to keep her there. I knew it but didn’t say so. The odd thing was, M.J. was even more scared than I was to go home. And I think maybe Cat was, too. It was a novel concept. What is it about home and the family and friends we leave behind? Compared to them we were all failures—failed marriages, failed careers. Well, Cat was doing okay in that department. But she’s the one with two divorces.

On the other hand, I told myself, marriages unravel in New Orleans, too. Youthful plans fall apart. Children disappoint you. You disappoint you. Maybe the secret to high school reunions was lying, creating another wonderful life that makes everyone else’s feel inadequate. I could do that, couldn’t I?

“Well, good night,” M.J. said. “See you at nine. And wear comfortable clothes and tennis shoes.”

“Okay,” I said. “Good night.” Comfortable clothes? Tennis shoes? I hung up the telephone and went to my closet. Big loose dresses. Too-tight pants. I closed the door and turned away, then reached for the Xanax. Tomorrow was going to be rough. I needed a really good night’s sleep to get through it.

I woke up late. Jack had already left for work. I saw his cereal bowl in the sink and his orange juice glass. I hadn’t made him breakfast on a weekday since Elizabeth left for college. She’s our youngest. Cat was gone, too, when I arrived at her house. The whole world was at work except for me and M.J., and she was doing warm-up stretches. I slunk into Cat’s sunroom feeling guilty, but M.J. didn’t fuss about the time.

An hour later I was close to tears. “No. I cannot do even one more.” Crunches, lunges, pliés, punches. I couldn’t do anything that involved any moving at all. I lay on my back on the floor and wiped the sweat from my brow. “I think I broke something, M.J. I’m not joking.”

She ignored me and like a sadistic drill sergeant, fixed me with an unsympathetic gaze. “You didn’t break anything, Bitsey. But you did use muscles you haven’t used in years.”

Somehow I rolled over and pushed up onto my knees. “And I don’t want to ever use them again.”

“Once we cool down you won’t feel so bad. Just remember your goal, to make that old boyfriend of yours sick over what he missed out on.”

Of course, that was the precise moment I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the gold-leafed, side table against the far wall. A red-faced, middle-aged woman with ugly hair and wet spots everywhere her too-tight T-shirt snugged up to the rolls in her belly and arms. I squeezed my eyes closed against the sight, and against the tears. “This is not going to work, not in three weeks. Not in three years.”

“Oh, yes, it will.” She steered me toward the powder room. “Wash your face, comb your hair, then grab your sunglasses and visor. We’re going for a walk.”

That day I drank ten glasses of water with lemon, and three glasses of juice. Orange juice, cranberry juice and white grape juice. I had a salad for lunch, grilled vegetables and salmon for dinner and an apple for my evening snack.

“No cheating,” was the last thing M.J. said as I crawled into my Volvo. “I’ll be over in the morning to clean out your pantry and your closet,” she said, looking as fresh and perky as a prep school cheerleader.

“I hate you,” I muttered, glaring at her in the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the driveway. “I hate you and I hope you gain a hundred pounds. And that your boobs sag down to your waist.” She wouldn’t be so perky then.

I was in bed when Jack got home, and in bed when Cat called. I didn’t answer the phone but she knew I was there.

“I heard what she did to you,” Cat said into the answering machine. “And you have my condolences. Call me if you need anything. I have some prescription-strength Advil and three heating pads. Good night, Bitsey. I love you.”

The next day M.J. and I walked again, though walking is a relative term. She strode, I staggered. I suppose that averages out to walking. Afterward I watched while she emptied my pantry of every gram of carbohydrates. “Nothing white stays,” she said, “except on your hips and thighs.”

“But you drink,” I protested. “Like a fish,” I added, and none too nicely. But since drinking was her only vice, I meant to milk it for all it was worth.

She sent me a cool look. “The difference is that I exercise enough to counteract the calories. You’ll be able to drink, too, once you lose the weight.”

“So since I never want to drink as much as you do, does that mean I won’t have to exercise as much?” My voice was sweet, but I was seriously annoyed.

She gave me a long, even look that made me feel like an evil stepmother. If I didn’t want to accept her help, fine. I didn’t have to make ugly little digs at her. But before I could attempt to redeem myself, she shrugged one shoulder. “You can do what you like, Bitsey. Meanwhile this stuff can all go to the food bank. Now, let’s tackle your closet.”

Cat came over after work. She stared at the mountain of clothes on my bed. It’s a big bed, a California king, and the clothes M.J. said I could no longer keep smothered it. Cat picked up an ivory silk shell.

“She says I can’t wear it,” I explained. “Even if I lose weight.”

“When you lose weight,” M.J. corrected me. “The problem is, the blouse isn’t your shade of white.”

“That’s because it’s not white. It’s ivory.”

“And it’s too yellow for your complexion. Just like your hair,” M.J. said.

I stared at her. First my pantry, then my closet. Now my hair?

Cat took a seat across the room, grinning like a redneck in a ringside seat at a Dixie wrestling match. Round one might have gone to M.J. But I wasn’t down yet. “I’ve always been a blonde and I’m not changing now,” I said, feeling more than a little rebellious.

“I’ve made an appointment for you with my hairdresser. Tomorrow at eleven,” M.J. went on as if nothing I said mattered. “By the way, have you weighed in today?”

I wanted to strangle her. She was as bad as Jack, always honing in on my weakest spot and winning the argument, of course.

To put it mildly, I had a terrible week. My whole body hurt, my pantry and closet were embarrassingly naked, and I decided I hated cottage cheese.

My daughters were no solace. Margaret never returned my calls, Elizabeth couldn’t talk because she had a big test and a big paper and a social calendar that left no room for her poor old mother. Jennifer talked, but I made the mistake of telling her I was on a diet, and after that all she could do was lecture me with her theories of what worked for her. Seeing as how she’s never been more than one hundred and ten pounds, her theories didn’t exactly carry much weight with me. No pun intended.

The only good thing that happened started off as a bad thing. M.J.’s hairdresser, Darius, cut all my hair off. And I do mean all. He had to get rid of the old perm, he said, and as much of the old color as possible. He left me a measly inch and a half. Then he dyed it an ashy blonde. I cried all the way to Nordstrom where, to make me feel better, M.J. bought me a pale aqua sweater and a pair of silver clip-on earrings shaped like shells.

Only after she left my house did I venture into the bathroom and stare at my strange reflection. Jack was going to have a fit.

Or maybe not.

What if he didn’t care? Or worse, what if he didn’t even notice?

I fiddled with the hair. Smart and sassy was what Darius had said. Hair with attitude.

Actually, I looked like Meg Ryan’s mother. Well, maybe her fat older sister. One thing I did notice was that the short hair made my eyes look bigger. And the aqua sweater gave them a sparkle. I decided to reapply my mascara and eyeliner.

When Jack got home I had dinner ready “You cut your hair,” he said as we sat down to eat.

I ruffled my hand through the short, thick tufts. “Yes, though the hairdresser went a little overboard. Edward Scissorhands. But I like the color.”

He grunted. He probably didn’t know who or what Edward Scissorhands was. He’s not a movie person, even after fifteen years in California. He glanced at me again. “I forgot how much you look like Margaret. Or the other way around.”

That was the best part of the day. Of the week. He thought I looked like Margaret, who is probably the prettiest of our girls. That’s when I decided I loved my new hairstyle, the cut, the color, and most of all, the attitude.

We planned to leave on Friday. I wasn’t going to pack much. Instead I would buy some new outfits during the trip. I’d lost an additional six pounds this week. Six pounds in a week! The first few days I’d been so sore I could hardly move. But there’s nothing like success to make pain insignificant. By Friday I meant to lose two more pounds, and along the trip I hoped to lose another three or four. At least I would have met my twenty-pound goal. And I’d still have another week in New Orleans before the actual reunion. Maybe five more pounds?

In between exercise sessions, during all the free time I had left over from my five-minute meals, I’d made arrangements for the housekeeper and gardener. Their checks were already written for Jack to dispense. The refrigerator was stocked with everything he liked, and all he had to do was feed the cat, feed himself and put his dirty clothes in the bathroom hamper.

As I watched him drive off to work that Friday morning, it occurred to me how easy his home life was. No decisions, no responsibilities. He provided the paycheck, and in return he lived here and expected that his every need would be taken care of. I suppose it’s the fulfillment of the contract we made when we said “I do.”

I have a degree in early childhood education, and I taught two years before Jennifer was born. But for the past twenty-five years I’ve been a stay-at-home mom with no complaints from him. Or from me. Jack is a wonderful provider and I also have income from my trust fund, which I use mainly to build up the girls’ trust funds.

But he’s unhappy. I’m sure of it. And I must be, too, if I’m driving two thousand miles and torturing myself to lose weight just so I can see Eddie Dusson smile when he sees me.

I hugged my arms around myself as Jack’s Lexus turned the corner and disappeared. He’d given me a quick kiss—a peck, really—and told me to have a good time. Then he’d gone to work.

I gnawed on my left thumbnail. Maybe I should worry more about impressing Jack than impressing Eddie.

Maybe I shouldn’t be going on this harebrained trip at all.

Then M.J. and her big champagne-colored cat of a car came purring down the street with Fats Domino blaring “Walking to New Orleans,” and my decision was made. I was eighteen again, going on a road trip with my two best girlfriends, and we were going to have a blast.

I fitted my suitcases next to theirs in the trunk, loaded three plastic containers of cut fruit into the ice chest alongside all the bottled water and slid a six-pack of toilet tissue under the seat. I had baby wipes, too, for the nasty truck-stop bathrooms we were sure to encounter, especially if we drank all that water.

“I brought lots of nail polish,” M.J. said. “We can do pedicures and manicures and we’ll stop in Dallas to get new outfits.”

“Don’t you mean Houston? I don’t think Dallas is along I-10,” I said.

“The fact is,” Cat said, “We can do whatever the hell we want.” She gave me a devilish grin, then handed me a pair of sunglasses, cat-eyed glasses with navy-blue lenses and a V of diamonds at each corner. “I’ll be Patrick Swayze, you be Wesley Snipes, and M.J. can be John Leguizamo. Like in Wong Foo,” she added when I gave her a confused look. “We’re going glamorous and we’re going to leave people staring after us as we go by.”

What we got was a speeding ticket before we were barely out of the Bakersfield city limits.

Of course, we didn’t actually get the ticket, because M.J. and her fabulous chest were at the wheel. But it wasn’t a testosterone-driven C.H.I.P who went gaga at the sight of my gorgeous pal. It was an estrogen-deprived female motorcycle cop, pretty but butch, and not much older than my daughters. She gave us a tolerant lecture, warned us to slow down and left before we did.

“Well,” M.J. said. “That was a first. I charmed a lesbian cop.”

“I told you. This is Wong Foo—the Lesbian Version,” Cat said.

“Except that none of us are homosexual. Are we?” I added.

“Oh, no,” Cat said. “I like men. They’re usually lousy men, but nevertheless, they’re men.”

“But if I did like women,” M.J. said as she pulled back onto the interstate, “I would have liked her. She had the prettiest complexion and a cupid’s bow mouth. Did you notice?”

“Especially when she said ‘I’ll let it go this time,’” Cat added from the front passenger seat. “You know, I wonder why we get turned on by the people we do. I mean, not just straight or gay, but why one guy and not another? Why do I always pick charming jerks? Why does M.J. like sugar daddies, and Bitsey like…” She swiveled around to look at me. “Come to think of it, I don’t know what your type is, Bits. I mean, Jack is such a regular hardworking kind of guy.”

“Whom you do not like,” I reminded her.

“Only when he takes you for granted. So Bits, what is your type?”

I put on my cat-eyed glasses. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t have a type.”

“What about that old boyfriend you mentioned? He was your type in high school. Was he like Jack?”

No. Eddie was nothing like Jack. In many ways he was the exact opposite. He’d been the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, the public school hood who had fascinated the good little Catholic schoolgirl I’d once been.

“Eddie was wild,” I said, mainly to placate Cat. “And I was a good girl.”

She laughed. “You still are.”

There was nothing wrong with being good, with doing the responsible thing. Even so, her words hurt. “I’m sorry I’m so boring.” I looked out the window, at the fields of citrus trees in rigid green rows.

“I didn’t say you were boring.” She turned around to look at me. “Bits, that’s not what I said or what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Obviously it does.” She reached back and tugged on my skirt. “Is that what this Eddie said when y’all broke up? That you were too boring for a hotshot like him?”

That fast my anger bled away. How could I be angry with Cat? She was my friend, and I knew she loved me. In some ways she even envied me. Stylish, successful, career-woman Cat envied plump mother and housefrau Bitsey. I looked at her and smiled. “He didn’t say those exact words, but I knew that’s what he meant. I think maybe by then the novelty of dating a rich society girl had worn off.”

M.J. glanced back at me. “I knew you went to private schools. But you were a rich society girl?”

Shoot. I hadn’t meant to say that. On the other hand, they’d figure it out the minute they saw Daddy’s three-story cottage. So I told them my story, all except for the part about Mother committing suicide because no matter how many accolades she received for her work, it was never enough.