had to be concerned about: pedophiles on the Web, designer drugs like ecstasy, school shootings, anorexia, bulimia, self-mutilation, the ozone layer, superbacteria. Ruth counted these automatically on her hand, and this reminded her she had one more task to do before the end of the day: call Miriam about letting the girls come to the reunion dinner.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine, an iffy time to telephone people who were not close friends. True, she and Miriam were bound by the closest of reasons, the girls and their father. But they treated each other with the politeness of strangers. She often ran into Miriam at dropoff and pick-up points for the girls, at school athletic events, and once she’d seen her in the emergency room, where Ruth had taken Dory when she broke her ankle. She and Miriam made small talk about recent illnesses, bad weather, and traffic jams. If it weren’t for the circumstances, they might have enjoyed each other’s company. Miriam was clever, funny, and opinionated, and Ruth liked these qualities. But it bothered Ruth when Miriam made passing remarks about intimacies she had shared with Art when they were married: the funny time they had on a trip to Italy, a mole on his back that had to be checked for melanoma, his love of massage. For Art’s birthday the year before, Miriam had given him a certificate for two sessions with her favorite massage therapist, a gift Ruth thought inappropriately personal. “Do you still get that mole checked every year?” Miriam asked Art on another occasion, and Ruth pretended not to hear, all the while imagining what they had been like together when they were younger and in love, and she still cared deeply enough to notice the slightest change in the size of a mole. She pictured them lazing about in a Tuscan villa with a bedroom window that overlooked rolling hills of orchards, giggling and naming moles on each other’s naked backs as if they were constellations. She could see it: the two of them massaging olive oil into their thighs with long-reaching strokes. Art once tried that on her, and Ruth figured he must have learned the maneuver from someone. Whenever he tried to massage her thighs, though, it made her tense. With massage, she just couldn’t relax. She felt she was being tickled, pushed out of control, then felt claustrophobic, panicky enough to want to leap up and run.
She never told Art about the panic; she said only that with her, massage was a waste of time and money. And although she was curious about Art’s sex life with Miriam and other women, she never asked what he had done in bed with his former lovers. And he did not ask about hers. It shocked her that Wendy badgered Joe to give her explicit details about his past escapades in beds and on beaches, as well as tell her his precise feelings when he first slept with her. “And he tells you whatever you ask?” Ruth said.
“He states his name, birthdate, and Social Security number. And then I beat him up until he tells me.”
“Then you’re happy?”
“I’m pissed!”
“So why do you ask?”
“It’s like part of me thinks everything about him is mine, his feelings, his fantasies. I know that’s not right, but emotionally that’s how I feel. His past is my past, it belongs to me. Shit, if I could find his childhood toy box I’d want to look inside that and say, ‘Mine.’ I’d want to see what girlie magazines he hid under the mattress and pulled out to masturbate to.”
Ruth laughed out loud when Wendy said that, but inside she was uncomfortable. Did most women ask men those kinds of questions? Had Miriam asked Art things like these? Did more of Art’s past belong to Miriam than it did to her?
Her mother’s voice startled her. “So how Fu-Fu do?”
Not again. Ruth took a deep breath. “Fu-Fu’s fine,” she said this time.
“Really?” LuLing said. “That cat old. You lucky she not dead yet.”
Ruth was so surprised she snorted in laughter. This was
She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine, an iffy time to telephone people who were not close friends. True, she and Miriam were bound by the closest of reasons, the girls and their father. But they treated each other with the politeness of strangers. She often ran into Miriam at dropoff and pick-up points for the girls, at school athletic events, and once she’d seen her in the emergency room, where Ruth had taken Dory when she broke her ankle. She and Miriam made small talk about recent illnesses, bad weather, and traffic jams. If it weren’t for the circumstances, they might have enjoyed each other’s company. Miriam was clever, funny, and opinionated, and Ruth liked these qualities. But it bothered Ruth when Miriam made passing remarks about intimacies she had shared with Art when they were married: the funny time they had on a trip to Italy, a mole on his back that had to be checked for melanoma, his love of massage. For Art’s birthday the year before, Miriam had given him a certificate for two sessions with her favorite massage therapist, a gift Ruth thought inappropriately personal. “Do you still get that mole checked every year?” Miriam asked Art on another occasion, and Ruth pretended not to hear, all the while imagining what they had been like together when they were younger and in love, and she still cared deeply enough to notice the slightest change in the size of a mole. She pictured them lazing about in a Tuscan villa with a bedroom window that overlooked rolling hills of orchards, giggling and naming moles on each other’s naked backs as if they were constellations. She could see it: the two of them massaging olive oil into their thighs with long-reaching strokes. Art once tried that on her, and Ruth figured he must have learned the maneuver from someone. Whenever he tried to massage her thighs, though, it made her tense. With massage, she just couldn’t relax. She felt she was being tickled, pushed out of control, then felt claustrophobic, panicky enough to want to leap up and run.
She never told Art about the panic; she said only that with her, massage was a waste of time and money. And although she was curious about Art’s sex life with Miriam and other women, she never asked what he had done in bed with his former lovers. And he did not ask about hers. It shocked her that Wendy badgered Joe to give her explicit details about his past escapades in beds and on beaches, as well as tell her his precise feelings when he first slept with her. “And he tells you whatever you ask?” Ruth said.
“He states his name, birthdate, and Social Security number. And then I beat him up until he tells me.”
“Then you’re happy?”
“I’m pissed!”
“So why do you ask?”
“It’s like part of me thinks everything about him is mine, his feelings, his fantasies. I know that’s not right, but emotionally that’s how I feel. His past is my past, it belongs to me. Shit, if I could find his childhood toy box I’d want to look inside that and say, ‘Mine.’ I’d want to see what girlie magazines he hid under the mattress and pulled out to masturbate to.”
Ruth laughed out loud when Wendy said that, but inside she was uncomfortable. Did most women ask men those kinds of questions? Had Miriam asked Art things like these? Did more of Art’s past belong to Miriam than it did to her?
Her mother’s voice startled her. “So how Fu-Fu do?”
Not again. Ruth took a deep breath. “Fu-Fu’s fine,” she said this time.
“Really?” LuLing said. “That cat old. You lucky she not dead yet.”
Ruth was so surprised she snorted in laughter. This was
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