CHAPTER TWENTY-6
"What's his name?" asked a coy Mrs. Bartle as she poured Diana a cup of tea.
"Whose?" Diana inquired innocently, though inside she was marveling at her friend's relentless ability to know absolutely everything.
"The boy who put that smile on your face. It wasn't there on Friday."
"Oh, him," Diana giggled. "His name is TJ, well Travis, actually, except no one ever really calls him that . . . His friends call him TJ."
"Miss Diana, do you have a boyfriend?" Mrs. Bartle asked, assuming her best Southern drawl and absolutely glowing at the prospect that the answer might be yes.
"Well, I don't know if I'd call him my boyfriend but—"
"He's special," Mrs. Bartle finished simply—and fortunately. For how could Diana explain their relationship without referring to the sex part?
The truth was that she didn't know what was going to happen with TJ. He'd passed out after they'd done it, and Diana had spent nearly an hour watching him sleep, only to find him gone when she awoke in the morning. She wasn't bothered by this, however. She hadn't expected him to spend any time there after they had sex, so whatever time he had spent was to be viewed as a bonus. Besides, after she had quit watching TJ sleep and had turned the lights off, she couldn't help but lay awake staring at a ceiling she couldn't see and agonizing over how in the world she'd be able to act sexy in the morning. On soap operas, couples were always waking up in bed and kissing right away, seeming equally as passionate as they were in the nighttime scene a few minutes before, and leaving Diana to wonder if either of them might have morning breath or those crusty eye particles that sleep makes. Perhaps portraying these perfect-looking people—the ones with the perfect bodies, perfectly contrived "bed-head" hairdos and picture-perfect makeup that remains flawless through an entire night's sleep (even on the men)—as also having perfect, round-the-clock wonderful breath and perfectly crust-free eyes was just another way that Hollywood screwed with people like Diana's self-esteem. She had never discussed it with the rest of the non-celebrity world, but she assumed she was not the only person on earth who found it appropriate to brush her teeth in the morning before breathing on other people. These were the thoughts that had kept her awake while TJ slept. What if he should roll over in the morning and want to have sex again before she had a chance to brush and groom? What if, God forbid, he didn't try anything right away and they actually had to talk—in the sober and unforgiving light of day? Diana was definitely relieved that he hadn't stayed the night. Although, in spite of herself—she hadn't expected anything to actually come out of it; that's why they called them one-night stands—she was still a little disappointed not to find a note or a flower on the pillow next to her when she awoke. And she was embarrassed by her disappointment, knowing full well that she and TJ weren't Juliet and Romeo, Guinevere and Lancelot, or even Wilma and Fred. They were two people who'd had sex. Why should he have gotten all 17th-century poetic about that? Why was she? After all, TJ had been infinitely more gentlemanly than Barry. Barry. All roads led back to Barry. Why was that? Now that she'd had sex again, why hadn't the less-than-forty-eight-hours-old afterglow from her incredible night with TJ totally obliterated her fifteen-year-old memories of what, looking back now, was merely a mediocre night with Mrs. Bartle's great-nephew?
She couldn't stop comparing. And worse yet, her memories of the first moments of 1988 were playing tricks on her. For the face of twenty-eight-year-old Barry had been replaced by the face of Barry the entrepreneur, while the schoolgirl in the back of the pickup truck had matured into a thirty-two-year-old assistant-camp-counselor-to-be who was losing weight. Okay, so maybe Barry had grown up to be a decadently handsome middle-aged man, but he wasn't TJ. He wasn't so freakishly sexy that his looks could only be attributed to a miracle of nature. He didn't have that mysterious aura that made him seem too good for mortals. Talking to him didn't make her feel like if she could only move, she could fly. Barry had known the Suttons and had been divorced. TJ was a white knight, a living fantasy that had been in her bed. And from time to time while he was inside of her—while she was having sex with this touchable dream—she would hear Paul McCartney under her pillow singing with John, George and Ringo of a seventeen-year-old girl whose looks were way beyond compare.
"William says hello," Mrs. Bartle said suddenly, interrupting the quiet. Diana nearly choked on her tea. "He was quite surprised to see you last week," her friend continued nonchalantly, as if the incident had merely been a funny little coincidence and not some sort of frighteningly bizarre fate flub that wouldn't stop haunting her—not even when she was doing it with the sexiest man alive. It wasn't like she was in love with Barry or anything. She'd never loved Barry, not even for half a minute when she was seventeen. But he'd been in her mind since then, standing as the sole source of redemption for a lonely life of overweight celibacy. Whenever she'd think that no man could ever possibly want her, she'd remember: Barry wanted me. Whenever her mother would nag about her endless lack of male suitors, she'd remember, Barry went after me, and smile at the recollection of how upset Mrs. Christopher had been about that. But now, now that she wasn't the insecure, self-bashing, face-stuffing sack of lethargy she'd been since before she'd even met Barry, now that she'd turned her life around, lost eleven pounds, and set her sights on a fantasy she'd actually conquered, he was back?
"I was really surprised to see him, too," Diana said.
"You don't say?" Mrs. Bartle teased. Diana smiled and silently vowed not to let any information slip about what had happened between them. Her friend seemed to have already intuitively grouped her amongst Barry's long line of conquests, though as one of the special ones he actually remembered, from his studly run as a Baltimore bachelor. Something in their reunion—his apology, their shared nervousness, perhaps even a slight spark between them that only an outsider could see—had led her to draw this conclusion, and it made the mention of his name very awkward. Diana didn't even want to consider how awkward things could get once she knew the details. "May I ask you something, dear?"
Diana's heart began to accelerate. "What is it?"
"Was it your first time?" Mrs. Bartle's tone was gentle as she tilted her head sideways—very much in the empathetic fashion of a middle school guidance counselor. Honoring her personal vow not to discuss it, but refusing to lie to her best friend, Diana simply nodded—shyly and guiltily, like a little girl confessing her culpability in taping the "kick me" sign to Jimmy's back.
"It's okay, dear. I'm not going to make you sit in the corner for a 'time out.' " Mrs. Bartle paused, searching for the right words of wisdom. "Look, you're both good kids. And you were just babies back then . . . although William was a bit disturbed to find out just how much of a baby you really were!" Mrs. Bartle laughed, and then, becoming serious, she continued. "Diana, don't let one night that happened fifteen years ago prevent you from making a good friend now. He's decided to move out here, you know. And I think the three of us could have a blast together." The crazy part, aside from her ninety-three-year-old friend granting her absolution from post-sex awkwardness, was that Diana knew she was right. If she and Barry were two of Mrs. Bartle's very favorite people in the world, how could the three of them not share a special chemistry and have an amazing time together?
"So, he's decided to move out here, huh?" Diana asked. "Can we expect the first Carr's Auto Repair on the East coast to be in Baltimore?"
"You've got it." Mrs. Bartle smiled proudly. "Now that his divorce is final . . ." She paused, looking upset. "I tell you, Diana, that woman did nothing but whine, run around and spend his money for eight years. We all knew she wasn't good for him—well, not at first. At first, she had us pretty fooled. My brother, Norman, and I were just so happy that after all those crazy bachelor years, the kid was finally settling down! And she seemed like a nice enough girl. Very pretty . . .a little on the skinny side, but pretty. And everything seemed wonderful at first. But then, after about six months, I'd start getting the late night phone calls, and William would be all sorts of upset because they'd had an argument and Jennifer still wasn't home yet or because Jennifer had maxed out yet another credit card and still wouldn't get a job—" Mrs. Bartle stopped suddenly.
"What's the matter?" Diana asked.
"I hope I'm not boring you, dear." Boring her? Was she kidding? Diana was fascinated by Barry and Jennifer. It was wild to realize that this guy who had taken her virginity and sped off without a trace in the earliest hours of 1988 had actually lived a life—outside of her head—after that. Besides, her years of feasting on talk show traumas had rendered her easily intrigued by other people's problems.
"You're not boring me at all!" Diana blurted eagerly. "I mean, um, please go on." Mrs. Bartle smiled. She was on to Diana and knew she was relishing the gossip.
"Well, as you can see, they really had their share of problems from the beginning, and none of them were William's fault. Jennifer came from a wealthy family and was accustomed to being spoiled. But when William tried to spoil her, when he tried to make her happy—well, it just wasn't good enough . . . The girl had gone to college for French Literature. Now I don't know what one does with a degree in French Literature, but this girl had one and did nothing but shop on Rodeo Drive, go to the gym and consult with her stylist. She was always spending money. Never worked a day in her life . . . Anyway, William was always working to support her, leading Jennifer to endlessly complain that he was never around. So, the 'poor, lonely thing' ended up having an affair. William was just devastated when he caught her. He came out here to stay with his parents for a while . . . But then Jennifer apologized and cried and sucked her thumb, and he eventually took her back. That's just the way William is. Family is so important to him. And Jennifer was his family. He really wanted to hold on to that, no matter how much work was needed. And things really did seem better for a little while. But then when William's grandfather had his stroke, well . . ." Mrs. Bartle cleared her throat, choking back old tears. "I'm telling you, Diana, that boy flew out here every single weekend for nearly three months while Norman hung on. But did his 'loving' wife accompany him even once? No. Fine. We could live with that. But when William told us she wouldn't be attending the funeral because it conflicted with a liposuction she couldn't possibly reschedule . . .well, that was the final straw for all of us. And don't even ask me what part of her body she was having the fat sucked out of!"
"Oh, where, Mrs. Bartle? Where?" Diana asked, knowing her friend was just dying to tell.
"Her butt!" Mrs. Bartle exclaimed, laughing. "I mean, could you imagine?" Actually, Diana could. But she wasn't going to tell Mrs. Bartle that. "This girl was a size four, tops. But apparently, all the working out and screwing around in the world—pardon my language—was not going to give her the behind she wanted. And by not going to Norman's funeral, she basically chose her ass over William."
"Mrs. Bartle!" Diana was surprised. She'd never thought she'd see the day when sweet, old Mrs. Bartle would use the word "ass."
"Well, it's true, my dear," Mrs. Bartle said, smiling. "And William almost ended it with her after that. But she knew all the right buttons to push so he'd stay. He'd never lost anyone so close to him before, and he was grieving pretty badly. And Jennifer was there for him. I'll give her that. Although I can't be sure of what her motives were, I'll give her the fact that she was there for him. He liked to tell me in letters how sweet she was being. I'll never forget the one where he wrote, 'I've made a new best friend—one who even washes my clothes and makes sure I've had enough to eat even when I say I'm not hungry . . .' It broke my heart. Because I knew she'd go back to her old ways as soon as William was back to his old self again. And it's hard to watch someone you love get set up to take that kind of a fall . . . But I didn't want to bring him down. And, besides, I had no proof. So, I just kept my mouth shut and prayed for the best. And when the best didn't happen—as we all knew it wouldn't—William stood up to her, for the first time in his life.
"See, Jennifer was never very good at hiding her affairs. He'd already caught her once. And he'd suspected her many times after that. It always made him feel guilty—being suspicious of his own wife. But how could he not be? Once you've lost your trust in someone, they have to earn it back, and I don't know that Jennifer ever did. But I never wanted to reinforce his fears by telling him he had a right to be doubtful of her. As far as proof went, she'd been faithful since her 'one mistake,' as she so eloquently phrased it. But after her saint streak as the mourner's wife ended . . ." Mrs. Bartle sighed, rolling her eyes. "I'll give her credit. The act lasted longer than any of us thought it would. But when she dropped it, she dropped it, and she picked her old habits right up again. William threw himself into his work for a while and didn't bother much with the situation at home. But then his suspicions began to gnaw at him, though not for the same reasons as before. It seemed he had finally realized that he deserved better, that he could do better than a spoiled brat wife who ran around. But it wasn't until he caught her in the act with the furniture deliveryman on the brand–new couch he'd let her order for their eighth wedding anniversary that he actually said it was over. Poor little Jennifer was devastated, as if the news had come out of nowhere. The family, however, we all wanted to throw a Hallelujah Party, but figured that would be insensitive. Anyway, they were separated for ten months while her daddy's lawyers haggled over the paperwork. And here he is. Well, actually, he's back in Los Angeles now on business. Poor thing. Traveling back and forth all the time like that. But he should be able to settle down out here for good in a few weeks."
A few weeks. So that gave Diana approximately twenty-one days to get over the weirdness of Barry rising from the ashes as the precious great-nephew Mrs. Bartle had known since his diaper days. After hearing about all he'd been through, Diana thought they might even have a shot at being friends. From the picture his great-aunt had just painted, Barry seemed like one of the kindest and most moral men in America. Too bad Diana seemed to have a thing for bad boys who didn't stick around.
"So, Diana, tell me about TJ," Mrs. Bartle said, changing the subject with a teasing smile.TJ? How could she convey the fantastical magic that was TJ without including the impossibly romantic bedroom scene they'd starred in?
"Well, I met him at Scott's Tavern over on Bridge Street."
"Uh-huh . . ." Mrs. Bartle cooed, like she was about to break into her own rendition of Diana and TJ sitting in a tree! She knew there was a whole lot more to this story, and she was waiting to hear it—all of it.
"Okay, actually, I spent two weeks pining over him before he even noticed me."
"Uh-huh . . ." K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
"Well, we finally got to talking on Saturday night, and . . .well . . .one thing led to another and—"
"How was he?" Mrs. Bartle interrupted.
"Incredible!" Diana gushed. And for some reason, she wasn't embarrassed. In fact, Diana was quite exuberant about finally having a life to talk about and actually having someone she wanted to talk about it with. While she did spare Mrs. Bartle the blow-by-blow of who undressed who first and who kissed who where, she still managed to make her friend understand the depth of delight beneath her smiling face. It was a happiness fifteen years in the waiting and one miraculous, most perfect night in the making.
Life was very good.