CHAPTER THIRTY-1
It was going to be a wonderful night. Candles, classical music, incredible food, and the best of company. Diana loved going to dinner at Mrs. Bartle's place. The delicious smells of whatever was cooking in the kitchen and the soothing music playing softly in the background always made her nostalgic for those "dinners at Grandma's" that she'd never really had. Diana had never known either of her grandmothers. Her father's mom had died just four months before she was born, while her mother's mom had run off to London "to find herself" the week after Mrs. Christopher, then Patty Jane Hunt, had turned fifteen. And that was why, no matter how deplorable her mother could seem at times, Diana always knew she was doing a better job than her mother had done; at least Mrs. Christopher had stayed in the country.
But besides the sentimental charm of home-cooked meals prepared by someone more than two generations older than her, Diana also adored and admired the elegance with which she and Mrs. Bartle dined. Her friend always laid out her best china—purchased with the first year's worth of her and Henry's savings as a first wedding anniversary gift to themselves—and they drank sparkling cider from crystal goblets, while fresh flowers and glowing candles brought sweetness and warmth to the table. And to top it all off, tonight was the Fourth of July, so if the living room curtains were open, they'd be able to catch the fireworks going off on the ball field down the street.
Mrs. Bartle had knocked on Diana's door that afternoon to invite her, explaining that it had been altogether too long since she'd cooked for her, and thrilling Diana with the words, "You look like you could use a decent meal," as she eyed her up and down with the kind of maternal suspicion that Mrs. Christopher used to display over Diana's "mysteriously" expanding waistline. It felt great to experience such skepticism in reverse. Of course, Diana had asked immediately if Barry would be joining them. After all, she had to know whether or not she should bring her mortified mask and I-was-drunk-so-disregard-anything-stupid-I-said sign to dinner.
"No, dear. He's back in California, tying up loose ends," Mrs. Bartle had said, her words sending an unexpected thunderbolt of disappointment Diana's way. She couldn't figure out why. Why did she feel such letdown where she'd expected to feel such relief? It felt crazy to admit even to herself, but in the strangest way, she felt betrayed. She couldn't remember everything she and Barry had talked about out on the lawn, only bits and pieces; specific words were probably lost forever. But she did remember a connection, feeling for the first time in her adult life that a man understood her, and that not all men were simple-minded and insincere—because this one could be her friend. But he had left so suddenly—this sweet, funny guy who still harbored guilt for taking her virginity in a one-night stand back in 1988 .This guy who had undoubtedly rescued her from an endless night of self-torture and hallucinated introspection over what she could have done differently to make TJ come back for seconds. This guy who didn't think she was a freak for dreaming of azaleas and blimps and dead fathers falling from the clouds. This incredibly one-of-a-kind friend, who left without even saying goodbye.
In a way, she felt more violated by Barry's emotional hit-and-run than she did by TJ's complete lack of grownup sexual etiquette. Maybe she shouldn't have told Barry about the azaleas. Perhaps it had scared him off. Maybe she shouldn't have slept with TJ the first night they met. But Diana had thought that was special, too. She knew what a one-night stand felt like—the back of a pickup truck, a wad of tissues, over in twelve minutes, and keeping romance out of it. It hadn't been like that with TJ. What she and TJ shared had been beautiful and gentle and sweet, and had happened in a bed, with actual sleeping involved. TJ had seen her naked, with the lights on—with her panty hose wound and stretch marks—and he'd licked his lips and smiled and, without hesitation, had gone to claim his prize, with a passion and sincerity that couldn't have been faked. It had been magical. And then, just like Barry, poof!—he was gone. Maybe all men were the same. Still, Diana was determined not to let some inexcusably hurtful behavior from a couple of men who weren't even in her life a month ago interfere with her enjoyment of a very special evening with a very special friend that had been the most precious part of her life for the last three years.
"Hello!" Diana called out cheerfully, as she let herself into Mrs. Bartle's apartment. Although she usually forgot to bring it with her, Mrs. Bartle had always made a point of insisting that Diana use the "emergency" key she'd been given to let herself in whenever she came to visit. Of course these insistences were always followed by assurances that never-ever-ever would Mrs. Bartle do the same with her emergency key to Diana's place. You're like a daughter to me, she would explain, laughing as she added, a daughter I had when I was sixty-one years old! And then, she'd say there was a special rule for one's children when it came to knocking at the front door: they should never have to. But as for parents and their children's front doors, well, the rule simply did not work in reverse.
Mrs. Bartle was in the kitchen. "Hello, dear!" she bubbled, peeking her head through the doorway. "Glad you remembered your key this time. Dinner's almost ready."
"What are we having?" Diana asked, trying to contain the excitement of her appetite. Ever since she'd started losing weight, food-related thrills made her feel like her former self—the large self that measured time by what food she was about to eat.
Mrs. Bartle put her arm around Diana's waist and, leading her into the dining room, announced proudly, "We are having eggplant parmesan with a very special sauce that Henry used to make, homemade pasta, hot rolls from Mario's Italian Bakery, marinated spinach, and for dessert—nothing. We're always too stuffed from dinner to want any."
Diana giggled. It was so true. "Sounds incredible, Mrs. Bartle."
"I hope you're not too warm."
"Warm?"
"My air conditioner broke. But it's supposed to be a cool night, so I thought just having the windows open would be fine." It was all right with Diana, but she didn't like the idea of Mrs. Bartle not having an air conditioner in the summer.
"Don't worry about me," Diana assured her. "But why don't I take you out tomorrow and we'll get you a new one? My treat."
"Oh, you're a sweetheart, but you save your money," Mrs. Bartle said, waving off Diana's concern. "I never turn the thing on anyway unless I have company coming over."
"Really? Don't you get hot?"
"Girlie, I don't need fancy frills like air-conditioning to make me a happy clam," Mrs. Bartle said, putting her hands on her hips. Diana laughed. Sometimes Mrs. Bartle was downright cute. "It's true! I enjoy just having the window open and getting fresh air. Besides, William will be back in town this weekend, and he'll be able to fix the dumb thing for me then."
"He will?" Diana was suddenly a bundle of nerves. How would she act in front of him? Mrs. Bartle smiled knowingly but said nothing before heading back into the kitchen, leaving Diana to wonder exactly how many stupid things she had said to Barry out on the lawn and how many of them she might be able to blame on the beer.
"So I guess you'll have someone to tuck you in again on Saturday night!" Mrs. Bartle teased from the kitchen.
"What?" Diana called back, horrified.
"You know, when you fell asleep out on the front lawn last Saturday night," Mrs. Bartle explained matter-of-factly, emerging from the kitchen with a huge bowl of pasta in her hands.
"Here, let me help you with that," Diana offered.
"It's all right, dear. I've got it," Mrs. Bartle said, setting the bowl down on the table and disappearing again into the next room. Diana's mind raced for answers—she remembered resting her head on Barry's shoulder and feeling tired, and she remembered waking up in the morning and thinking she couldn't possibly have made too big a fool of herself if she'd been sober enough to make it upstairs to her apartment, but she had no memory whatsoever of what had happened in between. What if, in her stupor, she had drooled or burped or let a snort escape when she'd laughed? What if, instead of laughing, she'd cried and allowed her nose to run right in front of him? What if that was why he hadn't said goodbye before he left again? What if she'd grossed him out too much?
Mrs. Bartle returned to the dining room with a basket of rolls. "Let's eat!" she said excitedly, sliding into her chair.
"Everything looks so good," Diana gushed.
Mrs. Bartle looked at her sternly. "Don't change the subject."
"What subject?" Diana was merely stalling. Unfortunately, she knew her friend was nowhere near that dumb.
"Oh, come on, Diana. I'm a little old lady. How much excitement do you think I get to have?"
"Well, it's not like anything happened," Diana protested weakly, knowing that she wasn't really sure.
"Well, I know that."
"How?" Did Barry tell her everything?
"Because I saw you two sitting out there, and then I saw him lift you to your feet and help you stagger inside. He was back here five minutes later. I mean, I know some men are fast," she said, filling Diana's plate with food, "but no one can make up for fifteen years in five minutes." And there it was: Barry really was a nice guy, truly a gentleman. Unless, of course, he'd developed a hernia trying to lift her and was in too much pain to consider taking advantage of the situation. But Diana wouldn't allow herself to dwell on that possibility. The image of him clenching his fists not to try anything was much more appealing and a hell of a lot easier on the ego. Maybe some day she'd find out the entire truth from Barry, but for now, she'd focus on dinner with Mrs. Bartle and the one question she still had left before they could talk about anything else.
"So, were you spying on us?"
Mrs. Bartle smiled. "Like I said, Diana, how much excitement does a little old lady really get to have?"
And that was the end of the Barry conversation. For the rest of the night, the two of them simply laughed and ate and remembered what it was like to be silly. And it was a wonderful time—no self-monitoring, no playing games, no penis-butt kid, no last call, and no men; just two best friends, as close as could be, separated only by a dining room table and sixty-one years of experience, enjoying a summer evening made brilliant by the beautiful explosions of Fourth of July color that lit up the sky outside the open window.