Slightly Engaged. Wendy Markham
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quiet night at home. We can watch that new Willie Wonka DVD I just bought in wide screen.”
Willy Wonka? That’s what I need? Is he high?
Granted, I liked the book and I liked the movie—both versions.
But…
Willy Wonka?
“I’ll make that chicken thing you like,” he goes on. “And then I’ll give you a back rub. It’ll get rid of all the stress.”
“Oh.” Big fake-smile. “That sounds great.”
Don’t get me wrong, I would ordinarily welcome a back rub after a tough week at work. And having skipped lunch today, I do find my mouth watering at the mere thought of that Chicken Thing. He makes it with tomatoes and peppers and olives and serves it over diet-friendly whole-grain pasta.
But when I weigh the options—engagement ring versus Willie Wonka/back rub/Chicken Thing—guess which one might as well be full of helium?
“Let’s get strudel for dessert, too,” he suggests.
“Now you’re talking,” I say, amazed at how the mere mention of strudel can make things brighter.
You’ve got to stop obsessing over this ring thing, I tell myself as the long-lost number-six train appears in the distance at last. It’s not healthy.
But I can’t seem to help it.
Especially when, in the sudden shuffle of the crowd to get into position precisely where the train’s doors will ostensibly open, I spot a huge billboard of a smiling bride and groom beside the tag line Married People Live Longer.
Is this a sign, or what?
Okay, intellectually I know it’s just part of that high-profile advertising campaign by some abstinence-advocacy group.
But emotionally, I choose to believe it’s a sign that I’ll be getting an engagement ring in the near future.
But…how near?
And why did his mother have to go and tell me it was coming?
How am I supposed to focus on anything else when every random morning I wake up wondering if today’s the day?
I’m starting to think it would be better if I didn’t secretly know he has a diamond. That it would be better if I were back where I was the night Mike and Dianne got married, when I thought Jack thought marriage was only for Assholes. At least then, I had no expectations.
Then again…maybe he still thinks that. Maybe he just accepted the diamond to humor his mother. Maybe he has no intention of giving it to me in this millennium. Who knows? Maybe he’s already traded it for an ounce of saffron and a six-pack.
The uptown local is packed, of course.
The reverse tug-of-war begins. A mass of people shove to get off; a mass of people shove to get on.
Yes, we are among the shovers.
Because in New York, you do things on a daily basis you wouldn’t dream of doing anywhere else. At least, I wouldn’t.
Back in Brookside, I wouldn’t dream of shouldering my way through the crowded vestibule of Most Precious Mother to snag a primo pew, scattering little old church ladies with limbs akimbo.
But when in Rome—or the subway…
Well, you get the idea. I’m a seasoned Manhattanite after three years here, and I can shove and curse and even flip people off like a native, although only when absolutely necessary.
And only strangers.
When it comes to people I know, I can be oddly complacent in that regard. If only I’d had the nerve to shove, curse and flip off my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw, before he had a chance to break my heart.
But I was still the old Tracey-sans-cojones back then.
As we shoehorn ourselves into the car, I am careful to align the front of my body with the side of Jack’s to avoid accidental intercourse with the total stranger crammed in beside me.
“You okay?” Jack asks.
“Fine,” I tell him, taking shallow breaths so as not to inhale fresh B.O. from a neighboring straphanger.
“We’ll stop at the store on the way home to get the stuff for my chicken thing.”
“All right.” I feel like I’m going to gag. Does this person not know he’s stinking up the whole car? Or does he not care?
“You don’t seem very into it.”
“I am!” I snap—then repeat sweetly and guiltily at his hurt look.
The train lurches, stalls.
Lurches, stalls.
Then it lurches again, just enough to pull beyond the platform and into the dark tunnel before there’s a hiss as the engine dies and a flicker before the lights go with it.
A cry of protest goes up in the car as people curse in every known language.
“Still okay?” Jack asks in the dark, his voice reassuringly close to my ear. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
I take a deep breath of disgusting B.O. air. “Uh-huh.”
If this were two years ago, when I was in the midst of my panic attacks after Will left, I would be about to throw up or pass out or both.
But the panic attacks subsided somewhere around the time Jack came along, with the help of some little pink pills that were prescribed for me by Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum. As a delightful pharmaceutical side effect, I lost my appetite and the remainder of the forty pounds I needed to take off.
I eventually tapered off the pills last winter with nary a panic attack nor added pounds, but Dr. Schwartzenbaum warned me that they could be triggered again.
The panic attacks.
The appetite too, I guess. But at least I can combat that with my old standby weapons: cabbage soup, baby carrots and brisk lunch-hour walks to Tribeca and back.
Fighting the panic attacks is a little more complicated. Sometimes I wonder what might set them off again.
Being trapped underground in a packed subway car in a dark tunnel could very well do it.
I try not to remember the old movie I once saw with my grandfather about a subway hijacking. The Taking of Pelham 123.
I squeeze Jack’s hand, hard. He squeezes back.
See, that’s the thing. I always know that he loves me, to the point where his mere presence is reassuring. Not just in this subway crisis (I know, but to me it’s a crisis)—but in my life. That’s why I want to know—need to know—that we’ll be together forever.
Because I can’t imagine my life ever feeling normal again without him.
Surely he feels the same way.
Surely he’s ready to make that final commitment, wouldn’t ya think?
The intercom interrupts my speculation, crackling loudly with a seemingly urgent announcement.
The only words I think I can make out clearly are “grapefruit,” “Ricky Schroeder” and “explosive.”
Or maybe I’m hearing them wrong.
“What did they say?” I ask Jack.
“Who knows?” he replies amid the disgruntled grumbling from similarly stumped commuters.
Okay, I might not have heard grapefruit or Ricky Schroeder, but I’m pretty sure I heard the word explosive.
I try not to think about terrorist attacks and suicide bombers.
Yeah, you know how that goes. Terrorist attacks and suicide bombers are now all I can think about.
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