“You mean that?” Harmony asked.
“It’ll be fine. I swear it.”
I felt terrible. I’d never been this deceitful with her before. Each fraudulent comment, each creative omission, was a crack in the ice. A few more of those, Mr. Singer, and you’re in for a really cold swim.
But at least she felt better. “Damn, Scott. You always know what to say.”
“Hey, it’s my job. I’m your lifeline.”
She laughed. “I’m gonna keep this phone with me forever. So, like, twenty years from now, when I’m in a jam, I’m still gonna call you up and go ‘Scott! What do I do?’”
It was a cute thought, but I knew Harmony wouldn’t be under my wing forever. In the media world, you tend to grow up fast. I figured in a week she’d be a black belt at this. By Presidents’ Day, she’d be permanently speaking in eight-second sound bites.
Meanwhile, under my other wing, Madison continued to highlight all the mentions of Annabelle Shane. Once I closed the phone, she threw me a teasing grin.
“Girlfriend?”
“No thanks.”
“Come on. Who was that?”
I folded my hands over my chest and closed my eyes. “My mother.”
“You told me your mother was dead. You said it like an hour ago.”
“Okay, then it was your mother.”
“Somehow I don’t think so.”
“Well, she sounded like your mother.”
“Fine,” Madison said. “Sorry I asked.”
I suddenly remembered something Jean told me. “Hey, your dad’s a college professor, right? I mean your real dad.”
Madison eyed me warily. “I know who you’re talking about. And yes. He is.”
“Forgive my ignorance, but how does he teach classes? I mean being deaf and all. Does he use special technology, an interpreter, or what?”
She smiled coyly. Oh, look who wants information now?
“You ever been to D.C.?” she asked.
“I used to live there.”
“Me too. There’s a school there called Gallaudet. It’s a famous deaf university. They pretty much do everything in sign language.”
“Ah. I get it now.”
“My dad’s been teaching there for twenty-five years. Why do you want to know about that?”
“No reason. Your mom mentioned it in one of her e-mails and it made me curious.”
“I see,” she replied frostily. “So you guys aren’t just talking X-Men. You’re talking ex-spouses.”
Clever girl. It was definitely genetic.
________________
Last night, at the stroke of midnight, I had replied to Jean’s Z-shaped note with a Y-shaped apology for not getting back to her sooner. Unable to resist the thematic convergence, she quickly countered with an X-shaped tribute to her favorite team of comic-book mutants. Very cute, but the text-sculpting thing was getting old. So instead of burying my next message under a great big “W,” I discussed my favorite X-Men (Beast, Rogue, Storm) in words of five letters or less.
Never one to be outdone, she described all the things she loved about her namesake heroine, Jean Grey, in words of four letters or less. That may seem like an easy task, but try to keep it up for more than a line or two. It’s very, very hard to pull off. And yet she had sent me a flat-out full-page mash note, just ripe with hep puns, fun gags, and sly bon mots. And she did it all in no time.
The challenges only got harder from there. Anagrams. Palindromes. Cryptoquotes. Syllacrostics. As long as the game didn’t involve phonetics, she was indomitable. The English language was her bitch, and so was I. I did everything I could to keep up but she threw me around the virtual room, breaking every lamp and mirror. By the end of the lightning pun round, I was begging for mercy. Please. No more. Need rest…
And yet Jean had barely broken a sweat.
Wow, Scott! That was an AMAZING run! As you’ve noticed, I love these kinds of word games. Sadly, few ever want to play with me and the ones who do, sadly, suck at it.
So thank you! It’s been ages since I’ve had a good mental challenge. It makes a nice break from all the emotional ones.:)
In response, I admitted I was feeling somewhat mentally-challenged myself. But in her own gracious style, she waved me off.
Oh, stop. I told you I had the natural advantage. And I learned from the master. Not only was my first husband twice my age and IQ, but he was also an English professor. He wiped the floor with me (literately, not literally). He found my tenacity to be “cute,” but all I wanted to do was wipe the smug off his mug.
So I kept taking him on, losing and learning, losing and learning, until that ONE FATEFUL DAY…ha ha ha.
He divorced me. Typical man.
(Shit. I’m never going to hear from you again, am I?)
Don’t worry, I wrote back. I’m not the typical man.
I didn’t think so, but I had to be sure. You see in my book, a typical man is someone who’d rather surround himself with fawning, admiring young women (*cough cough* Madison) than take on someone his own age and cranial capacity.
Her teasing insinuation torqued me; only because it made me wonder. Clearly I did enjoy Madison’s fawning admiration. And not just hers (*cough cough* Harmony). So what did that make me? Insecure? Lecherous? Lewd? Libertine? I remembered the way Miranda had teased me when she detected my May-September crush on the voluptuous Deb Isham.
So what was it you liked about her? Besides her knockers. Is it that she’s young and naïve? That she could gaze upon you with a sense of awe and wonder?
No. Sorry. In hindsight, it was her knockers. And you, Miranda, were simply projecting your husband’s flaws onto me. Et tu, Jean? Are you doing the same with your own professor ex? Are you merely handing me one of your old issues? Because if so:
You should know that the two major relationships in my life were both with strong-willed, freethinking, devastatingly brilliant women. One was my age, the other was a good deal older. Not only did they educate and challenge me in every conceivable fashion, but they also made gobs more money than I did. Amazingly, none of this intimidated me.
Neither do you. I’ll be more than happy to continue playing these little word games, losing and learning, losing and learning. I just hope that when that ONE FATEFUL DAY comes, you won’t pout too much, like a typical woman (see how sexist it sounds when I say it?).
Toodles for now,
Scott Singer
PS — Since I know you’ll ask: I was dumped both times. Surely by now you can see why.
Once I sent the message, I reread it and winced. Damn. That was persnickety, Singer. You might as well have typed TOUCHED A NERVE seventy times and then sent it off. I never would have said it if I hadn’t been so obscenely tired.
And yet instead of going to bed, I waited for her response:
Surely I can’t.
That was it. No comeback jab. No witty puns. No clever little postscript. The note was suspiciously terse for a woman with her mastery of the written language. Three simple words. Stranger still, it took her eight minutes to write them.
________________
By Wednesday night I was ready to scream. I had been cooped up in my apartment all day, percolating with a nervous energy that I didn’t know how to vent or defuse. I felt like one of those old-fashioned dads-to-be, pacing back and forth outside the maternity ward. Believe me, I would have rather been there in the delivery room, telling Gail Steiner to push! Push, damn it! But I didn’t want to open myself up to any paternity claims. I just had to wait for the miracle to happen.