Read Online The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg - Free Book Online Page B

this was not what he wanted anyway, but
     oh, he wouldn’t mind putting his hands on that tuchus of hers. But there was no way. A steak dinner, sure; not much more than that, though.
     And if he couldn’t bring her to his grandchildren’s b’nai mitzvah in June—he could
     just hear the whispers, he knew he’d be whispering himself if one of his buddies did
     the same, and his children, and especially that daughter-in-law of his, would never
     forgive him—then she wasn’t much of an investment at all. Then she said, “Do you think
     you would like to be my daddy?” and a massive pang of depression struck him, and he
     looked down into the bottom of his drink, searching deeply for his dignity. When he
     looked up, her smile had faded.
    “I’m just looking to meet a nice lady,” he said, which wasn’t exactly true, but was
     closer to the truth than what she was proposing.
    “I can be very nice,” she said, the last remnants of her flirtation fading, because
     she was not there to defend herself, only to promote her possibilities.
    And then there were the steaks, and they were delicious. She took half of hers home
     in a doggy bag, which she clutched to herself as they stood in the parking lot. A
     kiss on the cheek, and then a whisper: “You know how to reach me if you change your
     mind.”
     
    * * *
    He had her number in his hand right now and was thinking about giving her a call after
     the day, week, month, year, life he’d had. A few hours after his depressing coffee
     date with Jill—who had left in tears, though thankfully she’d waited until she got
     in her car for the real waterworks to start; he had seen her sobbing at the stoplight—he
     met his daughter, Robin, for dinner. He hadn’t seen her since he’d left his wife,
     only spoken with her on the phone. The kids had circled their mother and had shut
     him down, Benny much more than Robin, but that was to be expected. Benny’s wife, that
     obsessive, tightly wound, Little Miss Prim and Proper, was outraged that he had filed for divorce, as if no one had gotten divorced before, as if she
     knew everything there was to know about family and marriage and life, as if she were
     the moral arbiter of what was right and wrong when she was the one who had gotten
     knocked up even before she had graduated from college and she should consider herself
     lucky that she’d had a free ride practically since the day she had met his son. He
     could go on. He did not appreciate being judged.
    “She doesn’t want you in our lives,” said Benny stiffly on the phone. “You’re my father,
     and I have made it clear that I will continue to have a relationship with you. I think
     things just need to cool off. She’ll calm down.” It was shocking to Middlestein that
     he would no longer be able to see his beloved grandchildren regularly. He hadn’t considered
     that such a thing would even be a possibility. He thought they would understand how
     he couldn’t live with that woman any longer. Surely they knew what he went through.
     Surely they could accept that he had been in pain. But they had not; they treated
     him as if he were a criminal, like he had murdered someone, when his wife, Edie, was
     the one killing herself, and taking him with her piece by piece.
    His daughter was only slightly more reasonable, but first she had to get her anger
     out of the way. She had been like that since the day she was born: a screamer, a howler,
     and then she would slide, herky-jerky, into something resembling acceptance. He didn’t
     get her, he knew that much. He didn’t know why he needed to get her anyway. His father
     had never gotten him. Why did people need to be gotten so much? Why couldn’t they just accept that he had left his wife and respect his
     decision? Why did he need to justify his existence to anyone?
    It seemed like that was all he was doing lately. What he wanted to say to his daughter
     was, I don’t have to explain myself to you. Up