Read Online Until the Real Thing Comes Along by Elizabeth Berg - Free Book Online Page A

Elaine, why are you taking this so personally? I don’t have to love Mark, just because you could!”
    Silence. I play with the phone cord a little, then stop.
    “Elaine?”
    “What?”
    “Could you?”
    “Maybe I could.”
    “Well … so … take him.”
    “He’s not a
thing
that you hand back and forth, Patty!”
    “I know. But I’m sure if he knew you were interested—”
    “He knows, okay?”
    “You told him last night?”
    “I told him before last night.”
    “You did?”
    “In so many words.”
    “Wow.” This is not exactly what I mean. Well, you
bitch!
is what I mean.
    “Sorry,” she says.
    “And he didn’t …?”
    “That’s what you threw away.”
    Now I hang up. In my head, I see some random woman in some random ’40s film. She is sitting at a restaurant table with another woman. “Did you get a load of that?” she is saying. “Boy, you think you know someone.” Her hat is on a little crooked. The stream of cigarette smoke she blows hard out of her mouth is dead straight on, however.

7
    I am out in the backyard of an empty three-bedroom colonial trying to entertain the five-year-old son of my clients, the Dugans, who are inside fighting. He wants it. She doesn’t. This is a waste of time. If the She doesn’t want it, you can count on the couple not buying it. The She has to want it. If the He doesn’t want it, nine times out of ten it’s almost irrelevant; the She will talk him into it. But if the She doesn’t want it, forget it. Still, I told the Dugans to take some time, I’d be outside in the backyard when they were ready. It’s a nice winter day—bright sun, temperature in the mid-forties. The son’s name is Charles. Not Charlie, he informs me.
    “I wasn’t going to call you Charlie,” I say.
    “Everybody does.”
    “Well, I wasn’t. You look like a Charles.”
    He eyes me suspiciously. He’s an ugly child, which normally attracts me, but not in this case. The kid’s stuck-up. Bratty. When we looked at the house before this one, it was all I could do not to escort him from the place. Firmly. He was offering a runningcommentary in front of the owners: everything was stupid. At least he was succinct.
    “What does a Charles look like?” he asks now.
    “Well, sort of … royal. Do you know who Prince Charles is?”
    He shakes his head no.
    “Prince Charles, of England?”
    He shrugs.
    “Well, you remind me of him. He’s quite … aristocratic-looking. And a good gardener. Do you like gardens?”
    He sighs. “When are we leaving? This is boring.”
    “Your parents wanted to talk about the house a little bit, remember?”
    He turns, looks back toward it.
    “Do you like it? Did you like what would be your bedroom?”
    “No, it’s stupid.”
    “Hey, Charles,” I say. “What’s
not
stupid?”
    “Not
you
.”
    “Okay.”
    “Not
you
are not stupid.”
    “Yes, I understood.”
    He scowls, sits down on the light covering of snow. His shoulders slump; then he kicks his heels against the ground in a halfhearted fit.
    “Do you know you’re kind of a brat?” I say. I don’t care; this couple will never buy anything.
    He looks up.
    “Yes,” I say. “You are. If you were older, you’d be an asshole.”
    I see the couple emerging from the backdoor.
    “Moooooommmmm!” Charles yells, running to her. “She called me an asshole!”
    The woman, Joanne her name is, regards me from under lifted brows.
    “Sorry,” I say. And am not surprised when they ask that I drive them back to the office. But I am surprised when they simply drive away. I thought they were going to tell on me. And I’d get fired. Which might be a relief. And would not particularly matter, since I’m in such a bad mood all the time anyway, lately. Everything in my life is wrong except that Elaine and I finally made up. Sort of. She’s really sorry. I have kind of forgiven her.
    There is a message on my desk from the Berkenheimers. I call them back, and Muriel answers.
    “Patty!”