I met my wife in ’98 in a bar that took her fake ID. I was a senior at Columbia, she a sophomore at NYU. We both fell hard. I introduced her to my sister over brunch. My sister Jenn worked at a city PR firm that specialized in professional athletes.
Oversized sunglasses hid red eyes from heavy drinking but allowed her to enjoy the sun. They also hid her crow’s feet that were starting as she neared 30. After the brunch, Jenn gave her full report to me on the phone. “She’s a doll. It’s obvious she is into you, but aren’t you worried you’re too young?”
I got a job on Wall Street. I could temporarily move in with my sis. At the graduation dinner, my sister spoiled the mood. Third cosmo did it. With my future wife in attendance, Jenn asked a question no one else did. “So are you guys staying together or is my brother trading you in for what the city brings?”
By the time my wife graduated, I had a place of my own. She moved in, and I paid the bills while she tried to make it on Broadway, modeling, acting, something. She worked off-Broadway productions, and when I turned 25, we got engaged. My father warned Jenn that she’d dance in a pig’s trough if she didn’t marry before me.
If my wife brought up wedding planning, Jenn mentioned her next vacation. The Bahamas. Thailand. Tuscany. Seeing the ruins of central America. The location changed with each mention. She reacted like a pull-string doll. Jenn was still single as I said my vows, but there was no pig trough. No vacation either.
We moved to Queens. Broadway was a dead end. My wife whispered kids. “Why rush with kids? You’re only 28,” Jenn said in dismay when we revealed our plans. She didn’t come to the hospital when Michael was born, but sent Auntie themed onesies. Our trips to Manhattan were more infrequent, a new baby didn’t pull Auntie Jenn to Queens.
My wife no longer could talk to my sister. There weren’t even new boyfriends to critique. When Jenn could fit me in, her baby brother would treat her to lunch. There was a new trip to Andalusia. Yoga was a safer crowd as she felt old at Stripperobics. CO2 laser resurfacing was a new trick. No more crows feet, but she hid from the sun now.
I texted her a pic of the sonogram for our second child, another boy, Aidan. An hour later, I read the reply, “Good for you”. I noticed Jenn’s Facebook feed became a collection of vacation pictures she had imaged. Every text, every email or every mention of my sons became a redirect to an athlete client of hers.
We needed more space, so we moved out to Long Island. Yard, kids, and a dog. Jenn sent clothes for the kids. Her visits were infrequent, but boxes arrived. Shirts emblazoned “Auntie’s Favorite Stinker”, “Mom says no, ask Aunt”, “My Aunt Rocks”. The shirts were steady, but the promised day trip to get gelato in the Village never materialized.
I raised my boys as Yankees fans. One Sunday I took them to new Yankee Stadium. Pointing out players that Jenn’s firm represented, I decided for a post-game swing by her place. They were excited when I told them in the 5th inning. They hadn’t seen her since Mike’s birthday. I texted her ahead of time. Not to check if she was there, but to warn her to shoo away visitors.
We buzzed her apartment before 5. The kids were excited to see her apartment’s view. She gave hugs at the door. She had some candy. She could play rich aunt, The Heroine. After the third mention, my kids grimaced at how they couldn’t touch anything. When I opened up her cabinets to get glasses. I noticed Jenn didn’t touch much of anything either.
After playing Santa in July, Jenn had nothing to say. What could she ask? She didn’t understand their little concerns, and not many of mine either. I told her to talk about Yankees she knew, which amazed the boys. We left after hugs and kisses. As I hugged her, I looked at her perfect apartment. Like a television set. No, a Pottery Barn staged photo. My kids glasses half full of water + dotted with little fingerprints ruined the look.
“We gotta see her on her birthday,” Mike said as the elevator began to drop. “At our house, not here,” Aidan spoke up, “I don’t like here.” “How can you say that?” I asked and poked at his shoulder, “She has a lovely condo.” The elevator was silent. My sons were tired. Me? I realized it wasn’t a condo, it was a catacomb.
