Scrabble, Professor Bored. You have 80 points, while your uneducated wife and her over-theatrical though under-ambitious best friend have 120 and 113 points respectively. It’s your turn, sweetheart, the great conversationalist.”
Ezra put his letters down. Colloquy was his word. Bingo, plus 50 points, with Q on triple letter. Ezra was no longer last. Maggie snorted in derision and annoyance. Glancing sideways at a laughing Larissa, Ezra put his hand inside the letter bag. “All we think about is ourselves, Larissa. This breeds boredom. And unhappiness. We become like sharks, always needing to keep moving or we die.”
“Ezra,” cut in Larissa, “but last week you told me and Evelyn and Malcolm that we needed to think more of ourselves, remember?”
Ezra drew a blank look, and Maggie laughed. “I told you, Lar, he is nothing but a sophist,” she said. “Advocating only for the position you don’t happen to hold on this particular evening. Don’t listen to anything he says, darling.”
“I can’t imagine myself saying this,” said a defensive Ezra. “Since I think we’re spilling out our own ears. We are stuffed to the gills with ourselves.”
“Last week you said we were unknowable!”
“Yes? And how is that incompatible with what I’m saying tonight?”
“I’m not unknowable to myself,” bristled Larissa.
“You sure about that, Lar?”
“Positive.”
“Describe yourself in five phrases.”
“Fine. Um. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a set decorator. I am a good cook. I am a lover of books.” She said the last one sheepishly.
Ezra drew a laugh. “No, Larissa. Not who you are. What you are.”
Less certainly she said, “I am neat. I am orderly. I am meticulous.”
“Ah,” said Ezra. “Three different words to say the same tedious thing.”
“I am motherly. And wiferly. I’m a planner.” She thought. “I am well-dressed.”
He nodded. “One more. But make it a good one.”
Larissa was still thinking. She was still thinking. It wasn’t fair. It was hard to describe yourself in five phrases.
“But you just said you knew yourself better than you know anything,” Ezra said. “Why should it be hard at all? Just think of the five most important things about you. You can name five things about a lion, can’t you? Or a chimp?”
Spending her days swirling red paint around on the sets of school plays. Larissa, the Jackson Pollock of high school productions of Guys and Dolls. Theater hadn’t even made the cut. How could that be? The children hadn’t made it. Love. Yearning. Contentment. None of it.
“Get rid of one of the neat freak traits,” Ezra said, “and you’ll have more room for painting.”
But Larissa felt it still wouldn’t get to the bottom of things. The bottom of who she was.
Ezra clapped in delight. “It’s easier after ten minutes of nominal research to talk for an hour about anabolic metabolism than it is to talk with any degree of authority about yourself, even though you’ve been stuck with yourself your whole damn life. Clearly you’re not thinking enough about yourself, Larissa,” he concluded, stretching out his hand with the emptied Margarita glass. “See, you think you’re bored because your glass is overflowing,” he said, “but what if it had tipped over and is empty and you don’t even know it?”
And then one night, Jared said to Larissa after dinner, with a big smile, “Whose birthday is coming up?”
“What are you smiling about? I’m cancelling all birthdays this year.”
“Just the opposite. We need to celebrate like we’re twenty.”
“We’ll have to start early.” Larissa stabbed at her empty plate. “You’re asleep by ten. Did you always fall asleep by ten when you were twenty?”
“Actually, yes. I don’t know if you’ve noticed after knowing me for twenty years, but I’m a morning person. But seriously, you want to hear what I’m thinking of for a present for one very good wife?”
“Which part of cancelling the birthday didn’t we understand?”
The kids had just dispersed, though loudly and not far, and husband and wife had a few precious minutes to themselves.
Jared stared at her with his “are you finished” stare. She smiled. “I don’t need anything. I already have everything.”
“And Ezra told us what he thinks of that,” Jared exclaimed happily. “He would prefer we had nothing—like in college. So what do you get a woman who has everything but who’s turning a very young 4–0?”
“Diamonds?”
“Nah, you have those. I was thinking more along the lines of,” said Jared, with a dramatic tone and expression, “a new car.”
She stared at him dumbstruck. “A new what?”
“A new car! Something snazzy. A sports thing. A two-seater. Not a mom car. A Larissa car.” He beamed. “A Beamer? A Merc?”
“A Jaguar …?” she intoned dully.
“Well … I was thinking more of something sturdy and German-made.”
“Like a VW?”
“No! Sturdy but snazzy. But sure, a Jag if you want.”
“I thought the British built Jags.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Not anymore; long ago sold to a Ford division in Michigan. Pricey. But a good idea.” He nodded agreeably. “They have some fine-looking sports cars. And they keep almost half their value. There’s a new dealership that opened on Main Street in Madison. Why don’t you go there next week, see if there’s anything you like, and then I can come in, swoop in at the end, check it out with the checkbook?” Jared’s straight light hair was in a shaggy mop, he looked healthy, happy, still in a dark gray suit, pleased with himself. Leaning over, he kissed her. “But pick yourself something nice. Something babelicious.”
“Yes, except at twenty we were riding rusted bicycles, not Jags,” Larissa said, getting up from the table, the dirty plate in her hands, the silverware, the cup, the soiled napkin. “That’s the irony. When you’re young and want to ride a flash motorcycle, you can hardly afford it, and by the time you can afford it, you look ridiculous on it.”
The kids were playing pool in the den, even the six-year-old. Larissa hoped he wouldn’t stab his older brother with a pool cue.
“I’m quite happy with my Escalade, Jared,” she went on. “It’d be a waste of money. Honest. I don’t need a new car.”
“Yes, you do. And don’t be a spoilsport. What else am I going to get you?”
“A vacation? Hawaii, maybe?”
“Hmm. Hawaii’s a good idea. But you know, with the kids … we’ll need a vacation after that vacation. Besides,” he added glibly, “a vacation is over in seven days. But a Jag you have forever.”
So this became Larissa’s life internal: talking herself out of going to the Jag dealership. She didn’t want a new car. She’d be satisfied with a BMW. Except