Free Until the Real Thing Comes Along by Elizabeth Berg Page A

sewing basket in the family room; I have miniature marshmallows in the cupboard. I have whimsically decorated Band-Aids in the medicine chest: cartoon figures, stars, glitter. I have a kitchen calendar with writing all over it. Every day, there are human events for which I am responsible. Things done by and for the children I made, the husband who loves me.
    “Wait for me, okay?” I call out. I’m talking to my husband who wants to start the movie we rented. I think that’s who I’m talking to.
    Back at the office, I turn on the lights and call the answering service. Dugans called. Sorry they missed me. But right before our appointment, they decided on another house. Uh-huh. And Muriel Berkenheimer. What in the hell is going on with them?
    I dial their number. Muriel answers.
    “It’s Patty,” I say.
    “Oh, Patty.” She starts to cry.
    “Muriel?”
    “Can you come over?”
    “I—come over to your house?”
    “Yes, it’s not so far. Thirty, thirty-five minutes. Have you had dinner?”
    “Well, no, actually.”
    “So you’ll come, we’ll have some dinner. We have to talk.”
    “Muriel, did Artie—”
    “I know, Patty. Come over. We’ll talk.”

8
    A rtie and Muriel live in a small but thoroughly charming Cape. When Muriel opens the door and shows me into the living room, I see gorgeous moldings, a fireplace with a carved mantel, a fire burning there. The furniture is exactly what I might have envisioned for them: Sears-type colonial, the upholstery shades of green and rust. A maple coffee table is crowded with photographs, and there is a candy dish full of butterscotch. The lamps remind me of the extravagant hats worn by Victorian women. I can smell beef roasting, and it comes to me that it’s been a long time since I’ve smelled that most substantial of smells.
    “Came for dinner, huh?” Artie asks, rising up out of his recliner to greet me.
    “Yes, Muriel was kind enough to invite me. It smells great, too.”
    “It’s just pot roast,” Muriel says. “It’s nothing. Although it was a very nice cut, I must say. You have to ask the butcher, they keep the best stuff in the back, I have no idea why.”
    “Their families,” Artie says.
    “What?” Muriel holds her hand out for my coat, and I give it to her.
    “It’s for their
families
, they keep it back there for their families.”
    Muriel stares at him. “What would you know about it? When was the last time you shopped? If it weren’t for me, you’d never eat.” She looks at me. “If it weren’t for me, he’d never eat.”
    “You just
said
that, Muriel, what do you think, the girl doesn’t hear? You think she’s deaf?”
    “I was telling
her,
” Muriel says. “First I was just
saying
, then I was telling her specifically. You don’t mind, do you, Patty?”
    I smile, shake my head no.
    “You see?” she asks Artie.
    “I see, Muriel.” He sits back down.
    Artie’s lost weight—his knit-shirt collar gapes around his neck. It is, as usual, buttoned all the way up to the top. He wears a lime green cardigan that looks like a golf sweater, brown pants belted high, leather slippers. Muriel wears slippers, too, a fleece-lined type that look warm and comfortable and very old. This is my idea of a good way to spend married life: in your house that is just big enough, a fire going, dinner in the oven, and slippers on your feet. And a sure love, regardless of the form it takes.
    “People like to be addressed specifically, Artie, it makes them feel important,” Muriel says.
    Artie sighs. “She never stops.”
    Muriel might have lost weight, too. Her face looks thinner. Or maybe it’s just that she’s tired. There are bags under her eyes.
    She hangs up my coat in the tiny hall closet. Then, hands clasped nervously in front of her, she asks, “Would you like a drink?”
    “A drink?”
    “Yeah, you know, a cocktail.”
    “I can make you a martini that’ll curl you hair,” Artie says. Then, looking at my hair,