I had expected Michele to be gorgeous, either in a hippie bohemian way or a cool bad girl motorcycle jacket way. Emily didn’t have any pictures. She said it was too painful.
But when I met Michele, she reminded me of Joyce Carol Oates. Ms. Oates (I feel odd calling her Joyce or Joyce Carol) is a great writer and probably a nice person, but she doesn’t do anything for me sexually. And I can’t see her doing anything for anyone else. But what do I know?
“I’ve been so wanting to meet you,” she said. “Poor Emily does need taking care of doesn’t she?” I was surprised that she didn’t scold me for getting Emily in a situation that broke her heart. But as Karen pointed out, our efforts had put Emily in a position where she was a sitting duck for Michele.
The three of us had dinner at Emily’s; Michele was staying there. I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, but Nikki said it really didn’t make any difference. If Michele wanted Emily again, she could get her wherever she was.
Michele is quiet but very intense, with a way of looking at you straight in the eye as if whatever you said was very important to her. When Emily was in the kitchen, Michele leaned forward. “How is she doing? I’ve been very concerned.”
“I don’t know. She still sees Alice and she swears she knows they’ll never be more than friends, but . . . I don’t know. I feel terrible for starting this.”
“It must be very hard for you. But you really shouldn’t beat yourself up. You wanted to help a friend.” She reached over and patted my hand.
“Well, yes.” For some reason I felt a little funny, but then Emily brought in the spaghetti.
“Just the way you used to make it with the cloves,” Michele said, smiling at Emily. “This is my all-time favorite spaghetti sauce,” she said to me, as if she was confiding a secret, like she'd lied about her age on Facebook. “It was the first real dinner we shared.”
Shared? She sounded like a character in a Bible movie.
Emily giggled. “We were going to go to the movies afterward, but we never got there.”
For a change I got something.
“Did you ever get to see the movie?”
“Oh, Charlie,” Emily laughed. “Charlie thinks of things nobody else does,” she said to Michele. Then she looked sad. “So does Alice.”
“Do you, Charlie?”
I felt flustered and started going over my repertoire in my head. I’d really rather do my wives of Henry VIII trick.
“You must be very creative. Creativity is a real gift.”
“Thank you.”
“I love your blog. You have such a feeling for people’s idiosyncrasies.”
“I’m glad you enjoy it. . . Have you done any sightseeing? Not that there’s that many sights. Of course the college is beautiful. The library has a great spiral staircase. And if you’re here on Sunday, you should go to Mass at Epiphany. The high Mass is at ten. Does incense bother you? It doesn’t bother me, but my husband said worlds would collide if we went to his mother’s church, so we go to Trinity. It’s Low Church, but I don’t mind. Cilla would like more pageantry, but I tell her she’ll have to wait until she can drive herself there. That won’t be until she’s sixteen or maybe even eighteen. I want to hold off on the kids driving as long as possible. They’re pretty responsible kids, but with all the crazies out there, you never know.”
“Charlie knows all the wives of Henry VIII and the husbands of Elizabeth Taylor.”
“Oh, let’s not make Charlie perform,” Michele said. “It’s so much more fun just talking.” And she smiled at me.
Emily had carrot cake from the organic bakery for dessert.
“I know it’s both of you’s favorite. Or both of your favorite. Or the favorite of both of you." Emily giggled again. "Here I am an English professor making grammar mistakes.”
I was glad I didn’t get the history of the two of them and carrot cake.
We really did have a nice dinner and I liked Michele in spite of all the awful stories about her. She hugged me and said, “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you,” and squeezed my hand.
I’ve had Emily’s spaghetti and the bakery’s carrot cake before, so I don’t know what it was that made my stomach feel uncomfortable.
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