Page 81 of A Happy Catastrophe

For the last hour, after eating delivery pizza in the kitchen, the three of them have been lying on what used to be his and Marnie’s bed—and every now and then the thought flickers through his brain that he might be consigned back to the futon tonight, the futon he folded up. They’ve been talking very, very carefully about everything that went on while they were apart: all the gentle, easy-to-talk-about things, that is. Patrick keeps steering the conversation away from minefields. Marnie’s suitcase is still packed, on the floor, and she’s propped up on the pillows while Fritzie lies alongside her, scratching Bedford’s exposed belly. Bedford is exhausted after his welcoming dog-love dance, when he zipped through the apartment like he couldn’t contain his joy in one place, in what Marnie called a “perfect puppy blowout.”

“So,” says Fritzie. “Now that we’re in a family meeting, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided we should all three get married to each other. What do you think, guys? Let’s have a vote.”

Patrick clears his throat. “Marnie and I will take it from here, Fritzie. It’s time for you to go to bed.”

“But we should talk about this!” Fritzie says. “I know how to make a whole bunch of things happen, so I want to be in the talking.”

“Nope, not tonight. To bed, Fritz,” he says.

She rolls around on the bed, pretending she’s gone unconscious, and Bedford stands up over her and starts licking her face, and she laughs and kicks and waggles her head back and forth. Marnie has to get up to keep her glass of wine from being knocked over.

“Come on, come on,” Patrick says. “It’s late. We’ll hang out tomorrow.”

He can feel Marnie watching him as he scoops Fritzie up into his arms and carries her into her room.

“Marnie!” Fritzie calls over his shoulder. “Tell him you want me to stay up and do some more talking! Insist on it!”

Marnie laughs, and hearing that sound again hits him so hard right between his ribs, right at the solar plexus, that for a moment it takes everything for him not to fall to the floor. He tucks Fritzie into bed, kisses her good night, and turns out the light.

“Don’t make her mad, Patrick,” she whispers to him.

“You’re off duty now, sport,” he says. “Go to sleep.”

And then he stops outside the door and closes his eyes for just a moment before he goes back to Marnie, who is no longer in the bedroom. Of course.

He finds her in the kitchen folding up the pizza box for the recycling bin.

“That was some exemplary bedtime maneuvering,” she says.

“Yeah, she’s a weasel.”

“No.” She laughs. “I meant you. You were kind of . . . parent-like.”

“Yep. That’s me. I’m thinking of starting a parenting podcast called The Most Clueless Dad Ever, where I explain that children like it when you make them go to bed. Did you know?” He’s smiling his teasing smile. “Kids like boundaries. Boundary after boundary after boundary. You gotta become a regular boundary factory these days to have a happy kid.”

“Uh-huh. This said by a man whose kid just today tried to get on a plane by herself.”

“Yep. Exactly. That’s what makes it real. I’ve been in the trenches, baby! Another podcast episode would feature the news that if your child cuts all her hair off, you need to ask yourself if it’s a fashion statement or a cry for more boundaries.”

“Interesting.”

“And if they take off for the airport one morning when you put them on the bus to school . . .” He moves toward her, cautiously. She’s not exactly inviting him to hold her. But who could blame her?

“Yes?” she says. “What does that signify? Boundaries again?”

“That,” he says, “was the culmination of the fun Let’s Test Patrick’s Sanity program we had going on around here for about a month.”

“She is certainly . . .”

He waits, but she doesn’t seem interested in finishing that sentence. She turns and puts the forks and knives in the sink.

“Yes,” he says. “She certainly is. She’s all of it: brave and smart and kind and loving and generous and funny as hell, and she’s going to need about forty years of therapy, I think, to recover from this childhood. And lots of loving kindness. And stability. Loads and loads of stability. Bedtimes and you and me both here. Probably we’ll need to keep a close watch on the scissors as time goes on. And the computer. And the credit cards. Probably more stuff I haven’t thought of yet.”

“Really,” says Marnie.

“So, um, how would you say this is going?” he says.

“This?”

“Marnie, I’m dying. I’m falling at your feet. I sent you the stupidest texts in the world this morning—which seems like a lifetime ago now—all because I thought I could be clever and funny and maybe you’d remember what you used to love about me. But now I know that I don’t want to text you anymore. I want to look at you face-to-face, and I want to hold you, and hear your voice telling me every single thing you’re thinking and feeling and everything about your parents and your sister and all your matchmaking projects, and I don’t want to keep talking nonsense, so please stop me, and you start. Tell me how you feel. Start there and just keep going. Please.”

“Well, first of all, I don’t have matchmaking projects anymore,” she says slowly. “That turns out to be a bit of a mistake, I think it’s safe to say. All that Blix-thinking-I-was-magic stuff.”

“Please,” he whispers. “The toaster can hear you. It would be devastated to hear you’re not matchmaking anymore.”

To his surprise, she laughs. And then their eyes meet. The way her eyes linger on his makes him shiver.

Emboldened, he says, “I was kind of wondering if we might move this discussion to the bathtub. This is presumptuous of me, perhaps, but I don’t know if you recall that our establishment here features a gigantic, claw-footed tub that I’ve taken the liberty of outfitting with some bubble bath and about a hundred tea light candles. I recall we’ve had some of our best staff meetings in there. Would you consider it too forward if I suggested we adjourn to there?”

She looks a little hesitant, he thinks, but then she swallows and says, “Well. I guess so. Especially if your tub is all that you say it is. Really, claw feet?”

“Really claw feet,” he says. “Much like my own.” He sticks out one foot, which he only recently groomed, so he knows the toenails are exemplary. “And not to try to make a whole bunch of decisions in one night . . .” he says, “but since you’ve agreed to the tub thing, I was also sort of hoping after that you might marry me.”

She looks wary but amused, which is not exactly what he was hoping for, but it’s not the worst thing either. “Hmm,” she says. “A fascinating question, but even in the best of cases—which this is totally not—I think it might be too late tonight to get an officiant over here.”

“That probably wasn’t the most romantic proposal anybody ever offered,” he says. “I really should have thought of something more elegant.”

“Noooo,” she says. “I thought it was very Patricky, actually. Completely out of left field and without much context.”

he last hour, after eating delivery pizza in the kitchen, the three of them have been lying on what used to be his and Marnie’s bed—and every now and then the thought flickers through his brain that he might be consigned back to the futon tonight, the futon he folded up. They’ve been talking very, very carefully about everything that went on while they were apart: all the gentle, easy-to-talk-about things, that is. Patrick keeps steering the conversation away from minefields. Marnie’s suitcase is still packed, on the floor, and she’s propped up on the pillows while Fritzie lies alongside her, scratching Bedford’s exposed belly. Bedford is exhausted after his welcoming dog-love dance, when he zipped through the apartment like he couldn’t contain his joy in one place, in what Marnie called a “perfect puppy blowout.”

“So,” says Fritzie. “Now that we’re in a family meeting, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided we should all three get married to each other. What do you think, guys? Let’s have a vote.”

Patrick clears his throat. “Marnie and I will take it from here, Fritzie. It’s time for you to go to bed.”

“But we should talk about this!” Fritzie says. “I know how to make a whole bunch of things happen, so I want to be in the talking.”

“Nope, not tonight. To bed, Fritz,” he says.

She rolls around on the bed, pretending she’s gone unconscious, and Bedford stands up over her and starts licking her face, and she laughs and kicks and waggles her head back and forth. Marnie has to get up to keep her glass of wine from being knocked over.

“Come on, come on,” Patrick says. “It’s late. We’ll hang out tomorrow.”

He can feel Marnie watching him as he scoops Fritzie up into his arms and carries her into her room.

“Marnie!” Fritzie calls over his shoulder. “Tell him you want me to stay up and do some more talking! Insist on it!”

Marnie laughs, and hearing that sound again hits him so hard right between his ribs, right at the solar plexus, that for a moment it takes everything for him not to fall to the floor. He tucks Fritzie into bed, kisses her good night, and turns out the light.

“Don’t make her mad, Patrick,” she whispers to him.

“You’re off duty now, sport,” he says. “Go to sleep.”

And then he stops outside the door and closes his eyes for just a moment before he goes back to Marnie, who is no longer in the bedroom. Of course.

He finds her in the kitchen folding up the pizza box for the recycling bin.

“That was some exemplary bedtime maneuvering,” she says.

“Yeah, she’s a weasel.”

“No.” She laughs. “I meant you. You were kind of . . . parent-like.”

“Yep. That’s me. I’m thinking of starting a parenting podcast called The Most Clueless Dad Ever, where I explain that children like it when you make them go to bed. Did you know?” He’s smiling his teasing smile. “Kids like boundaries. Boundary after boundary after boundary. You gotta become a regular boundary factory these days to have a happy kid.”

“Uh-huh. This said by a man whose kid just today tried to get on a plane by herself.”

“Yep. Exactly. That’s what makes it real. I’ve been in the trenches, baby! Another podcast episode would feature the news that if your child cuts all her hair off, you need to ask yourself if it’s a fashion statement or a cry for more boundaries.”

“Interesting.”

“And if they take off for the airport one morning when you put them on the bus to school . . .” He moves toward her, cautiously. She’s not exactly inviting him to hold her. But who could blame her?

“Yes?” she says. “What does that signify? Boundaries again?”

“That,” he says, “was the culmination of the fun Let’s Test Patrick’s Sanity program we had going on around here for about a month.”

“She is certainly . . .”

He waits, but she doesn’t seem interested in finishing that sentence. She turns and puts the forks and knives in the sink.

“Yes,” he says. “She certainly is. She’s all of it: brave and smart and kind and loving and generous and funny as hell, and she’s going to need about forty years of therapy, I think, to recover from this childhood. And lots of loving kindness. And stability. Loads and loads of stability. Bedtimes and you and me both here. Probably we’ll need to keep a close watch on the scissors as time goes on. And the computer. And the credit cards. Probably more stuff I haven’t thought of yet.”

“Really,” says Marnie.

“So, um, how would you say this is going?” he says.

“This?”

“Marnie, I’m dying. I’m falling at your feet. I sent you the stupidest texts in the world this morning—which seems like a lifetime ago now—all because I thought I could be clever and funny and maybe you’d remember what you used to love about me. But now I know that I don’t want to text you anymore. I want to look at you face-to-face, and I want to hold you, and hear your voice telling me every single thing you’re thinking and feeling and everything about your parents and your sister and all your matchmaking projects, and I don’t want to keep talking nonsense, so please stop me, and you start. Tell me how you feel. Start there and just keep going. Please.”

“Well, first of all, I don’t have matchmaking projects anymore,” she says slowly. “That turns out to be a bit of a mistake, I think it’s safe to say. All that Blix-thinking-I-was-magic stuff.”

“Please,” he whispers. “The toaster can hear you. It would be devastated to hear you’re not matchmaking anymore.”

To his surprise, she laughs. And then their eyes meet. The way her eyes linger on his makes him shiver.

Emboldened, he says, “I was kind of wondering if we might move this discussion to the bathtub. This is presumptuous of me, perhaps, but I don’t know if you recall that our establishment here features a gigantic, claw-footed tub that I’ve taken the liberty of outfitting with some bubble bath and about a hundred tea light candles. I recall we’ve had some of our best staff meetings in there. Would you consider it too forward if I suggested we adjourn to there?”

She looks a little hesitant, he thinks, but then she swallows and says, “Well. I guess so. Especially if your tub is all that you say it is. Really, claw feet?”

“Really claw feet,” he says. “Much like my own.” He sticks out one foot, which he only recently groomed, so he knows the toenails are exemplary. “And not to try to make a whole bunch of decisions in one night . . .” he says, “but since you’ve agreed to the tub thing, I was also sort of hoping after that you might marry me.”

She looks wary but amused, which is not exactly what he was hoping for, but it’s not the worst thing either. “Hmm,” she says. “A fascinating question, but even in the best of cases—which this is totally not—I think it might be too late tonight to get an officiant over here.”

“That probably wasn’t the most romantic proposal anybody ever offered,” he says. “I really should have thought of something more elegant.”

“Noooo,” she says. “I thought it was very Patricky, actually. Completely out of left field and without much context.”

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