LAST LUNCH WITH ZOEY

I don’t know what to expect, but I never did in the twenty years that I was married to Zoey. Now, it’s been twenty-three years since we divorced. In the first few years after our extremely acrimonious parting, I think that it would be only a slight exaggeration to say that Zoey wanted me dead, preferably, a long painful death. She was, at that crazy time, what I call a real hater. Things got better after she remarried. I can’t say that we became pals, but she seemed willing to let me live. These thoughts flickered through my head as I waited for my ex-wife at the Mexican restaurant on Ventura Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley.

It was rare that Zoey and I would meet for any reason, especially lunch, but I had asked her and I was relieved when she agreed. Only a week before, our daughter, Monica, had tearfully told me that her mother had informed her that she had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. The doctors gave Zoey perhaps six months to live. As soon as I got this news, I called Zoey. Neither of us mentioned the obvious reason for my requested meeting: A summing up? A making up? Apologies? Regrets? I don’t think that either of us knew exactly why we needed to meet, but we somehow understood that we had to see each other.

Zoey and I first met in high school. I was sixteen, she fifteen. I was tall, skinny and my face was emblazoned with an array of adolescent pimples. The acne contributed to my lack of confidence with girls. I seldom spoke to them, and when I did, I covered my erupting face with my hand so that it was difficult to understand anything I said, which, in fact, was very little. Zoey was short, cheerleader-pretty and her thick red hair cascaded to her slim waist. Most alluring to my sixteen-year-old sensibilities; Zoey Rosen, even at fifteen, had fully-developed, grown-up breasts. And she talked a lot, so much that she more than made up for my verbal deficiency. Zoey was one of the sexiest, most popular girls in our high school – far above my expectations or aspirations.

What she saw in me, I’m not sure. At first I thought that it might be because I was on the school basketball team, but after I met her, I learned that she didn’t care that I was an athlete. And any attraction to me certainly wasn’t based on my academic accomplishments. In high school, I was, at best, an indifferent student. So why did she like pimpled, non-verbal, awkward me? Much later in our relationship, Zoey told me that my appeal to her was that I was “sweet” and that I had good manners. By that she meant that I opened doors and pulled up chairs for her. Go figure. Anyway, over the next two years, we became a couple. My acne abated, my confidence grew. I actually produced semi-intelligent conversation. And I’d have to say that Zoey had much to do with my maturation.

Zoey and Billy. We went together until she graduated. By that time, I was in my sophomore year at the University of Illinois in Urbana/Champaign. Zoey’s parents had decided to move to Los Angeles and she was to start at U.C.L.A. in the Fall. It was 1955. Zoey and Billy, it could have, should have, ended then. After all, we were two thousand miles apart. But it didn’t. As I waited in that not yet busy Mexican restaurant, I wondered why we stayed together. It wasn’t sex. Remember this was the 1950s – before the pill. As a friend noted at the time, “You have to be a genius to get laid.” I was no genius. So what kept us a couple? Perhaps, for the first time there in this restaurant waiting for my dying ex-wife to arrive; I had a hint. In that three years of our romance, we had come to know each other with an intimacy unlike any other relationship we had experienced. We shared all our foibles, our fears, our hopes. Of course, neither of us had much experience with the opposite sex. What I knew at nineteen was that I missed my distant friend. I think that she missed me too.

It was up and down for us during the following three years – me in downstate Illinois and Zoey in Los Angeles. But somehow we remained a couple. We spent a lot of time on the phone telling one another about what was going on in our lives and spending actual time together during school vacations. I remember those frenzied days and nights vividly – exciting highs along with bitter arguments, often about sex, or more accurately our much-limited sexual relations. I wanted more. Maybe Zoey did too, but she was a product of our chaste times. Good girls didn’t go all the way. So we fought about that, and I suppose because of that frustration; we got into a pattern of fighting about many other things as well. It was a pattern that was to define our marriage.

I was in my second year of law school at the University of Southern California when Zoey graduated from U.C.L.A. Yes, after I graduated from the University of Illinois, I decided to move to Los Angeles mostly to be with Zoey and also because a new life in a new place appealed to me. It also seemed like a good time to get married. Given our rocky courtship you have to question this life-altering decision to move to Los Angeles and to marry. All that I can say is that marriage to Zoey simply seemed like the natural next thing to do. She wanted it and I thought – why not? I love her,

don’t I? We’ll have a good life together – probably. I wish I could say that I carefully weighed the pros and cons and came to a well-considered conclusion. I didn’t. I just figured that it would all work out. Over the two decades of our painful marriage, several expensive therapists, as well as Zoey and I struggled to understand those choices – unsuccessfully.

These reflections were interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone. It was Zoey telling me that she was running a little late but would be at the restaurant in ten minutes. Her husband, Harold, would drop her off and pick her up when we finished our lunch. Zoey said that she no longer drove and depended now mostly on Harold for transportation.

I decided to order a Margarita, but before it arrived there was Zoey walking slowly with the aid of a three-pronged cane to our table. I quickly got to my feet to help her into her chair. Except for her halting, stiff movement; she looked much better than I had imagined. Her hair was still shiny – not the blaze of vermillion it once had been, but a kind of rust. She was still pretty. Only her eyes hinted at illness. Still strikingly green, they were watery and beneath them the skin was blueish and dry. I realized that I had not seen her in over ten years.

 “Zoe, you’re looking good.”

 “Maybe, you’re losing your sight, but thanks for the nice thought, Billy.”

Zoey studied me for a moment.

“Well, you’ve gained some weight since I last saw you.” And then smiling slightly, she added, “and lost some of the wild mop of hair you used to have.”

“Yeah, I’ve developed an intricate comb-over to hide my increasing bald spot.”

“I never imagined you losing your hair.”

“Well, way-back-when, I didn’t either.”

“I was thinking after we made this lunch date that we’ve known each other for forty-five years – most of our lives. I was sixty in January.”

“I know and I’m a year older. We certainly go way back together; although, in the many years since we broke up, we haven’t seen each other that much.”

“True, but you’d have to say that we have a history.”

“Absolutely. I also think that when you meet someone early in your life – in formative years – that relationship is special – different than friendships you make later in life. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.”

The waiter brought my Margarita to our table. It looked about the size of a goldfish bowl and was decorated with a red paper sombrero.

 “My god, look at the size of that, Zoey. Would you like a drink?”

 “I would but I’m not drinking these days.”

The waiter asked if we wanted to order lunch. Zoey told him to give us a few minutes. We considered the brightly colored, voluminous menu. Zoey decided on a quesadilla and I chose Chili Colorado. After I gave the waiter our orders, an awkward silence ensued. I wasn’t sure what to say, and evidently neither did Zoey. I settled on a usually safe subject: our two children, Mark and Monica.

 “So, do you think Mark’s relationship with this girl is serious?”

 “Her name is Karen and they’ve been living together for over a year. They seem to get along well.”

 “When we were that age, nobody lived together before getting married.”

I hesitated for a few seconds. “Maybe, we should have tried it.”

 “We were much too conventional. But I suppose we might have learned things about each other.”

 “I figured that I knew you pretty well. Anyway, we didn’t live together so we’ll never know if it would have made a difference.”

 “Have you talked to Monica lately?” (Monica is thirty-two and is a writer in the television/movie industry. She is unmarried.)

 “Sure, I spoke to her last week.” I did not want to talk about the contents of that call, which of course, was all about Zoey’s illness. “You know Monica, she’s a busy lady. This TV detective show she’s writing, Monica tells me takes all of her time.”

 “Do you ever think she’ll get married? She’s a beautiful girl, but she’s over thirty now.”

 “I don’t think that she’s in any hurry to get married. Her work is very important to her and I get the feeling she’s happy with her life just the way it is.”

 “Do you wonder about our kids? I mean they’re both in their thirties. Neither has ever married. Sometimes I worry that our marriage didn’t set a very good example for them.”

 “I don’t know, maybe one of the many shrinks we saw could shed some light on that question. Anyway, today young people get married much later in life than we did. And Mark looks like he may soon decide to take the plunge.” (Our son, Mark, is an attorney like me. He is thirty-five and, as noted, has never married).

 “I’m not so sure. Remember, he’s been close at least twice. And he’s backed out each time.”

 “I think it’s just a matter of time. Patience is what we need.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished that I could take them back. Zoey, I realized, did not have much time.

Zoey ate very little of her quesadilla and appeared increasingly tired. I somehow felt compelled to compliment her.

 “I gotta say Zoe that you look good. Your hair is still great.”

 “That’s sweet, Billy. But I have to tell you the hair’s fake- a wig. Believe me, you wouldn’t want to see me without it.”

I felt foolish. Of course, I should have known – chemo treatments would have meant hair loss. Stupid of me.

 “Sorry Zoe. Well whatever you’re doing it’s working.”

 “I appreciate that Billy.”

 “Anyway, I was thinking of when we lived in Encino in that little house by the park.”

 “What were you thinking?”

 “Nothing special. It was our first house. We were just getting started. Do you remember the neighbors down the street? The Zinmins?”

 “Sure, the husband was Paul and the wife Judy, no Jody. They had two daughters, Sally and . . . I don’t remember the other’s name. And their last name wasn’t Zinmin. It was Zinfeld.”

 “Right. The husband, Paul, had a new Volvo that he washed and waxed every Sunday.”

 “And the wife, Jody, always talked about when she was a Playboy Bunny. I think she made up the whole story.”

 “Yeah, I think Paul was a big story teller, too. Nobody was exactly sure what he did for a living, but he was always about to close a multi-million-dollar deal that would make them super rich.”

 “Yes, and then they just disappeared one day. Moved out in the middle of the night – no forwarding address.”

We both laughed recalling that long-ago story. It was good to see Zoey laugh.

 “Did you ever hear anything about them - the Zinfelds – after they took off?”

 “No, but it would be fun to speculate. You know, make up a fascinating tale. Like they were Russian spies or grifters – something wild.”

 “I was thinking about how you got all of us into skiing. I guess that I never thanked you for that. The kids loved it. They still do. I remember how we would pack our Chevy Wagon with all the ski stuff and drive all night so that we’d get to Mammouth early in the morning.”

 “You didn’t want to learn to ski.”

 “Yeah, but after a while I learned. I had to or I was out of all the fun.”

 “You though learning would be easy. Then you found out it wasn’t. God, you were terrible at first. But then, star athlete that you are, you caught up to all of us.”

 “Well, I never got as good as Mark. And to be fair, you were better technically than I was.”

 “But you were faster – more daring.”

 “Well, we had some good times on the slopes didn’t we?”

 “Some good laughs too.”

The conversation went on like that for some time. Recalling past times – good times. Playing games with our kids in our swimming pool when they were little, our first trip to Paris when we were newly married; getting stoned with old friends; even the first time that I asked her on a date. We didn’t stop reminiscing until Zoey’s phone rang. It was her husband, Harold, saying that he was waiting outside to pick her up. I realized that we had been gabbing for well over an hour. Not one word of our conversation had recalled any of our bad times, of which there were many, and nothing at all about her tragic illness. No summing up. No making up. No apologies. No tearful regrets, although as our lunch was coming to an end, I stifled a sob. Much better to laugh – to relive the good times. I was grateful and aware of how important Zoey had been – would always be to me. As Zoey had said, we had a history together and like all histories there were good times and bad times. But I was happy that it was the positive part of our history that dominated our lunch that day.

A car horn blared outside on Ventura Blvd. It seemed to complement the recorded Mexican Mariachi music that I hadn’t noticed. I saw that Zoey had eaten almost none of her quesadilla.

 “You haven’t eaten a bite.”

 “Well, we’ve been talking so much, I didn’t have a chance. But Billy … I had such a good time talking. I wish that we could do this more often.”

 “So do I Zoe. So do I.”