Chapter 23
A couple weeks later in early September, Hal plans a no-special-occasion Redstocking picnic in Prospect Park.
“I know I’ve been wrapped up in work recently,” she says as we pile into the Red Rocket, the yellow paint sufficiently chipped.
Hal is driving and I’m riding shotgun. Tara climbs obligingly into the back, carting the food.
“And wrapped up in Astrid,” I say.
“It’s hard to have it all,” Hal laments. “The high-profile career, thriving love life, vibrant friendships.”
I frown at her ranking system. “Why did you list friendships last?”
“There was no order to it,” Hal says, a little too innocently. She stomps on the pedal and the Rocket lurches into motion
down Knickerbocker Avenue. “Don’t go getting all sensitive. All I’m saying is I want to get us all together for some sisterhood
bonding. And to celebrate how you’ve stepped up for us with rent, EJ. It’s impressive, really.”
Praise from Hal always makes me warm and glowy, even if I’ve made up my mind to be cold and muted. “It’s only because Chris
overpaid me for watching Arnie,” I say, looking out the window at a blur of run-down warehouses and For Lease signs tacked
on cracked windows.
I stayed over in Tribeca to watch Arnie while Chris was out of town.
It turned into the end-of-summer bright spot I didn’t know I needed.
Arnie and I were in the middle of watching a movie when Chris got back Sunday night, and rather than shooing me out, he plopped down on the couch with Arnie and me and watched until the end, all the way through the credits, which I never watch.
“Guess I’ve coached you well on your negotiation skills, then,” Hal says, happy to sponge up the credit. “And you too, Tara,”
she says, calling out to the back seat, her voice rivaled by the roar of the aging engine. “It’s great to see how your coaching
venture is taking off.”
Tara’s income is at an all-time high. She’s started giving acting lessons now that her résumé has enough credentials on it.
“I don’t know,” Tara says. “I feel like I’m selling out by coaching all these rich white kids. I wish I could get more clients
in Bushwick, but no one’s willing to pay and I can’t afford to do it pro bono.”
“You can start a nonprofit down the road,” Hal says. “There’s nothing wrong with making money from rich people. It’s the only
way to tax them, really, since they shelter all their investments in overseas accounts.”
We start across the Williamsburg Bridge. “I thought we were going to Prospect Park?” I ask, frowning. The park is southwest
of us in Brooklyn, so there’s no need to cross over into Manhattan.
“We’re picking up Jenni first,” Hal says. “Thought I mentioned that.”
“No,” I say, feeling tricked. “You didn’t. You said it was a Redstocking picnic. Jenni is an ex-Redstocking.”
“Come on, EJ,” Hal says, as if I’m the one who’s being unreasonable here. As if she hadn’t been on my side too, until Astrid
came into the picture and distracted her. “Just because Jenni broke the Anti-Marriage Pact doesn’t mean she’s exiled. The
Redstockings existed way before the pact. Tara agrees.” Hal glances up into the rearview mirror for validation from the back
seat.
“I’m just glad we’re all getting together again,” Tara says, hopscotching around the conflict like usual. “It’s been way too
long.”
Tara goes off and sees Jenni on her own; I’ve known that and tolerated it for her sake. But Hal absconding too and dragging me along? That’s just too much.
“Does that mean you want to bring Lilly back into the Redstockings too?” I ask coolly. My optimism for the day is receding
like a tide under a fast-moving moon.
“No,” Hal says. “Lilly was hardly ever a Redstocking. We were clearly just a blip to her. She hasn’t invested anything in
keeping our friendship alive.”
Lilly has ghosted the rest of the Redstockings ever since getting married, and it’s brought me a dark sort of glee.
“But Jenni’s genuinely been trying,” Hal goes on. “And she’s still in our same city.”
“Manhattan and Brooklyn are not the same city,” I say. I don’t want to have to act like everything’s fine, like we’re still
close. But I’m not going to be the downer who ruins it for Tara and Hal. I’m too old for that game, though I’m good at it.
“Why do we have to pick her up?” I ask. “Can’t she at least just drive herself or take the subway? It would be faster for
all of us.”
“The whole point of today is that it’s like old times,” Hal says. “The four of us back together, crammed into the Red Rocket,
spilling Oreo crumbs in the seat cushions.”
“You’re making me nostalgic,” Tara says. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her clearing the junk off the seat next to her
so Jenni will have a comfortable spot. It makes me sad for her, how tightly she’s clinging to something that doesn’t exist
anymore. But it makes me sad for me, too, that I’ve already let it go so readily, shed it like a snakeskin that you can’t
crawl back into even if you want to.
“Fine,” I grumble, secretly glad to be having the reunion as well, to see Jenni and who she’s become since walking the marriage
plank. “But I’m Venmo-requesting Jenni for the gas money.”
We sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic, snailing our way across the congested Manhattan avenues until we reach the Upper West Side. The land of new money. Hudson River–view towers, thousand-dollar strollers, and architectural insanities.
“This is her building,” Hal says as we sputter to a stop in front of a soulless skyscraper. Tara texts Jenni that we’re outside,
and Jenni emerges a moment later, a doorperson escorting her out like she’s the queen of England.
Jenni is donning a pleated dress with a frilled, flappy collar as big as a bib. Right away I can see she’s fully fallen victim
to the wealthy way of life, all its duties and dungeons. Peering up and down the street, she tries to locate us.
From the rolled-down window, Hal hollers, “Jenni! Over here!”
Jenni spots us, and her expression tilts. “What happened to the Red Rocket?” she hollers as she gets in the back seat. “It’s
all yellow.”
“We thought it was time for an upgrade,” I say, hoping she’ll feel the pang of the dig. “It’s much improved, don’t you think?”
“It’s hideous,” Jenni says. “And what’s that smell? Did something die in the rafters?”
“It’s a new Chanel perfume,” I lie. “Like it?”
I wait for Jenni to get offended, but she trills over in laughter instead. “How I’ve missed you, EJ,” she says. “All of you
ladies. Today is just what I’ve needed.”
She buckles up and loops her arm through Tara’s. “Turn the music up,” she orders. Hal happily obliges, and soon enough eighties
rock, the Go-Go’s and Tom Petty, is blaring as we crawl down the West Side Highway. They’re all singing along. I’m only humming,
determined not to enjoy myself too thoroughly. From the back seat, Tara reaches up and gives my shoulder a squeeze from behind
my headrest, as if she knows the internal battle I’m waging. It’s enough for me to release my death grip on my grudge, but
I can’t drop it altogether.
Finally we get to Prospect Park and circle around a couple times until we find a parking spot.
We unload blankets and munchies from the trunk and haul everything into the grassy acres until we find a sequestered spot to set up our picnic.
The grass is long, drizzled with dandelions and clovers, just how I like it.
“This is the life,” Jenni says. She stretches out on the blanket and double-dips a Dorito in goopy cashew cheese sauce. “I
haven’t had time to just relax in so long.”
“What do you do all day?” I ask, hoping the question comes across as the composite of curiosity and critique that it is.
“My photography business has been picking up,” Jenni says. “What with all the baby photo shoots from our friends and all.
I do SoulCycle three times a week, weight training two days, and then Thursday lunches at the Colony Club.”
“The Colony Club?” Hal says. “As in celebrating colonialization?”
“Of course not,” Jenni says, with a serration that implies Hal’s ignorance. “Colony isn’t a dirty word. New York was a colony before it was a state, that’s all.”
“A colony with slaves,” I add, looking at Tara, who’s sifting through clovers in the grass, looking for the four-leafers.
“New York never had slaves,” Jenni says. “It was more progressive right from the start.”
“They might not have had plantations,” I say, googling it on my phone right there to verify my intuition. “But household slaves
were definitely a thing.”
“That’s true actually,” Tara says.
“Oh,” Jenni says, looking like this news is something of an imposition. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Tara says. “I don’t find the word colony offensive, just for the record. But anyway, sounds like you’re pretty busy these days,” she continues, steering the conversation
onto safer ground.
“I really am,” Jenni says. “Fridays and Saturdays we’re out in the Hamptons, at least while the weather’s still nice, and
on Sundays I volunteer at the children’s liturgy at church. Peter’s an usher. It’s a lot.”
“Sounds it,” I say, but Jenni doesn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm. “Since when do you go to church?” Her life has changed so much that I shouldn’t be surprised but still am.
“I always used to when I was a kid,” Jenni says. “Just fell out of it in college and the years after. It’s been really good
to find it again, rejuvenating for the soul. Especially in a rat race like New York. Peter and I are considering moving to
Greenwich soon. Get away from all the—” She makes a general sweeping motion, as if encompassing everything about the city,
including us.
“Have some wine,” Hal says to Jenni. She, too, appears eager to avoid having the picnic become an evangelist assembly, an
ambush to save our souls and stab us with white picket fences. Sloppily, she pours a bottle of red into a red Solo cup, hands
it to Jenni.
“I’m actually going to stick to seltzer today,” Jenni says. She whips out a can of sparkling water, one of those trendy new