George and Lizzie Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  To my husband Joe, who makes my life possible and without whom this novel wouldn’t exist. Fifty-one years and counting!

  If you are involved in a fantasy relationship with someone

  in which the sex is so good it’s like a fantasy

  and things happen between you that are

  incredibly private and unmentionable that

  you could never do with anyone else ever again

  so much so that you moan with pleasure in bed and can’t

  believe it’s really happening and don’t even

  bother fantasizing about anyone else or any

  situation other than the one you’re in, then you

  are in very very serious trouble and good luck

  to you. It won’t last and when it ends, you’ll

  walk the floor and wear out your shoes.

  If, on the other hand, you are involved with someone

  with whom you have regular, decent sex

  that feels good and normal, but that you

  would never think about for a moment

  when masturbating—which is by no means to put

  it down—then the chances of this relationship lasting

  a very long time, of the two of you growing old together,

  are very good. But often this is simply not enough.

  Or it is enough when what is wanted, unfortunately

  or not, is more than enough.

  —Terence Winch, “The Bells Are Ringing for Me and Chagall”

  How They Met

  The night Lizzie and George met—it was at the Bowlarama way out on Washtenaw—she was flying high on some awfully good weed because her heart was broken. For the past several weeks she’d been subsisting on mugs of Stoli and popcorn. It was Leon Daly who’d told her that drinking vodka that’d been kept in the freezer was what got you through the bad times. Lizzie had known (with the small part of her brain that still seemed to work during the difficult months since Jack McConaghey disappeared from her life) that Leon meant bad times due to football injuries (he was then the right defensive tackle on their high school team), but Lizzie figured, what the hell, anything to mellow the sadness was worth a try. So vodka, taken directly from the freezer and poured seemingly nonstop down Lizzie’s throat by Lizzie herself, had infected her arms and legs and brain with welcome numbness. She could see how it might even improve her football game. The popcorn was her own idea.

  But Marla, tired of the emotional and physical sloppiness of her roommate and best friend’s drunkenness, and engaged, as she was, to the campus supplier of superior dope (as well as being a major pothead himself), suggested Lizzie switch. Good plan! After only a few days it was clear to Lizzie that, for what she wanted, weed was the drug of choice.

  Lizzie had never been in the Bowlarama, or any bowling alley, for that matter. During the years when she might have gone as a kid, her parents had insisted that Sheila, her babysitter, take her to ballets, museums, libraries, operas, theaters, and planetariums. Marla had dragged her to the bowling alley because she loved Lizzie and she was exhausted by sharing an apartment with someone whose broken heart still showed no signs of mending, though months had passed.

  Marla thought that bowling, an activity far removed from their normal lives, might bring Lizzie to her senses. And was she ever right. Lizzie was immediately entranced. The noise! The swoosh of the balls hurtling down the alley! (Although she didn’t yet know it was called an alley.) The satisfying thunks when the ball reached its targets! The excited yips and heys of the bowlers! Those cunning shoes with the numbers on the back! The smell of the place—a combination of stale beer and sweat and a hint of talcum powder. Weird! Those tiny pencils? Fabulous! And those balls—some black, some zigzagged with color!

  On the other hand, George was high as a kite on happiness and pride because he was not only out on a date with the current woman of his dreams, but he was also about to bowl the best game of his life since 1982, when he was twelve years old.

  In October of his first year in dental school, George developed a serious crush on Julia Draznin. Julia was beautiful and had an intelligence that was said to be stratospheric. It was rumored (although never confirmed) that she had gone straight into dental school after her junior year at Bryn Mawr. She was the subject of both the waking and sleeping dreams of her fellow students, some of whom had already dated her. You could see Julia and her current boyfriend at the movies, Rollerblading on spring evenings in Ann Arbor, or sitting around in coffee shops, talking animatedly. The word on tooth street was that she’d go out with you for a few times and then let you down gently while explaining that she didn’t intend to get serious about anyone until after she’d established her practice, several years in the future. This left many of her suitors emotionally bereft.

  George intended to change all this. Before he finally asked Julia out, he considered several options for what they should actually do on the date. Whatever they did had to be unique and sophisticated, or ironically quotidian, that was the main thing. George immediately rejected fishing in the Huron River (much better for a second or third date, he felt), a concert (not original enough), and that old standby, dinner and a movie (ditto). So what was left? Bowling was left. George would give you odds that not one of their fellow dentists-to-be had taken her bowling. It would be great, right? Even though he himself had not been bowling in, let’s see, almost a decade. But the good times he’d had in bowling alleys were among the many pleasant memories from George’s childhood.

  George saw himself as a suave bowler, definitely not a dork, someone Julia would surely recognize as worthy of her attention. He was trying to decide whether he should admit to Julia that bowling was something he was good at, or used to be pretty good at. Would that charm her? Or would she think it was ridiculous to be pleased that you’re good at throwing a ball down a lane? Would she go home and tell her roommate that George was handsome, smart, and frequently able to convert the 7-10 split?

  That’s the setup, George sometime later explained to Lizzie, with just the two corner pins left, one on either side of the alley. It’s possible to convert the spare by hitting the inside of one of the pins, causing it to rebound off the wall and slide briskly back across the alley to take down the other pin, but it’s not easy. Lizzie tried, it must be said not very hard, to show some enthusiasm for this tidbit of information.

  However, George knew that very likely there were some women, perhaps especially smart and attractive ones like Julia, who would be bored silly with a man whose major talent appeared to be that he could aim a ball down a wooden lane and knock down the requisite number of pins. When George discussed this with Lizzie, long after they were married, she told him that she could only confirm that, yes, she was bored beyond bored with him whenever he brought up bowling, but not during the rest of the time they were together. So that was sort of okay.

  And now Lizzie was at the Bowlarama, stoned on dope from James, and George was there stoned on happiness, etc. etc. etc. Marla instructed Lizzie on the intricacies of scoring, although she immediately assured Lizzie that she wasn’t expecting her to actually keep score. That would be Marla’s job. While Marla talked on, Lizzie was mumbling “score,” “spare,” and “strike” over and over because she liked the sou
nd of the words in her mouth.

  Marla showed her where to stand and demonstrated how to send the ball spinning down the alley. Lizzie thought “alley” was a funny word in this context, and added it to her mantra, so it now read “alley, score, spare, strike.” Then she decided that it sounded better as “sass”: score, alley, spare, strike. She didn’t seem able both to remember those four words in that order and at the same time listen to Marla’s explanations. This is likely the reason that she hadn’t really gotten the sense of what “send the ball spinning down the alley” actually meant. In any case, it appeared that she interpreted “send” somewhat differently from how Marla intended she should.

  Meanwhile, George, bowling with Julia in the very next lane, was on a roll. This was the one word in the how-we-met story that George truly loved. “Roll,” with its double meanings, was the kind of pun that he was prone to make, always accompanied by a certain expression on his face that meant: Isn’t that clever, do you get it? Lizzie always appreciated George’s puns, but that expression drove her crazy. Anyway, George and Julia had just finished the eighth frame, and George’s score was an amazing 152, which meant that he could break 200 if he was both careful and tremendously lucky.

  So Lizzie went up to the foul line, which Marla had carefully pointed out to her, for her first try at bowling. They’d agreed that it was best if Lizzie didn’t attempt the much more complicated option of starting farther back and taking three strides to the foul line. Neither she nor Marla was confident that Lizzie could coordinate walking, carrying the ball, counting the steps, stopping at the right spot, and then throwing the ball, especially because she was still occasionally mumbling “score, alley, spare, strike.” She stood there with the ball held out in front of her, thumb in its correct hole, two middle fingers in theirs. All the pot she’d already smoked that night had made her hyperalert to every move she was making. Her palms were sweaty. She didn’t notice that George was lining up to bowl, and in any case was unaware of the protocol that if someone in the lane next to you is getting ready to bowl, you should wait until the ball has left his hands to begin your turn.

  “But, George, why didn’t you wait until I was done?” Lizzie once asked, years after the fiasco, their courtship and marriage.

  “Didn’t even see you standing there,” George admitted.

  There they both were, Lizzie and George, in their separate worlds, surely a clue to what their future relationship would be. George steps toward the line, brings his arm forward and smoothly lets go of his ball, and at the same moment Lizzie tries to throw her ball spinning down the alley, but something immediately goes wrong. (Or right, depending on what’s important to you.) Lizzie’s ball hits the floor with an awesome crash and somehow leaps over the ball-return mechanism that separates the lanes and crashes right into George’s ball, which until that moment had been rolling straight and true toward what certainly looked like an imminent strike, and now both balls make their separate but causally related ways to the gutter.

  Pandemonium ensued within the confines of lanes 38 and 39. Lizzie, laughing uncontrollably in response to the shock of watching and hearing the collision, sat down on the floor. If anyone had been close enough to her, what they would have heard was a sequence of whimper, gasp, snort, gasp, snort, whimper, gasp. She felt a strong desire to pee, but was unable to make herself stand up. Also, the particular pattern of the floor seemed to be worth studying in depth, which served to take her mind off the prospect of wetting her pants but did nothing to stop the gasp, whimper, snort sequence.

  George was devastated and, quite frankly, more than a little annoyed with Julia, who was also laughing and didn’t appear to be on the verge of consoling him. Marla, seeing that Lizzie didn’t seem inclined to get up, or for that matter to be able to stop the routine of snorting, whimpering, and gasping, rushed over to apologize to George.

  “I’m so sorry,” Marla said. “I’m Marla, and she’s Lizzie. I don’t know how this happened, but we’re really sorry.”

  “I know how it happened,” George said coldly. “She shouldn’t even be here. She obviously can’t bowl. She totally ruined my game.” His voice rose. “My game, maybe my two-hundred game. Everything was going so well.”

  “George, get a grip,” Julia ordered. “It’s just a game; don’t make it into a big deal.” She turned to Marla. “I’m Julia, by the way, and this ridiculous man is George.”

  Marla nodded at Julia but addressed George. “Look, give me your phone number and we’ll call and set up a time to get together for a drink. We owe you one for ruining things. Or Lizzie does.”

  “My game,” George moaned again, but Julia hushed him.

  “Here,” she said as she tore off a piece of the scoring sheet, “write down your name and phone number and give it to them.” George obeyed her, but it was clear the evening was spoiled. He never went out with Julia again.

  * The Great Game *

  Although it was Lizzie who carried it out, Lizzie who, for many months afterward, lived with the slights and the snubs and the nasty comments from her female classmates and the knowing looks, leers, and wolfish grins from every boy at school, even the freshmen; although it was Lizzie who got an unsigned note passed to her in chemistry class that was addressed “Dear Slut” and went on to threaten her with bodily harm if she ever again so much as looked at the writer’s boyfriend (who was Leonardo deSica, currently the football team’s strong safety); although it was Lizzie who didn’t go to her own senior prom because nobody asked her; although it was Lizzie who suffered all the consequences, it was actually Andrea who came up with the idea that became the Great Game.

  It was the first week of their senior year. Lizzie and Andrea were both on the yearbook staff, which met during the last period of classes and inevitably ran late. They were slowly walking home along the fence line that enclosed the football field. They could hear shouts, whistles, and occasionally the thwack of a ball being kicked or the crashing sound of bodies colliding. The sounds reminded Lizzie of Maverick Brevard, the team’s starting wide receiver and her excellent boyfriend during their junior year. She couldn’t decide if she wished they’d get back together. If they did, it would make the next few months more interesting. Maybe.

  “Football team’s practicing,” Lizzie murmured, mostly to herself.

  “You think?”

  “Do irony much?” Lizzie asked her best friend. “I was wondering if it’ll be a good team this year.”

  “Do I really care?”

  “Don’t criticize what you don’t know. It’s so un-American of you not to like football. And you’ve never even been to a game. You didn’t come with me at all last year, when they were playing great.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing. I was just expressing my feelings.” Andrea paused. “Sorry. I’m just feeling awful today. I miss Jon so much. I know it’s a good idea for us to date other people now that he’s at Duke. I mean, he’s like eight hundred miles away, so obviously there’s not much chance of us getting together regularly. But I really wish he’d stayed here, or at least gone someplace closer. Why’d he have to choose Duke, anyway?”

  Another pause. “Do you think he’ll sleep with a lot of girls there? That’s what bothers me the most, honestly, especially because this year is going to be so useless. What are we going to do with ourselves except take the SATs again and fill out college applications? It’s basically no fair that he’s off at Duke having a great time and we’re stuck here. Plus, there’s no one in school I’d want to date anyway.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. There isn’t anyone. I was just wondering if I should get back together with Maverick,” Lizzie admitted.

  “At least you have a choice,” Andrea said bitterly, “at least Maverick’s still around. I keep imagining Jon making passionate, sweaty love with all those smart southern belles.”

  “Well,” Lizzie said, trying to be comforting, “first of all, I’ve heard that those southern girls don’t actually sweat because their bodies have
adjusted to the heat.”

  “You made that up,” Andrea complained.

  Lizzie pretended Andrea hadn’t said anything. “Secondly, I don’t know what the national average is for freshman sex in college, but I don’t imagine that Jon’ll go much above that. He’s much too conservative.”

  “Yeah, but the way I’m feeling is that even one or two is too many. Really, Lizzie, we need to do something drastic that’ll stop my imagination from working overtime.”

  They walked on, not talking. The football sounds grew louder when they turned the corner. Now they could see the team practicing. Lizzie could pick out Maverick, his blond hair reflected in the setting sun. She was just beginning to imagine a detailed scenario in which she and Maverick started dating again and ended up at the same college next year, when Andrea turned to her and gripped her arm, hard.

  “Ow,” Lizzie said. “That hurts. Let go.”

  Andrea ignored her. “Lizzie, listen, I have a totally crazy idea. Wouldn’t it be something,” she went on, “if we both slept our way through the football team this fall? Then I wouldn’t care what Jon did, because I’d be doing it too.”

  “Whoa,” Lizzie said, not quite believing that Andrea was serious. Still, her mind began to race through the possibilities that the idea presented. “I’d have thought that only a true football fan would come up with a plan like that. But I kind of like it. It would be a great game that only the two of us knew the rules to. If we seduced every player on the team, then we’d be winners of the Great Game and Champions of the West, just like the fight song they sing all the time at Michigan football games.”

  Andrea tried to look modest but failed. “Whether I’m a fan or not, if we do this it’ll be like being the first men on the moon: they never had to achieve anything else in their life because they always had that giant leap for mankind to fall back on. And we’ll have all those boys to show that once we really did something adventurous with our lives. It’s like a sign that we really lived.”