Maybe Someday

by Ede Clarke

  We both smiled at each other as she flung back, “It only seems unnatural to people like you: dayglow people.”

  Our smiles turned to laughter as we both laid our arms on the table, pulling up our turtleneck sleeves and sweater sleeves to get to flesh. The laughter deflated into smiling sighs once our bare forearms lay on top of each other proving once again I probably do glow in the dark and she does not need any more vitamin K. “Come on,” she said. “Drink up and let’s get out of here before the wind gets worse.”

  As I laid my five dollars on top of hers and scooted out of the booth, I appreciated her letting go of the conversation that she tried to have with me. She is gracious. So much more gracious than me.

  “Thanks for dropping me off,” Candy winked as she grabbed her bag and reached for the door handle. “And, look, I . . . I know I shouldn’t give you such a hard time about dating. I remember how it was for you and Russ. I really do. I just want you to be happy, you know?”

  There it was again: The polite clean-up attempt after I wouldn’t play. I guess she wasn’t letting it go.

  “You’re not as gracious as I thought,” I vindictively shot at her. As soon as it came out of my mouth I regretted it. “Candy, please. I’m so sorry. I . . . ”

  She put her hand on my wrist and shook her head like, “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.” But I knew she was hurt. That’s why she wasn’t saying anything.

  “I’m mad at myself, not you. It just reminds me of my own stupidity when you say his name. I’m so sorry,” is all I could sputter out with.

  “It’s been years, Patricia. Years.” She said squinting her eyes and raising her eyebrows. When I didn’t immediately reply she offered, “I love you and just want you to get your faith in humanity back. Trust in people a little bit, you know? And, and . . . get your nose out of books one night a week.”

  We both smiled because with that comment it was obvious we would be okay, we would survive this fight and be okay. She got out of the car and I drove home, looking forward to reading in bed. Nothing wrong with liking to read. Even people in love, people who ‘trust in humanity’ like to read. I navigated through light snow flurries. Early winter in Buffalo is so beautiful.

  “So, Patty, when’s the symposium? June?” asked my coworker Madeleine as she passed by carrying a stack of Frank Lloyd Wright books.

  “Still not sure, Mad. The keynote hasn’t confirmed. So, until then I’m not confirming anything. Hey, what’s up with all those?” I asked, with a head nod towards the books.

  “Oh, since Mom and Dad are coming in this weekend, thought I’d do a little research and put together a mini tour,” she said, resting the stack on the edge of my desk.

  “How fun. Will you go all the way out to Rochester and Derby, or just stay in Buffalo?”

  “We’ll just stay in town I think. Hey, are we all still on for dinner Saturday night?”

  “Of course, Mad. Can’t wait to see Kenny and Bethy.”

  “It’s so good to see you, Patty,” oozed a sweet-as-ever Bethy as she greeted me with a warm hug.

  “It’s wonderful to see you, too. And, Kenny. You guys look great. How is life in Kenfield?”

  “Same old, same old. You know the drill, Patty. I get up at dawn and make all the bread. Then the bakery sells it all and I have to get up and do it all over again the next day,” Kenny laughed as he finished his sentence and we all giggled with him.

  When the laughter died down, Bethy had a pained look on her face and wanted to say something but it wasn’t coming out after several false starts. Finally Kenny put his hand on hers and said, “The bakery’s been a little more challenging lately. One of our friends is having trouble at home and, well, it’s hard to watch.”

  Bethy deflated in relief as Kenny finished the confession. “Poor dear is trapped in something that is bad, but it’s all she knows.”

  “We should leave it at that, dear,” Kenny gently corrected his wife, “No need for gossip.”

  “They don’t even know her, though, honey,” she rationalized to him quietly into his ear.

  “Your table is now ready,” conveniently broke in, as we were led away and through.

  Over those last few years, Kenny and Bethy had become like parents to me since I didn’t really have anybody, and nobody had me. I watched Madeleine, her husband Dan, their two kids, and Bethy and Kenny file through the tables until we reached ours. Maybe Candy was right. Maybe it’s time I let go and try to love more than a good story.

  “Patricia, you always sit next to the kids. Are you sure you want all that work?” worried Mad.

  “Work? Are you kidding?” I winked to the two little ones.

  “Are you still volunteering at the kids group home, Patty?” asked Bethy.

  “Yeah. Just that it’s only every other Saturday now. This winter load at the library is just too heavy for me to be busy every Saturday too,” I said while inhaling a huge bite of sweet potato ravioli. “But, maybe once things are finalized and in place for the summer I’ll have more free time.”

  Madeleine shot me a look and I then added, “Although I suppose if I wanted to work less right now I could. Okay? I admit it. But, I like what I do.”

  The polite smiles all around the table told me all I needed to know. At least Mad’s youngest was honest, “If you’re always working, how can you get married?”

  “Well, honey, not everyone’s goal is to get married,” offered Bethy. “Isn’t that right, Patricia?” she smiled.

  “That’s right, Bethy.” I agreed while looking at a ravioli stuffed on my fork, and then repeated more softly to myself, “That’s right.” If only I was as gracious at heart as Candy and Bethy. Great women. “So did Mad take you to see the Darwin house today?”

  “Oh, yes dear, we learned all about prairie houses and it was . . . ” The conversation went round and round about architecture, the summer English Poetry symposium, the already-anticipated summer Orchard Park Shakespeare offerings, the bakery in Kenfield, Dan’s work at the bank, and the many fascinating questions that none of the adults at the table could answer to the kids’ satisfaction, including, “Why does dessert have to come last?”

  I was thinking, “It doesn’t. Does it?”

  Anxiety welled up in my stomach as I poured over the symposium possibilities. How is it possible to satisfy academia, publishers, and the average poetry fan in the same symposium? It can’t be done. I’d pushed hard last quarter with the Board for them to allow us to focus only on publishers and readers and schedule a different seminar for academia. But my arguments went to deaf ears and budget-minded blue-hairs. I agreed and said I would put together a three-day montage feast that would give them all their full. Two and a half months later I see all will go home hungry. And for what? Because of a lack of money! Money and art have nothing to do with each other. This line of thinking is helpful. Good grief. I must get back to work. Back on track.

  “Can I have your tomatoes since you always pick them off anyway?” I asked Mad as we tried to down our sandwiches in time to also step across the street and grab two enormous chocolate chip cookies from one of the best bakeries in downtown.

  “Of course,” she replied as I helped her put them on my parchment paper.

  “So, what’s new at Dan’s work? Everything okay at the bank?” I could always eat at least one half of my sandwich after asking an open-ended question about the bank. That place was like a soap opera in Technicolor. The ugly were really scary. The dishonest were blatantly so, without apology. And the good were so self-righteous that it almost makes you want to be bad. The stories are endless and I found myself checking in to see how these strangers were and what they had recently done to each other.

  “So, John finally got fired,” Mad summarized with.

  “’Bout time,” I chirped. “I can’t believe they didn’t send him to jail, too.”

  We both smiled and enjoyed a moment of silence as I started on my second half of the turkey sandwich.

  “There
is actually a new development that is just so sad, Patty,” Mad said with a completely different tone of voice than she usually uses when talking about the bank. “One of Dan’s guys’ wife just passed away and they have five kids.”

  “Really?” I said, because what do you say to something like that?

  “To make it worse, he’s really not doing well. It’s been a few months and the house is of course out of control and the kids that are in school are not doing well and the ones that are at home are doing even worse. He can’t seem to keep a nanny either.”

  “Sounds like a train wreck,” I said as we both finished up our sandwiches. We gave each other the cookie-time looks and jetted across the street.

  That night while reading in bed I kept wondering what the five little faces looked like. How many were boys, how many girls? Did any wear glasses? Did any need to, but they didn’t catch it yet? Were they getting their baths between nannies? Did they know their mother was never coming back? I know it took me a long time to really believe my parents weren’t coming back, and I was twenty three when they died. What is it like for a young kid? The kids at the group home know and almost immediately start looking for a new Mommy. Why is the acceptance different just because the leaving is voluntary? Either way they’re not coming back. Ever.

  “That would be good, Candy. See you at 6:30 at Parkside,” I confirmed as I stared at the almost-final plan for the symposium and the mounting tasks lined up on both sides of my huge wooden antique desk. I remembered this desk as beautiful. I hadn’t really seen it for years for all the work piled atop, but I remembered the carving being remarkable. I pushed some papers aside and caught a glimpse of some of the etching. Still there. At least I remember.

  “Chocolate sundae with hot fudge, whipped cream, and no nuts or cherry please. And, Candy will have the same, but she does want the nuts and cherry. Thanks, Frank,” I ordered to Parkside Candy’s owner who had seen more than most people just by having a soda fountain shop in the middle of Buffalo for more than forty years.

  “You got it, Patty. Go sit yourself down and I’ll bring it over once I see the whites of Candy’s eyes.”

  “You’re the best, Frank.” He had served my Dad and his high school friends and dates the same sundaes after crunchy grilled cheese sandwiches. He and his wife had served my Dad and Mom their sundaes and eventually mine as well, starting at about age six. Of course at that time, I got an extra lick of red licorice for free before the ice cream hit the fountain glass. But at times money was very tough and we stopped expecting the free stuff. And the large, round clear glass candy canisters are gone, replaced by more counter space with stools lined up, waiting for more money to sit. It had been years now that we have been speculating as to when Frank would sell the place. Dora passed on about four years ago, and the place didn’t have the fancy coffee drinks that brought in the crowds. So, for some time, every time at Parkside is cherished because we figure it must be close to, if not the actual, last time.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Candy rang out over the high wooden booths as she waved to Frank and gave me the apologetic face I’ve come to know so well.

  “Why are you apologizing? In all the years I’ve known you, you have been on time like, what, maybe twice? The apology is insulting at this point, you know?”

  “Good point.” We both smiled as she undid all the necessary winter gear into a big heap on the booth bench beside her. “Did you already order?”

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks.” We talked and talked about the new stresses and rewards of her latest promotion at Rich’s, the latest guy in her life—sure to be gone in less than three months, and my latest issues with Erie County Public.

  “We don’t cater to just the general audience, you know? So, I don’t get it. I mean, there will be a handful of people expecting us to have this new lit theory represented and really affronted that we don’t. It’s like a slap in the face. At least we’ll have one of the professors at the symposium, though. Wheeler confirmed.”

  The genuine smile on Candy’s face about something she could care less about, but knew was important to me, was the crux of our lasting friendship. She let me be my self-absorbed self and bought into my passionate seasons, walking alongside me. She even humored me when I tried to be as interested in her. “So, are you stressing about the new re-org in Creative Services? You know you’ll tick at least half the people off by the time it’s all said and done.” I baited her.

  “Yeah,” Candy replied after swallowing a huge spoonful of whipped cream and melted ice cream, “But this promotion is different. I mean for the first time I feel like I actually have enough experience behind me to make good decisions right off the bat. They’ve taught me all I know about branding and placement, you know, Patty? So it’s nice to be able to give something back. This time I don’t feel like a counterfeit.”

  We looked at each other and I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was. We are no longer fresh out of college. We aren’t the youngest at a meeting anymore. We don’t have to fake the confidence; experience is starting to catch up with our egos. She was tracking pretty close to my thoughts, but a bit skewed with, “It’s strange to reach a goal—and by 30.” She looked distant for a bit, a little sad.

  Then I asked, “Well what is the next goal then?”

  “You would say that, Patty. So driven. So fearless. Never satisfied.”

  “That’s not true, Candy. Not in everything. I’m satisfied in my personal life.”

  “Well, I’m satisfied with being Creative Services Director at Rich’s at age 29, Patty. You, on the other hand, are still striving for . . . for . . . who knows what now after being the first non-PhD allowed to hold a directorship at the library—ever. And, you are one of the only people to consistently get your full budget approved—every quarter for almost four years now—and by the age of 27. And you’re still not satisfied, though. Are you?”

  It’s times like this that I am impressed that Candy is still a close friend. You’d think someone who so fearlessly speaks into a person like that would get ejected fairly quickly from the bare-your-heart-to list. But, I feel better about myself just being able to name her as a friend. The fact that I can take it and still love her makes me feel good about myself. “No, I’m not satisfied. And I hope I never will be. Not with work, but with life. There is always something else, Candy—Something more, something different. Always.”

  To get the conversation off me, I complimented her, “I’ve been giving your thoughts about me only loving books some time and energy.”

  Her eyebrows raised with a quick up-flip of her mouth.

  “There’s a family of five kids whose Mom recently passed away. Madeleine told me about them. Dan works with the father.” When I said it I felt like I was confessing a hidden secret that disgraced me, like she would automatically know now that I’ve been thinking about these kids every night for weeks.

  “It’s not like you to simmer over the kids from the group home. Why does this crew have you so enthralled?”

  “This is strange, huh?” I answered. With that she quickly nodded a few times. With the slight encouragement I continued, “They need a nanny, Candy. A nanny that won’t leave. They’ve had several in only like a month or so.”

  “I know I’ve been on you for years to get a family and love someone other than Faulkner and Fitzgerald, but this isn’t what I meant.” She said it jokingly, but as soon as she saw I wasn’t laughing or pooh-poohing her comment, we fell into dead silence for quite a few minutes. Suddenly the sounds of eating a hot fudge sundae were very loud and annoying. It took some of the pleasure out of it for me, and I wondered if it did the same for her. I even left some of the melted whipped cream in the bottom of the glass without sucking every last trace through the straw.

  “Frank raised the price again, huh?”

  “Yeah, another nickel.”

  “Shouldn’t be long now.”

  “Nope. Shouldn’t be long.”

  Night afte
r night I laid in bed and thought of that family while staring at the same page of The House of Mirth. No progression. Didn’t matter much since I knew how it ended; knew that social expectations eventually kill her. Although, during her long, slow, embarrassing-to-watch march to death, she does have the sincere love of a good man. For a lot of women, they would then die happily I suppose. But, I was suddenly less attracted to fake hurt, and more interested in dwelling on the real deal of those five little ones. Although imaginary to me at the time since they were just a story passed on by a coworker, I could choose to make it real for me. I could choose to get involved. Meet them. Meet him. See their eyes. In the three years at the group home, I never really considered adopting. Why this pull now?

  “Do you think I can meet the kids and father, Mad?” I asked casually one day while we were chatting at work.

  “What on earth for, Patty?”

  She offed my request faster than I expected. “Well, I thought it might be nice to take them all out one Saturday afternoon for fun. Could give the father a break and the kids something to look forward to.”

  Mad stopped looking at her spreadsheet, took off her glasses, and stepped a bit closer to me. “I see,” she said, waiting for me to continue. But, I didn’t really know what to say. I felt like she was looking at me like I was crazy. I felt like she had just interviewed me for the nanny position and found me to be unqualified and a total waste of her time. “Which Saturday would you be free?” she finally continued while stepping back, putting her glasses back on, and glancing again at the spreadsheet.

  “Two weeks from this Saturday would be good for me.”

  “I’ll let you know, Patty,” she said with just a twinge of wrinkles between her eyes. She’s not the only one confused, I admitted to myself.

  That next Saturday I spent at the group home. This trip was different than any other time spent there before. For the first time I didn’t see tasks, chores and challenges as finite—something I would be doing for a few hours and then leave behind until the next visit in a few weeks. No. This time I caught glimpses of a daily, endless life of lifting, wiping, cleaning, cooking, smelling, hugging, correcting, and encouraging. It’s easy to do it with a smile and patience for two days a month. But, every day? For months? Years? Impossible. Just then, at the very thought of it all being impossible, one of the toughest little girls in the room came over to me, pried two kids off my lap, and then nestled in with full weight for a long snuggle. A year before she would only bite and approached most situations like she saw prey. Her name is Kelly, but at that moment I thought her name should be Faith. With faith and love nothing is impossible. Then, of course another five kids were swarming and singing and climbing and shouting and I again thought of a life with this endless noise and energy. But as Kelly hung on tighter and tighter as the other kids tried to rip her away from me, I felt that life might not be completely impossible, just a series of impossible moments that with faith could be alright. Maybe. Wouldn’t hurt to just meet the five children and take them out to a park and build snowmen or something. Give the Dad a break for a few hours. Wouldn’t hurt.