The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  Kitty lightly touches my shoulder with her right hand. “I forgive you, Jack. Your heart was in the right place. I’m sorry I overreacted and the next time you make me mad—which, let’s be honest, is probably just around the corner—I’ll tell you why.”

  I actually believe her apology.

  We pass a few miles of cornfields before I speak. “Your children—your Littles?—are very lucky to have a mom who’s so invested, so involved. My brothers and I would have done anything to garner that kind of attention. Kassie, Kord, and Konnor are going to grow up healthy and strong, mentally and physically. Able to face problems, rather than run from them.”

  “There are no guarantees in life,” Kitty says. “The best I can do is start them off with a solid foundation; the rest is up to them.”

  “If Ken’s half the father you are a mother, then you have nothing to worry about.”

  She looks over at me. “Are we veering dangerously toward a Hallmark moment?” Kitty asks.

  “I’m afraid so. We’d best discuss Malaysia,” I reply and we share a genuine laugh.

  “So . . . Malaysia is really spectacular, huh?” Kitty asks.

  “God, yes. Singapore’s spotlessly clean, and modern to the point of feeling space-aged. The city is a blend of Eastern and Western culture and architecture, so it’s fascinating. Then, if you travel far enough north, you’ll hit the rain forest, which feels prehistoric with the leaf canopy and wildlife like orangutans and tigers. And the foliage? Not to be believed. Imagine Kassie’s drawings come to life. The flora’s like something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Last time I visited, I saw a type of rafflesia, better known as the corpse flower. Reminded me of the flowers on your dorm comforter, except this one can grow up to three feet in diameter and smells like rotting flesh.”

  “Why does it stink?”

  “To attract bugs for pollination. This was not my favorite part of Malaysia. Still, what a spectacular country. Definitely in my top ten.”

  “I’d love to see it.” Kitty sighs and then adds, “Someday.”

  “Look at us, engaging in conversation,” I observe.

  “And wearing underwear.”

  “Tremendous fan of that.”

  We both go quiet, but now it’s a comfortable silence.

  After a few more miles, I say, “Regardless of what we find out about Trip, our finally making peace will have a profound impact on Sars.”

  Kitty raises an eyebrow. “You mean Betsy.”

  I grin. “That’s more like it.”

  “Hey, while we’re not fighting, can I ask you something personal?” Kitty says.

  I shrug. “Depends.”

  “What’s the deal with Top Gun?”

  I turn entirely in my seat to face her. “That? That’s what you want to know? Not, ‘Jack, why didn’t you ever get married?’ or ‘Jack, what are your greatest triumphs or regrets?’ Not even, ‘Jack, what about you and Petraeus?’”

  She shrugs. “Eh, those questions tell me what you’ve done, not who you are. I’m curious because as Bobby was leaving earlier, he said to remind you that the plaque for the alternates is down in the ladies’ room? I assume that’s another Top Gun quote. I don’t personally understand the reference, but he wasn’t saying it for my benefit. Obviously, this thirty-year-old film is important to you; I want to know why.”

  “How long do you have?” I ask.

  Kitty glances at the GPS. “Seven hours.”

  I pause to collect my thoughts. How do I explain without exposing too much of myself? Or is it truly time to let down my guard?

  Ultimately, I choose the second option.

  “We lost my mother in the spring of 1986. That’s no secret. My father didn’t know what to do with himself, let alone four shell-shocked kids. We were just . . . zombies. All of us, just going through the motions at school, at practices, in our home. How do you process something like that?”

  “I really am sorry.”

  “I appreciate hearing that, Kitty. So, Top Gun. We were all numb at the time. Hollow. No highs, no lows. Then, one day we saw the trailer for the film and we all forgot to grieve for a minute. When you suffer a tremendous loss, even when the situation wasn’t ideal in the first place, you mourn. But for the one minute and thirty seconds of the trailer, we were just a bunch of American kids who wanted to see a cool movie.

  “When Dad realized we were excited about something—anything—he jumped on it. He took us to see the movie on opening day and it was transformative. One of his law school buddies did entertainment law, and he somehow managed to secure an early VHS copy of the film, too. Getting lost in that movie for two hours gave us back something we’d been missing—joy. Top Gun became a touchstone for us. A common love. The ritual of watching became far more important than the movie’s content. Our broken family began to slowly knit itself back together, stronger than before, and the movie was the impetus.”

  Kitty’s listening, really listening, as I speak. “None of us knew how to articulate our thoughts back then. Therapy wasn’t a thing yet. Top Gun gave us a way to feel the gamut of emotions within a safe space. Maybe we couldn’t cry over our mother, but it was just fine to pop in the VHS and tear up for Goose. Top Gun has always been the language of love for my brothers and me. Our family isn’t terribly demonstrative, so when Bobby quotes ‘it’s time to buzz a tower,’ I know what he really means. That’s why I lost my mind when you ripped my poster, starting the whole chain of events that—well, you were there. No need to rehash.”

  “I truly had no idea,” Kitty said. “Maybe if we’d had this conversation twenty years ago, we’d be in a different place.”

  “Perhaps,” I agree. “But we’re here now. That’s enough.”

  “I feel like I should watch the movie sometime.”

  I am incredulous. “Hold the fu— flip on. You’ve never seen Top Gun? How’s that possible? It’s such an important part of American pop culture with the music and the styles and the stars—how have you avoided it for almost thirty years?”

  Kitty shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I preferred Meg Ryan movies?”

  “But she’s in it!” I exclaim.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Pull off at the next exit. There’s a Walmart. We have a DVD to buy.”

  • • •

  While Kitty’s watching the movie, I’ve been piloting the Escalade. I’m deeply, profoundly in love. I haven’t felt this deeply drawn to a vehicle since I sat behind the stick of my first Cessna.

  As the credits roll, I ask, “Thoughts?”

  “I liked it a lot, especially understanding what it means to you. Still, I have questions,” Kitty replies. “Many questions. For example, how come Goose didn’t get to take off his shirt during the volleyball game? And why was everyone so sweaty the whole time? They were mostly in San Diego—isn’t San Diego famously temperate? Is it wrong that I found Tom Skerritt to be the hot one?”

  Kitty’s a font of surprises. “That’s what you got out of it? You don’t feel the need, the need for speed? You’re not concerned your ego’s writing checks your body can’t cash? You don’t want to climb into an F-14 and go screaming across the sky, chasing MiGs?”

  “No, thank you,” Kitty replies. “I’m good here. I guess I was most surprised by how homoerotic the whole thing was.”

  “What?” I practically swerve off the road, which causes the Driver Awareness System to pulse my seat bolster. I quickly right our path.

  “Oh, yeah.” Kitty nods. “Like, how many shower scenes can you pack into two hours? Also, all underpants, all the time? And my goodness, the suggestive dialogue? ‘Iceman’s on my tail, he’s coming hard.’ ‘Damn it, I want some butts!’ Homo. Erotic. Nothing wrong with that, just pointing it out.”

  “You have quite the overactive imagination.”

  “Disagree.” Kitty whi
ps out her smartphone. “I’m going to Google ‘Top Gun’ and ‘gay.’ And . . . fifty-three million results. I’m obvi not the first to have noticed.”

  “Can I use your phone? I need to make a call.”

  She points at the dash. “Bluetooth enabled. You dial through the console. Here, I’ll do it for you—what’s the number?”

  I give her the digits and wait as the phone rings. “Ted Jordan speaking.”

  “Teddy, it’s me. Quick question—was Top Gun homoerotic?”

  He bursts out laughing. “Not what I expected to hear from you, Jack-o.”

  “Well, Kitty and I are having an argument—”

  “Discussion,” she interrupts. “We’re having a civilized discussion. P.S. we’re on speakerphone. P.P.S. We’re friends now.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Teddy says. “So, you’re both calling to confirm that Top Gun was homoerotic?”

  I say, “Or deny. Feel free to deny.”

  “Let me put it to you like this,” Teddy says. “Val Kilmer was my first crush. That answer your question?”

  I feel all the breath leave me. “I . . . don’t even know who I am anymore. This alters my whole worldview.”

  Teddy says, “Kiddo, this doesn’t mean Top Gun wasn’t the best thing to happen to the Jordan family. Just means we each took something different away from it. Nothing’s changed. You’re fine.”

  “I’m driving, so I have to go,” I reply.

  “See you later, Teddy,” Kitty says.

  “Don’t kill each other, you two,” he says by way of good-bye.

  I shoot Kitty a look. “No promises,” I reply.

  • • •

  “Uncle, okay? I finally see it,” I say after our second and third viewings. “No need to rub it in.”

  “We can both agree that it’s a terrific movie that stands the test of time. I’ll leave the DVD in the car so the boys can watch,” Kitty says. “See? Now we’re bonding. Everyone wins!”

  “Just in time. John-John’s house is right around the corner.”

  We pull into his driveway and I have a new appreciation for the property surrounding his house. Excellent tree-to-grass-to-home ratio. Proportionate. Leaving our bags in the car, we grab the laptop and hustle inside. We realize the clock’s ticking and now that the drive’s over, we have a mystery to solve, preferably before the story breaks on Sunday.

  After greeting John’s wife and kids, we settle into the dining room to watch John do his magic. He’s always bragging about his mad hacking skills, so I’m interested to watch him perform.

  “How long will it take you to get in?” I ask.

  “Can’t say for sure,” he replies. “I’m using John the Ripper, which is a password cracker. The amount of time’s dictated by the length and strength of her password. If it’s heavy on alphanumerics, could be a while, so get comfortable.” I hover over John’s shoulder while Kitty pokes around, admiring the decor.

  “I’m in love with your toile,” she says, examining the curtains printed with pastoral scenes.

  “I don’t know what that means,” John replies.

  “Girl stuff,” I say.

  Naturally, she and John’s wife, Heather, got on like a house on fire. I’m sure they’d be the best of friends if they lived closer, likely trading recipes and child rearing secrets. But I have a new respect for how hard Kitty works for her family, which is why I suggested John finally buy his wife the jetted tub. I suspect she’s earned it.

  “Cute pic of your kids at the Millennium Park bean,” she says, holding a photo of the whole brood.

  “Thanks. I can’t believe they stood still long enough for us to snap the shot,” John replies. Because he’s helping us, I don’t mention exactly how much light his rapidly balding head reflects from the chandelier.

  She gestures toward a picture of a different family.

  “Cousins?” she asks. “Lots of family resemblance.”

  “No,” I reply. “Not family.”

  Before Kitty can question why I’m suddenly curt, John says, “I’m in.”

  Who knew John wasn’t bullshitting about his actual capabilities? Color me impressed. “Already?”

  “People, this is why you don’t use PASSWORD1234 as your password,” John replies.

  “You’re kidding. Did we just waste ten hours in the car?” I ask.

  “I wouldn’t say waste,” Kitty replies. “Our drive was worth it.”

  I can’t disagree.

  John establishes Ingrid’s e-mail password almost as quickly, and Kitty and I begin our search for clues.

  Unfortunately, there’s little to see, save for marketing e-mails from places called Gilt and Net-a-Porter.

  “There’s nothing,” I say, cradling my face in my hands. “All of that effort for nothing.”

  “Oh, please, you’re not even trying,” Kitty says. She sits down next to me and pulls the computer over to her. “You’ve never kept tabs on a fifteen-year-old boy, have you? Three words: browser search history.”

  The Safari cache is a veritable gold mine. We uncover everything from an Expedia.com search for hotels in Miami to information about chartering flights to the Cayman Islands to scuba gear reviews. We have a dozen hot new leads, one of which will surely lead us to Trip.

  This laptop is the smoking gun. I’m sure of it.

  Kitty and I are in the preliminary stages of planning our next step—driving to Miami—when John returns from the kitchen. “I told you I’d do something for you if you did something for me. Time to pay up.”

  He steps into the butler’s pantry and opens the swinging door. He makes a motion for someone to join us, saying, “She’s done. Come on in.”

  I instantly recognize the sound of high heels clicking on the travertine and my body tenses. Now I’m furious with myself. Why did I think I could trust John? How have I learned nothing from forty years of his self-serving douchebaggery?

  “Hello, Jacqueline.”

  Suddenly, I’m not distracted by the pain in my feet or the daunting task of finding Trip. Instead, I am entirely focused on this moment.

  I stand up to face her head-on.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Atlanta to Miami

  Thursday

  “I beg your pardon. Did you say ‘mother’?”

  But no one answers, or even looks in my direction.

  Jack did not just say this elegant, ageless, polished, Escada-clad woman was her mother, right? Not possible. Except . . . they do resemble each other. Same heavy hair, same cheekbones, same almond-shaped eyes, although hers are two different colors. Same quiet confidence. They’re even standing the same way, with perfect posture and squared shoulders.

  But Jack’s mother is dead. Jack’s said it a million times. Hasn’t she?

  Is this lady a ghost?

  “Why are you here?” Jack says, practically spitting out every word.

  “I live in Atlanta now,” her mother (?) replies.

  What is happening? Why does Jack seem ready to strangle someone? (And why am I so relieved that it’s not me she wants to strangle?)

  “Well, isn’t that nice for all of you? Family first,” Jack replies. Her voice is downright acidic.

  “It’s not like that,” John pleads. “They just moved here.”

  “They,” Jack hisses. “You’re a traitor, John-John.”

  “You don’t understand, Jack. It’s different when you have kids,” he says. “They have a right to know all their grandparents.”

  “What’d she promise you this time, John? Another new car? An even bigger house? How much does it cost to sell out your real family? What’s your asking price?”

  With an icy calm, the woman replies, “Jacqueline, I’ll not have you take that tone.”

  Jack gets right up
in her face. “Really? What are you going to do about it? Run away?”

  “I’m not the one who runs, my dear. You practically left skid marks, you couldn’t get away from us in Chicago fast enough.”

  “Bullshit.” Jack’s balling her fists as though she’s the aggressor, but I sense there’s an imbalance of power here, not favoring Jack. I feel an almost psychic tug of her desperately wanting someone on her team, so I stand at her side, placing a hand on her back. She does not pull away from me.

  “We’ve been over this again and again,” the woman replies, the very picture of calm repose. Everything about her is impeccable, from the tips of her red-soled, patent leather stilettos to her immaculately groomed Anna Wintour–style bob. “Frankly, I’m tired of your histrionics. You and I have needed to hash this out for a very long time. We’re both here, so we’ll speak now.”

  “No, we fucking won’t!”

  “Language, my dear.”

  Jack tells me, “Grab the laptop. We’re leaving. Now.”

  “Why? What am I missing?” I ask, collecting the MacBook and stuffing it in my purse.

  Eyes locked with the woman, Jack says, “I can’t be in a room with her, not after what she did to us.”

  “C’mon, Jack. At least hear her out,” John implores.

  The elegant woman clucks her tongue. “That was almost thirty years ago. Grow up, Jacqueline. Discuss your issues like an adult.”

  “How about this? Kitty’s a detached third party. We were sworn enemies until yesterday, so she’s bound to be impartial. Let’s each tell her our side and she can decide who’s at fault here.”

  I’m still touching Jack’s back and I can feel her tremble.

  Jack takes a couple of ragged breaths and starts to explain. “This is my mother, Lucille Allen. No, wait, the Honorable Judge Lucille Allen. Honorable, my ass.”