by Josie Brown
Now I huff and puff after the kids, who scatter through this planned forest. Finding the perfect tree is the equivalent of taking down the great white whale. It must have a thick petticoat of branches rising from the base, its layers coquettishly shorter albeit in proportion all the way up to its needled crown. As if projecting his own fears of a thinning pate, Ted cannot tolerate bald spots between layers. I, on the other hand, abhor crooked bases. Between three rambunctious kiddies and a clumsy dog the size of a Shetland pony, our tree can’t have the posture of a Tilt-a-Whirl. The one thing we both agree on is that it must stand at least thirteen feet tall, so that it will not be dwarfed by the double height of our entryway, the place of honor.
The search for the tree is a highly charged competition. The winner is the first to be photographed with it. The picture is then mounted on the first page of this year’s Christmas photo album, validating a full year of bragging rights.
Tanner is old enough to carry the bowed safety saw, while Mickey drags the tall PVC pole that is marked as a measuring stick. Every now and then he attempts to vault from one row to another. Olivia is charged with holding the twine that Ted will use to tie the tree to the sleigh he’ll use to haul it back to the cashier, who will ply our children with Christmas cookies, candy canes, and warmed cider while I peruse the wreaths on display. Eventually I’ll settle on three: one for the front gate, and two for our double-wide front door.
“Mommy, why not this one? Or this one?” Olivia loses all sense of discretion when she’s within sniffing distance of gingerbread men.
“No, sweetie. That one is not tall enough, and the other is much too bare on the back side.”
“Hey, Mom! MOM! OVER HERE!” For this task, Mickey has always had a great sense of focus that consistently leads him to the right tree. When he was younger, it frustrated him to lose to his brother. Ted’s way of mitigating it was to lead our younger son to a potential winning candidate. Now that Mickey’s developed a connoisseur’s eye, Ted no longer has to do that.
The tree Mickey has spotted for us has all the necessary criteria. Ted whistles for Tanner to trot on over with the saw, but Tanner tries for an end run. “Wait, wait . . . what about this one over here? It’s hella taller.”
Ted looks down at his cell phone for the time. “Nope, we’ve got to call it a day. Warriors and Lakers tonight, remember?”
“Wait—aren’t we going to decorate the tree when we get home?” Mickey’s look is incredulous. We all look over at Ted.
He knows he’s outnumbered. He smiles weakly. “Sure! Of course! It’s our tradition, right?”
As we head back to the cashier with our find, I give him a kiss on the cheek. He stops short in order to draw me to him and give me a real kiss, the kind that should melt away any lingering doubts about love and fidelity.
His doubts, not mine.
5:10 p.m.
“I didn’t know Margot’s big shindig was tonight.” Ted murmurs this just loudly enough for me to hear.
I wince, then nod nonchalantly. It took us so long to patch up our spat that I’ve yet to tell him about my resignation from the board. Now isn’t exactly the time, either. “Yeah. No biggie. I need a break from her anyway.”
Stupid me! I’d asked Ted to stop by the Paradise Heights Market on our way home, and that means going by Margot’s place, which is lit up like the aurora borealis. An overflow crowd is milling around her front door.
Her Christmas party always takes place the first weekend in December, which naturally positions it as the very first party of the holiday season. This is done on purpose; in her mind, it is the equivalent of the Queen of England’s appearance at Ascot, heralding the first leg of Britain’s Slayer’s Cup.
“Huh,” he says, looking over at me after my breezy dismissal of Margot’s big night. It’s dark enough now that I’m in silhouette, so he can’t read my face. “When does your term as president kick in, anyway?”
Ah, hell. Busted.
I take a deep breath before answering. “Well, it doesn’t, exactly. I resigned from the board.”
“What?” He stops short. I can hear the tree sliding forward on top of the car. “What the hell happened?”
“Seriously, it’s no big deal! I just figured out that it takes up too much of my time.”
He lets loose with a loud guffaw and shakes his head. “What else do you have to do?”
“Just what do you mean by that?” I’m trying to keep the anger out of my voice, but I already feel as if I’m on the defensive. In the back of the car, the kids have quit their jabbering. All ears are tuned to us as they hear the rising tension in our voices.
“Look, I know you’ve got a lot happening here.” Ted, too, is aware of the little-pitchers-have-big-ears situation. “I just mean that the league has always been your—you know, your release. Something to do to catch up with your girlfriends.”
We’ve reached our driveway just in time. The kids tumble out of the car and swarm into the house for phase two of our grand adventure: decorating the tree. I work in tandem with Ted to untie the twine that holds the tree to the roof of our car. “It’s truly annoying how cruel they can be sometimes.”
“To you?”
I gulp before answering, “No, not necessarily.”
“To him.” He stops to gauge my reaction.
“Yeah, okay. It’s the principle of the thing. I don’t like what they say about Harry.”
“You mean, about Harry and you.” He yanks the tree onto the ground, stands it up, and shakes it, too violently. Loose needles rain onto the ground. He bites his lower lip.
Damn it, here we go again. “Why should we care? Why should you care? Ted, whatever they think, you and I know it’s not true.”
“No, Lyssa, I don’t know.” He holds my gaze. “I want to believe you, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. What is it between you and this guy, anyway? Tell me the truth!”
“Ted, you know the truth! I would never—my God, I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation!” I slam the car door shut. “Let me ask you a question, Ted. Would you, if you were me?”
“What? I don’t get what you’re asking.”
“Just answer the question. If you were in my shoes, would you be tempted to make a play for a nice guy who just so happened to be cute too?”
He gives me a strange look. “Get real. I can’t think like a woman.”
“Sure you can. You just did. That’s why you don’t trust me. So tell me: Why is that? Do you perceive I have any reason to want to be—you know, that way, with Harry?”
He knows what I mean. I can tell by the way he hesitates. “If I weren’t happy, yeah, I’d make a play for him. Or I’d fall for any play he’d make on me.”
He moves in close. “So, you want to play truth or dare? Okay, I’ve got one for you: Has he made his move yet?”
That’s just it. He hasn’t.
And that’s what hurts most.
I start to say something, but my hesitation is all Ted needs to presume he’s right. “You’re in over your head, Lyssa. That guy is poison. Everyone but you sees it.” He lifts the tree with one hand and heads for the door. “You’re going to be his rebound lay, don’t you see it? Drop him now, before it’s too late.”
“Everyone—even you, Ted—thinks they know him, but they don’t. They put themselves in his shoes, and they don’t like what they see.” I reach out to stop him. “That’s it, isn’t it? If you were him, that is what you’d do, right? Tomcat up and down the street?”
Now it’s his turn to think of a safe answer, but he knows I know him too well. “Yeah, okay, I’ll admit it. I’d go for it. I’d see it as getting even.”
I let this roll over me. “Gee, nice to know. To get even for what?” Then it hits me. “Oh! So I take it you think she had an affair, too!”
“Huh?” Realizing I mean DeeDee, Ted stops cold. “I—how would I know?”
“That’s just it. You’re presuming the worst, of both of them.” I push pa
st him, into the house. “And of me.”
“Damn it, Lyssa! Look, enough of this! Okay, let me make myself clear: I don’t want him anywhere near you! Okay?”
“No. It’s not okay. I should be able to choose my own friends. And you should trust my judgment.”
“Sure, then, have it your way. You’ve now made your choice. I hope you can live with it.” He dumps the tree sideways in the foyer and stalks off to the bedroom. A moment later I hear the Warriors game play-by-play.
No surprise there.
The kids stare at me, then disperse to their favorite pouting places.
My anger gives me the strength I need to pull the tree upright and move it into place at the base of the stairway.
Then I cry.
Not because he doesn’t trust me, but because I don’t trust myself.
31
“Love is a gross exaggeration of the difference
between one person and everybody else.”
—George Bernard Shaw
Monday, 9 Dec., 3:18 p.m.
Your kid makes a cute snowflake,” murmurs Biker Mom. She points over at Olivia, who is positioned in front of her seven-year-old daughter, one of the stately sugarplum fairies rehearsing for Madame Nadia’s production of The Nutcracker, albeit the only one with a diamond stud in her nose.
I smile my appreciation, but shake my head at the white chocolate drops she proffers. “Sorry, as tempting as those are, they aren’t on my diet.”
“What, yogurt-covered raisins?” She stares in mock astonishment.
“Oh, is that what they are?” Still, I hesitate before sticking my hand out. Old habits die hard, and I’ve been warned about taking candy from strangers.
And according to Brooke, there is no one stranger than Biker Mom.
“Yum! These are pretty good.”
“Yeah, and addictive. I think I’ve gained five pounds since I discovered them. You can find them at Trader Joe’s. It has much better prices than what you’ll find at the Heights Market.” Biker Mom tries to pinch an inch through her tight, shiny purple jeans, but no go. “You’re Lyssa, right? My name is Summer.”
I stop licking my fingers in order to shake her outstretched hand. “Nice to finally put the name with the face. Your reputation precedes you.”
She breaks out in a raucous laugh. “Aw, jeez! I can just imagine what that Brooke person has said about me! Hey, don’t worry, Cody and I don’t eat the heads off of snakes or anything. It’s not on our diet. We’re vegetarians.”
“Oh—no! Not Brooke. I meant Harry Wilder. He’ll be happy we’ve finally met. But I know what you’re saying. Brooke can be a bit of a snob.”
“Try ‘bitch.’” She wrinkles her nose. “Semantics aside, welcome to the other side.”
“Huh? What does that mean?”
“You know: to the land of the Undesirables.” She gives me a knowing smile.
“Oh, so you know about that? Harry shouldn’t have told you.” I feel my cheeks flame up.
“He didn’t. I’d already heard about it. Marcus let it slip.” She shakes her head. “He’s a sweet kid. Not half as insecure as his parents, so they must be doing something right.”
Suddenly it hits me that Temple isn’t here. “Where are Harry and Temple, anyway?”
“In court. DeeDee is making a big play for the house and child support. I guess she’s hoping Jake’s suspension works in her favor. But the judge wanted the kids’ input too.”
“That makes sense.” Of course I’m concerned for Harry, but I’m somewhat put off that I have to hear about this from Summer instead of directly from him. If she knows this much about his schedule, then apparently their friendship is closer than I presumed.
It makes me wonder what she thinks about my relationship with Harry. Brooke, my so-called closest friend—and let’s not forget my husband—thinks the worst about Harry and me. So why not this perfect stranger?
I hate being paranoid. But I’d also hate being a pariah to both sides of the Heights—the self-described Desirables and the Undesirables.
So that she won’t think I’m too curious about Harry, I think it’s best to change the subject. “Listen, Summer, about Brooke: she really doesn’t mean any harm. Frankly, I think it’s a self-defense mechanism.”
“I can see that.” Summer gives a spot-on imitation of Brooke, arched brow and all.
I can’t help but laugh. This earns us a cross look from Madame Nadia. Between the clumsiness of the sugar canes and the ADD of the ten-year-old boy recruited to play the village burgermeister in her annual holiday show, she has her hands full, and we both know it. Summer nudges me to follow her outside, to the same bench where Harry and I often take refuge.
“I’m not going to apologize for Brooke. She is who she is, that’s all there is to it. And I hope I’ve never given you the wrong impression—you know, that I didn’t think well of you or anything—”
Summer bursts out with a guffaw. “You? Nah. We knew you were harmless. At least, compared to the rest of the Coven.”
“What did you say? The . . . Coven?”
“Yep. That’s what the rest of us call your old pals, because they’re all so great at practicing bitchcraft.” She studies her nails, which, except for the rainbow glitter sprayed across her middle fingernail, are lacquered the same shade of purple as her jeans. “In fact, Mallory Eisenstadt—she’s the one the Coven calls Activist Mom—she actually named each of you, I mean them, after fairy-tale witches. Your queen bee is Maleficent. The horny one who’s always got workmen at her house is Bellatrix Lestrange, and that psycho one is called Ursula. You know, like in The Little Mermaid.”
I feel the raisins rising in my throat. “Man, that’s harsh!”
“Really? Think so?” She stops for a moment as if contemplating that. “But you didn’t think it cruel to call me Biker Mom.”
“Of course I did.” What I don’t say, but we both are thinking is, Not that I ever said anything to shut them up. “I’m almost afraid to ask. What was my nickname?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah. Go ahead, I’m bracing myself.”
“Hah. I’m surprised Harry never told you. It was Sleeping Beauty.”
I’m confused. “But she isn’t a witch.”
Summer smiles. “That’s the point.”
4:41 p.m.
“Your hair. You cut it.” That’s Harry’s way of telling me that he doesn’t like what he sees.
We’ve run into each other at Trader Joe’s. Since eating Summer’s yogurt-covered raisins, I’ve been craving them. Besides, it’s easier to shop where I know I won’t run into the Coven. Okay, yeah, that nickname works just fine for me.
In fact, I wish I’d thought of it first.
“Yep, I let my hairstylist go for it. Chop, chop, chop. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I was going for something sleek and sophisticated.” I give my hair a self-conscious pat. “I guess you can’t win over all of the people all of the time. At least Ted likes it.”
“That’s what counts, right?” Harry busies himself squeezing a few of the melons from the bin in front of us. He’s trying to be casual, but his tone tells me that this is too much information for him.
That’s fine. I have no desire to talk about Ted. I wonder if he feels like talking about DeeDee with me, or if that’s a privilege he reserves only for Summer.
Damn it, now I’m thinking like Brooke. Still, there’s one way to find out if that’s the case. “How did court go?”
“Oh, you know about that?” As he shrugs, he tosses the melon he’s holding into his cart. “But of course you do. You and your girls know everything.”
“If you’re referring to the Coven, let me assure you that I’m no longer its official mascot.”
He lets out a surprised chuckle. “So you know about that? Wow, you really do have great sources.”
“Just one. Summer. She’s my new best friend.” And apparently yours too, I want to say, but I know better. Friends aren�
�t jealous of other friends.
Of course, rivals are a different story.
I break open the container of the coveted yogurt raisins and gulp down a handful before offering it to him.
“Thanks, but no thanks. In my book, the term ‘healthy snack’ is an oxymoron.” He picks up the canister and stares at the ingredients. “But I may have to change my mind between now and the next court date. When the judge asked Temple what was her very favorite meal her dad ever made, she said, ‘Kellogg’s Variety Pack.’ I guess nobody will confuse me with Wolfgang Puck.”
I consider this. “You’re right. What else did the judge say?”
“Let’s put it this way: if Jake strikes out once more, it’s me who’s out—on the street. Bethany’s mantra is that I’m an unfit dad. She says it so loud and so often that I’m starting to believe it myself.”
“Why would you, when you’re doing your best? Yes, you’re the provider. But you’re more than that. You’re their father, too!” I shake my head in wonder. “I’m beginning to think DeeDee is one of those deadbeat moms.”
Just then, Temple and Jake come around the corner. Harry puts a finger to his lips. He doesn’t have to. I’ve already shut my big mouth.
“Hi, guys. Care for some yogurt raisins?” I hold out the container to them.
Temple digs in, but Jake wrinkles his nose and waves them away. Like father, like son.
“Mrs. Harper, would it be okay if I come over and study with Tanner tomorrow night, after practice? He’s better at geography, and we have a test the next day.” Jake’s concern is impressive. Apparently the court proceedings sobered him up.
“Yes, of course.”
“Great! . . . Aw, I forgot. We have to be at the gym early that day. Coach Shriver wants us there for our team photo.”
Count on Pete to choose the most ungodly hour for that. Something about the natural light at that time of morning. “Look, I have an idea. Why don’t you just sleep over? I know it’s a school night, but I have no problem dropping you both off at school early that morning. That is, if it’s okay with your father.”