By the Numbers

by Jen Lancaster

  “I don’t recall Wyatt being a golfer,” Marjorie says. “I imagine his caseload was simply too heavy. What is it you do again, dear? Construction worker?”

  This is so like her to try to minimize what Chris does for a living.

  “Wait, was Wyatt an attorney?” Chris asks, the picture of innocence. “I didn’t realize.”

  Max cups his face in his hand and gazes dreamily into the distance. “Bunky Cushman says the bent grass on that course is exceptional. Plays so smooth. Especially with the long drive off the first tee.”

  “Maybe you’d want to hit the links with my father sometime? You’re in the custom cabinet business, right? Seems like you and he should finally meet. You two probably have a lot in common. Our family owns a construction business, some commercial, but mostly residential. I work for the family business, and I have a degree in building trade construction,” Chris says.

  And just like that, my dad becomes Team Wyatt Who?

  Marjorie is none too pleased with Max’s sudden defection. Finding herself without an ally, she concentrates on her drink.

  “Do you live in the city, Chris? Or are you somewhere up here?” Max asks.

  “Actually, most of our jobs are North Shore, so it never made sense to move downtown and do the big reverse commute,” he replies. “I’m actually still with the folks, if you can believe that.”

  “Afraid of cooking and cleaning for yourself?” Marjorie asks. She doesn’t think we can hear her mutter, “Mama’s boy,” to herself, or maybe she does and simply doesn’t care.

  I can feel myself tense up, but Chris puts his hand over mine. With one touch, he assures me he’s got this covered. “Just the opposite, actually. I take care of all the household chores in exchange for free room and board, which gives Mom more time to take care of her parents, who live down the street. This way, I save every cent of my salary to invest in my business. Way I see it, real estate’s always a solid bet and home prices are never going to be this low again.”

  Max nods. He made it from the streets of the south side of Chicago to a country club on the North Shore in one generation, predicated on the strength of the housing market.

  Chris continues. “There are a few places in Glencoe I have my eye on. I’m talking real fixer-uppers. I’ve already flipped one farther south. If I can pick up one of the places here in town, live there while I put in the sweat equity, I can triple my investment in a couple of years. Or maybe I can even hold on to one with an eye toward having a family in the future. I mean, this is one of the best public school districts in all of America.”

  Max holds up his scotch glass. “Very enterprising! You sound like a young man with a bright future.”

  “Thank you. The future is important to me,” Chris says. “Exceptionally important. Actually, the future is why I asked Penny to arrange this dinner tonight.” He breaks into a massive smile. “We have some news. Your daughter has agreed to marry me, and I feel like I won the lottery.”

  Last weekend Chris was down at my apartment and acting rather strangely. I chalked it up to spring fever, as the weather was unseasonably warm. We’d made plans to meet up for dinner with some of our friends. I decided we should swing by the Burwood for a drink because he was clearly too hyper to continue to sit around the apartment. Not even March Madness basketball could hold his interest, which was shocking. Chris made a big deal out of me calling everyone to tell them to come to the bar first. I didn’t understand why, but as he doesn’t ask for much, I complied.

  We settled at the bar and ordered our drinks, and then he got up. I noticed him having a word with Jimmy, our usual bartender. The Van Morrison song that was on stopped mid-verse and “It’s Raining Men” began to play. I looked over at Chris, who’d returned with a basket of popcorn.

  “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not. Listen, if I had to choose the perfect tune to represent ‘our song,’ this would not be my first choice. Not even close. Top of mind, I’d suggest Flesh for Lulu’s ‘I Go Crazy’ or U2’s ‘With or Without You.’ Or maybe some Peter Gabriel and ‘In Your Eyes.’ We could get our classic rock on with ‘Something’ by the Beatles or the Beach Boys’ ‘God Only Knows.’ But this?” He pointed to a speaker. “This is what I have to work with. This is the sound track to our great, rekindled romance. Not Bono’s haunting lyrics about how on a bed of nails you make me wait. Not Peter Gabriel’s sweet, soulful groove about your eyes giving me the resolution to all the fruitless searches. Instead, we’re gonna get absolutely soaking wet because it’s gonna start raining men.”

  “Hallelujah?”

  He slid a basket of popcorn over to me. “Have some.”

  I pushed it away. “No, thanks.”

  He pushed it back toward me. “Take a few bites.”

  “I don’t want to wreck my dinner.”

  He slid the basket over to me again. “This popcorn will not wreck your dinner, I promise.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Yeah, you will.”

  I noticed the velvet box tucked amid the salted kernels about the same time I realized Chris had gotten down on one knee.

  By the time Mother Nature took over heaven in the song, I was no longer a single woman. Proposal accepted, our friends came screaming out of the back where they’d been hiding.

  We’d been back together only since October, so marriage wasn’t on my radar, but as soon as he asked, I knew this was absolutely right for us. I didn’t need two more years of dinner and a movie to be sure I wanted my future with him to begin immediately. What’s ironic is no one else thought we were rushing into anything. Rather, those closest to us, like Karin and Patrick and Foster, wondered what had taken us so damn long to figure out what they’d already seen. (Foster is already lobbying to be Chris’s best man.)

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Chris says.

  “No,” Marjorie says. “You do not have my permission to marry my daughter. This is not what I want for her.”

  Chris’s slow, sweet grin never falters; nor does his confidence. “My gosh, I guess you must have misunderstood us. We weren’t asking your permission; we were sharing our good news. We’d hoped this night would be a celebration. I’m sorry to hear about your disapproval because family is so important to us, but if this is how you feel, no one will try to dissuade you. Please know we’ll miss having you as part of the wedding.”

  For once, Marjorie is speechless.

  Because it can’t be said enough when it comes to Chris: Not all heroes wear capes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “She sent me a friend request. She’s on her stupid ecotour in stupid Costa Rica and she still has time to send me a Facebook friend request. Must not be a very good vacation if she’s messing around on stupid social media,” I huff.

  “You said you liked her,” Karin replies. “Why do you sound out of breath?”

  “Because I’m on the treadmill.”

  “You don’t use the treadmill after work. It’s Wednesday. You walk on the treadmill in the morning.”

  “I walk on it at night now whenever Max claims the television in the family room and Marjorie the one in the den. Neither one of them can hear, so between his war show on the History Channel and her film with the Rock on full blast, it sounds like Jalalabad up there.”

  “When are they leaving?”

  “I’d like to get a straight answer on that myself. According to Max, their place is being renovated. But Marjorie said something about putting their condo on the market. When I ask them when they’re together, they both change the subject and begin to criticize me.”

  “I’m sorry they’re such a handful, but that’s nothing new. Remember when Marjorie grounded you for a month that one time Chris didn’t ring the doorbell when he was picking you up? ‘Darling, only slatterns jump i
n boys’ cars. Whatever will the Cushmans think?’ No wonder you’re basically Sheldon Cooper. Back to Stassi—she sent you a friend request? Why are you mad about that? You said you kind of liked her. A friend request seems appropriate.”

  “I did kind of like her! For a minute, in the moment, because she saved our butts. Not enough to have her pop up unsolicited in my friend feed, though. Not enough to view a million selfies of her in a tiny, unlined yellow-and-white-striped bikini that leaves zero to the imagination. Not enough to see her and Chris frolicking in crystal clear waterfalls or riding palominos bareback on the beach or feeding each other conch fritters with mango dipping sauce in a restaurant with a thatched roof.”

  “Those sound like really specific images; did you accept her request?”

  “No! It’s still pending.”

  “Then how do you know what flavor the dipping sauce was?”

  I have to be honest with her. “Because I was stalking her page, okay?”

  Karin says nothing for a couple of seconds and then finally exhales. “Oh, Penny.”

  My pace quickens as I explain my rationale. “I know. Listen, it’s easy to pledge to yourself that you’re moving on and you can really mean it this time. You can engage in all the right activities that will help you propel yourself forward, too, like listing your house on the market and signing up for Match.com. You can even fully participate, winking at men who may or may not be appropriate, exchanging e-mails with Wiccans with poor punctuation, and you can feel good about it. Yet a moment will come, maybe after a glass of wine, or maybe while you’re on the elliptical, or maybe while you’re in the middle of a staff meeting talking about Q4 projections, but the urge to know what is happening in your ex’s life will strike and it will become all-consuming, and there’s almost nothing you can do to stop it except to satisfy that urge. So you take a peek. You feed the beast. And it’s not a big deal. You look, and then you get on with your day. Maybe you see an unlined, striped bikini; maybe you see tempura-battered conch with mango dipping sauce. The point is, you get that quick rush of dopamine from the instant gratification and a tiny bit of closure, and that’s what helps you live the rest of your life like a normal person.”

  By the time I finish my explanation, I’m practically running and I’m panting fairly hard.

  “Penny, I’m telling you this as a friend. You’re too old for this nonsense. Stop it. This is junior-high-school-level stuff. You’re essentially riding your bike past their houses. If you’re already looking at her status updates, just approve her as a friend.”

  “But—”

  Her voice is stern. “Click ‘accept friend request.’ This is what a mature person does. I mean it. You can’t just spy on her page like you’re twelve years old. I want you to do this now. I’m going to log onto your page and look at your group of friends, and I’ll be pissed if I don’t see her listed. Do it. Immediately. I know you have your iPad within arm’s reach.”

  She’s right, of course. I open my iPad, pull up Facebook, and stab the button before I can change my mind. Without a glance at Stassi’s newly friended page, I snap shut the case.

  “Done. Are you happy?”

  “Blissfully so. You don’t realize it yet, but this is more forward motion for you. Keep making strides like this and maybe soon you won’t have to hide in the basement from your mommy and daddy.”

  I stop in my tracks. “That was mean, Karin.”

  “Intentionally so. You don’t accomplish anything until you get mad. I don’t understand why they’re at your house and you don’t, either. Correct me if I’m wrong, but they were cagey with Judith and Foster, too, right? They either need to give you some straight answers or GTFO.”

  “Get the Florida out?”

  “Close enough.”

  “This is all I can do today. We’ve reached the limits of my capability.”

  “Then you’ve probably earned yourself a plate of cheese and crackers and a Candace Cameron Bure movie. I’m gonna locomote. Something downstairs is burning. My kids are probably smoking something. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll be damned if they’re not sharing. Later, bitch.”

  I hop off the treadmill and collapse onto the old love seat where Barnaby used to watch me exercise. As I sit, I catch a whiff of cedar and leather and I’m overwhelmed with missing him. Any other dog would have reeked of dander or dust mites or Fritos, but somehow Barnaby managed to smell like something out of a Ralph Lauren showroom. He was even elegant in an olfactory sense. They broke the mold with him, that’s for sure.

  I do indulge myself with a Hallmark film where the actress from Revenge teaches a group of homeless children in a makeshift classroom with the help of Treat Williams. I follow this one up with a Lori Loughlin flick. I swear this programming is like visual Prozac, and it always evens me out. Chris was one of the few people who never mocked my quiet love of these movies—he said if people didn’t embrace a happy ending, then it was their loss.

  By the time I climb the stairs to the first floor, I’m mellow again. I’ll probably have a glass of wine and maybe a quick bath. Then I’ll hit the sheets to be nice and fresh for Kettlebell Thursday.

  “Where have you been? Stassi has been trying to get ahold of you all night.”

  A scowling Jessica stands in front of me in the kitchen with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, blocking my access to both the wine and the cheese.

  “Jessica?”

  Jessica, my daughter who lives in New York, the greatest city on earth, Jessica? Here in my kitchen?

  “How do you not have your cell phone on you in case people need to reach you?” she asks.

  “Jessica?”

  “Like, I can’t even with how inconsiderate that is. How were we supposed to know where you were? We were trying to find you and we couldn’t. That’s a problem, okay? Big, fat, huge, hairy problem.”

  I’m somewhat dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, but I was here . . . in my house. And the landline didn’t ring. Where are Mimsy and Gumpy? Didn’t they tell you I was in the basement?”

  “Obviously not.”

  Because I don’t wish to simply stand here while my child admonishes me for spending time in my basement while she lives one thousand miles away from me in the cultural center of the universe, I tidy up my parents’ dinner dishes. They’ve left them in a precarious stack on the kitchen island in between the two dishwashers, both of which are empty. Apparently ours are not those self-loading models they’d come to expect from having watched The Jetsons forty years ago. “Jess, what’s going on?”

  “Dad had an accident.”

  I stop in the middle of rinsing petrified arugula off a salad plate. “What? Oh, no. Sweetie, what happened? Is he okay?”

  “He was zip-lining in Costa Rica and he fell when the cable broke. Luckily he was at the very end of the run when it happened and he wasn’t up that high.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “This afternoon.”

  Shit, shit, shit. This must be why Stassi was trying to get ahold of me on Facebook. I don’t think anyone can message me if we aren’t friends. Damn it.

  Why did he have to go on the stupid zip line? Didn’t I specifically warn him about those? They’re already so dodgy, especially in a country where safety isn’t as stringently enforced as in the United States. Say what you will about our overly litigious American society, but frivolous lawsuits do keep us protected in so many ways. For example, we went to Cancún for spring break the year after I started working and I vowed we’d never go there again. Every activity was fraught with danger, from boats without life vests to beaches without lifeguards to elevator doors without limb-sensing-and-saving technology.

  Frustrated and exhausted from the constant vigilance, I figured a trip to a historical site would be harmless enough, so we ventured down to Chichen Itza on the Yucatán Peninsula to see El Castillo, the famous Meso
american step pyramid that was part of a Mayan ruin.

  Oh, how wrong I was.

  The steps on that thing were maybe six inches deep, and crumbling, and went up seventy-nine feet at a forty-seven-degree slope. But did the Mexican government add guardrails? Anti-skid tape? Perhaps provide helmets and a carabiner line onto which one might clip? Did they even post a climb-at-your-own risk sign? No. Everyone else just blithely danced up the thing like they were Rocky Balboa at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The kids were furious with me for forcing them to go up and down backward on their butts, but I was resolute. I was not about to have them tumble Jack and Jill style down the side of that thing. I kept saying to Chris, “People want to know what happened to the Mayans; I’ll tell you what happened. They Darwined themselves out of existence with this place!”

  A few years later the Mexican government closed El Castillo for climbing after a woman from San Diego fell to her death. Having been correct about the glaring safety issues was a hollow victory indeed. They really should have had signs, helmets, carabiner lines, guardrails, and anti-skid tape, is what I’m saying. So I’m deeply dismayed to hear that Chris was hurt, but not at all surprised.

  I ask, “What are his injuries?”

  Jessica slips onto a stool on the other side of the island. “He broke his fibula and tore his ACL because he tried to land on his feet. He’s okay and Stassi’s with him, of course. He had surgery and he came through fine and he’s in good spirits. He says with the scar, this is going to ruin his career as a swimsuit model. Really, he’s pretty banged up, but he’s lucky. They’re going to keep him a few days, and he’ll be able to fly home on Saturday morning.”

  I finish putting plates in the dishwasher and I wash my hands. “Oh, poor Chris. He can handle pain, but he’s the worst patient. He can’t stand being sick or at all infirm. Remember when you were little and he tried to refinish the floors when he had that hundred and three temperature?”