Altar Call

by Hope Lyda

  His face softens into worry. His hands go back to my shoulders. “That isn’t stupid. You shouldn’t have had to ask. I’m so caught up in my new work that I’m missing out on the reason I moved back to Tucson in the first place.”

  “The fancy office and sizable bonus?”

  He hugs me and kisses my hair. “You, silly. I adore you. Next time, I will introduce you to her.”

  Is it terrible that I wanted him to introduce her to me?

  “And we will go out on a date soon,” he promises.

  “The three of us?”

  “Mari, you are my top priority.” He leans in and kisses me on the lips. “And you are my favorite person in the world.”

  I don’t even worry whether coworkers will see us kissing. That’s all I needed to hear. I set aside my reservations and kiss him back.

  Sudden Moves

  It taunts me, hanging there flashing all those stripes and colors.” Caitlin motions with grand gestures at her dress in her closet. We are sitting on leopard-print beanbag chairs on opposite sides of the living room playing badminton over her metal coffee table. As each serve sends a rush of wind over a PEZ dispenser, the Superwoman’s head rolls around with a “ping, ping” on the copper-and-aluminum surface.

  “I decided that we should think of ourselves as backup singers to Sadie’s finest performance.” It is a stretch, but I like my new perspective.

  “We won’t have to worry about being overlooked, that’s for sure.”

  “We’ll look like a Broadway version of the Partridge family bus.”

  “Or waitresses in an Austin Powers movie!” We laugh and bat the birdie back and forth.

  Ping.

  Ping.

  “How real is New York, Caitlin?”

  “That’s what Jim asked me last night.”

  “Oh, yes. Your reunion date. How was it?”

  “Like all early dating reunion dates—a bit like starting from scratch.” She retrieves the birdie from a potted plant. “That isn’t true. I was nervous because I had thought we were over before we started, but he seemed comfortable and really glad to see me.”

  “I think that is why people have dogs. They are always happy to see you.” I put my racket down to concede the match.

  “That was left field. Racket up. No quitting until we have a winner.”

  Caitlin lobs the birdie toward the ceiling. “Jim does have big brown puppy-dog eyes. And he is so kind. He brought me something from Mexico. Hold on.” She interrupts the game and walks over to a small vintage jewelry case. I watch her smile broaden as she removes a piece and brings it over to me. She walks as though carrying precious cargo.

  I stare down at a jewel-coated bug broach. The shape is disturbing, but on second glance, I see how delicate it is. “Exquisite,” I say.

  “His aunt in Mexico makes them. I guess she is a well-known artisan.” She flips the bug on its back and there is an inscription: “The amber is for my brown-eyed girl. The red is for my affection.”

  “Flip again.” I direct her actions so I can see the red stone in the center of the bug. It is a heart. “Caitlin, you have found a guy as romantic as you are.”

  “I know. And we do have a connection. Well, other than those endless couple of weeks when I thought he had deserted.”

  “It also seems fast. I mean, fast to receive a bejeweled beetle.”

  “Like you and Beau—romantic matches and it happened just like that.” She snaps her fingers.

  “We are not romantically balanced. Beau is far more about flowers and stealing kisses than I am.”

  Or he used to be.

  I ignore my mental digression. “But yes, it did happen fast. Faster than I would have…”

  Caitlin narrows her long-lash adorned eyes. “You aren’t going to become dissatisfied with life again, are you?”

  I shake my head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  This is as far as I can go in conversation with any of my friends or family these days. After my desire for a bigger life last year brought me full circle to appreciate what I have, people act as though I used my one free pass to life exploration. I like my life. I’m thankful for Beau. I appreciate my friends. But I don’t feel my phase of sacrifice or growth is over. I learned priceless lessons during my makeover, and I don’t think God is finished with those lessons yet.

  When does the sometimes helpful discomfort with life become the destructive seed of discontentment? I have nobody to ask these things. Everyone is tired of analyzing my life with me, but there is so much going on in my mind and heart these days.

  My life is obviously a retired topic, so I return to Caitlin’s life. “What if the New York scenario becomes only working with or under Isabel? Will that be enough for you?” I start up our game again with a fine serve.

  “I think it is better than the alternative—allowing my parents to run my life. I have been making it on my own without depending on my parents’ wealth or connections. Why would I want to go back to that feudal system?”

  “I believe in you, Caitlin. Whether you start your own place or partner with Isabel, you will find your groove.”

  “My groove? Are you under the spell of the dress or something?”

  My phone rings “Stayin’ Alive,” thanks to Angelica, who thought it would match our wedding attire. “Good timing,” I say and answer before Caitlin starts her Travolta moves.

  “Mari, it’s Mom.”

  I swing and nail Caitlin on the nose with the birdie before putting my racket down. “How is Dad? What did the doctor find out?”

  “Mari, it isn’t great news. Not the worst, so don’t get frantic, but your father is restricted to bed rest right now. He has a blood infection of some kind. Nobody seems to know how or when he contracted it, but chances are he has had it for a while. His fatigue is so much worse. He can’t work. He can barely walk across the kitchen without becoming breathless.”

  “Oh, Mom. How are you doing? What about the shelter?” I take in a breath. “And your campaign?”

  “Marcus is here. I will be fine. And the campaign can wait,” she states with conviction, but I don’t believe her.

  I hear Dad yelling, “I won’t let her quit!”

  “I thought Marcus was finishing his program at the university this term.”

  “He is. But Dad will be good in no time, Mari.”

  I hate to do this, but apparently I must. “Put Marcus on the phone.”

  My mom is flustered but she follows my instruction. If Marcus is the one who told Mom and Dad to initially call me about this, I know I can trust him to give me the actual home scenario. If Marcus is anything, he is straightforward.

  His first words make my head tingle. “I’m sorry about the news, Mari. We certainly were hoping it would be different.”

  What? Marcus is speaking on behalf of the family as though I am a concerned neighbor or a distant acquaintance. My tone comes off less perturbed and more scared. “Marcus, can they really do this without help? More help?” I clarify.

  “I will stay on longer if need be. My situation in Chicago is somewhat flexible.”

  “Marcus, take the phone to the roof deck. Then we’ll talk.” While I wait for him to climb the stairs to the top of the youth shelter, I walk into Caitlin’s dressing room, which is an actual bedroom. A year ago she decided that extra space for all her fashion creations and purchases was more important than splitting rent with a roommate.

  For a few moments I only hear Marcus breathing in the foreground and the sounds of daily shelter activity in the background—kids discussing the chore chart, asking questions of Mom and Dad, slamming the front door on their way to school, sports, and the nearby Metro stop.

  “I’m here.” Marcus’ voice is warmer now. I picture him seated on the bench with flower boxes sprouting lavender and rosemary on each end. A trellis of yellow roses is his backdrop—the nation’s Capitol, his view.

  “What do I need to know, Marcus. I trust your judgment.”

  “Str
aight out, Mari—he’s not good. And if your mom plans to go ahead with the campaign, and I think she does, this place could be in trouble. I’d like to think I alone could manage everything, but I’ll be working on my dissertation…” He pauses long enough for me to formulate my revised life plan. He hears me sigh heavily.

  “Mari?”

  “It’s sinking in, that’s all.”

  Marcus assumes I am talking about my dad’s health. “He’ll be okay. He just needs absolute rest, which you know is a nightmare for him.”

  “No, what I need to do next, that is sinking in. I’m coming to DC for as long as it takes.”

  In the living room, a shout from Caitlin is followed by a loud crash.

  “Mari, hold on. I could check in with you every week, and then we could assess this kind of change later. It’s not like you can just quit your job.”

  “Thanks, Marcus, but these are my parents. And I won’t have to quit. I’ll take a leave. You forget that the guy I was dating, am dating, is now my boss.”

  I hear a siren on the Washington, DC end and then Marcus’ voice. I can tell he is cupping his hand over the phone. When his words come to my ear they are close, intimate. “Mari, not a day goes by that I forget.”

  My heart catches a beat.

  Telling

  The walk to the Tucson Convention Center seems to last forever—as though I am trudging along on the bottom of the sea. My feet drag, my legs resist the pressure to keep moving, and my lungs are heavy. I could blame it on the heat, but it is the news I’ve received about Dad and the news I will need to give Beau that weighs on my limbs.

  I didn’t call Beau last night and tell him over the phone. I have asked for more connection in our relationship, and here I am planning to leave. But I know he will understand.

  After a restless night’s sleep and a shower, I decide to surprise Beau after his meeting with the city commissioners today. He’s joined one of their task forces as an advocate for special populations’ services.

  I wave to a little boy who is selling lemonade on the corner. As I approach his card table-turned-storefront, I can see swirls of sugar on top of the full pitcher. The ice has melted and the boy is ready to. After digging into the accessible part of my purse for a one-dollar bill I crammed there, I pull out a ten. Now I remember asking for cash back at the market last night. Last night when I left Caitlin’s I just wanted to be alone. I didn’t call Beau, nor Sadie or Angelica. I just lay down on the couch, opened a quart of ice cream, and stared at my ceiling fan wondering why or how I made this big decision so easily.

  I give the boy the ten. We talk for fifteen minutes about the rigors of owning one’s own business. I tell him my friend might open a clothing store. He is unimpressed because stores come with bathrooms and air conditioning and new merchandise. I nod and down my warm lemonade, but I remind him that he can close up shop at any time without worrying about firing employees or paying the lease.

  He nods and refills my glass.

  As someone who is not particularly fond of kids, my time with Bronson is enjoyable. Sometimes people are uncomfortable at the thought of what I do all day—hang out with the elderly—because they see it as sad. But it doesn’t feel that way to me. Once you find a kindred spirit or two or three, you don’t notice the age spots or the slow pace; you only see something of yourself in the other person. Or, sometimes, what you aspire to be. Surprisingly, I’m finding the same comfort level with Bronson.

  I talk about my dad. Not about the current situation, but about my growing up years and how he was always making life fun for all the kids. Bronson tells me about his dad, who is in the military and brave. He has story after story about his dad’s courage and warmth.

  “Is he your hero?” I ask my little friend, expecting a “yes.”

  “Are you kidding? My hero is Batman.”

  Bronson pulls a bunch of comic books and graphic novels out of his backpack. His eyes are huge with excitement; he is pleased to show me why Batman is the obvious choice.

  As he reads the small frames of adventure, I realize that the people we are afraid of and the people we make heroes have something in common—they are often the people we don’t know very well.

  So engrossed in the comic book story line am I that I don’t notice Beau walking by us. Only when I look up to resituate my lawn chair do I see Beau standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change.

  “Gotta go, friend. Thanks for sharing your piece of the sidewalk and your comic books.” I down the last of my sugar water and rush to get to Beau. I pray for some supernatural help through my fear of things to come.

  Guarded

  I need someone strong.” Caitlin is standing between the main doors of Golden Horizons and my car door. I can almost hear the eerie whistle of a Western showdown.

  “Not so strong,” I say, pointing weakly to my heart. “Won’t your parents think it odd, me tagging along to dinner?”

  “No. Besides, you are leaving town soon. If they are offended, it won’t matter.”

  “It will to me. I like your folks. Both times I met them, I liked them.”

  “Please. This is my big conversation where I stand up about my choice to go to New York.”

  “Where’s your car?” I scan the lot for Caitlin’s car, which is as recognizable as my own beater.

  “I had Mary Margaret from work drop me off. See, you are my transportation to my parents’ house. You’ll love the house, by the way. It is beautiful. I try not to go gaga over it in front of them, but it is breathtaking.”

  “I am going—not because of the whole house of luxury pitch, but because I want to support you. But aren’t you still evaluating this?”

  “Don’t be on their side.”

  I mime locking my lips and then unlock the passenger door.

  Our drive to the outskirts of town and toward the ritz of the hills is filled with conversation.

  I’m not a part of it, however. Caitlin is hashing out argument points with her parents who, I point out, are not in the backseat of my car.

  The driveway up to the gated community is miles long. As Caitlin enters her code in the security box and waves to the security guard staff, my palms start to sweat.

  “I’m not dressed properly, am I?”

  She laughs and points to her own outfit, which is something like an inside-out denim jumper with a tool belt cinching her tiny waistline. “Believe me, they will respect you because of your work. Your profession. There is nothing they like more than someone who earns poverty-level pay for the greater good.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You are within reach of government cheese.”

  “Ah, but my goals are about making a name for myself—at least that is their take. Clothing is a nonessential. They don’t want to hear my philanthropic ideas of combining social conscience and style.”

  “Which one of these huts is your family’s?” The landscaped, rolling lawns and giant houses make me feel as though I have stepped into a pop-up book. An expensive pop-up book.

  “See that gazebo by the large saguaro patch? Take that driveway.”

  Three gates later we pull into a garage as large as my apartment wing.

  “What? No valet parking?”

  “Only during parties and holidays.”

  I look disgusted. “We are slumming now.”

  We are three courses into a very long meal when Caitlin gets the nerve to bring up New York. She doesn’t use the words “I want to move to New York,” but says something more along the lines of “I love New York. Public transportation is so economical and really serves the masses.”

  My kick under the table is useless because Caitlin is seated across from me at least two yards past the length of my leg. I cause the centerpiece and her father’s head to shake.

  “You know what I love about New York?” I add. “The opportunity around every corner. And there are so many humanitarian organizations based there.”

  “It is noisy and dirty. And the streets aren
’t safe.” Mrs. Ramirez subconsciously puts her hand up to her diamond studs. Her line seems rote, as if she too has had advance imaginary conversations.

  Caitlin assumes her folks are in the dark, but I sense they know something. They share worried glances as they politely pass a fancy version of mac and cheese with olives and tomatoes. Twice I witness Mrs. Ramirez signal to her husband as if provoking conversation.

  The chocolate soufflés are announced, and we are asked to retire to the air-conditioned patio facing the backyard.

  We walk in a procession to our seats. Looking back at Caitlin, who takes up the rear, I mouth, “Say something.”

  Caitlin yanks on my shirt and pulls me behind a curtain that covers a large section of wall. “We’ll be right there!” she yells to them and turns to face me. “I think it is going well.”

  “Think again. Caitlin, I am not sitting through dessert unless you promise to state your plan.”

  “I was warming up to the topic. Then Mom had to mention crime.”

  “She knows.”

  “What?”

  “She knows. Her comment about New York was intentionally mentioned to squelch the rest of your conversation. But she was trying to get your dad to say more. I could tell.”

  Caitlin’s mouth drops. “Not possible.”

  “Possible. Are you sure you haven’t implied this move? Maybe a long time ago when this seemed like a pipe dream?”

  “I’m sure. I’ve been wanting to say something for so long, but I…” she stops short of a full thought.

  “Figure it out?”

  She squints and pounds her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I used their computer last week to book my next flight to New York.” She snaps her fingers as the evidence builds. “And then I used the phone to call Isabel. But they were out of town.”

  “She wouldn’t have to be suspicious to run across the list of recent Internet searches and to read her own phone bill. You always said your mom was meticulous. The woman is going to notice an extra long-distance charge. She might be rich, but I’ll bet she knows where all the money goes.”