Out with the Old, In with the New

by Nancy Robards Thompson

I stand and glance around, notice a service station on the southwest corner. Perfect.

  I get in and drive to the station at a snail’s pace. The air-conditioning feels good, dissipating some of the sticky humidity.

  I pull right up in front of the garage portion of the station. Get out and flash my best smile at the two grease monkeys working under a lift.

  “Excuse me…ummm… Hi, I’m hoping you could help me. I have a flat tire and I tried to change it myself, but I can’t seem to get the nuts off—”

  The younger of the two men laughs.

  “I got the same problem, lady.”

  Oh. It dawns on me what I just said. What he just said. My hand flies to my collar.

  Oh, grow up.

  The pervert disappears inside the office. Through the open door, I can see him sit down behind the desk and make a phone call.

  The other man hasn’t as much as taken his eyes off the underbelly of the car he’s working on.

  “Excuse me,” I say again. “Can you change my tire for me?”

  “Lady, I got a four-hour backup here.” He talks out of the side of his mouth.

  “I can get to you about eleven o’clock tomorrow. If you want to come back.”

  “But it’s only a flat tire.”

  “Yeeeeeeeep.”

  He still hasn’t looked at me.

  He has black grime under his nails and dirt caked in the creases of his sweaty neck.

  From the intense way he scowls and bites his bottom lip as he does whatever it is he’s doing to the car, I suspect he’s a man who does not possess a sense of humor nor compassion for a woman who must pick up her child in half an hour.

  I don’t like him.

  I drive back across the street to the Publix parking lot. The car pulls hard to the side. It’s pouring now, making the street slick and hard to navigate. Any thoughts I entertained about driving back to Orlando Ballet on this flat go out the window.

  I pull into a parking place and curse the two lug nuts who wouldn’t help me.

  Now for plan C.

  I dial information. “Beck’s Garage, please.”

  “I have a listing for Beck’s Automotive on Mills Ave.”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “I’ll be happy to connect you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Beck’s Automotive. Jon Beck speaking.”

  “John, hi, this is Kate Hennessey. How are you?”

  “Hey, Kate. I’m doing great. It’s good to hear from you.”

  There’s something comforting in his Southern drawl. But I still brace myself for the inevitable, How’s that husband of yours. Much to my relief, he doesn’t ask.

  I know better than to ask him about Pam. They divorced a couple of years ago.

  We used to get together occasionally, the four of us. Pam’s a nurse. Works with Corbin at the hospital. After she introduced Corbin and Jon, Corbin started taking our cars to Beck’s.

  She left Jon for a pediatrician. It’s been a good two and a half years since I’ve seen him.

  “I’m in a bit of a bind and I was hoping you could help me. I’m at the College Park Publix, and I have a flat tire. I tried to change it myself—”

  “Do you have a spare?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say no more. I’ll be there in seven minutes.”

  I had forgotten how handsome Jon was.

  Tall—probably six-four; longish light brown hair; great smile, with lots of straight, white teeth. He looks a lot like the actor John Corbett. I’ve always thought so.

  How could Pam give him up?

  Foolish woman.

  But he’s not my type. Especially as I watch him unfold his lanky self out of his truck; a khaki rain slicker worn open over a Harley Davidson T-shirt and a pair of old faded Levi’s. I’d wager they’re the 501 button-fly variety, but—well, I can’t bring myself to look to be sure. I mean, this is Jon.

  Pretty Pam’s Jon.

  Pretty Pam’s ex-Jon.

  I squeeze the umbrella handle and my eyes meander south.

  Bingo. Button fly.

  “Kate, it’s good to see you, darlin’. It’s been too long.” He pulls me into a hug. He smells good. Not how you’d think a mechanic would smell. A mixture of woodsy green and Dial soap.

  Reflected in the truck’s windshield, I catch a distorted glimpse of myself in his arms: my cheeks are hollow and drawn; my eyes are two empty caverns; my dark roots disappear into the windshield making the blond portion seem to dance an inch away from my scalp in a humidity-induced riot of waves.

  I look like Picasso’s interpretation of Medusa.

  Uggh. I step away from Jon.

  “I don’t mean to rush you, but I have to pick up Caitlin in ten minutes.”

  I’m wringing my hands again and clasp them together to make myself stop.

  Hera stands behind Jon with her arms crossed, frowning. That was rude. He rides to your rescue like the cavalry in a tow truck and this is how you show your gratitude? Come on, girlfriend. Didn’t you learn anything in your Junior League years? Be gracious. Be—

  “Where is she?” he says.

  “At Orlando Ballet, across from Lake Ivanhoe.”

  He glances at his watch.

  “Get in the truck. We’ll go get her. Then I’ll change your tire. Sound like a plan?”

  I am so relieved I want to hug him all over again. But I don’t. I grab my purse off the passenger seat, and the hat and glasses. As he walks around to the driver’s side, I twist my hair up under the cap, shove the glasses on and climb in the truck.

  Forget the cavalry. As far as I’m concerned, Jon Beck is a knight in shining armor; the slightly rusted tow truck is his noble steed.

  “How old is Caitlin now?” he asks as he turns left onto Edgewater Drive.

  “She turned six in September.”

  “That’s right, she and Molly are the same age.”

  “How is Molly?”

  “She’s living with her mother. She’s doing all right.”

  His voice does an upturn on the words all right. It makes him seem like an overgrown boy whose voice is trying to catch up with his gangly body. I want to reach out and squeeze his hand, tell him I understand and that everything will be all right.

  But I don’t know if it will be.

  He’s been at this two years now. Corbin and I haven’t even filed for divorce yet. How would I know whether everything will be all right?

  “What was the hardest part?” I ask.

  He slants me a glance, and I wish I hadn’t asked. It’s a nosy question. He’d be within his rights to tell me to mind my own business.

  He pulls to a stop at the red light, cocks his head to the left, looks up at my sun visor, then at me.

  “Coming home to an empty house.” He shrugs, looks away. “Even though it was just the three of us, the house used to be so full of life. Good smells coming from the kitchen, the dog barking, the television blaring. Sometimes the chaos used to drive me nuts. Now, it all seems dead.”

  The light turns green. He accelerates slow and steady, just like his Southern drawl.

  “Corbin moved out.”

  Jon checks his side-view mirror, changes lanes, then looks at me again. “Sorry. When did it happen?”

  “Last month.”

  I’m pulled out to sea by a rip current of embarrassment. That Jon might think my call for help is a well-orchestrated ploy to see him because I’m free and he’s free and…it feels wrong and awkward.

  I know Jon, but I don’t really know him beyond our occasional dinners that stopped as abruptly as they started. It was Corbin and Pam who had everything in common: hospital politics; innovations in health care; a certain chemistry that might have made me jealous had I gotten jealous in those days.

  Jon and I were the indulging spouses along for the ride…. Oh, God. Could we have been that blind? It’s so obvious now—why else would Mr. Above It All have had a social interest in a nurse and an auto mechanic?


  “I tried to change the tire myself, but I couldn’t get the bolts off, so I drove it to the service station across the street, but they couldn’t work me in until tomorrow, so I—”

  “You didn’t drive on it flat like that, did you?” He frowns.

  “What?” I’m so busy inwardly cringing and trying to think of what to say to prove I didn’t call him to compare divorce notes that it takes me a minute to understand what he’s saying. “Well, yes. I had to get the car across the street. And back again.”

  “I hope you didn’t bend the wheel rim.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Sitting next to Jon—out of context, without Corbin and Pam—I feel cut wide-open. Naked and—

  “I think feeling so vulnerable is the hardest part for me. I don’t like being vulnerable.”

  “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  He reaches out and squeezes my hand—nothing inappropriate or flirtatious—just a gesture that says, I hear you.

  CHAPTER 11

  Saturday at noon, Rainey and Alex are waiting for me in a corner booth at The Blue Armadillo. It’s a kitschy hole-in-the-wall with a jukebox that plays non-stop Elvis tunes. It also serves the best Tex-Mex in Central Florida and margaritas that go down easy and leave you feeling no pain.

  The place is decorated with strings of chili pepper lights, tacky sombreros and blue armadillo piñatas. It’s in such bad taste you have to love it.

  The girls wave when they see me.

  “Look at you.” Rainey hugs me. “You look terrific.”

  Which translates to, You don’t look like you’ve been through hell and back this month. The Chanel sunglasses are terrific, but the rest is standard Kate. Copper Capri pants and sleeveless black mock turtleneck.

  “Rah-rah. How was the football game?” Alex waves an imaginary pompon.

  “Ugggggggh. It went into overtime.” I sit down, tuck my sunglasses in my purse. Rainey pours me a margarita from the pitcher they ordered. “Thank you. I need this. I love my daughter, but this cheerleading thing is for the birds.”

  I sip my drink and help myself to a tortilla chip and artichoke dip. Elvis’s “Heartbreak Hotel” starts up on the jukebox.

  I don’t even have to look at them to know what they’re thinking. That my newfound aversion to Caitlin’s extracurricular activity stems from my loathing of Mel-o-dy Wentworth. But I’m not going there. Not yet anyway. I just got here. I need a couple more ’ritas before I can discuss her.

  “Thank God the season’s over in three weeks. I don’t think I can take much more. Who ever heard of football in the spring anyway? It’s a fall sport.”

  “That bad?” says Rainey.

  I nod.

  “I saw that one coming a mile away.” Alex rolls her eyes and bites into a chip. “Why’d you let her do it in the first place? Do you really think it’s a healthy image for a little girl? Standing on the sidelines, cheering on the boys. Come on boys, you can do it. But all I can do is stand here and wave my pompoms.”

  I know where she’s going with this.

  “Oh, come off it, Alex. It’s something all little girls need to try on for size.”

  She snorts. “I was never a cheerleader.”

  “Exactly,” says Rainey. “Look at you.”

  I change the subject.

  “It’s not the six-year-olds who are so bad. It’s the adults. There’s this one woman—I swear, it’s like she stepped off of the set of a Saturday Night Live skit.”

  They sip their drinks, waiting.

  “Picture a ponytailed, heavyset woman, about forty. Got it?”

  They nod.

  “She spends the entire game prancing up and down the sidelines crowing about how much spirit the girls have, then starts demonstrating her own spirit level. She actually fell in line with the girls and cheered with them. Six-year-old cheerleaders are cute, but we’re talking a forty-year-old peewee football cheerleader wannabe. It’s just wrong.”

  “You’re serious.” Alex eyes me then Rainey. “She’s serious. I’m glad I wasn’t there. I would have been forced to kill her.”

  “Who is she?” asks Rainey.

  “One of the parents.”

  “Fulfilling her unrequited fantasies at the expense of her daughter,” says Rainey. “I pity that child.”

  “Honey, in her mind she’s one of the squad,” says Alex.

  “I shouldn’t be talking like this. Caitlin’s having a good time. It’s helping draw her out of her shell.”

  “You have every right to talk like this.” Alex munches on a chip. “There’s something inherently wrong with a middle-aged woman acting like that, and it gives us license to mock her—mercilessly.”

  “How’s your dad doing?” Rainey asks.

  “He’s feeling a little stronger. That chemo is brutal. We’re in a holding pattern right now.”

  “How’s your mother handling all this?” Alex asks.

  “I really think she’s in denial. I try to get her to talk about things, but she won’t hear of it. I don’t mean to be heartless. I mean, I don’t want to face the facts, either. But the reality is she’s never been alone since they got married almost fifty years ago. It’s going to be a real adjustment for her if something happens. She’ll have to move in with me.”

  I shrug.

  “Mom and Dad came to the game.”

  “Was Corbie-baby there?” When Alex calls him that, she always uses a voice that reminds me of Bert on Sesame Street.

  I shake my head. “I dropped Caitlin off at his place on the way over here.”

  Rainey leans in. “What’s it like?”

  I shrug. “Haven’t seen it yet. He met me outside.” I take a big gulp of my drink.

  “Was she there?”

  I can tell Rainey’s been dying to ask about Mel-o-dy since I walked in the room. I had to give her credit for holding off this long.

  “Of course not. Caitlin’s spending the day with him. She’d better not be there.”

  “Have you outlined that?” asked Alex.

  “I shouldn’t have to outline it. He knows what’s good for his child.”

  Alex and Rainey exchange a glance.

  “You’re giving him a lot of credit,” says Rainey.

  “Kate, I’d suggest you be very specific in what you want and what you don’t, unless you want to be surprised.”

  I refill my glass, and I decide I can’t hold out any longer. I reach in my bag and pull out exhibit A. I slide the envelope across the table.

  Rainey holds up her hands as if she’s afraid to touch it. “Is this…?”

  I sneer and nod. “Go ahead and look. Don’t worry. It’s not contagious.”

  Alex chuckles. “It’s not funny. It’s just that I can’t believe you brought them.”

  The server, a young guy dressed like a mariachi, steps up to the table, flirts with Rainey, who is too busy peeking into the envelope to notice. He eventually stops trying to be cute and takes our orders.

  I lose my appetite watching disgust wash over Rainey’s face; I wonder if the guy thinks he provoked that reaction in his sombrero with its black and red balls dangling from the brim. Naaaa, he probably thinks he’s Zorro. More power to you, Zorro. I order my usual cheese enchilada and taco plate with refried beans and yellow rice.

  When we’re alone again, Rainey pulls out the photos, flips through them one by one.

  My cell phone rings “Jingle Bells.” Caitlin’s changed it again. She’s probably calling me just to laugh about changing the ring. I don’t recognize the number on the LCD screen.

  Oh, I miss her already.

  “Hello, cutie-pie. I’ve been expecting you to call.”

  Dead silence on the other end of the line.

  “Well, if I would have known that, I’d have called a lot sooner,” says a bemused voice. I close my eyes and clasp my hand over my mouth. I know that deep Southern drawl.

  “Kate?” he says again.

  I open my eyes. Rainey and Alex look as though they’re about
to climb over the table and perform CPR. I wave them off.

  “Hi, Jon. Yes, I’m here. Slightly mortified, but…I was expecting someone else.”

  “Jon? Who’s Jon?” They look at me, at each other.

  I put my finger to my lips.

  “Ouch,” he says. “Shot through the heart. It was the first time I’d been called a cutie-pie. Well, lucky guy, this cutie-pie.”

  I laugh. “I was expecting Caitlin.”

  “Okay, that’s better. She definitely qualifies for cutie-pie status.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  Alex or Rainey, I don’t know who, kicks me under the table. “Who’s Jon?”

  I pointedly turn away because I’ve already made a buffoon out of myself once, and I’m having a hard enough time focusing without them distracting me.

  “Who’s Jon?”

  I kick someone. Hard.

  “Owwwww!” It was Rainey.

  I mouth sorry, get up and walk to the front of the restaurant as the first strains of “Love Me Tender” begin. Don’t want to be one of those inconsiderate cell phone users who talks too loud and spoils everyone else’s meal.

  “Is that Elvis?”

  “It is. I’m at The Blue Armadillo with some girlfriends.”

  “Well, then I won’t keep you. I was just calling to say thanks for the brownies you dropped off yesterday. They were delicious. How’d you know they’re my favorite?”

  I walk outside and settle on the cement bench, grateful for the liquid courage from the two margaritas I downed before he called.

  “I’m glad you liked them. You did save my life. It was either brownies or be indebted to you forever.”

  I cringe. Why did I say that?

  “Hmm… I may have to reconsider that offer. Wow, this is a day of firsts. Called a cutie-pie and got an offer of lifetime indebtedness—I think there still might be a few crumbs left. May I exchange the brownies?”

  “Nope, sorry. No returns. No exchanges.”

  Hera whispers, Look at you, girlfriend. Holding your own.

  “I was afraid of that,” he says.

  There’s an awkward pause on the line.

  “Really, Jon, thanks for everything. You did save my life.”

  “All in a day’s work, darlin’.”

  My stomach does a little two-step. I place my hand on my belly because I shouldn’t be getting all warm and twittery over an old friend calling me darlin’. Even though I like the way his Southern accent rounds off the edges of the word.