by Mary Campisi
“Dad’ll make you take me and you know it.” Janie scooted into the passenger front seat, and turned on the radio. “My pick today,” she said, flicking the stations.
“We’re not listening to that stupid country shit you like.”
“It’s my pick. I had to put up with your rap crap yesterday.” Janie punched in the station numbers until she heard Tim McGraw’s voice crooning, Live Like You Were Dying. “Dad said we could have vegetable lasagna or homemade pizza tonight. Which do you want?”
“Neither.” Kiki backed out of the driveway and headed for the high school.
“Well, those are the choices.”
“I’m hungry for chicken. What’s that stuff Mom used to make, chicken tetrazzini or something like that?”
“I thought you were a vegan?” Janie slid a glance at her sister.
Kiki shrugged. “Part-time vegan.”
“Like when Mom’s here, so you can annoy her?”
“No, like just when I’m in the mood.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Lay off, okay, or I might still tell Dad.”
Janie sunk back against the cloth seat. One more year and Kiki would be out of the house, at least a hundred miles away, ten times that if they were all lucky.
“Well, you better learn how to do something for yourself before you go away to college,” Janie said. “Like how to wash your clothes, do your own dishes, run the vacuum—”
“I can do all those things, if I want to.”
They were in the parking lot of McArthur High, inching toward a parking place. Janie grabbed her book bag. “Maybe, but there’s one thing you’ll never learn how to do.”
“Really?” Kiki thrust the Camry in Park. “What would that be?”
Janie unfastened her seatbelt, jerked the passenger door open and jumped out. “Get along with people,” she said, and slammed the door.
Chapter 13
Tula Rae swore the only way to make cinnamon rolls right was to pulverize a handful of cinnamon sticks into a velvet powder. Fresh, she said, that’s how it should be done.
For the past five days, Derry had sifted through stained and crumpled recipes in Tula Rae’s pine knotted kitchen, measuring flour into Fiestaware bowls and creating delicious fare with the help of a beat-up hand mixer and a 1972 GE range.
Derry memorized every herb in Tula Rae’s garden. She harvested sprigs of rosemary and thyme for the herb bread, sage for the pork roast, oregano and garlic for the pizza. And always mint for garnish.
“I know why you girls say you’re here”—Tula Rae punched a mound of dough with her bony knuckles—“but I think it’s time you tell me the truth.”
“Honestly, Tula Rae, I don’t know if I know what the truth is anymore.”
“Just start talking, it’ll work its way out.”
“The child my husband and I adopted two years ago is really his.”
“Well. That’s a zinger.” Tula Rae whacked her cleaver through the dough, severing it in half. “And you have a problem with that.”
“Damn right I do. He said he never knew about Charlie until the woman contacted him two years ago when she got cancer.”
“She dead?”
Derry nodded.
“You married when he got the woman pregnant?”
“No. He’d broken it off with her before we started seeing each other.”
“You love him?”
“He should’ve told me before I found Charlie’s birth certificate with my husband’s name on it.”
“Forget all that. You love him or not?”
“I do.”
“He love you?”
“He did.”
“Then get back there and get your man before somebody else snaps him up.”
“He lied to me and then he told me he did it because he was afraid of losing me.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“No, I do, but what about trust? Where’s that figure in?”
“That’s a tricky one,” she said, plopping a hunk of dough into a greased pan. “Right there between, ‘I screwed up and I screwed her.’ If he’d told you straight out, what would you have done?”
“That’s not the point. Alec’s a lawyer and he committed the worst crime of all. He took away my choice.”
“So, he took your choice away.” She picked up another blob of dough. “Would it have made a difference?”
Derry ignored the question, intent on making Tula Rae understand. “Every time I look at Charlie, I see Alec. They’ve got the same eyes, the same lips, and then I see this faceless woman having sex with my husband—”
“Who wasn’t your husband at the time,” Tula Rae added.
“And I go crazy.” Derry’s voice shook as she added, “He’s made such a fool of me.”
“A woman in love is always a fool, so is a man for that matter. But that’s what keeps us breathing, ain’t it, girl?”
Derry didn’t answer. She thought about Alec and the last time she saw him, the night she went to their bedroom to taunt him with her body.
Tula Rae covered the bread pans with a wide strip of yellow flannel, doubled, then tucked under the pans. “I’d be mad, ornery as a cuss, no doubt, but if I really loved my man, I’d stay with him.” Her dark eyes pierced Derry’s. “And I wouldn’t punish him for the rest of his days, either. Done is done, no going back. And there’s a certain amount of respect you gotta give a man who owns up to something like that.”
“Alec is a very honorable man,” Derry said in a soft voice. “One of the most honorable men I know.”
“Well, then,” Tula Rae murmured, “there you have it.”
***
Shea rushed toward Music and More, anxious to wrap her fingers around the flute. Beads of exhilaration thrummed through her as though she were the instrument. If only she’d chosen music instead of nursing, home might be New York, her workplace, Carnegie Hall. But, thank God, she’d found the music again, and with it, a certain peace.
She thought of Marcus bending over the keyboard, his long fingers graceful, evoking emotions within her that had been cocooned for twenty years.
The pain of Richard’s deceit lay shriveling in the corner of her heart. He hadn’t called, but more importantly, she hadn’t called him since the night Tanya Madison spilled the news about Richard’s other baby.
Shea reached for the door of the store and stopped. Through the window, she saw a little girl, four or five perhaps, crawling around inside the showcase. She watched as the child maneuvered her small body between a viola and a saxophone to get to the clarinet positioned in the center of the display.
Who was she? Obviously, from the dark ringlets and shape of her nose, she had Marcus’s blood running through her, though in what distinction, Shea wasn’t sure. Niece perhaps? Or cousin? The child reached the clarinet and positioned her fingers around the instrument. A five year old playing a clarinet? The girl looked up, spotted Shea and smiled—not a timid show of shyness, but the bold, confident reaction that comes when one is excited with life.
Shea opened the door and stepped inside, anxious to get closer to this beautiful child. “Hello.”
“Hi.” The girl waved her tiny hand. “I’m Madeline.”
“Hello, Madeline.” Shea moved closer and bent down on one knee so she was eye level with the child. “I’m Shea.”
“Hi, Shea.” Madeline jumped down from the showcase and hopped to where Shea stood. “I can play that.” She pointed to the clarinet in the window. I’m very good, too. Daddy says.”
“Wow, how old are you?”
Madeline held up four fingers. “And a half,” she said. “I’m a big girl.”
“I’ll say you are.”
“How many kids do you have?”
“Two, a boy and a girl. But they’re all grown.” She paused, touched her stomach and said, “And there’s a baby in here, too.”
Madeline’s blue eyes widened, “Can I see?”
“There’s nothing to see yet
.”
“Can I touch where your tummy’s gonna get fat?”
“Sure.”
Madeline rushed to her and lifted a tiny hand, waiting for Shea to place it on her belly. “Right here. This is where the baby’s going to grow.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t have a name yet. I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“You could name her Madeline if it’s a girl.” She rubbed Shea’s stomach. “And Marcus if it’s a boy.”
“Speaking of Marcus, where is he?”
“In the back, cleaning a saxophone. Come on, I’ll show you.” She grabbed Shea’s hand and led her past a curtained off area to a large room in the back, lined with instruments, instrument cases, tools, stacks of boxes and music books.
“Someone to see you,” Madeline called out in a singsong voice.
Marcus looked up from the saxophone and grinned. “Hi. Couldn’t stay away from this place, huh?”
“That and I wanted to continue our debate on Mozart versus Beethoven.”
He laughed. “You lost that debate yesterday.”
“Shea’s got a baby in her tummy,” Madeline said, pointing to Shea’s stomach. “Right under this shirt. See?” She started to lift up Shea’s shirt.
“Madeline! You’re embarrassing Shea.”
The child dropped the shirt. “I was just going to show you.”
“No, that’s not polite. Why don’t you go see if you can find me a #4 reed? Look in the front drawer by the register, okay?”
“Okay.” Her blue eyes drifted to Shea. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, then turned and ran out of the room.
“She’s very sensitive.” Marcus wiped his hands on a cloth. “Sometimes I forget just how sensitive.”
“She’s beautiful. Is she your niece?”
“No.” His voice softened. “She’s my daughter.”
“Your daughter?”
“Her mother and I never married. We share custody of Madeline.”
“She’s your daughter?”
“Right. People who aren’t married do have children, Shea. I know it’s not the best arrangement for the child, but in some cases, it’s a lot better than dragging the kid through divorce court. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I thought…” She turned away, trying to piece together his words. Nothing makes sense. If Madeline’s his daughter, his biological daughter, then…
“What, Shea? Tell me.” He stood in front of her, forcing her to look at him.
The words slipped out in an exhausted sigh. “I thought you were gay.”
“Me? Gay?”
His blue eyes were so deep, so pretty, almost. “You’re better looking than most women,” she blurted out.
“It’s called genetics.”
“You’ve got manicured fingernails.” There, let him get out of that one.
“The dyes kill my hands,” he countered, “crack my fingers and makes them bleed. Josie treats them every week and insists on buffing my nails, too. I let her do it to humor her.”
Okay, maybe. “You’ve got better fashion sense than I do.”
He laughed, “Do you really want to touch that one? Scrubs aren’t even on the Richter scale.”
“You’re a hair dresser,” she spit out, glee pinned to her words. “We all know about male hairdressers.”
“That they’re competent? That they have style? That they know how to cut hair?”
“That they’re gay!”
“God, give it up.”
No, not yet. “And you’re a good listener. Caring, considerate, interested.” She finished, half desperate, “You have to be gay.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, I’m straighter than that clarinet over there.”
“Maybe you’re bisexual?”
He shook his head, rested his hands on her shoulders. “No.” Marcus smiled down at her.
“I can’t… I was so sure…I never would’ve told you so much if I thought…” Every word she’d confessed to him rushed back to her. “This is so wrong!” She jerked away, bolting for the door. “Now you’ve ruined everything!”
***
Cyn crept into the family room, moving cautiously toward the tiny lamp on the computer desk. It was 2:20 a.m. The house slept. She flicked on the lamp and golden threads of light burst through the etched glass shade.
Just a few minutes, that’s all she needed. She’d promised herself she would stay away but for the last three hours she’d been able to think of nothing else.
Cyn moved to the desk in the corner, reached out and rested her fingers on the plastic keyboard. The monitor stared back, dark and tempting. The computer looked several models older than hers, not the high-tech version she’d become accustomed to, but like a junkie in need of a fix, it would serve its purpose.
She sat down and powered up the modem. The green lights flickered, then settled. Her fingers flew over the keys, anxious, deliberate, greedy.
And then she forgot everything but the green type on the black screen.
***
“I caught her on the computer the other night at 4:00 a.m.,” Shea said. “She said she was surfing the net, but she looked awful guilty, and she signed off right away. She’s been sneaking on the computer the last three nights. I hear her get up and she’s down there for an hour or two.”
“She better not be e-mailing those damn kids,” Derry said.
“No, I don’t think so. She wouldn’t do it in the middle of the night.”
“Unless she didn’t want us to know about it.” Derry got ticked just thinking about it.
“Or, she was e-mailing someone else.”
“Like who?”
Shea shrugged. “Who would you e-mail in the middle of the night? Four nights in a row?”
“A man?”
Shea shrugged again. “Who else?”
“Shit,” Derry whispered. “You don’t think Cyn’s got some cyber affair going on, do you?”
“What else could it be?”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Poor Sam,” Shea murmured, sipping her coffee. “I’ll bet he’s totally clueless.”
“Don’t say anything to her about it,” Derry said. “When the time is right, we’ll pounce on her.”
Later that afternoon, Derry, Shea and Cyn sat in the back of Pastabilities waiting for their linguine and calamari dishes to arrive.
“Remember what I said before the trip about not bringing up psycho drama bullshit?” Derry sipped a glass of iced tea, smiled at Cyn and Shea. She felt great with her re-dyed hair, back to black, thanks to Shea’s friend, Marcus. Or traitor, ex-friend, if you asked Shea. “Well, I’m ready to talk. I love Alec. And I love Charlie. I can’t imagine life without either one of them.”
Shea squeezed Derry’s hand. “That is so wonderful. You three belong together.”
“I know. And besides, I think I’m done with the plastic surgery for a while. It’s okay, but what’s the sense of getting a boob job? I’ll still never be as big as you because once you start showing, you’ll be a 44DD.”
“With a 44D gut and butt to match.”
“They won’t see the butt or the gut. Their eyes will be glued to the boobs.”
“Have you told Alec yet?” This from Shea.
“About the boob job or that I’m coming home for good?”
“You are so ridiculous.”
Derry laughed. “I’m going to surprise him. I’ve got it all planned. Dinner at the Tuscan Grille, jazz music at Louie’s, then home where he can unwrap me and find Victoria’s Secret.”
“Which is?” Cyn asked, always curious about Derry’s adventurous choices in undergarments.
“Don’t know yet, maybe I’ll go with a crotchless thong, or mini edible undies.”
“Every time I see Alec, I think about your underwear.” Cyn laughed. “I still remember the red heart tassels you bought last Valentine’s Day.”
“Men love that kind of stuff.”
“We don’t all have bodies like you.” Cyn attempted to smooth the small roll of flab pooching over the side of her pants.
“Honey, when the engine’s running, they don’t care”—Derry pointed a finger at Cyn—“and a little peek-a-boo lace gets the engine running.”
“It’s true,” Shea said. “Richard was really big on that kind of thing.”
“What?” Derry stared at her. “You mean all this time, you’ve been wearing crotchless underwear and edible undies under your scrubs?”
Shea shrugged. “Kind of makes you want to puke, doesn’t it?”
“No, actually, it kind of makes me want to take a trip to Vickie’s,” Cyn said.
“Richard’s an asshole.” Derry wrinkled her nose. “You could be Catherine Zeta-Jones and he’d still cheat on you. Some men are just like that.”
“I know, but when will I ever learn?”
“How about Marcus? Great hair, nice ass.” Derry laughed at Shea. “Just kidding. He seems like a nice guy.”
“He would be if he were only gay.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
Shea massaged her temples and pulled the skin against her hairline. “I poured my heart out to him—everything— about Richard, my inadequacies, how I hated my job, how I wanted to be a musician.”
“So?”
“So, I thought he was gay, and it didn’t matter. But he’s not and it does.”
“Shea.” This from Cyn. “Marcus is a nice, straight guy. What’s wrong with that?”
“He knows too much. Men aren’t supposed to find out what you’re really like until after you’ve been dating a while and by then, it’s too late.”
“Maybe he’s different.”
“I’m not interested. I can’t even face him. And besides, he’s too young.”
“No, he’s not,” Derry said.
“He’s thirty-two. That’s too young. If I were interested, which I’m not.”
“I think he’s got a thing for you.” Derry smiled over her glass. “And I can always tell.”
“Stop.”
“He did keep asking about you when we were in there getting our hair fixed,” Cyn said.
“Good for him. It’s just his nature, which again, made me think he was gay.” Shea closed her eyes and groaned. “Can we please change the subject?”