by Amy Frazier
Isabel’s door was cracked a hair and gave when Chessie knocked. Her older daughter, sprawled on her bed with the ubiquitous headphones stuck over her ears, sat up and turned off her CD player when her mother poked her head in the room.
“Are you and Dad all right?”
“He’s just a little sore from the stitches.”
“I mean are the two of you okay? You know…”
“Sure we are. It’s just been a rough day.”
Isabel looked down into her lap. “It’s kind’ve been a rough year.”
“How do you mean, sweetie?” Chessie sat on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t know. I thought moving here would be easier. What with all the aunts and uncles and cousins. I thought you and Dad would be more, well, happy.”
“It’s been an adjustment for all of us.” Chessie brushed a lock of hair from her daughter’s eyes. She worried too much about things beyond her control. “But it’s only going to get better. I promise.”
Isabel turned soulful eyes on her mother. “Why did you go on strike? I don’t understand.”
“A strike is a negotiating tool. I’m trying to negotiate new family dynamics. I want you and Gabby and Dad to see me as the woman I am. An individual. I want you and Gabby to be strong and independent individuals, too. Enough to implement drastic measures.”
“I don’t know….”
“Know this. I love you all very much.” Unwilling to engage in any more dramatic discourse, she gave Isabel a quick peck on the cheek.
Although Isabel didn’t appear reassured, Chessie needed to touch base with her husband. They’d already gone to bed once without making up. She didn’t want to go for a second straight night.
In the master bedroom Nick seemed to be asleep already. In fresh boxer shorts, he lay on his stomach diagonally across the bed, leaving no space for Chessie.
“Nick?” she said softly.
He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t move or reply.
“I love you. I really do,” she added, in case he was feigning sleep, and backed out of the room.
She headed for a good long think in her studio, which, although cluttered, was far more orderly than the house. After no more than five minutes behind the potter’s wheel, she was startled to see someone in a Red Sox cap out of the corner of her eye.
“Friend or foe?” she demanded.
“Friend, I hope.” Martha stood at the top of the stairwell. “Is it safe to come up? I brought coffee—decaf—and cinnamon buns.” Martha made the very best cinnamon buns in southern Maine.
“Throw the buns up here, then go away!”
“Go chase yourself.” Martha popped above the landing. “Just because you throw a mean jockstrap, you think you’re better than the rest of us desperate housewives.”
Chessie stopped work on the free-form clay prototype before her, a project she’d already entitled “Her Head Was in the Goddess Movement, but Her Feet Were Firmly Planted in the PTA.” It was the piece the trustee at the Portland Museum of Art had expressed an interest in. “How’d you know I was up here?”
“Saw your light.” Martha placed the plate of cinnamon buns and the coffeepot on the lobster trap that served as a table.
Reaching for two handmade mugs on a nearby shelf, Chessie sighed. “I sure could use a cigarette.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“Yeah, well, I sure need something.”
“Chessie, what’s going on over here?”
“I’m not sure any more.”
“I don’t mean to pry….”
“Hell, there’s no prying when I’ve put it out in public for everyone to see.”
“The laundry.”
“And the picket sign, yeah.”
“And the dog bite.”
“I don’t take responsibility for that.” Chessie sat on the lumpy sofa next to Martha and poured two cups of coffee. “Nick stuck his nose where he shouldn’t have.”
“What is it you want—really want—out of all this?”
“Respect. Attention. Space. Hey, it shifts with the moment.” She rubbed her eyes. “After two days I’m not sure any more.”
“Then apologize to your husband. Get it over with and move on.”
Startled, Chessie looked at Martha.
“So you made a mistake,” her friend continued. “Being stubborn isn’t going to make it better.”
“Capitulating isn’t going to either. Besides, I don’t think the strike is a mistake. Nick and I have talked more in the past couple of days than we have in the past few months.”
“If you say so…but your confrontational stance makes it seem as if you see Nick as the enemy.”
“No, this isn’t a war.”
“What is it then? Be fair to yourself, Chessie, as well as your family. You need to be very clear about what you want before you draw a line in the sand.”
“I want— I need—to be a part of this family, yes. A part of a couple, as well. But I also want to be seen as an individual. Not just someone who serves a function, a cog in the wheel.”
“So this is less like a tantrum, more like a cause.” Martha raised her fist in a militant salute. “‘I will not be a doormat!’ I heard you.”
“They needed a wake-up call.”
“So you gave it. Now chill. Let a few things slide. Forgive them and start over.”
“It’s not about forgiveness.” Chessie frowned as she blew on her hot coffee. “It’s a matter of re-education. And that’s not a one-step process.”
“Uh-oh. You mean there’s more coming?” Martha looked dubious.
“This is serious.” Chessie had hoped for more support from her friend. She bit into a sticky bun and let the heavenly jolt of carbs give her a lift. “I haven’t been a doormat exactly. I didn’t do for Nick and the girls because they made me, or even because of any sense of duty. Sure, Nick and I planned a traditional family life, but I pampered them because I loved doing it. I didn’t realize I was spoiling them and they were taking me for granted. I expected more from them. The fact that they don’t reciprocate hurts. There are times I could use a little spoiling.”
“Aw, don’t be so hard on the girls,” Martha urged. “If it’s the laundry you’re worried about, don’t go there. All teenagers are slobs. It’s not a worthy battle.”
Keri was a great kid—smart and popular—but Martha and her husband, George, seemed to see her as a buddy. And sometimes Chessie winced at the things Keri got away with.
“It’s more than laundry,” Chessie insisted. “Gabby and Izzie have grown too dependent on me.”
Suddenly on a roll, she sat up ramrod-straight. “And why should I ask for their help? Our family’s a community. They shouldn’t think of work around the house as helping out poor old Mom. Each and every task should be the equal responsibility of each and every family member.”
“Perhaps…”
“No perhaps about it. I feel undervalued and overwhelmed. When we lived in Georgia, I heard a wise expression. ‘When Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.’ Well, I ain’t happy, Martha.”
She saw genuine concern in Martha’s face. “So what would make you happy?”
“One, I want my family to see my pottery as more than some little hobby. It’s Nick’s turn to support me. As an artist. This is the first move where I’ve had space to start a business, and I want to give it a try. Two, the girls need to see me as strong and purposeful, a mentor. Not their personal housekeeper.”
“Hmm…” Martha didn’t look convinced. “Maybe they need a friend as much as a mentor. I know if I came down on Keri like a drill sergeant, she’d be impossible.”
“Am I really expecting too much of them?”
“If Nick weren’t principal of their school, would you be so worried that his kids weren’t perfect?”
Chessie inhaled sharply. “You may have a point.” Nick’s career had always been about more than just the job. It was always about community service and family values and reputation. And Ni
ck wanted that reputation spotless. “Sometimes I feel as if we’re under a microscope. We can’t be just us. Nick and I are more like a public institution. We seem to have lost the art of being a private couple, able to live on our own terms.”
“He certainly loves you. You can see it in his eyes when he’s with you.”
“Yes, but does he love me madly, passionately, recklessly?”
“How many years have you been married?”
“That shouldn’t matter.”
“Be reasonable, Chess. You have a solid marriage. Security. Two things many women would envy. Nick’s an upright man. A good provider and dad. And easy on the eyes.”
“I know I have a good marriage.” For the tiniest of moments, Chessie felt guilty about not being satisfied. “I simply want it to be better. Hell, I want it to be great.”
“How are you going to get Nick to understand that without hurting his feelings? Without pushing him away? How are you going to win the battle without losing the war?”
Wasn’t that the big question in any revolution? Chessie tried to subdue the niggling doubt in her gut.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE NEXT MORNING, carrying a shredded newspaper she’d fished out of the rambling rosebush, Chessie stumbled into the house. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa in her studio again. Another night like that, and she’d be ready for the chiropractor. Another night like that and her no-sex ultimatum would be a nonissue.
Gabriella and Keri, both dressed in bathing suits, were sitting at the kitchen table, picking at leftovers from last night’s takeout and talking in excited whispers. They stopped when Chessie entered the room.
“You’ll make yourself sick,” Chessie remarked, unable to keep quiet. “That food hasn’t been refrigerated.”
Gabriella shot Keri a bored look.
“You’re both up early,” Chessie continued. “What do you have planned for the day?”
“We’re going to bike to the beach,” Keri replied.
“Just the two of you?”
A look of irritation passed over Keri’s face. “We’re going to meet some friends there.”
“Do I know them?”
“Mom!” Gabriella’s face flamed red. “Mrs. Weiss has met all of them. Now stop the third degree.”
Chessie reached for the coffeepot. It seemed to be the only clean utensil in the kitchen. She remembered Martha’s advice to let some things slide, and decided to cross the picket line for just a moment. “Let’s clear away this food and do up these dishes. Together.”
Gabriella glared at her.
“Since we’re biking, we really wanted to get an early start,” Keri said sweetly.
“We all have things we want to do today—”
“Okay!” Gabriella jumped from her seat. “If it will get me out of this house, I’ll do the dishes. Keri, you can dry.”
Keri’s eyes grew wide. “They’re not my dishes,” she said in a low deliberate voice.
“But if they don’t get done,” Gabriella replied just as deliberately, “we won’t be able to…go to the beach.”
Gabriella’s pointed look to her friend made Chessie wonder if the two were up to more than beaching.
“Morning.” At Nick’s terse greeting, Chessie turned to see him enter the kitchen, dressed in a three-piece suit. The summer schedule in the district required little more than casual attire.
“You look handsome,” she offered.
“When I explain why I won’t be sitting for a week, I figured I needed to look as dignified as possible.”
“Good plan.” She kissed him on the cheek, disappointed when he flinched. “Coffee will be ready in a sec.”
“I’ll get some at work. Could you drive me to John’s to pick up the Volvo?”
“But you can’t lie down in the Mini. Let me call Martha—”
“No!” He nodded at a pillow on the floor next to his briefcase. “If I stand at work all day, I’m sure I can tolerate five minutes sitting in the car. I’m not going to arrive at school backing out of the cargo space of my neighbor’s SUV.”
“Fair enough. Let me get my keys.”
Knowing this injury wounded his pride more than anything else, she wanted to hug him. But the stiff set of his shoulders warned her off. As much as she needed the hug, he’d simply need a good routine day at work.
In her second concession of the morning, she allowed him his space. As she retrieved her keys and silently headed for her car, Nick, just as silently, followed.
When they pulled into John’s service center, she could see the Volvo parked off to the side, something written in white on the rear window. She dropped Nick at the office, then pulled up next to his car. In paint kids used to write school spirit slogans all over their cars before football games, someone had written Go Dawgs! and drawn a cartoon bulldog, the school mascot. Except this bulldog held a ripped pair of pants between his clenched teeth.
Before she could rub out the graffiti, Nick walked over, and Chessie knew any chance of a routine day for him had evaporated.
GABRIELLA AND KERI pedaled their bicycles not toward the beach but to Baylee Warner’s house.
“Are you sure her parents aren’t going to be home?” Gabriella asked, a nervous knot in the pit of her stomach. Maybe Mom had been right about those leftovers.
“Positive. Both her parents work. Baylee’s watching her little sister this summer, but she’s at soccer camp today. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”
“I don’t know about all this…”
“Look, if you’re going to hang with me and my friends this year, you have to prove you’re up to it. Getting into the Surf Club this Saturday will prove it for sure.”
“Why the Surf Club?”
“’Cause mostly summer people and tourists hang there. Less chance someone will know our parents.”
“And Baylee’s going to make us look twenty-one? In your dreams.” Gabriella actually hoped Baylee couldn’t perform this particular miracle—the dress rehearsal was today—because, as much as she needed to be accepted, she was afraid to sneak into the over-twenty-one beach club. What if they got caught? “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re fourteen.”
“So? Half those models in Marie Claire are under eighteen.” Keri pedaled on. “You won’t believe what Baylee can do. I’ve seen her secret stash of clothes and makeup.”
If Baylee’s stash was secret, Gabriella didn’t want to ask where she’d got it.
“Margot’s gonna be there, too. We’re all going Saturday night.”
Gabriella giggled nervously. “Girls’ night out?”
“Oh, sure. Sometimes you can be so dense.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guys are meeting us there. Our job is to look hot. They’re getting everyone fake ID.”
Gabriella sucked in air. Things were going too far, too fast.
“You chicken?” Keri stared at her. “I could always ask someone else. Margot and Baylee already have dates. Danny’s gonna fix you up—if you want in—with Kurt Ryan.”
“Omigod, he’s so fierce!”
“It’s just a fix-up. Nothing permanent. Unless you can convince him you’re all that and then some.” Keri turned into Baylee’s driveway with Gabriella following. “Your friends can only do so much, Gabs. You gotta do the rest.”
Baylee opened the door before the girls could knock. “I am so excited I could pee my pants.” She gave Gabriella the once-over. “I gotta say I didn’t think you had the stuff. But when Keri told me about your idea to sneak into the Surf Club, well, I thought, totally bitchin’.”
Keri had told Baylee this was her idea?
“Come on upstairs. You’re going to love your options.” Baylee led the way to her bedroom. “Nobody’s here, so you get to see my collection in all its glory.”
Gabriella inhaled sharply as she looked around a room draped in piles of the latest outfits, accessories, makeup and lingerie. “What do you earn babysitting your sister?”
Bayle
e made a face. “Are you for real?”
“She’s just kidding,” Keri snapped, heading for a gorgeous pink lace bra Gabriella had seen in Victoria’s Secret. She remembered it cost fifty-five dollars.
“Picked that little number up on a particularly good day at the mall.” Baylee smiled angelically. “I even have a couple Wonder Bras for those of us who need a little extra.”
“Dibs on this,” Keri said, clutching the pink bra. “With this!” She held up a sheer turquoise blouse. “And this.” A black paisley miniskirt.
Gabriella’s mouth dropped open. Her parents would kill her if she went out in public dressed in any of those.
“But what about Gabs?” Keri turned toward her with a critical eye. “I think we need to concentrate on her first.”
Baylee ran a hand over Gabriella’s buzz cut. “Let’s work from the hair. She needs to look tough but tender, if you know what I mean. I’m thinking biker chick meets Catholic schoolgirl. Make those old dudes checking ID drool all over themselves.”
Gabriella suddenly felt unsure of her haircut. She’d done it to upset her parents. She hadn’t anticipated she’d have to fill a role with her peers. “I was thinking more sophisticated. Maybe the hair needs toning down. If you had a wig—”
“You’re too funny!” Baylee circled her as Keri dug through the clothes strewn about the room.
“This is so simple it’s brilliant,” Keri said, holding up a plaid pleated miniskirt, a plain white tank top, a man’s tie and a pair of strappy sandals with four-inch heels.
“And no makeup except big sixties eyes,” Baylee squealed. “Absolutely no one will recognize you.”
Good. Because if they did, and her parents found out, Gabriella would be grounded till she was fifty.
STANDING IN HIS OFFICE at four that afternoon, Nick flicked paint dust off the sleeve of his suit. Despite the fact that he’d been brushing at his clothes all day, those minute flakes kept recurring like a bad case of dandruff. Earlier at the service center, Chessie and John had ordered him to stand back as they’d used old rags to erase most of the graffiti on his Volvo. He knew they were trying to do him a favor by hurrying, but he wished they’d used water. He and his custodians had far too much experience with the temporary water-based paint and soap concoction. It washed right off, but when it was dry erased, it turned into a static nightmare.