“My favorite poem is ‘The Highwayman,’” Laney says.
“‘And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding . . .’ ”
“Yep, pretty much.”
“Do you ever feel like you settled, Laney?”
“Yeah, a lot. I love my family, Heather, I really do, but I’ve got my PhD in biblical studies, and here I am with all these kids.”
“Wow.”
“I know it’s a choice I made. But talk about guilt. When I feel good about being a mother, I feel guilty about not using my degree. When I’m studying to keep up on things, I feel guilty about not being a good mother.”
“It’s a never-ending cycle.”
“And at church they could care less about my theological training.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because I’ve got girl parts, I guess. I mean, what other reason could there be?” She lowers her voice to mimic some unseen pastor or elder. “‘With your training, Laney, you should really be teaching. How about taking the Primary class?’”
“No.”
“I kid you not, Heather.”
“We left church a year ago and haven’t found a home yet. I don’t know what it is I’m looking for, Laney. I feel lost. I’d honestly rather stay home, read the Sunday Sunpaper, and eat homemade sticky buns.”
“You’re not the only one. I’m seeing it more and more.”
“Am I ungrateful?”
“No. You’re tired. We’re all just tired of doing all this stuff and feeling as fractious and unhappy as ever before.”
* * *
Laney heads out to buy more ice. So the vacuuming’s finished, I’ve dusted the furniture and the blinds, and now I just have to make sure the pool and the yard are in good shape.
Jace calls. “How’s it going?”
“Almost ready. Just some last-minute things to take care of. To be honest, I’m kind of glad to be having something here. With church I could justify all this with the youth group and the ladies’ groups meeting here, but it’s been hard to live in a place like this just for us.”
Church helped me justify this mammoth house. I mean, the big-screen TV, the pool table, and the game systems were perfect for youth nights here on the bluff.
More. More. More.
How about a pool? Two years ago, there it finally lay, in blue sparkling California coolness, umbrellaed tables at the ready for the fellowship of God’s people. Pool toys galore for the children—got those cheap at Tuesday Morning, though.
Built-in outdoor barbecue palace with a refrigerator and an icemaker. Definitely a necessity.
“Still planning the tennis court, hon?” he asks. The tone is so slightly sour you’d only hear it if you’d been married to the guy for seventeen years. I pretend I don’t.
“They break ground in July.”
“Uh-huh. Hey, gotta go. I’ve got an afternoon surgery. I’ll be home around eight.”
I place the phone back in the cradle and head out to the upper deck leading off from the family room. Who could have told me that more, more, more is never enough, enough, enough? We have those dreams when we’re tucked in those small apartments, thinking that lives lived in stone houses on hills overlooking lakes are surely free and easy. But those old days were exciting. I could put a gorgeous room together for under two hundred dollars, set a meal on the table for five bucks, buy a pair of jeans at the Salvation Army, and make the greatest skirts you’ve ever seen. Creativity proliferates in such circumstances, as I found in Jace’s medical school years when we lived just fine all year on what we now pay for Will’s tuition alone.
Great years, though, even with the limited income. How could I have known what a life we’d have when Jace first sat down in my chair at the hair salon for a buzz cut? Of course, I refused to clipper off those curls.
So, the deck furniture padding.
I open the doors to the pool house and start pulling out the golf-green cushions. This new furniture, more substantial, will last for years, I’m sure. A family from school told me about relatives who lost all of their furniture in a fire, so I gave them our patio furniture. They picked it up yesterday. It was only a year old, so I didn’t feel bad about handing it over as if I were giving away some second-rate castoffs.
Folks at school know me as someone willing to help out in such circumstances. It’s really the only true ministry I’ve got these days.
Laney slips through the French doors. “I’m back. Here, let me help.”
“Pads are in the pool house. Thanks for everything, Laney.”
“Sure. I need the time away from home. I’ll have to pick them all up soon enough. Are you sure you don’t mind driving Nicola home after the party?”
“Positive.”
At least my Suburban’s good for something. I drive schoolkids everywhere. I’m the first pick for field trips because I always have drinks and snacks on board. However, I don’t let the mean kids into my car. Will isn’t the coolest kid on the block, and he suffers for it. I learned a long time ago that my being nice to the bullies does not make them behave any more nicely toward Will. So forget them.
The cushions distributed, I suggest a cold drink is in order. Cokes in hand, we settle on loungers by the deep end.
“So you had a life before all this, I’m guessing.” Laney sweeps her hand over my vista.
“I had bigger dreams for myself, I suppose. I was a stylist, but I planned to major in business and have my own salon. I would have just called it Heather.”
Heather.
A classy sign with simple raised gold lettering on a white oval, and tasteful heather floral arrangements to welcome my clients once they ventured inside. Good coffee available, fresh fruit and chocolate, wine in the evenings. Haircuts, spa treatments, community, a nurturing place in a busy world. “I miss talking to my clients, the other stylists, hearing the ins and outs of ordinary lives. It’s all so big and important when it’s somebody else’s life, isn’t it?”
“What happened?”
“I married a med school student.”
“Well, at least he didn’t dump you after he finished.”
I raise my soda. “Here’s to that, that’s for sure. How long have you and Cade been married?”
“Six years.”
“You happy?”
“Sometimes. I just want to get the child rearing over with. I miss the classroom so much, and here I sit with this belly out to here again.”
“When are you due?”
“They say late July, early August. I lost track of when my last period was. And I refuse to get an ultrasound. My midwife doesn’t like it, but she’s a natural-type woman, so she understands.”
“I’d say you have other stuff to think about.”
* * *
I pull back up to the house around two thirty with a car full of kids intensely aware of the opposite sex, and ten minutes later their shouts ricochet off the waters of the pool and the slate patio. Two of the moms with lifeguard training stand on deck, chatting and getting browner by the minute. They look good in their suits. Not great. But darn good. Normally their volunteerism extends only to the sports program.
The girls have congregated around the edge of the pool, their skinny legs swallowed just below the knee by the water, chatting and gossiping while the majority of the boys, arms and legs loosely hinged, splash and dunk each other, hollering in their mid-change voices, thrashing about like clownish wildlife.
Will wants to join in, but he can’t. He volunteered to man the grill, and Carmen is standing there looking over his shoulder. It’s one thing to be the nerd; it’s another to know you are the nerd. My heart breaks that he is the gangly, artistic oddball of the group whose voice changed sooner than the others. Yes, yes, I know he will do wonderful things someday, but that he’s not welcome in this part of his world, a part I’m paying $20K a year for, mind you, makes me just plain angry.
And there’s Ronald P. Legermin, the ringleader, whom I could absolutely strangle.
> “I hate that child.”
Laney whips her head around. “What?”
“Ronnie.”
“So does Nicola. She can’t stand him.”
Whoa. I can’t believe she didn’t call me down for that one.
Carmen, dressed in the tropical theme of the party, pats Will on the back, then breezes in from the deck. Her skin glows like golden oak. “Burgers and dogs are almost done. Let’s get the food out, ladies!” She clicks on her lime green slides over to my fridge, her derriere shaking like a Latin dancer’s, and she yanks open the door. As she slides out Laney’s veggie tray, a frown ages her brow. “Okay, then. Well. Heather, did you slice the turkey yet?”
“Yep. It’s on a tray with the deli meats.”
“And did you arrange it nicely? Please say yes.” Laney reddens. Mercy, Laney, you’re a PhD, for gosh sakes!
“Whether or not it’s up to your standards, Carmen, I can’t say.” I point to the kitchen table where it’s displayed. “Is that all right?”
She gazes over. “Oh yes. Relief. The cake is gorgeous too. You’re almost professional at it, Heather.”
Almost.
She clicks on over to the ice chests and peers in, nods—in satisfaction, I hope—then clicks over to the bathroom. She peeks her head back around the doorjamb. “Do you have any cleaning wipes?”
Laney and I exchange looks.
“I cleaned the bathroom this morning, Carmen.”
“Really?”
“Are you that rude?” My hand flies to my mouth. Mercy!
Laney coughs into her hand.
Carmen reels backward. “Well, no, but I . . . well, I just thought I’d help out.”
I cross my arms. Might as well keep going with it. I am losing it a bit after all, right? “Because I’m getting a little sick of your snide way of making the rest of us feel so unworthy.”
Laney lays a hand on my arm. “Don’t listen to her, Carmen. She’s tired. She’s married to a heart surgeon, you know, and they’re never home.” She squeezes.
“Right.” I turn toward the refrigerator. Salad dressing. We need some for Carmen’s veggies. Carmen clicks back toward the French doors.
I set the dressing on the table. “Do you think I’m losing it, Laney?”
“Maybe. Would that we could all lose it like that.”
After Laney arranges the rest of the food, the kids file in, and Ronnie Legermin pushes his way through the crowd. I wish he wasn’t so good-looking. His dark hair is richer than any color I ever applied in the salon, and his wide shoulders loom above slender hips. “I’m first. Get out of my way, folks!”
He shoves Will, who almost loses the platter of grilled meat.
“Hey!” I say.
Will looks at me with eyes that say, Please, Mom. Don’t.
“Ladies first, Ronnie. Get back in the back of the line.”
He stalks back, and soon the group of boys are laughing and pointing at me.
After setting the platter on the table, Will slinks up to his room.
Carmen claps her hands, her bracelets jingling, and gives out a list of at least ten instructions, ending with, “I just cleaned the bathroom, so you’re all good to go.”
That sneak!
A kid shouts, “Literally!”
Somebody, please, anybody, get me out of here.
Nicola loads two plates and disappears up the steps.
* * *
Jace arrives home after the crowd has filed away, all except Nicola, who’s playing Super Smash Brothers with Will in the study. She’s kicking his butt, and he’s letting her with nary a clue. Jace throws his keys in a delft bowl placed on a half-moon table near the garage entry.
“How’d it go?”
“Good. They’re almost all gone.” I reach into the fridge for a V-8. “I’m going to run Nicola home in a while. She and Will are having a good time.”
“Does he like her like her?”
“I think so.” I hand him the drink.
“And do we approve?”
“Definitely.”
THREE
An hour later, we drop Nicola off at that bustling city row house Laney makes a home by utilizing an enthusiastic palette on the walls and decent finds at Goodwill. Nicola, brilliant in math, receives a healthy scholarship to St. Matthews. Laney, baby on hip and another tugging on her T-shirt, invites us in for something to drink but is visibly relieved when we decline.
Her husband, Cade, slogs in from the kitchen, one of the twins, a boy named Reid, wrapped around his foot like a sniffling moon boot. “Thanks for bringing her home, guys.” Cade peers with aquamarine eyes from a face pitted and scarred long ago by a youthful battle with acne. He’s the same height as his wife, with a paunch thicker than the lenses of his glasses, and Laney loves him. Talk about an unstereotypical couple: a house painter/carpet layer and a woman with a doctorate together caring for a passel of children. He loves her more, though. There’s always the one side of a couple who loves more. It’s Cade in this case.
After the good-byes, we find ourselves lost in a crumbling downtown neighborhood. Jace fell asleep two seconds after I turned out of Laney’s neighborhood in hopes that signs to the Jones Falls Expressway would appear. I still haven’t figured out who loves who more in our case. I don’t want to.
Jace’s snore practically shreds the upholstery. He’s so good-looking, and then this snore rips out. It’s like Mickey Mouse cussing or something.
I should have brought Will. He wanted to come, but Jace and I spend so little time alone we suggested he watch a movie instead. So now he’s asleep, and wow, what quality time this has turned out to be.
I pull over and nudge Jace. “Hey! Wake up!”
“What’s the matter, hon?”
“Look. I got us lost.”
He sits up. “Huh? How?”
“I’ve only been to the Petersons’ once before.”
“Do you have any idea where we are?”
“Last thing I remember is North Avenue.”
“North Avenue? Why would you turn on North Avenue?”
I’ve got to admit, it’s getting a little scary around here. “I was looking for Charles Street. I just sort of recall those wacky streetlights that line the road. But I think I turned the wrong way. So I went down a side street to turn around and bottomed out into this one-way street, and now I have no idea where we are.”
“Okay. Pull into that gas station there and I’ll get directions.”
“It’s got bars on the window. Let me drive to something else.”
“Hezz . . .”
“Okay, okay.”
Jace and I have switched male/female genes when it comes to getting directions. I am off the charts masculine, because really, if you drive on long enough, you’re going to recognize something eventually, aren’t you? And I am the expert at taking long drives and finding my way back home again.
He hops out of the car, the anemic light from the awning over the gas pumps encouraging his light brown hair to turn a sickly sort of green, and yeah, look at how much more white glitters along his temples. Mercy, Jace! Getting to be an old man there!
A man saunters up to him in drawers with the crotch practically scraping the cracked pavement. He gestures in such a way that it seems he’s offering something. Jace shakes his head and says, I think, that he just needs directions. He points over at our Suburban.
Okay, Jace, big mistake there.
“Hi, Mr. Drug Dealer, we’re rich whiteys from the country just ripe for the picking!”
My scalp freezes as I watch the man, all of twenty-two, reach out and put his finger in Jace’s face. Jace instinctively backs up. The man laughs, clapping his hands.
The radio is playing “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.”
I have two choices here.
Stay in the car. Jace would approve, wanting me to be safe; getting out would be a ten-regiment assault on his masculinity.
But he’s a surgeon, not some tough guy.
He’s brave every time he operates, but this is different, right?
Maybe if I just beep the horn. Or should I get out?
But before I can, he steals a glance my way, parallels his hand to the blacktop, and quickly slides it back and forth.
Okay. So stay put.
But I promised to stand beside him through thick and thin. I put my hand on the latch in readiness. My mouth dries out.
At least I can lower the music and roll down the window to hear what’s going on, because like George Michael, I’m not planning on going solo either.
“I’m just looking for directions,” Jace says.
“And I just want to see what you got to offer me for those same said directions.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Man, his voice is really calm. Guess when you’ve stopped someone’s heart with the full belief you’ll start it back up again, this is mac ’n’ cheese.
An inky Mercedes pulls up, blacked out and flat except for the chain motif around the license plate. Florida plates. Heaven help us, this is probably the big dude. Now the hair stands up at the back of my neck.
Cell phone! Cell phone! I’m an idiot! Cell phone!
I root through my purse as a very short, impeccably dressed man, his warm brown suit a shade lighter than his skin, slides out and walks over in a smooth, unhurried stride.
“Are you giving my man trouble here, man?”
Oh no.
I knew I should have cleaned out my purse. I thrash my hand around inside among the Noah’s ark animals, feeling at least ten lipstick tubes, a can opener (a can opener?), loose change, hoping I’ll hit the keypad and the phone will light up.
There.
And as I drop the phone into my palm, ready to dial, a new voice, female, pulls my eyes away from the phone and back to the scene.
“Ezekiel Campbell, you’d better leave that man alone!”
A woman taller than Jace strides into view, her nun’s veil flying behind her.
The first guy holds up his hands. “Sister J, I was just talking to the man.”
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