Chapter Six
WHO SAYS YOU CAN’T GO HOME?
Woke up, slipped on my sneaks, and hit the streets of Ridgefield, New Jersey, for a speed walk early this morning. When I’m home, I Jazzercise and kickbox. When I’m away, I speed-walk. When I’ve stolen something, like the Calvin Klein sleeveless shift I shoved in my bag when I left Lisa’s, I run. Of course, I intend to return it. It’s too wrinkled to wear.
I departed my cousin’s two days ago to stay with my mom. In the house I grew up in. Where, it turns out, my room is about the same size as Harry Potter’s spot under the stairs. How I hid a six-month supply of Lipton instant iced tea, several cartons of Chips Ahoy!, and a case of Aqua Net in there, I’ll never know.
For musical motivation and to keep my mind off the searing pain of the shin splints I gave myself yesterday tearing around town, I cued up some home-themed songs and set off. First up, “Who Says You Can’t Go Home?” Not Jon Bon Jovi and Jen Nettles. Jen’s great, of course. And Jon? Ooooooh, Jon.
Jon Bon Jovi is my second-favorite Jersey boy44 and in my opinion, the only reason to watch Ally McBeal after Robert Downey Jr. left for a stint in yet another celebrity rehab center. Much to my relief, and that of millions of other women who lust after dark, brooding, tousle-haired, high-cheekboned bad boys with more talent in one arched, smirking eyebrow than the rest of Hollywood has in its collective body, RDJ is just fine now. Which is a damn good thing; Iron Man certainly can’t save the world if he’s strung out. He could, however, have Jon cover for him. And if you’ve ever seen that boy rock, you know I’m right.
Waving to the grinning, Day-Glo-vested crossing guard and maneuvering ’round the black-jeaned, charcoal-eyelinered, Hello Kitty–T-shirt-wearing tweens double-doused in Clinique Happy Heart and humping backpacks as big as worm bins,45 I whipped past W. Arthur Skewes Middle School, where my dad, aka Mr. C.,46 taught seventh-grade English since the discovery of the dangling participle. How a kid who took first grade twice because he spoke only Italian grew up to become a tremendously popular English teacher is beyond me. But it does give me hope that a kid who to this day can’t add and who did remedial math even in college—who does remedial math in college?—will one day be able to balance her checkbook.
Really, Suz. Zero plus zero is zero. Zero minus zero is zero. It’s depressing, but it doesn’t require a calculator. I’m unsure when Lynyrd Skynyrd replaced Jon and Jen, but suddenly I found myself singing “Sweet Home Alabama.” Out loud. This probably accounts for why the kids parted faster than Tony and Jessica 47 when they saw me coming, and why, for the first time ever, I was able to take Elm Avenue at a sprint. Elm’s one of those streets high school cross-country track coaches include in practice routes to weed out the girls who can run from those who are just there to chase boys. Like Jack’s beanstalk, it pretty much shoots straight up. And if you don’t pop a quad or burst an ovary before you reach the top, you make the team.48
In any case, I did it. I took the whole thing at a sprint. And as I raced past a few of my high school pals’ old houses, I felt so good that I thought I could do anything. Including stop in and say hi to whoever’s living there now. But I didn’t. Endorphins are good ’cause they make you happy. They’re bad ’cause they make you think complete strangers are eager to meet you.
Once I regained some of my senses, I remembered hearing that my friend Deb’s parents might still live in town. If that was true, I really wanted to see them. As a kid, I spent entire Partridge Family seasons in the Glucksmans’ TV room, using one of the pillows on the love seat to pretend kiss David Cassidy49 and a silver candlestick to sing into whenever Deb, her sister Sheryl, and I “performed” along with our favorite TV family.50 Did her mom and dad still live there? Maybe, but I wasn’t sure. I jogged up, thinking I’d try the bell, but then I saw it. I mean them. I mean it. The statue of the Madonna and child on the front lawn. Clearly the Glucksmans had gone.
With a quick wave to the Blessed Mother and baby Jesus, I ran on, past the community center, which to this moment still looks as if no member of the community has ever set foot in it, and turned down Shaler Boulevard. The pizza parlor’s still there, as is Anthony’s Pharmacy. What’s new is a Korean bagel shop and a nail salon. No, not in one space, silly.51
I stopped and peered through the window at the salon’s polish selection. Nose pressed to the glass and leaving a sweat print bearing a disconcerting resemblance to a monkey’s butt, I spied OPI’s Suzi Sells Sushi by the Seashore, and Tickle My France-y, and one of my all-time favorites, Paint My Moji-toes Red. Oh, how I love Paint My Moji-toes Red! I wanted to paint my moji-toes red right then and there. But the thought of stinking the place up stopped me. I flexed my funky toes, felt the sweat squish between them, and knew in my heart I could inflict what was marinating in my Nikes on no one.
Particularly not the lovely Korean woman looking back at me who was, I swear to Saks, a dead ringer for Annette Bening in The American President.
Big, wide-set eyes. Short, dark hair swept back off flawless alabaster skin, and complemented by pearl posts a shade brighter than her complexion. Even her soft gray turtleneck, scrunched casually around her throat, screamed Sydney Ellen Wade.
My attire, on the other hand, screamed, “Stay back! She needs a shower!”52
For a moment I just stood there, wondering whether it was possible for a person to be pickled in perspiration, my hair frizzed and corkscrewed and quite literally curled like the tails of those sweet Hampshires I have my heart set on, and stared. And then, because I figured I was frightening her,53 I smiled. I waved, too, and she waved back. She motioned for me to come in, but I just pointed to my sneakers and pinched my nose.
How would we survive without sign language?
As I took off to the sound of Daughtry54 crooning “Home,” I wondered if Miss Sydney Ellen Wade the Second knows who Annette Bening is. And if Annette Bening has any idea she has a Korean doppelgänger. And if anybody besides me makes these weird connections. And, if so, what medication they take, ’cause clearly mine’s not working.
I bobbed and weaved down the boulevard, sidestepping moms pushing strollers and kids trying to push one another into the street. Then I cut across the baseball field and headed for Wolf Creek, or, more accurately, the bridge that goes across Wolf Creek. And when I saw it, I stopped dead.
How the hell did that teeny thing hold all of us?
Thirty years ago, my friends and I hung out right here, talking and laughing, sneaking cigarettes, and stealing kisses. I can still see my first crush sitting on the railing, the hood of his bright white sweatshirt bunched like a cotton ball above his blue Ridgefield Royals windbreaker. He was trading fake punches with a teammate to get my attention, which he had in spades, so why he had to roughhouse and nearly fall backward onto the rocks, I’ll never know. What I do know now is why my mom didn’t want me or any one of my pals on this Popsicle-stick structure. It can hold two, maybe three people, tops. No, we wouldn’t have been killed if it had collapsed. But somebody could have broken their neck. Or sliced themselves good on a rock. And did we need obvious scars on top of the broken hearts some of us already had? I think not.
Still in shock, I suddenly found myself in front of the high school, an institution from which I graduated only by the grace of God, and the pass/fail policy adopted by the math faculty. For me.
I was surprised not to see a blimp-size plume of smoke obscuring the entrance of Ridgefield Memorial High, but heartened by the familiar expression on the students’ faces. To a teen, they all looked like they’d rather be dipped in boiling oil than be there.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Thank goodness. Speaking of RMHS, I’m speaking there later today. Sort of a “let this be a warning to you!” chat with the juniors and seniors. My message? Stay in school. Be doctors and lawyers. And leave the prime berths in Barnes & Noble to me.
Just kidding. I’m talking with the English honors students about writing and book publishing and, be
lieve it or not, magazine marketing. If they ask me about my Top Ten Ways to Pass the Workday,55 I’m going to plead the fifth. Grade. Though second might have been a better place for me to stop.
In an effort to prove I could truly hurt myself in my advancing age, and because I needed to get back to my mom’s to get cleaned up, I decided to finish my workout by jogging up Edgewater Avenue. Like Elm, Edgewater is painfully steep and perfect for masochists whose hamstrings just don’t have enough knots in them yet. Once again, I ran the whole way nonstop.
And then, for some reason, I kept running.
Past St. James Nursery School, where getting snack duty was the equivalent of scoring a spot on American Idol. Past my dear friend Roma’s old house, where I spent many a Sunday ducking Mass and Sister Patricia’s cate-chism class. Past Slocum Skewes School, where fourth-grade recess meant “Red Rover” and butterflies in my stomach till a certain cute, curly haired boy called me over.
It was as if death were nipping at my roots and I couldn’t rest till I connected with something Redken.
I didn’t actually do that yet, but I plan to when I visit
Panico56 in about an hour. All this racing around has ruined my blowout, and you know I can’t talk to anybody when my hair looks like a hay bale. Hell, I can hardly speak when it’s straight.
Okay, time to shower, dress,57 and charge the iPod. I also need to put together tomorrow’s playlist for the ride home, which will of course include “Ninety-nine Boxes of Louboutins on the Wall” and “See Ya, Jersey,” a little ditty I wrote to the tune of “On the Road Again.” Care to channel your inner Willie Nelson and join me in a chorus? And a one, and a two . . .
On the road again, down to VA to hang with the hens.
The life I love is where the shopping never ends,
but now it’s time to get back to the McMen.
And the goats and deer, and the cows and bulls that get
out on the byways.
They’re not my favorite sight, but I’m getting better at
corralling them my way . . .
on the byway. . . .
On the road again, down to VA to hang with the hens.
It’s been fun seeing all of you, my friends,
but now I’ve got to get to the farm again.
Maybe, before I hit the highway, I’ll make a quick detour and return my cousin’s Calvin. After all, it’s the right thing to do. She loves that dress. And with any luck, she won’t notice her Nina Riccis missing until I’m in Maryland.
Chapter Seven
THE COWPOKE WORE PRADA
I always joke that, unlike me, Hemingway hates to leave the farm. That he’d rather be here dealing with animals than “out there” dealing with people who behave like animals. But the truth is that I don’t let him leave the farm. In fact, I’ll do anything to keep him here, or at least keep him checking in every few hours or so.
I promise him something hot at lunch,58 and cold, sweet iced tea and a couple of chocolate-chip cookies if he’ll take a break around three. Come six, I’ve got his Budweiser poured into his favorite tall, frosty mug and his pretzels in a bowl, and by seven his mac and cheese and fish sticks are in front of him.59 It’s okay if he runs errands, like going to the local co-op or Tractor Supply in Marshall. And it’s certainly fine if he jumps on Route 50 and heads to Winchester for . . . whatever. But if he picks up 81 it’s guaranteed I’ll be on the phone with 911, or the plumber, or the principal of the high school. But the real reason I never let my honey leave the farm is because as soon as he does, one or another of our barnyard beasts escapes, and I’m forced to play cowpoke in my Pradas.
Of course, this time it was a little different. The eighteen-hundred-pound cutie that pulled the pasture break is not our property. She belongs to our neighbors at BlueRidge Farm. Yes, we have neighbors; you just can’t walk to their house unless you pack a lunch. In any case, just a few hours after Hemingway headed north for a weekend with friends from his fantasy baseball league, Henrietta60 got out and our phone rang.
“Sue? Hate to tell you, but you’ve got a cow strolling Rokeby Road.”
Hmm. My honey’s in Harrisburg. Think he’ll come home to help? Me neither.
I grabbed Cuyler and my camera,61 and we jumped in the car. At the end of our private road I turned right, expecting to run headlong into my future filet mignon,62 but nope. No cow. So I turned around and headed away from our property, toward BlueRidge Farm and Route 50, and there she was.
“She’s not ours, Mom. She’s Mike and Leslie’s,” said Cuy. Damn. Now I needed to be neighborly.
First stop, Mike and Leslie’s house. We ring the doorbell. Nothing. We pound on the door. Nothing. We rap on the windows. Nothing. Nothing, that is, except the sound of someone vacuuming. So we open the door and shout, “Hello! You have a loose cow!” The vacuuming stops, but no one responds. Ah, the beauty of the mute maid service. We shout again. “You have a cow on Rokeby Road!” The vacuuming resumes. We’re on our own. Shit out of luck. Up the creek without a cattle prod.
We jump back in the car and return to the scene of the cow. There we’re greeted by a very brave Good Samaritan who’s stopped and is trying to move the big moo all alone. Quickly, we hop out and assume our positions. Cuy opens the gate. I stand in the middle of the street blocking the big beast from making a break for Rectortown Road. And the Good Samaritan attempts to oh, so sweetly urge hungry Henrietta to stop eating thistles, cross the road, and return to the pasture. Things are going well until the cow spies Cuy and makes a beeline back to her snack. This doesn’t unnerve my son, but the rapid approach of the twenty or so head of cattle he’s been holding off sure does.
“Mom! Mom! They’re closing in fast. Get that damn cow now!”
Did he just curse at me? He cursed at me! God, I love this kid.
I burn rubber in my heels and in seconds am just inches away from Henrietta, arms out and fingers pointed like a traffic cop toward the field. Jen,63 aka the Good Samaritan, is doing her cajoling thing and wielding a twig. And Cuy? Well, the poor thing was hollering, “Hurry!” when God finally said amen, Cuy stepped to the side, and Henrietta ran home.
We locked the gate and checked it twice, and then Cuy and I hit the Old Salem Restaurant in Marshall for a celebratory dinner.64 Cuy’s a natural at this country stuff, and I guess I’m going native, too. Hemingway, on the other hand, is never going anywhere again.
Chapter Eight
BRUMFIELD FOLLIES
“I have nothing to write about!”
“Sure you do,” I urge, smiling and slipping immediately into mega cheerleader mode in front of twenty-two fifth graders I’d met just moments before. I should have been terrified. I’m no teacher. But no; I was so ready for this. Prepared. I’d done my homework. Quizzed my mom, the elementary school principal; my dad, the retired seventh-grade English teacher; and my little brother, the big New Jersey college creative-writing professor. They told me how to handle kids who draw a blank when faced with a blank piece of paper.
“Get them talking about things they’re passionate about,” suggested my mom. “Bring a stash of writing prompts, just in case,” counseled my dad. “For God’s sake, talk up your state schools, Suz,” teased my brother.
Ah, yes. There’s nothing like the loving support of one’s siblings.
“Of course you have things to write about,” I cajole. Still smiling, I add bouncing on the balls of my feet and bounding around the classroom to my tornado-style approach to teaching. And the kids? They’re watching me like somebody locked them in a room with the Energizer Bunny on a Red Bull drip. “It’s all in how you look at your life. At the details, you know?” I nod, fast, like a blond bobble head, and the kids at the table to my right nod back. They’re with me! That or they’re so freaked out they’re too afraid not to agree.
“Think of it this way: This morning you got up and came to school. But you didn’t just roll out of bed and onto the bus, did you? No. You woke up. And maybe you hid back under th
e covers for a minute because the room was so cold. Or maybe you popped out of bed, raced to your closet, and, holy mother of Hannah Montana!” I pause and look directly at a pretty, ponytailed brunette in a long-sleeved pink tee with rhinestone flowers on the front. “Your favorite jeans are missing!”
She giggles. Lots of the girls do. Oh, yeah: the clothes connection.
“So then what did you do? Did you sneak to the hamper and hope they’d be on top, you know, so they wouldn’t be too stinky?”
More laughter. Seems the boys have some experience with this as well.
“Were they on top? Or did you have to root around in all that yucky laundry to find them?” Twenty-two scrunched-up noses stare back at me. “And when you found them, maybe they were a little soggy ’cause they’d been squished beneath a towel your dad used to wipe up your dog’s drool.”
“That is so gross!”
“My baby brother’s barf is worse.”
“You’re wearing jeans with baby barf?”
Oh, yes. This was going even better than I hoped.
“And then what?” I stop and look slowly around the room. They know what’s coming. Several of them even have their hands over their mouths. Dog drool. Baby barf. For a split second I hope the school nurse has nausea medication.
“You slipped those soggy suckers right on, didn’t you?”
“Eeeeew!”
“Uh-huh. While your mom was busy with breakfast or your baby brother or whatever. And then you put on a nice, fresh shirt to hide the smell and hopefully, literally, throw her off your scent.” I pause for effect. “Did you get away with it? Are you sitting here in jeans that spent the night marinating in dirty sweat socks and damp dish towels?” They look totally appalled. It’s priceless. I sniff the air. Sniff, sniff. Sniff, sniff. They squirm. “Ladies and gentlemen!” I cry. “Do I detect the presence of some champion hamper divers?”
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