Un-Nappily in Love

by Trisha R. Thomas

  “She’s so helpful,” I said with a grimace that could pass for a smile.

  The day had left me spent, which was really no different from the one before that, and the one before that. And surely the one to come. It was time for the tea party that I’d taken on. I’d crawled into my car with the intention of sitting still for a moment. My phone began to sing the ring tone of Jake’s song—although the seven seconds mostly featured Sirena’s hook. It was a great idea at the time. I’d tried several times to change it back to the standard ring only to hear her melodic screech even louder.

  “Hey, you,” I answered coolly as if the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened.

  “Hey, baby. I miss you,” he said practically whispering.

  “Where are you?” I whispered back. “Did you find a flight out?”

  “Yeah, finally. It’s been a circus. People everywhere trying to leave New York. Worse, they keep dropping off more people who can’t get their connecting flights.” He paused. “I just wanted to tell you how much I love you, baby.”

  “I love you too,” I said, still maintaining a degree of distance.

  “I have to tell you something,” he said shakily. “We had to stay at a hotel—”

  “No, you don’t have to tell me anything. I love you and I trust you. Okay. Let’s leave it at that.”

  He was bursting with his story already rehearsed and ready to go, emphasizing the we so I’d be prepared for the worse. I stayed silent. Not taking the bait. Knowing Jake, it was killing him that I wasn’t following the plan. Ignoring the script. No big deal. They’d been in many hotels, in many cities, why would now be any different?

  “I’ll see you when you get home,” I sang out in a pitch too high, quickly pressing the end button. Worse yet, I powered the phone down entirely. Whatever his story, I couldn’t stomach it right now.

  If he’d planned to lie, it would now become the truth. If he’d planned the truth, maybe he’d have to reconsider a new one. Change directions, change course.

  Good-girl Rules

  I was late.

  Not just a few minutes late. Not a quarter-past late. I was seriously-greeted-with-sneers kind of late.

  “I’m so sorry,” I announced after traveling up the flight of stairs into the private party area of the Chelsea Tea Room. The girls sat around the white linen-covered tables dressed properly for a tea party, their hands resting in their laps, all ready to burst but under strict instructions to sit still. Before I could tell them all how pretty they looked, I was intercepted by the tea lady.

  “You must be who we’ve been waiting for—for the last forty minutes,” she added with a hard glance at her delicate gold watch.

  “Ms. Parrot, right? I do apologize.” I waved a magic hand. “Now we can get started.”

  “Perot, the T is silent. I’m not a bird,” the stern woman enunciated. “This is more than a tea party. This is an etiquette class and being late …” she emphasized loudly, letting it hang in the air, “… is rude and rather disrespectful behavior.”

  I probably could’ve made it on time if I hadn’t changed clothes five times. I was standing there in a yellow dress reminiscent of Breakfast at Tiffany’s with silly white gloves and my hair gelled in a pristine bun. Obviously I knew the value of a good old-fashioned tea party. “I … I’m sorry, again, I apologize, to all of you,” I said in my most professional voice.

  “Apology accepted, and now we can move forward,” Jan Perot sang out to end the lesson.

  “But don’t let it happen again,” Miriam chided near my ear. It was a relief to see her, even masked in her wig. I hugged her tight. Her linen bolero jacket scratched my chin. All the other mothers were dressed casually, which meant they’d all planned to vacate the premises. Miriam and I were the only ones dressed properly for a tea party. The rest of the mother sneerers were obviously planning to escape. They were angry because I’d cut into their happy-to-be-free time. Hair, nail, spa appointments, martinis, and shopping were put in jeopardy because of my tardiness.

  Ms. Perot snapped her fingers for attention. “I’d also like to welcome someone from Life ’N’ Style magazine who’s doing a story on children’s etiquette. Who actually was on time. I’ve never read this periodical, but I’m told they’re very reputable.”

  I spun around to see Melba Dubois. Our eyes met and she winked. She was accompanied by a photographer. I put out my hand to block his first attempted shot. “Wait a minute. They’re not here for a story on etiquette.”

  Jan Perot peeked past me. “I beg your pardon.”

  “They’re here to focus on my daughter, and me.” I faced Melba, “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “I didn’t,” she said smirking. “But you’re welcome to remove your daughter from any photographs.”

  The clicking of the camera had already begun. Jan Perot opened her palms. “Why would they be here for you?”

  “My husband is Jake Parson.”

  A wry smile rose on Melba’s smug face. “Her husband is an actor.” The words left her mouth as if it were a dirty profession. “I don’t think one parent should decide whether or not the rest of the girls get a chance to be famous, featured in a very popular magazine. Right girls?”

  The group let out a chorus of, “No, that’s not fair.” All the while giving Mya the evil eye.

  Her breathy husky voice rose. “So smile for the camera.”

  “Mothers are excused.” Ms. Perot seemed to be targeting me specifically. However the whole group filed out fast, tramping down the stairs with hushed snickers. They were obviously pleased with their prompt dismissal, and my punishment.

  “I think I’ll stay,” Miriam said, taking a seat at one of the tables, fanning out her white linen skirt. I felt like kissing her.

  I sat patiently, ignoring Miriam’s pokes and frowns every time Ms. Perot listed another good-girl rule. Sitting up straight. Making eye contact. Talking should never take precedence over listening. Congeniality attracted friendship. Respect was the Golden Rule. If you didn’t respect yourself no one else would. Then it was proper placement of the napkin. Sipping, not slurping. Place settings were a roadmap. The outer silverware was used first, working toward the plate. All this was before the tea and pie were even served.

  In the corner, Melba Dubois sat quietly jotting notes. I’d bet any amount of money she was drawing smiley faces with devil horns coming out of their heads. One would be her firstborn since she’d obviously sold her soul. What kind of person uses children out of spite? Since I hadn’t cooperated, this was her way of getting under my skin. It wasn’t working. Her cameraman was fiddling with parts. So far he’d taken only one picture for their imaginary story.

  The cavalry arrived with pie. Three waitstaff dressed in white tuxedo shirts, bow ties, and black trousers each carried a tray on his shoulder. I wanted to clap at the sight of them.

  “Key lime or pumpkin?”

  I was starving. All I could do was point for fear I’d dribble at the mouthwatering glaze. The pie was set down in front of me. I picked up the thick slice of pumpkin and bit first and asked questions later. My white gloves were now orange at the fingertips. I slipped them off, then continued until my jaws were full. I felt the hand land on my shoulder.

  “This is a classic example of what not to do. Flatware is for civilized eating. Hand-to-mouth feedings are for bread only. The exception, a slice of pizza,” Ms. Perot offered. “Possibly a cookie, which is part of the bread group. No other exceptions. And you, my dear …” She pointed to Mya. “Remember to dab the corners of your mouth. Don’t swipe.”

  I could feel my momma-bear claws come out. Picking on Mya was unnecessary.

  “More important, wait for your tea to be served,” she said sternly. Forks dropped, hands fell to laps. The girls breathed a sigh of relief when the waitstaff returned with kettles of steaming water. “As I was saying, eating with your hands is a no-no, especially if it requires both of them to do the damage.”

  “What about
a fat juicy cheeseburger?” Miriam whispered, but not quietly enough.

  “Exactly,” Jan Perot chimed. “I recommend you remove cheeseburgers from your menu or you will be fat and, dare I say … juicy.” She eyed Miriam’s lower torso spread comfortably under her skirt. “They’re filled with by-products and unhealthy calories. Say no to burgers, young ladies. You’ll thank me in the future.”

  Miriam cut her eyes. “This woman is way too pent-up.”

  Lizzie raised her hand. “What about tacos? My mommy makes tacos and I have to eat them with two hands or all the stuff falls out.”

  Ms. Perot eyed Lizzie’s roundness. She had her mother’s apple cheeks but they no way reflected her actual size. “You would be a perfect example of what I’ve just stated.”

  “Oh, I’ve had it.” Miriam stood up. “Lizzie, let’s go. Up,” she ordered.

  “Mommy, I want to stay. I’m having fun.”

  “I’ll bring her home,” I said to Miriam.

  “That’s not the point. Did you notice there are no Hansels here? Why is it only our daughters are being brainwashed with this nonsense? Why aren’t little boys growing up with good manners? All the good manners in the world won’t stop your husband from cheating on you,” Miriam nearly whispered.

  So she did know. She must’ve known everything.

  Little girl gasps and then giggles followed. Melba Dubois perked up. The evening just got interesting. Maybe there was a story here after all.

  Miriam went on, her accent sharpened. “Listen up, princesses, the only thing good-girl rules are going to get you is a sink full of dishes and an empty bed.”

  Ms. Perot was beyond shocked. Speechless. Meanwhile Melba Dubois seemed to be in her element. Her pen was waving across her notepad at the speed of light. The camera rose and followed Miriam’s every step.

  Lizzie walked slowly to Mya and gave her a hug, then made her exit, waving to the rest of the girls, who felt sorry for their fellow Gretel. Lizzie’s short six-year-old legs could barely keep up with her mother’s stride. “Mommy, wait.”

  “Let that be an example of how not to behave,” Ms. Perot announced.

  “No, she’s right, Ms. Perot. Girls have a hard enough time loving themselves. You crossed the line talking about what Lizzie’s mother was feeding her. Talking about a child’s weight in that manner was just wrong. I think you’re the one who needs an etiquette lesson.” I faced the girls. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you who to be. Be yourself and love yourself.”

  I rushed out to catch up with Miriam. She’d parked on the farthest side. A lamppost hung over the area but flickered, barely giving off light. Miriam fought with the car keys, wiping the moistness from her eyes and pressing the wrong button until the alarm went off. Flashing headlights and a blaring horn only made her more flustered.

  I took them from her and pressed the button for silence, unlocking the doors. I helped Lizzie in the backseat, strapping her in. “Guess what, I’m going to take you and Mya to the movies next weekend. We’ll see the new Disney movie and eat loads of popcorn.” She smiled big and wide. Children were so easy to let go of the past, even if the past was five minutes ago.

  Adults were another story. “Okay, now you … you’re scaring me.” I closed the car door. Miriam was still shaking. How long had she been holding on, ready to bust with the information she had about her husband?

  “I’m scaring me. I can tell you, I’ve never been more angry in my life. All that talk about being proper and good. Please … good girls lose. Plain and simple.”

  “So you saw him with someone?” I knew it was dangerous territory I was treading. “What happened?”

  “Of course. I saw enough. I want to kill him. I swear if I could get away with it … Do you understand me? I want to see his lifeless body laying out in the street. That’s what I want.”

  The other moms were beginning to return. I searched around, over my shoulder, praying no one was within earshot. I thought I saw a shadow but wasn’t sure.

  “Miriam, don’t ever say that again. Nothing even close. You can’t talk like that, not in this day and age. People take a threat like that seriously.”

  More important, we both turned our attention to the backseat of her SUV. We both knew Lizzie had heard and understood every word.

  “I don’t want to feel this way.” She shook her head. “I love him.” She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “I’ve got to keep it together. But I tell you, back in Cuba, women had a remedy for men like this.”

  “You’re not alone. I know it feels that way, but I’m here and I’ll do whatever I can for you. I’m sure we can get your deposit back from the Monarch.”

  “Why would I need my deposit?”

  “You’re not going to go through with the renewal ceremony, are you?”

  “Of course. What … you expect me to end up like that crazy old bat in there preaching about what to eat and what not to eat? How to be a lady. I bet she hasn’t been laid in twenty years. Why should I hand my husband over to another woman just like that?”

  Our hug was brief. My phone began to vibrate and ring all at the same time. I saw that it was Paige and let it go to voice mail.

  “Your husband?”

  “No. Paige. She’s looking for good news about the success of the tea party.” This made Miriam burst out in a laugh that was good enough for me. The mood instantly lightened. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

  “I will.” Another hug. Her distinct brown-sugar-and-spice scent was strong. I preferred airy natural perfumes. I walked away, still smelling like her and probably would for the next couple of days even after a hard shower.

  Along with her scent, I was carrying Miriam’s pain. I knew the heartache and rage caused by rejection. I knew what it felt like when someone else was chosen over you. When it felt like no one loved you all because one man didn’t have the good sense to know your worth. We knew how to deal with death and taxes, but rejection … never went down easy.

  For me it was Dr. Clint Fairchild, whom I supported for four years while he went to medical school. After Clint graduated, I assumed he would rush to the nearest jewelry counter and buy my engagement ring. Instead, he bought me a puppy, then turned around and married someone else within the year.

  Nearly seven years later and the emotional memory was still as raw as if it were yesterday. Clint broke my heart. Jake healed it. Only problem was, the scar never went away.

  At this point all I wanted to do was end this day and find myself in my husband’s arms. I was overloaded with too much information.

  “Great little speech in there.” Melba Dubois popped out of the darkness. “You’re the kind of friend I’d love to have. So supportive,” Melba said before letting me pass back inside.

  “Is your friend all right?” Ms. Perot put out a genuine hand.

  “She’s fine.”

  “The magazine staff left as soon as you did, so I’m concerned our presentation may have been ruined by her outburst.”

  I let out an exhausted sigh. I didn’t have the energy to tell her no need to worry. That she’d never see her name or the Chelsea Tea Room in print, at least not in Life ’N’ Style magazine. Melba Dubois was after one thing and it wasn’t tips on etiquette.

  “Yoo-hooo,” the voice sang out.

  I’d seen Paige coming and did my best to punch the gas, only to hear the engine sputter. This car.

  “I wanted to tell you what a fine job you did at the tea party.” Her pink lips curved in a hard smile.

  My face scrunched up. “Really?”

  “Yes, absolutely. The girls raved about what a good time they had. That’s why I have to ask, do you mind taking over the meeting this Sunday? The Hansel and Gretels are scheduled for a culinary field trip.”

  “You mean food tasting?”

  “Yes, absolutely. It’s essential that our children learn good nutrition while enjoying the possibilities. More to life than hot dogs and hamburgers.”

  “I can’t, I’m sorry.”<
br />
  “Why not?” she asked pointedly. “The handbook specifically stated the requirements of membership. Volunteering is one of the requirements.”

  “Yeah, but it will be two weekends in a row. What about the other fifty or so parents?” I did the math in my head. Fifty-two weeks in a year, fifty mom and dads. I shook my head, no. “Not to mention, Mya won’t be attending the field trip because it’s her …” I trailed off. It wasn’t public knowledge that she had visitation issues. It was Airic’s weekend. He never missed a date and would threaten me with a sheriff visit if I even thought of not honoring the judge’s order. Like clockwork he’d be pressing my doorbell with his stupid sweater tied around his neck and his pleated trousers tailored to perfection, armed with treats and a good time to be had by all. “I’m sorry, not this weekend.”

  “Really, Venus, I hadn’t expected all this notoriety to go to your head so soon.” Paige raised her eyebrow. She dug in her oversized Dooney & Bourke and pulled out a computer printout. She let it fall inside my open window. “Keep in mind your daughter will need a stable environment, real friends she can count on. You may want to consider her needs while you and your husband are enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “Paige … really, it’s not that serious. Of course Mya will remain in the Hansel and Gretels, we’re just not going to be there this weekend … okay? Simple as that.” I eased off the brake, this time with a small prayer to get me out of there. The car pulled out smoothly. I waved when I felt like flipping the middle finger.

  When I was a safe distance away I stopped the car and looked at the paper. Jake and Sirena, a photo of them together face-to-face. Actually it was four pictures, each one as emotionally drawn as the next. I tore it up in small pieces and smashed it into the old paper cup that held my morning coffee.

  I beat the steering wheel until my palm hurt. When I turned to apologize to Mya, I saw the seat empty. I burst into tears. I’d forgotten my baby. I’d gone to the school to pick her up, got chased off by Paige, and left my little girl. What was wrong with me?