Tuesday Night Miracles

by Kris Radish

  Kit can’t even remember the last time she came downtown. Out for lunch? It was probably her mother’s funeral luncheon. The thought of all that makes her shake her head to push the memories back where they came from. She decides to let her mind go blank—she won’t tell Ronnie a thing about this anger-class mess. She will be as quiet as possible, which is, of course, almost impossible.

  When Kit steps out of the taxi, Ronnie jumps up as if she’s just seen Santa Claus approach. The moment Kit feels her old friend’s arms around her shoulders, she struggles not to cry. Oh, Ronnie!

  Ronnie pulls back, and Kit sees tears in her eyes as well. “Jesus, Kit, you look like hell!”

  “Nice to see you, too, you old crazy bitch.”

  Ronnie has a few wrinkles, but she hasn’t gained a pound and, if anything, her hair and mouth are brassier than ever.

  And, just like that, months and years slip away and Kit and Ronnie are holding hands as they did in the halls of high school, back when girls could do that and their friends wouldn’t think they were dating. They were just friends. Friends who cared about each other. Friends who eased the pain of sliding from childhood to adulthood. Friends who were more important than mothers and fathers. Friends who showed each other that the word family can have new and lasting meaning. Friends who so long ago promised to always be there, always stay in touch, always be available.

  “It’s been way too long, Kit,” Ronnie says, as they walk toward a sidewalk café. “Why did we let this happen?”

  Kit is not brave enough to tell her the truth. She’s not even sure she knows the truth. “Life, I guess,” she finally answers, as they find a table and settle in.

  “That’s bullshit, honey. Shame on us. Just shame on us.”

  “But it’s sort of true.”

  “You’ve never been able to fool me. I’ve got a few things to tell you, Kit. And I think we’d better order some wine. I have lots to share, and from the look of those very large dark circles under your eyes you have a few things to share as well. Remember all those days when we were seniors and we skipped out, had Johnnie cover for us and we just took off?”

  “As if it were yesterday.”

  “Let’s have another one of those days now. Can we? Oh, Kit, I’ve missed you so much!”

  Kit can’t help but fall into the day with her old partner in crime. By the time they order a second bottle of wine and lunch, she’s also stopped hating herself for calling Ronnie. Sitting across from her friend makes Kit’s heart ache, but in a good way; even so, she has vowed not to share everything. The embarrassment, even for Kit Ferranti, would be too much to handle.

  They do a major life update on their kids, their jobs or lack of jobs, the funeral. And after Kit talks about Peter, who, she admits, is working too much, probably because she’s such a crabass all the time, she waits for Ronnie to talk about her husband.

  Ronnie takes a huge gulp of her wine and remains silent.

  “What?” Kit asks, trying to imagine what Ronnie is about to tell her.

  “I hope you’ll still love me when I tell you what I did.”

  Kit can’t imagine not loving Ronnie Olson.

  “I had an affair with a dweeb from work,” Ronnie admits, filling her glass. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Midlife crisis? Just sick of being married? I’m still figuring it out, but the bottom line is that my husband left me. I’m divorced. I live in an efficiency apartment and I’m trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”

  Kit’s jaw drops to her plate. Never in a million years would she have guessed this. She’s stunned, astounded, and speechless.

  “Say something,” Ronnie begs. “Everyone hates me. I figured you hadn’t heard, otherwise you would never have called me.”

  Kit reaches across the table, takes her friend’s hand in hers, motions to the waiter for a third, record-breaking bottle, which they will spend the afternoon walking off by the lakefront, and decides to tell Ronnie her own very long story.

  Twenty minutes later, when Kit finally lets go of Ronnie’s hand, Kit smiles and says, “Say something. Everyone hates me. I figured you hadn’t heard, otherwise you would never have taken my call.”

  They both laugh very loudly, grab a wineglass, toast honesty, and then Ronnie discloses one more truth.

  “Your brother was always a jerk, you know,” she says loudly, as if she’s been waiting to tell Kit that her entire life. “You probably shouldn’t have done what you did, but pay the price. Maybe it’s worth it. Enough with the bags under the eyes already.”

  “And, to tell you the truth, I never much liked your ex-husband,” Kit admits, as she throws her arms around Ronnie’s neck.

  The playdate lasts for hours and hours. They walk along the lake, stop for coffee, and once they have sobered up they share a cab to Wrigleyville, where they order burgers and beer at a favorite Chicago Cubs watering hole. There is nothing left unsaid, as everything hard, horrid, and demanding becomes diluted with laughter, old stories, and lovely promises for the future.

  “Maybe it’s the booze,” Kit jokes, as they finally separate and turn in opposite directions. “But this was a wonderful day.”

  That night Kit falls into bed totally exhausted, knowing that her head will throb in the morning but falling asleep easily for the first time in many months. Two days later, when she reviews the assignment letter in the junk drawer she has to call Ronnie to get help remembering everything they did.

  Ronnie thinks she’s nuts. “Kit, it’s probably not supposed to be a travelogue.”

  Kit stumbles a bit. She’s not sure she’s ready for an emotional travelogue. Damn that Dr. Bayer and her bright ideas.

  The Red Dot

  Jane is driving in circles. Her GPS has taken a dump and here she is, out on another mysterious assignment from Dr. Bayer. YWCA? Isn’t that a dance or something? This day is going right down the toilet, and Jane isn’t real happy about that.

  She let the assignment slide. Jane realizes that ignoring things you don’t want to do doesn’t necessarily make life easier. The damn doctor, or whatever she is, will probably have something else for her to do next week.

  That’s what Jane thought when Derrick announced he was going to a golf outing for the day—heaven forbid he should stay home and do something with her—and she walked toward her home office as if she were heading to the gallows.

  The hike was one thing. Jane had to admit she ended up having quite a day out there with the bird woman. She’s been dreaming about beautiful swans, and the other night she actually woke herself up when she dreamed that she had turned into a swan herself. But this request was ridiculous. And what could be the point? Does she look as if she’s out of shape and in need of some kind of group-exercise class? She despises them—all those people whom you don’t know sweating and jumping around. It’s terrible.

  Jane had opened the envelope just before 10 A.M., and just in time. Saturday is apparently the golden banana at her assignment’s destination:

  Your next assignment is to spend part of a day at the local YWCA. I’d like you to enjoy yourself, of course—the facilities are fabulous—but I also want you to see if they need any help. I do believe their busiest day is Saturday. That is my recommendation. Good luck!

  Good luck? Jane looked at the clock, shuddered, and all but ran into her closet to find some workout clothes. This is absolutely not what she thought she would be doing as part of her punishment, or whatever this class was supposed to be. Jane is tempted to go back to her computer and Google this Dr. Olivia person. She could be some nutcase, making her take hikes and go to workout with people who can’t afford a private trainer.

  By the time she got into her car, turned the corner, and realized her GPS had the day off, Jane was also wondering what the other women from class had to do. None of this made sense to her, but she was going to do it. She was going to be a good girl, find the damn YWCA, and do whatever it took. The sooner the better.

  Her vague memory worked
and she found the YWCA in less than thirty minutes, and the parking lot was jammed. This was not a good sign. She was hoping the place would be closed and she could come back on Monday, when it might be half deserted.

  There were three people waiting in line ahead of her to check in, and the lobby was littered with children. Everywhere. Jane took one step forward, held her breath, and then it was her turn.

  “What can we do for you?” The girl behind the counter looks as if she’s ten years old. She’s chewing a wad of gum, her hair is in pigtails, and she’s wearing a tight neon-green tank top. Where are the child-labor people?

  “How old are you?”

  “Excuse me, ma’m?” The girl has leaned across the counter and looks as if she’s about to vault over the top like a gymnast. Talk about defiant.

  “You look so young. I’m just curious.”

  “I’m seventeen, and I run the desk on weekends. I can also manage the pool, lifeguard, do CPR, operate the defibrillator, and drive my dad’s big Dodge truck.” The little missy has thrown back her shoulders and looks as if she’s going to try and pin Jane to the wall.

  Jane goes pale. When was the last time she even talked to anyone under the age of thirty? “Can I take the next class?”

  “That would be karate for six-year-olds.”

  For God’s sake! Karate for kids barely out of training pants? Jane is almost stumped. “How about the class after that?”

  “Spinning in Gym D in thirty minutes. That will be ten bucks, because it’s obvious you’re not a member. Anything else?”

  Isn’t she pissy! Jane hesitates. She may as well get it over with. “Do you need any volunteer help this afternoon?”

  The girl stifles a tiny laugh. It sounds as if she’s blowing bubbles through her nose, but she manages to say yes, absolutely. There’s a birthday party in the back annex, and the extra helper called in sick. Jane tries not to faint. It’s a party for eight-year-old girls. She closes her eyes, takes her locker key, and wonders if Derrick, via someone he’s met in a back alley, knows anyone who could order a hit on a county psychologist.

  What happens next baffles her. The whole world has changed. She has to sign release papers saying she’s not an ax murderer, write down her driver’s license number, and give a brief work history, and then the little kid behind the counter takes her photograph.

  “I know, it’s stupid,” the girl says, as she snaps a photo. “People sue each other if they step on dental floss. And I suppose if it was my kid I’d want to know if some weirdo was slicing their birthday cake.”

  Jane nods. Has she been living on a different planet?

  As she heads to the locker room, she tries to think of the last ridiculous hard thing she had to do that doesn’t include the shoe mess and everything that happened right after it. It’s pretty hard to beat court-ordered anger class and a mug shot. Nothing comes to mind, but the locker room is a pit hole. There are towels and mothers chasing kids and open locker doors and a group shower that’s full of giggling girls. Jane gets out of there as quickly as possible.

  At least Spinning class looks somewhat normal. The bikes are a bit outdated, but the instructor looks as if he could beat Lance Armstrong. His legs are an amazing distraction, and Jane lunges into the class ride as if she’s on fire.

  Is this what she’s supposed to do? Go for it? Work out the angry tension? Watch this guy’s legs? She decides that she simply is not going to worry about it. She’s at the YWCA. She’s going to help at a birthday party. She’s pedaling hard. She’s not yelling at anybody. She’s following directions, which might actually be the point of the whole exercise, now that she thinks about it.

  The class ends in forty-five minutes, and Jane and everyone else is absolutely dripping with sweat. She wipes off her seat, thanks Mr. Beautiful, and is about to head to the shower when she wonders if that’s a good idea. What happens at a little girl’s birthday party? Will she really have to do something?

  She takes a fast shower, so that she looks halfway normal even if she’s at a stinky YWCA. She’s thrilled when she gets into the locker room and there are only a few grown women in the shower. So far, so good. There’s at least thirty minutes left before this birthday party, so she decides to walk around.

  The YWCA is huge. There are people everywhere. Apparently these places have become the social center of the universe. Kids could be doing worse things. When she bends to read the bulletin board, she sees that there are volunteer notices posted everywhere. After-school care, nurse on duty, coaches, Big Brothers & Big Sisters programs. Jane had no idea.

  She strolls toward the annex, where the birthday party is scheduled to be held, and is almost run over by a pack of screaming girls. It looks as if a United Nations bus has unloaded. It’s a rainbow of nationalities tearing past her and there they go—right into the birthday-party room.

  “Oh, no!”

  Jane presses her nose against the door and sees streaks of color dashing everywhere. There must be fifteen little girls running around. There’s a woman standing in the middle of the room motioning to her to come in. There are a few seconds when Jane is tempted to run like hell. She’ll fail the damn class and go to jail and make Derrick sell the house so they can leave town. Dr. Bayer is absolutely out of her mind!

  Before she can turn and run three more girls come running behind her, push the door, and Jane stumbles into the room.

  It is absolute chaos, and everyone but Jane appears to be having the time of their lives. There are games and candy and a mini-basketball hoop, and the woman in charge—Sherrie, a tall, smiling, totally confident middle-aged party queen—acts as if she can walk on water. No matter what happens, what gets spilled, this woman turns it into something fun. Jane feels as if she’s there to attend the party, instead of being an adult who’s there to lend a hand.

  Jane scoops up cake, manages to throw some balls, wipes a few faces, and the entire time she also wants to run screaming from the room. How do people do this?

  The party lasts ninety long minutes, and finally Sherrie blows a whistle. There’s a collective groan from all the wild little girls, but they obey what must be a “Get out of here” command. They drop their hands, grab their goodie bags, and start walking out the door.

  All but one girl.

  Jane is standing by the door with her hands at her sides, praying that she can leave, too, when the little girl comes up to her, takes her hand, and says, “You are so pretty.”

  “Th-thank you,” she stutters, her heart all but stopping.

  “Lady,” the little girl says, latching on to her hand. “Could you be my mommy?”

  Jane can barely think to talk. “Don’t you have a mommy?”

  The little girl shakes her head. “She left.”

  Just then Sherrie scoops the little girl up in her arms and waltzes her out the door while throwing Jane a big thanks.

  The house is quiet and empty when Jane gets home. She showers again to get the cake out of her hair, the chocolate milk off her legs, and the fingerprints of the little girl off her hand.

  But the hot water doesn’t take care of everything. No matter what Jane does, she can’t forget what it felt like to hold the soft, warm hand of that dark-eyed little girl.

  The Blue Dot

  Suicide is something that has never entered Grace Collins’s mind. She definitely thought of trying to get other people to do it, but she’s never once, even when the divorce was swallowing her alive, thought of it for herself, even in passing.

  Tonight Grace wonders what it would be like to throw herself in front of a fast-moving train. She is thinking about this as she sits in her car outside an art gallery two miles from her house. The art galley that is hosting a singles-night exhibition, complete with wine, toothpicks with cheese stuck on the end, a live jazz quartet, and presumably dozens of other people who have been ordered by their anger-management facilitator to go to the damn thing.

  Grace is slumped down in the seat of her car in the parking lot of the g
allery. She has on the best two-piece suit she owns; nylons, for God’s sake; a low-cut blouse that shows off what she thinks is her best asset—her cleavage—and a sweet pair of black pumps that she wore to the last office Christmas party.

  And she hates herself.

  “I am a miserable failure,” she whispers into her hands. “Look what’s become of me.”

  She knows that she’s not supposed to be angry, but right this second she’s angry at that damn Dr. Bayer. Her latest assignment has almost thrown her off the cliff:

  Your assignment this time is to find a singles event and attend it. It can be anything. Don’t worry about it but go. Have fun. Look around. See what happens. Then you can tell me all about it.

  When she finally got up the courage to open the envelope and read the assignment, Grace was afraid to move. A singles event? Like what? Bingo? A bar scene? Dance class? An online dating service? She dropped her face into her hands and had to struggle not to bite her fingers.

  Shit!

  This has become Grace’s new favorite word. She says it all the time when she’s alone. And she said it when she started her online search for singles events, which got her nowhere. Square dancing or bingo or slutting around in bars seemed to be the biggest things going. What was the point of this assignment again?

  Then Grace would remember class and that woman Jane with the attitude and Leah’s bruised face and Kit’s cowboy boots and she would start looking for a singles event all over again. Attending a singles event had to be better than sitting in class—maybe.

  More shit.

  She also had to find something she could do on a night when she knew for certain Kelli would be busy. Kelli would laugh for a year if she knew about the class and the assignment. Her big break came when Kelli asked if she could have a sleepover on Saturday night. Grace said yes so fast that Kelli looked at her sideways.

  “Mom, you don’t even know where I’m going to sleep over.”