Tuesday Night Miracles

by Kris Radish

  How in God’s name did everything get to look so shabby? The long wool carpet in the hallway is frayed so badly that it looks as if someone shredded it on purpose with a weed whacker. Dust is everywhere. In fact, there’s a string of it looped from the living-room drapes, across the ceiling, and it’s perilously close to entangling itself in an old fern that already needs to be resuscitated.

  Kit’s Tuesday-night pals are coming over in less than two hours and she has been trying to camouflage her house, which is in dire need of some tender loving care.

  And, admittedly, she looks like a woman gone mad. She has on her daughter’s old lime-green jogging shorts, which she somehow managed to pull over her hips, a Chicago Bears black-and-orange T-shirt that has the sleeves ripped off, and a baseball hat that used to be white and is now the color of the dust balls under the living-room couch—a not so lovely light brown.

  When she stops in front of the entryway hall mirror and catches a glimpse of herself, Kit is at first startled. Then she starts to laugh.

  “I should answer the door like this tonight,” she says, bending close to the mirror. “Dr. Bayer would probably send me directly to remedial anger class.”

  She stands there a few minutes longer, takes off the hat, pushes back her hair, and knows that for weeks and weeks she has looked as disheveled as her house. Maybe the house is simply a reflection of what she has been for way too long—ratty, more than a little worn, fraying at the edges, in need of a makeover. She feels absolutely liberated to be able to look at herself this way.

  Kit drops the hat, lets her hair fall back into place, and then holds it up so that it looks as if she’s had it all cut off. Then she stands sideways, sucks in her stomach, throws out her breasts, and lifts up her chin.

  Jesus! How did this all happen? Strands of gray hair everywhere. A chin that has grown by half an inch because the skin is sagging as if there were tiny weights tied to it. Wrinkles and lines multiplying by the second. Breasts that used to all but salute without the help of a jogging bra that is made out of industrial strength elastic. A stomach that reminds her of the one she had when she was five months pregnant with her daughter.

  “Kit, you look like your disastrous house,” she tells herself.

  And so what? Last week, or the week before, this might have bothered her, but Kit now sees only possibilities. Her life, the house, everything is an untarnished palette. “Look what I’ve been through. It’s never too late.”

  Kit Ferranti, the Italian fireball who once outran six neighbor boys after she threw mud on them, prides herself on the number of times she has not cried, can outdrink and outswear half the relatives at every family gathering, and who has managed to bury portions of her tender heart under an accumulation of life events, regrets, and misunderstanding—that Kit Ferranti is exhausted from worrying about what has been. She is so ready to dust.

  She turns away from the mirror, plops the baseball hat on backward in that ridiculous way that she absolutely hates on anyone else, and attacks the kitchen floor on her hands and knees for the first time in years. Screw the mop. She’s even going to throw a hand wax on it.

  First she walks to the old CD player—God forbid Peter should break down and get them an iPod—and cranks on a Beach Boys CD that pretty much stays inside the machine 24/7. And she tries to forget all of her worries and woes, and the very reason she is now on the kitchen floor. It’s as if the wax is putting a lovely shine on all the things she has walked back and forth across for years when she should have been sweeping the mess out the damn door.

  By the time Leah, Grace, Jane, and Dr. Bayer are en route, or should be, the house doesn’t look half bad. It’s at least clean, and if no one goes upstairs and sees all the crap Kit has thrown all over the place from the first floor, they might never know what the house usually looks like.

  Kit has found some old Christmas candles, made a pot of coffee, picked up some soft drinks and food to nibble on, and dimmed as many lights as possible.

  She sets the food and drinks on the kitchen table, moves some chairs into a circle around the couch in the living room, puts fresh towels in the downstairs bathroom, and is showered and ready when the doorbell rings a few minutes before 7 P.M.

  Kit is hoping that the first person to arrive will be Dr. Bayer. But it isn’t. When she pulls open the door, smiling, her heart starts to thump, because it’s Jane.

  Jane, looking a bit less battered than she did a week ago and strangely calm. One eye is still shouldering the remains of the attack and is black and blue a good two inches below her lower eyelid. The facial scratches are disappearing, and Jane is wearing a knit hat that she doesn’t want to take off, most likely, Kit decides, because there are some clumps of hair missing.

  Once Kit remembers the attack, how frightened she was and how absolutely terrified Jane surely must have been, and the hours following it at the hospital, when everyone—even Jane—seemed, well, different, she drops her guard.

  “Jane, come in out of the cold. How are you?”

  “A little better, thanks,” Jane replies, moving inside as quickly as possible and looking around just as fast.

  “Good. Come sit down or have something to drink if you’d like,” she says, taking Jane’s coat.

  Jane smiles. She’s being nice. Now Kit really wishes Dr. Bayer was there. Maybe the attack mellowed her, jarred something into place, made her think about whatever issues she has also waxed over. Maybe she’s forgiven Grace. Oh, please forgive Grace!

  While Kit hangs up Jane’s coat in the small closet directly behind the front door, Jane looks around like an interior decorator who has just sneaked into the White House master bathroom. Kit’s house is about what she expected. Worn, older, an inch or two in front of shabby. It also looks warm and inviting and like a real home, where people have lived with love and affection. Jane resists an urge to reach out and touch one of the photographs on the table that must be a family portrait. She doesn’t even have a wedding photograph hanging on her own wall. Jane doesn’t say a word. She takes a cup of coffee and walks into the living room.

  Before Kit can say anything else or talk with Jane, the doorbell rings again and it’s Leah, and right behind her is Grace. Where the hell is Dr. Bayer? Kit was so busy thinking about what her house looked like and ignoring her inner demons that she never thought about what happened before the attack, when Grace slapped Jane, a number of “fuck yous” were exchanged, and Jane flew out the door. The gentle bowling afternoon is now just a withering mirage.

  Kit’s stomach starts to rise several inches toward her throat and she forces herself to be positive. Maybe last week’s adventures made everyone think the way she had. Maybe even Jane realizes what they all have in common besides their anger. Maybe, even if she got a little carried away with the cookies, drinks, and the floor-wax thing—because this ain’t no bridge club—just maybe they’ll all act like big girls and get through this, herself included.

  She ushers Grace and Kit inside, and it’s obvious that Grace must be thinking along the same lines. It’s late fall in Chicago, but Grace looks as if she just escaped from a sanatorium. She’s so white and pasty-looking that her entire face has disappeared into her white blouse. Is she ill?

  “Welcome,” Kit manages to say, taking coats, and she is about to offer them drinks when Grace leans over and asks if she can speak to Jane alone for a moment.

  “Of course,” Kit whispers. “Go on.”

  Grace is being terribly brave—no wonder she’s pale. Jane looks on edge, but this is a great chance for Grace to say something to her before Dr. Bayer arrives.

  This is it. It’s this class or the end of life as Grace knows it, and apparently she’s not ready to raise a white flag, or so Kit hopes.

  While Grace timidly moves toward Jane, Leah walks into the kitchen and lets the smell of the candles, the warmth rising from the heating vents, the sweet glow of the light above the oven, wrap around her.

  Kit’s house is not exactly how she imagined i
t, but it’s close enough. It’s warm and lovely and clean, and it looks to Leah as if people have lived and loved here. There are no holes in the walls from fists or windows secured with duct tape. There’s real furniture, and probably food in the refrigerator and the cupboards. For a second, Leah is half glad that they can’t meet in the Franklin Building, just so that she can be in a real kitchen.

  Where is the husband? Leah’s so busy looking around the kitchen and into the hallway next to the living room that she has forgotten to listen to what Grace is saying to Jane.

  Kit is straddling both rooms. She wants to listen, wants to make certain Leah feels comfortable, wants Dr. Bayer to storm into the house and save them all. God forbid they should save themselves.

  But Dr. Bayer is one smart cookie. She is going to be as fashionably late as a clinical psychologist needs to be when dealing with a group of women who deserve a chance to talk and settle in before she arrives.

  Actually, Dr. Bayer is driving so slowly that she’s afraid she’s going to get a ticket. While she’s circling the block for the third time, Grace is standing in front of Jane and saying she is sorry, also for the third time.

  “I snapped, Jane, and I’m sorry and I hope that you’ll give me a second chance,” Grace mumbles with a shaking voice. “Everything is at stake for me here. My job, my family … just everything.”

  Jane is looking up at her and smiling. Grace has no idea what kind of smile it is, and she’s desperately trying not to let her mind go to the place where it wants to go. Jane is probably loving the heck out of this, and Grace is trying very hard to be sincere. But maybe Jane is being sincere. Maybe she understands about the power of forgiveness. Maybe her own personal assignments and what has been happening in class have helped her move on the way Grace has moved on.

  Last night while Grace was working on all the other assignments for tonight’s meeting, and relishing her time with Kelli, she took a few minutes to write down what her life would be like if Jane told Dr. Bayer about the slap and she got kicked out of the class.

  She started writing like crazy before she abandoned the list and started pacing in her office.

  1. Would lose job.

  2. Would lose house.

  3. Would lose Kelli to foster care.

  4. Would lose Megan to what’s-her-name.

  5. Would verify parents’ long-held notions.

  And the list suddenly became endless. Grace added things like would never plant the garden I’ve always wanted; would never get to take the girls to the ocean like I’ve always wanted; would never get to hear Kelli slamming through the house. That’s where the list stopped, because Grace knew that if she kept going she’d still be writing rather than standing here in front of Jane and apologizing like a whipped dog.

  And now Grace wants more than anything in the entire world to spend the rest of her life needlpointing and bowling.

  Jane is still sitting there, and even though she feels bad for Grace it’s difficult for her to forgive her, to let it go and give Grace the peace of mind she obviously needs right now. She wants Grace to feel what she felt when she was slapped. Grace needs to see that Jane is in control, and that whatever secret she thinks she has uncovered about her is nothing compared with the great secret of the slap that Jane now holds in her own hand. Jane wants to hear more, wants to savor the moment, and in order to do that she slowly raises her hand to the exact spot where she was slapped and holds it there.

  Grace is guessing that she’s supposed to be saying something else. But what? Is Jane going to budge? How long is she going to make her stand there? What else can she say? She has to think for a moment, because last week she spoke with such emotion, such anger, such vileness that it takes her a while to remember what she said. She can tell immediately that Jane knows she has finally realized what she has been waiting for.

  “The other things I said, about you being a liar, and babies, or whatever … that, too. I’m sorry,” Grace stammers, feeling helpless.

  Jane looks at Grace and has a brief moment of empathy for her. Nurses work hard, and Grace has been a single mother and she looks as if she’s been dragged behind a truck. But then again, she asked for it; she’s the one who lost control.

  “The slap is one thing,” Jane says slowly, not caring if anyone else hears. “But the other things—well, Grace, we will have to talk about that later.”

  Then Jane pauses as if she were waiting for a phone call that was about to come through, or for someone to bring her a vodka and tonic that she ordered ten minutes ago.

  “Dr. Bayer won’t know, Grace, but we will talk. Yes, we will. And it will just be the two of us. Alone.”

  Kit has heard every word, and a cold shiver moves up her spine. What in God’s name is going on? She can’t even remember what Grace said after the slap. The assault and what followed seemed to erase everything but the slap. And didn’t they all talk like normal women in the hospital emergency room?

  Now what?

  Grace mutters a thank-you, asks Queen Jane if she would like some more coffee, and then walks into the kitchen looking even paler than she did when she arrived.

  Kit squeezes her hand as she walks past and tries to reassure herself that the evening is only going to get better and that Jane has to do what she has to do and Grace has to do what she has to do. But Jane has obviously set up a rather large roadblock. Kit believes that roadblocks, especially ones set up in her own living room, were made for climbing over.

  Leah seems oblivious and pours herself a glass of water, then she walks into the living room and sits down right next to Jane. The two of them start to talk, which is a good sign, and Kit exhales.

  And then, wonder of wonders, the doorbell finally rings again and there is Dr. Bayer, looking as if she just rolled out of bed and forgot that it was Tuesday night. Her coat isn’t buttoned; she’s carrying files in her right hand that could have been tucked inside the briefcase she carries in her left hand, and she doesn’t have on clogs!

  Dr. Bayer is wearing a dark brown pair of UGG boots. Kit is trying desperately not to look at them. Dr. Bayer looks pretty normal, kind of like a sweet, nutty professor, until you get to the boots. The boots make her seem out of proportion, as if she’d grabbed the wrong ones, the bigger ones that belong to someone else, and is now about to fall over.

  The good doctor can see Kit trying hard not to look at the boots, and also trying hard not to laugh. Olivia has moved inside the house so that everyone can see her and her boots. Everyone now wants to laugh.

  “They look ridiculous,” Dr. Bayer agrees, knowing what they’re all thinking. “It took me months before I could wear them the first time. My dog thought I had brought a new puppy into the house. But I have to tell you, I’d attack anyone who took them from me. My feet have never been warmer.”

  Everyone laughs, and then, to their amazement, Dr. Bayer slips off the boots, props them up against the wall as if they are delicate statutes, and pulls a pair of black slippers from her purse.

  “An old family custom and a sign of respect,” she says, and immediately everyone else is ashamed because none of them thought to remove their shoes.

  Dr. Bayer is so real. Kit has a sudden urge to hug her and ask if she wants to spend the night and have popcorn and beer later. She’s been so busy worrying about her own problems that she hasn’t really focused on this kind, gentle woman who has put up with their messes for how many weeks now?

  Grace, Leah, and even Jane are thinking along the same lines. Dr. Bayer surely has had a life of stories they would love to hear. Slightly and way beyond slightly crazy clients. Angry and vicious men and women. She’s old enough to have fought like crazy herself to get to where she is right this moment. There were probably less than a handful of female students in her classes when she went to graduate school. Her postgraduate training? Well, Dr. Bayer looks as if she’s somewhere in her sixties, so that meant the world was still clearly a man’s domain and she probably had to fight like hell to get where she is
today.

  But before that—before school and work and patients—who was Olivia Bayer?

  Maybe it’s because the women are all meeting at a house and not in an institutional setting, but they’re suddenly so curious about Dr. Bayer that their feet are twitching. Well, they know she has a dog and that someone who cares about her feet getting cold bought her an ugly but very warm pair of boots. They know she loves cotton and comfortable shoes that many women her age still refuse to stop wearing. They know she can be kind and that she’s very smart, and that none of them can get away with make-believe in this class. And, most important, they know that she has the remote-control device that will either keep them right where they are or set them free so they can have a second chance.

  While Olivia pulls on her slippers and rearranges herself, the four women study her every move. The way she bends low and doesn’t use her back improperly; how she pushes her hair behind her ears and it immediately falls back toward her face; the way she crinkles up her eyes as if she’s thinking, thinking, thinking all the time; the waving arms for balance; and the strong aura of expectation and confidence that surrounds her like a moving escort.

  If Dr. Bayer notices the way Leah, Kit, Grace, and Jane are looking at her, she doesn’t acknowledge it. If she realizes that the women are reaching out, exploring new emotions, embracing the humanity of her, she doesn’t show that, either.

  Instead, she thanks Kit for the use of the house, decides that she will have a cup of coffee even if it is late in the day and the caffeine may keep her up a bit longer, and then settles in on the one chair that is all by itself. It’s a tall, green-backed, wooden-armed antique that a director might use during rehearsal.

  That is how Olivia sees herself this evening. She is a director, and it’s time to dive into the final rehearsal frame of mind. As a therapist she can prod and pull and suggest and offer, but it is the client’s duty to accept and deliver, to move forward or stay in the same place. It is time to simply cut to the chase.