“What do you want? I was napping.” She rubbed her eyes. Chipped manicure.
“Move your massive ass inside. We have to talk, and talk fast.” I shoved D into the hall, noticing that her feet looked dirty. I grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into the bedroom. “Good God, D. You are a complete wreck. Wash your face, and wipe off your filthy feet. Comb your hair and spray on some perfume, because your sorry excuse for a husband is over at my apartment. You need to go get him. You need to take him and your almost baby home to Chicago, for God’s sake.”
Diana, to her credit, perked right up. “WHAT?”
“You heard me.”
I had no idea a person who weighed over a hundred and seventy pounds could move so fast. She tore off the tee shirt and pulled down the leggings as far as her knees, then sank onto the side of the unmade bed. “Pull these off. Hurry!”
I did as instructed, coming face to face with my nephew through her bulge. I patted her belly. “Hi, little guy! You and your mom and dad are HEADING HOME.”
“Shut up.” D nearly beaned me. As she lumbered into the bathroom to wash, she pointed to the chair in the corner that was piled with her clothes. “Those are clean; get me an outfit!”
I heard the water running. Thank God. I found a long blue and white striped maternity dress that was not terribly wrinkled from being wadded up. It would do. I handed it in to D who, to her credit, was somehow able to wash up, throw her matted hair into a passable ponytail, and put on lip gloss and blusher within forty seconds. “This? You want me to wear this?”
“Look, D. Bryan was sitting on my front steps twenty minutes ago. Who knows where he is now? If you want to salvage the mess that is your marriage, I suggest you put this dress on, find some flip-flops, and let’s get going before he disappears.
As she shuffled into her Havianas, it hit her. “Beck, WHAT THE FUCK IS BRYAN DOING AT YOUR HOUSE?”
“Diana, I don’t have a good answer for that right now. No time to lose. I will tell you on the way over.”
And I hoped to God that between the closet and the car, I would think of something.
It takes about fifteen minutes to get from Mom’s to my apartment—when you drive like a sane person and observe the rules of the road. We got there in seven minutes. I managed to get green lights, and the stop sign I drove through had clear sight lines, so I didn’t endanger any lives.
Between gasping for air and yelling “SLOW DOWN,” D asked me what was going on.
“Bryan loves you. He is a mess without you. He came to my house last night to ask for advice.”
She snorted. “Right. Advice! Naked or clothed?”
Why was this my life right now? I always used to think soap operas were a bunch of crap, but here I was, right in the middle of one. “D. My God. There was no intercourse involved.”
Another snort. “Like I believe the author of sex books.”
I pressed down on the gas pedal.
Sure enough. As I pulled into the driveway, there they sat, thigh to thigh, looking for all the world like a father and daughter. Bob waved gaily as I stopped the car, blocking my three neighbors from exciting the garage, violating the cardinal rule of apartment living. I could not worry about that right then. No. Gail, looking relieved, blew a kiss to Bob, waved at me and D, and got in her car. She drove off, probably saying a prayer of thanks to be the hell out of there.
We leapt from the car. Well, I did. Diana sort of unfurled herself slowly. I rushed around to the passenger side of the car and helped her unwedge herself. Then we turned to the two chums on the steps.
“What in the hell are YOU doing here?” Diana tends to spew. I put my hand gently (ish) over her mouth.
“What she means is ‘Hi, Bryan. Who is your little friend? I am surprised to see you here. Why did you come, if I may ask?’”
Bob hopped up, her sneakers with the blinking lights twinkling red and green. “Hi! Are you Beck’s sister? I am so happy to meet you! Can I babysit when the baby comes?”
Bryan stood, looking abashed. Which for Bryan are two red spots on his cheeks and a wrinkled up nose. “Hi.”
Thinking fast, as I do, I pulled my sister over to her husband and said in my cheeriest voice, “Here we all are. On this lovely day! Bryan, you and D must really want to talk, I bet. There has been so much going on!”
I sort of shoved D into Bryan’s chest. Bob, who was still bouncing, started to giggle. “Oh, Diana, this is my friend Bob. She and I need to go . . . do something . . . so you two just feel free to hang around here for a while,” I said brightly.
I took Bob’s grubby little hand and turned her toward the street and began pulling her towards the sidewalk. She swung her head back to look at the Dallases, who stood awkwardly in front of the steps. “Bye! Nice to meet you!”
My sincere hope was that while I was entertaining Bob at the park by coming up with some sort of acceptable story line for an eight-year-old as to what the hell was going on, Diana and Bryan would magically disappear from my stoop and from Framington forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bob and I plunked ourselves down on a bench. The sun-soaked wood warmed the backs of our legs. This was an idyllic place where moms brought preschoolers to play in the sandbox. There were always boys throwing softballs in the summer afternoons. Leaves swished in the breeze, and all the benches were permanently sticky from juice box residue. Dogs weren’t allowed, but they loped around the swing sets anyway, woofing congenially. I loved it there, and so did Bob.
Bob wiped the sweat off her upper lip. “I like Bryan.”
I leaned back, letting the breeze ruffle my hair as I wondered where to go with all of this with Bob. “Bryan is very nice. What were you two talking about?”
Bob smiled. “Well. I was across the street, skipping. Because, you know, my scooter is broken. I saw the front door of your apartment open, and a very tall and handsome man came out. For a minute, I hoped it was my dad, but then I knew better.”
My heart stung.
“So I waved, because he looked friendly. I know. Stranger Danger. But I thought waving was okay, especially since I was all the way across the street. Do you think Gran will be mad?”
I patted Bob’s freckled arm. “No, I’m sure she won’t be mad, this time. But you really shouldn’t even wave at strangers—men or women. But go on.”
“Well. I kept skipping, but in a circle. Then Bryan called over to me and said ‘Hi! My name is Bryan Dallas, and I am a good friend of Beck Throckmorton’s. I need to get across town.’ Then he asked about buses and stuff like cabs.”
I wasn’t ready to cast Bryan totally into the slimeball category, but I did think approaching little kids for transit advice a bit creepy. But I had to give him credit for knowing when he was in no condition to drive. “Then what happened? How did you two end up on my front steps?”
Bob looked concerned. “I told Bryan I didn’t know about that, but that Gran would. I told him that she was over at Mrs. Ellingson’s house. She lives just behind us on Flint Street. I told him that Gran has coffee over there, but that she would be home in a few minutes.” Bob paused.
Oy. Teachable moment in the midst of my own personal volcano of a life right now. But what could I do? “Bob, you are right. First of all, from now on, you must not wave to strangers. Even when they are across the street. And never, ever tell a stranger that you are all alone and that your gran isn’t home. Yes—Stranger Danger! Bob, do you understand?”
“But I knew who he was. You told me about him.”
“Bob, honey. It’s all right. You’re safe and sound. We just need to keep you that way. Okay? You can’t just trust a person who says he knows me.”
You know how it is when a child displays wisdom way beyond her years? Bob looked at me witheringly. She rolled her denim blue eyes at me like a teenager. “Right. Got it. But anyway, Gran came home, and he s
aw her. I yelled over and told her that this was your sister’s husband, and he wanted to get a ride.”
“Okay, kiddo. I see you had the whole situation under control.”
Bob grinned to herself and began to pick at a scab on her knee, watching with fascination as it bled a little around the edges. As she picked, I asked her what she and Bryan talked about on the stoop.
“Well. He told me that your sister was mad at him. And that he was scared of her a little.”
Oi vey.
She stopped studying her now bloody knee. She looked off into the distance, her eyes narrowing. “So what’s the problem? Why is your sister mad?”
Oh boy. “Diana is confused right now. When women are pregnant, sometimes they get moody. And I think that she and Bryan might have had an argument about something silly. So Bryan came here to apologize.” I flashed my teeth in an insincere smile.
Bob looked up at the sky. “But he was at YOUR house.”
Damn.
Bob peered at me with the wisdom of a baby owl. “You said before that you and your sister don’t get along. Because you are furious with her for marrying Bryan. Are you jealous of her all the time, even though you have Theo for your boyfriend?”
I leaned back against the bench so fast I banged my head. Good question. What about Theo?
Bob continued, “Because Theo is very nice. He can’t fix scooters, but he is very nice. And Bryan is nice, too. I can see why you wanted him for a boyfriend. You said he decided he would rather be married to your sister. Why? Were you mean to him?”
The bench felt hot against my legs. I reached over and mussed Bob’s hair a little. “I was mean to him. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was very mean to him.”
Bob looked at me with a combination of love and lost innocence. “And it was so bad that you couldn’t just say sorry?” I sensed that she was thinking of her own mother.
I needed a spin-doctor, but I was on my own. “I think that I was too young to be serious.” Inside my head, a voice was screaming Trite! Pap! You can come up with something better than this! You are a WRITER, for crap’s sake!
Bob was solemn. “I bet you didn’t take drugs.”
“Well, no. I didn’t take drugs.” For God’s sake, don’t say you left him because you didn’t want kids! “I was sort of selfish, I guess. I wanted to have a big adventure and write some really important books. I thought that having a boyfriend right then might hold me back. So I broke up with him. I think I hurt him a lot. So I shouldn’t be so jealous of him marrying my sister, right?” I nudged Bob in the ribs. She didn’t respond. Just stared at nothing.
“Bob. Sometimes adults just can’t get along.”
I watched as the child next to me morphed from a sweet little kid on a bench in the safety of this pristine Ohio park into a small, forlorn refugee from life, her eyes dull. I watched her body twitch—her bones seeming to clatter together. She drew her chest inward and pulled her arms around her torso, as if trying to cradle herself. Her head dropped to her chest as she asked quietly, “Why do grownups always hurt other people?”
I put my arm around her and rested my head on hers. We sat quietly, listening to the murmurs of conversation, the thrum of traffic, and the beating of our own hearts. I couldn’t answer.
▷◁
Thank God, Bryan talked my sister into going back to Chicago with him. According to Mom, they patched things up enough at my house to ride back over to Mom’s, where they continued their conversation/argument for a few hours. Then, before she could muster up the courage to kick them out so that she could get her life back, they threw D’s things into her bag and trundled her into Bryan’s Honda. They left in a cloud of exhaust.
As time passes, things tend to improve. What do they say about time healing all wounds? It certainly helps things, time does. The next few weeks were uneventful, as Gail continued her quest for happiness with Rick, Theo continued being Mr. Almost Right, Ella and Bob started an ongoing Uno tournament that currently Ella was winning, Bob seemed to be on an even keel, and I muddled along, being my usual coffee-stained self.
School had just started, and already Ella was having trouble keeping up with everything Bob-related, so I was helping out as best as I could, what with a job, writing, and looking for my missing cat, who disappeared that day Bryan and Diana made up on my front steps, ignoring the fact that they had left all the doors wide open, so my keel was far from even.
Bob sat beside me on the front steps, practicing her whistling and trying her best to cheer me up. It was futile. On this particular Sunday afternoon, I had not washed my hair or brushed my teeth since two days prior. I had been living on coffee. I had managed to meet my manuscript deadline, but my agent wondered why a dead cat figured so prominently in a book about a pole dancer and her surfer boyfriends. I couldn’t really come up with an explanation. I had been sleeping poorly, despite the fact that I should have been happy and peaceful since D and Bryan had left town.
Bob stopped her serenade and patted my shoulder. She reached over and took my coffee mug and set it carefully on the steps beside us. “Beck, I know you are so sad about Simpson. I’m sad, too. But you need to cheer up, because school has started, and you promised to start walking with me and Hallie since Gran’s knees hurt after the first few times. And you know you have to have faith—cats have nine lives! So can you try to get in a better mood?”
I sighed. “Honey, I will try.” I pictured that infamous afternoon. Bryan and Diana, standing in front of my house, working out their stupid differences, holding hands, making up, French kissing. Not noticing one detail around them, such as my darling cat walking out of the apartment, down the stairs, and through the front door, probably passing right in front of them as he padded into God knows what. The path of an oncoming car? The jaws of a neighborhood dog? The arms of a catnapper? I seethed at the thought of the both of them, self-absorbed and clueless.
“Beck? Are you listening?” Bob jabbed me with her forefinger.
I blinked. The image of Bryan and D dissipated. “I’m sorry. I know you’re excited about school. I bet you’re making tons of friends. You are very busy. I miss having you over so often.” I smiled at her, but Bob saw right through me, apparently.
“Beck, you have to get serious about cheering up! Being sad about Simpson is not going to help things. You have to have faith that he is fine somewhere, and he is going to come back. Gran says that to me all the time, whenever I get worried about my dad. She says I should get a picture in my mind of him reading my letters and smiling, and being safe and sound. You can do that, too. Imagine Simpy safe. Like in some other neighborhood. With a nice family taking care of him. Picture them seeing one of your signs at their grocery! They will be so happy to find out that you are looking for him!”
I shut my eyes and tried to picture a soccer mom holding Simpson. Looking at the LOST CAT sign on her street corner. Comparing the cat in her arms to the photo. Listening to Simpson purr. Then shrugging, probably thinking that any idiot who would let a cat like this out of her sight deserved to lose him forever. Then walking back into her neatly landscaped house and shutting the lacquered door behind her and her new cat with finality. A searing pain shot through the back of my head.
Bob sensed the futility of this line of conversation. “I picked out what I’m going to wear on Monday.”
I took a breath. “Really? What?”
“It was between the lime green shorts and the sundress with the daisies on it. Gail was over visiting Gran and me, and she had a good point: recess and a dress. So I am wearing the shorts with my new white polo. And I am so excited about my new Toms. Thank you for getting them for me. I think they will be very comfortable and also good for running at recess.”
I nodded.
“Hallie and I are going to dress sort of alike. But not twins or anything. She has green shorts with white polka dots. She is wearing them.
And all her barrettes will be white. She is wearing a white top, too. So we’ll be color coordinated. Hallie doesn’t have Toms. So she’ll wear her sneakers.”
Right at that moment I wished I had the resiliency and bravery of this stalwart little female: her father in mortal danger across the world somewhere, her mother a lost cause in some rehab ward, her grandmother well-intentioned but vigorless. And here I sat beside her, feeling depressed about my lost cat, my dysfunctional family, my boring job, my lackluster writing career, and my kind but mediocre boyfriend.
Ugh. I had to get a grip somehow. “Fake it until you make it” came to mind.
“Bob. What if we went to the shelter this afternoon to look at cats and kittens?” This faking business wasn’t going to be easy. I ran my tongue over my grody teeth, but smiled brightly in spite of them. “It might be a good idea to move on.” An image of Simpson curled up on the immaculate sofa in the great room over at the soccer mom’s house floated into my head.
Bob jumped up and loomed over me, her hands digging into my knees. “No! You can’t do that! You can’t give up on Simpson! It wouldn’t be right! He is going to come back.” Her eyes burned with an intensity that nearly knocked me over.
She squeezed harder, those chewed-off nails nearly piercing my skin.
This caught my attention. I got it. The situation was bigger than me. I was all grown up—a role model and a very important supporter to this one lonely little person standing in front of me, her fingers digging into my thighs for all she was worth. I put my hands on her cheeks and stroked her freckles with my thumbs. “Bob, you are absolutely right. Simpson is just taking his time getting back to us. I will absolutely not go get any kittens.”
Bob beamed, let go of my knees (thankfully), turned herself around, and sat on my lap. I put my arms around her and held on tight. We looked up at the sky.
“Beck, do you see that cloud up there?” She pointed to a fluffy amalgam above the maple tree. “It looks like a duck.”
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