Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  Erin pokes her head into the room and eyes the spread without comment. “I’m home.” She turns to leave. The routine’s been the same every day since I grounded her. She lets me know she’s home from orchestra practice, goes to her room, comes out for dinner, then returns to her room for the rest of the night.

  “Erin?”

  She faces me again, crossing her arms.

  “How was practice?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve decided to let you off the hook a few days early. Just promise me no more drinking, okay? And no more dates with twenty-one-year-olds.”

  “He was twenty.” When I scowl, she says, “Fine.”

  I toss a throw pillow onto the bed, then start from the room, pausing at the door to give her a hug. I’m surprised and pleased when she hugs me back.

  Erin follows me into the backyard. It’s cool out. The sky’s a pearly gray. Twilight gray, I tell myself, though it’s probably smog. I grab a dog brush off the patio table, whistle Max over, then sit in a chair and start to work on his coat. He sniffs the air, growls low in his throat when the poodle next door barks.

  Leaning against the side of the house, Erin watches the movement of my hand across Max’s back. “What are we doing for Thanksgiving?”

  “The usual. Nana has a feast planned.”

  “Do you care if I have a friend over? Nana always makes too much anyway.”

  “Suzanna?”

  “No, someone I just met. They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving at their house. The parents are from Scotland.”

  I’m all for getting to know Erin’s friends. “Okay. As long as Nana’s fine with it. She’s the cook.”

  After one final stroke of the brush, I lean back and inspect Max head to toe. His glossy coat gleams. His muscles ripple. He looks proud and strong, as dashing as Penelope’s captain. I pat his rump. The hussies will swoon.

  This morning, I called to tell my veterinarian Max is available if he knows of anyone looking to breed a female. I also called an ad in to the newspaper and sent one off to English Bulldog magazine.

  I ask Erin to run get the newspaper so I can check to make sure the ad ran. When she comes back out with it, I scan the classifieds, locate my ad and then look up to find her watching me. Her nervous expression fills me with dread. “Something on your mind, sweetie?”

  “Sort of.” She nibbles the cuticle on her index finger. “Suz and I have been thinking.”

  Uh-oh. Suzanna and thinking are a dangerous combination.

  “You know we both want to go to UT in the fall and, well, Suz is going to live in a dorm on campus, and the applications for housing are due soon, and I really really want to live on campus, too. With Suz.”

  I shake my head. “We already decided you’d live at home.”

  “You decided. You didn’t ask me.”

  “You’re not living in a dorm, Erin. It doesn’t make sense. We live close enough to the university that it isn’t necessary for you to move away.”

  “Please, Mom! We’re not that close.”

  I fold the paper, lay it aside, push away from the patio table and stand. “I’m not going to discuss this right now.” Maxwell’s water bowl’s empty. I walk to the faucet, twist the lever and pick up the hose.

  “But early applications are due next week. We’ll miss out on the best dorms if we don’t get ours in. Suz—”

  “I said I’m not going to discuss this.” Water streams into Max’s bowl.

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” My throat closes. Because I don’t think she’s ready. Because she’s not prepared to face the world on her own. Because dorms are havens for sex, alcohol and every other sin on the planet. I should know; I sampled them all when I lived on campus.

  I draw a breath to finish my sentence, but I can’t speak.

  Because I’m not ready to let you go.

  The truth hits me square in the nose. Is this about what I need or what Erin needs?

  I swallow. “It’s a waste of my money when you can just live here.”

  “Fine.” She stomps to the back door, opens it just in time for my mother to stick her head out.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Mother says in a singsong voice.

  Ignoring her, Erin and I scowl at each other.

  “I’ll just ask Dad for the money then,” Erin yells.

  Mother blinks at her, at me, and then backs out of sight. Erin follows, slamming the door.

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” I shout kicking Max’s bowl with each curse and slopping water over the edges.

  Mrs. Stein, my neighbor, peeks over the fence, holding her poodle, Pom Pom. “CiCi? I thought I heard you out here.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Stein.”

  “Your shoes are getting wet.”

  I glance down. The running hose points at my feet, drenching them. “So they are.”

  Her eyes frown; her face doesn’t, thanks to a recent round of Botox, I guess. “You never returned Jerry’s call. My second cousin’s great-nephew? The Bar Mitzvah?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t make it.”

  “But he’s a very successful man. And handsome. He still has most of his hair.”

  “Thanks, but I have other plans.” I shrug. “Sorry.”

  She glares at me, then down at Max. Pom Pom yaps, sending Max behind a bush to tremble. Mrs. Stein and her dog disappear.

  I kick the water bowl again. If Bert goes against me on this dorm thing with Erin, I will bury his body underneath the willow tree. Piece by piece. Except for that piece. His manhood, as Penelope would say.

  Maxwell comes out from the bushes and nudges my leg with his nose. I lean down and scratch his head. “Max, old pal, by next fall you may have one very special chew toy.”

  CHAPTER 10

  After dinner the next night, I’m at the table reading a dog-show training manual and eating a piece of Mother’s cinnamon devil’s food cake when the phone rings. The man at the other end saw the newspaper ad. He wants more information. We have a lengthy conversation, then agree to get together over the weekend so he and his dog Gertie can size up Max.

  Mother walks into the kitchen to get her knitting bag from the hutch as I’m hanging up. Before we can speak, the phone rings again. It’s Bert, returning my call from last night. I tell him what’s up with Erin.

  “I don’t mind giving her the money, CiCi.”

  “I mind.” I lick icing off my fork. “I don’t want Erin living in the dorm.”

  “It might be good for her.”

  “Who are you to say what’s good for our daughter, Bert? I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen her in the past six months.” I start to shake, inside and out. Mother pretends to be preoccupied with searching inside her bag for who-knows-what, but I’m sure she listens.

  “I’m just trying to give Erin some space,” Bert says in his oh-so-calm and practical tone. “You know, to sort things out.”

  “She doesn’t need space, she needs to know that her father cares about her, that when you walked out on me you didn’t walk out on her, too.”

  “You asked me to leave, CiCi. Remember?”

  I stab the cake with my fork. He’s right. Because I was angry. Because I thought he’d fight for our marriage, that he’d insist we at least try to work things out. Instead he acted defensive and all-too-eager to pack his bags. “You’re embarrassed, aren’t you, Bert? That’s why you avoid her. You’re embarrassed because you know Erin’s on to you and what you did.”

  “And why is that, CiCi?” An undercurrent of rage buzzes in my ex’s voice. “Did you tell her things to turn her against me?”

  Good. Let him lose his temper for once. Let him be the one who goes off on a rant, not me. “I didn’t tell her anything. Erin has eyes. She’s not stupid. And if you’re thinking of making up to her by giving her whatever she wants, that’s a mistake. Erin needs you to be her father, not her best friend. She needs you to do what’s best for her, not what’s easiest for you.” I ignore the nagging fee
ling that I should take my own advice.

  Several tense, silent seconds later Bert says, “Okay, I’ll tell her she has to wait a year before she can move out. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  The shaking subsides. I scrape a finger across the cake’s icing. “I can live with that.”

  “And I’ll spend more time with her. Call her more. I want to. I miss her. It’s just…I can’t stand the thought of her hating me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “Maybe. You’re right, though. I haven’t been there for her. Not enough. Even before we split. You’ve done a great job with her, CiCi. She’s a good girl.”

  I hate it when he’s nice, when he admits fault, when he compliments me. I don’t want to remember Bert’s few good qualities, only his many bad ones. “Thanks,” I say and then we hang up.

  “Where is that needle?” Mom continues to dig in her knitting bag. “Why, here it is.” She holds it up for me to see.

  I lick my finger. “How did you do it, Mother?”

  “Do what, Sugar?”

  “Hold everything together so well? Do everything right?”

  She places the bag and needle on the table and crosses over to give me a hug. “I didn’t do everything right. Far from it.”

  “You had a perfect marriage. I never once heard you and Dad have a real roof-raising fight. And I know as well as anyone that he could be hardheaded and stubborn as a jackass. Didn’t you ever just want to strangle him?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but we did have our squabbles now and then.”

  “But you always ended up letting him have his way. You always gave into him. You wanted to go to Hawaii on vacation but y’all never did. You went to Colorado. Every year.”

  She shrugs. “Your father loved to fish. He hated sand.”

  “Remember that bed you fell in love with? The brass one? How come you never bought it?”

  “Harry thought all those curlicues on the headboard were silly.” Mother laughs. “He said it was too feminine.”

  “So you just gave up. And you never complained about it. Weren’t you the least bit resentful?”

  “The bed wasn’t important enough to cause a stir over, Cecilia. Neither was Hawaii.”

  I bite my lip. What’s wrong with me? I shouldn’t be jealous, even a little bit, of my mother’s easygoing nature, the fact that she could keep a marriage running smoothly when I couldn’t. “See, that’s where you and I are different. I wasn’t as big of a pushover as you, but I let Bert have his way most of the time, too. Then I stewed about it.”

  Mother lifts her chin. “I wasn’t always a pushover. There were times when Harry didn’t get what he wanted.”

  “Name one.”

  Her mouth quirks up at the corner. “You’d probably rather not hear this from your mother, but I feigned a headache or two in my day.”

  “Oh, that.” I laugh. “Only one or two? See, I’m right. You were the perfect wife.”

  We sit across from one another at the kitchen table.

  “No wife is perfect, CiCi. No husband is, either.”

  “You’re just being modest. You were a model wife and a model parent, too. You cooked nutritious meals, made sure we spent time together as a family.”

  “People weren’t in as big of a hurry back then.”

  “You hardly ever lost your temper with Jack or me, either. And still, when I went off on my own, I messed up.”

  “Nonsense.”

  I blink back tears. “So, what’s going to happen to Erin? Bert and I have screwed up her life.”

  “Cecilia…” Mother reaches across and touches my hand. “I wasn’t the saint you make me out to be. And as for losing my temper, if your father were here he could set you straight about that.” She laughs, pats my hand, then sobers. “You haven’t screwed up anything. Bert’s the one who strayed.”

  I sniff. “I know, and I can’t forgive him for hurting Erin. But I made mistakes, too. I didn’t love Bert when I married him, not in the right way. You knew, didn’t you?”

  She nods once. “I suspected.”

  “It must’ve been awful for him, sensing I wasn’t happy and not knowing why. Then, when he found those letters I wrote to Craig and never mailed…” I close my eyes. “I said terrible things in them. I told Craig I wasn’t over him.”

  The memory of Bert’s hurt eyes stabs me, the questions he asked, my lame reassurances. “I married Bert on the rebound. To help me get over Craig. To get over the miscarriage.”

  “Bert adored you. You cared for him, I know you did.”

  “But I didn’t love him. Not then. That wasn’t fair to him. I don’t know, maybe I even got pregnant with Erin on the rebound, to help me forget about losing Craig’s baby.”

  “CiCi,” Mother says when I try to look away. Pressing my lips together, I meet her gaze. “You loved Bert. It was clear as could be on your face whenever you watched him with Erin.”

  “Eventually, yes. But it came too late for him.”

  I return to my dog-training manual, though my heart isn’t in it.

  “This talk of letting husbands have their way,” Mother says, bringing my head up. “Is that what your purple bedroom walls are all about?”

  I grin. “What do you think about candy apple-red for the den? Bert would hate it.” And, I know I sound shallow, but that makes me love it all the more.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m still at the table reading the training manual when the doorbell rings. Mother sits across from me, knitting.

  “I’ll get it!” Erin yells from the hallway. Seconds later she walks into the kitchen with her backpack over one shoulder. A blond-haired guy, also toting a backpack, is at her side. “Mom, Nana, this is Noah.”

  Dread rises up in me. It’s the kid with the motorcycle. I only saw him from a distance the other night, but I recognize the blond hair. I stand as he approaches the table.

  “Thanks for inviting me to Thanksgiving dinner, Mrs. Dupree.” He shakes my hand. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  My eyes dart to Erin. So, her Scottish “friend” is male. She avoids my gaze.

  “You’re in for a treat,” I say. “My mother’s turkey and dressing will make your mouth water.”

  “Oh, such flattery, CiCi.” Mother shakes Noah’s hand and laughs. “Do go on.”

  Erin moves up beside biker-boy Scotty, hooks her arm through his, then gives me a look that dares me to comment. “Noah and I are going to do our homework together. You care if we use the kitchen table?”

  Mother doesn’t waste a second gathering her knitting so I follow the model parent’s lead, grab my manual and step aside. “It’s all yours. So…you go to school with Erin, Noah?”

  “I graduated.” He and Erin dump their backpacks onto the table and sit side by side. “I’m at Tarrant County Junior College. We had English together last year, though.”

  We talk a minute longer, then Mother and I start from the room. “We’ll leave you two to study.”

  In the den, Mother and I settle in on opposite ends of the couch. I toss the manual on the coffee table. “I don’t like the looks of him.”

  She hands me two needles and a spool of yarn. “Why don’t we pick up where we left off yesterday?”

  “He has an earring.”

  “I didn’t see one.” Mother looks at my fingers. “Your hands are too stiff. Loosen up.”

  “You didn’t see that stud in his left ear? How could you miss it?”

  “Pay attention, Cecilia. Like this. Over, under—”

  “What’s he trying to pull by saying he’s Scottish? His accent’s as Texan as calf fries.”

  Mother’s hands go still. “For heaven’s sake, Cecilia, give the boy a chance. Erin, too.”

  The doorbell rings again. “What is this? Grand Central Station?” I start for the entry hall. “If this is that Judd kid, I’ll—” I swing open the door, look up into a pair of cheery blue eyes peering from beneath a felt forties-style newsboy cap.

 
; “Howdy do, CiCi.”

  “Oliver?” In the flesh. All six feet and three or four inches of him.

  He removes the cap. “Belle around?”

  “Uh…yes.” I frown. Smile. Frown again.

  He leans to one side, looks past my shoulder. “Could I—?”

  I step back. “Um. Sure. Come on in.”

  I lead him into the den. “Look who’s here, Mother.”

  Mother glances up from her knitting. “Oh.” She lays her needles and yarn aside, stands, adjusts her glasses like she doesn’t quite believe her eyes. “Oliver. How nice to see you.”

  He grins. “Why, Belle, you’re looking fit as a fiddle tonight.” Mother blinks and flutters. “Don’t be silly.”

  “No, I mean it. You’re pretty as a peach.”

  I fold my arms. Good thing Mother’s a gourmet cook. She hates baloney. She’ll set the old fart straight in her tactful way.

  “Oh, well that’s so sweet of you to say.” Tilting her head to one side, Mother smiles up at him. She looks flattered. Coy. Pretty. As a peach.

  I frown at her as a memory plays through my mind. Daddy whistling “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” coming up behind Mother at the kitchen sink, her surprised laughter as he twirls her around. You’re my prettiest yellow rose, Belle.

  I step between Mother and Oliver. “Daddy always called you his yellow rose of Texas. Remember, Mother?”

  “Of course I do, Sugar.” Her voice is soft and as startled as her eyes.

  Oliver looks around me, nods at the spot on the opposite end of the couch from Mother. My spot. The spot where Daddy always sat when he visited. “May I?”

  I shake off an odd sense of panic, of defensiveness. “Sure. Have a seat.”

  He does. So does Mother. I stay put.

  Oliver clears his throat. “I have an idea about the reading group. I want to offer my apartment as a meeting place. It may be on Parkview Manor’s property, but I pay for it. Don’t see as how anybody would have grounds to stop us from gathering there. And we could read whatever we choose.”

  Mother brightens. “That’s a wonderful idea, Oliver.”

  From the direction of the kitchen, I hear Erin’s and biker-boy Scotty’s laughter, hers high-pitched, his deep. Studying? My foot.