Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  “This late?” Mom blurts. “We have tea.”

  “In bags,” Nana says. “For some reason, I’m craving the real thing, leaves brewed in a pot, with real cream.”

  I close and lock my bedroom door. No way am I living here when I start college. Mom’s so needy all the sudden that even my seventy-five-year-old grandmother can’t leave the house without her butting in. If I stay here, Mom will be seventy-five by the time she gets a date and I’ll be the one on the couch stuffing my face with chocolate.

  Memories of that last night with Judd twist my stomach when Suz and I walk into The Beat. I remind myself that everything’s different this time. I’m dressed somewhere in between the old, boring me and the new, wild me, I’m not wearing so much makeup, and my hair doesn’t look like I stuck my finger in a light socket, as Grandpop used to say. Oh, and no jellyfish tonight, either. They’re back where they belong, on Katie’s concave chest.

  Suz’s cousin isn’t working the door tonight so I use the fake ID Judd gave me. Not that I plan to drink; I don’t. Just the thought of a lemon-drop martini makes me woozy.

  Music blares and pulses, but it’s the piped-in kind, not Noah’s band, Cateye. The three of them are on stage setting up. Noah wears jeans and a black T-shirt. The other two guys have on seventies-looking aviator-style sunglasses, even though it’s dark in here.

  As Suz and I weave our way through the crowd toward the band, I notice how thin and tall Noah is. Thin in a good way, all angles and wide shoulders, nothing soft about him.

  When Noah spots me, he props his guitar against a speaker, says something to the bass player, hops down off the stage and comes over. He says hello to Suz as he takes my hand and eyes my hair and clothes. “Hey, I like the look.” When he grins, I think I was wrong that nothing about him is soft; his eyes are. He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You smell good, too. No cigarettes.”

  I laugh. “I decided to save my money and just breathe the secondhand smoke.” It’s like every ounce of energy in my body zooms in on the feel of his hand around mine. Warm. Dry. Strong. The tips of his long fingers are calloused from playing guitar.

  “Who’s your drummer?” Suz asks him. She’s had her eye on the guy since the second we walked in.

  “Tonto.” Noah grins at Suz when he sees her checking out his friend. “Come on up, I’ll introduce you.”

  We follow Noah onto the stage and meet the other two guys in the band, Tonto and Reese and then Suz and I leave to find a table since it’s time for them to start their set.

  They play old rock and roll, but put their own sound to it. Some of the songs I recognize from Mom’s collection of old vinyl albums and eight-track tapes I used to listen to when I was little.

  “They’re good,” Suz shouts over the noise.

  I think so, too. Noah not only plays lead guitar, he sings. He doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed up there on stage. Not that he should be. He has talent. He looks hot, too. Now I understand why all those girls at rock concerts way back in Mom’s day, or maybe even before, used to scream and cry and faint.

  I’m not the only one who notices, either. The way the hoochies at the next table look at Noah, I’m surprised there’s not a big pool of drool on the floor at their feet.

  Back off. He’s with me, I want to say, but don’t have the nerve. Besides, is he with me? I mean, yeah we’re talking, but maybe that’s all.

  When the band takes a break, Reese heads for the bar and Noah and Tonto come over and sit with us. “You were incredible,” I tell them.

  Focused on Suz, Tonto drums the tabletop with his palms. “I hope the manager thinks so.”

  Noah balances on the two back legs of his chair and scans the room. “He says if this works out tonight, we might get a standing Friday night gig.”

  “I could use the cash,” Tonto adds, taking Suz’s glass of Coke when she offers it to him. “The pay’s good here.”

  “You’ll get the job.” Suz gives Tonto her flirty smile while he gulps down her Coke. “The crowd was into you.”

  “Yeah. Some really old dude in the back was even busting a move.” Tonto gives Suz back her drink, resumes drumming the table, and shifts his attention to Noah. “We need to get Miner back. Something’s missing without him.”

  “Our keyboard player,” Noah explains to us. “He quit last month.” He turns back to Tonto. “Miner’s through. He doesn’t have time to play anymore since he’s working a full-time job.”

  “Erin could play keyboard, couldn’t you, Erin?” Suz tosses her hair like an actress in a shampoo commercial. “She plays piano.”

  Noah leans forward. The front legs of his chair hit the floor. “I thought you played cello?”

  “I do. But I’ve had piano lessons since I was six.” I don’t add that, unlike most kids, my mom never had to bug me to practice.

  “You should hear her,” Suz says. “She could play professionally.”

  I look away. “Whatever.”

  “She could.” Suz offers Tonto another drink of her Coke and totally ignores me. “Trust me, she’s a music genius. It’s her thing.”

  The thing that’s added to my loser status ever since I hit middle school. Face it, if you’re in a rock band, you’re cool. But join school band or orchestra and you can pretty much kiss any chance at prom queen goodbye. As if I’d want to be prom queen anyway.

  Nodding his head and tapping his fingertips on the table, Tonto stares at me. “What do you think, Noah? We still have Miner’s keyboard. She could practice with us on Sunday.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.” Noah smiles at me. “If you want to, I mean.”

  “Sure.” I shrug. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Bring your cello, too.” Noah stands. “We might come up with something.”

  At 2:00 a.m. when The Beat closes, Noah takes me home on his cycle, and Tonto follows Suz to her house in his truck, since it’s late and she’s alone.

  I wear Noah’s helmet and hold tight around his waist as the cool air rushes past us.

  He parks at the curb at the end of my block and cuts the engine. Together, we walk six houses down to my yard and stand under the pear tree to the left of my bedroom window.

  Noah sees me shiver. “Cold?”

  “Sort of.”

  He opens his jacket. “I’ll share.”

  I step closer and he wraps the jacket and his arms around me. He’s five or six inches taller than me. I tilt my head back to look up at him.

  “Thanks for coming tonight,” he says, his breath warm against my face. It smells like peppermint. No cinnamon. No tobacco. No bad memories.

  “I had fun.” He looks into my eyes for what seems like forever, and I think just do it, but he doesn’t. A story Nana told me about her and Grandpop’s first kiss slips into my thoughts. Quick, before I can change my mind, I lift onto my tiptoes and kiss Noah, just touch my mouth to his and leave it there. Not long, but longer than the pecks he’s given me.

  When I pull away, my heart pounds so hard I hear it. Noah stares into my eyes again, and then his arms tighten around me. This time, he kisses me, so slow and gentle I feel like I’m floating. I lift my arms and encircle his neck, hold on to him. With Noah, I don’t feel any fear or dread or pressure for more. I only feel his arms around me, his lips against mine, the beat of his heart keeping time with my own.

  CHAPTER 12

  From The Desk of

  Belle Lamont

  Dear Harry,

  Happy Thanksgiving! What a wonderful day we had. I do so enjoy cooking for our family. We missed Jack and his family. And we missed you.

  CiCi mentioned how much you loved my chestnut dressing. Erin said nobody would ever match your deviled eggs, then realized she’d insulted mine and got embarrassed about it.

  Erin’s friend, Noah, carved the turkey. While he did, I sensed that, like me, CiCi and Erin thought about Bert, since after he and Cecilia married, you turned the carving over to him. I know Erin wished her father was with us; I th
ink during that moment, Cecilia did, too.

  Erin’s Noah is a friendly, outgoing young man. He seems to have his head on straight, and he holds his own with CiCi, which is the best thing of all and a hoot to behold. When she saw that I’d placed Bert’s carving knife on the table, she took off for the kitchen mumbling something about Christmas rolling around before a kid Noah’s age could slice a turkey without an electric knife. When she came back, he’d already served her the first slice, me the second and was filling Erin’s plate. In Noah, our daughter has met her match, I’m afraid. One thing is obvious; he’s crazy about Erin, and the feeling is mutual. When they look at one another, I’m reminded of us when we were their age and falling in love.

  What a beautiful gift, our love, our years together. I never realized how quickly the time would pass. When I was young, my mother always told me that life waits for no one. I didn’t understand then, but now I do. I can either live it, or watch it streak by and leave me behind.

  A while back, Erin asked if I thought young men get nervous about first kisses like girls do. I told her about ours and the weeks leading up to it. Sometimes it seems like just yesterday, that summer we met. In my memories, the days are fringed in gold, the long walks and cold swims, the sunshine and the laughter. Nothing else mattered except the way you looked at me. Oh, how I loved that look.

  I told Erin how, after my family moved to town and into your neighborhood, you drove by my house for days in your brother’s ’41 Ford sedan before “just dropping by” to meet me. How three more days passed before you found the nerve to call and ask me out on a date.

  I still laugh when I think of how you stuttered and stammered and beat around the bush. We talked for at least an hour about everything from our families to Dizzy Gillespie to Jackie Robinson playing with the Dodgers. Finally, Mr. Dryden broke in on the party line and said, “Son, I need to make a call. Ask her out and get it over with.” And so you did.

  We went to The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, remember? The theatre was so crowded we had to sit in the balcony. Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison were incredibly romantic. So were you. You held my hand in the dark, and I just knew you’d kiss me before the night ended. But you didn’t. Not then or on the next date or the one after that. I swear, Harry, you certainly knew how to make a girl suffer and doubt herself. You had me questioning everything from the scent of my perfume to the fit of my girdle.

  Then at the end of date number four, when you walked me to my parents’ front porch, I took matters into my own hands.

  Well, apparently either Erin followed my lead, or Noah found his nerve, because I saw them necking out front before he left tonight. So sweet. But it worries me, too. Can you imagine what CiCi would do if she found out about Erin sneaking out her window after curfew to meet that boy? Go into a tizzy, that’s what.

  Erin doesn’t know I followed her to a nightclub where Noah’s band played. I stood in the back and kept an eye on things. Not because I’m a busybody, but because I’m concerned for her safety. Blending in with a crowd of teens and twenty-somethings was no easy task, let me tell you. Don’t worry. I didn’t go alone. A friend took me. I know my limitations. I don’t trust myself to drive anymore with these eyes.

  Speaking of my friend, I’ve never lied to you, Harry, and I won’t start now. His name is Oliver Winston. I hope you know I’d never betray your memory by allowing my relationship with him or any other man to become more than friendship. Still, I have to start living again. Watching Erin push her fears aside to dive headfirst into life, makes me realize I’ve been a coward, afraid of drowning. I refuse to piddle away any more of the time I have left. And I do so enjoy Oliver’s company. I’m sure if the two of you met you’d hit it off in an instant.

  Anyway, guess who Cecilia caught sneaking in after 2:00 a.m. on that night Erin went to the nightclub? No, not our granddaughter. Me. Unfortunately, my body isn’t up to climbing in and out of windows these days, so I came through the front door. Not that I feel I need to sneak around. For heaven’s sake, I’m a grown woman three-quarters of a century old! Still, Cecilia was beside herself. You always wondered if she heard anything you said all those times you got onto her as a teenager. She heard you, Harry. Loud and clear. Your words came out of her mouth. What a scolding she gave me! I half expected her to ground me and send me to my room.

  As far as Cecilia knew, Erin was asleep through all this, and I didn’t say otherwise. I’m still in a quandary about what to do about Erin’s secret. Though I don’t approve of her method of breaking away, I understand. Erin’s ready to fly, but CiCi’s determined to clip her wings.

  Should I confront Erin and encourage her to stop breaking her mother’s rules? To work things out with CiCi? I just wish she’d go to her and explain that she needs a bit more freedom. I’d like to believe that Cecilia would be reasonable, but I guess I’m being an idealistic fool. CiCi’s anything but reasonable these days. Since separating from Bert, she’s become so cynical it scares me. If she doesn’t come to terms with what’s bothering her soon, I shudder to think what color she’ll paint the bathroom. Or my room, for that matter. The place is starting to look like a carnival fun house.

  On a happier note, remember I told you the reading group was forced to disband? Well, we’re meeting again in a different location. The Frans told Billie Jean Bilderback who told Ellen Miles who told me, that the problem had something to do with Doris Quinn and Frank Rayburn. When I mentioned that possibility to Jane Binkley, she said she’d heard rumors that the two of them are fooling around. Who knows if that’s true? As I’ve said before, Jane has a bit of a dirty mind.

  Then again, Doris is such an eyelash batter, I wouldn’t put it past her. I’m not sure what her love life has to do with our reading group, but if I find out, I’ll let you know. Until then, my love…

  As always, your yellow rose,

  Belle

  CHAPTER 13

  Cecilia Dupree

  Day Planner

  Wednesday, 12/5

  1.

  10:00—new patient consultation.

  2.

  1:00—P.V. reading group/finish Penelope.

  3.

  Demand refund at dry cleaners for shrinking slacks.

  4.

  5:00—drop Max at Gertie’s.

  Mother and I huddle in our coats on our way to Oliver’s apartment and the final three chapters of Penelope’s Passion. Tiny lights twist around the lampposts that line the walkway through Parkview Manor’s courtyard. The multicolored glow adds a warm festive touch to this nose-numbing, gloomy afternoon. A short distance away, at the entrance to the park, the duck pond gazebo also twinkles and blinks.

  I wonder how many of Parkview Manor’s residents will spend the holidays alone? It’s too sad to think about. I guess I understand why people do crazy, desperate things in search of another chance at love.

  I understand, but it doesn’t mean I’ll follow that path to frustration. I’d rather shave my bikini line with a dull, rusty razor than go on a date. Will I feel the same way, though, years from now when Mother’s gone? When Erin’s grown and on her own? Or will I grasp at any opportunity, no matter how foolish, that might land me a little companionship?

  Which brings me to my ten o’clock appointment and the biggest opportunity-grasper of all time. Henry “you-can-call-me-Hank” Bocock. Fifty-six and going through his third divorce. Ex-rodeo cowboy turned rancher. Lover of snakeskin boots, starched open-collared shirts and gold neck chains to accent his furry throat.

  As it turns out, my neighbor, the ever-so-helpful Mrs. Stein, my very own Cupid in a caftan, referred Hank to me, certain I might help him “get over Gloria.” Funny, I got the distinct impression that Gloria was the last thing on Hank’s mind. He seemed more interested in my legs than my advice. A fact I found amusing since, beneath my opaque black stockings, my calves are almost as hairy as his chest; I haven’t shaved in four days. No, make that five.

  But back to my point. In order to meet a prospective companion,
(me), Hank shelled out a good amount of change for a therapy session he didn’t need. Pretty creative of Hank, I must admit. Or Mrs. Stein; I’m not sure who came up with the idea. What the incident tells me, though, is that competition in the middle-aged dating world is fierce. I don’t want any part of it. I’ll stick with the safety of the tried, true and loyal to keep me company; Max, movies, the King (of Hearts, not Elvis).

  I glance across at Mother. She hums “Winter Wonderland,” a smile on her face.

  “So what sort of novel do you think we should start next week?” I ask.

  The humming fades into a hmmm. “Jane, Mr. Gaines and The Frans all called this morning. They want another romantic adventure.” White puffs drift from Mother’s mouth with each word she speaks. She secures the top button of her coat. “Oh, look. There’s Jane now.”

  We both call out a greeting to Jane Binkley, whose wild, bushy hair is a different shade of blond today, and the Don Knotts look-alike ahead of us. Jane’s hips swing as, arm-in-arm, they round the corner of the walkway connecting Parkview’s bungalows to the apartment building. They yell “hello” and go inside. Don’s step is so springy I wouldn’t be surprised if his head hits the ceiling when he walks down the hall.

  Mom tucks her gloved hands into her coat pockets. “According to Jane, others in the group want another romance, too.”

  “And you?”

  “I wouldn’t mind. Look how much our membership has grown since we started Penelope’s Passion. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes are as sparkly as the twinkle lights, as happy as I’ve seen them in a very long time. I tell myself her perkiness is due to the spirit of the season, or possibly a result of coming to live with Erin and me. But then I glance up at the building and see Oliver Winston standing at his third-story window looking down at us, and the truth slides like an avalanche right down to the pit of my stomach.

  They’ve spent a lot of time together lately. The past two Friday nights, Mother’s tiptoed in after 2:00 a.m., reeking of cigarette smoke. Dancing, she tells me when I ask where they’ve been. Just friends. No big deal. No need to get upset.