Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  “I’m standing in front of the accounting office of Donald Quinn, a Dallas C.P.A. and one of the plaintiffs in the lawsuit against Parkview Manor Retirement Village and licensed therapist Cecilia Dupree.”

  The camera pans out, and there, standing beside the reporter, are Mother and Oliver. Behind them, elderly picketers bear signs and pace back and forth in front of the office door. Among the crowd I see The Frans. Mary Fran’s sign reads, Senior Citizens Should Not Be Censored. Francis’s sign, End Senior Oppression.

  “I have with me,” the reporter continues, “Belle Lamont and Oliver Winston, members of the Parkview Manor reading group and the organizers of this rally.” She turns to Mother. “Mrs. Lamont, your daughter, Cecilia Dupree, is being sued along with the retirement village for exposing the Parkview reading group to soft pornography and, as a result of that exposure, inciting some of the members to engage in rash, potentially harmful acts. What do you and your group hope to accomplish here today?”

  Mother clears her throat as she faces the camera. “I want Mr. Quinn and the other plaintiffs to realize how silly they’re being. My daughter has devoted her life to helping people. She didn’t hurt us, she brought us together, gave us something else fun to look forward to each week. It’s true that one of our members had a medical emergency, but it wasn’t Cecilia’s fault, or Parkview’s, either.” Mother lifts her chin. “I’m very proud of my daughter. Penelope’s Passion is not pornography. It’s an adventure. A lovely romance.”

  Willa and I groan at the same time as the reporter lifts the book and the camera zooms in on Penelope’s naked back and the captain’s hand touching it. “A lovely romance with quite a bit of sex,” the perky blonde responds in a bedroom voice.

  The camera shifts to Mother, who doesn’t flinch. “Since when did sex become a four-letter word?”

  Willa shouts, “You go girl.”

  I cover my mouth and laugh. I guess I never took a long enough look at my mother to see how truly gutsy she is. She always says I’m like her and don’t realize it. Right now, I hope it’s true, that her strength lives inside me. Lurking. Waiting for me to find it.

  The camera moves to Oliver who points to the words on his sign, We’re Old, Not Dead, then at the picketers behind him. “We aren’t kids. Not a one of us is senile. We don’t need our grown children to shelter us.” He looks directly into the camera, directly at me. “We may be a little worse for wear on the outside, but inside…” he taps his fingers against his chest, right over his heart, “inside, we’re no different than we’ve ever been. At least Cecilia Dupree seems to be figuring that out, if no one else is.”

  Willa’s sigh travels across the line. “That sweet old man.”

  My eyes fill. “Sweet old conniver’s more like it. Damn him. He’s going to end up making me love him.”

  Mother and Oliver step back and Doris Quinn steps forward. The camera zeroes in on her sign—Seniors Need Love Too. When the scene widens again, Doris waves a hand at the building and twitters, “This office belongs to my son. If you’re watching, Donnie, I just want to say that it’s time for you to give up this ridiculous lawsuit. Quit being a bully. Straighten up and act right, for heaven’s sake. Make your mother proud.”

  The live report moves to a male reporter on the sidewalk in front of a house he identifies as Sue Kiley’s residence. A similar rally is in progress there, led by Sue’s father, Frank Rayburn, now fully recovered from his Viagra incident, his blue Paul Newman eyes sharp and gorgeous as ever. The sign he waves at the camera says, Free To Read, Free To Love, Free Parkview & CiCi. I watch until the report ends, then turn off the set.

  “Wow,” Willa says.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Those folks are something else. Your mother’s one feisty lady. She’s got gumption. You must be proud of her.”

  “I am.” So proud I could pop.

  No painting for me this morning. Instead, I pace, channel surf and wait for Mother. I consider driving to Donald Quinn’s office to see her, but the thought of a possible face-off with reporters keeps me locked in the house. Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Where’s that gumption I supposedly inherited from my mother? Nowhere to be found at the moment, that’s for sure.

  Midmorning, I flip to LIVE With Regis and Kelly, and my heart beats in double time when I hear Regis speak my name. It seems that since their earlier program where they discussed the “Dallas retirement village scandal and therapist Cecilia Dupree, who allegedly instigated it,” senior citizens from all over the country called in to voice their support for me and what I “started.”

  When my phone rings, I check the caller ID, see that it’s Willa and pick up.

  “You’re on Regis and Kelly, again.”

  “I’m watching. I got in on the middle of it, at the part about all the calls coming in. What else have they said?”

  “Seems book groups of retirees all over the country are reading Penelope’s Passion. Kelly suggested they invite you on the show, girl. Maybe the author, too. And Bill Burdette.”

  “Me? On television?” Somehow I always imagined celebrity would excite me, not make me sick to my stomach. “That’s not going to happen. I’d be a wreck.”

  “That’s not all,” Willa continues. “Sela Summers? The lady who wrote the book?”

  “What about her?”

  “She called a minute ago. She wants you to call back. Penelope’s Passion just went into a third printing. It’s selling like crazy because of you. Ms. Summers wants to thank you.”

  “Since I’ve made her rich and famous, did she offer to pay my legal fees?”

  “Shoot. Who are you fooling? The only payment Nate Colby’s gonna want from you is—”

  “Funny, Willa. Anyway, I fired him.”

  “You did what?”

  “Long story. Relax. I hired his brother.”

  “Is he as cute?”

  Before I can answer, the front door slams and Mother and Oliver walk in, both pink-cheeked, animated and talking nonstop.

  “Gotta go. Mother’s home.”

  “Give her a high-five from me.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, and CiCi? I booked the rest of next week and through Tuesday of the next. All new patients.”

  “Any of these under seventy?”

  “Only one.” She chuckles. “He’s sixty-nine.”

  CHAPTER 24

  The next day, Saturday, is rare and wonderful. Erin is home, Mother’s home, I’m home. No one has anywhere to be until this evening when we all have dates, although my feet are getting colder by the second at the thought of mine.

  Calls from television shows wanting my interview have come in nonstop the past twenty-four hours. I take the phone off the hook, and we spend the morning washing and drying loads of laundry while watching a couple of movies; Erin’s favorite, Finding Nemo, then an old dramatic tear-jerker Mother and I both love, Imitation of Life.

  When we break for lunch, Erin fills Mother and me in on everything from school, to Suz’s latest crush, to Noah’s plans for college. I have a feeling she’s headed toward something touchy and important, but she never arrives. After we finish eating, I slip off and call Nate to cancel our dinner date and am relieved that his machine picks up. I leave a message.

  Back in the den, Mother puts her Glenn Miller album on the ancient turntable I never got rid of, cranks up the volume, then the three of us fold all the clean clothes we dumped center floor earlier. Not once does Erin complain, which surprises and pleases me. She seems content to pass the day with us. Yesterday on the six o’clock news, she saw a replay of the protest rally outside Donald Quinn’s accounting office, and she’s as proud of her nana as I am.

  When “In The Mood” starts to play, Mother drops a towel and grabs my hand. We jitterbug like she taught me when I was a girl, hands waving, feet slapping the carpet to the beat of the song. Erin laughs and shrieks, then finally joins in. Nothing else matters as we dance together, my mother, my daughter and me. Nothin
g intrudes. No problems. No fears. No differences, age or otherwise. There is only our laughter, the pulse of our feet, the energy flowing between and around us.

  Later, they leave with Oliver and Noah, and I’m still so alive with the joy of the day that I almost reconsider and call Nate to say I’ve changed my mind. But I tell myself this is all I want in my life now, enough to fulfill me for the time being. My family under one roof, the three of us learning to relate to one another as grown women, not merely mother and daughter, grandmother and granddaughter.

  I admit, I’m the one who’s had the toughest time adjusting. Even tonight, when Mother left with Oliver and Noah led Erin out the door, a twinge of worry and resentment and, yes, jealousy too, crept up to try and tug me down from my high. They’ll break your heart, I wanted to warn them. They’ll turn your life upside down, let it crash and then leave you alone to pick up the pieces. One way or another. Death, divorce, dreams. Something will take them away. Erin, I know, will have to learn that the hard way, there’ll be no convincing her. But Mother’s been through it once already. It’s hard to see her set the stage for another broken heart.

  I’m painting the sunroom, looking lovely in daffodil-yellow-splattered sweats and wool socks, hair in a ponytail, no makeup when, at eight, the doorbell rings. It’s Nate. Surprise, surprise. He holds a sack in one hand, two bottles in the other.

  “If I can’t tempt you with myself,” he says, “I thought maybe a little merlot and Chinese might do the trick.”

  I cross my arms.

  He smacks his lips and lifts the sack. “Beef with oyster sauce and mushrooms. Yum, yum. Spring rolls. Fried rice, too.”

  Hunger gnaws at my stomach. A hunger not only for food, but also for his company. Sighing, I step back to let him through.

  I grab a couple of wineglasses from the kitchen cabinet and scrounge up an opener. Nate whistles in the next room. A Paul Simon song. Listening closer, I recognize the tune. Something about making love with a woman named Cecilia up in a bedroom. How subtle. Laughing to myself, I join him in the den where I put one of Mother’s Frank Sinatra albums on the turntable to shut him up. We sit side by side on the floor and eat off the coffee table.

  “One of your neighbors must be having a party. I had to park down the street,” Nate says between chews.

  “Mrs. Stein next door. She’s upset that I didn’t come. She wanted to introduce me to her lesbian niece, Cleo something-or-other. Since I’ve refused every setup she’s tried to arrange with men, I guess she’s decided I’m gay.”

  Nate grunts and keeps on eating. “Everett said he scheduled depositions for the week after next.”

  Sipping the wine, I nod. “He called this afternoon and we coordinated the date.”

  I wish we didn’t have to discuss the lawsuit and risk spoiling the meal. The beef tastes so tender and delicious; I want to concentrate on that, on Old Blue Eyes crooning on the stereo, the spice-scented air, the nice hum of awareness skimming just beneath my skin, caused by the wine and Nate’s nearness. If we have to talk, I’d rather talk about him. Since we’ve met, my problems have taken center stage. It occurs to me I know next to nothing about his life. Just that he’s a lawyer. That he has a brother. He enjoys fishing. And he likes older things; sports cars, rock and roll. Me.

  “After that news segment yesterday, it wouldn’t surprise me if the plaintiffs dropped the suit,” Nate says, refilling our goblets. “Doris Quinn seemed madder than a wet hen at her son for starting the thing in the first place. Nothing like a mother’s wrath to set a son straight.”

  We clink our glasses together. “You saw?”

  He nods. “Belle and Oliver were great. They all were.”

  Pushing my empty container aside, I shake my head and laugh. “Who would’ve thought reading a romance novel would cause such a stir? You wouldn’t believe the calls I’m getting at the office. Every senior citizen in the greater Southwest seems to want an appointment with me. Suddenly I’m Masters and Johnson for the Geritol crowd.”

  “Good for you. They obviously need your services. You took a bad situation and turned it to your advantage. And theirs.”

  “I’m not sure I had anything to do with it. The whole thing just happened. And I’m not sure how I feel about it, either. I’ve pretty much focused my practice on troubled teens, troubled families and troubled marriages up until now.”

  Nate reaches for the opener and goes to work on the second bottle. “Well, maybe it’s time for a change.”

  “I told you, I’m not good at that.” Groaning, I take a long drink. “How much change can a person stand? In the space of less than two years, my husband started going down on women half his age, my stud bulldog’s so depressed he can’t get it up, my mother’s moved in and my daughter wants to move out.” I lift my glass for a refill. “Oh, and on top of all that, my dad died and my mother’s in love again. Now you’re telling me my career focus should change, too?”

  “You said yourself the members of the reading group were the highlight of your week. That they did as much good for you as you did for them.”

  “That’s true, but…I don’t know.” I start laughing and can’t stop.

  He watches me, a look of delighted surprise in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I think I’m a little drunk.” I try to compose myself, but it’s no use. “I’m sorry,” I say again, giddy for no particular reason. “It’s just, I mean…me? A senior sex therapist?”

  “I’m sure they have other issues to discuss with you besides sex.” Nate takes the wineglass from me and sets it on the coffee table. “Now, I, on the other hand…” He slides his fingers into my hair, against my scalp, and kisses me. The awareness beneath my skin stops humming and sings along with Frank.

  As I push Nate to the carpet and kiss him back, the music crescendos.

  The bed is spinning when I wake in the middle of the night. I blink to look at the clock. The numbers glow green in the darkness—4:12 a.m.

  Moaning, I close my eyes. They hurt. So does my head. I can’t move my body. It feels like a weight presses me into the mattress.

  I lift my right hand to cover my gurgling stomach and touch something else. A weight is pressing me into the mattress. I pat my palm against it. A leg. A hairy leg.

  My eyes pop open again as I raise my left hand to my breasts.

  Oh, God. I’m naked. I’m going to throw up.

  I slide my right hand up the hairy thigh…up…up…pause…jerk it away.

  Oh, God. He’s naked, too. I’m going to have a coronary.

  He. Nate.

  It all comes back to me. The wine. The laughter. The kissing. More wine. More laughter. More kissing. And finally, no wine. No laughter. Only kissing and…

  Oh, God. We did it. Tell me I dreamed it, then let me go back to sleep.

  I lie perfectly still; my eyes don’t even blink. The only thing moving in my entire body is my heart. Boy does it move. Like a tap dancer on speed. Images flash through my mind. Everything.

  Oh…It was fun. Fun and thrilling and sexy and…

  A sneeze sounds somewhere else in the house.

  Erin? Mother?

  In a panic, I squeeze from under Nate’s leg. My head pounds, but my heart pounds harder. I shake his shoulder.

  “Wake up!” I plead.

  He stirs. A satisfied sound rumbles up from deep in his chest, sending a shiver down my spine. When he reaches for me, I bolt from the bed and scramble around in the dark, searching the floor for my clothes, desperate that they be here in the bedroom instead of in the den where Mother or Erin might’ve seen them.

  Out of nowhere, a scene appears and plays through my mind. Nate undressing me, piece-by-piece, clothes flying over his shoulder, landing on the rocker in the corner.

  I run to the rocker. Sure enough.

  After struggling into the sweatpants, I tug the sweatshirt over my head and run back to my bed.

  “Nate! Please!” I shake him again. “You have to get out of here.”


  He bolts straight up. “What?”

  I cover his mouth. “We fell asleep. You have to go before Mother or Erin catch you here.”

  We don’t speak as we move around in the darkness. I wasn’t as tidy as Nate when I undressed him. The clothes landed everywhere. His shirt on the dresser. Pants at the foot of the bed. One sock on the nightstand, another in the corner. Underwear? No underwear. I’m sure he wore them. I vividly remember taking them off. Boxer briefs. Gray. Snug.

  Oh, boy.

  I drop to my hands and knees, reach beneath one side of the bed, then crawl around to the other. Nate trips over me, falls against the wall with a loud thud.

  “Shhhh!” I rise to my knees. He seems okay. Closing my eyes, I tilt back my head and take several deep breaths. When I open my eyes again, the first thing I see is the shadow of the ceiling fan and something hanging from one blade. I stand and reach up. Nate’s briefs. How did that happen?

  Nate sits at the edge of my bed and dresses while I pace. Seconds later, as we leave the bedroom, I say a silent thanks to Mrs. Stein next door for having a party. With Nate parked down the street, surely Mother and Erin didn’t notice his car.

  We tiptoe down the hall toward the entryway. Halfway there, I hear a noise behind us and pause. Dizzy with dread, I look over my shoulder.

  Oliver is at Mother’s bedroom, his back to us, closing her door. His shirt is untucked, and he reaches to remedy that as he turns. His startled eyes meet mine, but before either of us can react, Erin’s bedroom door opens and Noah, sleepy-eyed and rumpled, backs out on tiptoe.

  My heart does a quick slide to the floor, hits it, then bounces back up to my throat. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” I glance from Noah to Oliver and back again, every cell in my body poised for battle. “Both of you! Do you know what time it is?” Anger burns through my body like a shot of whiskey. I shake from the force of it.

  Neither of them move; it’s as if they’re frozen in place. Suddenly, Mother and Erin are in the hallway, too. I see them through a red haze. All of them.