by Lisa Samson
22
My agent sounds doubtful. “They were pretty adamant about a male protagonist.”
“But think Angie Dickenson, or Charlie’s Angels. Okay, maybe Charlie’s Angels isn’t a good idea. But how about the NYPD Blue girls? They’re realistically sexy and as good as any man.”
“You may have to forgo the whole unwanted pregnancy angle.”
“How about she already has a kid? She really needs to have a great reason to want to get this guy out of the way. And it would appeal to female audiences that way as well.”
“That could work.”
“Well, anyway, let me know. And if you can get me a couple of extra weeks on the deadline, that would be good.”
“I’ll feel them out. They may not schedule you for editing until after your manuscript arrives. It might be flexible.”
“Thanks.”
Man, I hope she’s right. Just over a hundred pages in, Jane’s doing some serious damage. If I was that Maximilian dude, I’d be shaking in my Tony Lama alligator boots.
Well, money’s not bad right now. At least there’s that. Between Rusty’s salary and mine, we’re doing better than we ever have. Brett and I put our foot down with Brian and told him, as financial partners in the epitome venture, we voted to keep the blue plate specials. He cussed us out, big surprise there. For the life of me, I can’t figure him out. Been through rehab, two DUIs, and still nothing’s his fault. At least he comes over to visit Mom more. But he left that Bible on my kitchen counter. I cried, not because he’s not reading anymore, but because I failed to love him as I should. I think Dani makes him visit, because she comes with him and sits in my kitchen, and we chat.
I make her a cup of Irish breakfast tea tonight because it’s Saint Paddy’s Day. She accepts it like it’s the Holy Grail or something.
I’m learning a lot through Dani. I was raised to judge people by their outward appearance. We had true hippie leftovers around in those days, not the neohippies of these days. The grownups quoted the it’s-a-shame-for-a-man-to-have-long-hair verse with more regularity than the ocean waves. So let me digress: how does that verse sit in the same book with John the Baptist and Samson? I’d like an explanation. Anyway, we’d almost cross to the far sidewalk rather than be sullied by a brush of the sleeve with someone “like that.”
But Dani’s a decent, loving human being. She cares deeply for and about her mother and her daughter and even Brian, setting herself aside. She gives far more than could ever be repaid, and she doesn’t complain half so much as I do. Dani lives the Golden Rule far more faithfully than a lot of other Christians I know. In her, the healing hands of Jesus do their work. Maybe she learned that from Geneva. And so I’m thinking God’s busy using people cast aside by the religious establishment, and it’s time I get with the program. So she wears tight jeans and goes to bars. So what? What good are skirts and teetotaling in the fortress when a world is crying out for meaning and a little TLC?
I squeeze her hand. “Glad you all could come over tonight.”
“Yeah, well it’s better than being at the bars with all that green beer. Brian wouldn’t do well there at all.”
Rosa and Trixie giggle over something Brian’s doing out in the living room. When the boy’s on, he’s really on. His deep laughter mingles with their baby voices.
“How’s he doing with his addiction?”
“Hasn’t had a drop as far as I know. We’re together quite a bit now.”
I sit down opposite her at the table. “Dani, I feel like I’ve gotten to know you on a whole new level with Club Sandwich and everything. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, I love my brother. I don’t like him very much these days, to be honest, but he is my brother. And I’ve got to admit I’ve failed him in some ways. But do you really know what you’re getting into with him?”
She nods. “I’ve been around, Ivy. You know that.”
“He’s an alcoholic.”
“Yeah. I’m used to alcoholics.”
“He may never change.”
“I don’t expect him to.”
“Then why?”
She shrugs. “We all have our issues, Ivy. I’ve been a giver so long, I guess I don’t want the pressure of being a taker.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, you of all people should understand. What’s the difference between a man being out at the bars every night or singing? He’s gone all the same, right?”
“Right. You’re absolutely right.”
That stinks.
“How’s your daughter?”
Her demeanor flowers. “Oh, she’s great. Just great.”
“Is she in day care?”
She shakes her head. “No. My grandmother watches her.”
“Your grandmother’s still alive?”
“Yep. Dad’s mom.”
“Thank God for her.”
She lifts her teacup to her mouth, “That’s what I say,” and takes a sip.
Reuben and I wander the halls of a small Presbyterian school near Bel Air. Along the wide main corridor, bright and clean, children’s coats and backpacks line up in a pliable row on their hooks. Laughter bursts from the third-grade room, and I peer inside. The teacher, middle-aged and more animated than any Warner Brothers character I’ve ever seen, spreads her arms wide, then talks about the Greeks and the Olympic Games. A little boy wearing oversize spectacles raises his hand. “Is it true they were naked?”
“Oh yes. And no girls allowed.”
“All right!” he says.
“My boys would have loved that.” Her smile bestows something good upon him.
A blond, curly-headed girl forgets to lower her raised hand. “You should see my little brother. He’s always running around naked.”
The class laughs.
The principal, Mr. Brandon, hurries us along with a laugh. “Classical education at its finest.”
We peruse the drawings and projects tacked to the walls. Medieval castles. Roman temples. Latin tests. Impressive. Persy should be here. And they have a preschool. Perfect for Trixie next year. The very same year they’re beginning a full-scale music program. I’d love to move up here. The countryside isn’t far away, Starbucks and Barnes and Noble already inhabit the town, and Chick-fil-A is building nearby. Now I don’t know about you, but that first bite into one of their chicken sandwiches is pure nirvana. Yep. I could go for this.
“Right now we just have music classes once a week, but we want to start a school band next year as well as a choir for those children who are so inclined.”
“Russell plays several instruments.” Reuben. “And his singing experience is bar none.”
“His résumé is impressive. I wonder why he would want to even come here? A better endowed school would love to have someone of his caliber.”
I say, “He loves children, though. When he wasn’t traveling, he taught our own children quite a bit.”
“When is he coming back into town?”
“Around Easter.”
“Well, we’ll hold the hiring process in check for him. We’d love to talk with him if he’s interested.”
We finish up the tour, thoroughly delighted, the peaceful atmosphere of the school pervading our hearts. We let Trixie explore the playground for a quarter of an hour to work off some energy.
“I like it here, Dad.”
“Me too. It has Rusty written all over it.”
“It would be a definite drop in income.”
“Don’t sweat it, Ive. If it’s meant to be, it’ll work out.”
“And there’s a church here too. I sure wouldn’t mind starting over fresh.”
“Well, just start praying, and we’ll see where it leads.”
Rusty’s used the lack of opportunity here to keep on his current path. Maybe this will help. But I hate to get my hopes up.
Truth is, I haven’t prayed about this enough. When is there time? Maybe I sho
uld pray to be given more than twenty-four hours in the day.
“I can’t take you to the party, Lyra. Winky’s not feeling good, Persy’s sick again, and there’s no one to baby-sit. Reuben and Harry went out to run errands and do grocery shopping and won’t be back for hours. I think they’re having dinner at the bistro.”
Did I really just call it the bistro?
Lyra storms off to her room. “I can’t do anything anymore!”
I remember the days when I just worked at the restaurant, ran everybody around, and thought, “It must be nice to be stuck at home, unable to go anywhere.” I pictured the life of ladies like Marion Cunningham, waiting for Joanie and Richie to come home from school. Those women weren’t overextended. They took care of their families, and that was deemed a worthy enough calling for one person. They also drank cocktails before dinner and used real cream in their coffee. They fried chicken in lard, for heaven’s sake. Yep, that seemed like the life.
Today the world of the fifties just doesn’t jive, because people are busy, busy, busy. It’s the standard answer these days to “How are you?”
Remember when people would respond, “Fine. And you?”
Now it’s, “Busy. I’m busy.” People used to be expected to suck it up and not complain. They were fine, fine, fine. Now it’s a sin to be idle. Heaven forbid we say, “You know, I was just lazing over a book today. And yesterday, too.” Or “I sure did waste a lot of time surfing the Internet, and I bet I checked my e-mail a million times yesterday.”
I know I’m guilty of writing one of my old columns in my head, but this irritating ruminating refuses to die. I miss the outlet, so I sit down and write out my blabberings to the beat of Lyra banging around up in her room.
I don’t blame her.
Mom threw anger darts at me yesterday because I forgot to pick up her medication. But on my way to the pharmacy, Persy called my cell phone from school to report that he forgot his lunch. I swung into the Super Fresh and picked up a Mega Lunchable, delivered it to his classroom, returned home, and didn’t remember the prescription until late this afternoon when I went to dole out Mom’s pills.
I called Harry, who’s greeting at the Wal-Mart in White Marsh and loving it. He decided not to take the job at the optical center so he’d have more time to help me out. He agreed to pick up the meds. But Mom’s still mad at me. “You’d think it would be important enough for you to remember, Ivy.”
“Why don’t you ask Brian?”
“Honey, he’s a man. He’s got to work.”
I keep thinking my hair is falling out until moments like these when I look down and see two handfuls in my own fists.
Rusty, Rusty, Rusty. If you don’t send me more than a newsy e-mail, I’m going to tell you to just stay in Europe. Which reminds me.
I call the little school in Bel Air. “Mr. Brandon, please?”
They patch me through to the principal, and we exchange pleasantries.
“I’m calling to tell you that I don’t know what I was thinking the other day. Russell’s not coming back until the beginning of June. I guess I was so excited about the school my mind went to pieces.”
“Understandable. It must be very difficult to have all that on your shoulders, Mrs. Schneider. Rest assured, we have no qualified candidates in the running as yet.”
“Will you keep us posted?”
“Certainly.”
Well, good enough for now.
I hang up, a picture of naked Olympians springing into my mind. Oh great.
The Lunchable made Persy ill. And I chipped a tooth. Will it ever end?
Reuben amassed his money long after Rusty left the barn. We’d been married five years, in fact, when Dad gambled on an unknown inventor of some widget I’ve never begun to understand that helps out the pharmaceutical industry, and struck not just gold, but platinum.
Rusty sold his plasma twice a week to get through college. In fact, once I found out you could go twice a week and get paid fifteen dollars a pop, we went together. Funny what you’ll do when you’re young and poor. But hey, fifteen hundred dollars a year paid for my books and a bit of tuition.
Rusty donned the lightest clothing possible and the easiest shoes to scuff off because if you weighed in under 167 pounds you only had to fill one bag. Even in winter he’d slip into his silky running shorts, tank top, and sandals.
We’d laugh and laugh, especially at the first-timers who arrived in jeans and sweaters. I had to give Rusty credit, though; his veins ran small and deep, but still he never missed a tuition payment. He also sang in sleazy clubs, but we won’t divulge the details of when and where, or the famed incident of the overcoat and loafers. Let’s just say he’s learned a lot of lessons since then.
Dreams of all manner of grandeur propelled Rusty through childhood, Reuben told me. He entered talent contests at the school and usually won. He sang at weddings, bar mitzvahs, anniversary parties, birthday parties, you name it, once he lost the baby cheeks of childhood and could play the guitar well enough to accompany himself. It’s one of the reasons I’m finding it hard to give the ultimatum. I know the steep road he traveled to get where he is today. Maybe I’m too soft, but if I found no compassion in my heart for the man, I’d be too far gone for any future with him.
Even with compassion, I’m still not sure we’ll ever have a true life together again.
I’m driving Mom to her monthly appointment with the neurologist. She started having small seizures, the vacant-stare kind, a few days ago. I’m sure it’s her hardened arteries. We’ve explained the need for surgery to her, a balloon catheterization in the arteries in her neck, but she refuses. I’ve tried to tell her a stroke is definitely coming if she doesn’t, but she juts her chin out, shakes her head and says, “I’m tired of trying, Ivy. Can’t you see that?”
“Trying what? Living? What?”
And then she clams up. Or starts preaching.
Well, Lord, if a stroke is coming, may it be one of diluvian proportions.
I feel guilty even praying that.
But if that’s what she wants, so be it.
Have we kids really been that much of a drain on her?
Man oh man, Ivy. No wonder the poor thing’s ready to go!
Sadder still, her few moments of lucidity are filled with sadness.
“And in such days there will be tribulations and trials, temptations and testings. Thus saith the Lord. Come out from among them and be ye separate! Those who stand firm to the end will be saved. Let us pray.”
Mom bows her head, and Trixie, sitting in her high chair, claps.
“Dear heavenly Father …”
And off she goes. After her resounding, “Amen and amen!” I chuckle. I mean, there’s only one other alternative.
Lyra casts me a look of loathing. “How can you even laugh, Mom? It’s cruel and not the least bit funny!” And she pushes back her chair, grabs her dinner plate, and storms up to her room.
Persy’s eyes are platters, deep blue platters, and they fill with tears. “Are you gonna die, Winky?”
She plops back down in her chair. “It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment!”
Persy breaks into a wailing sob.
I e-mail Rusty about the happenings at the supper table.
I wish I was strong enough to handle our family alone, but I can’t do this anymore, Rusty. I simply can’t.
It’s my last dignified cry for help.
I send it out and hope he’ll be able to log on and find it wherever he is in France.
Until I hear from him I get to be a bundle of raw and bleeding nerves, if nerves actually bleed. I suppose I’m about to find out.
23
Mitch returned to Baltimore yesterday, and we’re meeting for a late breakfast this morning at the Bel Loc Diner. I’m nervous about seeing him after this hiatus.
Reuben agreed to stay with Mom. In fact, they’re working on a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of raising the flag at Iwo Jima. I feel like we’ve
returned Mom to her childhood and wonder if it’s really good for her. Reuben’s so kind. He brews a pot of decaf for her and some regular for himself, and there they go. For some reason, she doesn’t preach to him. She hums along to the music and places a piece every so often. Usually in the wrong spot. Reuben leaves it there.
Trixie’s with me. I feel so guilty leaving her with her grandfathers all the time. We’re heading to the duckpin bowling alley for a couple of games afterward. Mitch will just have to deal. If he’s for women working with their children around like he says, he’ll handle it just fine. Of course he will.
I order Trixie a grilled-cheese sandwich and myself a western omelet with a side of grits, remembering the days when our place served food like this. Oh, my grandparents. Mom’s marriage and divorce must have killed them. Those two were one of those couples “meant to be together since time began.”
I’m not sure how they did it. The lack of disagreements. The harmony. Did they sweep everything under the rug, or truly understand what was important and what wasn’t? And if so, how? I search for these answers, and I search alone, and that ticks me off.
Mitch turns his old Jaguar into the parking lot. Good, he’s smiling and singing to something. Probably an old ZZ Top song. He may be all polished businessman on the outside, but he still likes his rock-’n’-roll.
The stiff breeze of late March tumbles his curls as he slides into a navy sport coat. Khakis pressed. Button-down starched. No tie, though.
He hurries up the steps and into the diner. “Hey! Sorry I’m late. The 695 was really a bear.”
“I heard on WCBM on the way over. Have a seat. I already ordered. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Hey Trixie! How you doing, sweet pea?”
She throws her crayons up in the air. “Hi! Hi! Hi! I got girl-cheese sandwich!”
If smiles bestow blessing, Trixie’s one blessed little child right now.