Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

  Whatever their issues, his kisses were not the problem. Making time for anything else, however, was proving troublesome. Having been busy with back-to-back meetings for nearly a week, Aaron apologized for not seeing her. He promised to make it up to her and swore their sacrifices would be worth it. But they still had no set plans for even a moment of intimacy. She didn’t have to disclose that she was so wrapped up in her own work she almost didn’t care.

  The auditorium was filling up. She wondered if any of the other parents were in her shoes and clueless about their children’s poems. It still didn’t seem right to her. Aaron was on his iPad, working on some kind of chart.

  “Really? You’re going to do that now?” she asked.

  “Hey, beautiful, calm down.” Aaron patted her shoulder. “Whitty’s just reading something, and she isn’t even on yet.”

  Fordham scowled and turned her head toward the doors as Dorie and Abe walked in. She stood up and waved to them while Aaron scrambled to pack his work away in his bulging briefcase. Before they sat down, Dorie flashed her hand under Fordham’s nose.

  “Can you believe it? Isn’t he stunning?” Dorie said, beaming at Abe.

  “Yes he is—and the ring isn’t bad either,” Fordham said, inspecting her mother’s hand.

  The ring was a big, shimmering, brilliant-cut diamond set high in an elegant diamond-studded band that gave Dorie license to serve brunch on paper plates next time Gloria was in town. Dorie’s smile was so broad that the rest of her small features almost disappeared. If she hadn’t just gotten over her foot injury, she’d have been jumping up and down. Abe’s complexion was brighter, and he seemed calmer now that his girl was wearing his ring. His forehead was smoother, and his eyes twinkled in a way she’d never seen before.

  “Abe said you gave us your blessing.” Dorie got a little teary. “That means a lot to me. To us.”

  Aaron offered his congratulations. Fordham gave her mother the excited-bride hug she’d become accustomed to giving ring recipients over the past few years. Now that her mother was one of them, she worried about how their relationship might change.

  A teacher in a burnt-orange suit and frosted hair announced that they were having some technical difficulties and that the assembly would start as soon as possible. Dorie asked Fordham to go to the ladies’ room with her, and they left the men, who were already wrapped up in a discussion about politics. The bathroom was empty except for one woman applying way too much lip liner.

  “You look really happy, Mom.”

  “Oh, Fordham, you have no idea. Abe and I just clicked like computer mice. Or would you say mouses?”

  “I don’t think it matters. The important part is the clicking.”

  They stood at the mirror and retrieved makeup at the same time.

  “It’s strange. I loved your father madly. But he was a lot older than I was, and even though we had a lot in common, we were still from different times.” Dorie brushed on a layer of highlighter she didn’t need. “Abe and I grew up on the same candy, movies, and music. It feels like we can be friends. And this time, no one can say he robbed the cradle and played Pygmalion.”

  Fordham was jolted back to a day when she’d been out shopping with her parents. They promised her a movie and Chinese food if she would be cooperative and let Dorie find a dress to wear to a friend’s wedding. Each time Dorie would model a dress, Arnie would say she looked beautiful but then subtly add that one thing or another wasn’t quite right. Finally, he picked out a dress for her to try on. It was a flashy yellow cocktail dress that had a fitted bodice and several tiers of feathery flounces. Dorie seemed to think it was very funny and took it into the dressing room as if playing along with him. She came out laughing, and Fordham remembered thinking she looked like Big Bird. But Arnie never got the joke. He patted himself on the back for his keen eye and said, “Now, that’s the way I want my wife to look: like a million bucks.” Without a peep, Dorie had worn the dress as if had been her choice all along.

  “I never knew it was like that for you,” Fordham said, feeling more enlightened.

  Fordham had to admit that she and Gil had never been true friends. They enjoyed some of the same activities, had similar taste in movies and music, and even shared similar political views, but when push came to shove, he was more inclined to shove her to be what he wanted than push her to be herself. And she and Aaron had been so young that it was hard to know if their friendship was as strong as their attraction. She was certainly hoping so this time.

  “Why would you know what it was like?” Dorie said. “Children seldom think past their own experiences.” She looked at Fordham quizzically. “What else is going on? That face you’re making has nothing to do with me and Abe.”

  “I haven’t read Whitty’s poem. She’s been very secretive.”

  “Are you worried she’s going to rat you out about the Ben & Jerry’s?” Dorie teased.

  “No. Not that I’d like that, but it’s just not like her to keep things from me.”

  If Whitty was being secretive about her poem, maybe there were other things she wasn’t sharing. She could be resentful of Fordham in deeper ways than she’d typically express. Maybe between the granola bars for breakfast and the string of horrific dates, her little girl didn’t trust her judgment, and maybe one day she would get fed up and take Gil up on his standing offer to live with him—though it was unlikely to actually happen. Gil, true to form, still hadn’t tried to connect with Whitty, and the more he continued to neglect her, the less she discussed his participation in anything going on in her life.

  “You were ten once too,” Dorie said, raising her eyes.

  “Yeah, but, Mom, I told you everything, unfortunately, and still do.”

  “Like the time you paid Beegie Moser a dollar to show you his—”

  “How’d you find out about that?”

  “His mother noticed that he was two candy bars over his allowance.”

  “And he ratted me out just like that.” Fordham shook her head. “The damn candy will get you every time. Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary. I figured you were normal and curious, and if you needed to talk, you would. Although I did cut back on your allowance.”

  “I guess I gave you a good reason to worry about inflation,” Fordham said.

  Dorie and Fordham got to their seats just in time to see David adjust the mic at the podium. Aaron’s shoulders tensed. Fordham hoped it was because he’d slept wrong.

  “Good morning, family and friends. Please rise for the Pledge of Allegiance led by Whitney Presser.”

  Everyone stood up as Whitty recited. When she was done, she left the stage and disappeared behind the curtain.

  “Mom, she never even told me she was leading the pledge.”

  Dorie shrugged. There was nothing diplomatic she could say anyway. Too bad your daughter doesn’t confide in you would be harsh, and Too bad you don’t know if she has her own Beegie Moser would be even harsher.

  Fordham nudged Aaron, who swore to her that his eyes were closed so that he could pay more attention to the words. She could tell he was bored. This wasn’t his world. His job was over after the baby’s first breath, when the hardest part was just beginning. More than ever, she was impressed that he was willing to change his whole way of life for her.

  David stepped back up to the podium. For a second, Fordham could smell his cologne. He was in a navy-blue suit and a great purple tie that brightened his face. That tie from Messengers. The girl had taste. It was conceivable that playing with Barbies was informing her sense of fashion.

  David appeared very much at home as he began to speak. “Today is a special day for Crestwood. We are the very first elementary school in the state to host the National Young Poets Awards,” he said amidst applause and cheering. “The world is a busy place. AI is pushing its way into our daily routines. Yes, modern technology is forging ahead at a pace we have never experienced at any other time in our histo
ry. We can buy food and cars from our phones with our faces, we can watch our favorite movies and TV shows anytime and anywhere with an app, we can chat with our friends while scuba diving—at least those of us who can scuba dive—and we can gather information about ourselves just by plugging our names into a search engine.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the auditorium. Fordham was once again impressed by David’s keen ability to engage his audience. It was a similar speech to the one he’d given on Back-to-School Night, but as always, he was speaking from his heart, which made him all the more effective... and attractive.

  “With such intense change challenging us from one moment to the next, it’s easy to lose sight of other valuable riches—the riches born from our hearts and souls, not just from our heads. For this reason, I am especially proud of all the students who participated in the National Young Poets Contest. Their efforts illustrate that words, feelings, and ideas are alive and well and that pen and paper still, and will always, remain the most powerful tools of our society.”

  David called students, waiting backstage, up to the podium one at a time to recite their winning entries. Some were cute, others more imaginative. Fordham had no idea what to expect when it was Whitty’s turn. She leafed through the program. As with the Academy Awards, Whitty, the overall winner, would be the last one called.

  David spoke with what Fordham detected as personal pride when he introduced Whitty. “Our final presenter today is the first-place winner of the National Young Poets Awards, whose poem, ‘My Shoes,’ will be published in the National Young Poets Anthology. It is with pleasure that I invite back to the stage our own fifth grader, Whitney Presser.”

  There was enthusiastic applause, but even after several moments, no sign of Whitty. David spoke to a teacher nearby then returned to the podium. Certain her daughter hadn’t been kidnapped, Fordham was more distressed than panicked. She had no clue why Whitty wasn’t going up to the mic.

  “Whitney is feeling a bit under the weather and is unable to present her poem today. Please welcome back our runner-up, fourth grader Layla Fox, who will read another poem entitled, ‘My Dog Rocks.’”

  As Layla approached the podium, David exited, looking more resolute than concerned, and Fordham took that as her cue to find Whitty. “I’m going to see what happened,” she said, jumping out of her seat.

  “I’ll come with you,” Aaron said, standing up. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. She was fine for the pledge.”

  “No, please just stay here. I want to talk to her myself.”

  “Babe, take it easy. Whitty has a way of being dramatic,” Aaron said.

  Fordham flashed him a look of antipathy and stormed out of the auditorium. Dramatic. You don’t call your almost-lover’s child dramatic. It’s not good form. She tried to put herself in Aaron’s shoes and softened when she decided that, in his own way, he’d meant to be helpful. He still needed more time to get to know and understand Whitty. But she didn’t want to have to deal with that. At the moment, she wanted effortless support from someone who didn’t need to be taught how to give it.

  Fordham was walking up and down the halls when she spotted David talking to Pam. For a moment, she wondered if Pam was missing her panties. Whatever they were discussing could wait. Fordham drew near and was relieved to see that Pam suddenly had somewhere else to go.

  “David! Where’s Whitty? Do you know what happened?” Fordham asked.

  “I do know. Don’t worry—she’s fine.” He nodded. “Come with me first. I need to show you something.”

  They walked to David’s office in a comfortable silence. He escorted her in and closed the door. “You haven’t read her poem, have you?”

  “No,” Fordham said. “She wouldn’t let me. Which really isn’t like her because we’re very close.”

  “I know. But Whitty wanted to wait till today. She said if it won something, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Sometimes kids don’t want to burden their parents. Whitty adores you, but she knows you have a lot on your plate.”

  Only a few weeks earlier, she’d told Fordham not to worry about going to Family Game Night at school because she knew Fordham had to work and would have to stay up later to make up the time. She even told her they could wait on shopping for her first bra until the book was done, claiming that no one cared about boobs until middle school anyway.

  “But she knows she always comes first,” Fordham said, aware of Whitty’s sacrifices.

  “Of course. But she loves you, and she puts you first too.”

  Fordham couldn’t argue that. “She told you all this?”

  “Kids share a lot over pizza and ice cream.” David opened a drawer and handed her a typed sheet. “Here. You’ll understand.”

  Fordham hesitated, not wanting to intrude on her daughter’s privacy, but decided it wasn’t a page from her diary and continued.

  Fordham read the title aloud. “‘My Shoes,’ by Whitney Presser.” Then she quietly read her daughter’s poem.

  Sometimes late at night,

  When I’m

  Lying in my bed,

  I think about the day

  And the things that people said.

  Sometimes they spoke the truth,

  At times they chose to lie

  But some of their nasty words

  Have been enough to make me cry.

  Fordham dabbed at her teary eyes with a tissue she retrieved from her jacket pocket.

  It’s not easy to be different

  In a world that’s filled with same,

  When people stare and look at me

  They box me in a frame.

  I wish that I could say

  I have two feet on the ground,

  But God made me this way,

  And one I drag around.

  I hope one day I’ll wake up

  In a world where I won’t lose

  Because people will finally see

  The girl who stands inside my shoes.

  Fordham was crying, and David went to console her with a hug. His arms, wrapped around her, felt healing, protective, and familiar, just as they had in her ambiguous dream scenario at his house. She lifted her face and was overwhelmed by the unabashed compassion in his eyes. In that moment, they understood each other in a pure, uncomplicated way. She was about to give him a very wide-awake kiss when the office door flung open.

  Aaron was clearly upset, and she quickly broke away from David.

  “I don’t see Whitty in here,” Aaron sniped.

  “David needed to show me something,” Fordham said with a tinge of guilt.

  “That seems pretty obvious,” Aaron retorted.

  “I think you’re getting the wrong idea,” David said calmly.

  “I think I don’t care what you think.” Aaron got right in David’s face.

  “Aaron, stop it. This isn’t about you or any of us. It’s about Whitty.”

  “Come on, Fordham. I’ll take you,” David said, walking out of his office.

  “I’m coming too,” Aaron insisted. “The thing is over, and I don’t need to continue to play dartboard for your mother.”

  She wondered how badly Dorie had been treating him in her brief absence. “No! Just go back to the hotel,” Fordham said, pushing him away. “I’ll meet you later. I promise.”

  Aaron threw his hands up in the air as if he were releasing footballs and stomped his way down the hall without looking back. With Aaron gone, David led Fordham down a series of corridors until they got to a classroom door bathed in silver glitter. The sign on the door was made of words cut out in the colors of the rainbow.

  “This is the poetry workshop. The kids voted on the design,” David said. “She’s in here.” He pointed to a tie-dyed curtain that was closed, sectioning off a part of the room.

  “Whitty?” Fordham called, pulling back the curtain.

  Sure enough, Whitty was sitting there, holding a box of tissues and crying. Fordham had seen her
in the exact same pose after she’d told her that Gil was moving out and they weren’t going to be married anymore. Fordham hadn’t been able to shield her from that kind of pain—try as she might—and this was no different. Whitty had her cross to bear, and the only thing Fordham could do was help give her the confidence she needed to handle it. Fordham gave her daughter a hug, and David seemed to take that as his cue to give them some time alone.

  “Don’t go,” Whitty said.

  “Um...” David looked to Fordham for confirmation then sat on the writing table.

  She was encouraged that Whitty seemed to trust and care about David. With no father figure around, Fordham worried there’d be a void in her daughter’s life that she’d be reluctant to allow anyone to fill. Even if this relationship wasn’t meant to be enduring, it was good to know she had the capacity.

  “Are you all right?” Fordham asked. “You feel okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Whitty declared. “I’m a woman. I changed my mind. I didn’t feel like reading my poem.”

  “Well, not just any woman could have written such an awesome poem,” Fordham said, kissing her forehead.

  “You showed it to her,” Whitty said to David, sounding betrayed.

  “She was supposed to hear it today, right?” David asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And, Whitty, what do we always say in PW?” He mouthed to Fordham, “poetry workshop.”

  “Beautiful poems are meant to be shared, especially with those we love.” Whitty sounded like a robot that had said that line dozens of times before. “But it’s not beautiful. Sometimes I messed up the rhyming.”

  “Whitty, it’s wonderful,” Fordham said. “I am so proud of you for writing it.” She kissed Whitty on the forehead. “All this hide-and-seek has my stomach growling. I need a hot-fudge-brownie sundae. How about you, monkey?”

  “Can David come?” Whitty pleaded.

  “Well, I—” Fordham stared at the floor.

  “I wish I could, Whitty, but I still have things to do here,” David said.

  “Okay,” Whitty said sadly. “I’m sorry I ruined the assembly.”

  “Are you kidding? You didn’t ruin anything. And Layla Fox will probably want to be your best friend now.”