by Paul Cwalina
“He’s getting his strength back. The chemo seemed to work. His cancer is in remission.”
“Oh, that’s great to hear. Please tell him I said hello.”
“I will. What are you up to now?”
“I’m actually working in DC on Rick Roman’s presidential campaign.”
“You’re kidding! That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Let me introduce you to Jennifer.” Jennifer had her back turned to us and was concentrating on the credit card pad, paying for her purchases. “Jennifer, this is Kelly.” Jennifer didn’t even acknowledge me and kept her back to us. I turned to Kelly. “Maybe she didn’t hear me. Jennifer, this is Kelly.”
Jennifer turned sharply, rested against the counter and put her hand on her hip. She didn’t say a word and just glared at Kelly.
“Hi. Nice to meet you,” Kelly said sweetly, extending her hand.
Jennifer barely shook her hand while still glaring at Kelly. If I could have seen through Kelly’s skin, I would have seen her insides turning to mush. Her smiled disappeared and she slowly put her hand down.
Jennifer turned her head slightly and shot a quick, angry look at me. Then she turned, grabbed her bags and walked toward the exit. I was mortified. I don’t think I felt more embarrassed or more apologetic in my entire life. “I’m so sorry, Kelly. I don’t know what just happened,” I said and tried to catch up to Jennifer.
She was already out the door and was walking across the parking lot. “Jen, wait up!” But she just kept walking toward the car.
Over her shoulder, she said loudly, “I see you remembered her name. What did you do, sleep with her twice? Is that how you remember names?”
“Jen, wait.”
She walked right in front of a car. The driver slammed on his brakes and honked his horn. Jennifer was completely unfazed by it and kept making her beeline to the car. I shrugged my shoulders and mouthed ‘sorry’ to the driver before waving him on. I was approaching the car and was walking toward Jennifer to open her door, but she said, “Just unlock the door and get in on your own side. I don’t need you opening my door.” I sighed and pressed the remote to unlock the door. She opened her door and threw her bags down hard onto the floor and sat down, and then slammed the door shut.
I got in but didn’t put the keys in the ignition. “What is your problem?”
“Just go. Take me home. I’m so sick of you and your tramps.”
“That was Kelly. She and her family volunteered on my campaign when I ran for mayor. Her father was undergoing chemo at the time and he was still making phone calls for me and handing out cards at the polls on election day,” I said sternly. “What am I supposed to do, punch her in the face and tell her to never talk to me again?”
“Maybe I should punch you in the face.”
“Go ahead,” I said and stuck my face in the air toward her. “If that’ll make you feel better. Go ahead. Swing away.”
“Just start the car and take me home,” she said.
“No. Tell me what your problem is.”
She was tapping her foot hard and fast on the floor and had her arms folded across her chest, staring straight ahead. “Take me home.”
“No. Tell me what your problem is.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door. “Fine. I’ll walk home.”
I grabbed her arm and held her down so she couldn’t get out of the car. “Let go,” she demanded.
“No. Settle down and talk to me.”
“What are you going to do, choke me like you choked Sarah?”
I reached a boiling point. How dare she say that to me? I couldn’t even assess the emotions that were churning inside of me after hearing her say that. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Help me, Chelsea. Help me, Pastor Zee.
I couldn’t calm down, but I regained control. “Just tell me what is going on. What is your freakin’ problem today?”
“Take me home! I don’t want to be with you anymore.”
“No. Tell me what’s wrong.” I just kept going until I finally pushed her button. “Tell me what’s wrong!” “Tell me! What is your problem?”
She finally yelled, “I’ll tell you what my problem is! The father of my child is a shallow, skirt-chasing adolescent! And the only connection I have to him is my body and that body is never going to be the same! So where does that leave me? Where does that leave my baby?” She turned her head and burst into tears.
In an instant, my anger was gone. She cut right through it and turned it into guilt. I exhaled hard and my body completely relaxed. I had no idea what to say. I had no idea how to comfort her. I tried to put my arm around her, but she pushed it away.
“Just go,” she said through her tears.
I slowly put the keys in the ignition and started the car. In my head, I was trying to find the right words, but there really weren’t any. She simply left me speechless. All I could think about as I drove was my own selfishness and insensitivity. This was the first time I saw her vulnerable. I had no idea she felt that way and that I was the main culprit in making her feel that way.
I didn’t want to take her home, so I took the long way and stretched out the drive. She calmed down and stopped crying, but I could see she was still tense and probably still angry.
“Jen, I’m...”
“Jennifer. My name is Jennifer. Are you so lazy that two syllables are too much work for you?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Sorry. Jennifer, I’m sorry.” I placed my hand on her knee, but as soon as it landed there, she grabbed it and threw it off.
“Get your stinkin’ hands off me,” she demanded. Then with her index finger she angrily punched the power button on the radio to turn it on. In one of those once-in-a-lifetime/divine-intervention moments, the old Georgia Satellites song Keep Your Hands to Yourself was playing on the radio.
I turned sharply toward Jennifer. She turned her face to the window. I could see that she was using every muscle in her face to prevent herself from smiling. “What? Do you control the radio airwaves, too?” I asked. She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her body started to shake. We looked at each other and started laughing hard. When we were done laughing, we both joined in singing the song at the top of our lungs.
It was a seminal moment for us. It was the first time we shared a good laugh. I apologized again and she reassured me that she was all right.
We spent the rest of the day and evening at her place watching movies, eating way too many snacks and talking deeply. At 10:00, she told me it was time to leave and asked if I would go to church with her the following morning. I agreed and we said good night.
Chapter Eight
After church the next morning, Jennifer and I went to Denny’s for a late breakfast with the hopes of continuing our conversation from the previous night and really getting to know each other. From the looks of the crowd there, half of the congregation had the same idea. We exchanged greetings with several others as we waited for a table. Every one of them was gracious and warm and made us both feel as if we were among lifelong friends.
It wasn’t long after we were seated that Jennifer asked, “What did you think of the sermon?”
“Long,’” I said.
“That’s it? That’s all you can say about it?” she asked. “I thought it was wonderful.”
“Sorry. Five minutes is my limit.”
“I bet you listen to political speeches that are longer. I bet you watch those party convention speeches every four years. Am I right?”
I smiled, knowing where she was going with it. “Yes, I do.”
“Longer than five minutes, I’m sure.”
“Yes, but I’m actually interested in that,” I said. “The Bible? Not so much.”
“Did you go to church when you were a kid?”
“Just at Christmas and Easter,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders. “Weddings and funerals, too, I guess. That’s it.”
“You’ve never read the
Bible or heard it preached?”
“No. Like I said, just at the holidays when the priest read something from it,” I said, and then heard Cindy’s voice in my head saying, “Just words.” That was weird. I quickly shook it off. “How about you?”
Under her breath, she said, “Faith comes from hearing...” It was loud enough and clear enough for me to hear but I had no idea what it meant. Then she continued in her normal conversational tone, “We went every Sunday until my father left us. My mom stopped going after that. I was only twelve, so I couldn’t even go if I wanted to,” she said, seemingly grieved by that. “I didn’t go back until about a month ago.”
“So, recently?” I asked surprised. “Why?”
She hesitated a bit. “I...um ...I want to tell you about that, but not now and not here.” Whatever it was she was holding back, it was significant. I knew her well enough to know that. “I want to apologize for how I acted yesterday, too. I’m really sorry. I don’t want to use hormones and the pregnancy as an excuse, but I certainly haven’t been the same.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m still struggling with these blinders that I seem to be wearing. I need to be more aware of what you’re going through. I’m sorry,” I said, genuinely.
“Please understand that our child is the reason why I am the way I am and why I do and say the things that I do. I’m not trying to be mean.”
“I know,” I assured her. But let’s just pile this on top of me forever losing my political career, losing Sarah, and living with the guilt of driving a woman to suicide. Anything else you’d like to heap on top of that?
Since the blowup between us the day before and that long, shared laugh, there was a new tone to our conversations and a new respect for each other. We were no longer talking at each other. Still, there was a long way to go, and I wasn’t sure how we could get much further with the elevated ambient noise of the restaurant’s over-capacity crowd, the continuous clashing of dishes and glasses and silverware, and the staff barking orders at each other across the room.
The frazzled waitress finally appeared at our table. “Hi, folks. Sorry about the wait. What can I get you?”
Um, menus would be nice...
“Oh, that’s quite all right. You’re awfully busy today. We’re fine, but we do need menus, miss,” Jennifer said sweetly. What? She should have known we didn’t have menus! Why didn’t you lay into her? We had to wait in line and we’ve been waiting at this table for someone to at least acknowledge that we exist! Don’t let her off the hook!
The waitress seemed to relax just a bit at Jennifer’s words and gently said, “Oh, I am so sorry. Let me get those for you. I’ll be right back.”
“You were much nicer to that waitress than she deserved. We’ve been waiting forever,” I said.
“Salt and light,” Jennifer replied.
I looked at the salt and pepper shakers and reached for them, then stopped. “Wait. What?” I asked confused.
Jennifer let out a small laugh. “We are called to be salt and light to the world. That was today’s sermon.”
“It was?” I asked.
She sighed and looked somewhat disappointed. “I’m sorry you missed the message.”
“I don’t even know what that means, and right now, I’m just hungry.”
The waitress returned, handed us the menus and apologized again. “Can I get you folks some coffee?”
“Yes, please, and can you give me a proper sized mug rather than those shot glasses you guys usually use for coffee?” I said only half-jokingly.
She wasn’t amused. “We only have the one size, but I can leave the carafe of coffee with you.”
I just replied to her with a wide, over-emphasized smile, and then added, “And a lemonade.”
“We have pink lemonade. Is that okay?” Un-freakin-believable.
“Forget it. Just bring me a water,” I said upset.
“Coffee and an orange juice, please, Leslie,” Jennifer said with a smile, having read the waitress’ name tag. The waitress smiled at Jennifer and said softly, “I’ll be right back with those.”
“You don’t like pink lemonade?” Jennifer asked.
I sighed, “Don’t get me started. No, I just don’t. I’ll never understand why they can’t just make lemonade. Why is that a problem?”
“Well, we may have a problem, then, because that’s what I have at my house.”
“I’m sorry, Jennifer, we can’t be together.”
As I lifted my menu, Jennifer put her hand on it and pushed it down. “Hey, I have an ultrasound appointment next Saturday. It would mean the world to me if you would go with me,” she said, looking pleadingly into my eyes.
“Ultrasound? That’s where they tell you the sex of the baby, right?”
She chuckled. “Yes, it is, among other things.”
“I can’t promise, but I’ll try. The Florida primary is the following Tuesday, and it’s tight. You never know what can happen during a campaign.”
“Okay, please try,” she said. After pausing, she continued, “You know, I’ve been reading up on this Roman guy. Are you sure you want to support him? There have to be better choices than him.”
“Yeah, I know what you’re saying. He’s not exactly my cup of tea, but he’s the cup of tea that’s paying me.”
She wanted to say something in response to that, but held her tongue as the waitress returned for our order.
After we finished our meals, we sipped our coffees and talked more about our jobs, our families, and about the baby. The brief weekend together was very good for us as we broke through the iciness of being forced together by circumstances. We entered into a new phase of acceptance and focusing our energies more on the welfare of the baby rather than on our own. At least it was a new phase for me. Jennifer was more or less welcoming me to it. She had already been there from the beginning. I was still feeling cheated, though. Life was happening to me, rather than me making life happen. I had little control.
I looked at my phone for the time and said, “My flight leaves at four, so I should probably get to the airport by 2:30, so...” I left it hanging as a way to get her to start wrapping up without sounding too rude.
She looked down at the table when she softly said, “Please don’t go back there.” Perhaps she was afraid of the response or afraid to look into my eyes that surely would have told her what she didn’t want to hear.
“Come on, Jennifer, you know I have to,” I said softly, mindful of the way she pleaded.
She sighed. “Let’s go.”
On the way back to her place, she told me that she would drive me to the airport, sparing me the expense and impersonal trip in a taxi. She picked me up at 2:00 and we had a fairly quiet drive. Her quiet demeanor spoke loudly of her disapproval of me heading back to Washington. I broke the silence, “Jennifer, you know I can’t keep flying back and forth. I have to find an apartment.”
She didn’t respond. I glanced at her and saw a tear roll from the corner of her eye. “Why don’t you come with me?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t, but it would at least score me some points for offering.
“I’m not raising our child in that cesspool,” she said. Before I could defend DC, she continued, “Besides, I see how seriously you take this job. The baby and I would never see you if we moved there. You know, Jeff’s company uses a public relations firm that is run completely by telecommuting. The people writing the press releases and copy for other stuff work from home. If you’re writing speeches, can’t you just email them? You shouldn’t have to be there to do that.”