The 90 Day Rule

by Diane Nelson

  “Was that Jack, um, Coach Ryan?”

  Was that needy Jes asking about Jack and making the intellectual leap that he could have called and told her that himself because he had her dossier and paperwork and wouldn’t he want to see her again…

  Even mental run-on sentences left one breathless. Especially when they led inexorably to pit-of-stomach bad vibes.

  “Uh, yeah. We better haul ass, Jes. The lines’ll be long as it is.”

  I agreed but asked, “Will I have time to change before we see Coach Bryant?”

  Chazz checked some inner spreadsheet and shook his head no. That meant business casual, nylons and two inch soft leather, plain black shoes. I’d check into student grunge on another day. Today was dress to impress time.

  No one bothered to explain that a more sensible option would have been an investment in roller blades. And not even the morning weathergirl mentioned that the last Monday in August was going to be one of the hottest of late summer.

  Sometimes it sucks to be me.

  “Mom, take my backpack, the purple one.”

  “Thanks, Hon. I’m fine.” I adjusted the short waist suit coat and tucked the vinyl carryall under my arm.

  Following my escort for the day, I discovered that the elevator was once more out of order and that pantyhose were still the devil’s curse on womankind.

  Student Jes had two morning classes five days a week, one of them in economics and the other in finance. Assistant-to-Coach-Bryant Jes had a bad case of the heebie-jeebies and a total failure in personal body odor control.

  We’d walked … everywhere and back, leaving no student footpath, legal or otherwise, untrodden. Then out to the Jordan Center, twice. Even Chazz looked wrung out and peckish. We were on the last try for the day to snag Coach Bryant’s undivided attention.

  A young thing came be-bopping up, smiled shyly at Chazz, then did all but a curtsey to me.

  “Are y’all Miz Cavanaugh?”

  “Uh, yes, yes I am.”

  “Oh goody.” Goody? “Coach says y’all come on down now.”

  Chazz beamed at the Georgia peach, he couldn’t help it. She oozed cute out of every pore.

  “I’m TJ,” she stuck out a hand, “and I’ll be your tour guide for today.”

  She had a surprisingly strong handshake, one that said Fly Me with real suthin conviction. Chazz was drooling next to me, waiting for a touch. It didn’t happen. I got to liking Miss Georgia Peach TJ more by the minute.

  The youngster liked the sound of her own voice, which wasn’t a bad thing. A bit on the edge of pleasant birdsong, it had an odd soothing quality without hitting screechy soprano high notes. The problem with soothing was that it lulled the senses into missing some very pertinent details. The little dynamo was a walking Wikipedia. I made a mental note to run to Staples and buy a digital voice recorder once the funds from my bribe had cleared.

  Even Chazz’s eyes had glazed over, though that might have been from watching TJ sashay down the very long hallway.

  The girl wore sprayed-on short shorts that on anyone else would have resulted in arrests and defibs being called into service. I was just old enough to have seen the old Dukes of Hazzard television show. TJ looked a lot like Daisy Duke, but with dark ash blond curls and way more smarts.

  It was easy to see how much she impressed my daughter’s significant other with her intellect.

  God. Men.

  We finally trapped Bryant in an alternate universe, otherwise known as his office. He motioned me in and the others out.

  “Sit down. You look tuckered out, girl.”

  Gratefully I sank onto the metal folding chair, oblivious to the pantyhose doing a tuck and roll on my sweaty thighs. Giving him my most professional demeanor, I launched into my bona fides but he interrupted.

  “Nice to have fresh meat.” He stood, all six-feet-two inches, nearly two hundred and eighty pounds of don’t fuck with your defensive co-ordinator. “I see you’ve met Seimone.” He chuckled. “She don’t usually do civilian women. Guess there’s a first time fer everthin’.”

  Leveling coal black eyes on my inappropriate dress—yes, I should have suited up for the court, my bad—Coach said, “Six thirty. Don’t be late. We’ll work us up some patterns. You’ll need—”

  He rattled off a list that contained most everything I was familiar with, then he handed over a thick sheaf of papers with an admonition to ‘study this’ and we were done.

  Chazz waited patiently in the hall, alone.

  I told him. “Go on back to the apartment. I need to get some uniforms and a locker. I’ll grab a bite at the student center. Coach wants me here at six-thirty.”

  Chazz trotted off and I pulled the cell out and pressed speed dial. Etty answered on the second buzz.

  “Hi, Hon. Everything’s going good. Be home late.” She made some mewling sounds of approval. “Um, Chazz is on his way. He’s, uh, he’s… um.”

  He’s going to fuck your brains out before dinner.

  I loved my daughter.

  And sometimes I hated her. Like right that minute.

  The walk to the locker room took forever. Jack Ryan’s office door was shut.

  And I got to feeling left out. He had my cell number. Didn’t he?

  With a sigh, I knew I was probably right. Pigs didn’t fly…

  Chapter Eight: Doomsday

  Tapping on the calendar, I smiled and made my big announcement, “I’m going apartment hunting this afternoon.”

  Chazz looked up, mildly interested. Hopeful, even.

  My daughter, not so much.

  “Mom, we’ve been over this. Staying here is no problem.”

  The usual ‘it is, it isn’t’, punctuated with examples and quid pro quos, followed in a see-saw pattern. It got repetitious fast so I opted to go for reinforcements.

  “Chazz? A little help?”

  The big man nodded noncommittally, but I knew I had his support. During practice the previous night, I’d gone where no potential mother-in-law had dared tread before, talking frankly about his and Etty’s relationship and how my presence was not conducive to good study habits and … other things. I even went so far as to specify what those ‘other things’ were.

  Our game got a lot less physical after that but he did allow as to how I was ‘pretty fucking cool’, to use his term.

  What I didn’t say was that they weren’t the only ones feeling cramped and sexually frustrated. Robert’s house had been too big and always too empty with just me rattling around in it, only making do and paying lip service to a life. Now I missed that space and the quiet time with my own thoughts.

  As for the sexual frustration? That was a whole new side to me that I needed to cogitate over. Feminist values aside, the urge to sit by the phone awaiting the call that never came required due process. Being modern allowed for a cell phone, along with the old standbys of white wine, tissues, endless chick DVDs and a comfortable couch on which to curl up. Check, check, check … futon, fail.

  The weighty tomes of my finance and econ books promised me plenty of metrics, but nothing that would clue me in as to how long to wait for a man professing ‘Christ Almighty, I want you’ to make good on that.

  Fool, you set the time limit.

  Yes, but…

  You took half the chains away so does that cut the time in half too?

  Good conservative Jessamine stalled at the ‘after twenty-two years why’ scenario, liberated Jes didn’t have a clue but she did have hope, senseless gut-wrenching hope.

  “Mom?”

  “Um, yeah, sorry.” Holding up the real estate section, I pointed to several circled ads of rooms available within walking distance of campus. “Chazz said he’d help me vet the landlords so I don’t end up in a bad situation.” Those had been his words, his concerns, so I took them seriously … and with no small amount of gratitude.

  What passed between Loretta and Chazz at that point didn’t bear thinking on.

  Hands on hips, Etty said, “Go w
ith her.”

  And that was that.

  On our way down the stairs I said, “I need to stop at the bank at some point and see if the check cleared. I don’t have enough in the checking account to cover a down payment plus the first month’s rent at any of these places.”

  Usually Chazz grunted to indicate he heard. The silence was disconcerting and I had a bad vibe that he hadn’t taken kindly to Loretta’s imitation of Judge Robert McMahon in full on pronouncement-from-the-bench mode.

  Needing to smooth things over, I said quietly, “She didn’t mean it like that.”

  We paused at the door to the vestibule, Chazz ready to push the handle and allow me to go first. When he didn’t move, I had a little uh-oh moment.

  “Yeah, she did.” Running a hand over his coal-black brush cut, he murmured, “It’s not the first time.”

  There wasn’t a good come back for that so we proceeded onto Beaver Avenue and an exhausting afternoon of apartment hunting. At ten of three we were at the bank, frustrated, foot sore and hungry.

  At ten after three I was foot sore, infuriated and broke. At three fifty I was listening to a curt explanation why.

  ****

  Coach Bryant called it at ten o’clock. We were all sweaty, hot and exhausted.

  “Not exactly on your game, girl.” Coach pulled no punches. “Wanna talk ’bout it?”

  A man wanting to talk? Did I look that bad? That strung out … that whipped … defeated?

  Mumbling, “Thanks, I’m fine, just a little tired,” bought me an escape route but not credibility. Coach squinted at me but let me go.

  The women’s locker room was empty for a change. I showered, toweled off and slipped into shorts and a loose tee-shirt. The thought of wriggling into the sports bra held little appeal so au naturel won out. I stuffed my play notes and diagrams into the duffel bag and shoved the locker room door open with a vengeance.

  Jack Ryan lounged against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Hey.”

  He looked me over carefully, measuring me for the Coach Ryan rah-rah, buck-up-bucky speech. I’d heard it often enough in the last few days from Bryant as his students and team players settled into the grueling routine of academics and athletics competing for too much time in a day with too few hours.

  With no small amount of spite, I sputtered, “Did Coach Bryant have a word?”

  After all, why else would he be here? Three days had gone by and not one single word. No hello. No how ya doing, nice to see you, how’re classes going… Definitely no ‘I want you’.

  The access to the locker room was in an alcove, a U-shaped dead end with poor lighting. His body hugged the wall, the one in shadow, and that made it difficult to read his expression. When he moved, his glasses reflected the fluorescent overheads from the long hallway to my right.

  Before I could make my escape, he stepped into my personal space bracketing my aching body with his arms, hands pressed into the tiled wall on either side of my head. There was room between our bodies, not enough for a Mack truck and too much for what my straining breasts craved.

  Him teasing with the promise of full frontal contact raised my awareness level to Def Con Five.

  “Tom said you might need to talk.”

  “I don’t.”

  He simply stared into my eyes with those mesmerizing blue orbs, icy hot and rakish.

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  “I disagree.”

  Big effing deal.

  “Exactly. That’s why you’re coming with me.”

  “I didn’t say anyth—”

  He chuckled, “You didn’t have to.” He took an elbow and practically lifted me off the ground, guiding me quickly down the hall and out into the humid night air. “You want coffee, a beer?”

  I shook my head no. What I wanted didn’t come in a mug or a glass. Not the tangible stuff. The other—freedom, a future—that couldn’t be packaged in any way, shape or form.

  We were at his truck. Again.

  “Hop in.”

  “Jack…”

  “Don’t argue.” When my shoulders stiffened, he said more kindly, “Please, sweetheart. Get in.”

  Taking the duffel bad he nudged me into the cab and set it at my feet. The diesel kicked over, spewing acrid fumes into the still air. The seat vibrated under me, a monstrous masseuse with deliciously virile control over my thighs and butt. Other things, too. Squeezing my thighs tight only accentuated the giddy sensations coursing through my gut and groin.

  A perfect vehicle for a middle-aged slut.

  I might have dozed off. In any case, the absence of sensation and noise shocked me into awareness.

  Jack touched my arm and said, “We’re home,” like he meant that in a conjugal sense.

  He’d said ‘sweetheart’ also. Despite my depression, I’d picked up on that. My psyche chose not to do anything with it at the time.

  It was a ray of hope in a hopeless universe. Not something an undeserving lifer like me should be privy to.

  His house had a porch light, a sixty-watter that cast shadows on the shrubbery immediately in front of the bow window. I followed the big man and my duffel bag inside. He disappeared down the hallway, then returned without the bag.

  Lost, lonely, two shades of too desperate to even begin formulating a way out of my situation, I stood in the middle of the small living room, head down and shoulders slumped. Weary beyond measure.

  Jack drew me into an embrace. “What do you want to do first?”

  “First?” Like I had an array of choices, a banquet of options. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He released me just enough to allow his hands to cradle my breasts, cupping them, lifting and pressing them together, those sinful thumbs working magic on my nipples. The nubs turned rock hard, the sensations spiraling through my belly, making me arch uncontrollably against the pressure.

  It was exactly what I needed and the last thing I wanted.

  “Jack, stop.”

  He did. Immediately. Even going so far as to step away, giving me space to breathe. The air conditioned chill hit me like a battering ram. I wanted him back, hovering, sharing his warmth.

  He husked, “Do you want to talk?”

  Not yet. Maybe never.

  How can I tell you that the man who betrayed and humiliated me suddenly changed his mind and refuses to go through with the divorce? The man who is my daughter’s father threatens to hold his own child’s future hostage to force me to return to unconditional bondage.

  I couldn’t begin to imagine what Robert used against his own mother to convince Tonia to rescind her offer, to issue a stop payment on the check. What lies had he told?

  I could deal with not having a nest egg but what else would that woman bring to bear? My teaching assistantship, my acceptance into the program? Without those tuition funds I had no hope in hell of continuing.

  A tiny corner of me said, “You could negotiate. Tell him you’d work on a reconciliation, do couples therapy, give the bastard second, third, fourth chances to make it right. But in exchange, bargain to stay in school.” But Robert would never agree to that kind of separation, not with the election coming up. He’d want me home, available, presentable. Seeing to his appearances, smoothing the way.

  The wash of hatred and loathing I should have felt for the man instead translated into a seething rage for what his conniving bitch of a mother had done.

  What right did she have to force Loretta, a twenty-year-old girl, to relay that change of heart to me, including all the ugly particulars, involving her granddaughter in a sordid mess and effectively victimizing both of us.

  Chazz had stalked out, slamming the door.

  I’d felt the weight of all our worlds collapsing in a heap at my feet. I had brought this drama to their doorstep.

  It’s all my fault, all of it.

  Oh God…

  “Shh, baby, it’s all right. We’ll work something out.”

  Jack cradled me on hi
s lap. Somehow we’d made it to the couch with me snugged against his massive chest, the waterworks turned up to full volume.

  Wailing, “And I’m going crazy, saying stuff when I think it’s all just in my head. You must think I’m a lunatic.”

  “Maybe. But you’re my kind of lunatic. And if it makes you feel any better, Chazz talked to me earlier.”

  “C-C-Chazz?”

  “Yeah, he’s a good kid and he’s not about to let anyone hurt either you or Etty. Apparently he kinda guessed my feelings for you.”

  “Feelings?”

  Brushing the kinky red curls out of the way, Jack nuzzled my neck and hummed something soothing into my throat.

  Emotions warred between wanting particulars on that feelings idea and needing to know what he thought about my situation. The last thing I wanted was a figurative pity fuck. Under other circumstances I’d have been okay with it. Call it a zipless fuck ala Erica Jong and my libertarian feminist awakening would have blossomed.

  Unfortunately, the old conservative, noncreative me had a comfort zone somewhat to the right of a fifties sitcoms’ wife and mother. Making a list was right up my alley. Give me things to do in an a, b, c fashion and Bob’s my uncle.

  It made me rock solid in a zone defense, shit on man-to-man.

  I needed to change that.

  Jack said, “You know, for once I’m not real sure what you’re thinking.” That seemed to worry him.

  Good. I was tired of being predictable. Tired of being a doorstop.

  Sliding off his lap, I stood in front of him, declaring, “I want to use the hot tub,” and followed up with sweeping the loose tee-shirt off in one swift movement. The gym shorts followed, two bits of nylon puddling at my feet.

  Leaving him floundering, guppy style, sucking air for all he was worth, I stalked to the deck and slid into silky darkness.

  Jack had installed ground level lanterns around the perimeter of the deck, the kind with photovoltaic cells and automatic activation as dusk fell. The lumens were softly decorative, designed to comfort and sooth, wrapping the space in a sense of security and peace.