Days Like These

by Sue Margolis

  As we sit drinking tea, the conversation gets back to my “sleepover” with Mike.

  “So, are you two going steady now?”

  The phrase makes me smile. I haven’t heard it in years. “We haven’t sat down and discussed it. But I guess we are.” I remind her not to say anything to the kids. “I don’t want it getting back to Claudia. Mike still hasn’t told her we’re seeing each other.”

  “Is that wise? Somebody could see you in the street and start gossiping.”

  “I agree and I’ve told him. But he’s prepared to take the risk.”

  “That’s daft. Take it from me: There will be hell to pay if she finds out by accident.”

  “I know. But thinking about it, there will be hell to pay if Mike tells her. It’s pretty much a lose-lose situation.”

  “Unless of course you make peace with her.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” That’s my official line, but if there’s no other option—if push really does come to shove—I can’t rule it out.

  Mum shrugs. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. So, I have news: Estelle came round last night, and we signed me up to SeniorsConnect dot com.”

  “Wow. Good for you. So, did you message anybody?”

  “You have to be kidding. You want to see some of the things they put in their profiles?”

  She tells me about Jerry007, whose main interest is the economy. There’s another guy who wants a woman who wears high heels and is able to appreciate his accomplishments. There are a couple anxious to point out that they can still drive at night.

  Fading night vision? That’s a thing as you get old? My mother says it is. Fabulous. Something else for me to look forward to.

  “They’re hardly going to sweep a girl off her feet,” Mum says.

  “Is that what you want? To be swept off your feet?”

  “Why not? I’ve come this far. I’ve paid. Why shouldn’t I get my money’s worth?”

  “So you’ll keep on looking?”

  “For a while. I guess you have to click on a lot of frogs before you find your prince.”

  The phone rings. Mum gets it.

  “Oh, hi, Bernie.” She covers up the mouthpiece and whispers: “Talking of frogs.”

  I tell her that’s a horrible thing to say.

  “What do you mean you’ve suddenly got an outie belly button? You’re not overweight. I can’t see why that would happen. Does it hurt? … It does?”

  The doorbell rings. Bogdan. Since the start of the school holidays, he’s been tutoring Sam during the day. I leave Mum to her call and answer the door.

  I can’t help noticing that Bogdan is wearing different trousers. He usually wears brown ones. These are gray. The legs still stop at his ankles, though.

  “So—how is my star pupil doing?” Ever since Mum told him that I would cut off his balls, Bogdan has been superpolite to me and softer on Sam.

  “He’s fine.”

  Sam must have heard the bell, because he’s on his way downstairs.

  “Excellent to see you, Sam. I hope you have been practicing. Today I hev very special moves to teach you. Today you will learn Dresden Trap.”

  I leave them at the dining room table and take myself into Brian’s study. Despite his improved behavior, I still don’t trust Bogdan not to shout and I can hear everything from there.

  A few minutes later Ginny calls to say her mother is in intensive care.

  “They’ve got her hooked up to all sorts of wires and whatnot. She’s hanging in there. There’s not much of her, but she’s a tough old bird—a bit like me. And apparently it was a heart attack, not a stroke. So if she does pull through there won’t be any paralysis. I guess that’s something.”

  Ginny says she’s going to stay overnight at the hospital. “My brother wanted to stay, too, but I sent him home. No point us both being there.”

  I ask if she’d like me to come to the hospital tomorrow and bring her a change of clothes.

  “If you don’t mind, that would be wonderful.” She says Emma would do it, but it’s difficult because she doesn’t have a car. I should ask her for the front door key.

  I can hear yelling coming from the dining room. I tell Ginny that Bogdan is on the rampage and that I have to go.

  He’s banging the table, demanding to know where Sam learned about the Sicilian Dragon.

  “My friend Bernie taught me.”

  Bogdan is up in arms. How dare Sam see other chess coaches behind his back?

  “He’s not my coach. He’s my friend.”

  “But he has no right to teach you new moves without my permission. This is an outrage.”

  I decide to go in and intervene. “Bogdan, I will not have you bullying Sam like this. Bernie is a family friend. He played a few games with Sam, that’s all.”

  “It has to stop. It puts Sam off his stride. I have carefully structured syllabus. This confuses him and ruins everything.”

  “Seriously?” The truth is that Bogdan is feeling threatened.

  “Yes, seriously.”

  “Grandma, can you go away please? Bogdan’s right. Maybe I am getting a bit confused.”

  My grandson is desperate to keep the peace. He’ll do anything not to upset Bogdan and, in turn, his parents. I can’t help admiring him.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  As I retreat, Bogdan offers me a victorious smirk.

  When the session is over, Sam—apparently untroubled—heads to the kitchen to get a snack. Bogdan goes back to being conciliatory.

  “I’m sorry to yell,” he says. “I already apologized to Sam. I get frustration because I don’t want this new person poking in his nose and upsetting applecart.”

  “He just played a few games with Sam, that’s all.”

  “I know. But it can be harmful. I want Sam to be the best.”

  “But shouldn’t he have some fun, too?”

  Bogdan looks appalled. “But becoming champion is serious business. What is the point of fun? Fun is for stupid people.”

  “Well, I happen to think fun is important. Especially when you’re nine.”

  • • •

  Back in the kitchen, Mum is still on the phone to Bernie.

  “OK. I just Googled it, and it’s as I thought. It’s almost definitely an umbilical hernia. You need to get it checked out… . I’ve got a great gastroenterologist. He’s known me for years. I could come with you if you like.”

  Once she’s off the phone I make the point that she’s showing great concern for this man she dislikes so much.

  “He just seemed so pathetic, that’s all. Men always act so big and butch until they get ill. Then they fall apart. And his girlfriend doesn’t want to know. She’s one of these people who never gets sick. She doesn’t do illness.”

  “So are you going with him?”

  She shakes her head. He’d rather go alone.

  “Well, I think you like him.”

  “No, I don’t. I hate self-centered men.”

  “But you have to admit that despite his broken nose—or maybe because of it—he’s rather good-looking.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe.”

  • • •

  Mike and I arrange to meet at Conte’s, the pizza place a few blocks from his apartment. When I arrive, he’s already bagged a table by the window. As I watch him, I can’t help finding something sexy about the way he munches on a bread stick while he turns the pages of the evening paper. The moment he sees me his face lights up. I quicken my step. I’ve missed him. I want to tell him about my day and find out about his.

  “I spent my day typing,” he says. “I didn’t get dressed until after lunch.”

  He says that’s the thing with being a freelancer. You get to the end of the week and realize you’ve spent most of it in your dressing gown.

  I update him about Ginny’s mum. Afterward I find myself telling him about Bogdan.

  “It’s none of my business, but if you ask me he sounds like a complete
nut job. Why on earth haven’t you got rid of him?”

  “I wanted to. But Abby insists he’s the best there is. She says I shouldn’t take him too seriously—that he yells because that’s what Russians do and we should allow for cultural differences.”

  “Well, I think he could be causing Sam real emotional damage. What possible good can come from constantly humiliating and undermining the poor kid?”

  “To give Sam his due, he does seem to be coping. For a while I was really worried about his behavior, but since he’s given up a lot of other after-school activities he seems much better.”

  “Maybe, but you won’t convince me. The man’s a martinet.”

  “You’re right. But I’m caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Abby and Tom are by no means the pushiest of parents, but they want Sam to do well in this competition. And Sam doesn’t want to let them down.”

  “Well, like I say, it’s none of my business, but they could be storing up trouble for themselves.”

  “I agree. But what can I do—other than to keep on listening outside the door?”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Come back to my place again. That’ll cheer you up.”

  “I’d like that. But it means leaving Mum with the kids again. I don’t like taking advantage. And I worry about something happening to her when I’m not there.”

  “OK … no problem. You have to do what you feel is right.”

  “On the other hand, I could give her a call—see if she’d mind.”

  Mum doesn’t mind at all. The kids are asleep. She’s about to go to bed. Why would it be a problem? I tell her I’ll be back first thing. She tells me there’s no rush.

  • • •

  We’re lying entwined on the sofa, listening to Leonard Cohen on some fancy wireless speakers Mike has just been sent to review. “Wow—listen to that. It’s as if he’s right here in the room.”

  “I agree,” I say. “They’re amazing. I like the smooth horizontal sound pattern and flat response.”

  “You do? Wow, that is so sexy.”

  “What is?”

  “A woman who knows something about sound systems.”

  “You’d be surprised what I know,” I tell him in my best come-hither voice. I start unbuttoning his shirt.

  In fact, I know nothing about sound systems. The line about horizontal sound patterns and flat responses is something I picked up years ago from a sales assistant who was trying to sell Brian and me some la-di-da hi-fi, which we couldn’t begin to afford.

  Leonard is about to take Manhattan and Berlin when Mike takes me—right there on the sofa. I tremble as he touches me. I breathe in his smell, move my body with his. Again it’s slow and tender, but no less wanton for that.

  Afterward as we lie there, him stroking my breast, he says he has something to tell me.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you. No, scrub that. I know I’m falling in love with you.”

  “You are?” I feel my body tense. I suspect he does, too.

  “Oh dear. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s too soon.”

  “No … I am glad you did.” Glad and panicking. “But I don’t understand. You’re the one who wanted to take things slowly.”

  “I know.” Now he’s the one panicking. “I’m an idiot. I’ve said too much. You’re not ready. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I kiss his cheek. “You don’t have to apologize for telling me you love me. And you haven’t upset me. You’ve taken me by surprise, that’s all. But it’s a wonderful surprise.”

  “I don’t want to push it, but now that I’ve come this far … have you thought … you know … about how you might possibly feel about me?”

  I kiss him again. “Just give me some time.”

  “Take as much as you need.”

  We decide to have an early night. Mike has got to be in the City by nine. Apple is launching the iPhone 7.

  We start off spooning, him with his arms around my waist. A few minutes later he rolls over to his side of the bed and starts snoring. Outside, it’s blowing a gale and rain is hitting the window like nails. The snoring and the weather aren’t the only things keeping me awake. A man who isn’t Brian has just told me he loves me and he wants to know how I feel about him. That’s the reason I can’t sleep.

  When we’re together, Mike’s touch takes my breath away. He listens and cares and makes me laugh. We have chemistry—in and out of bed. I miss him when he’s not around. Lately when I have news, he’s the first person I think about telling. If that’s not love, what is? This would all be good, if I weren’t still in love with a dead man.

  The next day while I’m chatting on the phone to Ginny, she reminds me of what I said a while back, about finding room for both of them.

  “I know. But Brian was my husband. He was the one. I can’t seem to get beyond that.”

  “You’ll work it out. Just give it time. Don’t let Mike rush you.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Once I’m off the phone, I can hear Mum clattering around, making dinner. I call out with an offer of help, but she says she’s fine. So I leave her to it and go upstairs to help Sam with his packing.

  Tomorrow is the start of the summer term, but Sam’s class isn’t returning to school. Nor is the one above him. Instead both years will be spending the week at an outward-bound center in Dorset, hiking, canoeing and climbing rocks. The idea is to build the kids’ confidence and independence. Mum thinks the whole thing is foolhardy and crazy.

  “You’d never get this at a Jewish school. Jews don’t let their children climb rocks.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course they do.”

  “They don’t. And you know why?”

  “OK … why?”

  “The Holocaust.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why are you laughing? The Holocaust amuses you?”

  “Of course it doesn’t. It’s just that somehow everything with you comes back to Hitler.”

  “Quite right. Hitler taught us a very important lesson—that calamity can come out of a clear blue sky. We don’t take risks. That’s why you don’t see Jews climbing rocks.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “Fine. Have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I open the door to find Sam pulling clothes out of his dresser drawers by the armful and dumping them on the bed.

  “Darling, you don’t need all that. You’re going for five days, not a month. Why don’t we try and sort out what you actually need?”

  “’K.” He sits himself on the bed and lets me sort through his clothes.

  “Grandma, do I really have to go? Couldn’t we say I’m ill or something? Then I could stay at home and practice my chess. I wouldn’t be any trouble—honest.”

  It’s not the activities Sam objects to. My mother hasn’t got to him. His problem is he doesn’t want to go away on his own.

  All the mums I’ve spoken to say their children can’t wait to go on the trip. That’s probably not true. I’m guessing quite a few are scared of getting homesick but don’t want to admit it for fear of being called chicken. Sam, on the other hand, is quite open about not wanting to go. He’s convinced he won’t cope on his own. It came to a head a few nights ago when I was putting him to bed.

  “While Mum and Dad have been away I’ve had you and Nana to look after me and it’s been fine. Even though you’re not Mum, you’re like her. You’re a sort of deputy mum. That’s what grandmas are. But I’ve missed Mum and Dad and I’ve still felt a tiny bit lonely. But when I go away, I’m going to feel even more lonelier. What if I get really upset?”

  “If that happens, you tell one of your teachers and I will drive down and get you. You don’t have to be miserable. Do you understand?”

  “OK. And you absolutely promise you’ll come and get me?”

  “I absolutely promise. Now try to stop worrying. If I know you, you’ll surprise yourself and everythin
g will be fine.”

  Sam has also been telling his parents he doesn’t want to go on the trip. Whenever Abby and Tom Skype, they make a point of trying to gee him up by emphasizing how much he’s going to love all the activities. But Abby in particular is worried about how he’ll cope.

  “First Tom and I abandon him for all these weeks and now he’s got to go away and leave the stability you’ve created. Plus he’s got this chess tournament coming up. I’m worried the stress is all too much for him.”

  I keep telling Abby what I’ve told Sam, that at the first sign of trouble I will bring him home. She says that’s all well and good, but then his friends will tease him for being a wimp and he’ll never live it down.

  “Tell you what,” I’m saying to Sam now. “Would it make a difference if we spoke on the phone each day?”

  “The teachers have said we can’t call home because it’ll make us homesick and upset.”

  “Well, I think they might make an exception for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  • • •

  As I arrive at school with Sam and Rosie, the bus is pulling up at the gates. As Sam runs off to join his friends, Rosie heads into school, pausing to offer him only the briefest of good-byes. I suspect she’s secretly jealous that her big brother is getting to go on a school trip and she isn’t. Once she’s disappeared, I go in search of Sam’s teacher, Mrs. Gilbert. She has her head down, studying her clipboard. As her index finger moves over the page, she’s muttering to herself about still being short of three permission slips.

  “Sorry. Can’t stop,” she says as I approach. “Bit of a crisis …”

  “Just a quick question.” I make my case as briefly as I can.

  “Fine, no problem. Sam can call home, so long as he doesn’t tell the other children he’s getting special privileges.”

  As I turn to go, I see that a queue has formed behind me. Half a dozen or more mothers are waiting to speak to an already flustered Mrs. Gilbert. Some are waiting to hand over medication and asthma inhalers. The woman directly behind me is on a more important mission. “Mrs. Gilbert, can you confirm that the chicken you will be feeding the children is corn-fed? Olivia refuses to eat anything else… .”