by Hope Lyda
What’s written on Angelica’s face is easy for me to read because she and I have had a few soul-searching discussions about this very thing. Angelica’s darkest fear isn’t that a guy will want the whole package. Her fear is that a good Christian guy, doctor or not, will not want her whole package, including emotional scars she is slow to release after early years of rebellion.
“Wait a minute.” Sadie holds up a strong, manicured hand. “Didn’t we just have a series of conversations about Josie? When we discussed how to make friends with other women in this day of female envy and cutthroat competition?”
“Yes! Good call, Sadie. I knew her name sounded familiar.” I continue this conversation to save Angelica from discussing the real problem.
“And that advice was great,” interjects Angelica. “I met Josie for lunches to get a feel for the friendship, just like you suggested. And then we went out after work a few times, just as you suggested. And my boss eventually noted my efforts at camaraderie. So it was perfect. But what you all forgot to mention was that courting a woman friend has the same natural curve of interest as dating men.” She shrugs and opens her hands out in the pose of helplessness.
“So we helped you make friends with this Josie and now you want to break up with her? Can you break up with friends?” Caitlin looks worried and turns her pitiful question in my direction.
“Apparently, if we no longer serve a purpose, we begin to slide down that natural curve.”
Caitlin rotates her rainbow head-puff around the circle to see if we are playing with her. The anxiety is rising to her flushed cheeks and her middle-child appeaser is kicking in. “You know what I do when I get mad at Mary Margaret?”
“Who?”
“You know, my coworker.”
“The scary one?” I am shocked that a woman who wears dog collars and growls at her customers is named something as innocent as Mary Margaret.
“Exactly. And that is why it is hard to like her. Not because I am competing with her for a promotion, but because she is just so very mean. Anyway, I pray a lot about it.”
“Sure, prayer. I can do that. But can I pray for Josie to quit?” Angelica’s statement makes us all hope that our names are never mentioned in her evening prayers.
“There’s another thing I do that helps. You might like it, Angelica. Sometimes I daydream about going ice-skating. In my fantasy the store’s owner, Linda, has invited all of the employees to the ice-skating rink. As an exercise in bonding or something. Well, nobody can skate, right? Because we all live in the desert. And while everybody else is falling down,” Caitlin smiles and starts to giggle at what is about to happen in her dream, “I am stalling, pretending I cannot lace my skates. Then all of a sudden the song ‘Friends Are Friends Forever’ by Michael W. Smith comes over the loudspeaker. You all remember that one, right?”
“Yes.” We all admit. And though a few Christian camp talent night solos of this song clutter my mind, soon the Muzak version floods my brain. This I don’t admit.
Caitlin continues, breathless and lost in the moment. “And as the first chorus begins, I rise, step over the crumpled bodies, and begin to skate like Michelle Kwan. Everyone is moved spiritually by the words and moved emotionally by the power of my moves. My last figure eight before the triple axle finale is done around Mary Margaret and Linda. I see the tears streaming down their faces, and Mary Margaret begs Linda to give me the promotion because I am beautiful, talented, and the most inspiring thing ever.” As Caitlin’s arms reach out to accept imagined applause we notice the flaw of her latest fashion choice. The funky hat is connected to the fuzzy mittens by a crocheted scarf. It is an all-in-one unit. As her arms stretch wide and the scarf starts to tighten around her thin neck, the need for a choking hazard warning is apparent.
But we don’t say this. We are all too stunned to speak. Not because we think her daydream to be demented, but because she admitted to the warped fantasies we all have.
“If you think I am going to waste a daydream on Josie, you are nuts. I’ll break up the old-fashioned way.”
“Flowers?”
“A phone call?”
“No call?”
We all offer leftovers from past breakups.
“No. The ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech, only I will wear my new Gucci dress with my new Kate Spade bag, and it will be so obvious it is her and not me.”
This, of course, is the perfect way for Angelica to end it. We agree in silence, stirring our coffees and rearranging the last bits of breakfast on our plates.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” As Sadie reaches into her Louis Vuitton briefcase, she is gleeful. I didn’t even know glee still existed in our culture of personal angst and drama. But here it is, right in front of me, all rosy and optimistic. She distributes silver metallic envelopes tied with deep blue ribbons.
“No, you didn’t.” I challenge my friend, wondering if she is about to request the honor of our presence for her nuptials.
She blushes ever so slightly and shakes her head. “Don’t you think I would introduce you all to him if we were headed into that level of relationship?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I have never seen you in loooove before, so it’s hard to say what you would do.”
“A fancy night out.” Caitlin has opened her invitation and is reading it out loud. “Stare into the mystery. A night of exploration and discovery awaits you as the Tucson Botanical Society unveils the Carson Curtis Midnight Garden for Gazers featuring the Galaxy Telescope, nature’s most romantic show of light and wonder, a rare nighttime garden, and the chance to dine and dance among the stars.” She holds the linen paper to her heart as she imagines a night of opulence and catered eats.
“So this is the unveiling of Carson as well?” I inquire, draining the last bit of caffeine from my mega cup.
Angelica turns to me and points to Sadie with her fork. “I seem to recall Ms. Verity stating that if a wedding was in her future, we would meet the man. Did you catch that?” She teases warmly, daring Sadie to admit to love.
“I did indeed hear that, Angelica. Good point.” We look to our friend in unison and she laughs.
But she doesn’t deny it.
The rare occurrence of cold weather chills us as we step out of the restaurant. It isn’t the best time for true blue Southwesterners, but I personally love the chance to pull on favorite sweaters from my D.C. days. I tug on a J. Crew cable-knit to cover the increasing expanse of skin between my jeans and my tops.
“Hey, Caitlin.” Angelica is smiling, but we all know she is about to give her friend a hard time. “This new creation…the scarf thing…it is for urban women, right?”
“Urban and trendy,” she clarifies.
“Pretend you have to hail a cab.”
I should close my eyes, but my morbid curiosity keeps them open to watch as the obvious happens. Caitlin’s overzealous arm shoots straight up in the air and the scarf strangles her midsentence. “What’s this got to do with hai….eecchhhhh.” She doubles over coughing.
“You know, Caitlin, I would never break up with you. You provide way too much humor in my life.”
“Maybe I’ll just have the hat and scarf attached.”
“Good call.” With that Angelica pats the top of Caitlin’s head and links her arm through the arm of her unintentional comedian friend.
“So Matthew next time?” Try, try again.
“Matthew.” Three nods of agreement return my effort.
As Caitlin and Angelica head off to a movie, I check my home messages. Some guy named Lazarus wants to know if I received his flat of daffodils.
I am perplexed. “Sadie, is there like some big fund-raiser going on with the Botanical Society? I keep getting calls from men about flowers.”
When she hears about some of the messages, she grows concerned and promises to find out if any other organizations have phone campaigns going on. “If not, Mari, you need to change your number. That makes me really uncomfortable.”
I stare
at my friend’s face and take note of every fine feature. How can someone be so delicate and strong? I wonder if it is her strength that makes her reluctant to confess her obvious feelings about Carson.
“Sadie, just between us…”
She knows what I am asking. “Just between us…if I can just let myself believe a man as good as Carson not only exists but actually loves me, I know this is it. I’ve never thought in terms of marrying. My work has been so fulfilling, and it seems every year I have had more responsibility and success…”
“You might keep that part to yourself.”
“What I mean is, somewhere along the way I started to believe it would have to be one or the other. Happiness at work or happiness in relationships.”
I want to dispute this theory by stating that I am unhappy in both, so logic would follow that one could feasibly be happy in both. But that would be making her happiness all about my unhappiness, yet another habit I am trying to quit.
“You will be able to come to the event, won’t you? I’ll deal with the comments from the peanut gallery, but it is most important to me that you really like him, Mari. You are my sanest, wisest friend. I trust you.”
This confession tells me that Sadie doesn’t know me very well, but I accept her compliment graciously so she won’t suspect her trust is misplaced.
As we each walk to our cars, I think how sharing these crazy fantasies and distorted theories is exactly why we have friends we can be totally honest with…and why the best of friends also keep your secrets.
A Case for Grace
One pew has a gap as obvious as that of the MAD magazine cover boy. It is, of course, the gap by Rose.
We nod to each other as Clive leads us in the first hymn. If I went to the singles class I would have a friend here. But that leads to commitment, obligation, calls during the week, plans for after the service…I sound like Angelica assessing the little known pitfalls to actually having a relationship. I need help.
“Let us greet one another with the blessing and peace of the Lord. New folks, be sure to hold up your visitor’s card for our deacons.” The minister has a bright red card in each hand and waves them like a spiritual traffic controller.
Rose starts with me this time. She grabs my elbow with a firm grip and jostles it a bit. “How are you, darling?”
“I’m good. May the peace of the Lord be yours. I hope…that for you. And blessings…lots of blessings…” I’ve never been a good conversation closer.
“Where is your husband?” Her eyes peer past my shoulder only to find my very large purse, which was actually a small travel suitcase from Tess’ first trip to Europe.
I consider my options and somehow, someway…a lie forms in my mind. Then on my tongue.
“He’s on safari, actually. You know how tough it is to be a photographer for National Geographic. If he isn’t shooting lions, he’s shooting politicians. With a camera, of course.”
And she rejoices.
Somewhere in the dark swamp of insecurity that is my mind, I decide that professing a sin is better than confessing to “single.”
I create excuses to walk by the suggestion box frequently, hoping to catch the prophetic seer or the prankster. Since the first message appeared a few months ago, a significant pile has accumulated. I’m fascinated. Like a Broadway actor who cannot quit reading a bad review, I want to know what they know that I should know.
When I hear the bingo crowd applaud the first winner, I sneak into the nearest bathroom to read my new life clues. The first is written on the back of a church bulletin. “Mari should visit the computer club. She might just find out how popular she really is.” I should alert my intervention group that I’m popular; I wouldn’t have to mention who with. I reach into my pocket and pull out part two…a long, thin strip of newspaper.
“Kenny pees in the whirlpool.”
I guess everything isn’t about me.
Hire Power
Is this the best you got?” Haley calls out like a Wrestling Mania contestant from her reclined, tangled position on her pilates mat.
“I didn’t sign up for the pansy calisthenics class.” Typically mild and kind Walter is raising a fuss and his fist as I call out the next routine.
“Elbow across the chest stretch series…right arm across the body, press it in with the palm of your left hand.” I try not to grimace as pain shoots through my right shoulder blade. “See. Like this.”
Rae’s theory that these folks just want to touch their knees is pure hogwash. I’m being heckled by seventy-year-old group-exercise participants because my couch potato workout (their words) is not difficult enough. My innovative routine (my words) is mostly stretching moves combined with a few aerobics steps learned from classes I had taken a few years ago between January resolutions and the season of Lent, for which I gave up my gym membership again when Angelica promised to give up low-carb diets, again.
“You sure don’t live up to your namesake.” They are all in the know about a professional pilates guru name Mari who sells videos and DVDs. Their collective belly laugh at this clever dig lasts for fifteen minutes. It is the first time they break a sweat.
I’d like to make Rae touch her toes from a backbend position about now.
“You’ll be happy to know that I am interviewing an instructor right after class today. Save your kind hospitality to bestow upon her this Friday, God willing.” There is a thunderous round of clapping which echoes terribly in the low-ceilinged sunporch that serves as the exercise studio.
I don’t even receive the Golden Horizon’s traditional mid-five slap of open palms as the participants exit. This is the ultimate “face” in their world. Even Rae got one after trying to take away Lloyd’s telescope after it was discovered angled questionably in line with the vast, open windows of suburbia across the main street. The residents adamantly opposed the use of force, yet deemed it to be quite a fair match when the two large figures ended up exhausted and breathless and the telescope firmly in Rae’s grip.
This official rejection by my own people inspires me to check, for the fourth time today, my home phone messages from the hallway pay phone. No job offers. No vehicle grand prizes. But, of course, I do have yet another disturbing caller.
“Warren here. You probably will remember me from the email series about saving the baby seals. I head back out with Greenpeace in a month and hope that we can get together before then. I hope my package of tree saplings was welcome in lieu of flowers…I prefer proactive expressions of joy. Email me with some possible dates. My mom would like to meet you first, if that is okay. Save the earth. What’s it worth? It gave you birth.”
Beep.
I’m all for saving baby seals, but who are these men? Who is this man who rhymes his way into a woman’s phone line? This time my imagination conjures up an image of a squinty male whose knit cap slides back on his head, revealing a lack of hair and the very edge of a globe-shaped tattoo. He scratches the tip of Africa while he poetically praises the earth.
With my résumés out circulating, I cannot risk changing my number. Not yet. Though Sadie questions whether I am living as though I have faith, I have deep faith that good things are in the works.
For example, I have great faith that no matter what I think of Sonya Freidman during this interview, I will hire her. It is either that or I will have to invest in instructional DVDs before Friday.
Sonya cannot be missed. Not in this setting. Her long blond hair gracefully flows down the length of her back. Thin yet strong arms and legs move with assurance. Her posture as she stands by the office area is erect and the epitome of yoga health. Lysa chats with her and they are laughing like long-lost friends.
You’re hired.
“I’m sorry to be late, Sonya. I’m Mari. “ When she shakes my outstretched sweaty hand, the upper part of my wimpy arm shakes as well. “Thank goodness you missed seeing my class just now. It was not a pretty sight.”
“I did peek in. I felt your connection with participan
ts. That was lovely.”
She’s being gracious.
You’re hired.
“Well, you are kind. Shall we head to Rae’s office? She’s at an all-day conference.” I point toward the only door with a nameplate. “R-a-e” is spaced out but then the creator of the plate realized his planning error, so “Vandersleski” is crammed together.
I follow Sonya into the museum of fragility. She takes in the shelves of glass miniatures and hugs her body with her longs arms—the chilly air-conditioning and delicate decor causing the same effect.
“Have a seat.” I motion to one of the two chairs in front of the main desk. When Rae gave in to my request to meet here, she insisted that I not use her power chair or eat her stash of pistachios. I am tempted to offer Sonya some of Rae’s candy, though she probably feeds on grass and leaves.
Sonya was referred to us by her godmother and one of our newest residents, Camille St. John, who transferred from a retirement home in Phoenix. Considering she is one of the wealthier residents, Rae was more than glad to oblige. I was more than happy to not place an ad in the paper and field all the subsequent inquiry calls.
Her résumé is printed on aqua paper with an “80 percent postconsumer recycled” watermark. I realize I should skim her credentials or take great notice of her objective, which is “to connect individuals with their physical strength while empowering them with emotional tools to live a richer, more active life.” But my eyes immediately rest upon three very impressive words following the current place of employment inquiry…Majestic Vista Resort. Which happens to be the number one location on my career move wish list.
You’re hired.
“You are at Majestic Vista…and you want to work here?” A part of me is hoping she will say that her work there is so unfulfilling that she prefers to join the ranks of the poor and noble.
So I can take her job.
She laughs and showcases brilliantly white teeth. “I do love Majestic, but unfortunately they are only able to offer me a few classes. I was fortunate to join their team teaching pilates, yoga, and yogalates sessions when their primary instructor went on maternity leave. Now that she has returned, they are unable to provide me with enough work…so I am expanding my horizons…at Golden Horizons, I hope.”