This was news to me. “She never told me that.” Vivs knows how I feel about lazy men—or lazy people in general.
“Well, she wanted you to like him. And she knew you’d never let her go to Europe if you thought he wasn’t treating her well.”
“She was right about that. Was he mean to her?”
“No.” Vivs takes a swig from her water bottle. “He’s just a sloth. She had to take care of everything.”
That’s called marriage, I say to myself. Aloud, I point out that it’s not always a bad thing to be the person in a relationship who takes care of all the little things.
“Mom, she was packing and unpacking his bass at gigs. He was like a toddler.”
“And Jeen is better?”
She shrugs. “Well, he’s the lead singer. No instrument to deal with.”
“Have you talked to Raj?”
The scowl is back.
“A couple of days ago. How’s Max doing?”
I regale her with his touchdown dance and she is doubled over laughing. I figure now is as good a time as ever to ask about what I think I saw that night in the car.
“So, was that you I saw walking down 112th?”
She stops laughing. “What do you want me to say, Mom?”
“It’s just a question.”
“Yes, it was me.” Her look is daring me to ask more.
“And you were walking with your arm around a guy.” This is more of a confirmation than a question.
“Yes. Please don’t ask me anything else.”
I can’t figure out what her true feelings are underneath this defiant façade. Is she ashamed? Angry? Regretful? I’m about to ignore her request and ask more, but we are interrupted by her boss, Caroline, poking her head around the side of the cubicle. She is a heavyset African American woman with a passion for pastel-colored clothes. She has been wonderful to Vivs this past year and has really taken her under her wing.
“There’s a new customer up front, baby girl.”
“I’ve got it.” Vivs gets up. That’s obviously my cue.
“I’ll get going.”
“Okay. Thanks for stopping by.” She starts walking away.
“Can you come for dinner Sunday?”
“I’ll let you know.” She waves without turning around.
6
I head home and decide to work out my frustrations about Vivs by punching the boob on my boxing bag for a good half hour. I wonder if she’s cheating on Raj. Or maybe Raj cheated on her? And who was that guy? This would all be so much easier if she would just spill her guts to me.
After my workout I realize that I’m running on empty with only that half bagel and coffee in my belly, so I go to the fridge and pull out the fixings for a turkey sandwich. While I’m eating at the kitchen-counter office I finally sign up for the Susan G. Komen once and for all.
After I register as part of the Holy Rollers and pledge to raise $500, I scroll through my emails to see whom I can hit up for a donation. Ron, obviously—his store would probably give me the whole amount if I asked. They’re always looking for a tax deduction. But getting the whole sum that way would be cheating, so I keep looking. Most of the women I’m close to are already doing the walk, in support of my mother. So, asking them to sponsor me might be seen as a little much. I happen upon an email from [email protected].
* * *
To: JDixon
From: BHoward
Re: Thanks
Date: 9/24
Hi there, Jen,
Thank you so much for the pineapple soup recipe. I’m going to try it as soon as pineapples go on sale at the market.
I’m sending you a picture of Stella and Mrs. Jones. Aren’t they just a couple of characters?
Love,
Aunt Barb
* * *
I open the attachment and see two of her cats sitting on a dresser, giving the camera a dirty look. I don’t know how she lives in a house with so much disdain being launched her way. Also, I wonder just how fixed Aunt Barbara’s fixed income really is. Could she spare $20 for her favorite niece whom she has never seen in person? Let’s see.
* * *
To: BHoward
From: JDixon
Re: A HUGE favor
Date: 9/24
Hi, Aunt Barbara!
Thanks for the picture! The cats are adorable.
I wanted to let you know that my mom and I are participating in the Susan G. Komen Walk to raise money for breast cancer research. I myself am trying to raise $500 and I was hoping you might be able to sponsor me for $20. I know it’s a lot to ask … even $10 would be great.
It’s obviously a cause that is close to my heart and I’d appreciate anything you can give. I’ve included the link below in case you can help me out.
I’ll leave you with a quote from your favorite author.
Love,
Jen
“When you feel someone else’s pain and joy as powerfully as if it were your own, then you know you really loved them.”—Ann Brashares
* * *
* * *
Fingers crossed, I think, as I cruise through my emails looking for other possible donors. But unless Pottery Barn is willing to pony up for a really good customer, I don’t have a lot of options. Clearly, I need more pen pals. While I’m considering a GoFundMe page, my phone rings.
“Jen’s Massage Parlor.”
My husband chuckles. “Don’t I wish.… Listen, can you get someone to watch Max Friday night?”
“Probably. What’s up?”
“I just had a visit from the CEO of Sports Barn.”
“Eww,” I say before I can stop myself. Sports Barn is one of those massive sporting goods chains and the arch nemesis of local businesses like ours.
“Yes eww, but he and his wife want to take us out for dinner Friday.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
Ron sighs. “Because he’s rich and he’s a titan in my business and he may be able to help me with the franchising. Should I go without you?”
“No way. Where are we going?”
“Café Provence.”
“Ooh la la! Fancy.”
“Only the best for my wife.”
“Especially when someone else is paying.” I laugh.
“Exactly.”
“See you later, babe.”
“Don’t forget to book a sitter!”
I hang up and immediately dial my mother.
* * *
As I walk from the parking lot to the school to pick up Max, I see the usual suspects hanging out. Ravi Brown and Peetsa wave me over.
“What’s up, girls?” I ask, and give Peetsa’s hand an extra squeeze.
“Just gossiping,” Ravi says. “Do you know that woman over there?” She points to someone having an extremely animated conversation with Shirleen Cobb. I squint and see a short, mousy-looking waif with dirty-blond hair. Shirleen towers over her.
“No idea who she is. Why?”
“She drives a Tesla.”
“Really? Wow.” That’s fancy even for Overland Park.
Asami joins our circle. “What are you looking at?”
“Do you know that woman talking to Shirleen?”
Asami looks over. “Of course I do.”
We all wait for her to continue.
“She’s in our class, for goodness’ sake. None of you know her?”
Suddenly I know exactly who she is.
“Alison Lody.”
Asami looks at me. “So, you do know her.”
“Only through email.”
“Wait, is her son Draper?” Peetsa asks.
“Yes,” Asami and I both answer.
“Zach got in trouble last week because of that kid.”
“What happened?”
“Draper brought crutches to school and said he sprained his ankle. Zach accidentally kicked his crutch and made him fall.”
I cough to mask my guffaw.
“How do you accidentally kick a cru
tch?” Asami asks.
“Well, I don’t know how accidental it actually was. I guess at recess Draper was torturing the boys with how cool his crutches were, but he wouldn’t let anybody try them. So Zach ‘accidentally’”—she makes air quotes—“kicked one crutch and Draper fell down. He told Mrs. Randazzo, and Zach got detention and had to write an apology letter.”
“Well, I mean, if he kicked a kid with crutches…” Ravi says tentatively.
“Yes, but the next day guess what? No crutches. Not even a pretend limp.”
“He was faking it? What an asshole.” Not the nicest thing I’ve ever called an eight-year-old, but if the shoe fits …
“Wait, is he the boy who brought a skeleton hand to school?” Ravi asks.
Peetsa nods. “And deodorant.”
As the school bell rings, I add, “Max says he brings something cool to school every day.”
Eyebrows go up all around the circle. I think we’re all wondering how superteacher Winnie Randazzo lets him get away with this. It occurs to me that she might not even know.
We all turn our attention to the flock of kids pouring out of the school.
Max runs up to me, waving his vocabulary test.
“I got a hundred percent!” He’s rightfully proud of himself. I worked the flash cards with him for three nights.
“Way to go, buddy.” I hug him. “How was the rest of your day?”
“Good. Draper brought a Barbie to school. It was so funny.”
I look at my group, but everyone is dealing with their own child, so I steer Max toward the parking lot.
“A Barbie, huh? What did he do with it?”
Max starts to giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“I can’t tell you what he did with it. It’s only for guys in the club.”
“The club?”
“Yeah, Draper started a secret club.”
Not a secret anymore, I think. Now it’s just a club.
“What do you guys do in the secret club?”
“We look at stuff that Draper brings in.”
“Who else is in the club?”
“All the boys in my class except Graydon.”
“Why not Graydon?”
“He says Graydon’s weird because he can’t eat nuts.”
I smile, thinking about the can of whoop-ass Shirleen will open on Alison Lody if she finds out her son is being excluded. Maybe that’s what they were talking about at school.
I open the minivan doors and we get in.
“Well, you shouldn’t be a part of a club that doesn’t let everyone in.”
“But I want to be a part of the club.”
“Then tell Draper he has to let Graydon in. There’s nothing weird about having allergies. How would you feel if you were the only one not allowed to join?”
“Not good.” Max looks at his hands.
I decide to change the subject.
“Guess where you’re sleeping Friday night?”
Max looks up, excited. “Draper’s?”
“Nope.”
“Zach T.’s?”
“Nope.”
“Zach B.’s?”
This could go on for a while.
“No, you’re sleeping at Nana and Poppy’s.”
“Yay! All-night iPad!”
* * *
Friday night on the way to the restaurant Ron gives me the 411 on the couple we are dining with. According to Google, Rolly Schrader is a sixty-one-year-old self-made man from Idaho. Sports Barn started as one store in Boise selling used sports equipment. That was thirty years ago. He now has eighty-two stores in thirty-two states and is known for having the best prices on the biggest selection of sporting goods. And to his credit he has stayed true to his roots: he still sells used equipment at some stores. He has been married three times and has seven children and five grandchildren. The current Mrs. Schrader is the lovely Janine, fifty-four, a former Ice Capades performer who met Rolly when she was buying a mini trampoline at his Denver store.
“And tell me again why he was in your store the other day?” I ask my husband.
“He’s in town on business and wandered in looking for a sports bra for his wife. I had no idea who he was, but he kept complimenting me on my yoga section. You know, it’s the whole back wall now.”
I did know that, having already been told thirteen times and counting.
“Well, it’s nice of them to take us to dinner,” I say with very little enthusiasm. I barely have time to dine with people I know, let alone people I don’t.
Ron reaches over and rubs my bare leg. I’ve gone with a little black dress and my black high heels tonight, and I can tell he likes it.
“You’ll be fine. I think it will be fun. Rolly is a good person for me to know.”
“And when you say he might be able to help with the franchise, do you mean financially?”
“We’ll see. It’s a hell of a lot more expensive than I thought. If we’re lucky, he may want to invest.”
We have left the minivan at home tonight in favor of the love of Ron’s life—a silver BMW 3 series he has named Bruce Willis. Actually, the car’s full name is Bruce Mofo Willis (BMW) because the on-board computer sounds just like the actor, though we were assured by the salesman that it isn’t him. It was quite an extravagant purchase two years ago and I’m a little surprised that Ron hasn’t volunteered to trade it in what with all the belt-tightening he’s having us do. But the way he feels about Bruce Willis, something tells me it will be the last thing to go. After we park, he looks back at the car three times before we walk through the door of the restaurant. I don’t have the heart to ask him to downgrade … yet.
Café Provence is quite possibly the nicest French restaurant you will ever find in a strip mall. It is our special special-occasion place, not to be confused with J. Gilbert’s, our merely special-occasion place. We haven’t been here since my father’s seventy-fifth birthday three years ago.
The décor is mid-century bistro, with crisp white linens and flowers on every table. The walls are adorned with landscape paintings that I assume are of the French countryside.
Rolly and Janine are already seated at a booth with a bottle of wine in front of them. I silently thank God for the alcohol that will help me through this awkward social outing. Rolly stands up as we approach the table. If I say he looks like a Rolly, would that be enough of a description for you? No? Well, picture a silver fox from the chest up and an old gym teacher from the chest down.
“Good to see you, Ron.” He and Ron shake hands.
“You too. This is my wife, Jen.” He motions to me and I wave.
“And this is Janine.” Rolly points to a very pretty woman with bleached blond hair and a dynamite set of fake boobs. She smiles at us and raises her wineglass. I’m with you, sister.
Ron and I sit beside each other and make small talk with the Schraders about the weather (unseasonably warm!) and the price of gas (too high!). How men always know the price of gas is beyond me. Honest to God, I don’t think I’ve ever looked.
After we order our dinner, Rolly and Ron start a conversation with each other across the table, leaving me to dazzle Janine with my snappy repartee.
“Where do you guys live?” I ask, already knowing that they have a huge house in Boise.
“Right now, we’re in Boise, but I’m trying to convince Rolly to spend the winter in Florida.”
“That would be nice, but would it even be possible? I mean, how hands-on is he with the business?”
“Very. That’s the problem. I just hate Boise winters so much.” She shudders and takes a long sip of wine. I join her. We are enjoying a Bordeaux that is so delicious I have to remind myself that I agreed to drive home.
“Do you have any children?” I ask her.
“No, I never bit that bullet. You?”
“Yes, I bit it three times. Two girls and a boy.”
“That’s nice,” Janine says, looking around the restaurant. She doesn’t seem overl
y interested in my offspring, so I try another topic.
“You look great. Do you work out?”
She visibly perks up.
“Yes, I do spin class three times a week and Pilates on the weekends. How about you?”
“I run, and I box.” I’m fibbing a little on the boxing, but just happy we’re having an actual conversation.
“Have you ever tried spinning?”
What the hell is it about people who spin? You’d think they have found the nirvana of exercise. All they ever want to do is take you to their spin class because it will change your life.
“No, I never have, but I hear it’s fun.”
“Not just fun.” She leans toward me. “Life-changing.”
Oh, Jesus, here we go. I watch her mouth move as she blabs on about indoor cycling, but I use the time to eavesdrop on what the men are talking about. Rolly seems to be extolling the virtues of expanding your business. I reluctantly switch my focus back to Janine.
“Not only do I sweat more than I ever have in my life, I transform in every class. It’s like I shed a layer of skin.”
“Like a lizard?” I offer, knowing full well it’s the wrong thing to say.
Janine gives me what I think is a hurt look. “You really should try it before you knock it.” I can tell she’s using a lot of self-control to stay polite.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I should. It just seems so hard and the people who do it are so fit. I don’t think I could make it through a class.” It’s the best olive branch I can offer her.
“Well, you just go at your own pace at first. Sit in the back and just do what you can.”
“You’ve sold me. I’m definitely going to check it out.” I cross my fingers under the table, because it’s not really a lie when you do that, right?
“I’m going to a class tomorrow morning. You should come.”
Shit.
“Umm … what time?”
“There’s one at nine thirty and another at ten thirty. I’m doing both.”
That’s nothing to brag about, I think. “Well, sure, I can do nine thirty. Where is it?”
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