Club Sandwich (15 page)

Think quick!

“Well, how about if you write down what’s supposed to be done and he can give it to the beautician? Or … you can have her call you on your cell phone to get the scoop right from the horse’s mouth.”

I hear her nails tapping, probably on her mug. “Well, okay.”

“Great! Just stay until lunchtime. Where are you meeting Marcus?”

“Over at the Towson House.”

“Okay, and see? The hospital’s only a couple minutes from there! I’ll have Rusty drop Ashley and Margeaux off at the restaurant as soon as they’re finished.”

“Okay.” I’m sure she’s gripping the phone and shaking her head.

“Thanks, Brett.”

“Sure. But you owe me one.”

What?!

She hangs up before I can blare an air-horn scream of frustration. I should let the yell fly anyway, but I’ll be darned if I’ll wake up those kids a moment too soon.

When did I become my mother’s keeper? How did my shoulders end up as platforms for the rest of the family’s feet? Brett’s the oldest, the most idle, really. Shouldn’t this be up to her?

Never mind. Heavenly rewards. Golden crowns to cast at the feet of Jesus. Of course, my attitude might render them nothing more than wood, hay, and stubble. But as an old friend of mine, a lady named Tanzel, says, “Praise God I’ll be there to watch it burn!”

The e-mail harp chimes.

Mitch.

My breath catches in my throat, and I remember how he hugged me and hung on my every word. I remember his own pain and disappointment.

Trixie sings in her crib. I should leave her be. She’ll stay put a good half hour. I sit on the top step and listen. She inherited Rusty’s singing
ability, her tones clearer and purer than anything Evian ever could bottle. It’s all I can do not to laugh, however. She’s crooning a song off of Lyra’s Good Charlotte CD. A song called “The Anthem.”

“It’s a new day, but it all feels old. It’s a good life, that’s what I’m told.”

And how can guys that young already feel the way I do approaching my forties?

I feel sorry for little girls with teenage sisters. No “Mary Had a Little Lamb” or “Bear Went Over the Mountain” for Trixie. She sings mild punk music, Creed, and gospel rock. And the Beatles. Lyra’s navigating a Beatles phase right now. Fine by me.

Rusty’s voice joins her from the bedroom. “Don’t wanna be just like you.” Only he’s harmonizing, and darn it if that little thing in the crib doesn’t stick with the melody line. I can’t wait to see the plans God’s drawn up for my youngest.

I rush past Trixie’s door before she can spot me.

Rusty smiles from where he sits on the edge of the bed shoving bare feet into loafers. Wow, I didn’t even hear the shower. Must’ve taken it when I was on the phone with Brett. Or reading Mitch’s e-mail.

My face burns.

He stands up with a groan. “So what’s the game plan for today?”

I turn away and pretend to search my jewelry box. “You’ll hardly believe where I have you going.”

“Spill it, hon.”

“How does a trip to the beauty parlor sound?” I turn around.

Rusty shakes his head at the whole arrangement, regurgitates it all back at me to make sure he understands, and finishes with, “I’m doing this for Dorothy and for you.”

“I know, Rust. Thanks.”

He hugs me, and because I must, I rest awhile. A very little while, because Trixie, having climbed out of her crib, crashes into us. Her little arms feel so good against my legs. “Mama! Daddy!”

I check my e-mail one last time before I leave for the restaurant. The cooks have everything under control, so I’m not too worried. Truth is, I don’t obsess about the business. I never wanted my life to revolve around the place. I pictured myself building a writer’s shed out in the backyard, à la Annie Dillard, with nothing inside but an old metal army-issue desk from Sunny’s Surplus, a chair, a cot, an old Royal, and a hot pot for tea. I’d hang old quilts and art posters on the walls to hide the two-by-fours.

The short stories would come first, brilliant ones, of course, and then the novels, important ones that exposed an evil or lifted up a forlorn, heretofore uncelebrated segment of humanity. I would voice the plight of the downtrodden, the lame. I would champion their existence, honor their lives, and vilify their enemies. I would fight for justice. I’d have an important-sounding pen name like Margaret James or Anne Standish.

Yet I have to admit I get a kick out of the daily specials and enjoy being the first to taste a new dish, and I did write the descriptions of dishes on the new menu, no purple prose there. But I set my dream in the warming oven, hoping that someday, when Rusty’s exhausted his dreams, when his gifts have depleted their present expression, my hopes will tap my shoulder and demand a proper audience. Every so often I pull up a password-protected file on my
computer and gaze upon my lofty ideas, wondering which ones, if any, will find the daylight. Kind of like the survivors of the capsized
Poseidon
journeying from that grand ballroom up to the bottom of the ship’s hull. “There’s got to be a morning after.” Yeah, that sounds like my life.

I check the new messages to see if Tony received the column.

Yep. And it’s a keeper. What a relief. Certainly some columnists’ initial offerings are perfect. Not mine. I’ve knitted this darn column for years, and one would think I’d eventually stop dropping stitches. Instead, each week unravels my confidence, and sometimes I look down at a mangy pile of knots and loops and wonder why I’m still at it.

Yes. He thinks it has “widespread appeal.” Good.

Only two other e-mails. One tided, “Danielle says Meow!”

Delete.

The other, from my “Odd Fan,” as Lyra calls her. Kirsten writes me more than Angel and always agrees with me, but something creepy laces her notes.

Lyra wanders in, bleary-eyed and looking cuter than Hello Kitty in pink pajama bottoms with little owls all over them. The T-shirt matches.

“Got a note from the Odd Fan. You’re not going to believe this. Go ahead and read it.”

She leans closer to the monitor. “Oh, good grief. Decoupage now?”

“Yeah. Guess the scrapbook got full.”

“Still, you’ve got to feel a little sorry for her. Chained there to that invalid mother.”

“At least they’re rich.”

I know exactly what house they live in, because Kirsten’s described it to me. The large white Victorian sits nearby in Old Lutherville. The gardens are amazing, and Kirsten takes care of them herself, though the house looks like it’s dying for a coat of paint. Naturally, I’ve no plans to divulge my own location, and I never mention the restaurant. I may be opinionated, but I’m not stupid.

I delete her e-mail. “Well, at least it’s not from that guy down in Jessup.”

Jessup houses one of Maryland’s penitentiaries. Like anybody down there is penitent about anything.

“Most definitely.” Lyra scratches her ankle. Poor thing suffers with eczema. “Weren’t you supposed to be gone by now?”

“Yeah, I’m heading. Daddy tell you about the hair salon jaunt?”

“Uh-huh. We’re all going. He’s going to drop them off, and we’re heading to the park.”

“Cool.”

“Some visit for Dad.”

She’s not saying it to be nasty. It’s just the truth.

“Maybe you can wear Trixie out.”

“Yeah right, Mom.”

It’s sad. While Lyra loves her little sister, she doesn’t like her at all. This grieves me. It’s unlike Lyra to take such a disliking to someone, but Trixie is a trial. I know this. I can’t force her to reach out to her sister on that kind of level, especially when Trixie’s behavior, lots of mean faces, and get-away-from-me-Lyries do nothing but antagonize her. Still, Trixie’s only three. If these two had their own rooms it would make a big difference, but we can’t afford a four-bedroom house, and honestly, the thought of moving all our junk, with Rusty gone to boot, is more frightening than finding Osama bin Laden in my attic.

Matty crosses his arms and stares at me like I’m intruding. I mean, yes, I do own this kitchen, actually. However, I’ve been around
cooks enough to know they stake out their domain, and heaven help anyone who trespasses.

“Okay, I’m sorry I asked if the prep work is finished. So what’s the lunch special?”

We stand out back. He smokes a Dunhill Menthol; I chew on a fingernail.

“We’ve got two. I went to the market this morning. Had some beautiful rockfish.”

“Okay, rockfish. What else?”

“Garret’s doing a blackened burger with Havarti and beefsteak tomatoes on seared sourdough bread.”

“Mmm. I’ll have one of those myself. And a taste of the fish, too.”

He can’t help but smile. Matty’s got about three years of kitchen experience and ten years of attitude. He also possesses twenty years of charm. He wears the burn marks on his arms with pride. The battle scars of the kitchen professional. Garret awarded him the best one when Matty opened Garret’s broiler to check on a filet of sole ready to burn. Garret grabbed a hot broiler plate and slammed it against Matty’s inner arm, leaving a line the length of an unsharpened pencil and almost as thick.