Club Sandwich (33 page)
Authors: Lisa Samson
But a dark question overshadows my hope: am I beyond loving him the way I should?
S
omeone pounds on my kitchen door. At this late hour?
“Debbie! Come on in!”
“I can’t take her one more second.”
“I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee going. Tell me all about it.”
She sits in Harry’s seat, Harry, who’s downstairs installing kitchenette cabinetry. Reuben sprang for a double sink and a range. I’ll never get rid of Harry now, and maybe I won’t want to. Trixie’s really taken a shine to having these men around. They’re so good for all the kids. Why didn’t I realize until recently that asking for help isn’t a weakness but a streak of brilliant savvy?
I set a mug of steaming java in front of her. “Now take a couple of sips, close your eyes, and relax for a minute.”
“Okay.”
I turn to pour my own cup and catch my reflection in the night panes of the back door. Turn away! Dear Lord in heaven, if that isn’t depressing. My hair resembles withered grass. And my eyes are so sunken I look like I’ve started decomposing.
Debbie must be enjoying the stillness. Well, ten o’clock constitutes “late night” at our age. But according to Debbie, her mother night-owls every evening, wandering around, muttering criticisms. I check Old Barbara’s screen. Page seventy-five of the novel. I’ve decided to tell my agent I’m bidding adieu to the male protagonist. Avoiding this conversation has been a mental pastime for the past
few days, but the deed must be done. Tomorrow, I tell myself. But how to sell the idea?
Revolutionizing my original female protagonist from the timid librarian to a really beautiful, really built woman with a soft voice and a hard fist sounds ideal. And she can be mentored into this startling vision of roaring woman by some old, tired detective who’s been tipping the bottle, who doesn’t want to go on living and needs to care again, care about love and life and gag me with a spoon.
They’ll love it.
Debbie’s eyes open. “What’re you working on?”
I can’t lie. “It’s a project almost nobody else knows about.”
“Ooh, do tell!”
Hmm. I mean, maybe it’s nothing more than a fairy tale. Maybe she’ll laugh. Maybe not. Oh, whatever. I spill it all.
“No!”
“Yep.”
“That’s fabulous! Why aren’t you telling the world?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Truth now, I don’t know why. The subterfuge appears extremely silly floating on open air.
“Well, I won’t tell anyone, but if I were you, I’d shout it from the rooftops. A book contract? Do you realize how many people dream of that?”
“Sure. Everyone thinks they have a book in them.”
“Yes, but only a chosen few have what it takes to get it out of them.”
“You think?”
“You have a gift. I read your column.”
“You do?” I’m stupefied. I mean, who reads the Lutherville
Lavalier
other than me, Tony, and my Odd Fan? And Reuben, I can’t forget Reuben.
“Sure. I love it.”
“Really?”
She laughs. “Hey, we’re mothers, aren’t we? And wives and caregivers. We have a great deal in common.”
“Then why in the world didn’t we start doing this a long time ago?”
“Beats me.”
“Well, the back door’s always open.”
“It’s a good thing to know.”
I lean back and pull the coffeepot from the cradle. I top off our cups. “So you want to talk about your mom?”
“Nope. I thought I did, but now I just want to sit here, sip on a cup of coffee, and close my eyes while you tap on that computer.”
“Works for me.”
I continue working while she keeps her silence. Thirty minutes later she stands up, rinses out her mug, and kisses my cheek. “This helped more than you know.”
“Then come over more often.”
“You’ll get so sick of me.”
“Oh yeah, having someone sit at my kitchen table and sip coffee with their eyes closed is a real drain.”
One hand on the doorknob, she asks, “Mind if I read what you’ve written someday?”
Surprisingly enough, I don’t mind the question. “I’d be flattered.”
“Thanks. Need to look outside myself, you know?”
Look outside myself. Look outside myself. When do I look outside myself? Everything I do connects to me somehow.
My
job.
My
kids.
My
husband.
My
mom.
My
restaurant (which, by the way, may escape the red-ink tar pit now that Brian’s out of the picture).
My
sister.
My
church. Well now. This is a very interesting thought.
Oh great. An e-mail from my Odd Fan.
Dear Mrs. Schneider,
I hate to admit this, but I haven’t been reading your column as faithfully as before. Mother took a turn for the worse, and I hate to admit this too, but when they took her away to the hospital, I sighed with relief.
She passed away during the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and I’ve been busy getting her estate in order.
I read your column the other day about searching outside yourself for meaning, and I wanted to let you know that I enrolled at Towson State. I don’t start until next September, but in the meantime I’m keeping busy. The estate was a mess, but there’s nobody but me, and the house is paid for. All in all, however, I’m well-heeled with no friends. But I’m searching for some sort of community in which to learn and grow.
Anyway, I haven’t written in a while so I thought I’d just say, “Keep up the good work.”
Kirsten
Well, now. An unusual development. I bet Club Sandwich would benefit from some pointers from Kirsten. Her mother probably made Debbie’s look like Mother Teresa.
I call Garret.
“Huh?”
Darn, I woke him up. Well, no wonder. It’s 7:00 a.m. and he’s twenty-three.
“I’m going to be in a little late this morning. You got everything under control?”
“No prob.”
“Thanks.”
I figure I’ll head on over to Lutherville after I drop the kids off at school. Maybe I’ll visit that lonely old stone house in which Kirsten seems to be growing like a tender plant in a spring sun. Gee, that’s nice.
Another good morning. Reuben fixed bacon-and-cheese omelets, and Harry bundled up Trixie for a trip to one of those new kids’ swim clubs. She’s a fish, that one, and we signed her up three mornings a week. Harry pours coffee into a travel mug, grabs the
Sun-paper
, and sits in the observation room. He acts like a grandfather now, and I’m not sure what to do with that. Each morning Reuben drives Mom to day care, then heads off to the club to work out.
I’m beginning to like this life. I’m beginning to think maybe Rusty should just stay away. That’s a dangerous thought, though. Thank goodness Mitch has been traveling lately. At least I don’t have to worry about those feelings, and the further I am from the day we reunited, the weaker they become. I’m starting to think most of our inner turmoil would take care of itself if we just let it.
Right.
I pull into the parking lot of the office building in which the
Lavalier
resides, near the beltway, in quite possibly the ugliest building ever. Dark-brown brick, orange doors, and creepy lights. Who looked at the drawings and the architectural model and said, “Oh baby! This is a beaut! We’ll break ground next spring!”?
The army-issue elevator rises at the pace of a bubble in King Syrup, but soon enough I sit before Tony’s army-issue desk with a cup of army-issue coffee.
“It’s nice to actually see your face, Ivy.”
“Mutual. You lost weight?”
He chuckles. “Not as much as I’d like. Been through a kidney-stone ordeal. So what brings you here this fine morning?”
“I’ve been wondering if we might start taking the column in a new direction.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
“I’m tired of being angry. Does that make sense?”
He relaxes in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach. “Absolutely. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make for good column writing.”
“Well, hear me out. I think this really has potential. I’m thinking of a hometown-hero sort of thing. But about women. Regular women exhibiting quiet heroism every day.”
Thoughtful, he rubs his goatee. “Where do you propose to find these women?”
“Are you kidding? They’re all over the place!”
He holds up his hands. “Sorry!”
“So what do you think?”
“You’ll end up sounding like one of those feminists, Ivy.”
I indulge in a smarmy smile. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
“Let’s give it a shot. See what happens.”
“Thanks.”
Next stop, Kirsten the Odd Fan. Hopefully she’s home.
A green Dodge Dart sits in the driveway. Maybe that’s hers. Or maybe not. Maybe she spent some of Mother’s dough and tools around in a Mercedes right now, hair in a scarf, cool sunglasses on her nose, and a tiny dog beside her, nose in the wind!
But no, a curtain moves aside as I traverse the brick walkway, a pretty white-lace curtain. Fits the house perfectly.
The door swings open before I can even ring the bell.
“Mrs. Schneider?”
My photo appears alongside my column each week.
“I hope you don’t mind me stopping over like this.”
If she’s shocked to see me, she covers it well. “Of course not. How did you know where I live?”
“You described the house to me once in an e-mail. I grew up over by Ridgely Junior High School.”
“You hail from Lutherville too?”
“Born and bred. Well, sort of. Towson too.”
“Well, do come in.”
She’s very pretty, our Kirsten, slightly overweight. A pair of Levis hugs her hips, and a heathery sweater overlays a good-sized bosom. No makeup, but then, she doesn’t need any. Her voice sounds like I expected, soft and musical. “What brings you over this way?”
“I got your e-mail this morning, and an idea came to mind.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea, perhaps?”
“Tea would be wonderful.”
“Come back to the kitchen.”
I follow her down the central hallway, gaping at the living room,
the dining room, the drawing room, the music room, the sun room, and the den, and the antiques that fill them. “This is unbelievable!”
