Club Sandwich (37 page)

Trixie’s with me. I feel so guilty leaving her with her grandfathers all the time. We’re heading to the duckpin bowling alley for a couple of games afterward. Mitch will just have to deal. If he’s for women working with their children around like he says, he’ll handle it just fine. Of course he will.

I order Trixie a grilled-cheese sandwich and myself a western omelet with a side of grits, remembering the days when our place served food like this. Oh, my grandparents. Mom’s marriage and divorce must have killed them. Those two were one of those couples “meant to be together since time began.”

I’m not sure how they did it. The lack of disagreements. The harmony. Did they sweep everything under the rug, or truly
understand what was important and what wasn’t? And if so, how? I search for these answers, and I search alone, and that ticks me off.

Mitch turns his old Jaguar into the parking lot. Good, he’s smiling and singing to something. Probably an old ZZ Top song. He may be all polished businessman on the outside, but he still likes his rock-’n’-roll.

The stiff breeze of late March tumbles his curls as he slides into a navy sport coat. Khakis pressed. Button-down starched. No tie, though.

He hurries up the steps and into the diner. “Hey! Sorry I’m late. The 695 was really a bear.”

“I heard on WCBM on the way over. Have a seat. I already ordered. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Hey Trixie! How you doing, sweet pea?”

She throws her crayons up in the air. “Hi! Hi! Hi! I got girl-cheese sandwich!”

If smiles bestow blessing, Trixie’s one blessed little child right now.

“So how was the trip?”

“Great. Three more corporations signed on with another sixty jobs available for the next issue.”

“I can’t believe how this has taken off.”

“Better than I ever dreamed. How’s the May issue coming along?”

“Wonderfully. I’ve got two interview pieces—success stories—and I’m also working on an article about setting up a home office in a minimum of space for under fifty bucks. Everything but computer equipment. Reuben has constructed a prototype of the work area using inexpensive supplies from Home Depot and Staples.”

“Great idea.”

“For June I’m writing an article on making the most of nap time.”

“I like that. I’m more pleased than I can tell you with the job you’re doing, Ive. Really topnotch.”

“Hard to believe, eh?” I give him a smirk.

“Well, when you’ve known someone all your life, it’s just a shock to see them turn into a capable, well-rounded adult.”

I bark out a laugh. Me? Well-rounded?

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. There are a lot of people who couldn’t bear up under the pressure you do.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mitch. People do what they have to do.”

“No, they don’t. And you know it.”

“Okay, whatever. Let’s talk about something else.”

“I was thinking about coming over one evening this week for another forties night. You all up for that?”

“Sure.”

“But I don’t want you to come home early this time.”

“Okay. I’d like to do a little shopping for Lyra. That kid needs a lift.”

He twirls a fork between finger and thumb. “Having a hard time with all of this?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure what to do for her.”

“She needs her father.”

“I know.” I turn to Trixie. “Can you go ask the waitress to bring us some coffee?”

She likes it when I give her big-girl jobs and immediately jumps down from the booth.

“You have every right to demand he come home.”

“So everyone says. I sent out a cry for help two days ago, unmistakably clear, and I haven’t heard back yet.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. He’s probably in a place where he can’t check his e-mail. I’m hoping that’s all it is.”

“Well, let’s hope then. You know, though, I’ll do whatever you need. You just say the word, Ive.” He takes my hand. “I’ve always loved you. All these years.”

“Even during the supermodel years?”

“Especially during the supermodel years.”

“Why is it, Mitch, that givers and takers always end up together? Why can’t two givers end up with each other?”

“That’s one of the mysteries of the universe, Ive.”

“The yin-and-yang thing.”

“Yeah. We just both happen to be a couple of yangs.” Boy, he said it.

Still nothing from Rusty. I’d like to say I wait in a sea of calm. But I’ve swum in my own tears for the past few nights, because it comes down to this: either he loves us or he doesn’t. And I don’t have the confidence in him, or in me, to think we’ll ever swim to shore without drowning first. And then what? Divorce? There’s no biblical grounds. He hasn’t been womanizing. As far as I know, he’s been extremely faithful in circumstances under which many a man would falter. Music or us? That is the question.

“It’s now or never, my lo-oooo-ve won’t wait!” streams from the department-store sound system.

If that isn’t the most royally stupid song ever written. Love always waits, doesn’t it? Well. That is not the thought I needed to have. It’s always back on my shoulders somehow.

I flip through racks and racks of junior clothing. This stuff looks trashier than Woodstock II after the crowds left. No wonder. Look at these tops! The larges are no bigger than my thigh, which means headlights galore in these things. The skirts hang about eight inches long and go all the way up to size 16. Now I don’t know if it’s just me, but a size 16 should know better than to wear a micro-mini. I mean, yikes!

Oh, but the longer skirts look cute, romantic, and totally Lyra. I pick out three, and a rack of loose poet blouses catch my eye. Perfect. Some of them are sheer, but I’ll pick up a couple more bra-tank tops. Tights would be good, and a new pair of shoes. I decide to get her high heels with a lower platform. Shoes sure are cute these days.

After choosing Lyra’s clothes, I decide, why not? Why not get something new for myself?

Problem is, all the stuff in women’s wear looks like old-lady clothes. But I manage to find a new black shirt, a lime-green velour sweater, and a pair of sexy boots. Oh yeah.

Not having heard from Rusty now for six days, I figure I have to start doing things for me.

The party is in full swing as I pull up to the house. Tommy Dorsey’s “Boogie Woogie” plays, and shadowy figures behind the sheers move to the beat. Dancing now? Well, we should call this the Tropicana or something. Fine by me.

I lug the bags into the house, and to my surprise, there sits Kirsten on the couch, clapping and swaying to the music. Reuben and Mom execute a very docile jitterbug, while Harry seethes in the armchair. Classic.

“I’m back!”

Mitch looks up from the crossword puzzle. “Hey Ive! Have fun?”

“It was great. Thanks.”

Kirsten jumps to her feet. “I hope you don’t mind my being here. But I called, and Mitch here answered and invited me over.”

“Of course I don’t mind. You having a good time?”

“Oh yes! Your family is so animated.”

I laugh out loud. Yes, that would be us. “Well, you’re welcome anytime.”

Reuben guides Mom into her chair and swings by, grabbing Kirsten in a dance embrace. With surprising grace, she steps to. My heart spins.

Harry is practically one with his armchair.

“Harry, come on out to the kitchen for a minute, will you?” I ask.

He follows me in. I hand him a small bag. “For you.”

“No kidding.”

“Go ahead and open it.”

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a cigar. “Hey! A Punch Gran Cru!”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t had a cigar in a long time.”

“Thanks, kid.”

I kiss his cheek.

He looks down, his hand suddenly shaking. “I’m sorry, Ivy. I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“Can I give you a hug?”

“Sure.”

He reaches out, and I place myself in his arms, and they squeeze me tightly into the strong, bony warmth of him. He’s an old man.
Oh God, my father’s an old man! And I find I cannot move out of the embrace; I find it’s something I’ve needed for a long time now and just didn’t realize it or even dare to hope for it.

“You’re hugging that man!” Mom yells at the doorway. “You stay away from her, Harry Starling!”

Dad stiffens, then he touches my hair. “It’s okay, Ive.”

“Mom, you can’t buy me off with these clothes.” Lyra picks up her geometry book and flips a page. The music still jumps downstairs.

“Buy you off? Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, Lyr. I just wanted to do something nice for you, to let you know I realize you have to put up with a lot these days.”

“I could have made this stuff for half the price.”

What happened to my daughter?

Persy wails from his room.

“Go ahead!” she says. “Everybody else is more important anyway.”

“That’s not true, Lyra. I don’t know what—”

A louder wail.

“Just go, Mom. I’m busy.”

Persy decided to sleep on the top bunk, only the Lord knows why, and there he lies on the floor.

I fold him into my arms, and I cry with him. Nothing’s broken on him. I wish I could say the same about myself.

Everybody but Mitch is gone.

“Ivy, you can’t go on like this.”

“I know. I don’t know what else to do.”

“You heard from Rusty yet?”

“Nope.”

We sit on the couch, drinking hot chocolate.

He clears his throat, sets his mug on the coffee table, and takes my hand. “You’ve got to accept some responsibility in this, Ive.”

“What do you mean?” I try to pull my hand back, but he tightens his grip.

“No, don’t pull away. Listen to me. Your marriage isn’t normal.”

“Like I don’t know that.”

“It isn’t even acceptable abnormal.”

“What else can I do?”

“That’s the point. You’re doing too much.”

I feel the blood rush to my face. “Come on, Mitch. Who do I slough off? Mom? The kids? My job? What?”

“Ivy, you’re going to end up in a very bad place. Lord knows, I wish it was in my arms. And I’d wait for you forever if I knew that at the end of it, you’d be with me. But I can’t see you slipping down more and more. And it isn’t just you who’s suffering.”