Club Sandwich (38 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Lyra opened up to me. We had a real heart-to-heart. Now if she’s having a heart-to-heart with me, basically a stranger, things aren’t what they need to be.”

“So what do I do?”

“Let Rusty go. If you won’t do that, at least give him the ultimatum. You’re starving, Ive. You’re a beautiful woman who’s going to waste, and I can’t bear to watch it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

I stand up and grab our mugs. “I’ll get us some more hot chocolate.”

When I return from the kitchen a movie plays on the television.
Tommy Boy
.

We laugh and laugh. Mitch rubs my shoulders. “I’m sorry if I was harsh,” he says, his breath on my neck.

It feels so good to be touched. I close my eyes. I should tell him to stop, but I can’t. I just want a warm touch, that’s all, just a warm touch.

When I awaken, I’m covered by a quilt, the television is dark, and I decide I’ll think about life tomorrow.

All mothers dread the day when they lose that connection with their child, when they become not so much an enemy as a nuisance and a stranger. Maybe I made a wrong decision in enrolling Lyra at that new school. Maybe going with all those rich girls has given her unrealistic expectations.

But the day has come, and she’s turned her back, and I stand there looking at the fine shoulder blades that formed inside my own body; I watch the silky hair swaying against the nape of her lengthening neck, and it is as though I’m looking through a viewfinder.

She turns from her place at the counter, cup of tea in hand. As she sits down at the breakfast table, I say, “Lyra, I just—”

“I need to study for my geometry test, Mom. Can this wait for later?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

So what do I do now? How do I tear down this sudden wall between us?

Still no word from Rusty. Not one word. If I ever thought I was in despair before, I obviously didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

Brett’s late-night call comes at eleven tonight. “I’ve got news about Brian’s case.”

“Okay.”

“Well, at the preliminary hearing they couldn’t get the judge they wanted.”

“Lenient on DUIs I’m guessing.”

“Exactly. So they requested a jury. His trial’s set for two weeks from now. Maybe we should be there as some sort of support to him.”

“…”

“Ivy, he’s your brother. This is one of those times when families need to stick together.”

“When is it?”

“March 20, 10:00 a.m.”

“I’ll be there.”

I pop on the IM and chat with Mitch. Tell him Brian’s news. He says he’ll be there that day too if I need him.

You know, I don’t know what I’d do if Mitch was more aggressive with this thing. Wait. Yes, I do. I’d be sleeping with him. I’d be warm and wanted in a man’s arms. But he’s a gentleman, and he’s waiting for me to make the first move. Thank you, God. With the
way my life unfolds around me, I’m not one to really make moves. I just let everyone else’s moves run me down like linebackers.

Mitch is right. I need to do something about my inability to say no, my willingness to allow Rusty and my siblings to live their lives baptized by my sweat and my tears.

Lyra fumes as I relay the news about Brian at breakfast the next day. Man oh man, did Reuben make some good scrambled eggs. Put in a little garlic powder and some muenster cheese.

“I don’t understand him,” she says. “How could anybody be so stupid? And he’s such a good cook, too!”

“Unfortunately the one doesn’t have to do with the other,” I say.

Harry shakes his head. “I’ve got some amends to make.”

“He’s forty-one, Harry.”

“Doesn’t matter, Ive.”

I wonder what it must be like to be my Dad’s age and suddenly have a spotlight glued to your forehead illuminating all your mistakes. I have some regrets, naturally. But overall, I can’t imagine too much is going to come back to haunt me. Of course, all parents must say that, take some kind of inventory, and hope for the best. And if you do commit some major error, you pray that your children will forgive you, that they will realize when they have kids of their own that you did the best you could.

I tiptoe halfway down the basement steps.

“Harry?”

“Hang on, Ivy. I’m getting into my pj’s.”

“Okay.”

Reuben’s out with a few old friends, listening to jazz at some club downtown.

“Come on down, babe.”

I descend the remaining steps. “Hey, this looks nice down here! Sort of a tribute to the sixties.”

He laughs. “Your old couch is a nice touch.”

“Yeah. It actually looks good in this setting.”

“Can I offer you a beverage?”

Sure.

My grandparents’ old refrigerator stands in the kitchen area. A soft light emanates from the hood above the new range. “Wow, this is great.”

“Yep. A regular old man’s place.” He opens the fridge. “Want a soda?”

“You got Coke? I have a lot to get done tonight.”

He reaches in and pulls one out. “Your wish is my command. If I remember correctly, you like it straight out of the can.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Neat.

“Have a seat.”

This couch feels great down here. Why did I ever get rid of it? I don’t feel a spring at all. “Harry, I need to talk to you about something.”

Sure.

“First of all, I’m glad you’re here these days. You’ve been a big help.”

“I’m trying, kid.”

“I know, and I appreciate that.” Okay, this next thing is going
to be tough. I sip my soda. “I want to say something else, and it’s going to be hard. Let me just gather myself.”

“Look, Ivy, if you want me to leave, I understand. I’ve got a buddy up in Parkville who has a spare room—”

“No, no. That’s not it.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s a relief.”

“I just wanted to tell you that I … that I, well, I forgive you. I do.”

His eyes open wide, and they suddenly fill with tears as he drops his head and begins to sob. Deep and groaning.

“I’m sorry, Ivy. I’m so sorry for what I did to this family.”

And he continues to cry. I reach out and pull my father to me, and even though I find I cannot cry, I feel and feel and feel, and something inside me, something bitter and hard, liquefies, empties out of my soul, melding with his tears.

I
still can’t bring myself to call him Dad, though. Plus, that would be confusing with Reuben around. But things feel different this morning. Lighter. Yet more significant.

My shower feels more fulfilling, I find a stylish new combination in the offerings of my closet, and my cup of tea tastes like a cupful of vacation. A Reuben special, two bags at least.

Lyra trounces into the kitchen, a smile on her face. “Good morning, everyone! Morning, Grandpa. Morning, Gramps.”

“Want a cup of tea?” I ask.

“Most definitely. I’ve got a history test today.”

“Cup of tea coming up.” I’m dancing a fine line here, trying to be upbeat and supportive without assuming we’re chums again. Maybe it was just PMS yesterday.

Reuben sets breakfast out. Hash browns with ham and cheese and a bowl of scrambled eggs.

“Oh man, Dad! That looks great.”

He smiles. “I do a nice breakfast if I do say so myself.”

We sit down. Trixie prays, and we fall to.

Harry pulls me aside after everyone’s trekked upstairs to brush teeth and fetch backpacks.

“Ivy, do you think your brother and sister would be open to a heart-to-heart with the old man?”

“I don’t know. They’re pretty bitter.”

“I figured.”

“But it doesn’t hurt to try.”

“Yeah, I guess not. The hard thing is getting them to agree to even meet with me.”

So far, Harry’s stayed away during Brian’s visits.

“Give them a call. It’s got to start somewhere.”

He nods.

A few minutes later, he heads out with Trixie to the swim school.

Mom’s sure been sleeping a lot these days, and she gets winded so easily when she’s up. With her diabetes, her neck arteries, and everything else, she’s literally falling apart like an old set of draperies—dry rot here, fraying seams there.

I remember her young, a skinny thing running around that restaurant with the coffeepot, chatting up a storm with all the regulars who have since either died or become casualties of Brian’s menu. My favorite customer was Stu Leonard, a salesman for the Comoy Pipe Company. When he’d make his run to Fader’s Tobacconists in Towson, he always stopped in for breakfast or lunch and displayed some of his more choice wares. Grandpop smoked a pipe now and again, so he and I would join Stu, oohing and aahing over the polished briarwood.

Stu, sitting there in his checked jacket and dark wool pants, said many times, “One thing I’ve learned over the years is that everyone needs to relax.”

“That’s what a pipe will do, yessir.” Grandpop.

And I’ve thought about that conversation many times over the
past ten years, when I’ve taken no time to do anything just for me. But always, some new responsibility would emerge, like another child or a traveling husband or now a sick mother. That spa certificate of Brenda’s, crammed in a kitchen drawer somewhere, comes to mind.