Club Sandwich (9 page)

When I was little, eight times out of ten we didn’t shut the car door rightly.

“Mom, the car door’s not shut tight!” we’d yell.

And Mom would slow down a bit, just a bit, mind you, and we’d open the car door, feel the slight thrill of fear as the asphalt whizzed by beneath our gaze and the road line blinked on and off like a neon beer sign. Then we’d heave with all our might, ensuring a fully engaged latch, and we’d sit back in our seat without a seat belt holding us in.

We possessed good reflexes back then. One slight tip of the
brakes, and both hands and one foot automatically found their way to the seat back or dashboard in front of us. Yep, mighty good reflexes.

They stand me in good stead right now as I place a hand on Persy’s chest and curve my arm around his waist as he walks by my kitchen chair. “You are not going for the candy bowl, bud.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Oh yes you were. Get a granola bar from the drawer.”

“Okay.” He swings his head down and turns from my arms.

“Hey, at least there’s sugar in it.”

My son could ingest five pounds of sugar at a sitting and still want more. I know he gets it from me, and who knows what else he’s inherited from the Starlings? Poor kid.

A granola bar. Yep, we’re not living in the same old world, folks.

S
chool’s out for summer! That’s my anthem right now, despite its birth in the bloodstained mouth of Alice Can-You-Believe-He’s-a-Minister’s-Son Cooper. Now I ask you, how in the world does
that
happen? An aside to those with theological knowledge: if cases like these don’t furnish you with a full belief in total depravity, I don’t know what does!

My church sure had a lot to say about Alice Cooper, let me tell you! He was going to turn all the teenagers of America into satanic minions. And where is he now? I’m sure VH1 assembled a
Behind the Music
on that guy, but I haven’t seen it yet, even though—and I hate to admit it—I’m quite fond of the show. That, and
I Love the 80s
. But God didn’t let him go. He’s rocking hard and praying hard these days. And I’m not about to tell him he can’t do both.

No one anticipates the end of the school year more than I do. Of course, for two and a half months my house deteriorates faster than a pop princess’s reputation. Nutrition hides under a rock, and the television? Well, let’s just say all motherly intentions go the way of nutrition. But so will sports games, school projects, permission slips, and my inability to say no to room-mothers’ requests for cookies on a stick, planning the Valentine’s party, or sitting the class rat or goldfish for the weekend. They claim to teach the kids responsibility, but who ends up feeding the darn animals—or buying a twin replacement?

And Rusty’s coming home. When push comes to shove, I do still love the guy. I made a promise all those years ago. A fact of which I’m painfully aware.

Some writer, probably Shakespeare, said, “To err is human, to forgive, divine.” So I’ve got a little work to do before his plane lands. God, help me be a great actress. Even if only for the kids’ sake. Knowing Rusty, he’ll disembark and say the right thing, and I’ll truly be glad to see him. I hate that.

So as we drive to the airport to pick him up, we sing “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” over and over, our very own summer anthem.

Dinah, won’t you blow your horn!

We haven’t seen him since Easter. He could have driven back this way with the group, but we sprang for the plane ticket.

We park in the garage at BWI and sigh with gratitude as the air conditioning of the terminal hits us full on and begins to evaporate our perspiration. I have no luck when it comes to the Blazer’s AC, even though I’m so faithful with the coolant. I was tempted to leave the windows rolled down, but airport garages aren’t exactly
Mayberry RFD
.

Lyra almost skips with excitement. Daddy’s girl. Knowing how a teen girl gains her sexual identity from her father at this time of her life, I do all I can to hide my feelings about my husband from her. I want her to love him purely in response to how he treats her, then translate that in light of how he treats me so that someday, when choosing a mate, her standards will rise every bit to the level she deserves. She wears new khaki shorts and a pink tank top. She’s anticipating evening walks after the others go to bed, and trips to Friendly’s Ice Cream twice a week. And Rusty won’t disappoint her.

Me, I’m looking forward to hearing Rusty humming around
the house. “In Times Like These” finds its way out of Rusty’s lips more than anything.

“In times like these, you need a Savior. In times like these, you need an anchor. Be very sure, be very sure, your anchor holds, and grips the solid rock.” I need that anchor. It’s what keeps me from drifting so far off center I don’t recognize who I am in the eyes of God. So here’s the thing, Lord, help me not to waste this visit with bickering, because Rusty will leave and the hurtful words will remain, hanging all about the house, shaking their finger at me saying, “Now what good did that do?”

“Can we go up to the gate this time?” Persy jangles with excitement.

“Not anymore.”

“Is that ever going to change, Mom?” Lyra.

“Nope.”

“Oh, okay.”

Isn’t that acceptance sad? The world looks so different, and they don’t even realize it. Don’t worry. I won’t go into my opinions on homeland security other than to say I’m not comfortable with the privacy invasions. Unfortunately I have no good alternatives to offer, so I’ll keep my mouth shut.

We check the flight board and head toward Pier C. Thank goodness the flight is on time. “Only about five minutes, gang.”

They know better than to worry that we’ll miss him. Nobody misses Rusty.

Trixie’s squirming in the stroller already. She’s a wire that can slip loose from almost any constraint. But I’ve already run interference, as losing your child in an airport is way too scary. I tightened the belt to the point of circulation loss and promised her a trip to Toys “R” Us if she stays put until we see Daddy. In times like these
I’m glad she’s not yet potty trained, because you can bet your engagement ring, your farm, and your firstborn she’d have had me in the bathroom at least twice by now. Lyra trained by two. Persy on his third birthday. If Trixie’s out of diapers by four, I’ll buy the world a drink. I’m sure she’s used up half the amount of diapers Lyra did anyway, so we’re even on that point. In those days, I changed the slightest dampness. Now, if those silicone balls haven’t made an appearance, she’s still good to go.

Those poor third children. No wonder they’re so pushy. They need to be.

“There he is!” Persy’s off and running.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Trixie pulls against her restraints.

As I free her, I feel a smile stretch my face, and I wave my arms. I have no backbone. I don’t want to encourage him, but I can’t help myself, I’m glad to see him, maybe because he’s so glad to see us.

Rusty hugs all three kids at once, and when he pulls me close he whispers, “Saved the best for last.” He kisses me on the mouth, and before I can compute my feelings about it, Trixie scampers away. The race is on.

“Brian’s planning a family dinner tonight at the restaurant. Is that okay?”

Rusty sits out back on the deck in a pair of Bermuda shorts and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He always looks nice, dresses properly for every occasion in clean, pressed, traditional clothing. He’s a neat freak, too. When Rusty’s home the house stays picked up. Is it any wonder I want him home more often?

“Sounds great. What’s he making?”

“Don’t know. I took off today to pick you up, and I wasn’t about to call in.”

“Good girl. Have a seat, hon.”

“I’ll get us some iced tea first.”

In the kitchen, Lyra’s making up a pan of her famous brownies. That’s what she calls them, “my famous brownies.” A Ghirardelli mix. But her claim to fame doesn’t bother me at all. Let’s face it: she recognized the best mix and is known by the church people as one fantastic brownie maker. She also knows exactly when to remove them from the oven so they’re still gooey and immediately disintegrate on your palate. A box can’t tell you how to do that.

“I thought maybe I could take these over to the restaurant to serve as dessert.”

Brian would have a fit if anyone other than Lyra made the offer. But he claims her as his legacy. “Cool. Just call Uncle Brian and let him know before he spends an hour on something else.”

I pour the tea and head back to the deck. So far, so good.

Rusty’s already placed the pad on the cedar lounger next to his. A hammock hangs between two maples in the small yard. I often wish we could lie there together as we did years ago, but these days, once Rusty got in, chances are he might not make it out without breaking something. I hand him the drink.

“Thanks, Ive. Man, it’s great to be home.”

I settle on the lounger. The sun warms my knees, and a couple of birds splash in the hanging birdbath by the back fence, their flutters spangling the air with diamonds of water. “Sing me a song, Rust.”

He sips his tea. “What’ll it be?”

“In Times Like These.”

And Rusty begins. I’ve waited two months for this. My eyes close on their own, and I feel like a bit of grace is mine for the taking,
that I’ll enjoy this time with him as much as I possibly can. Perhaps it isn’t good for me in the long run, but right now, there’s only now, and I choose it.

I run the comb through Persy’s hair one last time. “Let’s go couch shopping tomorrow night, Rust.”

“I’m up for that. Last time I sat on that thing I was feeling the springs for a week.”

That settles it, then.

The kids all cheer, and Lyra promises to surf the Internet to print out all the latest styles. But we have to leave. Dinner at the restaurant beckons.

God, give me strength.

It’s amazing how much a younger kid actually absorbs. The race riots in Baltimore took place in April, I know now. But for years I only remembered that it wasn’t cold outside. I knew little about TheReverendDoctorMartinLutherKingJunior. But I remember snippets of television news items, and I recall being scared. Which isn’t surprising, is it?

For years and years I was afraid of African Americans, until I entered high school and played volleyball. Twilah Marcus could spike a ball like nobody’s business, and she always sat with me on the bus to games. I thought, “Twilah wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

One day, back when the races mixed even less than they do now, Baltimore further cemented its reputation as a violent town.
Nowadays our mile-high homicide rate continues the tradition. And heroin? We do heroin like crazy in this city.

Well, it was right after the death of Dr. King that the race riots began, leaving a burning Monument Street in their wake. Dad drove to his office downtown with a Colt handgun on the seat next to him. I was scared for him and for me. What if he got shot before he could pick it up? What if angry people surrounded the car and pulled him out and executed him right there in front of his optometry practice? Shot him in the head? Or in the stomach, which took longer to kill you?