Heart-strong (2 page)

“It’s bruised. A little.”
She took a breath and straightened. “I guess you just need some ice and rest.
But honestly, what else can happen? What a run of bad luck. I
t
’s no
t
enough
t
hat you broke your arm las
t
year. Then you got your bike stolen. Then you lost those
textbooks, and we had to replace them. Now this, whatever this is. All those
things cost money.”

Jim froze in the door
w
ay. The woman from the supermarket! She cer
t
ainl
y
wasn’t his
dream seductress. Her hair, what
h
e co
u
ld see of i
t
under
the ra
gg
ed
y
scarf,
w
as mouse
y
bro
w
n
.
As he
w
a
t
ched her
bend over the boy, jean-clad bottom toward him, he realized she was far plumper
than he remembered. And she seemed obsessed with money.

Scott groaned. “The bike
w
asn’t my fault. Neither was losing the books. The
principal
t
old you that the driver went too
far cleaning the bus.”

“I know. But since my
boss couldn’t give raises this year, any emergency is a financial crisis.”

“I told you, you don’t
have to pay for a doctor.”

M
o
the
r’s and
son’s
v
oices rose hi
g
her,
ear-piercing as two opera singers. Ji
m
though
t
of one of the rules he’d learned at work—the
power of mediation is not to force the involved parties into resolution, but to
allow them to convince themselves. “Just a minute,” he broke in. “Scott’s
injury is insignificant and the result of inexperience, not deli
b
eration. And you are more worried than angry.”

Rachel swi
v
eled toward the door, a maternal snarl distorting
her features.
“
N
o
one asked for your opinion,
so butt—” She dropped her words mid-sentence. Her jaw plummeted, her hand flew
to her hair, in vain hoping it looked better than she feared, then she pulled
off the scarf.

“Haven’t I seen you at
the Super Shop?” they asked at the same time.

Jim crossed his arms over
his chest and eyed Rachel. Now she looked a little more the way he recalled,
although her nose was definitely pug, not straight.
She was wearing a
black t-shirt with gold lettering.
A
woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.
Rachel saw him read
the slogan on her shirt. She flushed.

“A present from the women at my office after my divorce,”
she explained. Aaah, the blush, the feminine delicacy. She definitely might be
his dream woman, thought Jim.

“I must look and sound like a witch,” Rachel said, her
snarled locks standing straight out monster-style. “My sister says I’m
headstrong.”

“Nope. Worried, busy, frantic maybe. And caring,” answered
Jim.

Scott groaned from the sofa to draw attention to himself
once more. An obedient mother, Rachel bustled around with aspirin, juice and
ice pack until he was comfortable. As she worked, she snuck little glances at
Jim, who had propped a shoulder against the wall and watched her, arms crossed.
He wasn’t as tall as she’d remembered, nor as good looking. But definitely
attractive and competent, with a hint of vulnerability in the way his eyelids
shuttered his eyes when she looked in his direction.

She invited him to have coffee, ru
t
hlessly
forcing down in her mind Sharon’s constant prediction—“Someday you’ll be sorry.
You’ll bring home one of your weirdoes, and he’ll rob you. Or worse.”

The Sunday shadows crept high up the walls before the two
stopped talking at the kitchen counter. Little by little, coincidence by
coincidence, in the manner of couples similar in age and outlook, newly met but
fated to attract one another, they discovered things they had in common. Jim
was a struggling lawyer, Rachel was a paralegal. Jim was an amateur artist,
Rachel dabbled in pottery and weaving. Both loved classic rock but hated disco,
punk and metal. Rachel danced Jim to the door to a rousing rendition of “I
can’t get no satisfaction.” She stuck her hand out.

“Thanks for your help with Scott,” she said.

“Jim Landers,” he filled in as he grasped her hand.

“Oh, you’re Jim. I should have guessed. I’m Scott’s mother,
Rachel.”

“I know,” answered Jim. He continued to hold her hand.
“Would you and Scott like to go for ice cream some afternoon?”

“That would be fun.”

They dropped hands simultaneously as if each had become too
hot to hold. Rachel opened the door. Spotting some smudges on the woodwork, she
wet her finger with her tongue and rubbed the dirt away. Jim stepped into the hall.

“Thanks again. You’ve been super,” she said.

“I
hope so,” he
replied.

* * *

Rachel slid into her relationship with Jim like she slid
into a warm bubble bath. He made her feel protected, cozy, feminine. In fact
she was in a bubble bath when she tried to sort out her sentiments in a
conversation with her sister. “This relationship is quite differ
e
nt from the way I fel
t
right af
t
er the divorce,” she told
Sharon, who was plucking her eyebrows in the communal bathroom. “I’m not in a
hurry for anything permanent, but it may come in time.” Rachel blew a cloud of
suds up in the air.

“I have to admit he’s the most normal man you’ve ever
liked,” Sharon said as she yanked a recalcitrant hair. “He has a full-time job,
opens the door for women, seems to brush his teeth. I keep holding my breath
waiting for some fatal flaw.”

“If he has one, I’d say he’s a perfectionist,” Rachel
answered. “When he talks about work, he beats himself up if he handled a client
wrong. And he wasn’t happy when I forgot to add a dab of mustard to the potato
salad last week.”

“They say women go for men who resemble their fathers or are
the exact opposite. Any truth in this case?”

“I certainly hope there’s no resemblance,” Rachel said. “Dad
walked out on his family. I don’t need an undependable guy in my life.”

* * *

At Jim’s house, in between quarters of a televised football
game and pulls on long-necked beer, he was reviewing his relationship with
Rachel in a desultory relaxed stream of consciousness. The liaison was
comfortable, he mused, like changing into an old shirt from a business suit. He
didn’t worry about some other man stealing her away. Although she was
attractive, she wasn’t a femme fatale. She was the wife and mother type.

Wait! Jim wasn’t sure if she was the wife and mother for
him. Jim had experienced his share of rejection, wasn’t eager for another
incident. He didn’t know why, but several times when he and a beautiful woman
had teetered on the edge of commitment, something had gone wrong. Once the
woman had preferred a career to a family. Once the woman couldn’t overcome her
need to flirt with anything in pa
nt
s. Once t
h
e woman pro
v
ed
to be a conglomeration of decei
t
—false wig,
false e
y
elashes, false falsies. The woman he
settled down with had to be close to flawless. There was no reason to settle
for less than that.

* * *

Drifting from date to date—a movie, a dinner for three, an
art gallery opening—and day to day, no crisis interrupted the couple’s harmony.
Until the final soccer game of the season. Two low-ranked teams were battling
it out for last place. Rachel knew ho
w
much
Scott wanted to win, having heard no less than twenty-five times each day tha
t
his team was going to crea
m
the other. Jim relayed some final playing tips
to Scott while Rachel packed a tote bag, a wheeled cooler, and two grocery
sacks full of necessities—oranges cut in quarters, cans of soft drinks, first
aid kit, water, paper cups, tissues, hand towels, blanket. She lugged them to
the door.

“Ready,” she said.

Jim rose from the couch, head still bent toward Scott. “Now,
remember, stick to your position no matter what. Your coach has given you a
zone to cover, right?”

“Yeah,” answered Scott. “But what if the guy in front of me
isn’t doing his job? Some of the team are still afraid of getting hit. Not me of
course.”

“Of course. In that case, you may have to assist. But just
be careful.” Jim stopped mid-sentence, stunned by the amount of supplies heaped
around Rachel.

“What on earth are you doing? Moving your whole apartment?”

“It’s my turn to bring stuff. I only have the absolute
essentials.”

Jim reached into the bag and pulled out the tissue box.
“Tissues are essential?” He looked further. “And hand towels for the entire
team? How do you expect to get all this there, wagon train?”

Rachel glared at him, a woman defending her home territory.
“I expect
us
to carry it. It
is
only a few blocks.”

The trip was made in silence, broken only by the clicks of
Scott’s cleats on the sidewalk. Since the day was uncommonly warm, perspiration
soon ran down their foreheads.

At the soccer field small boys pulled off their sweatshirts,
added head bands and wrist bands, punching each other on the shoulder all the
while. Some stretched or jogged their nervousness out, while others kicked red,
white and blue soccer balls back and forth. A father, gangly as a stork,
stroked his mustache as he explained to another man the team’s season record.
Next to a woman with a blonde pageboy, Rachel dropped the tote bag and cooler
then motioned Jim to bring the grocery sacks. He did so with a scowl. Kneeling
in the grass, Rachel unloaded the supplies.

“You’re certainly in a good mood,” she said to Jim without
looking at him.

“It’s embarrassing,” he replied. “We look like tramps.”

“No, we look like a family.”

Rachel stood, grabbed the water jug and some cups and walked
to the team now gathered around the coach. She missed Jim’s instinctive recoil
as the impact of her words sunk in. A family, Jim thought. He wasn’t ready for
that. He still was young, still had time to find the perfect woman. Maybe one
who wasn’t quite so outspoken, who didn’t get slightly hysterical. He stared
off across the park at the leafless trees and missed the start of the game.
Rachel’s shrill yells brought him back to reality. Jim looked at the crowd of
young bodies in the middle of the field. Team uniforms were indistinguishable,
primarily because of the mud puddle in which the boys were rolling. Jim
groaned. Scott had forgotten to stay in his position.

As the boys stood and resumed play, Scott trotted off the
field rubbing his arms and smearing mud. Rachel rushed to him, tissues in hand,
and wiped as she lectured. Jim studied the two unemotionally; they looked a lot
alike, solidly built, wild hair. Scott was downcast now and sent longing
glances at the action on the field. Rachel marched over to the coach. Jim
couldn’t hear what she was saying, but by her gestures and head motions, he
could tell she was arguing to get Scott back in the game. The coach shook his
head, pursed his lips, and finally gave up, waving Scott in. Scarf in hand,
Rachel walked back to Jim. The wind had risen, and she wrapped the pink and
yellow square around the rat’s nest her hair had become.

“It really wasn’t Scott’s fault,” she said. “I pointed that
out to the coach.”

“So I noticed,” Jim commented. “But it was his fault. He
should have stayed in his position.”

Rachel wasn’t listening. She was jumping up and down,
screaming as Scott’s team drove the ball toward the goal. Jim winced. The
blonde woman next to them stopped mid-clap to turn and look at Rachel. Jim
smiled slightly and shrugged.

The teams battled up and down the field. They were evenly
matched, both equally poor. The boys kicked wildly, elbowed each other. A
header went awry when one boy hit the ball with his nose rather than his
forehead. Rachel was pleased to put her first aid skills to use by holding ice
to his nose. At half time, Rachel pressed Jim into service to pass out orange
quarters to the glum group. The score was tied zero to zero, the boys were
tired, and the coach was angry.

“Your play is inexcusable,” he bellowed. “You’ve missed the
easiest return passes. You’re not working together.”

Exhibiting toward the coach none of her usual sympathy,
Rachel said from where she was crouched between two boys, “I’m sure they’re
trying their best. They almost made several goals.”

The coach gritted his teeth. “Mrs. Kinsey, if you would like
to take over this team, you may do so with my blessing. If not, please refrain
from interrupting when I’m coaching.”

Rachel seemed to shrink into her jacket as she murmured a
faint apology. Jim rolled his eyes heavenward.

“You are so headstrong,” Jim said. “Your way is not the only
way.”

“No, I’m not. I’m heart-strong. Whatever my heart tells me,
I believe.”

The game resumed. While Rachel picked up the paper cups
tossed on the ground, Jim eyed the blonde. She was tall with high cheekbones
and a straight nose. She looked strangely similar to Jim’s sketch of Rachel
after their first meeting. Dressed in a khaki-colored pantsuit, the blonde
stood calmly on the sidelines, following the action with slow turns of her
head. Her hair brushed her cheeks as she moved.

“Go down the field, down the field!” Rachel’s yells
out-screeched the cacophony of parents from both teams.

“Damn it, what now?” she continued as the referee called a
foul. He signaled off-side.