Once Upon a Project (3 page)

Chapter 3

 

S
usan got out of her SUV and, noticing the mail truck pulling up to the house from next door, walked to the curb to take the delivery.

“Good morning,” she said to the mailman.

“Morning, Mrs. Dillahunt. Got your mail right here.” He handed it to her. A circular from JCPenney, folded and rubber banded, was on the outside.

“Looks like junk,” she remarked, not surprised. She paid the household bills online and received most of the bills that way as well. She loved the convenience, and the way it cut down on paperwork. What did she care about department store sales? She felt happy to be alive, happy to be able to experience the gradual warming from winter to spring.

The mailman, who delivered to her regularly unless he was ill or on vacation, began his usual response. “I don't write 'em, Mrs. Dillahunt . . .”

“I just deliver them,” she concluded.

He grinned. “You have a nice day.”

“Thanks.”

She didn't look at the mail until she'd gotten the groceries in the house and started to put everything away. She'd bought two half-gallon containers of ice cream—actually slightly less than a half gallon, since food manufacturers had begun producing smaller packages in lieu of price increases—plus those shortbread cookies with the chocolate drops that Bruce liked.

While she and her sister Sherry were growing up in the Dreiser projects, their mother used to buy Neapolitan ice cream. Susan liked chocolate, Sherry liked strawberry, and their mother ate the vanilla. Susan didn't know whether her mother even liked vanilla—maybe she ate it just because she wanted to save the chocolate and strawberry for her two girls. Nowadays the ice-cream flavors available in the supermarket rivaled that of Baskin-Robbins. Quentin had to have Moose Tracks, while Alyssa wanted only cherry with chocolate chunks, so that meant buying them each their own containers.

Susan made room for the ice cream in the large vertical freezer. Then she sat at the built-in desk in the kitchen, pulling out the recycling bin from underneath in anticipation of throwing most of the mail inside it.

A booklet of various newsprint circulars for local stores and glossy coupon ads for fast-food restaurants made up most of the day's delivery. Also in the bundle were two postcards, one featuring a photograph of a missing child with a telephone number to call if she was spotted, and the other imprinted with a sketch of what looked like the Dreiser Homes on the South Side of Chicago, where she'd grown up.

Susan read the back of the card and broke into a smile. A reunion luncheon. What a fabulous idea! She hadn't seen Pat, Grace, and Elyse in too long, anyway. As the event's organizer, Pat was sure to be there, and Grace would definitely be an attendee. She couldn't be so sure about Elyse, who lived nearly as far away from the South Side as she did.

For thirteen years, ever since marrying Bruce Dillahunt, Susan had called the town of Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin, home. The town's name described it perfectly. It was located on Lake Michigan, just over the Wisconsin border, and featured quaint reminders of small-town life like a drive-in theater and a Piggly Wiggly, the Southern supermarket chain that had few stores in Illinois but a strong presence in Wisconsin. The nearest small city was Kenosha, to the north, and if she wanted a big-city atmosphere she had to drive past Kenosha to Milwaukee, which was slightly closer to her than Chicago.

Susan read the card again. The luncheon would be held in just two weeks. She'd have to wear something nice. She wanted to look good. And healthy. It would defeat the whole purpose of going if she looked haggard and ill.

She tossed the rest of the mail into the recycling bin. The reunion postcard went in the zippered side compartment of her handbag.

In her bedroom she stood before her dresser, staring at her reflection in the mirror that hung above it. Slowly she turned to the left, then to the right. She looked fine. Thanks to a good-fitting bra with extra control along the upper sides, no telltale lumps gave away her secret.

 

 

Susan waited at the curb, leaning on the car. When school let out at three, she ventured only a few feet away to talk to other mothers she knew from this daily errand. She was cordial to them, if not overly friendly. At forty-nine, she felt out of place next to women fifteen years younger than she. She hadn't thought about being an older mother when she gave birth to Quentin at age thirty-nine and Alyssa at forty-two; but seeing these young mothers in their late twenties or early thirties, and the even younger nannies who picked up their charges while their employers worked at high-powered positions, never failed to remind her that more than half her life was behind her. She'd been so afraid that her illness would age her prematurely and make her look more like her children's grandmother, and felt relieved when it hadn't. She'd begun to go gray even before her diagnosis. Her facial skin felt looser these days, but it didn't sag. She looked like a woman in her late forties, which was exactly what she was.

Alyssa gave her a quick hug, but Quentin simply greeted her and climbed into the backseat. Susan knew he didn't want any of his fifth-grade friends to see him hugging his mother.

“How was school today?” she asked as she steered away from the curb.

Quentin grunted. “Same old same old,” he said.

“Nothing new,” Alyssa added.

“Well, I've got some news for you. Y'all are going to come along with me on a little excursion in a few weeks.”

Both children immediately perked up. “Where're we going, Mom? Skiing? To the Dells?”

She chuckled. “Nowhere like that. This is just for an afternoon. I'm going to bring you to Chicago to see where I grew up.”

“And then what?” Alyssa asked.

“And then . . . then we're going to have lunch with some people I grew up with.”

Susan realized too late that to kids their age it sounded none too exciting, and that they probably wouldn't even want to go, but it wasn't like she could depend on Bruce to accompany her. He barely wanted to sleep with her since her lumpectomy. How could she expect him to escort her anywhere? She didn't want to go alone, even if she met up with her old friends. Besides, if the kids came along she could show them off to Ann Valentine and the rest of those old bats from Dreiser.

For a second she allowed herself to wonder if Charles Valentine would be there, but she quickly decided that was silly. Charles at a reunion luncheon? Not a chance.

Too bad. She'd love to see him again.

“Mom, you grew up in the projects,” Quentin pointed out. “It probably isn't even safe for us to go there. I saw on
Good Times
when the sister got her sweater torn just going to school.”

“We're not going to walk around, Quentin. I just feel you should see that everybody hasn't lived a life as privileged as yours.” Susan sighed. When she and her sister were growing up, parents were doing well just to keep their children well fed and clothed. Now kids wanted trips to Florida, cruises, and the Wisconsin Dells. And many of them, hers included, got what they wanted.

“Are those the projects you lived in, Mommy?” Alyssa asked.

“No, Alyssa.” The opening and closing credits of the old TV sitcom depicted the infamous Cabrini-Green projects, now being torn down. The fictional Evans family lived on the South Side of Chicago; the real Cabrini-Green had been north of downtown.

Alyssa asked another question. “Is Daddy coming, too?”

She kept her voice light. “Oh, probably not. Daddy likes to relax on the weekends. He works very hard to take care of us and to pay for all the nice things we have.”

It was true that Bruce provided handsomely for them, and that his position as owner of a credit card–processing company required long hours. But in the months since her diagnosis and treatment, he'd suddenly started to say he needed to work even later. When Susan put that together with the decline in their once-vigorous sex life, it had the smell of an affair. Naturally she expressed her concerns to him, and he vigorously denied any wrongdoing.

She didn't believe it for a minute.

Relations between her and Bruce looked smooth as pudding on the outside. Even Quentin and Alyssa had no idea of any discord. Susan knew Bruce loved her. But he didn't desire her anymore, and that made her feel unattractive and sad.

Once Charles had loved her, too. She wondered what his opinion of her now would be.

Then Quentin asked the question she'd been expecting. “Do we
have
to go, Mom?”

“I'd really like you to, Quentin. I know it's an afternoon you'll never get back, but by the same token, it's only an afternoon. It's not going to scar you for life.”

“Awright.”

Chapter 4

 

P
at lounged on her living room sofa, her feet propped up on the oak coffee table, going over the list of RSVPs the restaurant staff had taken down and turned over to her. Nearly a hundred people had responded. She submitted a PSA about the event to the local radio station to announce on its Community Calendar, and also posted flyers in supermarkets and at beauty and barber shops all over the South Side. She sent postcards to anyone she had a current address for, and she also looked up telephone numbers in the phone book and online.

She grinned happily when she saw the words “Susan Bennett Dillahunt, party of three,” on the list. So her old friend had decided to drive down from her home across the Wisconsin state line. Pat would be glad to see her. It had been too long.

It seemed like yesterday when the four of them walked to and from school together, wearing their Mary Janes and knee socks with pleated skirts or corduroy jumpers. Pat hated corduroy to this day; to her it would always represent a fabric only poor people or toddlers wore. They must have gone through a dozen fashion fads since grammar school: Those striped woolen caps with the extra yarn and the balls on the end that streamed down their backs, in a pallid imitation of the long hair Susan and Grace had when they were eight. Dresses with Nehru collars the year they were ten, ankle-length maxicoats at twelve, formfitting popcorn blouses at thirteen, and the platform shoes and painter's jeans and bodysuits that were popular during their high school years. Those bodysuits never rode up, which was great if you were wearing hip-hugging jeans with them, but my oh my, if you had to pee you had to be damn quick about unsnapping those crotches.

She opened her eyes, and they fell on an entry on the pad that made her gasp.
Mr. and Mrs. Enrique Suárez.

My God. Ricky was coming. And bringing his
wife.
She'd never expected him to show up. Why had he decided to come? Did he want to rub it in her face that she'd become what used to be called an old maid?

Sure, success stories like Ricky's were what she was after, but nonetheless, Pat cursed herself for sending Miriam Suárez an invitation. Ricky must have heard about the luncheon through his mother. If she hadn't made sure Mrs. Suárez knew about it, she wouldn't be stricken with panic now to see his name on the RSVP list.

But even as Pat pretended to be indignant, she knew she wasn't being fair. She'd run into Miriam Suárez about seven years ago at the Moo and Oink on Stony Island Avenue, and she'd been shocked when Mrs. Suárez had revealed—after going on and on about how well Ricky's downtown restaurant, Nirvana, was doing—that he had recently gotten divorced.

“Ah, these women today, they're never happy,” Miriam had snarled, her pretty features momentarily unattractive. “My son worked so hard in his restaurant so his wife could live in a nice home and drive a nice car and have plenty of spending money in her pockets. But instead of being grateful, she complained all the time.” Her mouth twisted unbecomingly as she imitated her former daughter-in-law in a whiny voice. “‘He never spends any time with me or our daughter. He's always at work.' Hah!” she'd said, reverting to her normal manner of speaking, a youthful voice with just a faint hint of a Spanish accent. “She didn't have sense enough to realize the link between his long hours and the comfortable life she lived. I would have given anything to have a husband who loved me and took care of me instead of one who left me with two babies to support.”

Miriam had moved into Dreiser as a single parent, her husband having taken off, leaving her to fend for herself and their two sons. “When Ricky found out she had a boyfriend on the side, he got his lawyer to cut her loose without a dime, plus he got custody of my granddaughter.” She laughed triumphantly. “I'll bet that new man of hers can't afford to keep her in the style my son did. She's probably buying her clothes at Wal-Mart now instead of Lord & Taylor.”

As Pat listened to Mrs. Suárez's contemptuous description of her former daughter-in-law, she could barely hide her delight at the news that Ricky was available again. She was convinced it was kismet for her to run into Ricky's mother. The plan came together in her head before she and Mrs. Suárez parted.

Even after seven years, Pat still remembered how hopeful she felt that day shortly after the encounter with Mrs. Suárez. Accompanied by one of the other ADAs from work, she dressed in her nicest suit and went over to Nirvana, where Ricky served a menu of steaks, chicken, and seafood with a Mexican twist. Normally she would have brought Grace, but she didn't want Grace to know how much she longed for another chance with Ricky, how her heart still ached, even after all this time. If it all worked out,
then
she'd tell her. No point in putting the cart before the horse.

She'd asked for him through their server, and he came out to say hello, looking even more handsome in middle age.

“He ought to be on a magazine cover,” her friend had whispered as he approached.

Ricky closely resembled his mother, who'd been a stunner in her younger days and who even now was still quite lovely, with large dark eyes and gorgeous skin. Ricky had stayed in shape, too. His shirt was tucked into his belted pants, revealing a flat belly.

He'd been genuinely glad to see Pat and instructed the server to give them their meal on the house, but there'd been nothing in his eyes, no special spark to let her know that he still cared, or that he saw her as anyone other than a childhood friend and high school sweetheart. To him, Pat decided, she must seem like nothing more than a relic from the past.

Pat kept a smile plastered on her face for appearance's sake, but inside she felt like a fool. She thought about all the daydreams she'd entertained ever since hatching her plan to come here. There she stood, in her mind's eye, defiantly announcing to her parents that she and Ricky were getting married, and they would just have to get used to the idea. In another imaginary scene, she explained to a stunned Grace that she'd gone to his restaurant and the old magic returned right away, with them as much in love as ever after a separation of twenty-three years.

All her dreams died when Ricky reacted the way he did. In the end Pat was glad she'd brought someone along who had no knowledge of their past history, rather than Grace. At least no one had to know how she'd tried to get Ricky back . . . and how she'd failed. It would be her own private sorrow.

Now those twenty-three years since their breakup had stretched to thirty, and learning that he'd remarried brought back all the old pain from that terrible time in her life. Not only had he made no move to rekindle their flame when they were both unattached and available, but he'd married someone else. Again.

And Pat would have to see them together at the luncheon, be forced to smile and act pleasant, like seeing him with his wife was no big deal, if she wanted to save face, all the time feeling that
she
should have been his wife. In hindsight, she'd seen her mistake. That day at lunch she should have managed to convey to him that she no longer let her parents run her life. That was probably why he kept her at arm's length. He'd been deeply hurt by her parents' refusal to accept him, and he probably imagined her to be the same meek Pat, too afraid to disappoint her parents and go with the man she loved. Why should he put himself through all that again? What sane person would?

She could still hear his words to her when they broke up. “Pat, my mother was born in Mexico, my father in Bolivia. I was born here. That makes me an American. And I face as much prejudice as you do. I mean, look at me.” He held up his golden brown hand. “Do I look white to you?

“I think it's terrible, what happened to your uncle, but it had nothing to do with me. Racism is still alive and well and living in America, but I'll tell you this—I'm going to make it. One day I'm going to own my own restaurant. But I can't fight your parents for you all my life, Pat. It would be too exhausting. If it pains you so much to go against your parents' wishes, then I'm not the man for you. I just hope you meet someone they do approve of, or else you'll wind up an old maid.”

Pat sighed as she stared at the scrawled name on the RSVP list. Ricky did just what he said he would do. Five or six years out of college, he'd opened a luncheonette in an industrial area of the South Side, catering to the workers. Then he'd ventured out and opened the more upscale Nirvana. It was successful from the start. And she, of course, became just what he'd predicted: forty-nine years old and never married. Even her parents had given up hope of ever having a grandchild. How different things could have been if only they hadn't been so unyielding . . . or if she'd permitted herself to have a backbone.

Surely she and Ricky would have stayed together if they'd gotten married, like he wanted to. Unlike his first wife, she wouldn't have felt neglected by Ricky's long hours as a restaurateur. She had her own career to keep her busy.

After law school she'd been hired by the Cook County State's Attorney's Office, and still, after twenty-four years, she loved her work. Over the years Pat had declined many offers to join lucrative private practices. She'd make better money, sure, but she didn't think she could stomach the clientele she would have to defend, like white-collar criminals who were guilty as sin or the no-good children of Chicago's wealthy. Maybe her second-floor walk-up condo in a rehabbed eighty-year-old building wasn't the fanciest place to call home, but it was hers.

It still saddened her to think of what might have been if she'd held her ground to her parents' objections. Surely her father would have come around. Would he really want to be estranged from her, his only daughter and soon-to-be only surviving child? He'd been the real holdout. Her mother felt a fear of the unknown, and history backed up her fears that black women who took up with nonblack men would only get heartbreak, fatherless babies, or both; but at least she was willing to let the relationship continue. The fact that she'd known Ricky ever since he was a toddler helped, even if Pat suspected that privately her mother hoped it was just puppy love that would eventually run its course.

But the timing had been awful. Pat's younger brother, Melvin, the real academic star of the family, had just been shot to death, caught by a bullet meant for a gang member walking a few feet in front of him. The murder broke all of their hearts, and for her parents it brought back memories of the killing of her uncle in Arkansas. This time it was poverty that had them trapped in gangland territory, not racism. But it hurt every bit as much.

She'd told Ricky that it wasn't the best time for him to ask her parents for her hand. But her father in particular began to treat Ricky with such open disdain that Ricky insisted he talk to him about his true feelings and intentions.

“I won't have your father thinking I'm only out for sex, Pat,” he'd said.

Indeed, her parents had been shocked when Ricky told them he wanted to marry her. It put an end to the “He only wants one thing from you” argument she'd been hearing in recent weeks. But they quickly got over their astonishment. When Ricky promised them he would become a success and take good care of her, Pat's father pointed out that there was little money in bussing tables. A clearly frustrated Ricky replied he wouldn't be doing that sort of work after he graduated college. Before it was over there was shouting all around, and when Ricky's mother found out, she came to the Maxwell apartment and demanded to know what made them think that her son wasn't good enough for their daughter.

The two families stopped speaking as a result of all the uproar. Three months later, Miriam Suárez closed on a modest house in Bridgeport and moved her family out of the projects.

Once again, as she'd done hundreds of times before in the years since, Pat blamed herself for destroying her own future by not standing up to her parents.