Seven Year Switch (2010) (5 page)

WE WERE HEADING FOR
MEHICO
.
ALL FIFTEEN WOMEN AND
three men gathered around the ancient kitchen, watching me unload my grocery bags, as if I were about to pull a rabbit out of my hat.

“Today,” I said, “we'll be celebrating Cinco de Mayo.”

“But it's only Tres de Mayo,” Ethel said. She was wearing a wild salmon-colored sweat suit that worked well with her
I Love Lucy
hair. She'd drawn thick orange lips over her much thinner ones, and I couldn't stop looking at the places where she'd colored outside the lines.

“Close enough,” T-shirt Tom said. Not that he could see it through the fingerprints on his glasses, but today's shirt read wish you were beer. I had to admit I kind of agreed with the sentiment. Maybe I should have tried to smuggle in some Dos Equis, to take the edge off while keeping the class culturally accurate.

I took a quick peek at the doorway, then pulled my attention back to the group.

“Cinco de Mayo,” I continued as I placed a measuring cup on the pitted counter, “celebrates the victory of the historic battle of 1863 between
Mehico
and France. The holiday is a symbol of Mexican pride and unity, and it includes lots of fun festivities.”

I reached into a large plastic bag and pulled out a piñata.

“Oooh,” the whole class said in one big breath.

The piñata was a tricolored papier-mâché donkey. To make up for the fact that I'd ordered it online from Oriental Trading, I told the group that the origin of the piñata dates back to centuries before the arrival of the first Spanish explorers on Mexican soil, and that Mexican Indians made piñatas from fragile earthenware jars painted to look like favorite gods.

It was a beautiful spring day. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the kitchen, but I couldn't seem to keep warm. I rubbed my hands together and took another quick glance at the empty doorway. As soon as Anastasia had left for school this morning, I'd jumped into the shower. For some ridiculous reason, I'd even shaved my legs and taken the time to slather on copious amounts of Vaseline Intensive Care.

I'd put on a white T-shirt and a gauzy navy skirt with an embroidered lace hem I'd bought on clearance two years ago at Anthropologie, not because I was dressing up, of course, but because my legs were too sticky for pants. I glanced down now and saw a big glob of lotion between two toes. I bent down and tried to rub it away.

They watched my every move. “Don't we look pretty today, honey,” Ethel said when I finished rubbing. “New boyfriend?”

I could feel myself blush. I flipped my hair out from behind my ears and caught the scent of my Suave Tropical Coconut Shampoo.

“Authentic Mexican corn tortillas,” I said, “are made with a specially treated corn flour called masa harina.” I hadn't been able to get my hands on fresh masa, which needs to be used right away, but I'd found some dried masa at the third supermarket I tried.

Making tortillas from scratch turned out to be a lot harder than it sounded. We added water to the masa harina and made dough, then divided the dough into small balls. I picked one up and flattened it with a rolling pin on a cutting board sprinkled
with more masa. I peeled it off and tried to maneuver the paper-thin circle into one of the prehistoric skillets that had been heating on the stove.

The knuckles of both hands grazed the bottom of the skillet. “Shit,” I yelled, as I threw the tortilla-to-be up in the air.

Several women went into Florence Nightingale mode and circled around me.

“Are we in Italy now?” T-shirt Tom said. “Get it? Pizza?”

Good thing I'd brought store-bought tortillas for backup. The class kicked into gear while I ran my hands under cold water.

One of the women scraped my aborted tortilla off the counter and started rolling out another masa ball. The others divided into groups. I'd found fresh asparagus on sale and steamed it last night, so one group cut it into one-inch pieces and added goat cheese and chopped cilantro. Another group shredded cooked chicken and mixed in black beans and tomato.

Ethel and her friends tore open the bags of Trader Joe's Lite Mexican Blend shredded cheese, and another woman snipped open the packets of Wholly Guacamole. The class formed a long line and took turns spooning ingredients onto the tortillas. Then they moved on to the other frying pans, working quickly and efficiently, as if they'd been working together at a quesadilla factory most of their lives.

“I got one!” the woman attempting to make tortillas finally yelled. She flipped her masa-made tortilla onto a paper plate and held it up for everyone to see. The class applauded, even though it was shaped like an amoeba and riddled with holes.

I turned off the water and blotted my hands carefully with scratchy brown paper towels. They might be good for the environment, but they sure were a bitch on your blisters. I opened the bag of assorted candy and started stuffing the piñata. The
early eaters came over to help me. When we finished, I stood on a chair and hung the donkey from one of the dusty fluorescent lights in the middle of the room, trying to ignore my throbbing hands.

After everybody finished eating and we packed up the leftovers, we formed a circle around the piñata. Each of the students took a blindfolded turn whacking at the donkey with the handle of a broom, while everybody else jumped out of the way.

I wondered what the liability issues were for giving weapons to blindfolded seniors.

“Take this, you ass,” Ethel yelled when it was her turn.

Everybody cheered. A few of the women did the Macarena while Ethel whacked away.

Eventually we made it around the circle, piñata still intact.

“Your turn, Jill honey,” a nice woman named Bev said.

I was an expert. Anastasia had had a piñata at all ten of her birthday parties, even when it was handmade and only the two of us. I felt for the donkey with the point of the broom handle, then traced my way up and down the length of its body until I found the soft spot.

I jabbed upward, merely grazing my target. I readjusted the angle of the broom handle. I remembered the first piñata I'd barely managed to hang by myself after Seth had taken off. With each passing year, I'd become more proficient. I was strong. I was invincible.

I let out a roar and thrust upward as hard as I could. Hard candy rained down on my head, surprisingly painful.

“Whoa, baby,” T-shirt Tom said. Somebody whistled. The class broke into cheers and applause.

When I pulled off my blindfold, Seth was standing in the doorway.

Ethel reached for my broomstick, as if she were afraid I might ride off on it. “I knew it was a boyfriend,” she whispered through her orange lips.

 

“
SEE YOU NEXT WEEK
,” I called, in what I hoped was a peppy, optimistic voice.

“Where are we going next time?” T-shirt Tom asked, probably so he could choose a coordinating shirt.

“You'll have to wait and see-eee,” I managed to say, though I could feel the words sticking in my throat.

Just about everyone stopped to bend down and grab a handful of candy on the way out the door. Too late, I remembered the paper lunch bags Anastasia had helped me paint in bright fiesta colors to use as candy bags.

A few of my students stopped to talk to Seth as they passed him.

“Nice to meet you, honey,” Bev said, even though she hadn't.

“You, too,” Seth said.

Ethel fluffed her orange hair as she walked by. “Take good care of our Jill.”

“She's a real catch, that one,” T-shirt Tom said. One of his sidekicks nodded.

“Mmm,” Seth said noncommittally.

When the last student was gone, I glanced in his direction, keeping my eyes just to the side of his face.

“Sit,” I said.

Seth sat. He chose a place way down at the opposite end of the long rickety table, about as far away from me as he could possibly get, not counting Africa.

I took my time picking up the last of the candy. Finally, I stood up and actually looked at him. His hair was still long, but
it had been recently cut. He was wearing dark dress pants and a white button-down shirt with sage green pinstripes. And shoes, shiny leather ones that tied and everything.

I took a moment to blow on my blistering knuckles.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I looked at him. “A little late to be asking that, don't you think?”

He took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the table. “Okay, let's get it over with,” he said. “Just say it. All of it. Get it all out.”

“Right,” I said. “You take off for seven years, I yell at you for seven seconds, and we're even.”

He stared at me with flat eyes. “Then tell me what you want me to do. Whatever it is, I'll do it.”

I wanted him to find a way to rewind the last seven years, to make it all go away. I wanted to wake up together on a lazy weekend morning in our old apartment, with the most beautiful little three-year-old in the world. I wanted to curl up in bed together and read the Sunday paper, while Anastasia colored all over the comics with her new fat crayons.

Seth was the official weekend breakfast cook, so eventually he'd get up and make pancakes on the secondhand griddle we'd found at a flea market. Not just any pancakes, but pancake works of art. For Anastasia, it might be pancake circles linked together to create Minnie Mouse ears, with sliced banana eyes and a frozen blueberry smile. Maybe a big pancake heart for me, covered in blueberry bumps. Seth was endlessly creative, and the best part of breakfast was not knowing whether he'd come back with a family of pancake dinosaurs or a bouquet of pancake flowers.

“Good job, Daddy,” Anastasia would say, and we'd all dig in. Eating breakfast in bed with a toddler was a messy proposition, but blueberry-stained sheets seemed a small price to pay for mornings like that.

What I wanted, what I really, really wanted, was for Seth to find the place and the time—the exact moment—right before he decided to leave us. Then I wanted him to make a different decision, so we could still be a family, and I wouldn't have to hate him for the rest of my natural life.

I looked down at the blisters on my knuckles. Anastasia was ten, and my hands were already starting to look old. I turned one hand over and found what I thought might be my life line. About halfway across my hand, it broke off completely. There was only a small, unbroken space before a new line picked up, but I wasn't sure I had it in me to take the leap of faith to get there.

My eyes filled up. I looked up at the ceiling to keep the tears from spilling out. I wished Seth dead. Just for a second, and not enough to impale him on a broomstick like the ass that he was, but with all my heart, my entire bruised and broken heart. It was the only solution I could think of. Short of widow-hood, there was simply no way to keep Seth out of my life and still be a good mother.

I blinked until the tears were gone.

I lowered my head and cleared my throat. “Okay,” I said. “This is what I want you to do. I want you to visit your daughter. I want you to do it exactly when and where I tell you to, and I want you to be precisely on time. And if you ever miss a single visit or let her down in any way…”

I looked him right in the eyes, trying to see into his soul.

“…I promise you, Seth, I'll hunt you down. And this time I swear to God I'll kill you.”

He looked at me for a long time.

“Got it,” he finally said.

“
WOW
,”
BILLY SAID
. “
NICE JOB
.”
HE POINTED TO THE
that was centered in red at the top of the card. “What does
that
mean?”

I flipped the card over and held it so he could see. bicycle rentals it said in red in the exact same place.

I handed him the card. His hand brushed mine just before I let go, and I felt a little shock that must have been static electricity. My hair probably had little flyaway pieces sticking straight up, too. I smoothed it down with both hands, just in case.

Billy turned the card over again and traced his finger along the
“ Bicycle rentals,” he said. “Cool. How do you pronounce it?”

“Re-n-ta-sa-i-ku-ru,” I said.

“Re-n-ta-sa-i-ku-ru,” he repeated.

His raccoon eyes met mine, and I felt the same little electrical current charging the air between us. It was hard to tell whether I was actually attracted to him or whether that saying about a woman without a man being like a fish without a bicycle was just plain wrong. Maybe there's always a little jolt when female electricity comes in close proximity to male electricity that is even close to the same frequency. Did electricity have frequency? If the man already has a bicycle, does the woman get stuck with the fish? Did other people have these crazy, off-topic thoughts when they were supposed to be working?

“Re-n-ta-sa-i-ku-ru,” Billy said again. “Am I saying it right?”

“Perfectly,” I said.

“Come with me to Japan,” he said.

Apparently I wasn't the only person having crazy, rambling thoughts. I burst out laughing.

He shook his head. “Here we go again.”

I totally lost it. I couldn't seem to stop laughing.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you do this often?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm really sorry. I never do this.” I reached for a napkin and wiped my eyes. “I can't even remember the last time I really laughed.”

“Well, that's too bad. It certainly becomes you.”

“Thank you,” I said, not because I necessarily believed him, but because it was the most professional way to respond to a compliment. I took a sip of my cappuccino.

He took a sip of his. It left a frothy mustache, as if he'd just signed for a
Got Milk?
commercial. When he wiped it off, I kind of missed it.

“What?” he said.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“Okay, back to Japan. I think it's a perfectly reasonable idea for you to come with me. You know the culture, you speak Japanese….”

“Ha,” I said. “‘Good morning,' ‘good afternoon,' and ‘bicycle rental,' which by the way, I found on the Internet. Maybe five other words if I'm lucky. That's worth a plane ticket to Tokyo?”

I reached into my folder and placed the invoice on top of the box of business cards. “Okay,” I said. “The business cards will be extremely important for establishing your credentials in Japan. Once we find the go-between, we'll have him double-check these just to be sure they're perfect.”

Billy nodded.

“Always present the card after the bow or handshake—just follow their lead as to which one is appropriate. And make sure you present it with the Japanese side facing the person you're meeting, because they'll want to read it on the spot.”

Billy was still nodding, his head going up and down rhythmically, like one of those cute bobble head figures on the dashboard of somebody's car.

I closed my eyes to get him off my dashboard, then opened them again. “Okay, then, when you're given a card, ask your go-between to help you pronounce the name on the card so you can greet the card giver, and also to help you figure out the appropriate thing to say, based on the situation. And be absolutely sure you handle any card you're given with the utmost care and respect. Don't just shove it in your pocket, especially if it's a back pocket, and…”

He stopped nodding and grinned. “And make sure I don't scratch an itch with it, particularly if the itch is near my back pocket?”

I smiled. “And heaven forbid, don't pick your teeth with it.”

He leaned forward over the table. “You know, it's suddenly hitting me that I probably insult someone from another culture every time I walk down the street.”

“I wouldn't worry too much. It's nice to be aware, but the onus is pretty much on the person stepping into the other culture.”

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do?”

“To a degree,” I said. “Though the Romans also have a responsibility to make their guests feel comfortable. The classic story goes that when the shah of Persia visited Queen Victoria, he picked up his finger bowl and drank from it. Queen Victoria didn't miss a beat. She just drank from
her
finger bowl, and everybody at the table followed suit.”

“So that's how we all started drinking out of our finger bowls.”

“Precisely,” I said. I opened my eyes wide. “Wow, you're such a quick study.”

He grinned. “Why, thank you,” he said. “I have to tell you, this is the first time I've thought any of this stuff was the least bit interesting. I always thought etiquette was just a bunch of uptight rules. I bet you're a great person to travel with, like having your own personal Emily Post
and
Fodor with you at all times. How did your marriage break up anyway?”

The question caught me midsip, and my cappuccino took a wrong turn on its way down my throat. I started to choke, and the harder I tried to stop it, the worse it got.

Billy jumped up and ran to the barista counter. By the time he came back with a paper cup filled with water, I was relatively under control.

I took a small sip.

“Okay now?”

I nodded. “Sorry,” I said. “But that was
so
not a guy question.”

“
What?
” he said. “Guys aren't allowed to talk about what happened to a marriage in this culture?”

I thought for a moment. “Only if they go first.”

“Fair enough.” Billy stretched back in his chair. “Pretty basic,” he said. “We never should have been together in the first place. I'd spend my whole life outdoors if I could. Biking, swimming, surfing, running, hiking, climbing, skiing, skating, sledding, snowmobiling, you name it. My ex is afraid of everything—mountains, planes, highways, fresh air, Portuguese men-of-war.”

“Portuguese men-of-war?”

“Yeah, you know, those jellyfish?”

“Actually,” I said, “they're not really jellyfish. They're siphonophores, animals made up of a colony of organisms that work together.”

“Jeez, what don't you know? Anyway, what ever they are, she was so afraid a school of them would show up and sting her, she wouldn't even dip a toe in the water. Not even in a swimming pool. Her idea of a good time is to stay inside and knit.”

“Wow,” I said, because I couldn't think of anything else.

He smiled. “It wasn't all bad. I got some nice sweaters out of the deal. And two great sons. They're both fearless—and, man, can they knit.”

“How often do you see them?” I asked. He seemed like a good father, but I still hoped it wasn't too often. I needed to know that these things could be worked out, but without rocking the boat too much. Especially a boat I'd kept afloat by myself for so long.

“Oh,” Billy said. “They live with me. Well, most of the time. Actually they go back and forth whenever they want. I bought out my wife's half of the house so the boys wouldn't have to move, then about a year later she and her current husband bought the house two doors down. It works out great.”

I looked at him in horror. In a million years, I couldn't imagine ever getting there.

“What?” he said.

“How do you handle it? I mean, how can you stand to be so goddamned civilized?”

He grinned his big grin. “That's pretty funny coming from an etiquette guru. If you think about it, the world of divorce is a culture just like any other.”

I wondered if it would be too obvious if I took out a pen and wrote that down. Maybe I could meditate on it later.

“But,” I said, “didn't you ever want to, I don't know,
kill
your ex-wife?”

He shrugged. “Nah. Well, maybe in the beginning. But, here's the thing, we had these two incredible kids together, and no matter what, we're always going to be connected to each other through them. So, essentially, we divorced each other but stayed family. Maybe we're a little like those siphon…whatever they're called.”

“Siphonophores.”

“Thank you. Siphonophores. We're separate, but we all still clump together.”

My head suddenly felt like it weighed five hundred pounds. I put my elbows on the table so I could rest it in my hands. “And it doesn't bother you that she's married to someone else?”

“Not usually. When it gets to me, I just imagine him naked. Jeez, could that guy use a trip to the gym.”

I sat up straight again and pulled my stomach in.

“Sorry, that was beneath me. He's actually a nice guy. And the two of them take the boys to all kinds of places you couldn't drag me to. I mean, the symphony? Spare me. I'm fine with the music part, but let me listen to it on my iPod while I'm out riding on a beautiful day, thank you very much.”

I tried to imagine what might have happened if Seth had been more like Billy. Maybe he would have just come to me one day and told me that it was nothing personal, we simply had nothing in common.

But we did.

It wasn't only Anastasia. We'd had everything in common. At least I'd thought we did. Maybe it wasn't all candlelit dinners and walks on the beach, but I mean, what marriage was? We were in love, and we even liked each other, too. There was still a large box up in the attic with proof of our shared adventures—a chipped Tube map mug we'd picked up at a
transport museum gift shop in London's Covent Garden, a miniature Tour Eiffel we'd loved for its cheap metal tackiness, a mortar and pestle carved from a solid piece of “peacefully collected oak” and etched with a Celtic trinity knot, a partial set of celadon-glazed sake cups, dog-eared copies of outdated Michelin Green Guides, and an old T-shirt that said
YOU BETTER BELIZE IT
, which I stopped wearing and made into a pillow before it fell apart. I couldn't stand to look at them, but I couldn't bear to throw them out.

Billy cleared his throat. “Hey, do you have time to go somewhere and grab a late lunch?”

I looked at my watch. “Ohmigod,” I said. “I had no idea it was this late.”

I was already halfway to the door by the time he caught up.

“Was it something I said?” he said.

“The bus,” I said. I lunged for the door, then made a dash for my car.