The Best of Enemies (28 page)

Kitty must buy my apology, because she flips her blinker and pulls back out onto the road.
What smooth yet responsive acceleration!

In the spirit of détente, I suggest, “We should create a code word.
Something that will let the other know when we’re tripping her trigger.
We could, um, we could say . . .”
I scan my mental Rolodex for the best word choice.
Mayday?
No, too obvious.
Geronimo?
Too campy, and possibly offensive to Native Americans.
“Ah, I have it!
We could say
pan-pan
, which is a maritime and aviation signal for urgency when repeated three—”

“Semiotics,”
Kitty interrupts.
“We’ll say
semiotics
when the other person is making us feel stabby.
Once is plenty.
That work for you?”

Semiotics is simple, elegant, and concise.
I concur.
“Semiotics it is.”

“Aces.”

In silence, we pull down what I presume is Kitty’s block.
The homes are huge, but seem comically incongruous to the size and shape of the respective lots.
This street reminds me of when our first in a series of obese Labs used to curl up on Tom Kitten’s cat bed.
Sarge would cram every ounce of his bulk into that tiny square of cushion, rendering himself into a canine muffin top.
Same effect is happening in this neighborhood—there’s not a square inch of real estate not spilling over with overblown new construction.
When I lived in the city after college, I had a larger front yard at my apartment building and more space between my complex and the property next door.
Why surround such stately homes with so little land?
If Teddy was with us, he’d be in a pique of aesthetic displeasure.

Probably not an opinion I should share with Kitty.

Instead, I offer a positive affirmation.
“These beautiful houses have such tidy yards.
Landscaping can’t cost much with so little grass to mow.”

Kitty scowls.
“Semiotics.”

Wait a damn minute, how did that statement merit a
semiotics
?
I attempt to clarify.
“I was merely stating that in terms of square footage to hourly rate—”

“Semi.
Otics.”

I hold up my hands in surrender.
“I give up.
We’ll just ride in awkward silence.”
And undeniable comfort.

We pull up to a sprawling home with a steep roof, highlighted with peaks and arches and gray timber over white stucco, so expanded and overblown that there’s room for only a couple of flowering bushes before the whole thing bleeds onto the sidewalk.
As we pull down the drive back to the garage, I note that the house spans the depth of the property.
At Steeplechase, one doesn’t get a sense for the magnitude of the home because the dwelling is proportional to the amount of land and trees around it.
Here, the house is a sore thumb hulking over a tiny parcel, meant for something cozy, like the original bungalows and small ranches.

Kitty expertly navigates into the garage while I hold my breath, sure she’s going to clip a side-view mirror.
Oh, my God—the mirrors fold!

“We’re here,” she announces.
“Brace yourself for my mother-in-law, Nana Baba.
She’s
the worst
.”

“In what respect?”

Kitty exhales with such vigor she fogs a portion of the windshield.
I bet this car neatly handles interior condensation.
“Long story.”

I follow Kitty through a garage like I’ve never seen before.
Even Teddy would be impressed.
Never has it occurred to me that a garage could be more than just a place to disassemble a dirt bike, or house hundreds of old newspapers, oily rags, and paint cans.

Instead of poured concrete, rife with oil stains, these floors are finished with a gleaming, glinting material that resembles a granite countertop.
There’s a massive wall of shelves, each containing an identically sized Rubbermaid tote, all with detailed labels such as G
REAT
R
OOM
C
HRISTMAS
V
ILLAGE
D
ECOR,
P
ART
I
OF
III.
Another wall is covered entirely by pegboard.
Rakes, hoes, shovels, and clippers are all impeccably hung Tetris-style.
Other than the five bikes neatly tucked into a rack in the corner next to a pristine lawn mower, there’s not a single item that isn’t hung or boxed.
The garage windows are not only spotless, with nary a spider carcass in sight, but adorned with curtains in a lightweight fabric.
And, instead of reeking of gasoline, the space is lightly fragranced by . . .
the holidays?

“Am I having a stroke, or do I smell Christmas in here?”
I ask.

Kitty digs for her keys and says, “Peppermint’s a natural rodent repellent.
Every couple of weeks, I soak cotton balls in peppermint oil and then strategically stash them throughout the garage.”

I announce, “Kitty, I’m about to say something flattering, so please accept the compliment at face value.
We clear?”

Not meeting my eye, she nods curtly.

“Okay.
The peppermint trick is really clever.
Also, I could live in your garage.”

Kitty stops in her tracks and scans my face for mockery.
Sensing none, she says, “Thank you.
I don’t like chaos, so I work hard to keep my home clean and organized.”
She unlocks the door and we step out of the garage and into a stunning space with lots of white wood and map-covered walls.
“Attractive kitchen, too,” I say.

“This is the mudroom.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Before she can reply, Kitty is broadsided by a small pink and yellow plaid cannonball that’s come flying around the corner.
“Mommy!!
You’re home!
Yay!
Nana Baba said to be nice to you because you’re sad.”

Kitty picks up her daughter with one deft motion and hugs her close, burying her face in her daughter’s hair.
“I am sad, sweetie, so thank you.
Compassion is one of the Always Always values we talked about, remember?”

Kassie nods.

“So you are a kind little girl to worry about someone else’s feelings and I’m proud of you.
Very good listening!
Now, Kassie, I want to introduce you to an old . . .”

Kitty pauses, clearly struggling for the right word to define our relationship.

“Nemesis?
Foe?
Antagonist?”
I offer.

“Friend,” Kitty says with some decisiveness.
Behind Kassie, she mouths, “She’s eight,” and vehemently shakes her head.

“Semiotic?”
I confirm.

“You think?”
she replies.
Gently, she places her little girl back on the ground.
“Kassie, please say hello to my old friend.
Please call her Miss Jack.
We went to college together.
She’s also very sad today so can you help me give her an extra special welcome to our home?”

Kassie throws a small but surprisingly clean hand up at me.
“Pleased to meetcha, Miss Jack!
How come you have a boy’s name?”

“Because my mother had an unhealthy obsession with a dead president,” I reply.

“Did I mention my daughter is
eight
?”
Kitty asks pointedly.

I haven’t had much interaction with children since I was one myself, but I see that speaking to them as though they’re adults is not the right call.
I quickly adjust.
“My full name is Jacqueline.”
I kneel down.
Over many years of speaking to sources, I’ve learned that interactions are always more positive when the other person’s eyes are parallel with my own, rising or lowering myself depending on their level.
“You know what’s hard to spell?
Jacqueline.
It’s J-A-C-Q – Wait a minute, Q?
Who puts a Q in a name?
So I shortened it to Jack.”

“Ha!
That’s why I’m called Kassie.
There’s a lotta letters in Kassandra.
Too many, if you ask me.
Same with my mom.
She’s K-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E, but that’s sooooo long, so she’s Kitty.
I have a friend named Bo.
Two letters!
He’s very lucky.”

“Sounds like it,” I agree.

She looks at me long and hard, taking in every bit of my face, coming in so close her forehead touches mine.
Finally, she says, “Your eyes are funny colored,” and touches my orbital bone.

“Funny ha-ha or funny weird?”
I ask.

“You’re funny,” Kassie giggles.
She scrunches her shoulders and covers her mouth with her hand as she laughs.
Then she throws one hand on her hip and declares, “I am going to be your friend, Miss J-A-C-K.”

I stand back up.
“Hear that, Kitty?
Kassie is going to be my friend.”

Kitty pets her daughter’s long corn-silk locks before planting a kiss on her temple.
“Can you do me a big, big favor and go tell your Baba and your brothers that I’m home?”

Kassie is doing a little jig around the room, finding it impossible to stay in one spot.
I remember how I could never hold still at her age, either.
(When do I grow out of that stage?
I wonder.) She exclaims, “Yes!
Are we all going to play a board game?
I’m thinking . . .
Trouble or Sorry.”

I tell Kassie, “Your mom and I are trying to avoid anything to do with Trouble or Sorry.
Do you have Candyland?”

Kassie shakes her head, hair flying out in all directions.
“We don’t have Candyland.
Ask me why.
Please, please!
Ask me why.”

“Okay, why?”

Kassie’s already cracking herself up before she can say, “Because my mom can’t hide broccoli in candy!”

“She’s said this before?”
I ask.

“Once or twice,” Kitty replies.
But instead of growing taciturn like my mother would when the boys and I would tell our Little Johnny jokes over and over, Kitty gives her daughter a big squeeze and says, “And it’s hilarious every time!
My turn.
Knock, knock, Kassie.”

“Who’s there?”

“Olive.”

“Olive who?”

Kitty yells, “Olive you and I don’t care who knows it!”

Kassie squeals with fresh delight and there’s more hugging and tickling.
As I observe their unabashed mutual affection, I’m hard-pressed to recall a single time when my own mother responded similarly.
When we’d get too riled up for her liking, she’d lock herself away in my parents’ bedroom, Tom Kitten in tow.

Collecting herself, Kassie asks, “You got any jokes, Miss Jack?”

“Sure.
How about this?
There are two muffins in an oven.”
I glance at Kitty and say, “No, wait, there are two
zucchini
muffins in the oven.
One zucchini muffin turns to the other zucchini muffin and says, ‘Whew, it’s hot in here.’
And the other zucchini muffin says, ‘Oh my God, a talking zucchini muffin!’”

Kassie reacts as though I’m the unholy love child of Jerry Seinfeld, George Carlin, and Lisa Lampanelli, rolling with laughter as she dances around the room.
She’s still sputtering when Kitty says, “Eight-year-olds are the most appreciative audience on the planet.
Fact.
Anyway, sweetie, I’m so sorry but Miss Jack and I have some work to do.
We’d love to have you join us, but we’re going to talk about really boring topics so I bet you’d hate it.”

“Like grown-up lady stuff when you talk to Miss Ashley?”

“Yes, just like that.”

“Blech.
No, thank you, please.”
Kassie scratches her head as though in thought.
“I’m going to find Nana Baba and tell her that funny joke.”

“Good idea,” Kitty replies.
“I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“Will Miss Jack tell me another joke before bed?”

I glance over at Kitty, but I can’t read her expression.