“Go get your dinner.” I push him towards the dining room. On the stairs I peek down and catch his sparkling blue eyes (maybe I’m wrong about the color). Why is he looking? And catching me looking? I return his smile and turn away to deal with this poor little girl who thinks her friend Claire is mad at her.
We have a peaceful dinner. The food is awesome and the conversation is fun, but safe. Mike and Jane are avoiding any further matchmaking tactics after tonight’s episode of “Claire Makes a Fool of Herself.” I should call the reality show people and make some money out of this.
We finish up with the delicious chocolate cake. Mike says he’s tired and takes the dogs out for their final run of the night. I remember Dixie and my drive to my parents’ house tomorrow, so I begin to say my goodbyes. Brandon jumps up and helps clean off the table and put stuff away in the kitchen.
“You guys don’t need to do all of that. I’ve got it from here.” Jane leads us out the door. In all the craziness I forgot that I had Easter baskets for the kids. I hid them by the door when I came in, and meant to give them out at dinner. We take a few extra minutes to take care of that, and Shannon and Joey give me hugs, and Shannon says she’s sorry again. I accept her sweet apology, and they both trot off with their new treats and treasures.
Mike has brought the dogs in and the house is shut up for the night. Brandon and I are alone on the front porch.
“That went well.” Brandon looks at me hopefully for a sign that I am over my embarrassment. His eyes are shining in the moonlight like a lighthouse across the foggy sea.
“Yeah, fantastic. At least this time I wasn’t drunk, improperly dressed or making any bad choices. Well, I was improperly dressed, but it was all Simon’s fault.” I laugh but then remember Brandon has been a witness to many of my mishaps. “I promise I’ll behave better at your party and keep all my clothes on the whole time.” I cross my heart.
“Don’t bother coming then.” He pokes my arm. “Hey listen, I got you a little something too, for Easter. It’s at home. I was going to bring it over tomorrow before I left for my parents’ house. I didn’t know I would see you tonight.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I got your e-mail. I guess that’s why you wanted me to stop over?” Oops. I forgot to pretend I didn’t see the e-mail. I suck at deception. If I was an abducted spy I would talk if they just pinched me or looked at me sternly.
I am helping him with his book. I keep losing that perspective. That is why he’s being so nice to me. Although the shirtless hug and tear wiping is more gratitude than is necessary.
“I wanted to do it. I’m going to run to my house and get it. I’ll meet you at your house?” He looks as eager as an excited kindergarten boy who has made a macaroni necklace for his mommy.
“Thanks.” I stand on Jane’s porch and watch him run across the cul-de-sac. I turn around and see eyes peeking out of the blinds. Seriously? When I was married was I this nosy? Probably.
The culprit spots me and quickly retreats. I text Jane. “Thanks for the lovely dinner and surprise guest (I mean Brandon, not Simon). I will fill you in on any details you weren’t able to collect on your spy mission.”
She won’t respond right away. I find that married people don’t care as much about their phones. All the people she wants to be with are in the same house with her.
I sigh wistfully and walk across the lawn. I am going to sit on my porch because the last thing I need is to invite him in. It’s awkward waiting here in the dark, and Dixie is going to be flipping out since she will hear me. I will just risk it and clean up the pee later.
Brandon darts back across the cul-de-sac with a gift in hand. “Here you go. I hope you like it.” He hands me a pink gift bag with bunnies all over it.
“That’s adorable.” It’s a figurine of a wiener dog dressed as a bunny. It’s perfect.
“Do you like it? I ordered it from a website I found that carries wiener dog stuff. I know Dixie’s your baby.” He sits down in my other porch rocker and leans forward, wringing his hands.
If he only knew how much she’s my baby. My only chance for a baby. “I love it, Brandon. Thank you so much.”
We just sit for a moment in silence. “It’s a nice night, isn’t it? It really cleared up. I bet it will be sunny tomorrow.” He looks like he has more to say.
“It’s beautiful. It won’t rain on the little girls’ Easter dresses.” I pause and say, “Brandon, I need to go. I have to get up—”
“I know. Me, too.” He jumps up. “You have to drive to Charlottesville, and I have to fight the 95 traffic to see my crazy family. Have a happy Easter, Claire.”
I step back. My heart is beating fast. “Good night. Thanks again. Happy Easter. I hope you have a great day with your family.”
He’s standing on the porch steps as I walk inside. Dixie greets me with the usual shenanigans. I grab her leash and wrestle the wiggle worm into her harness, and head for the back door.
Before I do, I glance out the front door windowpane and see Brandon still looking over at my house, now from his front porch. I wait a moment for him to go inside, and take the little wiener bunny out of my purse. I show it to Dixie, and place it on my mantle.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jane called this morning, and I assured her I was not mad at her and Mike, or Shannon and Simon. I didn’t tell her about what transpired in the living room with Brandon, or any of the recent Justin escapades. I’m telling myself she doesn’t need to know everything and my secrecy doesn’t mean any more than that. Justin sent me a “Happy Easter” text and said he has a gift for me, too. I have never gotten so many Easter gifts.
I pack up Dixie and the gifts, and get a reasonably early start to my parents’ house. It only takes about an hour and a half, but the ride is so dull, like trying to stay awake during a lecture on employment law. I am zipping along I-64 with the radio blasting and singing my heart out to tunes from my generation—“Hey Jealousy…” —Goddammit! Yes, I am taking the Lord’s name in vain on Easter Sunday. Behind me on this sunny open road is a cop!
Whew, he passed me by. I am now noticing that there are a lot of cops out today. I can see why—Easter is such a wild drinking holiday. Idiots. Would they rather I fall asleep at the wheel and kill everyone on the road? That is clearly a possibility if I don’t get this drive over with soon, and at fifty-five it’s hard to steer, like Sammy Hagar said. Thanks to Rebecca for another early MTV reference.
I finally pull into the driveway, let Dixie do her business on the lawn, and ring the bell. My father answers the door. “Hello, Claire Marie, and little Dixie.” I let her loose and she runs off to find Grandma, her second favorite person.
“Happy Easter, Honey.” My father gives me a big hug. He is dressed in his Sunday retired man uniform of khaki pants and a plaid dress shirt. I’m sure they went to church this morning.
“Can I help you bring anything in?” I am weighed down with my bags and the flowers.
“Thanks, you can take this bag and—”
“John, are you standing there with the door wide open!?” My mother’s voice can be heard all the way over at the guard house in their gated community.
“Your mother’s in her usual frenzy,” my father whispers and gives me a wink.
“You’ll have every bug in the neighborhood in here.” She arrives at the door in her apron with a spatula in her hand. I don’t often see my mother without a kitchen themed wardrobe or accessory. Dixie is at her heels and jumping on her legs.
“Sorry, Mom, it’s my fault.” I come inside and close the door to secure the perimeter and keep the insect intruders at bay. We hug and exchange Easter greetings, and I assure my mother I did not “go out partying” on Good Friday. We move to the kitchen where I deposit all of my stuff on the desk, and get Dixie set up with food and water in her bowl (not that she will touch a bit of her food with Grandma’s cooking ready to drop on the floor at any moment).
We exchange the Easter presents. They perform their ritua
l of appreciation for my thoughtfulness, and I’m presented with my Easter basket, complete with a Godiva chocolate bunny, assorted cosmetics and bubble bath. My poor mother needs grandchildren. Her lack is even more evident when she gives Dixie her presents. Many human children don’t get the equivalent of Dixie’s chew toys, organic treats and squeaky balls.
“Do you like that, little Dixie?” My mother is holding her up by her front paws and “dancing” with her. It breaks my heart to see my mother enjoying her only substitute for a grandchild, no matter how sweet the alternative. Of course I am not her only child. She still has my sister and it isn’t my fault she hasn’t reproduced yet. Speaking of which, where is Jackie?
“Mom, where’s Jackie? Is she coming?” I accept the glass my father has poured for me, fresh from his cavernous basement wine cellar.
“No, Honey, she’s feeding the homeless today.” My mother gives Dixie some treats and goes back to checking on her dinner. The ham smells delicious and she is working on mashing up a load of potatoes.
Jackie volunteers her time. A lot. I don’t know where she got this proclivity, but it isn’t from these two. My parents do not volunteer. It isn’t that they are uncaring—they are just not the proactive, get “involved” type. When we were children my mother taught religious education at our church for a few years (no doubt all of those kids now get nervous when asked out on Good Friday, too). But my father was always busy with work and my mother never had the activist mentality.
“So, Claire Marie have you heard any more from the old man with the hat? Haha…” This phrase will live on in family folklore for years to come, earning its place in our permanent history.
“No, Mom. I actually wrote back to him the first time, thanked him and told him I was seeing someone else.” I click my fingernails on the base of my wine glass and shift in my seat. These hard kitchen chairs are so uncomfortable, yet this is where we always gather in their 5000 square foot house.
“So you lied or you are seeing someone else?” My mother’s hands are ensconced in thick potholders, and she looks like a clown as she gestures with her hands.
“No, I’m not. Not really. I didn’t know what to say and I didn’t want to make him feel worse if I—”
“Claire, leave her alone.” My father stops reading his Money magazine long enough to chastise my mother. He calls her Claire because I am named after her. We are both Claire Marie, hence the reason my father always includes my middle name when addressing me—to avoid confusion. My sister’s name is Jaclyn Marie. My mother was a big Charlie’s Angels fan. I said she could have named me Kate or Farrah, but for some reason that would have been preposterous according to her logic—“I was a fan, not a fanatic.” Jackie didn’t get her own middle name either—my mom is a creative one.
“John, I’m not judging. I am just trying to understand.” She speaks slowly and looks at him like he is a senile old man, instead of a recently retired successful businessman.
She shakes her head and turns back to me, “So are you dating anyone?” She opens up the top oven and pulls out a ham big enough to feed twenty people. Dixie’s tongue is hanging out as she follows Grandma to the carving station for the inevitable pieces that will hit the floor.
“Claire!” My father is getting irritated.
“There are a couple of guys actually.” I pause and consider whether or not I should mention my young potential suitors, as my mother would call them. “They are a bit young, though.” I glance down at the table and twist my hair like I did when I was thirteen.
“How young?” My mother turns around with the big meat cleaver in her hand. She always looks menacing when holding cutlery.
“In their twenties. But late twenties!” I wince in expectation of her response.
My mother’s eyes are popping and she puts the knife down. “Claire Marie, you can’t be serious?”
My father sighs and puts down his reading material. “I’m going to show our daughter the work we recently did on the pool area. You’ll love it, Honey—you can come here in the summer. Maybe you can bring one of your new friends.” He gets up and glares at my mother.
She returns the look and addresses me again with a more sympathetic gaze. “Honey, I’m just trying to protect you, and remind you that younger men are not good for you. You can’t—”
“I know. I can’t give them what they want!” Now I’m on the verge of tears and I almost knock my wine over trying to figure out what to do with my hands.
“Why do you keep saying this crap about younger men? I am younger than you!” My father looks like he wants to eat his ham in peace, or he wishes he had boys and could be watching sports while dinner is being silently prepared.
“Only by a few years, and I was young then and I—” She stops herself and turns back towards the ham.
“You had all your body parts. Yep. That’s why I’m here today enjoying this lovely visit.” I didn’t mean to let this get out of hand.
“That’s enough. Claire Marie, you’re coming outside with me. Dixie can stay here and beg for scraps. I’ll be out in a minute. I need to find my shoes.”
He is going to tell my mother to knock it off, and I dutifully follow his paternal order and go outside on the deck. On my way I can hear them arguing in hushed voices, and my mother sounds like she’s crying. This is turning into a fiasco. I wish Jackie was here.
“Well now, here’s your wine. I poured some more. You’ll need it to get through dinner. And there’s paa for your paahole.” My father imitates the lady who welcomed them to the neighborhood. I manage to crack a smile. We sit down at the little bistro table and my father explains the work they’ve had done on the landscaping and the fencing around the pool. It’s a pretty space, and takes up a good bit of the backyard. My father has worked hard, and my mother raised us well. She’s just afraid I’ll get hurt. I will never know that maternal instinct.
We sit outside for a few more minutes making small talk and my father finally says, “You know your mother loves you and she does mean well. She’s just a nitwit about it sometimes.”
“I know, Dad. Thanks.” I give my father a hug and we head back inside. “She’s probably flipping out now because all of the food isn’t ready at exactly the same time, and we aren’t coming in to eat fast enough.” We share a laugh over my mother’s affectionate neurosis and sit down to a lovely Easter dinner.
“So, Claire Marie,” my mother begins. She looks at my father as if she is steeling herself against being chastised again for venturing into another danger zone of questioning. “How is work going, Honey?” She looks at my father and grimaces, as if to say “see, I can talk about safe subjects too, Mister Peacekeeper.”
“Actually the company isn’t doing so great.” They both stop eating and look alarmed.
“I’m not in danger of losing my job.” Not yet. “It’s just that sales are down in some of our key markets, and we’re looking for new authors and genres to boost our profits and stay current with modern readers.” This is a much better topic. At least work is an area of moderate competence for me.
“All anyone wants to read today is filth. I was in the bookstore and everywhere they have displays of these novels with names like “Burn” and “Desire”. Now I realize there is a market for everything, but those damn smutty books that came out last Christmas opened up the floodgates. I, for one, would never read such crap. I only read the classics. Well, and history and biography, of course. But seriously, who wants to waste their time on all that filth?”
The speech comes to an end and I am in turn, speechless.
“Did you even take a breath?” My father marvels at my mother’s ability to churn out a record breaking number of words before needing to inhale. “I don’t see why you’re afraid to swim. You could stay underwater as long as a fish.”
“Zip it, John. You’re too busy stuffing your face to make conversation.”
He doesn’t make a peep and gets up to open another bottle of wine.
“You’
re right, Mom. That stuff is poor quality, but we need to do something to make money.” She didn’t know my company was publishing in that genre. Damn it, Claire! Sometimes I wish I would get laryngitis.
“Seriously? Bella Donna Press has stooped to that level? I used to get all my cookbooks from them. Such a shame.” She shakes her head and butters another roll. My mother scoffs at the low carb craze.
In an effort to make my mother proud and improve this discussion, I begin to tell her about Brandon and his book, and my quest for a promising new author.
“Is this one of the young men you met?” She peers at me over the top of her reading glasses, which she has not taken off since she read the directions on the Pillsbury dinner roll package.
“Yes, Mom. He’s my new neighbor, and he’s very talented. And cute.” I should have left that part out after the earlier drama.
My mother lets out the heaviest sigh imaginable. “Honey, cute is overrated. And you have cute right here,” she says while feeding Dixie another piece of ham. She hasn’t left my mother’s side since we sat down. She is going to transform from a hotdog into a sausage before our eyes.
“Mom, the point is, he’s a good writer and his work could help us. I’m trying to be part of the solution.” I silently plead with my father for back-up.
“Yes, that’s great. It’s better than being part of the problem. Very proactive of you, Honey.” He pats my hand and looks at my mother. I would love to be a fly on the wall after I leave here today. On second thought—no. One of the perks of being an adult is retreating to your own home when your parents argue.
My father and I attempt to change the subject to other areas, like Jackie and what’s going on with her. I tell them I plan on asking Jackie if I can visit her for a weekend.
“She would love that. You should call her tonight.” My mother is serving her pie with the golden crust and the juicy apple filling.
After dessert I help my mother clean the kitchen and make my excuses to leave. I’m tired and I would like to have some time to unwind before tomorrow’s work day begins. And I must finish the notes on Brandon’s book. I whisper a special thanks to my father on the way out, and assure him I’m not mad at my mother. She hands me a big bag of leftovers, which immediately attracts the attention of Dixie’s long snout. She stops sniffing long enough to lick everyone goodbye and we’re off.
There Are No Men Page 13
