Best Day Ever

by Kaira Rouda

  The cell phone voice laughed. “Same place as always, big brother. But now’s not quite time for small talk. Shall we get on with the service, then?”

  I swallowed and shrugged as Mia guided me into the seat next to hers. The preacher spoke for what seemed to be no more than a minute and then it was all over. We said amen and I leaped up, grabbing the phone, pushing the button to get it off speaker.

  “Tom, listen, I need to talk to you,” I said. I cupped my hand over the phone, my back to my family, my waist pressing against my dad’s coffin.

  “There’s nothing left to say. I’m assuming you’ll split any inheritance that is left, as that’s customary and fair, but I suspect I’m not going to get anything. The pastor has my attorney’s information, if you do find it in your heart to share any proceeds of their estate with me.”

  I kept my voice low, in control, and said, “They were totally leveraged. There won’t be a penny left after funeral costs. But why don’t we meet, talk about this in person?”

  “Right. I figured you’d say that. Have a nice life, Paul.”

  And the phone went dead. He’s a piece of work, that brother of mine. Crazy, too. I just wish I could get my hands on him, you know, to talk, brother to brother. I’ve tried to find him, but I have no idea where he is hiding. California is a frustratingly big state. I’m sure he’s having a happy little life. He sounded good. I’ll find him if and when I need to. He and I are survivors; we both escaped our parents, we just did it in different ways.

  I know what you’re thinking. I’m being too dark on this special day, thinking about dreary memories instead of focusing on the moment here at this wonderful little community hugging the lake. Instead of thinking about my deceased father, who died before any cognitive slip could happen, unfortunately, I should focus on the bright orange sky proclaiming the sunset. Or smile about the fact that I’m up next to be checked out by the man with the yellow fingernails. Or I could congratulate myself again, for outsmarting the yellow-taloned dictator, for rising so far past him and his pungent reach.

  Fingernails just like my dear old dad’s drum on the counter. “How you doing?” the man behind the cash register, Frank or not-Frank, asks. “Find everything you need?”

  He is smiling at me, revealing teeth also yellowed from tobacco, like corn kernels dangling from his gums. Did I find everything I need? Well, no, of course not. Do we ever?

  “Yes, just enough,” I say, flashing my pearly white teeth and cutting myself off before adding: considering I didn’t go to a real grocery store. Because even though that is the honest answer, I’ve learned people don’t often want to hear the truth. Some get their “feelings” hurt. As if a feeling could be hurt. Strange, us humans, stranger still. I’ve told you I’m a student of emotional reactions. And I’m an actor. I’ve studied how to imitate the reactions one is supposed to have: tears for sadness, or at least droopy eyes. Smile and twinkling eyes for joy. You know the rest. You’ve probably learned how to fake some yourself. I mean, are you actually as heartbroken about a friend’s dog dying as you say you are on Facebook? Come on. It’s a dog. Though I’m sure you probably feel more emotions than I do. I feel anger and lust, mostly. Sometimes, I must admit, I feel proud of myself.

  “That’s it, then?” the man asks, as if the empty counter in front of him couldn’t answer the question.

  “I’ll take a pack of Marlboros, red,” I say, surprising myself. I don’t smoke, never have. “Matches, too, if you’ve got them.” That was a gut reaction, an impulse purchase they call it. I wanted to feel a pack of cigarettes, his brand, in my hand again, to feel the power of crumpling the pack beyond smoke-ability. One of the tiny acts of defiance of my childhood. Oh, and I need matches. Always have a pack of matches on you, dear old dad told us, in case he needed to bum a light. We were his servants, Tommy and I. But in his defense, I’ve found it a good practice to have quick access to a flame.

  “Sure,” the man says, reaching behind him to the locked cabinet, turning the key and pulling out the pack. He seems to look at me with renewed appreciation. We’re kindred spirits now, us smokers.

  I slide my credit card across the counter, noticing the dirt and grime that years of packaged goods, plastic bags of vegetables, hands and sweat have ground deep into the countertop surface. I wonder how many different people’s DNA is represented here. The man swipes my card and hands it back. I wipe it on my jeans before putting it back in my wallet.

  “Got another? This one’s been declined,” he says.

  I feel that emotion, the fire spark. “Run it again. It’s an American Express. It has no limit,” I say. I swallow to keep my voice in check. There are two people behind me, soon to be more. I don’t look at their faces, just down at their shoes. The man behind me is a worker of some sort; he wears thick-soled tan boots and loose, stained khaki pants. Behind him is a woman with Nike tennis shoes and tight yoga pants. She’s a weekender, a vacationer. I know they see me as a successful business executive.

  “Still no go,” the man says. “Just give me a different one—you’re holding up the line.”

  We are no longer smoker comrades. “You’re probably doing it wrong, but fine, here,” I say. My voice is deep, angry. My jaw is tense. If I could see myself in a mirror, I know I’d see my father’s dark, angry eyes. I’ve given him the credit card I save for emergencies, as I must get out of here and back to my cottage. The emergency card is one I applied for six months ago; it’s just mine, not joint, but it’s almost tapped out. The offer came in the mail at the perfect time. This card has been fueling most of my life.

  “Receipt with you or in the bag?” he asks, sliding the merchant copy across the counter for me to sign.

  “The bag,” I say, signing with a jagged line, more of a P squiggle S squiggle than anything. My monogram is something I’m proud of, come to think of it: Paul Randolph Strom. PRS: almost a person. Just missing a couple things. I smile; the fire is dying and something like relief is washing over me. “Have a nice night.”

  “Whatever, dickhead,” I hear a male voice say to my back. I know it’s the man in the work boots, because it isn’t the man at the cash register’s voice. I know working-man is jealous of me and my life: my closet full of designer clothes, my grand home on a treelined, sidewalked street, my beautiful wife who he is imagining in tight yoga pants. Probably, he’s tired of all of us, the wealthy city folk already clogging the streets and shops of his small town, and it’s not even Memorial Day weekend yet.

  The fire is almost out, and I want to keep it there. So instead of turning around, I chuckle and shake my head back and forth. Poor working-man, that’s what I’m saying with my body language. I know he’ll get the drift so I hurry to my car and load the three brown bags of groceries quickly. I don’t have time to fight this man. I shove the cart up against the ice bag machine and jump into the car.

  As I back out of the parking space, working-man appears in the red glow of my taillights. If I push on the gas, I’d run him over. It would be ruled an accident. He’s barely visible in the fading light. He pauses, hands on hips, weighing his options, his chances. And then he flips me the middle finger of his right hand and I smile. He moves out of the way as I reverse, just like I knew he would. This life is about one thing, winning and losing. He knows he lost.

  As I pull back through the open gate into the perfect little community, I check to be sure working-man isn’t following me. I doubt he would brave the gates—we do have security even when it’s not high season. Still, it is rather easy to follow someone, tail them in your car, if you’re skillful and careful. I’ve done it before, not lately, but enough times to know how. It’s sort of like in the movies. You wear a black shirt, make sure it’s a dark, moonless night if you can. Most of the time, people don’t notice their surroundings. They wouldn’t even realize if the same car was following them for miles.

  It’s the sa
me following someone on foot, or, say, sneaking into someone’s home. It’s easy if you’re quiet and methodical. Take my father, for example. It’s as if he was blind, not deaf. It was the middle of the day. He should have seen me sitting in the corner of their cramped living room, suit coat tossed on the couch and my tie loosened, waiting for my mom to come home from running errands. He walked right past me on his way to the bedroom, but he didn’t notice. He never did see me for who I am, always underestimating me.

  It wouldn’t have changed anything, but he should have seen me coming.

  6:15 p.m.

  11

  I drive slowly down Second Street, and note the line of twenty or so people waiting to get into Sloopy’s. That spot is going to be packed all weekend and my favorite pink-haired waitress will be making some good tips. I’m glad I made a reservation for us tonight at a new Italian restaurant in Port Clinton. It actually has its own herb garden, which will make my wife happy. I hope it’s not as crowded there as it is here. I’m still surprised so many people had the same idea to head to the lake this weekend. The economy is back on track, I guess, for most people.

  I pass the park, lit by streetlamps in the growing dusk, and see a young mother pushing her child on a swing. I have so many images in my mind of Mia doing just that with our boys, their squeals of delight floating through the air, reaching me as I sit on the park bench watching over them all. Neither of my boys inherited my rage, I am almost certain. I’ve seen no hints. No rock throwing, no toys mangled and destroyed. Instead, they play together nicely, are polite and happy, I think. The generational darkness of rage has skipped over them, though most likely it will appear in their children. It’s a strong gene, anger. But for now, I will continue to nurture their happiness. They are my gift to the world, my sons are.

  I stop in front of the Boones’ cottage. All of the lights are on, it seems, in every room of the place. They are entertaining people from our neighborhood, no doubt, wining and dining them at their grand historic cottage. I try to look in the windows, to get a glimpse of who else may be seated at their long table for twelve. But all I can distinguish are shapes of people, some overall characteristics maybe, but not enough to identify who they are. Most of the neighbors don’t know me, or care to, and the feeling is mutual. There’s another feeling I can name: disdain. But they do know Mia, many of them, and are friends with her, too. Mia is a person many want to befriend.

  Take Buck, for example. I turn the corner onto Laurel Street and our cottage is glowing with light, too. There are two people on the screened-in porch. They sit in the two chairs that face the sofa. The furniture is old and rather embarrassing. The ancient outdoor wicker set itself is valuable—they just don’t make them like this anymore—but the fabric covering the cushions is obnoxious, a gaudy green-and-pink-floral design that reminds me of my mother’s favorite teacup pattern, blown up. I know this set came with the place and we haven’t invested in new cushions. Perhaps that is an expense for this summer. Because no matter how often the slipcovers are laundered, there is always the smell of dust, lingering and thick. It climbs onto your clothes when you sit too long, seeps into your pores like a small dose of poison. Sneaks up on you, I guess. I start sneezing if I spend more than ten minutes out there.

  Mia knows this, and yet, there they sit. The two of them. In my cottage. On my porch during my romantic weekend. I dig my fingernails into my palm, enjoying the sting.

  I pull into the driveway and stop the car in front of the back door. I realize Mia does not like it when I park here, considers it lazy, and would prefer it if I pulled into the garage. It is more civilized, she explains. That may be the case, but I’m late and I have three grocery bags. I am anxious to question Mia about the credit card, our credit card being declined, but will wait until Buck is gone. Which will be soon. We have dinner plans.

  I pop open the trunk and gather the bags in my arms. I’m trying to figure out how to turn the knob to open the back door when Mia opens it for me.

  “What took you so long? I thought you got lost,” Mia says. Her face is flushed, either from laughing or from alcohol. Or both. She wrestles one of the bags out of my arms as Buck appears behind her.

  “Can I help?” Buck says. “Must have been a big line at the grocery.”

  “There was a line, yes,” I say. My tone is calm, measured. I am fighting fire. I place the two bags on the counter next to the one my wife plunked down. I look in the third bag and notice the pack of cigarettes. I had meant to leave them in the car. I reach into the bag and slide the pack up my palm and into my shirtsleeve. I will hide them in my briefcase upstairs.

  “We’ll unload these, Paul. Why don’t I make you a drink? Tito’s with a squeeze of lime coming right up,” Mia says. “Go sit and relax.”

  I don’t want to leave the kitchen, but I need to dispose of the cigarettes.

  “Great, sounds good. And, honey, we need to leave in about ten minutes, for our dinner reservation,” I say. I think I notice my wife and Buck exchanging looks, a silent communication of sorts. But I could be imagining things. My mind has been busy today. I don’t say anything, just walk out of the room. I still need to remove the surprise from the glove box, but every time I remember to do so, our neighbor is around it seems. I will bring it out tonight, after dinner, once good old Buck has gone away for good.

  I climb the stairs two at a time, hurry to our bedroom, and push the cigarettes into the pocket inside my briefcase and zip it closed. I take a moment in the bathroom, quickly brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face, adding a little aftershave. I examine my shirt in the mirror and decide I should change. This is our special day. I hurry back into our bedroom and pull out my favorite thin navy cashmere sweater. I tug on a crisp white T-shirt and then the sweater. My eyes are still dark, but brightened a bit by the sweater. My jeans look fine, and my leather loafers are a statement by themselves. A present from Mia a couple years ago, they’re Gucci. Classic.

  I turn off the lights to the bedroom and head back down. “Buck and I moved inside,” Mia says as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “I know how you hate that musty old porch. Here’s your drink.”

  I just now realize Mia has changed into a dress. It’s midthigh, a shiny champagne-colored silk. She’s wearing heels, and her legs look fantastic. I should have told her so. I am positive Buck has beaten me to the punch. Buck is sitting in my favorite chair. I glare at the back of his head as I walk to the seating area.

  Mia has placed my drink on the coffee table next to hers. She pats the couch cushion. This couch is new; we had a decorator help select this entire seating area. The couch is a light tan, firm but still fluffy. The two club chairs are upholstered in a pale blue cotton. They are the most comfortable chairs I’ve ever owned. Buck is seated across the coffee table from Mia, in one of my comfortable club chairs. Those are much more comfortable than the couch, but I choose to sit down next to my wife, squeezing her knee with my hand as I do.

  “Ouch,” she says, pulling her leg away from me. I must have grabbed a bit too hard.

  “Sorry, honey, just wanted to tell you how great you look in that dress,” I say. “Got carried away. Cheers!”

  “How thoughtful, Paul,” Mia says. Her tone makes me think she doesn’t believe I’m thoughtful at all. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Buck says, raising his glass in my direction. His handsome news anchor face is not cheerful. I don’t think he liked me touching my own wife. His eyes narrow as he says, “What restaurant are you dining at tonight?”

  “Oh, some new Italian place in Port Clinton,” I say. “They have their own herb garden, so I knew Mia would enjoy it.” I turn to smile at my wife and she offers a mild close-lipped smile back. I may put my arm around her shoulders and pull her in to me, just to see his reaction, and hers. Perhaps a romantic kiss on the cheek is in order?

  “Ciao Bella,” Buck says.
“Nice place. Good atmosphere for up here.”

  “Glad you approve,” I say. “Well, look at the time. We should get going.” I smile at Mia and fight the urge to yank her up from the couch by the arm. I’m also resisting the urge to kick Buck out of my house. Best thing for me to do is to stand. So I do.

  “Since you were running late, I moved the reservation back a half hour,” Mia says. “So sit down, relax. We have time to finish our drinks.”

  Well played, Mia, I think. My mind is busy tonight, as I mentioned, and it flashes to another time, another home, another happy hour, this one in Nashville, Tennessee, with a different blonde woman. She was a Mia knockoff, really. Her name was Lois and she was captivating. She said those exact words to me: sit down, relax, we have time to finish our drinks. No doubt you realize by now I don’t like being told what to do. I didn’t back then either.

  I was young. I couldn’t control my fire. I didn’t know that I could just stand up, for example, and walk into the kitchen pretending to be in search of ice and a snack. Lois had opened the door in her bathrobe, not even close to being ready. She told me to sit down and wait, like a dog. I stepped inside the door, pulling it shut behind me. Back then, my temper would explode immediately: a fistful of rage to a beautiful face, for example. We’d been together, Lois and I, for more than a year by then. She had no way of seeing this coming, as up until then our relationship had been all fun and great sex. But on that fateful night, we were to attend a cocktail party held in my honor by the professor I’d been working with. It was a very important event, a thank-you and a congratulations, an introduction to society so to speak. Lois wasn’t ready when she said she would be. She completely disrespected me, and the importance of the night. It wasn’t my fault, not really.

  Blood was flowing from her nose as she looked at me in shock, the front of her bathrobe turning reddish brown, her bright blue eyes shiny with fear and tears. I looked down at my fist, rubbed my knuckles where her flesh had stung, and shook my head.