“No,” shouted Lauren back. “I’m going to the library.” Katie waved and then raised her tinted window. Lauren crossed the street and walked the four blocks to the public library. She chose a table in the Catherine Whitfield room, down a narrow hallway from the main desk. It was a small, relegated quiet space—named after the daughter of the town’s founding father—with comfortable upholstered chairs, brass reading lamps, and walls covered with glass-doored, wooden cases filled with old-looking books Lauren had not wondered about enough to examine closely. She lowered her pack to the carpeted floor, took off her new North Face down jacket, and settled in at one of the four empty tables.
Ninety minutes later, she had done seventeen algebra problems and finished the rough draft of her English essay, tentatively titled “The Myriad Merits of Mediterranean Literature.” She called a cab, which arrived fifteen minutes later and took her home. She got out of the car and jogged up the front steps, where she used her house key to open the front door. She reset the alarm and then walked quickly through the dark hallway to the kitchen. The light over the table was on, illuminating The China Palace menu and the money. Lauren pocketed the bills, put the menu back in her mother’s file, and opened the fridge. Just as she was taking out the squash soup, she heard a knock at the back door. It was her grandmother. Lauren put on a smile. She pushed the alarm release code and opened the door. “Hi, Gran,” she said.
“Hi, honey,” said Eileen, hugging herself from the cold as she stepped into the warm kitchen. Both about the same height—the high school volleyball programs listed Lauren as five feet, six inches—they were quickly eye to eye. “How was your day?”
“Pretty good,” said Lauren, taking a step back.
Gran looked around the room. “Are you here alone?”
“Yes,” said Lauren. “My parents went out. So did Nate.”
“Have you eaten?” asked Eileen.
“No,” said Lauren. “I was just going to have this soup.”
“I made that soup,” said Eileen, smiling. “It’s your great-grandmother’s recipe. You sit, and I’ll heat some up for you.”
“That’s okay,” said Lauren. “I’m fine.”
“No trouble at all,” said Eileen, taking off her Irish-knit cardigan. “You sit at the table, and I’ll have this over to you in a jiffy.”
Unaccustomed to being alone with her grandmother and her easy, unprompted cheerfulness, Lauren was silent. When the Baronses visited the farm every Christmas, holiday activities filled the awkward spaces. There was the carol sing at the Grange, the moonlight sleigh ride at the Gundersons’ farm down the road, the creation of a gingerbread house, last-minute gift wrapping and cookie baking, and hot chocolate around the woodstove in their immaculate but lived-in-looking country kitchen. Now, with nothing but a plastic container of soup as a conversation starter, Lauren couldn’t think of anything to say. She looked over at the stove and watched her grandmother, in Emma’s starched white apron, stirring a portion of the soup in a pot and humming. “Tell me about volleyball,” said Eileen, turning to face her.
“It’s fun,” said Lauren.
“Do you have a game I could come and watch?”
“As a matter of fact, I have one tomorrow,” said Lauren. “It’s my last one before the state tournament begins.”
“What time does it start?” asked Eileen. “I can see if Selma can take care of Sam so I can tag along with your mother.”
“My mom doesn’t come to my games,” said Lauren. “She says they make her nervous.” This is what Ann had told her daughter when Lauren made the varsity team her freshman year after a series of very competitive tryouts, the results of which were posted daily on the wall outside the girls’ locker room. Each morning, Lauren, with her stomach feeling like it had turned itself upside down on the car ride to school, ran to check the list. Other players were always there, some smiling, hooting even, while others openly wept and received hugs from the more talented and fortunate. Day after day, Barons was at the top of the alphabetical list. And on the final day, when it was still there, Lauren called her mother with the news. “I’m thrilled for you,” her mom had said, promising to go to every game she could fit into her schedule. And she had gone to a few, when Lauren was first starting out, first learning the playbook, making mistakes. When Ann started missing more home games than she attended—and she had never gone to an away game in a car caravan with the other mothers—Lauren stopped telling her when one was coming up. Ann was happy to know when the team won, but she didn’t seem much interested in the details.
“Oh,” said Eileen, tasting the soup. “Well, maybe if she goes with me, she’ll be able to handle the pressure.” Lauren shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” said Eileen as she brought a bowl of soup to the table. “We’ll see what we can do.” After Eileen set the bowl down in front of Lauren, she walked back to the counter for a spoon. She poured Lauren a glass of milk, then pulled a napkin from the elaborate wire holder next to the refrigerator. She grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil from Ann’s desk on her way back to the table and sat next to Lauren. “There,” she said, handing the spoon to her granddaughter. “I’ll say a short blessing and you can begin.” Lauren closed her eyes in an effort to tone down her grandmother’s level of caring. “Bless the Lord and the bounty He bestows upon us,” said Eileen. “Make us forever grateful. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Lauren dutifully before lifting a spoonful of soup to her mouth.
“Now,” said Eileen, picking up the pencil, “what time and where is your game?”
“Three thirty,” said Lauren. “At the high school.”
Eileen wrote the game time on the pad, then set the pencil down and looked at her granddaughter. “How’s the soup?” she asked.
“It’s really good,” said Lauren.
“My mother was a good cook,” said Eileen. “She was one of those people who didn’t need a cookbook. She just made recipes up in her head.”
“We go out a lot,” said Lauren between spoonfuls.
“Do you like to go out?”
“Well, sure,” said Lauren, shrugging. “You can special order anything you want. And it frees up my mom’s time for other things, I guess.”
“Your mother was a wonderful cook when she was your age,” said Eileen, sitting back in the chair.
“She used to cook,” she said. “She’s too busy now.”
Eileen waved her hand. “She’s not too busy. She’s just let it go.”
“Maybe you could teach her again,” said Lauren, taking another spoonful of soup from her bowl.
“Maybe I could at that,” said Eileen. They sat for a few moments in silence while Lauren ate the rest of her soup. It was the best soup she’d tasted in a very long time, including what was served to her in restaurants and at the club. “Can I get you some more?” asked Eileen.
“No, thanks,” said Lauren, pushing back her chair. “I should get to my homework.”
“You run along then,” said Eileen, standing. “Put your spoon and bowl in the dishwasher and I’ll take care of the soup.”
Lauren, who was unpracticed at chores of any kind, did as she was told. She then grabbed her backpack from the floor and slung it over her shoulder. “Thanks, Gran,” she said.
“My pleasure,” said Eileen. “Do you want me to stay here until your parents get home?”
“I’ll be okay,” said Lauren. “The alarm’s on. When you walk out, just make sure you close the door within thirty seconds.”
“I’ll be right next door if you need anything,” said Eileen, washing out the pot.
“I’ve got plans,” Ann told her mother, who was standing in Ann’s kitchen with her heavy sweater on.
“What kind of plans?” asked Eileen. “Are you able to break them?”
“The point is, I don’t want to break them,” said Ann, in the middle of making a cinnamon, double-shot latte.
“This is her last game,” said Eileen. “And you haven’t been to on
e all year.”
“That’s not true,” said Ann, spilling the cinnamon. “I got to the first one, I think. Look, Mother, they just make me nervous. I can’t stand sitting there and watching Lauren mess up.”
“How about her good shots?” asked Eileen. “Wouldn’t you be proud to sit and watch her then?”
Ann faced her mother, crossing her arms over her chest. “I think those are few and far between.”
“How would you know if you don’t go to the games?” said Eileen, crossing her arms over her chest.
Ann looked at her mother, who was still staring at her. No one spoke. “All right,” said Ann, finally. “I’ll go to the game. How I’m going to get everything done by—what time does it start?”
“It’s at three thirty,” said Eileen, smiling, “at the high school. I think we should leave here by three.”
“We’ll leave at three fifteen and not a minute sooner,” said Ann, looking at her watch. “Already, I’ll be pressed for time.”
“Then I won’t keep you any longer,” said Eileen. “You have a good day, honey. And thanks for going with me.”
Ann waved her mother off as she pretended to read the front page of the Wall Street Journal that was sitting on the island. As soon as Eileen was out the door, Ann called Gretchen, her manicurist, and rescheduled. She gulped down the rest of her coffee, then dashed out the garage door to her car. After her usual Wednesday workout, Ann met Sally for lunch at Bagels ’N’ More. They both ordered sesame bagels with low-fat, veggie cream cheese and sprouts—Ann’s favorite—ice waters, and sugar-free caramel cappuccinos. They sat in a small booth next to the front window so Ann could see who was coming and going. Just as she was about to take her first bite, Marge Simon charged through the door. “Ann!” she said, approaching the table. “I’ve been thinking about you. We’ve got the annual fashion show coming up in January, and I’m hoping you’ll model for us again.”
“What’s the theme this year?” asked Ann brightly.
“It’s the same theme every year, Ann,” said Marge, penciled eyebrows scrunched in incomprehension. “We give the proceeds to local charities.”
Ann gave Marge a patronizing smile. “Of the fashion show,” said Ann, glancing at Sally before returning her gaze to Marge. “What’s the theme of the fashion show?”
“Oh, of course,” said Marge, her large bosom shaking as she laughed. “Yes, well, this year just happens to be furs, Ann. We’ve got some beautiful coats coming in that I know you’ll enjoy showing.”
“Put me down,” said Ann, taking her BlackBerry out of her purse. “What’s the date?”
“The twenty-sixth,” Marge announced. “But I’ll talk to you before then. All the ladies will meet in early January and decide who’s going to wear what.”
“Perfect,” said Ann.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Marge, already on her way toward the short line of customers. Ann turned to Sally and winked.
“So,” said Sally, slighted by Marge’s consistent refusal to acknowledge her and anxious to change the subject, “what are you up to today?”
“Oh my God,” said Ann, “I didn’t tell you?”
“What?” asked Sally, leaning in to share the secret.
Ann lifted her bagel out of its purple basket. “I’m taking my mother to Lauren’s volleyball game.”
“I’ll bet I know whose idea that was,” said Sally, grinning.
“She won’t take no for an answer,” said Ann. “She’s the most stubborn woman I know.” Sally nodded. “So,” Ann continued, pulling a sale flyer out of her purse, “as a pregame pick-me-up, I thought I’d run over to the mall and stock up on cashmere sweaters. Do you want to come?”
Sally thought about the discussion she had with her husband the night before about her spending habits. Jack wanted her to be happy, but he didn’t see why she needed a different outfit for every day of the month. He told her to settle down and to let Ann do some shopping on her own. We cannot keep up with them, he had told Sally, referring to Mike and Ann Barons. It’s a game we will lose and lose badly. “I’d love to, Ann,” she said, “but I’ve got a million errands to run.”
“You’re no fun,” said Ann, feigning a pout.
“Next time,” said Sally.
Ninety minutes, three sweaters, two skirts, and a silk blouse later, Ann ran through the kitchen door. Eileen was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. “Make yourself at home,” Ann snapped.
“I have,” said Eileen, looking up from the paper. “Are you ready to go?”
“Three minutes,” said Ann. “I’ll be down in three minutes.”
Ten minutes after that, they were backing Ann’s Mercedes SL600 Roadster out of the driveway. Ann was freshly resentful about being talked into going to a high school volleyball game, so they rode most of the way in silence. As soon as she drove behind the school and caught her first glimpse of the parking lot, jam-packed with American-made cars, she abruptly hit the brakes. “Where are we supposed to park, for God’s sake?” she asked, looking left and right.
“Out there,” said Eileen, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand and pointing with the other to several empty rows at the far end of the lot.
Ann sighed. “This is ridiculous.” She drove the length of the lot and parked the car five spaces from the end of the pavement. She and her mother briskly zigzagged through the cars toward the back of the enormous brick structure that Dilloway Company money had built just three years earlier. Dilloway High School stood as a testament to corporate largesse, with its state-of-the art smart classrooms, media center, and gymnasiums, one of which was magnificent enough to occasionally draw the Pistons north for a razzle-dazzle fund-raiser. Ann opened the heavy metal and glass door for her mother and led her into the hallway crowded with backpacked teenagers and conversation. Eileen asked about the volleyball game and was directed to the little gym. Down another corridor and around the corner, the little gym was just as impressive as the larger version, with its gleaming wood floor, bleachers with padded seating, and revolutionary lighting and sound systems. Three minutes before the start of the volleyball game, it was bustling with uniformed volleyball players warming up, people finding seats in the stands, students selling popcorn and candy, and the buzz of two hundred people occupying the same room. Just inside the door, a woman seated in a metal folding chair at a plastic banquet table shouted the price of admission at them. “We have to buy tickets?” asked Ann. “You’re kidding, right?”
“All the sporting events cost four dollars,” said the woman. “The money goes right back into the school athletic program.”
“Here,” said Eileen, pulling her thin wallet out of the ancient leather handbag around her wrist, “let me treat you.”
“Don’t be silly, Mother,” said Ann, reaching into the front pocket of her jeans for a twenty-dollar bill. “I can afford four dollars. I’m just surprised, that’s all. And I’ll treat you.”
“Thank you,” said Eileen, putting her wallet away, then looking at the woman handing Ann two tickets. “We’re here to watch my granddaughter.”
“She’s a good player,” said the woman, who apparently knew who Ann was, “and she’s a friend of my daughter. I’m Joanne Rogers.”
Eileen shook Joanne’s hand. “I’m Eileen Sanford, visiting from Pennsylvania, and this is my daughter, Ann Barons.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Ann, looking beyond Joanne at the bleachers. Where in the world were they going to sit?
“You’ll find some space at the top,” said Joanne. “If you’re farsighted like me, that’s the best seat in the house.”
“How do we get up there?” asked Ann.
“You climb up the side and say ‘Excuse me’ a lot.”
“Thank you,” said Eileen, smiling at Joanne. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Ann and Eileen slowly made their way through standing, sitting, and shifting bodies juggling backpacks, babies, purses, popcorn, newspapers, needlepoint, cell phones, an
d crosswords. Halfway up, they found an unoccupied section of bench and plopped down. Eileen was out of breath. “My goodness,” she said. “The last time I climbed bleachers, you were in high school. Remember? The stadium at the back of the school had bleachers that went almost to heaven.”
“Of course I remember,” said Ann, pulling her left arm from her jacket sleeve.
“People still talk about the 4-H fair the summer you graduated. It was spectacular. Do you remember the size of the Grundys’ cows?”
“That was a long time ago,” said Ann, checking her cell phone messages to see if Mike had called.
“Look!” said Eileen, pointing at the gym floor. “There’s Lauren.”
Just then, Lauren, on the sidelines and scanning the crowd, spotted her grandmother. Eileen stood and waved, and Lauren waved back. Seconds later, she bounded onto the court, taking the place of a teammate in the back row. Ann pocketed her phone and turned her attention to her daughter. She watched her return a hard serve by bumping the ball to the front row. One of her teammates tapped it over the net to win the point. Lauren was shorter than many of her teammates, but this didn’t appear to be a disadvantage. Lauren next received the ball in the front row and sent it straight up into the air for her teammate to slam onto the opposing court. She appeared calm and confident, Ann noticed. Her next four shots were dead-on, perfect.
At the end of the first game, which Lauren’s team won 15–9, Ann looked around the gym. She saw several people she knew, including her son. He was leaning against the entranceway, unwilling, Ann guessed, to pay the $2 student fee to get in. Two boys were with him; they were all talking. Meeting his eyes for a second, Ann raised her hand in a half-wave that Nate didn’t acknowledge. Didn’t he see her? Ann returned her attention to the court just as Lauren, who was standing in the front row, jumped and sent a ball screaming to the far end of the opposing team’s court. Lauren’s teammate gave her a double high five.
The Good Life Page 8
