The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  Wanna know why she failed so spectacularly? She brought up Mahlaaaayshaaaaa.

  So smug. So self-righteous. Like earlier, when I accidentally mentioned my jagged C-section scar again? (Sorry, Alicia.) She was all, “The women of Iraq would kill to have your first world problems. Let’s talk about the state of maternal fetal medicine in a war zone. Did you know that the average adult Iraqi mother is subject to—”

  I immediately tuned her out, and not just because of the smug. I kind of can’t bear to hear her terrible stories about what it’s like for moms in other countries. If I were to actually listen to her, I would literally run to the airport, hop on the next plane headed east, and go home to hug my sweet baby boys until the end of time.

  In fact, if I had to get to my kids, I would run all the way to Mahlaaaayshaaaaa.

  I watch Betsy’s whole face glow as she listens to Lois Lane prattle on about her experience running with the bulls in Pamplona. Oh, please, Miss Ernest Hemingway, tell us more!

  “Sars, there I was, in my white shirt and red bandanna . . .”

  Argh! Stop calling her Sars! That’s not a name; that’s a coronavirus! Her name is Betsy, you asshole!

  Darn it! That’s another dollar in the swear jar.

  I can’t understand how Betsy can like us both. They have nothing in common anymore, save for a shared childhood. Pretty sure Bets hasn’t been on a dirt bike since the first Bush administration.

  I need to take the spotlight off of this blowhard.

  “P.S., FYI, I am familiar with Mahlaaaayshaaaaa. Betsy.” I cut my eyes over to Jack to see if she corrects me. She doesn’t but I can tell she’s dying to. “Remember our night nurse? She was from there. You know, Mahlaaaayshaaaaa,” I say, delighted for the chance to prove Jackass wrong. I raise my marg in victory.

  “Ekaterina?” Betsy says.

  “Yes.”

  “Ekaterina who worked for you? Back in 2000? With Kord?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Kit, no,” Betsy says gently. “She was from Macedonia.”

  “But they’re close to each other, right?” I ask, trying to shrug it off. “Common mistake.”

  Betsy pats my knee. “It’s actually an entirely different continent.”

  Jack’s snort is so abrupt and profound that I flinch, which causes me to accidentally lose control of the hand holding my margarita glass, thus setting off a chain of events I’d . . . rather not discuss.

  For the record?

  I didn’t start it.

  Mahlaaaayshaaaaa did.

  I hope the shark is okay.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Seven Miles over Ohio

  Last Saturday

  I dropped everything the minute I heard.

  I hate that Bobby had to give me the news. He’s not equipped. His insular, good-time, party-boy lifestyle is the defense mechanism he’s created specifically to avoid dealing with the grim reality of the real world. That’s why he was the one who cried, not me. All I could do was spring into action. Guess that’s how I’m wired.

  Maybe I’ve seen too much in the field, too much sadness, too much destruction, too much suffering. I’ve witnessed and documented the nadir of human behavior. I wonder if I’m not somehow inoculated against having more profound feelings when others leave this mortal coil? The Operators I’ve met in the field always speak of creating a Chinese wall between feelings and duties. Said it’s the only way to survive after the war’s over. Perhaps I’ve taken their words to heart.

  I suspect I started to shut down long before I worked in the trenches. Teddy said we all changed after Mom. I hardened my heart, whereas Bobby started to wear his on his sleeve. Ted overcompensated and John-John, well, I guess he’s remained his consistently unpleasant self.

  Some things never change.

  I glance down at my wrist and I have to smile. John was right about one thing—I do love a big watch. I’m not one to splurge, but when I saw the MTM Special Ops Black Military model that day Sars dragged me through Neiman’s, I had to have it. With its titanium bracelet, carbon-coated case, and antireflective sapphire crystal, I figured it would last forever. After more than ten years in dozens of war zones, I can confirm it’s stood the test of time. (Pun intended.)

  Wouldn’t let Sars buy the watch for me, though. She perpetually believes I’m broke. Couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve socked away almost every cent I’ve earned. And the trust’s still untouched. I could live off of what I made from Girl O’ War’s movie rights alone, had I not donated such a large portion to Sudanese relief efforts. Before you ask, no, I had nothing to do with stunt-casting Jennifer Aniston as the lead. Don’t start me on the fiction that was the shower seduction scene. I never even met General Petraeus, but truth takes a backseat to Ms. Aniston’s backseat in a lace thong.

  Anyway, the plan’s to put in another ten to fifteen years of doing what I’m doing and I should be set to retire. To settle down, if it’s not already far too late.

  To be clear, not with General Petraeus.

  According to my fancy watch, I’m due to land in forty-five minutes. I don’t want to start a new documentary on my laptop and I just finished reading the latest book on Vladimir Putin. As I transition out of the Middle East, I’m brushing up on Russia. Putin has designs on restoring the USSR to its former glory. Chances are, I’m headed there for the long haul. I plan to be ready.

  Flipping through the pages of the American Way magazine stuffed in the seat pocket in front of me, I pause to examine the spread on the Crystal Palace suite at the Vegas Wintercourt. Glad to see Tigger the tiger shark is still alive and swimming. We did give him a scare, though.

  Scanning the article, I realize that night may not have been my finest hour. When I arrived in Vegas, I was filthy and exhausted, yet I’m often filthy and exhausted in the call of duty, so that wasn’t the issue. I guess I wasn’t comfortable with the whole situation. For once, it wasn’t Kitty’s fault. That night, Kitty was but a gnat buzzing around my head. A minor annoyance, at best.

  Sure, she irritated me with all her silly chatter about Australian strippers and Us Weekly and injecting broccoli puree into chicken nuggets (?), so I admit to baiting her about Malaysia. Her expression was priceless. As always in the case with Kitty, the bitch had it coming.

  But for once, Kitty wasn’t the main problem.

  What had me riled was that I didn’t want Sars to marry Trip.

  There. Said it.

  I realize what poor taste it is to bring it up at a moment like this, but maybe if Sars had listened to me back then, everything would be different now.

  My concern stemmed from what I saw earlier that day in the international terminal at the airport. I’d just disembarked from my British Airways flight, cleared customs, and was headed toward the connecting departure gate in another terminal. I was beat and a little disoriented, but I was instantly wide-awake the moment I spotted Trip—pastel sweater and all—in the priority boarding line for an Air France flight. And then I noticed he wasn’t alone. I assumed the attractive young Latina wasn’t a business associate by the proprietary way he was grasping her shapely behind.

  I called over to him and I’m sure I saw a flash of panic cross his face, before he pretended to gaze right through me. With that one look, he confirmed my every suspicion.

  I was not about to let this go. As a reporter, my job is to delve into the heart of the story, regardless of the outcome. An ocean of people separated us, but I pushed through them. Narrowing the gap between us, I vaulted over a group of French students who were sitting on the floor of the gate playing a card game and I plowed past a passel of disgruntled fanny-pack-clad tourists, but I was too late. He’d already boarded the plane and the snooty gate agent refused to confirm or deny that Trip’s name was on the manifest. “Ess not your biiiisness,” he’d sniffed.

  The damn French’ll dis
appoint you every time.

  (I hang out with a lot of marines; I may be biased.)

  Already agitated when I arrived in Vegas, I broached the subject with Sars immediately. She wouldn’t even entertain the thought of impropriety as Trip had just dropped a load of cash flying in all of her favorite treats. To me, his extravagance smacked of overcompensation. A guilty conscience.

  I distrusted Trip from the moment we met. He was one of those guys who’d simultaneously charm you while glancing over your shoulder in case someone more important was to walk by. Or maybe he was mentally undressing them? He was always so cagey, it was hard to tell.

  He and Sars met at some U of C mixer for MBA students and she was instantly smitten. I knew she really loved him; Sars was never so superficial that she’d date someone for his money. Growing up an only child on the lake in the upper-middle-class area of Evanston, she was familiar with living well. That Trip’s family lived so much better than her version of well was an added bonus.

  But I always had the feeling that beneath his Ivy League veneer and perma-tan beat the heart of an operator. An opportunist. A snake-oil salesman. Unfortunately, despite my investigations after I “allegedly” saw him in the airport, I couldn’t unearth the full evidence needed to prove my theory. So all I could ever do was smile and wish Sars well. Whenever I visited Steeplechase, their sprawling North Shore estate complete with guardhouse, she seemed extremely happy. So even though it went against my every instinct, I eventually stopped probing.

  Sars and Trip had lived nine years without incident, even though I could never shake the feeling that there was always some sort of darkness under the surface, lying dormant . . . until the time was right.

  • • •

  “There she is! There’s our girl!”

  Teddy runs over and sweeps me up in a massive bear hug, spinning me around so hard that I get dizzy. “Quit it!” I demand as he whirls me around faster and faster. “I think I’m going to throw up!” When he doesn’t stop, I add, “I think I’m going to throw up on you, Joel.”

  Terry, Ted’s spouse, clucks, “You’re kidding! Top Gun lines? Already? You’ve been together thirty seconds! That’s a new record. I told you I should have made up a sibling BINGO card. Y’all are too predictable.”

  “Technically, that line was from Risky Business in reference to Guido-the-killer-pimp from the car chase scene,” Teddy replies.

  “‘Porsche, there is no substitute,’” I add.

  Terry shrugs. “Sorry, not familiar.”

  Teddy rolls his eyes. “You’re killing me, Ter, I mean it. Last week I said I wanted to receive total consciousness on my deathbed and this one”—he pokes Terry, who giggles in response—“was all, ‘Should we write that into your living will, honey?’ Pretty sure your never having seen Caddyshack is grounds for divorce in this state.”

  “Do what you need to do, babe,” Terry replies. “That means more cake for us.” Terry owns an incredible little shop in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago called The Confectionery, which specializes in homemade candies, like toffees and caramels, and baked goods, such as exotically flavored cupcakes, including my favorites, the blood orange Dreamsicle and the Maharani, which is a curry lemon curd with sweet basil cream.

  I’m not the only one who swears Terry’s treats are the best in all of Chicago. The place opens at ten a.m., which means the line forms at the door every day by eight thirty a.m. On the days they sell mini-pies, it’s more like seven thirty.

  I hug them both to me again. Feels so good to be here, back beside my family. Teddy loops his arm around my left shoulder and Terry grabs me on my right side as we head toward the baggage carousel in one cohesive unit. At times like these, I wonder why I work so far from everyone I love.

  “Not for nothing, Tedster, but you are better-looking every time I see you.” Not flattery, but hard fact. Teddy was striking in his teens and twenties, but now that he’s older, he’s practically breathtaking. Pretty boys always go in one of two directions—they turn into James Spader with the wrinkles and paunch and male-pattern baldness or, if they’re very lucky, they head down the less trodden path, the Rob Lowe/Daniel Craig/Sean Connery route, improving with age like bottles of Château Margaux. “What’s your secret?” I ask. “Do you have a portrait of Dorian Gray in your attic? If you still look so good, who looks bad in your place?”

  At the same time, we all say, “John-John.” Not sure if it’s time or the demands of four kids and a vapid wife or just plain old karma, but the last time we saw him at the new baby’s christening, he was almost indistinguishable from our father. John and Dad looked more like twins than he and Bobby do anymore, much to John’s chagrin and Dad’s delight.

  “Girl, I’m his secret,” Terry insists. “We juice now. We’re juicers. Had to do something to counterbalance all the carbs. I’ll make you some in the morning. I do a blend with kale, apples, and celery that’ll knock your socks off.”

  “It’s really delicious,” Teddy says, while vehemently shaking his head and choking his own neck, eyes bulging comically behind Terry’s back. “Definitely better than the mini-pies.”

  “Trust me, anything will be gourmet after all the MREs I’ve eaten,” I say to appease them both, referring to the bland, cold, prepackaged field rations I normally call dinner.

  We circle around the baggage claim to wait for my luggage. A seemingly endless supply of identical black roller bags whiz past us. How often does someone take the wrong suitcase when they all look so much alike? I don’t even have to tell Teddy when mine chugs past—he can automatically deduce that the dusty old green duffel belongs to me.

  We load up Terry’s Outback and I feel like a child again in the backseat, with my doting parents up front. “Tell me everything, hon,” Terry says, navigating out of the four-tier parking garage at O’Hare. “How long do we have you?”

  “I won’t know more about that for a few days,” I reply. “The wakes begin tomorrow and then the funeral’s on Wednesday. But I can take as long as I need.”

  Terry’s face softens. “I’m so sorry, hon. This is devastating.”

  “Thanks, Ter, I appreciate it,” I reply. I swallow hard, trying to hide my emotions, but almost too overcome not to. Terry really feels like a second mom to me, significantly different from the original (obviously), but better in so many ways.

  Teddy asks, “You mind bunking with Bobby and the boys? They should arrive later tonight.” A few years ago after I was transferred from Baghdad to Kabul, I shipped my few things home to Terry and Teddy. They wanted me to have a place I truly could call home, so they set up a little apartment for me in their basement. However, ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s Bobby who uses it as a crash pad between his winter and summer gigs. I’m not sure he has to so much as he wants to be there with all Terry’s mini-pies. (I suspect if Terry were to make a full-sized version, Bobby would move in forever.)

  “I packed Benadryl and an inhaler, so I should be set.” I’ve developed an allergy to cats as an adult, which I guess is a benefit even though I love them. Pets can inadvertently tether you to one place, so never being able to have one made it easier for me to move about at will. I’ll be glad to see Bobby’s crew, though, as they’re particularly sweet. He has the kind of cats who head-butt you to demand kisses. I always oblige, and then spend the next two days sneezing and scrubbing at my watery eyes.

  Terry glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Whenever you do leave, which will be too soon, bee-tee-dubs, what’s next? Any chance we can convince you to take a stateside assignment in the near future?”

  “Not unless Putin relocates. Believe I’m off to Russia next. If ol’ Vladimir keeps up with his current level of nonsense, I could be there for a while,” I reply, mentally ticking off his ever-growing list of transgressions.

  “Ooh, Putin!” Terry replies. “I hate him! But . . . I kind of love him a little bit, too. I
know all the shirtless bear-wrestling and posing on horseback is propaganda, but I don’t care. He’s just the most perfect Bond villain ever.”

  Teddy gives Terry’s shoulder a good-natured rub. “Only you, Ter. Only you.”

  We’re almost to their home before Teddy remembers something important. “You got a call today, Jack-o,” he says.

  “From?” Given the news, it stands to reason people would know I’m back.

  “Kitty Carricoe.”

  I slump down in my seat. “Damn. I forgot I’d have to deal with her. Was it awkward?” I ask.

  “Why would it be awkward?” Terry demands. Terry can sniff out the faintest trace of gossip like a truffle pig in a forest.

  “No, it wasn’t awkward,” Teddy replies. “That was a million years ago. It’s you who has the issue with her, kid, not me. I always liked her. Plus, with all her big blond hair, red lips, and trapeze dresses? She was the shit back then.”

  “They dated briefly when I was a freshman,” I explain.

  “Jealous?” Teddy asks, arching an eyebrow.

  Terry gives Teddy the side-eye and replies, “Survey says . . . no. But it sounds like there’s a story. Dish, please.”

  I lean into the front seat to explain. “Their brief relationship and subsequent breakup caused this whole chain of events that took us from being the best of friends to the best of enemies.”

  “This is already my favorite story ever,” Terry says, eagerly glancing back at me in the rearview mirror. “What happened?”

  “What happened is, we started to act like eighteen-year-old girls. She said something that pissed me off, so I stormed out, then she made a big stink out of an innocent mistake I made, then John convinced me to seek revenge. The whole thing went back and forth, escalating in severity and, bottom line, we almost got kicked out of the dorms because of it. Clearly we’ve never gotten over it because each time we’re together, we’re at it like two wet cats in a burlap sack.”