The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  “I need one of those guys at my house,” I quip in lieu of telling him why he’s deluded. He’s too nice for me to argue with now. Before I can say anything else, Bobby glances down at my watch.

  “Whoa, is that the time? We’ve gotta get going soon. Dinner in the city with the fam! Gotta motor. Good seeing you again, Kitty. Take care of yourself.”

  “And I should take care of Betsy, too,” I say.

  “And of yourself,” he repeats. “Catch you on the flippity-flop.”

  He leaves and I’m left alone with the sound of the rain, which isn’t loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I feel like I’ve just been on a therapist’s couch for an hour, full of new information and insights demanding my attention, whether or not I want to deal with them.

  Jack was very close with her brother Bobby when we lived together, but she never gave him enough credit. She didn’t value his kind of intelligence. She never grasped that there’s more to being smart than using SAT words. I remember once when we were with him over October break, she was telling him about something in the news and it was clear he needed a second to process. He asked her a question to clarify and she got frustrated and snapped, “I can explain it to you, but I can’t understand it for you.” The look on his face—so hurt. He laughed and shook it off, but I could tell he was bothered.

  Whether it was his intention or not, Bobby brought up an awful lot of what’s not quite right in my life. I realize I have some areas to address once Dr. K comes home. We can’t continue on our current course and we need to figure out how to navigate.

  Maybe Trip wasn’t the only one on the cusp of making changes.

  Crap.

  While sitting here with Bobby, I forgot about the whole thing for a second.

  There are so many people in this house right now, celebrating Trip’s life. I was on board yesterday, but now I’m simply angry. He wasn’t what he seemed. Period. I can deny all I want, but if I’m really honest with myself, I know he was hitting on me, because he did it so many times before. I can whitewash the behavior by claiming he was flirty, but he wasn’t. A part of me was always flattered to hold that kind of power, that he’d absolutely be willing if I ever complied.

  How do you do that to your wife? The person who stood beside you as you built your empire?

  I wonder, did Betsy even really want to leave CFG? Or was she forced out by those who negated her contributions because she was considered “the wife”?

  Maybe Betsy founded W3 for the same reasons I created SecretSquash, only on a much grander level. Personally, I was content where I was. I’d have happily stayed to manage the dental practice forever—I mean, I practically grew up in that building. Mum was always running over there to help Dr. Daddy. Kelly and I would often do our homework in the lobby, just to spend time with our parents between patients. I hung out enough that I eventually learned how to do everything—file charts, generate bills, answer the phone. If I could be a fine helper at fourteen, I definitely could have continued to manage everything long-term as an adult.

  I still could, actually.

  Perhaps that’s the answer to a lot of our problems.

  If I were to take over Cookie’s job, we wouldn’t have to pay her salary anymore. That’d be a relief, considering what she makes an hour. If I managed the office, I could still be a mom and run the kids to practice and take care of the house. I’d probably have to lose the blog, but that might be a good idea as the Littles get older. Maybe I can reclaim our privacy while forging newer and stronger bonds with Dr. K.

  No, wait, Ken. Form new bonds with Ken.

  This is a capital idea. I’m calling him right now.

  I reach in my bag for my phone, but before I can dial, lightning strikes out front and the party is thrown into chaos. A massive tree comes down outside and blocks off the whole driveway.

  I immediately offer my assistance in organizing the cleanup, but Betsy manages the whole show, delegating like a boss. So I decide to slip upstairs to the end of the hall by the portrait gallery to make my call. This is where it’s the most quiet, so I’ll actually be able to hear my husband when we talk.

  I wonder if I haven’t really heard him for a while now.

  I dial but he doesn’t answer, so I leave a message outlining my thoughts. Ken will love this idea, especially as strapped as we are. Losing that salary would be such a boot off of our necks. Cookie will have to understand that this is a business decision.

  And if she doesn’t?

  Well, I can’t worry about her.

  I gaze up at all the portraits on the wall. I try to imagine coming from the kind of family where everyone’s commemorated in oil paint. Sure, Dr. Daddy did well, but he didn’t come from a dynasty like the Chandlers. Grand-pappy was a farmer, which is likely why my dad developed such a solid work ethic. None of Trip’s forefathers look like they ever lifted anything heavier than a gin martini their whole lives. Yet they are stern and formidable in their own ways, each one perched behind a massive desk, or seated in a stiff chair.

  But not Trip. Nope.

  He’s standing there on a yacht, breeze ruffling his hair, gazing out at the water like he owns the whole damn world and everything in it. I feel guilty having such murderous thoughts over a man who’s already dead. Yet I can’t go back downstairs right now because the only thing anyone’s talking about is what a swell guy he was. Such lies.

  Maybe it’s the wine and the boozy Frappuccino talking, because I can’t help but look at his portrait and say, “Rest in peace, mother-flipper. Rest in peace.”

  Jack emerges from the shadows behind me, and I almost jump out of my skin, both shocked and humiliated.

  Oh, yeah, I need this. Now I’m going to get a lecture from the Great Jack Jordan over how I shouldn’t be so disrespectful and how I’m a terrible person and—

  “I think the bastard’s still alive. You and I need to talk.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  North Shore, Illinois

  Wednesday

  “This is your daily driver? This colossus? Are you transporting troops to the front line? Bringing relief supplies to South Sudan?”

  Kitty tightens her jaw in response, glaring straight ahead. I’m not harassing her; I’m genuinely curious. The Escalade is the largest nonarmored personnel carrier I’ve seen.

  I try to better explain myself. “I’ve been in smaller Humvees. What’s the MPG? Six on the highway, five in the city?”

  Her knuckles whiten as she clutches the steering wheel of the enormous land beast. In a clipped tone, she replies, “Thirty minutes ago when you yanked me into that bedroom at Steeplechase, you swore we could put aside our differences to figure out what happened to Trip. ‘We must pool our resources, Carricoe,’ you said. ‘It’s imperative we share what we each know. We have to team up to track him down,’ you said. ‘For Sars,’ you said. You promised on our best friend’s life to behave. You can’t keep a promise for half a flipping hour? For Betsy? I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this because you’re never going to change.”

  Oh, the Martyred Saint Kitty Carricoe. Such a victim. Do her shoulders ache from lugging that heavy wooden cross around all day? I wonder. I keep my eyes fixed on the horizon in order to not roll them.

  Keeping Sars top of mind, I offer a mild response instead. “That’s where you’re wrong. I absolutely did not break my promise. I’ve neither assaulted your character nor belittled your life. That was our deal; I’m sticking to it. Did I say, ‘You are anally raping the environment and perpetrating the spilling of blood for oil in this vehicle?’ No, regardless of how true that might be. Or did I say, ‘How important must you feel driving around in a car that costs a hundred times the GNI of Micronesia?’ While a valid point, again, I did not verbalize it.”

  Crickets.

  I continue. “I was simply stating the fact that this is a very large car. The square footage
is greater than the bedsit I rented in Baghdad. That’s all. Big car. Small apartment. I was making pleasant small talk.”

  Kitty dodges the storm-fallen limbs on the streets of North Shore with a fair amount of aplomb, considering the girth on this whale of an automobile. The Escalade is surprisingly sprightly. Nimble. This vehicle is Hyacinth Hippo, the ballerina en pointe from Fantasia, the convergence of grace and bulk and style.

  She says, “No, you were posing a story problem. ‘How many cubic inches of smug can Jack Jordan pack into one conversation—GNI? Bedsit? Micronesia? Really?—before Kitty Kord Carricoe presses the ejector button on the passenger seat? Solve for x.’”

  I crane my neck for a better look at the dashboard, which has more lights and indicators than that of an old WWII Tiger Moth cockpit. I’m suddenly, irrefutably impressed with the advances in the American automotive industry. Way to go, USA! When did all this technology come onto the marketplace? I’ve been away from the States for too long; I feel I’ve missed everything. “This behemoth has ejection seats like the F-14?”

  Kitty shoves a hank of her damp blond hair behind her ears. We were both drenched while running from the house to her Space Shuttle, which she’d left on the street because it won’t fit under the archway to Steeplechase’s parking pad. Our respective exits were staggered to escape detection. I purposely lingered to make arrangements with one of Sars’s staffers regarding a drop-off for my rental car once the main gate’s unblocked. Kitty and I agreed to spare Sars any hint of us colluding. Until we have concrete proof Trip is alive, our operation is covert. Clandestine. We’re headed to Command Central, also known as Kitty’s house.

  Kitty says, “Soooo sorry now that I didn’t spring for the Sarcasm Detector along with the Surround Vision, Power-Folding Third Row, and In-Dash DVD System. BTW, only you would reference some stupid plane, when everyone else would talk about that awesome part in the James Bond movie.” More to herself than to me, she mutters, “FYI? This is why people thought you were weird in college.”

  I’d defend myself, but she might not be wrong here.

  Still, a lack of ejection device is disappointing. And yet the vehicle started without benefit of key and the heated seat is neatly warming my rain-soaked clothing, so I’m pleasantly surprised with Detroit’s finest. I mean backup cameras and—

  “Did you say there’s an In-Dash DVD player? Meaning one could watch a movie in here? Like on a 747?” I ask.

  What a boon that would have been back in Saint Louis when we used to take road trips in my mother’s Country Squire station wagon, eighteen feet long and sided in more fake wood paneling than your average rumpus room. Our only entertainment was listening to John Denver on the cassette player and making up games that somehow all culminated in punching John-John. At the beginning of our ten-hour pilgrimage to see Mimi and Poppy, my mother would be uncharacteristically cheerful and enthusiastic, but by the time we passed the first HoJo, the temperature in the car would drop, while her shoulders would ride up by her ears from tension, and she’d clutch the wheel like . . . well, a lot like Kitty right now.

  Good times.

  Kitty takes a right turn with enthusiasm, causing the tires to make noise in protest. “Relentless. You are flipping relentless. You have no clue what it’s like to drive downstate for meets and matches and scrimmages and games because procreation is far too pedestrian for the Girl O’ War. Well, here’s a newsflash for you—children eventually get bored in the car, no matter how much you engage them. Their attention spans are only so long. To keep them from going rogue or pounding on one another like caged beasts, sometimes I let them watch a movie. For safety. And sanity. So, please enough with the sanctimony.”

  “Stop the car,” I say. “Now.”

  In response, she brings the car to a halt, at no point hydroplaning on the rain-slicked streets. Again, I’m captivated. The only auto I ever owned was Teddy’s beige 1989 Honda Prelude. We called it the Honda Quaalude, as there was nothing exciting about it.

  “New deal,” I say, making a concerted effort to not escalate. “You are going to cease the display of raging narcissism, assuming that everything I say is somehow meant to disparage. Let me be clear. I. Am. Not. Slamming. You. Not today, anyway. You can’t take everything so personally. We have to put our petty bullshit aside, at least for now. When we’re done and when we have resolution, we can hate each other again and you can resume writing your fake book reviews.”

  Although the rain’s pelting the car with drops the size of silver dollars, we’re so well soundproofed that I can hear her catch her breath. “How did you—”

  “Water under the bridge. Today is our tabula rasa. As part of this fresh start, I pledge to better explain myself so there’s no opportunity for misinterpretation.”

  Kitty loosens her death grip on the wheel ever so slightly. I continue. “For example, when I asked you about the DVD player, I wasn’t condemning your parenting skills, despite previous interactions where this may well have been the case. I’ve baited you in the past. I own that. However, today I was contemplating how much better family vacations would have been had we access to entertainment. The caged beasts? Were us. My comments weren’t about you, Kitty. Because it’s not always all about you. So, let’s start over. Please. For Sars.”

  “Sure thing,” she says, now-loosened fingers tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. Is that real wood I spy? Polished cherry? Elm, perhaps? Wait, is the leather portion heated, too? My God, is this car real life?

  Kitty nods, more to herself than to me. “We’ll begin again, turn over a new leaf. Start all flipping over. We’ll be two caterpillars busting out of our cocoons, morphing into Monarch butterflies.”

  “Exactly! I’m glad you’ve decided to be reasonable.”

  “Of course. I’m well-known for being a reasonable person. People see me and say, ‘That Kitty Carricoe is one reasonable gal.’ And I’ll begin to be reasonable right here, right now, as soon as you apologize for calling me a raging narcissist. Because couching an insult in a pledge to move forward? That is HORSE PUCKEY.”

  “You’re misunderstanding me yet again. I didn’t say you were a raging narcissist. I said you were displaying raging narcissism. Two entirely divergent meanings.”

  “There is no difference,” she says, through clenched teeth.

  “Of course there’s a difference. There’s a marked difference,” I reply. “The difference is subtle, but crucial. Nuanced. Let’s deconstruct the semiotics of my statement—”

  Kitty begins to violently poke at the wood-grained panel between us.

  “What are you doing?”

  She stabs some more. “I’m looking for a hidden ejector button because, semiotics.”

  “Wait,” I say, piecing together the possible reasons behind her reaction. “Is this an instance where I should simply apologize rather than detail why the evidence will eventually reveal the validity of my position?”

  Kitty turns to fully face me, hugging her arms across her damp chest, the cords in her neck taut as guitar strings. “Ding, ding, ding.”

  “Oh. Then . . .”

  Ugh, I’m going to have to prostrate myself in order to convince her. Take one for the team, no matter how unjustified, so I cross my fingers behind my back. I don’t have to mean these words; she just has to believe I mean them if we’re to help Sars.

  Oh, Sars.

  The image of meeting her for the first time is still crystal clear. There she is, all skinny limbs and owlish glasses, leading me across the street, intent on being my friend no matter what. I’ve never felt maternal stirrings, but something about those narrow shoulders and beribboned braids touches me and I feel doubly protective of her. I said I’d do whatever it took to help her, and apparently that pledge includes swallowing my considerable distaste now.

  So I say, “I’m sorry, Kitty. I was wrong and I apologize.”

  Whic
h doesn’t feel as soul-crushing as I might have imagined.

  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—”