The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  “No need to be juvenile, my dear.”

  “The Honorable Judge Allen was my mother up until 1986 when she decided she no longer wanted the job. She’d passed the bar that spring and was eager to practice law, like she’d originally intended thirteen years earlier. But, instead of, say, trying to strike a work-life balance, or seeking counseling, talking with our minister, filing for divorce, or even having a fucking conversation with my dad, she left. Went out for milk and never came back. Literally.”

  My mind is reeling. “She didn’t die? She’s alive? She’s alive and well and right here in kind of a fantastic power suit? Sorry, that part doesn’t matter. To confirm, she walked away but she is of the living.”

  I’ve never seen Jack so upset—given our past, that’s really saying something.

  Jack says, “She’s dead to everyone but John, apparently. See, that’s not nearly the best part. Oh, no. For two weeks, we thought she’d been abducted. No one just disappears without a trace, without a note, right? The police were involved. There was a search. They used cadaver dogs. We made posters. Posters.”

  The idea of a young Jack and her brothers huddled around the kitchen table, using oak tag and colored pencils to make MISSING posters cracks my heart clean in two. Crafts are meant to be happy, damn it!

  Her mother purses her lips. “You’re being overly dramatic.”

  “Am I, Mother? God, I’m sorry. I’d hate to be overly dramatic describing what it’s like to spend two weeks of your childhood worrying every minute that your mother’s either dead in a ditch or chained up in some sicko’s basement.”

  Lucille’s gigantic diamond catches the light of the chandelier when she flicks her wrist, covering a wall with refracted prisms. “I wasn’t dead; I was at a friend’s cabin. Terrible misunderstanding. I needed time to regroup and I didn’t have access to the news. I had no idea there was such a to-do. Your father is overly dramatic, too. That’s where you get it from,” Lucille sniffs.

  John’s standing off to the side, clearly conflicted. Heather steps in for a second with a big plate of cookies, notes what’s unfolding, and immediately exits. I feel like I shouldn’t be here, either, but I dare not leave.

  Jack is ramrod straight as she speaks. “You know what finally tipped us off? The cat. The fucking cat. We didn’t even realize Tom Kitten was missing at first. He had a cat door and came and went as he pleased. With everyone in and out, we assumed he’d been staying away. But about two weeks into her disappearance, we realized his bed was missing. So when she left, she took the cat with her. Not us. Just the cat. And her terrible, indulgent parents supported her decisions. They also knew where she was the whole time; they just didn’t tell us. They were more concerned with keeping their spoiled little girl happy than they were about their grandchildren’s well-being. Unforgivable.”

  “Mimi and Poppy made it up to you with the trust,” her mother replies, completely unaffected by Jack’s diatribe.

  “Of course, yes, the trust tucked me into bed at night and the trust held my hand when I had a bad dream. Tell the trust thanks for teaching me how to use a tampon, will you?”

  John winces.

  “There’s no need to be crude, Jacqueline.”

  I feel queasy hearing these details. I can’t imagine what poor Jack’s been going through all these years. No wonder she was so slow to warm up to other women. No wonder she was so livid when we had our falling-out. No wonder she’s always been bonded to Betsy, clinging to that which was solid and sane and sweet.

  “You have to understand how it was for me,” her mother says. “I was suffocating in that house. The noise, the chaos, the awful dogs. The smell. Everyone perpetually saying, ‘I want this, I need that.’ What about what I wanted and needed? I tried to make you my ally, Jacqueline, tried to raise you right, but you wanted none of it, refusing to wear dresses, fussing when I tried to braid your hair. You just wanted to be one of the boys.”

  Lucille takes a cigarette out of her chic calfskin clutch and lights it with a silver lighter. John discreetly sets a crystal ashtray next to her, like a well-trained waiter. They’ve done this dance before. She takes a quick drag and continues. “I was twenty-four when Teddy was born, swept up in the romance of it all with your father. Nice man. Not ambitious enough. You see, I was the only child of wealthy parents. I was accustomed to people taking care of me, not vice versa. I wasn’t used to how needy children were.”

  She takes another puff. “I didn’t comprehend what it took to be a mother. And there we were at the beginning of the feminist movement, and the same shackles I’d been rallying against suddenly bound me. I marched for the Equal Rights Amendment, you know. So if you enjoy the freedom to be a woman in a man’s world, Jacqueline, you have me to thank. Your brother has forgiven me. It’s time you and the rest of the boys do as well.”

  A tear streams down Jack’s cheek, yet she doesn’t even notice it. She says, “I could understand our family being too much. We’re a lot to take. And I’ve always blamed myself for not being ‘girly’ enough for you.”

  Lucille exhales a thin stream of smoke, showing no reaction to what Jack’s saying. Whether that’s a function of being cold or having too much (excellent) plastic surgery, I can’t be sure.

  Jack continues. “I could even sympathize a bit with your abandoning us to live your dream. I understand the need to break free and the satisfaction of devoting your life to your profession. I do. I’ve been there. What I can’t get past, what I can’t forgive, what will keep me angry to the grave, is that after throwing us away for your career, you started an entirely new family. Hell will freeze over before I allow you back into my life.”

  “You have another family?” I say to Lucille, dumbfounded.

  “Yes, I do. Two beautiful daughters, Caroline and Rose.” She gestures toward the photo I’d admired earlier with her cigarette and ash falls on the linen tablecloth. They’re both younger, more feminine versions of Jack. “When the girls were old enough, I felt it was important that they know the rest of their family, so I got in contact.”

  “Was this in 1999? September or so?” I ask.

  “Let’s see, Caroline was around twelve and Rose was ten. Yes, September of 1999 sounds about right,” she says.

  “How could you possibly know that?” Jack asks me. She’s since fallen into a chair at the table, emotionally spent, fight completely knocked out of her, leaving Lucille standing in a more dominant position. Doesn’t matter that Jack’s almost forty; in this instance, and in her mother’s eyes, she’s perpetually a child.

  To Jack, I say, “I’ll explain in the car. Short story is, I owe you an apology and a debt of gratitude. But not important now.” Then I do the math. “You have a daughter who was twelve in 1999? Caroline?”

  Jack’s mother smiles. “That’s correct. She’s started her medical residency at Emory. We’re very proud. That’s why her father and I retired to Atlanta.”

  “So you left in 1986 and she was born in 1987?” I ask.

  “Do you have a point, my dear?”

  “Where’d you go when you left Saint Louis? Were you alone or were you with someone? Like the owner of that cabin?”

  She picks a nonexistent piece of lint off her beautifully tailored jacket. Aubergine, I think that’s what the color is called. Somewhere between a purple and a black. So chic. “I hardly find these inquiries relevant.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t leave one family to start another. Say that’s not true.” I can feel my pulse throbbing in my ears as I speak.

  “Kitty, take it easy,” John says. “Not your circus, not your monkeys.”

  Jack’s mother meets my gaze. “The great irony is that no one blinks an eye when a man does the same. Pity. For as far as women have come, the sisterhood still has more ground to cover. My dear, what I did was leave to claim my destiny. That I began another family so quickly was a fortuitous happe
nstance. Second time around, I had a husband who supported my career. I had the baby and I was back at my desk in less than a month. I had a nanny and a housekeeper. Never touched a diaper myself. Eventually, we hired a cook, too. I found that motherhood was so much more rewarding with someone else attending to the heavy lifting.”

  The speed and ferocity of my backhand takes us all by surprise.

  • • •

  “I can’t believe you hit my mother.” Jack’s face is illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. She’d prefer to drive, but I prefer to confirm she’s calm before handing over the wheel.

  I reply, “I know. You keep saying that. And I keep saying I can’t believe you have a mother for me to hit.”

  “‘Mother’ is not a title she’s earned.” She sounds more hurt than bitter.

  “Lucille’s lucky I have tennis elbow or I’d have knocked her through a wall,” I reply.

  “Pfft, the Ice Queen feels nothing. She’s probably just mad that you messed up her helmet.” Lucille’s first reaction was to fix her mussed hair, smoothing her professionally honeyed bangs before bemoaning my own parentage. Jack had to hold me back before I went in for a second round.

  “I feel terrible, even though she deserved it. How many times have I talked to my Littles about violence being on the Never Never list? To use their words and not their fists? What is it about Jordan women that turns me into Mike Tyson? I feel like such a hypocrite. Still, given the chance, I’d do it again. I wish I had all night to swat the smug off her face. What’s wrong with me? Maybe I should add kickboxing to my workouts?”

  Jack asks, “She makes others irrational, right? Giving her a wide berth all these years felt like my only option.”

  “Um, trust? Afghanistan isn’t far enough from that horrible woman. Personally, I’d have been exploring the space program,” I confirm. We pass an exit for Macon, Georgia. “Hey, are you fine with us pressing on or do you need me to take you somewhere to decompress?”

  “How far is West Palm from here?”

  Originally, we were planning to spend the night at John-John’s house, but Jack figured that we were now about as welcome in Atlanta as Sherman. She made herself laugh, which is why I didn’t ask for an explanation. (I’ll Google it later.) So we’re headed south, following Ingrid’s browser history clues.

  “We have about seven hours to go,” I say, executing a small stretch in my seat.

  “If you’re exhausted, I can drive. Or, we can stop at a motel.”

  “I’m too full of adrenaline to sleep. Plus, Kelly’s expecting us. I said we wouldn’t be there until close to dawn, so she gave me the code to the door. We’ll rest, shower up. Then Miami’s about a hour and a half away. Sound like a plan?”

  “Yes.” Jack opens one of the Diet Cokes I packed, and without my needing to ask, hands me an open can as well. “Is her door code still 666?”

  I glance over at her. “Are you really in a position to throw shade on anyone else’s family right now?”

  She clamps her eyes closed. “Shit, Kitty, I’m sorry. Old habits.”

  “Teasing you, Jack. Like friends do. Get used to it. And yes, Kelly is still Kelly. Not as anti-Christ-y as before, though. She’s mellowed. Unfortunately for her, both her girls are teenagers now and they’re exactly like she used to be.”

  “Sweet, sweet justice.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my folks say, too.”

  Jack sips her soda, then scrubs at her eyes. “Sorry you had to witness all of that. Now you know everything, or close to it.”

  “Please, I know the crappy, hurtful stuff. Tell me about the fun stuff! Did you really shower with that famous general?”

  “Never even met the man.”

  I take a drink. “Boring! No offense. What else? I want gossip.”

  “I was almost engaged once.”

  I give her a playful small shove. This is what I’m talking about! “Get out of here! When? What happened?”

  “Over a decade ago, but we were off and on for a long time before that. We split for a lot of good reasons—the timing was off, we were both married to our jobs, I was halfway around the world.”

  “Did you have a big Betsy-style breakup?”

  Jack laughs. “Jesus, no. For such a sober, serious woman, I never understood the histrionics. Did you? Remember senior year when she keyed Jeff Windsor’s car? Or when she egged Peter Archer’s apartment?”

  I say, “I didn’t realize that was Peter. I thought she lost it over Steve Reynolds.”

  Jack pulls off her ponytail holder before refastening it a little more loosely. “Eh, I can’t remember. Youthful indiscretions, right? My breakup was amicable, though. No eggs, no damage to his car’s finish or gas tank. We kept in touch for a long time, until we didn’t.”

  “Again, boring. No offense. Ever wonder what might have been?” Kitty asks.

  “Constantly. That’s why I’m considering coming home for good.”

  I choke on my soda. “You’re kidding! Isn’t your whole identity wrapped up in being this big foreign correspondent, no offense?”

  Jack reaches for her right foot and begins to rub the arch. “None taken. It is. It was. But I can’t live this lifestyle forever. I can stand the heat, the cold, the danger, the deplorable living conditions, the crushing sadness of what I’ve witnessed. I just can’t take the loneliness anymore. My job isolates me. While I’ve had relationships here and there—”

  “We are talking about men, right?”

  Frowning, Jack glances up from her foot. “I’m starting to take offense.”

  “Why?” I ask. “An hour ago, I didn’t know your mother was alive. Sue me for verifying the facts.”

  “Yes, Kitty. Men. Being back home, seeing Teddy and Terry, my dad and Gloria, everyone else my age coupled up, I realize I’m finally ready for more. Take your life, for example. You’re surrounded by love. Even Nana Baba’s crazy about you. She only tells you what to do because she’s not one to express her true emotions. Trust me, the Jordans are expert on this maneuver.”

  “What? Baba? I thought she just got off on being critical.”

  “Not from where I sit. Thought you were a cautionary tale, Kitty, the poster child for everything I was trying to avoid. But now I’ve seen you in your element and I realize I want something like that. A smaller house and a bigger yard, no offense, but otherwise, your life seems ideal.”

  If Jack’s being so honest, there’s no reason I can’t be more forthright.

  “‘Seems ideal’ is the operative term. So much of what I do now is for show that sometimes I forget what’s real and what’s a staged photo op. You want to talk about crushing loneliness? Try being stuck at home with three kids under eight years old, in the snow, without having a single adult conversation all day. You love them with your whole soul, but it’s so much giving with so little receiving. And when you do see another adult, the conversation isn’t ever about you—it’s about potty training or growth percentiles or immersion language class. You stop being ‘Kitty’ and start being ‘Kord’s mommy.’”

  “What my mother said—did you identify with any of that?” Jack asks, now massaging the opposite foot.

  “Yes and no. Every stay-at-home parent feels overwhelmed from time to time. You just have to find a way to not lose yourself. For me, I became involved in the Parent Teacher Organization and I started my blog. I felt like I had good ideas and I wanted to share them to make the road easier for other moms. You figure out how to make it work; you don’t just leave and take a massive do-over like Lucille. That’s despicable.”

  “I knew Sars had to like you for some reason. Only took me twenty years to find out why.”

  I admit, “Eh, don’t be so quick with your praise, especially on the Web site. I started off with such good intentions, and it became a real source of pride . . . but it morphed into vanity. In the past y
ear or so, I’ve been so concerned with presenting an impeccable life that I now live a life I can’t afford. Ask me about the four hundred dollars’ worth of flowers I buy each month, just to keep up appearances. I feel like the financial stress has made me phony and so envious of what everyone has that I don’t.”

  “Money trouble—that why you keep insisting I pay for everything?”

  I redden in the darkened front seat. “Guilty as charged. Worse? I’ve focused so much on presenting myself as the perfect mom that I kind of forgot to be a good wife. I put everything into my children and my home. Sure, the kids are thriving, but not my marriage. I need to have a long talk with Ken when he gets back from Miami. I have so much to apologize for and I want us to have a fresh start.”

  “It’s never too late for a course correction.”

  “I hope you’re right. What’s funny is your brother is the one who helped me figure this all out. My God, was it just yesterday?”

  “Bobby’s a great listener.”

  “Definitely. He’s insightful, maybe more than you realize. At least I understand how I’ve gone off track and I’ve come up with a plan to right it all. Wish I didn’t have to wait a week for Ken to come home. I want to start my do-over now, you know?”

  “Wait, did you say Ken’s in Miami?”

  I nod. “Dental conference at the Delano Hotel.”

  Jack reaches for Ingrid’s computer. “Hold on, let me check something.” She pulls up the browser history. “Serendipity! Kitty, we have a new plan. We’ll drive straight through because the Delano’s one of the hotels we need to investigate, along with the Wintercourt Miami. We can book a room there—yes, on me—and you can surprise him tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find Trip quickly and you’ll have a little second honeymoon together. Sound good?”

  “So good,” I confirm. “But is this just because you want to avoid spending time with Kelly?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Maybe a little. I’ve had enough drama for one day.”