Field of Schemes

by Coburn, Jennifer

  The world stopped moving. This was the moment of truth. I had to put an end to this right now, but had to do it in a way that he could save face. I would make it a mutual thing that “we” had to end so he wouldn’t feel foolish or rejected.

  “Listen, Ron,” I said, whispering as we remained tucked away from the rest of the world. My heart was pounding so loudly it was beating in my ears. As I moved closer to him, I contemplated changing my tack entirely and kissing him instead. Thankfully, my good sense returned before I lunged at him. “I think you’re a great guy, but we’ve got to stop this.”

  “Stop what?” he asked suggestively.

  “This little flirtation between us,” I said. “I mean, if you weren’t married it would be different, but I’m Darcy’s best friend, so ... ” I drifted off.

  Ron scrunched his face as if he had no idea what I meant. “Claire, I’m really sorry if I gave you the wrong idea,” he began. Oh God, let me die right now. “It was only a goldfish. Sorry if you thought it meant something more.” With that, he offered, “No hard feelings, okay?”

  What?! The world froze. Ron was still kneeling before me, his face cast in an expression of bewilderment. I searched aimlessly for life’s rewind button. How do I take back that whole exchange? How do I erase Sexy Dad saying, “No hard feelings. It was only a goldfish”?

  “Oh,” slipped out softly. “Wow, I’m embarrassed.” Stop talking! Feelings of humiliation do not need to be shared with source of said humiliation.

  “Claire, don’t worry about it. No big deal,” Ron said, shrugging as he stood.

  “There you are!” Mimi said as she appeared in the kitchen entryway. “I thought I lost you.”

  “Never,” he said. Oh, so now he’s flirting with her?! Or is this just the way he interacts with women who aren’t his wife? Oh God, let me die now, I’ve made such a colossal ass of myself. “I was helping Claire clean up some spilled milk.”

  Mimi gave a little laugh that would sound like a giggle to a man, but any woman would know was really a cackle. “I hope you’re not crying over it, Claire.”

  Oh, hilarious. How long did it take you to come up with that nugget?

  “All right, you all set in here?” Ron asked me.

  Am I all set in here?

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Thanks for your help.”

  “It was nothing,” he said, walking away with Mimi.

  Okay, got it. Message received.

  I watched the two walk away in slow motion, then join the others outside as they beat the daylights out of a rainbow-colored jackass until its candy guts spilled onto the patio.

  I mustered just enough gumption to find Rachel and told her that I was leaving. “Come home when the party’s over. I have a headache,” I said before slinking home to crawl under my duvet with the sincere hope that I would suffocate in bed and never have to face Ron, Darcy, or anyone in this neighborhood again.

  I took three aspirins and decided to lie in bed and hyper-analyze every discussion I’d ever had with Ron. Every word, nuance, intonation and expression would be replayed, dissected and scrutinized the way only a woman could.

  After about an hour of self-flagellation, I dragged myself out of bed and went online to check to see how much I could sell the house for and what housing prices were like in, say, Maine or New Hampshire. Before I could get an appraisal for our home, I heard the postal truck pull up to the front of my house and rushed to the mailbox. Steve always said that I had Cargo Cult syndrome because of my excitement over mail delivery. Apparently there is a group of Pacific Islanders who stand by the shore, convinced that their fortune will be delivered by an incoming ship. Hence the expression about someone’s ship coming in. Whatever the reason, I unfailingly grew excited when I heard the rustling of mail being placed in my box.

  Because absolutely nothing could go right today, the mail brought two disturbing notices. In today’s delivery I received a fundraising letter from the Steve Emmet Foundation. (They still hadn’t corrected the spelling of our name!) Under the logo —a set of winged lungs—Maggie Jennings pleaded for my tax-deductible donation to help her group find a cure for non-smoking-related lung cancer. Before I could tear up the letter, I noticed a faux-handwritten message reminding me to save the date for the first annual “Breath of Fresh Air” gala in September.

  After tossing that into the trash I found a curious piece of mail—a MasterCard bill addressed to the treasurer of Kix GU13 White soccer team. Somehow, Mimi had guilted me into handling the accounting for the team. When I opened the bill, I found charges for the Marriott in La Perla and a pricey meal at Majorca Grill.

  When I called Mimi that evening, she quickly told me I should just give her the bill and she’d take care of it. “How do I account for it on the books?” I asked.

  “You don’t. I said I’d take care of it,” she replied curtly.

  “But I don’t understand why—”

  “Claire, I said I’d take care of it. I need you to give me the bill at practice and I’ll make sure it gets paid.”

  “But when did we—”

  “Claire, you’re obviously new to this, so let me explain how it works. You make sure everyone pays their registration and coaching fees. You write checks for tournaments and pizza parties, or anything else I tell you we need. I don’t need to spend time justifying every little expense to you, got it?”

  “Oh, I’ve got it,” I said smugly. Mimi was the recruiter of dads. Why didn’t Darcy mention that it was our very own team manager who was taking one for the team?

  She sighed, sounding exasperated, but knowing that she had to provide some sort of explanation. “Claire, sometimes we recruit players from other parts of the state and we need to put their families up in a hotel and wine ’em and dine ’em a little. It’s beyond the scope of what the club does, so I’m willing to pay for it out-of-pocket.”

  One might think that I’d have a little compassion for people who had just been caught in an embarrassing situation, but Mimi was so nasty to me at the team meeting that I took a little pleasure in twitting her a bit. “That is so generous of you, Mimi,” I said, “but don’t we already have a full team? Why are we recruiting new players at the beginning of the season? If a family lives so far from Santa Bella that they need to stay in a hotel, how are they ever going to make it to practices and games?”

  I felt emboldened for exactly one second. Then Mimi launched into me and made it abundantly clear who would win the battle and the war. If I made Mimi my enemy, she wouldn’t just tear a soccer jersey. “Listen here, Claire,” she said with a mouth so tight I could see it through the phone. “I know you think you’re really cute with your little innuendoes, but let me make myself clear. I am the manager of this team and will not take a half-ounce of bullshit from you. This family is moving to Santa Bella in September, and if our team can sign this girl, we’ll be unstoppable at State Cup. Maybe no one explained this to you while you were busy worrying about team banners and the like, but after the regular season ends, we can add new players to our roster. The season is officially over so we can bring on new blood and cut the mistakes.”

  “Are you threatening my daughter?” I asked, outraged.

  “I’m threatening you. Take me on and I guarantee you will lose. Be a good little treasurer and write the checks and shut up. I have no patience for you people who come to the club, know nothing about the way things work and waste my time making me explain it. Try a little humility and observe for a while before you come in and start running off at the mouth.”

  Shit, this chick was scary! What happened to girl power?

  “Are you done?” I asked, feigning indignation. I thought it would come off better than the abject fear I really felt.

  “I’m done and I hope this conversation is, too. If I have to talk to you again about this, I won’t be as pleasant about it.” Then Mimi hung up.

  As I sat in a puddle of my own sweat, I looked at the clock, dismayed to see that this day was far from over. It w
asn’t even eight o’clock and I was ready to wave my white flag and surrender to the day. I changed into my pajamas, crawled into my bed and watched STivo tell me that I would be okay without him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After my exchange with Mimi, I faced a parenting dilemma. Did I still allow Rachel to attend pre-practice homework sessions at the Shasta Palace? Was the tax-evading, possibly drug-trafficking house a great place for Rachel to be? When I told Darcy about our phone conversation, she seemed completely unfazed. “Darcy, did you hear what I just told you?”

  “She’s a bitch,” Darcy shrugged. “Everyone knows that. She’s been like this since the girls were little, and I expect she’ll keep it up till they’re off to college. We’ve lost a few players because of her. Good players, too.”

  “Why does the club still let her manage teams?” I asked.

  “Claire, her family completely funds the foundation. All of Shasta Imports’ local clients are club sponsors. They think she’s awesome. She’s on their board and was the president of the organization for three years. Don’t take this so personally. Mimi has issues with women, attractive women in particular.” Oh, thank you. “Personally, I think she’s awful, but the truth is she’s terrific with the girls. She doesn’t see them as competition.”

  “So you let Kelly go to her house unsupervised?” I asked.

  “I’m telling you, Claire, she’s amazing with the girls. Last year, Kelly came home with all of her homework done, her notebook organized, and an academic schedule that Mimi helped her put together.”

  “Really? Wow.” Though I was happy to hear that Mimi would be a positive influence on Rachel, I had to admit to feeling more than a bit conflicted about the report. I wished Mimi were thoroughly evil, like the wicked queen who offers poison apples to fair-skinned lovelies. Now I wasn’t sure who or what she was. A bitch with a soft spot for girls? A feminist athlete who was jealous of pretty women? Why did she have to be such an oxymoron?

  MEMORANDUM

  TO: The Team

  FROM: Mimi Shasta

  DATE: April 8

  RE: First Practice!

  I hope you’re all as excited as I am about our first practice this Tuesday afternoon! I will pick up the girls from Santa Bella Elementary after school, and my good friend Jinx has graciously agreed to pick up the girls who attend Our Lady of Forgiveness even though her daughter, Sissy, was cut from this year’s team to make room for new girls! Since we only have two girls who go to Beth Israel Hebrew Day, I trust the parents will work out a carpool and get their kids to practice on time!

  Our first tournament is right around the corner so we need to get busy! The Memorial Weekend Classic is in Santa Barbara and our team will be staying at the Crowne Plaza, the official hotel of the tournament! I will get you the schedules as soon as I can, but the club hasn’t posted it yet (ugh!)!

  Go Kix!!!

  When I showed up at the practice field on Thursday, Mimi was leading the girls in laps. She was dressed in head-to-toe Nike gear from her wristbands to her socks. I suspect her underwear bore the swoosh as well. Rachel told me that Mimi bragged to the girls about her exclusive deal with Nike. Darcy said she highly doubted this was the case. The more likely scenario was that some old fart at Sports Chalet told her that she was “so purdy she oughta be the model for Nike.” Mimi probably batted her extended lashes, pouted her collagen lips, and convinced the helpless schlep to give her a few free items. After all, who even knows about kids’ soccer team managers? If no one was giving Gunther an exclusive deal, no one was giving Mimi one either. (Stellar college career notwithstanding.)

  Rachel saw that I’d arrived and gave me a silly wave as she followed the pack. The girls then played leap frog, ran agility hoops and jumped hurdles. I was exhausted just watching for fifteen minutes.

  Or maybe I was exhausted by listening to the dads. Paulo shouted directions in Italian to Giovanna constantly. I don’t speak Italian, but he was clearly telling her to pick up her knees since this is what she started doing immediately upon hearing his commands.

  Raymond told Violet to “work that hoop, girl!”

  Dick, Bobby and Leo simply made a bunch of sounds that sounded like animal mating calls. How could they be this excited over fitness training?! I can see if we were at a game, but this was ridiculous.

  Gia and her boobs were taking a Cosmo quiz, Are You Discreet? Nancy was knitting and the Jennifers decided to use their time to run. Only Jessica and Darcy were missing.

  I was not looking forward to seeing Darcy again. I wondered how she reacted when Ron told her about what happened. Did she think me a presumptuous fool or a pathetic fool? God, I hoped pathetic.

  Gunther blew his whistle and called the girls to him. Mimi pointed at her watch as if to tell him that her fitness training hadn’t concluded. He returned the gesture with a dismissive wave. “They start practicing soccer now,” he said.

  Mimi smiled brightly, though anyone could see she was annoyed. “This is soccer, Gunther. It’s fitness training for soccer.”

  “I start now,” he said.

  “Girls! Run a lap while I talk to the coach.” As she walked over to Gunther, I swore I heard the Darth Vader music in the background. The two had a trial-like sidebar with Mimi’s hands flailing about in protest and Gunther simply shaking his head.

  “I am telling you no,” he said, interrupting her tirade about their agreement.

  “We have a lot of slow girls on this team!” she protested. She couldn’t be talking about Rachel. “They need to be in shape or they’ll never—”

  “I am telling you no,” Gunther repeated.

  “I can hear that, but what I’m telling you is that—”

  “We do my practicing, then we do yours if there is time.”

  You go, Gunther. You da man!

  I have no idea what transpired between them in the weeks between our team meeting and the first practice, but clearly Gunther felt the need to assert himself and establish himself as the leader of this team. I, for one, couldn’t have been happier.

  “Gunther!” Mimi yelled.

  “I am telling you to stop talking,” Gunther said.

  Loving this! Why couldn’t I tell Mimi, “I am telling you to shut up now”?

  When the girls came back around the track, Mimi announced that it was time for Gunther to take over. The group walked off to a small area offset by orange cones. Any reservations I had about our coach vanished when I saw him take control of the practice. For one, he spoke. He seemed to be stringing multiple sentences together and making facial expressions. Then the girls started laughing. “Yes, this is truth, girls,” he said, admitting to something that Savannah said. “But you learn and work hard and you will do even better than I play soccer. I see you at tryout and you look like superstar.” Good God, he was charming. And chatty. Who would have imagined?!

  The four fat fathers stood like Mount Rushmore on the sideline. “Who to? Who to?” shouted Raymond when a plain-topped Violet passed to a girl wearing a neon yellow bib.

  “Out wide, move to space, Savannah!” added Leo.

  “Kylie, hustle! Mariah, on your toes! Tandy, you hang in there, stay tough!” shouted Dick.

  “Turn and burn, turn and burn, Cayenne!” bellowed Bobby.

  Paulo shouted more in Italian, which sounded like he just got in an accident with another motorist.

  The worst part of it was that all of this voluminous instruction was dispensed simultaneously. It reminded me of traders at the New York Stock Exchange. If I were a child, I would have frozen in my tracks and cried. After a season of this, I would have been on kiddie Zoloft.

  When Gunther moved onto the next exercise, the sideline coaching became sideline complaining. The dads started muttering, questioning the purpose of the drill. “What’s Tandy working on shooting for?” Dick asked rhetorically. “She’s a defender, she don’t need no shooting drills.”

  “Like Cayenne needs to take shots on goal!” Bobby said of his goalkeeper
daughter.

  “Every girl taking a shot right now should have a sweeper on her ass, trying to shut her down, like in a real game,” Raymond added.

  “Nah, this ain’t right,” Leo said. “He can’t be sivious.”

  “Put Cayenne in at goal!” shouted Bobby. “Shooting on an open goal is never gonna happen in a game, Gunther!”

  Gunther looked at the group, unsure of who shouted what. “Mimi, stop shouting,” he pleaded.

  “I’m not saying a word,” she shouted, then followed up with a muttered “Frankenschtein.”

  “Not you shouting,” Gunther clarified. “Stop the shouting. I cannot concentration.”

  “Oh please,” she said loudly enough for the parents on the sideline to hear, but not enough for Gunther and girls to catch wind of. “How many people were shouting during your World Cup games?”

  Gunther turned his attention back to the girls and began another exercise.

  Mimi ambled over to the Psych Ward. “I need you guys to be quiet.”

  “Ah snap, who let the dawgs out?” Leo said, laughing.

  What did that even mean?

  “What the hell’s this guy doin’?” Dick demanded.

  “I didn’t drive no thirty minutes when I can get sucky-ass coaching at Conquistadors in my own backyard,” Leo said.

  “Guys, we need to put on a united front with these girls, got it?” Mimi said. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled when my fitness session got cut in half, but you don’t see me whining about it, do you?”

  “We need to get the girls ready to play in game situations, y’see what I’m sayin’?” Bobby asked, sucking his teeth and adjusting his ExxonMobil cap. “Cayenne needs to be in the box blockin’ shots, not learning how to shoot goals.”

  The group grumbled in agreement.

  Gia stopped filling out her questionnaire and held her pen over the same spot on the magazine page. Clearly, she wouldn’t need to score the quiz to find out that she was not in the least bit discreet. As the Jennifers jogged by, they noticed the escalating tension and slowed to listen. Nancy stopped at knit-one and stared as well, surely wondering if the gluten in their diets made them act so wacky. I imagined that she was going to suggest kava kava when she began walking toward them.