Field of Schemes

by Coburn, Jennifer

  I paused, tackling questions from the trivial to important. How did she get Dave’s phone number? Why did she invite him to the bogus Steve Emmet Foundation dinner? Why didn’t she check with me first? “Oh,” was all I could muster.

  “I’m wondering if it’s going to be awkward if I go,” he said. “If it’s something you’d rather I sit out, I understand.”

  “Oh,” I said again, dumbly. “What did you tell Lil?”

  “I said I’d check with you and get back to her. Claire, I haven’t pulled any punches with you and I’m not about to start now. I’m looking for any excuse to spend time with you, but this isn’t exactly your typical rubber chicken benefit, so I want to check in and see what you think of me tagging along. I mean, I want to be respectful of your wishes.”

  “Respectful of my wishes?” I repeated.

  “Well, your boundaries,” he said.

  “You sound like such a therapist,” I teased.

  “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

  “It’s not. I feel like I’m going to have to turn in an invoice to my HMO after this conversation.”

  “My God, that’s exactly what Jessica used to say,” he laughed.

  “She was right. Treat me like a woman, not a patient.”

  “A woman?”

  “A woman friend,” I clarified, though as I said that I wondered about my position. Might that have been a flutter in my heart as we bantered?

  “Claire, I’m really concerned about you,” he said.

  “Please, Dave. I’m sure I’ll be fine whether you attend tonight’s event or not.”

  “No, it’s not that. Do you really have an HMO?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I was stunned by the volume of chatter at the cocktail reception before the event. I’d expected maybe a hundred people to show up at this thing, but before we even entered the lobby, we could hear that there were far more in attendance. When Dave and I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of nearly a thousand people mingling at four separate bars. In my black wrap dress, I was painfully underdressed as women sashayed about, each gown more glittering than the next. Half of the men were in tuxedos, while the others were in suits. I felt like a waitress. My rhinestone barrette pulling back my low ponytail paled in comparison to the flowered-up dos and braided masterpieces. Maggie Jennings wore a rhinestone tiara. Good Lord, let there be a podcast of this in heaven.

  A few minutes after our arrival, I found Lil, Barbara, and Blake. Steve’s brother and his wife were running late. As we chatted, we noticed the pianist was wearing small angel wings as he played cheesy eighties pop songs at the keyboard. Upon further inspection, I was aghast to see that they were actually model lungs thinly covered with white feathers! My jaw dropped, but before I could say a word, the group turned and politely began clapping. The pianist stood, placed his hands in a prayer position, and bowed. Blech! He sat again, then began playing “Lost in Love” by Air Supply. Come to think of it, the last song he played was “Every Woman in the World.” Oh. My. God. The song before that was “Even the Nights Are Better.” Was Maggie Jennings really hosting a reception for non-smoking-related lung cancer where the musical repertoire consists solely of music by Air Supply?

  “You look like a ghost, sweetheart,” Lil said, touching my arm. I closed my eyes and took in the delicious scent of White Shoulders, the perfume she wore at my wedding, family gatherings, and her son’s funeral.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” I shrieked. “The piano player’s dressed like an angel, and the hostess looks like the Queen of England. This is clearly a masquerade ball. Why shouldn’t I look like a ghost?”

  “Shhhh,” she said, stroking my arm. “Relax, sweetheart.” Mother and Blake milled about chatting with guests. Dave was getting us drinks at the bar. Soon the ballroom doors opened and it was time to be seated. Now, admittedly Lil spelled her last name differently than the Steve Emmet Foundation, but one would think they’d notice the similarity and check to see if she was related. No such luck. Our table was in the outer region of Siberia.

  After dinner plates were cleared, the lights dimmed and Maggie floated onto the stage. “That dress is awful!” my mother said, a bit too loudly.

  “Good evening, friends,” Maggie began. Looking dramatically to the left, then right, then up toward the heavens (or her spotlight), she continued. “Friends. Family. We are here tonight to honor the memory of a beautiful soul who left us far before his time.”

  Lil’s eyes glazed. While this was no more than a performance for Maggie, Lil and I really felt the sting of Steve’s death. Behind Maggie was a screen that read, “Welcome to the first annual Steve Emmet Foundation Dinner.” As Maggie continued, a studio portrait of the Jennings family appeared on the screen. It was the same one they had used on last year’s holiday letter. “When Steve came to the firm, it was with big dreams and even more drive.” Lil looked at me, smiling at the memory. The screen flashed a new photo of Steve’s back as he tossed a football to Jimmy Jennings. “At the annual picnic, no one spent more time with the kids than our Steve.” The picture changed to a meeting where Ed Jennings was speaking and sixteen partners sat around the mahogany table and listened. Is that Steve or Zack Winston? Oh, there he is in the red tie! I bought him that tie. “Having Steve at the firm made us all richer, and I don’t just mean because of his savvy business sense,” she said with a cheesy laugh. “We were blessed by his spirit, his vitality, his joie de vivre.” The image changed again to Steve and his friend, Elaine Chin, after they finished the Los Angeles Marathon. They held water bottles with the firm logo emblazoned on them. “Steve worked hard and played hard with his beautiful, athletic wife, Clara.”

  Everyone at our table looked at me in shock. “Did she just call you Clara?” Lil asked.

  “That doesn’t look like you,” Dave added. Well, no, considering Elaine Chin was Chinese.

  My head dropped into my hands in horror. This horrid woman hadn’t bothered to get a single fact straight about Steve. She was almost defiant in her inaccuracy.

  The photo now changed to one of Ed Jennings holding six-month-old Rachel at the firm picnic. It actually was Rachel, which was a relief. Maggie continued, “And how Steve loved his son.”

  I almost laughed until I caught a glimpse of Lil accepting a handkerchief from Dave. “Lil, are you okay?”

  “This is too much,” she sniffed. “This woman is making a mockery of my son’s life.”

  My mother placed her hand on top of Lil’s and mouthed for me to do something!

  I looked at Dave for guidance. He nodded his head in agreement, then added, “Someone needs to set this woman straight.”

  I felt as though I had strings on my shoulders and someone was lifting them up. I had no intention of standing, but suddenly I was on my feet. “Excuse me,” I said loudly. Maggie continued, oblivious. A few tables in front of us heard me and started mumbling curiously. “Excuse me, Maggie,” I said louder. More tables began buzzing as Maggie chattered still unaware of my interruption.

  Rarely does life come with such recognizable moments of self-definition. I knew that how I handled the next few seconds would determine who I was from this day forward. I could sit down quietly and hide, or I could demand to be heard. “Excuse me!” I shouted so loud that nothing but the sound of my voice filled the room.

  Unfazed, Maggie remained smiling, squinting into the crowd to address the silhouette in the back. “I’ll be happy to answer questions from the audience after the presentation,” she said sweetly. Audience?! “When our friend Steve was diagnosed with lung cancer, we were shocked. He didn’t even—”

  “No!” I shouted so loudly I shocked Maggie into silence. Lil grabbed my hand to bolster me. “Answer my question right now.” The crowd began murmuring, asking who I was and what I wanted. Only one person recognized me as Steve’s wife, but he was quickly corrected by another, who pointed out that I wasn’t Chinese.

  “As I said, I will be happy to enter
tain all questions after—”

  “Entertain my question?! You’ll entertain my question?! That is the most accurate thing you’ve said all night, Maggie Jennings! This whole event is about entertainment and the glorification of you and your self-important family!” There was another gasp and a few muffled giggles. Maggie stood frozen at her podium, holding her hand to her chest in horror. “Don’t you even recognize me, Maggie? It’s Claire. Claire, Steve’s wife. Not Clara. Claire. Claire Emmett with two T’s, Steve’s widow. And this is his family,” I said, gesturing to the people around our table. My outrage was mounting as I had the rapt attention of everyone in the room. “We came here to see why you started a foundation in Steve’s name without checking with any of us first. We wanted to let you know that Steve didn’t die of lung cancer. He died of lymphoma!” The crowd began murmuring quite loudly now. “I would have told you this if you’d bothered to call us—even once—over the last two years to see how we were doing. So you can stand up there like the almighty lung princess and pretend you cared about my husband, but I’m here to tell everyone that you are a complete and total fraud!” The crowd gasped. “Really, do any of you believe this ruse?!”

  I heard a squeaky voice at another table comment, “I didn’t know Maggie was Russian.”

  I laughed. “Listen, you’re all here because you care about finding cures to serious illness. Please give money to the Cancer Society or the Lung Association because the family of Steve Emmett is completely hurt and appalled by this sham foundation.”

  Though the guests muffled their responses, I could tell they were with me. So could Maggie, which is why she began her sugary protest. “Claire, honey, I know this has been a difficult time for you, but please let’s not lash out at those who love you most.” What?! Until three minutes ago, she thought I was a Chinese woman named Clara.

  “Grab your coats,” I demanded of the table. Lil and Dave stood first and the rest followed suit.

  “Please, honey, let’s not let grief divide us when we need each other,” Maggie said.

  “Save it, Maggie!” I said, reaching for my wrap. “I’ve got bigger idiots than you to deal with. My kid plays club soccer.”

  As we all exited toward the lobby, Dave broke the tension. “I hate those charity dinners,” he said. “Same old thing every time.”

  “You told me to say something!” I said to them.

  Lil smiled. “I didn’t mean right that second. Sweetheart, you’ve got a lot of gumption these days, but we really do need to work on your timing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  September brought the team two wins and two losses in the regular season games. Mimi blamed the girls’ weight and sluggishness on the field, and continued urging parents to demand fitness training. She even brought a petition to practice, which half of the parents signed. This brought Preston to the field to have a parent meeting at the following practice. He explained that Gunther was the coach and whether or not to have additional fitness training was his call. “Nothing is stopping you from running laps with your kids on your own time, but the coach makes the decisions for the team,” he said lightly. “By the way, does anyone know about the nine-year-old goalie at Turf? Natalie Something. I heard her family isn’t happy over there. Anyone know those folks?”

  The girls ran their plays, worked hard and looked good in their first four games. The Normals were satisfied, but the angry dads and their flame fanner were livid with Gunther’s alleged incompetence. They were at their worst when we were down a goal or two in a game. When we were ahead, things were okay, celebrative even. While we no longer had Raymond on the sidelines shouting, “Nooooo mer-saaaaay!” Leo recycled an old hip-hop lyric and sang, “Whoop, dere it is!” whenever our girls scored.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” my mother added.

  Blake nodded approvingly as if the only thing he might add would be, “Jolly good.”

  Ron stopped provoking Dick after the last game in September, when our inebriated soccer dad charged the field and jumped on the referee’s back, wrestling him to the ground. His counterpart from the other team ran out onto the field, which everyone assumed was to pull Dick off of the ref, but then he began kicking Dick. Really hard. I had mixed feelings about this.

  Obviously, they were both ejected from the game, but oddly Mimi did not feel compelled to address this in her post-game email. I would have thought this was worth at least three exclamation points.

  What also became part of the regular season routine were the sideline pep talks from the dads. Anytime a girl was on the bench, her father would kneel beside her and start telling her everything she did wrong. Of course, none of the Normals did this, but Dick, Bobby, Leo, and Paulo could always be counted on to deliver to his daughter a bottle of water and an utterly uninspiring discussion about how she was blowing the game for the team. Paulo’s were the most tolerable because I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I didn’t need to speak Italian to get the gist of it. I’d just watch Giovanna’s posture deflate as her father’s words drained her expression of every ounce of joy. Often, pools of tears collected in the girls’ eyes right before they had to go back on the field. Sometimes these dads wouldn’t even wait until the girls were off the field to criticize them. After Kylie missed a penalty kick, Dick shouted, “That’s what you get for hesitating!”

  I don’t know how I managed to turn into a Girl Friday for Raymond and Leesha, but I seemed to be visiting Target with two shopping lists a lot in the fall. Once, Rachel and I made our delivery at around dinnertime, so Leesha invited us to join them for the most succulent pot roast with sweet potatoes and corn I’d ever tasted. With every visit, Raymond softened a little toward me, but the day I won him over was when I brought Leesha a box of nicotine patches instead of her usual carton of Lucky Strikes. “You’re sweet, Claire!” she said, visibly moved as she looked at the smoking cessation kit. “Look Ray, she got the patches in brown.”

  “What do you want?” Raymond asked me.

  “I’d like Leesha to stop smoking. I don’t know if you’ve heard the new Surgeon General’s report, but they say that smoking may be related to lung cancer.” Raymond smiled and nodded. “Listen, some people aren’t all that sympathetic when smokers get lung cancer, that’s all I’m saying.” I filled them in on the Maggie Jennings dinner after Violet and Rachel left the table to play a video game. They listened agape.

  By October, the team parents had divided like the Red Sea. There was the Dick camp, who wanted to overthrow Gunther and replace him with Mimi. Then there was the other half of the soccer team parents, who just wanted to show up at games, cheer for the girls and be done with it until the next Saturday. Unlike the Soccer Freak faction, the Normals had other activities scheduled on Saturdays before and after games. Lo and behold, they felt no need to return home immediately and review game tape with their child’s private trainer. We appreciated soccer for what it was and had absolutely no desire to stage a coup d’état and instate a new regime. Frankly, I liked Gunther. Rachel’s soccer skills had improved immeasurably, and most importantly, she belonged to a team at a time in her life when she needed it most. She had a place where she belonged, and I had zero interest in upsetting it.

  Not only did this team bring Rachel the purpose and confidence she so desperately needed, it offered me a lot too. Parents’ lives can get so busy that developing and sustaining adult friendships can be tough. Through the team, I had a standing date with Darcy and Dave, which was time I treasured. I enjoyed chatting with Nancy, Jessica, and the Jennifers; loath as I am to admit it, I found Gia surprisingly enjoyable to have around. She was like a little pink buoy in a stormy sea. Soccer also brought together my family in a way I hadn’t expected. “Red Card Barb” was at every single game and didn’t flinch when the alcoholic fathers gave her the nickname. Heaven help me, they liked her.

  The team’s October games looked a lot like September’s. They won some, they lost some, and most could have gone either way becaus
e both teams fielded excellent players who seemed to be improving every week. Just as our girls perfected a set play, so did the other team. Each game was a nail-biter as opposed to the easy road to the medals we had in our first two summer tournaments. The regular season games were also unlike the pummeling we took from the teams we met at the Patriots Cup. Our girls looked solid, but it seemed unlikely that we were going to win the state championship this year. The clearer that became, the crazier Mimi got.

  “This is so cool!” Rachel said as she held the December edition of Garb featuring my “fist full of lira” necklace on the cover. “When does it hit the newsstands?”

  “Mid-November,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. Secretly, I was thrilled that the following week my design would hang from the neck of an ultra-hip senior. More than the cachet of having made a necklace that would be seen by millions of women was the seal of approval from one in particular.

  “So, next week every grandmother in America’s going to be looking at your necklace?” Rachel asked.

  Letting down my guard, I smiled coyly and said, “Only the ones with taste.”

  “That’s so cool, Mom. You should do jewelry for teens.” Ah, the ultimate compliment—acceptance by a group of Justin Bieber fans.

  The following week, my mother called. “You are never going to believe what’s going on here this morning!”

  “Becks and Posh broke up?!”

  She laughed. “Really, guess whose phone is ringing off the hook this morning?”

  “Wow, I’ve got to hand it to you, Mom. Whoever thought your phone sex for old folks would take off?”

  “Oh, you are just full of hilarity this morning, aren’t you? Be serious for one moment.”

  “Just tell me, Mother!”

  “Subscribers are calling to find out where they can get lira necklaces. Apparently, quite a few women have good memories of pre-euro Italy.”