Altar Call

by Hope Lyda

  Lysa walks by and does a double take.

  “You know,” she says, enjoying my humility, “if you would just follow your passion, you would have a career you love and better income.”

  “What would that career be?”

  “Crash test dummy.” She stares at me with complete seriousness. Only Beau laughs at my new job prospect. He ends up in tears, which finally causes Lysa’s facade to crack and my reluctant smile to appear.

  “Sure, mock me. Both of you. But at least I am contributing to mobility science research. You two just sit back and observe. I am giving heart, soul, and blood to the cause.” I raise my now-bandaged elbow up in salute to my courage.

  “I’ll bet you had to wear a special helmet as a child, didn’t you?” Lysa offers one last punch line and exits shaking her head.

  “No!” I call after her indignantly and deeply hope that she never sees our home movies of me as a three-year-old with protective head gear and thick glasses to correct my wandering eye.

  “I like your clumsiness. How else could I take care of you?” Beau leans in and gazes at me with his deep eyes and a look of tenderness.

  That’s twice today I’ve fallen.

  Remembering Me

  Elmo has just told me in so many meows that he does not like it when I throw crushed ice at his head.

  “But I’m bored,” I say, defending my actions. Poor cat.

  The expanse of an entire weekend is laid out before me. I used to like being alone. In fact, I lived for it. All day at work I would fantasize about being in this personal space, away from the demands of the residents, the commands of my former boss, Rae, and even distant from the expectations of friends. This used to be my sacred ground.

  But my apartment has lost its appeal for me. For the past several months my time has been spent working, running errands with Sadie, meeting up with Beau for quick meals between his meetings, and hanging out at the library to help Caitlin research how to start her own business. Everywhere but here. The place has been neglected and exudes sadness.

  So what changed? Does a woman’s investment in a relationship completely void her ability to enjoy solitude?

  “I think not!” I shout at Elmo just when he has forgiven me.

  Suddenly, I want this time more than anything. Ever.

  I pull a napkin out from underneath a Sara Lee carrot cake box and start to jot down the things I miss doing with myself.

  1) Going through my books and choosing my top ten.

  2) Watching old movies till dawn.

  3) Practicing handstands against the wall in my living room.

  4) Eating slightly melted ice cream with saltine crackers.

  5) Purging my kitchen with plans to start a new diet tomorrow.

  6) Going to matinees alone and ordering a large popcorn.

  7) Playing CDs and dancing (with curtains closed).

  And perhaps the most important of all:

  8) Wearing pajamas and eating Chinese takeout.

  Within five minutes I have ordered chow mein and hot and sour soup from Chin Ye’s, put my hair in a ponytail, and changed into my worn flannels. Nobody in Tucson wears flannel to bed, I’m sure. But I am a still-single girl enjoying a night to herself, and I will wear flannel.

  Elmo is figuring out that I am actually settling in for the evening and begins to purr. He too has been neglected. It is as if I have been blind to my former likes, my past pleasures, and even my thought life.

  Like Sadie.

  Goodness. Is that what has happened to me? To her? All along I thought her new state of pandemonium was caused by the engagement, by wedding pressures. Maybe a scattered life is not caused by the adding of things to one’s already heavy workload, but is really caused by the undercurrent of loss. Losing oneself to the cause of love.

  This is why Beau is probably the best thing in my life. When left alone, I get too reflective. I could live here forever. Not in this apartment, but in my head. And I sense it is a dangerous place.

  By the time the Chinese food arrives, I have called Angelica and Caitlin to come over so that I will not be left alone with my thoughts. But as fate would have it, they are busy. Of course they are. They have learned this lesson themselves many times over.

  Caitlin has committed to spending Friday evenings at her parents’ house for dinner (very Gilmore Girls of her, considering she has rebelled against her wealthy parental units for years and is just now willing to reconcile). Angelica is studying so she can lead her first group tomorrow morning. Apparently she said yes to the woman she didn’t want to disappoint and said no to Peyton, who has been waiting six disappointing months to go on a date with her.

  It seems we all have been making sacrifices lately.

  Misstep One Two

  How is anything other than a two-step possible? I mean, we have two feet. One. Two.” I showcase my pair of Dansko clogs.

  “Nice.” Lysa presses down the ruffled layers of her square dance skirt.

  “Still fluffy,” I say. “I cannot believe you own this getup.”

  “It was my mom’s. I would only wear this in public for you, Mari.”

  I fold my hands over my heart. “Wait. In public? Does this mean you loll about your apartment in this?”

  Martin, a resident who insists on wearing his chenille bathrobe all day, approaches Lysa from behind and taps her on the shoulder. “Wanna dance?”

  “Sure, Martin. This dress isn’t getting any more attractive, so I might as well put it to use.”

  “But your knees are quite nice.” I wink at my friend before she is whisked away. “And keep your robe closed, Martin!” I holler after them.

  “Ready for a twirl, my dear?” Beau loosens his tie and his mood after a hectic day of conferences with his supervisors.

  “How’d the meetings go? Were you able to make any headway on the recent restructure proposal?”

  He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment I recognize him as a man. I have thought of him as a guy, then as the guy I am dating, then as my boyfriend…but I don’t often acknowledge him as a man. I am about to tell him this, but something in his by now quite lengthy pause gives me cause for pause. Does he think I don’t want to hear about his work? Or worse, does he think I don’t get his work.

  “Sick of talking?” I give him an out.

  “Yes, I guess so.” He grabs it.

  The music takes an upward polka turn but my mood takes a dive. I cannot help but review the past few months of conversation with Beau. We ride the surface of everything and never dig deeper. Stuck in Pleasantry Ville is fine for acquaintances, toll booth operators, and occasionally parents—but not for us. In our early months we talked about everything, even the hard material, like our doubts about life and love.

  For the next forty-five minutes Beau and I dance with each other and a few of the other residents. When together, we manage to maneuver our way across the makeshift dance floor with forced ease.

  I even make it through the do-si-do.

  It is the so-so nature of our relationship I keep tripping over.

  All About Spin

  Overall, the wedding plans are going well. I’m just trying to keep my head above water at work. No wonder brides run away. Planning the big day is like willingly signing up for a second job—without pay.”

  “There’s a payoff. You get to saunter down the aisle in a beautiful white dress and link arms with a wonderful man.”

  “You are right. It is the preshow that is questionable.” Sadie is walking in new heels she bought for the reception. She wants to be a stiletto pro before trying out any dance moves in them. A crack in the sidewalk causes her to grab me for stability.

  “You’d think you would get training heels first,” I joke.

  We are walking along downtown Tucson and nearing our destination. A large sign shaped like a book with a neon bookmark appears just as we pass an ice cream shop. “There it is, Prologue. It is my new regular bookstore.”

  “Got any Band-
Aids?” A quick flip of her ankle positions Sadie’s foot in my line of sight. I am not sure what she expects me to do.

  “Should I blow on it?”

  “No, but can you tell if a blister is forming beneath the ankle strap?”

  I pretend to look but am really eyeing the small group of people trying to get by us on the sidewalk. “Tell you what—I guarantee that once we get into Prologue we will not have to walk for at least an hour. Coffee is on me, and there is a fabulous reading room with leather chairs. I’ll deliver books and magazines, and you will feel like a queen.”

  The foot goes back to its natural position and Sadie straightens her shoulders and gives a quick shake of her black hair. This is her “buck up” posture. I open the door for her, and she limps ever so slightly past me into the air-conditioned store.

  Before Sadie is seated in the biggest leather chair with an ottoman, I have an iced passion tea ordered for her and an Americano ordered for me.

  “Mari?”

  I look around me, unsure which direction the voice is coming from. It is a male voice and a bit tentative. My eyes scan the small clusters of people seated at wooden tables with laptops and scones and stacks of books for research and pleasure.

  “Over here!” The volume of the voice raises and so does the hand of Kevin Milano, fashion photographer and the man who captured my personal fashion metamorphosis last year. He is seated with a rather tall, striking woman with deep-set eyes and nearly bronze hair. Small, stylish glasses perch on her nose seemingly for visual affect and not visual assistance.

  I grab my drinks and walk over to the smiling man. I am feeling good that he recognizes me.

  “So good to see you, Mari. Where is your friend?” He asks, motioning for me to take the open seat next to him.

  “You mean Caitlin…the one who designed my outfits last year?” I am so excited he asked about her. Caitlin could use some encouragement right now.

  “Oh, right. No. I meant Sadie. I saw her walk in with you.”

  “She is putting her feet up. De-stressing for a bit.”

  “Weddings can take a lot out of anyone. And really it is right around the corner.”

  Kevin’s comment takes me by surprise. “You know the wedding date?”

  “Are you kidding? November 19 is engraved on my calendar. Carson Curtis’ wedding will be one of my biggest shoots this year. Besides, I captured his proposal to Sadie last year, and I was thinking I could create a wonderful black-and-white photo essay of their relationship.”

  “Goodness—you are so powerful you can crash exclusive weddings.” I mean it as a compliment, but it sounds a bit judgmental. I am about to revise my phrasing when Kevin speaks up.

  “I’m invited. Carson talked to me months ago about attending.”

  “As the wedding photographer?” I’m wondering why Sadie has never mentioned that she will have the Kevin Milano as her own.

  “Strictly for PR purposes. The Curtis family was more than a little willing to bring me on board for this event. Carson was a popular bachelor, but people cannot stop talking about his engagement to Sadie. It comes at a time when his family could use some good publicity. He chose well.”

  He chose well. I picture Sadie all dressed up and placed on a large store shelf with other possible brides as Carson carefully considers his best option—finally pointing to the tall, slim one with a great smile. “Why do they need the publicity?”

  Kevin’s face reddens and he stirs the remaining cappuccino foam in his green ceramic cup. He checks his watch and looks at me. “I just meant that they position their many companies as family owned and family oriented. It looks good for the oldest son to be married, and I’ll bet old man Curtis feels the same. But that is just my opinion.”

  “Enjoy your coffee,” I say to Kevin’s table partner. Kevin looks relieved that I am not asking him to elaborate. “I will tell Sadie hi for you,” I say in an overly friendly voice.

  But as I head back to my pied-challenged friend, I know that I won’t be mentioning the conversation that just took place. I highly doubt Sadie knows her special day is considered an excellent PR move for the Curtis family—but that is just my opinion.

  My cell phone rings. It is the theme from Star Wars, the original. “Sorry,” I say to Sadie who is devouring the ten new bridal books I have brought her from aisle 4’s offerings. “I just got this dang thing and I don’t know how to change the ringer. I want to put the theme from Ice Castles on there just to bug Angelica…”

  “Just answer it.” She says and flashes me a glossy photo of a bride running along the edge of a canyon. Sadie’s hazelnut-glazed nails are pointing to the veil which has large colored flowers sewn into the edging.

  I scrunch up my nose, shake my head, and squelch the ring song. “Hello?”

  My mom’s voice comes through with only a bit of static, but I sense lots of friction in her tone. “Mari, glad I got you. I wanted you to know that your father is going in for some blood tests today.”

  “Why? What’s been going on?”

  “Well, even you mentioned how tired he seemed at Thanksgiving last year. He’s just not himself lately and cannot seem to catch up on his sleep or energy. We want to be sure he’s fine so we can rule out anything worrisome.”

  “If that is all it is, why are you calling me?” I come off cold, but I’m trying to force the truth.

  “Honestly? Because Marcus told me to.”

  “So, Marcus knows about all this and I find out…when? While you are in the waiting room?”

  I hear my dad in the background. He knows me well enough to guess how I took that bit of truth. “Honey,” his voice is weak but light with his usual charm.

  “Dad. I want you to tell me what is going on.” Sadie now squeezes my hand and offers a look of concern.

  “There is nothing to report other than your father has taken up napping. I will call you as soon as we find out which vitamin or diet I need to alter my life with. And that is bad news. You know how I like my ice cream with potato chips.” Dad puts a positive spin on his possible news.

  “You might not confess that to the doc. Please keep me informed. I can handle it. It shouldn’t take Marcus to motivate you and Mom to tell me what is going on.”

  “Got it. We messed up. No more. The stewardess is waving me in.”

  “Be good to the nurse, Dad, or she won’t find your vein on the first try.”

  He laughs and hangs up, but I can’t seem to put the phone down.

  Mathematics

  No rice, no bread, no starch carbs, no dairy. Let’s see, what else?” Sadie counts on her fingers the foods she is eliminating from her diet for the next six months.

  “No fun,” Angelica mumbles, devouring another french fry. “So po-taw-toes are out?”

  “They are about as starchy a carb as you can order. It all comes down to numbers. That’s Reneé’s theory, and it obviously works for her. Calories in and calories out. I’ve decided not to look at losing weight as an emotional thing. I’m too sensible for that. If I examine my nutrition as a matter of math—pure mathematics—I can handle it.”

  “You and Zellweger are on a first name basis now?”

  Sadie gives me a sideways “not the point” look.

  “Here’s some math for you, Sadie. You need to lose zero pounds. You look fabulous.” Angelica extends a no-cal offering of sweet praise, but Sadie refuses even that.

  Caitlin reaches over to grab one of Angelica’s starch bombs. “It’s nice having Freddies to ourselves again.”

  “Yeah. Tuesday night is the only time this place is empty anymore. I miss Samantha,” I lament.

  “Who?” Sadie nibbles at her Cobb salad.

  “Our former waitress, Cruella the Gruel Slogger. She only does the morning shift.”

  They all nod and we reminisce about the days when we gathered weekly. Pre-engagement. Before Beau and I were serious. Back when Angelica dated with a vengeance, and Caitlin wore the craziest concoctions trying to find the sty
le that would put her on the fashion map. Well—wears. Today she has on a rubber vest the texture of corkboard. And earrings that resemble bottle caps. I think “Dumpster Diva” but leave it in my humor-for-self-only mental files; they need to be purged soon.

  “How are the business plans?” I ask the friend I feel the least connected to lately.

  “And how is Jim the Cop?” Angelica inquires.

  “Those weeks of no calls—turns out he was visiting his grandmother, who is on her deathbed in a small town in Central Mexico. No phones! We have a date next week.”

  “Great.” I cheer.

  Sadie, who has been lost in thought for a moment, points her fork in Caitlin’s direction. “Carson thought he saw you on an airport shuttle. But when I quizzed him he said the woman had matching pieces of luggage. I told him, ‘You don’t know Caitlin. She tries never to match.’ Then he laughed…”

  “It was me,” she says sheepishly as she raises a piece of falafel to her lips.

  “What?” we ask in unison. Apparently none of us know Caitlin these days.

  She puts down her utensils and leans in. “You know Isabel Rossi, that woman in New York who helped us price for the fashion show?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she invited me to see her setup in New York.” Caitlin’s eyes get big. “It was fabulous, you guys. Her collection of vintage and contemporary clothing truly is to die for. And she does tremendous business as a high-priced specialty buyer. I think I could do it. With Isabel’s established roster of wealthy women, she barely has to leave her incredible, luxurious apartment in Manhattan to promote the business. It is…”

  I interrupt, “But inquiring minds want to know why you didn’t tell any of us. You know we all love to live vicariously through one another when it involves travel.”

  “I’m considering going into business with her. She would like to extend her line and her clientele to the daughters of these women and to the up-and-comers on the New York fashion scene.”

  Sadie waves her napkin to give us all air. “Oh, Caitlin. They won’t pay attention to what you are doing in Tucson. They only want something from Europe or…”