Altar Call

by Hope Lyda

  A jewelry case runs alongside one wall and a worktable matches its length along the opposite wall. A small window up near the ceiling and amber-colored bulbs hanging from black cords provide gentle lighting. My eyes fall upon a necklace pinned to her work platform. Sapphires and topaz stones are placed on strands of silver; it is as intricate as a spider’s web. On the opposite wall, above the worktable, are four long shelves with various sized ceramic sculptures and vases. The delicate hand-painted forms are whimsical and dainty.

  “I’m impressed.” Actually I am shocked at the adult life of my friend who refused to wear nylons and a dress for the ninth grade choir performance. She showed up in slacks, a white blouse, and a tie to protest.

  Rachel waves away my admiration. “I can barely afford the rent anymore. I like creating art, but I’m not so good at the selling.”

  “The Torpedo Factory is a pretty visible place. I’m sure things will happen.”

  “I can hope.”

  “Hey, how’d you recognize me so easily? I haven’t seen you in years.”

  She opens her hands in a helpless gesture.

  A knock at the door precedes the entrance of Cheyenne Vinton, who looks like a more mature version of her very pretty teen self. Dark ringlets frame her bronze, distinct face and wide grin. “It sure is you, Mari.”

  “Cheyenne. Good to see you.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit.” She eyes me and good-naturedly adds, “I swear that is exactly what I remember you wearing.”

  “Yep, pretty much,” I agree.

  As she comes over to hug me, I realize that in addition to similar clothes, I also have many of the same insecurities I had when sixteen. Cheyenne always was too pretty. I look down at my T-shirt, jeans, and Tevas. Angelica, Caitlin, and Sadie would all be appalled by my fashion regression.

  My reestablished friends and I spend the next hour plotting my future field trips and randomly bringing up our shared histories. The two seem excited by my return to DC, and in some way, this is the reception I had hoped for at home.

  Cheyenne licks salad dressing off her fingers like a trucker might rid his of onion ring grease. I like her more than ever until she brings up the topic I had hoped to avoid.

  “So Marcus is in town and Mari is in town. That sounds like some potential drama.” Her deep brown eyes expand to take in my reaction of stern disapproval.

  “Next subject.”

  Rachel repositions herself on a work stool so she can lean in for the gossip. “Now we are getting to the story. And you said you were here to help your parents.”

  Cheyenne smiles. “Exactly what Marcus is doing.”

  I feel the need to correct her. “He is here finishing his counseling program at Georgetown.”

  “Ah, yes. But he is living at the Urban Center to help your parents. Which would mean that you two are sharing the same dwelling.”

  I look at her through a veil of hair recently blown into my face by the overactive air conditioner. “Seems like you know an awful lot about Marcus.”

  Suddenly her enthusiasm dwindles, as if she has said more than she would like. “I’ve just seen him around town.”

  Rachel tosses a plastic fork toward Cheyenne’s feet. “And?”

  “My husband and I have gone out with him a few times.” She pauses and tosses her hair back before adding, “Him and his girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?” Rachel shouts while my stomach does a flip with a half twist.

  “Girlfriend?” I say as casually as I can—which means my voice is shaking and a bit shrill. This shouldn’t be such a surprise. Why wouldn’t Marcus have a girlfriend? He’s a fantastic guy who logically would be dating while living here. In truth, I cannot believe some fortunate, undeserving girl has not yet married him.

  Cheyenne backpedals a bit. “But I don’t think it’s serious. She would love it, but he seems to keep a bit of emotional distance. I always figured that distance was approximately the length of you.”

  “That is crazy. I’m dating a fabulous guy in Tucson—and Marcus and I had a talk last year when I came for Thanksgiving. He knows there is no…”

  Rachel wags her finger at me and interrupts. “If you say chemistry, then you will have to take the lie detector test.”

  “I was going to say chance—no chance of us being an us.”

  Cheyenne looks at Rachel and Rachel looks at me.

  I stand up for my integrity. “That is the truth.”

  Cheyenne repeats, “Is there a chance?” over and over and over. A Chinese word torture method, apparently.

  And after saying “This is so immature” I finally say something I hope my mother never gets word of—“Maybe.”

  But, I swear, it was only to get her to shut up.

  From a Distance

  He what! Isn’t that out of the blue?” I hold the faded yellow, archaic phone to my ear in case I didn’t hear Caitlin right the first time.

  “Totally out of the blue. I don’t know what got into him. We don’t talk for weeks because he is in Mexico, and then we go out to eat a few times, hit a couple of bad movies, and he springs this on me.”

  Noises from downstairs echo in the receiver. I pull the phone closet door to. When will I adjust to living in a house with more than a dozen other people?

  “Start from the beginning.”

  “How long have you been there?” Caitlin asks.

  I squint, trying to recall my arrival date. “I think it has been three weeks. Does that sound right?”

  “Yes, right. Well, Jim and I had a great time dancing at your going away party. After that we talked a lot more on the phone, and it seemed we were connecting. Then yesterday morning he calls and asks me to meet him at the park. Well, we’ve hiked a few times so I show up in my sweats carrying a backpack. And he is dressed in a tuxedo and standing by the fountain with a picnic basket.”

  “That is so romantic.”

  “And embarrassing. I think I still had sleep lines on my face and this guy looks like he is ready for the queen’s coronation.”

  “A little embarrassing, but you have to admit it was a lovely gesture.”

  “That is why I didn’t run back to the bus stop like I wanted to. I understood he was really putting himself out there, and so I walked over to him.”

  “And just like that, he asks you to marry him?”

  “No. We sit there and eat a meal his mother made for us. Then we talk about life, the weather, those bad movies, dentists, Mexican art, and last but not least, the cost of gourmet cheese.”

  “Cheese?”

  “Apparently he loves cheese.”

  “Then he asked you?” My mind cannot settle down. I’ve barely been gone and one of my best friends gets the question of her lifetime.

  “Yes. After his comparison of world cheeses he popped the question.” She squeals, but I cannot yet figure out if it is delight or delirium.

  “And you said?”

  Before I can get the answer about her answer, there is knock on the closet door.

  “Go away,” I say.

  Knock, knock.

  “Go away. This is important.” I reach for the knob and push out to get a glimpse of my annoyer. It is Marcus. “Emergency call here. Go.”

  Marcus bends over to stare at me. The space between frame and door shows only a sliver of his forehead and nose and lips. “I’m expecting a call,” the lips say.

  “We have call-waiting. I’ll let ya know.”

  “I’d rather you just get off the phone.”

  “Too bad.” I pull the door toward me again to end the conversation on this side of the phone and return to the other, more pressing side. “What was your answer?”

  “Guess.”

  “I think you are spontaneous enough and optimistic enough to say yes. My guess is yes.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! I’ve known him for what—less than a year? And two months ago I thought we were through.”

  “Sadie and Carson knew each other much less than
that. And Jim was taking care of his grandmother during the non-breakup,” I hear myself listing reasons against her decision; I shut my mouth quickly. “Sorry. Your choice makes total sense.”

  “I am about to make a huge decision about whether to move to New York. And did I mention that I got approval for the small business loan?”

  “That’s great!”

  “But does that mean I am supposed to stay? What if you face two open doors…how are we supposed to know which is the right direction?”

  “I wish I could answer that. Maybe the answer is to just move forward and trust.”

  “My heart is the New York scenario, yet how can I possibly add Jim into the mix? He’s not going to transfer. A yes to him means a no to Isabel and the trendy shop and the separation from my parents and a new attitude about life.”

  “I hear your pain. But I also know that when you move far away, as I did when I left here for Tucson, you don’t really leave your attitude or your family issues behind. Believe me. After a day back here, I felt as though I were twelve again.”

  “But in New York, I’d have a chance to know who I could be.”

  “How did he take it? The no.”

  “Like a gentleman,” she says, sighing. “And then he asked me out for next week.”

  My devil’s advocate mode continues. “You want distance from your parents, but do you really want distance from this relationship?”

  “I want to be me before I am part of a we. You know?”

  “I do know. In a way, it’s like Angelica’s decision.”

  There is silence on the other end. “Oh, great. Now, I’m making choices like Angelica.”

  “Don’t go there, Caitlin. Angelica happened to make a very good decision for her life. And you will too.”

  “Mari, you are so lucky. You don’t worry about the outcome of every decision you make. You left your boyfriend and your job for an undetermined amount of time to help with the kids…”

  “I didn’t leave Beau.” What is it with everybody? I take a family medical leave and suddenly I am the girl who left her boyfriend.

  Caitlin makes up for the slip. “Of course not. I’ll bet you two are stronger than ever.”

  “We’re great,” I lie. I’m not yet ready to spoil Caitlin’s version of my life.

  “Did I make a mistake?” She sounds worried.

  “No, we are stronger. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right?” I sound fake and stupid. I want to turn my words off.

  “I meant about Jim.”

  “He obviously wants to keep dating. Who says you have to end it?”

  “Nobody,” she yelps into the phone. “I’m confused.”

  “Pray about it. I’ll pray about it too. Oh, hey…there is someone trying to call.”

  “Maybe it is lover-Beau,” she offers, sounding a bit more encouraged.

  “Probably,” I lie again. “I’ll call you later.”

  I press the receiver down to click over to the other call. For a moment my heart is expecting the static of long distance. Maybe Beau and I were thinking about one another at the exact same moment, and he just had to call me to say he misses me.

  “Beau?” I say hopefully and a bit loudly in case the connection is bad again.

  “No. This is Lonna.” A confused voice responds.

  Pause.

  “For Marcus,” she says, as though I should know.

  “Oh, right. One minute.” I push open the door and Marcus is seated just inches away from the closet.

  “Lonna,” I say casually.

  He nods and changes places with me.

  As I limbo under the yellow cord to get out of Marcus’ way, I consider Cheyenne’s interpretation about Marcus’ relationship and wonder if his emotionally distant dating and my geographically distant dating are very far apart on the unhealthy relationship scale.

  The Shadow Knows

  Mainly, I just need a friendly face in the crowd. Not that my constituents are not friendly, but usually I would have…”

  “I am happy to be at this city council debate,” I say cheerily so Mom doesn’t have to finish her sentence. Dad is her usual friendly face, but he couldn’t muster the strength to sit through a two-hour meeting. Marcus said he would do his research from the house instead of going into the library so that I could attend Mom’s first public event as a candidate.

  “Debate sounds so scary.” She looks at me a bit worried.

  “I meant discussion. Citywide discussion.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezes my hand and then keeps hold of it as she waves to a focused, well-dressed woman approaching us with fast, efficient steps. “Kayla! Over here.”

  “She looks like she is about to hurdle us,” I say quietly.

  Mom drops my hand and gives me a look I know well from my childhood. It means “Stop it immediately or you are going to the car.”

  As the woman hugs my mom in a professional but sincere way, there is something about her profile that seems familiar. I’m trying to figure it out—one of our volunteers, a community supporter, a former schoolmate?

  “Kayla, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Mari. Mari, this is my brilliant campaign assistant, Kayla.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m a big fan of your mother. She’ll go far, you know.” As the words leave her ruby red lips in a voice that mimics Katherine Hepburn, with a slightly haughty undertone, I know exactly who this is.

  During my senior year of high school, my guidance counselor suggested I do an internship to boost my scholarship potential. He arranged for me to job-shadow Kayla, who was a former graduate of my high school, just out of college, a bit wet behind the ears in her city public relations job, and more than a little upset that she had to provide me with a chair in her office and an occasional word of explanation about what she was doing.

  “We’ve met. Remember your city job? Me in the corner…in the chair. Taking notes. Following you.”

  Mom looks back and forth between me and her friend with confusion.

  Kayla ignores my comment and our shared memories altogether. “Nice to meet you, Marni. And you, Mrs. Hamilton, you will shine today. Let’s meet up next week.” She does the European kiss on the cheek departure with my mom and walks right by me on her way to shake hands with the mayor.

  “What was that?” Mom asks.

  “No kidding. Did this woman enter the witness protection program or something? Or are her days as a mere PR flunky such a blemish on her record?” I laugh a bit at the absurdity of the pretentious woman.

  “I meant what was that attitude you gave her? I introduce you to her, and you act strange. No wonder she left in such a hurry.”

  “Mom, I know her. Don’t you remember my internship with the city? And the mean woman who thought her supervisor had planted me as a spy when she got busted for padding her overtime? That was her.”

  “I remember that situation, but this cannot be the same person. Why would she act as though she doesn’t know you?”

  “I’m telling you, she’s loco.” I circle my finger around my ear a few times to emphasize just how crazy this one is.

  “Kayla Newcomb is a highly regarded professional.”

  “Loco, Mom. Watch out for her.”

  Mom is getting exasperated with my line of reasoning. She gives me the crazy signal. “I think you are losing it. Isn’t it about time for you to go and visit your friends? You are cracking under the pressure of all the work we have you doing at the house.”

  “I leave soon for my second dress fitting.”

  Mom leans in. “Until then, and even after—no more talk of this. Whoever Kayla is, she is one good campaign consultant and she is doing it for next to nothing because she believes in me.”

  “I will not say another word about it.” Today. “Let’s review your notes so you are ready for your speech.”

  This calms my mother down. We focus on the importance of after school activity and nutrition programs, more teaching assistants, and weekend tutoring sessions
for homeless children.

  But my mind cannot shake the image of Kayla scowling at me from her makeshift desk of file cabinets and Plexiglas in her basement office at city hall.

  Flavor of the Month

  Mari, get up. Get up,” Daisy squeals. She pulls my hand from my book and tries to drag me from the couch.

  “I just got settled, Daisy. I told you I would help you make a house out of the cardboard box this afternoon.”

  “It’s the ice man.”

  Matty comes up behind Daisy and reaches for her other hand. “She means the ice cream man. Come on, Daisy. Give Mari a break.”

  I strain my ears and can barely make out an instrumental jingle version of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Hot Fun in the Summertime.” “Thanks, teammate, but he’s playing my song. Let’s all go.”

  Daisy claps her hands and hollers, “Ice cream time!”

  Everyone in our house heads outside. Dad even decides to leave his latest crossword puzzle to join us.

  As we step into warm sunshine, doors open and close throughout the neighborhood, and a steady stream of children pours from apartment building entries. The song gets louder and the line forming by a fire hydrant gets longer. We step in behind the neighbors from across the street.

  “Hi, Mrs. Jamison,” I say.

  “Well, hello, Mari. I wondered when we were going to see you in the ice cream line. You waited until the last week. Are you being good?” This single mom has a warm laugh and three adorable boys with thick black hair and hazel eyes.

  “I haven’t been paying attention. I think my dad deliberately sends me on errands during this time of day. He wasn’t fast enough today.”

  “I heard that.” Dad steps up next to me in line. He is using a cane and seems much more mobile. “Frank, are you ready to work on the carburetor?”

  Dad teaches the eldest boy how to work on cars. It keeps Frank’s mind off not having a dad in the picture, and it keeps my dad’s mind off his limited abilities right now.

  “Yes, sir. I’d like that.”

  “Don’t forget us.” Marcus comes rushing across the street with Wallace riding piggy back just as the ice cream man stops at his usual driveway and opens his traveling refrigerator for business.