by Hope Lyda
“We won’t be able to discuss all that space we’ve had lately.”
“I think this is just what we need. We’ll have the Chinese tomorrow for lunch.”
As we both start up our cars and drive to the auditorium just minutes away, it feels like forever. My heart is racing, but my thoughts are caught in slow-motion mode. “What is he thinking?” I ask aloud. My voice seems low and distorted.
At a stoplight I look over and Beau is parallel to me. He gives me a thumbs-up.
“Who are you?” I mouth.
“I love you too,” he mouths back. A crisp Chinese noodle sticks out from the corner of his mouth. I watch it move as he forms words, wide and exaggerated—the noodle teeters on the edge of his lips; it will tumble either onto his tongue or his nice leather upholstery.
I cannot take my eyes off of that noodle, as though its inevitable fall will trigger my very own.
Disappearing Act
The theater is dark.
Beau taps the shoulder of a young woman who is standing at the back handing out programs. He nudges me to retrieve the tickets, which I buried in my purse months ago. I’m still digging when Yvette shows up.
She is surprised to see us, but she takes our presence as a good sign rather than what it really is. “This way,” she motions with her arm. I notice she has a velvet Y on her suit jacket. It makes me smile.
Beau takes this as a good sign. “See, it’s fun already.”
Yvette leads us to a boxed-off pair of luxury seats. I’m embarrassed to be in such an obvious part of the theater. Thankfully the fire juggler is having trouble igniting her batons, so we do not interrupt anyone’s act—except for Beau’s. And only for a moment.
“Isn’t this great? This is the kind of stuff we should have been doing all along,” he whispers. And when I look into his eyes, they are wide and blank. Maybe he believes we are fine. Maybe we are fine and I have totally distorted the reality.
Was the confrontation in Washington the way I think of it? Wasn’t that moment at the zoo significant enough to shift the foundation of our relationship fathoms below the placid surface of Beau’s eyes?
I lean against the soft fabric of the theater seats. In between flashes of fire, the darkness envelopes me and it is comforting. But my heart aches. And I use those moments of darkness to look toward the ceiling. Spotlights and cables are intertwined with the metal pipes and rods that support the curtain. I look past all the innards of the theater and into the darkness beyond. I imagine that is where God is sitting, watching all this take place. What am I not getting? What is going on with this relationship? I mentally plea with my Maker.
When the house lights come on to signal the start of intermission, I feel as though I have been napping. Beyond the fire juggler, I did not notice any of the other acts. Beau, on the other hand, is as excited and fidgety as a toddler. I should view this youthful enthusiasm as charming, but all I can think of is…
“Dummy!” He shouts.
“Excuse me?”
“I loved the dummy! That ventriloquist was hilarious, didn’t you think?” Beau continues to rate the seven acts I missed. His exuberance is annoying.
“What was your favorite part?”
“Hard to choose,” I say unconvincingly.
‘“The program shows that there is only one act after this—Lyle the magician.”
I grab the yellow sheet of paper and read it with horror. “I don’t like magicians, Beau. Can we head out early? Besides, you can catch this guy’s act any weekend at Chez DiDi’s. I’ve seen it. Not that great.”
His face falls. I’m responsible for ruining this night for him. This stop in his tour of denial is mine to keep in motion. I am the halftime act, and I rise to the occasion. “You are right. We shouldn’t leave. It would be an insult to Yvette and to Lyle. Besides, Lyle is getting better.” I’ve nearly convinced myself.
Beau kisses my cheek and goes to get us a box of Girl Scout cookies, the lobby’s sole treat offering.
“Samoas!” I shout after him. If I am going to endure Lyle, I want to devour something delicious.
I notice Sadie, Carson, and Harry a couple rows up and to the right. I wave to the small, happy family. The small, happy family waves to me in my boxed set of soft chairs.
I’ve never felt so alone.
The lights go down while we are still exchanging waves. Crouching, Beau makes his way to the seat beside me. He has a box of Thin Mints and a box of Samoas. I’m feeling less alone.
The emcee, a short, nervous woman with bushy black hair, red glasses, and a tight matronly dress, seems flustered and quite pleased to introduce Lyle. Her eyes follow him as he takes center stage in his tuxedo.
Lyle warms up the crowd with lukewarm humor. I open up my box of Samoas.
He pulls doves out of his sleeves.
I reach for a cookie.
He builds audience anticipation for his finale.
I breathe in the scent of chocolate and coconut.
He wants an audience volunteer and selects Beau, who waved his arm in earnest desire to be on stage.
I eat a cookie.
To an entertained house, Lyle warns me that this could be dangerous. Beau hugs his own body and knocks his knees together like he is scared. Lots of laughter. Lyle says to me specifically that there could be risk. He will attempt the impossible…
Dramatic pause as the audience holds its collective breath.
He will make my boyfriend disappear.
That ol’ trick? Beau did that months ago. I eat the entire box of cookies.
Afterlife
Sadie is pacing in front of me in a ponytail. Unless she is going to a gym, this is not a good sign. When Sadie cannot put energy into her presentation of self, something is amiss. And as she turns on her heels and makes a strange “humph, humph,” sound, I wish I was amissin’ this.
“Use your words, Sadie. Use your words.” I pick up my cream soda from its resting place on a glass coaster and settle into Sadie’s leather couch. I stop watching her go to and fro so I can sip steadily from my straw. Sadie is my only friend who would even dream of having straws on hand. She also has things like tape, scissors, and a glue gun—items the rest of us take for granted at our parents’ house.
“I just wonder what I am getting into.”
“You mean because of Harry? He is such a great kid.”
Her hands go up in the air like an overzealous cheerleader. “He is a great kid. I agree. But I’m wondering about his dad. About this family.”
“I thought we voted your family the scariest between the two.”
“Until now. Look at this.”
Sadie walks over to her desk and removes a hardcover book from beneath a pile of Floral Retreats magazines.
She hands it to me and shields her eyes from whatever evil it possesses. From the colors I guess it is a children’s book. “Carson gave this to Harry for his eleventh birthday. Eleventh!”
“I admit this is a little young for the kid, but a lot of guys aren’t good at buying age-friendly gifts for children.”
“Read it.” Sadie cuts off my optimism before it can ruin her perfectly bad mood.
I look down at the title What Happens When I Die? I grimace to be on board with Sadie’s level of disgust. “This is a bit depressing to give a kid, but maybe he wants to teach him about heaven. Maybe this is his father-son faith talk. That is sweet, right?”
“Read on. Flip. Flip.”
“I’m flipping.” As I flip, I read aloud the reasons for her reaction from the table of contents, “A Living Will Versus a Trust, Your Attorney and You, The Estate Mistake…”
“Stop. You get the idea. Crazy, right?”
“I like the illustrations. This painting of the banker dancing on the desk is lighthearted.” I consider modeling the banker move.
For the first time I see the spark of Sadie’s personality behind her eyes. “Yes, and the probate officer climbing the gate of the mansion looks a lot like Jim Carey.”
<
br /> “Did you ask why he gave this to his son?”
“Apparently the Curtis family tradition is to mark a young boy’s rite of passage by passing along his legal rights.”
Then it occurs to me what this really means. “They are really loaded. Sadie, you are not just marrying a successful man…he is stinkin’ rich. So-so wealthy people would surely wait until a kid was, oh, say thirteen before burying him in living trust brochures disguised as entertaining literature.”
“Wealthy is one thing—wealth-obsessed is entirely different. Carson has never acted like this before. I’m wondering if there is a side to him that I have entirely missed.”
“He’s prepared—like a Boy Scout. Sadie, who is your wedding photographer?”
She is taken aback by this question, and then just plain embarrassed when she tells me. “Kevin Milano. You heard that, did you?”
“I ran into him months ago. He saw us together and he let it slip that Carson had asked him from the very beginning.”
“I think it is ridiculous to have Kevin as our wedding photographer. His work is more and more in demand in global fashion circles. A wedding is so beneath him.”
“This is my point, Sadie. The Carson Curtis wedding is not beneath Kevin. In fact, he is quite pleased to have the gig. So let’s not pretend that Carson is just any guy. He is a good person, he is a loving fiancé, and he will be a very kind and honorable husband. He will also be the best provider a girl could ask for.”
“Besides God.”
I nod. “Good perspective.”
“I guess I’ve tried to keep the wealth far from the limelight. It’s awkward for me. My parents worked very hard to provide for me and my sister, and we had difficult times. I don’t take wealth lightly. I see it as a huge responsibility; morally, socially, and spiritually. I think my sister and my mom see this union as such a score, as if that had been one of my criteria. So I have refused to acknowledge that area. But the things Carson is doing for this wedding make it impossible. He hired a helicopter to fly his best man in the day of the ceremony because Dave has to work the day before.”
“Sadie, just your response about God being your provider shows me that you have nothing to worry about. You will always know where your worth and your love comes from. Do you think we are going to despise you because you have money?” In this moment I understand how my own recent revelation about not needing money has freed me from jealousy.
“My sister does.”
That would explain the dresses. Revenge.
“Well, up until a year ago I was jealous of your career and your salary. That is pathetic but true. Since then, I’ve better understood my place and my purpose. And Sadie, anyone who makes you feel bad about Carson’s success—or your own—has not figured out their place or their purpose. You can extend those people grace, but don’t offer apologies for your blessings. The rest of us know what your life is based on, and it isn’t this stuff.” I wave the book in the air.
Sadie looks relieved and then agitated. “You have to admit that this book is still absurd.”
“Carson is going to raise up his son responsibly, and that includes telling Harry everything—from the birds and the bees to the stocks and the CDs.”
She laughs. “Aren’t you the comedian.”
“Want to hire me for the reception? I’m not cheap. Hiring me would tell the world that you are without a doubt one of the richest women in the region.”
Sadie grabs the book and whops me on the head with it.
“I’m wanted in global funny circles.”
Whop.
Rodeo Rhonda
This is an all-female operation,” shouts Rhonda, the leader of our Western adventure. “Anyone who thinks the Southwest or the West was tamed by men will see a new side of history during the next twenty-four hours.”
I look at Caitlin and mouth, “Twenty-four hours?”
She motions “oops” with her hands up next to her half braided, half slicked back head of hair.
“We are staying overnight in this place? I only brought this outfit.”
Rhonda walks over to me like a drill sergeant honing in on her latest rookie target. “Do you have something to share with the group, Miss…”
“Mari. Mari Hamilton.”
“Mari?” She asks as if I might have forgotten my name while under the pressure of silence.
I nod.
“Well, Mari. You just got yourself in charge of bunk duty. You and…”
She points to Sadie’s sister, who barks, “Melanie, sir. Ma’am.”
“You and Melanie have the pleasure of setting up the cabins for this evening. The sheets and blankets are in the cupboards. The wash basins need to be filled with water, and the cabin floor needs a good sweeping. And the bunks need dusting.”
I look at Sadie, who is buttoning up her cute Western vest and avoiding eye contact.
Angelica steps out of line and approaches Rhonda on tippy-toes. “I don’t sleep in bunks. There must be a room with at least a double bed and a private bath. I’ll pay.” She reaches into her leather purse to produce evidence of the offer’s legitimacy.
“You see this?” Rhonda nabs Angelica’s bag and holds it up for all of us to see.
We nod earnestly. We see it, we see it.
“You buy expensive leather bags, probably have leather interior in your fancy cars, and yet you have never roped a steer, branded a cow, or rubbed the ears of a calf.” She shoves the purse into Angelica’s open arms. Angelica promptly hugs and kisses it.
This would be true.
“Is that so bad?” Caitlin asks innocently.
“Darn right it’s bad. After today, you’ll not only appreciate your whamby-pamby lifestyle, you will have a newfound appreciation for animals who sacrifice everything for your pleasure cruise through life.”
“Cruise?” Angelica says deliriously.
Rhonda grabs a feed sack and walks down the line with it. “Cell phones go here. All other so-called valuables will be kept in the main house.”
“Is there a safe?” Angelica asks, counting the pieces of jewelry she has in her possession.
“Nobody in the history of the Happy Campers has gotten past Delilah’s 12 gauge shotgun.”
“Have people tried?” I ask.
“Not people we would honor with a mention.”
Angelica holds up her BlackBerry and sadly dangles it toward the mouth of the bag. Rhonda stops her and grabs the device. She flips it over and over in her hand as if examining the value in terms of weight and texture.
“It holds the record of my life, basically. Please be careful.”
“Out here, the stars and desert solitude hold their own record of our existence. There is no need for gadgets.”
“Why, Rhonda—you are poetic,” I say sincerely.
Her gruffness returns and she points a crooked finger toward the long, narrow building a quarter of a mile away. “Head over to the stables and Deputy Delilah will fit you with a horse that suits your personality. If you got one,” she says with an evil laugh. I look quickly at her mouth to see if she has all her teeth. Surprisingly so.
Melanie enthusiastically links arms with her mother, and Sadie follows behind them looking exhausted.
I come up beside my friend and adjust my attitude. “I’ve always wanted to do one of these adventure camps. We are all embarking on life changes, and this will be a great way to mark the wilderness of transition.”
“You’re being nice. This is a disaster. We could be eating watercress sandwiches or Chef Elliot’s penne pasta with cilantro pesto sauce.”
“That kind of talk won’t help at all. Rhonda is right, in a way. We are pampered ninety-five percent of the time. To experience something else for a day is a gift.”
“We can do anything for twenty-four hours. Right?” She brightens.
“That’s the spirit. Now, you had best hide your cell phone in a better spot than your vest pocket. Rhonda will see that pronto.”
“I ha
ve too many last-minute plans before the wedding.”
“Totally understandable. But if you get caught, tell Rhonda I tried to convince you to turn it in.”
Angelica and Caitlin walk behind us. Their silence is a gesture of goodwill. I can only imagine the thoughts going through Angelica’s mind. We all stare into the back of Melanie’s head and wonder what is in there, exactly.
Sadie’s mother, Francine, is the first to get on a horse. She is nervous and keeps laughing, which in turn agitates her horse, Radar. Apparently all the horses are named after M*A*S*H characters. Rhonda’s claim to fame is that she was an animal trainer for the popular show set during the Korean war.
Angelica makes yet another comment, another mistake. “Did they even have animals on that show?”
Rhonda glowers, but says nothing. Her next move is to assign to Angelica the horse Klinger, who wears a bonnet and walks as if he wears stilettos.
Our horses do not care that most of us have never ridden before. They know the meandering, short path to the small rodeo corral by heart and hoof. One at a time we are asked to follow Rhonda into the wooden circle, where we wait atop our horses for Delilah to release a calf from the opposite half of the perimeter. One at a time we fall off our horses in an attempt to pin that calf. I suspected our calf was as used to this drill as our horses, so our repeated failed attempts didn’t seem to faze him at all. In fact, I think he proudly snorted in our general direction.
I consider myself quite mentally slow as it took until my second visit to the corral to even question this masochistic exercise. Bachelorette parties are supposed to be fun, sassy, and a chance to show off a daring new haircut, pair of shoes, or fashion piece. Caitlin had picked out a top for me to wear for the anticipated occasion—a four tiered, baby blue camisole trimmed with silver metallic sequins. So as I face the nostrils of the calf for the second time, I am thinking about the shimmery fashion statement and also wondering how many reported cases of whiplash show up in the files of the Happy Camper police record.
Rodeo Rhonda keeps shouting “yee-haw” as a source of inspiration. We all want her to be quiet. There is only one moment when her enthusiasm seems to lift our spirits—it is of course, when she announces we have answered the call of the wild and can now return to camp.
