The Fortune Quilt

by Lani Diane Rich

  The ride to Snakebite Kid’s house is quiet. Deathly quiet. Christopher asks me if I want anything from the Circle K when we stop for gas, and I say no. That’s it for conversation, until we get to I-10, when twenty minutes of uneventful highway driving looming before us forces Christopher to speak.

  “So. Um. Maybe we should talk?” Christopher asks. He sounds very much like he does not want to talk.

  This is Lindsay’s work, I think. She probably spent half of last night on the phone with him. Poor Lindsay.

  “Um…” I’m usually more articulate. Today, not so much.

  “Well,” he says after a long silence. “I’ve completely fucked everything up, haven’t I?”

  “No. Christopher, it’s just…” I exhale a deep breath. “My mother came back yesterday.”

  Christopher nearly veers off into the next lane of traffic. “What?”

  “She was there when I stopped home yesterday, to get that tape? And my dad is… I don’t know. Talking to her. I’m just…”

  I swallow hard and shake my head and feel like I’m about to burst either into tears or hysterical laughter.

  “Jesus, Carly,” Christopher says after a moment. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say instinctively. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just… my head’s all a big mess, you know?”

  “Wow. How’s your dad handling it?”

  I shrug. “He left for work early this morning. I didn’t see him. Last night he seemed pretty shook.”

  “I imagine.” Christopher pauses. “How about Ella? Five?”

  “I haven’t talked to Ella yet,” I say. “Five’s on a weekend trip.”

  “So, it’s just you,” he says, his voice tight. “Handling this on your own.”

  “There’s not much to handle,” I say. “She’s been gone seventeen years. Now she’s back. She’ll be gone again soon. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Carly,” Christopher says, but then stops himself from saying whatever he was going to say. I feel trapped. I want to avoid both the topics of Christopher’s feelings and my mother’s return, but I have to talk about one or the other. I cannot get by with a comment about the weather.

  “I am worried about Dad, though,” I say. “It was so hard on him, the first time she left. Turning her away now is going to kill him.”

  There’s a slight pause. “Are you sure he’s going to turn her away? I mean, aren’t they still married?”

  “Yeah, but…” I trail off. Deep down, I am worried that Dad will want to mend things with her, but I don’t want to admit that. Instead, I stare out the window, and allow myself to be silent, to disconnect. Finally, we stop at our destination, and Christopher shuts off the engine and turns to face me.

  “Look,” he says, “I acted like a big asshole last night. But I want you to know that I’m still me. I’m still your friend. No matter what.”

  I smile at him. That’s such a Christopher thing to do, to put his own feelings aside and think of me first. In the back of my head, I know that I’ve got to be crazy not to grab hold of this very good thing. Any smart girl would. Then there’s a moment when we’re sitting there, smiling at each other, and he starts to lean forward, and it freaks me out.

  “Snakebite’s waiting,” I say, pulling back a bit.

  Christopher smiles, reaches over and gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Okay. Let’s get moving, then.”

  I follow behind him up to the house, watching him move with that big-guy grace, wondering if there’s really much of a difference between loving someone as a friend and being in love with them, and getting the distinct feeling I’m about to find out.

  ***

  It is amazingly easy for me to go on with life as though my mother had never shown up. I spend most of the weekend working on the Snakebite Kid story, and when I’m home, things are normal. Dad seems okay, even chipper. On Sunday night, Ella comes over for dinner and we all eat lasagna and drink wine and speculate over Five’s relationship with Botox. Dad makes no mention of Mary, and I follow his lead. I wonder if she’s left already, if he sent her packing and is quietly moving on. Maybe he’s finally gained closure. Maybe her coming back, however briefly, was a good thing for him. I don’t ask him about it, though. I figure if he wants to talk, he’ll talk. Until then, It suits me just fine to pretend nothing’s happened, and by Monday morning, I’m feeling almost normal again. When Dad asks me to be home for dinner to celebrate Five’s return from Flagstaff, I’m actually looking forward to it.

  At work, Christopher and I spend the morning arguing over editing choices, which is typical, and when we break, we decide to go for lunch at the Taco Shack. Things almost feel normal again until we see Eloise rushing down the hallway toward us.

  “Oh, thank God I found you guys,” she says, breathless. “There’s a meeting in the newsroom. Something big.”

  Christopher and I exchange looks. As we head down the hall, I feel his hand lightly graze the small of my back, and the touch makes my heart rate kick up. At first I feel hopeful that the response is a good sign, and then I wonder if it’s a bad sign that I’m so desperately stretching for good signs. I glance up at him and smile but he’s looking at the crowded newsroom, which is humming with people whose expressions range from angry to totally freaked out.

  Oh. This can’t be good.

  “Everyone quiet down!” I hear Clayton Pall, the station’s General Manager, yell from the corner of the room. He steps up behind the assignment desk, which is on a raised platform in the east corner of the newsroom. His neck tie is loose. Clayton’s neck tie is never loose. Christopher and I exchange looks; this is definitely not going to be good. In a few moments the newsroom is deathly quiet, which never happens. It feels eerie.

  “I have some news,” Clayton says from his perch behind the assignment desk. “Before I tell you what’s going on, I want you to know that the management team is all here,” he motions to a Rockette line of suits standing to the right of the desk, “to answer your questions as best we can, but understand that we still don’t have all the information at this time.”

  I hear someone behind me whisper something about Reginald Davies. Reginald is the station owner, and I’ve met him exactly twice in the five years I’ve worked on Tucson Today. I wonder briefly if Reginald has died or something.

  “It appears that Reginald Davies has left the country,” Clayton says, then clears his throat. “And it also appears that he has taken the bulk of the station’s assets with him.”

  “Holy shit,” Christopher breathes behind me. I hear someone behind us say something about Buenos Aires.

  “People,” Clayton says, raising his hands to quiet the rumbling that’s running through the floor of employees. “At this point, we don’t know exactly what’s going to happen—”

  “Will there be layoffs?” someone yells from the back.

  The answer is clear in Clayton’s face: Yes.

  “We don’t have any answers to that at this time,” he says.

  ***

  Christopher and I get our tacos, then hole up in the edit booth and work until six o’clock. When we finally return to the Tucson Today office with our finished tape, we find Victor waiting for us. I sit at my desk while Victor takes Christopher into his office, which has an actual door, so I can’t hear what’s being said, only the tones of their voices, which are grim. Christopher emerges a few minutes later, giving me a hopeful smile, and then Victor calls me in.

  “We’ve been canceled,” he says before I’m even settled in his squeaky guest chair.

  I don’t absorb this right away. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Victor says, his voice tired, “we’re all being laid off. Well, the producers, anyway. News is going to absorb the camera crew starting Monday.”

  “So,” I say, “do you still need me to oversee the show tonight or…?”

  Victor shakes his head, explains that they’ll be running canned shows for the rest of the week, then replacing Tucson Today with M*A*S*H
re-runs starting next week. No more live episodes. No more hanging out in the control room, giving the director time cues for the segments and taking shit from Billy the graphics guy, who calls up every graphic with, “Are you sure this is spelled right, Car? You’re sure? Looks wrong to me.”

  And, ha, I think, as I recall the rundown for tonight’s show, for all the trouble that quilt has caused me, the stupid story isn’t even going to air.

  Victor sits back in his chair and pokes his thumbs into the pudgy center of a stress ball. “Reginald Davies is a fucknut. Clayton was talking about, if the losses are covered by insurance, or whatever, that they might be able to get Tucson Today back on the air but… pfffft. It was bound to happen anyway. We just don’t make enough money.” He shakes his head. “I’ll give you a good recommendation. Just don’t ask until next week. I plan on staying pretty drunk for a while.”

  I nod, shake Victor’s hand and wander out to the bull pen, which is what we call the conference table in the center of the room where we pitch stories. Correction: Where we used to pitch stories. All the cubicles lining the walls are empty. Victor gives us a gruff, “Goodnight,” and leaves. Christopher and I are left standing alone in the bull pen, staring at each other in shock.

  “I’ve been laid off.”

  “Damnit.” He plunks back against the conference table. “What, they didn’t even try to get you into the newsroom?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” he says, his voice hot. I don’t entirely understand why he’s so upset; at least he still has a job.

  I, however, have been laid off.

  I start to laugh.

  “Carly?” Christopher looks at me with concern.

  “I’ve been laid off,” I say, still giggling. “I’ve been laid off.” I stop giggling. “That’s never happened to me before.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let me take you home.”

  “I’m unemployed, not drunk.” I feel the heat of his hand on my shoulder, and it’s making me a little dizzy. I don’t move, though. “Besides, my car’s out in the parking lot,” I add, my voice weak.

  “I know, but…” He hesitates, and his face grows serious. “When am I going to see you again?”

  I am suddenly very aware of how alone we are in the office. Christopher’s hand moves slowly up from my shoulder until his fingers are in my hair. He pulls me closer, and I realize that I’m standing between his open legs as he leans back on the conference table.

  Oh, shit, here we go, I think, and then we are kissing. His tongue is grazing mine in questioning caresses, and I’m kissing him back, and it’s good. It’s good. It’s not, you know, earth-shattering but I’m liking it. His hand trails down to my waist. I run my fingers over the hairs at the back of his neck and he shivers, pulling me tighter against him. The kiss grows more passionate, and then as I’m leaning up against him, I feel something hard against my hip and I realize it’s Christopher and this is when the abject terror hits. I try to find my way back to where this was good, to really be here with him, but his hard-on is freaking me out and my heart is hammering and I’m suddenly battling an urge to run far, far away. Finally, Christopher breaks the kiss and looks at me.

  “Hey,” he says, his mouth curling up wryly at one corner. “There’s that look of cold terror I know and love.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “There’s obviously something very wrong with me.”

  As understatements go, I think that’s a pretty fine one.

  He takes my hand in his and eyes me with compassion. “Carly, I’m not gonna push myself on you if you’re not ready, but I gotta say, the signals you’re sending are pretty mixed.”

  “I know.” He’s staring at me as though he wants more, and he deserves more, so I keep going. “I’m just confused. It’s such a huge change, you know, from how we’ve always been with each other. I feel like you’re gone, and there’s this wonderful guy here who likes me but I don’t know him, and…”

  He reaches up and brushes some hair away from my forehead, which stops me talking.

  “He doesn’t just like you,” he says softly. He looks at me with unconditional caring in his eyes, and I feel a sudden and undeniable urge to vomit. “Carly. I love you.”

  “What about Lindsay?” I blurt out. Christopher’s eyebrows knit, and his eyes flash with a touch of anger.

  “Lindsay?” he says. “What the hell does Lindsay have to do with anything?”

  “I… I… I…” Mayday. Mayday. “I think she… you know… I think maybe she has feelings for you, and…”

  Oh, man. My hands are starting to sweat. This is bad, bad, bad. Christopher lets out a huff and crosses his arms over his chest.

  “Look, Car, if you’re looking for an excuse not to let this happen with us, you don’t need one. Either you’re in or you’re out. And if you’re bringing up some imaginary crush that Lindsay might have on me, it sounds to me like you’re out.”

  I’m in a nose-dive and I can’t pull up. Crash, meet burn.

  “I’ve handled this badly,” I say, going in once again for understatement. “Forget the Lindsay thing. Strike it from the record. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just… there’s so much going on right now. I can’t wrap my mind around this. Can you understand that?”

  He nods, but his expression is tight and hard to read. He pushes up off the table and grabs his jacket.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I understand.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “I’m not mad.” He forces a smile. “I’m not mad. You want to walk with me out to the parking lot?”

  I shake my head. “I’m supposed to meet with Cheryl.”

  “Cheryl?”

  “Human resources. Laid off. Exit interview. She has to make sure I’m not at risk for coming back and slashing the tires on the Live Van. Yadda yadda.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That.” There’s a long moment of awkward silence. “Okay.” He leans over and kisses me on the forehead, then moves quickly out of the room. I collapse over the bull pen table and bang my forehead against its cool surface.

  “I am a whole new strain of stupid,” I mutter to myself.

  “Carly?”

  I push myself up and see Cheryl from Human Resources standing in the doorway. She glances meaningfully at her watch. Poor thing. It’s been a busy day of showing her co-workers the door.

  “I was supposed to be out of here at five-thirty,” she says, apparently not the least bit grateful that she still has a job. “Are you ready?”

  Just about ready to slash the tires on the Live Van, I think, but I follow her down the hall to her office just the same.

  Four

  “Daddy?” I say as I open the door. I am better now, stronger, not as close to total emotional breakdown as I was after kissing Christopher, although my hands are still a little shaky. I need to have a scotch with my Dad. I need a good night’s sleep. I need to talk about something that is not Tucson Today and is not Christopher. I need to think about something else. Maybe play Backgammon.

  I find Dad in the dining room. Ella and Five are sitting across the table from him. They look up at me, their eyes red, their faces wet with fresh tears. Sitting next to Dad is my mother and fuck if I can’t knock her on timing.

  She turns and sees me, then stands up. Her eyes are red. She has a crumpled tissue in one hand. The other hand reaches blindly for Dad, and Dad takes it.

  Dad. Takes. It.

  “Oh, holy Christ,” I mutter. Ella sniffs and grabs from the Kleenex box on the table. Five looks more stunned than anything. Which makes sense. After all, she has no active memories of the desertion, just the cold dead ache of it. This has to be even more of a shock for her than for the rest of us. At least we have a point of reference.

  “Mary,” I say. It feels strange to call her Mary, but she hasn’t really earned Mom. I turn my attention to Dad. “She’s coming back?”

  He stands up, still holding her hand. His eyes are red, too. Jesus. Wha
t’s wrong with this family? Does no one have any self-control?

  “She’s my wife,” he says. “And if you’d listen to her—”

  “Um, no. I don’t think so.” I sound like a petulant teenager, and I really don’t give a crap. “No. I have had possibly one of the worst days of my young life and this? Is not what I need right now.” I lock my eyes on Dad’s. “Answer the question. Is she coming back?”

  Dad looks at Mary, then back at me. “We’re going to try, yes. We’re going to go to therapy—”

  “Fuck therapy,” I spit at him. “There isn’t enough therapy in the world to make up for what she did.”

  Dad looks like he’s been slapped, and he reddens.

  “Carly Simon McKay—” he begins, but I turn my attention to Mary.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I say. “Where do you get the right?”

  “Don’t you talk to your mother like that,” my father starts, but Mary puts her hand on his arm and says, “Declan.”

  “I’ll talk to her how I want.” I look at Mary and point at Five. “Did you know she hated the name you gave her? Van Morrison McKay? What kind of name is that for a baby girl, anyway? Carly Simon and Ella Fitzgerald were bad enough, but Jesus, lady!”

  “Carly!” Dad sounds really pissed off. I’ve never spoken this way in front of him before. It probably doesn’t help that I look and sound like I’m a kid, and that fact fills me with additional fury, which I promptly unleash on my mother.