Love, Suburban Style

by Wendy Markham

  “Right.”

  “I know how that is. There are certain things that are a man’s department, too.”

  “So you know what it’s like, then. Trying to get used to doing things that your husband used to do.”

  “Not really. The only thing my husband used to do was plot his escape.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. He was a loser, that’s all.”

  “How long ago did he…?”

  “Escape?” she supplies. “Before Cosette was even born.”

  “He never…?”

  “No. He never stuck around to see his own child into the world, which should give you some idea of his character.”

  Sam nods, feeling sorry for Meg even though there isn’t the slightest indication that she feels sorry for herself.

  “I’m guessing your wife stuck around for your kids’ births,” she says dryly, catching him off guard.

  “Oh… right. She did.” His attempt at a laugh is a pathetic staccato choke.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke about your divorce, even though mine was long enough ago that it sometimes seems almost funny. In a humiliating kind of way.”

  “I understand. It’s just… I’m not divorced.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up and she actually takes a slight step back from him.

  “You’re married?”

  “No!”

  “Then…?”

  Sam takes a deep breath. “My wife was killed in a car accident.”

  Meg’s hands fly to her mouth as she gasps. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Sam. I just assumed… I mean… I’m an idiot. I had no idea.”

  “I know you didn’t. How would you?”

  She touches his arm, and he’s startled to realize that he’s trembling. It isn’t so much from grief or emotion as it is from relief.

  There.

  He’s said it, without breaking down.

  My wife was killed in a car accident.

  That’s not something he voices very often anymore, now that he’s been living around here for four years. But back in the beginning, when he and the kids had newly moved back in with his mother, he was forced to say it almost constantly.

  He cried every time.

  Not this time, though. This time, he feels as though he’s just set down a box of bricks he’s been lugging around.

  “I wish I had known,” Meg says softly. “About your wife.”

  Does she mean that she wishes she had known back when it happened—before he even knew her?

  Or does she mean now, since they met a few days ago?

  “Why?” He can’t help being struck by the tide of genuine sympathy in her eyes. It washes away his misgivings about her, try as he might to cling to them.

  “I don’t know… I just wish I could have… done something. I know it sounds crazy, since you didn’t even know me, but… well, I would have helped you, if I could.”

  It’s a bizarre thing for her to say, really. They’re strangers even now.

  Yet somehow, Sam is tremendously comforted.

  For a moment, they just look at each other.

  Then, remembering that he’s supposed to be helping her get settled, he clears his throat. “Do you, ah, want me to just put a clean blanket over the sheets that are already on the bed, or something?”

  “What? Oh. No, I’ll be fine.”

  He nods, finding an odd intimacy in the notion of her naked limbs settling into the tangle of sheets he just vacated.

  “Where are you going to sleep?” she asks him.

  “Downstairs, on the pullout couch.” He pauses. “I’ll let you get some sleep, then. You must be exhausted.”

  “Not really. Must be the adrenaline. I feel wide-awake.”

  “Me, too. Do you want…”

  Watch it, Sam. What are you doing?

  “Do you want to come down and watch TV with me?” he offers, and wonders why he feels as though he’s just made an indecent proposal.

  It’s TV.

  Nothing more.

  Really.

  Oh, well. She’ll undoubtedly say no. At this hour of the night, who wants to stay up?

  Meg does, apparently, because she responds with an enthusiastic, “Sure.”

  You should have gone to bed, Meg scolds herself as she watches Sam take two beers from the fridge and open them.

  But she wasn’t the least bit tired.

  Well then, I should have at least said no when he asked if I wanted something cold to drink. Or asked for ice water.

  She distracts herself, looking around the kitchen. It’s comfortably worn, the appliances dated and a harvest gold shade that hasn’t been popular in a few decades. The fridge is covered with paper reminders and invitations held in place by colorful magnets. There’s a stack of newspapers and mail on the laminate counter, alongside a couple of paintbrushes and a pair of sneakers.

  This isn’t a woman’s kitchen, Meg thinks, smiling to herself.

  Then she sees the lush, potted geranium blooming on the windowsill. It seems out of place here. Somebody’s obviously tending to it, though. Sam? Or maybe…

  It occurs to her suddenly that he might have a girlfriend.

  Why wouldn’t he? He always did.

  He turns to her and holds out a beer.

  “Thanks,” she says, and finds herself gesturing at the plant. “That’s beautiful. Who takes care of it?”

  There’s a note of sadness in his grin. “Who do you think?”

  “You?”

  “Yup.”

  That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a girlfriend. And Meg shouldn’t care if he does.

  But she finds herself feeling pleased.

  A finger of frosty air curls above the neck of the open green bottle in her hand.

  “Cheers,” Sam says, and clinks his own bottle lightly against it.

  “Cheers.” She tilts the bottle to her lips and sips.

  The sip quickly turns to a swig.

  There has never been anything as refreshing as this fizzy, ice-cold brew. She drains a third of the bottle before lowering it to find Sam grinning at her.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just trying to picture most of the women I know drinking a beer from the bottle, and I couldn’t.”

  “Then you’re not hanging out with the right kind of women,” she says lightly, trying not to imagine Sam hanging out with women. Any women. For any reason.

  Jealous? asks an inner voice.

  Absolutely.

  Yes, old habits die hard. She vividly recalls the envy she used to feel whenever she spotted Sam leaning in his usual spot against the radiator in the science wing at school, his arm draped around some cheerleader’s shoulders.

  “Actually,” Sam says, “my choice of women to hang out with in this town is seriously limited to fancy wine drinkers.”

  “I like wine.”

  “Fancy wine?”

  Meg shrugs. “Any wine. I’m not a Fancy Mom.”

  “A Fancy Mom. There are plenty of those around here.”

  “No kidding. The scariest one of all was at my house today.”

  “Olympia Flickinger?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I saw her car,” he admits, looking embarrassed, as if she just caught him spying on her.

  Maybe she did.

  She sips her beer, trying to figure out what, if anything, that might mean.

  “Why was she there?” Sam asks.

  “Long story short, I’m going to be teaching her daughter to sing, if she’ll have me.”

  “Poor you.”

  “No kidding.”

  There’s a pause.

  Not an awkward one, though. Just a pause.

  “Want to go watch Conan or something?” Sam asks.

  “Sure.”

  She follows him back to the front of the house, taking in every detail as they go. She can’t help it, she’s been fueled by curiosity about his private life ever since she walked through the front door she stared at
longingly and surreptitiously so many times in the past.

  The place has a comfortable, lived-in aura. Not a showplace, not a bachelor pad. Something pleasantly in between.

  There are old family photos on tables and walls, probably left over from Sam’s parents’ occupancy of the house. Meg wants to look more closely at them, but she can’t do it in passing, and she doesn’t want to seem nosy.

  The furniture is comfortable oak that looks more country than Victorian, which contrasts with the window treatments. Those, Meg suspects, are probably courtesy of his mother’s reign here as well.

  If Sam doesn’t “do” sheets, he probably doesn’t do curtains, either.

  The French door to the living room, covered in an opaque lace panel, is closed.

  “If I don’t shut it when I go upstairs at night, the dog wants to sleep on my bed,” Sam explains, opening it.

  He flips on a light, and they cross the threshold. Meg hears a jingling sound.

  “That’s Rover,” Sam says unnecessarily, closing the door behind them.

  Meg spots a sleepy dog looking up from his spot on the rug.

  “Hi, Rover,” she says cautiously.

  Rover responds with a halfhearted wag of his tail, then closes his eyes again.

  She tries to think of something positive to say to Sam. “Friendly dog.”

  “Rover is a sweetheart.”

  Not much of a watchdog, though, is he? Meg wants to point out. The dog didn’t so much as bark when Sam came traipsing into the house with her and Cosette.

  She thought dogs were supposed to come yapping around whenever strangers are afoot.

  Oh, well. She’ll take a laid-back, indifferent mutt over a growling, barking watchdog any day.

  Meanwhile, as Cosette pointed out, their own cat has been practically bouncing off the walls next door. Maybe she should spend a little time with Rover and take a refresher course in how to chill.

  Either that, or maybe we should take a cue from Chita Rivera and get the heck out of that haunted house.

  “Have a seat,” Sam offers, apparently looking around for the remote.

  After brief consideration of her choices, Meg settles on the couch.

  That way, she’s farthest from the dog.

  Yes, and that way, Sam can sit next to you.

  That isn’t why, she argues with herself, and takes another gulp of her beer.

  But she isn’t disappointed when he locates the remote and sinks onto the couch beside her. Not thigh-to-thigh beside her, but close enough.

  Close enough? He’s too close.

  You should get up and move, before it’s too late, Meg cautions herself.

  But her body doesn’t budge.

  Get up and move, she commands, but she might as well be a helpless puppeteer whose marionette’s strings have been slashed.

  Now what?

  Chapter

  10

  Powerlessly mired inches from Sam on the couch, Meg watches him aim the remote at the television and press a button.

  Nothing happens.

  “What’s up with that?” Sam mutters, and presses it again.

  This time, the television flicks on, but the screen is filled with snowy static.

  Sam curses.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Meg asks.

  “The cable must be out again. It happens. Usually only when there’s a storm, though.”

  They both look toward the window.

  Beyond the screen, everything is still. Not even a gust to stir the curtains.

  Sam clicks off the television again. “We’ll try it again in a few seconds.”

  “No big deal. I don’t watch much television anyway. In fact, I haven’t even hooked up our cable service yet.”

  “And your daughter isn’t freaking out?”

  Meg shakes her head and sips her beer.

  “That would drive my kids crazy. They both watch too much television—I probably do, too.”

  “Cosette reads a lot. What do you watch?”

  “Baseball games, sitcoms, a couple of reality shows, some HBO series, movies…”

  “Which movies?” asks Meg, hoping to find some common ground. On the rare occasions that she does watch television, she watches movies.

  “You know… whatever’s on. New ones, old ones.”

  “Old ones? I like old movies. What are some of your favorites?”

  “Meatballs is good,” he says promptly. “And I like Top Gun.”

  So much for common ground.

  “What about you?”

  “Philadelphia Story, Citizen Kane, It Happened One Night, anything with Joan Crawford, or Henry Fonda… And I love old musicals.”

  “Like Grease? Have you ever seen it?”

  Seen it? She debates whether to tell him that she played Sandy for over a year in a revival. Nah.

  “I meant more like the old musicals from the thirties and forties.”

  “Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those.”

  Meg has seen them all. In fact, she and Geoffrey had a Judy Garland movie marathon just last week, before she moved. They kicked it off with popcorn and The Wizard of Oz, wound it down with a nightcap and Meet Me in Saint Louis. A perfect evening, in Meg’s opinion.

  Something tells her Sam might not agree.

  I miss Geoffrey, Meg realizes suddenly, overcome by a wave of nostalgia for her old life.

  She drains what’s left of her beer and sets the bottle on the coffee table.

  She misses Geoffrey, and her apartment, and gossip about people who populated the world she left behind, and the city itself, and yes, her work.

  Certain elements of it, anyway. She doesn’t miss auditioning, or cutthroat competition, or the rigors of keeping her voice and body in peak performance condition. But she does miss being immersed in musical theater, and singing, not to mention the regular paychecks.

  Basically, she’s homesick.

  And it hasn’t even been a week.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She looks up, startled by Sam’s question. She had momentarily forgotten where she was.

  “Why?” she asks, instantly aware again of his presence.

  In the soft amber lamplight, with his summer tan and slightly flushed, damp skin, he seems to glow. And he’s close enough for her to smell him: a heady scent of the clean fabric softener emanating from his cotton T-shirt, and the earthy heat coming off him. Not perspiration, just the appealing cologne of masculine warmth.

  “I asked because you look distracted,” he tells her. “And sad.”

  “Oh… don’t mind me. I was wondering if I just made a really bad move.”

  “You mean not using a coaster?”

  Baffled, she looks at him.

  His mouth quirks into a half smile. “It was a joke. I meant setting the beer bottle down, no coaster, bad move… Forget it. Stupid joke. You meant bad move, as in leaving the city and moving up here?”

  “Right. What do you think about it?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion.”

  No, he doesn’t. She keeps forgetting. Not only does he feel like an old friend, but he suddenly feels like her only friend.

  “It’s just that I don’t know what to expect from here on in,” she confides. She’s not sure why. She just needs someone to talk to. Someone who isn’t hostile and hormonal and fifteen.

  Anyone would fit the bill, really, she insists to herself. It doesn’t have to be Sam. He just happens to be here.

  So you’re not going to make him your new confidant, or anything more.

  No.

  But tonight, he’s all you’ve got.

  Yes.

  And you might as well talk to him, because you can’t do anything else with him, lest you forget.

  She didn’t. Not even for a second.

  “You should have some idea of what this is going to be like, though,” Sam is telling her. “It’s not like you’re a stranger in a strange land. You grew up here.”<
br />
  “I know, but it feels like a strange land,” she says, thinking of the Flickingers and their wardrobes and cameras occupying her childhood home. And of the Fancy Moms, and the trendy new businesses that have pushed out the old ones on Main Street. And of the haunted house next door where her belongings are currently parked.

  “I know what you mean. When I moved back here again, it did take some getting used to.”

  “Moved back? You mean you left?”

  He nods. “After college—I went to a SUNY school upstate…”

  She nods. She knows. The State University of New York at Fredonia, where he majored in education. She kept track of him after he left Glenhaven Park High—until she left town herself.

  “I went to grad school in Manhattan,” he continues. “We lived there for a few years and I taught in the Bronx until Ben was born. Then we moved to Pelham.”

  Meg tries to absorb this mini–biographical sketch. Tries to absorb the we.

  And…

  Manhattan? So he was right under her nose for years, living in the same city, and she never even knew it.

  Yes, with his wife and child, she reminds herself. They’re the “we.”

  “Did you meet your wife in college?” she asks, and he nods.

  “She was a teacher, too. But mostly, she wanted to be a mom.”

  Meg smiles faintly.

  So does Sam, but his is ominously shadowed. Her heart goes out to him.

  “So you moved back here a few years ago?” she asks, to keep him talking.

  “Yes, the kids and I moved in here with my mother after Sheryl… passed away.”

  Don’t go to that dark place, Sam.

  “That must have been a difficult adjustment,” Meg says, trying to think of a way to steer the conversation back to a less painful topic for him.

  “It was. But I honestly don’t remember much of it. I just knew things had changed around here, but it didn’t matter much to me.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  He falls silent, lost in thought.

  Come back, Sam.

  “For me,” she says, “I’m starting to think it might have been almost easier if I had moved someplace where I had never lived before.”

  Except that Sam wouldn’t be there.

  That would be a good thing, because she can’t fall for him, and she feels as though she could. If she let herself. Which she won’t.

  But still…