by Claire Cook
Maeve squirmed in her mother's arms, began to fuss. "Don't you start," said Carol.
. . . . .
Lorna was sitting at my kitchen table. "Okay, there's line dancing at the Knights of Columbus hall, a wine tasting at O'Brien's, or we can use these before they expire." She handed me two gift certificates, each one good for a manicure at the Nail Trail.
"Teacher presents?" I asked with a smile.
"You got it. The only perk in this business. I think the parents buy them for us to feel less guilty that their Land Rover cost more than their child's teacher makes in a year. I even got a gift certificate for a full hour massage for my birthday from Lucy Wheelright's mom." Lorna rolled her shoulders back. "It was great. I'd get rid of Mattress Man in a second if I could have one of those every day."
Even at the bitter end, I never would have joked about Kevin that way. A lot of good it did me. I ran through Lorna's suggestions. "How 'bout the manicure?" I asked. "Can we walk in or do we need an appointment?" Later I'd try to remember where I'd stashed my own gift certificates, and find out if they'd expired. If not, I'd share them with Lorna.
"We'll find out."
I am never very comfortable letting people do things for me. At a restaurant, I always stack the plates for the waitress, clean up any stray bits of food from the tablecloth so the waiter won't have to. Now I sat at a ruffled table in front of an Asian manicurist who didn't smile. She pointed, so I obediently perched my fingers in two cut-glass bowls of soapy water. I looked at her, trying to figure out what country she was from, thinking maybe I'd get her to teach me one of her childhood games for the kids at school. I waited for her to look up. She ignored me.
I cleared my throat. "Uh, excuse me, but where are you from?"
"Plymouth."
"No, I mean what country are you from?"
She grabbed my right hand. I jumped. "United States American." She glared at the hand as if it had asked the question. "What color?" she asked.
It took me a minute to realize she meant my nails. "Oh, whatever you think," I said, thinking I'd make up for asking her stupid questions.
"Your nails, not mine." Beside me Lorna and her manicurist were laughing away together as if they'd known each other their whole lives.
"Okay, this one, please." I pointed to a nonadventurous shade of pink.
When the right hand was finished, she turned on a tiny green fan, tapped her fingernail on the counter to signal me to place my hand in front of it. I obeyed.
She finished polishing the left hand, moved the fan to let my right hand know it was the left hand's turn. "Good nails," she said with a scowl. "Women pay lotta money get these nails. Nevva happen. Rubber gloves to clean, good lotion and come see me every week. Or twice month. You decide." She picked up my right hand, turned it over and gazed at my palm. "Not much lifeline."
. . . . .
My father squinted at the television. "Now there's one fine-looking woman."
"Mrs. Brady?" I waggled my fingers, admiring last night's manicure.
"No, the brunette with the curtains."
"Dad, that's Alice. She's the housekeeper."
"We all have to earn a living, Sarah. And you, my darlin' daughter, were not brought up to be a snob in any way, shape or form. Your mother never had any airs about her at all."
My father and I were sipping Campbell's tomato soup from coffee mugs in my living room. Our feet were on the coffee table and an open bag of oyster crackers rested between them. We'd each crushed a handful of crackers into our soup by rubbing our hands back and forth over the mug. Powdery crumbs dusted the tabletop.
Alice was explaining to Mrs. Brady that she wouldn't be able to sit for the Brady kids that night because she had to deliver the olive-green cafe curtains she'd just finished making for Sam's house. Sam was a new boyfriend, and Mr. and Mrs. Brady were encouraging the relationship. "But if you had a choice, Dad, I mean if Mrs. Brady wasn't married, wouldn't you pick her over Alice?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I've learned a bit of what there is to learn about women over the years, Sarah, and I can tell you, without a smidgen of doubt, that the brunette is the better choice. The blonde is too high-strung. Squirrelly."
"Squirrelly? What's squirrelly?"
"What do you mean, 'What's squirrelly?' Look out your window, Sarry girl, and watch the little rodents, like rats wearing fur coats. All nervous and running here and there without ever finishing anything. That's squirrelly."
I took another look at Mrs. Brady. She seemed calm to me. She and Mr. Brady were agreeing that it would be unconscionable to stand in the way of Alice's date. The plot was thickening. Marcia and Greg were announcing that they were too old to have a baby-sitter anyway. Actually, Greg was announcing it, but Marcia was backing him up one hundred percent.
I took another sip of my soup. My father took a sip of his, too, wrapping both hands around the mug just like I did. The crackers were nice and soggy. "Sorry I don't have anything better to offer you for dinner, Dad. I wasn't expecting company."
"I wasn't expecting to be company. It was an impulse born of necessity." He removed a wrinkled white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. I should have remembered napkins.
"What do you mean?"
"I inadvertently made two sets of dinner plans. I thought it best to cancel both before any hearts were broken. And then make myself scarce."
"Wow, you're cheating on Dolly?"
"The concept of cheating does not apply to the situation."
"Why do I think Dolly wouldn't agree with that?" Mr. and Mrs. Brady were in a fancy restaurant now, taking turns sneaking off to the pay phone to check on the kids. I still couldn't see squirrelly. "Is Dolly squirrelly, Dad?"
"Dolly is the least squirrelly woman I have ever met." He was running his fingers through his thick white hair. He looked like a big cat grooming himself after dinner.
"Is that what attracted you to her?" I mean, what would attract a handsome man like my father to a little pink woman like Dolly?
"Sarah, why one human being is attracted to another is one of the great mysteries of the world."
. . . . .
As soon as my father left, I picked up the phone. I'd been doing this on a regular basis, picking it up, holding on to it for a while, eventually putting it back down. Building a new life was such a great idea and one that, in theory, I believed in completely. In reality, though, I found that I could feel myself wanting a life and I could picture myself having a life, but I had a hard time making myself connect the dots between the two.
Forward motion, little steps, I coached myself, wishing I'd had the tenacity to make it all the way through one of the self-help books Carol was always handing down to me. I took a deep breath and dialed John Anderson's number. I had never even thanked him for our date, or for leaving the message on my machine later that night.
"Yellow," he said when he answered, making me question my impulse.
I forged ahead anyway. "John. Hi. It's Sarah Hurlihy. Remember me?"
"Mother Teresa's friend?"
"Yeah. Um, I just wanted to thank you for our sorta date."
"You mean, our sorta date of three weeks ago?"
"Wow, has it been that long? Gee, time flies." I couldn't imagine why I had called. "So, how've you been?"
"I'm okay. How 'bout you? I take it you didn't like any of my second date suggestions."
"No, that wasn't . . . I mean, yes, I liked all of them. Thank you very much."
"But?"
"Well, I kept meaning to call you, but I never seemed to do it. I guess everything just feels like too much work lately. Like even getting out of bed in the morning is a part-time job."
"Maybe it would be better to think of it as a hobby."
"Is that how you think of it?"
"Lately I've been trying not to think much at all. Actually, I have another hobby I was just playing around with when you called. Anagrams."
"Anagrams? Which on
es are they?"
"When you mix up the letters in a word to spell something else. Usually I use people's names."
This guy was either slightly strange or kind of interesting. Maybe both. "So, give me an example."
"Okay, pick one—Madonna or Shakespeare."
It was probably a test of some sort. Maybe you could rate people based on their preferred cultural icons. "Shakespeare, of course."
"Okay, William Shakespeare comes out: 'I am a weakish speller.'"
"Cut it out. Does it really?"
"Write down the name, then cross off the letters. It works."
"This is fun. How about Madonna?"
"Madonna Louise Ciccone. The best one is 'Occasional nude income.'"
"Oh, that's great. What about me?"
"Okay, give me a minute. Sarah Hurlihy . . . hmm . . . that's a tough one. Umm . . . How about this: 'Hi! Ha ha! Slurry!'"
"That's awful."
"Okay, I can do better. 'Hi! A lush Harry'? Or 'Has hurly hair'?"
"Gee, thanks a lot."
"Hey, I didn't name you."
"That's true. And I hate my name anyway so I won't feel insulted. Sarah's too whispery, not a strong name."
"I think it's a beautiful name."
"Thanks." I'd never really liked talking on the phone that much, but it was kind of nice tonight. There was only sound. No sight or smell or touch to worry about. I could hang up at any time and be safe at home, all by myself. I curled up on the edge of my bed, waited for John to keep talking.
"What would you rather have for a name?" he asked.
"Well, when I was twelve I wanted to be Heidi. I tried to take it as a Confirmation name, but the nuns wouldn't let me because it wasn't the name of a saint."
"Heidi Hurlihy. Sometimes things happen for the best."
"And then I wanted to be Juliet. I know, not much better. How 'bout you, did you ever want another name?"
"You don't think John Anderson is unusual enough?" John's voice was soft and rich and gently teasing.
"You know," I said, forgetting to answer his question. "You have a terrific voice, too."
. . . . .
It's not like it's really a date, I told myself. It was just a quick cup of coffee at Starbucks on Boylston because I'd happened to mention to John Anderson that I was taking a one-day professional development course in Boston. It turned out John's office was just down the street from the conference center where the course was being held.
Everything always seemed more sophisticated in Boston. There was something stimulating about getting out of the suburbs, where you could live your entire life in sweatpants. The women I passed looked neat and crisp and were dressed mostly in black, as if stooping to wear color would be far too frivolous for their important lives.
I was early, and I sat at one of the tall stools at the counter by the window, wishing I'd remembered about the black thing when I was getting dressed that morning. My simple purple dress, which had seemed perfectly appropriate at home, now felt too bright, too cheerful, practically circusy. The seat I'd chosen had a great view, but it was the kind of stool I never knew whether to climb all the way up on, or to just sort of angle myself back against casually. I tried both techniques and neither felt right, so I walked across to a table with two shorter, less intimidating chairs.
Nobody looked at me. Almost everyone grabbed coffee to go, and the few people who sat down immediately buried themselves in a newspaper. The woman directly in front of me wore a beautifully cut black suit with shoes that looked as if they would have cost me a month's salary. She pulled an expensive black leather agenda out of an expensive black leather bag, and examined a page carefully. I wondered what kind of job I'd have to get in order to sit at a Starbucks every morning dressed like that.
I realized that school hadn't even started yet. I wondered how the kids would do without me. I hoped the substitute would remember everything I'd told her, that she and June would follow the schedule I'd left. Consistency was so important to preschoolers. I hoped June would be able to handle it if one of the kids melted down because I wasn't there. I hoped everybody missed me.
John Anderson stood at my table, holding two cups of coffee. I hadn't even noticed him standing in line to get them. "Hi, Sarah. Don't you look nice."
"Hi, John. Thanks." I looked down at my purple dress doubtfully. I looked back up at John. He looked nice, too, kind of casual business with a black leather coat and a gray silk tie that reminded me of old polished silver.
"Milk and sugar?"
"Yeah. No. I mean, milk, no sugar. I'll get it."
"Please. Allow me. I'll be right back." He put his cup down on the table and walked off with mine. I sneaked another look at him. He looked pretty much like all the other guys in Starbucks. Everybody was well groomed, industrious, more or less good-looking, more or less in shape. As if they all had things to do and places to go and a gym to work out at when they were done.
So why exactly was I here with John Anderson? Was it just that he'd stumbled upon my not-too-personal ad randomly, and left an equally impersonal message in my voicemail box? Was it simply that I happened to call him back? What if he'd left messages for hundreds, maybe thousands, of women, and I was the only one to answer?
John handed me my coffee. "Thanks," I said. "I can only stay for a minute."
He made a face, looked down at himself. "What is it, the tie?"
I smiled. "No, the tie's good."
"You're sure? I've got five or six others in the car if you don't like it."
"What makes you think something's wrong with you?" I really wanted to know. Maybe then I could figure out why I always thought something was wrong with me.
"That's a good question. Maybe it's just a natural first assumption. Then again, it could be all those years of listening to my ex-wife."
"Uh-oh, here we are again. The tales of woe."
"Well, we certainly don't have time for mine this morning." He smiled and I smiled back. "My bad habits alone could take days. Weeks, even." He put his elbow on the table and leaned his chin on his fist. He sighed loudly.
"That many, huh?" I shook my head in mock sympathy. "Okay, just give me one." I took a sip of my coffee and wondered if the people standing in the take-out line thought John and I were a couple.
John looked over both shoulders, then leaned forward and whispered, "You're probably not going to believe this, but I've been accused of being more than a bit of a dork."
"No. You? Oh, my God, you didn't wear the Indiana Jones hat around the house, did you?"
"I'm afraid I did. And with white socks, no less."
I giggled. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what made it so, but John Anderson was kind of a dork. A nerd. He could drive a nice car, he could get his hair cut on Newbury Street, he could wear a stylishly distressed leather coat. But he was still the guy who sat next to me in advanced math class in high school and wore mechanical pencils in his shirt pocket and had a crush on me. I wouldn't have wanted anything to do with him back then, partly because if he liked me, there had to be something seriously wrong with him. But also because if he was a nerd and I went out with him, then I'd be a nerd-lover, which was pretty much the same thing as being a nerd, too.
All these years later, I imagined the rules had changed. I couldn't be sure, but John's residual nerdiness seemed more endearing than not. For the rest of the day, as I tried to stay focused on "Preschoolers and Emerging Literacy," my thoughts kept drifting over to John Anderson. I pictured him walking around in the Indiana Jones hat and the white socks. Then I pictured him walking around in the Indiana Jones hat and the white socks and nothing else.
I looked around at the other teachers, by now practically reclining on the padded chairs of the conference room, and wondered if they noticed I was smiling for no apparent reason at all.
Chapter
Twelve
Michael and Mother Teresa and I were going for a walk. Borrowing Mother Teresa that time had made Michael think to i
nvite me: "The pooch and I come here a lot. It's one of our favorite places."
Always, since we'd grown up and moved out, I talked to Carol and Christine at least once a week. It was different with the boys. Maybe they were more involved with their wives' families, but it seemed as if Johnny was always traveling and Billy Jr., even though he was only a year older than Carol, acted as if he were from another generation. The last time he'd shown up for Sunday dinner at Dad's, he'd worn a gray, button-down sweater and talked about retirement. "I'll be dead and buried before you bring up that subject again, young man," Dad said. "My best advice to you is not to rush the seasons."
I was happy to have something to do, happier still to have a chance to hang out with Michael. We walked around to the back of Michael and Phoebe's Toyota 4Runner, and he opened the back door so Mother Teresa could jump down. THE MARSHBURY MUNICIPAL GOLF COURSE, read a sign at the edge of the parking lot. A smaller sign was tacked below: CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.
Michael put his keys in the pocket of his jeans. We were both wearing sneakers and we set off briskly down a paved road that wound along the side of a fairway. Michael stopped to unhook Mother Teresa's leash and she galloped ahead. At the edge of a pond, we stepped off the blacktop, tromping across a mixture of beach heather and scrub grass, our sneakers sinking into the sandy soil. "What was this place before it was a golf course?" I asked Michael.
He stopped, plucked a golf ball from the base of a small cedar. "Nice one," he said, putting it in his pocket, "practically new. Don't you remember? This was all a big sandpit. We used to sneak in the back way from Edgewater Road, drive right by the No Trespassing signs, go drinking and skinny-dipping right there." He pointed to the charming, tastefully landscaped pond.
"Oh, my God. This was the pond with the shopping carts and car parts at the bottom? Supposedly you'd get polio if you even touched the water with your baby finger, a new kind of polio the vaccine couldn't prevent."
