by Connie Lacy
There was a pause and I could feel him staring at me but I knew better than to open my eyes.
“I’m leaving now. I’ll call you tomorrow. So turn on your goddam phone.”
He leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“Get up and lock the door! Come on,” he said, pulling me by the hands and forcing me to follow him to the door. I dutifully turned the deadbolt and sank back onto the couch, relieved to be alone again.
*
Rehearsals began the next evening and I was almost ready to leave when the doorbell chimed. I was hoping it wasn’t Dad again. Turned out it was someone else I didn’t want to face. Through the peephole I could see Alex holding a bouquet of flowers. I considered not answering but decided to open the door, looking immediately at the pink lilies.
“Alex.”
“Hope you’ve got a vase.”
“I’m sure I do somewhere. Come in.”
I took the flowers and headed to the kitchen, motioning for him to follow.
“I was on my way out the door,” I explained. “Rehearsals start tonight for the play I’m in. But I’ve got a minute.”
I rummaged through a couple of cabinets near the back door till I found what I was looking for. It was good to have something to do so I didn’t have to look at him. I removed the plastic wrapper from the flowers and slipped them into the vase, filling it halfway with water from the tap.
“Congratulations on getting such a big part,” he said.
“Thanks. I have to admit I’m a little nervous.”
I arranged the flowers a bit and then set them on the kitchen table.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think so. The flowers are gorgeous.”
“I can’t wait to see the play.”
“I’m excited,” I said, looking in his general direction and trying for a smile.
“I know you have to go but I sure would like to see you sometime. Maybe dinner or lunch or something.”
I didn’t need to look into his very fine eyes to know his face was filled with sympathy and affection. Before I could think how to answer, he closed the distance between us and wrapped his arms around me. It was not a passionate embrace, but a warm hug. He didn’t try to kiss me. He just held me close.
“I’m so sorry, Jenna.”
We stood like that for a moment and it took all my willpower not to hug him back. In spite of the vision I’d had of him and Tia, I knew he was a good guy. The kind of guy who had made me consider a long-term relationship, maybe even marriage. But he deserved a lot better than what I had to offer.
“I really appreciate your coming.” And I pulled away. “I’ve gotta get going. Don’t wanna be late.”
I led the way back through the living room to the front door, which was still standing open.
“I’ll keep in touch,” I said.
My eyes were focused on his bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “I brought you something else.”
And he extracted a small, framed picture from his jacket and handed it to me. It was a photo of the two of us that Tia had taken with her phone as we were heading out the door on our second date. His arm was around me and we both looked unbelievably happy and carefree. Tia told me later that we made a cute couple. And she was right. Of course, he was so good-looking, he would make any couple look cute – didn’t matter who he had his arm around.
“I still feel the same way,” he whispered.
He walked down the front steps and I eased the door closed behind him.
*
Immersing myself in the play was a relief. I spent hours practicing my lines and was off book before anyone else. Everyone was professional and seemed to get along. It was tiring, but in a good way. I could only imagine how fatigued some of the others must’ve been who had day jobs.
As we were gathering our things after the first week of rehearsals Sam invited me to join him and some others for drinks. I thought most of us were going but it turned out it was just Sam, me, my stage husband, Randall, and Melanie, who played the part of my sister Lily in the play. We walked to an upscale bar called The Jazz Tavern and found a table. It was crowded on a Saturday night with a jazz trio in the corner, making for a nice vibe. We ordered snacks and drinks and Randall and Melanie gabbed a lot about the play.
“It’s so meaningful,” she gushed in her high voice, dipping flatbread into hummus dip. “I mean, it’s all about life, you know?”
Melanie was a little older than me and a little shorter than me. Pretty shoulder-length dark brown hair, brown eyes and a way of sounding sincere even when she was talking about something as mundane as shopping for groceries.
She took a bite and nodded at Randall, who sipped his beer and turned his attention to Sam.
“So how’d you get this directing gig? I mean, you’re the youngest director I’ve ever worked with.”
“Connections. Of course, I’ve been directing since I was in high school. A lot of experience. But my uncle’s on the Midtown Theatre board. The director they originally hired backed out. So my uncle recommended me. And voila!”
Randall nodded and took another drink. He knew all about connections. I had the feeling that’s the only reason he’d come to the bar. He was on a fact-finding mission. And I wasn’t at all surprised when he announced a moment later he had to get going.
“Yeah, me too,” Melanie piped up, wiping her mouth with a napkin as she cocked her head at Randall. “Would you mind walking me to my car?”
She pulled a compact and a tube of lipstick from her purse and proceeded to paint her lips deep pink as Randall tossed a twenty on the table.
“I don’t have any cash,” Melanie confessed, shrugging innocently at Sam and me. There was something about her that reminded me of a college girl begging her mother to pay for concert tickets because she’d already spent her own money on a trip to the beach. “Can I pay you back tomorrow?”
And they were gone, Melanie clutching Randall’s arm as they threaded their way through the crush of people.
Sam downed the last of his sangria and glanced around, searching for our waitress. He looked younger tonight. I don’t know why. And I wondered how I looked to him. I was wearing a teal shirt, sleeves rolled up to my elbows and skinny khakis. My hair was down on my shoulders. Lip gloss, minimal makeup.
“Want another?” he asked.
“Sure.”
I was having whiskey sours, mostly because I didn’t want a beer and didn’t know what else to order. And he motioned for the waitress to bring each of us a second drink. When he did, I noticed a tattoo peeking from beneath the right sleeve of his tee shirt. I couldn’t see the design but I latched onto that image, deciding I didn’t like it.
“I’ve noticed you’re using Rachel’s mannerisms,” he said.
I’d watched Rachel closely when she was onstage as the older version of Rose. And there were certain hand movements she made and a way of tilting her head slightly that I’d adopted. It was nice that Sam noticed.
I smiled and nodded.
“Do you two ever talk?” he asked.
“Sometimes. But she’s busy practicing her lines.”
“Yeah, she works hard. So do you.”
“Well, I try.”
I ate one of the little flatbreads, mostly for something to do. And then the waitress brought our drinks. She set the sangria in front of me and the whiskey sour in front of him.
“So what do you do for fun?” he said, switching the drinks.
I smiled self-consciously, not really knowing how to answer.
“You do occasionally have some fun, right?” he continued. “Bowling? Skating? Dancing? Hiking, maybe? Bicycling? Am I getting warm?”
He was flirting with me. And I really didn’t want to go there. It could spoil everything. And, besides, he had that tattoo and drank sangria.
“I’m kind of stodgy, actually,” I said. “I read a lot and do a little gardening.”
One
exaggeration and one lie.
“You are so not stodgy.”
He sipped his drink and studied me, probably deciding whether I was worth further attention.
“I like to read too,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Especially if it’s a scintillating book. But I also like camping and hiking and that kind of stuff. I’m thinking about an outing to Amicalola Falls.”
This is where I was supposed to say something like: “Wow, I’d love to see the falls.” But I just nodded. Under different circumstances I would’ve been interested in getting to know him better. We obviously had a love of theater in common. And I had to admit, the thought of going hiking in a scenic spot with someone interesting held great appeal. But I bit my tongue and turned to listen as the musicians launched into Take Five, one of my favorite jazz tunes.
7.
Dad had all but ordered me to come for dinner and I decided it would be a good opportunity to reassure him I was all right so he would back off. As I pulled into the driveway I was fairly confident I could handle being with him and Meg. I was getting pretty good at avoiding direct eye contact without being obvious.
Their house was what my mother once described in “real estate speak” as a cozy cottage on the edge of the historic Druid Hills neighborhood. Walking distance to the CDC for Dad and to Emory Hospital, where Meg was a research nurse. Her hobby was working in the yard and it showed. A pretty stone path lead to the front porch, bordered by clumps of pink calla lilies, purple tulips and white delphiniums. Garden gnomes peeked around the flowers, making me feel like I was walking through a children’s storybook.
Meg answered the door wearing a loose yellow top over black leggings, reminding me of a plump bumble bee. She hugged me and led the way to the kitchen where she was in the middle of tossing a big bowl of salad. The appetizing aroma tipped me off that her excellent chicken tetrazzini was in the oven. I handed her a bottle of white wine I’d found at Mom’s house.
“The corkscrew is in the drawer,” she said, pointing.
“Not sure I know how to do this,” I replied, trying to figure out whether the handles should be up or down. “It was always cheap wine with screw-off caps in college.”
“Tom!” she called out. “Need a man’s touch in here!”
Dad appeared, looking his usual good-looking, casual self in khaki shorts and a striped polo. He took the corkscrew from me and had the wine open so fast, I couldn’t follow his technique. He poured the two of us a glass but I noticed he didn’t pour one for Meg. Why they were keeping the pregnancy a secret was beyond me.
“Anything simple I can do to help?” I asked.
“Set the table?” she suggested.
I took the stack of dishes, napkins and silverware already sitting on the counter and headed for the table while Dad put ice in the water glasses. But when I arranged the plates I realized there were four.
“Someone else coming?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dad said. “Our neighbor Janet Willer. I think you met her before. Auburn hair, glasses, very nice.”
“Can’t remember.”
I was surprised they’d invited someone else. But it might make it easier since they wouldn’t be completely focused on me.
And then the doorbell buzzed and Dad escorted Janet into the kitchen. She was as Dad described her but taller than I expected. She was dressed in a colorful, long broomstick skirt and peasant top.
“Home-made lemon ice box pie,” she announced in a deep, smoker’s voice, setting the pie on the counter and turning to me. “Jenna, so good to see you again. I don’t know if you remember but we met at the wedding.”
She reached out to shake my hand and I played along, looking her in the eye. She had a rather intense gaze, magnified, quite literally by her thick glasses. Her smile made it seem as though she really was glad to be there with us. So I assumed she lived alone.
“You’re even prettier than I remembered,” she gushed.
“Thank you,” Dad said.
“Like you had anything to do with it,” Janet cried.
“Well, I did,” he said.
And everyone laughed.
The dinner was scrumptious, the conversation was light and I was doing pretty well. It made it easier that I could look at Janet, although it sometimes felt like she was a little too interested in me. She asked what it was like being a teacher and about my role in the play. And then, as we were having our pie in the living room, she told me how sorry she was about my mom.
“I lost my mother when I was young, too,” she said. “It was very hard on me.”
The way she raised her eyebrows made it seem as though she was observing me, waiting for me to open up. I could feel Dad and Meg studying me as well. It was like a game of chess and they were waiting to see if I would put my queen in play. And that’s when suspicion welled up from my gut to my brain.
I nodded and sipped my wine, then excused myself to visit the bathroom. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I pulled out my phone and did a search for Janet Willer, Atlanta. Sure enough, topping the results – Dr. Janet Willer, clinical psychologist.
My first impulse was to stalk back into the living room and let Dad have it. My hand was on the doorknob. But I forced myself to take a deep breath. What would it accomplish besides making him even more worried. So I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, freshened my lip gloss and forced myself to continue the charade. I played it cool for another thirty minutes, then thanked them profusely as I made my exit.
Dad was, no doubt, getting a full analysis before I even backed out of the driveway.
*
The field trip to Glendale Arms was something Rachel cooked up. She was the elderly version of Rose in the play – the character who had an adjoining room with her sister Lily at a retirement home. It was their memories that Melanie and I acted out as younger versions of the sisters. Rachel decided it would help her performance to see people actually living in an assisted living home. I figured it might help me too so I tagged along. Helen, who played the older Lily, said she didn’t need to do that much research. And Melanie wasn’t interested either.
As we signed in at the front desk I was having second thoughts, myself. A man in an obvious toupee was snoring, his chin on his chest, in one of the lobby chairs. Two women with tight, grey curls stared at us from a small sofa. A woman with a walker slowly approached us and said “can you help me find my house?”
“Mrs. Whitmire,” a staff member said in a booming voice, “You ready to play Bingo?”
The old woman shuffled away, pushing her walker ahead of her.
Rachel had arranged for us to visit with a pair of real sisters. Just like the characters in the play, they had adjoining rooms. A lady behind the desk escorted us to a second floor activity area where we found a small group of residents sitting at long tables with green plastic tablecloths, listening to an elderly woman with a purse dangling from her shoulder play the piano. There were two women sitting together by the front windows, one of them singing along. I followed Rachel to their table and our guide introduced us.
“Miss Frances, Miss Betty, you have some visitors. Isn’t that nice?”
Her tone was syrupy like she was talking to pre-schoolers.
“This is Frances,” she said, gesturing to the woman who’d been singing, dressed in a blue floral jacket. “And this is Betty,” she said, waving at the other woman in a tan sweater. And then she rushed off.
“Very nice to meet you,” said Rachel as we sat down across from them. “My name is Rachel and this is Jenna.”
They smiled at us and Frances resumed singing.
“I remember that song from when I was a little girl,” Rachel said. “Que sera sera.”
Frances stopped singing and smiled.
“It’s one of my favorite songs,” she said.
“It’s a stupid song,” Betty complained, scowling.
“It’s not stupid,” said Frances, looking hurt.
“Is too,” said Betty.
T
hey both had fluffy white hair and glasses, but there was no sisterly resemblance.
“Why do you think it’s a stupid song?” Rachel asked.
“What song?” Betty said.
“Que sera sera,” said Rachel.
“That’s a stupid song,” Betty replied, rolling her eyes.
“It is not,” said Frances.
“Is too,” said Betty.
“Well, why do you think it’s stupid?” Rachel persisted.
“Because it’s so… because it’s… lazy,” Betty said.
“You mean fatalistic?” Rachel asked.
The old sisters both looked at her with quizzical expressions.
“Que sera sera,” Rachel persevered. “You think it’s a fatalistic philosophy of life?”
“Good grief,” said Betty. “It means whatever will be, will be and there’s nothing you can do about it. What a stupid thing to say.”
“It’s not stupid,” said Frances, looking like she was about to cry.
“Is too,” said Betty.
The music ended abruptly and Frances shifted around so she could see the woman sitting at the piano who was now staring into space.
“Why don’t you play Que sera sera?” she called out. “It’s my favorite song and I haven’t heard it in years. Do you know how to play it?”
“I’m leaving,” said Betty. “I can’t stand that song.”
And she struggled out of her chair.
“I don’t know if I remember…” said the piano lady.
“It goes like this,” Frances said cheerfully, launching into the chorus.
The woman at the piano played along with her, not missing a note, as Frances sang loudly. Her sister pushed her walker toward the hallway, shaking her head in disgust.
I was intrigued, wondering if Frances and Betty disagreed on a lot of things. So I got contact information for the old sisters’ families. Turns out Frances, the one who liked the song, believed everything happened for a reason. Her daughter said when her brother was killed in Viet Nam, her mom said “it was God’s will.” Which the daughter said made it seem like her brother’s life was only important in how it fit into the larger scheme of things.
