Thus far, his strategy had proven effective.
“I’ll turn off the alarm,” she said.
“Great, thanks,” Michael called to her as she opened up a kitchen window, then fanned the smoke alarm with last month’s issue of At Home with Bits-n-Bytes magazine until it stopped its high-pitched alert. “I can buy some new dish towels this weekend,” he added.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said evenly. Michael was not exactly Mr. Bed, Bath & Beyond. He’d be more likely to get distracted at the strip mall, wind up at a Starbucks and write an “Elegy to the Earth” on one of their paper napkins about how “the scorched jade of the cloth was like seared bamboo shoots; foliage burnt by human avarice and neglect….”
Which was precisely why she handled all the practical matters in their household.
The girls came trudging down the stairs. Shelby, “almost thirteen,” as she liked to say, sniffing and wrinkling her freckled nose as she walked. “What’s burning now?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Michael told her reassuringly. “The edge of the towel just got caught in the toaster oven. But, hey, I made you girls some cinnamon toast. Want a slice?”
“We’re women, Dad,” Veronica, Resident Freshman, said with a tone that would have been ironic had she not sounded so pleased with herself.
Michael, having been admonished by his nearly fifteen-year-old daughter to refer to her as a “lady” or a “woman” and not a “girl” (ever since the advent of her period some three years ago), had been more successful than not in “avoiding the perpetuation of sexist stereotypes within their home.” However, sometimes Jennifer just wished he would go a little alpha male on her. Be a fix-it man for a change.
“Sorry, sorry, ladies,” he said with a good-natured laugh. He picked up a plate stacked with cinnamon toast and offered it to their children.
Shelby gamely took one and put hers on a small plate. “Thanks, Dad.” She sat down at the table and nibbled on the corners.
Veronica took one, too, kissed her father on the forehead and ate her slice over the sink, bits of sugar and cinnamon clinging to her lip gloss and reminding Jennifer of a little girl with fairy-princess makeup.
“Want some?” Michael asked Jennifer, his voice hopeful.
She nodded and took a piece, even though she wasn’t hungry. Even though, after eighteen years of marriage, he should know how rarely she ate breakfast. But Michael so wanted to please “his girls,” and she didn’t want to disappoint him.
“Well, I’ve gotta go.” He squeezed Veronica, pecked the top of Shelby’s head, kissed Jennifer on the cheek and grabbed his briefcase and a slice of toast for the road. “Hope you women have a great day.”
“Bye, Dad!” the girls called out in chorus.
“See you tonight, Michael,” Jennifer said a few beats later.
And though he’d already reached the door, he peered back over his shoulder at the three of them and grinned. “Love you all.”
“Love you, too,” cried the girls.
Jennifer didn’t answer. What about ME do you love? Always, she wondered this.
She sighed as she heard him start his car and pull out of the driveway. She understood instinctively what he loved about their daughters, but he’d never answered the question sufficiently enough for her. When she worked up the nerve to ask, he’d always mumble something about how “he sensed her quiet cleverness” or how “she navigated their family waters with astute tranquility.” But, aside from a nod at her intellect and her ability to remain calm in a crisis, these weren’t concrete qualities—qualities that by themselves would or should inspire “love.”
Rather, his words had the ring of a line from one of his poems. Embellished and a touch contrived. Though, to be fair, Michael proved himself to be a good husband, a good father, a good man. Only problem was, he dwelled in a wholly different universe from hers (and not just in his bizarre preference for Macs over PCs). He always had. But, then, that was what she’d been looking for when she got married.
Jennifer checked the digital clock above the stove. “School bus,” she announced, glad their district was small enough that both her daughters could still leave at the same time on the same bus. That the junior high and the high school were right next to each other. It made Veronica’s transition to the “big building” a bit easier this year.
Veronica, who seemed to be filling out a little more every day (or maybe her shirt and her jeans were just tighter?), was busy downing a tall glass of milk to accompany her second piece of toast. She rolled her hazel eyes and sniggered. “Seriously, Mom, we can tell time.” Self-possessed and just a tad condescending, she directed a mocking grin at her sister. “Bet I can beat’cha out there.”
Shelby, with the poise of a duchess and the long-suffering sigh of a younger sibling, glanced at Jennifer and smirked. “You know she only says that, Mom, because she thinks if we race I won’t notice she’s wearing my leather sandals.” She pointed a triumphant index finger at Veronica, who’d hidden her feet behind the kitchen counter. “Ha. Caught you!”
Veronica giggled. “You said I could wear them if I let you wear my black tee. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Yeah. How quickly we forget.” Veronica brushed some crumbs into the sink. “So…race ya anyway?”
Shelby feigned a pensive look, then shoved her chair back, jumped to her feet with a squeal and pushed past her older sister to the door. They somehow snatched their backpacks and their hoodies and were on the porch with a shout of “Bye, Mom” in stereo before Jennifer could even make it to the window to watch them.
Snorting with laughter, her daughters sprinted toward their bus stop. A few leafy trees blocked her view, so she couldn’t tell who’d won the race. Didn’t matter, though. The girls—nay, the women—loved each other. And she adored this about them.
Jennifer paused and listened to the inebriating silence within the house, punctuated only by the hypnotic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the clackity-click of the lilac branches tapping a coded message against the family room window.
She released a long, slow breath. Alone at last.
She ambled down the hall to her PC and, finally, finally, was able to flip it on for the day.
Beep.
The whirl of her computer coming to life made her feel like a gambling addict facing a favorite casino machine. Who knew what she’d find in her Inbox today? A single message? A strike out? Or a lucky streak of three in a row? She wouldn’t know until she typed in her password and checked her Yahoo! account.
Nine messages.
One for a Viagra-like product. Two for cheap Rolex replicas. A few for oil-change offers and restaurant coupons…Oooh, 20 percent off her total bill at the Happy Szechwan. And one—just one—from David.
She clicked on that first.
He wrote:
Damn. We have a morning meeting scheduled with the IT squad. Might run late. Can we IM at 10:14 instead?
She suppressed a smile and found herself scrolling to the bottom of the page, trying to keep from reading their correspondence in reverse. She wanted to review her e-mail history with David from the beginning, which had become an odd preoccupation for her, like a new OCD acquired and made instantaneously habitual.
His first message had been sent on August 13.
Subject: CPU Reunion!
Jenn—it’s been a while. Bet you didn’t expect to get a message from me, huh? Got your e-mail address from the alumni office, along with all 26 members of the CPU Club during our four years in college. You remember Mitch, right? He and I are planning a reunion for the weekend of November 13 and wanted to let everyone know. More details to follow, but I hope you can come.
David Saxon
CPU Club President
Like she wouldn’t remember who he was or that he’d been their president. And, of course, there was the matter of their club’s name, which university administrators always assumed meant “Central Processing Unit”—the br
ains of the computer or, in this case, the campus.
Anyone who knew David, however, knew it wouldn’t mean something that obvious. With David, hidden messages were expected. And if they weren’t mathematical in origin, they were sexual.
She’d worked up the nerve to respond three days later:
Hi, David,
It WAS a surprise to get your e-mail. A reunion sounds fun. I’ll tentatively put the date on my calendar. Are spouses and children invited, or is it a party just for club members?
Jenn
And, yes, she signed “Jenn” not “Jennifer” because with him—and only with him—she used that nickname. It always made her feel like a different person. “Jenn” was the focused, sharply observant, almost confident college girl—quietly energized by possibilities. “Jennifer” was the mousy, retiring, vaguely bored married woman she’d morphed into—silently dissatisfied by routine.
Within forty-eight hours, David had shot a reply back:
I heard you were married. Any kids? I’ve been with Marcia (an old friend of my sister’s, maybe you remember her?) for 11 years now, married for 9. Our boys are 2 and 6.
As for the party, it was supposed to be alumni only—members from years 1–4. But I’ll check with Mitch and see if he’s interested in changing that.
Of course he had to mention his sister. Ugh. So, Sandra had finally matched him up with Little Miss Betty Crocker after all. Well, good for them. Jennifer hoped he still liked pecan pie. She wasn’t convinced Marcia could cook anything else.
She tried to wait it out, but she didn’t hear back from him about Mitch’s opinion. Since David had asked her specific questions, she finally gave in and returned his message a week later, her fingers skimming across the keyboard like a child pretending to play a baby grand. Only, Jennifer hit every intended key:
Michael and I met not long after graduation. (A bit of a dig since David had left her just BEFORE graduation.) His parents are great people, and mine just adore him. (Another dig, but David deserved it. Her parents hadn’t approved of David AT ALL.) We got married after 8 months and have been together for 18 years. (Double his marital length, so ha! Take that.) We have two daughters, one almost 15 and the other who’ll turn 13 this winter.
About the reunion—a small gathering is fine. No need to change plans. I just wasn’t sure what to expect. Did you have a time in mind? (She wrote this even though it was ridiculous. This was DAVID—of course he had a time in mind. Most likely, a very specific one.)
Four interminable days went by before his response came:
Yes. I’d planned on Saturday night. Drinks at 5:07, followed by a few games of Monkey Pong. Dinner to start at 7:02 sharp. What do you think?
She shook her head. Why, why, why did this guy still get to her? How, how, how did he know exactly what to say?
Her: Sounds like old times.
Then the messages followed each other in a flurry of text and type—each posted within twelve hours or less of the last.
Him: Where do you live now?
Her: Glendale Grove. A northwest Chicago suburb. You?
Him: Just outside of Springfield.
Interesting and odd. Because while Springfield was Illinois’s capital city and it had its share of data-related jobs, it wasn’t exactly the Technological Hotbed of the Western World. She hadn’t pictured him working for some small tech company. She’d imagined him in Northern California all these years. On business trips to Germany, Singapore, Japan. Or living in Champaign-Urbana at the very least. After all, U of I was based there and that had been their rival computer school, with more grads placed at Microsoft than any other university in the country. Even more than C-IL-U, their college. And that was saying something.
Her: You’re not in Silicon Valley?
Him: Nope. Look, no one signed up for the location committee, wanna volunteer? I could use a few suggestions. Maybe we could IM for a couple of minutes next week? Just about possible spots for the reunion. I’d appreciate your input.
Oh, God. That was almost like talking live for them. More than 60 percent of their college “conversations” had been through online messaging, back even before AOL (when they used Quantum Link) and long before the rest of the nongeek world joined in the fun.
Her: Sure. Next Thursday would work. I’ll be at home all morning.
Him: Thanks. We can chat then. Say around 9:49?
Her: Ha. Okay.
Because, of course, thirteen had been their lucky number. Naturally, he would have e-mailed her first on the thirteenth of last month, planned the party for the thirteenth of another month, chosen every single digit or clock time he could possibly manipulate to be a multiple of thirteen (507, 702, 949…). Something no one but the two of them would have known or understood.
But she’d known: It was David’s apology.
And she’d understood: It was his way of making sure she knew he remembered what they’d shared.
And now this new message on the day he was supposed to IM. So he had an info tech meeting this morning? Shocker. She’d be here at 10:14 A.M., but she just didn’t want to make everything so easy for him. He’d always reeled her in with such little effort. She typed: Make it 10:27.
She rolled her eyes. Yeah, she was really playing hard to get. She hit SEND anyway.
And sure enough, precisely at 10:27 A.M. Central Standard Time, while she was halfheartedly working on one of her commissioned Web designs, her computer alerted her to his incoming instant message.
David: Hi, Jenn.
Her pulse sped up. She put her fingers to the keyboard and tried unsuccessfully to keep them steady.
Jenn: Hey, there. How are you?
David: X-ellent. You?
God, he still typed that word the same way he did at age twenty-two.
Jenn: Great, thanks.
Except for the night sweats she got at half past ten this morning and the fact that her fingers were trembling so badly she could barely hit the keys. Yep, she was great.
David: Been nice being back in touch with you after all these years. Brought back a lot of memories.
He’d hit return after this, but she could see the little message at the bottom of the text box telling her he was typing another line.
David: So, is your husband home right now? Or your kids?
Jenn: No. Shelby and Veronica are at school—seventh grade and freshman year. And Michael’s at work. He teaches high school Spanish to juniors and seniors.
She’d expected a reaction, and she got one—quick.
David: Spanish? No shit?! Did he manage to teach you any of it?
She picked at the cuticle on her thumb for a second before typing back.
Jenn: Un poco. A phrase here and there. Not much.
David: Wow. But still…
And she could almost see him standing next to her, grinning. The freckles dotting his nose. The wire-rimmed glasses reflecting her adoring gaze back at her.
David: We barely made it through Spanish 204, remember? F*king foreign language requirement.
Jenn: True. But we DID pass.
She couldn’t type any more than that, though, because to comment further would lead only to bringing up additional memories. Like the night they’d crammed for the Spanish 204 final. The drinking and computer gaming before they studied. The making love after.
David: We did.
And although he agreed, he was also noticeably silent on any follow-up reminiscences.
Jenn: What’s Marcia been doing these days? Still baking?
Okay, she couldn’t resist a little dig here.
David: Funny you’d remember that…yeah. She works part time at a restaurant. One my sister owns.
Jenn: Really?
Of course she did. Those two were inseparable.
David: Yep. She and Sandra are still best friends. Which, actually, surprises no one. Half the time I think Marcia married me just so she and Sandra could officially be sisters. Ha!
His laugh, even in electronic form,
came across as forced. Especially with his follow-up line.
David: Sometimes they’re a more compatible couple than Marcia and I are. LOL.
Hard to tell, but wasn’t there a tinge of bitterness in his response? To her it seemed so.
Jenn: Oh.
David: Anyway, she’s…content with life.
And then there was a pause in their IM’ing, long enough to let his meaning sink in, as Jennifer was sure he knew it would.
This was pure David Saxon, Cipher Man. Purposely butchering Karl Marx, David always used to say, “Contentment is the opiate of the masses.” During college, he’d complained about his sister’s “pesky friend Marcia” to Jennifer. “You’ll never believe what a dope she is!” he’d exclaimed, in full irritation mode one day. “I was talking to her about Marx, and she said, ‘Richard Marx? Like the singer?’ I could’ve strangled her.”
But, instead, he’d married her.
Jenn: I see.
She was determined not to get drawn into some marital weirdness and discord although, clearly, David was not content with his wife’s contentedness.
She typed a new line to change the subject.
Jenn: How about your boys? What’re they like?
David: Ah, John’s in first grade. He’s into dinosaurs and a wide variety of reptiles. Paul is our two-year-old and he’s pretty much all about trucks these days.
She laughed aloud before responding, tracking his latest clue.
Jenn: What? Not a guitar between them? (*grin*)
David: Now, now. I chose John’s name, okay. But Paul was Marcia’s idea.
Jenn: Oh, sure. And you did nothing to persuade her? Why don’t I believe that…? Does she realize you’ll expect a George and a Ringo, too?
David: Nah. There won’t be any more kids. Plus, believe it or not, she’s not a Beatles fan.
She rolled her eyes before firing back a reply.
Friday Mornings at Nine Page 6
