by Bonnie Grove
I cough into my napkin and remind her to save room for the crème brûlée. Donna makes a tiny O with her lips and says, “How Continental! Do you bake yours in a water bath?” and for a flash I want to throw up my hands and walk away from this sham.
I stand with my mouth open, waiting, hoping something intelligent will pop out. But she turns back to Kevin and they start talking about how federal foreign policy may affect interest rates.
I flee to the kitchen. I take my time arranging the crème brûlées, each snug in its own individual serving cup (white china; I had to pay a ten-dollar deposit on each one before the caterer would think about entrusting me with them) on a tray. I pour coffee into a white decanter and manage to find three matching white mugs with a crisp black strip around the rim. Pretty. Or, as Donna would say, Continental.
I place the tray on the table and Kevin snatches up one of the crème brûlées and places it in front of Donna, as if he’s afraid I’ll forget my mother’s mantra, “Guests first.” I pour coffee and Donna offers me a dazzling smile. Her teeth are perfect. Straight, bright white. I’m sure each time she visits the dentist he cries with pride. She points her fork at me. “The important thing to remember is to stay focused.”
I pour another cup of coffee and nod, pretending to know what she’s talking about.
She cracks the burnt-sugar shell of her crème brûlée, but doesn’t lift the spoon to her mouth. She’s Angelina Jolie thin, and I wonder when the last time her taste buds witnessed eggs, sugar, and cream in any combination. She puts the spoon down, opting instead for a sip of black coffee. “You understand, Kate, how important the next couple of years will be for Kevin.” It isn’t a question. “He’s jumped a number of hoops already and corporate has their eyes on him.” She gives a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve made sure of it.” She holds up her coffee cup as if it were cabernet in Waterford glass. “Here’s to the fast track!”
Kevin gives his aw-shucks grin and looks down. It’s the look that makes my heart skip a beat every time. He raises his cup, clinks it against Donna’s, and then touches the lip of my cup and holds it there, looking into my eyes. “Exciting times, babe.”
I smile back, then turn to Donna. “What does ‘fast track’ mean for us? Will Kevin be running the branch someday?”
She plunks her coffee cup down hard and some slops over the edge and dribbles onto the tablecloth. Her eyes narrow at Kevin. “You’ve discussed this, right?”
Discussed what?
Kevin nods and talks fast. “Kate is my rock. She supports me all the way.” He puts his hand over mine. “Don’t you?”
I nod vigorously. “Always.” This is my Kevin, the warm, affectionate man who shares my hopes and dreams. Even if it means calling the occasional caterer and passing a ridiculously elaborate meal off as home cooking.
Donna beams at the two of us. “Hear, hear,” she says, thumping the table with her hand. “It may be old-fashioned, but ‘Stand by Your Man,’ I say.” She sits back in her chair and sips her coffee, seemingly satisfied with all she surveys. “With your wife’s support, there’s no limit to what you can achieve.”
Kevin smiles at me, then looks at my empty crème brûlée dish and quickly frowns. “You’re finished already? Honestly, Kate, if you slow down, you might actually taste your food.”
22
The next night was our second session of group therapy. After spending the first half of the session going over and discussing the group rules, Laura-Lea pulled her T-shirt down, stretching it tight over her curves, and asked, “Who will volunteer to begin with their story?”
I got busy avoiding eye contact by straightening my purse and another bag I brought that held my tennis shoes. If there was a basketball game going on after our session was done, maybe I’d join in. Big Tim had invited me, after all.
Laura-Lea cleared her throat, still waiting for a volunteer. I stared at my shoes. She explained that she expected each one of us to take a turn opening a session, and that “this would be a good chance to get it over with if we were feeling nervous.”
I stared at my feet. I sat beside Grace, a tiny, birdlike woman with dark hair and tired eyes who never sat still. She twisted in her seat. She was wearing sandals and her toes turned in when she spoke. “It’s difficult for me to talk in public.”
Laura-Lea said, “I understand. It can be hard to find the right words.”
Grace shook her head. “No, it’s not that.” She slumped in her chair as if her bones had slid out of her body. “It’s … well … I was eighteen when I married Jim. He was an outgoing guy, loved to talk. Talk, talk, talk. That’s all he did for over forty years. He constantly interrupted me. I doubt I finished a sentence in all those years. Yak, yak, yak. Now he’s gone.” She held up two limp hands in an empty gesture. “The funny thing is I still can’t finish a sentence. He still jumps in, interrupts me. In my head, you know? It’s like he’s still right here beside me.”
My heart thumped out a Morse code message. Maybe Grace would understand. I swallowed hard. “He interrupts you,” I said quietly, looking at her.
Grace’s body recovered its bones and she sat ramrod straight. “Well, not exactly. I imagine it. It’s just in my head. It’s not as if I actually hear him interrupt me.” She winked at me. “I’m not crazy.”
It was my turn to slump in my chair. I went back to studying my shoes.
Laura-Lea said, “Grace, would you like to continue with your story?”
“No, dear. Not tonight.”
Another woman spoke up. “I’ll go.” I squeezed my eyes shut in relief.
Janice Grear was fifty-eight years old and had been a widow for just over four weeks. “I wish I missed my husband more.”
I looked at Janice in confusion. She must have meant to say that she missed him more and more, or something like that. I glanced over at Laura-Lea, waiting for her to correct Janice. But Laura-Lea was leaning forward, nodding her head in what appeared to be compulsive agreement. “Yes.” Nod, nod. “Okay, Janice.” Nod. “Tell us.”
Janice took a deep breath. “We’d just begun our annual vacation to Pigeon Lake. We’d been renting the same cottage for the same two weeks every year for almost thirty years. This year I told Norman that I wanted to rent a different cabin. One of the newly remodeled ones with a dishwasher, but Norman said forget it.
“Anyway, we were at the gas station. I had popped into the convenience store to pick up some gum and a paperback for the beach. A good one, not one of those trashy books with people kissing on the front cover.” She turned to me. “You know the ones I mean.”
I knew.
I’m standing at the checkout counter of Food-Friendly Grocers. There’s a rack of recent best sellers nearby, which is handy because the line I’m in is as long as the Great Wall of China and the cashier is wearing a huge yellow button I can read even from this distance that says, “I’m in training!”
I scan the book rack. There’s a romance novel, proudly commanding the #6 best-seller slot and I can’t take my eyes off it. I’m not looking at the title or author, I’m staring at the shirtless hunk on the cover. He’s holding a woman who’s bending backward as if she’s about to faint, but she’s wearing a leotard so perhaps she’s trying out a particularly tricky yoga move and needs a spotter. I mentally superimpose Kevin’s face over the man on the cover. Kevin: shirtless, his shoulder-length hair flying—okay, not flying, more like lifting gently but mannishly in the breeze. Problem is Kevin doesn’t have long hair. He has clipped banker hair. And he is nearly always wearing a shirt. He’s more a poster child for the Young Republicans than a romance hero.
Someone behind me clears her throat in that loud way that says “You’re doing something wrong, and would you be so kind as to stop doing it?” I turn and the woman jerks her head at me in a move-along gesture. The line has moved up, and I didn’t move up with it
. I push my cart ahead, craning my neck at the book cover. When was the last time Kevin and I had spontaneous fainting yoga?
“Get a grip,” I tell myself.
The woman behind me says, “Excuse me?” One hand on her hips, the other squeezing a lemon like she was about to throw it to center field.
“Sorry,” I say and turn back to my cart. I don’t know if I’m embarrassed or sad or what. I glance back at the woman but she’s not looking at me anymore, she’s eyeing the romance cover too.
She shakes her head, pointing at the book. “Tell me, when was the last time you saw a man looking like that?” She starts laughing, shaking her head. “Mine looks more like the Pillsbury Doughboy than Fabio.” She chuckles to herself. “No six-pack on my man. He’s wearing the whole keg.” She laughs in earnest.
I could tell her Kevin looks like that. Not his hair, but he was tall, and handsome. With his hair clipped and in his tailored suit, he could easily be mistaken for a recent Navy recruit. And under that suit his six-pack is still there, made slightly softer from hours of sitting behind a desk, but definable all the same.
My bread is squashed. I grab the coffee can and carton of eggs with equally firm fists and pound them onto the conveyor belt. Grapes dribble juice onto the belt. I’m taking my sexual frustration out on my produce.
Okay, my frustration isn’t just sexual. Sure, I’m in the grocery store ogling the hunk on the cover of a romance novel, a strong clue something is amiss, but it’s more than that. I miss Kevin. Even when he’s home, I miss him. He’s preoccupied.
The woman behind me is flipping through the pages of the romance novel, shaking her head and smiling at the same time. She glances up and catches me staring. She holds the book out. “You want to buy it?”
Her smile slides from amused to knowing and I turn away, mumbling, “Nah.” But it’s not because I don’t like romances. My taste in books runs from the Romance period to the modern era. Wuthering Heights to Emma, Gone with the Wind to Jane Eyre. Didn’t I just recommend A Farewell to Arms to two different customers at the bookstore?
I don’t want the book because it’s not a paper romance I’m after. I have the real thing at home … or I had it. Somewhere along the line, we’ve gotten off track.
It’s easy to blame Kevin, I consider as my groceries move along the conveyor belt. It’d be easy to say it’s his fault for working so hard and such long hours, and only cuddling up to The Economist, but that’s not accurate either. It takes two to tango, and I haven’t put on my dancing shoes for a long while.
I pay the cashier; the only bright thing about her is her yellow button.
A boy stacks my food in the cart and grunts, “Yep,” when I say thank you.
I push the cart toward the exit and I’m thinking about dancing; I’m thinking about romance novels and Kevin’s bare chest.
Janice was in the middle of a long tangent about the filth for sale on gas station book racks when Laura-Lea prodded her to get to the point by clearing her throat in a pointed way.
Janice sat straight in her chair. “Well, anyway, I was buying a book and Norman was outside at the air pump, filling the giant inner tube we keep for the grandchildren. They love to take it out on the water and bob around. Why I’ll never know, but they do. When I came out of the store, I told Norman he was overfilling the tube, but he paid me no mind, as usual. I was walking to the car when I heard a bang. I turned to see Norman flying through the air at a terrible speed. He landed some fifty feet away from the air pump. I knew he was dead before he hit the ground. It was exactly something he would do.”
Janice looked around the room. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve shed a tear or two, believe me. I cried at the funeral when my dear friend Betty March got up and played ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ on the organ. She muddled up the middle, but it’s the thought that counts, don’t you think?” she said, eyeing Laura-Lea, who was still nodding.
No one spoke. Bobby, the short one wearing wool pants, cleared his throat and cast another longing look at Laura-Lea. Richard, tall and distinguished-looking, threw a look of distaste at Mimi, who sat holding her chin with her hand, staring at a spot on the floor.
Janice sat up straighter in her chair and cleared her throat. “The hardest thing I’ve had to deal with since Norman’s death is guilt. Guilt over the fact that I don’t miss him very much. I tried to, but he’s a difficult man to miss. I came here because I’ve no one to talk to about this. My family is heartbroken, you know? So I can’t very well tell them that I’m fine with the way things are.”
Laura-Lea reached over and patted Janice on the hand. She whispered what looked like “Good job” and then sat up in her chair to address the group. “I would like someone to share their reaction to Janice’s story. Tell us how you felt while you were listening to her talk.”
Grace looked at Laura-Lea and said, “It was very sudden. That’s what I thought.”
Laura-Lea gestured toward Janice. “Tell her, Grace, not me.”
Grace shifted in her chair so she could face Janice. “When you were talking about what happened to your husband, I thought, that it was very sudden. It must have been a shock.”
Janice nodded to the crumpled tissue in her hands.
I folded my arms over my chest, feeling a sudden compassion for these women. “My dad died suddenly,” I said.
Laura-Lea leaned toward me. “Are you here grieving the death of your father—” she looked down at a piece of paper in her hand “—Kate?”
“No.”
“Oh. Would you like to share with the group your reason for being here?”
“No.”
Laura-Lea’s head jerked sideways and her mouth snapped open and shut, like someone was reeling her in.
“I mean, not today,” I said.
She pressed her lips together in a facsimile of a smile and turned in her chair. “Janice, next group I want to start with your story, right where you left off. Okay?” She checked her watch. “We took up a lot of time going over the group rules, so our time is up. Chairs back against the far wall, please. See you next week.”
We filed out in silence. I was sure I would dream of Norman flying.
In the foyer I listened to the sounds of basketball for a moment, then changed my shoes. In the gym four groups of kids were playing, two on each side of the gym. Big Tim missed an easy shot inside the key, and then looked around to see who might have noticed. He spotted me, his eyes opening wide, his face breaking into a smile. He waved with both hands and jogged across the court toward me, leaving his teammates shaking their heads after him.
“Hi, Jack’s friend,” Big Tim huffed in my face.
I took a half step backward, but returned his smile. “Hi, Big Tim.” I pointed at my feet and wiggled my toes in their canvas tennies. “I came dressed properly this time.”
Big Tim clapped his hands once and hollered, “Awesome.”
I held up a cautionary hand. “No ‘think fast’ throwing today, okay?”
Big Tim wrote an X on his chest with his finger and then held up his hand Boy Scout–style. “Promise. You’re on my team.”
He took off running and I jogged behind him, meeting the rest of our team at the top of the key. The tall girl I recognized from my last visit stared at me with an expression of blankness. I held up a hand in greeting. She turned away.
Big Tim handed me a blue bandanna. “Us against red.”
I noticed the girl had her blue bandanna tied around her wrist. I followed suit, which drew a look of boredom from my fashion mentor.
Big Tim stood on the out-of-bounds line, dribbling the ball, and called, “Blue’s ball.” He was looking to his right, away from me, but without even glancing my way, he threw the ball at me. Surprised, I missed and the ball sailed by me.
The girl threw her hands up and yelled a single
word.
“Sekeena.” Jack’s voice came from behind me. Sekeena’s face flushed, but by her expression, I didn’t think the flush was from embarrassment. Her eyes sparkled even as she dropped her head and mumbled “sorry” to her high-tops.
Jack stood by his office door, calm and casual. He held a clipboard in one hand, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore black sweatpants, a white cotton T-shirt, a stopwatch, and a smile. He crooked a finger at Sekeena. “Come ’ere.”
I watched the girl saunter slowly toward Jack, as if she knew he would wait for her no matter how long it took her to arrive. Jack stood by his office door, the pleasant expression on his face never changing. The game continued around me, but I stood, transfixed, watching Jack and Sekeena.
When the girl finally reached him, Jack placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to stand an arm’s length away. He bent his head and spoke to her. The sounds of the basketball game drowned out their words. Every few seconds Sekeena’s head bobbed in a quick nod. When Jack was done speaking to her, he turned her toward the game and gave her a gentle push. Sekeena walked toward me. She stood in front of me for a moment and offered her hand. I shook it. She glanced at the floor. “Sorry for my language.”
“No worries.”
She pursed her lips in a half grimace. “We cool?”
“Yes.”
She stared at the floor. “Cool.”
I glanced up at Jack, who was now reading from his clipboard. I was struck by the stillness that radiated from him into the space around him, a palpable peace.
He glanced up and caught me staring at him. He lifted a hand in greeting and I returned the gesture. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. I looked back at the game, which was proceeding well in my absence, and then walked over to Jack. He smiled into my eyes in a way that felt like a steadying hand at my elbow. Solid, calm, protective, kind. What a strange man, I thought.
