by Claire Cook
Crazy laughter greeted me when I stepped into the mudroom. I opened the door to the garage. Toys were scattered all over the floor, and my husband and son were both holding joysticks and leaning over a yellow plastic boxing ring set up on an old card table in the middle of the garage. A red and a blue plastic boxing doll were punching away at each other.
“I’ll knock your block off, Red Rocker,” Greg yelled, even though he was only about a foot away from Luke.
“In your dreams, Blue Bomber,” Luke yelled back. “Take that, you wuss.”
One of the robots made a whaaaaaa sound. The blue doll’s head fell off and rolled across the boxing ring.
“Score!” Luke put his joystick down and ran a victory lap around the rickety old card table.
“Two out of three,” Greg said. He put his joystick down and jogged in place, punching his fists like Sylvester Stallone in one of those Rocky movies.
I cleared my throat.
Greg looked up but didn’t break his stride. “Hi, hon,” he said. “We found Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots in a box up under the eaves. I always wondered what happened to it.”
Luke flashed me a big smile and picked up his joystick again. “We’re lucky all the moisture out here didn’t do any damage. Seriously, we have to be more careful around here, Mom. Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots is a classic.”
“Yeah,” Greg said. He reached into the ring and put Blue Bomber’s head back on.
Luke got into position and leaned forward. “Hungry Hungry Hippos is next. Or do you want to play the winner of this one?”
“I’ll knock your block off,” Greg said.
“Don’t count on it,” I said.
“Oh,” Luke said, “if you talk to Shannon before I do, tell her we found her old Bedazzler. She is gonna freakin’ flip out.”
“How are the cabinets coming along?” I asked sweetly.
“Great,” Greg and Luke said at the same time.
“Owe me a Coke,” they both said together. They laughed uproariously.
“We’re making good progress,” Greg said.
“Totally,” Luke said. “We’re like just taking a short break.”
“Hey,” Greg said. “We were thinking we should order pizza for dinner and sit around and play Candy Land. You know, like we used to on Friday nights?”
Luke grinned. “I was just telling Dad how we did this retro board game thing up at school. We’d put like a pile of actual candy on the Candy Land board, and whoever made it to the end first would get the whole stash.”
“Sweet,” Greg said.
They both cracked up.
I didn’t even bother to make a high-drama speech. I just went to find my suitcase.
CHAPTER 14
WHEREVER YOU’RE HEADED and whatever the reason, the best way to pack your suitcase is to roll your clothes. Not only will your clothing arrive virtually wrinkle-free, but the rolling method will also allow you to pack the most clothes in the smallest possible space. This is particularly beneficial when you have absolutely no idea how long you’ll be gone.
Place each shirt facedown and fold the arms back neatly, then fold lengthwise. Beginning at the bottom, roll tightly until you reach the top, creating a sausagelike cylinder. Place the cylinder in your suitcase vertically, that is, standing on end. Repeat with the rest of your clothes, jamming them in as tightly as possible. (Fold your pants in half vertically, then fold again and roll, etc.) When you finish, your suitcase will look something like a freshly opened carton of clothing cigarettes.
Because your rolling has created a bend radius instead of a sharp crease, you’ll have barely a wrinkle when you unpack. Always unpack as soon as possible after arriving at your destination. Just shake out each item—and woilà! (Don’t forget, it’s really voilà.) Hang any ever-so-slightly wrinkled items in the bathroom while you shower to steam them to perfection.
Trust me, you’ll be totally amazed at how much more you can fit into your suitcase this way. Enough to stay away for as long as you need to.
While you’re packing, get rid of that overpriced little travel iron you simply had to have that barely works anyway. Ditto for the itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny blow-dryer that doesn’t have enough watts to scatter a dried dandelion head. Face the fact that even if they were marginally useful when you bought them, they’re completely obsolete now. Your hotel will have life-size versions of both, and so will your host. If not, you should reconsider your accommodations.
Donate them if you can, or give them away. At the very least recycle them. But let them go. They’re weighing you down. They’re holding you back. They’re keeping you from a smooth ride to your next destination.
After I finished packing, I gave my suitcase a quick spray of Lysol Crisp Linen, a great travel scent, and zipped it up. Maybe everything had a best-by date, but it was just harder to read it with relationships that had lasted so long neither of you quite knew where either of you began or ended anymore.
Maybe Greg and I simply didn’t want the same next chapter. Maybe I’d rent a little apartment in Atlanta and leave the house and the projects and the bills to him. I’d read about women who’d just walked off in the middle of the night without so much as a toothbrush. Okay, often abuse or alcohol or drugs or gambling or infidelity or closet homosexuality were underlying factors, but did you always need a big ticket item? Couldn’t you just agree to disagree about what you wanted next in life, wish each other well, maybe give each other a high five for lasting this long, and promise to do lunch?
I could almost picture it. And then one day when things had sorted themselves out, I’d fly in for the weekend and pack up just a box or two to take with me. No hard feelings, but would you mind if I took that handblown glass vase we bought on our honeymoon, the one with flecks of blue so brilliant you’d swear you were looking at a cross section of the Caribbean?
The old cut-glass bedroom doorknob creaked when it turned, the way it always did.
“How about one plain cheese pizza and one spinoccoli?” Greg said as the door opened.
He looked at the suitcase on the bed. “Luke said he’ll fly if we buy.”
I realized I was still holding the Lysol. I put it on the bedside table and yanked the suitcase down to the floor. “Whatever,” I said.
Greg pulled the door closed behind him. “What’s up?”
“I took a job in Atlanta.”
“You took a job in Atlanta.”
Whenever Greg repeated something, it meant he was buying time. Or waiting for me to provide him with more information. I didn’t say anything.
He pulled his sweaty T-shirt over his head. I watched. I loved the long lines of his torso and the ropy muscles of his forearms. I almost never even noticed them anymore. It was sad the way familiarity made you stop seeing someone after a while.
Greg wiped his face with the T-shirt and then threw it on top of the wicker basket where he kept his dirty clothes until he had enough for a load of wash. I’d stopped doing everybody else’s laundry a long time ago. We were all three roommates, really, Greg and Luke and I. Each with our own life, or lack thereof, and our own laundry schedule.
He pulled on a threadbare white T-shirt with faded green letters that said LENNON & SONS ROOFING, from a softball team he’d played on at least a decade and a half ago.
He sat down on the bed and started untying his sneakers.
“What kind of job?” he finally asked.
“Denise’s boyfriend just bought a hotel and wants me to stage it.”
He looked up. “Shouldn’t we discuss it first?”
I shrugged. “I’m kind of over discussing things. I need them to happen.”
Greg was still holding on to his laces. He looked like a little kid learning how to tie.
I couldn’t help smiling. “Remember that lacing board we found for Luke when he was so stressed about tying he would only wear his Velcro sneakers?”
Greg grinned. “Luke and I found it today. Tucked under Hungry Hungry Hippos. I told h
im he could keep it, okay?”
“Of course. I’m trying to picture it. . . . Four different kinds of shoes, painted on a board with laces, right?”
“Yeah.” Greg kicked off one sneaker and started working on the other. “Football, skiing, jogging—”
“And hiking,” I said.
We smiled at each other.
“Remember that song from preschool he taught us?” I said. “To ‘Splish Splash’?”
“Criss cross and go under the path,” Greg sang. “Then you got to pull it real tight.”
“Loop one, make the other a tail,” I sang.
“And soon you’ll be tying it just right,” we sang together.
“Boy, we can’t sing,” I said. “We didn’t have a musical gene between us to pass down to those poor kids.”
“They got a lot of other stuff,” Greg said. “And Luke ties like a pro now.”
“Ha,” I said.
We looked at each other.
“I don’t get it,” Greg said. “I thought you were all fired up to get the house on the market.”
“I don’t want to do it all.”
“You’re not doing it all.”
“I’m sick of being the enforcer.”
“Maybe it would be easier to get into it if we knew where we were going.”
“I know where I’m going. Atlanta.”
Greg looked at my suitcase. “I don’t want to fight.”
I picked up the can of Lysol. “And I don’t want to talk. There’s nothing new to say.”
“There’s nothing wrong,” Greg said as I pushed the door open. “Unless you want there to be.”
CHAPTER 15
THE FIRST NOTES of “Miss Otis Regrets” trilled from my BlackBerry. It’s a song about a woman who takes a gun from her gown and shoots her lover down, and Denise had approved this message for her personalized ring.
If you haven’t assigned a special song for each person on your speed dial, take a moment to do it now. You’ll never again have to dig through your purse before you decide whether to answer or ignore a call.
I have to say it was a soothing, zenlike experience to match up everyone in my life with a song from Bette Midler’s Greatest Hits: Experience the Divine. I gave Greg “Do You Want to Dance?” and Luke “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” “Chapel of Love” was a natural for Shannon. Denise was the only one who got a vote. I’d originally been planning to use “Friends,” but she thought “Miss Otis Regrets” would be edgier.
“Hey,” I said.
“I knew you’d do it,” Denise said.
“Yeah,” I said. “No pressure on your end.”
“Oh, please. If you didn’t want a free trip to see Shannon, you would have said no. I’m still waiting for you to say thank you, by the way.”
“I’m saving it for after I see the hotel. I can’t believe I’m flying out this morning. I don’t even want to think about how much that plane ticket cost.”
“That’s my Josh. He doesn’t like to wait for anything.”
“Did you tell him to call me Sahndra?”
Denise’s laugh was rich and melodic, the way it always sounded when she was in love.
Greg had insisted on driving me to the airport. I’d finished up at Mrs. Bentley’s house last night, and I was just taking an early morning walk to the post office to clear my head and mail a couple of bills before we took off.
“Sorry about lunch,” I said. “We’ll do it the minute I get back.”
The main post office was still closed, but the room that housed the boxes opened earlier and closed later. I dropped my envelopes into the mailbox outside, then went in through the side door.
“Don’t worry about it,” Denise said. “I’ll just have to shoot my clients without you.”
Denise and I rarely overshared details of our personal lives. I think we were both smart enough to know that the spaces in long-term friendships are as important as the intimacy. It seemed to me that women are particularly vulnerable to friendships that flare up and burn out quickly.
But sometimes you just needed to try out the sound of something.
“Who knows,” I said, “I just might stay. Greg and I aren’t getting along so well.”
Denise laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“I know you think you’re serious, but you’re not serious.”
“How can you tell? Hang on for a sec.” I walked across the squeaky linoleum-tiled floor and opened box 609. I wiggled out the incredible amount of junk mail that had accumulated since just yesterday. With all the free opportunities for online spam, why would anyone still want to pay to have it printed? I sorted through to make sure I wasn’t missing anything exciting, like a bill, then dumped the whole mess into the recycling bin.
There was a big CLOSED sign on the glass door to the main post office. Behind it, a woman walked by carrying a clear plastic bin filled with mail and then disappeared from view.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I reached for the door handle and pulled.
It opened.
“Are you still there?” Denise said into my ear.
“Shh,” I whispered. I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do, but if someone nice came out, maybe I’d say I lost my reading glasses and ask to see the Lost and Found. I mean, who knew, maybe Ponytail Guy put them back at the end of the day.
There was no one in sight.
I took a step into the room.
I couldn’t believe it. There, sitting right on top of the postage scale, were my favorite reading glasses.
“Sandy, what’s going on?”
“I think I’m going to steal my reading glasses back,” I whispered.
“Ha,” she whispered. “Do it.”
“What happens if I get caught?”
“Did they cost less than two hundred and fifty dollars?”
“Ha,” I said. “Way less.”
“Then, worst-case scenario, it’s only petty larceny.”
I took another step forward. “What’s best-case scenario?”
“Uh, you get away with it?”
Behind some partitions I heard a woman laugh.
I tiptoed forward. Randomly, I flashed back to all the Nancy Drew mysteries I’d read as a kid. I pictured myself in black and white, moving stealthily and sleuthfully with a flashlight clasped firmly in one hand. I was channeling Nancy in The Secret of the Original Cheaters. Or maybe it was The Mystery of the Traveling Reading Glasses.
I reached out a shaky hand and grabbed my readers.
Ponytail Guy came around the corner.
My heart skipped a beat, then started thumping wildly.
“Stop,” he said, even though I wasn’t moving.
I looked at him.
His eyes met mine. They were cold and hooded, almost reptilian.
He took a slow step back.
I turned and shoved the glass door open.
Just as I reached the second door, the alarm went off.
“Uh-oh,” Denise said into my ear.
I ran. I ran as hard and as fast as I could, squeezing my BlackBerry and post office box key together with one hand, and carefully holding my long-lost reading glasses in the other. All I wanted was to put some distance between that ridiculously loud alarm and me.
Three cars drove by without stopping to make a citizen’s arrest. When I ran past a guy walking his dog, neither of them made a peep. Maybe I was blending into suburbia and looked like just another morning jogger, though I’d made the unfortunate choice of wearing ballet flats so I wouldn’t have to change my shoes before I left for the airport.
I stopped and ducked behind a tree to get a pebble out of my shoe.
“Uh-oh?” I repeated. I panted while I tried to catch my breath. “That’s the best you can do? What kind of lawyer says ‘uh-oh’?”
“Calm down and tell me what’s happening.”
Just as I peeked around the tree trunk, the whoop-whoop of the alarm cut off abruptly. A dog barked from inside s
omeone’s house, as if to say thank you. Everything was so suddenly quiet that I noticed the sun was shining. A patch of snowdrops was blooming in front of the tree next to mine. The world was a beautiful place when you were free.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “Nothing’s happening. I think I made a clean getaway. Do you believe Ponytail Guy actually pulled the alarm? I mean, how twisted can you get?”
“It’s all about power,” Denise said. “Guys with small ponytails just can’t get enough of it.”
“What do I do next? I’ve never been a thief before.”
Denise laughed. “Relax. Go to Atlanta and forget all about it. If anything happens, I’ll take care of it. Listen, I have to go. I’ve got a meeting in five.”
“What if—”
I heard a click, and my best friend was history.
CHAPTER 16
I KNOCKED ON the door of the bat cave.
Luke opened it a crack. I could hear the splash of the shower running in the little bathroom over the blare of the Syfy channel playing on the huge flat-screen TV he’d bought with his first paycheck.
Just in case my plane crashed, I decided to skip the conservation lecture so it wouldn’t be the last thing he remembered about me. “Just give me a good-bye hug, honey. I’m on my way to Atlanta.”
He didn’t move. “Okay, bye, Mom.”
My mother used to say she had eyes in the back of her head. Maybe I had X-ray vision.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Nothing,” Luke said.
I waited.
“Raven is taking a shower.”
I took a moment to ponder whether a girlfriend in the shower was better than no girlfriend at all.
“Raven,” I said finally. “That would be the girlfriend we haven’t met yet?”
“Mom,” he said.
“Just tell me you’re using birth control,” I said.
“Mom, you put condoms in my stocking at Christmas when I was sixteen.”
“You’re not still using them, are you?”
“Mo-om.”
