It was still cool and damp out, and Margie was glad she’d remembered a jacket. Summer or not, it would be a good night to eat the chicken and veggies she’d put into the crock pot before they left the house. She might be lenient about religion in some ways, but she did her best to observe Shabbat reverently, including the prohibition about work—even turning on a stove—after sundown.
The infield looked okay, but she saw a spray of water splash up in left field as Grant went after a fly ball during the first inning. And when his team was up in the bottom of the second, he took a slide into third base that covered his pants and front with mud. Getting his uniform clean was going to be fun.
She’d been sitting at the top of the small aluminum bleachers but in between innings stood up and walked behind the dugout to stretch her legs. She knew better than to try and talk to Grant through the fence. Some things were simply forbidden. The grandfather of one of Grant’s teammate was sitting alone in a collapsible canvas chair on the edge of the paved walkway that ran behind the field. He was a tall, lanky African American man who unfailingly wore a Cleveland Indians baseball cap. Margie wasn’t sure of his name, but when he learned that she and Grant had Indians season tickets, he talked baseball with her every game.
She was pretty sure the grandfather didn’t know her name either, because he greeted her, as he always did, with a hearty “Well, hello there, young lady!”
“Hi. Why are you sitting way over here?”
“The grass is too damp, and the bleachers are too cold. It hurts my arthritis.” As if to emphasize the point, he rubbed his right knee.
Margie stood next to his chair so she could still watch the game while they talked. “I’m sorry to hear that. It is kind of nasty out here tonight.”
“Were you at the ballpark last night? The Indians had a rain delay.”
“Watched it on TV. We split a twenty-game package with some friends. We’re generally there on Wednesdays or Sundays.”
“Looks good for this weekend against the Royals though.” The grandfather always knew who the Indians were playing. He was as devoted a fan as Grant.
They talked baseball for a while. His grandson, Al, played first base and was one of the tallest kids on the field. “He takes after me.”
“Because he’s tall or are you a good hitter too?”
The grandfather smiled. “Both. I used to smack the hell out of that ball. Excuse my language.”
“Not a problem.”
“And I could run like a gazelle too. Played outfield like your boy.” He rubbed his right knee again. “I just hope Al didn’t inherit my knees. When it’s cold and damp like this, it hurts.”
Cold, Margie thought. What’s the antidote for cold? Heat.
“This is going to sound a little strange,” she said, squatting down next to his chair. She tried to think up a plausible explanation. “I’ve been doing some reading on healing touch. Could I try to help your knee?”
“Healing touch? What is that?” He didn’t sound convinced.
“I think I can make your knee feel better. At least for the moment. May I put my hands on your knee?”
“Are you coming on to me, sweetie?” the grandfather asked with a mischievous grin. “Go ahead if you think you can help.”
Margie had never tried harnessing a hot flash without a little sugar first, but this was important. This was another person in pain, and she had the ability to do something about it. She placed both hands on his bony knee, felt the stick-figure legs beneath his well-worn old-man khakis. She didn’t know where to focus her gaze, so she closed her eyes and hoped no one was watching them. I don’t need a lot of heat, she thought. Just a little. Just enough to warm his knee and ease his pain. She thought warm; she thought heat. She thought dog days of summer when your clothing sticks to you and the driveway is too hot for bare feet. She thought arid deserts and blazing bonfires and steaming pots of soup and eye-watering hot chili, and slowly she felt a gentle ripple of heat flowing through her body and into her hands, into the grandfather’s knee.
“Hey there,” he said. She felt his knee bend slowly under her hands and opened her eyes. “That feels better. What did you just do?”
Margie had been so focused on the doing, on the helping, that she hadn’t thought about what might happen after the helping. What she had just done was, to put it lightly, unusual. Now she had to explain it. The things we do don’t happen in a vacuum; they are seen by other people, done to or for other people, and sometimes those other people are going to ask awkward questions. She stammered through her made-up explanation again.
Al’s grandfather looked skeptical. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said, “but my knee feels much better. You have magic hands, young lady. I thank you.”
Margie murmured a hasty “You’re welcome” and retreated back to the bleachers. This whole using-her-powers-to-help thing was going to take some thinking and planning. A disguise maybe? She didn’t have time to think about it right then. When she got back to the bleachers, she found Joan and Eli sitting side-by-side on the top row. Joan was texting away on her phone. Eli was wearing his running shoes and shorts and had on a retro Ramones T-shirt that probably cost more than the tickets Margie had paid to see the Ramones when she was in college.
“Hey, Mom!” Eli said as she sat down in between him and Joan. Joan gave a distracted “Hi” without looking up from her phone.
Even though Eli was sweaty from his run and Joan was in TextWorld, Margie gave them each a quick hug. She was pretty sure Joan didn’t notice.
Eli had the little notebook and pencil he always carried, even in the pocket of his running shorts. Margie always marveled at how the notebook—that one or a larger one—went everywhere with him. You’d think after his run it would be damp, but it didn’t seem to bother Eli. She surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder to see if he was sketching out a new Super Ladies comic, but he was just doodling some little cartoons based on the ballplayers.
“Eli, do you want me to get the car blanket?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” he said with a small smile.
“Are you sure? It’s kind of cold out here.”
“I’m not cold. And it’s already the top of the seventh. They’ll be done soon.”
Grant’s team, the Chargers, were the visitors and down 6–5. The first out of the inning came on the first batter, and it looked like they’d coast out of there in a few minutes, giving them plenty of time to get home and put the finishing touches on dinner well before sundown.
Margie was glad she’d had the foresight to put something in the crock pot before she left the house, because Grant walked and ended up scoring a run, which made Margie ready to burst with pride. However, it also tied the score and meant the game wouldn’t be over as quickly as she thought it would.
Karl showed up in the middle of the inning. “I should have just told you to go home,” she said to him.
“Nice to see you too,” Karl said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
Grant’s team ended up losing by a run in extra innings. By the time they all got home, it was eight forty-five and everyone was ravenous. Joan took Juno out, Karl grabbed the candles, and Margie shooed Eli and Grant to the bathroom to at least wash their hands before dinner. Margie had walked into the kitchen barking orders at her family and feeling like Super Mom. Then she saw the unplugged crock pot.
“Oh crap.”
“What?” Karl asked, following her gaze. “Oh.”
The kids wandered back into the kitchen.
“Uh-oh,” Joan said. “Way to go, Mom.”
Margie had noticed her daughter’s latest growth spurt seemed to include the addition of a bad attitude where her mother was concerned. “Thanks for the support, sweetie,” she replied.
“Does this mean we don’t have any dinner?” Grant asked. “I’m starving.”
“One:
you are not ‘starving.’ People in sub-Saharan Africa and other parts of the developing world are starving. You’re hungry. Two: we have dinner.”
“And about nine minutes to get it together,” Karl said. “I really don’t want to eat dinner at ten thirty at night.”
Margie took a quick inventory of the refrigerator: a tiny bit of leftover salad that she set Karl to work on augmenting with whatever was in the crisper, a bunch of leftover macaroni and cheese that not even Grant would eat cold, one hamburger of indeterminate age, and two slices of pizza.
“We really should light the candles,” Eli said as she handed him the Tupperware container of mac and cheese and something in a small foam container that Joan said was her leftover sandwich from when she and Margie went out to lunch.
“You can eat that,” Margie offered. “Leftovers are fine.”
Joan partially opened it and sniffed. “Eew, this is like two weeks old,” she said and chucked it in the garbage.
Margie lit the Shabbat candles, and they prayed the blessing. Then the five of them stood in the kitchen looking at the mishmash of food on the kitchen island.
“Can’t we use the stove after sundown just this once?” Grant asked.
“Please?” Joan added.
Margie looked over at Karl, who seemed torn between his beliefs and convenience. She was pretty sure God wasn’t going to send down a thunderbolt if she just hit “start” on the microwave.
“Mom?” Eli said. “You can heat all this stuff up.”
It took Margie a moment to realize what Eli was driving at. “What do you mean?”
“You can heat it up.”
“What?” Grant demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Mom can—”
Margie silenced him with a look. It was an accident that Eli knew about her epic hot flashes and what they could do. She hadn’t talked to Karl about it and hadn’t even mentioned the Super Ladies comic to the younger kids. This was her body. On one hand, it felt too private to share. After all, hot flashes meant she was getting older, that her body was changing, aging. And yet, she had never felt more powerful than when she caused that car to overheat. Granted, there was a certain amount of satisfying comeuppance for the surly teenagers inside the car, but feeling the heat radiating through her body made her feel stronger than she ever had before. And as awkward as it had been immediately afterward, she had eased someone’s pain. That, too, was power. If anyone should know about this, it ought to be her family.
“Eli, could you please get me a couple pieces of candy?”
Eli’s smile turned mischievous as he dashed over to the snack cupboard.
“What? No fair! How come Mom gets candy for dinner and I don’t?” Grant said.
“Mom isn’t having candy for dinner,” Karl said. He gave Margie a puzzled look as Eli handed her two mini Reese’s cups, and she ate them in rapid succession. “I have no idea what she’s doing, but she isn’t having candy for dinner. Are you?”
“I’m having salad,” Margie said. Now that she’d committed to showing the entire family what she could do, she was feeling an odd combination of nerves and excitement, as though she was about to step onto a stage and do a striptease. “Grant, do you want mac and cheese?”
Grant gave an enthusiastic “Yes.”
“Joan? Eli?”
Joan only nodded, but Eli’s smile got even bigger as he said, “Yes, please.”
Margie quickly spooned the cold macaroni and cheese into a big glass bowl.
“Mom, you do know that it’s after sundown, right? You can’t use the microwave,” Joan said.
“I know.” Margie held the bowl with both hands and thought warm thoughts. It wasn’t really work, because the sugar always seemed to trigger the hot flashes naturally. She was just encouraging it. Sure enough, she felt a wave of heat coming over her and tried to focus it to her hands and the bowl.
“Mom, you’re turning kind of…pink,” Joan said. She almost sounded worried, which seemed like a small victory.
“She’s having a hot flash,” Eli said knowledgeably.
“What do you know about hot flashes?” Joan asked, as though the entire concept was disdainful.
“What’s a hot flash?” Grant asked.
“Mom will tell you later,” Karl said, not taking his eyes off the bowl and the tiny tendrils of steam that were beginning to rise from it. “Margie, darling, light and love of my life…is that bowl getting…warm?”
Margie met her husband’s eyes. Despite a strong marriage, good communication, and an active sex life, the look of interest and admiration in his eyes was one she hadn’t seen since they’d started dating. “Why yes,” she replied. “Yes, it is.”
“Is that…?” Karl stammered. “Do you think we’ll have to talk to the rabbi about this?”
“Do you want to broach the subject with him?” Margie asked.
“Okay, we’re going to go with the assumption that this is kosher.”
Margie’s family watched in silence for another minute until the bowl of mac and cheese was steaming as though it had just come out of the oven.
“How did you do that?” Joan asked. She looked astonished and, Margie was pleased to note, maybe a little impressed.
“I told you—Mom had a hot flash,” Eli said proudly.
“I want to do that,” Grant said. “I don’t mind talking to the rabbi about it.”
Margie caught Karl’s eye and tried not to laugh. “Maybe you should talk to Dad about it first,” she said.
She spent the rest of the evening deliberately shepherding the rest of the family from food to books to bed, deftly deflecting any questions about hot flashes or anything else. When she finally went to bed that night, Karl was still up.
“You’re up late,” Margie said as she closed the bedroom door. She thought for sure he’d be asleep by now.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Karl said. He’d been reading a book but now put it on the bedside table. Karl was generally a pretty good husband, but typically she had to compete for his attention with whatever he was reading or watching on television. This was different. He extended a hand to her. Margie walked over and sat on his side of the bed. Karl gave her a quick kiss then leaned back among the pile of gray and black pillows on the bed and regarded his wife. Margie frequently compared his need for copious pillows to the Princess and the Pea. “Now, you still haven’t told me how you managed to reheat a bowl of leftover mac and cheese using only the power of touch.”
Margie felt compelled to add: “And a hot flash.”
“And a hot flash,” he echoed. “Eli apparently knew you could do this, but you didn’t see fit to tell your husband.” For the first time, Karl sounded a little annoyed. In truth, Margie had avoided telling him anything. Partly because it was so weird she didn’t know how to broach the subject and partly because she enjoyed having the secret to herself. “You can defy the laws of thermodynamics, but you didn’t bother to tell me?”
“I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t sure what to say or how to explain it. I’m still not. And to be fair, Eli found out by accident.” Margie told Karl about the drunken car-surfing boys and how she made the car overheat and how it all seemed to go back to the explosion.
“I don’t know whether to laugh or flip out,” Karl said. “This is nuts.”
“I know, sweetie.”
“I mean, it’s really cool. Or rather, really hot.”
“Yes.”
“It’s also nuts.”
“Yes.”
She sat silently next to her husband for a moment. “I feel like I just won a burlesque dance competition and can’t tell anybody about it,” she said finally.
Karl laughed. “You can do amazing things and come up with killer analogies. How did I get so lucky?’
“I can’t do anything amazing…”
; “Margie, yes, you can. You know, when I met you I was intrigued because you’re related to baseball royalty.”
“Distantly. And Phil Rizzuto doesn’t know me from Adam. Or Eve.”
Karl ignored her side comment. “And now I find out you have the power to—how did you describe it—harness a hot flash? You’re a miracle.”
After twenty-three years of marriage, two houses, two dogs, countless fish, and three kids, Margie wasn’t used to being the center of attention, even from one person. “Karl, you’re very sweet, but I’m not a miracle. I’m just another overweight housewife in a middle-class suburb.”
“And I’m a short Jewish lawyer. You think I don’t feel like a cliché sometimes? You’re the best thing I have going for me. And now it turns out you have…superpowers?”
“Power. Superpower, just one. Just that one thing.”
Karl trailed one finger along Margie’s bare calf and under the fabric of her Capri pants to the top of her knee. “Can I see what other things your body can do?” he asked gently. Two fingers now softly trailed to the sensitive spot on the back of her knee. Margie involuntarily let out a little gasp of pleasure. “X marks the X-rated spot,” he said. He knew all the right spots on her body. Sometimes it amazed her that Karl loved her body so much when she frequently hated it. But there he was, happily touching her, doing everything in his power to turn her on.
It worked.
IC_SuperLadies posted: The Schvitz has discovered she is the most kosher of all superheroes.
Chapter Nineteen
The Fourth of July had been Margie’s favorite holiday for years. She wasn’t particularly patriotic; it was just that the Fourth had so many wonderful attendant qualities. It was better than Christmas because it wasn’t tied to any faith tradition, so everybody got the day off and nobody felt awkward. The food was easier to prepare than on Thanksgiving, plus you weren’t obliged to see relatives you didn’t like. It was almost always warmer than Memorial Day but didn’t have the bittersweet end-of-summer melancholy of Labor Day. And you got fireworks. Truly, how could you not love this holiday?
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