Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  Right. Sure thing. If you think I believe that, stand on your ear. First my daughter, now my mother. And here I am, sandwiched in the middle like a pickle in a bun, trying to keep them from ruining their lives.

  And feeling like a hypocrite.

  Intellectually, I understand Mother’s need for companionship. Like I told Donald Quinn and Sue Kiley about their parents, Mother’s a grown-up, and I have no business butting into her love life. But I’m finding it’s not so simple to be reasonable when it’s my own parent flirting with love. It’s not so amusing. Or sweet. Or easy to accept.

  Up at the window, the old fart smiles and waves. Mother smiles and waves back. “Oliver says the reading group is the buzz of the village. Everyone looks forward to it. I swear, I think if we met every day instead of just once a week we’d still have a full house.”

  As I reach for the door to the building, it swings open and Bill Burdette, the manager, steps out. Squinting, he glances over his shoulder before aiming his gaze at me. “We need to talk.”

  “Okay.” His serious expression tells me he’s not preparing to ask me to tap dance at the Parkview Christmas program. “Go on up, Mother. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Bill waits for Mother to leave then steps outside and closes the door.

  “Are you having a hot flash, Bill?” I shiver and laugh. “How about we have this discussion inside where it’s warm?”

  “I don’t want anyone to hear this.” He glances around again, sees that we’re alone then says, “Iris Shelby and Herbert O’Dell eloped last night.”

  “No kidding?”

  He shakes his head. “They’re eighty-something years old. Both of them.”

  I lower my voice to a whisper and lean toward him. “Iris isn’t pregnant, is she?”

  “That’s not funny, CiCi. I thought we had an understanding that the reading group was on hold.”

  “We’re meeting in a private residence.”

  “Within this facility.”

  “In Oliver Winston’s home, which he pays for. I don’t understand why you’re so upset. As long as it’s legal, he can hold any kind of meeting he wants, and Parkview Manor’s in the clear. Besides, what does this have to do with Iris and Herbert getting married?”

  “They attend your reading group, don’t they?”

  “Front row and center every Wednesday.” The cold numbs my toes. I stomp my feet to jump-start my circulation. “So?”

  “Iris Shelby’s son has power of attorney over her money. He writes the checks for her to live here, and he’s not the only one. Many of our residents receive financial assistance from their children or have turned over legal control of their funds. If we piss off the kids, the parents could be forced to move someplace else. Then the Village loses money and my job’s at risk.”

  “Calm down, Bill. Iris is only one resident.” I step around him, open the door and go inside. My panty hose feel like they’re about to cut me in two. I must have accidentally bought a size smaller than my usual medium.

  Bill follows me down the hallway to the elevator, walking fast until he’s at my side. “There’s more.” The elevator dings. The doors slide open and three women step off. Bill straightens, flashes his too-white teeth. “Seasons greetings, ladies. Bundle up if you’re going outside. Jack Frost is paying us a visit today.” His chuckle is loud and hollow, like a shopping mall Santa’s at the end of a very long day.

  I step onto the elevator. Bill joins me. I push Three. Bill’s smile falls as the elevator rises.

  “Saturday when the maintenance guy went out to the duck pond, he heard voices in the gazebo. “When he checked it out, he found Jane Binkley and Stanley McDougal inside getting it on.” He shudders.

  An image flashes through my mind. The shriveled-up old prune of a guy I saw with Mrs. Binkley only moments ago. Naked. In the gazebo. On Jane. I shudder, too. The elevator dings. I burst out laughing.

  “Shhhh!” Bill blinks terror at me as the doors slide open. He blows out a long breath when we find the hallway empty.

  “I’m surprised at you, CiCi. What if your mother was in that gazebo instead of Jane?”

  I sober. “I’d be horrified.”

  “Then how can you laugh?”

  “I know. But, the thing is, it wasn’t my mother.” As I start off toward Oliver’s apartment with Bill on my heels, I struggle to control my humor, but do a miserable job of it.

  “Pardon me for saying so, but I expected a more mature reaction from you.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just…it was something like forty-eight degrees on Saturday. They didn’t get frostbite, did they?”

  I notice a twitch at one corner of Bill’s mouth. “According to the maintenance guy they spread Jane’s chinchilla coat on the bench underneath them and covered up with her full-length mink.”

  “I hope the animal rights people don’t get wind of this.”

  Bill glares.

  I laugh again. Nothing but the best for Jane. I’ve seen her apartment. Very classy, from the artwork on the walls right down to the fancy brass toilet paper holder in the bathroom. So I’m guessing there must be more to skinny little Stanley McDougal than meets the eye. What that “more” might be, I’d rather not contemplate.

  When I reach Oliver’s apartment, I stop and turn to face Bill. Behind him, Roy West, wearing a cowboy hat and swinging a cane, escorts Ellen Miles toward us. Her rubber-soled shoes squeak against the tiled floor.

  “CiCi,” Ellen calls out. “You were right on target about me needing to get up off the couch and become more involved. Roy and I have been bowling on Mondays, coming to reading group on Wednesdays, doing water aerobics on Thursday mornings and going to the Village dances on Saturday nights. I have so much energy now I can’t believe it.”

  Roy winks. “I’m having to double up on my vitamins just to keep up with the woman.”

  When they stop alongside us, Ellen takes my hand. “Thank you. I owe you so much.”

  I’m overcome by the gratitude I see in her eyes, as well as by the change in her. Ellen was lethargic and depressed only a few weeks ago when we first met. “You’re welcome, Ellen. But you made the changes, not me.”

  Roy knocks on Oliver’s apartment door. Someone inside calls, “Come in!” He releases Ellen’s arm. “We’ll leave the door open for you, CiCi,” he says, his dentures whistling.

  I glance inside.

  Bill looks over my shoulder. “Notice anything unusual?”

  In the past when I’ve attended Parkview functions, the women tend to gather on one side of the room, the men on the other. That isn’t the case today. The scene inside Oliver’s apartment looks more like a crowded cocktail party than a reading group. Couples talk and laugh together. Some hold hands.

  “They’re paired off,” Bill says. “Almost all of them.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” I try to sound self-assured, but inside I’m as conflicted as I’ve ever been.

  “For the most part, yes,” Bill says defensively. “But there is one bright spot in all of this. Sales of flowers, candy and condoms are up more than forty percent in the gift shop and store.”

  “Condoms?” I glance back at him. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope.”

  “See? What are you worried about? They’re practicing safe sex.”

  His brows lift. “The maintenance man said that before he interrupted Mrs. Binkley and Mr. McDougal in the gazebo, he heard her call him ‘Captain.’”

  I chew the inside of my cheek and try to look clueless. “So maybe Mr. McDougal was in the service.”

  “I’ve read the book, CiCi. I know all about Penelope and the captain. It’s pretty steamy stuff.”

  Yeah, and I bet Bill enjoyed every sweaty word, but before I can say so, commotion erupts inside the apartment, and someone yells, “Call 911!”

  Bill and I push our way through the murmuring throng of people in the living room. They stare down at the center of the floor at something I can’t see. I feel a hand on m
y arm and glance over to find Mother at my side.

  “It’s Frank Rayburn,” she whispers, her face as white as the snowflakes dancing in the air outside Oliver’s window.

  “Everyone step aside, please,” Bill yells.

  The crowd parts, and I follow him to where Frank lies on the floor faceup. Mary Fran, a retired R.N., pumps Frank’s chest and counts while Francis gives mouth-to-mouth.

  Doris kneels at Frank’s feet, her body trembling. “Not again. This can’t happen to me twice.” She looks up into my eyes. I take her hand and help her stand. “It isn’t fair.”

  I ache for Doris. She should’ve guarded her heart after her husband died. But it’s too late to tell her that now. Too late for Doris, but not for my mother.

  Mother’s eyes are closed, her palm pressed to her chest. I hope she learns a hard lesson from this terrifying moment. Nothing’s worth the panic Doris feels right now.

  In the distance, a siren’s wail pierces the hushed winter day and suddenly, in my mind, I’m not holding Doris’s hand, but Mother’s, and instead of Frank on the floor, it’s Dad. The past unfolds. Mother’s desperate eyes, her cry, her body crumpling like a paper doll. And me completely helpless as something vital, something I’d convinced myself would last forever, slips through my fingers, and the world spirals out of control.

  In the hospital Emergency waiting room, Mother and I sit on either side of Doris. Frank Rayburn’s daughter, Sue Kiley, paces in front of us. Oozing dread from every pore, Bill Burdette sits in a corner and watches her.

  It seems like hours before a young, female, frazzled-looking doctor walks in and takes Sue Kiley aside. They talk in quiet voices for a few minutes, then the doctor exits through the same door she came in while Sue gathers her purse and coat.

  When Sue starts down the hallway after the doctor, Bill hurries behind her, calling her name. He catches up, stops her. I can’t hear their conversation, only the sharp, angry tone of Sue Kiley’s voice.

  Doris excuses herself to join them and, after a bit of back and forth between her and Frank’s daughter, she takes off with the woman.

  I turn to Mother. “How are you doing?”

  “One second you’re laughing, the next your life changes. Just like that.” She blinks at me. “I can’t help thinking about your father. This brings it all back.”

  “I know.”

  “Poor Doris.”

  “She set herself up to get hurt again.”

  “By caring for Frank?” Mother frowns concern at me.

  Tears burn the backs of my eyes; I don’t know why I’m so emotional. Memories of Dad, I guess. “Frank Rayburn is close to eighty if he isn’t already. Doris lost one man she loved. Why would she want to put herself through that again?”

  “Oh, Sugar.” She covers our joined hands with her free one. “That would be a miserable way to live. Not allowing yourself to care for anyone because you’re afraid of getting hurt.”

  Bill saves me from a discussion I’d rather not begin by stopping in front of us and clearing his throat. I glance up at him, anxiety heavy in my chest. “Is Frank—?”

  “Mr. Rayburn will be fine. He’s awake and answering questions. It wasn’t a heart attack. He just passed out.”

  “Thank God,” Mother murmurs. For Doris’s sake, she’s stayed strong and calm, but now she starts to shake.

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “You okay?”

  She leans into me. “I am now.”

  I look up at Bill. “Why did he faint?”

  “Apparently Frank’s been taking one of those new drugs for…” He clears his throat again. “For sexual dysfunction and—”

  “Oh…” Mother lifts a hand to her cheek.

  “He didn’t suffer one of those four-hour erection side effects the commercials talk about, did he?”

  Mother blushes. “CiCi! For heaven’s sake.”

  Bill looks at the floor.

  I shrug. “I’m just asking. I’m guessing that could make a man pass out. You know, from lack of blood supply to the brain?”

  “It wasn’t that. Apparently he’s on blood pressure meds, so he’s not allowed to take anything for his…” Bill darts a glance at Mother. “His doctors won’t prescribe anything for the dysfunction, so he borrowed some pills from a friend. The medication caused his blood pressure to drop. That’s why he fainted.”

  I puff out my cheeks. “Wow. Not good.”

  “Sue Kiley is in full agreement with you on that point. She advised me to call Parkview’s lawyer.”

  “As if you had anything to do with this.” I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”

  Mother sighs. “Why is it people so often feel the need to cast blame?”

  Bill scratches his head. “She advised that you call your attorney, too, CiCi.”

  “What?” I stand. “Why? What did I do?”

  “She mentioned something about inciting irresponsible behavior among the members of the book group by exposing them to obscene reading material.”

  Mother gasps. “My word! Penelope’s Passion?”

  My head throbs. Lack of oxygen? From my waist-pinching control-top panty hose, perhaps? Maybe I’ll pass out, too. Then I’ll sue the panty hose manufacturer for inciting irresponsible flab constriction or something. Apparently a person can press charges for anything these days. “But I only have a divorce attorney. Robert Spinks. Ending marriages is all he does.”

  Mother pats my arm. “Don’t worry, Sugar. This will blow over. You’ll see.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Bill says. “Sue Kiley’s royally pissed.” He sends Mother a sheepish glance. “Excuse my language, Mrs. Lamont.”

  “We’ll ask your neighbor, Mrs. Stein.” Mother talks fast, taking control of the situation since I can’t seem to move or speak. “She’ll know someone. She knows everybody.”

  I imagine my attorney-to-be, compliments of Mrs. Stein, in gold neck chains, snakeskin boots and skintight black leather pants, with an extreme comb-over that flaps open to the side like a hinged door as he pounds the table and bellows, “I object!” Just what I need. A lawyer who’s a combination of you-can-call-me-Hank, mama’s boy Anthony and the balding Bar Mitzvah guy all wrapped up into one scary package.

  I draw a long breath, blow it out slowly. “No thanks, Mother. I’ll ask Robert. He’ll refer me to someone.”

  At a quarter past five o’clock, I pull into Rod and Sally Coker’s graveled driveway. The small ranch-style house sits on ten acres of land just outside of the city. I’m proud of myself for being only fifteen minutes late and just making one wrong turn. Finding the place was no easy feat for a directionally challenged person like me. I need landmarks, lefts and rights. As in, you’ll pass a tan brick house before crossing a railroad track. Take a left at the first street after the dump yard. Instead, Rod Coker gave me, exit north on farm-to-market something or other. Go about three miles, then take the southwest fork in the road for another five or so.

  In the back seat of my minivan, Max snuffles as he shifts around in his kennel. Most likely he fears he’s headed for the vet and some poking and prodding, possibly even a stick in the rump with a sharp needle.

  “Calm down, Max,” I say over my shoulder as I turn off the ignition. “What are you griping about?” He doesn’t have to worry about a lawsuit, Mother’s romance or Erin’s biker-boy.

  Max rattles the metal door with his nose.

  “You should thank me. You’ve got two weeks ahead of nothing but sex and frolic in the country with the sinfully sumptuous Gertie, no strings attached.”

  He gives a plaintive cry.

  “When it’s over, you can just walk away. Never see her again. No child support. What a deal.”

  A blast of cold hits me as I step out of the car, open the back door, let Maxwell out of his kennel and leash him. Rod and Sally meet me in the yard. Both sixty-ish, he’s as hard and calloused and stone-faced as she is soft and round and animated.

  “You’re here!” Sally stoops to welcome Ma
x with a scratch to the snout. “Gertie’s been waiting for you, big guy,” she says in a baby-talk voice. “You two are going to make me some grand-puppies. Yes you are!”

  Max makes a pitiful sound and looks up at me with irritated eyes.

  Rod Coker shakes his head, lights a cigarette and grumbles something unintelligible.

  His wife stands. “Oh, hush.” She gently slaps a mittened hand against her husband’s arm, her eyes on me. “Rod thinks bulldogs are worthless because they don’t hunt or point or retrieve. I say there’s value in being cute and lovable.”

  I nod and laugh.

  Mr. Coker huffs and takes a deep drag of tobacco.

  He strikes me as a man who appreciates a dollar as well as a diesel truck and a well-oiled gun, so I say, “The puppies should make you some money. Gertie’s from a good line. So is Maxwell.”

  He blows out a stream of smoke. “That’s the only reason I agreed to this.”

  Sally climbs the steps to the porch again and opens the screen door. “Gertie! Gertie girl! Maxwell’s here.”

  The little black and white dog wiggles out onto the porch, then she and Sally come down into the yard.

  Sally claps her hands together. “Why don’t you take Max off the leash, Mrs. Dupree? Let them get reacquainted.”

  When the Cokers came to my house to check out Max, the two dogs got along well enough for the few minutes they were together, though Max didn’t make any amorous moves. Of course, Gertie wasn’t in heat then. I expect more aggression from him now.

  I take off his leash.

  Gertie steps toward Max.

  I hold my breath.

  Max cowers.

  Gertie sniffs.

  Max looks back at me, tilts his head, yelps.

  Good grief. Some Don Juan. I smile at the Cokers and shrug. “It’s his first time.”

  Sally giggles. “He’s nervous.”

  Rod smirks and takes another drag. “What kind of stud dog gets performance anxiety?”

  “Rod!” Sally cuts her gaze my direction. “Maybe he doesn’t like an audience. Let’s give them some space.”