Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  “Maternity leave? I thought she was on her honeymoon just before Christmas?”

  “She was. The baby came early.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “The kid couldn’t have had worse timing. Everett and I are swamped.”

  I tilt my head. “You’re not about to start bawling, are you?”

  “Not unless it’d make you feel better.”

  I laugh, and my tension melts like wax beneath a flame.

  For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, just squints and studies me. “So, you wanna tell me what stirred up those tears?”

  “The part you can help me with, yes. The rest I’ll have to work out myself.”

  As I fill him in on the Scoop segment, he reaches for a fishing fly rod that’s propped against his computer and winds the reel, listening. “Sure didn’t take ’em as long as I thought.”

  “You expected this?”

  “I figured the national media might catch wind of the story. A sex scandal in an old folks’ home is too good to pass up.”

  “Please. It isn’t a sex scandal.”

  “They’ll make it into one, I can pretty much promise you that.” He starts to work on a knot in the fishing line. “Sex stories make for good ratings, and this one has an interesting twist.”

  “The publicity’s going to hurt the case, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see about that. Either way, we’ll deal with it.”

  “How? Bill seems to think reporters will be breaking down our doors soon.”

  “Well, ma’am…” Nate props the fishing pole against the wall. “You just give ’em your best smile and say your attorney advised you not to talk about the case. I’ll be the bad boy.”

  I’d love him to be the bad boy. Bad with me. Very, very bad. Pathetic? Maybe, but that’s what I think when I look into his eyes and his mouth quirks up at one corner. I just wish he wouldn’t call me ma’am. Ma’am is a middle-aged woman, which to him I guess I am. I peg him at thirty-one, thirty-two at the most. A decade behind me. Who do I think I am? Demi Moore? Obviously I’m reading too much into the way he looks at me. He could be my younger brother. My very sexy, very much younger brother. Problem is, my body’s reacting to him in a way that’s not the least bit sisterly.

  My cell phone rings, fizzling all fantasies. I see that it’s mother, and excuse myself to answer the call.

  “Hi, Sugar. Oliver called this morning and said everyone’s worried about you. So I invited some of the reading group members to dinner tonight. Can you make it home by six-thirty?”

  I glance at my watch. “Sure. I’m just about to leave the attorney’s office.”

  “Oh, good. Invite Mr. Colby. It would be the perfect time for him to meet us and us him.”

  I cut my gaze toward Nate. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say, my voice low.

  “Why not? I made my special pot roast.”

  I chew my lip a moment, then lower the phone. “How do you feel about pot roast?” I ask Nate.

  Nate’s crazy about pot roast. Carrots, too. And potatoes and brown gravy and homemade rolls. All of which Mother spent the afternoon preparing and none of which is allowed on my Weight Wackers diet plan. Since, with this group, anything’s up for discussion, and I don’t especially want my extra pounds to end up the topic of the night, I nibble Mother’s meal rather than eat the prepackaged food I bought this morning.

  Erin nibbles, too. Pushes her food around with her fork and offers a polite response whenever someone addresses her. After about fifteen minutes, she excuses herself, takes her plate to the kitchen, lets Max in, then heads off with him toward her bedroom. Which isn’t unusual. What worries me are her downcast eyes, her pinched voice and drawn-in posture. Bert must’ve called and told her his news. I’ll talk to her after everyone leaves.

  Iris Shelby, now Mrs. Herbert O’Dell, refills her plate for the second time. Her generously padded physique reminds me of my own grandmother, her cushiony hugs, how good it felt to snuggle against the pillow of her bosom and listen to her read to me when I was a kid. Food obviously isn’t Iris’s only passion. After a month of marriage, she still looks at Herbert with moon eyes.

  Nate lifts the breadbasket and offers it to her. “What brought you to Parkview Manor, Iris?”

  She takes the basket from him. “I lost my first husband four years ago. We owned a home, and I had a mind to stay in it since the mortgage was paid up.” With great care, Iris butters a roll. “For close to a year, I puttered around in that big ol’ house. I wasn’t scared by myself, just lonely.”

  Nate nods his understanding. “So you moved.”

  “It took a peeping Tom to get me to budge.”

  Jane Binkley’s eyes light up, then narrow. “Really…” She leans forward. “Why don’t I ever get the good calls?”

  Mother flattens a palm to her chest. “My heavens, Iris, you must’ve been scared out of your wits.”

  “Scared and shocked silly.” Iris dips her roll into her potatoes and gravy. “I was climbing into bed one night when the phone rings and this deep quiet voice says, ‘I’ve been watching you. I’ve seen you naked in the shower.’”

  “Bastard,” Mary Fran mutters.

  Francis snorts and nods.

  “Mercy,” Stan McDougal says, his eyes lighting up as he exchanges a suggestive look with Jane.

  “Wow, Iris,” I say. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Neither could I.” Iris’s brows arch. “He saw me naked and he still wanted to call? When I asked him that, the sucker hung right up.”

  Silence drapes the table. Then I snicker and Nate starts laughing.

  When Iris tilts her head back and joins us, the veil lifts and everyone else laughs, too.

  Iris looks pleased with herself. “Well, I got a little spooked, I guess. The very next day I started looking for a retirement community. A place where I’d be surrounded by people in my same situation. A place without a window in the bathroom.” She turns to her new husband. “And then I met Herbert.”

  As he lifts her hand and kisses it, Herbert’s puppy dog eyes smile back at his wife. I notice they don’t look so sad anymore. “Took me a while to get up my nerve to ask Iris out. CiCi’s reading group helped break the ice.”

  Nate leans back and squints at Herbert. “How so?”

  “See, I’d never thought to join because it just seemed so high-brow and boring, folks sitting around shooting the breeze about made-up stories. Then that old boy over there,” he nods and grins at Oliver, “he tells me about this new book the group’s ready to start. Penelope’s Passion.” Herbert slaps his thigh and wiggles his brow. “Hey, now! This sounds more up my alley. A little adventure, a little hoochie-koochie. When I find out Iris is in the group, that cinches it for me. I talked to CiCi one afternoon after we adjourned. Told her about my worries. She called me later that night to continue the conversation and set my mind right. The rest is history.”

  Recalling that conversation, I feel proud, despite myself. Herbert was so nervous, so insecure and unsure, so lonely. Look at him now. Happy. In love. Confident. If I had a part in making that happen, I’m thrilled. And confused. Why wouldn’t I want those same things for my mother?

  Smiling at me, Nate lifts his glass. “A toast to Iris and Herbert.” Iced-tea glasses and coffee cups come together above the center of the table. “And to living life to the fullest.”

  I sense Nate’s eyes still on me, but I’m too busy watching Mother and Oliver to return his look. Their fingers brush, and they stare at one another with such tenderness my heartbeat speeds up and all the muscles in my body spring to attention, on alert for impending disaster.

  “And to CiCi and Penelope’s Passion,” Stanley McDougal booms, his deep voice at odds with his scrawny, stoop-shouldered body.

  “Here, here!” the group cheers in unison.

  My gaze stays glued to Mother and Oliver. Their gazes stay glued to each other.

  The party br
eaks up soon after the peach pie is served. (I allow myself one bite. No ice cream.) I walk Nate out to his car, an old white Porsche, obviously restored by loving hands. After a glance in the window, I look up at him. “Wow. You’re full of surprises. I expected you’d drive a SUV.” Or ride a white stallion.

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah, I do.” I skim my palm across the glossy paint. “The old ones are classy, aren’t they?”

  “The very definition of class,” Nate answers when Stanley McDougal toots his horn and pulls his truck out of the driveway with Jane sitting next to him, center seat.

  I realize Nate’s not only referring to the Porsche, and I like him all the more because of it.

  “You think I should call Bill Burdette and tell him to guard the gazebo?”

  Nate chuckles. “That’s quite a group of friends you’ve got there.”

  Watching Stanley’s taillights shrink into the darkness, I shiver and smile. “I started out thinking I was doing something to help them stave off boredom and stay active, but it ended up the other way around. They’re the highlight of my week. Or were. We don’t meet anymore.”

  “I think you did more for them than you realize. It’s clear they’re all a lot happier since they got together. And better off. They seem pretty darn grateful to you for giving them the nudge they needed to go after what they wanted in the first place.”

  “You mean a little hoochie-koochie, as Herbert said?”

  Nate’s laugh is uninhibited. Just hearing it makes me feel good all over. “He makes sense, CiCi. By starting that reading group and bringing a book they could actually have fun with, you helped break the ice. It got ’em to really talking instead of just saying ‘hi’ in the hallways. That’s a good thing.”

  “Please tell me you can convince a jury of that.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “And I’m starting to think you don’t worry at all. About anything.”

  He shrugs. “Why waste the energy? It won’t affect the outcome. Only action’ll do that.” With a jerk of his head, he motions me toward the car. “Come on, I’ll take you for a ride.”

  I bite my lower lip, hug myself, glance over my shoulder at the house. “I’d better not.”

  “What? Afraid I’ll go too fast for you?”

  Terrified, I think, sensing we’re talking about more than a drive in his car. But I don’t want to admit I’m chicken, so I drop my arms and stand straighter, my pulse thumping loud in my ears. “Me? No way. Speed’s my middle name.”

  “Okay, then.” He reaches out a hand to me. “Let’s hit the road.”

  When Nate drops me home again, Oliver’s restored Studebaker still occupies the driveway. I feel too good to stew about it.

  Nate did drive too fast. We went out of the city to a stretch of back road seldom traveled, then he cut loose.

  For once, so did I.

  The chilled wind blew out all the tension I’ve stored up inside of me these past months and carried it away through the car’s open windows. (Nate insisted we keep them down, despite the weather.)

  Invigorated, I step from the Porsche and lean down to look at Nate through the window. “Thanks. That was fun. Freezing, but fun.”

  He tips a nonexistent hat. “My pleasure, Speed. See you at my office next Friday at five.”

  “Did we schedule an appointment?”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot already.”

  “Refresh my memory. Why are we meeting?”

  “I’ll think of some reason before then.” He winks and takes off, leaving me standing in the cold looking after him. And laughing, which is such a relief.

  Now, as I enter the house, Mother’s delighted shrieks drift to me from the kitchen. Oliver is singing, if you can call it that. It’s a rap tune, I think. I listen closer. Truth is, he’s not half-bad.

  I walk through the dark living room to the kitchen door and peek in. His arms are out in front of him forming a circle, holding an invisible partner, and his hips grind slowly left then right then forward to the beat of the song.

  My mouth drops open.

  Across the room, Mother is doubled over, clasping her stomach. “Ollie! Quit! That’s terrible.”

  The singing stops. The dancing doesn’t. “This is how the youngsters do it, Belle. See? Dirty dancing, they call it. I’ve been paying attention. I’ve got it down.” He does a shuffle across the tile floor and grabs her. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  Oh, no you don’t, old fool. I start to barge in and interrupt them, then stop when his hands settle at her waist and she raises her arms to encircle his neck. Mother’s laughter quiets and they sway gently; she smiles up at him, he smiles down. Such intimacy in the look they share, so much revealed in their sudden stretch of silence.

  My eyes fill; so does my heart. With tangled emotions I can’t unravel. I press one hand to my chest, step backward into the darkness of the living room where they can’t see me.

  Beneath my palm, the beat of my heart slowly steadies.

  What’s happening to my mother is a miracle…a gift. Difficult as it is for me to see her with another man, I know that Oliver is good for her. I know and, for the first time, feel a bittersweet twinge of pure joy for my mother.

  Not long ago, I watched her heart break.

  Now I’m watching it mend.

  CHAPTER 18

  To: Erin@friendmail.com

  From: Noah@friendmail.com

  Date: Friday 01/05

  Subject: us

  Erin,

  why won’t you answer my calls? i know you have caller id on your cell. would you listen to me? what you said last night about me finding someone else when i go away to school is bullshit. and it will piss me off if you think i will because i am not even interested in anyone else but you. OK? OK! and that is final. i love you and only you. it will be hard being apart, but we can last. i don’t care what anybody says. we’re not ‘most people.’

  i’m wearing the necklace you gave me for Christmas. i sleep in it and shower in it and everything. if you don’t talk to me soon, i’ll go crazy. i don’t think i can stand it. new year’s eve was the best night of my life. i love you so much erin. i need a kiss from you, to know you’re ok. call me. i love you, noah

  WHEN MY BEDROOM door creaks open, I close my eyes and pretend I’m asleep. I knew I should’ve locked it. Mom still thinks I’m twelve, that if the door’s not locked, she can just walk in without knocking.

  I smell her perfume; the same scent she’s worn always. Not too flowery or exotic or mysterious. Sort of crisp and fresh and no-nonsense. Like her. It makes me remember a thousand hugs, days of playing dress-up when I was little. Mom would let me wear her shoes, her perfume, her jewelry. She’d fix my hair and make up my face.

  The bed shifts from her weight as she settles beside me. Her fingers brush hair from my cheek, which is wet from about a million tears.

  “Erin?”

  A sob shudders out of me. My shoulders shake.

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” She strokes my head.

  I open my eyes, roll onto my back and scoot up in the bed. I open my arms and so does she. For a long time, she holds me and lets me cry. We don’t say anything, just rock back and forth.

  “I’m so sorry, Erin.”

  “You knew?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He called me this afternoon.”

  Leaning back and wiping my eyes, I frown at her. I can’t believe Noah would call Mom about our breakup. “What did he say?”

  “That he didn’t want you to be upset.”

  I kick off the covers and climb out of bed. “Well, what did he expect? I mean, I’m happy for him and everything. It’s just—” I sob. “I’ll miss him so much.”

  “Oh, Sweetie. This isn’t going to change the way he feels about you. You can still see him. You can go visit whenever you want.”

  What? I stop pacing and stare at her. This must be a dream. “You wouldn’t freak out?”
/>
  Mom looks confused. “Why would I freak out? I understand that you need to spend time with him. You love him and he loves you. I know that. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  Wow. I am totally not believing this. Is my mother on drugs, or what? “Thanks, Mom. You’re awesome.” I circle the bed, sit and throw my arms around her neck. “Thanks for understanding. I didn’t even think you liked Noah.”

  “Noah?” She breaks free of my hug.

  “Yeah. I’m surprised you’d let me go see him without throwing a fit.” I laugh. “Not that I’m complaining. I mean, it’s about time. I am almost eighteen.”

  “Erin…what are you talking about?”

  “Visiting Noah in Montana. What are you talking about?”

  “Montana?”

  “When he goes away to school there in the fall. I thought you said he called?”

  Mom places a hand across her forehead and pinches her temples. “Shit.”

  “Mom. What is going on?” I knew this was too easy, too surreal. She was being way too nice.

  “I was talking about your father, Erin. You visiting him and Natalie after they get married and move to Amarillo.”

  “Dad’s marrying Natalie and moving?” She nods and I burst into tears again. I pick up a pillow and throw it across the room. “Fuck.”

  “Erin! That sort of language won’t help anything.”

  Never mind that she just said “shit.” I pick up the other pillow and throw it, too. “You don’t know how it feels. You had your dad your whole life. He acted like a real father. Not some stupid—” The words choke me. I bite my lip, lower my chin to my chest and stare at the mattress as tears roll down my cheeks.

  “Maybe not. But I do know how it feels to love someone and have them leave.” She dips her head down to see my face. “Noah got one of those scholarships, didn’t he?”

  I nod. “But it’s different than you and Dad. I mean, we’re young.” Right after the stupid words leave my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them. I know how much the divorce hurt her.

  “Believe it or not, Erin, I was young once, too, and in love with someone other than your dad. He left. And it hurt so much I thought I’d die. I still remember how that feels.”