by Lisa Samson
I’m a little mad right now. I haven’t heard from my husband, Rusty, in three days. Granted he’s busy singing tenor for a traveling gospel barbershop quartet, Heavenly Harmonies, but would it be so hard to turn on the blinkin’ cell phone before the concert begins and just say hi?
Frankly, I’ll take anger over fear any day. At least anger buffs you up.
Lemons out of lemonade. Hmm. Well, let’s see now. Three days incommunicado may just equal that new light fixture I want for the front porch. Oh yeah. Drink up, Rusty. I just won this one.
God, I’d hate myself to really think of that as a victory. I never for a moment imagined this life. Just bedtime prayers and a bath.
It’s 5:00 a.m. I fire up my computer, Old Barbara by name, and set out to write my column. We women must learn the art of the deal and utilize it whenever possible. Especially with our kids. I’m doing all I can to spread the word.
Don’t let me fool you. Yeah, I sound like I’m all that, but if any of them saw how my sons hair turned out at the barber’s yesterday, they’d see me for the freak I really am! Trixie, in her smart new Hecht’s romper, did nothing but point and laugh at her brother all the way home, and soft-hearted me decided to show her, and I let Persy eat chocolate-chip cookies for dinner while she ate spinach and dried-out chicken breast.
She kicked up such a fuss I swear fresh vocal nodules accompanied her to bed.
2
Young, pregnant movie stars always tear at the lining of my heart. Their taut bellies contrast with their tight butts like a splash of red paint on a black canvas. They don’t seem to know what the rest of us know: that they inhabit an Alpo world and that someday so many bites will be chewed from them, their marriage, their families, and even their own self-awareness. They’ll retreat to their Hollywood Hills homes, spinning down to L.A. only for plastic surgery. Martinis, muumuus, and pool boys will frame their days.
It’s why I love to hear about a solid Hollywood marriage. I want to stand up and yell, “Hooray for you! You did it, darn it! You did it.”
Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward come to mind. Paul and Lynda McCartney, too.
I should’ve married a guy named Paul.
I’ll never forget the face of the young guy who was first to ma’am me. What started out as a typical convenience-store jaunt landed me in a rite of passage. Only twenty-five at the time, I thought my khaki shorts and camp shirt youthful enough. No crow’s-feet then, no dark circles or bony knuckles, no drooping triceps. No baby straddled my hip that day. And this boy, probably at least twenty-one years old, separated me socially from himself with nary a beat. Did he possibly realize the import of his words? Did he understand that in proclaiming me one of “them,” he stripped away all my excuses? Well, it’s been downhill ever since. And each year I live engraves two years upon my face.
Never more aware of that than tonight, I ready myself for my twentieth high-school reunion. Now, the ten-year reunion means nothing. Still babies then. Late twenties? Pah. Sure, the expectation to achieve some measure of responsibility followed us into the school gym. Maybe a kid or two. A barely established career. Or if not a career, serious grad school rated acceptable. I measured up fine then with a husband and one child. I helped Mom and Grandpa run a successful if homey restaurant, and Rusty not only looked handsome, he enjoyed a good job as the music director of a hoity-toity United Methodist church down on Charles Street. Hardly rich and living out in the county, we nevertheless enjoyed our life in a city apartment near church, paid off our car two years early, and ate sushi every Friday night. An exciting city life, strolling around Hopkins U. in the evenings, playing tennis on the lighted courts with bright-eyed baby Lyra looking on from her car seat. The fact that she turned fourteen last year makes me ill.
They snapped our pictures the night of that reunion, everyone closely resembling their senior picture, if a bit more substantial either in body or expression. In line I turned to Lou, my best friend then and still my best friend now. Eight months pregnant, she clad herself in a close-fitting black gown and a turban. A turban on a twenty-eight-year-old. And she pulled it off! I laid a hand on her belly. “The next one will really show the difference, won’t it? We’ll all be pushing forty.”
She rubbed her back and grimaced. “Yeah, except for Glynn Spicer. She’ll still look perky, won’t she?” Lou possesses no clue of the deep well of artsiness and svelteness and gorgeousness she taps with every single outfit. Every single one! I should be jealous of her, but I’ve known Lou since we were eight, and some of her faults are doozies! For one thing, her spelling is atrocious, and she gets gas all the time. Poor thing has cornered the market on Mylanta.
We voted Glynn “Most Beautiful.” I got “Cutest,” which pretty much says it all. The category should be called, “Pretty but with Slightly Irregular Features.” O that the years had been more kind to me. We voted Lou “Funniest” and “Best Dressed.” Our friend Mitch, the third leg of our high-school threesome, ended up “Most Likely to Succeed.”
I hope he comes tonight. Last I heard he moved overseas or something and married a former supermodel. No wonder he hasn’t kept in contact. He’s moved on like real people do, and here I sit, Ivy Schneider, mother of three, hometown newspaper columnist whose acne still flares up around her period. And my hair? Man oh man.
I wanted my hairdresser to paint in some highlights, but why kid myself? I need a complete dye job. They call this blond, but I know how faded it is, how much white mixes in with the mouse, how pretty it used to be back in those days. But Trixie started running a fever last night, and I had to cart her to the doctor this morning after I canceled my appointment. They seem so fragile through age four. I even clipped out a photo of a cute, sexy cut, but here I stand before the mirror, scraping back from my wide face hair I chopped off myself. Oh man, I look like a spinster kindergarten teacher. A marm, ma’am, a marm.
Ma’am.
Thanks a lot, store boy. He’s probably at least thirty-five now, balding and working to support a family.
Remind me to throw out my Keds when I get home.
I shake my head at my reflection as I spray the ornery wisps into place. Look at the hollows under my eyes. No cosmetics company out there manufactures a cover-up, at my budget, capable of camouflaging these dark circles or hiding these bags that could double as change purses.
I look ten years older than I am, and Rusty’s to blame. He set his musical self on the singing road three years ago when the Methodist church decided they wanted somebody more hoity-toity than Rusty. No other job option materialized in Baltimore, and God alone knows how much I tried praying one into existence. Rusty refused to budge toward the middle, and so did I, basically because some situations have no middle.
Lou calls. Thank goodness. I couldn’t stand looking at myself for another minute. “I’m really sorry I can’t come.”
“I know, Lou. It’s okay. And I owed you one anyway.”
“Huh?”
“Remember when I forgot to pick you up at the train station last year?”
“Okay. Then I won’t feel extremely guilty.”
Good. That train thing’s hung over my head for way too long. I’m glad to let it go.
“And the fact of the matter is, Rusty should be here. Even if you could have come, it begs the question.”
“I’d like to see you give him a good reason to stay away.”
I love Lou.
“So what do I say? ‘Oh, my husband travels most of the time with Heavenly Harmonies Gospel Barbershop Quartet.’ I mean, if the Gaither Vocal Band had hired him, at least I could save face. But no, not only am I not woman enough to keep a man by my side, I can’t even compete with some second-tier gospel act like Heavenly Harmonies. A gospel barbershop quartet, for heavens sake!”
“Maybe it’s better that he’s not here, Ive. You can just say he’s a musician and he’s out of town, so he couldn’t come.”
“His weight embarrasses me now too. I can’t imagine ever feeling desir
e for him again this way. Isn’t that terrible?”
“Nope. But I don’t think it’s the merely the weight. It’s his absence more than anything.”
Uh, ya think, Lou? “He’s been out of our lives so long, I don’t know if I really do want him back. I stopped knowing him a long time ago. Man, do I wish divorce for reasons like this was biblical.”
Of course, she offers up the fact that he is unfaithful. Only music is his mistress.
Yak, yak. We’ve had this conversation at least fifty times, and we’ll have it fifty more.
I tell her how happy I am for her that she’s missing this. She offers more condolences and we ring off.
This nightmare of an activity doesn’t actually deserve my presence, does it? And why do I feel compelled to show up? The only people I care about from school are Lou, who’s not coming, and Mitch, who’s disappeared. I mean some of them—like Lara Pierce, Phillip Barlow, and Jana Josefoweski, who all made fun of me in the cafeteria because I brought leftovers from the restaurant—deserve not one glance. Jamie Standish and Eve Davis thought my thrift-store clothing hilarious! Well, they weren’t voted “most” anything, so it just goes to show.
Back to the bathroom mirror.
“Maybe I should just stay home.” My reflection agrees.
My daughter Lyra, fourteen and lithe, with long tan limbs and skin stretched in a smooth sheet over her pert little features, enters the bathroom. “You’ve got to go, Mom. You’ll end up having a good time. Can I watch you get ready?”
“Surely you have something less gruesome to observe.”
“Mo-om.”
“Suit yourself. Have a seat.”
She closes the lid on the commode and sits down, hugging her knees to her chest. Her toenails are dark blue with white, pearly moons on them, her fingernails photo negatives of their southern cousins. “I like the dress.”
“Thanks. Do you think it’s too much?”
“Mom, it’s brown. Seriously. But it’s cool. Hey, would I lead you wrong?”
“No.” I really should listen to Lyra more often. I have no shape really. There’s no time to work out or grab a decent meal these days. And while a lot of women yearn to be thin, I don’t imagine they picture this androgynous figure I own, or the hunched look I walk around with. I have no boobs, no butt, no defined waistline—nothing but big hands, elbows, and knees. And feet. Size 10 feet. I am a tie box with a head and appendages. I hate what I’ve become. I’m not a woman anymore. Not at all.
But then, is it necessary these days? With Rusty always gone, it’s not like sexiness matters; it’s not like my pitiful 34AA bra size means anything anymore. Maybe I should buy one of those tubs of breast-enhancement cream.
The kicker is that Rusty’s such a nice guy. He lost it with me only one time … one single time. And honestly, after waiting in twenty-degree weather for thirty minutes wearing nothing but galoshes and an overcoat, I’d have yelled at me too. That’s a story that deserves a venue all its own.
Lyra stands up. “Here, let me do your makeup. That eye shadow is all wrong.”
“Fabulous. I’m so nervous I can’t even hold the applicator.” I turn toward her. “Do what you can. But believe me, I don’t expect miracles.”
“Oh, stop it, Mom. You’re so pretty.”
But I know she speaks as a daughter who entered the world with a sweet young mother and fails to notice the change.
She roots through my makeup case. “Mom, when was the last time you bought eye shadow? Look at this CoverGirl stuff. There must be twelve different colors in this thing. Do they even make this kind of thing anymore?”
“Oh please, Lyr, I hate to throw out good makeup.”
“It’s not good makeup, Mom. It’s probably full of creepy-crawly bacteria. I just read an article about that in Seventeen, and it said …”
I tune out the infomercial. I’m going to be late. I hate this. I’m always late these days. “Can you hurry, sweets? It starts at six.”
“Let me get my stuff. You shouldn’t be wearing blues and purples and greens anyway. Neutrals are best at your age.”
Great. Render me even more insignificant than my present state. But hey, that might ward off further mental monologues about Rusty.
Wait.
Did she really say, “at your age”? Another passage across yet another river crisscrossing the aging process. Man.
Lyra returns. She does what she can. Not nearly enough, but honestly, nothing short of a face transplant would suffice. Still, the feel of her fingertips against my skin … Well, nothing, absolutely nothing comes close to the touch of your child. I know some perfectly fertile people choose to forgo parenthood, and what can I say to that? However, if they felt what I’m feeling right now, they’d conceive in a heartbeat, career or what have you be cursed.
I praise Lyra’s heroic efforts. The doorbell rings. She runs out of the room hollering, “I’ll get it!”
Trixie yells from downstairs, “No! Me!”
“I said I’ll get it!” Yep, still a kid. She tromps down the steps three at a time. Trixie’s little feet thump at steam-engine speed from the kitchen where I set her up with some Play-Doh.
Persy, nine years old and all boy, couldn’t care less who gets the door. Biologically attached to the GameCube, that one.
“Winky!” Both girls yell my mother’s grandma name in unison. Winky. It’s horrible, but Lyra started it, and it never evolved to a proper Grandma, Granny, Gran, or Nanny. And Mom likes being a little different. Not a lot different, just a little.
I hurry down. I’ll apply my lipstick in the car. “Mom!”
She looks up from where she stands just inside the door. “Hello, dear!” And she smiles like Debbie Reynolds before everybody found out she was so self-centered. Mom’s never once greeted me with anything other than that smile.
The late-afternoon light, pale gold and jangly from the fluttering leaves of the maple beside the pathway, softens her age lines, and in this moment I remember her young. The way she’d wing open the car door with such force it would spring back and hit her hip. The way she’d always laugh at that and say, “One of these days I’m gonna learn!”
Still spry, she bends over without so much as a groan and plucks up the diaper Trixie’s just dropped. My youngest stands there with her little tush shining brighter than a harvest moon beneath her pajama top. She jumps up and down, arms stretched toward her grandmother.
But Mom embraces me first. I feel little again. It’s wonderful.
Then she hugs her grandchildren, Trixie first.
I turn to Trixie, full name Bellatrix. We named all our children after constellations or stars. Wacky, I know. But Rusty got the idea, and I failed to speak up. “Go get me a diaper.” Trixie climbs away.
Mom presses the wrinkles out of her pantsuit with the palms of her hands. She kicks off her high heels and places them on the steps. Unfortunately for me, Mom’s fashion sense skipped a generation and went straight to my Lyra. “I’ll take care of Trixie. If you don’t leave soon, you’ll be late. Brian will be in in a minute. He’s talking to his latest paramour on his car phone.”
“Did you remember your insulin?”
She hits her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I’ll get your brother to run back.”
I reach for my wrap and slide my feet into new pumps. Five dollars on the clearance rack at The Shoe Nook. “Hey, how’re you feeling today? Any dizzy spells?”
“Just one. Got out of bed too quickly. But I didn’t fall.”
“Good.” I keep waiting for “the fall.” Anyone with an aging parent does. But thankfully it’s still future tense. “Okay everybody, give your mother a kiss!”
Lyra reaches out first. I really don’t deserve this child. When Rusty left to sing with Heavenly Harmonies, God knew I needed a companion, and He appointed Lyra. I’ve never cut down Rusty in front of the children, and they deem him a celebrity of sorts, because they’ve actually seen him on some religious cable network. Personally
it’s all a little too Lawrence Welk for my British Invasion taste, but it helps pay the bills and keeps me from worrying about sex ten months of the year. He mostly sings before audiences of Sunday-dressed seniors, warbling numbers like “Just a Little Talk with Jesus” and “Mansion over a Hilltop,” eating meals at places like Denny’s, IHOP, and Chili’s, and smiling that show-biz smile. My life, however, consists of changing diapers and arranging menus, driving to lacrosse games, and wiping crumbs off countertops while filling out permission slips and popping multiplication flashcards in Persy’s face. But the verbal photograph of Rusty I hand to the kids each day as I read them his e-mail is always covered by a soft-focus lens. It would only hurt them to complain, to voice my loneliness and my fears and my disgust with both of us, with him for leaving, with me for waving him off with a brave smile. And yet I long to tell it like it is, to hold him accountable to his own children.
I kiss Persy and Trixie and tell them to be good for Winky and Uncle Brian. Trixie and I rub our kisses in.
My brother meets me on the doorstep. A very polished male. I think he showers at least twice a day. Wears leather jackets in the winter and watches all the latest films from France and Bollywood. We share hair color and eye color and not much more. Today he’s dressed in easygoing khaki pants and a moss-colored, heavy-weave T-shirt that fits as perfectly as a paper band around a stack of crisp bills.
“Hi Bri.”
He kisses my cheek and removes his cap. “Ivy, darlin’. You ready for this?”
“Nope. But hey, I’m curious enough to want to see what’s happened to everyone.”
