by Lisa Samson
Without Lyra, Persy, or Trixie.
Well, that puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?
We’re the last customers to leave.
I lie to everyone about the reunion. Tell them all I had a great time at the Marriott, made new friends from old acquaintances, got potential business for Brian if indeed he fires up a catering arm of the restaurant. Er, bistro. Sorry.
And they believe me.
My grandpa always said that for every lie you tell, a wrinkle appears.
Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe living this lie, that I am strong and fine and capable and supportive of Rusty and his singing career, explains these gullies. I should’ve told them about dinner with Mitch. It was innocent, after all. We sat and chatted about my sorry life and his divorce from what sounded like a horrible woman name Pam. Excuse me, Pamela. Dahling.
“That’s the thing about trophy wives, Ive,” Mitch had said, forking up some salad. “They don’t do anything but sit there looking pretty, taking up useful space and spending money they don’t even appreciate. I paid her to be thin and beautiful, is what the marriage boiled down to. She hated sex too.”
Well, at least she was beautiful. So the supermodel rumor was truth, and doesn’t that beat all? Why would Mitch want to sit with a thirty-eight-year-old crone like Ivy Schneider when he could have a model on his arm?
Oh, that’s right. She hated sex.
Ha!
Sex? What’s that?
So now the quiet of the house echoes in my ears. Brian dropped Mom off at her apartment and zoomed over to Schooner’s to rustle up a bimbo. The kids sleep, and I log on for Rusty’s daily e-mail. It’s the same. He asks what’s going on. How are the kids? He relates all the minutiae of his daily doings. And in one e-mail out of fifty he expressly asks me, “So how are you doing, Ivy?”
I know I’m whining. I try keeping it to a minimum, but tonight my complaints actually register against the stillness. If I can’t admit reality, maybe I’ll fade away completely. I can’t lie to myself, can I?
I answer his questions, lie more about the reunion, act like I’m having all the fun in the world without him. Fifteen minutes later, I slip between the sheets and cry some more.
3
Maybe I could have played my hand differently. Rusty suggested we sell the house, buy a luxury RV, and all travel together. But I couldn’t get past the obvious: sharing a closet-sized bathroom, turning a dinette into a bed every night, having the kids crawling all over me twenty-four hours a day. And Mom would probably die during the duration, cheating me of the final years of her life. She doesn’t drive anymore, so I drive her. Doctor appointments galore. The foot specialist, the kidney specialist, the dentist, the optometrist, the family practitioner. Grocery shopping as well, and Mom buys only from individual food purveyors: the greengrocer, the butcher, the baker, the seafood shop. And then there’s the pharmacist, who knows us by name: prescriptions, prescriptions, prescriptions.
As useless as Styrofoam scissors, Brian can’t be relied upon.
My sister, Brett, weighed down with two spoiled teenagers, a dress shop, and a workaholic husband, consumes herself with her own responsibilities. That leaves me.
I simply said, “No Rusty, I won’t go. I can’t.”
“But Ivy, this is something I’ve wanted all my life. Traveling, entertaining, bringing joy to thousands of people through song.”
Excuse me, but I’ve read the brochure, thanks.
“But what about me? How can you ask me to give up my entire life? And what about the kids? What about their education?”
“We can homeschool them!”
“Oh please! You mean I can homeschool them.”
“No. I’d help. It would be fun. On the road, town to town. Think of what they’d see, what they’d learn. All the sites we could take them to!” Oh, the eagerness in his eyes, how brightly they sparkled, like blue-tinted Ray-Bans in full sun.
He let it go for a little while, but then he began bugging me, and bugging me and bugging me. When he wasn’t bugging me, he pestered me. He left brochures around the house for RVs, RV parks, historical parks, monuments. Great for the kids’ education! Imagine seeing this stuff firsthand and all, Ivy! Theme parks—you know how much you love a scary roller coaster, Ivy! The clock is ticking, hon. They need to know in two weeks, one week, five days, three days, tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
And I did a stupid thing. I suggested he go alone. That we’d all be fine.
Fine, fine, fine!
And darn it, he took me up on it. And he reminds me again and again this was my idea. So not only is he gone, but he feels justified, even vindicated, and when he’s at his most lonely—the victim.
I honestly never thought he’d jump on my idea. What husband chooses his own ambitions over his family?
“Why not wait until Mom’s gone?” I’d ask.
“She’s not exactly at death’s door, hon, and besides, they need a tenor now, for the new tour. Oh, Ivy, thanks, doll-baby. Thanks for giving me this chance. You’re not going to regret it.”
No. Thank you. Thanks for manipulating me, for leaving me with no options. I should’ve been better at the game.
And then his excitement swelled like a spider bite, and I prayed and tried to go along with the revised plan with vigor. After all, God would supply our needs. And maybe He’d make my husband see sense. If I nagged Rusty, he’d only be glad to go.
We’d lay out on the hammock together, and he’d speak his dreams. “We can get out of this cramped house, Ive. Maybe buy something in Ocean City and live at the beach year-round! This could be big, baby-doll. Big money. Exposure. I can finally treat you like you deserve.”
I’ll never forget the evening he informed me the deal was final, the contract signed, and hey, the salary wasn’t at all bad. Not what he’d hoped for, but we’d make out just fine. The clock said 7:11.
Now, the numbers 7 and 11 hold a significance in my life. My high-school boyfriend, Tom Webber, wore number 7 for soccer season and 11 for basketball. We sure were the couple back then. He, tall and blond and coordinated. Me, honey-blond and a cheerleader and an alto in the choir. He spread my heart across his history like Persy spreads peanut butter on crackers. Persy’s birthday is 7/11, and Trixie was born at 7:11 a.m.
Anyway, there Rusty went, and here I stay. He’s entertaining an audience, and I’m entertaining bitterness. How lovely. Yes, I know I choose my own emotions.
The alarm clock buzzes: 7:11. I reach out, turn it off, and another day begins.
Morning and I have never tangoed well. I’d rather rush us around than miss a second’s sleep. Sleep is my six-pack, my chocolate, my hot bubble bath. Just wish I got more of it.
I crank on the shower and make the rounds while it heats up. Beginning with Lyra. She wakes up great. Gathers her clothes and runs into the bathroom to shower first.
Persy next.
Oh, my little Perseus Jacob Schneider, the affectionate one who sidles up and kisses me on his own. I slide his comforter down. His hair sticks out like quills all over his head. A definite improvement on the disastrous cut. He pulls the blanket back over his head, and I yank it down again and kiss all over his face. “Time for school, bud. Please put on clean underwear today, okay?”
He blinks his sleepy blue eyes at me.
“When was the last time you had a bath?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shoot. Me either. Well, we’ll get one tonight. Remind me, okay?”
And how stupid a request is that? Persy revels in a boyish overlay of dirt, evidence he played his heart out the day before and that he is, indeed, a wild man. I like that about him.
He rolls out of his covers, and I leave the room, still taking pleasure in the bright primary-colored walls I painted during the winter. Trixie, who sleeps in a crib in Lyra’s room, looks deader than road chops. I won’t wake her yet. She’s awful in the morning. Why deal with her any longer than necessa
ry?
She needs her dad. That’s what I tell myself. She sees Rusty four times a year, for two weeks a pop.
How does he stand it?
He blames me, that’s how. I can hear his mind: If Ivy would come on the road, I could be a father to my own children, but no.
And the kicker is, she’s crazy about him! No wonder there. He’s better than the Cat in the Hat at Six Flags, Robin Williams on a trampoline, and would I want him to be anything else considering the circumstances? No way.
Man oh man. I am so trapped.
Three years later, and I still haven’t wrapped my mind around this. Am I wrong not to leave a failing old woman? Or is he wrong to leave his family?
Well, yes, he is, but shouldn’t I be the supportive wife and literally go along for the ride, let him lead the family, and trust God to take care of Mom?
So where does that leave a conservative Christian woman who believes her husband is wrong?
If I could answer that with certainty, I could write one of those inspirational how-to books and make a million dollars. “Proper” Christian motherhood. What a myth!
What to wear today. Let’s think about that instead.
I hurry down the hall to my closet. Well, at least Rusty doesn’t need his half anymore.
Ouch!
Thanks for leaving that LEGO there, Perse.
I figure it will be in the midseventies today, a typical early June day in Baltimore. I rub my foot. Bed sounds good.
So, tank top and long burlap-weave sundress. I do like my arms. Knees are knobby. Need the length on the dress. Keds. Gotta keep the feet comfy at the restaurant. Oh, that’s right, I’m getting rid of my Keds. I pull out a pair of huaraches.
Persy finds me just as I take my nightgown off. I mean really. “Persy, close your eyes.” I fold my arms across my chest. A mother can’t even change a tampon alone.
“I know, you’re undecent.”
“Indecent.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said … Oh, who cares. Just close your eyes, okay?”
“I just wanted to know where my tennis shoes are.”
I give up. I grab my sundress off the hanger and hold it up against myself. “They’re in the kitchen in the middle of the floor. I almost tripped over them last night.”
“Okay.”
And off he goes looking like he stayed in the dryer too long after it stopped. I learned to stop pressing his pants long ago. Maybe I still can learn a few things. I hear the metallic scrape as Lyra pushes back the shower curtain. Great. Hurry, Ivy. Slip on the clean underwear before she comes out. I rush over to the chest of drawers, whip out some briefs, and swap underpants. Of course, the waistband takes on a life of its own, jumping around like a rubber ball on concrete flooring. I can’t seem to face it outward. It slips out of one hand, and Lyra’s singing one of those Good Charlotte songs, which means any second her hand will find the doorknob.
Hurry up, Ivy.
Sit down on the bed. Yeah, much better than full frontal nudity. I plop down just as she opens the door.
“Oh. Sorry, Mom.”
“That’s okay.” My back is toward her, thank goodness.
She runs out, and I can’t help it, but I feel so embarrassed at my nakedness.
I quickly slip on the panties and my tank top. Love the built-in bras these days. Now, if anybody enters uninvited, at least nothing scary is on display.
Of course, nobody does.
Motherhood.
When a babe slips out of your body, your dignity leaves with it. Along with your whittled waistline, pert breasts, high-heeled shoes, romantic dinners, long showers, and cups of coffee drunk without at least three zaps in the microwave. Not to mention sex without an ear cocked in the kids’ direction.
After dressing, combing my hair, and trying once again to cover up the obsidian crescents beneath my eyes, darn them, I decide it’s time to get Trixie up. Even dealing with Miss Baby Hellion 2002 holds more charm than looking at Ms. Stretch Mark of the Millennium in the mirror.
To fortify myself, I try to picture anything that can go wrong: a crib painted with poop, a red little screaming face, the sheets lying in a puddle on the floor, the wallpaper peeled off in strips. I can’t remember the last time I thought a morning would afford me a pleasant surprise.
There she sleeps, innocence and wonder and potential in God-made stillness.
I caress her rounded cheek. “Trixie.” Singsong. “Trixie-girl.” Oh, sweet baby.
“Come on, Trix!”
Five minutes later I’m still trying to change her diaper. I swear some imp came in and greased her up, the way she’s slipping out of my grasp. And as much as I adore Lyra, I know better than to ask for her help. She and Trixie go together like salsa and ice cream.
I promise Trixie the world. Cookies for breakfast and a trip to the bowling alley. SpongeBob during dinner. I even perform a mean imitation of that porous little sea creature’s giggle.
Nothing doing.
Patrick’s stupid sayings are next, then Sandy the Squirrel’s song about Texas. Squidward’s clarinet. Mr. Crab’s pirate accent.
Nope.
Just as red-faced. Just as squirmy. And whoops, there’s the jutting lip.
That does it!
“Okay, missy. If you don’t sit still and let me change that diaper, you’ll be coming up to your crib as soon as we get home this afternoon. And you’ll stay there until you fall asleep for bedtime.”
“What about supper at the bowling alley?”
“No pizza at the bowling alley now. It’ll be saltines right here. You blew it, honey.”
Let the screams begin.
I should send a parenting-book proposal to The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Guide people.
Fact is, I wouldn’t know what to advise. I lost my motherly instincts with this child, and she will drag my ineptness like a third leg into adulthood, the spoiled freak nobody wants to socialize with. All because her mother stretched herself as thin as cellophane and had no bulk to teach her even how to be nice.
“Oh, she’ll be fine! Just fine!” Mom always says. The thing is, she really believes that.
Now if Trixie’s potty habits matched her verbal skills, we’d be set as beautifully as a table at the Ritz at teatime.
“Come down when you’re ready to be nice, Trix.”
I gather up her outfit and head downstairs.
A dresser drawer scrapes open. “Way to go, Trixie,” Lyra says. “You’re such a brat.”
“Lyra!” I hate it when she does this. Undermines all I’m trying to accomplish with Trixie.
“It’s true, Mom!”
“And it’ll stay true as long as you keep telling her that.”
Now. Breakfast. I meant to pack lunches last night but started reworking that novel and drowned all my good intentions. Which doesn’t help my patience level today. Maybe I should promise myself some pizza at the bowling alley for being nicer.
Call me whatever you want, but I love to bowl. We haven’t all gone to the bowling alley since Rusty hit the road.
“Ivy Schneider!”
“Mr. Moore! How are you this morning?”
“Doin’ fine. I clipped a funny little comic strip out for you this mornin’.” He stands on his porch, dressed as usual in gray chinos and a plaid shirt. “But you’re in a hurry, so it’ll keep.”
“I’ll come by this evening. We’re having halibut for a special tonight. Can I bring you some?”
He kneads the top of his cane. “You know I never turn down a good piece of fish, child. You have yourself a good day. I still got you on my prayer list. Every day!” He waves a bumpy old hand.
I just love that man.
Mr. Moore never married. He taught high-school science, then took care of his mother after he retired. And he loves his life. I could learn more than a lesson or two from that man about the glory of a simple life well lived.
I drop the older two off at their schools and head to th
e restaurant.
What a great night last night turned out to be. Maybe I’ll run into Mitch again soon now that he plans to call Baltimore his town again.
He’s still the same.
Mitch and I met in third grade, and although other friends came and went, he, Lou, and I remained a group. In high school we always sat together on the game bus, and one time, just once, I made out with him behind Tom Webber’s back. Even then his kisses felt sweeter than Tom’s, but Tom and I were the couple. How could I turn my back on that?
Those kisses promised a world of care. I knew Mitch loved me. But at that age, what girl ever desires what’s really good for her? I allow myself to soak in that lovely memory for a few seconds. Just a few.
Mom’s still wearing her robe. Highly unusual for this time of day. She swings the door wide. “Come on in! Hi Trixie-baby! Come to Winky!”
Trixie runs forward. She and my Mom have a thing. “Winky!”
“Hey Arnold! is ready to go. I taped it for you last night. Go on ahead.”
I wish Mom wouldn’t let her watch so much television. And Hey Arnold!? Trixie’s slipped on the shoes of the mean girl, Helga, not nice, sweet Arnold, friend in adversity, child with helping hands, a pure heart, and a football head. My in-depth knowledge of children’s television frightens me.
Bottom line: she doesn’t charge me for day care, so who am I to complain?
“Can you stay for coffee, dear?”
“I can’t. I’ve got to get downstairs and open up the bistro.” Did I actually just call it that? I must be flustered!
She shakes her head. “The bistro. Your grandparents would laugh themselves silly at that.”
Our bistro, epitome, with no capital letter (which seems oxymoronic to me, but what do I know, I was just a journalism major), specializes in crazy sandwiches, soups and fish with odd names, curly greens, and olive oil. It began its days in the thirties as the Towson County Restaurant, specializing in regular old sandwiches, pot roast, chicken croquettes with egg sauce, meat loaf, and rice pudding and homemade pies.
