Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

  I’ll also bet some women out there watch my husband sing and think to themselves, “I’d follow that man to the ends of the earth,” as if a great singing voice provides for all needs. My mother always said, “You can’t live on love.” Well, you can’t live on a fabulous tenor voice, either.

  Women throw themselves at Rusty. Married or not. He performs solo concerts at churches from time to time when he can arrange the gig. And those ladies are the worst. Anybody who says adultery isn’t alive and well in the North American church is about as wrong as low-rise jeans on Hillary Clinton. I mean, consider my own thoughts since the class reunion. And honestly, a lot of church people out there don’t want to admit the sinning that runs rampant in the holy hallways. But sometimes dirty laundry needs airing. If nobody did that, it would molder and fester and rot. And these ladies, or should I say women, would love to generate some dirty laundry with my husband. I know, it makes me sick too.

  So how do I cope? With this: Rusty says he looks at the prettiest woman and thinks, “No matter how good she looks, some guy somewhere is tired of putting up with her junk.”

  That is plain truth, Rusty style. Now I know he puts off these women with as much gentleness and Christian charity as he can muster, but every once in a while he lets someone have it: “Lady, if you’re this desperate, there isn’t a man alive who’d have you if he knew the truth.” And then he’ll tell me all about it.

  I’m sitting at Persy’s lacrosse game musing about this because, well, times like these I miss Rusty the most, and a good muse always benefits the column. Rusty would be so proud of Persy just because he’s Persy. He wouldn’t get all over Persy because he fails to run as fast as the other boys. He wouldn’t sit here a bundle of nerves. He’d be encouraging and fatherly and good. That God gave him such a phenomenal tenor voice is a blessing as well as a curse. Perhaps I should gladly share him with the world, but man oh man, I just wish the world would share him with us.

  I can think of no other activity I’d less rather attend at eight thirty on a Saturday morning—except maybe a recital of first-year violinists or a full-body wax. I thought about stopping at Starbucks on the way, but the sports complex has no Porta Potti toilets, and I knew my bladder wouldn’t last through the game. You know little things like this bug me about womanhood. Here I’ve gifted the world with three beautiful citizens (and every single one of them weighed in at over eleven pounds) to redeem some bad things over to the good side, and what reward do I get for carrying them to term? The lovely ability to pee when I laugh and the privilege of using the bathroom twice as often as I did at twenty-two. No coffee at soccer games. No sodas on trips. No water before bed. Life is not fair. Didn’t God know mothers need coffee to manage early morning rec council games? I comfort myself with a handful of Dove chocolate candies.

  Lou walks toward me. “Hey Ive-O.”

  Her nickname for me since we were three. She put o’s on the end of everything. “Lou!” Her name is actually Jean-Louise, like the girl in To Kill a Mockingbird. Her father, a high-school literature teacher, named her after that character. He actually wanted to call her Scout, but Mrs. Lybeck refused. It took the likes of Demi Moore and Bruce Willis to have the guts for that. And I applaud them. Besides, Bruce is a Republican.

  She plonks open a folding chair. A gorgeous one, of course, displaying a classy floral pattern. “Lyra told me I’d find you here.” She folds her body into a fluid, dark line, leaning back like a bored actress. The eyes, bright and curious, convey a different narrative, though.

  “Where else would I be? Thank goodness Lyra hates sports and Trixie’s still too little. What are you up to today?”

  “Just running around looking for fabric for my living-room and dining-room curtains.”

  “Again?”

  “I just didn’t take to the cortez gold like I thought I would. I had the walls repainted blackberry wine.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. I’ll do some texturing next week.” Lou solves interior-design dilemmas all over the county. My patriotic kitchen, a design predicament if there ever was one, makes her all but retch.

  “Want a Dove?”

  “No, thanks.”

  What willpower. “More for me.”

  “Well, you have the luck of a racecar metabolism. Us regular women have to starve.”

  Like I feel so sorry for her! “So when are you going to come help me with my house?”

  “When you tell me I have free rein. I’m not going to make the dramatic change of painting your white walls cream. You can do that on your own.”

  She tells me I possess no creative imagination. And she’s right. I mean, white walls complement everything, don’t they? It matches all my furniture, and while we’re not exactly poor, some things you can’t justify—like buying a new couch just because you’re sick of the old one. Hardly good money management. But didn’t Persy say he felt a sharp spring the other day? I definitely can’t endanger my children, and the couch is older than my marriage.

  “Well, okay then. I’m tired of fighting it. Have your way. I need a new couch, so pick that out for me, and go from there.”

  “A new couch?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. It’s beginning to poke.” Or at least I think so.

  “I’m on it, mama.”

  Well, then, here we go. The whirlwind begins. The Jean-Louise cyclone of transformation. Without her I’d molder away. And eat more candy.

  I pull out another chocolate and place it on my tongue.

  Mr. Moore offers me his little wave. I shut the car door and run over.

  “Thanks for that fish the other day. Your brother cooks up a fine halibut.”

  “He sure does. How’s the arthritis?”

  “Oh, it has its good days and its bad days. The bad days I just put ‘eat popcorn and ’watch old movies’ on my list of chores, and it suits me just fine.”

  “I need to remember that. Adjust my to-do list to fit my needs.”

  “That sure is right. Makes for a lot less trouble, in my view.”

  “I think you’re onto something there.”

  And my next column begins.

  When I was little, eight times out of ten we didn’t shut the car door rightly.

  “Mom, the car door’s not shut tight!” we’d yell.

  And Mom would slow down a bit, just a bit, mind you, and we’d open the car door, feel the slight thrill of fear as the asphalt whizzed by beneath our gaze and the road line blinked on and off like a neon beer sign. Then we’d heave with all our might, ensuring a fully engaged latch, and we’d sit back in our seat without a seat belt holding us in.

  We possessed good reflexes back then. One slight tip of the brakes, and both hands and one foot automatically found their way to the seat back or dashboard in front of us. Yep, mighty good reflexes.

  They stand me in good stead right now as I place a hand on Persy’s chest and curve my arm around his waist as he walks by my kitchen chair. “You are not going for the candy bowl, bud.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Oh yes you were. Get a granola bar from the drawer.”

  “Okay.” He swings his head down and turns from my arms.

  “Hey, at least there’s sugar in it.”

  My son could ingest five pounds of sugar at a sitting and still want more. I know he gets it from me, and who knows what else he’s inherited from the Starlings? Poor kid.

  A granola bar. Yep, we’re not living in the same old world, folks.

  5

  School’s out for summer! That’s my anthem right now, despite its birth in the bloodstained mouth of Alice Can-You-Believe-He’s-a-Minister’s-Son Cooper. Now I ask you, how in the world does that happen? An aside to those with theological knowledge: if cases like these don’t furnish you with a full belief in total depravity, I don’t know what does!

  My church sure had a lot to say about Alice Cooper, let me tell you! He was going to turn all the teenagers of America into satanic minions. And where is
he now? I’m sure VH1 assembled a Behind the Music on that guy, but I haven’t seen it yet, even though—and I hate to admit it—I’m quite fond of the show. That, and I Love the 80s. But God didn’t let him go. He’s rocking hard and praying hard these days. And I’m not about to tell him he can’t do both.

  No one anticipates the end of the school year more than I do. Of course, for two and a half months my house deteriorates faster than a pop princess’s reputation. Nutrition hides under a rock, and the television? Well, let’s just say all motherly intentions go the way of nutrition. But so will sports games, school projects, permission slips, and my inability to say no to room-mothers’ requests for cookies on a stick, planning the Valentine’s party, or sitting the class rat or goldfish for the weekend. They claim to teach the kids responsibility, but who ends up feeding the darn animals—or buying a twin replacement?

  And Rusty’s coming home. When push comes to shove, I do still love the guy. I made a promise all those years ago. A fact of which I’m painfully aware.

  Some writer, probably Shakespeare, said, “To err is human, to forgive, divine.” So I’ve got a little work to do before his plane lands. God, help me be a great actress. Even if only for the kids’ sake. Knowing Rusty, he’ll disembark and say the right thing, and I’ll truly be glad to see him. I hate that.

  So as we drive to the airport to pick him up, we sing “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” over and over, our very own summer anthem.

  Dinah, won’t you blow your horn!

  We haven’t seen him since Easter. He could have driven back this way with the group, but we sprang for the plane ticket.

  We park in the garage at BWI and sigh with gratitude as the air conditioning of the terminal hits us full on and begins to evaporate our perspiration. I have no luck when it comes to the Blazer’s AC, even though I’m so faithful with the coolant. I was tempted to leave the windows rolled down, but airport garages aren’t exactly Mayberry RFD.

  Lyra almost skips with excitement. Daddy’s girl. Knowing how a teen girl gains her sexual identity from her father at this time of her life, I do all I can to hide my feelings about my husband from her. I want her to love him purely in response to how he treats her, then translate that in light of how he treats me so that someday, when choosing a mate, her standards will rise every bit to the level she deserves. She wears new khaki shorts and a pink tank top. She’s anticipating evening walks after the others go to bed, and trips to Friendly’s Ice Cream twice a week. And Rusty won’t disappoint her.

  Me, I’m looking forward to hearing Rusty humming around the house. “In Times Like These” finds its way out of Rusty’s lips more than anything.

  “In times like these, you need a Savior. In times like these, you need an anchor. Be very sure, be very sure, your anchor holds, and grips the solid rock.” I need that anchor. It’s what keeps me from drifting so far off center I don’t recognize who I am in the eyes of God. So here’s the thing, Lord, help me not to waste this visit with bickering, because Rusty will leave and the hurtful words will remain, hanging all about the house, shaking their finger at me saying, “Now what good did that do?”

  “Can we go up to the gate this time?” Persy jangles with excitement.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Is that ever going to change, Mom?” Lyra.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Isn’t that acceptance sad? The world looks so different, and they don’t even realize it. Don’t worry. I won’t go into my opinions on homeland security other than to say I’m not comfortable with the privacy invasions. Unfortunately I have no good alternatives to offer, so I’ll keep my mouth shut.

  We check the flight board and head toward Pier C. Thank goodness the flight is on time. “Only about five minutes, gang.”

  They know better than to worry that we’ll miss him. Nobody misses Rusty.

  Trixie’s squirming in the stroller already. She’s a wire that can slip loose from almost any constraint. But I’ve already run interference, as losing your child in an airport is way too scary. I tightened the belt to the point of circulation loss and promised her a trip to Toys “R” Us if she stays put until we see Daddy. In times like these I’m glad she’s not yet potty trained, because you can bet your engagement ring, your farm, and your firstborn she’d have had me in the bathroom at least twice by now. Lyra trained by two. Persy on his third birthday. If Trixie’s out of diapers by four, I’ll buy the world a drink. I’m sure she’s used up half the amount of diapers Lyra did anyway, so we’re even on that point. In those days, I changed the slightest dampness. Now, if those silicone balls haven’t made an appearance, she’s still good to go.

  Those poor third children. No wonder they’re so pushy. They need to be.

  “There he is!” Persy’s off and running.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Trixie pulls against her restraints.

  As I free her, I feel a smile stretch my face, and I wave my arms. I have no backbone. I don’t want to encourage him, but I can’t help myself, I’m glad to see him, maybe because he’s so glad to see us.

  Rusty hugs all three kids at once, and when he pulls me close he whispers, “Saved the best for last.” He kisses me on the mouth, and before I can compute my feelings about it, Trixie scampers away. The race is on.

  “Brian’s planning a family dinner tonight at the restaurant. Is that okay?”

  Rusty sits out back on the deck in a pair of Bermuda shorts and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He always looks nice, dresses properly for every occasion in clean, pressed, traditional clothing. He’s a neat freak, too. When Rusty’s home the house stays picked up. Is it any wonder I want him home more often?

  “Sounds great. What’s he making?”

  “Don’t know. I took off today to pick you up, and I wasn’t about to call in.”

  “Good girl. Have a seat, hon.”

  “I’ll get us some iced tea first.”

  In the kitchen, Lyra’s making up a pan of her famous brownies. That’s what she calls them, “my famous brownies.” A Ghirardelli mix. But her claim to fame doesn’t bother me at all. Let’s face it: she recognized the best mix and is known by the church people as one fantastic brownie maker. She also knows exactly when to remove them from the oven so they’re still gooey and immediately disintegrate on your palate. A box can’t tell you how to do that.

  “I thought maybe I could take these over to the restaurant to serve as dessert.”

  Brian would have a fit if anyone other than Lyra made the offer. But he claims her as his legacy. “Cool. Just call Uncle Brian and let him know before he spends an hour on something else.”

  I pour the tea and head back to the deck. So far, so good.

  Rusty’s already placed the pad on the cedar lounger next to his. A hammock hangs between two maples in the small yard. I often wish we could lie there together as we did years ago, but these days, once Rusty got in, chances are he might not make it out without breaking something. I hand him the drink.

  “Thanks, Ive. Man, it’s great to be home.”

  I settle on the lounger. The sun warms my knees, and a couple of birds splash in the hanging birdbath by the back fence, their flutters spangling the air with diamonds of water. “Sing me a song, Rust.”

  He sips his tea. “What’ll it be?”

  “In Times Like These.”

  And Rusty begins. I’ve waited two months for this. My eyes close on their own, and I feel like a bit of grace is mine for the taking, that I’ll enjoy this time with him as much as I possibly can. Perhaps it isn’t good for me in the long run, but right now, there’s only now, and I choose it.

  I run the comb through Persy’s hair one last time. “Let’s go couch shopping tomorrow night, Rust.”

  “I’m up for that. Last time I sat on that thing I was feeling the springs for a week.”

  That settles it, then.

  The kids all cheer, and Lyra promises to surf the Internet to print out all the latest styl
es. But we have to leave. Dinner at the restaurant beckons.

  God, give me strength.

  It’s amazing how much a younger kid actually absorbs. The race riots in Baltimore took place in April, I know now. But for years I only remembered that it wasn’t cold outside. I knew little about TheReverendDoctorMartinLutherKingJunior. But I remember snippets of television news items, and I recall being scared. Which isn’t surprising, is it?

  For years and years I was afraid of African Americans, until I entered high school and played volleyball. Twilah Marcus could spike a ball like nobody’s business, and she always sat with me on the bus to games. I thought, “Twilah wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

  One day, back when the races mixed even less than they do now, Baltimore further cemented its reputation as a violent town. Nowadays our mile-high homicide rate continues the tradition. And heroin? We do heroin like crazy in this city.

  Well, it was right after the death of Dr. King that the race riots began, leaving a burning Monument Street in their wake. Dad drove to his office downtown with a Colt handgun on the seat next to him. I was scared for him and for me. What if he got shot before he could pick it up? What if angry people surrounded the car and pulled him out and executed him right there in front of his optometry practice? Shot him in the head? Or in the stomach, which took longer to kill you?

  Maybe I’d never see him again. My heart would thunder, and my mouth would dry out like an old sponge, and I’d hug him and hug him and hug him.

  After my father—Harry—left us and optometry, and Mom settled into the apartment over the restaurant to make ends meet, I came upon the gun. I had remembered it as shiny and turquoise with a white bone handle. Are there even guns that look like that? But there it lay in its case, black and streamlined and ugly. I don’t think he ever took it out after 1968. I think maybe those days scared him, too. But he had appointments to keep.