Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

  Like some pathetic greeting card. I went so far as to ask him if he planned to visit her, and he only said, “You know me and hospitals don’t get along, babe.”

  He only said. He only said.

  And I hung up.

  The replacement column’s finished and off to Tony. Martha Stewart would hate it. An e-mail came through just as I sent my piece, so I take a few minutes to check my messages. Oh great. Angel again. An avid reader of my column, although I can’t understand why she keeps skimming the lines. She never writes anything positive. You’d think maybe she’d try to live up to her name. Unless, of course, she’s going for some apocalyptic being sowing destruction on the end-times survivors.

  Once again, Ms. Schneider, we disagree. I find it hard to believe that there is a human being alive with whom I can find no common ground. I always try to see the best in people, look at life through their eyes. Maybe you should try this yourself.

  Yak. Yak. Yak.

  Delete.

  It’s not that I don’t care what my readers think, I really do. But I have a feeling Angel enjoys playing the part of devil’s advocate. I don’t know where she finds the time.

  Next.

  Lou sent pictures of various borders and wallpaper patterns for the kitchen. I like them all. How am I supposed to choose? Everything looks good, yet everything constitutes a change. I hit Reply and type, “Like them all. You choose.”

  She’ll love that.

  Next. Oh goody. I can have my male member enlarged. That keeps me up nights. And Viagra at sixty percent off. I can refinance from three different mortgage brokers or order refurbished ink cartridges at a much-reduced rate.

  Who orders those things?

  I scan the clock in the corner of the screen. It’s late enough to call Brett to see if she’ll sit with Mom while I man the restaurant.

  “Ivy! How in the world can I? I mean, you’re calling at the last minute, and at an ungodly hour, mind you. I do have plans, you know. I do have a life.”

  Oh, that’s right. I don’t have one. I forgot for just a sec.

  “But Mom’s going to be by herself all morning and most of the afternoon, then.”

  “Oh please. She’ll be fine. She can’t expect us to be down there with her every waking moment.”

  “You know she does.”

  “Well, it’s too much to expect.”

  “What are you doing this morning anyway?”

  “The girls have hair appointments, and we’re meeting Marcus for lunch.”

  “Really?” Sound positive. Don’t act needy.

  “He’s broken it off with that other woman.”

  “And you’re taking him back?” Cloak the shock.

  “It’s the first time he’s done this. I feel I ought to forgive him this once.”

  “Just keep your eyes peeled from now on.”

  “Don’t worry! I forgive him. Doesn’t mean I’ll ever trust him a wink.”

  “Okay. If those are terms you can live with. I’ll figure something out from this end about Mom.” An idea interrupts. “Or, hey, can Rusty take the girls to their appointment maybe? And you can go sit with Mom? Or maybe the girls can drive themselves?”

  I hold my breath. Please oh please oh please.

  “Let me think for a sec. I mean, Rusty knows nothing about hair. And the girls will try and get away with some serious changes if someone’s not there. I don’t know, Ivy.”

  Think quick!

  “Well, how about if you write down what’s supposed to be done and he can give it to the beautician? Or … you can have her call you on your cell phone to get the scoop right from the horse’s mouth.”

  I hear her nails tapping, probably on her mug. “Well, okay.”

  “Great! Just stay until lunchtime. Where are you meeting Marcus?”

  “Over at the Towson House.”

  “Okay, and see? The hospital’s only a couple minutes from there! I’ll have Rusty drop Ashley and Margeaux off at the restaurant as soon as they’re finished.”

  “Okay.” I’m sure she’s gripping the phone and shaking her head.

  “Thanks, Brett.”

  “Sure. But you owe me one.”

  What?!

  She hangs up before I can blare an air-horn scream of frustration. I should let the yell fly anyway, but I’ll be darned if I’ll wake up those kids a moment too soon.

  When did I become my mother’s keeper? How did my shoulders end up as platforms for the rest of the family’s feet? Brett’s the oldest, the most idle, really. Shouldn’t this be up to her?

  Never mind. Heavenly rewards. Golden crowns to cast at the feet of Jesus. Of course, my attitude might render them nothing more than wood, hay, and stubble. But as an old friend of mine, a lady named Tanzel, says, “Praise God I’ll be there to watch it burn!”

  The e-mail harp chimes.

  Mitch.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I remember how he hugged me and hung on my every word. I remember his own pain and disappointment.

  Hey Ive,

  Didn’t want to bother you on the phone. Things must be hectic. Just wanted you to know I’ve been thinking about you and your mom and hoping she’s improving. You need anything, I’m here.

  Mitch

  Trixie sings in her crib. I should leave her be. She’ll stay put a good half hour. I sit on the top step and listen. She inherited Rusty’s singing ability, her tones clearer and purer than anything Evian ever could bottle. It’s all I can do not to laugh, however. She’s crooning a song off of Lyra’s Good Charlotte CD. A song called “The Anthem.”

  “It’s a new day, but it all feels old. It’s a good life, that’s what I’m told.”

  And how can guys that young already feel the way I do approaching my forties?

  I feel sorry for little girls with teenage sisters. No “Mary Had a Little Lamb” or “Bear Went Over the Mountain” for Trixie. She sings mild punk music, Creed, and gospel rock. And the Beatles. Lyra’s navigating a Beatles phase right now. Fine by me.

  Rusty’s voice joins her from the bedroom. “Don’t wanna be just like you.” Only he’s harmonizing, and darn it if that little thing in the crib doesn’t stick with the melody line. I can’t wait to see the plans God’s drawn up for my youngest.

  I rush past Trixie’s door before she can spot me.

  Rusty smiles from where he sits on the edge of the bed shoving bare feet into loafers. Wow, I didn’t even hear the shower. Must’ve taken it when I was on the phone with Brett. Or reading Mitch’s e-mail.

  My face burns.

  He stands up with a groan. “So what’s the game plan for today?”

  I turn away and pretend to search my jewelry box. “You’ll hardly believe where I have you going.”

  “Spill it, hon.”

  “How does a trip to the beauty parlor sound?” I turn around.

  Rusty shakes his head at the whole arrangement, regurgitates it all back at me to make sure he understands, and finishes with, “I’m doing this for Dorothy and for you.”

  “I know, Rust. Thanks.”

  He hugs me, and because I must, I rest awhile. A very little while, because Trixie, having climbed out of her crib, crashes into us. Her little arms feel so good against my legs. “Mama! Daddy!”

  I check my e-mail one last time before I leave for the restaurant. The cooks have everything under control, so I’m not too worried. Truth is, I don’t obsess about the business. I never wanted my life to revolve around the place. I pictured myself building a writer’s shed out in the backyard, à la Annie Dillard, with nothing inside but an old metal army-issue desk from Sunny’s Surplus, a chair, a cot, an old Royal, and a hot pot for tea. I’d hang old quilts and art posters on the walls to hide the two-by-fours.

  The short stories would come first, brilliant ones, of course, and then the novels, important ones that exposed an evil or lifted up a forlorn, heretofore uncelebrated segment of humanity. I would voice the plight of the downtrodden, the lame. I would champion the
ir existence, honor their lives, and vilify their enemies. I would fight for justice. I’d have an important-sounding pen name like Margaret James or Anne Standish.

  Yet I have to admit I get a kick out of the daily specials and enjoy being the first to taste a new dish, and I did write the descriptions of dishes on the new menu, no purple prose there. But I set my dream in the warming oven, hoping that someday, when Rusty’s exhausted his dreams, when his gifts have depleted their present expression, my hopes will tap my shoulder and demand a proper audience. Every so often I pull up a password-protected file on my computer and gaze upon my lofty ideas, wondering which ones, if any, will find the daylight. Kind of like the survivors of the capsized Poseidon journeying from that grand ballroom up to the bottom of the ship’s hull. “There’s got to be a morning after.” Yeah, that sounds like my life.

  I check the new messages to see if Tony received the column.

  Yep. And it’s a keeper. What a relief. Certainly some columnists’ initial offerings are perfect. Not mine. I’ve knitted this darn column for years, and one would think I’d eventually stop dropping stitches. Instead, each week unravels my confidence, and sometimes I look down at a mangy pile of knots and loops and wonder why I’m still at it.

  Yes. He thinks it has “widespread appeal.” Good.

  Only two other e-mails. One tided, “Danielle says Meow!”

  Delete.

  The other, from my “Odd Fan,” as Lyra calls her. Kirsten writes me more than Angel and always agrees with me, but something creepy laces her notes.

  Dear Ivy,

  I so appreciated your column this week! As always. You somehow say exactly what I’m feeling. By the way, I stopped reading your columns to Mother. They always anger her and she fears, with the way you encourage us women to be strong, that I’ll end up leaving home and where would she find herself then? You’re more of a feminist than you think, I gather.

  I’ve begun clipping your articles out of the paper and decoupaging them to plaques. The wall surrounding my headboard is halfway full! Mother never comes up the steps, because, you might remember, she is an invalid and resides on the main floor. But your columns do so inspire me. If you ever need a copy of one, just let me know.

  Spooky!

  I hit Reply.

  Dear Kirsten,

  Thanks, as always, for your encouraging e-mail. I always love to hear from readers, especially those who agree with me! Best regards to you and your mother.

  Lyra wanders in, bleary-eyed and looking cuter than Hello Kitty in pink pajama bottoms with little owls all over them. The T-shirt matches.

  “Got a note from the Odd Fan. You’re not going to believe this. Go ahead and read it.”

  She leans closer to the monitor. “Oh, good grief. Decoupage now?”

  “Yeah. Guess the scrapbook got full.”

  “Still, you’ve got to feel a little sorry for her. Chained there to that invalid mother.”

  “At least they’re rich.”

  I know exactly what house they live in, because Kirsten’s described it to me. The large white Victorian sits nearby in Old Lutherville. The gardens are amazing, and Kirsten takes care of them herself, though the house looks like it’s dying for a coat of paint. Naturally, I’ve no plans to divulge my own location, and I never mention the restaurant. I may be opinionated, but I’m not stupid.

  I delete her e-mail. “Well, at least it’s not from that guy down in Jessup.”

  Jessup houses one of Maryland’s penitentiaries. Like anybody down there is penitent about anything.

  “Most definitely.” Lyra scratches her ankle. Poor thing suffers with eczema. “Weren’t you supposed to be gone by now?”

  “Yeah, I’m heading. Daddy tell you about the hair salon jaunt?”

  “Uh-huh. We’re all going. He’s going to drop them off, and we’re heading to the park.”

  “Cool.”

  “Some visit for Dad.”

  She’s not saying it to be nasty. It’s just the truth.

  “Maybe you can wear Trixie out.”

  “Yeah right, Mom.”

  It’s sad. While Lyra loves her little sister, she doesn’t like her at all. This grieves me. It’s unlike Lyra to take such a disliking to someone, but Trixie is a trial. I know this. I can’t force her to reach out to her sister on that kind of level, especially when Trixie’s behavior, lots of mean faces, and get-away-from-me-Lyries do nothing but antagonize her. Still, Trixie’s only three. If these two had their own rooms it would make a big difference, but we can’t afford a four-bedroom house, and honestly, the thought of moving all our junk, with Rusty gone to boot, is more frightening than finding Osama bin Laden in my attic.

  Matty crosses his arms and stares at me like I’m intruding. I mean, yes, I do own this kitchen, actually. However, I’ve been around cooks enough to know they stake out their domain, and heaven help anyone who trespasses.

  “Okay, I’m sorry I asked if the prep work is finished. So what’s the lunch special?”

  We stand out back. He smokes a Dunhill Menthol; I chew on a fingernail.

  “We’ve got two. I went to the market this morning. Had some beautiful rockfish.”

  “Okay, rockfish. What else?”

  “Garret’s doing a blackened burger with Havarti and beefsteak tomatoes on seared sourdough bread.”

  “Mmm. I’ll have one of those myself. And a taste of the fish, too.”

  He can’t help but smile. Matty’s got about three years of kitchen experience and ten years of attitude. He also possesses twenty years of charm. He wears the burn marks on his arms with pride. The battle scars of the kitchen professional. Garret awarded him the best one when Matty opened Garret’s broiler to check on a filet of sole ready to burn. Garret grabbed a hot broiler plate and slammed it against Matty’s inner arm, leaving a line the length of an unsharpened pencil and almost as thick.

  “Okay then. I’ll be out front.”

  “You’d better be. Sorry about your brother, though, Ivy.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “Yeah, but a DUI. Dang.”

  A DUI?!

  Okay, I guess the butter on the T-shirt didn’t count as number three after all.

  I’m going to kill him.

  Rusty’s filled with a lot more sympathy than I am.

  “Oh Ive. He needed a lesson, and this could be it.”

  “Rusty! He totally denied it was his fault.”

  “He’s just scared.”

  “I hope so. I hope he’s scared to death.”

  “Well, at least you had a good day at the restaurant.”

  Good. He doesn’t want to talk about it either.

  “Oh yeah. Those guys ran the kitchen like clockwork.”

  Rusty chuckles. “Anybody get a burn?”

  “Nope. They behaved themselves.”

  He rises from the kitchen table where we’re drinking a late-night cup of tea. “That just tickles me. I had no idea chefs behaved that way.”

  “They’re very territorial.”

  “Well, maybe that’s a good thing. Makes cooking macho.”

  Yep, still a very male profession.

  “Thanks for doing all that today, Rust.”

  “Sure. You know, it’s providential that this all happened when I was home. I don’t know how you would have done it by yourself.”

  “Me either.”

  “You’re a good woman, Ivy.”

  So stay home this time, Rusty. Get a job here and help me.

  But I don’t say it. Why?

  Because apparently I’m not important enough.

  I can’t sleep. Big surprise there. Sometimes that’s okay. Sometimes God uses those times to draw me into communion with Him. He reminds me that no matter what’s going on around me—crumbling marriages, DUIs, broken hips—He’s busy with plans of redemption. Not just for the people I love, but for me, too. He is the Great Physician, as so many people call Him. Able to heal not just physical troubles, but emotional, marital,
and spiritual trials. He loves Brian. He loves Brett. He loves Mom. He loves Rusty and Lyra and Persy and little Trixie. He loves me.

  God loves me.

  A basic understanding of that overwhelming love grows inside me. God loves all His children. Even Harry.

  The thought actually comforts me.

  So I cast all my cares upon Him. Jesus told me to do that, to come unto Him. And if I don’t, if I think He doesn’t care about all this, I’m questioning Him and calling Him a liar.

  It’s tempting, actually, to hang on to trouble. And sometimes I succumb, pulling into myself, trying to convince myself I can handle my life just fine, fine, fine. In fact, sometimes I turn rather holier-than-thou about it, as if I’m doing God a favor by not bothering Him. How ridiculous, because in His omniscience, because He feels the pain of His creation, He’s already bothered in a way. He feels the groaning. He knows our frame. He remembers we are dust.

  I groan softly. Begging Him to work, to blow in like a cleansing wind, to stay true to His promise that He is not slack, that He will provide a way of escape, that all things work together for the good of those who love Him and, in that great omniscience, all those who will love Him. Brian will love God someday. Someday he will stand with the great throng and bow his knee with every knee and confess with every tongue that Jesus Christ is Lord. To the glory of God the Father.

  I can trust Him. He is not a liar.

  I lie in the dark stillness of my room, consumed by the brightness of His love, His purity, the cleansing fire of His wondrous mercy that will one day abolish all sin, all death, all rebellion. All unfaithfulness, all addiction, all pain, and all loneliness.

  9

  I remember the trunk of my mother’s olive green Chrysler Newport. When we packed up for our family vacations, Harry actually stood our suitcases up in a row. Seven of them across the trunk, easily arranged. When the auto manufacturers reduced the area, the bickering began. Our first flat-trunked car being the Chrysler Cordoba, Ricardo Montalban and his Corinthian leather, and really, does Corinth even exist anymore? Mom was actually more spatially minded, but my father failed to see that, let alone admit it. Perhaps he would now. Who knows?