Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

  One day Mom pulled up to the house, the trunk of the Newport filled with red plastic ten-gallon water jugs. They stood politely together, like a line of red-caped troubadours patiently waiting to woo the princess. Mom recruited Brian to unload the trunk and haul the containers into the kitchen.

  “What are we doing?” Brett asked Mom.

  “We’re storing up water.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re planning on poisoning the reservoir at Loch Raven.”

  Loch Raven Reservoir lay three or four miles from our split-level home in Lutherville.

  I didn’t think to ask who “they” were. According to the John Birchers, “they” were always up to mischief somewhere or other. But here we are in the new millennium and no communist takeover yet. No doubt their attention has turned to the Middle East these days.

  Mom filled the bottles, and Brian dragged several down to the lower level. The remaining two ended up in the front hall closet between the wall and a green vinyl vacuum-cleaner box with a hinged lid. Our closets were famous for junk. But this square box held moldering treasure galore: sweaters with rusty zippers, old tennis racquets I’d strap to my feet with yarn and pretend were snow-shoes (Harry had a fit the first time I did this and ruined the strings), old hats, gloves, scarves, and a stuffed lamb with a tinkle bell inside. Oh, and my parents’ duckpin bowling balls from their bowling-league days. Each had a little trophy on the desk in our living room. Mom’s said: LAST-PLACE CHAMPS. I think they had more fun back then.

  My father arrived home from his optometry practice that night, upset about something as usual. Mom clicked in from the kitchen on her high heels, spatula in hand. They never kissed hello. I think that stopped sometime before I was born. In fact, I’ve often wondered how I was even conceived. I hate to admit it, but Harry grew happier after he left.

  “Dinner’s almost ready, Harry.”

  Harry hung up his suit coat. “What the heck are these red bottles?”

  Only he didn’t say heck.

  “Peggy Robinson got word they’re going to poison the water.” And Harry said nothing. Even now, I wonder that he didn’t ask who, or say a word further.

  Now I know there were some things better left unsaid.

  Maybe Harry got tired of being married to a nut. Maybe he got tired of living with a woman who lived in fear.

  I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. If only Mom would complain, I might feel vindicated about my inner grumblings. But she bears up under the rehab with a grim smile. She does, however, mumble at the demonic foam appliance she must keep between her legs. How in the world anyone can grab a single wink with that thing, let alone an entire night, mystifies me. But then I’ve never been a great sleeper. Have to have a fan running, total darkness, and my own pillow.

  We brought her to our house yesterday. Brett mercifully drove her sedan, as Mom could just as easily climb the Matterhorn as climb into my Blazer right now. Of course, Brett will count this as having done her part for the next month, I’m sure.

  And now that Mom’s here, I can bet my life and the life of my children that I won’t get any offers of help from my siblings. I hate seeing my mom like this, the woman who never traipsed outside without makeup and heels. I heard it all the time. “Your mom is so pretty. Your mom always looks so nice.” She looks old, and I don’t quite know what to do with that truth.

  Brett’s “on a second honeymoon” now. Marcus planned a trip to Aruba, just the two of them, next week. Mom, who never really trusted Marcus, admits mixed emotions, but believing in the sanctity of marriage and knowing the fallout of fidelity gone awry, she hopes for the best. I do too, I have to admit.

  Mom has always been strong. Physically and emotionally. But when my father left, she told the truth, laying out his shortcomings before her children in a way psychologists would frown upon. She probably just didn’t know what else to do.

  She sat us in a line on the couch. I was twelve, Brian fourteen, Brett sixteen. She twisted her wedding band around her finger. “Well, Dad’s gone.”

  “Where to?” Brett.

  “With her.”

  Brett nodded and looked down. Brian cursed.

  “Brian. Please.” Mom.

  I said, “Who’s ‘her’?”

  “Janice.”

  “Why would he leave with a girl named Janice?”

  “He loves her.”

  A hot flush filled up my cheeks. “Doesn’t he love us anymore?”

  Mom shook her head. “I don’t know.” She grabbed my knee. “But of course he’ll always love you kids.”

  I began to cry. But he loved Janice more. Even at twelve I could do the math.

  Mom sat beside me. “But I can tell you, I’m not going anywhere. We’ll see this thing through together.”

  “He left before and came back.” Brian.

  “He did?” I asked.

  They all nodded.

  Mom put her arm around me. “I didn’t think you were old enough to know those other times, Ivy. I just told you he was away at conventions.”

  It’s not like Harry was ever close to us. An arbitrary melody in our lives, he sang his own descant at will, leaving the true composing to my mother. The sad part? As devastating as the news seemed to be, it ended up making very little difference in the day to day. Dear God, if I die suddenly, I hope a tizzy erupts. I hope I’m that necessary.

  Brian leaned forward. “But he may come back this time too, right?”

  Mom stared him in the eyes, her own eyes drooping into her dark circles. “I told him if he left this time, I was done. That I’d never take him back again. He left anyway, Bri.”

  “So you’ve decided for us that we won’t have a father around?” He bit his bottom lip.

  Brett turned on him, a fierce glow in her brown eyes. “No. He decided he didn’t want to be one, Bri. Big difference. Don’t you ever say anything like that again! Mom’s not to blame! Dad’s a creep. Face it. He’s scum!”

  Brian ran from the room. A few seconds later, his bedroom door slammed shut.

  “Brian makes me so mad.” Brett.

  Mom stood up. “It’s okay, sweetie. He’s got a lot to deal with. You all do. But we have to be a team or this isn’t going to work.”

  Brett ended up in her room too, and I went grocery shopping with Mom, like we always did on Thursday afternoons. She said yes to everything I asked for, including the large, clear, glittery rubber ball that still lays in my nightstand drawer.

  Well, I wish we tackled life that way now. Go team, go, and all that. As soon as Brett and Brian got their driver’s licenses, they began carting me around to and from school, sports activities, and—when I reached ninth grade—my student internship at the Lavalier. I really should move on from that paper, but Baltimore holds on to me like Elizabeth Taylor holds on to her diamonds.

  I suppose they feel they paid their dues on the front end of our odyssey. And maybe they’re right. Maybe that’s why I feel like I can’t speak up. Maybe that’s why I can’t stand my father. I can point to that day we three lined up on the couch as the beginning of it all.

  Well, time to get up and ready the kids for church. I haven’t sat through an entire service since Trixie was thirteen months old and assumed the throne as the Robespierre of the nursery. No children’s worker will assume responsibility for her, and I don’t blame them one iota. At least she graduated from the baby section a while ago. Now she wreaks havoc in the twos and threes, where her peers are a bit more capable of defending themselves. She seems to gravitate to the boys, which only comforts me because if she hits them, most of them hit her back, and harder. She’s learning not to hit. Still, I repeatedly catch her trying to whack the other kids over the head with one of the puzzles.

  But during song time, she sits quietly, joining in with her sweet strains, until “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart” begins, at which time, she runs around in circles shaking her booty like a dancer in a rap video. Lord, help us all.

 
; They don’t sing that song as much as they used to.

  I have a feeling Trixie will stumble through life misunderstood, and people will employ all sorts of guilt, shame, and bribery to turn down her volume to a more acceptable, conventional level. And a God-made piece of her will die. Somewhere, someday, a teacher, or several of them, will try to redefine her. And I’ll become one of those harping mothers who knows her child is difficult but expects everyone else to deal with it. Maybe I’ll homeschool her.

  Or stick a fork in my foot.

  I quickly shower and throw on some cover-up and blush. Thank goodness the smaller ones bathed last night. Hand off the toast, slip on the clothing, and they’ll be set. Lyra, however, requires at least an hour to ready herself. Much to Baltimore Gas and Electrics delight and my checkbook’s chagrin, she discovered the joys of long hot showers and feels the need to shave her legs every single day. Now I must ask myself, who is she doing this for? Lyra’s never had a boyfriend, has never ever felt the need to like a guy just to like a guy. So why this penchant for leg shaving? Well, truly, it’s none of my business. If she’s one of those hyperhygienic chicks you meet every so often, the ones that wouldn’t dream of going a day without a shower, so what?

  As for me, the luxury of a daily shower seems more impossible than Rusty coming home for good.

  We’re off. Rusty’s singing with the choir as well as performing a solo, so he’s somewhat more quiet than usual. Earlier I heard him practicing in the shower a Keith Green song called “You Put This Love in My Heart.” He tries not to sing barbershop unless the occasion requires it. I mean, nothing but tight harmonies and slipping and sliding from one note to the other all year long must bore him silly. He enjoys venturing out.

  I actually administered a healthy dose of Children’s Advil to Trixie before piling everyone into the car, which smells of the corned beef sandwich I left in here yesterday. Determined to hear Rusty sing, I figure she’ll be out like a Quaker at the RNC before the second congregational song. She already looks bleary-eyed sitting there in her car seat, and I offer a prayer of thanks. Not that drugging your child really constitutes the best means of behavior modification, but Trixie has almost nothing in common with Spiro Agnew when it comes to bribery. Even pizza at the bowling alley holds no leverage on a Sunday.

  Rusty wings off to the choir room for practice. Persy and Lyra migrate toward the Sunday school rooms, and I usher Trixie to her class, where I sit and monitor her every move and mutter. Right away she tugs on her teacher’s slacks and displays the new underwear she’s wearing for the first time today.

  I let it go. Not worth it.

  She’s mellowing by the minute though, so I pull out a copy of Confessions and hold my own private Sunday school. I like Augustine’s writings because the lifestyle he led before converting makes them all the more profound. Kind of like the apostle Paul. I mean, the man was murdering Christians, for heaven’s sake, running coat check for stoning parties, and Christ still grabbed him by the neck scruff and swung him onto The Way. Augustine, well, he was a garden-variety sinner. Sort of the Colin Farrell of the fourth century; party boy, lusty fellow. But his mother, Monica, never stopped praying for him. So really, his writings also testify to her faithfulness. It kind of explains his hardnosed outlook.

  Let’s face it, everything circles back to us women. God gives life through us and trusts us to sustain the most valuable of His creations. We cradle the human soul made in His image. And when that soul emerges in its fleshy casing, we can expect Him to keep His promises. I shut the book and pray for Trixie as she heads toward the puzzles.

  Sunday school’s half over, and Trixie fades more quickly than a seventy-year-old during a boring sermon. I decide to carry her up to the sanctuary and rock her for a bit.

  Just as I walk in, Brenda Burkendine approaches me. Oh great. Brenda heads up our women’s ministries and believes that Priscilla’s Gathering, which meets every Wednesday morning, answers all of life’s ills. Maybe it does. I only went once and felt like a niggling spacer between healthy teeth. Honestly, our church attracts a lot of wealthy people, and either you fit in, or you’re simply tolerated, loved “in the Lord,” and not much else. I don’t know why the poor, weird women don’t see it. They’re projects.

  I’m so judgmental of rich people. I’m horrible. God loves them, too, and I’m supposed to but find it so hard. I’m jealous. It’s that simple. When you grow up in spiffed-up clothes from the Salvation Army and your sister’s hand-me-downs, which were outdated when she first got them, something grows inside you that’s hard to extract. Maybe I should find some snappy, upstart congregation downtown. A church disguised as a wi-fi coffeehouse or something.

  Brenda sees me and skids to a stop in her designer pumps, her designer handbag bumping against her designer jacket. She looks just like the character from some chick-lit book, but of course, she’s older than that, has a husband, and all her accouterment is paid for. She employs a full-time housekeeper, holds no job, and still acts like she’s busy all the time. Well, it’s only because she chooses to be. It wasn’t foisted upon her.

  Why do I continue to come to this church with such a bad attitude?

  God help me. I mean that.

  Something’s got to give inside me, or I’ll become the bitter pill everyone around me is forced to swallow.

  She tucks the sides of her perfectly colored and cut modern pageboy behind her ears. I’ll bet those diamond studs weigh in at a carat apiece. “Ivy! I heard about your mother! How awful! Is she okay?”

  “She’s staying at our house now.”

  Nobody sent me any meals to help out like they did when you had gall-bladder surgery, even though you have a full-time maid. Not one person even bothered to call.

  Her eyes crinkle in concern. “How about you?”

  “Hanging in there.”

  “I’m sure it’s hard.”

  Sure could use help in the baby-sitting area now and again, like that’ll ever happen. “Yoo-hoo! Down here, everyone!” Yep, I’ve fallen through the cracks.

  I adjust Trixie. “Hey, I’m almost done with the July newsletter. You sending me the article for Women’s Corner?”

  She sets her bag on the pew, her movement releasing a graceful puff of her perfume into the space between us. Really, Brenda is beautiful. Perfect. And she truly is kind. But while part of me yearns to be rich, kept, put-together, and able to choose my stressors, another part of me realizes I wouldn’t trade places with her. Brenda can’t have children, and for some reason she and John never adopted. But they travel all over the Third World trying to improve the lives of poverty-stricken kids. John’s a surgeon.

  Brenda will never feel her own Trixie snuggling against her breast and falling asleep, or look at a good report card and feel that candy-coated pride. Brenda won’t cry at a daughter’s wedding she paid way too much for, thinking it unfair she and John had to shell out fifteen thousand dollars (or fifty thousand with their finances) for someone to steal their baby right out from under them and move off to California or Europe or Thailand where she’d never get to know her grandbabies in a way grandmas should.

  Now why can’t I think this way right up front? Why does it take years for me to give people a break? Well, while it makes for good relationships, it does not make for good writing, and I find it hard to switch gears between my column and the everyday.

  I need to work on this.

  “So you doing okay, Brenda?”

  “Oh yes. John and I are going through some changes. Good changes.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nods.

  I settle Trixie into my right arm.

  “Look, Brenda, I’m not one of the needy ones. You can be honest with me. I can take it.”

  She sinks back into the upholstery. “Fact is, I’m scared to death.”

  And each honest word she entrusts to me changes me.

  Lou slips in next to me before the service starts. “Guess what? Mitch got in touch with m
e, and we’re meeting for lunch Tuesday, but only if you can come.”

  “So you’ve talked to him?”

  “Yes. He really wants the gang to get together. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know if I can get out of work. You wanna come to the restaurant?”

  “Absolutely! We’ll make it late so you can join us. How about two thirty?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  It’s okay. Lou’ll be there, right?

  So many women feel removed from their husbands’ callings. Their husbands march off to work each morning, sweating it out on construction sites, in factories, at garages; spending their days on retail floors, at computers, in boardrooms; trudging through silly meeting after silly meeting, putting out silly billing or payroll fires, or even making fabulous multimillion-dollar deals. But Rusty’s gift, given to him by God, is something from which I can benefit directly. If I allow it.

  Oh, the full, magnificent tones of his voice, the wide range, the emotion he taps in himself and pulls hand-over-hand out of those who hear him, all used to cause such an explosion of admiration and love inside me. I’d truly forget everything else as the song streamed into my heart and down into my soul.

  But today, as he sings and Trixie misses his performance entirely, I only think about Tuesday’s lunch.

  You know, it’s like this: how does a pastor’s wife sit there and listen to her husband’s sermon knowing he’s really saying, “Do what I say, not what I do”? She must keep a mental checklist as he presents each point, silently grading his performance at home. Well, Rusty sings, “You put this love in my heart,” and all I hear is Keith Green’s old tune, “You can run to the end of the highway and not find what you’re looking for.”

  And then he sits down next to me, the little wife. He rests his arm across my shoulders, flips open his Bible, and we read the scripture together off the same page. But the fact is, we’re not on the same page at all anymore.