Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

After the talk with Mitch, I decided to start building a life without Rusty, and it feels great. Hey, he’s chosen his path; now I’ve got to pick out my own if this is going to work. Or more to the point, if I’m going to survive. Nowadays I have to face the possibility that my marriage just might not make it.

  “I’ve got a great idea for a new women’s group.”

  Fabulous.

  She pours me a coffee, the dear. “You know, you’re not the only one caught between an aging parent and children who need raising. It’s happening more and more.”

  “Yeah, the sandwich generation, they call it.”

  “I know. Isn’t that cute?”

  Cute? “Uh, yeah?”

  “Your situation got me thinking. So I sat down and made a list—want to sit down? My legs are killing me. I packed boxes all day yesterday.”

  “Sure.”

  Our church built its own canteen. We take a booth.

  “Do you know there are ten other women in your situation here at our church alone?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and that’s just what I can come up with off the top of my head.”

  I really need to get more involved. “I had no idea.” Too true.

  “So I was thinking of starting a support group and calling it Club Sandwich! Isn’t that cute?”

  Oh yeah. Everything’s so cute. Snap out of your mood, Ivy. Brenda loves you. “Definitely.”

  “So when’s a good time for you?”

  “I’m pretty busy. You know, Brenda, I don’t mean to throw cold water, but the last thing our church needs is another Bible study group. What if we make it an outreach sort of thing instead? I’m sure there are women out there who need to know God’s along for the ride if they’d just invite Him.”

  She knits her brows, licks her lips, then raises up. “You’re right! Kill two birds with one stone!”

  “Let’s do this: let’s put an ad in the Towson Times and go from there.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Oh great. One more thing.

  Mom’s hobbling around pretty well now. Rusty left three weeks ago, taking the bearability of June with him and leaving a July much in need of a fourth person “like the Son of God” to keep us from burning alive. No disrespect meant, just feeling confident that He’d come through for me if I needed Him as badly as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Thankfully, right now I’m doing okay, even though Mom still inhabits the dining room. Next week she finishes her rehab and will move back to her apartment. She insists on “ambling around on her own turf.” And I don’t blame her one bit. It will, however, raise the difficulty level for me. But not too much, the restaurant being down below. Brian’s thrilled. He can just run up whenever he wants and still be the fair-haired boy. We’ve hidden the DUI from Mom. He says it was such a travesty there’s no way any judge in a free country would convict him. He ended up with a slap on the wrist, it being his first offense.

  How is it when I so much as look at someone cross-eyed I get the rug yanked out from under me, and DUI Brian just gets slapped on the wrist? And he thinks God’s not helping him? He’s just not aware how bad it could really be.

  So anyway, Mom’s none the wiser. I even lied for him when Mom asked me if something was bothering him. It gives me further cause to believe I’m not exactly “pure and undefiled, unspotted from the world.” What did Paul write? What I want to do, I don’t do. And what I don’t want to do, I do. I’m telling you, that passage and the whole thorn-in-the-flesh aspect of the man humanizes him. If not for those passages, I just wouldn’t relate to Paul at all. When Paul says, if you want to imitate Christ, imitate me, I think … good heavens! I can’t imagine saying that about myself!

  Lou visits the restaurant for lunch with none other than Miss Women’s Ministry herself, Brenda. Man, I feel so sorry for her, yet admire her at the same time. She and John are selling everything, moving to a little rancher in Lutherville, and starting an orphanage in Mexico with all their money. So, yeah, she’s excited. We’re all excited. But she’s still scared. And there are only two women in the church she can go to with veil removed, with face pale and soft in the stark winds of the unknown. Good old Ivy and Lou: real women with real problems and real people inhabiting their real world.

  Personally, I could use a little fairy-tale existence about now.

  Two o’clock. The rush scurried back to work, or carpool, or more shopping, dahling, a while ago. It tickles me how many diners show me their purchases, freely offering up the prices they paid, especially if bargains were pursued and won.

  Lou hugs me, Brenda too, and I show them to my favorite table, right inside the kitchen. The staff congregates here during slow times, and sometimes a party will request it to make their dining experience more interesting. They don’t request it more than a few times, obviously tiring of the cooks mercilessly burning each other. That’s enough to strangle anyone’s appetite.

  “Have a seat. Would you like menus, or do you want to place yourselves in Brian’s hands?”

  “Oh, let’s live dangerously.” Brenda.

  She looks great in a long, slender ecru dress with lace-up espadrilles to match. She recently had her hair cut off in one of those cute pixie dos with blond-and-red frosting. Now see? I need some style like that.

  I stuff the menus back under my arm. “Seafood or beef or chicken? We may even have some pork tenderloin.”

  Lou requests seafood pasta, and Brenda says, “Pork works for me.”

  “Got it.”

  Brian’s in the dish room, rooting around for his favorite saucepan, cursing the dishwasher, who’s out back smoking.

  “I’ve got Lou and a friend from church at the kitchen table. Lou wants a seafood pasta, Brenda wants pork. Do whatever you want.”

  “Cool.”

  He looks terrible.

  “You okay, Bri?”

  “Just a long night last night.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I leave it.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting with the girls, and Brenda declares she’d like to be on the Schneider house redecorating committee. And truth be known, I like her ideas. Boy, does she know where to get good furniture cheap. I see a great couch in our future.

  Before they leave, Brenda lays a pink envelope on the table, my name written in the center. “You’re the type of woman who doesn’t take time to be good to herself.”

  “Is it that obvious?” I say again.

  “I told her that.” Lou.

  Pushing my bangs back—“It’s true. When is there time?”

  “It’s only there if you make it.” Brenda slides the envelope right up to where my arms rest on the table. “Go ahead and open it.”

  I slide a piece of glossy cardstock out of the scented envelope: A Day at the Spa at Cross Keys. Apparently I’m entitled to The Works. And the spa is near Brett’s boutique. Maybe I can have supper with her afterward.

  “Wow. This is amazing. Thanks!”

  “Fact is, Ivy, the church hasn’t been there for you, and I realize that. And I’ve been so caught up in the larger ministry I let you down. I’m sorry.”

  I laugh the awkward laugh of a woman whose tactless thoughts have been exposed. Did I say anything to Lou? “You didn’t have to go to such an extreme to make up for it.”

  “Oh, I wanted to do it. Believe me, I know a good cause when I see one.”

  I need to be someone’s cause. Dear God, I really do.

  Rusty deserves the credit. He’s a reader and brings all sorts of interesting books home to the kids, especially Persy, who loves mysteries of nature and ancient cultures, and Calvin and Hobbes.

  Each day my son relates a startling find in his new book Ancient Marvels and Mysteries.

  This morning I’m learning all about healing and medicine.

  Persy shoves a picture in front of me of the upper portion of a skull and a large squarish hole cut into the temple.

  “Persy, I’m eatin
g!”

  “Isn’t it cool?”

  I can only think, “No anesthesia! No anesthesia!”

  Oh, forget this plate of eggs. They look too much like yellow brains. And why did I think ketchup was a good idea? Blech.

  I hand him the plate. “Here, yellow brains and blood for breakfast.”

  “Cool!”

  He sits down and flips to the next page. “Hey, they actually built up new noses by cutting a flap in the forehead, then twisting it around—”

  “Persy! Stop it!”

  “And they’d use big black ants for stitches. They let them bite into the folds of flesh, then they’d rip off the bodies leaving the heads—”

  Lyra bops him atop the head as she sits. “Gross!”

  An idea for a column erupts, one about those bozos who say the difference between genders is primarily the result of socialization. Those people must not have kids. Especially boys, who can fashion guns out of cutlery, toothbrushes, or a piece of pizza. And what about passing gas? This inherently embarrasses most girls, Trixie not included, and causes great amusement for the boys. Sometimes I wish these sociologists, psychologists, and scientists would stop trying to figure out what makes us tick and just enjoy the rhythm.

  Oh yeah. Tony’s going to like this one.

  Trixie crawls up on my lap as I write my column. It’s late, as usual. A summer storm just rolled through, and a cool breeze flutters the curtains at the opened kitchen window.

  “Mama, I can’t fall asleep.”

  “Why don’t you just get one of my silky bras, lay on Mama’s bed, and suck your pinkie?”

  She places her pinkie in her mouth and grabs my thumb, running the pad of her index finger over the slick nail. I can’t put her to bed. I need this as much as she does.

  “Mama? Lyrie’s mean to me.”

  “I know she gets frustrated with you.”

  “She hit me on the head today.”

  “She what?”

  “She told me I was a bad giri, and God gets mad at bad girls.”

  Oh man. How did this happen? I know Trixie’s a pain. But that was so mean of Lyra. Just so mean.

  My heart hurts. I wish I could suck on my pinkie and feel better too.

  “How’s it going with the baby-sitting, Lyra?” Next morning, seven o’clock, we’re both rubbing the sleep from our eyes.

  “Okay, I guess.” Classic teenage eye-roll. “Mom, Trixie won’t listen to a word I say! And Winky’s no help anymore. She’s getting absolutely bonkers, if you ask me.”

  I’d noticed it too. “I know.”

  The coffee maker is destroyed from having tried to brew a pot with no water one too many times. And the burner’s been left on too much for comfort.

  She spoons sugar into her cup. “It’s too much for me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “If only Daddy—”

  “Let’s not go there.”

  “Not that I can blame him for staying away.”

  I don’t want to ask what she means.

  Rusty calls. “Hey hon.”

  “Hi Rust.”

  “Whatchya doin’?”

  “Just sat down in the kitchen to fold laundry. You should have seen Persy this afternoon. He took the hose out and watered the mulch, then decided to unpot all my geraniums and put them in the beds.”

  “How’d he do?”

  “They look great. You know that boy’s got a green thumb. I’m going to the nursery tomorrow to get some pansies for him. He’s loving that book, by the way. Getting more gross-out mileage out of it with Lyra than I’ll bet even you thought possible.”

  Laughter. “How’s Trixie girl?”

  “Asleep. Finally. Mom gave her a Jolly Rancher stick at nine.”

  “What was she thinking?”

  “That’s the problem. Not much these days.”

  “Oh no. Going the kooky way of all aging Starling women?”

  “I think so, although I prefer to think of us as eccentric. I don’t know what I’m going to do once Mom moves back to the apartment. Lyra’s tired of bearing the brunt during the day. Who wouldn’t be? And yet I can’t bring myself to put Trixie in day care.”

  “Pity all the other children.”

  I can see it now. Getting kicked out of day care after day care. Oh yeah, that would be great.

  Rusty says, “Maybe you should think about it seriously.”

  At least he doesn’t say we. That would be too much to take after a day like today. Two doctor appointments for Mom, and Trixie pooped her training pants right in the middle of the supermarket.

  “How would we pay for it? We’re almost hand-to-mouth now. And Lyra’s starting high school this year. Hey, on a lark, I saw if she couldn’t get accepted at Notre Dame Prep.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I feel my ire rising. “Gee, Rust, it must’ve slipped my mind.” I stand to my feet and head into the living room and my new couch, which I haven’t told him about either. I don’t plan to. But what a time I had with Brenda and Lou when they brought a million swatches on rings big enough for a giant’s nose. I’m not talking Andre the Giant, I’m talking The Land of Canaan or Gulliver’s Travels. We settled on a simple, squarish sofa in a muted berry color with mossy green-and-cream trim. Lots of floral pillows that coordinate with the curtains Lou’s sewing. Let’s just say, we’re going to be stylin’ up a storm on Allegheny Avenue. Brenda’s giving me tons of furniture she won’t need when she moves. And it’s the good stuff.

  Rusty’s voice escorts me back to the real world of how-could-I-forget-to-tell-you-that.

  “Ive, we said we’d still make all these important decisions together.”

  “Look Rusty, I haven’t enrolled her or anything. I’m trying the best I can. You can’t be an absent father and husband and expect me to remember every little thing.”

  “Our daughter’s education is a little thing?”

  “Look, the point is, we can’t afford day care, can we? Not with you gone.”

  “How would my being home make a difference? I wouldn’t make any more money. In fact, I probably wouldn’t make as much. And I’d still be working and unable to take care of Trixie.”

  “Well, then. Stand up to Marlin. Tell him you want a raise.”

  “I could lose my position.”

  “Aren’t we even worth the risk?”

  Dramatic sigh. “Okay, I’ll ask.”

  “Thanks.”

  And now I feel indebted. Great.

  Oh boy, here he comes. Harry in all his glory.

  But he shuffles by the window this time, the Zig Ziglar gait gone.

  Shuffle, shuffle, head down. Mr. Wiggins, can I help you?

  Aw, shoot.

  My heart wilts, darn it. Why am I cursed with this terrible caring instinct? I’ll blame Mom. She won’t know the difference these days. I had no idea dementia could progress so quickly.

  He swings the door wide, stepping in, stopping as his eyes adjust.

  “Hey Harry.”

  “Hi Ive.”

  “Come on in.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  The August heat follows him and soon dissipates in the air conditioning.

  Only a few early lunchers assemble at one of the front tables, lingering over coffee and business conversation. The scream of a siren hits us as a fire truck bustles by. Hopefully a false alarm.

  “Mind if I sit for a bit?”

  “Nope. Go ahead.”

  I know he’s in a bad spot. I should really stop this clipped speech, but I can’t. Instead, I pour him a fresh cup of coffee and set it in front of him. “Just brewed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No prob.”

  “Brian in?”

  “Just went down to the fish market. Garret’s here though. Want anything?”

  His brows raise. “Um, yeah, sure. Fried egg and toast, okay?”

  “Fine. Sure.”

  I turn back around, head into the kitchen. Garr
et preps for the lunch rush, slicing up tomatoes and onions and roasting red peppers on the open flame of the gas burner. Garret’s our resident hippie. Long hair the color of dark honey curls in a ponytail down his back. Lots of piercings in his ears, and well, his eyebrows wing in a lovely way. I’ve always liked our rock-climbing, free-spirited Garret.

  “My dad just came in.”

  One brow rises. “Wants a filet mignon?”

  I laugh. “Fried egg and toast, believe it or not.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  I need to roll cutlery, but I stop. “On second thought, I’ll make it. You’ve got enough to do.”

  “No prob.”

  I pull a saucepan from the shelf beneath the range and set it on to heat. He likes wheat bread, so I grab two slices from the fridge. Five minutes later, I set the meal before him.

  “Tell Garret thanks.”

  “I made it.”

  Brows furrow. “Thanks, then?”

  “Sure thing, Harry.”

  “Want to sit with me a bit?”

  I shake my head. “Got to roll cutlery.”

  “Oh, come on, Ive. Sit with the old man. You can roll it here at the table.”

  I stiffen. Honor your father and mother that your days may be long. Okay then. But just for You.

  Gathering napkins, forks, knives, and spoons, I pray for a wise mouth. My head usually knows what to do, but my mouth wills its own way around this man, God knows.

  I set the items out across from him at the table. “So. Brian told me about your plight. I don’t want to hear about the whys, Harry, but I will say I’m sorry you’re out of work.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “It’s the best I can do right now.”

  “Then I’ll take it.”

  “Good.”

  “How are the kids?”

  “Not bad. I’ve checked out four day cares for Trixie, and none of them are what I’m looking for.”

  “Day care?”

  “Yeah. Mom’s beyond watching her now, and Lyra’s really worn thin. Those two don’t get along under the best of circumstances, let alone times like this. A fourteen-year-old shouldn’t have to bear the brunt, you know?”

  “I could sit in for a while.”