Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

“Oh, Harry. You and Mom under the same roof? I don’t think so.”

  But I appreciate the offer. It’s more than he’s ever done before.

  “Guess you’re right. How’s her hip?”

  “Not bad.” I won’t offer more.

  I start rolling napkins with a vengeance. Not to be prideful or anything, but I can go like a cat with its tail on fire with this stuff. What a skill. “Find a place to live yet?”

  “No. I have to be out by Friday.”

  “That’s only three days away.”

  “No kidding.”

  “We have the basement if you’re interested.” I knew it was slated to issue forth; I just didn’t expect it to sound so glib.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I’m not the most loving daughter, Harry, but I won’t let you go out on the street.”

  “Okay. Appreciate that.”

  “But … we’ve got some house rules.”

  He bites some toast. “Shoot ’em at me. I can’t be too choosy right now.”

  Did he actually say that?

  “First of all, Mom can’t know you’re down there. Absolutely not. She doesn’t deserve that kind of stress, okay?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Second of all, you can’t come up whenever you want. It’s your apartment, and you’ll come and go through the basement door around the side of the house.”

  “Won’t she see me?”

  “It’ll be up to you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Third, no women.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Then we understand each other more than I thought.”

  “What else?”

  “It’s a mess down there. For rent, you can fix it up. Other than that I won’t charge you a cent.”

  “Got it.”

  I look up at him, and for the first time ever I feel extremely sorry for the man. I try to imagine finding myself in his circumstances at his age. I can’t. How awful is that? And as macho and vivacious as he’s always been, I think he’s finally staring his own mortality, as well as his choices, in the face. Maybe he sees things a little more clearly now. Or maybe I’m giving him too much credit. I hope not. But I’ve got choices to make too. And I’ll do the right thing. God will bless me. I’m hoping that’s true. I really am. And am I fooling myself? Who’s to say I’ll have the strength to do the right thing day after day after day? I mean, so far so good today, and maybe even tomorrow. But next week? Next month?

  “So when can we expect you?”

  “I can pack up my stuff over the next two days. A buddy of mine has a pickup truck. He offered to help with the move.”

  “Okay, but this is the deal. Mom goes to bed around nine. You can’t move in until ten.”

  He just nods.

  “You need a couch?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, we just got a new one. I’ll put the old one down there. It’s not all that great.”

  “There cable hookup in the basement?”

  “Harry!”

  “Just asking, Ive, just asking.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  “Well, I know this guy—”

  “Nothing illegal, Harry. Rule number four.”

  I’m done with rolling. I stand up and begin to gather.

  “Good eggs, Ive.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trixie’s dancing around the kitchen. “School! School!”

  Day care really, but calling it school makes me feel better. Sort of.

  I feel sick, in spite of Rusty’s raise.

  I found the perfect lunch box last night. Disney princesses.

  A whole new world.

  The final surrender.

  Oh, baby girl. I’m so sorry.

  Persy lays back on the couch, Ancient Marvels and Mysteries leaning against his raised knees. “Hey Mom. The people of Baghdad might have had electric batteries. Look at these jars.”

  I look over his shoulder. “Too bad they don’t have those now.”

  He flips several pages. “Look at this figurine. Doesn’t it look like a little jet?”

  “Yeah. Wow.”

  “Found in an ancient tomb in Colombia. Wow, that’s close.”

  “Colombia, bud. Not the District of Columbia. It’s in South America.”

  “Cool.”

  I kiss his sweet cheek and finish dusting the room.

  12

  Mom enters the kitchen as I work on my secret book, thinking maybe Candace Frost the agent will call me any day now.

  “The sink is full of dishes, Ivy.”

  “I’ll get to them.”

  “I never let dishes sit like that.”

  Huh? What’s this?

  “No. You were a great housekeeper.”

  “You were raised better than this.”

  Okay, okay!

  Brett lets us in. She pads around wearing a pair of fluffy slippers. A robe cinches her waist. Still depressed, I bet. Brett’s usually up and dressed by seven, and it’s past ten.

  The foyer of her home reminds me of something out of a movie. It’s probably bigger than my living room and dining room put together. My entire downstairs, for that matter. Staircases curve up either side, and a chandelier from some Austrian crystal company dangles overhead. Marble, parquet floors, wainscoting, molding, tapestries.

  “I’ve got The Little Mermaid ready to go for Trixie.” Brett leans down and hoists her onto her hip. Man, she loves my kids. “Want to come back to the movie theater with Aunt Brett? I even made you some popcorn!”

  “Popcorn!” Trixie yells, and Brett winces at the volume. The child is louder than Harry’s old ties.

  She heads back to the living quarters and says over her shoulder, “Coffee’s on in the kitchen, Ivy. I’ll be right in. Persy, you want to watch a movie or do the game system in the family room?”

  “Video games, Aunt Brett!”

  “All right!”

  I have to admit she could teach me a thing or two on the art of being an aunt.

  I clog back to the kitchen. Restaurant-quality everything, and I should know. Pouring a mug of coffee, I realize she’s done the necessary in this whole Marcus situation. And in that, we’re exactly alike.

  “Thanks for letting us come over.”

  “I wish you’d come over more.”

  “Really?”

  “Are you kidding? Let me pour some coffee, and we can go out to the breakfast room. Want to put in a CD on the system? I need something soothing.”

  “Sure.” A nearby walk-in closet houses the sound system, the security system, and countless other who-knows-what systems. Maybe lighting? Indoor sprinklers? Lawn watering? Pool cleaning?

  Black equipment stacked on racks winks green and red lights at me as I stand before a wall of CDs. Okay, soothing. Wow—a large collection of praise-and-worship music. Well, good. I thought Brett stopped caring about religion years ago. Praise Strings. An oldie goldie and definitely soothing. I choose Praise Strings III.

  Now, finding the right apparatus.

  I commence the great scan. Okay, certainly it would say CD Player on it, right? So, I begin up in the right-hand corner. Nope, nope, nope. My eyes lower. Nope. Nope.

  Ah, there. I hope. Dear Lord, don’t let me unwittingly summon the police and fire department curbside.

  Thank heavens the music begins only a few seconds after I load the player.

  I inhabit another world in this place. I have to face that. And I have to at least be happy for Brett. She had enough to deal with growing up. At least I had the cool factor going for me back then. She got made fun of all the time.

  Brett’s breakfast room is easily my favorite room in her home. So feminine and inviting. The table sits lower than normal, the chairs more like lounge chairs, comfy with lots of cushions and throws. Sunlight flows in, illumining the red-and-yellow upholstery. Lots of bamboo, floral, and striped patterns. “It’s so pretty in here.”
<
br />   “I love this room. Did you know I did this myself, Ivy? I didn’t let the decorator touch this room.”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I set down my coffee and sink into a chair. “Music okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  “So tell me what’s going on with you.”

  “The girls go back to school next week.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Still asleep. Big night last night with friends.” Her brows furrow, then clear. “Anyway, Marcus has been home every day by six. I’m thinking about selling the shop.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yeah. Maybe I need to devote more time to him. I’m usually gone three nights a week down there.”

  “I wouldn’t argue against it.” And I wouldn’t. Maybe the reason she’s never made a marriage work is because the shop continually wears on her. I mean, it seems glamorous, all the buying trips and window decorating, but it’s hard work. I can’t ever call my sister lazy, that’s for sure. We know how to work hard, us Starling children.

  “Really? I thought you’d think it was a bad idea.”

  “Nope.” Maybe she’ll spend more time with Mom.

  “How about you? What’s going on with you?”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted you to hear this from me first.”

  “Sounds scary. You and Rusty okay?”

  “How can we be anything but, when he’s never around?”

  “I don’t know how you stand it.”

  Should I confide? She is my big sister. “Sometimes I can’t, Brett. Sometimes I just want to break down and scream. Sometimes I do.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s just the way it is. Would it be wrong of me to insist he come home?”

  “With all you’re going through? No way. You’re not a wife to Rusty, you’re a support system.”

  “I couldn’t have said that better myself. Well, anyway, I’m thinking about telling him that. He did get a raise, though. Now we can afford to send Lyra to IND.”

  “Notre Dame? She got accepted?”

  “Yep.” I am proud right now. I really am. “Got a bit of a scholarship, too.”

  “That’s my girl. I want to buy her uniforms.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to. Can we do a day of shopping together? Just her and me?”

  “She’d love it.”

  “We’ll go to the salon, too.” A smidge of color returns to her cheeks. “So, what is it you have to tell me?”

  “Well, Harry’s moving in with us tomorrow.”

  “What?!”

  “Into the basement.”

  “Mom’ll flip.”

  “I told him she can’t find out.”

  Brett begins to chuckle. “This is going to be funny.”

  “Yeah. Har-har.”

  She places her hand on mine. “You’re a better woman than I am, Ivy.”

  “No.”

  “Really, you are. As soon as I sell the shop I’ll get more involved. I promise. Maybe I can take Mom a weekend here and there too.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” If I make too big a deal of it, I might scare her off. “So … show me those pictures from your trip with Marcus.”

  “Okay!” She’s trying to sound excited, I think. But it’s not fooling me. And she starts in on another vein of conversation.

  The Little Mermaid ends, and we leave without viewing a single snapshot.

  “What’s that banging going on in the basement?” Mom stands at the stove grilling sausages.

  “I’ve got a guy coming in to do some work down there.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s nasty. Maybe we could rent it out. Make some extra money. With Lyra going to private school and all.”

  She turns back to her task.

  Well, it’s true. Harry is a guy, right?

  Lou and Brenda enter with paint cans, brushes, stirring sticks, tarps, rollers, and a general bustle of female goodwill.

  Lou raises her hands. “Okay, this is it. Time to paint that living room! Brushes for all!”

  They finished the kitchen last week. Harry’s living with my flags.

  “Even Trixie?” I smirk.

  Brenda removes her blousy shirt to reveal a pair of paint-splattered overalls. “Of course. She can paint designs on the wall and we’ll just roll over them. Think how much fun that will be for her.”

  Lou releases her load with a plop. “Persy, too. That boy’s got an artistic flair for sure.”

  He’ll probably draw trepanned skulls. Or Sonic the Hedgehog. Or a trepanned Sonic.

  “How long do you think this will take?”

  “With all of us? Three hours.”

  “Good. Brett’s taking Mom out for lunch. They’ll be back around three.”

  “Let’s get started then.” Brenda.

  We all change into our scrubby clothes, congregate the furniture and pictures in the center of the room, and spread out the tarps. Trixie and Persy go to work, and the pictures they paint are so adorable, painting over them is much like cutting into a pretty cake. We hate to spoil it.

  Lyra paints the woodwork with a pristine, glossy white enamel. The effect of her painstaking efforts is sheer magic. The once drab, off-white space jumps into significance. The berry shade warms the room, and the couch springs into action, so to speak.

  When all is back in place, I view the scene. Wow, this is my living room. “I love this, guys!”

  “Naturally.” Lou. “Would we steer you wrong, Ive-O?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Brenda heads toward the door. “Hang on, I’ve brought some stuff from the house, but I’ve got to get something in particular. You’ll love it.”

  Two minutes later she reenters with a large wreath, burgeoning with color and texture, coordinating perfectly with the décor. “For over the fireplace.”

  Lou nods. I smile. And Lyra proclaims it all “Perfect!”

  Lou, Brenda, and I sit out on the front porch, hot chocolate in hands. “So how’s it going, Bren?”

  “Sold the house. The market served us well. We’ll be able to build the orphanage with the proceeds. The rest of our investments will fund the staffing and the running of the place.”

  Unbelievable.

  “I think this is amazing.”

  “Me too, Bren.” Lou.

  Brenda takes a sip. “I think I’ve found a really cute little house in Lutherville. But Lou, I’m going to need your input. The kitchen needs to be redone.”

  “You got it, babe.”

  I really respect Brenda for laying it all down at the feet of Jesus.

  “Please, hon, it’s just temporary.”

  I squeeze the phone. “Rusty! How can you even ask this? Mom’s still in the dining room as it is. Harry’s sequestered downstairs. Where in the world am I going to put your father?”

  Yes, Barnum and Bailey could do no better than this house on Allegheny Avenue. Step right up, folks! See the collection of crazy people assembled from the four corners of Baltimore for your entertainment!

  “He can sleep on the bottom bunk of Persy’s room.”

  “Persy hates the top bunk, Rust. It scares him.”

  Reuben Schneider’s house sold more quickly than anybody expected. His condo at the retirement village won’t be ready for six months, unless somebody there dies, and I refuse to wish that. I couldn’t handle the guilt.

  How did this happen? They talk about slippery slopes. Well, sister, buckle your seat belt and hop in for the ride, because we’re going downhill and fast.

  “What about your sister, Rust?”

  “Leah? Oh please.”

  Another Brett in the family-responsibility department. Worse than Brett, actually. Leah’s a mooch.

  “Okay. But you owe me big time on this.”

  I mentally slide a bead across my imaginary abacus. Great.

/>   There’s no way he can ever pay me back this much. I’m done for.

  “Rusty? Will you ever come home for good?”

  “…”

  “…”

  “Aw, come on, hon …”

  “I thought so. Okay, tell your dad to come on over.”

  When Is Too Long Too Long?

  By Ivy Starling-Schneider

  How long do we give our husbands to come to their senses over any issue?

  If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be writing a column for the Lutherville Lavalier. I’d be on Oprah.

  My cell phone rings. I answer without looking at the caller ID.

  “Tony!”

  “Four lines, Ivy? That’s it?”

  “What do you think? I mean, I know it’s gutsy to admit you don’t have all the answers, but it’s also refreshing, right?”

  “I can’t print this and you know it.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll send you something by tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  The phone rings.

  “Ivy, darlin’!”

  “Mr. Moore!”

  “Can you come over and give me a hand? I’m trying to clean out the refrigerator and just can’t get the vegetable bin freed up.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I stand at the door to the dining room. “I’m running next door for just a second to help Mr. Moore.”

  “You do an awful lot for that man. What does he do for you?”

  What? “Mom, are you okay?”

  “I just hate to see you taken advantage of.”

  “I’m not. I’m only being neighborly. Anyway, Trixie’s two doors down playing.”

  How weird. I mean, back in Lutherville Mom wasn’t exactly your friendly neighborhood Welcome Wagon type. In fact, she remained downright reclusive, our whole existence revolving around church and right-wing politics. No wonder our neighbors thought us wackos. But really now, I didn’t think she’d be opposed to me reaching out and loving my neighbor as myself, etcetera, etcetera.

  Mr. Moore’s waiting at the front door. He swings wide the screen door. “Come on in! Back to the kitchen. You’re a gift from God, Ivy!”

  He sure sounds excited about pulling a vegetable bin out of the refrigerator.

  “You had lunch yet?”

  “No. I’m just about to make some for Mom and me.”