Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

  A turntable sits atop the television. Next to it, a stack of records.

  “Where did all this come from?”

  “I brought them with me.” Mitch. “Thought your mom might like it.”

  “Oh, I do! Makes me feel like a girl again. The last time I heard ’Tuxedo Junction …” And she’s off on a story.

  When Mitch leaves, I thank him. “How did you know what to do?”

  “My grandma lived with us when I was little, remember? It was amazing how music soothed her. These are her records. I’ll leave the turntable here for a while.”

  “Thanks.”

  This guy is just too good to be true.

  We sit and talk long after the others retire to bed. And I unload. I can’t help it. I need this so badly.

  When he leaves, he holds me, and I just can’t pull away.

  Debbie arrives last, but she bears a coffeecake, so no prob. I start a pot of coffee, and the commiseration begins.

  I take a bite of the cake.

  The best coffeecake I’ve ever tasted roams around my tastebuds. Debbie laid down some pastry dough, obviously on a bed of butter, spread on a sweet cream-cheese mixture, and topped it with another layer of pastry, more butter, nuts, sugar, and cinnamon. It’s still warm. Oh yeah.

  I try to savor this moment, willing it to flavor the rest of the week.

  I go for another piece just to make sure. Yep, the appetite finally kicked in after all these years, and I don’t care. That phrase “fat and happy” must contain a grain of truth, and I think maybe I should try it on. Look at Rusty. The perfect testament to the adage. Although, I have to admit, he lost a lot of weight this past fall. Fifty pounds at least. He’s still heavy, but a garden variety heavy.

  Hmm. He sure didn’t lose the weight for me. Oh, shut up, Ivy. Worries enough abound without those sorts of suspicions. But if I’m not above infatuation with someone who’s not my spouse, who’s to say he’s above it either?

  Krystal, who sailed in wearing a different wind suit, a nautical-themed silken delight, raises her hand. “Well, I’d like to start if it’s okay with the rest of you all.”

  “Go ahead.” Brenda. She also brought snacks, but healthy ones. Still, it’s the thought that counts, right? Truthfully, I’m glad she’s here, though this group has become something of a desirable sisterhood. Brenda’s tranquillity and service-mindedness radiate outward, something desperately needed if everyone else’s week mirrors mine. Lou’s here too. Even though her kids are all teenagers and her mother is fit and in better shape than all of us put together, she comes to the meetings. For me. Krystal scoops up another piece of Debbie’s cake. “My father has been in the ICU for the past two weeks. He had a stroke right after Christmas.”

  “Oh, Krystal!” Brenda lays a hand on her knee. “How are you dealing with this?”

  “I was all right the first few days. The family’s been taking shifts. But as it wears on, I get so tired I can hardly stand up.”

  Debbie nods. “And then you can’t sleep!”

  “That’s right! I fall into my bed and pray to God that tonight will be the night I actually get a good sleep, and then I toss and turn, toss and turn, my mind spinning along at a hundred miles an hour.”

  Brenda reaches for a baby carrot. “I know. When my mother was ill it was the same way.”

  “You took care of your mother?” I ask.

  “For eight years. Eight long years. I thought it would be the end of John and me.”

  Wow. “How come I didn’t know about this?” I ask.

  “It was years ago. Before we moved up here.”

  How old is Brenda? I pegged her for forty-five, tops. When will I learn not to make assumptions about people?

  She crosses her legs. “It was the exhaustion that made it so bad. When she’d have to go to the hospital, and I’d go down every day, I’d think to myself, ‘All I’m doing is sitting around. Why do I feel so exhausted?’ ”

  “That’s right!” Krystal. “Some of the church women have been taking care of Toinette. I have a hot meal waiting every night, and you’d think I’d be revved up and ready to go. Instead, I drag myself around all day by the back of my own coat collar. And for some reason, my daughter has been so touchy. There’s no pleasing her.”

  “I know how that is,” I say. “The other day Persy looked at me like I was a slug when I asked him to bring his dirty clothes down for the laundry. Then, he dropped them at my feet and said, ‘I have to do all the work around here.’ It isn’t any wonder. Children are a direct barometer of the mother.”

  Debbie. “What I don’t think is fair is that we can’t have a bad day. My mother criticizes me from sunup to sundown. ‘Deborah Ruth’ ”—her voice goes down an octave and takes on a smoker’s rasp—” ‘Benjamin has been coughing since yesterday and you haven’t done a thing. I had you kids to the doctor’s at the first sign of sickness.’ ‘Deborah Ruth, look at the shelves in this refrigerator. I raised you better than this.’ Then Bernie comes home, looks at the state of the living room and the kitchen counters, and asks innocently, ‘So what’d you do today, Deb?’ Which I immediately interpret as criticism. I go off in a tirade at him, blasting all my frustrations, and he doesn’t deserve that. I mean, how many men allow their mother-in-law in their own home, making trouble?”

  “How do Bernie and your mom get along?” Brenda. “John and mine fought like cats and dogs.”

  “Oh, she’s fine with him face to face. But when he’s not home, all she does is criticize him. He doesn’t make a lot of money, and we do have to scrimp and save. I cut coupons and do rebates, and she sees that as failure and selfishness because he’s doing what he loves. I try to tell her that this is the life we’ve chosen, that money isn’t everything, but there’s no convincing her.”

  Krystal sets her fork on her plate. “What’s his line of work?”

  “He’s a social worker.” Debbie cuts herself another slice of cake. “So Mom gets me going, and my bad mood escalates, and soon everyone is grumpy. But if I keep a clear head and a smile on my face, things are much better. I’m telling you, it’s too much responsibility.”

  “I know that’s right!” Krystal raises a hand.

  “How about you, Ivy?” Lou asks, darn her. I love her, but I’ll jump into the conversation when I want to, thanks. I’ll have to talk to her about that later.

  “Mom’s dementia is getting worse. She’s probably got enough plaque in her system to choke the Alaskan pipeline, which is what they’re attributing it to. I can’t even believe the way she cooked when I was little. Fried everything.”

  “Lord, yes!” Krystal. “Don’t even get me started on all that. It hasn’t changed any at my church either. I’ve gained seven pounds since my father went in.”

  “Not unusual. Not at all.” Brenda.

  I tell them about Mom’s nighttime preaching.

  Krystal laughs. A fabulous throaty chuckle. “I’ll bet I could get some pointers. My congregation needs a jump-start!”

  “Well, come at 2:00 a.m., 4:00, and 6:00, and you’ll get an earful.”

  “I don’t know how you do it without Rusty.” Debbie.

  Krystal sets down her plate. “I don’t have me a man either. Don’t want one. Having one who won’t stick around is for the birds.”

  Yep. She’s got that right. “I’m on a rubber band, Rusty on one end, Mom on the other. And me and the kids are wobbling the length of it like amateur tightrope walkers. I can’t let go of my responsibilities to Mom, but am I being an unsubmissive wife by not doing what Rusty wants? But how can I? Where would that leave my mother?”

  Debbie. “Rusty should be doing the right thing here, Ivy. You’re merely doing what you can to cope. If he was a man, he’d fess up to his responsibilities and come home. And what’s this submission thing anyway?”

  I raise my coffee cup to her. “Thanks for saying that.”

  “Well, we don’t like to say stuff like that out loud for ourselves, so I thought I’d just do it
for you.”

  I lean forward. “So do you make ultimatums? That’s what I want to know. Would it be wrong to demand he come home?”

  Krystal. “How long’s he been out on the road?”

  “Three and a half years.”

  She nods once. “Yep. You got a right. You absolutely do got a right.”

  18

  Well, Nick the protagonist is fully engrossed in planning his retribution on Maximilian, my new evil genius. Ha! I can’t write some seedy, one-sided villain. This guy oozes sex appeal, and he’s trying to seduce Nick’s ex-girlfriend, who’s pregnant with their child. A marvelous plan, really, and Max’s day looms. I still need a hundred and fifty pages, however, and a subplot or two would come in handy. Sadly, Nick bores me. Nice enough guy. I like him, but he resembles nothing more than a good yawn. Which has its place. Just not in a book. I mean, if Rusty were a yawn, we’d be doing all right.

  It’s Valentines Day, and not one word from my husband in Glasgow. Maybe Valentine’s Day isn’t big in Scotland. Maybe no red-and-pink cardboard hearts reminded him of the occasion that’s always epitomized our romantic life. A parade of dinners out, stunning flower arrangements, new dresses, and memorable times of intimacy dances before my mind’s eye. Stuffed animals here and there. Picnics on the bed. Soft music. Or raucous music. Lots of kisses.

  He hurts me. Can’t he see that he hurts my heart? I sent an e-card earlier and a gift certificate to Starbucks online, since I know they litter the city streets over there as well. But no reply. Nothing.

  Oh well, I have my dependable Nick here. An ex-Marine, naturally, and so patient. What might switch him over to a darker side? Maybe he needs to be a father already! Maybe that child needs to be threatened.

  Oh Lord, maybe I don’t have the stomach for this after all.

  And honestly, what male in my life can I use as a model for this character?

  The phone rings. I check the clock over my new kitchen counter: 10:00 p.m. Yes! Maybe Rusty remembered.

  “Hey Ive.”

  “Hi Brett.” Drat.

  “Listen, we’ve got a situation.”

  “What’s up?” At least I know it’s not Mom. She’s sleeping in her room with Glenn Miller softly playing. Lyra ordered a bunch of CDs off of eBay and faithfully adjusts the player to Repeat every evening when she says good-night. Man, I miss my daughter. But finding the time to do anything special with her these days is akin to locating the exact shoes you have in mind to go with the dress you bought at an outrageous sale price. Brian’s not in a state to baby-sit, and Mom obviously can’t. Mitch offers all the time, but I can’t bring myself to take him up on it. I feel much too close to him already.

  And all Brett’s promises to take Mom on her errands or to lunch have proved as fruitless as a pile of cherry-wood mulch. “Brian’s going off to rehab, Ive.”

  “What? When?”

  “Tomorrow morning. His lawyer recommended it. They’ve been able to move things along slowly, and when they finally appear before the judge, it would be better if he was already working on his problem.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “There’s a place up in Cecil County.”

  “Live in?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s he going to pay for it?”

  “Well, he’s not. I am.”

  Oh great. I mean, good. But oh great. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “Spend some of Marcus’s money? You’d better believe it.”

  “What does Marcus say about it?”

  “He doesn’t have much political capital with me these days. Did I tell you he’s running for state senate?”

  “Must have slipped your mind.”

  “He decided last week. I’ve got enough dirt on him to ruin him.” Why she’s resigned herself to this kind of marriage, I don’t know.

  “What about the restaurant?” The renovations after the flood have been extensive. We’re reopening tomorrow. Way to go, Brian. “That’s why I’m calling you.”

  I can’t tell her I’m swamped with my book. I still haven’t told a soul. “Brett, I have a job now. And there’s Trixie to consider. There’s not a day care in ten miles who will take her. Believe me, I know.”

  “It can’t be helped. It’s only for a month. You’ll have to go back.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do about it?” she yells. “I’m paying for the blasted rehab and the lawyer! You haven’t done squat for Brian.”

  “Guess I’ve been a little busy with Mom.”

  “Don’t throw that in my face.”

  “I’m not trying to throw anything in anybody’s face. I just can’t do it.”

  “It would kill Mom to see that restaurant go down.”

  “She won’t know the difference.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “You would.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s just say you can afford the luxury.”

  “Look, Ivy. If you want Brian to have a job to come back to, you’ll do what it takes.”

  If it was about Brian alone, I’d say no. But my family has owned this restaurant for years. And it’s just a month, right? I mean, it’s not like I’m heading off to sing around the world for years and years. And the truth is, somewhere down inside of her, Mom would know the difference.

  One month. Just one month.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll make it work. I’m never getting any sleep anyway. What’s one more thing?”

  “Well, I’m not sleeping either. Does that make you feel better?” Strangely enough, it does.

  Rusty had better not send me a Valentine right now. And if he does, he ought to be glad he’s not here because I’d ram the cheap thing straight down his golden throat.

  I turn on IM. Mitch is on.

  Always there for me.

  I click on his screen name, and he responds right away. Poor Mitch. My Valentine by default.

  Will Brenda be awake yet? Six a.m. already. Still too early? But I need help. I need someone to watch Trixie, and maybe the church women can pitch in. Why didn’t I attend more of those Priscilla’s Gatherings? Well, visit the widows and the fatherless in their afflictions and all. If Trixie doesn’t count as fatherless, I don’t know the meaning of the word.

  I need my kids right now. I need the reality of them. I’ll get them up early, make something special for breakfast. Pancakes and sausage. Oh yeah. Of course, they’ll wonder who stole their mother and left Suzie Homemaker in her place.

  Lyra first. The child sleeps with the covers completely shrouding her head. I don’t know how she stands it, inhaling her own breath over and over. Maybe hers smells better in the morning than mine.

  Kneeling down next to her, I lift the blanket off her face and rest my fingertips on her cheek. Oh God, I love her so much. I want the best for her. I want her to sail through life with no pain, no meanness, no trials, and yet, even the most simple person knows that we grow through pain. I want her to care deeply about life, but from which direction the winds of trial will blow, the winds that will deepen her roots and make her a human that bears the image of Christ, I can’t say. For the winds will blow, I can count on that. I breathe out a prayer. “Dear God. Let them strengthen her faith, not destroy it.” I groan inwardly for her sake, willing our family situation to change, knowing she needs a strong male influence right now. But who can fill that role? Brian? Marcus? Harry? Dear Lord, You’ve got Your work cut out for You.

  I can only plead for her here in this silent stillness. I can only trust, something I’ve never been much good at, that her life will play out better than mine, that wise decisions won’t be so hard-won.

  I raise up, kiss her cheek. “Lyra, baby. Wake up, sweet pea.”

  She mumbles something and opens her eyes, none the wiser.

  “Shower’s yours.”

  Next stop, Persy. Oh man, this kid looks so comfortable when he sleeps. He’s easily got the softest, t
hickest comforter in the house. And the little heater is still young enough to crawl into bed with and get warmed. I slide in between the covers and gather him into my arms and pray for him as well. Such a sweet, innocent boy, he plays with even the smallest child without a hint of their age difference, hardly realizes when others snub or abuse him. Just keeps going, playing his heart out, enjoying himself and his toys. Not that Trixie can’t yank his chain. Oh boy. Lord, keep this sweet spirit inside of Him for as long as You will. I picture him committing those random acts of kindness the crazy bumper sticker talks about. Let that be so, Jesus. Please.

  “Persy, buddy. Time to get up.”

  Nothing.

  Man, I’d trade a sleep like that for my left foot these days.

  “Come on, bud. Time to get ready for school.”

  The boy-angel stirs. God, I love him so much.

  I roll out of the bed and nuzzle into his neck, kiss his cheek, and yank the covers off him. “Let’s go! Your school clothes are all set out.”

  Trixie next. Obviously I can’t climb into her crib, so I lift out her little body and take her into my bed. She’s so lovely now, swaddled in slumber. The soft curve of her cheek, the unformed nose, the shallow U of her golden lash line. I close my eyes and breathe her in. My baby.

  Count your many blessings, name them one by one.

  What’s this? The aroma of coffee tickles my nose. And sausage. Panic erupts. What time is it?

  I lean up on my elbow.

  Eight thirty?

  Oh no!

  I throw back the covers. Trixie’s gone. Lyra should have been at school half an hour ago! And Persy? Oh dear. I see yet another tardy mark on the report card. Well, maybe I can drop him off first. Why didn’t anyone awaken me? And I still haven’t called Brenda!

  The restaurant!

  Man oh man. I’m toast.

  Whistling wafts up the steps.

  Harry?

  Harry!

  Dear Lord, please please please let Mom still be asleep!

  Reuben rises from his chair at the kitchen table. Thank You, Lord. Harry’s nowhere in sight. “Good morning, kiddo!”