Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

  “Hi Dad.”

  Isn’t that a kick? I call Rusty’s father “Dad” and my own dad “Harry.” What a wacko world I inhabit. The kitchen smells so good. So breakfasty and homey.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “Harry took them to school.”

  “Trixie?”

  “He took her, too. They’re going to McDonald’s for another breakfast. That one with the Playland.”

  “Man, that’s great.”

  “I’ve kept a plate warm for you. I saw the pancake mix out, so I figured that’s what you were planning.”

  “I was. I thought you were going out early to work out.”

  “Funny thing. I was planning on it, but my coffee maker went on the blink, and so I came up to make a pot. Lyra came in and told me you and Trixie were fast asleep, and I thought, ‘Why not? She needs a break.’ ”

  He hands me a mug of coffee, Reuben style. Tarlike. Slick and perfect for dissolving the hefty fuzz inside my head.

  “Your timing couldn’t have been better. I haven’t slept like that in months.”

  “Good, then. So what do you have planned today?”

  I tell him about the restaurant dilemma and my plans to call the church.

  He waves a hand. “She’s my granddaughter. Harry and I will tag team it.”

  “You sure? Harry’s not very reliable.”

  “Leave him to me, hon.”

  Reuben is ex-Marine. Like my protagonist.

  Bingo!

  Nick Porecca just opened his eyes and sat up on my mad-scientist operating table. Oh yeah, I bet Reuben Schneider could kick some kind of butt in his time.

  This’ll be great. I can’t wait to dive back into the chilly pool of words.

  Oh yeah. The restaurant.

  Okay, so if I tote Old Barbara to the restaurant and set her up by the counter, I should do fine. I throw on a skirt and sweater, grab my briefcase, and head on out to the grand reopening.

  I call Matty. “Have you heard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Garret coming in today?”

  “He’s probably already there.”

  “Can you step in as head chef?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you go to the markets?”

  “Uh-huh. No prob.”

  “Thanks, Matty.”

  “No prob.”

  Nine thirty. Ninety minutes to opening. I call Garret’s cell.

  “It’s Ivy, Garret. I guess you’ve heard.”

  “Of course. Sucks.”

  “Yeah. Hey, you got enough there to round up a couple of lunch specials?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m on my way in right now.”

  I call my sister.

  “Brett?”

  “Hi Ive.”

  “Hey. You busy?”

  “Very. Marcus is announcing his campaign tonight, and I need a new dress.”

  “Can you sit with Mom in the afternoon?”

  “Did you not hear me, Ive?” Oh great.

  I don’t know what to say, so I hang up. That’ll provide her with some fuel for the next few days.

  Once inside the restaurant, I nab the phone book and look up adult day care. It breaks my heart. Oh God, it breaks my heart.

  Family First.

  That looks nice. I make the call, gripping the phone, willing my insides to calm down. I shake.

  A lady named Margaret knows how to ease my mind as I relate Mom’s limitations. She invites me to tour the facilities and “bring your mother too.”

  I peep my head into the kitchen. “Is there a waitress on?”

  Garret shrugs. I’m sure Brian and Brett didn’t think about the schedule. I make a couple of quick calls, and no one answers. I leave panicky messages and hope for the best.

  But I end up waiting tables for the lunch rush. Thank the Lord, the normal staff turns up for dinner. Except the hostess.

  Figures. I call Reuben and ingratiate myself.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, hon. It’s all taken care of.”

  Old Barbara’s been flashing her screen saver for hours.

  I made it through the day. The restaurant? Clean and locked up tight. Tomorrow Matty and Garret will completely control the joint, and I’m willing to take the chance for Mom’s sake. One day won’t kill us, and Mom’s needs come first. Besides, being back there today only confirmed that I just don’t enjoy the whole restaurant lifestyle.

  Too much drama.

  And drama? I thank God the mess in which my mother’s children now find themselves remains a secret. Brian’s two DUIs. My tenuous marriage, not to mention Mitch. And Brett? Well, at least one of us is out of the closet.

  I met Mitch last night at his office to go over the latest newsletter. He walked me out to my car afterward, and he held my hand in both of his as he thanked me for my friendship. I felt so cherished.

  I set the teakettle on and begin entering the final edits to the latest newsletter. Full steam ahead, because I accomplished nothing in the way of writing at the restaurant. Why did I dare even hope?

  Mitch sent me some listings from an airline. They hook up their reservations-desk employees from home computers. An insurance company agreed to do their data entry the same way. And a computer corporation will provide the computers for these ventures. Fifty jobs just waiting for our ladies.

  Now that’s something to get excited about. I’ll take it.

  Mitch interviewed the CEO of the computer company, which will provide a nice item for the newsletter. I called one of the moms who hooked up early in the game with an automobile dealership; they hired her to schedule their service-department appointments. A very good thing. She’d never have made it out of the welfare system without us, she said. They’re doing fine now. Just fine.

  Mitch’s voice held such pride and warmth last night when he told me about the success stories. I mean, he’s really doing something for people, you know? I’m not just falling for those eyes. I’m falling for that heart. A heart that actually hears the hearts of others.

  Okay, back to work. I can’t think about Mitch. I’ve got to get a handle on this. I’m in a state of emotional adultery. I won’t lie about that.

  Glenn Miller’s “Sunrise Serenade” gently imbues the night with soft brass sounds. If I don’t get going, it’ll be sunrise before I finish.

  The kettle screams, and I jump to my feet. A minute later, Reuben appears.

  “Heard the kettle. Any extra water in there?”

  “Yep. Care to join me for a cup of tea?”

  “Love to.”

  I take down a mug and string in a bag of Lipton.

  “Can you put two bags in there, hon?”

  “You got it.”

  He sits down at the table and moves aside a couple of papers. “I don’t know how you do it all, kiddo.”

  I want to complain about his son, but blood is thicker and all that. “I’m going on steam, Dad. And thanks for all you did today. I’m glad Mom wasn’t too difficult.”

  “She was great. We played cards most of the afternoon.”

  “How’d she do?”

  “She trounced me!”

  “Well, at least that’s still left.”

  “And Trixie and I played Barbies and baby dolls. She’s a real curie.”

  I just nod, trying to appear as thankful I feel.

  “If only that son of mine would come back home.”

  There’s my cue. “I don’t know how much more I can stand.”

  I set the mug in front of him, pleading in silence. Help me, Reuben. Help me not to sin so badly I destroy everything I hold dear.

  He nods. “I know, hon. You know I hate to interfere. But would you mind if I gave him a call?”

  “I’d welcome it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Great Britain still. I haven’t heard from him in a week.” I check the schedule I put up on the fridge. “York.”

  “There a number where he’s staying?”

  “Yes.”r />
  “What time is it there?”

  I add five hours. “Four a.m.”

  “Give me the phone.”

  I grab it off the wall. “Go for it, Dad.”

  “Oh, believe me, I will. Cheryl and I raised him better than this.”

  Rusty’s mom would weep if she had lived long enough to witness all this.

  He reaches into his shirt pocket for his reading glasses. “Go on up and take a bubble bath, hon. I don’t want you to hear this.”

  Father-son stuff. I shouldn’t hang around.

  I’m horrible. I eavesdrop from the bottom step, unable to help myself. I have to know what I’m up against when Rusty calls me tomorrow. If he calls me tomorrow. He might tell his dad to go jump in a lake and take me with him. Not much chitchat transpires before Reuben jumps right in.

  “Are you aware that your mother-in-law is worsening?”

  “…”

  “What do you think you ought to do about that? Ivy’s here by herself, and the kids … Dorothy is very, very ill. I know where you are, but this is a serious situation. How are you going to handle this thing, son?”

  “…”

  “Sure, I know you’re out on the road, but with Ivy having all these problems, how do you think you can help your family?”

  “…”

  “It’s not about money, Russell. The home front is in need of reinforcements. Ivy’s taken a direct hit. She’s trying to keep things together.”

  “…”

  “What else do you think you can do?”

  “…”

  “I know you’re working hard. But bottom line, son, is you’re not here. You don’t take the time even to call home. And Ivy’s shouldering this burden, and I’m watching her waste away.”

  “…”

  “Think about this, then: if you came back and Ivy wasn’t here, and your kids weren’t here, what would you do?”

  “…”

  “There’s got to be something you can do around here.”

  “…”

  “Sure, I can put out some feelers. Maybe you can go back to teaching.”

  “…”

  “I know. All I’m asking you is to think about things.”

  “…”

  “Love you, son.”

  Whew. He handled that well. Better than I would have. Now we’ll have to see how long it takes Rusty to come up with a solution. If he really bothers to.

  “Go take that bubble bath, kiddo!” Reuben yells.

  19

  Marty Bass rambles on and on about this “winter weather event” on channel 13. Everything’s an event with the news these days, special graphics in the corner of the screen, a theme song. But I love Marty Bass.

  A fine, freezing rain descends, and Lyra and Persy boogie down with the “school’s canceled” dance, overtones of SpongeBob tingeing the melee.

  I love snow days. Although it isn’t technically a snow day. It’s a “winter weather event” day. I do, however, whisper a prayer that ice won’t coat the power lines and abandon us to the cold, silent darkness.

  I hate that.

  I check on Mom. She’s awake.

  “The kids are off of school today. Freezing rain.”

  “I hope they won’t do too much running around. I’m not up to it.”

  I kiss her cheek. “I’ll try to keep them quiet.”

  “It is my house, you know.”

  Tears prick my eyes. “Yes, I do know.”

  “I don’t know if I want to sell it.”

  Disappointment jabs my chest. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do, Mom.”

  I tiptoe up the stairs, lay on the bed, and lay in my own emptiness, bound in the chains of a woman whose life isn’t her own.

  Help me, God. Help me. Help me. Help me.

  The once-freezing rain turns to drizzle by 10:00 a.m., and we are off to visit the adult day-care center.

  Margaret of Family First reminds me of a retired gym teacher. Kind of stocky, walks by leading with her shoulders, not her hips. Her extra-short brown hair curls at the trim line, and a bit of gray sparkles in the sunlight now streaming through the large windows of the warm recreation room. “We do all we can to keep them happy and busy.”

  Sweet pictures decorate the pale-blue walls: families on picnics, mother and child walking the beach, folk art with no depth but lots of busyness. A middle-aged man plays the piano in the corner, “Red Sails in the Sunset” coloring the atmosphere.

  Let’s see: a Scrabble game in full swing, chess, a couple of puzzles, backgammon, crafts. An orderly enters bearing a tray of medicine cups all queued up neatly. “So you oversee their medication?”

  “Oh yes. We take care of everything you’d do if they were with you at home.”

  “Everybody looks content.”

  “We find folks actually like being with people their own age. You’d be amazed at the connections. So-and-so knows so-and-so, and off they go, talking about shared experiences. It’s never dull around here.”

  Yeah right, Marge.

  “We arrange field trips for those who are capable. We go to the mall, take in a matinee sometimes, a play occasionally, concerts.”

  I squeeze Mom’s arm. “What do you think, Mom? Is this someplace you could be for a few hours a day?”

  She nods. Mom says little to strangers nowadays.

  An older woman stands up and begins to cry. “I can’t find my doll. I can’t find my doll!”

  “That’s Eunice. She’s a sweetie pie.” Margaret doesn’t explain further, which is good because it’s none of my business. I don’t want Mom’s condition bandied about with strangers.

  “It seems nice.”

  “We don’t have too many people who remove their parents from our program. But to assure you, we do have a thirty-day trial period. If you find this isn’t for you, you can stop Dorothy’s enrollment without any penalty.”

  Good. And a lot can happen in a month, right?

  Later on, after Lyra’s ensconced in her room studying for a biology test and the little ones are asleep, I have to admit that God had mercy on me. Just knowing Rusty’s aware of my plight and is at least ruminating on a solution has given me hope. And I refrained from sending Mitch any IMs. But tonight it felt like a fifties show around here. Garret called and told me everything was going well at the bistro and to relax, which, for a guy his age, I thought was incredibly mature and caring. I picked up a beautiful pork roast, browned it, and baked it slowly with apples and sauerkraut. The aroma put us all in a good mood. I made rolls and even baked a pie. We congregated around the table, Mom flirting with Reuben, believe it or not, and him patting her hand, smiling warmly. Trixie was at her cutest, and I made sure to seat her as far from Lyra as possible.

  No call from Rusty yet. But I imagine him with his thoughts toward home. I have to. As usual, he’s left me with no other option.

  Warm baths for the little ones, bedtime stories, prayers, and they lay sleeping in their beds by eight thirty. Even Ancient Marvels and Mysteries proved too much for Persy, whose head kept drooping forward during prayers.

  While I tended to them, Reuben cleaned up the kitchen, and I came downstairs to a humming dishwasher and a hot cup of tea. After I settled Mom in bed, Harry emerged and warmed up his plate in the microwave, poured a glass of milk, and told us about his job search. And I truly didn’t mind his company. In fact, I felt genuine excitement for him as he talked about working at an optical center.

  “You’ve kept up your license?”

  “Yep.”

  Shocking. You just can’t ever tell, can you? You think you’ve packed people neatly in a box, and they upend all your ideas about them.

  “It’s been good here with you, Ive. I’ve forgotten how precious a home life can be.”

  Precious? Did he ever once think that about our life in Lutherville?

  Two months ago I would have made a crack. Tonight I just take it at face value.

  “I want to be more of a help with your
mother. Lord knows, I owe her that.”

  True, but …

  “Let’s introduce you slowly, Harry. Why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night? By way of the front door.”

  He nodded.

  So now we sit here at the table. I work on Old Barbara, Reuben reads a James Clavell novel, and Harry tinkers with a crossword puzzle. More tea all around.

  “Tomorrow morning’s going to be difficult with getting the kids off to school and Mom to day care. Harry, can you drive the kids?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I’ll drop Mom off on my way to the restaurant. Dad, you up to Trixie patrol?”

  “Of course. I don’t get the problem with that child. She’s as good as gold for me.”

  “Just wait until the bloom wears off.”

  Harry laughs.

  Reuben shuts his book. “I’ll cook up breakfast as well. I enjoyed that the other day.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Look. You’ve taken me in, and I’m no mooch. I can pull my weight, and what’s more, I’ll enjoy doing it.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got a box of frozen waffles and there’s some bacon in the fridge. But waffles will be enough if you don’t feel like really cooking.”

  “You got it, kiddo. We’ll get through this somehow.”

  I smile. God’s sent these two my way. Reuben I can believe. But Harry Starling sent by God? Go figure.

  Okay, so I need to call Brett, and I’m dreading it so much I feel the nausea burbling in my throat.

  She’ll still be up. I am.

  “Brett, it’s Ive.”

  “Hey Ivy.”

  “How did Marcus’s announcement go?”

  “Fine.”

  “Find a good dress?”

  “It was all right.”

  She must really be depressed. “I’ll bet you looked great.”

  “I tried.”

  “I took Mom over to see one of those adult day-care facilities. She starts tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just don’t know what else to do, with the restaurant and all.”

  “Get that husband of yours home.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I might as well just come out and say it. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay for this, though.”

  “How much is it?”