Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

  “Two-fifty a week.”

  “So call Brett. Miss Moneybags. It’s all I’m good for.” Her voice, soft, quivers.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “Have you thought about seeing a doctor?”

  “Oh yeah, that would be rich. Marcus Forsythe, political candidate and husband of a crazy woman.”

  “You’ve got more on him. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “We have a coffee tomorrow night with some influential people, fund-raising and all that.”

  “Come by the restaurant during the slow hours. I haven’t seen you in a while, and I miss you.” I add that to subdue the rising hackles.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks. It’ll be nice. Have you seen the place since the work was done?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll like it.”

  We’re silent for a second, and then she speaks. “I’d give anything to sit in Grandpa’s diner again.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “How did life get so complicated?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know. But it isn’t just us. Maybe it’s just the way it is these days. For everybody.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Okay, well, hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I tell her how much I love her. And I hang up with no promise of cash. But a heart full of sorrow is mine.

  In bed, I begin to pray for everyone in one big, sweeping, generalized groan. Dear God, come in and work Your wondrous ways. We need You so badly. We need grace. We need mercy. We need Your loving hand.

  Jesus died for me. A simple thought. I, a sinner, desperately in need of grace, had all I ever needed for the taking. Rusty sings a song called “Jesus and Me.”

  “Now it is Jesus and me, for each tomorrow, for every heartache and every sorrow.”

  Each tomorrow. Yep, that’s what I need, Lord. Just tomorrow. Every day, just tomorrow.

  “She loves Glenn Miller,” I tell Margaret. “And I brought some of her favorite magazines.”

  “She’ll do fine, Mrs. Schneider, don’t worry.”

  “I can’t help myself.”

  “It’s okay. It’s natural.”

  “And you’ll call me if there’s any problem?”

  “You bet. Don’t worry.”

  Mom looks scared.

  “And sometimes, she starts preaching.”

  Margaret laughs. “I’ve seen it all.”

  I’m sure that’s true. “I’ll be by at 3:45.”

  “She’ll be ready for you.”

  I check the week’s menu list on the way out. Wednesday, Swedish meatballs and egg noodles. Good. Mom loves Swedish meatballs.

  Brett’s comment about Grandpa’s diner set me to thinking.

  I sit at the kitchen booth nursing a cup of coffee as Garret and Matty chop stuff. “So here’s the deal, guys. I’ve been looking over the books, and as nice as running a bistro sounds, business has been slacking off. It’s not that your food is bad, I love it. But for at least this month, I want to try running a couple blue plate specials. Meat loaf. Chicken-fried steak. That sort of thing. I also want you guys to dream up a burger menu. Standards. But put a few gourmet ones in there too. Shiitake mushroom teriyaki stuff, whatever.”

  Garret raises his brows. “Brian’s going to freak.”

  “Brian’s not here this month.”

  Matty smiles. “Hey, I like my job. We’ll do whatever it takes to keep this place afloat.”

  “Great. Okay, then let’s start it up next week. Can you have the new menu ready by Saturday night? I’ll make them up Sunday and have them ready to go Monday morning.”

  “You got it.” Matty’s already dreaming. Garret, too. Good. It’s smart to let these creative types do their thing.

  At two o’clock, Brett slips in wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. And she’s gained some weight. Which makes sense. She and I possess opposite coping mechanisms. My stomach closes up shop; she eats all day long. I give her as warm a hug as I am able to give. “I’m glad you came.”

  “I couldn’t not come. I think I’m drowning and that I don’t even have the right.”

  “Come sit down. I’m having Garret make you something special for lunch.”

  “You having lunch?”

  “Yeah. How does a big sloppy cheeseburger sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Blue cheese?”

  “You know me.”

  I give Garret the order and sit back down with Brett. A check sits on the table in front of my chair. “Thanks, Brett.”

  “I’m sorry I gave you grief last night. I just can’t seem to control myself these days.”

  Fact is, I still don’t remotely want to be her, boss sound system and all.

  “Apology accepted.”

  “How’s Mom doing at the day care?”

  “They haven’t called, so I’m assuming everything’s fine. I’m getting off here at three thirty, and I’ll go pick her up. You ready for that coffee tonight?”

  “Oh sure. I’ll just sit there and smile and nod. Piece of cake.”

  Brett fills me in on the girls and the general state of her life. Her emptiness touches my soul. I can’t find it in me to be upset that she’s really no good to me. That perspective is from God, pure and simple.

  “Let me pick Mom up,” she says.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I need to see my mother.”

  “You got it. Thanks.”

  Wow.

  “Mom?”

  She’s crying. Glenn Miller plays, and her dim room feels chilly.

  “Ivy?”

  “It’s me, Mom. What’s wrong?”

  “I was thinking about when I met your father.”

  No volcanoes at Harry’s first public supper with us. Harry played the perfect gentleman, and we all kept the conversation light. Mom said little and played with her napkin.

  “You want to talk about it?” I sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about that day. Your father was coming down the street from some bar with a buddy, and I was sitting in the car with my friend Eleanor.”

  Uh-oh.

  “And a fight broke out, nothing to do with your father, of course, but they didn’t want anything to do with it. He and his friend jumped in the backseat of our car.”

  Oh man.

  “I was wearing Chanel N°5, a Christmas present from my father, and do you know, Harry leaned up and said, ‘You smell really good.’ ”

  Only it wasn’t “really good,” it was “extremely good.” And it wasn’t her and my father, it was my grandmother and grandfather.

  She finishes the tale. “Tell me about how you and that nice fellow Mitch met.”

  “Dr. Roberts?”

  “Hi Ivy.”

  “It’s about my mother. Her dementia is getting more pronounced. It’s all been happening so fast.”

  “We need to check the arteries leading to her brain.”

  Mom’s arteries are harder than James Carville’s head. I heard that knee-jerk liberal on What Do You Know the other day and wanted to throw up. Rant, rant, rant. Rave, rave, rave. How did this guy ever become a celebrity? I mean, foaming at the mouth isn’t exactly an attractive quality now, is it?

  I should know. I’m doing it right now!

  “What can be done?”

  “Well, we can do a balloon catheterization on the arteries that aren’t completely blocked. The problem is, I don’t know how strong your mother’s heart is. She does have that arrhythmia. We’ll have to run tests to make sure the surgery can be done safely.”

  “When can we get this scheduled?”

  “Is she HMO or PPO?”

  “PPO.”

  “Good. I’ll have one of the office managers call you and set up appointments for the testing. You prefer St. Joseph’s, if I recall.”

  “That’s right.”

  We exchange a few more details, and I hang up. Thank
God for Reuben and Harry and their willingness to drive a car.

  I want to ask Reuben if he’s found any opportunities for Rusty, but if I do, he’ll know for sure I was eavesdropping.

  Rusty’s sent some very interesting e-mails. Slipping little things into his remarks like, “not all it’s cracked up to be,” and “becoming increasingly disillusioned with life on the road” and “missing the milestones in the kids’ lives.” He’s definitely relinquishing his hold on the singing business, and doing so in such a way as to save his pride. Reuben’s a genius.

  But a dark question overshadows my hope: am I beyond loving him the way I should?

  20

  Someone pounds on my kitchen door. At this late hour?

  “Debbie! Come on in!”

  “I can’t take her one more second.”

  “I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee going. Tell me all about it.”

  She sits in Harry’s seat, Harry, who’s downstairs installing kitchenette cabinetry. Reuben sprang for a double sink and a range. I’ll never get rid of Harry now, and maybe I won’t want to. Trixie’s really taken a shine to having these men around. They’re so good for all the kids. Why didn’t I realize until recently that asking for help isn’t a weakness but a streak of brilliant savvy?

  I set a mug of steaming java in front of her. “Now take a couple of sips, close your eyes, and relax for a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  I turn to pour my own cup and catch my reflection in the night panes of the back door. Turn away! Dear Lord in heaven, if that isn’t depressing. My hair resembles withered grass. And my eyes are so sunken I look like I’ve started decomposing.

  Debbie must be enjoying the stillness. Well, ten o’clock constitutes “late night” at our age. But according to Debbie, her mother night-owls every evening, wandering around, muttering criticisms. I check Old Barbara’s screen. Page seventy-five of the novel. I’ve decided to tell my agent I’m bidding adieu to the male protagonist. Avoiding this conversation has been a mental pastime for the past few days, but the deed must be done. Tomorrow, I tell myself. But how to sell the idea?

  Revolutionizing my original female protagonist from the timid librarian to a really beautiful, really built woman with a soft voice and a hard fist sounds ideal. And she can be mentored into this startling vision of roaring woman by some old, tired detective who’s been tipping the bottle, who doesn’t want to go on living and needs to care again, care about love and life and gag me with a spoon.

  They’ll love it.

  Debbie’s eyes open. “What’re you working on?”

  I can’t lie. “It’s a project almost nobody else knows about.”

  “Ooh, do tell!”

  Hmm. I mean, maybe it’s nothing more than a fairy tale. Maybe she’ll laugh. Maybe not. Oh, whatever. I spill it all.

  “No!”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s fabulous! Why aren’t you telling the world?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Truth now, I don’t know why. The subterfuge appears extremely silly floating on open air.

  “Well, I won’t tell anyone, but if I were you, I’d shout it from the rooftops. A book contract? Do you realize how many people dream of that?”

  “Sure. Everyone thinks they have a book in them.”

  “Yes, but only a chosen few have what it takes to get it out of them.”

  “You think?”

  “You have a gift. I read your column.”

  “You do?” I’m stupefied. I mean, who reads the Lutherville Lavalier other than me, Tony, and my Odd Fan? And Reuben, I can’t forget Reuben.

  “Sure. I love it.”

  “Really?”

  She laughs. “Hey, we’re mothers, aren’t we? And wives and caregivers. We have a great deal in common.”

  “Then why in the world didn’t we start doing this a long time ago?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Well, the back door’s always open.”

  “It’s a good thing to know.”

  I lean back and pull the coffeepot from the cradle. I top off our cups. “So you want to talk about your mom?”

  “Nope. I thought I did, but now I just want to sit here, sip on a cup of coffee, and close my eyes while you tap on that computer.”

  “Works for me.”

  I continue working while she keeps her silence. Thirty minutes later she stands up, rinses out her mug, and kisses my cheek. “This helped more than you know.”

  “Then come over more often.”

  “You’ll get so sick of me.”

  “Oh yeah, having someone sit at my kitchen table and sip coffee with their eyes closed is a real drain.”

  One hand on the doorknob, she asks, “Mind if I read what you’ve written someday?”

  Surprisingly enough, I don’t mind the question. “I’d be flattered.”

  “Thanks. Need to look outside myself, you know?”

  Look outside myself. Look outside myself. When do I look outside myself? Everything I do connects to me somehow. My job. My kids. My husband. My mom. My restaurant (which, by the way, may escape the red-ink tar pit now that Brian’s out of the picture). My sister. My church. Well now. This is a very interesting thought.

  Oh great. An e-mail from my Odd Fan.

  Dear Mrs. Schneider,

  I hate to admit this, but I haven’t been reading your column as faithfully as before. Mother took a turn for the worse, and I hate to admit this too, but when they took her away to the hospital, I sighed with relief.

  She passed away during the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and I’ve been busy getting her estate in order.

  I read your column the other day about searching outside yourself for meaning, and I wanted to let you know that I enrolled at Towson State. I don’t start until next September, but in the meantime I’m keeping busy. The estate was a mess, but there’s nobody but me, and the house is paid for. All in all, however, I’m well-heeled with no friends. But I’m searching for some sort of community in which to learn and grow.

  Anyway, I haven’t written in a while so I thought I’d just say, “Keep up the good work.”

  Kirsten

  Well, now. An unusual development. I bet Club Sandwich would benefit from some pointers from Kirsten. Her mother probably made Debbie’s look like Mother Teresa.

  I call Garret.

  “Huh?”

  Darn, I woke him up. Well, no wonder. It’s 7:00 a.m. and he’s twenty-three.

  “I’m going to be in a little late this morning. You got everything under control?”

  “No prob.”

  “Thanks.”

  I figure I’ll head on over to Lutherville after I drop the kids off at school. Maybe I’ll visit that lonely old stone house in which Kirsten seems to be growing like a tender plant in a spring sun. Gee, that’s nice.

  Another good morning. Reuben fixed bacon-and-cheese omelets, and Harry bundled up Trixie for a trip to one of those new kids’ swim clubs. She’s a fish, that one, and we signed her up three mornings a week. Harry pours coffee into a travel mug, grabs the Sun-paper, and sits in the observation room. He acts like a grandfather now, and I’m not sure what to do with that. Each morning Reuben drives Mom to day care, then heads off to the club to work out.

  I’m beginning to like this life. I’m beginning to think maybe Rusty should just stay away. That’s a dangerous thought, though. Thank goodness Mitch has been traveling lately. At least I don’t have to worry about those feelings, and the further I am from the day we reunited, the weaker they become. I’m starting to think most of our inner turmoil would take care of itself if we just let it.

  Right.

  I pull into the parking lot of the office building in which the Lavalier resides, near the beltway, in quite possibly the ugliest building ever. Dark-brown brick, orange doors, and creepy lights. Who looked at the drawings and the architectural model and said, “Oh baby! This is a beaut! We’ll break ground next spring!”?

  The arm
y-issue elevator rises at the pace of a bubble in King Syrup, but soon enough I sit before Tony’s army-issue desk with a cup of army-issue coffee.

  “It’s nice to actually see your face, Ivy.”

  “Mutual. You lost weight?”

  He chuckles. “Not as much as I’d like. Been through a kidney-stone ordeal. So what brings you here this fine morning?”

  “I’ve been wondering if we might start taking the column in a new direction.”

  “Oh yeah? How so?”

  “I’m tired of being angry. Does that make sense?”

  He relaxes in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach. “Absolutely. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make for good column writing.”

  “Well, hear me out. I think this really has potential. I’m thinking of a hometown-hero sort of thing. But about women. Regular women exhibiting quiet heroism every day.”

  Thoughtful, he rubs his goatee. “Where do you propose to find these women?”

  “Are you kidding? They’re all over the place!”

  He holds up his hands. “Sorry!”

  “So what do you think?”

  “You’ll end up sounding like one of those feminists, Ivy.”

  I indulge in a smarmy smile. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “Let’s give it a shot. See what happens.”

  “Thanks.”

  Next stop, Kirsten the Odd Fan. Hopefully she’s home.

  A green Dodge Dart sits in the driveway. Maybe that’s hers. Or maybe not. Maybe she spent some of Mother’s dough and tools around in a Mercedes right now, hair in a scarf, cool sunglasses on her nose, and a tiny dog beside her, nose in the wind!

  But no, a curtain moves aside as I traverse the brick walkway, a pretty white-lace curtain. Fits the house perfectly.

  The door swings open before I can even ring the bell.

  “Mrs. Schneider?”

  My photo appears alongside my column each week.

  “I hope you don’t mind me stopping over like this.”

  If she’s shocked to see me, she covers it well. “Of course not. How did you know where I live?”

  “You described the house to me once in an e-mail. I grew up over by Ridgely Junior High School.”