Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

  “So how was the trip?”

  “Great. Three more corporations signed on with another sixty jobs available for the next issue.”

  “I can’t believe how this has taken off.”

  “Better than I ever dreamed. How’s the May issue coming along?”

  “Wonderfully. I’ve got two interview pieces—success stories—and I’m also working on an article about setting up a home office in a minimum of space for under fifty bucks. Everything but computer equipment. Reuben has constructed a prototype of the work area using inexpensive supplies from Home Depot and Staples.”

  “Great idea.”

  “For June I’m writing an article on making the most of nap time.”

  “I like that. I’m more pleased than I can tell you with the job you’re doing, Ive. Really topnotch.”

  “Hard to believe, eh?” I give him a smirk.

  “Well, when you’ve known someone all your life, it’s just a shock to see them turn into a capable, well-rounded adult.”

  I bark out a laugh. Me? Well-rounded?

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. There are a lot of people who couldn’t bear up under the pressure you do.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mitch. People do what they have to do.”

  “No, they don’t. And you know it.”

  “Okay, whatever. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “I was thinking about coming over one evening this week for another forties night. You all up for that?”

  “Sure.”

  “But I don’t want you to come home early this time.”

  “Okay. I’d like to do a little shopping for Lyra. That kid needs a lift.”

  He twirls a fork between finger and thumb. “Having a hard time with all of this?”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure what to do for her.”

  “She needs her father.”

  “I know.” I turn to Trixie. “Can you go ask the waitress to bring us some coffee?”

  She likes it when I give her big-girl jobs and immediately jumps down from the booth.

  “You have every right to demand he come home.”

  “So everyone says. I sent out a cry for help two days ago, unmistakably clear, and I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, whatever. He’s probably in a place where he can’t check his e-mail. I’m hoping that’s all it is.”

  “Well, let’s hope then. You know, though, I’ll do whatever you need. You just say the word, Ive.” He takes my hand. “I’ve always loved you. All these years.”

  “Even during the supermodel years?”

  “Especially during the supermodel years.”

  “Why is it, Mitch, that givers and takers always end up together? Why can’t two givers end up with each other?”

  “That’s one of the mysteries of the universe, Ive.”

  “The yin-and-yang thing.”

  “Yeah. We just both happen to be a couple of yangs.” Boy, he said it.

  Still nothing from Rusty. I’d like to say I wait in a sea of calm. But I’ve swum in my own tears for the past few nights, because it comes down to this: either he loves us or he doesn’t. And I don’t have the confidence in him, or in me, to think we’ll ever swim to shore without drowning first. And then what? Divorce? There’s no biblical grounds. He hasn’t been womanizing. As far as I know, he’s been extremely faithful in circumstances under which many a man would falter. Music or us? That is the question.

  “It’s now or never, my lo-oooo-ve won’t wait!” streams from the department-store sound system.

  If that isn’t the most royally stupid song ever written. Love always waits, doesn’t it? Well. That is not the thought I needed to have. It’s always back on my shoulders somehow.

  I flip through racks and racks of junior clothing. This stuff looks trashier than Woodstock II after the crowds left. No wonder. Look at these tops! The larges are no bigger than my thigh, which means headlights galore in these things. The skirts hang about eight inches long and go all the way up to size 16. Now I don’t know if it’s just me, but a size 16 should know better than to wear a micro-mini. I mean, yikes!

  Oh, but the longer skirts look cute, romantic, and totally Lyra. I pick out three, and a rack of loose poet blouses catch my eye. Perfect. Some of them are sheer, but I’ll pick up a couple more bra-tank tops. Tights would be good, and a new pair of shoes. I decide to get her high heels with a lower platform. Shoes sure are cute these days.

  After choosing Lyra’s clothes, I decide, why not? Why not get something new for myself?

  Problem is, all the stuff in women’s wear looks like old-lady clothes. But I manage to find a new black shirt, a lime-green velour sweater, and a pair of sexy boots. Oh yeah.

  Not having heard from Rusty now for six days, I figure I have to start doing things for me.

  The party is in full swing as I pull up to the house. Tommy Dorsey’s “Boogie Woogie” plays, and shadowy figures behind the sheers move to the beat. Dancing now? Well, we should call this the Tropicana or something. Fine by me.

  I lug the bags into the house, and to my surprise, there sits Kirsten on the couch, clapping and swaying to the music. Reuben and Mom execute a very docile jitterbug, while Harry seethes in the armchair. Classic.

  “I’m back!”

  Mitch looks up from the crossword puzzle. “Hey Ive! Have fun?”

  “It was great. Thanks.”

  Kirsten jumps to her feet. “I hope you don’t mind my being here. But I called, and Mitch here answered and invited me over.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. You having a good time?”

  “Oh yes! Your family is so animated.”

  I laugh out loud. Yes, that would be us. “Well, you’re welcome anytime.”

  Reuben guides Mom into her chair and swings by, grabbing Kirsten in a dance embrace. With surprising grace, she steps to. My heart spins.

  Harry is practically one with his armchair.

  “Harry, come on out to the kitchen for a minute, will you?” I ask.

  He follows me in. I hand him a small bag. “For you.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Go ahead and open it.”

  He reaches into the bag and pulls out a cigar. “Hey! A Punch Gran Cru!”

  “Yeah, well, you haven’t had a cigar in a long time.”

  “Thanks, kid.”

  I kiss his cheek.

  He looks down, his hand suddenly shaking. “I’m sorry, Ivy. I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you.”

  “Thanks, Harry.”

  “Can I give you a hug?”

  “Sure.”

  He reaches out, and I place myself in his arms, and they squeeze me tightly into the strong, bony warmth of him. He’s an old man. Oh God, my father’s an old man! And I find I cannot move out of the embrace; I find it’s something I’ve needed for a long time now and just didn’t realize it or even dare to hope for it.

  “You’re hugging that man!” Mom yells at the doorway. “You stay away from her, Harry Starling!”

  Dad stiffens, then he touches my hair. “It’s okay, Ive.”

  “Mom, you can’t buy me off with these clothes.” Lyra picks up her geometry book and flips a page. The music still jumps downstairs.

  “Buy you off? Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, Lyr. I just wanted to do something nice for you, to let you know I realize you have to put up with a lot these days.”

  “I could have made this stuff for half the price.”

  What happened to my daughter?

  Persy wails from his room.

  “Go ahead!” she says. “Everybody else is more important anyway.”

  “That’s not true, Lyra. I don’t know what—”

  A louder wail.

  “Just go, Mom. I’m busy.”

  Persy decided to sleep on the top bunk, only the Lord knows why, and there he lies on the floor.

  I fold him into my a
rms, and I cry with him. Nothing’s broken on him. I wish I could say the same about myself.

  Everybody but Mitch is gone.

  “Ivy, you can’t go on like this.”

  “I know. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “You heard from Rusty yet?”

  “Nope.”

  We sit on the couch, drinking hot chocolate.

  He clears his throat, sets his mug on the coffee table, and takes my hand. “You’ve got to accept some responsibility in this, Ive.”

  “What do you mean?” I try to pull my hand back, but he tightens his grip.

  “No, don’t pull away. Listen to me. Your marriage isn’t normal.”

  “Like I don’t know that.”

  “It isn’t even acceptable abnormal.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “That’s the point. You’re doing too much.”

  I feel the blood rush to my face. “Come on, Mitch. Who do I slough off? Mom? The kids? My job? What?”

  “Ivy, you’re going to end up in a very bad place. Lord knows, I wish it was in my arms. And I’d wait for you forever if I knew that at the end of it, you’d be with me. But I can’t see you slipping down more and more. And it isn’t just you who’s suffering.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lyra opened up to me. We had a real heart-to-heart. Now if she’s having a heart-to-heart with me, basically a stranger, things aren’t what they need to be.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Let Rusty go. If you won’t do that, at least give him the ultimatum. You’re starving, Ive. You’re a beautiful woman who’s going to waste, and I can’t bear to watch it.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

  I stand up and grab our mugs. “I’ll get us some more hot chocolate.”

  When I return from the kitchen a movie plays on the television. Tommy Boy.

  We laugh and laugh. Mitch rubs my shoulders. “I’m sorry if I was harsh,” he says, his breath on my neck.

  It feels so good to be touched. I close my eyes. I should tell him to stop, but I can’t. I just want a warm touch, that’s all, just a warm touch.

  When I awaken, I’m covered by a quilt, the television is dark, and I decide I’ll think about life tomorrow.

  All mothers dread the day when they lose that connection with their child, when they become not so much an enemy as a nuisance and a stranger. Maybe I made a wrong decision in enrolling Lyra at that new school. Maybe going with all those rich girls has given her unrealistic expectations.

  But the day has come, and she’s turned her back, and I stand there looking at the fine shoulder blades that formed inside my own body; I watch the silky hair swaying against the nape of her lengthening neck, and it is as though I’m looking through a viewfinder.

  She turns from her place at the counter, cup of tea in hand. As she sits down at the breakfast table, I say, “Lyra, I just—”

  “I need to study for my geometry test, Mom. Can this wait for later?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  So what do I do now? How do I tear down this sudden wall between us?

  Still no word from Rusty. Not one word. If I ever thought I was in despair before, I obviously didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

  Brett’s late-night call comes at eleven tonight. “I’ve got news about Brian’s case.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, at the preliminary hearing they couldn’t get the judge they wanted.”

  “Lenient on DUIs I’m guessing.”

  “Exactly. So they requested a jury. His trial’s set for two weeks from now. Maybe we should be there as some sort of support to him.”

  “…”

  “Ivy, he’s your brother. This is one of those times when families need to stick together.”

  “When is it?”

  “March 20, 10:00 a.m.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I pop on the IM and chat with Mitch. Tell him Brian’s news. He says he’ll be there that day too if I need him.

  You know, I don’t know what I’d do if Mitch was more aggressive with this thing. Wait. Yes, I do. I’d be sleeping with him. I’d be warm and wanted in a man’s arms. But he’s a gentleman, and he’s waiting for me to make the first move. Thank you, God. With the way my life unfolds around me, I’m not one to really make moves. I just let everyone else’s moves run me down like linebackers.

  Mitch is right. I need to do something about my inability to say no, my willingness to allow Rusty and my siblings to live their lives baptized by my sweat and my tears.

  Lyra fumes as I relay the news about Brian at breakfast the next day. Man oh man, did Reuben make some good scrambled eggs. Put in a little garlic powder and some muenster cheese.

  “I don’t understand him,” she says. “How could anybody be so stupid? And he’s such a good cook, too!”

  “Unfortunately the one doesn’t have to do with the other,” I say.

  Harry shakes his head. “I’ve got some amends to make.”

  “He’s forty-one, Harry.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Ive.”

  I wonder what it must be like to be my Dad’s age and suddenly have a spotlight glued to your forehead illuminating all your mistakes. I have some regrets, naturally. But overall, I can’t imagine too much is going to come back to haunt me. Of course, all parents must say that, take some kind of inventory, and hope for the best. And if you do commit some major error, you pray that your children will forgive you, that they will realize when they have kids of their own that you did the best you could.

  I tiptoe halfway down the basement steps.

  “Harry?”

  “Hang on, Ivy. I’m getting into my pj’s.”

  “Okay.”

  Reuben’s out with a few old friends, listening to jazz at some club downtown.

  “Come on down, babe.”

  I descend the remaining steps. “Hey, this looks nice down here! Sort of a tribute to the sixties.”

  He laughs. “Your old couch is a nice touch.”

  “Yeah. It actually looks good in this setting.”

  “Can I offer you a beverage?”

  Sure.

  My grandparents’ old refrigerator stands in the kitchen area. A soft light emanates from the hood above the new range. “Wow, this is great.”

  “Yep. A regular old man’s place.” He opens the fridge. “Want a soda?”

  “You got Coke? I have a lot to get done tonight.”

  He reaches in and pulls one out. “Your wish is my command. If I remember correctly, you like it straight out of the can.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Neat.

  “Have a seat.”

  This couch feels great down here. Why did I ever get rid of it? I don’t feel a spring at all. “Harry, I need to talk to you about something.”

  Sure.

  “First of all, I’m glad you’re here these days. You’ve been a big help.”

  “I’m trying, kid.”

  “I know, and I appreciate that.” Okay, this next thing is going to be tough. I sip my soda. “I want to say something else, and it’s going to be hard. Let me just gather myself.”

  “Look, Ivy, if you want me to leave, I understand. I’ve got a buddy up in Parkville who has a spare room—”

  “No, no. That’s not it.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, that’s a relief.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I … that I, well, I forgive you. I do.”

  His eyes open wide, and they suddenly fill with tears as he drops his head and begins to sob. Deep and groaning.

  “I’m sorry, Ivy. I’m so sorry for what I did to this family.”

  And he continues to cry. I reach out and pull my father to me, and even though I find I cannot cry, I feel and feel and feel, and something inside me, something bitter and hard, liquefies, empties out of my soul, melding with his tears.

  24


  I still can’t bring myself to call him Dad, though. Plus, that would be confusing with Reuben around. But things feel different this morning. Lighter. Yet more significant.

  My shower feels more fulfilling, I find a stylish new combination in the offerings of my closet, and my cup of tea tastes like a cupful of vacation. A Reuben special, two bags at least.

  Lyra trounces into the kitchen, a smile on her face. “Good morning, everyone! Morning, Grandpa. Morning, Gramps.”

  “Want a cup of tea?” I ask.

  “Most definitely. I’ve got a history test today.”

  “Cup of tea coming up.” I’m dancing a fine line here, trying to be upbeat and supportive without assuming we’re chums again. Maybe it was just PMS yesterday.

  Reuben sets breakfast out. Hash browns with ham and cheese and a bowl of scrambled eggs.

  “Oh man, Dad! That looks great.”

  He smiles. “I do a nice breakfast if I do say so myself.”

  We sit down. Trixie prays, and we fall to.

  Harry pulls me aside after everyone’s trekked upstairs to brush teeth and fetch backpacks.

  “Ivy, do you think your brother and sister would be open to a heart-to-heart with the old man?”

  “I don’t know. They’re pretty bitter.”

  “I figured.”

  “But it doesn’t hurt to try.”

  “Yeah, I guess not. The hard thing is getting them to agree to even meet with me.”

  So far, Harry’s stayed away during Brian’s visits.

  “Give them a call. It’s got to start somewhere.”

  He nods.

  A few minutes later, he heads out with Trixie to the swim school.

  Mom’s sure been sleeping a lot these days, and she gets winded so easily when she’s up. With her diabetes, her neck arteries, and everything else, she’s literally falling apart like an old set of draperies—dry rot here, fraying seams there.

  I remember her young, a skinny thing running around that restaurant with the coffeepot, chatting up a storm with all the regulars who have since either died or become casualties of Brian’s menu. My favorite customer was Stu Leonard, a salesman for the Comoy Pipe Company. When he’d make his run to Fader’s Tobacconists in Towson, he always stopped in for breakfast or lunch and displayed some of his more choice wares. Grandpop smoked a pipe now and again, so he and I would join Stu, oohing and aahing over the polished briarwood.