Club Sandwich

by Lisa Samson

  “Oh my!”

  A beautiful silver Mercedes, Brenda’s car, idles by the curb. Lou, dressed in a blue pantsuit, climbs out.

  “You guys!” I turn to Lyra and Brenda and wave to Lou. “This is so great.”

  She whisks around and opens the back door nearest the curb. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”

  “This is too much!”

  “And exactly what you all need.” Lou.

  “Thanks, you guys!” I wave to the group gathered on the porch. Harry, the kids, Brenda and Reuben. Mr. Moore waves from his porch, and Debbie from hers.

  I sit down and swing my legs into the leather interior. Lou slides in and closes her door. “Ready, Ive?”

  “For what?”

  “How about a nice dinner without the kids?”

  “Who masterminded all of this?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Rusty and Lyra.”

  “The woman’s a seer.”

  “So where are you taking me?”

  She flits her gaze up in the rearview mirror. “Now do you really think I’m going to answer that?”

  “Never hurts to ask.”

  Five minutes later, she steers the car onto the beltway, and we chat about décor, Mom, Brian, her husband Neil, who’s taking up boxing in middle age and isn’t that about the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard, a man his age pounding on people, and what is it supposed to mean, who’s he trying to impress, who’s he trying to kid is more like it, don’t you think, Ivy? Her son, a boy named Atticus, believe it or not, is trying to get a scholarship at Loyola High School for next year and looks like he may just succeed. And that’s really great, Lou, I mean that. He’s a good kid.

  She turns onto I-95 North.

  “So we’re heading out of town?”

  “You bet. I sure wish Neil would do something like this for me. But he’s thickheaded. Nice guy, but thickheaded.”

  “Maybe that boxing will thin things out a bit, shake things up.”

  “One can only hope.”

  “The trees are starting to sprout leaves.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it nice?”

  “I love that soft green mist.”

  “Me too. Smells good outside too.”

  My history with Lou has anchored me. I see that now. We can talk about the small wonders of life and not feel at all silly.

  I wonder if she knows about Mitch and me.

  More chat, about everything but that. And it builds up my heart to be with her, to just be Ivy Starling and nothing else.

  We keep going north, past Bel Air, past Aberdeen, and finally Lou clicks the blinker before the Havre de Grace exit.

  “Havre de Grace? I love Havre de Grace.”

  “Me too.”

  We head down Union Street, gorgeous old mansions from Federal to Victorian sitting comfortably amid trees older than any of the town’s inhabitants. She pulls up by the curb in front of the Silver Inn.

  “Remember how we used to come up this way for Sunday drives? I’ve always loved this house in particular.”

  The Silver Inn sprouts turrets and spindles and porches, and no two windows are the same size. Painted like a Victorian lady in white, greens, and reds, it looks ready for Christmas though it’s only April.

  “Did you tell Rusty about this place?”

  “Yep. You’ll have to tell me all about it! Maybe I can get Neil to bring me here.”

  “Ha.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You know, he’s not all bad. I mean, he makes a mean Irish stew, you know? And he loves you.”

  “Yeah. But then, how could he not?” She presses a button on the door handle and all the locks disengage. “Go on in and tell the desk clerk you’re here. I’ll be taking the car back to Brenda.”

  “This was great, Lou.”

  “I sure had fun.”

  I reach for the door handle.

  “Uh-uh-uh. I’ll get the door.” She pops her door open.

  I feel my face redden, but oh well.

  She lets me out and gives me a hug.

  “Thanks, Lou.”

  The desk clerk smiles after I tell her my name. “You’re in the Brady Cottage.” Her bright pink lipstick shines in the dim, antique lighting.

  “Our own cottage?”

  “It’s gorgeous. Now, head out that back door there and down the walk, and it’s the first cottage on your right. You have a gentleman there waiting for you with a bottle of champagne.”

  We sit at a table for two at the Crazy Swede. A delicate vase of baby roses perches to the side; a small candle lends its glow.

  At the cottage we drank the champagne and he held me in his arms as we watched a movie. That was it. No tryst. Nothing spicy. Just warmth.

  Now that was a smart step on his part. Maybe hope truly exists for us.

  “So what’ll you have, hon?”

  I skim the menu. Brian deserves credit. He’s a fine chef, and nothing on here compares to his offerings, but the restaurant enjoys a fine reputation in Havre de Grace. Seafood is always a good choice in Maryland.

  “The stuffed flounder, I think.”

  “You want to split the entrée and get a couple appetizers?”

  What? Man, he’s really serious about this weight-loss business. “Sure. How about the fried calamari as one?”

  “And the crab dip?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I relish this moment. Surely it’s one most couples take for granted, but I think that’s gone forever for me, simple things like ordering at a restaurant together, or driving to church in the same car. And maybe that’s fine. Maybe the last three years can be turned into a good thing. Maybe we’ll be better off in the long run if we appreciate each moment, recognize each act for the true gift it is.

  “When do you think your mom will get out of the hospital?”

  “In a couple of days. She’s sure been lucid. I think it’ll be fun having her around the house.”

  He gulps down his water. “Old Dorothy is a good gal.”

  “Thanks for coming home, Rust.”

  He shakes his head. “Why I was so content to leave you and the kids behind, I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “We’ve done a lot of growing up since then.”

  He winks. “Hopefully I’ll catch up soon.”

  Rusty and I have always gotten along so well. And maybe that was part of our problem, neither wanting to make demands. But now we know, don’t we?

  “I need to ask for your forgiveness, Ivy.”

  “And I need to give it.”

  I m sorry.

  And I forgive him. Not that I truly have a choice, but still, I want to.

  “That’s settled then,” I say. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Down the road, babe. We just go down the road.”

  We give our order to the waitress.

  “So what made you want to start losing weight, Rust?”

  “It took three people to get me into a wet suit when we sang in Florida. I’ve never been more humiliated in my life.”

  “Oh, sweets.”

  “Plus, there’s a reason to stick around as long as possible. I mean, the kids haven’t spent enough time with me as it is. It would be horrible to go that young.”

  “Well, sometimes it just takes something like a wet suit to get us started.”

  Or an illicit kiss with another man.

  “I feel like taking the kids bowling,” I say.

  “That was out of the blue.”

  “Let’s do something as a family. There’s Rock and Bowl at Parkville Lanes tonight. Goes till midnight.”

  Ninety minutes later, ten o’clock, we’re marching down the steps and into the bowling alley that sits beneath a sixties strip mall. Lyra’s skin practically sings arias, she’s so excited, but still a girl’s gotta be cool. I can see it in her eyes, though. Times like these are rare.

  We pay for shoes and find our lane. Persy checks out all the bowling ball
s in hopes of finding the perfect one. Trixie holds her crotch and yells, “I gotta go!” Music to my ears. I whisk her away to the ladies’ room.

  When I return to our semicircular collection of seats, two huge sodas, a bag of popcorn, and a large box of Mike and Ikes are waiting.

  And the crier in me tries to push his way out, but I shove him down and begin to laugh.

  The principal folds her hands on her desktop. Neat, unpolished nails, no rings. Hair folded in a bun. Crisp suit. A little too much red lipstick.

  I say, “You send your child to a private school hoping they’ll escape, even somewhat, the torture of not fitting in.”

  “It’s why we have uniforms, Mrs. Schneider.”

  “She’s miserable. Are you aware of the cliques here?”

  “We certainly don’t encourage it, but girls can be ruthless.”

  “Not for my money. I can send Lyra to public school for free for this kind of treatment.”

  Rusty leans forward in his chair. “We don’t wish to pull her out, Ms. Zoll. We just want to know, at this point, that Lyra has an advocate.”

  She sighs. “Give me the names.”

  I rattle off the worst offenders. The cruel ones.

  “I’m not surprised. I’ll talk to some of the other students and see if they’ve had the same problems.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding them. According to Lyra, they’ve singled out two other girls.”

  “Who?”

  “Jenny. Clarissa.”

  “Oh my. That’s so unfortunate. They’re such nice girls as well. Such good students.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Will we be hearing from you, then?” Rusty.

  “Of course.” She stands up and offers her hand. We stand up and shake it. “Thank you for coming to me.”

  I grab my bag. “Well, it is a parochial school. I figured you wanted your students to behave in a kind manner.”

  “We surely would hate to lose Lyra.”

  Rusty holds my hand. “But we will pull her out if it doesn’t stop. And naturally, we’ll expect the utmost discretion from the faculty and administration on this matter. If those girls realize this came from Lyra’s direction, it will be terrible for her.”

  “I agree. We have ways of working behind the scenes, Mr. Schneider.”

  “Thank you.”

  We take our leave, walking in the spring warmth to the car.

  “Wow, Rusty. I’m so glad you were there. I don’t think I would have come on so strong at the end like you did.”

  “She’s our baby.”

  I put my arm around his waist. “Yeah, she is.”

  “Whatever we do, we can’t tell Lyra we did this. She’d flip.”

  Stealth parenting. Ain’t it grand?

  27

  Nurses and doctors mill in and out of Mom’s room. Brett and I start to run.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Dr. Smart gives orders to a nurse: cc’s of this and that.

  A nurse with cropped red hair and a freckled face touches my arm. “Your mother is having a heart attack. Come in.”

  “Mom?”

  She lies on her side, face screwed in pain. “Oh, Ivy. I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

  Another nurse looks up from where she stands by Mom’s back. “Would you like to come massage her here between the shoulder blades?”

  Brett turns whiter than a sugar cube.

  “Yes!” I take her place and rub in a circular motion.

  “It helps,” the nurse says.

  The doctor on call fills us in on the details, most of which I don’t understand. All I know is my mother is having a heart attack and I need to massage her back.

  “Oh, girls,” Mom moans.

  “We’re here, Mom. We’re here,” I say.

  And I pray silently, dear God, dear God, dear God. Oh, dear God.

  They’ve taken her down for a heart cath. I didn’t sleep last night. Nothing. Poor Rusty tried to sit up with me, but he only lasted until about three. Lyra got up at five to study, and we sat at the kitchen table together, drinking Coke straight out of the can, me tapping at Barbara as Lyra rustled pages, punched buttons on her calculator, and sighed.

  Getting old is such a crime. That’s simply all there is to it. Dear God, let me go quickly. That’s all I ask. Again. I think I’d take five or so fewer years if I could say, drop dead, or get hit by a truck or a train so that people could say, “Well, it’s obvious she was dead on impact. She didn’t know what hit her.” I don’t want to know what hit me. That’s it exactly.

  I don’t care how great a Christian you are, nobody wants to die if they’re still young enough to multiply their age by two and get a truly achievable age. It’s not so much the leaving of this earth, our lives, or our skin, it’s the actual process.

  What happens, really? What’s it really like to die?

  I wonder if Mom’s thinking these thoughts, or if she’s fooling herself like the rest of us that it couldn’t possibly be just around the corner.

  Now, dying in one’s sleep surely is the best. I’ll bet if we could choose our deaths, ninety-eight percent would pick that. My Grandma died in her sleep, and it was a blessing. She’d deteriorated mentally, thinking Eyewitness News was coming to film her as she sat on her toilet. No wonder we figured Mom was simply losing her mind. The women in my family should jingle when we walk, we have so many loose screws.

  I glance over at Brian, who sits with us in the waiting room. He always looks so suave in his leather jacket, his up-to-the-minute haircut, his European shoes. Not the slinky, Italian European shoes. The orthopedic, Swiss-looking, I’m-earthy-but-hip European shoes. But today he’s pale, clammy instead of cool. I think he’s still taking painkillers.

  “Do you think she’ll die?” he asks.

  “Not today. But this can’t bode well for the future. First the diabetes, then the stents in her neck arteries, the dialysis, now this.”

  Brett roots in her purse and pulls out a tin of mints. “I think we have to face facts, guys. Her days are numbered.”

  Brian runs from the room.

  “Get us another coffee while you’re at it!” Brett hollers. “He’s going to have to face this, Ive. For Mom’s sake if nothing else.”

  “I think he wants to change. I really do. He just can’t do it on his own, and he can’t trust in that vengeful God we grew up with.”

  “Yeah.” She opens the tin and holds it out. I take a mint and place it on my tongue. “It’s taken me years to get over Him. Well, not Him, Him. Just the Him they said He was.”

  “Scary as it sounds, I understand that exactly.”

  We turn back to our magazines, the clock moving forward. I’ve learned in hospitals and doctors’ offices to take the time they estimate for the procedure and multiply by two. Some family of bikers monopolizes the television with Spike TV.

  “What’s going on at home, Brett?”

  “Same old. I put my foot down. Told Marcus I couldn’t personally support his campaign. I mean, don’t I have the right to live by my own code? And do you know what that rat said?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘Well, as long as your mom is sick, at least we have an excuse.’ ”

  “What a pig.”

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  “It’s true. What did I ever see in that man?”

  “Don’t blame yourself for that. He was charming and settled. This is a midlife crisis.”

  “You think we can weather this?”

  “If you want to.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “I don’t know then. You can’t force him to stay.”

  She grins. “Maybe I could push him out in various other ways.”

  I laugh. “Make his life miserable?”

  “I wouldn’t be the first woman to do so!”

  “You won’t, though.”

  “I know. The Starling in me hangs on till the last hurrah.�
��

  I squeeze her knee. “It’s a good thing, Brett. Then you know you did all you could. Just make a nice home for him, and do whatever you need to do to feel fulfilled yourself. Maybe it’ll free you up to love him again.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “I’m glad Rusty’s home, though.”

  “Me too.”

  She puts her arm around my shoulder; I put my arms around her waist and we sit there together. Dear God, I love my sister so much.

  Harry enters the waiting room awhile later. We’ve sipped the lattes Brian dropped off before going who knows where. After the coffee, we shared a bag of Kettle Chips, two packages of Swiss Cheese on Wheat, and a sleeve of Caramel Creams. We looked at the copy of Teen People hanging about, and for heaven’s sake, is this what Lyra’s been reading? Perused a New Homes booklet as well as the Apartment Guide. Then, much to our chagrin, we were subjected to Spike TV’s Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue Special, and how embarrassing is that? Brett kept muttering, “I have got to start losing some weight.” I ate another Caramel Cream. But hey, that’s what the bikers want to watch, and I’m not about to get up and switch it to something else. I don’t want to end up in surgery myself today.

  Harry nods once to the head biker, a very skinny guy with a black Fu Manchu mustache and acne scars, then turns to us. “Hey girls.”

  “Dad!” I jump up. “Have a seat. She should be up soon. The doctor’ll give us the scoop.”

  He kneads his cap. “Hey Brett.”

  “Dad.”

  “Brett, can we go for a walk?”

  She stiffens but nods.

  “Okay, Dad. Let’s go.”

  My nerves jump. I called him Dad too.

  Dr. Merritt enters the waiting room, pulling off his surgical cap, then rearranges his mountain of hair. Harry and Brett are still out. Lots to say, I’m sure. Stuff I know I just don’t want to hear.

  “Well, she’s finished and in the recovery room. You can go in after we talk.”

  “Great. How did it go?”

  “There was a lot of blockage. But we were able to put in two stents. I think we can treat her medically.”

  “No open-heart?”

  “As of this point, no. Two arteries are ninety percent blocked. We’ll see how she progresses.”

  “Would it be better to just go ahead with the surgery?”