Every Other Wednesday

by Susan Kietzman

  CHAPTER 14

  They were back at the casino, this time at Tony’s, a restaurant decorated as a throwback diner. Joan had been tempted to sit at the long chrome-fronted and Formica-topped counter, on a padded, spinning stool, but instead had chosen a booth. Once she decided what she was going to eat, she flipped through the musical selections in the small jukebox attached to the wall. She wondered if the jukeboxes in the other booths had the same offerings: Aerosmith, Frank Sinatra, Fats Domino, the Everly Brothers, Aretha Franklin, Prince. She was considering inserting a quarter and listening to the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up” when Alice and Ellie approached the table.

  “We came together,” said Alice, taking off her coat and hanging it on a hook next to the booth. “We texted you, but you were already gone.”

  “Well, aren’t you clever,” said Joan. “Had I not been at the grocery store and running other seriously boring errands, I would have taken you up on it.”

  “And,” said Ellie, plopping herself down in the booth next to Joan, “we parked in the Red Maple garage.”

  “Makes all the difference in the world, doesn’t it?”

  “Totally,” said Alice, looking at her running watch. “We parked the car exactly four minutes ago. The last time we were here, it took me thirteen minutes to find the restaurant.”

  Alice and Ellie picked up the menus on the table, as did Joan, giving herself another opportunity to ponder the merits of the tuna melt over the burger. It was now clear to all of them that this was how it worked; they first chose what they wanted to eat, and then they talked. Joan already knew that Alice would give her some flack about having a burger and fries, but they would be worth the teasing. She was so tired of eating salads, which she usually had at home, and of women always ordering salad. Did any of them really like salad, or had they merely been expected to, conditioned to eat it? How many men voluntarily ate salad for lunch? Ellie put her menu down on the table. “I’m going to have a bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Alice.

  “We’re at a fifties diner,” said Joan. “Why would she be kidding?”

  “Who eats like that anymore?” asked Alice.

  “I do,” said Joan. “Tell me you prefer a lunch of raw vegetables doused with low fat vinaigrette to a patty of meat covered with melted cheese, and I’ll tell you you’ve got a screw loose.”

  “I love salads.”

  “Why? Because they taste good, or because you’ve been ordering them for so long you don’t know how to order anything else?” asked Joan.

  “Salads are good for you,” said Alice. “That’s why I eat them, Joan.”

  “Yeah, well, so is flax seed, but who wants to eat it?”

  “I do,” said Alice. “I put two tablespoons into my fruit smoothie in the morning.”

  Joan gave Alice a weary look. “Live a little. Get a burger.”

  Alice squinted her eyes and then glanced back at the menu in her hand. A gum chewing waitress who looked and dressed very much like one of Joan’s mother’s best friends, a professional housekeeper for forty years, appeared at their table, flip pad open in her hand, pencil poised. “What can I get for you girls?”

  Joan and Ellie ordered their burger specials, which came with fries and shakes, and then turned to look at their friend Alice. “Ice water,” she said.

  The waitress wrote down the order and then looked at Alice. “Anything else, hon?”

  Joan laughed.

  “A plain burger,” said Alice. “No cheese, no mayo, no bacon—just the lettuce and tomato.”

  “Fries or chips?”

  “Neither,” said Alice. “If you can give me a side salad instead, that would be great.”

  The waitress snapped her pad closed. “I’ll see what I can do. You want Italian dressing on that? I got blue cheese and ranch. But you look like an Italian girl to me.”

  “Italian is fine,” said Alice, who knew a request for balsamic vinaigrette would be met with derision.

  “You other girls want water?”

  “Yes,” said Ellie. “Thank you.” As soon as their waitress left the table, Ellie looked at Alice and said, “Good girl. I knew you had it in you.”

  “Why the hell do you even think about dieting at this time of year?” asked Joan. “It’s over for me until January 2nd.”

  “Amen to that,” said Ellie. “And as soon as the boys get home for the holidays, I plan on living in my flannel pajamas.”

  Joan smiled. “I like that idea.”

  “Not me,” said Alice. “I plan on gaining no more than three pounds, and it will be gone by the middle of January.”

  “Not if you keep baking cookies twice a week,” said Ellie.

  Alice’s serious expression momentarily disappeared, replaced by a relaxed forehead and slight smile. “That is resolution number one: no more cookies.”

  “Ever?” said Joan.

  “Maybe once in a while,” Alice said. “Dave said he’d leave me if I stopped baking altogether.”

  They all leaned back in their seats when the waitress returned with a circular tray holding three tall glasses of ice water and two chocolate milkshakes.

  “So,” said Joan. “Who’s done with their Christmas shopping?”

  “The only people who ever ask that question are the people who are done,” said Alice.

  “I’m not done,” said Joan. “But I have made a bunch of lists. Tomorrow is my day to sit at the computer and get all the online stuff out of the way.”

  “You don’t shop locally?” asked Ellie.

  “If you tell me where to shop, I’m all over it,” said Joan. “In the thirty years I’ve lived here—and you know what I’m going to say—I’ve seen the downtown go from a real downtown to junk shop city. Remember the sporting goods store, the pharmacy, the diner, the department store, and all the cute little shops run by local merchants? I bought everything downtown when the kids were little, save the Christmas and birthday treks to Toys ’R’ Us. But now? What can you get downtown now? Other than a T-shirt with a black dog on it. There are only so many people who have black labs.”

  “Maybe we should open a store with mutt T-shirts,” said Alice.

  “I’m in,” said Joan, raising her hand in the air.

  “The bookstore is still there,” said Ellie.

  “Thank God for that,” said Alice. “I love getting a good book as a gift.”

  “Me too,” said Joan. “The bookstore is on my list for Friday. What do you think about a newspaper subscription for Liz? She’s taking a journalism class and is expected to read the paper every day.”

  “She can go to the library for a newspaper.”

  “Excellent thought, Ellie,” said Joan. “Another reason for her to go to the library is always good, right?”

  The waitress set three large plates on the table and walked away. The three women picked up their burgers simultaneously. Joan looked at Alice before taking her first bite and said, “You are more than welcome to some of my fries. That salad looks like it was on someone else’s plate yesterday.”

  Alice looked down at the clumps of iceberg lettuce that were browning around the edges. They had clearly come from a bag, along with the limp sliced red cabbage and desiccated julienne carrots. Alice reached over and took a fry from Joan’s plate. “Hey,” she said, chewing, “did you guys see the article in the paper this morning about Colt revving up its business in West Hartford?”

  “I did,” said Joan. “Stephen’s met with the president of the company—but he doesn’t think it’s going to work out. The gun laws in Connecticut are becoming stricter, which makes Colt’s job harder.”

  Alice dabbed ketchup from the corner of her mouth. “I didn’t even realize that Colt still manufactured guns in West Hartford until I read about it in the paper.”

  “You don’t get out much, do you?” asked Joan.

  “As if you’d know anything about it if Stephen weren’t involved.”

 
Joan raised her eyebrows at Alice. “Meaning I wouldn’t know about anything happening in the real world unless Stephen informed me of its existence?”

  “God, you think too much, Joan,” said Alice. “We’re just talking. I know you’re against regular citizens owning guns, and you know that I think people should be able to own them and use them with caution if they are inclined to do so. What I don’t know,” she said, turning to Ellie, “is how you feel about them.”

  Ellie took a big bite of her burger and chewed slowly. She had not, in fact, discussed her feelings about guns, or the laws surrounding their ownership and use, with her friends. And this was primarily because she had guns in her house. They were locked in an antique wood and glass cabinet in the family room: three rifles Chris’s grandfather had given to him when Chris was twenty-one. His grandfather had taken Chris duck hunting when Chris was a teenager—so when his grandfather was looking to pare down his collection, Chris was a natural choice. Chris had introduced their sons to shooting, as his grandfather had done for him, when Brandon, their older boy, was thirteen, and Tim was eleven. They went annually, every October, into the northwest corner of the state for a weekend of what Chris called male bonding. Typically, they brought home eight to ten ducks, which they cleaned in the basement. Ellie insisted that they remove all the skin, to reduce the presence of contaminants, before they cooked the meat. It was then frozen and used in a variety of dishes throughout the winter. Ellie liked the taste of duck, actually, finding it flavorful and versatile rather than gamey and limited.

  And Ellie liked that Chris was very careful when he was handling the guns. The night before their dawn departure for their hunting trip, Chris talked to the boys about safety and then quizzed them afterward. He employed their help in caring for the guns, so that they now knew as much about them as he did. He made it fun, Ellie thought, when it could have been a lecture or a chore. Tim and Brandon, who were now eighteen and twenty, seemed to look forward to this time with their dad. Ellie wasn’t sure they told their friends what they were up to on their Columbus Day weekends, but they talked about it at home, boasting about who would bag the most birds. Brandon had missed this year’s trip, unable to get home from school in Michigan. But Chris and Tim had talked about it with him over the phone, allowing him to experience the event vicariously. With both boys in college, Chris had just recently talked with Ellie about moving their hunting trip to Christmastime, maybe even having duck for their holiday meal.

  Ellie swallowed the last bit of burger in her mouth and then reached for her milkshake. She took a long sip. What did she owe these women, Alice and Joan? Anything? She guessed they probably didn’t know about the guns in her house. But they might know. Tim certainly could have said something to Liz or Linda—teenagers were anything but circumspect. Did it matter? Ellie never talked about her husband’s small gun collection because she thought it wasn’t anyone else’s business. But she thought a lot of things weren’t anyone else’s business. She knew there was more that she could share about her life.

  “We own three rifles,” she finally said. And before Joan or Alice could ask her any questions, she launched into the story about how the rifles were manufactured by Colt in the mid-nineteenth century. That the rifles were given to her husband by a family member who had had the guns passed down to him. That they were kept in a locked case, with the exception of one weekend every year. And that safety was her husband’s number one priority when hunting with her boys. When she was done talking, she put two fries in her mouth.

  “That’s a great story,” said Alice. “I think it’s really cool to have guns in your house.”

  “Why is it cool?” asked Joan.

  “Cool in the sense that they are locked up. They are properly, lovingly even, cared for, and used for what guns were intended to do. Plus you eat what the boys kill. That makes it even cooler.”

  Joan cocked her head to the side. “You don’t worry about the guns getting into the wrong hands? Into the hands of someone like James Shulz?”

  “No,” said Ellie too quickly.

  “James Shulz didn’t kill Emmanuel Sanchez because he had a gun,” said Alice. “He killed him because he had mental health issues.”

  Joan put her hands on the table and leaned in. “So, if he didn’t have the gun, he would have killed Emmanuel with his bare hands?”

  “Maybe,” said Alice. “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.”

  “That sounds like a bumper sticker. And it’s completely inaccurate. It’s crazy,” said Joan, using her hands to push back from the table until she was up against the booth cushion.

  Alice took another fry from Joan’s plate and put it in her mouth. “Why? Because it’s not what you think?”

  “People use guns to kill people because killing someone with a gun is nothing like killing someone with a knife or with your hands. When you kill someone with a gun, you don’t have to get too close. You don’t have to touch the person. Gun violence is detached violence, which, I think, is why it appeals to so many people.”

  “Detached can be good, Joan. Let’s look at this from the victim’s perspective. Having a gun means the victim can stop someone—the thief or the murderer—before he gets his knife into her back or his hands around her neck.”

  “Point taken,” said Joan. “But I still think it can happen too fast. It’s an automatic rather than a visceral solution.”

  “I like this conversation,” said Ellie. Knowing sarcasm when she heard it, Joan smiled at Ellie. “No,” she said, registering Joan’s amusement. “I’m serious.”

  “You are? What do you like about it?” asked Joan.

  “I like it because we’re having it,” Ellie said. “Ten years ago, if we had known one another then, we wouldn’t have been talking about guns or other topical issues. We were so busy with our children that we didn’t have time for lunch out of the house or discussions that weren’t about child rearing. And I like it that we can disagree. So many women I know seem to build one another up when they are together or online and then turn around and tear one another apart when they aren’t. Being with you two is like being with my brothers. At our lunch table, everyone gives her opinion freely and knows she will be respected for it.”

  “That’s because we’re protected by the First Amendment to the Constitution,” said Alice.

  “Says the Encyclopaedia Britannica,” said Joan.

  Alice laughed. “I haven’t heard the word encyclopedia in twenty years.”

  “I’ve got them in my basement if you’re interested in reliving your childhood memories.”

  “No, no, no,” said Alice, still smiling. “I prefer the Internet.”

  “Where you have learned all about the Second, and now, I gather, the First Amendment to the Constitution.”

  “Joan, knowledge is not evil.”

  “As long as it’s balanced,” said Joan.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Alice, taking another fry from Joan’s plate. “I’ll tell you another thing,” she said. “You were right about the side salad. It sucks. And these fries are worth the calories. Thank you, my otherwise misguided friend, for sharing.”

  Joan laughed. “You, my overzealous patriot, are most welcome.”

  CHAPTER 15

  They lingered in the massive hallway outside Tony’s until their conversation was interrupted when Joan got a phone call. It was Liz, and so Joan answered it—her children and her husband were the only people she always picked up for—waving to Alice and Ellie as they walked away from her in the direction of the Red Maple parking lot. Liz didn’t have anything major to report to her mother; she was simply using her, an expression they both employed, as a distraction while she walked from the dining hall to her first afternoon class. Joan was not much of a phone talker, so she was okay with this method of communication. She got to hear on a fairly regular basis what her daughter was up to, and Joan was able to catch Liz up on any interesting home news. This eight-minute conversation
, like all of them, was over as soon as Liz reached her destination. Joan put her phone back into her purse and checked her watch. She had done all her errands that morning and was not yet ready to go home.

  Instead, she wandered in and out of several shops, where she half-heartedly examined several pieces of merchandise—a pair of smart black heels, a hand-dyed silk scarf, an oversized, cranberry colored leather purse—before setting them back down. Ten minutes later she was on the casino floor. It was the same section she and Stephen had walked through on their way to the cancer society fundraiser; she could see the roulette tables in the distance. Why not? she asked herself as she crossed the room. She approached the same table she had been so successful at during the event and put five twenties on the green felt surface, as if she did this every day, as if this behavior were normal for her. She ignored the flutterings of fear she felt in her heart and stomach. She disregarded the questions offered up by her brain. Instead, she settled into her chair, telling herself that what she was doing was fine. The croupier, a young Asian man with a gummy grin, pushed two short stacks of pink chips her way and, without making eye contact, told her good luck. Just as she finished placing her first bet, a young waitress carrying a small circular tray and dressed in what Joan could only describe as a Pocahontas outfit asked her if she wanted a drink. Joan’s first inclination was to ask the woman if she had been drinking. But Joan quickly realized that, at two in the afternoon, people did, in fact, drink alcohol. Some people were on vacation and, having no one and nothing to report to, decided to relax with a drink. Others needed no excuse to drink whenever they felt the urge.