by Diane Nelson
Scribbling something on a sheet of paper, Etty mouthed gimme that and waggled her fingers. I handed the phone over.
“Grams?” She paused and listened politely for a moment, then interrupted, “No, she’s not going to contest…”
I’m not?
“…and here’s why…”
I stood at the sink, pondering whether or not I was going to throw up. My ears buzzed as sweat dripped off the end of my nose, splat, splat, splat onto the stainless steel basin. Or tears. I couldn’t tell. In any case, I ignored the half of a conversation I didn’t care to hear.
“Oh.” That had a wilted quality. Score another one for Tonia if she could browbeat Loretta into submission.
Well, there was always a first for everything.
“Um, okay, that might work.” Etty rubbed her chin and evaluated me as I peered up at her, confused. “Yeah, but maybe you should talk to her. No, she doesn’t know…”
Oh, Christ, what didn’t I know?
“Let me have that.”
Grabbing the phone, I spat, “Tonia, you have no right to…”
I’m so sorry, Jessamine, so very sorry.
The woman sounded genuinely contrite.
What the hell?
We cannot afford a scandal, not now.
Yeah, I almost forgot. Elections were coming up soon. You’d think Robert could have kept that little fact in mind before boffing an under-aged bimbo on our bed!
And while you have every right to demand fair compensation…
Pain and suffering. That’s all I wanted. A little something to show for twenty-two years of kowtowing to his precious career. A small recognition that I counted for something in his life.
As if she read my thoughts, the woman went for the low blow.
I know nothing will ever matter more than our darling Loretta, after all she is the light of your, our, lives… Her well-being must…
The words rumbled together, an incoherent mass of you’re getting off easy. Or so it seemed. Her next words floored me.
Robert is not to know about this. Ever. Do you promise, Jessamine?
I had no idea what she was talking about.
Then Etty held up a check. Made out to Jessamine Cavanaugh McMahon, drawn in the small precise script that graced Christmas cards and birthday greetings. Ignoring the amount, I stared at my daughter, open-mouthed.
“Did you know about this?” That was directed at Etty. She nodded but before I could wring her neck, Tonia continued.
This is a one-time offer, Jessamine. And I can have a word with the administration so you could be fast-tracked. It’s your choice.
“Tonia, while I appreciate this I can’t accept…”
You can and you will. Loretta will give you the particulars. I have an appointment this morning. Let me talk to Loretta again.
Handing the cell over, I took my future inscribed on a bit of parchment and settled on the couch. The number swam in my vision.
So this is what I was worth.
Ninety days. I could be free and financially solvent. Not in a set-for-life way but it was a start I hadn’t had ten minutes ago. I turned the check over and stared at the blank space for my signature.
There must be some kind of rule that goes with accepting a bribe. Was I missing something? The speed at which all this occurred had my head spinning. It had the feel of a soap opera set-up.
If the bastard had wanted a divorce why hadn’t he just asked? Why this sham?
Etty’s words cut through the fog. “Take the deal, Mom.”
“You mean sell out.” Bitterness cut the air between us, the one thing I wanted desperately to avoid.
My daughter, the adult, said sadly, “He’s my father and I love him dearly. But…” she held up a hand, “…you deserve to be the person you were meant to be.”
“And exactly what is that?”
She shrugged. “I think you might find out tonight.”
Tonight?
Coach. Dinner. The talk, the sales pitch.
Collusion, manipulation, set-up.
And a reality check.
“I don’t have anything to wear.” I used to be a jock. When had I turned into such a girl?
“Well, you can’t wear any of my stuff.”
The spandex pants that I’d borrowed were testament to that. As was the too small tee-shirt stretched over a matronly frame, breast-feeding and gravity having exacted an unfair price over time.
“There’s a Walmart, right?”
Sighing, she grabbed my hand and yanked me off the couch with me objecting that I had no money and hadn’t decided to cash the check and it wouldn’t matter anyway because it had to clear…
“Grams sent me a check also. I cashed it. There’s enough for you to buy a few things.” Rifling around in her purse, she withdrew a clutch of bills and handed them over.
I giggled, “Two hundred? This from the woman who insisted I spend two grand on a goddamn beige business suit?” If I had a place, I’d just been thoroughly put into it. I handed the money back. “For food. I’m eating you two out of house and home.”
She took a twenty and set it on the counter.
“We’re square. Now get a shower and get dressed.”
Worried, I asked, “Do they carry my size?” I honestly didn’t know, never having set foot in the store.
“Yeah, Mom. They’ve got a whole section for,” God, there it was, finger quotes, “Women’s sizes.”
****
“Not bad. Not bad at all.”
Twirling in front of the mirror, I had to admit that low riser, boot cut jeans were pretty bad-assed. If I didn’t turn around. Or bend over.
State College was a young town in every sense of the word. That meant shopping for a forty-two year old freshly minted to-be divorcee with nothing in her closet had been a challenge—and yes, I was signing those papers, the ninety day lure too much for my simple mind to ignore. What I was going to do with the largesse dangled by my mother-in-law was something else entirely.
The conservative Republican Good Wife suggested setting up a 401K. The needy frustrated unfulfilled woman yearned for an all-expenses paid visit to an island spa where Marcel could attend to my bruised ego and whip my body back into its former glory.
“Who’s Marcel?”
Oops, talking to myself again.
“Um, nobody. Just day dreaming.”
“So, what are you wearing tonight?”
The choices lay on the king-sized bed, occupying a miniscule corner at the foot of the mammoth structure. Refusing to invest in another skirt when my blah taupe modified A-line went with just about every color in Walmart’s Women’s size palette, netted bonus, semi-fitted navy blue chinos look-alike trousers. Without an elastic waistband.
Everything above a size double aught seemed to merit elastic, in the waistband, at the wrists, under the bust. Fortunately, whoever constructed those articles of poorly made pieces of crap thought that anyone requiring a larger size must also be very tall.
I was. The extra length in arm and leg made the fit a slam dunk.
Fortunately the Great Escape included me bringing the entire contents of my underwear drawer and the few bits and bobs of jewelry and accessories I allowed for the sake of vanity and indulgence.
“Yo, anybody home?”
Chazz.
“In the bedroom, hon.”
“I, uh, brought…”
Now what?
“Good.” Etty grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the living room where a short dark-skinned girl with cornrows and massive amounts of ’tude gave me the once-over.
Chazz said, “This is Seimone. She does the women.”
Really.
“He means she does their hair, Mom.” Still clear as mud so Etty elaborated, “The men’s and women’s basketball teams? You know?”
Oh.
Oh. Hell. No.
Chazz said, “She did Anton’s girlfriend and she looked, um…”
Not helping.
Seimone glared at Chazz and grumbled, “Not a lot to work with but if y’all insist, I kin try.”
Etty held out two boxes.
My new stylist sat me down at the counter and ran her fingers through my lank hair. She pointed to Etty’s left hand.
“That one’ll do jes fine.”
That one was number 110 auburn, guaranteed to cover gray, in a convenient gel concentrate. The ‘see you later, Mom’ barely registered as she and Chazz beat a hasty retreat. Seimone set up the tools of her trade and lay out the box’s contents while humming a rap tune I actually recognized.
…bitch i’m ballin out the gym…
****
“Mom, are you crying?”
Yes, yes I was.
“It looks fine, honest. More than fine.” She spun me in front of the mirror hanging on the closet door. “You look fabulous.”
I managed to choke out, “It’s not that.” Dabbing at my left eye with a pair of cotton briefs, I moaned, “I can’t blink. Not really.”
Darling daughter pursed her lips tight and assured me I’d get used to it.
The cornrows revealed a pale salmon scalp freshly coated with the remnants of #110 auburn gel. Seimone had knotted the mass of precisely aligned rows at the base of my neck and tied it off with a scrunchy in a day-glo orange color. Oddly enough it went with the dark auburn my normally mousey brown had assumed under the chemical onslaught.
My cheeks glowed with a ruddy hue, probably from having the skin stretched taut from the tight braids.
But, hell’s bells. Who knew I had the coloring for a redhead?
The knock on the door had me ducking for the bathroom. There was no way I was going out in public. Not tonight. Not ever.
Penn State had a perfectly acceptable online degree program. I could order in. Pizza. Chinese. There was no need to ever leave the apartment.
Chazz poked his head through the door and informed us unnecessarily that Coach had arrived.
“Jesus, Etty.”
“Mom, it’s just a meet. He’s gonna sell the program. Listen to him. Then you can make up your mind.”
Right. I was just a prospective student investigating my career options. A job interview of sorts.
And me wearing form-fitting jeans and a halter top that revealed far more cleavage than a woman of my age had a right to display. And auburn cornrows.
“Where’s the jeans jacket?” There was no hiding the desperation in my voice.
“It’s 80 degrees. You don’t need it.”
Chazz and Mr. Nosy were discussing that afternoon’s practice, the male voices deep, their southern accents more pronounced, comfortable in their shared roots.
Etty went out first and I heard the warm greetings and the “She’ll be right out.”
I looked at the bedroom window, three floors up. It really wasn’t all that high, was it?
Muttering fuck it, it’s not like it’s a date or anything, I slipped on the platform wedgies and gained a few inches of intestinal fortitude.
Slipping through the door, I faced total silence as both Chazz and Coach turned and stared.
I held out my hand and murmured, “I’m happy to see you again, Mr. Ryan.”
Taking my hand, he did the thing with the thumb, but even more slowly this time, as his eyes raked me with a hard darkness I couldn’t begin to interpret.
Whatever was going through his mind was cascading up my nerve endings, leaving long unused muscle groups to clutch spasmodically.
Someone said something, someone else responded, words registering at a level of perception that had nothing to do with the total sensory immersion the man’s sure touch commanded.
“Are you ready?”
That was Jack. Asking more than one question. I might be naïve … but I read. And there was way more to that than are you ready to go to dinner, are you ready to talk about your future? The subtext was clear and concise: are you ready for me to fuck you senseless?
Heart stutter-stepping in a near panic I managed to say, “Yes … yes, I am.”
Chapter Four: The Deep End of the Court
I managed to negotiate three flights down without breaking an ankle. Jack Ryan hovered solicitously without interfering, a pretty good feat given neither one of us qualified as petite. He held the door open and guided me through without making me feel like an invalid or entitled. I suspected his momma done raised him right.
Hanging with Chazz reminded me of the accents from my days on the team, all of us trash talkin’ and outdoing each other on the incomprehensible language scale. As a Pittsburgh native I had the local patois down cold, the cricks and the soda pops and redding up and dropping infinitives right and left.
“I’m parked in the lot down by the bookstore. Forgot it’s Saturday.”
Nodding agreement, I followed slightly behind the man as we headed down the hill to East College Avenue, admiring the view. Like me he’d gone casual with jeans and a deep blue golf shirt with the Nittany Lion logo on the pocket, worn loose in deference to the heat that boiled off the sidewalks. Scuffed cowboy boots that might have once been a shiny black finished off the outfit.
That end of town had changed. Gone was the hole-in-the-wall pizza joint that had been a part of the town for almost fifty years. I asked Jack if they’d gone out of business.
“Nah, they just moved up North Atherton. Fancier place that what you might remember.” He smiled and asked, “Do you want to go there?”
Shrugging, I said, “I’m easy,” and nearly choked on the words. His eyes crinkled with mirth but he plowed on, directing me to another joint, this one clearly take-out.
“I thought maybe we’d take it back to my place. Easier to talk.”
“Uh, sure. That would be nice.” It would be. The town was awash with fresh young faces, the influx for the start of fall semester in full swing and the noise level outside and in reflected that exuberance.
“What do you like?”
“Not anchovies.”
“Do you mind extra cheese and meat?”
Staring at his broad shoulders straining the knit shirt had me agreeing with an ‘um’. After placing the order, we retired to a less raucous corner and waited quietly until the bell dinged and our order was up.
“I’ve got beer at home.”
“Huh?”
“You said you liked beer with your pizza.” His brow creased with worry that he might have misunderstood.
“Oh, uh, yeah, no … I do.” Cripes, shoot me, now.
Blindly I followed behind him until we stopped at a large pickup truck that he chirped open. It was one of those monster models with the double cab or whatever they called it. In any case it looked big enough to accommodate all the starters plus a team manager or two.
Jack shoved the pizza box onto the rear seat and indicated I should—his words—hop up into the passenger side seat.
Biting my lip I surveyed my options. Ladder, no. Folding stool? No. Running boards, we don’ need no stinkin’ running boards.
The jeans were brand new, stiff as a board, and I let that thought hover while I pondered next steps, literally and figuratively.
“Just grab that there handle,” he pointed to a leather-covered U-shaped object alongside the edge of the door. Another, similar device sat on the dashboard. “I’ll help…”
“No, I’m fine.”
I can do this. I can.
Mr. Helpful locked onto my waist and hoisted me with barely a grunt while I hauled, using long atrophied upper body strength. His palms burned an indelible imprint through the thin nylon fabric, letting his left hand brush down the length of my denim-clad hip as he pulled the safety belt and leaned across my lap to settle the snap into its slot.
Inhaling deeply, I nearly swooned. The man smelled so … good. Natural. Warm. Like after a spring rain. Clean.
He looked at me curiously.
“Um, it smells really good.” He moved the cross belt to a comfortable position across my … oh my dear sweet lord. “The p-p-pizza
.”
“We’ll have to warm it up.”
“Warm it up?”
“Yeah, I live about eight miles away.”
Oh.
He drove at a sedate pace along back roads, heading east into the country. I’d never had much chance to explore the surrounding area, school and practice and travel keeping me tethered to campus and the squad. Jack explained the history of the area and the Amish traditions. I was surprised at how much he knew about Happy Valley and its environs.
“How long have you lived in this area, Jack?”
“Coming maybe … twelve, thirteen years. Did my time in the navy, then at VATech for a coupla years. Got the invite and a chance at a Big Ten post. Not something a young man from the back of beyond turns down.”
I did the numbers game, tallying up years here and there, added twelve and came out with maybe forty or forty-five tops. He looked younger than that, his hair still sandy brown with no hint of grey.
We pulled into a narrow driveway that ran back through a section of woods to a single story frame house. It was small but tidy, the yard free of debris but there was no landscaping to speak of. Jack parked the truck under an overhang and jumped out to help me down. Reversing the procedure he again grasped me by the waist and eased me onto the ground with exaggerated care, the distance between us so miniscule that I felt the heat pouring off his chest and him branding me with those clever thumbs.
The thin fabric of my blouse seemed a huge barrier to what I wanted, what I needed. To feel those rough hands on skin, my skin. A chill wash of longing sped up and down my spine, the shiver involuntary.
He had to know. He had to.
“I’ll, uh, get the, uh…”
Whispering, “Pizza,” I moved away so he could open the small door to access the back seat. With two hands engaged he flipped his head toward the front door. “It’s open, go on in.”
“Open? You don’t lock it?”
“Darlin’, I’m from the country. I ain’t got nothin’ worth stealing here, ’cept the cats and ya gotta catch ’em first.”
Holding the door so he could get through with the oversized box allowed me another vicarious brush with his chest. Our arrival was greeted with feline complaints from three of the biggest cats I’d ever seen.
