Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon

  Cover illustration by Krieg Barrie Illustrations, Hoquiam, Washington

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  HIP TO BE SQUARE

  Copyright © 2005 by Hope Lyda

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lyda, Hope.

  Hip to be square / Hope Lyda.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-1589-2 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6043-4 (eBook)

  1. Women social workers—Fiction. 2. Old age homes—Employees—Fiction. 3. Physical fitness centers—Employees—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.Y35H57 2005

  813’.6—dc22

  2005003040

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Marc—my champion, my home, and my pilgrimage partner for fifteen years. Thank you for “getting me”…and for loving me unconditionally.

  And to my sister, Dawn, who not only shares a childhood with me but also joins me in the pursuit of purpose, the examination of life’s mysteries, and the belief that when we finally pay attention, we can hear that still, small voice.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to…

  My parents, Dwaine and Jean Flora, who continue to say they are proud of their girls (and mean it).

  Carolyn McCready and LaRae Weikert, for kicking me into gear on this (lovingly and with treats, of course).

  Barb Sherrill, Betty Fletcher, Terry Glaspey, and Julie McKinney, for the support and encouragement throughout the process.

  Bob Hawkins Jr., for taking a chance on a new voice in fiction.

  The cheerleaders who inspire me to find my way, including: Jackie, who shared her own “Golden Horizons” stories and many encouraging words; Kari, for clever notes and chicken soup; my walking buddies—Christy, Abby, Andrea, and Shana—our conversations helped me shape my next step; Dawn R., for sweet friendship and belief; Nancy, for life discussions and walkie-talkies; Kimberly, for embracing the discipline and joy of writing.

  Theos coffee shop, for providing me with a perfect setting to dream, write, and sip gallons of cold water extract coffee for hours on end.

  Kim Moore, who is an empathetic reader, a dynamic editor, and a very kind soul. Thank you for taking care of my story and for shaping it into a stronger, tighter tale.

  With gratitude for those who believe in the wonder and gift of books.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  The Start of a Good Joke

  God’s Punch Line

  Bible Study

  Strange Girl

  Hindsight

  Alien Messages

  To Be Made Worthy

  Taxation with Representation

  Numbers Breakdown

  A Life Examined

  Saving Vase

  Sunday Morning

  Finding Excuses

  Fore Eyes

  Second Opinions

  Lost and Found

  Bullied in a China Shop

  Confessions

  A Case for Grace

  Hire Power

  Lady Luck

  From Outdated to Out Dating

  Attempts at Social Behavior

  Scenes from the Other Half

  Humiliation Squared

  Helpful Accessories

  Music Man

  It’s My Party…

  Blogged

  Caught

  The Why Behind Y

  Phone Home

  Matchmaker

  Passing Notes

  Taking Chances

  Stars and Stripes Forever

  Saturday’s Style Section

  Third Date

  Destructive Third-Date Behavior

  Fitting In

  Domino Effect

  Phone Dating

  Covert Operation

  Y Knot

  Moving Toward Something

  The Fork in the Road

  Rubbed the Wrong Way

  Something in Common

  Bordering on Crazy

  Baggage Claim

  Old Familiar Places

  For Whom the Bell Tolls

  New York, New Chance

  Countdown: Day Ten

  Countdown: Day Nine

  Countdown: Day Eight

  Countdown: Day Seven

  Countdown: Day Six

  Count Down: Day Five

  Countdown: Day Four

  Count Down: Day Three

  Countdown: Day Two

  Countdown: Day One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Start of a Good Joke

  Parents’ Night Talent Show—Emerson Grade School

  Washington, D.C.

  1985

  I cracked my knuckles and nervously awaited my chance to perform the finale. It was an honor to be last. I had barely beaten out Mick Bederstat for the coveted closing act. Actually, I had beaten him up, and he feigned the flu.

  The velvet curtain, the color of red licorice, brushed against my skin and caused goose bumps to form. It wasn’t nerves. That just wasn’t my disposition…or whatever word Mrs. Engleman had used the day I offered to sing the Pledge of Allegiance as a solo because I tired of her monotone performance each morning.

  I had no talent. Nothing to single out, anyway. So I decided to fall back on my natural wit.

  Mrs. Engleman approached the adult-level mic. Her corduroy skirt bunched in the back and made the sound of a muted kazoo as she walked. “Ladies and gentleman, parents, grandparents, and supportive friends and family…I am pleased to introduce third grader Mari Hamilton. Her comedy act will be tonight’s finale. Let’s welcome Mari.” Her clap pounded in the mic as I made my way around her to the lower mic.

  I cleared my throat, looked at the seats reserved for my mom and dad, and took a leap into celebrity. “Parents (pause, one, two, three), can’t live with them and we’re too young to leave ’em.”

  Silence. Cough. Polite chuckle from the far corner.

  “Parents (pause, one, two), can’t live with them and until we can drive, we’re stuck.”

  Nervous laughter from stepparents.

  The audience was tough to crack, but I knew my next joke would win them over.

  “Parents (pause, one), can’t live with them…arrgghh.”

  I tell you the truth. I actually made a comic strip “arrrgggh” sound as Engleman yanked on my orange vest and pulled me behind the curtain.

  Personal rights against censorship do not exist in the third grade. Still, I was quick to protest. “But my next line was really sweet. Sentimental even.”

  The old woman in front of me—who was probably no more than thirty years into her
life—closed her eyes to count her way to patience. Meanwhile, her hand motioned for Tommy Lesburg to do another horrific drum solo.

  “Just listen.” I refused to give in easily. I had, after all, just been warming up the crowd. “Parents. Can’t live with them…wouldn’t be alive without them.”

  Pause.

  “Sweet, right? It is saying we owe our lives to our parents. See?” My father always said I should teach debate at the college level. Not because I was good necessarily, but because I certainly favored practicing this discipline. Mrs. Engleman was not as impressed.

  “Better. But, Mari, parents’ night is not the place to voice such…frustrations. I apologize for not taking the time to hear your comedy material prior to your performance. And I will take responsibility when I explain to your parents. Where are they seated?”

  “Front row.”

  She poked her Ronald McDonald hair between the frayed panels to search the crowd.

  I reeled her back in. “Front row of city hall. They are petitioning the city’s new zoning law, which would force our…their…youth shelter out of the neighborhood.” The next year I would discover that we lived in an “undesirable part of town” because Cynthia Louise Cantwell announces this to me and all of my other hard-earned friends at a birthday party held in the Smithsonian.

  The red fluff was pushed back, and I watched brown eyes disappear behind blue-shadowed lids. Counting again, I assumed.

  “Honest,” I reiterated.

  She released the hold of my vest in empathy. “I see. I’m sorry, honey.” She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in my green blouse. “Why don’t I have Mr. and Mrs. Rochester drive you home now? They were here to help set up for the show. I don’t think they’d mind. Is that okay?” She is not used to passing people off. “Can you wait in the foyer or do you want to stay with me?”

  “Foyer.” I turned to make my way down the back steps so I wouldn’t have to face any of the uncensored performers.

  “Mari…” My unrelenting teacher called after me.

  My shoulders and sigh asked, “What?”

  “The work your parents do is very important. Very important. Just think of all the children they help. You should feel honored. It’s noble.”

  “Yep.” I slouched my way to the so-called foyer, which consisted of a concrete bench and a plastic yucca.

  When the glittery beige Cadillac pulled up, I slipped my hands further up into the tunnel of my sleeves, wishing I could disappear altogether. Mrs. Engleman opened the back door for me and gave the Rochesters directions to the shelter. Upon hearing the address, the couple sighed and grew teary. Old folks.

  “This is a pretty car, all sparkly,” I say, trying to distract them.

  “They call it champagne.”

  In my world it was oatmeal, oatmeal with sugar sprinkles if you were lucky.

  “I hear the young couple who runs the shelter is so kind. It’s such noble work. The…what is their name, Fred?”

  “Hammel? …Hamlin? Oh, yes…Hamilton.”

  I didn’t try to explain that I was not a resident of the facility but rather a captive by birth. I liked the idea of their misunderstanding. After all, I felt like an orphan most days…Mom and Dad spent so much of their time meeting the needs of fifteen live-in kids and countless other day charges. I was number eight in our dinner line. I was part of the Blue Team on the chore chart. I was the recipient of the “It is important to share” speech which was given by parent A while parent B pried a toy, a piece of candy, or a Schwinn handlebar from my grip.

  This case of mistaken identity started me wondering what life would be like without parents. The wisdom of my comedy act returned to me…“And we’re too young to leave ’em.” Right then and there I vowed to become an adult as soon as possible. And when I could finally shed my childhood like an outgrown, hand-me-down sateen jacket, I would do wildly exciting things, like vacation in Mexico, drive a champagne-colored convertible, donate lots of money to good causes, but never, ever volunteer in a soup kitchen.

  And the thought that delighted me most: I would celebrate a life free of my parents’ opinions and their very oatmeal way of life.

  God’s Punch Line

  Golden Horizons Retirement Center

  Tucson, Arizona

  Present Day

  Honey, your bosom is very nice. You shouldn’t wear such a terrible trench coat. You’ll never find a man that way…or a man will never find you…under all that.” Mrs. Sally Jenkins adjusts her wig in the mirror; I straighten her collar from behind her wheelchair.

  “As you well know, Sally, this is not a trench coat. It is the official uniform for Golden Horizons Retirement Center, and I think it is quite stylish.” I strike a pose that she ignores because she is putting large butterfly-shaped earrings onto her drooping lobes.

  “You could try to be a bit more…available, you know.” She points a press-on nail in my general direction. I duck in time to save an eye.

  I believe God is fond of irony and humor. I believe he listens to the vow of a third grader and sets it aside for future material. He does not need to close his eyes and count because he is a God of abundant patience. He merely waited for the perfect rebuttal to my youthful self-promise and placed me here, in Tucson, as the activities director who serves not two, but two hundred controlling, opinionated surrogate parents among oatmeal-colored walls.

  “Start getting out more, that’s all I’m saying. I date more than you do.” Sally tries to roll her eyes, but her mascara has just about welded the upper and lower lids together. She rotates her face and contorts her expression to test the elasticity of today’s mask.

  “I am not looking for a man,” I say defensively.

  Sally adjusts her hair one more time and tries to peak it to a mountainous crest and is displeased. “You sure don’t do hair like Beau. Have I ever told you about…”

  “Yes. Yes. The amazing chignon of 1998. Sally, if I have to hear about Beau the beautician one more time, I will never shave the back of your neck again.”

  Beau…my activities director predecessor and apparently a man who could do anything except fail. Even the most disgruntled residents reminisce about the days of Beau. I cannot stand the guy. We’ve never met. But I think that if I ran into a guy named Beau in a dark alley, I could take him at any challenge…chignons, sponge cake, karaoke, you name it. In fact, I look forward to the day I run across the boy named Beau.

  My somewhat idle threat has worked for now. Sally returns to her original complaint. “If you take your own sweet time, you will run out of it. Don’t wait until you are eighty. It’s slim pickins at this age.” She pauses only long enough to check her profile in the mirror. The orange foundation line across her chin does not faze her. Beneath wands of lashes, her eyes brighten with discovery. “Hey, where’s the goat?”

  “Excuse me?” I gather the makeup brushes and shove them back into plastic stackable cubbyholes, the kind used to store socks and underwear in dorm rooms.

  “The painting…with the goat?” Her mass of orchestrated tangles leans toward the wall opposite the vanity.

  “It’s a Chagall print,” I say without looking. I know its every brilliant hue and offbeat shape by heart. “It is one of my favorites. Though I really love his series housed at the Museum of the Biblical Message in Nice. I’ve only seen it in books, of course, but he painted scenes from—”

  “Okay, show-off. Whatever it is, it is missing. Don’t make me late for the reading group.” Sally has little tolerance for new knowledge that does not relate to hair, George Clooney, or dating. As if on cue, she returns to this latter topic. “You know, my nephew Roger owns a much more respectable print of a Monet. Do you know the one that has the bridge and the faded flowers?” She unnecessarily describes the most overly reproduced art image in the history of museum gift shops. “My Roger is a catch by any standards. You two should—”

  I pop a wheelie to throw Sally’s last words back down her throat and to stop the image of Roger s
itting on a pleather couch, offering me tap water from an emerald green Perrier bottle and fancy French cookies bought in bulk at the local supermarket while discussing the benefits of “art” collecting ad nauseum.

  Only recently did I find out that my love life was fodder for more than Parcheesi gossip. My romantic endeavors, or lack of them, was the subject of the longest running bet ever to exist in the hallowed halls of Golden Horizons. Running so long, in fact, that seven residents had their bets redistributed after they…moved on.

  The path from the salon to the commons room is scattered with other residents who are heading our way. They file in to the large multipurpose room and look for places to sit in the semicircle of metal chairs. I survey the octogenarian crowd waiting to discuss chapter 2 of Nicholas Sparks’ The Notebook and am most certain that my Mr. Right will not be found among their spawn. God willing.

  The gray-and-blue tiled area looks like a showroom for Deluxe Wheels and Regal-Rotary wheelchair models with an entire back section of reading group participants parked in orderly rows. They WD-40’d their wheels days in advance.

  This latest book evokes very tender memories. While Stan Sherman discusses how his wife died of cancer ten years ago, I wipe away a few tears. His frayed baseball cap and oversized Yankees sweatshirt are endearing. I want to take him home. This, my friend Angelica would say, is one of my issues.

  I believe I have many.

  For example, on my way to becoming that independent adult I vowed at age nine to become, I have bypassed the joy of being my age. Here I am approaching thirty—my absolute goal for success and happiness—and I have let the demographic of my eight to five crowd start to crowd out my youth.

  Exaggeration?

  I receive the AARP newsletter instead of Vogue.

  I call out bingo numbers instead of giving out my number to eligible men.

  While people my age are investigating safe tanning methods, I have a file filled with the latest research on hip replacement surgery.

  Lord, help me.

  I have started to wonder if that overused prayer has become a useless, mute plea to God. Because he certainly doesn’t seem to listen, and his response time doesn’t take into account the “window for success” that a career demands. For the past five years I have prayed for a way out of this job, but student loans, the economy, and two crashed hard drives possessing my recent résumé derail good intentions. I cannot see my way out of this current life. The thought gives me goose bumps. The fear kind, not the inspired kind.