Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

I consider calling Sadie to ask her about my rights and whatever else someone who manages people would know, but I’m afraid she will coordinate another intervention. I’m not up for too much honesty right now. Besides, my cupboards aren’t stocked.

  My stomach aches because this is what it knows to do on command to warrant a day off. In grade school I missed a couple days a month due to mysterious stomach pains. Excuses to stay home were necessary because it was the only time I could have my mom to myself. I wonder if she ever knew.

  There is that urge to call home. This round I cannot claim there is not enough time. In fact, I cannot think of any of the usual excuses that surface to prevent me from a gesture of need.

  I arrange the couch and surrounding area with all that I require for this effort. My blanket, a cup of coffee, my slippers, a glass of water, a toaster pastry, and Elmo.

  I position my finger to autodial 1. I programmed that as my “in case of emergency” number, which is funny, because if something did happen, my folks could not do much from several thousand miles away. But here I am, in what I consider a crisis if not an emergency, and it feels good to know they are only one digit away from me, here on my couch, in this place of sagebrush and bull snakes and magnificent sunrises. One of which fills my living room window. I watch for a few minutes and then press down.

  I imagine Mom with her loose ponytail and Land’s End long-sleeved shirt, and Dad with his big feet encased in Timberlands, rushing around as they clean up after breakfast and organize last details for the volunteers coming in the afternoon. They each have a list of people to call taped to their phone. Not a day goes by that they are not expressing their passion and conviction to someone at the city, county, state, and federal levels. Mom’s theory was that as soon as a decision maker asks his or her secretary to not put their calls through, they are on that person’s radar. Just where they want to be.

  “Schmidt?” My mom’s voice is stronger than I remember. We have spoken only a few times in recent months. Once I started submitting my résumé, I was reluctant to talk with her. She, like Rae, would know something was up.

  “It’s me, Mom. Mari.”

  “Hey, you! Ted, it’s Mari!” She calls out to my dad excitedly, even though she clearly was anxiously awaiting a call from Carl Schmidt, county commissioner.

  I can hear her place the cell phone in the cradle and the familiar echo of shelter sounds as she switches me to speaker phone mode.

  “Hey, if it isn’t our princess of the South. How are you, dear?” Dad’s voice, in contrast to Mom’s, sounds pale and tired. His exuberance is heartfelt but only surface level in energy. My own heart beats quickly as my spirit remembers how often stress was a part of our daily experience. Money was tight. There was always a battle to be fought. Conflict between several of the children was imminent. And always there was no time for rest.

  I tap together the heels of my slippers and am glad to be home. Right here.

  “We’re so glad you called. You know we are well into preparations for Resurrection Week. Wish you were here.”

  Sure. Getting free labor is always good.

  “Knowing you two, you have it all under control. It’s only disguised as chaos.”

  “How long since you last visited?” My dad laughs, implying only that I must have forgotten that the underlying current at the shelter was always chaos. But the answer to that question replaces my fake stomachache with a full-fledged ulcer.

  “How are the plans going?” This upcoming week is second only to the Thanksgiving Festival in the shelter’s annual cycle of fund-raising. Resurrection Week follows Easter and is a full seven days of celebrations and efforts to involve the community with the shelter and vice versa. Several open houses and tours kick off the week. Then the kids sign up to do chores and errands for area residents or for businesses. The event has grown so big that there is not one politician associated with children’s services, foster care, or social services who does not make an appearance. Usually they wait for the street fair on the last day so they get the most publicity for their small effort. But there are a few who personally care about the work and help lead tours and arrange interviews from the site to raise awareness and hopefully money. For them and the shelter.

  As they share, in tandem, the plans for next month’s party, I do feel excited about their ideas. Only a bit of me acknowledges that I did get this part of their genes. They ask about the Golden Golden Gala, and I play up the success without mentioning Beau…Rae…

  Me.

  Fah so la ti do.

  “I visited one of the resorts this week. Majestic Vista. You should check out their website. It’s incredible. And they host several charity functions each year.” I introduce the topic with a service slant, hoping this will soften what I am telling them. They knew when I moved thousands of miles away that I was determined to end up in a world other than the one I grew up in. But when I landed a “temporary” spot with Golden Horizons, they had been so proud.

  “That sounds really nice, dear. Sure does.” They give me their reassurances. “But I’ll bet after that big successful anniversary party, they won’t want to let you leave the retirement home.”

  The very blatant segue to the obvious point of my call comes and goes. It’s one thing to disappoint them with a well-paid position that has benefits and perks. It’s quite another to tell them I got booted out of a low-paying, no perks, “doing it for the ministry” kind of career.

  “Oh, hey. You’ll never guess who our latest boomerang is.” Mom peals with absolute Christmas-morning delight.

  While suburban parents use this term to refer to their grown children who return home for a rent-free existence, “boomerang” is my parents’ term of endearment for those kids who go through the shelter and later return to help in some way. Many times it is for Resurrection Week, but occasionally it is someone who returns to assist on a regular basis. Even though my inability to return lowers their percentage of these boomerangs, they unofficially have the best record among shelters in town.

  “Thalia?” I say this name after ten years of not. She was my nemesis in the house, but I liked that she played a motherly role with the other kids. It meant that I did not have to.

  “Oh, wouldn’t you love that!” Dad, at least, remembers the rivalry.

  “Marcus is here.”

  My heart stops. Another name I have not spoken in years. Not since I left Washington, D.C., with a vehement commitment to break all ties to anyone and anything relevant to my childhood. The biggest break was not with my parents or the tree-lined street I knew as my only home. It was with Marcus.

  I can hear on the phone that Dad is calling upstairs for him. By “he’s here,” they mean right there.

  “Please no, please no,” I whisper.

  “What dear?”

  I forgot about the magnification of speaker phone. “Oh…I said Elmo. He’s getting fussy.”

  “I miss that crazy kitten. Actually, he’s gettin’ to be an old man by now.”

  Yet another indication of how much time has passed confronts me. I hear Dad say he cannot find Marcus and how disappointed he’ll be to miss my call.

  “Mom, I have to go. Um…good luck with the plans, and I’ll let you know if I make any big career moves.”

  Liar.

  “Dad thinks Marcus might be down in the kitchen prepping lunch. Can you hold on? It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “I really need to go.”

  Mom doesn’t know all that upsets me, but she senses I’m not up for talking to Marcus. She makes an excuse for me. “Honey, Mari is a busy woman, like her mother, and she needs to get back to work. She’ll catch him next time.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

  She chuckles with understanding. “I love you too. Don’t be any stranger.”

  Our usual sign-off feels good. But when I hang up the phone, I feel very alone. I go where I rarely go…to my old photo album. It was a project for high school and one I bemoaned endlessly. But
this cheap, three-ring binder was one of the few possessions I brought with me to college in Arizona.

  My fingers know which page to turn to by feel. The edge of this photo page has a slight indentation from so many visits.

  I close my eyes and open them. Close again…flip to the page…then open. My eyes go straight for Marcus’ face. He was one of the only guys at the shelter who had to shave. In this shot he has a five o’clock shadow that serves to contrast with his bright smile. At age thirteen, Marcus had come to the shelter very hardened, yet he was one of the first to embrace everything about his new home. By the time he reached high school, the social worker’s reports reflected that he was a serious student and a very well-adjusted individual. A real success story.

  In this photo, his Cubs baseball cap is angled to the side; the tip is hitting my big hair as I lean my head toward his shoulder. Our arms are linked, and we have on matching Cubs sweatshirts. I didn’t give a dang for baseball, but Marcus was from Chicago, and he was passionate about this tie to home. When your mother forgets your name because she is high, and your father forgets your birthday because he wasn’t around for your birth, a baseball team can serve as a substitute for family. This version comes with posters, emblem-covered attire, and statistics that are good to pour over and memorize. That way, if anyone asks about your childhood, you can distract them with fascinating facts about your home team. It’s the oldest trick in the book of denial.

  Elmo resituates himself, placing a paw onto the page. With my finger, I retrace the face of the only boy to ever capture the attention of my heart.

  Until recently, that is.

  Matchmaker

  The residents are up in arms over your firing, Mari. The rumors were growing with each hour. They had to shut down the game session because people were chanting ‘Mari’ instead of ‘bingo.’” Lysa enters my apartment with a box that used to hold copier paper. Now it holds the very limited proof of my past five years of work. She catches her breath and then hugs me.

  “Thanks for doing this. Once I realized it was true,” I point to the box, “I couldn’t face going in to retrieve my things.” I’m shocked at how choked up I am.

  She shakes her head. I can tell she has been crying.

  “I’ll have to find a way to say goodbye to the residents.” My mind wanders for a moment, and then it occurs to me who I will miss the most. “Tess!” I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a sound that does not emerge. To not be able to talk with Tess again would break my heart.

  “These should help.” Lysa hands me the stack of notes in her right hand. They are tied with a yellow ribbon I recognize from Tess’ stationery supply. I skim through the signatures on the various sheets of paper; these goodbyes and condolences are from my favorite residents. Lysa’s kindness has touched me. I get teary against my personal vow not to. It’s a good thing, I tell myself. How many times have I almost quit on my own accord?

  I excuse myself to the kitchen as Lysa trades one of her health care industry white shirts for one of my slouchy sweaters. I quickly reemerge from my galley kitchen with all that I can offer the person who has saved me from humiliation with Rae—a box of crackers and some canned cheese. Like two thirteen-year-olds at a sleepover, we kick our shoes off and get comfy on the couch. Feeling the need to expand for comfort, we take up lots of room, digging our toes into the nubby fabric to press our backs into the arms at each end. We face one another and at first just grimace our disbelief back and forth as we reach for crackers. But halfway through the can of cheese we are laughing and trying to make sense of the past two days.

  “It’s brilliant, really,” Lysa says with her arms stretched out. “Rae figures out that you are planning to leave anyway, so she takes advantage of this computer caper as a diversion. She fabricates a story that you were ready to press charges against your own residents. She comes off like she, of all people, is defending these folks.” Lysa slaps her forehead with incredulity.

  “You think it worked?” Sadness covers me. I can’t bear that people believe such lies about me.

  “Maybe one small faction believes that garbage, but only her pets. Even Chet is telling the truth about the situation. I saw him confronting Rae once the news was out. I think there is something between those two.”

  “I thought that too!” I shout and then backpedal. “You mean, something like a conflict or a secret…not like they’re dating, right?”

  Lysa can barely breathe, she is laughing so hard. A silk embroidered pillow comes straight toward my head.

  “Hey! No beating up on the unemployed. The downtrodden. The misplaced worker. The unjustly booted.”

  “The free. Don’t forget that part. In some ways I am jealous of your…” she pulls a positive angle on my situation from the air, “your life without commitments.”

  “No commitments except rent, food, car payment…but those are silly things.” The gravity of my situation sinks into my skin, my spirit. Not even the last squirt of cheese will save me.

  As the conversation hits a wall, there is a knock. I have completely forgotten the matchmaking I had planned for this evening. I slog over to the door in my baggy jeans and the T-shirt I use when painting furniture. On my stoop I find the first half of this blind date standing with several vases in her arms.

  “Yvette!” I welcome her by speaking her name, and it feels good. “Come on in. I’d like you to meet my friend and former coworker, Lysa.”

  “F-former coworker?” This news gives her good cause to worry. But what she doesn’t know is that I have forgiven her.

  “Oh, that’s a really boring story. Short and recent, but no twists of interest. Lysa and I were just discussing the benefits of being unemployed.”

  Another knock returns me to the door. I open to find Caitlin in a tulle shirt with black jeans and Zane on her arm. After taking in all the details of Yvette’s life, I made a call to Caitlin to see if she had any possible interest in Zane. When she answered no, I asked if she would help me hook him up with my neighbor and cyber spy.

  I introduce everyone, and while Caitlin compliments Yvette’s monogrammed peasant blouse and Yvette openly admires Caitlin’s boots covered in old-fashioned travel stickers, I make plans to get the right couple out the door.

  “I feel really bad, everybody. Here I had these tickets to a viewing of Extreme Skateboarding, but after today’s events, I’m just not up for it.” I look at the floor for a while, letting the silence become awkward.

  Zane and Yvette’s eyes light up simultaneously at the mention of the original plan. I’m this close to closing this deal. Zane graciously inquires about my day.

  “She lost her job.” Caitlin announces, and when she sees the appropriate look of shock on his face, she plans the handoff cleverly. “I was really excited to go to this film, but now I feel I should stay with Mari. To comfort her. You understand, don’t you Zane?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” His disappointment is only slightly apparent. “Mari, this is probably a silly consolation, but I just wanted you to know that your tip about the Grease and Go was brilliant. I’ve been telling all my friends about it. I think I’ll sell it at my store.”

  Perfect topic Zane-man. “Zane, I remember you talking about wanting to get Earth Surfin’s website going…and it turns out that online retailing is Yvette’s expertise.”

  “I should get in touch with you sometime, if you wouldn’t mind.” Zane gives Yvette a glance, and she shyly nods.

  “Hey, why not now?” I play up the brilliance of this coincidental arrangement. “Why don’t you two take these tickets and have a good time? Please. I’d feel terrible if everybody’s night was ruined because of my unfortunate circumstances.”

  The two future soul mates look at each other to get a feel for what the other is thinking. They reach for the tickets at the same time, bumping hands.

  We all bid them farewell, waving from the top of the stairs until they climb into Zane’s jeep.

  “Did I just witness an ambush date?” Ly
sa inquires as she rummages through my kitchen in search of the largest spoons. We both noticed the vat of ice cream Caitlin has brought with her.

  “I prefer to call it a double blind date.”

  “Maybe you could earn a living doing this matchmaking thing. Tonight was very clever; I’d hire you.” Caitlin considers one of the many possibilities before me. “But why’d you do it? After all Yvette has done to you?”

  “What’d she do?” Lysa asks with a mouth full of butter brickle. Her utensil of choice, a soup ladle, comes in for another humongous scoop.

  “She’s the outside hacker…the fan club president,” explains Caitlin.

  “No way!” Lysa swallows the calories and the news. “So why did you do such a nice thing for her?”

  “The way I see it, if a person is desperate enough to pretend to be me, she deserves a new gig.”

  Nobody disagrees, and my official pity party commences with a round of brain freezing bites of butter brickle.

  Passing Notes

  My back feels the pressure of a gaze. I turn expecting to see Elmo perched on top of the bookshelf, but it is the suggestion box that wants to be noticed. Lysa smuggled it out for me so I could read the fruit of my labor from the party.

  A childhood memory flashes in my mind. I hold a red construction paper heart folder close to my own and rush home after our Valentine’s Day party at school. Unlike my friends who tore into theirs between suckers and chocolate kisses, I wait until I am alone to open each small envelope and read notes of friendship, hoping to find hidden references to a crush.

  Now, I reach into my box with similar anticipation. Small, crisp pieces of linen paper with gold embossing that I had placed by the display are now filled with short, sweet thoughts and memories. Many family members recall the difficulty of bringing their loved one to live in a facility, but their sentiments express gratitude for those who made that difficult transition easier. A mental checklist reminds me that I was the one to initially welcome many of the people who enjoyed the dance floor the other night. One by one, their childlike expressions of fear, worry, and even abandonment fill the space of my mind. It felt good to ease their concerns each time.