Читать книгу Sandwiched - Jennifer Archer - Страница 13

My kitchen smells like chicken and dumplings tonight. I think Mother’s trying to fatten up Erin, but I’m sure it’ll be me who ends up waddling, not my teenaged daughter. She can exist on a diet of French fries without gaining a pound.

We’ve fallen into a routine. One instigated by Mother. She cooks. We eat as a family at the table. Erin and I clean up. I’m amazed it’s lasted an entire five nights; I don’t know how she managed to recruit Erin in the first place, much less keep her coming back. But, though I enjoy the family time, I’m also a tiny bit jealous that my mother pulled off what I couldn’t. Since this school year began, my offers of a home-cooked meal have been turned down. Erin’s either had other plans for dinner or says she’d rather get takeout. I realize I’m not Julia Child or even my mother when it comes to the kitchen. But I whip up a decent omelet, and my spaghetti’s not bad. I add spices to the Ragu.

“Did you talk to your dad today?” I scrape chicken into the disposal, then hand the plate to Erin.

“Yeah. He called right after school.”

Right after I called and gave him an earful. If that’s what it takes for Erin to receive some attention from her father, so be it. I’ll bug that man from now until he drops dead.

Erin places the plate into the dishwasher. “Did someone straighten up my room?”

I laugh. “If so, they didn’t do a very good job.”

“I’m missing a book.”

“Penelope’s Passion?”

A blush stains Erin’s cheeks as she reaches for another plate. “Yeah.”

“I borrowed it and forgot to put it back. Sorry. When we finish up here I’ll get it for you. I’m planning to read it at Nana’s group so I’ll be buying my own copy and copies for all the members.”

Pausing with the plate in her hand, Erin’s eyes widen. “Mo-ther!”

“What?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No. Why?”

“You can’t read that to people their age.”

I wet a dishcloth, turn off the faucet and wipe down the counter. “Why not?”

“There’s stuff in it.”

“You think your generation invented stuff?”

Erin lowers the plate she’s holding. “But, they’re old.”

Mother enters the kitchen, headed for the breakfast nook and the hutch where she keeps her knitting basket. “Listen here, smarty-pants,” she says to Erin in a teasing voice. “We old people could teach you youngsters a thing or two about romance. There’s a lot to be said for wooing.”

“Wooing?” Erin scowls.

“That’s right, wooing.” Mother tucks the basket under her arm and smiles. “Candy and flowers. A walk in the moonlight. Stolen kisses on a front porch swing.”

I want to sigh. It sounds so old-fashioned. And wonderful. In my dating days, an evening was considered romantic if the guy paid for the movie without trying to cop a feel afterward. How did my generation miss the boat? The one with champagne, candlelight and a string quartet?

“When I was young,” Mother continues, “the boys pursued the girls, not vice versa. At least not in such an obvious way like I see today. We didn’t call them on the phone or chase after them. A young man came to a girl’s house and met her family before any dating went on.” She pauses to give us The Look. “And I might add that he came to the front door.”

Erin tucks her lower lip between her teeth, and for a second, I sense a silent message passing between my mother and my daughter. But then a memory hits me full force, and I realize the message is for me, not Erin.

“Oh, I get it.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “You’re taking up where Dad left off, is that it? You’re not ever going to let me forget about that time when I was seventeen and he caught Dave Baldwin outside my bedroom window.”

“According to your father, the boy reeked of beer.” Mother chuckles. “Harry was fit to be tied.”

“You can say that again.” Shaking my head, I look sideways at Erin. My laugh sounds nervous even to me; I hope she doesn’t notice. “And after your grandpop put the fear of God into poor Dave, he tore into me like I was the one who’d been drinking beer. Which, by the way, Dave hadn’t been drinking, either.” It was strawberry wine. “I never convinced your granddad of that, though.”

Mother joins us at the sink. “He thought—”

“I know, I know, he thought I was going out the window.” I glance at my daughter again. She’s reading the instructions on the dishwashing detergent, which strikes me as odd, but lately everything she does strikes me as odd, so I blow it off. “Just so you know, Erin, I wasn’t about to sneak out.” Not that night, anyway. “Dave and I were just talking. But your granddad never believed that, either. And for the rest of his life, he never tired of teasing me about it.”

“Suzanna and I are going back to the mall to look for a concert dress tonight,” Erin says, as if she hasn’t heard a word of our story.

“What about See Dick Run?” Erin and I always watch the popular reality-TV program together on Wednesday nights. Without fail. The show is completely ridiculous. Twenty steroid-enhanced jocks compete in physical challenges to win a week in paradise with a life-sized, walking, talking, breathing blow-up doll. At least, I’m convinced her head is full of air. But Erin loves the show, so I pretend I do, too. It’s one of the few routines we still share. And, okay, I’ll come clean; I’m caught up in it, too. It’s silly fun.

“Would you tape it for me?” Erin talks over her shoulder as she hurries out of the kitchen. “I don’t have time to watch tonight.”

“Sure.” I try to sound unaffected. “Don’t forget it’s a school night. Be home by nine.”

“Nine-thirty,” she calls from the entry hall. “The mall doesn’t even close until nine.”

“You know the rules.”

“Jeez!” The front door squeaks open; I hear the rustle of her jacket as she slips it on. “Whatever.”

The door slams, and I feel the distance growing between us in more than just a physical way.

At the sink, I rinse the dishcloth, avoiding my mother’s gaze.

“About that incident with Dave at the window,” she says.

“Good grief, are we back to that?” I wring out the cloth, then gather a stack of mail from the counter and shuffle through it. “It happened twenty-some-odd years ago. Could we just forget it?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t forget such things. What’s that you always say? What goes around comes around?”

“If you’re implying what I think you are, Mother, don’t worry about it. Erin’s a hundred times smarter and more levelheaded than I was at seventeen. She isn’t the least bit boy crazy.”

Hoping to escape a lecture, I take the mail and head for the backyard.

The patio light provides enough of a glow that I’m able to read.

Max looks up from his bowl and blinks at me, then returns his attention to his food.

I settle into a wicker chair, flip through the mail again, then place all but one piece on the patio table. The evening is cool, but not uncomfortable. It’s already dark out, but I don’t care; I’m numb and blind to everything except the texture of the expensive envelope beneath my fingertips and the return address in the upper left corner. Gosset, Dusseldorf and Klein.

Shooing away a fly, I turn the envelope over to open it, but can’t bring myself to lift the flap. “This is it, Max,” I say, eliciting a tiny moan from him. He stops munching and trots over. “The end of life as I knew it. No more Bert. Hurray!” My throat tightens. Erin might as well be gone, too. From now on, it’ll just be Mother and me.

It won’t be so bad, I tell myself. Who needs men anyway? Who can trust ’em? I’ll learn to knit. That’s something Mother and I can do together. Night after night. In front of the television. Wheel of Fortune. Mother will cook delicious meals for me. What better way to fill the emptiness than with smothered steak and buttermilk biscuits? Blackberry cobbler? She might even make my favorite chocolate éclairs. I’ll gain so much weight that I have to buy my clothing at the tent and awning store. Which won’t be an issue anymore since I won’t be trying to impress a man. Think how comfy I’ll be. How content. Fat and happy.

And alone. With Mother.

Max yelps. I look down at him. He tilts his head to one side. His brown eyes appear sympathetic.

“I’m sorry Max.” I sniff. “It won’t be just Mother and me. I’ll have you, too. Since Dad’s gone, you’re the only male in my life worth bothering with, anyway. At least you don’t leave dirty underwear on the bedroom floor.”

His butt wiggles, like he’s trying to wag his nubby tail.

“Your ass is cute, too. And you never expect me to kiss it.”

He nuzzles his cold nose against my hand. “In fact, you’re the best-looking guy I’ve seen in a long time.” As I size him up, I have to admit, he is. His coat is smooth and shiny, his body looks strong, his eyes are sad, but clear. He comes from a long line of prize-winning English bulldogs, and it shows.

“I think you’ve got potential, Max,” I say, perking up a bit. “A good-looking stud like you? I bet if your services were for sale, every bulldog hussy this side of the Mississippi would be panting at your doghouse door. Someone in this family besides Bert might as well get some action.” At least I’d get paid for Maxwell’s philandering.

Max prisses over to the grass.

“Another point in your favor. You don’t leave the toilet seat up when you pee.”

He hunkers down.

“Really though, Max.” I swat at a fly. “You might want to start lifting your leg. I don’t know what the hussies would think of a squatting stud.”

When Max finishes his business and comes back over, I scratch between his ears. “I might even enter you in one of those stuffy shows. I bet you’d take home the blue ribbon.”

With one final scratch to Max’s head, I return my focus to the envelope. I open it, pull the paperwork out, unfold it, then set it aside, facedown. Why not see what else came in the mail and put off the inevitable? I make my way through bills, flyers, an invitation to a party to celebrate an associate’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Good for her. Thanks for rubbing it in. I reach for an envelope from Erin’s school. The letter inside is for parents of seniors. A meeting’s planned next week to discuss graduation plans; announcements, caps and gowns, the class party. Already.

A wave of sadness sweeps over me.

Erin. She’s not a little girl anymore. But she’s not as grown up as she thinks she is, either. She’s pulling away from me, but still requires my guidance. More than ever. But I need a different approach now that she’s older.

With a sigh, I return to the legal papers. Can’t put them off forever. Maybe I’ve been looking at this divorce all wrong. Maybe it’s a new beginning rather than an ending. A chance to discover new interests. To rediscover old ones. To do something for me, for a change. I should redefine my relationship with Erin, focus more on my career, spend more time with Mother. Can’t all that be enough?

When I flip to the last page, Bert’s signature jumps out at me. Then mine. I suck in a breath of cool air.

My tears taste salty and bittersweet as I stare at the document that ends my old life and launches a new one.

New and improved.