Читать книгу Sandwiched - Jennifer Archer - Страница 9

Cecilia Dupree

Day Planner

Saturday, 11/1

1. Unpack Mother.

2. Grocery store.

3. Shop for Erin’s concert dress.

Instead of filing for divorce, I should’ve buried Bert in the backyard, in the spot beneath the willow where our bulldog likes to pee.

I realize my mistake on a Saturday morning while driving home from the Donut Hut. The sun shines bright in a lapis-blue sky; the autumn air is as sweet and crisp as my mother’s famous gingersnap cookies. It seems a shame to go back to the house so soon on such a gorgeous day, back to Mother and a bedroom full of boxes containing her things. So I decide, instead, to take a little drive.

After rolling down the windows, I choose a chocolate long john from the doughnut sack then proceed to lick off the icing. Which might give you a fairly clear idea of what’s lurking at the back of my mind, though I have a difficult time admitting, even to myself, why nibbling the pastry gives me such an inordinate amount of pleasure. I pretend I’m only attempting to satisfy my sweet tooth but, after more than six months of sleeping alone, deep down I know better.

Since the separation, I’ve spent my days and nights trying to keep up with my teenaged daughter, checking on my widowed mother, putting in long hours at a demanding child-and-family counseling practice. No time exists for sex; at least that’s what I tell myself. So I avoid anything and everything that might remind me of what I’m missing.

It isn’t easy.

In case you haven’t noticed, sex is everywhere these days. Television. Movies. Books. Doughnut sacks. Even my late Friday and Saturday nights of safe, celibate solitaire have turned traitor on me. After a couple of months alone with the card deck, the King of Hearts has started to look appealing; I’d swear he has a frisky gleam in his eye.

But back to Bert and why I should’ve buried him.

Somehow or another, I wind up on his street this Saturday morning. And just in time to see him step onto the front porch of his condo with a young, buxom redhead attached to his side. The girl doesn’t look much older than our daughter Erin, the only worthwhile thing Bert ever gave me during our nineteen years of marriage.

It’s the kiss that does me in. I can’t tear my attention away from their passionate lip-lock, from Bert’s hands kneading and caressing that tight, round, voluptuous butt. Because of that kiss, I don’t see the curve in the road. I hit the curb, run up onto the sidewalk, jerk to a screeching halt only inches from a mailbox in front of the condo across the street from Bert’s.

That forces my attention away from the kiss. Bert’s too, apparently, because before I can catch my breath, he’s beside my window, looking down at me with the smug, disdainful sneer I know so well.

Swallowing a creamy bite of pastry that, luckily, I didn’t choke on, I meet his gaze and attempt to act as if nothing is at all unusual about my minivan, aka “the grocery getter,” being parked on his neighbor’s walk. “Hello, Bert.”

“Cecilia.” His eyes shift to my lap where the prior object of my desire now sits in a smear of chocolate, soiling my gray, baggy sweats.

Bert, I notice, wears boxers. No shirt. His feet are bare. He’s lost weight and bulked up since the last time I saw him barelegged and bare-chested. Muscles bulge I never knew existed. My once soft and pudgy soon-to-be ex looks buff and disgustingly great, which only makes me wish all the more that I’d chopped him up into little pieces and planted him beneath the willow tree. Maxwell, our bulldog, would’ve loved me for it. The dog never cared much for Bert. I imagine he’d take great pleasure in a daily tinkle over the remains of the guy who called him “girly-dog” and once kicked him for eating out of the trashcan.

When I realize Bert sees me sizing up his pecs, I shift my attention to beyond his shoulder where a little red convertible backs out of his drive. “How upstanding of you to volunteer to teach the Girl Scouts mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

Bert doesn’t even flinch. I guess nothing embarrasses him anymore after being caught by me in the arms of Tanya Butterfield, our neighbor’s twenty-one-year old daughter.

“You’re looking good,” he says, eyeing my sleep-mussed hair and the pimple on my chin, compliments of my frequent flirtation with chocolate. I always thought blemish-free skin would be one of the few perks of perimenopause. I thought wrong. This morning, I left for the Donut Hut straight out of bed and didn’t bother to use a comb or wash my face, much less put on makeup to cover the zit.

Bert sweeps a finger across the side of my mouth and comes away with a glob of icing. “I see you gave up on your diet.”

Before I can think of a barbed comeback, an old man steps out of the house in front of the mailbox I barely missed demolishing. He stands in the yard wearing his pajamas, arms crossed, glaring at me over the tops of his reading glasses.

“Hello, Mr. Perkins,” Bert calls out. “Everything’s okay. She missed your box. I’ll have her off the sidewalk and on her way in no time.”

Bert steps away from the van, and I put it in Reverse then back out into the street. I consider shifting into drive, slamming on the accelerator and leaving him choking on exhaust. But Bert’s arrogant declaration to pucker-faced Mr. Perkins changes my mind. He’ll have me on my way in no time? We’ll see about that. No one controls Cecilia Dupree. Not anymore. I press on the brake and wait for him to walk back over.

“So…” Bert bends down to look into the window again, leveling one forearm on the edge and his gaze on mine. “What brings you to my neighborhood at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, CiCi?”

Birds twitter and cheep, serenading my humiliation. “Yesterday Erin and I moved Mother out of Parkview Manor Retirement Village and into the spare bedroom. Today we’re unpacking. I went to get breakfast.”

“I’m not exactly on your route home.”

There is no way in Heaven or Hell I’ll admit that I’ve ended up on his street because I’ve been thinking about him day and night for the past week. Our wedding anniversary passed uneventfully three days ago and, the truth is, I’m having a tough time learning to live single.

Seeing Bert doesn’t help matters. While he has obviously been working out at a gym, dating, having a life, I’ve been paralyzed. Unable to move forward. Wallowing in the predivorce doldrums while feeding my face with whatever I can find in the fridge to fill the hollow spot inside of me, the gaping hole Bert left behind.

Don’t get me wrong; I stay busy. During the day, my life is chaos. And most every evening, I’m at the kitchen table studying patient files. When I’ve had enough of that, the King of Hearts and I fool around a little until Erin comes home from wherever she spends her spare time these days. When it’s time for bed, old movies on late-night TV keep me company until I drop off to sleep.

It’s not so much that I miss Bert; I miss what felt familiar. Being one half of a couple. Having a warm body in the bed beside me at night. Lately, I’ve even been tempted to give in to Maxwell’s sad eyes and let him sleep on the bed at my feet.

Determined to salvage my pride, I lift my pimpled chin and meet Bert’s stare straight-on. “It’s been so long since Erin’s heard from you, I was afraid you might’ve skipped town. I thought I better swing by and make sure your car was still in the driveway.” I hope it doesn’t occur to him that I could’ve just picked up the phone.

“Erin’s cell’s always busy. I’ll try her again today.”

Shifting the van into drive, I motion toward the old man who still stands in the yard, arms crossed, watching us. “Tell your neighbor I apologize.”

Bert smiles. “Say hello to Belle for me. I’ll miss her cooking this Thanksgiving and Christmas. She’s okay, isn’t she?”

“Mom’s fine. For the most part, anyway.”

He frowns. “For the most part?”

“Her eyesight’s getting worse. I think she’s depressed about it. She doesn’t socialize at all. She’s stopped cooking for the other apartment residents, and you know how Mom loves to cook. Anyway, Erin and I talked it over and decided she’d probably be happier and more active living with us. We’ve hired a woman to come over and be with her during the day.”

“That’s a big step. I admire you for it.”

“Yeah…well.” I shrug. “I do my part for the elderly of the world, you do your part for the youth.”

“Youth?”

I nod toward his condo. “The mouth-to-mouth?”

Bert surprises me with a blush, which gives me a small measure of satisfaction as I drive away, this time leaving him alone and embarrassed.

Sweet justice.

AROUND 11:00 A.M., Erin declares her work duties done, blows her Nana a kiss and takes off for her best friend Suzanna’s house. They plan to eat lunch at the mall, then spend the afternoon shopping for a dress for Erin’s yearly holiday orchestra concert. I’d planned to go along, but too much is left here to do, and Erin didn’t seem to mind if I begged off.

Mother shakes her head as she watches Erin go. She mutters something about families eating together, about homemade meals and how life was better back in the old days when my brother, Jack, and I were kids.

The mention of Jack makes me want to crush the box at my feet. Nothing’s changed. Even as a kid, my brother could always find clever ways to weasel out of his responsibilities. I have to give it to him this time; moving eight hundred miles away just before Dad’s heart attack is his best scheme yet. I want to be here for Mother. Still, some backup would be nice. Even long distance, you’d think Jack could help with the decision-making, with trying to boost Mother’s frame of mind. But, no. His idea of involvement is a fifteen-minute phone call once per week.

As I drag the box to Mother’s bedroom and start unpacking clothing, knickknacks and books, my early morning drive-by comes to mind. So. Bert has a life. Not only a life, a sex life. Women actually find him appealing. Maybe he really wasn’t just a mercy lay or a boredom diversion for our neighbor’s not-so-innocent young daughter.

And that pisses me off.

All these months while I’ve been raising our child alone, coping with all the stress that goes with having a teenager, juggling family and career, struggling with ending our failed marriage and putting it behind me, Bert and his penis have been out on the town. Literally.

Mother’s humming drifts to me from the kitchen where she’s putting away her gourmet cooking utensils, pots, pans and bakeware. The sound makes me pause. I can’t recall hearing her hum like that since Dad died almost a year ago. The anniversary of his passing is a week away. Next Saturday.

The humming pleases me…and makes me feel guilty. The truth is, I haven’t come to terms with her moving into my house. I love her and want the best for her. But is her moving in best for Erin and me? I haven’t lived full-time with a parent since I left home at the age of eighteen for college. I’m accustomed to doing things my own way, not Mother’s. And Erin is finally starting to have friends come around. She likes her independence and privacy, and so do I. But did all that walk out the door when Mother walked in?

“You okay in there?” I yell.

“I’m making headway, Sugar, but it’s going to take a while,” she calls back. “Your cabinets are a mess! You could die of starvation before you found a pot to boil water in or a pan to scramble an egg.”

“Which is why I don’t boil water or scramble eggs.”

“For heaven’s sake! What do y’all eat?”

“Takeout.” I pry open a box filled with colognes and bubble bath and other bathroom stuff. “Frozen dinners.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Breakfast? What’s that?”

Even the two walls separating us can’t block her sigh. “No wonder Erin’s so skinny, poor thing. Now that I’m here, I’ll take care of that.”

I drag the box toward the adjoining bathroom, reminding myself that this is what matters. Family pulling together during tough times. My mother’s happiness in the winter years of her life. Not my pride or privacy or independence. And most certainly not Bert’s extracurricular activities.

I groan. Bert. I can get over the fact that he has a social life and a sex life and I don’t; I will get over it. Nothing good ever came of sex anyway. Well, nothing but babies and orgasms, but I’m long past the baby stage of my life.

As for orgasms, let’s just say Bert never put much stock in the motto “it’s better to give than to receive.” So, while I could argue that some is better than nothing at all, I haven’t really given much up in that department. Anyway, if not for raging hormones, Bert would’ve lost interest in me when the first date ended. It wasn’t my brilliant mind he probed in his bachelor apartment when we were seniors at the University of Texas.

Hefting the box onto the bathroom vanity, I start pulling out floral-scented bottles and small brown medicine vials.

“CiCi?” Mom calls from inside the bedroom.

“In here.”

My petite, plump, pink-cheeked mother appears in the bathroom doorway, a bright smile on her face, her eyes unnaturally huge behind the magnified lenses of her glasses. She holds my thick, white plastic cutting board, which she lifts up in front of her. “Not that it’s any of my business, Sugar, but don’t you think it’s time you threw this ol’ thing away?”

I blink. Rarely, if ever, do I use the board, but still it’s mine, and after her previous criticism of my kitchen organizational skills, I’m starting to feel a bit defensive. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I’m blind as a bat, but even I can see there’s mold growing on it.” Mother wrinkles her nose. “It isn’t sanitary.”

“It’s sanitary. I bleach it after every use. The green just won’t come off.”

“Surely you can afford a new cutting board.”

“Why should I spend the money when that one’s still perfectly functional?”

Mother gives me The Look. You know, The Look? Head tilted to the side, one brow raised, lips pursed?

I realize how ridiculous I sound, a forty-one-year-old woman arguing with her mother over a moldy cutting board I haven’t seen in months, maybe years. So what if her scrutiny of my life and home makes me feel fifteen again? I don’t have to act fifteen. “Okay, okay. Get rid of it,” I tell her.

Mother’s sweet countenance returns. She steps toward the trashcan by the desk in the corner and drops the plastic board inside. “Thank you so much for making space for all my things. I can’t wait to start cooking for you and Erin, and it isn’t the same if I don’t have my own pots and pans.”

I reach into the box, run my hand across smooth, cool glass, over peeling labels and bumpy plastic. “It’ll be great having your home-cooked meals again. Cooking’s just another of your many domestic talents I didn’t inherit.”

With my gaze still on Mother, I pull out another item.

Mother’s gasp is quick and sharp. The color drains from her face, then rises again, bright red now rather than pink. Her eyes blink. Rapidly.

I glance down at my hand and immediately drop the object I’m holding. I’m no expert on vibrators, but I’m pretty sure I know a neck massager from…well…the other kind. The one on the floor at my feet is not for sore muscles, I can promise you that. Flesh-colored, it has a switch on the side that must’ve engaged when it hit the bathroom tile because the dismembered member pulses and vibrates and buzzes.

“Um…” I can’t tear my gaze from the quivering body part, which fake or not, is quite impressive in size and energy. “Uh—”

“Well, for heaven’s sake!” Mother’s voice is high and panicky. “How did my bread beater get packed with my bathroom things?”

“Your bread beater?”

The next thing I see is her hand wrapping around the thing, which is an action I would’ve been happy never to witness in this or any other lifetime. She lifts it from the floor and turns off the switch while I reluctantly peer up at her.

My mother no longer blushes or blinks. In the space of a few seconds she has pulled herself together. She couldn’t look any more prim or proper if she stood in front of her church choir to lead a hymn. Squaring her shoulders, holding the “bread beater” in front of her chest like a baton, she meets my eyes.

“That’s right. My bread beater. Haven’t you seen them advertised? It’s a clever new device that kneads dough, easy as you please.”

“Well…” I clear my throat. “Isn’t that…something.” Mom turns and starts off through the bedroom. “I’ll just go find a place for it in the kitchen.”

I watch her go, then shift my attention to the mirror and stare at the dumbfounded expression on my face. I picture Erin going after a fork and finding Mom’s newest kitchen gadget in the silverware drawer.

First Bert, now Mother. Wouldn’t you know it? At the age of seventy-five, even she has more of a sex life than I do.

LATER IN THE EVENING, after a trip with Mother to the grocery store, she cooks a dinner that brings back memories of all those childhood meals she mumbled about earlier. She, Erin and I actually sit at the kitchen table rather than at the coffee table in the den, my usual place to dine. We carry on a conversation instead of watching the news.

Afterward, stuffed with savory fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, Erin and I clear the table while Mother takes off to watch Wheel of Fortune. An apple cobbler bubbles and browns in my oven; Mother left the oven light on, and I glance at her culinary masterpiece with longing each time I pass by. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the foreign aromas of cinnamon and spice drifting through my kitchen, but I’m unusually relaxed and content as my daughter and I load the dishwasher together.

“I’m going to rent a movie, then watch it at Suzanna’s,” Erin declares when we finish.

“Before you leave, I want to see your concert dress.”

“I didn’t find one. I’ll try again tomorrow or next week.”

“Make it some time I can go with you.”

Erin crosses her arms; her eyes shift away from mine. “It’s no big deal. Suzanna will help me.”

Okay, I admit it; for the second time in one day I feel like an overemotional teenager. Only now, instead of butting heads with my mother, my best friend is replacing me with someone else. I can’t help it; silly or not, I’m jealous.

“What about that book report you said was due on Monday?”

“I’m not doing homework on a Saturday night. I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

“Be home by eleven.” I eye her tight hip-hugging jeans, the inch of bare flesh between them and her T-shirt. Revealing so much skin is a new look for Erin. A fashion side effect of her friendship with Suzanna, I imagine. Though I don’t like the change, I’ve decided not to make a big deal of it. I counsel families with kids younger than Erin who are promiscuous, have alcohol problems and worse. If an exposed navel is the most I have to deal with, I count myself lucky. I’ll just keep an eye on her and make sure that’s as far as it goes. “Got your mace?” I ask.

She gives me the eye-roll she spent middle school perfecting. “You know it’s on my key ring.”

“Just make sure you keep it in your hand if you’re returning the movie and walking through the store parking lot after dark.”

“I know, Mom.” She hugs me and laughs. “You’ve only told me a million and one times. Anyway, there’s a movie drop. I won’t even have to get out of the car.”

“Let Maxwell in and feed him before you go.”

After Erin leaves and Wheel of Fortune ends, Mother and I watch CNN together while eating ice-cream-smothered pie. Maxwell peers at us with pleading eyes. He sits in front of the sofa, whining quietly each time I lift my spoon. Mother gives me The Look again when I place my bowl on the floor to let him lick it. I laugh at her and proceed to fold a couple of loads of laundry.

I’m placing a stack of clean underwear on Erin’s dresser when I see the novel on her bedside table. I figure it must be the assigned book for her report since I’ve never known my daughter to read a novel unless it’s required. I hope she’s not getting sidetracked by her newfound social life and putting off the report until the last minute. But I remind myself that, though she’s spending more time with friends these days, it’s still not in Erin’s nature to procrastinate. She’s a typical only child. Fairly responsible as teenagers go.

I walk over, pick up the paperback, read the title. Penelope’s Passion. A hazy cover creates the effect of looking through steam at a woman’s naked back. A man’s hand lifts the damp, curling tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. I have my doubts Erin’s English teacher chose this particular read.

Settling at the edge of my daughter’s bed, I open the book to a random page.

Penelope sensed rather than heard the captain’s approach. Pulling the sheet to her breast, she watched the door…and waited. Her heart fluttered like hummingbird wings, her stomach felt as unsteady as the ship, tossed and swayed by the turbulent sea.

Flickering candlelight painted shadows on the walls. For only a moment, Penelope glanced away to watch them dance, and when she looked back, he stood there…filling the doorway…his dark eyes devouring her, looking more a pirate than captain of a ship. His unbuttoned shirt revealed a powerful expanse of muscled chest. The sight of it made Penelope aware of her own chest, bare beneath the bed sheet. Her only garment had mysteriously disappeared while she bathed, so she’d had no choice but to retire naked.

Penelope lifted her chin. “Do you intend to rape me, Sir?”

The captain pulled off his shirt as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Since you now share my name, I intend to consummate our marriage.”

She kept her gaze on his face, too nervous to glance lower at his body, afraid if she did he might see the excitement in her eyes when she looked up again. “And if I refuse you, Captain?”

He chuckled, his smile quick and heart-stopping. Then he reached for the buckle on his belt and moved closer to the bed.

Penelope could no longer refrain. She glanced at his broad chest, then lower still, down his flat, muscle-corded belly to the thin line of dark hair that trailed to the top of his breeches. Her breath caught, her stomach tightened involuntarily and a warm, sweet ache spread like heated honey through her limbs. To her shame, she yearned to touch him, yearned for him to touch her in all the places no man ever had, or should.

“Dear Lady,” he said, his voice a deep, arousing caress, “you won’t refuse me.”

“Well, hell,” I mutter, closing the book. Penelope isn’t the only one with a warm, sweet ache.

First Bert, then Mother, now Erin.

Maybe the person who came up with the old saying, “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” knew what he or she was talking about.

Tucking Penelope’s Passion beneath my arm, I leave Erin’s room. At the end of the hallway, I poke my head around the corner into the den where Mother sits knitting and watching TV, with Maxwell snoring on the rug at her feet. The knitting needles click out a rhythmic beat.

“I think I’ll turn in early and catch up on some reading.” Mother’s needles pause. The clicking stops. She looks up at me. “I hope for once you’re reading for pleasure instead of for work.”

The corner of my mouth spasms as I think of Penelope’s captain. “Purely for pleasure tonight, Mother. You have my word.”