Club Sandwich (30 page)

Lyra first. The child sleeps with the covers completely shrouding her head. I don’t know how she stands it, inhaling her own breath over and over. Maybe hers smells better in the morning than mine.

Kneeling down next to her, I lift the blanket off her face and rest my fingertips on her cheek. Oh God, I love her so much. I want the best for her. I want her to sail through life with no pain, no meanness, no trials, and yet, even the most simple person knows that we grow through pain. I want her to care deeply about life, but from which direction the winds of trial will blow, the winds that will deepen her roots and make her a human that bears the image of Christ, I can’t say. For the winds will blow, I can count on that. I breathe out a prayer. “Dear God. Let them strengthen her faith, not destroy it.” I groan inwardly for her sake, willing our family situation to change, knowing she needs a strong male influence right now. But who can fill that role? Brian? Marcus? Harry? Dear Lord, You’ve got Your work cut out for You.

I can only plead for her here in this silent stillness. I can only trust, something I’ve never been much good at, that her life will play out better than mine, that wise decisions won’t be so hard-won.

I raise up, kiss her cheek. “Lyra, baby. Wake up, sweet pea.”

She mumbles something and opens her eyes, none the wiser.

“Shower’s yours.”

Next stop, Persy. Oh man, this kid looks so comfortable when he sleeps. He’s easily got the softest, thickest comforter in the house. And the little heater is still young enough to crawl into bed with and get warmed. I slide in between the covers and gather him into my arms and pray for him as well. Such a sweet, innocent boy, he plays with even the smallest child without a hint of their age difference, hardly realizes when others snub or abuse him. Just keeps going, playing his heart out, enjoying himself and his toys. Not that Trixie can’t yank his chain. Oh boy. Lord, keep this sweet spirit inside of Him for as long as You will. I picture him committing those random acts of kindness the crazy bumper sticker talks about. Let that be so, Jesus. Please.

“Persy, buddy. Time to get up.”

Nothing.

Man, I’d trade a sleep like that for my left foot these days.

“Come on, bud. Time to get ready for school.”

The boy-angel stirs. God, I love him so much.

I roll out of the bed and nuzzle into his neck, kiss his cheek, and yank the covers off him. “Let’s go! Your school clothes are all set out.”

Trixie next. Obviously I can’t climb into her crib, so I lift out her little body and take her into my bed. She’s so lovely now, swaddled in slumber. The soft curve of her cheek, the unformed nose, the shallow U of her golden lash line. I close my eyes and breathe her in. My baby.

Count your many blessings, name them one by one.

What’s this? The aroma of coffee tickles my nose. And sausage. Panic erupts. What time is it?

I lean up on my elbow.

Eight thirty?

Oh no!

I throw back the covers. Trixie’s gone. Lyra should have been at school half an hour ago! And Persy? Oh dear. I see yet another tardy mark on the report card. Well, maybe I can drop him off first. Why didn’t anyone awaken me? And I still haven’t called Brenda!

The restaurant!

Man oh man. I’m toast.

Whistling wafts up the steps.

Harry?

Harry!

Dear Lord, please please please let Mom still be asleep!

Reuben rises from his chair at the kitchen table. Thank You, Lord. Harry’s nowhere in sight. “Good morning, kiddo!”

“Hi Dad.”

Isn’t that a kick? I call Rusty’s father “Dad” and my own dad “Harry.” What a wacko world I inhabit. The kitchen smells so good. So breakfasty and homey.

“Where are the kids?”

“Harry took them to school.”

“Trixie?”

“He took her, too. They’re going to McDonald’s for another breakfast. That one with the Playland.”

“Man, that’s great.”

“I’ve kept a plate warm for you. I saw the pancake mix out, so I figured that’s what you were planning.”

“I was. I thought you were going out early to work out.”

“Funny thing. I was planning on it, but my coffee maker went on the blink, and so I came up to make a pot. Lyra came in and told me you and Trixie were fast asleep, and I thought, ‘Why not? She needs a break.’ ”

He hands me a mug of coffee, Reuben style. Tarlike. Slick and perfect for dissolving the hefty fuzz inside my head.

“Your timing couldn’t have been better. I haven’t slept like that in months.”

“Good, then. So what do you have planned today?”

I tell him about the restaurant dilemma and my plans to call the church.

He waves a hand. “She’s my granddaughter. Harry and I will tag team it.”

“You sure? Harry’s not very reliable.”

“Leave him to me, hon.”

Reuben is ex-Marine. Like my protagonist.

Bingo!

Nick Porecca just opened his eyes and sat up on my mad-scientist operating table. Oh yeah, I bet Reuben Schneider could kick some kind of butt in his time.

This’ll be great. I can’t wait to dive back into the chilly pool of words.

Oh yeah. The restaurant.

Okay, so if I tote Old Barbara to the restaurant and set her up by the counter, I should do fine. I throw on a skirt and sweater, grab my briefcase, and head on out to the grand reopening.

I call Matty. “Have you heard?”

“Yeah.”

“Garret coming in today?”

“He’s probably already there.”

“Can you step in as head chef?”

“Sure.”

“Can you go to the markets?”

“Uh-huh. No prob.”

“Thanks, Matty.”

“No prob.”

Nine thirty. Ninety minutes to opening. I call Garret’s cell.

“It’s Ivy, Garret. I guess you’ve heard.”

“Of course. Sucks.”

“Yeah. Hey, you got enough there to round up a couple of lunch specials?”

“Sure.”

“I’m on my way in right now.”

I call my sister.

“Brett?”

“Hi Ive.”

“Hey. You busy?”

“Very. Marcus is announcing his campaign tonight, and I need a new dress.”

“Can you sit with Mom in the afternoon?”

“Did you not hear me, Ive?” Oh great.

I don’t know what to say, so I hang up. That’ll provide her with some fuel for the next few days.

Once inside the restaurant, I nab the phone book and look up adult day care. It breaks my heart. Oh God, it breaks my heart.

Family First.

That looks nice. I make the call, gripping the phone, willing my insides to calm down. I shake.

A lady named Margaret knows how to ease my mind as I relate Mom’s limitations. She invites me to tour the facilities and “bring your mother too.”

I peep my head into the kitchen. “Is there a waitress on?”

Garret shrugs. I’m sure Brian and Brett didn’t think about the schedule. I make a couple of quick calls, and no one answers. I leave panicky messages and hope for the best.

But I end up waiting tables for the lunch rush. Thank the Lord, the normal staff turns up for dinner. Except the hostess.

Figures. I call Reuben and ingratiate myself.

“Don’t worry about a thing, hon. It’s all taken care of.”

Old Barbara’s been flashing her screen saver for hours.

I made it through the day. The restaurant? Clean and locked up tight. Tomorrow Matty and Garret will completely control the joint, and I’m willing to take the chance for Mom’s sake. One day won’t kill us, and Mom’s needs come first. Besides, being back there today only confirmed that I just don’t enjoy the whole restaurant lifestyle.

Too much drama.

And drama? I thank God the mess in which my mother’s children now find themselves remains a secret. Brian’s two DUIs. My tenuous marriage, not to mention Mitch. And Brett? Well, at least one of us is out of the closet.

I met Mitch last night at his office to go over the latest newsletter. He walked me out to my car afterward, and he held my hand in both of his as he thanked me for my friendship. I felt so cherished.

I set the teakettle on and begin entering the final edits to the latest newsletter. Full steam ahead, because I accomplished nothing in the way of writing at the restaurant. Why did I dare even hope?

Mitch sent me some listings from an airline. They hook up their reservations-desk employees from home computers. An insurance company agreed to do their data entry the same way. And a computer corporation will provide the computers for these ventures. Fifty jobs just waiting for our ladies.

Now that’s something to get excited about. I’ll take it.

Mitch interviewed the CEO of the computer company, which will provide a nice item for the newsletter. I called one of the moms who hooked up early in the game with an automobile dealership; they hired her to schedule their service-department appointments. A very good thing. She’d never have made it out of the welfare system without us, she said. They’re doing fine now. Just fine.

Mitch’s voice held such pride and warmth last night when he told me about the success stories. I mean, he’s really doing something for people, you know? I’m not just falling for those eyes. I’m falling for that heart. A heart that actually hears the hearts of others.

Okay, back to work. I can’t think about Mitch. I’ve got to get a handle on this. I’m in a state of emotional adultery. I won’t lie about that.

Glenn Miller’s “Sunrise Serenade” gently imbues the night with soft brass sounds. If I don’t get going, it’ll be sunrise before I finish.

The kettle screams, and I jump to my feet. A minute later, Reuben appears.

“Heard the kettle. Any extra water in there?”

“Yep. Care to join me for a cup of tea?”

“Love to.”

I take down a mug and string in a bag of Lipton.

“Can you put two bags in there, hon?”

“You got it.”

He sits down at the table and moves aside a couple of papers. “I don’t know how you do it all, kiddo.”

I want to complain about his son, but blood is thicker and all that. “I’m going on steam, Dad. And thanks for all you did today. I’m glad Mom wasn’t too difficult.”

“She was great. We played cards most of the afternoon.”

“How’d she do?”

“She trounced me!”

“Well, at least that’s still left.”

“And Trixie and I played Barbies and baby dolls. She’s a real curie.”

I just nod, trying to appear as thankful I feel.

“If only that son of mine would come back home.”

There’s my cue. “I don’t know how much more I can stand.”

I set the mug in front of him, pleading in silence. Help me, Reuben. Help me not to sin so badly I destroy everything I hold dear.

He nods. “I know, hon. You know I hate to interfere. But would you mind if I gave him a call?”

“I’d welcome it.”

“Where is he?”

“Great Britain still. I haven’t heard from him in a week.” I check the schedule I put up on the fridge. “York.”

“There a number where he’s staying?”

“Yes.”

“What time is it there?”

I add five hours. “Four a.m.”

“Give me the phone.”

I grab it off the wall. “Go for it, Dad.”

“Oh, believe me, I will. Cheryl and I raised him better than this.”