Club Sandwich (8 page)

“Well, Dad, we’re planning on just using it in the pasta special—”

“Oh, come on. Make a crab cake for your old man!” I puff out my chest. “Harry, we don’t have enough crab. Did you not hear your son?”

“Ivy, that’s no way to talk to your—”

“Old man. Yeah, maybe. Now listen, we have a business to run here. The specials are set. Maybe you can squirrel Brian into this, but not me. Now do you want a burger or a club sandwich?”

“How about a steak sandwich?”

The old coot. “Okay.”

“Don’t forget to grill the onions, son. You know how much I like them grilled, right?”

Pathetic. He’s Willie Loman without the right to be noticed.

He pushes the swinging door and heads back into the dining room.

Brian opens the fridge. “Man, he makes me mad. Thanks.”

“What are little sisters for? He’s such a loser.”

Yeah, that sounds like something Jesus would say. I should treat him like any other wanderer in need of God’s grace. But my contest with the flesh rages like thunder, and the flesh is about to spike
the ball and do a victory dance in the end zone. My flesh even knows how to break dance, it’s so good at winning the skirmish.

I walk back out to the front. My father sits at one of the window tables smoking a cigar. Oh man!

“Harry, put that out. You know it’s not allowed.”

“Oh, come on, Ivy. Nobody’s here.”

I cross my arms. “Harry, please. We can’t afford the fines.”

“Okay.” He stubs it out on a bread plate.

“Thanks.” I remove it and stride toward the wait station.

“That was a Cuban.”

“Oh please.” Under my breath.

“Are you mumbling?”

“Darn straight. Today’s paper is under the register.” I should offer to bring it to him. I should honor my father so my days may be long in the land the Lord my God giveth me, even though my life is hardly the Promised Land. Land of the Lost is more like it.

“Man, you’re a piece of work, Ivy.”

“I’ve learned from the best.” I march back into the kitchen. Brian throws onions on the grill. “He makes me sick.”

“I know.”

“At least I don’t drag a wife and kids through my exploits.” What can I say?

He shakes his head and gently works the ground sirloin into a patty. He’s a pro, right? Personally, I’d work the thing down to the seventh circle of hell and back, ensuring the most unsatisfactory hamburger on York Road. “No matter how bad I feel about myself and my life, Dad always puts me to shame.”

And Mom thought surely she’d be the one to bring Harry Starling to Jesus. Missionary daters possess the best of intentions, don’t they? Sometimes it works out, and sometimes others bear the
fallout. Like me and Brian. And Brett. For crying out loud, I don’t have enough time to start thinking about my sister, who messes up just about everything she touches. And it’s never her fault. Maybe she just touches the wrong things.

She’s working on marriage number two, and the fog alarms are beginning to blare. Marcus is okay, if you like plastic men. He actually gets pedicures and waxing: brows, chest, and back. Can’t blame him for the back.

I’ve got it good compared to my siblings. But they have no idea how hard it is to be the responsible one without truly major issues. I get no easy outs.

“Did he forget your birthday last week, Bri?”

“Of course.”

“He forgot mine in May.”

“Figures.”

I head back out to the dining room, praying with fervor that more diners have materialized during my absence. No such luck for Ivy Schneider.

“Ivy, come on over and talk to your old man.”

He never uses the word
father
or
dad
with me. Maybe even he realizes he shouldn’t assume.

“I’m busy.”

“Oh, come on. There’s nobody here.”

One of our waitresses arrives. Unfortunately, the boot will find her first as the kitty dwindles. “Hi Flannery!”

“Hi Ivy! Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

“Couldn’t ask for better!”

I love Flannery. She always wears trendy hairstyles, cool jewelry, and hand-painted clothing. She’s an art student married to an oceanographer—isn’t that the hippest combo imaginable? And she’s
one of those naturally happy people. I love that about her. She comes from big-time money through her grandmother, but you can’t tell.

Harry taps the table. “See, kid? Reinforcements have arrived.”

Nothing else to be done. I sit opposite him, place my chin in my hand. “What do you want to talk about?”

He never asks me about my life. He only talks about himself. Gee, who does that sound like?

“You can congratulate me for starters, Ive. I’m getting married next month.”

“Oh.”

“Yep, a real sweetheart. Reminds me of your mother.”

“Don’t even go there.”

“You’re not happy for your old man?”

“It’s number four.”

“Hey, the last two were not my fault. Now, I admit, I ruined it with your mother, but I was young, and we messed up.” He shrugs. “What can I say? I won’t make excuses for myself.”

How about an apology? Even one.

“So, Harry, got any more contracts?”

“Oh yeah. Lots of brickwork down in Canton these days.”

Brian sets down his plate. “Enough to pay for a sirloin burger?” He turns around right away.

Three ladies with shopping bags enter. God bless you, girls.

“Gotta seat these customers, Harry. Eat up.”

Dear God, let him leave soon.

P
eople wonder how I can be so sure of Rusty all the time, with him traveling all over the place, hanging around lonely women who flirt and make sweeping hints that usually begin with talk of “a cup of coffee.” It amazes me here in America we initiate so many of our mating rituals with “a cup of coffee.” I mean, it yellows our teeth, makes our hands quiver like a ninety-year-old’s, and gives us dog breath. But for many of us, it’s our first date. Well, it’s a surefire method of avoiding kisses you’d rather keep to yourself.

You’d assume Rusty’s obesity would be a deterrent. But you’d be about as close to the truth as Tim Robbins to a speaking engagement at the Baseball Hall of Fame. Think about men like Orson Welles, or even that Meatloaf guy. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with the ladies, although I could be wrong. Or maybe he’s actually a nice guy with a sweet wife who realizes the thing that pays the bills is only his schtick. He probably gets in the shower right away and washes all that grease out of his hair. And I’ll bet Meatloaf’s wife doesn’t mind
his
concert tours. I’ll bet Meatloaf’s wife goes with him everywhere she can!

I’ll also bet some women out there watch my husband sing and think to themselves, “I’d follow that man to the ends of the earth,” as if a great singing voice provides for all needs. My mother always said, “You can’t live on love.” Well, you can’t live on a fabulous tenor voice, either.

Women throw themselves at Rusty. Married or not. He performs solo concerts at churches from time to time when he can arrange the gig. And those ladies are the worst. Anybody who says adultery isn’t alive and well in the North American church is about as wrong as low-rise jeans on Hillary Clinton. I mean, consider my own thoughts since the class reunion. And honestly, a lot of church people out there don’t want to admit the sinning that runs rampant in the holy hallways. But sometimes dirty laundry needs airing. If nobody did that, it would molder and fester and rot. And these ladies, or should I say women, would love to generate some dirty laundry with my husband. I know, it makes me sick too.

So how do I cope? With this: Rusty says he looks at the prettiest woman and thinks, “No matter how good she looks, some guy somewhere is tired of putting up with her junk.”

That is plain truth, Rusty style. Now I know he puts off these women with as much gentleness and Christian charity as he can muster, but every once in a while he lets someone have it: “Lady, if you’re this desperate, there isn’t a man alive who’d have you if he knew the truth.” And then he’ll tell me all about it.

I’m sitting at Persy’s lacrosse game musing about this because, well, times like these I miss Rusty the most, and a good muse always benefits the column. Rusty would be so proud of Persy just because he’s Persy. He wouldn’t get all over Persy because he fails to run as fast as the other boys. He wouldn’t sit here a bundle of nerves. He’d be encouraging and fatherly and good. That God gave him such a phenomenal tenor voice is a blessing as well as a curse. Perhaps I should gladly share him with the world, but man oh man, I just wish the world would share him with us.

I can think of no other activity I’d less rather attend at eight thirty on a Saturday morning—except maybe a recital of first-year
violinists or a full-body wax. I thought about stopping at Starbucks on the way, but the sports complex has no Porta Potti toilets, and I knew my bladder wouldn’t last through the game. You know little things like this bug me about womanhood. Here I’ve gifted the world with three beautiful citizens (and every single one of them weighed in at over eleven pounds) to redeem some bad things over to the good side, and what reward do I get for carrying them to term? The lovely ability to pee when I laugh and the privilege of using the bathroom twice as often as I did at twenty-two. No coffee at soccer games. No sodas on trips. No water before bed. Life is not fair. Didn’t God know mothers need coffee to manage early morning rec council games? I comfort myself with a handful of Dove chocolate candies.

Lou walks toward me. “Hey Ive-O.”

Her nickname for me since we were three. She put
o’s
on the end of everything. “Lou!” Her name is actually Jean-Louise, like the girl in
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Her father, a high-school literature teacher, named her after that character. He actually wanted to call her Scout, but Mrs. Lybeck refused. It took the likes of Demi Moore and Bruce Willis to have the guts for that. And I applaud them. Besides, Bruce is a Republican.

She
plonks
open a folding chair. A gorgeous one, of course, displaying a classy floral pattern. “Lyra told me I’d find you here.” She folds her body into a fluid, dark line, leaning back like a bored actress. The eyes, bright and curious, convey a different narrative, though.

“Where else would I be? Thank goodness Lyra hates sports and Trixie’s still too little. What are you up to today?”

“Just running around looking for fabric for my living-room and dining-room curtains.”

“Again?”

“I just didn’t take to the cortez gold like I thought I would. I had the walls repainted blackberry wine.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. I’ll do some texturing next week.” Lou solves interior-design dilemmas all over the county. My patriotic kitchen, a design predicament if there ever was one, makes her all but retch.

“Want a Dove?”

“No, thanks.”

What willpower. “More for me.”

“Well, you have the luck of a racecar metabolism. Us regular women have to starve.”

Like I feel so sorry for her! “So when are you going to come help me with my house?”

“When you tell me I have free rein. I’m not going to make the dramatic change of painting your white walls cream. You can do that on your own.”

She tells me I possess no creative imagination. And she’s right. I mean, white walls complement everything, don’t they? It matches all my furniture, and while we’re not exactly poor, some things you can’t justify—like buying a new couch just because you’re sick of the old one. Hardly good money management. But didn’t Persy say he felt a sharp spring the other day? I definitely can’t endanger my children, and the couch is older than my marriage.

“Well, okay then. I’m tired of fighting it. Have your way. I need a new couch, so pick that out for me, and go from there.”

“A new couch?”

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s beginning to poke.” Or at least I think so.

“I’m on it, mama.”

Well, then, here we go. The whirlwind begins. The Jean-Louise
cyclone of transformation. Without her I’d molder away. And eat more candy.

I pull out another chocolate and place it on my tongue.

Mr. Moore offers me his little wave. I shut the car door and run over.

“Thanks for that fish the other day. Your brother cooks up a fine halibut.”

“He sure does. How’s the arthritis?”

“Oh, it has its good days and its bad days. The bad days I just put ‘eat popcorn and ’watch old movies’ on my list of chores, and it suits me just fine.”

“I need to remember that. Adjust my to-do list to fit my needs.”

“That sure is right. Makes for a lot less trouble, in my view.”

“I think you’re onto something there.”

And my next column begins.