Seems Like Old Times (4 page)

"Yesterday I drove around town. God, but it's
grown!" Lee replied, skirting away from her feelings about Miwok.
"This morning I went visiting with Miriam." Lee tasted the cake. It
was delicious. Every little pound magnified mercilessly on TV, though. One more
bite
for the sake of politeness...

"I remember how well you always spoke of your aunt.
I’m glad she’s here with you."

"It makes it easier, in one way. But if she weren’t
here, I’d probably have the house cleared out already and be on my way back to
New York."

"Maybe she just wants you to relax. How are you
doing, Lisa? I mean, really doing? Are you happy?"

Lee was surprised at the question. It wasn't the sort of
things people asked her. How could she not be happy? "I'm doing what I've
always wanted. I have my job, New York, my career..."

"Are you still seeing that insurance fellow?"
Cheryl asked. "Bruce is it?"

Lee nibbled at the frosting on her fork. "You
remember! He's asked me to marry him."

"Lisa!
How terrific!"

"We haven't set a date yet, what with my mother’s
passing, and all."

"Sure. It’ll be soon, I guess," Cheryl said.

Lee paused and looked down at her plate. Somehow, half the
slice was gone. Resolutely, she put the fork down. "I haven’t had time to
think about arranging a wedding. It’s too much to handle right now."

Cheryl’s brows crossed. "Are you sure about him,
Lisa?"

How many times had Cheryl said similar words to her in the
past? Are you sure, Lisa? Lisa, though, was never sure of anything. She used to
spent
most of her time trying to do whatever Judith
wanted, trying to avoid arguments, and fights, and tears at home. She would
worry constantly about what she should or shouldn’t do, fretting over far too
much for a young girl.

Lee, however, was the opposite. Lee was sure about
everything, chillingly sure.
"Of course, Cheryl.
I’d be a fool to let him get away. He’s very handsome.
An
up-and-coming executive.
I couldn't ask for more."

Cheryl shrewdly studied her friend a moment. "Well,
that's sure as
shootin
’ good to hear, Lisa. Be
practical. That's so like you. The blond, blue-eyed way you've describe Bruce,
I imagine him as looking like those smart, rich guys you used to moon over at
school. Of course, once they'd pay attention to you, you'd high-tail it right
back to Tony Santos. Funny, wasn’t it?"

Lee’s stomach knotted. She didn’t want to think about Tony
right now. "Bruce is a big support for me on the news. Some men would hate
the hours I have to keep."

"Oh, kid, I am so envious." Cheryl finished her
piece of cake. "I look at you on TV at night and I can’t help but remember
that we had the same start." She put her elbow on the table, chin in hand.
"I guess the difference was that when we were little and played house, I
always wanted to be the Mommy and you wanted to be Lois Lane."

"Don't get the wrong impression. Bruce is no
Superman."

"That doesn't matter. You don't need any Superman.
You can take care of yourself. Me, on the other hand, I've got Clark
Kent."

"Oh, poor Mark!" Lee laughed softly at Cheryl's
rueful grimace.

Cheryl joined her. "Okay, I'm being unfair. Mark's a
good man and I love him dearly but sometimes these four walls are really hard
to take." She cut herself a thin slice of cake this time.

"What about you, Cheryl?" Lee asked suddenly.
"Are you happy?"

"Despite my complaining, you mean?" Cheryl
grinned. "I'm happy. Sometimes, now that the kids are older, I think
there's more I can be doing."

"You always talked about being a schoolteacher."

"A part of me still wants to."

"You can do it. Go back to school, get your
degree."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?
What's to stop
you?"

"Me." Cheryl smiled at Lee, and gave a slight
shake of her head. "You're still the same. You always knew you could
conquer the world, and think everyone else who puts their mind to it can as
well. Not everyone is as driven as you are, or willing to work so hard at it.
Some of us are content to do only so much."

"I'm not the way," Lee argued.

Cheryl nearly choked on her coffee.
"All
A's?
Miss Perfection?
Sometimes it was a bitch even
being your friend. But underneath, I knew you were okay. Especially because you
were always harder on yourself than anyone else could possibly be."

Lee took a sip of coffee and didn't say a word. She didn't
care for the way the conversation had turned.

Cheryl's kitchen was warm and cozy. Sunlight shone on the
yellow-wallpapered walls and everywhere
were
signs of
a family. Pictures, magnets, and memos covered the refrigerator door, a wall
calendar was filled with red notations,
the
air
smelled of freshly baked cake and good coffee. A mountain of newspapers was
piled by the back door and a boy's baseball cap dangled precariously on one
cabinet door knob.

With a pang, Tony Santos came to mind.

A fleeting thought formed. If she'd stayed in Miwok she
might be living like this, in a warm family home...Tony’s home?

She held the question for the briefest moment,
then
let it go. Some questions had no answers.

As if reading her mind, Cheryl suddenly asked, "Have
you seen any of the old gang yet, or talked to any of them?"

Lee studied her cake. "No. I don't plan to either. I
don't have time. Before I know it, Friday will be here. I've got to get my
mother's house ready to go on the market. I'll be horribly busy. But I'd like
to hear about Suzanne and Abby. What are they doing these days?" The two
women she mentioned were part of the foursome they’d been in high school,
though she and Cheryl were the closest of the friends. She composed her
features, a smile fixed coolly, determinedly on her lips.

Lee felt herself relax as they talked about old
friends--other than Tony Santos--for a couple of hours when Lee checked her
wristwatch and realized it was time to get back to help Miriam with dinner. A
whole afternoon, wasted. Where had the time gone?

Cheryl walked her to her car. "Why don't we get
together for lunch real soon?"

The thought of spending more time with Cheryl was
surprisingly welcome. "I’d like that, as long as we can fit it in before
Friday."

"Tell you
what,
we can make
it a quick lunch."

Lee laughed.
"Sounds perfect."

"Would you like to go back to the house now,
Miriam?" Lee asked.

"Not at all.
I'm so glad
we're taking the time for a Sunday drive. This is wonderful." Her aunt’s
head bobbed like a doll’s with a spring neck as she tried not to miss a single
house, shop or street sign. "Things haven't changed much, have they,
Lisa?" Miriam asked.

"I was thinking the same thing," she said dryly.
Visiting Miwok had been like entering a time warp. Presto, it was the fifties
again, and the Leave It
To
Beaver Cleavers lived in
the blue-shingled house down on the next block.

"Miwok is comfortable," Miriam said, settling
back against in the passenger seat, her blue eyes sparkling. "Like an old
shoe."

"That’s one way of putting it." Lee had a
closetful of shoes in her Park Avenue condo, and promptly discarded any old
ones. Perhaps it was a metaphor for her life. All the old shoes were gone,
except for Miriam and Cheryl. And she liked it that way.

Miriam rolled down a window. The air smelled of sunshine,
earth and fresh-cut lawns. "Ah, Miwok," she sighed. "When did I
forget the clean, healthy way the air smells here?"

Bemused, Lee glanced at her hopelessly nostalgic aunt.
"I can put on the air-conditioning if you're warm."

"City girl!"
Miriam
pursed her lips, but a smile hinted at the corners. "Let's stop at the
park, Lisa. I'd love to walk through it once again."

Settlers Park was just ahead. If the red town hall with a
weathercock on its clock tower was the heart of town, Settlers Park was its
soul. A hopelessly corny soul at that, Lee thought.

Gravel crunched and bounced off the Cadillac as she pulled
into the parking lot. Stepping out of the car, she smoothed her pale blue Ralph
Lauren dress. The high heels of her blue-suede sling-backs wobbled precariously
on the stones as she walked toward the paved pathway.

Beside her, Miriam sauntered along in a striped white and
yellow loose sheathe and Birkenstock sandals.

In the park, people ignored Miriam, but their heads turned
Lee's way with the same quizzical look that so often greeted her. They
recognized her, but without a television set framing her face, she seemed much
smaller, more human,
even
vulnerable. Her pale blond
fragility belied the steely nature she had developed. She had a classic beauty,
and played it to the hilt. Her wheat blond hair was streaked with platinum and
flax, and From the moment she began working in New York City, Lee made sure she
was coifed and dressed to kill, which was the reason she chose to wear her hair
pulled back from her face in a severe, elegant chignon instead of the rounded,
breezy style most television news anchors and reporters chose. Her every
gesture, on and off camera, was performed in a cloud of self-assurance. She
wanted to make a statement, and she did.

Now, she smiled at the gawkers with just the correct
amount of cool reserve and acknowledgement, and continued walking.

On a wide expanse of lawn, adults sunned themselves or
played with Frisbees, small children ran and tumbled, and a couple of dogs
chased each other in circles.

Up ahead, a green park bench stood empty under a wide elm.
"This is so peaceful. Let’s sit a while," Miriam said.

Lee wanted to remind her aunt that they had just spent
ninety minutes sitting, but restrained
herself
. Back
at the house was a documentary proposal she’d brought with her from New York.
The CABN-TV news executives were considering producing a piece on life in
Moscow over the past two years, and she was eager to read it. She wanted a
major role in the project, if it was well conceived. She had a simple axiom for
getting ahead--travel everywhere, cover everything, and make yourself a pain in
the ass until you get what you want, when you want it. She wouldn’t let her
annoyance at wasting time in this park make her short with Miriam, however. Her
aunt deserved better, and she was feeling guilty for having thrown herself so
much into her career, that they had spent little time together. Lee wanted to
use these days in Miwok to make up, a little at least, for years of neglect.

She was pacing back and forth, in no mood to sit on the
dusty, pollen-laden bench, when a little boy walked by carrying a soda and a
hotdog.

"Oh, doesn’t that look good!" Miriam said.
"Are you hungry?"

Even if she were, a hotdog was the last thing she’d eat.
The thought of the calories and fat content, let alone what it was made out of,
was enough to cause her to lose her appetite. "No. Are you?"

"I am thirsty. I’d love some 7-Up. I do believe
there's a stand just down that pathway." To Lee's astonishment, Miriam
rose stiffly from the bench, and rubbed her knee. She looked like she was in
some pain.
"Oh my!
I must have pulled a muscle or
something. Every so often it acts up."

"You stay there," Lee said. "I’ll get it
for you."

"If you're sure it’s not too much trouble?"
Miriam asked.

"Don’t be silly." Lee watched, concerned, as
Miriam slowly sat down again.

"Thanks. Take your time. I'm in no hurry."
Miriam already looked quite a bit better.

As Lee followed the curving walk the boy had taken, she
heard cheers from beyond a copse of eucalyptus and shrubbery. One of the town's
Little League baseball fields was there.

When she was young, she often went to Little League games
with Cheryl. Cheryl's three brothers all played. Another cheer rang out. Years
ago, she used to go to lots of baseball games. No more, though. There never
seemed to be time for such things anymore.

o0o

As she neared the field she saw a group of little boys
wearing red caps and jerseys with the name "Bruins" playing against
an equally miniature group in blue called the "Bobcats." She bit back
a soft chuckle at the sight of the Little Leaguers in their pint-sized
uniforms, their bats as tall as they were, and their batting helmets almost
covering their eyes. They looked like jar-headed Charlie Browns come to life.
But she was sure
every
one of them dreamed of hitting
a home run or pitching a no-hitter. A-Rod, Sammy Sosa, and even
Dered
Jeter meant a lot more to them than George Washington
or Abraham Lincoln, and if given a choice as to who they'd rather be like, the
ballplayers would win hands down every time.

A sprinkling of parents sat in the stands, and behind them
stood a snack shack. She'd buy the sodas there and maybe Miriam would finally
be ready to go back to the house. Lee was curious about that Moscow proposal.
She preferred St. Petersburg, but if she had to live a couple of weeks in
Moscow to do the special, she’d manage.

The blue pitcher threw the ball to the red batter. It
sailed at least five feet over his head. The catcher leaped and still couldn't
reach it. "Good eye!" some parent shouted encouragement to the batter
and didn’t even sound sarcastic. "Way to watch, buddy."

The batter tapped home plate a couple of times with his
bat, wriggled his butt, and raised the bat high over his head, ready for the
next pitch. A slight smile touched Lee’s lips. At Little League games any boy
could be a hero for a day, and the meaning of courage was learning to step into
the batter's box with your team behind, two outs and a runner on third.