Club Sandwich (5 page)

Oh, how tables can turn.

A tap at the window.

Huh? Oh, a guy. I push the button. “Yeah?”

Fabulous, I’m blotchy and tear-stained. As if I didn’t look bad enough. I must resemble a plucked chicken with sunburn now.

“Ivy!”

The streetlight shines on his back, casting his face in the shadow. “Hi.”

“I can’t believe I caught you out here, you babe you!”

Oh yeah!

It can only be one person. Mr. Babe himself, not to mention the nicest guy in the world.

“Mitch Sullivan! Oh my gosh!”

I open the door, and he swings out of the way, then hugs me, with a hoist-the-breath-from-the-bottommost-portion-of-the-lungs, feet-off-the-ground hug! Our own laughter hangs above our heads. Mitch Sullivan, my best guy friend since third grade. Oh yeah, me and Mitch and Lou. We pull apart.

“Where have you been, Mitch?”

“Japan!”

“No wonder I haven’t heard from you in years.”

“Hey, you got married first, Ive. That put a damper on things. How is Rusty?”

Gone.

His eyes grow. “As in
gone
gone?”

“No. As in, traveling all over kingdom come with a barbershop quartet.”

“No kidding?”

“Does that sound like something I’d make up?”

“Wow. So, you heading in?”

I shake my head and shrug. “Nah. Remember that dork on the basketball team, the one that Sheila Barber broke up with because he was coming on too strong, and then he told everyone he broke up with her because she was a tramp? Remember him?”

“Joe Bisbee?”

“Yes! That guy! He actually thought I was Miss Stein!”

“The science teacher?!”

“Yes!” And can we just shout a little louder please?

“You don’t look anything like Miss Stein, Ivy. My gosh, she was fifty-five at least when we graduated. The guy’s a dip-wad.”

See? Now here’s a smart man.

“Now
there’s
an expression I haven’t heard in years.”

“It sure is easy to slip back into the vernacular, isn’t it?”

I smile. “Man, it is so good to see you.”

“You said it. Look, I don’t really want to go in there either. I just came to catch up with you and Lou. Is she coming?”

“No. Her father’s heading off to Africa tonight, and she had to take him to the airport. He’s big into missions work over there now. Practical missions, like well-digging, medicine, and things.”

“Well, how about we just go get a meal together? My treat.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“Shoot, Ive. I disappeared for ten years. The least I can do is buy you dinner while I tell you my sad story.”

What could it hurt? This is so great. “Let’s go.”

“My car’s over there. Let’s ride together.” He points to an old Jaguar.

“Pretty car.”

“Fixed it up myself over the last year. Needed something to do after work.”

“Part of your story?”

“You know it. Anyway, the car helped a lot. And you remember Dad and me and cars.”

“Oh, that ’69 Mustang.”

“Three-ninety cubic inch. Man, that baby blew!” He opens the door, and I slide in. Nice. “How’s your dad, Mitch?”

“He died five years ago. Mom remarried a wonderful guy last year.”

“I should have known that.”

“How? You’re not the one that disappeared.”

I’ll bet Mitch would say bedtime prayers with his kids.

Well, I can see him a little better now that we’re in the restaurant, a little place we used to frequent in our teens after bowling or going to the Orioles game. The Towson Diner. Lots of fake stonework and ceiling beams, a little faux wrought-iron lamp by the register.

All the awkward news I should have heard but didn’t has been told.

I don’t even look at the menu. The beef stroganoff special on the board sounds good enough to make me forget being mistaken for Miss Stein. For now, anyway. “You look almost the same, Mitch. More mature, though. Filled out, like a man-sized guy.”

He puffs his chest and pats it, feigns a bass. “Yep, that happens.”

Intriguing, the changes in him. His russet hair, still curly and soft, is mixed with white. His eyes, still a deep brown, aren’t afraid to look at the world—or me, for that matter—straight on. I guess he’s gained a little weight, sure, but nothing like Rusty, who’s at least
a hundred pounds heavier since he went on the road. And he’s still sweet and hangs on every word I say. Just like the old days. He wears himself well. We talk and talk and talk, just like the old days too.

He actually listens to me.

My mom wanted us to marry each other, but Mitch went out of state to college, and I stayed in town and met Rusty, and here we sit. I’d better not think about what life would have been like had it gone according to Mom’s plans. Of course, right now she’d be by herself, worrying about my brother and sister. She’d be up to her eyes in anxiety. Life works out for the best, I suppose. On the other hand, what isn’t glorious about living in a glitzy apartment in Tokyo, shopping at all those wonderful stores, employing a maid and a cook, and traveling all over the world with my husband?

Without Lyra, Persy, or Trixie.

Well, that puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?

We’re the last customers to leave.

I lie to everyone about the reunion. Tell them all I had a great time at the Marriott, made new friends from old acquaintances, got potential business for Brian if indeed he fires up a catering arm of the restaurant. Er, bistro. Sorry.

And they believe me.

My grandpa always said that for every lie you tell, a wrinkle appears.

Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe living this lie, that I am strong and fine and capable and supportive of Rusty and his singing career, explains these gullies. I should’ve told them about dinner
with Mitch. It was innocent, after all. We sat and chatted about my sorry life and his divorce from what sounded like a horrible woman name Pam. Excuse me, Pamela. Dahling.

“That’s the thing about trophy wives, Ive,” Mitch had said, forking up some salad. “They don’t do anything but sit there looking pretty, taking up useful space and spending money they don’t even appreciate. I paid her to be thin and beautiful, is what the marriage boiled down to. She hated sex too.”

Well, at least she was beautiful. So the supermodel rumor was truth, and doesn’t that beat all? Why would Mitch want to sit with a thirty-eight-year-old crone like Ivy Schneider when he could have a model on his arm?

Oh, that’s right. She hated sex.

Ha!

Sex? What’s that?

So now the quiet of the house echoes in my ears. Brian dropped Mom off at her apartment and zoomed over to Schooner’s to rustle up a bimbo. The kids sleep, and I log on for Rusty’s daily e-mail. It’s the same. He asks what’s going on. How are the kids? He relates all the minutiae of his daily doings. And in one e-mail out of fifty he expressly asks me, “So how are
you
doing, Ivy?”

I know I’m whining. I try keeping it to a minimum, but tonight my complaints actually register against the stillness. If I can’t admit reality, maybe I’ll fade away completely. I can’t lie to myself, can I?

I answer his questions, lie more about the reunion, act like I’m having all the fun in the world without him. Fifteen minutes later, I slip between the sheets and cry some more.

M
aybe I could have played my hand differently. Rusty suggested we sell the house, buy a luxury RV, and all travel together. But I couldn’t get past the obvious: sharing a closet-sized bathroom, turning a dinette into a bed every night, having the kids crawling all over me twenty-four hours a day. And Mom would probably die during the duration, cheating me of the final years of her life. She doesn’t drive anymore, so I drive her. Doctor appointments galore. The foot specialist, the kidney specialist, the dentist, the optometrist, the family practitioner. Grocery shopping as well, and Mom buys only from individual food purveyors: the greengrocer, the butcher, the baker, the seafood shop. And then there’s the pharmacist, who knows us by name: prescriptions, prescriptions, prescriptions.

As useless as Styrofoam scissors, Brian can’t be relied upon.

My sister, Brett, weighed down with two spoiled teenagers, a dress shop, and a workaholic husband, consumes herself with her own responsibilities. That leaves me.

I simply said, “No Rusty, I won’t go. I can’t.”

“But Ivy, this is something I’ve wanted all my life. Traveling, entertaining, bringing joy to thousands of people through song.”

Excuse me, but I’ve read the brochure, thanks.

“But what about me? How can you ask me to give up my entire life? And what about the kids? What about their education?”

“We can homeschool them!”

“Oh please! You mean
I
can homeschool them.”

“No. I’d help. It would be fun. On the road, town to town. Think of what they’d see, what they’d learn. All the sites we could take them to!” Oh, the eagerness in his eyes, how brightly they sparkled, like blue-tinted Ray-Bans in full sun.

He let it go for a little while, but then he began bugging me, and bugging me and bugging me. When he wasn’t bugging me, he pestered me. He left brochures around the house for RVs, RV parks, historical parks, monuments. Great for the kids’ education! Imagine seeing this stuff firsthand and all, Ivy! Theme parks—you know how much you love a scary roller coaster, Ivy! The clock is ticking, hon. They need to know in two weeks, one week, five days, three days, tomorrow!

Tomorrow!

Tomorrow!

And I did a stupid thing. I suggested he go alone. That we’d all be fine.

Fine, fine, fine!

And darn it, he took me up on it. And he reminds me again and again this was
my
idea. So not only is he gone, but he feels justified, even vindicated, and when he’s at his most lonely—the victim.

I honestly never thought he’d jump on my idea. What husband chooses his own ambitions over his family?

“Why not wait until Mom’s gone?” I’d ask.

“She’s not exactly at death’s door, hon, and besides, they need a tenor now, for the new tour. Oh, Ivy, thanks, doll-baby. Thanks for giving me this chance. You’re not going to regret it.”

No. Thank
you
. Thanks for manipulating me, for leaving me with no options. I should’ve been better at the game.

And then his excitement swelled like a spider bite, and I prayed and tried to go along with the revised plan with vigor. After all, God would supply our needs. And maybe He’d make my husband see sense. If I nagged Rusty, he’d only be glad to go.

We’d lay out on the hammock together, and he’d speak his dreams. “We can get out of this cramped house, Ive. Maybe buy something in Ocean City and live at the beach year-round! This could be big, baby-doll. Big money. Exposure. I can finally treat you like you deserve.”

I’ll never forget the evening he informed me the deal was final, the contract signed, and hey, the salary wasn’t at all bad. Not what he’d hoped for, but we’d make out just fine. The clock said 7:11.

Now, the numbers 7 and 11 hold a significance in my life. My high-school boyfriend, Tom Webber, wore number 7 for soccer season and 11 for basketball. We sure were the couple back then. He, tall and blond and coordinated. Me, honey-blond and a cheerleader and an alto in the choir. He spread my heart across his history like Persy spreads peanut butter on crackers. Persy’s birthday is 7/11, and Trixie was born at 7:11 a.m.

Anyway, there Rusty went, and here I stay. He’s entertaining an audience, and I’m entertaining bitterness. How lovely. Yes, I know I choose my own emotions.

The alarm clock buzzes: 7:11. I reach out, turn it off, and another day begins.

Morning and I have never tangoed well. I’d rather rush us around than miss a second’s sleep. Sleep is my six-pack, my chocolate, my hot bubble bath. Just wish I got more of it.

I crank on the shower and make the rounds while it heats up. Beginning with Lyra. She wakes up great. Gathers her clothes and runs into the bathroom to shower first.

Persy next.

Oh, my little Perseus Jacob Schneider, the affectionate one who sidles up and kisses me on his own. I slide his comforter down. His hair sticks out like quills all over his head. A definite improvement on the disastrous cut. He pulls the blanket back over his head, and I yank it down again and kiss all over his face. “Time for school, bud. Please put on clean underwear today, okay?”