Club Sandwich (6 page)

He blinks his sleepy blue eyes at me.

“When was the last time you had a bath?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shoot. Me either. Well, we’ll get one tonight. Remind me, okay?”

And how stupid a request is that? Persy revels in a boyish overlay of dirt, evidence he played his heart out the day before and that he is, indeed, a wild man. I like that about him.

He rolls out of his covers, and I leave the room, still taking pleasure in the bright primary-colored walls I painted during the winter. Trixie, who sleeps in a crib in Lyra’s room, looks deader than road chops. I won’t wake her yet. She’s awful in the morning. Why deal with her any longer than necessary?

She needs her dad. That’s what I tell myself. She sees Rusty four times a year, for two weeks a pop.

How does he stand it?

He blames me, that’s how. I can hear his mind:
If Ivy would come on the road, I could be a father to my own children, but no
.

And the kicker is, she’s crazy about him! No wonder there. He’s better than the Cat in the Hat at Six Flags, Robin Williams on a trampoline, and would I want him to be anything else considering the circumstances? No way.

Man oh man. I am so trapped.

Three years later, and I still haven’t wrapped my mind around
this. Am I wrong not to leave a failing old woman? Or is he wrong to leave his family?

Well, yes, he is, but shouldn’t I be the supportive wife and literally go along for the ride, let him lead the family, and trust God to take care of Mom?

So where does that leave a conservative Christian woman who believes her husband is wrong?

If I could answer that with certainty, I could write one of those inspirational how-to books and make a million dollars. “Proper” Christian motherhood. What a myth!

What to wear today. Let’s think about that instead.

I hurry down the hall to my closet. Well, at least Rusty doesn’t need his half anymore.

Ouch!

Thanks for leaving that LEGO there, Perse.

I figure it will be in the midseventies today, a typical early June day in Baltimore. I rub my foot. Bed sounds good.

So, tank top and long burlap-weave sundress. I do like my arms. Knees are knobby. Need the length on the dress. Keds. Gotta keep the feet comfy at the restaurant. Oh, that’s right, I’m getting rid of my Keds. I pull out a pair of huaraches.

Persy finds me just as I take my nightgown off. I mean really. “Persy, close your eyes.” I fold my arms across my chest. A mother can’t even change a tampon alone.

“I know, you’re undecent.”

“Indecent.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said … Oh, who cares. Just close your eyes, okay?”

“I just wanted to know where my tennis shoes are.”

I give up. I grab my sundress off the hanger and hold it up
against myself. “They’re in the kitchen in the middle of the floor. I almost tripped over them last night.”

“Okay.”

And off he goes looking like he stayed in the dryer too long after it stopped. I learned to stop pressing his pants long ago. Maybe I still can learn a few things. I hear the metallic scrape as Lyra pushes back the shower curtain. Great. Hurry, Ivy. Slip on the clean underwear before she comes out. I rush over to the chest of drawers, whip out some briefs, and swap underpants. Of course, the waistband takes on a life of its own, jumping around like a rubber ball on concrete flooring. I can’t seem to face it outward. It slips out of one hand, and Lyra’s singing one of those Good Charlotte songs, which means any second her hand will find the doorknob.

Hurry up, Ivy.

Sit down on the bed. Yeah, much better than full frontal nudity. I plop down just as she opens the door.

“Oh. Sorry, Mom.”

“That’s okay.” My back is toward her, thank goodness.

She runs out, and I can’t help it, but I feel so embarrassed at my nakedness.

I quickly slip on the panties and my tank top. Love the built-in bras these days. Now, if anybody enters uninvited, at least nothing scary is on display.

Of course, nobody does.

Motherhood.

When a babe slips out of your body, your dignity leaves with it. Along with your whittled waistline, pert breasts, high-heeled shoes, romantic dinners, long showers, and cups of coffee drunk without at least three zaps in the microwave. Not to mention sex without an ear cocked in the kids’ direction.

After dressing, combing my hair, and trying once again to cover up the obsidian crescents beneath my eyes, darn them, I decide it’s time to get Trixie up. Even dealing with Miss Baby Hellion 2002 holds more charm than looking at Ms. Stretch Mark of the Millennium in the mirror.

To fortify myself, I try to picture anything that can go wrong: a crib painted with poop, a red little screaming face, the sheets lying in a puddle on the floor, the wallpaper peeled off in strips. I can’t remember the last time I thought a morning would afford me a pleasant surprise.

There she sleeps, innocence and wonder and potential in God-made stillness.

I caress her rounded cheek. “Trixie.” Singsong. “Trixie-girl.” Oh, sweet baby.

“Come on, Trix!”

Five minutes later I’m still trying to change her diaper. I swear some imp came in and greased her up, the way she’s slipping out of my grasp. And as much as I adore Lyra, I know better than to ask for her help. She and Trixie go together like salsa and ice cream.

I promise Trixie the world. Cookies for breakfast and a trip to the bowling alley.
SpongeBob
during dinner. I even perform a mean imitation of that porous little sea creature’s giggle.

Nothing doing.

Patrick’s stupid sayings are next, then Sandy the Squirrel’s song about Texas. Squidward’s clarinet. Mr. Crab’s pirate accent.

Nope.

Just as red-faced. Just as squirmy. And whoops, there’s the jutting lip.

That does it!

“Okay, missy. If you don’t sit still and let me change that diaper, you’ll be coming up to your crib as soon as we get home this afternoon. And you’ll stay there until you fall asleep for bedtime.”

“What about supper at the bowling alley?”

“No pizza at the bowling alley now. It’ll be saltines right here. You blew it, honey.”

Let the screams begin.

I should send a parenting-book proposal to
The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Guide
people.

Fact is, I wouldn’t know what to advise. I lost my motherly instincts with this child, and she will drag my ineptness like a third leg into adulthood, the spoiled freak nobody wants to socialize with. All because her mother stretched herself as thin as cellophane and had no bulk to teach her even how to be nice.

“Oh, she’ll be fine! Just fine!” Mom always says. The thing is, she really believes that.

Now if Trixie’s potty habits matched her verbal skills, we’d be set as beautifully as a table at the Ritz at teatime.

“Come down when you’re ready to be nice, Trix.”

I gather up her outfit and head downstairs.

A dresser drawer scrapes open. “Way to go, Trixie,” Lyra says. “You’re such a brat.”

“Lyra!” I hate it when she does this. Undermines all I’m trying to accomplish with Trixie.

“It’s true, Mom!”

“And it’ll stay true as long as you keep telling her that.”

Now. Breakfast. I meant to pack lunches last night but started
reworking that novel and drowned all my good intentions. Which doesn’t help my patience level today. Maybe I should promise
myself
some pizza at the bowling alley for being nicer.

Call me whatever you want, but I love to bowl. We haven’t all gone to the bowling alley since Rusty hit the road.

“Ivy Schneider!”

“Mr. Moore! How are you this morning?”

“Doin’ fine. I clipped a funny little comic strip out for you this mornin’.” He stands on his porch, dressed as usual in gray chinos and a plaid shirt. “But you’re in a hurry, so it’ll keep.”

“I’ll come by this evening. We’re having halibut for a special tonight. Can I bring you some?”

He kneads the top of his cane. “You know I never turn down a good piece of fish, child. You have yourself a good day. I still got you on my prayer list. Every day!” He waves a bumpy old hand.

I just love that man.

Mr. Moore never married. He taught high-school science, then took care of his mother after he retired. And he loves his life. I could learn more than a lesson or two from that man about the glory of a simple life well lived.

I drop the older two off at their schools and head to the restaurant.

What a great night last night turned out to be. Maybe I’ll run into Mitch again soon now that he plans to call Baltimore his town again.

He’s still the same.

Mitch and I met in third grade, and although other friends came and went, he, Lou, and I remained a group. In high school we always sat together on the game bus, and one time, just once, I made out with him behind Tom Webber’s back. Even then his kisses felt sweeter than Tom’s, but Tom and I were
the
couple. How could I turn my back on that?

Those kisses promised a world of care. I knew Mitch loved me. But at that age, what girl ever desires what’s really good for her? I allow myself to soak in that lovely memory for a few seconds. Just a few.

Mom’s still wearing her robe. Highly unusual for this time of day. She swings the door wide. “Come on in! Hi Trixie-baby! Come to Winky!”

Trixie runs forward. She and my Mom have a thing. “Winky!”

“
Hey Arnold!
is ready to go. I taped it for you last night. Go on ahead.”

I wish Mom wouldn’t let her watch so much television. And
Hey Arnold!?
Trixie’s slipped on the shoes of the mean girl, Helga, not nice, sweet Arnold, friend in adversity, child with helping hands, a pure heart, and a football head. My in-depth knowledge of children’s television frightens me.

Bottom line: she doesn’t charge me for day care, so who am I to complain?

“Can you stay for coffee, dear?”

“I can’t. I’ve got to get downstairs and open up the bistro.” Did I actually just call it that? I must be flustered!

She shakes her head. “The bistro. Your grandparents would laugh themselves silly at that.”