Every Other Saturday (4 page)

“Let’s take some calls,” Sherm said. “I never had the chance to do online dating. Mary and I were together before that was a thing. I want to know what it’s like. Give us a call at 404-555-ZONE and we’ll share your dating experiences on air.”

“The crazy factor scares me a little,” Dave said as they waited for Kenneth to signal there was a call. It didn’t take long.

“Alright, we’ve got Chris from Buckhead,” Sherm said. “Chris, you done some online dating?”

“Huge fan. Love you guys. Hey, Dave.” Chris from Buckhead had a thick Southern accent that made it sound more like “Hay Dayve.”

“Thanks for calling, man,” Dave said. “Tell us about online dating.”

“I can’t say ’bout J-Date, but I did eHarmony for a while and it wasn’t that bad. Met my girlfriend that way. You have to learn to read the profiles to tell if girls are on there because they really want to date someone or if they’re just looking for, you know…”

“For what?” Dave feigned innocence, grinning at Phil.

“Sometimes girls are just on there for…fun. Like a one-night kind of thing.”

Awesome. “You aren’t implying,” Sherm said slowly, “that the fine, upstanding women of Atlanta are using eHarmony to find booty calls, are you?”

“Tinder is more for booty calls,” Phil said. “Or, um, so I heard.”

Sherm snorted. Through the window, Kenneth laughed, the black clipboard on top of his head.

Phil said, “Chris, did you take advantage of any of these eHarmony booty call opportunities, or were you just in it for a serious relationship?”

“Um. I did meet my girlfriend there, and we’re pretty serious. But before that…”

They all laughed.

Recovering, Dave said, “Do you really think the women were cool with that, Chris? I worry about that with J-Date. I want to date Jewish women, because you never know when something will turn serious. But are women going to assume that just because we’re dating, it’s serious?”

“I guess they were cool with it,” Chris said. “They never seemed upset if I didn’t call them again.”

“Dude.” Sherm laughed. “Chris, maybe that says something about
you
.”

“Leave the guy alone,” Phil said. “He’s got a serious girlfriend now. He probably doesn’t have like an extra nipple or anything.”

Kenneth waved the clipboard and Sherm looked down at his monitor. He grinned at Dave. “Okay, Chris, thanks for calling. Next we’ve got Buffy in Midtown.”

“Dave, I love your blog. It resonates with me. So. Much. I’m Jewish and in my early twenties—”

“How early in your twenties?” Dave said too quickly.

“Twenty-four. I hang out with guys; it’s fun and we have things in common, but when the religion question comes up, that’s the end of it.”

“Have you thought about going on J-Date, Buffy?” Phil asked.

“My mom keeps telling me I should,” she admitted. “And I guess that’s why I haven’t. Because what does my mom know? But if I knew somebody like
Dave
was going to be on there…”

“You’d go out with Dave from the Cave?” Sherm asked. “Even though he’s divorced and has a kid and, I gotta be honest, he’s not getting any younger or prettier from where I’m sitting.”

“Are you kidding? Dave is adorable. All my girlfriends think so.”

Phil gave him a shit-eating grin. “Oh, honey. I agree. He’s just
adorable
. I can hardly keep my hands off him right now.”

He reached for Dave’s knee and Dave shoved the huge, tattooed hand away. “Dude. At least buy me dinner first.”

Sherm ignored them. “Another question, Buffy. If you did go on J-Date, and let’s just assume you don’t find Bernstein here totally repulsive, would you be only looking for a serious relationship? Or would you be cool with just hanging out and meeting a nice Jewish guy?”

“I would be okay with just hanging out,” Buffy said. “Definitely.”

“Of course she would. She’s twenty-four,” Dave said. “No offense, Buffy. You sound nice.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Sherm said. “And you’ve been moping around after your ex-wife for too long. Dave Bernstein, on behalf of your daughter and all the lovely Jewish women of Atlanta, I challenge you to sign up for J-Date today—”

“Working on it,” Phil said, typing away at his computer. “I’m making your username ‘DavefromtheCave.’ All one word, ladies.”

Sherm clapped. “Perfect. Dave’s going to be on J-Date by noon, and I’m going to challenge him to go on a different date every Saturday night until…let’s say, the end of the year. No repeat dates, no pressure, but if he likes someone he can ask them out again in January.”

Dave opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“Ten bucks says he’s completely balls-in to a relationship by the Super Bowl,” Sherm added.

“Nah,” Phil said. “He’s only going out with each woman once. It’ll be April at least. Braves home opener.”

“Guys.” Dave tried to sound calmer than he felt. “I haven’t agreed to this.”

Like that mattered. “Make it interesting,” Sherm said. “I say he’s in some kind of exclusive dating relationship—like, someone he would call a
girlfriend—
”

Dave snorted.

“By the Super Bowl. If I’m right, Phil has to do our entire annual March Madness kickoff party at Georgia Tech in a dress. I don’t mean throw on some muumuu for ten minutes. I want heels, pearls, handbag. The whole thing.”

“You think I can’t pull it off?” Phil said primly. “I’ll have you know I cut quite a lovely figure in designer pumps.”

“Do they make women’s shoes that big?”

Phil laughed. “Fine. But if I’m right—and I am, because Dave from the
Man Cave,
” he emphasized these two words and raised his eyebrows, “isn’t going to be conquered by another woman so quickly. If I’m right, you have to change your name to ‘Princess Sugar Afro.’ For an entire week. Not just on air, but everywhere. You have to insist people call you that—your wife, your daughters, the barista at Starbucks…”

Sherm threw his head back, laughing so hard that even in the dimly lit booth Dave could’ve counted his teeth. “Yeah, okay, whatever. But it’s not happening. Dave is going to find himself a nice Jewish girl and settle down again.”

“Guys. Wait,” Dave had the disconcerting feeling that he was trying to slow a speeding train with a rubber band.

“Look.” Sherm gestured at the console in front of him. “The switchboard is lit up. Probably half of them are women who want to jump your little Jewish bones, right, Kenneth?”

Kenneth gave Sherm a thumbs-up, phone pressed to his ear.

“It’ll be great. You can blog about the whole thing. Hey, listeners—I’m going to put a post about this on the SportsZone Facebook page with a link to
Tales from the Man Cave
. If you think Dave from the Cave should man up and accept my challenge to get back out there after his divorce
two years ago
, leave a comment on our page. We’ll be back after traffic and weather.”

She woke Friday morning with a cinderblock of panic pushing on her chest. Gasping, Julia sat up in bed and forced herself to breathe in and out, slowly, until the racing of her heart calmed. A dream? She tried to hold on to whatever fragments of imagery were slipping back into unconsciousness, but nothing concrete would resolve.

It was almost eight; Adam was coming in an hour to pick up the kids for swimming at his apartment complex. Julia pulled herself out of bed and knocked on Brandon and Mia’s doors to start the morning, still resting a hand over her pounding heart.

Maybe it was the phone. She’d forgotten it at the store the night before, after they had stayed late with a last-minute customer. By the time Julia got the kids home with a five-dollar pizza, they were all so tired and cranky she had allowed them to simply crash out in front of the TV. It was only after she’d carried their two sleeping bodies upstairs to bed that she had started to call Elizabeth and noticed the missing phone. At the time, it had felt like just another minor frustration to add to her ever-growing list. But today the reality of being out of touch was setting in with more urgency.

“Did you fix my green goggles?” Brandon stumbled into the kitchen in a ratty Incredible Hulk shirt and last year’s bathing suit. It was short on his long legs, but even under the t-shirt, Julia could tell it still hung a bit loose on his skinny hips.

“They’re in your bag. Don’t you have another suit clean?”

“I want to wear this one. I always wear it at Dad’s pool.”

“But sweetie.” Julia set down the plate of toast in front of him. Brandon’s fists clenched at his sides. There were always more arguments between them when he was going to Adam’s. Julia never knew whether it was normal child-in-a-divorce stuff, or OCD stuff, or both. She ruffled Brandon’s hair, choosing her battles. “Okay. It’s fine. Just for today.”

Mia came down a moment later, wearing a Disney princess two-piece, from which her sweet baby pudge of a belly still protruded. She had fixed her own hair: it was pulled up in lopsided pigtails, both tangled and wispy from sleep.

“Hi, Mia-Bird. Want some toast?”

“Is Daddy going to take us for ice cream after swimming? What time is he coming? Can I take my Ariel doll in the pool?”

Julia answered Mia’s questions as best she could and packed their swim things, nibbling on toast and encouraging Brandon to eat more of his. Nine o’clock came and went, and then nine fifteen, and no Adam. By nine thirty, her agitation had turned to anger. Myra was opening the store today, and Julia had promised she would be in before ten so Myra could get to a doctor’s appointment. She regretted canceling her landline service to save money. She couldn’t call Adam or the store.

He finally showed at 9:45, sunlight gleaming off his close-shaven head and expensive sunglasses. “Hey guys!” he called, arms outstretched to receive both kids. “Ready for Six Flags?”

“Six Flags?” Julia said, having to yell over the kids’ exclamations. “
What
?”

“You didn’t get my message? A client gave me free passes. Christy and I thought it would be fun.”

“But—”

“Guys, go change and put on your tennis shoes!” Adam took the bags from her. “I’ll take the towels anyway; maybe we’ll go on the water rides.”

“They’ve never been to Six Flags,” Julia said numbly.

“It’s okay, right? They’re old enough. We’ll do the kiddie rides for Mia, don’t worry.”

“But Brandon—”

“He’ll be fine. We won’t push him into anything he doesn’t want to do. Did you need them back early? If not, I can feed them dinner.”

Julia couldn’t think of any objections, except for the one she couldn’t say. The one that felt like a knife in her chest:
I always thought I would be with them, the first time they did something like this. It’s not fair that you and Christy are taking them to Six Flags without me. None of this is fair or okay.

Christy was in the passenger seat of Adam’s luxury SUV, talking on her cell phone and laughing, tossing her smooth blonde hair in the morning sun. She caught Julia’s stare and crooked her index finger in a delicate wave. Julia had a different one-fingered wave in mind for Adam’s mistress-turned-girlfriend, but the kids barreled out the door behind her before she had to restrain herself for long.

Fifteen minutes later, she gripped the steering wheel as the van careened over the hills toward the store. “I’m coming, Myra,” she said out loud, as though her employee could hear her from two miles away, just as the only remaining traffic light on her route turned yellow fifty yards ahead. “Jesus. It’s like the whole fucking universe is trying to slow me down.”

When she finally got to the store, Myra greeted Julia with concern, relief, and huffy anger—all in the span of thirty seconds. “You’re here. You okay? Hugh’s off today, you know. I couldn’t leave. I just hope I can make it now. Took me six weeks to get in with this specialist for my hip…”

Julia tried to offer apologies and explanations without slowing Myra’s progress out the door, but the older woman brushed her off. With an exasperated sigh and the squeal of tires as the fifteen-year-old Camry left the lot, Julia was alone in the empty store. After a few minutes’ searching, she found her phone under a pile of unpaid invoices, the screen black. And the charger, she realized with a groan, was still at home on the nightstand.

It was a good thing no customers happened by just then to have spare keys made or pick up a bag of fertilizer. If they had, they would have found Julia Carter Mendel behind the counter of her father’s hardware store, sobbing like a little girl.

It was a slow day, even for a hot Friday in August. Julia was grateful when Myra returned after lunch, still a bit peeved, but apparently restored by the attentions of her doctor. Julia listened about the new medication Myra would have to take and how often and what it would cost with her Medicare plan. Then she excused herself to her only real haven: the barn behind the store.

Perhaps the sole benefit to giving up the last three years of her life to an unprofitable business was that Julia had discovered her creative outlet in the barn. In the winter, she welded metal hardware and scraps into funky jewelry and even lamp bases and candlesticks. In the summer, she rescued salvageable pieces from an inexplicable pile of old wood furniture her dad acquired somewhere and painted them.

Her pride and joy was the massive reclaimed wood table she had built and painted herself: a patchwork of distressed and faded colors meant to look old and accidental. It served as her work table, but she had often fantasized about a day when her family would gather here for Sunday dinners, with bowls and platters passed around that table: Caroline and Ben and their kids, and she and Adam with hers.

The fantasy no longer included Adam (though sometimes a faceless stranger took his place), and it occurred less often as she slowly accepted that it was just a fantasy. Caroline hated the store and rarely set foot in it. Even though they talked at least twice a week, she and Julia only managed to get their families together a couple times a year for holidays. Sunday dinners would be all but impossible.

Julia inhaled the scent of the barn: sawdust and dried lavender and hints of sweet hay. It always calmed her. It wouldn’t solve her problems, but at least she could sweat out some frustration on her latest project: an old set of regency dining room chairs she planned to paint a vibrant yellow with a funky checkerboard design.

First, she sanded. In an old tank top she kept in the loft, she tuned the ancient boom box to one of Atlanta’s few remaining rock stations and cranked it. She worked on one chair for well over an hour, smoothing away scratches of age and mishandling, arms burning with effort and sweat dripping in her eyes. Julia worked to clear her head of Adam and Christy, of Caroline and her business, the preschool PTA. To her surprise, the image that was hardest to sand away was that of Dave Fucking Bernstein looking so longingly after his ex-wife.

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