Every Other Saturday (5 page)

Maybe he didn’t have to go through with it. This fleeting hope held Dave together as he left the station Friday afternoon and drove back to the townhouse. Maybe he could still back out gracefully.

When he got home to the computer, however, reality set in. The SportsZone Facebook page was covered in posts about J-Date and Sherm and Phil’s bet. His video post had more than two thousand shares and a hundred new comments—the most he’d had since he had suggested a few years earlier the Braves would be better off if they traded their golden boy Chipper Jones. He’d gotten hate mail for weeks after that one.

Dave set down his second Starbucks of the day and scrolled, pausing to look at a couple of the comments from women who said they’d be interested in dating him. He clicked on one of the avatars and tried to get a better look at the grainy picture of a woman in a bikini, leaning against the rail of a boat with a drink in her hand.

His phone buzzed and he jumped.

“Max.” He clicked off the bikini picture as though his old friend could see through the phone what he was looking at.

“Dude, nice video. You made me cry a little bit.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, you made Lianne cry. She wants to have you over for dinner. You made me wonder how you ever snagged a woman to begin with, you big baby.”

“That’s more like it.”

Dave wondered whether Max knew anything about Aaron’s interest in Debbie, but hesitated to ask. The three had been friends since bar mitzvah training classes, and then roommates in the Jewish fraternity house at UGA. He didn’t want to put Max in an awkward position.

Max was a public relations expert, consulting for large companies in times of crisis. He also used his expertise to give Dave frequent, informal career advice.

“Was it that bad?” Dave said. “Do I have to turn in my man card and get a real job?”

“Actually, it could be good for the blog. You’ll want the girls to sign waivers so you can blog about them… Why don’t you come over next weekend? We’ll talk about some strategies for advertising. And finding your next wife.”

“I hate to break it to you, but even if I do this, it’s just to get back out there. No relationships.”

“Famous last words. You’ll be pussy-whipped by Thanksgiving, I bet.”

“Wow,” Dave teased. “Lianne okay with you talking like that in the house?”

“She knows I love her,” Max said. “A real woman doesn’t need to be the PC police to feel secure in her man.”

“In other words, she’s not home.”

Pause. “She’s in the shower.”

Dave laughed. “Way to go, Masculine Avenger.”

# # #

As it turned out, the person who finally convinced him to do the J-Date experiment was Debbie.

“You’re not
seriously
going to do this J-Date thing? Don’t make an ass of yourself.”

They stood by Debbie’s car in the driveway of his townhouse. Lyric had run inside to put her bag down and look for the sidewalk chalk he kept in the garage.

“I earn a pretty good living making an ass of myself,” he said. “And Max seems to think this has big potential for the blog, not to mention at SportsZone.”

“I just think it sounds juvenile and desperate,” she said.

“How’d you hear about it so quickly anyway? You never listen to SportsZone.”

“I do sometimes.” Debbie looked at her feet. “Aaron sent me a text after the show. Which is more than I can say for you. Don’t you think I had a right to know about this? I’m only the mother of your child.”

“Oh, really? We’re going to talk now about keeping things from each other? How about the fact that you are dating my best friend?”

“I’m not—we’re not
dating
. We’ve had lunch a few times and went to a movie.” She looked up at him, dark eyes flaring. “It’s not like I’m putting out a classified ad, making myself available to the entire city. Don’t you think it’s going to get back to Lyric?”

“It was her idea.” He gestured toward the townhouse.

Debbie lowered her voice. “She’s not even five, Dave. She told me this morning I should wear pink tights and a leopard print robe to work.”

Dave snickered. Debbie let out a breath, the corner of her mouth twitching. “And where is she going to be while you’re going out with all these women? You sure as hell aren’t going to let them meet her.”

“Of course not,” he said. Truthfully, he had not thought until that very moment how he was going to handle the dates on his weekends with Lyric. He tried to sound confident. “I’m going to line up a sitter.”

“So your daughter is going to sit home with a stranger, and watch you go off on however many dates with however many different women? What’s that going to do for her self-image?”

“It’s not going to do a damn thing to her self-image. She’s going to know that adults go out together sometimes and that I love her more than I could love anyone. Like always.” Dave bristled at the suggestion that this experiment was going to have some kind of negative impact on their daughter. “So you’re telling me Aaron was not at our house last night while Lyric was there?”

“
My
house. And if you must know, he came over after she went to sleep. We had a glass of wine and talked. Mostly about you, asshole. He left.
Nothing
.
Happened
. But why am I telling you this? You can just break into the house and read my diary. Or maybe we should just set up a webcam?”

The garage door came to life suddenly and they both watched it rise. Lyric would be outside with them in a few seconds.

“I said I was sorry this morning,” Dave said, voice lowered. “I really am. That was wrong. It won’t happen again. You can have the key back.”

Lyric emerged with a tub of chalk, skipping past them to the flat white sidewalk that connected the long row of townhomes. They were both quiet, watching her, until she seemed fully engaged, drawing flowers and singing to herself.

Finally Debbie said, “Let’s not fight. Just, if you’re going to do this J-Date thing, will you at least line up some kind of consistent care for her? Like your mom or someone?”

“Ha!”

“Okay, bad example. Just someone trustworthy, who I know, and Lyric knows. Like Elizabeth from school. I don’t like the idea of her getting foisted off on whatever random teenager or radio station intern happens to be available that weekend.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Debbie nodded, glancing at their daughter. Lyric’s tight, buttery-brown curls looked almost red in the late afternoon sun. She was biting her lip in concentration as she colored. “I didn’t feed her dinner yet,” his ex-wife said. “Oh! I almost forgot Hank Aaron. I washed him again.” She opened the car door and handed Dave the worn, once-pink teddy bear Lyric had slept with since she was a baby. “I’ll just kiss her good night, okay?”

“Deb.” Dave stopped her as she turned toward the sidewalk. “Why didn’t you tell me? About Aaron?”

She sighed deeply. “G-d. It’s so complicated. There hasn’t been anything to tell. Not…really. And, I don’t know. It’s Aaron. At first I couldn’t even imagine it and then, we started talking, and maybe I can imagine it. But he wanted to talk to you before things…
progressed
.”

Dave cringed, chest tightening as she talked. He fought back the anger rising fresh in his throat.
You asked her, asshole.

“Are you okay?” She asked it in a way that indicated she didn’t want to know the answer. Dave nodded. If he said one more word to her right now, he was going to explode in front of their kid, and he wouldn’t let himself be that guy.

Debbie seemed to get this, because she reached out a hand toward him, and then pulled it away before quite touching his arm. She turned quietly to say goodbye to Lyric, while Dave took a few steps toward the garage to give himself breathing room. Almost as soon as she was gone, Dave brought Lyric inside so that he could call Ms. Elizabeth about babysitting and finish filling out the J-Date profile Phil had started for him. He took the questions more seriously this time. Game. On.

With her phone charged and the kids fed, Julia called Elizabeth Saturday morning before heading to the store.

“We’re excited to have Mia back next week,” the teacher said, returning Julia’s call. “You wanted to ask about babysitting?”

“Quite a bit of babysitting, actually. I’m helping out my sister this fall in her catering business, and I need some help with the kids. A few Saturday nights.”

“Hmm…” Elizabeth said. “Do you know which ones?”

“Nine. There are nine of them. Pretty much alternating weeks, if that helps.”

Silence.

So, Julia kept going, thinking maybe if she powered through the shock of her ridiculous request with some practical details, it might start to sound reasonable. “The first would be two weeks from now, the twenty-second.”

“Oh, Mrs. Mendel, I’m sorry—”

“And then it’s pretty much every other Saturday from there, the weekends I have the kids.”

“Mrs. Mendel.”

“I can get Halloween off, and maybe one other night if there is a date that would be a problem for you…”

“Julia,” Elizabeth said.

“I know it’s a lot,” Julia said. “But you’re basically the only sitter Brandon will tolerate, and it’s only until the end of the year.”
I hope.

“It’s not that. It’s just…I’ve committed those dates to someone else.”

“What? You mean, every single Saturday is spoken for?”

“Not every Saturday, but I just promised Mr. Bernstein I would babysit for him during his project. It sounds like you two are on the same custody schedule.”

Julia was stunned. She couldn’t figure out which part of this to tackle first.

“If you could switch weekends, I might be able to cover a few of them, but not all. Mack, my husband, and I want to go on some dates, too, before the baby comes.”

“Oh, no. Adam wouldn’t…and of course you should have time together before the baby. Dave has a new project?”

“He’s doing a whole thing with J-Date. Kind of cool.”

“And he has booked you for every other Saturday night from now until December?”

“Yeah. I probably wouldn’t have agreed to it, honestly, but he is paying me two extra dollars an hour to commit to that time. We’re going to furnish the nursery with what I make working for him.” She sounded giddy, and then seemed to notice it and changed her tone. “I am sorry. I don’t think I can back out of it now.”

“Of course not. I’ll figure something out. It will be okay.” Julia wasn’t convincing, even to herself.

She couldn’t think who else might have the patience to deal with Brandon’s rituals. Julia had left him with the teenage girl down the street a few weeks ago—for dinner with an old friend in town on business—and the poor girl had called her after an hour and begged her to come home, with Brandon’s agitated screaming in the background. Even if they could handle their young cousins, Caroline’s boys were both so involved with soccer that their weekend schedules were a mess. She was out of options.

“If he has to cancel sometime, I can let you know,” Elizabeth offered.

“That’s…kind.” Julia tried and failed to be gracious. “But honestly, I’m not sure that helps me.”

# # #

She found him in the car pool line, the smug little snake. Julia pulled up right behind his red pickup truck, the one with the inlaid metal Falcons trailer hitch that probably cost one of her car payments. She checked the clock—ten ’til four—still a few minutes before the kids would be led out to the benches. She glanced back at Brandon, who sat in the seat behind hers with his headphones on, absorbed in his game. That damn game. It seemed the only worlds he felt totally comfortable in were the digital ones. “Brandon, Mommy is going to talk to Mr. Bernstein for a minute.”

Click, click, click.

“Bran, the alien mother ship has landed, so I’m going to go aboard and see if they’re peaceful. If you see a big explosion and lots of little green men, run like crazy.”

Click, click, click.

Julia took a deep breath and got out of the van. “You learned to use a circular saw before you could drive. Are you going to be pushed around by some entitled, chauvinist guy and his stupid, chauvinist truck just because he is doing some gimmick for his blog? Go kick some ass!”

Summoning every ounce of courage, Julia rapped on Dave’s window, noting with satisfaction that he jumped noticeably. He pantomimed a heart attack and smiled as he rolled down the window. “Mrs. Mendel,” he said. “You should work for the CIA. Look, about the Hanukkah auction—”

“Actually, Mr. Bernstein, I do want to talk to you and Mrs. Bernstein about the auction at some point, but…”

“Of course. I’ll call Debbie and we’ll schedule something.” He retrieved his phone from the center console, gesturing at it as though making his excuses. “I don’t know how much time I have to help, but let me put some thoughts together, okay?”

“Sure,” Julia found herself saying. It was as though his absolute confidence in himself was building a force field around him, buffeting her away before she’d gotten to the issue—crisis was more like it—at hand.

“Okay, David, but—”

“Call me Dave.”

“Sure. Dave, I don’t want to sound…”
Kickass
. Where the hell was her kickass? “Actually, you know what? I don’t care how I sound.”

He raised his eyebrows, amused. Of course, this guy would think it was all really funny. This guy who did five-minute videos from his couch every week and probably made three times her salary, when she paid herself. This pissed her off even more.

“Look, you just can’t swoop in and book Ms. Elizabeth to babysit for you every Saturday night for months. It’s not okay.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“She’s the only babysitter I can leave my kids with and you’ve booked her until the end of the year!”

“Every other week. She still has half her Saturdays free.”

“Those are the Saturdays I need her, too. I think we’re on the same custody schedule.”

“You’re divorced? I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

Shut up. Don’t start being all kind and human.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant, David. See, I was going to call Elizabeth before you, last Thursday, but my phone died and…”

“It’s Dave.”

“What?”

“Only my mom calls me David.”

“Whatever. It’s not fair for you to monopolize the only teacher who is a decent babysitter and consistently available for half the year. Other parents rely on Ms. Elizabeth, too.”

“That sounds like a decision for Elizabeth to make herself,” he said. “You should take it up with her.”

“I have taken it up with her! You’re paying her extra to commit for so long.”

“Only seemed fair. I was asking a lot.”

“You’re asking too much! That’s just not how things are done here.”
Not how things are done here?
Julia didn’t even sound like herself. She was losing control, helpless to stop it. “The teachers babysit for all the families; you can’t just monopolize the best one for your little womanizing project.”

“Womanizing? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His expression and voice changed so quickly to anger that Julia was taken aback. She realized in a fuzzy way that she had crossed a line. The kids had begun filing out of the building, looking sleepy from their recent afternoon rest time.

“I just…I’m sorry. But I need to work on Saturday nights now and Ms. Elizabeth is the only sitter I use. I’m not trying to trivialize your thing—”

“I’d say you are. And calling me a womanizer.” He opened his door and stepped out. For an insane second, Julia thought he was actually going to punch her, until she realized that Ms. Elizabeth walked toward his truck, holding Lyric Bernstein’s hand.

Julia glanced back at Dave, who glared at her. His voice was controlled but white-hot with anger. “Look, lady, I get that you’re the PTA president and all, but you do realize that’s not
actually
a position of power, right? You can tell me what you’d like me to do for the Hanukkah auction and I’ll do my best, but that’s because I love my kid. Not because you’re some kind of real authority who can tell us all what to do with our personal lives. I’m pretty sure you don’t get to tell the teachers when and for whom they will or will not babysit. I asked her, she agreed, and that’s it. Hi, champ!”

This last was directed at Lyric, who clambered into her car seat in the back of the cab. “Hi, Daddy!” she said. Then, seeing Julia, “Hi, Mia’s mom! Is Mia coming for a playdate today?”

Flustered, Julia was fumbling through some sort of apologetic refusal to the little girl when she noticed Mia had also been walked out to their minivan and waited by the closed side door. Ms. Patricia, the teacher leading her, made a big show of craning her neck to look for Julia.

As Julia had personally reminded the parents last week, deserting a vehicle in the car pool lane was strictly against Tree of Life car pool policy. At least thirty cars were behind hers, waiting and almost certainly, watching.

She took a last glance at Dave, but he was focused on helping Lyric get buckled in. Elizabeth was staunchly avoiding her eye, too. The teacher’s head was ducked low, face covered by a curtain of shiny black hair. She fussed with the monogrammed backpack at Lyric’s feet.
Traitor
, Julia thought, half aware she was being absurd. There was nothing left to say, and the longer she stood here, defying car pool etiquette, the crazier she looked. She returned to the minivan, defeated.

“Everything okay?” Ms. Patricia supported Mia as she climbed in.

The taillights of the red truck in front of them glowed briefly and diminished as Dave and Lyric drove away. “Yes, it’s fine. Sorry. PTA stuff.”

“Mommy, look!” Mia chirped. “We made sand art today.” She shuffled into her seat, towing the stained green frog backpack she and Brandon had used for three years of preschool each. As she tried to hold up the artwork and get seated at the same time, she rubbed a shower of sand and glitter onto the floor and Julia’s black canvas purse.

“That’s wonderful, Mia-Bird. Isn’t that nice, Brandon?”

Bran muttered something incoherent.

“Grumpypants.” Mia’s bottom lip protruded in a pout that was more sassy than sad, reminding Julia of herself.

“Get buckled, please, Mia. The cars behind us are ready to go. Brandon, be nice to your sister.”

She got back in the van and pulled absently away from the synagogue, headed home on autopilot. Brandon and Mia sniped at each other, arguing about whether Mia could hear Brandon’s game through the headphones.
Be nice to your sister.
It was something their mother had said to Julia and Caroline constantly as kids, and it never worked on them, either. Decades later, they were still a work in progress.

“Mom! You are not listening!” Mia said.

Julia straightened with a jerk and put her foot on the brake just in time to avoid running a red light. “Sorry, honey.”

“What’s wrong?”

Mia. The little empath.

“Nothing. I was just…wondering where we should go for dinner.”

“Oh! How about Pizza Tornado?”

“It’s called Pizza Fortunado, dummy.” Brandon groaned.

“I’m not a dummy, dummy!”

“Guys, that’s a little out of our budget for tonight anyway.”

“How about the Chicken Shack? I want a Shack Pack!”

“No!” Brandon hissed. Julia could hear the urgency in his voice.

“No?” she echoed, one eyebrow raised in the rearview mirror.

He shook his head violently. “It…smells weird in there.”

“Awww!” Mia complained. “I want a Shack Pack! We never get to go there anymore. How come Brandon always gets to say no to my ideas?”

Brandon stared determinedly out the window, arms folded over his chest. Bright pink crept up his face just like it did Julia’s when she was angry. The list of restaurants Brandon could be coaxed into without a tantrum was getting smaller by the month. His OCD had intensified since Adam moved out of the house. The therapist had instructed Julia and Adam both to push him to do things that made him uncomfortable, not to let his irrational fears control the family. Easier said than done. She could see by his face, even in profile, that to get him into the Chicken Shack tonight would end in tears all around. Julia just didn’t have it in her.

“Why don’t we go to Cheesy Burger? Brandon likes it there and you can both get a kids’ meal.”

“Yay! They have tater tots!!” Mia said, Shack Pack forgotten.

“Okay?” Julia said to her son.

“Okay,” he said softly.

Maybe it was just the weird tinting of the rearview mirror, but Julia thought he looked much older than his eight years.

# # #

Later that evening, when all three of them were full to the gills with a greasy meal, and Mia was out cold on her lavender bed, Julia sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a stack of papers. She listened to Brandon pacing in his room, a half-flight of stairs away. His bedtime rituals were worse lately—starting in January when Adam left to move in with Christy, and worsening steadily each time he had visitations with his dad. Bran needed to touch his lamp, his clock, and the bookshelf across the room, in that order, a certain number of times each night before he could go to sleep. The number was based on some formula that developed in his head throughout the day, which Julia didn’t fully understand. So even though the therapist had recommended he try to cut back on the number of times he did it (with an eye to eventually not do it at all), it was hard for Julia to know what cutting back was. Tonight she hadn’t troubled to mention it.