Field of Schemes (33 page)

I thought the girls did a terrific job against a very tough team today. I did not play soccer when I was in college, but if I had, I certainly would not find these degrading emails in the least bit motivating. Our coach and players did a fine job today. Unfortunately, our opponents played a little better. Let’s get ’em next time!

Go Kix!!!!!

Claire Emmett

I hit send before I could change my mind. The one thing that bothered me a tad was that Mimi was right about the girls’ fitness. Okay, fatness. I couldn’t understand what was going on with them. They played soccer three times a week and every player except Cara was porking out, and I’ll bet her mother didn’t allow her to eat anything but celery sticks and Fiber One cereal with no milk. Ever since school started, the girls really ballooned. Mimi said that because the girls were sitting at desks for six hours a day, they weren’t burning as many calories as they were during break, but I was starting to wonder.

I looked at my watch and saw that there was a little time before I had to jump in the shower. When I called Violet’s house last week, her father simply said he had nothing to say to me. Still, I couldn’t help wanting to know how Violet’s knee was healing. Mimi simply told us that Violet wouldn’t be returning until State Cup, but I felt like there was more to the story. With Mimi, there always was.

“Hello, Violet?” I asked when I heard a female voice. The television was blasting in the background so it was difficult to determine whether it was her or Leesha.

“Yes.”

“Hi, honey. It’s Claire Emmett, Rachel’s mom. I’m calling to see how your knee is doing. Is your mother around?”

“Daddy says my knee is real good, but the doctor says I can’t play for a few more months.”

In the background, I heard an angry male voice. “Who you talkin’ to, girl?”

Uh-oh. Noooo mer-saaaaay!

“It’s for Mama,” Violet said, then put me on the phone with Leesha.

I heard voices garbled as Violet explained that it was me. “Hello,” she said impatiently. I could hear a door close behind her.

“Hi Leesha, it’s Claire from the team. I was—”

“I know what you was,” she snapped. “An’ I’ll tell you what I told Mimi last time she called. Violet can’t play soccer till her doctor says it’s okay. I don’t care who you give her spot to, this is my baby!”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “I’m not calling to get her to play. I just wanted to see how she’s doing.”

“Uh-huh,” she said with a tone of skepticism. “You tell that Mimi she can stop callin’ on us. She can stop havin’ other people call on us. My baby don’t play till the doctor says she’s okay.”

“Leesha, you don’t understand. I—”

“You can give her spot to little Pissy for all I care!”

“Who you talkin’ to in there?!” I heard Ray shout through the door. “Don’t let them give Violet’s spot away, woman!”

“Leesha!” I said, fighting for a voice in the conversation that now became one between Angry Leesha and Crazy Ray. “I’m just calling to see how Violet’s doing! That’s all.”

“That’s all?” I could see her eyebrow raised and her lips stuck out to one side. “Nothin’ more?”

“Well, if you need anything like a prescription filled or a ride to physical therapy ... ”

Silence.

“Hello? Are you still there, Leesha?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well then, is there, um, anything you need?”

“I do need some Comet.”

“Comet?”

“The cleanser,” she explained.

“No, I understand what Comet is, but what does that have to do with Violet’s knee?”

“If I take her to the doctor, I don’t have a whole lot a time left to buy Comet.”

I laughed to myself. How did I always get stuck with these assignments? “Okay, Comet it is. Anything else?”

“Paper towels, Brillo, and Windex.”

“Okay, anything else?”

“I could use a carton of Lucky Strikes.”

As I was getting ready to step into the shower, I heard Dave’s voice blasting through the house through the answering machine.

“Rachel!” I called to her hoping she’d pick up the phone. I peeked my head down the staircase and looked at her, still in her soccer uniform, doing Sudoku at the kitchen counter.

“What?” she asked.

“Did you want to get the phone?”

“It’s for you,” she replied.

Dave’s voice continued, “Anyway, I know it’s late notice, but I thought I’d check and—”

“Hello,” I answered.

“Oh hey, Claire. Screening?”

“Just getting ready for this fundraising dinner tonight.”

“That’s actually why I’m calling. Lil just called—”

“Lil, my mother-in-law, Lil?”

“Yeah, she’s got an extra seat at her table for this thing tonight and asked if I’d like to come as her guest,” Dave explained.

I paused, tackling questions from the trivial to important.
How did she get Dave’s phone number? Why did she invite him to the bogus Steve Emmet Foundation dinner? Why didn’t she check with me first?
“Oh,” was all I could muster.

“I’m wondering if it’s going to be awkward if I go,” he said. “If it’s something you’d rather I sit out, I understand.”

“Oh,” I said again, dumbly. “What did you tell Lil?”

“I said I’d check with you and get back to her. Claire, I haven’t pulled any punches with you and I’m not about to start now. I’m looking for any excuse to spend time with you, but this isn’t exactly your typical rubber chicken benefit, so I want to check in and see what you think of me tagging along. I mean, I want to be respectful of your wishes.”

“Respectful of my wishes?” I repeated.

“Well, your boundaries,” he said.

“You sound like such a therapist,” I teased.

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It’s not. I feel like I’m going to have to turn in an invoice to my HMO after this conversation.”

“My God, that’s exactly what Jessica used to say,” he laughed.

“She was right. Treat me like a woman, not a patient.”

“A woman?”

“A woman friend,” I clarified, though as I said that I wondered about my position. Might that have been a flutter in my heart as we bantered?

“Claire, I’m really concerned about you,” he said.

“Please, Dave. I’m sure I’ll be fine whether you attend tonight’s event or not.”

“No, it’s not that. Do you really have an HMO?”

I was stunned by the volume of chatter at the cocktail reception before the event. I’d expected maybe a hundred people to show up at this thing, but before we even entered the lobby, we could hear that there were far more in attendance. When Dave and I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of nearly a thousand people mingling at four separate bars. In my black wrap dress, I was painfully underdressed as women sashayed about, each gown more glittering than the next. Half of the men were in tuxedos, while the others were in suits. I felt like a waitress. My rhinestone barrette pulling back my low ponytail paled in comparison to the flowered-up dos and braided masterpieces. Maggie Jennings wore a rhinestone tiara. Good Lord, let there be a podcast of this in heaven.

A few minutes after our arrival, I found Lil, Barbara, and Blake. Steve’s brother and his wife were running late. As we chatted, we noticed the pianist was wearing small angel wings as he played cheesy eighties pop songs at the keyboard. Upon further inspection, I was aghast to see that they were actually model lungs thinly covered with white feathers! My jaw dropped, but before I could say a word, the group turned and politely began clapping. The pianist stood, placed his hands in a prayer position, and bowed.
Blech!
He sat again, then began playing “Lost in Love” by Air Supply. Come to think of it, the last song he played was “Every Woman in the World.” Oh. My. God. The song before that was “Even the Nights Are Better.” Was Maggie Jennings really hosting a reception for non-smoking-related lung cancer where the musical repertoire consists solely of music by Air Supply?

“You look like a ghost, sweetheart,” Lil said, touching my arm. I closed my eyes and took in the delicious scent of White Shoulders, the perfume she wore at my wedding, family gatherings, and her son’s funeral.

“Why shouldn’t I?” I shrieked. “The piano player’s dressed like an angel, and the hostess looks like the Queen of England. This is clearly a masquerade ball. Why shouldn’t I look like a ghost?”

“Shhhh,” she said, stroking my arm. “Relax, sweetheart.” Mother and Blake milled about chatting with guests. Dave was getting us drinks at the bar. Soon the ballroom doors opened and it was time to be seated. Now, admittedly Lil spelled her last name differently than the Steve Emmet Foundation, but one would think they’d notice the similarity and check to see if she was related. No such luck. Our table was in the outer region of Siberia.

After dinner plates were cleared, the lights dimmed and Maggie floated onto the stage. “That dress is awful!” my mother said, a bit too loudly.

“Good evening, friends,” Maggie began. Looking dramatically to the left, then right, then up toward the heavens (or her spotlight), she continued. “Friends. Family. We are here tonight to honor the memory of a beautiful soul who left us far before his time.”

Lil’s eyes glazed. While this was no more than a performance for Maggie, Lil and I really felt the sting of Steve’s death. Behind Maggie was a screen that read, “Welcome to the first annual Steve Emmet Foundation Dinner.” As Maggie continued, a studio portrait of the Jennings family appeared on the screen. It was the same one they had used on last year’s holiday letter. “When Steve came to the firm, it was with big dreams and even more drive.” Lil looked at me, smiling at the memory. The screen flashed a new photo of Steve’s back as he tossed a football to Jimmy Jennings. “At the annual picnic, no one spent more time with the kids than our Steve.” The picture changed to a meeting where Ed Jennings was speaking and sixteen partners sat around the mahogany table and listened.
Is that Steve or Zack Winston? Oh, there he is in the red tie! I bought him that tie.
“Having Steve at the firm made us all richer, and I don’t just mean because of his savvy business sense,” she said with a cheesy laugh. “We were blessed by his spirit, his vitality, his joie de vivre.” The image changed again to Steve and his friend, Elaine Chin, after they finished the Los Angeles Marathon. They held water bottles with the firm logo emblazoned on them. “Steve worked hard and played hard with his beautiful, athletic wife, Clara.”

Everyone at our table looked at me in shock. “Did she just call you Clara?” Lil asked.

“That doesn’t look like you,” Dave added.
Well, no, considering Elaine Chin was Chinese
.

My head dropped into my hands in horror. This horrid woman hadn’t bothered to get a single fact straight about Steve. She was almost defiant in her inaccuracy.

The photo now changed to one of Ed Jennings holding six-month-old Rachel at the firm picnic. It actually was Rachel, which was a relief. Maggie continued, “And how Steve loved his son.”

I almost laughed until I caught a glimpse of Lil accepting a handkerchief from Dave. “Lil, are you okay?”

“This is too much,” she sniffed. “This woman is making a mockery of my son’s life.”

My mother placed her hand on top of Lil’s and mouthed for me to
do something!

I looked at Dave for guidance. He nodded his head in agreement, then added, “Someone needs to set this woman straight.”

I felt as though I had strings on my shoulders and someone was lifting them up. I had no intention of standing, but suddenly I was on my feet. “Excuse me,” I said loudly. Maggie continued, oblivious. A few tables in front of us heard me and started mumbling curiously. “Excuse me, Maggie,” I said louder. More tables began buzzing as Maggie chattered still unaware of my interruption.

Rarely does life come with such recognizable moments of self-definition. I knew that how I handled the next few seconds would determine who I was from this day forward. I could sit down quietly and hide, or I could demand to be heard. “Excuse me!” I shouted so loud that nothing but the sound of my voice filled the room.

Unfazed, Maggie remained smiling, squinting into the crowd to address the silhouette in the back. “I’ll be happy to answer questions from the audience after the presentation,” she said sweetly.
Audience?!
“When our friend Steve was diagnosed with lung cancer, we were shocked. He didn’t even—”