Happy Hour
Authors: Michele Scott
Tags: #Family Life, #General, #Contemporary Women, #Female Friendship, #Fiction
HAPPY HOUR
BY
Michele Scott
To my best
friend, my Mom
Acknowledgements
I must thank Jessica Park, who is a great friend, a wonderful writer and
always there when I need a little support, shoulder to cry on or someone to
laugh with. I am grateful for you taking your big red pen to this book. I want
to thank Lori over at Lori’s Reading Corner, who is another huge supporter and
who has a keen eye. I am super grateful for your help. And thanks to my
friends—Terri, Gilly, Nikki, Sherri, Quelene, Kristy, Siobhan, and Lisa. It’s
nice to have friends who love me as much as I love them and who I can always count
on sharing a glass of wine or two with (or a lemon drop, or a margarita)—oh and
not to mention some good eats. Here’s to friendship!
Three and a half years ago…
Kat
Kat McClintock was late. This was not good. This would not be good. Damn.
Damn. Damn. “Okay, boys, listen.”
Neither one of her pre-pubescent sons looked at her. They were far too
absorbed in whatever new Gamestation, GameCube, PlayStation, Wii, (whatever it
was these days) game their father had recently purchased for them. She turned
the TV off.
“Hey!” Jeremy yelled. ”What are you doing, Mom? Not cool. Turn it back
on.” Jeremy had evidently bypassed pre-pubescence altogether and jumped right
into raging adolescence, and his day-to-day tone with her ranged from apathetic
to surly.
“Mommy, we were about to kill the boss,” Brian, her ten-year-old, said.
“The like, the big boss, you know? The guy to win!”
Thank God. He was definitely still not even close to adolescence. He was
still sweet. No one going through puberty would dream of calling their mother
Mommy
.
“I’m sorry, boys. I have to go. Your Aunt Tammy was supposed to be here by now.
Typical.” She shook her head. “Anyway, Jeremy, I need you to take out two
frozen burritos and put them in the microwave. There’re some bananas and I have
some broccoli already cut up in there.”
“I hate broccoli,” Brian said.
“You like it with ranch dressing.”
“No, I don’t.”
“How come we can’t go out to eat? Dad always takes us out to eat,” Jeremy
said.
Because Dad is an asshole.
No, no, she couldn’t say that.
Dad
screwed me over in our settlement and while he’s out wining and dining, I’m
trying to get a job to support us.
No, no, not that either. Let go and let
God. Wasn’t that what Mom was always saying to her? Breathe! Now there you go.
This is all one growing experience that will get you to another side of things.
The silver lining, or pot of gold, or whatever the hell it was at the end of
the rainbow. Better be a pot of gold.
Kat placed her hands on her hips and tried to look official. “I’m having
you eat a healthy meal.” That sort of sounded okay. “Good food makes you grow
big and strong and have a smart brain.” She winked at them.
“Frozen burritos?” Jeremy replied.
Too smart for his own good. “Jer, no more lip. Eat the burritos. You know
you like them. I’ll be back by bedtime and your homework needs to be done.
Don’t answer the phone unless you see that it’s coming from me and call me on
my cell if you have a problem. Obviously do not go outside or open the door for
anyone. Leave Squeak in the house. She’s on my bed right now. She makes a good
watchdog.”
“She’s a Chihuahua,” Jeremy said. “Not exactly a watchdog, Mom.” He gave
her a half smile, and the twinkle in his blue eyes left nothing for the
imagination. Her oldest boy defined mischief. The kind she knew later in life
would break many a woman’s heart. She sighed and shook her head. At twelve,
Jeremy was getting by on his charm and good looks with his teachers—all blue
eyes, olive skin, and thick dark hair. Brian was, of course, beautiful, too,
but he took after her with lighter brown hair. No one knew exactly how to
describe his eye color—hazel, brown, green? Kat settled on avocado. It was what
her mother called them. Mom never described anything as green, blue, or brown.
With Mom it was always
lime
,
cornflower
,
hazelnut
,
etceteras.
“But she barks. Can you handle all that? I’m sorry, guys. I’ll take you
out for pizza on Friday.”
“We’re going with Dad on Friday and, duh, I can handle it. I’m twelve,
not a baby anymore.” Jeremy turned back to the TV. “Can we turn it back on
now?”
“No. I don’t like your attitude, buddy. You’re acting like a monkey. Ooh
ah ooh.” Kat tucked her arms underneath her, and jumped up and down in her best
imitation of a monkey. Jeremy stared at her, but Brian giggled. The monkey
imitation used to work so well, and now—a stare and one little giggle.
“Alrighty then, I am officially a goober. That much is obvious, right? But as
your officially gooberish mom, your attitude Mr. Jeremy—ooh wait.” She held up
a finger. “If I am goober mom then you must be my goober sons! Ha. So, I need
your goober bad attitude straightened out by the time I get home.”
Jeremy frowned. “Mom, goober is so old school. You’re a nube.” Now both boys
broke up in hilarity. “But we still love you.” He grinned.
“Right. Me nube, you nube.” Not only was Jeremy charming, but also
downright manipulative when he needed to be, and too damn smart for his own
good. “Love you.” She went around the cheapie sofa she’d bought at a hole in
the wall furniture store. After only a few months the color changed from light
beige to dreary mud. She made a mental note to get one of those shabby chic
covers she’d seen at Target once she deposited her first paycheck—which—fingers
crossed—would be soon. She kissed each boy on the cheek, with Jeremy
responding by wiping it away and grimacing as if he’d been touched by an alien.
At least Brian hugged her back and smiled. “Bye, Mom. Good luck. You’ll
get the job. I know it.”
“Bye, babe, and thank you. You can turn the TV back on after your
homework is finished. Leave it out on the kitchen table so I can check it when
I get home.” Who was she kidding? As soon as those boys heard the car pull out
of the driveway of their three-bedroom townhouse in the outskirts of Oakland,
she knew that the TV and game would be back on.
Guilt dropped in on her again. Guilt that she wouldn’t be home to make
sure they ate a healthy meal. Guilt that she wouldn’t be there to help Brian
with his math struggles. Guilt that she wasn’t there when Jeremy wanted to
actually talk to her or watch TV with her. Too much goddamned guilt went with
divorce, and Kat hated it. But what was she supposed to do? Turn a blind eye?
Allow the boys to grow up in a home in which disrespecting women was accepted?
No. She’d take this guilt. Peace. Breathe in peace and relaxation. Were all
those tapes her mom had been sending her starting to rub off on her? The ones
with titles like “
Flowdreaming for Peace
” and “
Balance Through Breath
”?
She got behind the wheel of her jeep and pulled out of the one-car garage
the town home afforded. The place where she and the boys now lived was
definitely a step down from upper-middle-class suburbia, but as she pressed the
garage door remote, she knew that this place was far more a home than the
Victorian they’d lived in on the edge of Pacific Heights. So what if Perry
still lived there with his flavor of the week? Kat sort of believed in karma
and where her ex was concerned, she found it almost orgasmic to have faith in
this theory because she knew the man would get his just desserts. Yep. Perry
had kept the classic painted lady and she’d downsized to the three-bedroom with
mold under the sinks and peeling wallpaper in her room. But the move had given
her back her sanity and a sense of self that she’d lost during those eight
years of marriage (technically ten by the time the divorce was finalized). Why
she hadn’t gotten smart and taken that wake-up pill when Perry had told her
that he thought that marriage was an antiquated idea, she’d never know. One
child out of wedlock had been one thing, but when she’d gotten pregnant with
Brian she had insisted that Perry marry her, or else.
She
should have
taken the “or else” part.
Enough of that though, because this was her new life—her new start—and
she broke pretty much every speed limit trying to get to it, running a yellow
light that was much closer to red than green. Stopping at the next one, she
took a good look in the mirror. Yikes. The boys’ soccer practice had run late.
The coach who thought he was Pelé himself preached this whole team-effort
philosophy: when you sign your kid up for a sport, there is a commitment factor
you have to consider and blah, blah, blah. True—Kat believed in commitment. So
much so that she had spent years overlooking her ex’s overspending habits and
the lies that surrounded them, the flirting here and there with other women . .
. But bedding one of the women in her book club? That had pretty much made the
notion of commitment null and void.
The commitment to the boys’ soccer pursuits now made her late for her job
interview.
With one hand on the wheel and the other in her purse, Kat rummaged
around for a lipstick and hopefully, a hair clip. She needed to get a smaller
purse. This was like diving into a black hole. So far she had found one bag of
chips, a ton of receipts, a tampon, and a handful of candy wrappers. Aha, there
was a clippie. Not the most attractive look, but it would have to do. Now for
the lipstick.
Next to the lipstick was the cigarette wrapper. She winced. To smoke or
not to smoke? Serious question. No. She wouldn’t do it. She thought about the
discussion she’d had with her mother, Venus. Yes, Venus. Kat sighed. It had
been Veronica all her life until ten years ago when she hit fifty-five and left
Kat’s dad to find herself. She moved to an ashram in Oregon, and changed her
name. Anyhow, the conversation she’d had last month when her mother visited ran
through her mind.
“Kitty, love, you have too many lines around your mouth for a woman your
age. You’re only thirty-five.”
“I’m thirty-seven, Mom.” Her mother was totally on her nerves at that
point. They’d spent five solid days together and between learning how to make
tofu dishes, attending the yoga classes her mother insisted on, and having
henna tattoos painted on her feet, Kat thought she would lose it at any moment.
“Age is only a number.” She waved a hand through the air. They were
seated at Kat’s kitchen table drinking green tea. “Look at me. No lines. I have
no stress. I take the day as it comes and because of that I have found not only
perfection in my outward appearance, but also in my inner spirit as well.
Namaste.” With her hands in prayer position, she bowed to Kat.
Gag.
Mom ran a hand over her face. It was true that she had no lines. But, Kat
hadn’t forgotten (and apparently Mom had) that before her mother had gone all
Hare Krishna on them and left Dad, she’d had one helluva facelift. Veronica or
Venus—whatever—her mother looked like a New Age Raquel Welch. That is, if Welch
had had the poor fashion sense to don Birkenstocks and a muu muu.
“Kitty Love, I think that you must have too much stress in your life. You
look bitter. Or like a smoker might. Have you seen what women who smoke look
like? It’s not pretty.”
Last straw. Right then and there, Kat determined she was fixing burgers
that evening. “Mom, I am a little bitter, but I’ll get through that.” Her
mother started to interrupt her. She shook her head and held up a hand. “Oh,
no, no, I am not going to discuss my reasons why with you. I’m working through
it on my own and in my own time, so
you let it go
. And I am a smoker.”
