Mennonite in a Little Black Dress (Memoir) (2010) (21 page)

This I did, feeling like an idiot. Writing the message onto an index card profoundly embarrassed me, as when in a theater class your instructor asks you to come up in front of the class and act like a strip of frying bacon, and you either wriggle and hiss or get a C-, take your pick.

On the morning of November 10, the day when Nick's deposit was scheduled to appear in my account, I wrote out, "Nick makes timely, reliable direct deposits to my account!" on an index card, as if this day were like any other day. I marched the card over to the spot in my house that corresponded with the feng shui prosperity
bagua
, where I set it smartly on top of a growing stack of identical cards. Then I wedged the stack back into the wooden slats under my boxspring, which was where I was hiding it due to New-Age shame.

That same day I came home from school to discover the cards all over the floor beneath the bed. This freaked me out a little, because I had really wedged 'em in there pretty tightly, and I didn't see how they could have fallen out. But there they were, fanned out across the floor, a chorus of index cards shouting, "Nick makes timely, reliable direct deposits to my account! Timely! Reliable! My account! Nick!"

"Roscoe," I asked my cat carefully, "did you do this?"

He looked at me as if to say, "I like tuna."

It was past 6:00 p.m. I could make the call. "I am breezy and calm," I asserted out loud, fingers trembling. I punched in the numbers of my account, the security code. "Press one if this is a checking account!" I pressed it. So breezy! "Friday, November 10," said the dispassionate recorded voice. "A deposit of-"

It had gone in.

Reliable. Timely. Nick. I pulled the phone slowly away from my ear, tears of gratitude springing up where before there had been the breeziest panic.

This ritual, minus the fanned-out fallen cards, was to repeat twice a month for the next two years. Three months later I learned that Nick had sold the sportscar to be able to make a few more payments. After that he stopped e-mailing me altogether, so I had no idea where or if he was working. He had moved from that first Chicago address. I knew only that he was living somewhere in Chicago, making timely and reliable direct deposits into my account.

About a year after the divorce had gone through, I received a packet of legal papers summoning me to appear in court. Nick was challenging the judge's order that he pay half the mortgage and utilities for the three years, on the grounds that he was too mentally ill to keep working.

I wasn't ready to see him, but I had no choice. He rounded the corner as my attorney and I stood in the hall outside the courtroom. Cora, my attorney, was facing him. I sensed her posture stiffen, and I knew he must be somewhere close behind me. She had never actually met him, but I had described him, and his urban flair in this small-town city hall would have been impossible to miss. "Jesus, Rhoda," Cora leaned in to whisper, "You weren't kidding about his looks. Wow. He's pissed off. Don't turn around."

I had to sit beside him, inches away, while we waited for the court to call our docket. He was simmering with rage. Just as we all were rising for Judge Perkowsky, Nick delivered his one and only sentence to me: "I might have known you'd be here," as if there could be some surprise in my presence. Startled, my eyes flew to his:
Oh no. Oh nooooooooo.
He was not himself; he was not thinking clearly. "You subpoenaed me," I whispered. "You
made
me come here." He was so angry he was shaking.

Judge Perkowsky dismissed Nick's case in less than a minute, pointing out that Nick was not in fact paying spousal support, but a mutually agreed-upon property settlement. The judgment could not therefore be set aside. It was binding. When Judge Perkowsky's gavel sounded the verdict, Nick shot me a look of intense hatred, turned on his heel, and strode out of the courtroom. I clutched Cora's sleeve and took a couple of deep breaths.

"You see?" she said. "I told you that he didn't have a case. But I want you to do something for me."

"What's that?"

"I have to stay for another client. I want you to leave this room and go straight to the women's restroom and stay there for half an hour."

Her implication lifted gooseflesh on my arms. "Oh, but Nick wouldn't-"

"We're not taking any chances," she said brusquely. "You stay there half an hour, and then you go anywhere but home. You got that?"

I was hunting through my purse for a Kleenex. She handed me one, and I wiped my eyes, knowing that my mascara was a mess.

"Rhoda. You got that?
Don't go home.
"

"I promise," I said weakly, and fled with my briefcase to the bathroom. Inside a locked stall I sat down on the toilet, put on my reading glasses, and got out a stack of quizzes to grade. But I didn't grade them. Instead I sat in horror that Nick's ice-cold contempt had convinced my attorney that he might harm me. This man who hated me,
loathed me
, was Nick, my Nick, the same man who had once pledged to love me in sickness and in health, as long as we both would live. I leaned my flushed cheek against the metal wall, on which someone had scrawled, "Patty Lee sucks good cock!" I summoned an image of the invincible Patty Lee, sucking her heart out, living in the moment, doing what she did best. And I clung to this image for the next half hour, half crying, half needing this picture of tenacity and joy. "You go, Patty Lee!"

That was the last I saw or heard from Nick, but it wasn't the last picture I have of him. Including that day and every day thereafter, I have imagined Nick not as hateful or disturbed, but as timely and reliable.

And he has been.

The three years of court-mandated payments aren't up yet. Nor has my house sold yet. I know that inductive logic would point to Nick's failure to follow through, and indeed, as some of my more cynical friends have pointed out, there is still a strong likelihood that he will bail on me and that I will lose the house into which I have invested so much. Yet I no longer see the value of such logic. Some things are better than reason. Some things actually
defy
reason. Some things like faith.

And you know what? That's okay.

TWELVE

I
was sewing when Mom came in and offered to put on some music. Outside of car trips, she was rarely in the mood for music other than her own singing, so I said sure.

"What about the pan flute?" she asked.

I had to decline.

"How about some nice classical?"

I nodded, pins in my mouth.

A few moments later I heard the opening strains of Tchaikovsky's finale from
Capriccio Italien
. Not my first choice, but okay. Then suddenly I froze.

Was that . . . the distant cry of a
loon
?

Cresting over and above the music as if ministering with some essential relevance to the capriccio?

Ah, I was to hear much more from this amiable loon, in songs hushed and brisk, calm and martial. My heart convulsed in sympathy for poor, shortsighted Strauss, Mozart, Wagner, and Grieg, who had all collectively failed to predict what future centuries would demand in their easy-listening music. Who knew that two hundred years down the road audiences would crave the magnificent quaver of the loon? I can do no better than to quote the CD's dust jacket, which I made haste to examine: "
Classical Loon II
presents a return to the wilderness of loon country in classical style. You'll hear the hoots, tremolos, wails, and yodels of the common loon with the following selections . . ."

It struck me that the production of
Classical Loon II
implied a formidable predecessor,
Classical Loon I: The Early Bird
. Indeed, there might well be a whole family of Classical Loons, not to mention R & B Loon, Reggae Loon, Hip-Hop Loon, and Achey-Breaky Country Loon. And then-stay with me now-might we not envision for the future Scrub Jay Blues, Peacock Meditation, and Bald Eagle Techno? And why stop there? Why not Loon Books on Tape? I don't know about you, but I'd like to hear the words of our Lord and Savior enlivened by loon tremolos. Those long chapters in Leviticus are practically begging for a few loon yodels.

But I made my peace with the loons. I am the type of person who invariably finishes a book, no matter how much I have grown to hate it, or who stays seated right through the worst movie of all time. I always think,
Eh, it's not so bad. I can stand it!
Sitting there in the sewing closet, listening to
Classical Loon II
, which my mother had thoughtfully left on "repeat," I even got to the point at which I felt good about attempting my own tremolos now and then. A gifted loon impersonator I am not. But I think I deserve points for trying.

While I was experimenting with the most flattering way to situate the pockets on my flat ass, old Mrs. Cornelius Friesen telephoned.

"Mary?" she asked when I picked up the phone.

I recognized her voice. "No, Mrs. Friesen, this is Mary's daughter Rhoda." I remembered that Mrs. Cornelius Friesen was hard of hearing, so I raised my voice a bit. "Mary's gone to her Bible study. Can I take a message?"

"Bible study, hey? Bless her heart," said Mrs. Friesen. "Will you give her a message? You just tell her that I was hoping she had finished
The Cat That Dropped a Bombshell
. I want to give it to Cici."

My mother had agreed to read this book out of respect for Mrs. Friesen's advancing years. The titular figure was a literal cat, a Puss 'n' Boots detective that larked about as it solved crimes. My mother was by no means a literary snob, but she did have standards. Legal thrillers, okay. Mysteries, perhaps. But a cat that dropped bombshells was going too far. Thus my mother had expressed worry about how to refuse further loaners in the series. I was meanwhile encouraging her to read the entire collection of these books, especially if there was one titled
The Cat That Dropped a Bombshell and Buried It in Hard-Clumping Litter
. Mom had delayed returning the finished paperback because she wasn't sure how to extricate herself from the cat sequels.

"Mrs. Friesen," I said, "I happen to know that my mother is finished with your book. Would you like me to run it over?"

"What's that?"

"I'LL BRING YOU THE BOOK," I said loudly.

"Bless your heart, honey."

A few minutes later I was sitting in Mrs. Friesen's living room at Twilight Shores. Her snug apartment smelled strongly of cat box, ammonia, and patchouli.

"Sweetie," she said, offering me an old-fashioned butterscotch candy in a cellophane wrapper, "you don't look a day over twenty." Amazing that the older we get, the younger everybody else looks. "Don't you worry about being divorced. You have a nice shape, and your ma tells me you went to college. A lot of men like that."

"Here's your book," I said.

"Your husband wasn't very good to you, I hear."

Uh-oh. I had assumed that my mother would gossip about my divorce with her Bible study group, but I hadn't anticipated that the details would wend their way toward the likes of Mrs. Cornelius Friesen, who must be nearing ninety.

"My husband left me," I said simply.

"What's that?"

"MY HUSBAND LEFT ME!"

"Well, I'm sure it was all his fault." She leaned forward and patted my knee.

Hard to know how to respond to that one. I tried for a subject change. "HOW LONG WERE YOU MARRIED, MRS. FRIESEN?"

"Sixty-four years. Would you like to borrow one of these books? Your ma read one of them. This here is a cute book. It's about a cat detective."

"NO, THANKS," I shouted politely, "I'M GOING ON A TRIP."

"A trip, hey? Let me get you something for your trip."

She shuffled out of the room. In her absence a thin odorous cat appeared. It was white, and it wanted to purr on my brown lap. It would not be shooed.

Mrs. Friesen came back in and pressed a box of raisins into my hand. "For your trip," she said.

"THANK YOU! RAISINS ARE A HEALTHY SNACK!"

"Well," said Mrs. Friesen, "I have a grandson who went to college. He might do for you. He's a real steady young man. He has a good job and all. He's twenty-seven. How old did you say you are?"

"I'M FORTY-FOUR."

"Ain't that a shame," she said. "He'd probably think you're too old for him. But you look real pretty."

I rose to leave, brushing some of the cat hair from my skirt. "PLEASE SAY HELLO TO CICI FOR ME. AND THANK YOU FOR THE RAISINS!"

"Well, I'll tell my grandson about you," she said matter-of-factly at the door. With her foot she prevented the thin white cat from egress. "But I expect he'll think you're too old. I'll tell him you have a real nice shape."

"I'D APPRECIATE THAT!"

Walking home, I congratulated myself on having escaped with no more Cats That Dropped Bombshells. That was a pretty good day's work for a sabbatical, all things considered. Plus I had made good progress on the pants I was sewing. And the raisins. There were always the raisins. Score.

The next morning I was topstitching belt loops, frowning through my reading glasses. Nothing makes you feel middle-aged like needing a new prescription for reading glasses. This I was prepared to discuss with my friend Eva, whose call I was expecting, and who had recently been itemizing her own catalog of veins, age spots, and lower-back problems. Making self-deprecating comments about the body is a chick thing, pure and simple. It makes us feel terrific.

The phone rang. "Rhoda?" It was a man's voice I didn't know. But my heart stopped for a second; the timbre was a little like Nick's, low and engaging.

"Yes?"

"This is Soren Friesen. I'm Emmaline Friesen's grandson-"

"Oh, heavens," I exclaimed. "This is taking filial duty above and beyond!"

There was a merry twinkle in his voice. "I hear you have a real nice shape."

"And I hear you have a real nice job. Do you always let your oma set you up?"

"She's the Yentl of our tribe," said Soren. "Actually, I already knew who you were. I've read your book. We know people in common." He mentioned the name of a writer at a well-respected MFA program in New England. This sparked a real conversation; it turned out that Soren had studied with my friend and had earned an MFA in screenwriting. After we'd chatted a while, Soren said, "How long are you in town? You wanna grab coffee sometime?"

"Soren," I said, "I know I have a real nice shape and all, but I'm forty-four, and that's just plain weird."

"I don't think it's weird to be forty-four and to have a real nice shape," he said earnestly. "I think it shows a positive self-image and good dietary habits. You probably eat a lot of fiber."

I chuckled. "What I mean is, it would be weird to be forty-four and go out with someone who is twenty-seven."

"Yes," he said, "but you're failing to take into consideration the fact that I have a real nice job. Oma advised me to mention that right away. C'mon," he urged. "It's only coffee. It doesn't have to be a real date. If it'll make you feel better, we can talk shop the entire time."

"Hm," I said, waffling. "I'll meet you for coffee on one condition."

"Name it."

"That you neither admire nor discuss
The Cat That Dropped a Bombshell
."

"But that bombshell has a real nice shape!" he protested.

It's strange to consider what makes a man sexy, is it not? I'm always surprised when women diddle around with things like chest hair or cologne or what kind of car a man drives. I have one girlfriend who looks for a guy with a nice tight butt. This mystifies me. If a man I like has a butt like an empty hammock, so be it. If his butt spreads like wurst on a cracker, God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. If his butt has hair on it, and maybe a big mole, and also a smattering of pimples, I focus on his pleasantly scratchy chin instead. Perhaps an alert reader might suggest that the flawed buttock is suspiciously easy for me to champion, given the fact that Nick's butt was a thing of beauty and a joy forever, especially in its last public incarnation on Gay.com. Yet I insist that a butt is not where it's at.

In my opinion, sexiness comes down to three things: chemistry, sense of humor, and treatment of waitstaff at restaurants. If the sparks don't fly from the beginning, they never will. If he doesn't get your sense of humor from the first conversation, you'll always secretly be looking for someone who does. And if a guy can't see restaurant servers as real people, with needs and dreams and crappy jobs, then I don't want to be with him, even if he just won the Pulitzer Prize.

With my exceptionally generous criteria for defining sexiness, you'd think that there would be a good chance that Soren Friesen could make the cut. Let's face it, my standards were pretty low. The unsexy characteristics that usually attend Mennonite men would theoretically not be barriers to me. By my own confessed standard, I would have no problem dating a man with beefy pink skin, or chins that skipped like rocks on a pond-one, two, three, kerplunk. I could even fall for a guy whose wallet contained an expired ten-dollar coupon for a bad chain steakhouse, at which the server would refuse to honor the coupon because it was a good six years out of date.

However, Lola and I had long observed a special Mennonite exemption clause. We had never met a datable Mennonite man. There were Mennonites who passed as good-looking, funny, kind, and sexy to the outside world. I had met some of these men. I had encountered Mennonites who wore good cologne and cashmere jackets. I personally had known Mennonites who could tell a Bacon from a de Kooning. But Lola and I sensed that a nameless shuddersome surprise coiled like a snake in the grass. Why did the idea of dating a Mennonite give us the willies? We couldn't say, exactly. But Mennonite men seemed too familiar. It wasn't just that they gave us a brotherly vibe; it was that they actively grossed us out in some curious, elemental way.

So my expectations were very low as I drove to the coffeehouse to meet the twenty-seven-year-old grandson of the granny who handed out bombshell books like candy. Soren was sitting at a small table, reading the
New York Times Book Review
. I knew it was he the moment I saw him, even though there were one or two other solitary thirtyish men about. Soren had the straight sandy hair of our people, and a ruddy goatee to match. He looked cheerful and attractive as he stood to greet me. He was tall. And I liked his glasses.

We shook hands. "Nice shape," he said.

"Don't think I won't drop a bombshell on your ass," I warned. "I can't believe I'm on a blind date with a Mennonite seventeen years younger than I am."

He had sunrise eyes, the kind that smile in a little fan of laugh lines.

"So which is worse," he said, "the fact that I'm Mennonite, or the fact that I'm seventeen years younger than you?"

I sat down, considering. "Honestly? The Mennonite thing is harder."

I watched him as he went to get my coffee. He had an international vibe, except that he obviously spent time in a gym. He didn't look Mennonite.

"You ever date a Mennonite?" I asked.

"In college. Maybe you know her. Sheri Wiebe Penner. She and her husband go to your parents' church."

"Sheri Wiebe?" I asked. "I babysat her! She used to give me the stinkeye for making her go to bed at eight o'clock. She had two monotone brothers who sang in the Mennonite Children's Choir."