We Interrupt This Date (2 page)

“It’s the only job I’ve got and without it I
have no way to pay my bills.” The sad fact was that a boring job
working for a guy who still had the first dime he’d ever gotten for
his allowance was all that kept me out of the homeless shelter. I
couldn’t afford my house and my car on the measly check I got from
T. Chandler.

“There are other jobs.” She stopped and held
her hands out to her sides palms up. She lifted them up and down if
she were weighing things on separate scales. “Job or taking care of
your mother?”

I shrugged. If there were other jobs, I
hadn’t found them and I didn’t expect I would. Hadn’t Mama read the
feature article in Sunday’s paper about the rising unemployment
rate and the shrinking paycheck? Hadn’t she noticed the classified
job section had shrunk over the past year, so it wasn’t even big
enough to wrap vegetable scraps in?

Not for the first time this morning, I
wondered why I’d volunteered to take Mama to her doctor. It wasn’t
as if she couldn’t have asked one of her church friends. Or one of
the ladies from her book club at the library. Or one of her
neighbors. I marched away and when I got almost half a block ahead
she finally followed. I waited at the corner until she caught up in
her own good time.

I forced myself to slow to Mama’s pace and
not scream when she took seven whole minutes to walk the rest of
the way to my car and another seven to take off the wide brimmed
hat she always wore when the sun was out. Then ten more to get out
in front of her condo when I’d finally fought my way through
traffic to get her there.

“I’ll walk you to your door,” I said through
tight lips. “The flu shot you had this morning might make you
woozy.”

“I am not the least bit woozy and I know
you’re aching to race away like a horse out of the starting gate.
You’ve certainly made that clear.”

I would not react. I would not bring up the
fact that she’d made me thirty minutes late for my first job
interview because she kept changing her make-up. Fifteen minutes
late for my high school graduation because she couldn’t decide
which of her three favorite pairs of shoes looked best with her
hair color. Twenty minutes late for my wedding because her
“digestion was out of sorts”—southern lady code for she had
diarrhea. Given that I’d chosen the wrong husband, maybe it would
have been a good thing if her digestive system had kept me away
from my wedding altogether.

I escorted her up a flight of stairs. Mama
doesn’t trust the elevator in her building since it got stuck once
when the power went out. While she was still fumbling in her purse,
I unlocked her door with the spare key she’d given me. I pushed the
door open, and the Chihuahuas converged yapping from their plush
little bed in the corner. They squirmed at her feet, fighting each
other for position. She squatted to scoop the two trembling bodies
into her arms.

“Babies, babies, give Mama some sugar.”

I tried not to gag. If sugar was the dog spit
they were depositing on her face, she was getting plenty.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Mama. Promise.”

She sniffed. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother
to my daughter who has such a rotten attitude. I always said I
would lie down and die before I’d become a bother in my old age.
Though sixty-two is not old, goodness knows. Why, only yesterday
Doris Leland told me I don’t look a day over fifty-seven.”

“No trouble at all,” I sang over my shoulder
as I scurried back down the stairs.

Before I could get out of the building, Mrs.
Barkley, Mama’s downstairs neighbor, planted herself in front of me
at the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing a black chenille
sweater that hung to her knees over a shapeless yellow housedress.
The flip-flops on her feet were neon blue.

“Got a message for your mama. Man was here
looking for her. Heard him pounding on her door and went up to
check. You know I am all for neighborhood watch.”

“Thanks. Probably Fred from the garage to
tell her he dropped off her car.” Why couldn’t he have brought it
earlier, so Mama could have driven herself to the doctor? And why
didn’t Mama’s building have decent security so people couldn’t just
waltz in and pound on doors?

“Didn’t look like a garage man, didn’t have
grease on him or anything. Tall, older fella. Dressed in one of
those golf shirts and wore plaid pants and a gold chain around his
neck like he thought he was somebody. Now, Mr. Barkley, bless his
heart, he would never dress that way, especially not in public. Too
flashy, he’d say.”

No doubt. I’ve met Mr. Barkley and the only
thing I’ve ever seen him wear is a wife beater shirt and pajama
bottoms, both beige in color. “Thanks, Mrs. Barkley. I’ll give Mama
the message.”

I managed to slip past her and I broke into a
trot as soon as I hit the sidewalk. Whoever had been looking for
Mama--probably one of those people who sometimes handed out
religious flyers in the neighborhood--would be back if it were
important.

I rushed into SNOB—Slightly North of
Broad--ten minutes late. Veronica was leaning casually against the
wall near the door. She was wearing an ordinary silk dress in a
sage color that exactly matched the contact lenses she’d chosen to
wear over her light gray eyes. Her short hair framed her face in
wispy blonde curls that set off her features. Not for the first
time I wished I were petite and had a perfect figure like hers.
Instead I’m tall, pushing five feet ten, and too much comfort food
since my divorce had glommed fat onto my hips like a pair lumpy
parasites, one on each side.

At least my face hadn’t gained weight.
Veronica has assured me my face is heart-shaped, with lovely
cheekbones, and that I’m lucky my large brown eyes have no need of
color enhancing contacts. I have so many style options, she
insists, unlike herself. Veronica always complains bitterly that
her jaw is too square, something I think is hardly noticeable
except when she gets angry or bossy.

Veronica isn’t one for air kisses or for
beating around the bush. She peeked once at her watch and allowed
her eyes to widen the slightest bit. It’s one of her signature
moves. “Susan, we have so much to discuss.”

“Sorry, the parking was--”

She patted my arm. “I know. Never mind. I
have good news. After I give you every last detail, and you realize
how fantastic your life is going to be, we’ll have a nice catch-up
chat.”

“What good news?” I glanced around to orient
myself. I hadn’t been to SNOB since my divorce. Everything was the
same, though. It’s in a nineteenth century brick building. Lots of
atmosphere and fantastic food.

Veronica was already following the hostess to
our designated table, the stylish heels of her designer shoes
barely making a sound as she seemed to float an inch or so above
the floor. “How long has it been since we’ve made time for each
other?” she called back over her shoulder, ignoring my question.
“Other than quick phone calls which hardly count.”

“At least two months.” I frowned, wondering
why my shoes clumped when I walked instead of tapping gently like
hers.

Maybe longer than two months. Veronica had
been my roommate in college until I married T. Chandler halfway
through. But we’d kept up our friendship over the years, helped by
the fact that we live in the same town. She’s originally from
Newberry, a picturesque little town west of Columbia, but Newberry
hadn’t been big enough for her ambition—Veronica’s words, not
mine.

She hadn’t given me a clue of any kind when
she’d called a couple of days ago. I wondered if she’d decided to
marry Walter, her latest relationship. I remembered, though, the
last time she’d mentioned him she’d complained he was too clingy in
a sad, orphaned gorilla kind of way.

Veronica eyed me over the top of her menu. “I
don’t know what to say.”

“About what?” Had something happened to my
hair in the few minutes since I’d run a comb through it before I
left my car? Wind-blown? A bald patch? Pigeon droppings? Maybe I
should have applied new golden highlights last night instead of
deciding to postpone for a week.

“You look different. Have you changed your
makeup? No, that isn’t it. It’s something intangible.” She narrowed
her eyes and tilted her head to one side to focus on my face.

“Same old me.” I turned my attention to the
lunch special and tried to decide if I wanted the southern crab
salad, a favorite of mine.

But my thoughts drifted. Though I’d told
Veronica I hadn’t changed, I admitted to myself that wasn’t one
hundred percent the truth. I’d moped around for months feeling like
the world’s biggest failure after my divorce, but recently I’d
caught myself showing sparks of life. I was no longer spending
every weekend raiding my refrigerator and vegetating in front of
home decorating reruns on HGTV hoping Mama wouldn’t call to give me
advice.

“I know what it is. You’ve finally stopped
blaming yourself, haven’t you? I swear, Susan, you make excuses for
everyone, but when it comes to yourself, even perfect isn’t good
enough.”

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.” My face
went about a hundred degrees warmer. She’d read my mind. Veronica
has a way of doing that and I attribute it to the keen powers of
observation that have served her so well in the business world.

As if she hadn’t just pointed out that she
knew how I’d been treating myself, she casually asked if I’d
decided what I wanted, and I nodded. I passed on the crab. We both
ordered Portobello mushroom sandwiches and house salads. After the
waiter left the scene, I raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Your news?”

Her skin positively glowed under the new
hanging lights. “I’ve got a fantastic idea for a new business. The
money will flow in so fast and thick it will be like owning a mint,
and you’re the first person I thought of to share the
opportunity.”

“Me?” Me and owning a mint? Didn’t compute.
Me and going out of my way to do favors for friends and family
maybe. But me and mints? She’d let our friendship get in the way of
her good judgment and she was offering me a pity job.

“Uhmmm, this isn’t some kind of Internet
scheme where I’m supposed to do surveys is it?” I hated to admit
I’d actually tried that before I landed the job with Odell. All I’d
accomplished was to fill up my email with spam.

“I said money flowing in, Susan. Would I ever
steer you wrong?”

She wouldn’t, not unless she counted the time
back in college when she’d introduced me to an older guy who was a
perennial student majoring in preying on freshman girls. At least
I’d figured him out before anything really bad happened.

“Whatever it is, Veronica, I decline.”

I stifled a stab of curiosity about exactly what she
had in mind and asked Veronica if she thought I should change my
hair color from ordinary brown to platinum.

She waved away the question, her hands fluttering
like pigeons coming in for a sidewalk landing. “You are not getting
off that easy.”

I sighed. Veronica is the type of person who could,
if need arose, turn a wadded up paper towel into a thriving
business. I, on the other hand, had spent years in the shadow of my
husband, managing a house, raising a child, and wondering what had
led me to marry someone so unsuitable.

“No,” I said again. “I’m perfectly content right
where I am.”

She leaned across the table, almost upsetting
the vase. “You are not. You’ve pined over your divorce long enough
and you bitch about your job every time we talk. I can’t think of
anyone more suited to be my partner in this new enterprise. You
have skills, Susan. You’re a gold mine of talent and charm, if
you’d only wake up.” Her jaw went square.

“Me?” I couldn’t think of a single instance
where I’d ever demonstrated much more than average competence in
anything. Not since I’d grown up, anyway. As a child I was one of
those earnest-faced, overachieving, teacher’s pet types who always
got chosen to pass out papers. But after nineteen years of T.
Chandler’s daily critiques, it wasn’t surprising that I didn’t
think all that highly of my abilities.

Skills or no skills, I couldn’t go into
business with her. T. Chandler was a successful businessman, but he
hadn’t exactly left me rolling in riches when we split. I
discovered, too late, that he’d found a way to legally transfer
most of his assets out of the country. I was left to cling to the
house I’d gotten in the settlement—not yet paid for—and a small
savings account, along with an alimony check that didn’t cover
expenses. I’d had to refinance the house and take the first job I’d
been that came along--an office position in a loan company slash
pawnshop.

“To be honest, you probably think T. Chandler
Caraway, the cheating weasel, left me pretty well taken care of,
but that didn’t happen. I don’t have a dime to invest. Thanks for
thinking of me, though,” I finished lamely.

Veronica drummed her fingers on the table.
The last word I uttered barely had time to clear my lips before she
said, “I didn’t, for one second, think that bastard would have
given you more than he absolutely had to. You should have shoved
him out in front of a bus and collected his life insurance while
you were still married.”

A pink-sneakered woman at the next table
choked on her soup of the day. Veronica shot her a
mind-your-own-business look.

“Veronica, there was no husband murdering as
you well know. So the fact remains, I have no money and it isn’t
fair to ask you to take all the risk.” I held out my hands, showing
empty palms.

“I’m willing to put up the money and you’ll
supply the time and energy. Case closed.”

She’d made her plan sound as foolproof
at the blueprints to a doghouse. But then, I still didn’t know what
she had in mind. I pictured a trendy antique shop on King Street or
Broad, not that I knew anything about antiques. Maybe a gift shop
or a boutique. Not that I was an expert on gifts or fashion,
either. Oh, God, what
could
I
do? Veronica was kind, but I couldn’t let her do this. I’d been
told I was a terrific mother, but unless Veronica planned to open
up a daycare, that wasn’t exactly a plus in a business venture.
Besides being the mother of one spoiled son in college didn’t
qualify me for working in childcare, either.