Chapter One
Grape Nuts or Corn Flakes? It was a simple question. She looked at him, then quickly looked away. Grape Nuts lasted longer, their crunch unspoiled by the splash of skim milk, lying in the bowl like nuggets of rock defying the slushy snow that floated around them. Corn flakes soaked up the cold liquid, gathering it in and holding it, creating a mush that waited patiently for the spoon to make its impact.
She wondered which he would choose. He was reading the newspaper, carefully scanning the headlines, searching in vain for something that would help him answer her. Grape Nuts or Corn Flakes? Clinton or Sanders? Who could pick? He wasn’t crazy about either one, yet in this ultra-democratic household, a decision had to be made. Still, Grape Nuts or Corn Flakes. Clinton, hoping to be the first female president, unashamedly deflecting the email and Benghazi criticisms like the Grape Nuts deflecting the milk. Or Sanders, the socialist wannabe, pulling in the ideals of the young wishing for a kinder, gentler world much like the Corn Flakes that deftly absorbed the watery avalanche.
“There’s no right answer,” he muttered, more to himself than her.
She glared at him. “I’m not looking for a right answer.” Just once, she thought, just once can he make a decision without turning it into some sort of apocryphal ordeal? She reached into the cabinet and pulled out both boxes, plopped them on the counter. “I’m having Grape Nuts,” she announced authoritatively.
That’s just like her, he thought. She’s voting for Clinton. She has to, what with all her post-60′s feminism. Never mind the scandals. She was forthright in her conviction that Hillary was the victim of misogyny. None of the other candidates were attacked with the unrelenting force that was lobbied against Hillary. But she hung in there, just like the cereal that had no grapes and no nuts. Steadfast in the need to be the last one standing.
He watched her as she opened the box and filled her bowl, then carefully poured in just the right amount of milk. He marveled at the precision. Enough, but not too much. Can’t have any left over when the cereal was gone. She hated those people who drank the crumb-sodden milk right from the bowl. Quietly, almost surreptitiously, she sprinkled sugar over the waiting nuggets, then quickly sat down at the kitchen table and started eating. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Spoon. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Until every last morsel and drop were gone. She dropped the spoon into the bowl with the smug satisfaction of a job well done.
She looked at him, wondering if he’d made a decision. He was still reading the paper, seemingly oblivious of the passing time. Oh, wait a minute. He’s moving. He stood, tightened the belt around his robe, folded the paper and picked up his coffee mug. With a sigh he walked out of the kitchen. Well, she thought, I guess his decision is no breakfast. Fine.
With an air of resignation, she pushed her chair back and cleared the table, removing all evidence of breakfast. The dog watched her, noticeably disappointed that no food had made its way onto the floor.
It’s morning in the Cromwell house. The same scene played over day after day. Sometimes he ate, sometimes not. Not that it mattered to either one of them. They had both come to realize that the day would unfold regardless of his full or empty stomach.
She spent the next hour straightening the house, making the bed, throwing in a load of wash, fighting the ever-present shadows that nudged at her memory fighting for recognition. As always, she pushed them aside, made a fresh cup of tea, and sat down in front of her computer. I should check my email, she thought, but instead opened up the Solitaire app. She used to love Solitaire on the computer. So many different games, no need to shuffle, easy to undo bad moves. But now it was almost a chore, just another thing she had to get done. There were 20 games she liked to play. And she played them all every day. She usually won at least five of them on the first attempt; most within the three tries she allotted herself. Winning at Solitaire was an accomplishment, something she prided herself on, especially when she won without any undo’s. Solitaire was one of her guilty pleasures, an escape from chores she really ought to be doing. The problem was, the things she ought to be doing were boring, or futile. Like cleaning. Clean today and she would just have to do it again next week. Get the bathroom sparkling, the mirror streak free, the floors devoid of dust bunnies and the next thing she knew the faucets were dotted with heaven only knows what, the mirror cloudy and the floors littered with dog hair.
She used to have a job. Or as she would say, a job outside the house. As much as she despised it, it gave her a purpose. Somewhere to go every weekday, projects to start and finish, people to talk to, an insight into how other lives were led. Now she understood what the Countess of Grantham meant when she asked, “What is a weekend?” One day bled into the other, no joy over hump day, no looking forward to Friday night or mourning Monday sunrise, no hurray-it’s-a-snow-day. Just Solitaire and cleaning.
She heard him rustling around, getting showered, dressing, packing his electronic gadgets into his messenger bag. He walked into the room, clad in his winter parka, bag slung over his shoulder.
“Gotta run, Deb. Love you,” as he bent over to kiss her goodbye.
She gave him a weak smile, “Love you too. Have a good one.”
He turned toward the door thinking how lucky she was to have the entire day spread out before her to do anything she wanted. The house to herself. No one demanding or questioning or pushing. There were so many things he wanted to do if he only had the time. But no, he had to slog ahead. Go to work, check the data, write the report, answer the phone messages, email the clients. It never ended. It was like Whack-a-Mole. Just when you thought you were finished, up pops another fire that needs tending before it becomes a full-out inferno. He drew a sharp breath, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.”
I’m so tired of this. Struggling to keep clients happy and on board, he thought as he walked to his meeting. Like Sisyphus pushing that damn rock up the mountain. Never actually making it, teetering on the top until the rock tips to the other side and the big slide starts. Will this client call be my last? The one that’ll cost me my job and throw me into an early, un-pensioned retirement? Who was it that said ‘the struggle itself should be enough to fill you’? Yeah, right.
His brain had a habit of throwing seemingly unrelated thoughts around and he was constantly afraid that they’d somehow come flying out of his mouth, Of course, they often did. Surprisingly, when it happened people tended to think him erudite, as if he were making connections that hadn’t yet appeared to them. He found this terribly amusing yet somewhat unsettling. It was difficult to keep up what he felt was the pretense of intelligence. He just knew that one day he’d be uncovered as a fool, the well-masked village idiot.
He glanced up at just the right time and found himself in front of his destination. He checked his watch and happily realized he had time to hit the Starbucks on the corner. Nothing wrong with showing up laden with muffins and caffeine, he said to himself. He opened the door and got in line behind a scruffy-looking hipster. The kid ordered a decaf cappuccino.
You pussy. He smiled to himself as he remembered the line from some TV show or movie. Which one was it? James Garner said it. No it wasn’t James Garner as Rockford. Oh, that’s right. It was that movie with Garner and Jack Lemmon about the presidents. What was it called?
He ordered, picked up some creamers and sugar and made his way to the meeting, still trying to pull the movie name from the recesses of his memory.
Made it through another one. He almost smiled but the reality of 90 minutes of discussions on five minutes of take away was stifling. He fished his phone out of his bag and called her.
“Hi Joe,” she answered. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the callee knowing who the caller was before any word was spoken.
“It’s over,” he said.
What the hell does that mean, she thought, but said, “Really? How’d it go? Dreading but hopeful tone.
“Didn’t get fired.”
“That makes one of us,” she said. Even though it had been almost a year -- a glorious, relatively stress-free year -- she still couldn’t shake the resentment she felt at her dismissal.
“Uh, yeah.” He never knew how to respond to those kinds of statements she occasionally threw at him. Sometimes he felt like he was walking through a minefield, artfully dodging the trip buttons. “Didn’t really need to be there. Probably said more than I should have.”
“I’m sure you did fine. You always do.”
“Ok. Well, I just wanted to let you know.”
“Thanks.” Should I hang up or does he want to keep talking?
“Yeah. Well, see ya later.” He clicked off.
“Ok,” she said to dead air. She put the phone down, looking at it as if it could tell her something, anything. It was always this way. Clipped conversations volleying from one satellite to another. Both wanting to say more but having nothing more to say. After all these years, she guessed it had all been said.
She was pretty comfortable with the unsaid, knowing that usually it’s just better. Better than the fights over petty things, the misunderstandings. Better than the crying, the door slamming, the moping. He was fond of saying “You’re catching attitudes.” She never really knew what that meant, but decided a long time ago to translate it as “Let it go.”
Let it go, let it go. Breathe in, breathe out. Count to ten. Myriad ways to deflect those easy-to-misinterpret statements. A conscious decision was needed, let it bother you or let it go. She almost always let it go. She sat there staring at the computer screen, her mind going in twenty directions and yet nowhere at all. She was startled out of her reverie by the rude ringing of the phone. She moved to pick it up, see who was bothering her. Another robo caller? Oh good. It’s her daughter.
“Hi, hon.”
“Hi Mom. What’s up?”
What’s up, she thought? You called me. I’ve got nothing up. Or down. “Oh nothing. Just sitting here trying to decide what to do. I’ve got a hair appointment today with Tim. Need anything?”
“Yeah, get me that shampoo I like. Oh, and the hair spray.”
“Ok.” She made a mental note and wondered if she’d remember. “So what’s new? How’s Simon?” Simon, her daughter’s significant other, would be fine. He was always fine, even when he wasn’t.
“Good, good. We’re thinking of coming over tonight. Can we have dinner with you guys?
“Of course. We’re not doing anything. Want me to make something special?” Please, please, please give me an idea for dinner.
“Simon really likes those enchiladas you make. Is that too much trouble?”
Yes, but she said, “No, that’s fine. I have to go to the store anyway.”
“Ok, good. We’ll see you around 5 or so.”
“Good. See you then.” And she rang off. Enchiladas huh? Well now, should I do them from scratch or cheat and buy the rotisserie chicken and salsa verde?
She clicked on the Word icon and opened the chicken enchilada recipe. Cooking was one of those chores that she usually enjoyed. Except that you had to do it every day. Every day come up with a meal that at least one of you liked, wasn’t too expensive or too much of a hassle to make and clean up. But at least now she had a direction. Knew what she was doing this afternoon. Knew too how happy her husband would be when he found out they were coming.
He always liked to see the kids. He became lighter, his face brighter. He’d figure out which cocktail to serve, Margaritas tonight for Zannah, Corona for Simon, no lime, he’s a man’s man after all. No fruit in his beer! He’d scurry around the kitchen getting everything together like Santa loading his sleigh, almost dancing with anticipation.
She made her grocery list, checked the liquor cabinet to make sure there was enough tequila and triple sec, checked her watch. Gotta get moving.
The salon wasn’t busy yet. The shampoo girl was dutifully refilling the towel bin, loading the dryer, sweeping the floor. The receptionist was hunched over the computer checking the day’s appointments. Tim and India, two of the stylists, were sitting on the couches playfully throwing barbs at one another and greeted her as she came in. She loved this place. You entered looking uneven and a bit unkempt and left dyed, cut, styled and clean. In fact, she often felt like a whole new person.
She settled herself in the stylist’s chair and studied her face in the mirror. A few too many lines. Why is my one eyelid droopy like that? she wondered. She vaguely remembered somebody telling her, or did she read it somewhere, it’s from sleeping on that side, your face scrunched up against the unforgiving pillowcase. Whatever the reason, it was making her look old. And it seemed to be getting worse every day. Maybe Tim will give me long bangs on that side to cover it up. He was a wonder when it came to hair. Always chose the perfect color. So perfect that people would remark about how lovely and shiny it was. Silky, too. He instinctively knew how to style it so her jowl-y chin was minimized. Too bad he couldn’t do anything about the lines that made her look like a ventriloquist’s dummy. At least he’d get rid of that pesky mustache. They always joked about how much they both enjoyed the waxing process. He claimed he loved inflicting pain and she mused over the unpleasant pleasantness of the hot wax smeared under her nose waiting to grab and yank out those dark little hairs. Press, press, rrrrrrrrip. Then the cooling balm as he gently wiped off the excess wax. Done. Sigh. Insert S & M joke here.
Watching Tim cut her hair was mesmerizing. He carefully gathered sections, clipped them out of the way, then snip, snip, snipped his way to just the right wave here, the perfect angle there, a few minutes with the blow dryer and voila! you were ready to face the world. She liked how he merged his utter professionalism with the ability to talk to clients like they were old friends. They discussed movies, recipes, politics, dogs, the latest scandal. Actual conversations. Sometimes he would tell her funny stories about what he called cranky hair, she liked those the best. Liked peeking into his world, snatching glimpses of his day-to-day, the frustrations inherent in dealing with the public. Then she would go merrily on her way, grateful that she didn’t have to deal with those kinds of people.
Actually, she didn’t have to deal with many people at all. At least not for more than the few seconds it took to check out at the grocery store. Slowly, over time, she had isolated herself, begun what she told her husband was merely a form of hibernation. Hibernation, right. In reality she was hiding. Hiding while she struggled with those shadows.
She knew, of course, that one day she’d rouse herself, wipe her one good eye and one droopy eye, force the darkness back in the closet and re-enter the world. One day. But not today.
Today she was content with Tim, grocery store and daughter for dinner.
Zannah was here. Announced by the slamming door and the rustling bags. She could hear her daughter greeting the dog who reacted like he hadn’t seen her just a few days ago. With his tail wagging uncontrollably, he pounced on his squeaky toy and played keep-away with Zannah, racing through the house, up and down the stairs, almost taking out Simon on his way to the kitchen.
She suddenly remembered the day she and Zannah went to pick up the dog. Zannah was still getting over the death of Charlie, their crazy cat, and Deb was wondering if it was too soon to introduce another animal. It was unnervingly quiet in the car on the way to the breeder’s, with clipped conversations and noncommittal replies from her daughter. But as soon as they walked into the kennel and Zannah saw the puppies yelping, clamoring and tussling with each other, the somber mask fell away, replaced by glowing eyes, a beaming smile and hoots of laughter. No, it was not too soon.
She was pulled back to reality by a gentle touch on her shoulder.
Long hug, quick kiss from both.
“Smells great!” Simon exclaimed. “I bought some flan for dessert.” He unpacked the flan from the bag and after some extensive refrigerator rearranging, shoved it into the newly formed empty spot. He straightened, pushed aside that blond hank of hair that had a way of falling over his left eye and gave her a wide smile.
Zannah walked over to the stove and stirred the enchilada sauce bubbling away. “Yum,” she said. “Can we help?”
“Absolutely!” Deb darted around her husband who had just come in, adeptly avoiding the father/daughter/boyfriend greetings that were happening in the middle of the room.
“You didn’t tell me they were coming. What a nice surprise!” There it was, that brightening of the face, the twinkling in his eye. The memories of the workday momentarily erased. Happy to see him so pleased, she smiled at him and gave him a quick kiss.
Cocktail and dinner preparations began in earnest. Everyone had a job to do; Joe handled the drinks, Simon seared the tortillas, Zannah filled and rolled them, Deb grated and sprinkled the cheese and the dog greedily scooped up every morsel that dropped to the floor. With the enchiladas safely in the oven, they grabbed their drinks and went into the family room to munch on chips and salsa, effectively ruining their appetites, but what the hell.
When they were all settled, Zannah reached over to Simon and grabbed his hand. “We have some news.”
“Oh?” She looked at her daughter questioningly, then at her husband, then at Simon, then back to Zannah, trying to get a read on what was coming. Zannah took a deep breath, but before she got started, the phone rang.
They all froze, waiting for the machine to tell them who was calling. Damn, it was her father’s number. She had to answer.
Apologetically, she got up to grab the phone. “Sorry, this’ll just take a minute.”
“Hello?” Pause. “What? No, wait, wait, wait a minute. Say that again.” Panic flooded through her. “We’ll be right there.”
