Family Affair (7 page)

“First meal here?” I ask, as I inspect her tray. “You’ll be okay with that. Just stay away from those garlic mashed potatoes.” I point to her tray.

“Yeah, my last school cafeteria had the culinary expertise of a school cafeteria. I was hoping for an upgrade.” She looks at my plate and sees I also have the potatoes. “But …?”

“No, no. You misunderstand. They are
insane
. I dream about them. I’m not kidding. They roast the garlic to perfection first, and there must be some secret ingredient because they’re seriously like crack. One bite and the monkey will be on your back.”

She looks at me like she’s not sure I’m telling the truth. Then she takes a bite. She tries to affect a “no big deal” look, but five seconds later she takes a second bite. And then a third. “Oh my God, you’re
not
kidding. I want to eat these every day for the rest of my life.” She closes her eyes and moans as she savors another bite, and I force myself to look away and remind myself that we’re talking about a starchy tuberous crop, because the eyes closed/ moan combo is a bit too much to handle.

“Okay, Meg Ryan,” I say. “I told ya. I don’t kid about carbs.” Suddenly I sound like a bumper sticker promoting the Atkins diet.

“Oh, so you were worrying about my weight,” she asks, mock-offended, but then drops the act when she gets distracted by three guys in business attire. “Who are
they?”

“Ah, the suits. There’s a law firm a couple blocks away. They got hip to how good the food is here, and they sneak in every so often.”

“Nuh-uh,” she says in disbelief.

“You don’t believe me? Then explain
that,”
I say, as I nod toward a far corner of the cafeteria, where about seven octogenarians sit and laugh as they dine.

“I … wish I could.”

“Senior center. Two blocks away. They’re first in line on days we have quiche. I think they assume there’s some sort of early-bird special because they’re so used to it out in the real world. Of course, maybe they’ve been here often enough to know that all the good stuff is picked over by the time the later afternoon rolls around.”

She laughs out loud and smiles as she extends her hand across the table. “By the way, I’m Heather.”

“Brett,” I say. “I’m the defensive coordinator for the football team. We do okay, as you probably know. But really what I am is kind of an investor. Well, an inventor. Well, I wanna invest in this thing I’m inventing.”
Duh
.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Oh, it’s just this … athletic apparel… thing.” I suddenly feel foolish talking about an idea that isn’t that far along yet, and we settle into an awkward silence, each of us eyeing the other, eating our meals, and wondering if we’re going to have sex.
Hold it—where’d
that
come from?
I haven’t actually thought about having sex with anyone besides Layla since … ever. I mean, we
all
have fantasies. But this is a real girl. Sitting across from me at a table. With one dimple to the left of her mouth and her hair tied back in a ponytail, unsuccessfully trying to make herself less sexy. This is starting to suck.

“So what exactly do you do?” I ask, even though I know. I have to break the increasingly awkward silence.

“I’m the new SID. I’m replacing Mike Stiller.”

“He was a good friend of mine,” I say. And then add, “Duh-nuh-duh!” à la the part after “Jeremiah was a bullfrog.”

She looks at me with a furrowed brow, and then looks away quickly. I do it again because I’m not content to let go of my song reference as a joke. “Duh-nuh-duh!”

“Do you have some form of Tourette’s?” she asks sweetly. I mean, as sweetly as you can sound when you’re asking someone if they’re
challenged
.

“That was ‘Joy to the World,’” I say. She just looks at me blankly. I now go so far as to start from the beginning. “‘Jeremiah was a bullfrog’? ‘Was a good friend of mine’?”

She stands up with her tray. “I’m sure he was. Nice meeting you.”

“It was a song,” I add, even though she’s already out of earshot.
Is she too young to know it?

I turn around and want to punch my own face in. Not just for coming off like an idiot but for bringing up my idea while I did so. I always do that. Whenever I’m nervous or surprised by something, my brain panics and expels the first thought that comes to mind. Which these days is almost always—you guessed it—Wonder Armour.
Bleh
.

• • •

I sit at the bar with Doug (yeah, my pal from high school moved back to the Los Angeles area around the time I started working at UCCC, and we picked up right where we left off) and our friend Jared. I’m recounting my unfortunate first encounter with Hot PR Girl, which I regret immediately because I’m suddenly suffering an unbearable Crime Against Music in the form of Doug singing Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”

“I got it bad, sooooo bad …” squawks Doug.

“It’s
bad
, all right,” I answer, referring to his singing. “And she’s not a teacher.”

“So how’s Layla?” Jared asks. “She’s really solid, dude.”

“You calling my wife fat?” I joke.

I know what he means, though. We all hung out a couple of times, the four of us, when Doug first moved back to town, and Jared hasn’t shut up about Layla since. Everybody loves her. But Jared’s got other reasons for singing her praises. He’s the recent recipient of a Dear John letter that wasn’t intended for him to find. He was trying to hide an engagement ring he bought for his girlfriend, and when he went into the sock drawer, he happened upon the note. When he called her on it, she said she wrote it “ages ago” and swears that she’s happy—but he can’t shake it from his head, and now he’s afraid that she’s gonna dump him any second.

“That damn sock drawer,” Jared says morosely, as he takes a swig of his beer.

“That’s a great band name,” I say. We come up with band names constantly—never mind that none of us is in a band.

“Or at least an album title,” Doug adds.

“You ever think about the fact that your wife is the last woman you are ever going to be with?” I ask in Doug’s direction. We had a running joke that he’d never get married—that every IT guy’s true love is Diet Coke, since that’s the only thing most take to bed—but he managed to find the right girl regardless.

Jared feels the need to interject. “No, because I don’t have a wife. I could have had a fiancée, but that damn—”

“Sock drawer,” Doug and I say in unison.

“I was talking mostly to Doug, bro,” I add.

“Yeah, man. Layla’s the last person you are ever going to be with. But you got married like twenty years ago.”

“Six,” I correct.

“This is the kind of stuff you should have thought about, oh, I don’t know,
before
you got married.”

“Yeah, man,” Jared adds. “And Layla’s awesome. What more could you want?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. You’re right. Layla’s the best,” I say.

“Trust me,” Jared replies. “There’s nothing more.”

“Then that’s pretty fuckin’ sad.”

“Who pissed in
your
cornflakes this morning?” Doug mutters. “All this ’cause you got some wood over a chick?”

“First of all, I didn’t get wood,” I correct. “And second of all, nothing. It’s cool. I’m just contemplative tonight. Is that all right? Can we be grown-ups for one night? Is that allowed?”

“We’ve
been
grown-ups, dude,” Jared says. “Sounds like you’re just getting the memo and may not like the responsibility that comes with it.”

“Fuck you, dude,” I say, only I realize he might be right, and that fuckin’ stings.

Luckily, I need to head back to school to do some prep work before our game against NWMSU. Otherwise, I’d have to hear more of this garbage. So I leave the guys to finish their happy hour, which will probably extend until the game, when they always show up to support the team by being slobs and yelling shit.

It’s not that I don’t love my wife. I do. I love the hell out of her. But there’s a fundamental difference between loving your wife and loving being married. One has nothing to do with the other, I’m beginning to realize. Especially when it doesn’t feel like we’re connecting the way we used to. She did leave the game last week.

Am I going to find a note in the sock drawer one of these days?

Ginny shows up at our office—which is more pet playground than workplace, especially now that Lou, Trish’s dog, is back from the groomer—but that’s never seemed to matter. Ginny gets us. She always has.

“We don’t photograph
people,”
Trish teases. “Sorry.” She pretends to shut the door in her mother’s face.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” Ginny says, holding her own. “I’m here to see my daughter:
Layla
.”

“Ouch,” Trish says, and she takes a few steps back, pretending she’s been stabbed. “Careful there, Mom. Any more of this emotional abuse and I could turn into a lesbian.”

I push Trish out of the way and embrace Ginny. “Can you believe it? You were my first call!”

“Of course I can,” Ginny says. “I’m so proud of my girls.” She pulls Trish into a three-way hug. She’s so amazing. We’re lucky to have her.

“So, did you just come to celebrate in person?” I ask. “No, honey, we had dinner plans, you and I. Remember? Now we have a great reason to celebrate.”

Crap
. I’m surprised I’ve forgotten. “Shoot. Did we? I thought
we said tomorrow, but my days all blend lately and here you are, so … great!” I smile as I rack my brain to remember if we’d actually said today. I’m still foggy with thoughts of PETCO and the loans we’ll have to apply for. “Trish? You in?”

“A celebration dinner?” Trish raises her eyebrows. “Mom paying? Hells yeah!” At this point Trish’s dog gets jealous and starts scratching his tiny little dachshund paws against her leg, so she picks him up and pulls him into the group.

“Did you call Brett?” Trish asks me. And there must be something in their psychic sibling connection, because as soon as the words leave her lips my cell phone rings, which snaps me out of the contemplative trance I’d slipped into as I watched Trish’s dachshund try unsuccessfully to scale her leg. They’re funny little beings, dachshunds. They seem to go from being puppies to tripping over their ears and dragging their chests on the ground. I like to assume they’re happy, but a lifetime of scraping your boobs across the pavement just doesn’t seem ideal. Then again, snails don’t mind.

Brett’s call is still ringing on my phone. I press send. “Hello, husband.”

“Hello, wife. Are you coming to the game?”

Crap again
. I hear the excitement in his voice, but I’m pretty sure he’ll let me off the hook this time. I really was planning to go with him, but now with Ginny here, and Trish and I celebrating the likely PETCO deal …

“I’m sorry, babe. Something came up. Maybe I can come late. I told your mom I’d go to dinner with her, and she’s
here
, and Trish and I—”

“Huh,” he interrupts. Apparently, he’s angrier than I’d anticipated. He didn’t give me a chance to explain my wonderful news, and he retreats into monosyllabic answers when he’s pissed off but doesn’t want to get into it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I totally forgot. You see, Trish and I—”

“No big deal. It’ll make it that much more special if you ever
do
show up and stay for a whole game again.”

“I have great news—” I try one last time. “Great,” he snaps. “Tell me when I get home.” He hangs up. “He hung up,” I say to Trish and Ginny.

“Oh, sweetheart, we can do a rain check,” says Ginny. “Why don’t you go to the game?”

“No,” I say, slamming the phone closed as though there was someone on the other end to hear it. “We’re celebrating.”

He’s not even curious? How many times do I say I have great news? Probably never. And did he really just hang up on me?

The second we get to the restaurant I start feeling terrible. I fumed for the whole car ride, but as soon as I get outside my own head I feel like the worst wife ever. It’s true, last week I left early and I’ve missed a few other games this year, but how many seasons of how many teams have I been there for? Considering that, I’ve been pretty dutiful. Still, this is Brett’s job, and I’m being totally unsupportive. I make a vow to myself to dig up my beak hat and get my ass into those bleachers for the next game no matter what, and quickly dial his cell-phone number to apologize.

“This is Brett. Leave a message.”

He’s screening me? So much for my rescue mission
.

When I hang up the phone, Trish is giving me the look. “What?” I say defensively.

“You
know
what,” she says. “We’re celebrating. Stop obsessing. His team will win or lose and he’ll come home and you’ll be in bed, eating cereal, wearing his boxers and his
I Fucked Paris Hilton
T-shirt.”

“No, he
doesn’t
have a shirt that says that,” Ginny says. Trish and I both look at her, two looks that both say:
Have you met your son?

“Brett’s been acting really weird lately,” I say. At which point the look is now directed at me:
Have you met your husband?
So I add, “I mean, more than usual. He’s all sensitive and edgy.
Honestly, since when does he care if I go to his games? I mean, I understand that I should be there, but it’s unlike him to get all upset about it.”

“He’s Brett,” Trish offers.

“Yeah, but he’s also doing that sleep thing.”

Ginny puts her fork down and does a trademark Ginny reveal: the leg cross-uncross, which tells you she’s just become uncomfortable times two. “He’s sleep-coaching?”

“Yeah,” I say.

Brett coaches an imaginary team in his sleep when he’s worried about something or about to make a change. It’s sleepwalking but with an extra movement or two, so it’s harmless if a little weird—though he’s woken me up once or twice with shouts for tighter pass coverage. He does this especially toward the end of football season, when the important games come around. He crouched by make-believe sidelines for weeks before we bought our house, and from what I understand he nearly wore a path in the carpet at his parents’ place, flailing his arms and celebrating fantasy touchdowns, before he proposed to me.
But what’s he nervous about now? What momentous occasion could be on the horizon?