From the Grounds Up (12 page)

Unfortunately, Pavlik dashed my hopes. 'No, I'm not saying that. To be honest, I'm not sure she would have a legal leg to stand on if she tried. I can just understand why she's a little anxious.'

A little. If I told her what Pavlik said, I'd have to peel her off the ceiling. 'What should she do?'

I heard Pavlik speak to someone on the other end. Then he came back. 'Sorry, what was that again?'

'I was asking if you had any advice for Sarah.'

'Only to suggest she stay in touch with them. Do they have cellphones?'

Earth to Pavlik. 'Is there a child in our solar system who doesn't?' Hell, Eric had a better cellphone than I did.

'Good. Listen, I've got to go. You two have a good time together.'

'We will. I'm just sorry that the one night you
are
available, I'm not.'

'Don't be sorry. Something came up here anyway. Besides,' his voice lowered, 'We'll have lots of nights.'

'I . . .' My hand clamped over my mouth.

'I, what?' Pavlik asked.

Between trembling fingers, I managed, 'Call you tomorrow.'

'Great, talk to you then.'

We hung up and I turned to my dog. 'Holy shit, Frank. I almost told Pavlik I loved him.'

The sheepdog farted, then joyously sniffed his butt.

Chapter Thirteen

I got pretty much the same reaction from Sarah, sans fart, thanks be to God.

'Why would I do that?' I asked her as we settled in the living room with glasses of wine. She'd arrived just shy of five p.m. 'There's no way that I can love him. I don't know him well enough to love him.' Lust after him, maybe. No, understatement: definitely a green light on the lust front.

'Societal expectations,' Sarah posited.

Geez, was there a free Psych 101 class going on at the Community Center? First Pavlik and now Sarah.

'Humans grow fond of each other,' she continued philosophically, 'and we call the next step "love". Whatever that is.'

'Where do you get this crap?'

'I make it up. Now, let's talk about me.'

Great. 'How did it go at the airport?'

'Fine.' Sarah searched absently through her pockets for even one long-departed cigarette. 'Damn, I wish I still indulged.'

'Fine,' I repeated. 'So, you drove them there on time, they got their boarding passes and off they went?'

'Yup.' A sip of wine.

I felt frustrated. 'You wanted to talk about this, right? So, give.'

'I said I wanted to talk about
me
. My plans, my hopes, my fears.'

My ass. 'So what about Courtney and Sam? You
are
going to keep in touch with them?' I was thinking about Pavlik's advice.

'Of course. They're my responsibility.'

'But . . .'

'But,' Sarah put her fingers to her mouth like she was taking a last hit on a coffin-nail and blew her legendary, if phantom, smoke ring into the air. 'I need to get on with my life, Maggy. Me. Sarah Kingston. Real estate agent, partner in a coffeehouse.'

She leaned forward. 'I'm not just somebody's parent, or to be precise, two kids' guardian.'

I understood Sarah's declaration of independence. I'd done the same. It was a defense mechanism and not necessarily a bad one, assuming she didn't take it too far.

Example of 'too far'?: I quit my salaried PR job and opened a coffeehouse.

Even so, 'That's the attitude,' I told her. 'But I do think you should call Sam and Courtney every day. Either that or ask them to check in with you.'

'Why?' Sarah was looking at me suspiciously. 'Do you know something?'

I squirmed. I didn't want to worry her unnecessarily. She'd be a basket-case all summer with the information she did have, and we needed to open a coffeehouse by September first.

'I don't know anything,' phrasing it carefully, 'except that children need to know you are still there and care about them. That you're interested in their daily lives, even when you can't be with them in person.'

That look of the unpersuaded. 'You call or text Eric every day?'

'Yes,' I said solemnly. Starting tomorrow.

'OK.' Sarah shrugged. 'Sometimes I just don't intuit this stuff. I thought constant contact would make them crazy.'

'They'll say it does,' I said, 'but in their hearts? They'll be secretly, evenly heartwarmingly, grateful.'

Right. As would my son Eric. I could imagine his text message reply: 'Y do u keep calling'

Though now I could reply: 'Solidarity with Sarah.' Including proper punctuation and spelling.

'So do you want to know what Ronny and I talked about after you left?'

'Not necessary. I called him on the way back from the airport. He filled me in.'

'You shouldn't talk on the cellphone while you drive,' I said automatically.

'Yes, Mom,' Sarah said, equally as automatic. We'd tanked to this tune before, especially when she had both smoked and talked on the cell while driving. 'Ronny said you were figuring out where all the equipment should go. The coffee-makers and such.'

'Brewers,' I supplied. 'Do you want to see the plans? I have them right here.'

I got up to get the papers, but she waved me off. 'I don't know anything about where the stuff should go. Just show me when you've figured it out.'

Worked for me. 'So you said you're getting on with your life. How are things going with the agency?'

As I spoke, Frank wandered in. He passed me, still not deigning to recognize my existence. Then he saw Sarah and his stump of a tail started to wag.

Sarah wasn't much of a dog person, which was why Frank showered affection on her. Not to mention drool. I think it contributed to his amusement.

Tonight, though, Sarah came alive when she saw Frank. 'That's my good boy,' she crooned, as he shamelessly hula-danced in front of her. 'You love your Sarah, don't you. Don't you? What a sweetheart you are. Yes, you are.'

Wow. I present, for your edification, a woman with abandonment issues.

Frank wound himself around and leaned against Sarah's leg. Then he slid down to the floor, landing with a 'huff' and laying his head on her foot. He gave me a self-satisfied smirk.

Traitor.

Sarah leaned down to scratch him. My sheepdog flipped over on his back, legs waving like four hairy flagpoles.

'And
I'm
a slut?' I asked him.

'You're obviously not giving this creature enough affection.' Sarah bent like a pretzel to put her head down next to Frank's. 'Isn't that right, Frankie? She just left you last night.'

'Watch yourself,' I warned, 'or I may let him follow you home.'

'A hundred pounds of love, aren't you, boy? Aren't you?'

Frank licked her face.

Sarah looked at me, startled, a string of drool trailing off her chin. 'He's really . . . hydrated.' She sniffed. 'And his breath . . .'

Just the tip of the iceberg. 'Wait until he farts.'

The power of suggestion. Frank stood up and poisoned the atmosphere. Then he gave me a little grin and padded out.

'Jesus,' Sarah said, fanning the air, 'what did he eat?'

'My guess? Beans and wieners.' I got up. 'Ready to order pizza?'

Sarah followed me into the kitchen. 'Can we get anchovies?'

'Sure, on your half.' I picked up the phone. 'But you'll have to share. Frank just loves the little fishies.'

'Wait. Forget the anchovies. On top of the beans and wieners you'd have to get the house fumigated, then the dog laminated. I don't want to be here when that happens.'

'Good call.' I didn't want anchovies in the vicinity of my pizza, anyway. They manage to migrate from their half of the pie to mine, and they stink worse than Frank.

I punched in the phone number for Pizza Palace, which had recently been taken over by a chain.

'Pizza Palace,' the canned voice on the other end said.

I opened my mouth, but was put on hold without getting a chance to speak.

'No answer?' Sarah asked.

'I'm on hold. A Pavarotti sound-alike is waxing eloquent about pizza toppings.'

'Classy. Well, while you're waiting, let's talk about our building schedule. I don't think the accident will delay anything, though it's a damn good thing nobody was hurt.'

I disengaged the receiver from my ear. 'Accident? What accident?'

'Ronny didn't tell you?'

'No. I haven't spoken to him since I left the depot this morning, and everything was fine then.'

There was a click on my phone, so I put the thing back to my ear. Pavarotti-Lite was still filling my ear, now singing 'O Sausage Pizza' to the tune of 'O Sole Mio'.

What had happened to my country? And my pizza place? 'Was Ronny in a car accident, too?'

'No, a fall. He leaned on some deck railing and the wood broke away.'

I held up my hand as there was another click on the line. I was concerned about Ronny, but I didn't want to lose my place in the phone queue.

'
Pizza Palace. Can you hold please?
'

'I've
been
holding,' I screamed into the receiver. No use, the music started up again. I held it out so Sarah could hear.

'Funiculi, Funicula?' she asked.

'A Calzoni, A Calzona,' I said. 'So, is Ronny all right?'

'Fine. Except that he landed in the bushes so he's a little scratched up.'

'Are you talking about our railing at the depot?' I asked.

'Yup. Just to the right of the stairs.'

That didn't compute. 'But I tested that railing and it was solid as a rock. There's no way someone as slight as Ronny could have gone through it.'

‘The overture to
A Chorus Line
struck up into my ear. Then, click. ‘Pizza Palace, can’

I didn't let him finish. 'No, I can't hold,' I snapped. 'I've
been
holding for ten minutes. Your canned music is now moving on to Broadway show tunes, and in my current emotional state, I can't take that.'

'I was just—'

'I don't care what else you were doing. You need to answer your phone. And all your songs are stupid,' I added for good measure. 'Now, will you take my order? Please?'

'Certainly, ma'am,' the young voice said. 'Umm, I was just going to say "Can I take your order?".'

'oh.' Lower case.

'
Can I interest you in . . .
'

Sarah looked at the writing on the third of three flat cardboard boxes. 'Dessert pizza? What the hell's that?' She opened a bag. 'And wings? Garlic sticks? Did you order everything on the menu?'

'I felt terrible about yelling at the kid,' I admitted. 'I couldn't say no to him.'

'To the tune of a hundred-dollar pizza order? They should be paying you for listening to their tacky advertising jingles. Just be glad they took our order before they reached Rodgers and Hammerstein or Lerner and Loewe.'

I picked up a garlic stick. 'If ever I would leave you,' I sang to it, 'it would be a bummer. Leaving you's a bummer I . . . never . . . could
do.
Your—'

Sarah took the relay baton. 'Your dough streaked with butter . . . my hips big as
Mame
's.' She grabbed a stick for her own microphone. 'Your breath full of garlic . . . that puts Frank . . .' Right on cue, the sheepdog came padding through, ' . . . to shame.'

Frank stood in the center of the room in front of the fireplace as Sarah and I collapsed in laughter.

'
Mame
?' I said, when I could finally form words again.

'Maybe it was a stretch, but remember her quote? "Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death".'

'Not us.' I said, surveying the spread of food. 'This is ridiculous.'

Frank trotted up and sniffed one of the pizza boxes.

'Sorry, no anchovies,' I told him. 'Do you like artichokes? Same first letter.'

He turned tail.

'Suit yourself,' I called after him. 'But you'll thank me in the morning.'

'Unlike me,' Sarah said, holding her stomach. 'Don't let me eat too much of this crap.'

'I won't. But back to Ronny's fall. That railing--if we're talking about the same one--was not flimsy. I pushed on it. I leaned on it. Sturdy, absolutely solid.'

'Yeah,' said with a poker face. 'And you probably weigh more than he does.'

'I do not,' I said indignantly. Though, admittedly, Ronny was a skinny little guy. Not that skinny, though.

I hoped.

'Then what's your point?' Sarah, after considering all three pizzas: pepperoni, mushroom and banana peppers; smoked chicken and artichokes; and the aforementioned 'dessert pizza', chose a slice of each and topped them off with a buffalo wing.

'No bleu cheese dressing for the wings?' I asked.

'I'm watching my weight.' She poured herself a glass of Zinfandel. 'Besides, I try not to eat anything that's started to mold.'

'Please. I've seen the contents of your refrigerator. You're probably top-ten nationally in the cultivation of penicillin.' I considered the pizzas and opted for 'dessert', which turned out to be a chocolate chip cookie the size of a hubcap and covered in whipped cream.

Selecting a garlic stick as a sensible side dish, I checked out the wines. Two were open--the Zin and a Cabernet Sauvignon. I chose the Cab--a perfect accompaniment to chocolate chips. And God knows, everything goes with garlic.

'So?' Sarah asked. She was ensconced on the couch, feet on a hassock, facing the fireplace that took up one full wall of my sky-blue stucco living room. Not my color choice, but I had been there just two years. And I was lazy.

Not to mention poor as well. Like my grandmother said, you get used to hanging if you hang long enough, which I thought was akin to 'prisoners fall in love with their jailers'.

These days, though, even the green toilet was looking good to me and I was falling in love with my baby-blue stucco walls. Tomorrow we'd be picking out drapes together.

Struggling back to the context of our conversation, I said, 'So what?'

My favorite chair, a big overstuffed floral number that didn't fit in the room, enveloped me. But then again, Frank was too big for the room and I didn't toss him in the dumpster, either. He was splayed out on the hearth of the unlit fireplace.

'God, you're getting old,' Sarah took a bite of the pepperoni slice. 'Short-term memory loss. My question is, so what are your thoughts on the railing?'