Leave It to Claire (9 page)

“Then you’ll have to get over it.”

“Wait a minute. You can’t just decide he can take an entirely preventable lower grade, when all he has to do for an A is dress
appropriately, Claire.”

“As a matter of fact, I can decide and I have. I will not have him teased and taunted because of his short, chubby legs.”
Which I happen to think are adorable.

“You mean the way he’s been taunting Ms. Clark?”

Okay, that is so not the same thing, and any decent father would know it without having to be told. But apparently Rick isn’t
thinking with his decent-father brain, so I go ahead and tell him. “Teasing a grown-up, even if she is a school employee,
isn’t the same thing as being made fun of just because you’re different. And if you’d ever been chubby or poor or less than
perfect, you’d understand the pain and humiliation associated with being that way.”

He gathers a deep breath and I know he’s gearing up to argue with me, so I take my only line of defense. I hang up on him.

I stare at the phone, not quite believing I just did it. Shoot, I’d hoped for once we could just come to an agreement without
the usual drama.

Walking through the video rental store gives me hives. The covers in the horror section terrify me, and I keep having to watch
my boys like a hawk to make sure they’re not going anywhere near the adult section. Especially in light of Shawn’s new artistic
endeavors.

To make matters worse, after thirty minutes of roaming the aisles, no one can agree on a movie. Jake wants to rent a Disney
release, Shawn and Tommy are adamantly fighting over whether or not to get Harry Potter or the latest Matrix movie, and too-cool-for-school
Ari just flips her hair and asks the teenage boy at the counter what he suggests.

Good grief. What do we need a movie for? Our lives play out a drama in real time.

“All right, everyone over here.” I call this little powwow in the video game section and Jakey’s in heaven.

“First of all,
Matrix
is rated R, so that’s out without discussion.”

“That bites.” Tommy, of course.

“Watch your mouth.”

“Whatever.”

I’m in no mood to deal with this, so I let him have this last word. I
let
him, mind you. That’s the important point to remember.

“We have
Shark Tales
at home, Jake. You can watch it after school tomorrow.”

He shrugs and I see a little spit drip off the side of his mouth as he stares, hypnotized by
Mario Cart.
“Can we rent—”

“No. No video games.”

“Darn it!”

“Don’t say ‘darn it.’ It’s a euphemism.”

“What’s a euphemism?”

All too willing to help, Tommy grins. “It’s when you say something but really mean something bad.”

Jakes eyes go round. “I didn’t do that.”

“
Darn
means #*$&”

Silence yawns between us as we digest the word my son Tommy has just emitted.

Jake gasps like a girl.

“Mom, did you hear what Tommy just said?” Shawn asks, as though I’m suddenly deaf. Struck with a migraine, yes. Deaf, no.

“I heard,” I say, my icy glare fixed on the son I no longer recognize.

His lip curls with cocky assurance. “I didn’t say anything. I was just telling Jake what
darn
means.”

“That isn’t what
darn
means,” I say firmly. Although, I know darned well it is.

“You’re the one that said it was a euphemism.”

“Go to the van, Tommy.” I’m tired. I hate Monday movie night. I’d rather be reading e-mail or chatting with my friends on
Instant Messenger.

I snatch Harry Potter from Shawn’s hand and head for the counter. “Boys, go out to the van with your brother. And don’t make
any noise or touch anything on the way out.”

“I thought we couldn’t watch Harry Potter,” Ari says.

I’m way past caring what anyone thinks of the magical boy. My head is pounding and I’m in no mood for an argument. Still .
. . “Just don’t tell anyone at church.”

She smirks. “Too late.”

With a sense of dread I turn to see the look of utter disapproval on Connie Morton’s face. Connie is in charge of the children’s
church department. Along with her husband, they have transformed the ministry from dull puppets and forty-year-old children’s
songs like “Deep and Wide” and “Give Me Oil in My Lamp” into a thriving, bright place where kids beg to go. I’m not positive
my kids are learning anything (besides the sinfulness of Harry Potter and Santa Claus) but they do want to go to church, so
that has to count for something.

I smile. “Hello, Connie. Good to see you.” A total lie, but then, what would she expect from someone who would allow her children
to watch a Harry Potter film?

Her gaze is fixed on the movie box I’m carrying. I can’t help but wish I patronized a modern video store that’s all computerization
instead of this mom ’n’ pop shop.

She smiles back. “It’s nice to see you all, too. Renting a movie?”

Like, duh!

“Yes, you know, Monday movie night.” I act like this is a decade-old tradition instead of the first time out of the gate.
“Pizza and a movie.”

“Oh, what a good idea. Family time is so important.”

My heart lifts until she jabs in the knife.

“Of course, how much better might a family bowling night be? Or something that encourages conversation.”

This woman obviously doesn’t know my family. Talking leads to fighting and fighting leads to migraines. Like the one that’s
making me sick to my stomach. Her icky sweet perfume isn’t helping the nausea at all. “Bowling isn’t exactly something my
family enjoys,” I tell her.

“Oh, nonsense. Children love anything as long as their parents are involved.”

Again, this chick needs a taste of reality, because my kids wouldn’t be caught dead in a bowling alley. And Miss Movie Police’s
smug, know-it-all attitude is beginning to grate. So I do what I always do, only to later regret it. I open my big, fat mouth:
“Well, this parent is definitely going to be watching Harry Potter with them. I never miss all the ‘Double, double, toil and
trouble’ stuff. And what a terrific message about light and dark, good and evil. Definitely something to talk about when the
movie’s over. See you at church Wednesday night.” I want to say “Ta-ta,” but I figure that’s over the top.

As it is, I leave her sputtering in the kids’ movies section while giving the video counter boy a weak smile. That’s when
I recognize the pastor’s son, Patrick Devine. He winks. “Way to go, Ms. Everett.”

Ari tosses her arm across my shoulders. “Didn’t I tell you how cool my mom is?”

I feel a cheesy grin coming on. As though a spell has been cast, I’m powerless to stop it, so I allow it to widen my mouth
as I pull out the four bucks for Satan’s movie.

I should have seen it coming. No teenager has ever winked at me before, and my daughter has definitely never put her arm around
me in public, let alone testified to my coolness. But basking in the glow of teen approval and the fact that I’ve just put
someone in her place, I’m totally blindsided by Ari’s next words: “So, Patrick wants to know if I can go out with him on Friday.”

I practically swallow my tongue. I have nothing against Patrick. After all, he
is
the pastor’s kid, but Ari knows the rules. Indignation draws on my cynical nature, and I immediately know what must be done.
“Sure, Friday sounds good.” Amid her smug grin and his returning smile, I slowly pull out my checkbook calendar and start
counting the weeks until her sixteenth birthday.

“What are you doing, Ma? You already paid for the movie.”

I hold up my wait-a-sec index finger and do a little more counting. “Okay, that should do it.”

“What?” Ari is frowning.

But I look at Patrick, whose red face is telltale that he’s getting the picture, even if Ari is still putting two and two
together. “Ari’s birthday is exactly three weeks from tonight. The Friday after that is October 21. Is seven o’clock good
for you?”

His Adam’s apple moves up and down in his throat, but the humor in his eyes shows me he can take a joke even if Ari can’t.
“I’ll clear my calendar,” he says. “Can she get e-mails and phone calls from me, or should I wait until October 28 to ask
for her number?”

I like this kid. I look at Ari, whose eyes are suspiciously moist. I take in a quick breath of air. She must really, really
like the preacher’s son. I had no idea. Why didn’t I?

“Ari’s free to talk on the phone or e-mail as long as it’s kept clean and appropriate.”

He reaches for a register receipt (mine—good thing I didn’t want it anyway) and slides it across the counter to my daughter.
“Seven digits,” he says, pointing to the receipt. “Right there.”

She visibly melts at the lame-o line. I can’t say that I blame her really; just this morning, I was dreaming of meeting Greg
at the top of the Empire State Building.

I head out to the parking lot, Ari following silently, which is just as well. What a day. Talk about getting slammed into
by a big yellow taxi on the way to your destiny. Family movie night has got to get easier than this.

“Mom, hurry up!”

I look to the van, where Shawn’s panicked face is hanging out the window.

“What’s wrong?” I say, picking up my steps.

“Jake just blew chunks all over the backseat.” He gives me an oily grin. “And all over Tommy.”

I open the van door, ignoring Ari’s “Oh, gross. I’m not riding in there.”

Tommy isn’t moving in the very backseat. I see the evidence of his plight all over his shirt. Jake is huddled against the
side of the van, obviously waiting for Tommy to beat the tar out of him. But my eldest son is staring helplessly at me, his
own face giving the appearance that he might just follow his little brother’s example.

I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Well, son, when you spew forth evil words, even while only explaining a euphemism,
you’re bound to get spewed upon. Serves you right.”

His jaw drops and his eyes go wide as I get into the driver’s seat (holding my breath) and start the motor. We’ll go to the
car wash and clean out the van before we go home. I give a quick glance in my rearview mirror and I catch Tommy’s eye.

He gives me a sheepish (if not a little sickish) grin. One that tells me he loves me, knows he blew it, and knows he got his
just punishment. I have to fight to keep tears at bay. My wonderful, funny Tommy is back. I don’t know how long it will last,
but for this second, as our eyes meet, we understand each other. I’ll take what I can get.

3. Reconnect with my children…

It’s working. It’s really working. One out of seven. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I
’m sick of off-key renditions of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” Mom’s been singing it for two weeks straight. And now as we drive
the hour to the Springfield/Branson Regional Airport, I am assaulted by a five-person choir belting it out in time to my throbbing
temple. Not one of my kids can carry a tune. They must get that from their father.

Mom’s house still hasn’t sold, but everything is boxed up. The movers will be coming next week to load ’em up and move ’em
out. I’m left to take care of the details. I wouldn’t mind, if only I didn’t mind her moving so much. But the truth is, the
closer we’ve come to this day, the harder it’s been for me. And the tougher to keep from spilling forth my discontent about
the whole thing—despite my original and selfless determination not to be selfish about her need to get out of Dodge.
Ugh.
Stop it with the Old West sayings, already.

The airport parking lot isn’t too crowded when we arrive, so I’m able to find a spot up close. Considering Mom packed everything
but the kitchen sink in her two checked bags, this is a good thing. Tommy follows me to the back and reaches in, snagging
the largest and heaviest bag. “You sure you can carry that?” I ask. I get a scowl in return. “Sorry. I forget you’re not a
little guy anymore.”

No one else offers to help, so I’m forced to pull rank. “Come on, guys, grab a bag.” My wrists are killing me. I look toward
next week’s surgery with a combination of dread and anticipation.

The three remaining children grumble to the back and take bags. Which leaves me with one task—close the trunk. With four kids,
the two-carry-on-two-checked-bags rule works out perfectly for me.

Mom walks beside me. I feel her tension. “Everything is going to work out great, Mom,” I say, not convinced, but hoping to
at least convince her.

“I just feel awful leaving you when you’re about to have surgery.” She stops, mid-stride, and turns to me, guilt playing the
corners of her lips and creasing her brow. “Maybe I ought to wait until the first of the year to move in with Charley.”

Now, I can do one of two things: play on that guilt and have my own private cook, housekeeper, and nursemaid for the next
few weeks, or do the right thing and send her off to the heart of Texas where she can hold her new grandbabies and enjoy the
holidays for once.

I’m thinking . . .

Shoot. Sometimes having that inner, still, small voice really cramps my style. “Mom,” I say, nudging my head toward our bellboys
and -girl. “Look at the kids. They’re not babies anymore. And I’m not having heart surgery. I’ll be home in a day and they
can help out.” I slip an arm about her frail shoulders and head her toward the airport. “I’m already looking into a cleaning
service to come in a couple of times a week. And Ari is quite capable of fixing tuna casserole or hot dogs, and there’s always
takeout. So don’t fret.”

“This is going to cost you a bundle. Cleaning service, ordering out. I think I’d best stay. Do you have that cell phone of
yours handy? Let’s call your brother.”

“Mom, wait. Look. Next month royalty statements come out. If my calculations are correct, my check will more than cover expenses
for the next few months.” I send her an exaggerated wink. “I might even be able to afford a nice, expensive Christmas present
for you.”

She rolls her eyes, which have suddenly brightened, and I suspect she’s trying to figure out how to mention the TV/DVR combo
she’s been hinting about for the last two months. “Don’t you dare spend your money on me.”