My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (8 page)

“Every day,” she began after another award-winning smile, “we are faced with conflict. Sometimes small, sometimes big. Sometimes it's on the job, sometimes it's with people we love, sometimes it's with a neighbor or even a stranger. But conflict is all around us. You're here today to learn better ways not only to face conflict, but to resolve it. Everyone has a choice when faced with conflict. The one true thing about conflict is that you
will
handle it in some way. It's impossible not to. But sometimes how we handle it can lead to more and more conflict. I'm here to teach you how to handle it in a way that will resolve it.” She gave a definitive nod and then continued, “All right. I want you to all feel like family for the next seven weeks. You'll be working closely together, so I want you to know one another well. We're going to begin by going around and introducing ourselves. But before we do that, let me add just a couple of housekeeping notes: First, we are normally in the conference room on the first floor, but they're renovating, so, unfortunately, for the duration of this class, we're going to be in this unfinished room. But nobody is here for the scenery, right? Also, this class meets Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you are here by court order, you must attend every class in order to fulfill the court's requirement.”

Her words punched me in the stomach. A tiny grunt escaped. Nervous fellow and I had the same stunned expression on our faces, so I tried to meld mine with a pleasant, nondubious semismile while willing the elevator doors to open. Where was Edward? And why were people here by court order? Were these people
criminals
?

“Your name and why you're here,” she said, and looked to her left, thankfully.

My left hand found the empty chair and plopped itself down, as if it were expecting Edward's lap to be there. It only hit my handbag.

The man who had introduced himself as Cinco was laughing, his arms crossed over his chest, chuckling like St. Nick. It took me a few seconds to realize he was chuckling at me. I wanted to ask what was so funny, but instead I tried to act as if I was in on the joke, whatever that was. Cinco had seemed to connect with the man across from him, who looked like he should be working as a bouncer at a nightclub. They were both laughing and looking at each other, then at me.

“Go ahead,” Marilyn said to Cinco.

“I'm Cinco Dublin, and I'm a recovering conflict causer,” he said with a wry grin. A few people laughed. “But the guy I slugged isn't recovering as well.” More laughs. I was laughing too, but not for reasons of amusement. It was just keeping me from crying.

“I can see I'm going to have my hands full with you, Cinco,” Marilyn said, seeming to take it all in stride. She winked, and I wondered how a woman so stuck in one decade could be that confident. I shriveled in my seat as I watched her. “And Cinco, may I add for the record that I'm a fan of your show.”

I looked at Cinco. He didn't look familiar. But there was something about his . . . voice! He was the radio guy! The Cinco Dublin show. He hosted a conservative talk-radio show that loved to ruffle people's feathers. I'd listened to him a couple of times, but I could never get past all the arguing that went on. I always felt so badly for the guest. Cinco could size them up and then throw them down with just a few swift sentences. Though I agreed with some of his views, I never could enjoy listening. Instead, I'd usually switch to the classical station with the monotone host who came on once an hour. The only chance Milbert Connelly had to stir controversy was to attribute a song to the wrong composer. And not once, in the twenty years he'd been hosting the classical station, had he ever done that. I had only once heard an inflection in his voice, on 9/11, when he reported that his listeners should get to their nearest television. It was only a slight inflection but enough to make me feel the sky was falling. For the rest of the day, Milbert Connelly played classical patriotic music.

“Thank you, Marilyn. I hope to make myself a fan of yours soon too.”

Marilyn laughed and a few other people chuckled. “I can't imagine why you're here. You? Causing conflict?”

Cinco's smile faded a little. “Lost my temper and let a few fly on a reporter in front of my home. I'm one of your beloved court-ordereds.”

“Good to have you, Cinco,” Marilyn said. “Next.”

Next to Cinco sat a woman with Merle Norman eyes and a drawn mouth. Her face was shiny with either overdone moisturizer or one too many cosmetic procedures. With penciled-in eyebrows and ratted blonde hair that looked like it'd been cooked over high heat, she was the quintessential sixty-year-old trying for forty. Her practiced smile greeted the group, and then she focused on Marilyn.

“I'm Glenda. I'd prefer not to use my last name. You can't be too careful these days.”

I glanced at Cinco, who looked like he was willing himself not to zing her with some sarcastic challenge.

“I'm court-ordered as well, but it wasn't really my fault. The police officer that pulled me over was a complete jerk and an imbecile. And if you can't protect yourself against the police, how can you protect yourself at all?”

Cinco couldn't keep quiet. “What'd you do?”

Her head lifted with superiority. “It's nobody's business, but let's just say the police will think twice about pulling me over in a school zone again.” She blinked and looked at everyone. “And listen, if you believe the news-paper article about how those kindergartners were traumatized by the event, you're a moron. Their screams were no doubt a result of some high-sugar snack they were fed that day. And just for the record, any police officer who gets knocked down by a purse is a ninny anyway.”

Marilyn's mouth was hanging open, and I realized mine was too. “Next,” she said.

“Next” was the biggest guy I'd ever seen. His muscles rippled under his shirt, his head was smooth and bald, his skin tan, and his eyes green and mean looking. He sat with both feet firmly planted on the ground and his large arms entwined across his large chest.

“I'm Robert Goden. I'm a police officer.”

My whole body flushed with heat, and I looked at the ground instead of all the shocked expressions I knew were making their way around the group. And, to my horror, I felt the first signs of my most dreaded weakness . . . my hives. They were simply uncontrollable, and the most I could hope to do about them was avoid uncomfortable situations. But I knew that soon enough the itching would begin. Large welts would climb up my chest, and people would start asking me if I was okay. My hand nonchalantly crept up my shirt to feel my neckline. Fairly high, thankfully. If I took a few deep breaths and tried to calm myself, I had a chance of slowing them down at least, and with some careful maneuvering of my hair around my neck, I could possibly hide it all, including my beet-red ears.

I stared at the concrete below my feet and tried not to listen, but it was impossible. Robert was saying, “I'm here under court order. The anger management class was full.” I glanced up, and Robert was staring at Glenda. I quickly glanced back down. Robert continued. “And lady, if you'd like to try to swing your purse at me, go right ahead. Just make sure it's not one of your favorites.”

I could hear Cinco laughing. He was the only one. By the way feet moved back and forth slightly, I could tell everyone else was squirming in their seats. The hives were at my collarbone. I carefully moved one side of my hair and wrapped it across my neck nonchalantly, willing myself not to scratch. I glanced up once and noticed Cinco watching me. I tried my best not to appear startled. I wasn't sure if I pulled it off. So instead, I looked at the next fellow in this torturous line. He was the nervous one.

Maybe. But does he have hives?

“I'm Ernest. Ernest Jones. Reverend Ernest Jones.” Why it took three attempts to get his name out was unclear, but his face opened up with an eager smile and bright eyes. “I'm here because I would like to learn more about resolving conflict. I feel it's one area of my life that could really use some attention. God wants all of us to try to live in peace with one another, and so I'm here to try to find a way to do that while addressing the problems my church faces.”

“What kind of problems?” Cinco asked, as if completely unaware that Marilyn was the group leader. Marilyn looked curious too. And it seemed my hives had stopped spreading long enough for me to focus.

Reverend Jones glanced around the circle, then with a humble slump stated, “There's been a hostile takeover.”

“What do you mean?” Marilyn asked.

“At my church. My committee has taken over.”

Only silence answered the poor reverend. He looked up from staring at his feet and shrugged, a small smile acknowledging he felt it a bit absurd too. “It all started with the choir robes,” he continued. “After forty years of maroon, some of us thought it might be time for a color change. Things just got out of control after that.”

“Reverend, I'm glad you're here,” Marilyn interjected quickly, halting Cinco as he opened his mouth to add what I supposed would be some commentary on the situation. “Sounds like you're in the right place.”

Next up was a small woman I'd hardly noticed before. She was sitting on the other side of my handbag, and I hadn't even been sure what she looked like up until now. I studied her face. She had small features, including a tiny nose that tipped a bit upward toward narrow, plain brown eyes. Her hair was fastened to the nape of her neck with bobby pins, and she wore an out-of-date skirt and glasses that looked like they could swallow her head. She was smiling, laughing almost, through her obvious insecurity. I worried that at a moment's notice she might burst into tears. I knew the feeling. Through a tight grin she managed to state her name: Carol. But after that, nobody could hear anything, including me, and I was practically sitting right next to her.

“Carol, nobody can hear you. Could you speak up?” Marilyn asked.

Carol nodded but still couldn't be heard on her second attempt. Marilyn looked to me for what I guessed was an interpretation. I heard every fourth or fifth word of the third attempt, but was unable to gather enough. “Carol is hoping to be more assertive in her life,” I said, glancing at Carol, who smiled broadly at me. Then she looked at Marilyn and nodded.

“Glad to have you, Carol. By the end of this class, you'll have no problem with that.” Then Marilyn turned to me. “Leah, why are you here?”

My fingers clawed through my tangled hair, and I smoothed it around the exposed side of my neck. I tried to smile, but my lips quivered and I felt the heat return. In the best way I knew how, inspired by my new friend Carol, I lifted my head and met Marilyn's eyes.

That was the million-dollar question. Or, with a coupon, the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar question.

Chapter 7

[She shivers.]

T
hat was priceless. Really. I knew you were creative, but
that, my friend, took you to an entirely new level. And
to say it with such conviction. Maybe you missed your calling
as an actor.

Rain poured. The wipers swiping back and forth across my windshield weren't loud enough to drown out Jodie's voice, even with the squeak. So I let her continue. A good berating helped me unleash my guilt sometimes. And I had enough anger going right now that I wasn't paying too much attention to the guilt anyway.

I do hope Edward never shows up, because I doubt he could
pass for your brother. But what a heartwarming story you told.
My goodness. Had it been true, you might've landed yourself in
People
magazine.

My windshield fogged over. I quickly swiped my hand across the glass to make a circle I could see through, then fumbled to turn the defrost on full blast. I tried to stop replaying the scene in my head, but it looped over and over again, taunting me to pick through it with a fine-tooth comb.

My plan would've been completely successful had it not been for Marilyn's unfortunate mention of Edward and Cinco's curious mouth working me over. I'd simply mentioned I was here to learn more about dealing with conflict. That was good enough, wasn't it? But then Marilyn had to ask whether or not the Edward fellow would be coming. Too ashamed to admit my boyfriend had stood me up for therapy, somehow I casually made him out to be my brother. It was a little white lie that could've stayed perfectly pristine had Cinco not been so stubborn about it all. He seemed to sense my story wasn't true and kept asking me detailed questions. By the end of their interrogation, my brother Edward hadn't shown up because of complications from a kidney transplant, for which I'd been the donor, which was my explanation for why I was suddenly splotching and reevaluating life and attending classes that would help me become the best person I could be.

Despite driving full speed ahead in the pouring rain, I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to block the painful realization of what a pansy I was. Well, for every measure of pansy, I was certainly going to make up for it now. I looked at my clock. It was three minutes after nine. I accelerated. Edward was always in bed by nine.

Turning onto the street of his apartment, I prayed for a parking spot at the curb. But the cars were squeezed together like sardines. After five minutes, I found a semilegal spot three blocks away. I turned off the car and stared out at the black night and white rain.

With eyes closed, I built my resolve. After all, I'd been wronged, and I had every right to be mad. I made sure I wasn't being irrational. Irrationality never won an argument. I played through the entire incident, and as far as I could tell, I wasn't wrong in the least bit.

Opening the car door, I willed myself out of the warmth and into the cold rain. I'd already been caught off guard by the storm when I left the therapy session. But not even a record-breaking blizzard could've kept me from escaping that humiliating gathering. Hunching my shoulders and wrapping my arms around my body, I jogged toward Edward's apartment, scurrying underneath overhangs as I could. The urban streets were mostly empty, though a few restaurants were still open for customers. The few people who were out didn't seem to notice I was walking in the rain without a coat or an umbrella. But in this city, people kept their noticing to themselves.