Something New (13 page)

“Are those new jeans?” His tone is suspicious, as though I’ve just gone over my spending allowance, like I ever had one.

“They’re from the back of my closet.”

“Oh.” He returns his attention to the road and his message is clear. Subject closed.

A needle of anger jabs at me. Subject
not
closed. “I haven’t fit into them for a while.”

“Hmmmm,” is his response. The needle grows to ice-pick proportions.

“Size eight,” I say smugly.

“Jessie! Stop kicking my seat,” he admonishes, completely ignoring my comment.

I fold my arms across my chest and stare through the windshield.

I wallow in my annoyance almost all the way to the field until I hear the trembling voice of my son from the backseat.

“I hope I don’t embarrass myself too much.”

My heart does a little wrench-thing. My poor Matthew. I yank at my seat belt and wedge myself between the minivan’s front seats so that I can look him in the eye.

“The most important thing is that you have fun, Matty.” I realize that I haven’t called him that since he was five, but he suddenly looks so small. “Seriously,” I say. “It’s supposed to be fun. Do you think you can do that?”

He stares at me for a long moment, as though considering my words. Then he nods almost imperceptibly.

“Good.” I smile. “If you can do that, then the rest is just icing on the cupcake.”

Too bad the glaring grass stain on his shirt will embarrass him before the game even starts.

The
soccer field is crowded and alive with the U10 players and their families. After circling for a full five minutes, Jonah manages to snag a spot almost a mile away from the action. As I get out of the car, I grumble that if he was going to park
in Outer Mongolia, he could have had the decency to drop us all off first. He shrugs as if he has no idea what nonsense I’m sputtering, then hauls our three portable chairs and our cooler from the back of the minivan. I herd Connor, Jessie, and a resolved Matthew from the car and usher them toward the field. Matthew is repeating the chant, “Have fun, have fun” like Rain Man, and, not for the first time, I wonder about his mental health. He glances at me and I give him a thumbs-up. He shakes his head doubtfully and rolls his eyes at me. This makes Connor the only member of my family who has
not
rolled his eyes at me this morning, but I’m sure it is only a matter of time.

“I’m going to hang with Jeff,” Connor says as we approach the green.

“Aren’t you going to watch Matthew’s game?” I ask.

And sure enough, I get the eye roll from my twelve-year-old. (See? I told you.) I plant my hands firmly on my hips and glare at him. He hangs his head and gives me an apologetic smile.

“I’m gonna watch it,” he says. “From over there.” He points to the far side of the field, where a group of tweens has gathered.

“Fine. But I want you to check in.” He is about to roll his eyes again, I can feel it, but he manages to stifle the reflex before it happens.

“Okay, Mom,” he relents, then grins at me hopefully. “Can I have some money for the snack bar?”

“For a kiss,” I challenge him.

He looks at me like I’ve just asked him for a kidney. Kiss his mom in front of his friends? Yuck! Before he can decide either way, Jonah steps in and hands him a five, for which he receives a knuckle bump.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Yeah. Thanks,
Dad
,” I say tersely.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, trying to bribe affection from your son.”

I want to give Jonah the finger, but the soccer field is decidedly G-rated, and there is no way to do it surreptitiously. Instead, I pointedly turn my back to him, put an arm each around Jessie and Matthew, and steer them toward Matthew’s awaiting team. As we are walking, I feel a slight thump against my back, and then Connor slings his tanned arm around my neck and nudges Matthew out of the way so he can lean in to me.

“Love you, Mom,” he says. It is barely a whisper, and before I can respond, he tears away from me and races to his waiting friends. It is a covert display of affection from a twelve-year-old boy, and therefore should probably be placed in the “little things” category. But to sappy old Ellen, it is a big thing. I have a twelve-year-old son who tells me he loves me in public, albeit on the down low. I can’t help but feel aglow with pride, at least for a moment. It’s not often that mothers are given any confirmation that they are doing something right. I’ll take it where I can get it.

The Polar Bears (of the white jersey fame) are playing the Yellow Jackets today on Field 2. The teams and spectators have congregated on either side, and we make our way to where the Polar Bear banner stands. Matthew spies the rest of his team in a huddle with his coach and slowly makes his way over to them. His coach pats him on the back as he continues to pump up the players. I notice that Liam is there, hunched over, hands on his thighs, listening intently to the coach’s advice.

I surreptitiously glance around and see Ben Campbell standing next to the bleachers, his arm around a boy of about seven, chatting with Gary Sinclair, Dave Holmes, and a couple
of other dads. My stomach does an involuntary flip-flop at the sight of him, and I force myself to keep an ambivalent expression on my face. I quickly scan the bleachers for the notorious Linda, but since I’ve never met her, I don’t know who to look for. There are several people I don’t recognize amid the group of regulars, but none of them wears a shirt that says
Greenpeace
, so I have no idea if she’s even here.

Jonah comes alongside me and drops the gear, and I jerk my eyes from the crowd. Together, with Jessie trying to help yet not helping one iota, we set up the chairs and place them parallel to the bleachers. Jonah insists on bringing these damn chairs even though there’s always plenty of space on the bleachers. He claims the aluminum benches make his ass fall asleep and he ends up walking funny for an hour. I can’t vouch for the butt slumber, but he does look remarkably like the Elephant Man whenever he sits on the bleachers for an extended period of time.

Jonah spots his buddies, Gary and Dave, and heads in their direction. Like Jonah, the two men are in sales and they love to spend the entirety of the soccer games discussing their LinkedIn profiles (a far cry from their wives’ composting conversations). As Jessie flops into one of the chairs, my eyes follow Jonah as he reaches the group. He exuberantly greets Dave and Gary, and a couple of high fives are exchanged (even though high fives are so passé), then turns to Ben as the others introduce him. He smiles broadly and shakes Ben’s hand, and a few pleasantries pass between them.

My insides are churning at the idea of Jonah and Ben conversing, and I recognize the pressing weight of guilt bearing down on me. The rational part of my brain recognizes the absurdity of this response. I have done nothing to feel guilty about. I have not even allowed myself to fantasize about Ben Campbell except for the
Australia
wet-torso thing, but I cut
that off pretty damn fast, if I do say so myself. Ben and I have enjoyed a handful of conversations. It’s not like we’ve been secretly meeting at the Motel 6 for afternoons of debauchery. So why am I suddenly sweating like a pig?

A moment later, Ben looks past Jonah and spots me. He cocks his head and smiles at me, gives me a little wave, and the warmth that spreads through me is instantaneous and surprising. I am aware that I am blushing, and thankful that Ben will not be able to see the color of my cheeks from where he stands.

“Mom, your face is red.”

I look down. Jessie is staring up at me, an expression of childlike concern on her pretty face. I can’t very well tell my eight-year-old that I’m having a hot flash, now can I?

“It’s hot out here,” I say instead.

“It’s not
that
hot,” she replies.

When I return my attention to the soccer dads, I notice that a blond woman in jeans and a
Save the Humans
shirt has walked over to the group. She taps Ben on the shoulder, then bends down and hands the boy next to him a bottle of water. The boy smiles up at her and she ruffles his hair.

So this must be Linda of the Wetlands.

Before I can look away, Jonah turns and gestures for me to join him. I don’t want to,
really
don’t want to go over there. I haven’t spent much time imagining what Ben’s wife might be like, but now that I think about it, I kind of don’t want to know. Even from here, I can tell she is attractive in an earthy way—how appropriate—and probably wears a size six. I know that she is brilliant and well respected and accomplished. She probably cooks like Julia Child and fucks like Linda Lovelace. But if she is genuinely nice and friendly and accessible, I will have to hate her on principle. Women who have husbands like Ben Campbell shouldn’t be allowed
to be perfect and all-around amazing. That just wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us. Of course, there is no way to know what someone is like behind closed doors, so I can hold on to the fact that even if she comes across as perfect to the rest of the world, she may be a closet sociopath with pierced labia who tortures small animals for fun.

Jonah gestures for me again, more urgently this time, and I make my way over to him. Ben Campbell is less than three feet away, and I pray that my face has returned to its normal color. I say hello to Dave and Gary, then throw a “Hi” to Chip Malloy and Paul Reyburn. The next face I see is Ben’s.

“Hey, Ellen,” he says. A jolt passes through me and I realize that this is the first time he has called me by name.

“Hi,” is all I can manage.

Jonah puts his arm around me. “You know Ben, right?”

“Yes,” I tell Jonah. I look back at Ben and say “Hi” for the
second
time. Uh-oh. Mentally deficient Ellen is making an appearance.

The little boy beside him has an arm wound tightly around his leg. Ben leans over and chucks him under the chin.

“Evan, say hello to Matthew’s mom and dad.”

Wide brown eyes the color of his dad’s stare up at us. “I’m going to be eight in June,” he says defiantly.

“Wow,” I say, nodding solemnly. “Eight is a great age. Matthew’s little sister is eight. She’s sitting right over there.” I point to Jessie, and Evan strains his neck to see her. She is amusing herself by pulling on her wad of gum, stretching it out twelve inches in front of her mouth. I give myself a mental forehead slap.

“Maybe you’d like to go over and say hi,” I suggest, and am treated to yet another eye roll. And this time from a kid I’ve just met. God, it must be a new record. Ben grins as Evan quickly retreats to the safety of his mother’s side.

Meanwhile, Linda has turned her attention to the center of the soccer field where the players have gathered. Ben reaches a hand out and touches her on the arm.

“Lin. Hey. This is Ellen.” A little jolt again at the sound of my name on his lips. What is the deal with that? Is it possible that I am going through puberty again?

Linda turns her head ever so slightly and gives me a closemouthed smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She has high cheekbones and flawless skin, and her blond mane is twisted back into a clip, managing to look careless and stylish at the same time. She stands about five-six, with long legs and an athletic, trim body. She is not a knockout, but she definitely has that “I am attractive without even trying, and I know it” kind of vibe.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, then quickly looks back at the field.

“You, too.”

“I see you didn’t get that grass stain out of Matthew’s shirt,” comes Rita Halpern’s raspy voice from the bleachers behind me. She cackles merrily as I blush yet again.

“Oh, is
that
your son?” asks Linda, eyebrows raised. Her disapproval is heavily disguised under a layer of friendly curiosity, but I catch it nonetheless. I’ll bet her résumé includes
Great stain remover
under her list of accomplishments.

“Yup, that’s my Matthew,” I say.
And if you think that stain’s offensive, just wait till you see him play.

“We still have to get Liam and Matthew together,” Ben jumps in. “For that
un
–play date.”

“Yeah, we should.”

“Oh, they’ll get along like a house afire,” Jonah offers.

“Absolutely.” Ben nods and smiles. For a split second, he gives me that look, and I have the strangest sensation that
there is more to his smile than simple acquaintance-like affability. He seems to be looking
into
me, and furthermore, he seems to like what he sees there. My arms prickle with gooseflesh at the intensity of his gaze, and a thought flits through my brain that my husband is standing right beside me, my
husband
, who is supposed to be the closest person in the world to me, and he is totally oblivious to what’s transpiring between Ben and me.

The shrill cry of a referee’s whistle tears through the air, abruptly ending the connection, or whatever it was, and all eyes, including Ben’s and mine, turn toward the field.

“All right, Polar Bears!” Jonah cheers, clapping his hands enthusiastically.

I glance at Ben, who is now focused on the soccer field. I watch as he places a hand on the small of his wife’s back, letting it rest there, and I catch the almost imperceptible way she shies away from his touch, then instantly bends over to say something to Evan. It makes me wonder about their relationship, if they are happy, how his hand would feel on the small of my back and just what he might have been thinking a few seconds earlier when he looked at me.

It was nothing
, I tell myself.
It must have been an acid flashback.
(Except that, unfortunately, I never did acid.)
I was imagining things.
But a part of me doesn’t believe it. True, I have been out of the game for a long,
long
while, and the last time a man whose first language was English showed any interest in me, there were no such things as Facebook, J-Date, or Brangelina. But I do remember what it was like, that spark, that intangible sensation you get when you connect with someone. (I can recall it the same way I sometimes recall a particularly decadent dessert and then find myself practically salivating at the memory.) And what happened a
moment ago between Ben and me was a connection. I’m certain of it. There’s no doubt in my mind. Not even a shadow of a doubt.