Jennifer Archer - Off Her Rocker

“What does she want?” I ask.

“To invite you over tonight, I believe.”

“Why? Does she have something new she wants to rub in my face?”

“Lynette’s youngest went away to school last year. She understands what you’re going through. She was very sympathetic when I told her what a mess you are right now.”

“Thank you for doing that,” I say sarcastically. “No doubt she wants to see for herself and gloat.”

“Why do you have to be so suspicious of her? She’s reaching out to you.”

“She’s treated me like crap for years. Especially when we were in school.”

“Maybe she wants to make amends. Call her. Whatever she has planned for tonight, go. It will be good for you to get out and socialize. And it would be a coup for Carl’s business if you eased into the Yanceys’ social circle, anyway. Besides, Carl’s working late. What else do you have to do this evening?”

“Nothing, Mother.” I reach for an apple in the bowl that sits center-table, imagine throwing it at her but bite into it instead. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“How’d the meeting go?” I ask Carl the next morning when he enters the kitchen where I’m toasting bagels and making coffee. He was already home and snoring when I returned from Lynette’s last night. I had left a note on his pillow, telling him where I went.

Carl’s mouth curves up at one corner as he takes the bagels to the table and sits. I know that smile; it means success. “We’re in the running. It’s down to Logan Advertising and a Dallas agency.”

“That’s fabulous, honey! Congratulations.” I pour us each a cup and limp over to him on my still-aching calves.

“I don’t have to tell you we’re considered to be small potatoes. Beating out all the other Dallas and Houston agencies we were up against is a feather in my cap.”

“I’m sure you’ll outshine this last one, too.” I smile at him. “To a profitable 2007.” We clink our coffee cups together.

“Hear, hear.” Carl sips, and so do I. I notice that his hand shakes slightly as he lowers his cup. “Celine’s thinking is that, since we’re located in the area he’s targeting, we should be more in tune to the marketplace than the larger agencies down south.” Carl explains that he and his team will be developing a campaign to introduce Celine Designer Shoes to area customers. “Peter Celine will be back October twenty-seventh to take a look at what we come up with. He’s bringing his wife. Apparently, she’s in on the decision-making. I said we’d have them over to dinner that night.”

“I can handle that. I’ll put it on the calendar.” As if I could forget. It’ll be the only thing written in for the entire month.

“I’m afraid, until then, I’ll be working weekends and nights.” He yawns. “I’m getting too old for this. I’m counting the years until Troy can take over.”

I smirk at him. “You’re not even fifty. Besides, you love your work.”

“Guess I’m a little burnt out. After twenty years of the same thing, you get tired of it.”

“Who do you think you’re kidding? You’d be miserable without the agency to keep you busy.” As miserable as I am without my old activities. “You’ve always given it a hundred percent.”

“That just means I’m obsessive-compulsive when it comes to my job.” He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just feeling the pressure, that’s all.”

Concern tweaks me. Carl has always thrived on a challenge. “What would you do without your work?”

“Who knows? Sell seashells by the seashore. Twiddle my thumbs.”

“Believe me, that gets old fast, too. Thumb twiddling is tiresome.”

Carl blows into his cup. “So how was bridge?”

“It’s a cover.” I sit across from him.

“What do you mean?”

“Bridge is a cover for Lynette and all her friends to get together once a week and have a pot party. They started the tradition after all their kids left home.”

Carl sputters and spills his coffee, but maneuvers so that it hits the place mat rather than his crisp white shirt. “You’re kidding? Pot, as in marijuana?”

I nod. “As in grass, weed, pass me that doobie, dude, wow, man, this is some good shit.” The coffee cup warms my fingers as I lift it. “Apparently, after Lynette’s daughter left for college, Lynette was cleaning out the girl’s closet and found a joint hidden in an old shoe. She brought it with her to bridge that night and bridge went up in smoke, so to speak.”

“Back up.” Carl lifts a knife to spread cream cheese on his bagel. “Lynette said ‘Pass me that doobie, dude’?”

“No, I did.”

The knife pauses in midair; Carl stares, looking uncertain and a tad bemused.

“Relax. I’m only kidding. I said no to the joint.” I take a bite of bagel. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. Lynette is a lot friendlier and fun stoned than she ever was sober. They were laughing hysterically by the time I left. I could use a good laugh.”

Carl frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to end up like those women, Carl. So bored that the highlight of my week is sneaking off to bridge night and having a few bong hits with the gals.”

“How do you know they’re bored?”

“They said so. Do you know how bad off Lynette must be to admit that to me? They were all stay-at-home moms and now they’re stay-at-home wives trying to figure out how to fill their time. Just like me. I swear, I’m thinking about firing Myra and doing all the housework myself. That’s how desperate I am for something to do.”

Carl laughs, then mutters, “That oughta last until you break a fingernail.”

I glare at him.

Sobering, he says, “So do something. Find a hobby. Take piano lessons. Art lessons. Redecorate the house. Go spend a week at some fancy spa.”

“Why is everyone so fired up to get me to a spa all the sudden?”

“You love going to spas.”

“Not as a career. I want to do something productive.” Wincing, I stand and walk to the counter where the paper lies folded.

“Are you hurt?”

“Shin splints. From my brief stint as a marathon runner.” When he frowns, I add, “Don’t ask. It’s just another of the many things I suck at.” The look Carl sends makes me blush. I’m feeling sorry for myself and he knows it. I know it. “At least I’m a good mom,” I mutter, feeling pathetic.

“You’re a great mom.”

“Yeah, well, the job description has changed now that the kids aren’t living under our roof. I guess I’m having a hard time learning the new rules.”

“You’ll figure it out.” He clears his throat. “Polly called last night. She said you showed up at the PTA meeting.”

“She did, did she?” The traitor.

“She’s worried about you.” He coughs. “Barbara Smart called, too.”

“Troy’s fifth-grade teacher? Why?”

“She’s the elementary school principal now.” He coughs again. “Some mother complained that you were, um, scoping out the children on the playground yesterday?”

“Scoping—” Remembering the woman and her little boy I passed in front of the school, I slap a palm against the counter. “I wasn’t—”

“I know that. Barbara does, too. She assured the woman you’re harmless.”

I return to the table and sit again, avoiding Carl’s eyes. “Jesus.” I press fingers to my forehead. I’ve never felt so humiliated. Well, maybe when I was caught playing Peeping Tom at the high school yesterday, but that’s the only other time.

“Barbara had already spotted you out there before the woman complained,” Carl continues. “She suspected you were crying, and she wanted to make sure you’re all right. That’s the only reason she called.”