Page 21 of Two by Two

"I always had respect for what you did," I said, tired of feeling like I had to continually defend myself. "And yes, you're right that watching London takes a lot of energy. But I'm also working, too, and trying to balance both has been the difficult part."

Vivian's eyes narrowed for an instant, her dislike for my comment obvious. She turned her attention to Marge again. "How are things with you? Work going okay?"

It was the kind of innocuous question that defined their relationship--a question that meant nothing and kept conversation superficial.

"Like they say, whenever we want to liven up the office party, we invite a couple of funeral directors."

Despite myself, I smiled. Vivian didn't.

"I don't know how you do it," Vivian said. "I can't imagine staring at numbers all day and dealing with the IRS."

"It's not for everyone, but I've always been good with numbers. And I enjoy helping my clients."

"That's good," Vivian said. She added nothing else and the four of us descended into silence. Marge picked at her fingernail while Liz adjusted the hem of her shorts. It didn't take a genius to understand that the levity that had been present all afternoon evaporated as soon as Vivian had taken a seat on the porch. Even Vivian seemed at a loss for words. She stared at nothing in particular before finally, almost reluctantly, focusing on Marge again. "What time did the two of you get here today?"

"Twelve thirty or so," Marge answered. "We got here a few minutes after Russ did."

"Anything exciting happen?"

"Not really. It's just a typical Saturday. Mom's been in the kitchen all day, we went for a walk, Dad started in the garage until the ball game came on. And, of course, I teased your husband for a while."

"Good for you. He needs someone to keep him in line. He's been a little moody these days. At home, it seems like lately, I can't do anything right."

I turned toward her, too startled to speak again, and wondering: Are you talking about me or you?

Separate bank account. Corporate apartment. A possibility of up to four nights a week spent in Atlanta.

The more I thought about Vivian's Saturday Surprises, the more I began to suspect that she brought it all up here because she knew I wouldn't argue with other people around. Of course, once we got home, she'd say that we'd already discussed it, so there was no reason to go over it again; if I even tried, I was doing so because I wanted to start an argument. It was a win-win situation for her and left me no recourse at all, but what bothered me even more than the blatant manipulation was that Vivian didn't seem to be troubled at the prospect of spending more days apart than we spent together. What would that mean for us? What would that mean for London?

I wasn't sure. I had no desire to leave Charlotte, but if push came to shove, I would. My marriage was important to me--my family was important to me--and I would do whatever it took to keep us together. As for my company, it wasn't as if I was firmly established in Charlotte, and if the possibility of a move was on the horizon, I might as well start searching for clients in Atlanta, assuming I had some sense of what Vivian's upcoming schedule might be. The whole thing was still so vague though, so uncertain.

And yet... if I suggested the possibility of moving the family, I wasn't sure how Vivian would respond. Would she even want that? I felt as though Vivian and I were sliding on ice in opposite directions, and the more I tried to hold on to her, the more determined she seemed to pull away. She had a desire for secrecy that nagged at me and while I'd assumed that we'd support each other in our employment challenges, I couldn't shake the feeling that Vivian had little enthusiasm for that kind of mutual reliance. Instead of she and I against the world, it felt like Vivian against me.

Then again, perhaps I was making too big of a deal about all of this; maybe I was too argumentative and focused too much on her faults, not her strengths. Once London was in school and we adapted to our respective work schedules, things might not appear so bleak, and our lives would be on the upswing again.

Or maybe they wouldn't.

Meanwhile, as I was pondering these things, Vivian was discussing various shows in New York with Marge and Liz. She went on to recommend that they visit a rooftop bar on Fifty-Seventh Street with a view of Central Park that not too many people knew about; I could remember taking Vivian on lazy Sunday afternoons, back when I used to believe I was the center of her world. How long ago that suddenly seemed.

Just then, London emerged carrying two servings of pudding-in-a-cloud, handing one each to Liz and Marge; she followed that with servings for Vivian and me. Despite my inner turmoil, the sight of London's excitement couldn't help but make me smile.

"This looks delicious, sweetheart," I said. "What's in it?"

"Chocolate pudding and Cool Whip," London answered. "It's like a soft Oreo cookie and I helped Nana make it. She said it won't ruin my appetite because it's just a snack. I'm going to go eat mine with Papa, okay?"

"I'm sure he'll love that." Taking a quick bite, I commented, "Very tasty. You're a great chef."

"Thank you, Daddy," she said. To my delight, she leaned in for a quick hug before heading back into the house, no doubt headed for my dad's lap with a couple more desserts.

Vivian had seen London hug me and while she offered a benign smile in response, I wasn't sure what, if anything, she felt about being left out. As soon as London closed the door, Vivian put her dessert on the table, sugar being the enemy and all. Not so with me, Marge, or Liz. Marge was on her second spoonful when she spoke again.

"You've got a big week ahead. London starting school, Vivian traveling, and you're filming commercials, right? When does that start?"

"We have rehearsal on Wednesday afternoon, and we'll film on Thursday and Friday, then a couple of days the following week. I also have a casting session next week."

"Busy, busy."

"I'll be okay," I said, realizing I actually meant it. With London in school, I had eight free hours to work, which seemed like all the time in the world compared to the life I was leading now. I took another bite of the dessert, feeling Vivian's gaze on me.

"What?" I asked her.

"You not going to eat all of that, are you?" Vivian asked.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because we'll be having dinner in an hour. It's not good for you. Or your waistline."

"I think I can handle it," I said. "I'm down six pounds this month."

"Then why try to put it back on?" Vivian asked.

When I didn't respond, Liz cleared her throat. "How about you, Vivian? Are you still going to the gym and doing yoga at that place downtown?"

"Only on Saturdays. But I work out at the office gym two or three times a week."

I blinked. "There's an office gym?"

"You know that. You've seen me bringing my gym bag to work. I wouldn't have time otherwise. Of course, it sometimes also ends up being a working session depending on which executive is there."

Though she didn't mention a name, I had a sinking feeling that by executive, my wife actually meant Walter, which, if true, struck me as the cruelest Saturday Surprise of all.

By then, I was downright glum. Vivian and Marge continued their superficial conversation while I pretty much tuned out, my thoughts exploding like fireworks between my ears.

London and my mom emerged from the house, both of them wearing gardening gloves. London had clearly borrowed a pair from my mom, since they seemed about three sizes too large.

"Hey sweetie!" I called out. "Time to do some planting?"

"I have gloves, Daddy! And Nana and me are going to make the flower bed soooo pretty!"

"Good for you."

I watched as my mom lifted a shallow plastic tub containing twelve smaller plastic pots, marigolds already in bloom. London grabbed two trowels, and my mom listened attentively while London chattered away nonstop on their way to the flower bed.

"Have you ever noticed how good Mom is with London?" Marge asked. "She's patient, cheerful, and fun."

"You sound a little bitter when you say that," Liz observed.

"I am," she said. "It's not like Mom ever planted flowers with me. Or showed me how to make pudding-in-a-cloud. Nor was she patient, cheerful, or fun as a general rule. When she spoke to me, it was because she had some chores she wanted me to do."

"Are you open to the idea that your memories may be selective?" Liz asked.

"No."

Liz laughed. "Then maybe you should simply accept the notion that she likes London more than she ever liked you or Russ."

"Ouch," Marge said. "That's not very therapeutic."

"I wish London would get to see my parents more often than she does," Vivian remarked. "It makes me sad that she doesn't have the same kind of relationship with them. Like she's missing out on getting to know my family."

"When was the last time they were here?" Liz asked.

"Thanksgiving," Vivian said.

"Why don't they come and visit this summer?"

"My dad's company has been involved in a huge merger and my mom doesn't like to travel without him. I suppose I could bring London to them, but these days, when would I have the time?"

"Maybe that will change when things settle down," Liz suggested.

"Maybe," Vivian said, a frown suddenly appearing as she watched London digging while my mom put the flowers into the ground. "If I'd known London would be planting flowers, I would have brought a change of clothes. Her dress is practically new, and she'll be upset if she can't wear it again."

I doubted that London cared as much as Vivian. London probably couldn't remember half of the dresses she owned, but my thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, piercing scream from London, the sound of pain and fear...

"OW, OW, OWWW!!! It HURTS! DADDY!!!!"

Instantly, the world splintered into disjointed images; I felt myself rising, the chair flung out behind me... Liz and Marge turning their heads, shock in their expressions... Vivian's mouth in the shape of an O... My mom reaching for London... London beet red and crying, shaking her hand, her face contorted...

"IT HURTS, DADDY!!!"

I bolted off the porch toward her, adrenaline coursing through my system. As soon as I reached her, I scooped her into my arms.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

London was sobbing too hard to answer, her screams drowning out her ability to answer, her hand held away from her body.

"What's wrong? Did you hurt your hand?"

Mom's face was white. "She was stung by a bee!" she called out. "She was trying to swat it off her hand..." Vivian, Liz, and Marge were beside us as well. Even my dad had appeared in the doorway and was hustling toward us.

"Was it a bee?" I asked. "Did a bee sting you?" I tried to reach for London's hand, but she was frantically waving it, convinced the bee was still attached.

Vivian quickly took hold of London's arm, even as London continued to scream. She rotated it, finally focusing on the back of London's hand.

"I see the stinger!" she shouted at London. London continued to flail, oblivious, as Vivian went on. "I have to get it out, okay?"

Vivian gripped London's arm tighter. "Hold still!" she demanded. Using her fingernails, it took a couple of attempts to loosen the stinger, but then with a quick pull, the stinger was out. "It's out, sweetheart," she announced. "I know it hurts," she soothed, "but it'll be okay, now."

No more than fifteen seconds had passed since I first heard London begin to scream but it seemed far longer. London was still crying, but she struggled less and her screams had begun to subside as I held her. Her tears dampened my cheek as everyone pressed in around her, trying to comfort.

"Shhh..." I whispered, "I've got you now..."

"Are you okay?" Marge asked, stroking London's back.

"That must have hurt, you poor thing...," Liz added.

"I'll get the baking soda...," my mom announced.

"Come here, baby," Vivian said, reaching for London. "Let Mommy hold you..."

Vivian's arms snaked around London, but all at once, London buried her face in my neck.

"I want Daddy!" London said, and when Vivian started to lift her, I felt London squeeze even harder, nearly choking me, until Vivian finally relented.

I carried London back to my chair and took a seat, listening as her cries gradually diminished. By then, my mom had mixed baking soda and water, forming a paste, and brought it to the table, along with a spoon.

"This will help the swelling and take away some of the itch," she said. "Do you want to watch me put it on, London?"

London pulled away from my neck, watching as my mom applied the paste to her skin.

"Will it sting?"

"Not at all," my mom answered. "See?"

London was back to sniffling by then and when my mom was finished, London brought her hand closer. "It still hurts," she said.

"I know it does, but this will make it feel better, okay?"

London nodded, still examining her hand. I brushed away her tears with my finger, feeling the moisture on my skin.

We sat at the table for a while making small talk, trying to distract London and watching for an allergic reaction. None of us expected one--neither Vivian nor I were allergic, and London hadn't been allergic to the fire ants--but since it was London's first bee sting, no one knew for sure. London's breathing seemed normal and the swelling didn't worsen; when we turned the conversation topic to Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles, London even seemed to temporarily forget her pain, if only for a few seconds.

Once we knew that London was fine, I recognized that all the adults had overreacted. Our panic, our rush to soothe, the way we'd fussed over her in the aftermath, struck me as a bit ridiculous. It wasn't as though she'd broken an arm or been hit by a car, after all. Her screams of pain had been real, but still...she'd been stung by a bee. As a kid, I'd probably been stung half a dozen times and when it happened the first time, my mom hadn't made paste from baking soda and water, nor had she held me in her arms to comfort me. If memory serves, my mom simply told me to go wash the stinger off and my dad said something along the lines of, "Stop crying like a baby."

When my mom finally asked if London would like another spoonful of chocolate pudding, she hopped off my lap and gave me a kiss before following my mom into the kitchen. She held her hand out in front of her like a surgeon who'd just prepped for an operation. I said as much out loud, eliciting a laugh from Marge and Liz.

Vivian, however, didn't laugh at all. Instead, her slitted gaze seemed to accuse me of a crime: betrayal.

CHAPTER 13

Crime and Punishment

I was twelve years old and Marge was seventeen when she came out of the closet, or whatever the politically correct way to say it is these days. Marge wasn't conscious of being politically correct back then; it just sort of happened. We'd been hanging out in her bedroom and the subject of the homecoming dance at the high school came up. When I asked why she wasn't going, she turned toward me.

"Because I like girls," she said abruptly.

"Oh," I remembered saying. "I like girls, too." I think part of me vaguely suspected that Marge might be gay, but at that age, everything I knew about sexuality and sex pretty much came from murmured conversations in school hallways or the occasional R-rated movie I'd watched. Had she told me a year later, when I would wedge my bedroom door shut with a shoe to have some privacy practically every day, I don't know how I would have reacted, although I suspect it would have been a bigger deal. At thirteen--middle school--anything out of the ordinary is considered the Worst Thing Ever, sisters included.

"Does that bother you?" she asked, suddenly engrossed in picking at her cuticle.

It was only when I looked at her--really looked--that I understood how anxious she was about telling me. "I don't think so. Do Mom and Dad know?"

"No. And don't say a word to them. They'll freak out."

"Okay," I said, meaning it, and it was a secret that stayed between us, until Marge sat my parents down at the dining room table the follow

ing year and told them herself.

That doesn't make me noble, nor should you infer much about my character at all. Even though I sensed her anxiety, I wasn't mature enough to understand the full gravity of what she'd told me. When we were growing up, things were different. Being gay was weird, being gay was wrong, being gay was a sin. I had no idea of the internal struggles Marge would face, or the things people would eventually say behind her back--and sometimes even to her face. Nor am I arrogant enough to believe I can fully understand them even now. The world to my twelve-year-old brain was simpler and whether my sister liked girls or boys frankly didn't matter to me at all. I liked and disliked her for other reasons. I disliked, for instance, when she'd pin me on my back, her knees on my arms, while she scoured my chest bone with her knuckles; I disliked when Peggy Simmons, a girl I liked, came to the door and she told her that "He can't come to the door because he's in the bathroom, and he's been in there a long, long time," before asking Peggy, "Do you happen to have any matches?"

My sister. Always doing right by me.

As for liking her, it was really pretty simple. As long as she wasn't doing something dislikable, I was more than happy to like her. Like younger siblings everywhere, I had a bit of hero worship when it came to Marge, and her revelation didn't change that in the slightest. As I saw it, my parents treated her like a young adult while they treated me like a child, both before and after she told me. They expected more from her, whether around the house or in taking care of me. I'll also admit that Marge made my own path to adulthood smoother than it otherwise would have been because my parents had always been there, done that with Marge first. Surprise and disappointment, after all, often go hand-in-hand when it comes to raising children, and fewer surprises usually meant less disappointment.

When I snuck out one night and took the family car? Marge did it years before.

When I had too many drinks at a high school party? Welcome to the club.

When I climbed the water tower in our neighborhood, a popular teenage hangout? That was already Marge's favorite place.

When I was a moody teen who barely spoke to either my mom or dad? Marge taught them to expect that, too.

Marge, of course, never let me forget how much easier I had it but to be fair, it often led me to feel like an afterthought in the family, which wasn't easy either. In our own ways, we each felt a bit slighted, but in our private struggles, we ended up leaning on each other more and more with every passing year.

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