The Someday Jar (9 page)

“I’ve grown rather curious to see what you’ve come up with. Who knows? Maybe we will sell.”

“Only if it feels right.”

He places a trembling hand beneath my chin, holds his eyes on mine, and says, “You’re a good girl, Lanie.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, I need a nap.”

“Of course.” I help the old man to a stand, saddened he’s not feeling well.

“I’ll call you after Bevy’s had a chance to look at this and she gives me
my
opinion. After fifty-four years, I’ve learned we share the same opinion. Hers.”

“Smart man.”

Hollis and I walk arm in arm toward his truck. Once inside the cab, he leans through the window and blows me a kiss.

I catch it in my palm and press it against my heart. Though I never told Hollis, he’s the closest thing to a grandfather I’ve ever had. Both sets of mine died young, three of them before I was born and the last, nine days after my second birthday. And while it’s true Bevy and I have never met, listening to Hollis boast about his bride has made me fall in love with her, too. Never did I have a Nana who wore my colored-noodle necklace to lunch dates or hung my clothespin-reindeer ornament on the Christmas tree year after year. Never did I have a Gramps teach me how to ride a horse, squeeze my cheeks too tight, or slip me a ten-dollar bill for a good report card. Whether it’s right or it’s wrong, endearing or presumptuous, I consider Hollis more than a tender old man with bad jokes and candy canes. I consider Hollis family.

The truck billows black smoke as it drives away.

As the fumes dissipate, my determination grows clear. No way in hell will I let some other agent take Hollis from me.

Back inside, I march into Evan’s office, fueled by the challenge. “The Murphys list with us and you’ll make me partner?”

“You get me that listing, Lanie, I’ll make you anything you want.”

The following afternoon, dressed in sweats and old T-shirts, Kit and I nervously walk into Rudy’s Martial Arts Academy for a kickboxing class. Other than the distinct smell of body odor, it’s not your typical gym with heavy dumbbells or weight machines requiring an engineering degree to adjust the seat.

Quite the opposite, it’s a warehouse-style, echoey metal building with a mirror-paneled wall, a chain-link cage on the far end, and a big blue squishy mat covering the entire floor. Several punching bags with
Everlast
emblazoned down the sides hang by meaty chains from the ceiling, and five or six other bags with black plastic bases—presumably filled with water for stability—are scattered about the mat.

As I scan the room, I decide it looks friendly and unthreatening. This won’t be so hard.

“Hello,” says a Hawaiian-looking thirty-something man from behind the office counter. “I’m Rudy. First time?”

“Yes, I called earlier today.”

Several women trail in behind us and wave hello to Rudy
as he hands us the necessary waivers. With their idle chitchat and playful banter, they seem so comfortable. My mood perks up even more. I whisper to Kit, “This will be fun.”

Kit frowns as she reads the form. “‘Possibility of injury that could lead to paralysis or death.’”

I snatch the paper from her hand and initial it. “They have to say that. For insurance reasons. Heck, walking to the mailbox could result in paralysis or death.”

“No, it couldn’t.”

“You could trip on a stone and fling yourself into oncoming traffic. I saw it happen once in a Lifetime movie.”

“Are you serious?”

No.
“Yes.” I hand Rudy our waivers.

“Grab a ball.” He points at a rack built above the mirrors, lined with large exercise balls. “Then find a seat anywhere on the mat. All I ask is that you leave your cell phone, gum, shoes, and worries off the mat. And you might want to take off your rings.”

We tuck them safely in our purses.

The room isn’t crowded, maybe a dozen or so women, varying in age, size, and shape. Like copycats, Kit and I each grab a ball and plop down on the mat, which feels cool on my feet. A girl about my age sits beside me. She wraps a long yellow strap around her wrists, weaving it between her fingers just like I’ve seen UFC fighters do on TV. She throws her neck from side to side and I hear a couple of pops.

In front of me, another girl with long dark legs and hair to match pumps out twenty push-ups like she’s weightless. I dare look behind me at a third woman, who raps punches at a hanging bag with the rhythm and speed of an expert Morse coder.

Good Lord. Maybe this won’t be so easy. “Now I’m nervous,” I whisper to Kit. “You?”

She looks at me with concrete fear in her eyes. “I already peed my pants.”

Rudy bows with hands at his side before stepping onto the mat. His voice echoes throughout the room as he says, “How are we all doing?”

Several of the women reply.

Rudy says to Kit and me, “Welcome.”

“Thanks,” we answer in unison with uncertain voices.

“Your names again?”

“I’m Lanie Howard and this is Kit Reese.”

“Welcome, Howie.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everyone in here gets a nickname. Yours will be Howie.” He points at the woman with the long legs. “That’s T-Bird. Next to her is Peanut. She’s Avatar, and never mind. You’ll figure the rest out. Let’s get started.”

“Wait. What’s her nickname?” I point at Kit.

“Kit, right?”

“Yes.”

“How about Kitty-litter?” he says with a harmless chuckle.

Her face drops.

“Perfect.” I laugh.

She rolls her eyes at me and mouths,
I’ll kill you
.

Rudy steps away and fiddles with his iPod. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard blares through the speakers. “It’s eighties day.”

“Hold on to your panties, everyone. I’m coming,” a woman yells over the music.

We turn toward the entrance and see an older lady rush
inside. She’s dressed in a cream velour sweat suit with hair swept up in a tightly pinned bun and a set of blue pearls bouncing around her neck.

“Jesus Christ, the old people in this city need to learn how to drive.” She tosses her oversized Louis Vuitton bag onto the bench and with a quick unzip sloughs off her jacket, revealing her jeweled
I kick like a girl
black T-shirt. She slips out of her leopard-print ballet-style flats and steps on the mat.

“I’m behind some geezer for fifteen goddamn minutes. I swear he drove twelve miles an hour.” She looks at me. “Twelve.”

I giggle. This feisty old woman with more wrinkles than a shar-pei puppy can’t be more than five feet, four inches tall and one hundred pounds soaking wet. Given her appearance, she seems more suited to volunteer at the library or knit blankets for the homeless, but her attitude registers spot on for a kickboxing class. She’s a whirlwind.

“I’m Blue,” she says to me with a broad smile. A teeny smudge of red lipstick dots her bottom tooth.

“It’s good to meet you, Blue. I’m Howie and this is Kitty-litter.”

She looks at Kit and nods toward Rudy. “He’s a bastard, isn’t he?” She grabs her ball, smacks Rudy on the ass, and says before plopping onto the mat, “All right, Rudy, whip me into shape.”

I laugh out loud. I don’t know who this woman is, but I like her. A lot.

Rudy orders, “On your backs.”

We spend thirty painful minutes on sit-ups, push-ups, and squats, using muscles I never knew I had.

Rudy finally says, “Okay, ladies, put the balls away.”

“Oh, thank God,” I gasp at Kit, lying beside me on the mat with her arms and legs spread wide like a starfish. Her hair is a mess: sweat-soaked, stringy, and wild. She reminds me of our junior year in college during spring break, the morning after she fell in love with pomegranate margaritas and some guy named Tyler.

Rudy bellows, “Warm-up is over. Get your gloves on.”

“That was warm-up?” Kit wipes sweat from her brow. “He’s kidding, right?”

“Howie. Kitty-litter”—God, that’ll make me laugh every time—“you’ll find gloves in the bucket over there.” Rudy points across the room at a red plastic container.

I contemplate curling up in the corner of the room, lying in a pile of my tears and sweat. But no. I’m determined to tackle this, and every future slip, with everything I’ve got.

Kit and I each grab a pair of midknuckle gloves. We help each other pull the Velcro strap tight around our wrists and pretend not to notice that the leather smells musty, like someone else’s sweat.

Kit grabs my index finger. “At least your nails look great.”

“I know. I told you that BioSil vitamin is awesome.” I wiggle my fingers but stop and pull at the glove. “Ouch. The stitching on the inside of my glove is scratching my knuckles.”

“Want to switch?”

“No, thanks. I’m just not used to wearing gloves.” There’s no time to fuss anyway because Rudy has arranged various stations around the mat using heavy bags, ropes, and weighted medicine balls. He calls us over. All the women head toward a different spot. Kit and I stand in confusion.

“Kit, Blue will show you what to do. Howie, you’ll start with me.” Rudy slips on a pair of black oval-shaped boxing
mitts. He smacks them together, and the sound, louder than a gunshot, echoes through the metal building.

Oh, God.
“Really, it’s okay, I don’t need to go first.” I scan the room, hoping to find a volunteer, but all the other women are in place.

“Don’t worry, everyone gets a chance.” He waves me close.

My BFF of eighteen-plus years pushes my back, nudging me toward likely paralysis and or death. “Go, Howie.”

I’m terrified and I feel sick. Rudy has mitts. Hard-looking mitts. All I have is a pair of ill-fitted and scratchy gloves. Shouldn’t I wear headgear or a chest protector or, at the very least, a mouth guard?

I let out a long breath and tell myself to suck it up. Not only is this for my Someday Jar, but I’m expanding my comfort zone, trying something different, stepping out of my box. Isn’t this what I wanted? Truth is, I already feel stronger. Besides, if Evan doesn’t promote me, I can use my newfound strength to beat him up.
Ha-ha-ha.

“Okay, Howie.” He grabs my shoulders and faces me toward him. “Spread your legs, shoulder width apart, and put your left foot slightly forward.”

I do.

“Good. This is your horse stance.” He raises my gloves to ear level. “Keep your hands up. Always protect your face.”

You can count on that.

Rudy holds his mitts opposite mine, mirroring my position. “Let’s start with a jab-punch. Your left hand is your jab. Right hand is your punch. Hit my mitt.” He wiggles it. “Hit your right into my right and your left into my left. Keep your elbows up and cross your body with your strikes. Make sense?”

Absolutely not.

“Aim for the center of my mitt. Jab, then follow with a punch. Go.”

My whole body jumbles with nerves. I stare at the center of the mitt.
Which one is the jab?
Crap, I’ve forgotten already.

“This one first.” Rudy wiggles his left mitt. “Ready?”

I nod and squeeze my hands into tight fists, filling my head with confidence-building thoughts.
Someday Jar. Stronger. Solid wife to Evan. Doing this for me.
I jab my left hand into Rudy’s steady mitt and, without a flicker of hesitation, follow quickly with my punch into the other.

Holy hell, I did it. Just like he told me. Just like the fighters I’ve seen on TV. Just like a bad-ass.

Kit grabs my attention with her claps. Blue, at the station beside us, shakes her fists encouragingly in the air.

My shoulders give way to laughter. I did it. I actually did it. And it felt great. I’m incredibly awakened. Fresh. Feisty. Fierce. I clap my gloves together, totally alive, ready to climb mountains or walk through fire. Hell, I can do anything.

“Did you hit me?” Rudy asks.

I stare back at him, deflated.

“My niece hits harder than that and she wears Dora the Explorer Pull-Ups.”

I’m speechless.

“C’mon, Howie. You can do better. Soften your entire body and relax. Breathe. Use your kiai,” he says, which sounds like
key-i
.

“What’s a kiai?”
Does it help with the friction? My knuckles are killing me.

“In karate, a kiai is your shout. To shout one must breathe.”
Rudy’s coffee breath spreads across my cheeks as he yells, “Hi-yah!”

I almost giggle. Seriously? He wants me to yell
Hi-yah
?

My smile disappears as he pokes my stomach and says with a serious voice, “A sharp exhalation contracts the muscles, particularly the abdominals. Tight abdominal muscles are essential for any solid technique. Hi-yah!” He shouts again. “Understand?”

“I think so.”

“Find it inside and before you know it, you’ll be able to knock over that bag with one punch.” He nods toward the freestanding bag near the mat’s edge.

“I don’t know—”

“No excuses.” He smacks his gloves again.

I inhale a long breath and close my eyes for a moment, calling out to my inner strength. Whatever the hell that means. Apparently my inner strength has something to do with Ralph Macchio from the old
Karate Kid
movies because I picture him standing one-legged atop a wooden post with ocean waves slapping below him as he prepares for a crane kick. But there is no way I’m going to shout like an idiot.

As I exhale, somehow my breath, or Ralph’s quick wink before he disappears from my mind, renews me and I promise to give this my best shot. I can do this.

Rudy says, “Let’s try again. Think of something that infuriates you. Something that really gets your goat. Pull that from inside and direct that frustration toward my mitt. You’re here for a reason. Release it.”

Like a ticker tape, my frustrations parade through my mind: the promotion I don’t have, the house I didn’t buy, the
decorator I don’t want, my dad that I do, Wes smirking, and surprisingly, the face of that little pig-nosed girl who called me a whore. It all builds inside me, churning with intensity like a desert dust devil.

I flex my whole body, tense with strength and determination, tighten my abs, and pull back my left arm.
Fine, Rudy. You want some of this?
Energy surges from my shoulder. Resolve floods through my bicep. Grit shoots from my hand like a bullet blasting out of a shotgun. I belt out an ear-shattering “Hi-yah!” and, hard as I can, jab my fist into Rudy’s mitt.

My knuckles burn with pain, but I don’t stop. I cock my right hand and with the same conviction and power deep from within, I punch my glove right into Rudy’s . . . eye.

Oh, shit.

I watch in horror as he staggers backward, drops his mitts on the floor, and shakes his head clear. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” His eye is scrunched shut, already starting to swell.

This is awful. Awful.

Blue steps close. “Should I get him some ice? Do you have ice here?”

T-Bird rushes to Rudy’s office. She returns with an ice pack and presses it against his eye.

“I can’t believe I punched him in the face,” I whisper.

Blue pats my back and says, “Don’t worry. I kicked him in the nuts my first time.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. I missed the mitt and—”

He lifts a hand and says, “Class is over.”

Grunts from the women echo throughout the room. God, I ruined their workout. Their hour of calorie burning is shot.
Kaput. I can’t make eye contact with any of the women. I’m afraid they’ll kick me in the head.

“Sorry, Rudy,” I apologize for the forty-seventh time before Kit and I walk out the door.

“Nice shot,” she says as we climb in the car.

“Are they coming?” I turn and look through the rear window.

“Who?”

“All the women.” I lock the car door.

Kit rubs my shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one is coming after you.”

“I’m such a twit and good Lord, my hands are throbbing.”

Twenty minutes later, after I drop off Kit and step inside the condo, I notice I still have Rudy’s gloves with me.