Thursdays At Eight (5 page)

CLARE CRAIG

“T
his is so nice,” Liz Kenyon said, sliding into the booth across from Clare in the Victorian Tea Room on Friday afternoon. Clare dredged up a smile, although the year wasn't beginning well. Barely two weeks into January, and the issues with Michael were once again staring her right in the face.

Clare was pleased—no, she was
relieved
— to see her friend, even though they'd had breakfast with the others just the day before. There were things she needed to talk about that she wasn't comfortable saying in front of the whole group. Liz was the person who'd understand. Who might even have some practical advice or at least encouragement.

The restaurant was close to Willow Grove Memorial where Liz worked as administrator, which made it convenient for both of them.

A decisive woman, Liz picked up her menu, looked at it for no more than a minute, then set it aside.

Clare required much longer to make her selection, but only because she found it difficult to concentrate. Her head reeled, and making the simplest choice seemed beyond her at the moment. Spinach salad or a Monte Carlo sandwich? It wasn't a life-and-death decision but it took more effort than she was able to muster. There didn't seem to be a dish appropriate for spilling out one's heart to a friend.

When she finally closed her menu, Clare glanced up to see that Liz was watching her. “Are you okay?” Liz asked quietly.

With anyone else, Clare would have plastered on a phony smile and offered reassurances. She didn't think she could fool Liz. Nor did she want to.

Just as she was about to explain, the waitress arrived to take their orders, and looked to Liz first.

“I'll have the seafood sauté salad,” Liz said and handed her the menu.

The woman nodded. “Good choice,” she murmured.

She turned to Clare, but by then neither the spinach salad nor the sandwich sounded appetizing. “I'll have the same thing.”

“Very good,” the waitress said in the same approving tone she'd used earlier.

Liz waited until the woman was out of earshot. “I thought you didn't like seafood.”

“I don't.”

“Then why'd you order the seafood sauté salad?”

Clare wasn't aware of what she'd ordered; furthermore she didn't really care. She hadn't planned this lunch so she could eat. She needed support and advice, not food. “Oh, well,” she muttered.

“Clare, what is it?” Liz studied her, staring hard. “Something to do with Michael, no doubt?”

Clare nodded and chewed at her lower lip. “Alex and
Michael have been meeting behind my back,” she said bluntly. “I knew they were talking—Alex admitted as much shortly after the first of the year. Then on Tuesday, Alex said he wouldn't be home for dinner because he was working late. It was a lie. I phoned the computer store and learned that Alex had left before five.”

“You asked him about it?”

Clare nodded. “He'd gone to dinner with his father. He didn't mention Miranda, but I suspect she was there, too.” The knot in her stomach tightened at the thought of her son dining with her ex-husband and his live-in lover. The pain never seemed to go away. Whenever Clare felt she was making progress, some new crisis would emerge. Some emotional stumbling block—like this one. She just hadn't expected it to involve her youngest son.

“It bothers you that Alex is seeing his father?” Liz asked.

“No.” Well, she didn't really
like
it, but she was committed to her sons' right to communicate with their father. In any event, that part wasn't nearly as troubling as the lie. “I don't want to stand in the way of the boys having a relationship with Michael. Our differences don't have anything to do with Mick or Alex.”

“Is that lip service or do you really mean it?” Liz had a way of cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

“I mean it—at least I think I do. Sometimes it's hard to know. I'm just so angry with Alex.”

“Alex, not Michael?”

“Michael, too, because it seems to me that Alex is imitating his father's tactics. He didn't want to admit he was having dinner with Michael, so he did it without telling me.”

“But he
did
tell you he'd been in contact with his dad.”

That was true enough. “Alex said Michael had
phoned
him.

Well, this is a lot more than a simple phone call. What I object to most is the secrecy. As if my not knowing was somehow supposed to protect me.”

“What did Alex say when you confronted him?”

By the time her son had walked into the house, Clare had been so angry she'd barely been able to speak to him. To his credit, Alex didn't deny seeing Michael. He calmly told her where he'd gone, then he went to his room, leaving Clare to deal with impotent rage. She was convinced this was Michael's revenge for her taking the job at Murphy Motors.

“Alex lied to me, and I think Michael encouraged him.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know my ex,” she snapped.

“Clare,” Liz said softly. “I'm on your side, remember?”

“I know…I know. Part of me is relieved that the ice between Alex and Michael is broken. I mean, I realize how difficult our divorce has been on Alex. He was always so close to his father.” She felt herself tense as she thought of the pain her ex-husband had inflicted on their family. Poor Alex had been put in an impossible position. He loved both his parents and yearned to please Michael as well as her.
That
she could understand, but not the lie. Surely he knew what his dishonesty would do to Clare when she found out.

It wasn't only his relationship with her that Michael had destroyed. Mick and Alex weren't getting along, and Michael was the source of that trouble, too. He'd managed to drive a wedge between the two brothers, and Clare feared that was about to happen between Alex and her, too.

“On his way out the door recently, Alex oh-so-casually said that Michael might be attending the soccer games. Now I find out he'll be there tomorrow afternoon.”

“And you won't be there if your ex is?”

“Can you blame me?” She scowled. “At least Miranda's not coming. Alex told me that much, anyway.”

“No, I don't blame you.” Liz patted her arm. “It's perfectly understandable,” she said. “I wouldn't go under those circumstances, either.”

Clare instantly felt better. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

Michael had already taken so much from her, and Clare couldn't tolerate his stealing more. “I enjoy watching Alex play. I'm the one who drove him to and from soccer practice for the last twelve years. I'm the soccer mom who treated the team to ice cream and slumber parties. The other parents are my friends.”

“And not Michael's?”

“No,” she said so loudly that it attracted the attention of several people dining nearby. “No,” she repeated, more softly this time. “It'll be awkward for everyone if Michael shows up. Not just me, but the other parents, too. His presence will be a distraction. Besides, I'm scheduled to work the concession stand.”

“I see,” Liz murmured with a darkening frown. “But I—”

The arrival of their meal interrupted whatever Liz was about to say. The waitress brought two huge Caesar salads piled high with sautéed shrimp, clams, scallops and an assortment of other seafood delicacies. Clare studied the salad for several minutes before she could produce enough enthusiasm to reach for her fork.

“Oh, Clare, you don't know what you're missing.” Liz eagerly stabbed a fat shrimp.

Clare shook her head. “I'm not hungry,” she said. Pushing aside a mound of seafood until she uncovered the lettuce, she managed a mouthful of that.

“Back to your dilemma,” Liz said, looking thoughtful. “I think I have a solution.”

Clare glanced up hopefully. “Tell me.”

“You're going to contact Michael yourself.”

“What?” The fork slipped from Clare's fingers and fell to the table. She retrieved it, glaring at her friend. “You must be joking.”

“Not at all.”

“I have no intention of
ever
speaking to Michael again.”

Without a pause Liz sprinkled some pepper on her meal. “Don't you think that's a bit drastic?”

“There's no reason on this earth important enough for me to contact Michael Craig.”

“What about your sons? Aren't Mick and Alex important enough?”

“Well, yes…but it's been over a year—”

“Does it matter how long it's been?”

“No, but…” Clare returned, growing frustrated. Liz made it sound like a foregone conclusion that she'd sort this out with her ex-husband in a calm and reasonable fashion—when reasonable was the last thing she felt. “Let me get this straight. You're suggesting I phone Michael and the two of us would decide which games each of us will attend.”

“Correct.” Liz beamed her an encouraging smile.

“Why do I have to be the one who calls him? Can't Michael understand this is awkward for me—for all the parents?”

“It's unlikely. Men don't think that far ahead.”

Clare hesitated, doubting she could swallow another bite. The knot in her stomach had doubled in size. She'd come to Liz looking for suggestions and sympathy. Her friend had offered a little of both, but Clare didn't think she could follow her advice. “I—I can't do it,” she admitted, her voice faltering.

“You can and you will.”

“I don't think so….”

It'd been almost thirteen months since she'd heard Michael's
voice. Clare wasn't sure she could trust herself not to respond to him in anger. Liz couldn't understand that, couldn't know. If her friends had any idea of the rage she still battled, it would frighten them. In fact, the intensity of her own anger terrified Clare.

“I'm not saying you should ask him to a picnic lunch.”

Despite herself, Clare smiled.

“All you need to do is make a phone call. Suggest you split the games up. He attends half and you attend the other half. It'll save you both a lot of angst.”

“Couldn't I write him instead?”

“Sure. Just as long as you communicate with him.”

“I prefer that we not speak.” Clare wondered why she hadn't thought of that sooner. A written explanation wouldn't leave room for any misunderstanding. She'd be clear, succinct and to the point. Michael believed in brevity—he was always quoting that line from
Hamlet
about “the soul of wit.” Well, then he'd find her message very witty, indeed.

“Whatever's most comfortable for you,” Liz said.

“I wouldn't even need to write a letter,” Clare went on, feeling inspired. “I could take the schedule and underline the games he can attend and tell him to stay away from the ones I've selected.” She wouldn't mention the dinner. That was between Alex and his father—but ultimately she blamed Michael. He'd lived a lie for several months before confessing to the affair, and apparently her son had learned that kind of deception.

“You could mail him the schedule,” Liz agreed without much enthusiasm. “When's the next game?”

“Tomorrow.” As she answered, Clare realized that even with overnight delivery service, Michael wouldn't get the schedule in time for the upcoming game. Okay, so she'd skip this game
and make arrangements for someone to replace her at the concession stand. No big deal—only it was. It was a very big deal.

“Clare?”

Clare looked up.

“You didn't hear me, did you?”

“Hear what?” Her friend was right; she'd been so caught up in her own thoughts she hadn't heard a word in the last few minutes.

“I said your heart will tell you the best thing to do.”

Now that was an interesting concept. If she'd listened to her heart, Michael would have died an agonizing death two years ago.

And she'd be making license plates in a federal pen.

LIZ KENYON

January 19th

H
ere it is Friday night, and I'm nestled in front of the television watching
Seinfeld
reruns and munching on popcorn while writing in my journal. I'm almost tempted to feel sorry for myself. Even Tinkerbell is showing signs of sympathy by sitting in my lap. Steve never did understand my affection for cats, but he liked Tinkerbell.

Work this week was dreadful. I hardly had a chance to deal with one crisis before I was hit with another. I don't even want to
think
about the nurses going out on strike. I didn't get home before seven once this entire week, so it's no wonder that all I want to do is hibernate in front of the TV tonight!

The weekend's already arrived, which means an entire week has vanished. It makes my word for the year,
time,
all the more significant. I'm feeling a sense of panic—a sense that if I don't
do something
now,
the weeks and months will slip through my fingers. Spring will be here, and then autumn and I won't have accomplished any of what I've planned so carefully—travel, catching up on the books stacked by my bed, doing some charitable work, learning a new skill.

At the Soroptimist meeting last week, before everything at the hospital went to hell in a handbasket, Ruth Howe, the head librarian, talked about a program at the juvenile detention center. The librarians are taking turns reading the Harry Potter books over the loudspeaker system each night. There are only three librarians, and Ruth came to the meeting hoping to find more volunteers.

It seems she read about such a program in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spoke of the difference this had made in the young people's lives. When she first proposed the idea here, the detention center told her there was little they could do to control noise. She was welcome to come in, but the staff couldn't guarantee that anyone would listen.

Ruth and the other librarians weren't dissuaded. As expected, their reception was lukewarm in the beginning, but they faithfully showed up every night, despite the hoots and hollers of protest. Apparently the disruptions didn't last long. According to Ruth, the reading period is the only hour of the day or night when the facility is absolutely quiet. For many of the teenagers, this is the first time in their lives anyone has ever read to them.

I knew right away that it was something I'd like to do. Ruth got a couple of volunteers at the meeting, and I was tempted to sign up right then, but I hesitated….

A while back, I read something smart. The exact wording escapes me now, but I remember the meaning: I need to stop and consider my options before volunteering for something. If I say yes, then I need to think about what I'm saying no to first.

In other words, if I were a volunteer reader at the detention center tonight, what
wouldn't
I be doing? The answer is obvious—sitting in front of the TV watching reruns, writing in my journal and fighting Tinkerbell for the last of the popcorn.

Where would I rather be?

But after a work week like this, would I feel like trekking all the way to Charleston Street to read a chapter or two aloud? I don't know how good I'd be. Reading to my grandchildren is vastly different from trying to entertain adolescent felons. Still, it appeals to me and is something I'm going to consider.

I'm afraid this whole year will speed by, and I won't have achieved anything. I'm determined to make
some
kind of contribution to society.

When I volunteer for an activity, I'm going to do so wholeheartedly and with absolute commitment. That means I have to pick the right one….