The Best of Enemies (19 page)

“Which is where?”
I ask, genuinely puzzled.
“Actual kick or metaphorical kick?”

He pats his fancy do.
“Kick her in her crowning glory.”

•   •   •

When John drove me to the Kmart off campus for supplies, this seemed like a capital idea, but now that I’m in the middle of executing his plan, I’m less sure.

I watch as the glistening trail of shampoo circles the drain; then I rinse away the evidence, squirting some pinecone air freshener to mask the telltale smell of Paul Mitchell’s awapuhi fragrance.

Will her hair come out all at once, or will she shed small chunks over a period of time?
I wonder.
And should I even be attempting this, or am I blowing any chance to reconcile?
I vacillate as I stand here clutching both bottles.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the medicine cabinet and realize I look absolutely unhinged.
There’s some crazy in my eyes.

No.
No.

A rational person doesn’t behave like this.
I should stop.

I’m stopping.

I’ve stopped.

Not happening.
Teddy always says I should pay attention to John’s advice in order to do the opposite.
So I shove the bottle of Nair behind a box of maxi-pads in the cabinet under the sink and I place the depleted shampoo bottle back into Kitty’s shower caddy.

Resolved to be the bigger person, I’m exiting the bathroom when Kitty and Sars come bursting into the room.

“Hey, Jack!
A bunch of us are going sledding on Squires Hill!
Come with!
It’s gonna be awesome!”
Sars calls.
She’s bundled up in a down jacket and a scarf knit in sorority colors, which is wrapped around her neck about fifteen times.
Between the big coat and all the layers, she looks exactly like she did when we’d toboggan back in sixth grade.
She’s the same degree of excited, too.
She hasn’t forgotten her need for speed.

I’ve been dying to sled on Squires Hill ever since Teddy went for the first time five years ago.
Given the angle of the hill and the span of the run, it’s supposed to be the most incredible rush.
I even stole a tray from the cafeteria last fall in anticipation of the first snowfall.
Unfortunately, Simon and the rest of my j-school buddies think all the Whitney traditions are super-lame, on par with dressing in matching outfits to watch the Cotton Ginners play football or swimming in the fountain during the annual Mini Daytona go-kart race weekend, so I had no takers when I suggested sledding earlier.
I could go alone—or call John—but both options seem equally sad.

Kitty, who’s still yet to acknowledge me two weeks after the fact, tells her, “Sars, this event is for
sorority sisters only
.
GDIs and losers not allowed.”
She reaches into her closet for a pair of gloves.
“Kitten’s got her mittens, so away we go!”
And like that, they’re out the door.

I can actually feel my blood pressure rise.
Before I can talk myself out of it again, I dump the hair remover into her shampoo bottle and mix vigorously.

Revenge is indeed mine.

But . . .
shouldn’t it feel more sweet?

•   •   •

After NairGate, I could have lived with her “spilling” that India ink all over my prissy comforter.
Never cared for all the flowers in the first place.
I’m happy to use Simon’s extra Mexican blanket.
More my style.

When she whacked three inches off the end of my ponytail in the dead of night after I had all those pizzas delivered to her sorority house?
No problem.
I simply chopped off the rest to just below my ears.
No fuss, no muss.
“The Rachel” cut is already played out anyway.

I could even live with her swiping and selling back my Biology book, using the proceeds to stock her fridge with pink liquor.
Kind of wish I’d thought of that first.
I could use a couple of extra bucks—smoking imported cigarettes is expensive.

But coming home from class to find she’s shredded my
Top Gun
poster into a million pieces?
My prized possession?
My favorite item in the world?
The one thing that I could look at to feel better all those years ago?

You do not mess with Maverick.

If studying Pearl Harbor in my History of Conflict Reporting class is teaching me anything, it’s that aggression will not stand.
Force will be met by force.
Channeling FDR, I revise his famous speech and pledge to myself the following:

No matter how long it may take me to overcome this premeditated invasion, I will win through to absolute victory.
I will defend myself to the utmost and I’ll make it damn certain that this form of treachery will never again endanger me
or
Tom Cruise.
Hostiles exist within this room and there’s no blinking at the fact that my territory and my interests are in grave danger.
With confidence in myself and an unbounding determination, I will gain inevitable triumph, so help me God.

Kitty shouldn’t fear
fear itself
; she should fear
me
.

I grab the address book from Kitty’s tidy desk, pens neatly gathered in a pink Tri Tau mug, pencils in a green one, paper clips lined up one by one, equidistant apart.
I open to the S page.
I find exactly what I’m looking for, because I’d have laid money on this stupid cow alphabetizing by first name.

I channel my fury into confidence.
I pick up the phone and dial, doing my best to imitate Kitty’s flirty sorority-girl tone.
“Hey, is Sean in?
Um, Sean, hi, it’s
Jackie
 . . .
Yeah, Kitty’s roommate . . .
Ohmigod, right?
Listen, are you busy?
See, I have, like, a whole fridge full of liquor and no one to drink it with . . .
I know, that
is
a dilemma . . .
Nope, she’s gone for the weekend . . .
I agree, that really would chap her bony white behind . . .
Okay, Sean.
See you in ten.”

I hang up the phone with a trembling hand and open a wine cooler to steel my nerves.
I tilt the bottle back and chug until there’s nothing left but a fine scrim of pink bubbles.
I taste Skittles when the carbonation causes me to burp.
Then I grab a second bottle and repeat the process.
I have ten minutes to down enough liquid courage for what’s about to happen next.

Not my ideal first-time scenario, but one does what one must.

War is hell.

North Shore, Illinois

Tuesday

“You’re still going?
You’re actually
leaving
?”

I wince at how shrill my voice sounds.
I’m already devastated and now I’m stunned to find out my husband won’t be by my side when I need him most.
How am I supposed to get through tomorrow without him?

“Babe, the weatherman says if I don’t leave before the torrential rains coming down from the west hit, I won’t get out at all.
Haven’t you seen the flooding on the news?
In Minneapolis, people lost their
homes
,” Dr.
K replies, managing to somehow make me feel guilty for being too distracted to pay attention to precipitation in cities where I don’t live.

Dr.
K opens a couple of dresser drawers, scouting for anything he might have missed.
Pulling out the pair of lace-up board shorts that effectively conceal his love handles, he tosses the brightly patterned swimsuit into his overflowing Tumi suitcase.
He gives the bag’s contents a final once-over before mashing it down and zipping it shut, satisfied to have not forgotten anything.
Yanking the heavy bag off the bed, he drops it onto the floor.
The thump reverberates throughout the long, empty upstairs hallway.

Calm as can be, Dr.
K reasons, “Let’s be logical here.
I miss the conference, I’m behind the curve on advancements in crown lengthening and provisional bridges.
I’m behind on advancements, I’m doing the practice a disservice.
I’m doing the practice a disservice, then everyone who counts on me for the most up-to-date dentistry techniques will take their business elsewhere.
Bottom line?
My patients
need
me in South Beach.”

I guess I understand the learning component, but do those patients
really
need him lounging poolside in flattering board shorts?
I say, “From a business perspective, okay, but right now I need—”

He cuts me right off.
“Plus, I already paid for everything.
I stay home, we’re out the four grand anyway.
You have four grand to throw away like it’s nothing?
I sure don’t.”

After writing checks for all three of our mortgages on top of all of (most of) (okay, some of) our regular recurring monthly nut, I’m not sure we have
forty
dollars left in the joint account.
Too bad North Shore Savings and Trust doesn’t accept Keurig K-Cups as currency.
I’m K-Cup-rich after featuring their 2.0 brewer on SecretSquash.
I’d assumed the marketing firm I partnered with would send a check, not four gratis cases of Jamaican Me Crazy pods.
Seems like all my sponsors are starting to pay in goods and services, not money.

My stomach churns at our current skate on the financial edge.
How’d we cut it so close again?
I’ve been economizing all over the place, even making my own cleaning rags out of the kids’ outgrown pajamas instead of purchasing paper towels.
While everyone on Facebook praises my green initiatives, they have no clue it’s not by choice.

We’re not facing a massive, “come up with twenty thousand now or the nuns will lose the school” kind of monetary imperative.
(And I’m so fortunate that if the unthinkable did happen, my family would help.) Instead, the issue is that our expenses are unrelenting.
There’s no single, devastating tidal wave of debt; rather our financial boat is perpetually adrift on choppy water.
I can juggle.
I can negotiate.
I can keep us afloat from month to month, but the idea of living this way indefinitely makes me seasick.

Dr.
K believes I should go back to work, but who’d hire me with two years of professional experience followed by a fifteen-year gap?
What are the marketable skills I’ve honed since then, mastering cloth-diapering?
Throwing elegant but affordable parties?
Do I go back to public relations?
Would I have to start out as an intern again?
And if I were to take a job, who’d run my families’ lives?
Who’d be there to bring the Littles home from school?
Who’d make sure everyone ate well and did their homework?
Dr.
K says we can hire a nanny to handle day-to-day duties like ferrying the kids to practice, but the commute is our best time together.
The boys have come to view the car as a safe place, where they can confide in me about topics they’re not comfortable discussing around the dinner table.
I want to hear that Kord had the fortitude to say no when offered alcohol for the first time and that Konnor was worried about being perceived as a bully.
I can’t help my kids with their issues if I’m not there.

For a long while, SecretSquash neatly filled the financial gaps.
Even though I generate a ton of clicks, pins, likes, favorites, and retweets, the way in which and how much I’m being paid has changed diametrically since last year.
Something will have to give soon, but what?

I wish Dr.
K had consulted with me before committing to the Miami conference.
When he makes decisions alone that impact all of us, I feel as though I’m not part of his team.
Couldn’t he have earned those continuing medical credits online, no swimsuit required?
That four grand would cover what we still owe the landscapers.
Thank goodness I was able to maintain our lawn service by bartering a free root canal for Hector or else I’d be out there with the hedge clippers myself.
Oh, the field day the HOA would have if our grass grew higher than the maximum three-point-five inches!
(I know exactly what they’d say, having once been the one wielding a pitchfork and lighted torch in better days.) (P.S.
I may owe Cecily next door an apology.)

I realize I’m obsessing over our finances and I feel like the worst person in the universe for losing sight of the big picture.
How petty I am to worry about a few measly bills, a time like this.
The accident proves that the rich are just as fallible, just as mortal as every other poor schmuck.

Regardless of our now nonexistent savings account, it’s imperative for me to put on a brave face.
I must be that paragon of strength, even if it means I show up for the funeral tomorrow alone.

Still, I can’t fathom standing there in a black dress without my support system, my rock, the light of—

“See ya in a week, babe!”
he says, pecking me on the cheek before trotting down the back stairs, suitcase in tow.

“Whoa, wait, am I not even taking you to O’Hare?”
I say, shutting the drawers behind him before following him to the kitchen.
I assumed we’d at least spend some time together on the way to the airport.
I need to process my heartache and he’s barely been around for the past few days.

“Cookie figured your hands would be full with everything, so she’s driving me.
Plus I arranged for my mom to come help with the kids for the week.
You’re
welcome.
Hey, we got any Smartwater for the road?”
He opens the Sub-Zero PRO 48 with the glass-fronted door and begins to root around.
This peek-a-boo refrigerator was once my dream, but
that
dream is over.
I had no idea how taxing it would be to keep my chilled items on display every single day.
As pin-worthy as my veggie cornucopia may be, sometimes I just want to fling a pizza box in there and not have to worry about anyone judging me for how neatly I merchandise my kale, carrots, and banana peppers.

Before I can plead my case again, I hear the enthusiastic toot of a car horn coming from the driveway.
I peek out the side window to see Cookie in the front seat, taking a drag on her cigarette, not a care in the world.
She exhales plumes of smoke at the tangle of Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror of her Scion.
I bet her car smells like Keith Richards and estrogen pills.

“Ride’s here!”
he says.
He leans in for what I assume is a proper kiss, but instead he bends down over the burner I’m standing next to.
He uses a wooden spoon to taste the white bean ragout I’m simmering to pair with pan-seared sea bass to feed everyone staying at Steeplechase.
“Not your best.
Bland.
Add some of that pink Himalayan salt.
Love to the kids, see you next week.”

Then just like that, he’s out the door.
Faintly, I hear him say, “Hey, Cookie Monster!”
before they pull back down the drive.

Much as I’d like to, I can’t indulge my disappointment because his learning new techniques will make the practice more profitable.
I have to believe his effort will pay off soon.

Hopefully in cash money, and not just dental floss.

After reaching for the salt, I sample the ragout first to determine exactly how much to add.
I take another bite for good measure, letting the portion linger on my tongue and penetrate my soft palate to really get a sense of how it tastes.
That’s when
I
slowly start to simmer.

How can he say the ragout is bland?
I’m sorry, but this dish is
flipping perfect
.
The chopped aromatics give the stew depth and complexity.
Adding more sodium would overpower the delicate interplay between the tomato, garlic, and pancetta.
The flavor isn’t meant to shout in your face; rather, it should whisper sweetly in your ear.

I notice I’m clutching the Himalayan saltcellar like a baseball I’m about to whip to center field.
For a brief moment, I contemplate how satisfying it would feel to throw this container at the fridge’s loathsome glass door.

Before I can wind up for the pitch, I’m startled by the sound of my cell phone.

If you want it/Come and get it . . .

I’ve been crazy in love with David Gray’s music for years, hence the ringtone.
But now?
Now I’m starting to despise him because I’ve come to associate this song with Dr.
K’s aggressive student loan collection calls.
How’s this debt not yet settled?
I could have sworn we’d paid them all off last year.

Crying out loud . . .

Plus, while I did the right thing by leaving a message at Jack Jordan’s brother’s house (WHERE HE RESIDES WITH HIS PARTNER BECAUSE I TOLD YOU TEDDY WAS GAY), I’ve been dreading her return call.
That’s why I’m especially jumpy about the phone.
Jack and I don’t play well together under the best of circumstances, so this?
This is an apocalypse waiting to happen.
We’ve thus far avoided each other because the wake has been stretched over the past few days to accommodate everyone.
Tomorrow we won’t be so lucky at the funeral or the private gathering afterward.

Once upon a time, a ringing cell phone was full of promise, the prelude to a date or an awesome party.
Now either it’s a demand for money or Lacey Churchill needing to complain some more about Jeremiah’s teacher reading aloud from
The Perils of Paul, the Peanut Butter Beagle
.

“Lacey, sweetie, please,” I said when I made the mistake of answering earlier.
“I promise you this is simply a cute children’s book, totally age-appropriate.
There’s no agenda and the sales go to support animal shelters.
Homeless dogs and cats are helped and no actual peanut butter’s involved.
Everyone wins.”

“The book’s an attractive nuisance,” Lacey replied, absolutely discounting reason.
“These kids are being systematically conditioned to crave pulverized nut spreads.
Like brainwashing.
Extra-crunchy brainwashing.
The school is colluding with Big Peanut Butter, I just know it.
I sense Jif’s sticky fingerprints all over this story.”