The Best of Enemies (32 page)

“Would you look at this kid?”
Kelly says.
“She’s perfect, right?
She walks around in a state of constant wonder and every time the dog barks or the bell rings or she takes a shit, her little mind is blown.
There’s no job I could hold that could ever compare to being here, witnessing her figuring out her life one handful of Cheerios at a time.
She’s the greatest gift I can imagine.
She taught me what real love is.
Will she be an estrogen-addled teenager someday?
Yes.
Will I hate her then as much as she hates me?
Yes.
I accept that, which is what makes now all the more precious.”

“What are you saying?
You won’t hate Sophia,” I argue.
“Mum and Dr.
Daddy didn’t hate us when we were in our teens.”

She pours the tea, careful to keep small fingers away from the steamy teapot.
“Of course they did.
Why do you think we were shipped to tennis camp in Wisconsin all summer, every summer?”

Huh.

“
You
were a terror, maybe, but I was nice.”

“Ha!
So you don’t recall your shrine to Marky Mark and your subsequent Vegas-style freak-out when Mum took down your clippings to hang the new wallpaper?
I thought we were going to have to shoot you with a tranquilizing dart.
How about when you forced us all to that Vanilla Ice concert for your birthday?
Mum.
Me.
Dr.
Daddy.
At
Vanilla Ice
.
What about when you decided you were English and would only speak in that horrific British accent?
But you didn’t know the difference between Brits and Aussies and you were always wishing us a ‘g’day’?
Do you have any idea what a self-involved pain in the ass you were?
You were the worst.
We
all
hated you.”

“We’re all tight as can be now.
Whatever I was like as a teen, I grew out of it,” I say.

“Yes, we do grow out of our difficult phases because it’s the cycle of life.
Understanding what to expect is half the battle.
So if you decide to say yes to Ken and to get married, and really to go through with everything, then I’ll be here to guide you and show you what to look out for, like I always have.”

“Kelly, I’m so confused.
I don’t know what to do.”

“Just keep thinking about it, weighing your options.
Figure out what’s most important to you.
The right decision will hit you out of the blue and your path will become clear.
You have some time; take it.”

I wrap my hands around the cup, trying to absorb some of the warmth.
“My mind is spinning off in a million different scenarios and each one makes a degree of sense.”

“You’ll figure it out.
But, P.S., in the spirit of full disclosure, having a kid
will
ruin your vagina.
For the rest of your life, it’s going to feel like a map you can’t quite refold.
Thought you should know.
Other than that?
Two thumbs-up for babies!
Right, Soph?”
Sophia reaches around and grabs ahold of Kelly’s braid.
Sophia sucks on the end of it while dandling on Kelly’s knee to the chant of, “Two thumbs-up!
Two thumbs-up!”

If motherhood could tame the savage beast that is Kelly, what might it mean for those of us who
aren’t
borderline sociopaths?

•   •   •

I leave Kelly’s when Sophia goes down for her nap, largely because Kelly threatened both my and my unborn child’s life if we dare disturb her sleeping daughter.
She sends me off with a couple of cans of ginger ale and a bag of oyster crackers.

I sip and nibble on my drive back to the city from the burbs, and my stomach settles.
My route south takes me past all the pretty homes and the huge trees with leaves just beginning to turn.
I loved living up here as a kid.
I wonder, would I want all of this again with Ken at my side?
Or is the lure of life in New York and becoming Katherine too strong to ignore?

And even if Ken and I were to get married, we surely couldn’t afford a North Shore life for years.
At best, we’d be able to swing a condo somewhere off-trend, like Rogers Park, and that’s with my parents’ help.
I just wish I knew what to do.
Regardless of what decision I make, I’m sure I’ll spend the rest of my life second-guessing myself.

I have to park four blocks away from the apartment because there’s a Cubs game today.
I make my way past drunken fans, and each time someone comes too close, I find myself automatically protecting my still-flat stomach.

Maybe I subconsciously know what to do after all.

I unlock the three dead bolts on the three-flat’s main front door and climb the stairs to our place, where I work three more locks.
If this is the kind of security the Big Ten, Yuppie enclave of Wrigleyville requires, how much scarier would Manhattan be?
I find myself cradling my stomach again.

“Bets?
You here?”
There’s no answer, but I’m not surprised.
She spends a lot of Saturdays at the office.
The message light on the answering machine is blinking with two new messages.
We’d planned to upgrade to voice mail, but decided the expense wasn’t worth it since we were moving anyway.
I click
PLAY
.

“Hey, babe—it’s Ken.
There’s something small, gold, and shiny here, and it’s waiting for you.
Gimme a buzz when you’re home.
Love you.”

I feel myself smiling.
The second message begins.

“Sars, it’s Jack.”
She sounds upset.
Well, too bad because (a) a lot of people have problems and (b) I’m sure she deserves whatever it is that’s bringing her down.
“I’m . . .
livid.
I need to talk.
I can’t believe her nerve.
I really can’t.
If she thinks she can just waltz in and be a mother now after—”

I erase the message before I have to listen to another vile word.
The mystery of whether or not Bobby saw the contents of my basket is solved.
Funny, but I thought I could trust him.

Oh, well.

Still, I cannot fathom the kind of nerve it takes that woman to call
my
home and comment on
my
life and
my
decisions.
On the rare occasion we’re forced together, I’ve actually felt sorry for her.
Once in a while I think,
How did we go so far off track that we can’t even be civil?
And then something like this happens and I remember all over again.

Jack Jordan thinks
I
can’t be a mother?

She’s so wrong.
So flipping wrong.

I’m Kitty Kord, and I can be anything I want.
And now, my choice is crystal clear.
Without another second’s hesitation, I pick up the landline.

“Hey, Ken, it’s Kitty.
I’m about to make you the happiest man in the world.”

Whitney University, Central Illinois

January 1995

This was a mistake.

My mettle lasted thirty seconds, the exact amount of time it took me to place the call to Sean.
My ego has written a check my body can’t—or, rather, is terrified to—cash.

I open another wine cooler.
Liquid courage shouldn’t taste like Froot Loops.
I ought to imbibe something bracing—a shot of scotch, a jigger of rye, a belt of whiskey.
This is the beverage equivalent of Hello, Kitty.
(The Sanrio cat, not the evil roommate.)

Is sex going to hurt?
And where do we
do it
in the room?
I’m concerned the lofts won’t be safe to hold the weight of two people in one bed.
(Suspect my brothers built it that way on purpose.) Last semester, Kitty and I watched
9 1/2 Weeks
—I’m not going to have to do
all of that
, am I?
How does the standing-up part work?
Will I need Jell-O?
Should I have painted my toenails?

I’m proactively embarrassed.
As in I’m already embarrassed and nothing’s even happened yet.

What if he was just humoring me about coming over?

Yes, that’s it.
He’s not coming.
Why would he come?
It’s bone-chilling outside and snowing like mad.
No one’s going to walk all the way from the Beta house to Wadsworth Hall in this weather.
I’m clear on the other side of campus.

There.
Off the hook.

Simon invited me to a performance at the experimental theater tonight.
They’re doing an all-male version of
Little Women
in an earnest, nonhilarious way.
I assume the show will be truly terrible, but at the moment, it sounds better than
Cats
.

Yes.
That’s what I’ll do.
I’ll join Simon.
I will grab my coat and my scarf and—

Knock, knock.

Crap.
He’s here.

Crap, crap, crap.

No.
I sound like Kitty.
Shit, shit, shit.

“Hi, Jackie, it’s Sean.”

If I were to throw myself out the fourth floor window, what are the odds I could land on my feet?
Yes, I’d likely shatter a few bones, but there’s a decent amount of snow accumulation.
Injuries suffered from defenestration may be worth it.
Or I could—

Knock, knock.

“You there?
Did you leave the door unlocked?
Here, I’m going to try.
Coming in.”
Sean opens the door (DAMN IT) and I have nowhere to hide.
“Yo, Jackie, what’s up?”

“Hi.
Is it freezing out?”

This?

This is my opening line?

Well, aren’t I the femme fatale?
I don’t necessarily want to seduce him, but I also don’t want to
not
have the option to seduce him if I suddenly find my nerve again.
Weather talk.
Super sexy.
Perhaps I can bring up NPR next, with a side of Nelson Mandela.
Bet he’d love to hear how I use baking soda and newspaper to draw the stink out of my soccer cleats.

“Probably, but my buddy gave me a ride.”
Sean shakes the snow out of his light brown hair with the swoopy bangs and shrugs off his jacket.
Instead of tossing it on the floor, he hangs it neatly on the back of my desk chair.
“Lemme see what we’ve got.”
He takes my bottle from me to inspect the label, which includes an anthropomorphic kiwi with a strawberry in a headlock.
The liquor company isn’t marketing this product to adults, are they?
“What flavor?”
He takes a sip and then puckers his lips.
“Jolly Rancher?”

I nod.
“Basically.”
I’m so nervous that I reach to twist strands in my ponytail, forgetting that I cut off my hair.

He takes a seat on the futon, just like he’s done the dozens of other times he’s been to our room, acting utterly at home.
Why is he not uncomfortable when I literally want to shimmy up the chimney Santa-style to get away?
I realize we were friends before, but everything’s about to change.
(Possibly.) (If I don’t throw up/pass out/run screaming from the room, I mean.)

“Hey, you cut your hair.
I like it.
Very French.”

Should he be all over me already?
Or not?
Is this considered a booty call?
Do we make casual conversation first?
How does this work?
Do I put on an Al Green CD?
Would Nitzer Ebb be okay instead, since I don’t have any Al Green?
(Simon’s been schooling me on industrial music.)

He’s looking at me as though he expects an answer.
I have to say something here.
Um, okay, how about . . .
“Have you been to France?”

Not bad.
Not great, but not bad.

“Yeah, a few times with the family.
We travel a lot.
Instead of big Christmas presents or extravagant birthdays, we go on trips a couple of times a year.
That’s why I don’t have a car.
My mom and sister love France—it’s where we’d go every time if they had their way.
I like Paris, but I’d rather hit London.
Great pubs.
Favorite is the Dog & Duck.
They’re all named like that over there, too.
The Elephant & Castle, the Bull & Bush.
The English are big on ampersands, no idea why.
I’ve been all about the ales on tap
and
the drinking age for a while.
France is more for wine guys, which is not really my groove.”

“Does that mean you’re not a wine cooler guy, either?”
Ahh!
He’s not going to drink?
Does that mean we just get to it, then?
No alcoholic Starbursts to loosen us up?
What irony that the only person in my orbit who could advise me here is Kitty.

He shrugs.
“Don’t get me wrong.
I’m definitely a free drinks guy.
Didn’t realize anyone drank wine coolers anymore.
Who came up with these anyway?
Like someone was sitting around eating melted Fla-Vor-Ice and they were all, ‘You know what would be a fantastic addition?
Cheap, carbonated wine.’”

“I burped a couple of minutes ago and I swear I could taste the rainbow.”
Oh, my God, what am I saying?
Shut up.
SHUT UP.

“Nice.
Up here.”
He holds up his palm for me to slap.
Is this how the American Mating Ritual begins?
Exchanging high fives?
Is that the protocol?
High fives, then chest-bumps, then bro-hugs, then naked?

“Before I forget, I brought you something.”
Condoms?
Is it condoms?
Should I hope for yes or no?
I don’t have any.
Should I have any?
I’m sure Kitty doesn’t have any, either.
I feel like I ought to have my first kiss before I buy my first prophylactic.
“Here.”

I examine the round object he’s given me, desperately relieved to see it’s not manufactured by Trojan.
I look, then do a double take, utterly surprised and delighted by his gift, which is embroidered with a fighter jet.
“Is this what I think it is?
A pilot patch from Top Gun training?”

I’m sewing this onto my jacket the minute I find some thread.
And learn to sew.
Teddy can teach me—he’s able to cuff his own pants.
But that doesn’t mean he’s gay,
Kitty
.

“Yep.
Miramar, baby.
My cousin graduated from the Navy Fighter Weapons School a few years ago and he gave me this patch.
Thought about you when I ran across it over break and figured you’d appreciate it.
But then Kitty and I ended so I didn’t have a chance.
But here we are, so there you go.”

“I love it, thank you.
My brothers are going to be seriously jealous.”
I’m really touched that he remembered something so important to me.
“Do . . .
you want a wine cooler?”

He pretends to look pensive.
“Hmm.
Sometimes you’ve just got to say, ‘What the fuck.’”

I feel the grin spreading across my face as slow and sure as the sunrise.
“You’re quoting from the wrong Tom Cruise movie.”

“Close enough.
And at least we’re not going to U of I.”

“Pfft.
U of I wishes they were Whitney.”

I grab a cooler for him and sit on the other side of the futon, tucked far into the corner, to the point I feel the arm digging into my back.
I do appreciate how he’s making this easier on me.
He leans over and I brace myself (IS IT TIME FOR LOVE, DR.
JONES?) but he just clinks his bottle on mine.
“Proost.”

“What language is that?”

“That’s ‘cheers’ in Dutch.
We went to Holland for spring break a few years ago.
No one else says it.
Kinda my thing.”

I curl my legs underneath me and angle myself toward him a bit more.
“Where else have you been?
My family does a lot of hiking in national parks and we snowboard all the time, but we’ve never traveled internationally.”

“You’ve got to get on that.
Travel’s the best, man.
You hang out in a different country?
You’re a different person there,” he says.
“Like, it changes you for the better.
So far, we’ve been to England, Holland, France, as I mentioned, and also Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Australia, New Zealand, Brazil, Mexico, Belize, Panama, and Dominican Republic.
South America was my favorite by far.
The trip we took to the DR is why I want to be a plastic surgeon.
Yeah, I’ll make bank—not gonna lie, that’s a draw—but I also want to do volunteer missions someday to help kids with cleft palates.”

“How did I not know this?”
I ask.

“Kitty never talked about me?”

“Not about anything important.
I mean, I know how many Polo shirts you own and that you’re Beta’s pledge educator.
Also, you drag your right toe on your tennis serve and it wrecks your sneakers.
Might want to work on that.”

I had to talk about athletic shoes somewhere, didn’t I?
I should watch
9 1/2 Weeks
again because I’m pretty sure Kim Basinger never blathers about going to Lady Foot Locker.
Argh.

Yet Sean doesn’t seem put off.
Rather, he’s all smiley and affable, as though he’s somehow enjoying chillin’ here on the futon with me.
I never really had an appreciation for Sean before, despite his Ping-Pong prowess, but I’m starting to discover his appeal.
There’s something vaguely Bruce Willis about him, with the quiet confidence, piercing eyes, and strong chin.
He’s kind of rugged and seems like he’ll be even more handsome as his mileage increases, like how a bomber jacket improves with age and distress.

(Am I shallow for noticing he has a better hairline than Bruce Willis?
Has Kitty rubbed off on me?)

He knocks back a long sip, and then takes a perplexed look at the bottle.
“Interesting.
I detect notes of . . .
cotton candy?
As for Kitty?
I’m better off without her.
You want to know the most fucked-up part?”