The Best of Enemies (13 page)

Please.

If they witnessed how I single-handedly saved the Chicago Park District’s Toddlers and Tambourines music program with my keen managerial skills and ability to delegate, they’d be hitting
me
up for advice.

“Wait, what about Jack?
I almost forgot she was coming!”
Alicia says.
“Oh, my God, did you ever read the exposé she wrote about the conflict in Darfur?
The way she risked her life to interview those rebels?
Whoa.
I literally cannot wait to sit down with her and hear all about it.”

I roll my eyes so hard I can see the inside of my skull.

“Are you two still having your little tiff from college?
What was that, like, nineteen-ninety-who-cares?
You guys aren’t over it yet?”
she asks.

“If by ‘having a little tiff,’ you mean total and utter thermonuclear destruction, then, yes, yes, we are.”
I glance over at Betsy, who seems pained.
“However, despite my wishing she’d die in a fire, I’m planning to smile and nod, so if there’s an issue, it won’t be me who started it.”

Betsy’s spine stiffens and she very deliberately says, “Because it won’t start, of course.”

“Because it won’t start,” I agree.

I wish I felt as confident as I sound.

•   •   •

The Intrepid Girl Reporter is perched on the edge of the one uncomfortable chair in the whole place, a piano bench that appears to be crafted out of steel beams and icicles, because God forbid she allow herself to nestle into the squashy, U-shaped ten-seater couch where everyone else is.
Her arm rests on the glass top of the piano to her side, next to her tumbler of plain water.
Not even Evian!
Just regular tap.
Naturally, she droned on about how water is more precious than oil in the desert.
Betsy nodded and asked a bunch of questions about access to wells and stuff, but she was just being polite.
Personally, I had to excuse myself to go pummel a pillow in the room I’m sharing with Alicia.

And the hair!
Holy crap!
Her head’s practically shaved.
Like, the full Sinéad O’Connor.
She said she buzzed it off herself
to get rid of the lice
, as though that wasn’t the most shameful statement ever uttered in recorded history.
Instead of being all “Cooties!”
the rest of the girls kept telling her how brave she was.

Ugh.

Look at her, leaning on that piano like she owns the place.

“. . .
then I’m on this deserted beach in K.L., watching the sun rise, and it’s as though the Lord himself were wielding an enormous paintbrush and—”

I interrupt, “I’m sorry,
where
?”

She narrows her eyes at me, as though I’m challenging her.

I’m not.

Well, not really.
Much.

I’m just saying Miss World Traveler might want to ratchet the level of self-satisfaction down a thousand notches or so for those of us too busy raising fine young Americans to faff about on other continents.

I reach for the margarita on the table next to me, which the butler’s been serving in ginormous crystal tumblers.
This thing must weigh five pounds.
It’s like a fucking carton of milk!

Whoopsie!
I just dropped an F-bomb!
Bad mommy!
I have to remember it’s
flipping
, not
fucking
.
Little pitchers, big ears.

I actually have to use both hands to lift my glass to my lips.
Like, my arms are tired from drinking these all night.
(Or maybe the butler wanted to help me tone up, in which case, thanks, Jeeves!) Betsy catches my eye and I sip and smile beatifically, before innocently sucking the grains of salt off my upper lip.
Nope.
No problems here!
Me and my other best friend Jose Cuervo are doing just fine.

“K.L.
is Kuala Lumpur—it’s in Malaysia?”
Is it just me, or did she say that extra slow, dragging out “Mah
laaaay
shaaaaa” as though I’m developmentally delayed (we do NOT use the r-word; it’s on the Never Never list) and won’t understand her otherwise?
“I assume you’re familiar?
It’s the home of the Petronas Twin Towers.
Anyway, I’m with a documentary crew and we’ve been—”

Blah, blah, blah.

Braggity-brag-brag.

Look at me!
I’m Jack Jordan!
I travel around the whole world with nothing but a notebook and my own moxie!
I shave myself bald!
I’m wearing nasty jungle boots, a ratty scarf, and a tactical shirt with lots of buttons, because I would rather die than dress appropriately for a bachelorette party!

She drones on.
“. . .
the chiaroscuro of the sunrise, which is the interplay between dark and light . . .”

How is everyone not barfing into their own handbags right now over the sheer pretentiousness of what’s coming out of her mouth?
And the nerve of assuming I don’t know where Malaysia is!

“. . .
it was as though a box of crayons had been left melting on the sidewalk.
The burnt sienna oozed into . . .”

I know where Malaysia is.
I am quite familiar, as a matter of fact.
The night nurse my parents hired for us after I had Kord was from Malaysia.

I think.

No, I’m sure of it.
Malaysia.
Wait, excuse me, Jack, Mah
laaaay
shaaaaa.
That makes her Mah
laaaay
shiaaaaan.
I take a swig of my megaton of margarita to congratulate myself on remembering that particular factoid.
Ekaterina didn’t last long, though.
Did not care for how she’d bounce around the house in flimsy baby-doll jammies without benefit of brassiere.
I mean, it’s not like Ken would even look sideways at another woman, but still.
Best not tempt fate.
Plus, I realized I could do it all on my own because I am SUPERMOM!

Woo!

Am I drunk?

Mayhaps I should slow down.

Cripes, I forgot how chatty this blabbermouth can be.
Must have blocked it from my memory as, like, a protective mechanism.
Forgot about how she used to grill me all the time.
Do you know what it’s like to have someone question your every move?
To comment on your every action?
She was so weird—she acted like she’d never spoken to another girl before.

For more than a decade, she’s been saying that I’m the problem and that I don’t like women, but what’s so funny is that I had zero issue living in a sorority house full of them.
Not a single issue.
Maybe I didn’t have an actual best friend until college, but that’s only because I was always so close with my sister.
I play well with others.
I do.
So, clearly it wasn’t me because
I
was part of a sisterhood.
An integral part.
She
didn’t even get a bid!

Wanna know why she failed so spectacularly?
She brought up Mah
laaaay
shaaaaa.

So smug.
So self-righteous.
Like earlier, when I accidentally mentioned my jagged C-section scar again?
(Sorry, Alicia.) She was all, “The women of Iraq would kill to have your first world problems.
Let’s talk about the state of maternal fetal medicine in a war zone.
Did you know that the average adult Iraqi mother is subject to—”

I immediately tuned her out, and not just because of the smug.
I kind of can’t bear to hear her terrible stories about what it’s like for moms in other countries.
If I were to actually listen to her, I would literally run to the airport, hop on the next plane headed east, and go home to hug my sweet baby boys until the end of time.

In fact, if I had to get to my kids, I would run all the way to Mah
laaaay
shaaaaa.

I watch Betsy’s whole face glow as she listens to Lois Lane prattle on about her experience running with the bulls in Pamplona.
Oh, please, Miss Ernest Hemingway, tell us more!

“Sars, there I was, in my white shirt and red bandanna . . .”

Argh!
Stop calling her Sars!
That’s not a name; that’s a coronavirus!
Her name is Betsy, you asshole!

Darn it!
That’s another dollar in the swear jar.

I can’t understand how Betsy can like us both.
They have nothing in common anymore, save for a shared childhood.
Pretty sure Bets hasn’t been on a dirt bike since the first Bush administration.

I need to take the spotlight off of this blowhard.

“P.S., FYI, I am familiar with Mah
laaaay
shaaaaa.
Betsy.”
I cut my eyes over to Jack to see if she corrects me.
She doesn’t but I can tell she’s dying to.
“Remember our night nurse?
She was from there.
You know, Mah
laaaay
shaaaaa,” I say, delighted for the chance to prove Jackass wrong.
I raise my marg in victory.

“Ekaterina?”
Betsy says.

“Yes.”

“Ekaterina who worked for you?
Back in 2000?
With Kord?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Kit, no,” Betsy says gently.
“She was from Macedonia.”

“But they’re close to each other, right?”
I ask, trying to shrug it off.
“Common mistake.”

Betsy pats my knee.
“It’s actually an entirely different continent.”

Jack’s snort is so abrupt and profound that I flinch, which causes me to accidentally lose control of the hand holding my margarita glass, thus setting off a chain of events I’d . . .
rather not discuss.

For the record?

I didn’t start it.

Mah
laaaay
shaaaaa did.

I hope the shark is okay.

Seven Miles over Ohio

Last Saturday

I dropped everything the minute I heard.

I hate that Bobby had to give me the news.
He’s not equipped.
His insular, good-time, party-boy lifestyle is the defense mechanism he’s created specifically to avoid dealing with the grim reality of the real world.
That’s why he was the one who cried, not me.
All I could do was spring into action.
Guess that’s how I’m wired.

Maybe I’ve seen too much in the field, too much sadness, too much destruction, too much suffering.
I’ve witnessed and documented the nadir of human behavior.
I wonder if I’m not somehow inoculated against having more profound feelings when others leave this mortal coil?
The Operators I’ve met in the field always speak of creating a Chinese wall between feelings and duties.
Said it’s the only way to survive after the war’s over.
Perhaps I’ve taken their words to heart.

I suspect I started to shut down long before I worked in the trenches.
Teddy said we all changed after Mom.
I hardened my heart, whereas Bobby started to wear his on his sleeve.
Ted overcompensated and John-John, well, I guess he’s remained his consistently unpleasant self.

Some things never change.

I glance down at my wrist and I have to smile.
John was right about one thing—I do love a big watch.
I’m not one to splurge, but when I saw the MTM Special Ops Black Military model that day Sars dragged me through Neiman’s, I had to have it.
With its titanium bracelet, carbon-coated case, and antireflective sapphire crystal, I figured it would last forever.
After more than ten years in dozens of war zones, I can confirm it’s stood the test of time.
(Pun intended.)

Wouldn’t let Sars buy the watch for me, though.
She perpetually believes I’m broke.
Couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’ve socked away almost every cent I’ve earned.
And the trust’s still untouched.
I could live off of what I made from
Girl O’ War
’s movie rights alone, had I not donated such a large portion to Sudanese relief efforts.
Before you ask, no, I had nothing to do with stunt-casting Jennifer Aniston as the lead.
Don’t start me on the fiction that was the shower seduction scene.
I never even
met
General Petraeus, but truth takes a backseat to Ms.
Aniston’s backseat in a lace thong.

Anyway, the plan’s to put in another ten to fifteen years of doing what I’m doing and I should be set to retire.
To settle down, if it’s not already far too late.

To be clear, not with General Petraeus.

According to my fancy watch, I’m due to land in forty-five minutes.
I don’t want to start a new documentary on my laptop and I just finished reading the latest book on Vladimir Putin.
As I transition out of the Middle East, I’m brushing up on Russia.
Putin has designs on restoring the USSR to its former glory.
Chances are, I’m headed there for the long haul.
I plan to be ready.

Flipping through the pages of the
American Way
magazine stuffed in the seat pocket in front of me, I pause to examine the spread on the Crystal Palace suite at the Vegas Wintercourt.
Glad to see Tigger the tiger shark is still alive and swimming.
We did give him a scare, though.

Scanning the article, I realize that night may not have been my finest hour.
When I arrived in Vegas, I was filthy and exhausted, yet I’m often filthy and exhausted in the call of duty, so that wasn’t the issue.
I guess I wasn’t comfortable with the whole situation.
For once, it wasn’t Kitty’s fault.
That night, Kitty was but a gnat buzzing around my head.
A minor annoyance, at best.

Sure, she irritated me with all her silly chatter about Australian strippers and
Us Weekly
and injecting broccoli puree into chicken nuggets (?), so I admit to baiting her about Malaysia.
Her expression was priceless.
As always in the case with Kitty, the bitch had it coming.

But for once, Kitty wasn’t the main problem.

What had me riled was that I didn’t want Sars to marry Trip.

There.
Said it.

I realize what poor taste it is to bring it up at a moment like this, but maybe if Sars had listened to me back then, everything would be different now.

My concern stemmed from what I saw earlier that day in the international terminal at the airport.
I’d just disembarked from my British Airways flight, cleared customs, and was headed toward the connecting departure gate in another terminal.
I was beat and a little disoriented, but I was instantly wide-awake the moment I spotted Trip—pastel sweater and all—in the priority boarding line for an Air France flight.
And then I noticed he wasn’t alone.
I assumed the attractive young Latina wasn’t a business associate by the proprietary way he was grasping her shapely behind.

I called over to him and I’m sure I saw a flash of panic cross his face, before he pretended to gaze right through me.
With that one look, he confirmed my every suspicion.

I was not about to let this go.
As a reporter, my job is to delve into the heart of the story, regardless of the outcome.
An ocean of people separated us, but I pushed through them.
Narrowing the gap between us, I vaulted over a group of French students who were sitting on the floor of the gate playing a card game and I plowed past a passel of disgruntled fanny-pack-clad tourists, but I was too late.
He’d already boarded the plane and the snooty gate agent refused to confirm or deny that Trip’s name was on the manifest.
“Ess not your biiiisness,” he’d sniffed.

The damn French’ll disappoint you every time.

(I hang out with a lot of marines; I may be biased.)

Already agitated when I arrived in Vegas, I broached the subject with Sars immediately.
She wouldn’t even entertain the thought of impropriety as Trip had just dropped a load of cash flying in all of her favorite treats.
To me, his extravagance smacked of overcompensation.
A guilty conscience.

I distrusted Trip from the moment we met.
He was one of those guys who’d simultaneously charm you while glancing over your shoulder in case someone more important was to walk by.
Or maybe he was mentally undressing them?
He was always so cagey, it was hard to tell.

He and Sars met at some U of C mixer for MBA students and she was instantly smitten.
I knew she really loved him; Sars was never so superficial that she’d date someone for his money.
Growing up an only child on the lake in the upper-middle-class area of Evanston, she was familiar with living well.
That Trip’s family lived so much better than her version of well was an added bonus.

But I always had the feeling that beneath his Ivy League veneer and perma-tan beat the heart of an operator.
An opportunist.
A snake-oil salesman.
Unfortunately, despite my investigations after I “allegedly” saw him in the airport, I couldn’t unearth the full evidence needed to prove my theory.
So all I could ever do was smile and wish Sars well.
Whenever I visited Steeplechase, their sprawling North Shore estate complete with guardhouse, she seemed extremely happy.
So even though it went against my every instinct, I eventually stopped probing.

Sars and Trip had lived nine years without incident, even though I could never shake the feeling that there was always some sort of darkness under the surface, lying dormant . . .
until the time was right.

•   •   •

“There she is!
There’s our girl!”

Teddy runs over and sweeps me up in a massive bear hug, spinning me around so hard that I get dizzy.
“Quit it!”
I demand as he whirls me around faster and faster.
“I think I’m going to throw up!”
When he doesn’t stop, I add, “I think I’m going to throw up on
you
, Joel.”

Terry, Ted’s spouse, clucks, “You’re kidding!
Top Gun
lines?
Already?
You’ve been together
thirty seconds
!
That’s a new record.
I told you I should have made up a sibling BINGO card.
Y’all are
too
predictable.”

“Technically, that line was from
Risky Business
in reference to Guido-the-killer-pimp from the car chase scene,” Teddy replies.

“‘Porsche, there is no substitute,’” I add.

Terry shrugs.
“Sorry, not familiar.”

Teddy rolls his eyes.
“You’re killing me, Ter, I mean it.
Last week I said I wanted to receive total consciousness on my deathbed and
this one
”—he pokes Terry, who giggles in response—“was all,
‘Should we write that into your living will, honey?’
Pretty sure your never having seen
Caddyshack
is grounds for divorce in this state.”

“Do what you need to do, babe,” Terry replies.
“That means more cake for us.”
Terry owns an incredible little shop in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago called The Confectionery, which specializes in homemade candies, like toffees and caramels, and baked goods, such as exotically flavored cupcakes, including my favorites, the blood orange Dreamsicle and the Maharani, which is a curry lemon curd with sweet basil cream.

I’m not the only one who swears Terry’s treats are the best in all of Chicago.
The place opens at ten a.m., which means the line forms at the door every day by eight thirty a.m.
On the days they sell mini-pies, it’s more like seven thirty.

I hug them both to me again.
Feels so good to be here, back beside my family.
Teddy loops his arm around my left shoulder and Terry grabs me on my right side as we head toward the baggage carousel in one cohesive unit.
At times like these, I wonder why I work so far from everyone I love.

“Not for nothing, Tedster, but you are better-looking every time I see you.”
Not flattery, but hard fact.
Teddy was striking in his teens and twenties, but now that he’s older, he’s practically breathtaking.
Pretty boys always go in one of two directions—they turn into James Spader with the wrinkles and paunch and male-pattern baldness or, if they’re very lucky, they head down the less trodden path, the Rob Lowe/Daniel Craig/Sean Connery route, improving with age like bottles of Château Margaux.
“What’s your secret?”
I ask.
“Do you have a portrait of Dorian Gray in your attic?
If you still look so good, who looks bad in your place?”

At the same time, we all say, “John-John.”
Not sure if it’s time or the demands of four kids and a vapid wife or just plain old karma, but the last time we saw him at the new baby’s christening, he was almost indistinguishable from our father.
John and Dad looked more like twins than he and Bobby do anymore, much to John’s chagrin and Dad’s delight.

“Girl,
I’m
his secret,” Terry insists.
“We juice now.
We’re juicers.
Had to do something to counterbalance all the carbs.
I’ll make you some in the morning.
I do a blend with kale, apples, and celery that’ll knock your socks off.”

“It’s really delicious,” Teddy says, while vehemently shaking his head and choking his own neck, eyes bulging comically behind Terry’s back.
“Definitely better than the mini-pies.”