What Doesn't Kill You (12 page)

Jason entertained the tipsy quartet by flipping chunks of sauteed zucchini into their open mouths like they were seals at the zoo. My lips, on the other hand, were sealed. Ron leaned over and whispered, “The show is pretty tacky, but the food is actually good.” Then he made a few suggestions, which I gladly accepted since I didn't know a sunomono from a gyoza, I couldn't see the menu, and I wasn't putting on my glasses. That spelled, in no uncertain terms, what I was going to spell out later—that he and I were chronologically challenged. Meaning Ron was too young for me—not that I was too old for him, but glasses, even cute ones, said the next word on our spelling test was AARP.

While our tablemates kept up the hibachi hijinks, Ron asked about my job hunt. Guess Amber filled him in on that little detail. I said it was fine. Period. What was I supposed to say—I was scared out of my mind? I wasn't admitting that to myself. Then he caught me fiddling with my scarf and told me how much he liked it—said purple was definitely my color. That's when I remembered my wedding outfit. Did he think I
wore purple as some kind of “let's get it on” signal? Luckily our appetizers arrived before I threw myself on the grill. Cute little dumplings for me and raw fish for him. Shumai and sashimi. Ron unwrapped his chopsticks, saw me pick up my fork and said, “Let me show you how the natives do it.” I was afraid he'd done that already, but then he was sliding his chair back so he could slip his arm around me, put his right hand around mine and balance the sticks in our hand with his left. Ah man, since when is eating a full-contact sport? Then he stroked that little valley between my thumb and forefinger, said that's where the bottom stick was supposed to rest, but it was like the fire from the hibachi passed through him directly up my arm, down into my chest, and I couldn't breathe. So I dropped the chopsticks—told him I was probably a hopeless case. His lips were right next to my ear and I could feel his breath when he said, “I seriously doubt that.” Double damn. Now, I was too grown to be beside myself, over what? A nice smile and some cologne that probably had sex hormones in it or something. They do that now, you know. If you ask me, it took him a few seconds too long, but he finally moved his arm back where it belonged. The problem was, Ron made me feel like—like a girl—and I didn't care for it one bit. Last time that happened, I found myself coming out of city hall hitched to somebody else's dreams.

Fortunately, there was still Jason and his corny jokes as a cover—making the shrimp dance, shoveling rice, noodles and veggies onto plates. And I recovered enough to ask Ron about Japan. Yes, he had been there, as well as China, Turkey, Mali, Ghana, someplace called Burkina Faso, Argentina, Brazil and most of Europe. What kind of mechanic traveled the world like that? But there was quite a bit to learn about Ron.

He was a Jersey boy—his word, not mine—born and raised.
His father and J.J.'s were brothers and when he was thirteen, his dad, an auto mechanic, died. He latched on to his uncle, a newlywed with a brand-new baby boy. He got so attached to his little cousin, John Jerome, he passed up a top engineering program in Michigan and headed to college in Philadelphia because it was close to home. I never thought of auto mechanics in college. Shows what I know. Well, five years later, armed with a master's in automotive engineering from Drexel, he landed a hotshot job in Motown, hog heaven for a car guy, and this time he went.

In spite of my best efforts, I found myself leaning in, playing with the ends of my scarf, wanting to know what came next. Which meant I had to lean back when he held up some of his tako for me to taste. Not only was octopus not about to pass my lips, I had no intention of nibbling little tidbits from his chopsticks. I knew where that could lead. Anyway, he was supposed to be a star, rise up the ranks, maybe even head his own division one day and of course become a credit to his race. But on his way up the corporate ladder, Ron discovered he liked old cars better than new ones, and that he hated being a desk jockey. He was spending three out of four weekends visiting tracks and speedways—at first for work, then because he loved it. He asked if I knew how it felt to hang a curve at 150 mph. I said, “Do I look like I don't have good sense?” Thankfully, he didn't know me well enough to say yes.

So six years ago, he quit the executive suite, moved back to Jersey and used money from his 401(k) and savings to open First Class Custom Restoration, a shop that specialized in classic cars. And he started racing a 1970 Dodge Charger he'd rebuilt himself.

Quite a story, but it didn't feel like he was ego stroking. You
know the people who say stuff like, “That reminds me of the time I had lunch with the Pope at the Vatican,” with the sole purpose of making you feel like a loser. It wasn't that. Ron's stories were matter-of-fact, funny, interesting—kind of like him. And listening to Ron's escapades gave me a chance to do a little biographical math. I figured he was nine years younger than me, which I added to Gerald, minus the fact that Ron was family—sort of—and the equation did not compute, which confirmed my hypothesis: I needed to leave him alone.

By the time I had all this sorted out, my green-tea ice-cream had turned into pea-soupy slop, our fellow diners had gone, the hibachi had been scrubbed, and Ron was handing over his credit card. I grabbed my purse and offered to split the check. Not because I was ignoring my shaky finances and showboating. And I'm definitely not one of those women always scrambling to look equal—I'm still retro enough to like it when the man pays. But I was hoping my gesture might shift the balance of the Date Weight scale. Ron smiled, ignored me and paid the bill.

I got a frosty jolt when we went out to the parking lot—just what I needed to rev up since we were now at the moment I'd been prepping for since I agreed to go to dinner. But he beat me to the punch. More accurately, he took both my hands, before I even got my gloves on. Skin on skin was definitely not part of the plan. That shot enough volts through me to melt an iceberg. Then he said my name—I hate the way I get all tingly when he does that. It took a lot of focus to keep all that energy from traveling south. That's when he tells me he likes me. Yeah, I guess even Stevie Wonder could see that. And even though I knew he'd never mention our postwedding encounter, I still didn't want to hear whatever he was going to say next. So
reaching for my trusty bud nippers, I told him I was sure he had plenty of young women calling his cell phone or whatever it is young people do these days—I emphasized the
young
part. Then I managed to shiver so it looked like taking my hands away to button my coat was necessary.

That's when he told me he knew how old I was—and it didn't matter. Guess I should have figured he'd done some homework, and that a man who likes driving 150 mph doesn't scare easy. Then he pulled my collar up around my neck, said that most of his life he'd known what he wanted, but it hadn't been easy for him to express it. That's how he stayed in a job he hated five years too long and in a relationship he knew was headed nowhere long before it crashed. Now he knew he wanted to get to know me. If I had been seven, I'd have put my fingers in my ears and made loud noises, because I did not want to hear this. So I did something equally mature—blurted out, “I'm seeing someone.”

Ron rocked back like I slapped him. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets, said he didn't know. Of course not. Amber wouldn't tell it. I'm not even sure J.J. knew about Gerald. And I wasn't up for true confessions, so I looked down at my shoes, told him it was a long story. He got real quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat, said he was sorry to hear that. For a split second I thought,
Yeah, me too.
That's when I knew I had to stop thinking and get out of there. So I said I was sorry, I should have told him sooner, like an apology made me look less like a trampy, two-timing, middle-aged nymphomaniac, which by now he had to think 'cause it's how I was feeling. Then I thanked him for dinner. He said I should tell my guy how lucky he was. Right.

That's when it happened. Ron leaned over to kiss my cheek.
I turned my head just the teensiest bit. And his kiss landed on my neck, right below my ear. As soon as his lips touched my skin, and his breath warmed inside my collar, I was back in that hotel suite. And I remembered exactly how we ended up together, how he hugged me that night and I wouldn't let him go, how his hands felt caressing my back, how I was tired of holding myself together and I wanted to feel like I used to when I believed love would last forever…

That was quite enough remembering. The vibration started someplace so far away I couldn't have found it with a map, and before he could see me trembling, I willed my legs to get me out of there—instead of what they wanted to do.

I went straight to the computer when I got home—made myself finish the text-only version of my résumé, because that was something tangible. A reminder that this was not the time to lose my head over some foolishness. I let a man come between me and what was good for me once before—got a wonderful daughter, but not a BA. I was too grown for that BS now.

Next morning I got busy on my cover letter, since according to my manuals, if it's not catchy, the résumé gets dumped. So I worked on creating a uniquely expressive but concise way to say I'm here, your search is over. When I heard Amber's voice on the answering machine, I wouldn't pick up. I knew she had checked in with Ron and she was hot. She'd get over it. One day she might understand. In the meantime, I didn't want to hear it.

After two days of writing and deleting, all I had was Dear _____. Not that I'm opposed to tooting my own horn. Just couldn't find the balance between tuba and kazoo. And it didn't help that at the most inconvenient moments I'd get these flashbacks of Ron's lips brushing my neck. Then I'd be in the park
ing lot again, and I'd have to get up and water the plants, brush my teeth, pinch myself—anything to get my head back in the groove. Or was it a rut?

Anyway, I finally got all my materials together and buried myself in the help-wanted ads determined to find my dream job—excuse me, career opportunity. According to one of my books, jobs are about time clocks and hourly wages. My parents had jobs. They also had a pretty nice house by the bay to show for it. I, on the other hand, was a salaried professional. Right. So I skipped over the administrative assistant, receptionist and secretary positions—too junior. After lots of circling and crossing out, I narrowed my focus to five choices—all of them mail-ins. I still wasn't too keen on making a cyber corporate connection. And I wanted to see how sharp my layout looked on the dove gray paper I'd picked out. First thing Monday I went to the post office feeling quite pleased with myself. I figured the phone would start ringing by Wednesday, I'd have a few interviews, then decide which opening was the best fit.

So I was jazzed to get a call Tuesday morning to schedule an interview the next day. Even better, the company was conveniently located fifteen minutes from my house. Not exactly destiny, but it looked like my $75 worth of advice—plus equipment and supplies—had bought me instant results. This was going to be easier than I thought. Not that I was exactly worried—just anxious, not sure what to expect. See, that's what I get for letting Didier and those people make me doubt myself.

My hairdresser worked me in that afternoon. Got my nails done too, then spent the rest of the day researching my prospective employer online, another pointer I picked up in my reading. They manufactured generic drugs—something I certainly never thought about, but I never thought about Ginger
Almond Crème before I walked into Olivia's loft either. Oh, and while I was online, I couldn't stop myself from surfing for information about Markson, which was a mistake. An article about Didier's prowess in adding to their product line made me mad. Kept me up that night too. Or was that because I was rehearsing my interview answers like I'd be making my Broadway debut?

Well, it was show time alright, and I was dancing like a damn Rockette about how excited I was by this new opportunity. But the interview could not have gone better. Seemed my expertise and polish were exactly what they were looking for. I was brought in to meet the chief financial officer—a short, doughy man with an off-the-rack blue suit and twelve hairs arranged across the top of his head like some kind of musical instrument. That's who I'd be assisting. He complained how hard it was to find applicants with the proper degree of knowledge, strong work ethics and good sense. So true.

My last hurdle would be those references upon request. I was holding my breath, daring those Markson people to bad-mouth me. And I breathed a sigh of relief when I was offered the job. Guess I wasn't a big enough fish for Markson to fry, so at least they had thrown me back in the employment pool without ripping my fins off. Actually I wasn't a bit surprised when I got the offer, after all the fuss they made over me. It was the salary that threw me—$25,000 less than I'd been making. I told them, as tactfully as I could manage, that I couldn't possibly accept such a dramatic cut, instead of blurting out “Are you crazy?”—my first impulse. After much conferring, they coughed up another $5,000, but our negotiations ended there. Too bad. They seemed like decent people, but truthfully the offices were a little bland—too much laminated woodgrain
and fake ficus. It occurred to me later that of course they were cheap—the whole business was based on it. But it wasn't a bad start. The enthusiastic welcome settled my nerves, gave me a shot of confidence. No need to grab the first thing that came my way. I'd sit tight, wait for the right offer—

—and wait…

A
nd the days got longer. So did the list of companies where I'd sent my résumé. Only one of those made the future any brighter. Next thing I knew, time sprang forward, coincidentally during the same week I received my final unemployment check, the one with the tactful reminder “YOUR BENEFITS HAVE EXPIRED.” I, on the other hand, was scrambling not to fall back. I got seriously involved in my own game of bill-pay Sudoku, adding the amounts due and subtracting from my dwindling funds, moving the numbers around to keep my checkbook balanced and get the payments in before the due date. Did I say I hate puzzles?

By the time I saw that stupid news story they drag out twice a year—you know, the one about some big jewelry store and how long it takes to adjust all their timepieces to daylight savings time—even that looked like a career opportunity; maybe I had a future as a watch-winding technician. And there's nothing like having extra time on your hands to make you aware
of how much of your mail contains payment envelopes. The rest of it—catalogs, tempting you to add to your outstanding balance.

In the meantime I became a pro at assuring my family I was fine, just being selective. Right. That would presume I had something to select. It's amazing how many ways companies can tell you to get lost. Some of them don't respond at all—like it's our little secret that you bothered to think you could work for us, and we won't tell if you don't. Then there are the ones who try to make it seem like you're overqualified. You feel good until you realize your butt is still planted on the sofa and nobody is sending you a check.

After a while Mom said something snappy about beggars not being choosers. I acted highly indignant, but she had a point. Fortunately, Amber took me at my word. She had grown up with me telling her things were fine when in reality I didn't have a pot and I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep from pissing, but she always bought my game face. Besides, she and J.J. were busy looking at houses. Baby Son-in-Law and my Amber with a lawn and a mortgage? That was as crazy as…as my being out of a job.

But I was trying to maintain my cool. I hit a speed bump when out of the blue my auto insurance switched me from a six-month policy to a full-year one. Now I had been with them ten years, and I sure as hell didn't ask them to change anything. When I called all they would say was that it was now their policy for accounts like mine. Nobody would say exactly what that meant either. But there I was with a whopping bill that was due in no more than two installments. It didn't fit neatly in any of my payment puzzle squares, and it wasn't exactly the best time for me to shop around for another company either. They
would want to know where I worked, like that had anything to do with how I drive, which, by the way, is excellent—OK, a little fast, but slowpokes cause accidents.

I was still picking at the problem one evening while I was watching Gerald chow down on a plate of the shrimp and grits I cooked, when it dawned on me I could ask him for a loan to cover the insurance. I mean, it wasn't
that
much, and in all the time I'd known him I had never asked for fifty cents 'cause I was not interested in mixing a man and my money. But this was an extenuating circumstance. I could pay him back in installments and I figured he wouldn't charge me interest.

It took me until the apple pie à la mode to ask him, and do you know what he had the nerve to wipe his lips and say? “Don't you have any savings?” I wanted to dump his plate in his lap and put him out in his sock feet, which he could clearly see 'cause he tried to play it off, say he was kidding, but I was some hot. I didn't ask him about my savings. Yes, I had a little money in an IRA, and I do mean a little. I wasn't even
thinking
about retirement yet. I was too busy paying for living. I couldn't take money out without a penalty anyway. Besides, I wasn't asking him to
give
me anything. He hemmed and hawed and finally said he could come up with half of what I asked for. I had a good mind to refuse, except I needed it to keep me on course. Later on I'd find some way to make him feel as bad as he should, so he could make it up to me.

And I deliberately avoided all things having to do with Ron. If Amber or J.J. happened to mention something—like his trip to Sun Valley—well, OK. Me personally, I'm still trying to wrap my brain around a black man in Idaho skiing, but more power to him. But I did not mention his name. I thought it more than a few times. It was kinda like me throwing out all
catalogs as soon as they came in the mail. No point in looking if I don't intend to shop. I couldn't afford to be tempted.

In my wildest dreams I could not imagine that spring would have officially arrived and that we'd be approaching Memorial Day, the unofficial beginning of summer, and I would still be jobless. I mean, I was managing. I cut back and only got my hair done once a month, which had my hairdresser looking at me funny, like I was cheating on her. Same with manicures. I thought about switching to the salon with the raggedy magazines in the waiting area and the bowls of dish detergent and water for you to soak your nails in. But if I wanted my fingertips in sudsy water, I woulda stopped using the dishwasher.

And of course the change of season also brought The Cruise. Yeah, it was already paid for, but the idea of a vacation from my layoff was ridiculous, even to me. I'd take out my document packet, check out the location of my cabin and “what if” over the cancellation dates, which were long gone, and what I coulda done with that money or, more accurately, without the charge on my card. The pitiful part is I couldn't even remember which one I had used, but now I could have used it for something else. At this point, it would cost me less to go than to stay home—at least my meals were paid for. When I mentioned it to Julie, I could see she was worried, but she tried to put a good face on it. She said maybe I'd meet some high-powered executive who would want to hire me on the spot. That's what I love about Julie—she can sincerely see the rainbow in a hurricane. But I wasn't about to mention my predicament to my traveling buddies. I mean, we had been together for years, but some things I knew better than to broadcast.

The bunch of us had met when our kids were little, at a
school parents' day. We were the only ones of “us” there. I was the newest addition, the fifth, and apparently the one needed to officially form a “group” or at least break a tie. We were older, younger, married, exed, transplants, natives—all working women, except for Cecily, who was married to an anesthesiologist and at home with their five children, which definitely had longer hours than a job. About the only thing we had in common were kids in the fourth grade. The first time we got together was for coffee at my town house. Before the evening was over, someone—no one remembers who, which really means nobody will claim responsibility—said next time we should have wine. So there was a next time, and out came the Chardonnay, which was the birth of the Live Five.

Our kids grew, we moved our monthly gathering to one of those chain restaurants decorated in early attic and staffed by annoyingly cheerful teenagers. Eventually we advanced to finer dining in New Brunswick and Princeton. Over the years we arranged many outings both for the kids and for ourselves—we took in a matinee of
Black & Blue
on Broadway, lost our minds outlet shopping in Pennsylvania and indulged in a Happy Mother's Day to Us spa weekend in Connecticut—two weeks after Mother's Day of course, so we were home for our fancy bottles of too-sweet cologne and the breakfasts in bed that left our kitchens looking like the aftermath of an earthquake.

Lives, jobs, addresses and spouses changed. While our rug rats got older, we did our best to stay young. Then the kids were out of high school and off to colleges and jobs, and suddenly we were empty-nesters. Mostly through Diane's persistence—or was she just the nosiest one?—we never lost touch, even though our gatherings were no longer regularly scheduled. Re
cently graduations, weddings, grandbaby showers and a funeral brought us together more often, and our kids weren't the only ones changing. After twenty-two years of married indifference Joyce got divorced, meaning I finally had company. Marie and Diane were knocking on fifty, and Cecily was now a widow. It seemed like a good time to celebrate, so we signed up for the Live Five We Raised 'em Right, Let's Raise the Roof, All-Out Blowout.

Now, The Cruise was like the
Love Boat
meets the
Soul Train
on the next episode of
Lifestyles of the Negro and Middle Class
. A few thousand black folks from all over the country take to the high seas on the biggest, newest, poshest ship. It was seven days packed with big stars, big food and big foolishness, all for a good cause: college scholarships for students who need some help to achieve their dreams. We'd been itching to go for years, and guess who tracked down the particulars and made sure we were all paid up before the good cabins were gone? Wish I hadn't been so efficient, but I really wanted to go. I had given Amber the wedding she wanted and she was gone—off to her new life, not my responsibility anymore. This trip was supposed to be like the first sunrise over the finally carefree me. Ha! What I got instead was a total eclipse of my life, which was definitely not on my calendar.

And did I say it was big bucks? I could have cruised for a month for what that trip cost me, but it seemed like a great idea at the time.

For months I made myself seasick, rolling back and forth, half the time believing The Cruise was just what I needed to jump-start a new attitude. Then there were the days I felt like an imbecile for spending five thousand dollars on my solo superior deluxe ocean-view stateroom. It amounted to two-
thirds of my monthly nut or my total ten-week unemployment allotment, depending on what I was feeling worse about. And that was just for the cruise. It didn't include my nonrefundable supersaver plane ticket. Definitely not my perspective when I booked that little adventure. Then there was what I'd spent hunting and gathering my resort wardrobe, because I know my people. Given half an opportunity we will put on a fashion show to rival the Ebony Fashion Fair. And with an entire week to showboat in front of a built-in audience? Puh-lease. I knew I had to be ready, called myself being thrifty by shopping last year's summer sales. Guess it depends on how you define savings.

I did manage to dodge throwing the presail soiree. Diane came up with the idea in the first place, so I played dumb to her not-so-subtle hints and let her be our B. Smith this time. Of course, that meant I had to act like her lame Bahama mamas, plastic leis—like we were headed for Maui, not Miami—and some truly forgettable pineapple and crab salad were the perfect way to launch us out to sea. While we were catching up and passing around the bean dip—not very tropical, even in a coconut shell—I had a moment when I thought about telling them what was really going on with me. Then Marie started in about her grandchildren, who were all certified geniuses. Joyce could hardly cash her real-estate commission checks fast enough. Even Cecily had sold the family homestead and moved to a high-rise with New York skyline views, moving on with life after Bill. So my sorry tale would be a downer, and we had never been the Bad News Bears. Years ago we didn't find out Marie's daughter was suspended from high school for smoking reefer in the bathroom until we saw it in the newspaper. So I talked about the newlyweds and their house hunt.
Joyce gave me her business card—like I didn't already have a deck of them.

We got a little tipsy, discussed how much we deserved this trip—hell, we
earned
it and we were out for some duty-free fun. In a moment of inebriated seriousness, we even took an oath that “What happens on the ship stays on the ship.” And when you start thinking real life works like the commercial, you are heading for a test of your emergency broadcast system.

Let me tell you how clever I was. My travel mates were flying to Miami at crack of dawn the day we were sailing, which I though was insane. You know how flights are always late because two raindrops fell in Pittsburgh? Or canceled because the wing fell off and there's no spare plane closer than Hawaii? If you missed the boat, you'd really miss the boat and two days of the trip before you could catch up in St. Thomas—for the cost of another plane ticket. Way too dicey for me. The others could do what they wanted, but I was arriving the day before, spending a leisurely night at a hotel near the Port. Nothing fancy—it wasn't the hotel where the official, shake-your-bon bon bon voyage party would be, but I had too much money invested to chance blowing the whole trip. At the time I called this logic.

Well, you've heard about the best-laid plans. That May day started as gloomy as February and proceeded to get worse. By the time I arrived at Newark for my one o'clock flight, delay was the order of de-day. No worries. So what if I landed at six instead of four? I was feeling quite superior, but by five o'clock bands of thunderstorms had harnessed the East Coast, and I was still sitting at the gate watching rain slap the windows.

I was also hungry as a bear but determined not to waste money on overpriced airport food, so I feasted on a leftover
bag of Gummi Worms I found at the bottom of my purse, and coffee. By the time Mother Nature and the FAA got their act together and we took off, I was wired, which was not helped by the two diet sodas I drank in flight, but at 11:17 p.m., when we touched down in a balmy seventy-degree Miami, I just knew I was ahead of the game. Until I got to baggage claim and watched all the people on my plane collect their stuff and leave me looking sorrowful as one beat-up duffel bag and a broken-off suitcase handle passed me on the conveyor belt for the umpteenth time. Then the thing shut off, meaning my bags were officially lost.

That's when I met Earl at the customer service office. His cornrows were as intricate as the path he was about to lead me down. After consulting my claim check and his computer, he typed something that seemed as long as the Old Testament, then informed me my bags were sent to Fort Lauderdale, like it was the most normal thing in the world.