I drive by a small church on my way. It's always packed on Sunday. Doesn't matter if it's been two weeks or a month since the last time I drove by . . . people lined up to hear God's word.
Our Father, which art in Heaven
Hallowed be thy Name
I'm Jewish, so its not even my Sabbath. But I still feel a little guilty. I am not here for God. I am not here for spirituality. I am here for selfish pleasure. I pull my car into a spot a few blocks away. Walk to the non-descript building and let myself in the door at the back of the alley. He's left it unlocked for me. His shoes are on the mat by the door. I know he's waiting for me. Down the dark hall, third room on the right. My own two hours of heaven await me.
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven
Same sheets. New blanket, today. Scarlet. Even with the candles and low lights, the color is rich and vibrant. Yet doesn't disrupt the mood. The music is soft in the background; familiar and inviting. I slip out of my clothes quickly; I don't even wear my wedding rings anymore. I slide between the sheets, and stretch, like a cat about to nap in a sun spot on the carpet.
He places a hand on my lower back, letting the warmth imprint on my skin. Holds it there, as if saying a little prayer over my prone body. Then begins making small circles on my lower back, moving further and futher outward, until he can feel me relax. Slides his hands down my back, splaying his fingers across the curve at my lower back, then running his hands up my sides, tracing the hourglass shape. I drift into that other-worldliness that always accompanies this little renedezvous.
Give us this day our daily bread
My stomach rumbles, bringing me back to reality for a moment. He only chuckles, quietly, his hands never leaving my body. But it makes me think of the family that parks in the church lot. Selling tamales and churros and other homemade treats to the congregants when services are out. I often think about stopping on my way back home. Back to reality. But they would know. So instead, I always pull my hat down further over my hair and my sunglasses, and stare straight ahead.
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us
I feel spiritual. He takes me inside myself, inside my head. Never asks for anything other than what we have had for the last three years. Content in our mutually beneficial relationship. So I lay, breathing quiet and deep, feeling the stress fade and my mind clear, focusing only on the rhythm of his hands and the music. In this state, I could forgive. Not forget. Just forgive.
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil
It always seems too short. He whispers "It's time." Runs his fingers through my hair one last time. So tempting to stay. But he has obligations. I have obligations. We'll see each other in a few weeks. Some Sunday.
For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.
Some theology teaches that we are all sinners. I am guilty of many sins. Is it sinful for letting a man who is not my husband touch my bare flesh? I don't think so. My sin, if you ask Betty, is that I pay so little for a two-hour massage.
If this is sin, then I ought to start booking my room in hell now.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Someday
Editors note: Fiction alert.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
She tugged at the cabinet door again. Finally the swollen wood gave way and it swung open with a jolt and a creak of protest. In late summer, they always stuck. The combination of the heat and humidity outside, and the dampness from the pressure cooker and boiling water as she canned whatever she could out of her garden to store for the winter, wasn’t kind to cabinetry that should have been thrown out with the rest of the stuff when they gutted the old church downtown.
Frank was so proud when he brought them home. “I got those new cabinets you wanted,” he beamed.
She’d nearly cried. She had visions of him building nice new ones that she would sand and paint. Maybe even do some extra sewing to make enough money for those pretty little decorative knobs. Anything to make this old, broken down home seem more like the ones she saw her friends living in. The ones she imagined living in as a little girl. Instead, she got a ramshackle 50-year old story and a half that didn’t have indoor plumbing the first year of their marriage. And there he was with these ancient, tired cabinets they’d salvaged from the church basement, with the awful Formica top and the peeling paint. When they didn’t quite fit, he’d just taken off the base and cut one end off, leaving them about two inches shorter than a standard cabinet and with one “half” shelf with no door.
She pulled out some more jar lids, and shut the door. The stack of bills on top of the cabinet fell and scattered. She stooped to gather them, cringing at the red “past due” stamped on more than one. She gathered them up and tucked them back in the shelves, looking at her long fingernails, stained various colors by the gardening and the canning, and her hands, cracked and dry from working outside in the fields as they finished the summer haying. She slumped into a sitting position at the bottom of the stairs, and the tears started to roll.
She remembered that sick feeling in her stomach, amplified by the soft undulations of her extended belly, when she heard the news that they’d found his car across the state line. Joe was fine; just wasn’t prepared to be a parent. She had sat in their tiny apartment, trying to decide what to do. Remembering making that humiliating call to her parents and asking for help. Waiting for the “I told you so” that she knew they had to be thinking after the shot gun wedding months ago. Remembered packing her clothes and few belongings, including the baby layette she’d started accumulating, and going back home.
Frank had been mature and charming when they were first dating. It was 1970; a divorced woman with a toddler should consider herself lucky to have found someone with some property, a good work ethic, and, more importantly, who could love and provide for her baby girl. She couldn’t think beyond the immediate situation. Couldn’t take the time to entertain those dreams she still had. Returning to Europe. Summers on the eastern shore. A day at the art museum followed by a moonlight walk on the shores of Lake Michigan. Finishing her commercial arts degree. At that moment, though, Frank just seemed like a fresh start for a woman with few alternatives.
And here she still sat. Hadn’t left the state since they got married. Still living in these same six small rooms, with the worn linoleum, the leaky ceiling, the uninsulated walls and the hand-me-down furniture. Still rising at six every morning to milk the cows and start breakfast for a man who spoke in gruff, three-word phrases and a few well-timed grunts. Still staring at ugly, peeling cabinets that she knew she could never afford to replace. Knowing that this was all just part of a path she had chosen years before, that would never lead her back to those old dreams. She pressed her palms into her eyes, and rested her elbows on her knees, her shoulders shaking with each sob.
“Mom, why are you sad?” came the voice above her head.
She looked up to see her oldest daughter sitting on the stairs above her, a worn copy of a Nancy Drew novel with the library sticker on it tucked under her arm, wearing homemade corduroy pants and second-hand sweater from the neighbor girl. Her daughter smiled, her front teeth slightly crooked. No money for braces, either. She was awkward and skinny at age ten, but smart and responsible. Simple.
She tried to speak, but the sobs caught in her throat. “I hate,” and here she paused, and turned away, before saying “these ugly cabinets.” Wondered if her daughter heard the “my life” echoing in her mind.
She felt a thin, small hand patting her back. “Don’t worry, Mom. Someday, I’ll buy you new cabinets. I promise. Someday, I’ll buy you a whole new house. Just don’t cry, Mom.”
She wiped her eyes and turned to give the girl a hug. “Someday,” she whispered into her hair. “Someday.”
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
She tugged at the cabinet door again. Finally the swollen wood gave way and it swung open with a jolt and a creak of protest. In late summer, they always stuck. The combination of the heat and humidity outside, and the dampness from the pressure cooker and boiling water as she canned whatever she could out of her garden to store for the winter, wasn’t kind to cabinetry that should have been thrown out with the rest of the stuff when they gutted the old church downtown.
Frank was so proud when he brought them home. “I got those new cabinets you wanted,” he beamed.
She’d nearly cried. She had visions of him building nice new ones that she would sand and paint. Maybe even do some extra sewing to make enough money for those pretty little decorative knobs. Anything to make this old, broken down home seem more like the ones she saw her friends living in. The ones she imagined living in as a little girl. Instead, she got a ramshackle 50-year old story and a half that didn’t have indoor plumbing the first year of their marriage. And there he was with these ancient, tired cabinets they’d salvaged from the church basement, with the awful Formica top and the peeling paint. When they didn’t quite fit, he’d just taken off the base and cut one end off, leaving them about two inches shorter than a standard cabinet and with one “half” shelf with no door.
She pulled out some more jar lids, and shut the door. The stack of bills on top of the cabinet fell and scattered. She stooped to gather them, cringing at the red “past due” stamped on more than one. She gathered them up and tucked them back in the shelves, looking at her long fingernails, stained various colors by the gardening and the canning, and her hands, cracked and dry from working outside in the fields as they finished the summer haying. She slumped into a sitting position at the bottom of the stairs, and the tears started to roll.
She remembered that sick feeling in her stomach, amplified by the soft undulations of her extended belly, when she heard the news that they’d found his car across the state line. Joe was fine; just wasn’t prepared to be a parent. She had sat in their tiny apartment, trying to decide what to do. Remembering making that humiliating call to her parents and asking for help. Waiting for the “I told you so” that she knew they had to be thinking after the shot gun wedding months ago. Remembered packing her clothes and few belongings, including the baby layette she’d started accumulating, and going back home.
Frank had been mature and charming when they were first dating. It was 1970; a divorced woman with a toddler should consider herself lucky to have found someone with some property, a good work ethic, and, more importantly, who could love and provide for her baby girl. She couldn’t think beyond the immediate situation. Couldn’t take the time to entertain those dreams she still had. Returning to Europe. Summers on the eastern shore. A day at the art museum followed by a moonlight walk on the shores of Lake Michigan. Finishing her commercial arts degree. At that moment, though, Frank just seemed like a fresh start for a woman with few alternatives.
And here she still sat. Hadn’t left the state since they got married. Still living in these same six small rooms, with the worn linoleum, the leaky ceiling, the uninsulated walls and the hand-me-down furniture. Still rising at six every morning to milk the cows and start breakfast for a man who spoke in gruff, three-word phrases and a few well-timed grunts. Still staring at ugly, peeling cabinets that she knew she could never afford to replace. Knowing that this was all just part of a path she had chosen years before, that would never lead her back to those old dreams. She pressed her palms into her eyes, and rested her elbows on her knees, her shoulders shaking with each sob.
“Mom, why are you sad?” came the voice above her head.
She looked up to see her oldest daughter sitting on the stairs above her, a worn copy of a Nancy Drew novel with the library sticker on it tucked under her arm, wearing homemade corduroy pants and second-hand sweater from the neighbor girl. Her daughter smiled, her front teeth slightly crooked. No money for braces, either. She was awkward and skinny at age ten, but smart and responsible. Simple.
She tried to speak, but the sobs caught in her throat. “I hate,” and here she paused, and turned away, before saying “these ugly cabinets.” Wondered if her daughter heard the “my life” echoing in her mind.
She felt a thin, small hand patting her back. “Don’t worry, Mom. Someday, I’ll buy you new cabinets. I promise. Someday, I’ll buy you a whole new house. Just don’t cry, Mom.”
She wiped her eyes and turned to give the girl a hug. “Someday,” she whispered into her hair. “Someday.”
Saturday, March 29, 2008
I'm Bored
Yesterday, I'm at work and I get a call on my cell phone from a number I don't recognize.
"Hello. This is Mrs. Chako."
"Yeah, is Son #1 there?"
"Um, well, no he's not. This is my cell phone and I'm still at work. Can I take a message for him?"
(I think the parenting handbook conveniently leaves out that you become your children's message service at age 9 or 10)
"Yeah. This is Ryan. I was, uh, wondering if I could sleep over at your house. It's Spring Break and I'm bored."
It was 4:05 p.m. on Friday. School let out for Spring Break at 3:30 p.m. on Friday, a mere 35 minutes earlier.
I pity Ryan's dad.
At least we're considered the "fun" house.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
"Hello. This is Mrs. Chako."
"Yeah, is Son #1 there?"
"Um, well, no he's not. This is my cell phone and I'm still at work. Can I take a message for him?"
(I think the parenting handbook conveniently leaves out that you become your children's message service at age 9 or 10)
"Yeah. This is Ryan. I was, uh, wondering if I could sleep over at your house. It's Spring Break and I'm bored."
It was 4:05 p.m. on Friday. School let out for Spring Break at 3:30 p.m. on Friday, a mere 35 minutes earlier.
I pity Ryan's dad.
At least we're considered the "fun" house.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
Friday, March 28, 2008
DrChako is Home - A Week in Retrospective
Well, he's been home for a week now. Still hasn't figured out how to change the intro header on his blog yet, but we'll give him time. So you may be wondering how the reintegration into family life has been going. I'll give you the recap of some of the ups and downs of reintegration.
Sounds like a positive to me.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
- He is fit. Really fit. More fit that when I met him 16 years ago. Solid. Buff. Looks better at 40 than at 25. How many women can say that about their husbands of 13 years?
- Somehow, he has made me put on 3 or 4 pounds. I am no longer as lean or mean. Well, maybe still mean.
- Errands are getting done. Laundry. Dry cleaning. Registering my new car on the military base. Cleaning out the garage. Installing a garage door opener (well, greeting "the man" who will install the garage door opener).
- Sometimes still forgets that "helping with homework" actually means monitoring the homework-doing, rather than saying "do homework" and then leaving to go do a personal project in the garage.
- Have someone to help me do things.
- Sometimes I forget to ask for help.
- Sometimes he forgets to offer help.
- Sometimes doesn't remember the old routine.
- Sometimes I forget to tell him the new routine.
- Good to have part of the revised routine include a kiss, a hug, or someone to talk to who speaks English as their first language and doesn't add to already increased estrogen levels in the house.
- Bed is warmer, for those times when my feet are cold. Which is, say, every night.
- Who the hell is taking up all the space in my bed? And where did my man-sized pillow go?
- It's like having sex with a strange, new, fit man. Every so often I gotta turn on the light and check to make sure it's really him.
- Sometimes I turn the light back off and pretend it's Hugh Jackman.
- He wants sex all the time. Trying to make up for the lost 7 months. Forgets that I still have a 50+ hour a week job, a long commute, two children, and the occasional migraine. And have for the last 7 months. Not to mention a tax return to complete. Hate to admit it, Drizz, but sometimes, life makes it a coinflip.
- Sometimes acts like we're having sex for the first time. Forgets that we've done this for 16 years now. I didn't get re-virginized. I am not breakable. I gave birth. Bring it on.
- Post-deployment leave gives him time to relax, catch up, continue his workout. Still looks good, seems happy.
- Post-deployment leave gives him extra time to shop on line for watches, motorcycles, Ferarris. Go to the Harley store, boat show, etc. I'm thinking of freezing the credit cards, just in case he gets a little punchy.
- Post-deployment leave gives him plenty of time to think about dinner ideas for when I come home from work. For some reason, we're always still deciding where to eat on the way to the car.
- Pats my ass on the way to the shower when I'm getting ready in the morning for work.
- Stands in my blow-drying space at critical styling times.
- Loves my new car and tells me what a great job I did buying it.
- Always wants to drive it.
Sounds like a positive to me.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Shift in the Universe and Don't Piss Mrs Chako Off
Shift in the Universe
Yesterday, Betty and I were mulling over a few things that seemed odd. Unusual. Not so ordinary. Including shifts in our own personal moods and perceptions. Reactions to things. Pondered whether it signaled a shift in the universe.
Then, yesterday, it snowed. Only in our town. Not actually in Seattle. Literally, the snow line stopped 5 miles north of the house. Thank goodness for my new AWD baby.
I sent her a message - "Further shift in the universe . . . hope you aren't close to a fault line."
She is. Good luck, friend. Come up and visit if your place starts shaking. Hope American Airlines hasn't cancelled all of the flights out of California.
Today, more shifts in the universe. And more snow. Only south of Seattle. In our town.
I did double-check though, and Waffles is still ranting, Bam-Bam is still his affable poker-playing self, Bracelet is still modest, and IT is still loving his kids . . . maybe its only a West Coast thing.
Either way, I'm gonna buckle up.
Editors note: I realize, after reading my friend's comment, that I did not clarify. This is DEFINITELY a positive shift in the universe. At least for us West-Coasters. Even the snow. It was beautiful as the sun came out on my commute, sparkling on all of the newly blossomed trees and green lawns. Nothing prettier than pink trees and green grass and white snow. And when I say I'm gonna buckle up - well, I say that when I strap into my favorite rollercoaster, California Screamin', and laugh all the way to the end, too. Oh yeah, Betty, I'm expecting a good ride.
Don't Piss Mrs Chako Off
So I've been working my ass off. Literally. My ass is smaller. Ask my husband.
So when I get clients who give me shitty accounting documentation with bad answers and even worse justifications, it doesn't improve my mood. In fact, makes me a little more feisty. Yesterday, they tried to pull one over on me. I put my foot down. The accounting manager said "I think its because you're wearing black and white. You can't see all the shades of grey. Could you go back to wearing the spring colors you were wearing earlier in the week?"
I'm heading out there again later today. Wearing black and white. Again. Just in case it does impact my judgement. There will be no grey line in accounting today.
And unfortunately, certain members of my team are starting to drink their Kool-aid. I came in yesterday to find two of them poring over a client memo. I picked it up. Flipped instantly to the conclusion page. Said "no way in hell is this the answer" inside of 30 seconds. They gotta get better at seeing through the bullshit. They went to a meeting - only thing that got resolved was that they told the client "Mrs Chako is probably not going to like this answer."
What part of "no way in hell is this the answer" doesn't mean, unequivocally, "no way in hell?"
Felt like writing a big WTF on the memo and handing it back.
But I'm sure I'll put my nice girl pants on (the ones that hang in the back of my closet, next to my big girl pants, Betty) and find a nicer way to tell them. Does "no f---ing way in hell" count?
You've all had fair warning today.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
Yesterday, Betty and I were mulling over a few things that seemed odd. Unusual. Not so ordinary. Including shifts in our own personal moods and perceptions. Reactions to things. Pondered whether it signaled a shift in the universe.
Then, yesterday, it snowed. Only in our town. Not actually in Seattle. Literally, the snow line stopped 5 miles north of the house. Thank goodness for my new AWD baby.
I sent her a message - "Further shift in the universe . . . hope you aren't close to a fault line."
She is. Good luck, friend. Come up and visit if your place starts shaking. Hope American Airlines hasn't cancelled all of the flights out of California.
Today, more shifts in the universe. And more snow. Only south of Seattle. In our town.
I did double-check though, and Waffles is still ranting, Bam-Bam is still his affable poker-playing self, Bracelet is still modest, and IT is still loving his kids . . . maybe its only a West Coast thing.
Either way, I'm gonna buckle up.
Editors note: I realize, after reading my friend's comment, that I did not clarify. This is DEFINITELY a positive shift in the universe. At least for us West-Coasters. Even the snow. It was beautiful as the sun came out on my commute, sparkling on all of the newly blossomed trees and green lawns. Nothing prettier than pink trees and green grass and white snow. And when I say I'm gonna buckle up - well, I say that when I strap into my favorite rollercoaster, California Screamin', and laugh all the way to the end, too. Oh yeah, Betty, I'm expecting a good ride.
Don't Piss Mrs Chako Off
So I've been working my ass off. Literally. My ass is smaller. Ask my husband.
So when I get clients who give me shitty accounting documentation with bad answers and even worse justifications, it doesn't improve my mood. In fact, makes me a little more feisty. Yesterday, they tried to pull one over on me. I put my foot down. The accounting manager said "I think its because you're wearing black and white. You can't see all the shades of grey. Could you go back to wearing the spring colors you were wearing earlier in the week?"
I'm heading out there again later today. Wearing black and white. Again. Just in case it does impact my judgement. There will be no grey line in accounting today.
And unfortunately, certain members of my team are starting to drink their Kool-aid. I came in yesterday to find two of them poring over a client memo. I picked it up. Flipped instantly to the conclusion page. Said "no way in hell is this the answer" inside of 30 seconds. They gotta get better at seeing through the bullshit. They went to a meeting - only thing that got resolved was that they told the client "Mrs Chako is probably not going to like this answer."
What part of "no way in hell is this the answer" doesn't mean, unequivocally, "no way in hell?"
Felt like writing a big WTF on the memo and handing it back.
But I'm sure I'll put my nice girl pants on (the ones that hang in the back of my closet, next to my big girl pants, Betty) and find a nicer way to tell them. Does "no f---ing way in hell" count?
You've all had fair warning today.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
Monday, March 24, 2008
Busted
Editor's note:
So I'm an accountant by trade. But inside, there is an actress, a singer, a dancer, a photographer, a writer. Accounting just pays better. And I'm technically better at it. But, inspired by the hoardes of you who actually write fiction, I've decided to post my own. Good or bad, you decide. If you ever had a conniving, blackmailing younger sibling, you'll sympathize. Be prepared for mild sexual content. And infidelity. Which my husband hates immortalized in fiction, movies, etc. Sorry, honey. Suck it up.
And if I offended any Catholics (or Jews, for that matter) . . . well, its fiction. Suck it up. Read one of Waffles rants to put things in perspective.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
So I'm an accountant by trade. But inside, there is an actress, a singer, a dancer, a photographer, a writer. Accounting just pays better. And I'm technically better at it. But, inspired by the hoardes of you who actually write fiction, I've decided to post my own. Good or bad, you decide. If you ever had a conniving, blackmailing younger sibling, you'll sympathize. Be prepared for mild sexual content. And infidelity. Which my husband hates immortalized in fiction, movies, etc. Sorry, honey. Suck it up.
And if I offended any Catholics (or Jews, for that matter) . . . well, its fiction. Suck it up. Read one of Waffles rants to put things in perspective.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
Busted
She was bent over the suitcase, looking for a sweater to pull over her camisole, when she felt strong fingers around her waist. She jumped and spun around, covering her mouth and stifling a scream. Avi stood there, his dark eyes flashing, crinkling at the corners. In the midmorning sun, his olive skin glowed, and his dark curls showed dark mahogany highlights. His jeans were a dark faded wash, and his t-shirt clung to his lean, muscular frame. Some random Hebrew lettering on it she couldn’t decipher.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, loudly.
“I told you I had business in Milwaukee. I couldn’t be this close to you and not see you.” His slight accent was musical, made the butterflies in her stomach dance. “Come here, my Shoshana,” he murmured, reaching for her belt loops on her jeans. My Rose. No wonder she couldn’t resist him. For a moment, Rosemary let her body go slack, melt against his body. Feeling the heat from him, feeling him hard in his jeans. He kissed her ears, her neck, whispering Hebrew phrases against her skin. Her hands wound their way involuntarily through his hair, slipping through the big, soft curls, pulling his mouth up to hers. He had a way of kissing her like no other; as if he were breathing her breath, smelling her skin, drinking her essence all at the same time.
A noise in the hallway caught her attention, snapping her back to reality. She quickly disentangled her fingers from his hair, the diamond on her left hand catching his curls. He reached up to grab her hand, freeing his hair, but lingering on the ring. Spinning it around on her finger while he stared intently at her face. She could feel herself flush; she hadn’t finished her discussions with David and her parents didn’t know yet. Probably wouldn’t take the news well at all. She pulled her hand away and turned away from him. “Avi . . .”
He stepped up behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist, kissing her neck, and putting a finger over her mouth. “I am a patient man, my Shoshana. I will wait.”
She could feel her resistance slipping away. Then, the noise again. She pulled away, put some distance between them. Well, as much distance as she could while he still held her fingers tight in his own. “Avi, you shouldn’t be here. How did you even find me? How did you get in?”
He smiled at her. “Google is an amazing thing. And your parents are like every other small town family. No one locks their doors. I knocked; when no one answered, I came around to the back, where you said your old bedroom was. And found you.”
Now she felt self-conscious. Realized he was standing in her old bedroom, with its shabby, patchwork quilt her mother made when she was ten. The high school honor awards. Her confirmation picture. The miniature statue of the Virgin Mary . . .
“Avi, you shouldn’t be here,” she repeated. “My parents are going to be home from mass any minute now. My sister is staying here for the weekend. How am I going to explain you?”
He moved forward to kiss her again. “How about your business colleague that just happened to be in the area?” he whispered, running his fingers up her rib cage and under her breasts, his tongue teasing the corners of her mouth. Hair tickling her face.
She succumbed to one kiss, then pulled away. “Avi, if I never come visit them on business, they’ll never believe you had business in this town. You should have called.”
“I did, my Shoshana. You didn’t answer.”
Rosemary, grimaced, remembering the cell phone reception was sometimes poor out here. At that moment, she heard a car in the driveway. She began to feel panicky, then looked around. “Avi, they can’t find you here. I need you to hide, just ‘til I can figure out how to get you out of the house.” She grabbed his hand. Started to pull him toward the hallway, thinking she would have him sneak out back door and then go meet him.
The door opened before she touched the handle, and her 20-year old sister, Mary Catherine, burst in without knocking. Rosemary backed up, stunned, until she found herself backed up against Avi, still holding his hand.
“Father Paul was asking where you were . . .” Mary Catherine started, but then stopped, noticing the tall, dark-haired stranger in her sister’s room. She glanced down at Rosemary’s hand, still holding Avi’s. Rosemary dropped it, feeling herself flush again. Avi stood his ground. Mary Catherine’s eye narrowed as she processed the scene, then a slow smirk spread across her face. “Well, well, well, Rosie, what do we have here? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Rosemary was completely without words. Avi, however, found the situation amusing. He stepped forward, around Rosemary, extending a hand to Mary Catherine. “Avram Cohen. I work with your sister. Please. Call me Avi.” His slight accent seemed to charm Mary Catherine, and she smiled and batted her lashes.
“Nice to meet you, Avi.” An unnecessary emphasis on his name. “I‘m Rosemary’s sister, Mary Catherine. People just call me MC for short. So you work with Rosemary in Chicago?” An unnecessary emphasis on the word “work”. “Rosie must have forgotten to mention you. She can be sooo forgetful sometimes. Where are you from, Avi?”
Rosemary found her voice. “He’s originally from Isreal, MC. But he’s been living in Chicago for 10 years now. He works in our M&A practice.” She looked her sister in the eye, but couldn‘t hold her gaze.
Mary Catherine proceeded with her questioning, taking obvious pleasure in Rosemary’s discomfort. “So you’re Jewish, Avi?” Emphasis on ‘Jewish’, for Rosemary’s benefit. Mary Catherine reached out to touch the miniature Holy Mother, as if for additional emphasis.
Avi was unshaken. He smiled, and politely said “Yes.”
There was an awkward moment of silence, and Rosemary debated about what to say to her sister. Mary Catherine, however, had decided at this point to take it to a new height of uncomfortableness.
“Father Paul was saying that you and David had postponed your pre-marital counseling three times now. Mother laughed and said it was probably your busy schedule, but I could tell she was worried.” She stared at Rosemary, then turned to look at Avi, over her sister’s shoulder. “David is Rosie’s fiancée.” Heavy emphasis on fiancée. Mary Catherine turned back to look at her sister, pointedly. Avi said nothing, but Rosemary felt his hand come up protectively and rest on her waist. The motion was not lost on Mary Catherine.
This was not a conversation she wanted to have with her sister at this moment. But she didn’t have a choice, really. “MC, you can’t breathe a word of this to Mom or Dad or anyone, until I find a way to tell them. But David and I aren’t going to get married. We just haven’t . . . well, we just haven’t worked out the details, yet.”
Mary Catherine reached forward to grab her sister’s left hand, staring at the large solitaire. “Looks like you have a couple big details to work out,” she commented, lifting the ring for her sister to see, then glancing over Rosemary’s shoulder and staring at Avi. Rosemary glanced back, mortified, but Avi held Mary Catherine’s gaze, even smiling slightly at her.
“I know, MC. I know. Look, I need a huge favor from you. I need you to keep Avi out of Mom’s sight for a few minutes, until I can get out of here with him. I was planning to discuss it with Mom and Dad tonight at dinner, OK? Can you please just hide him in your room until I can make up an excuse to leave? Please MC?” Rosemary felt like a teenager, rather than a successful business woman at this point. What was it about coming home that always made you feel like a kid?
Mary Catherine’s eyes narrowed again. “For a price,” she began. “You will let me stay in your apartment downtown and let me borrow your ID when I feel like hitting Rush Street with my friends from school. Of course, that is, if you don’t have company.” Here, she looked directly at Avi. “And you will let me borrow your clothes. Like those.” Pointing to the little black Italian leather pumps Rosemary had brought back from her trip to Milan. And you’re going to help me convince Mom that the study abroad in Italy program is in my academic best interests.” Which really meant that she’d be closer to Marco, the Italian foreign student she’d met last semester, when he went back home.
“You know Mom won’t be crazy about you going to Italy for a whole semester,” Rosemary reminded her sister. “She’s not going to want to pay that much, and she knows about Marco.”
Mary Catherine pouted a little and said, “Well, at least he’s Catholic.” Emphasis on Catholic. Rosemary cringed, looking apologetically at Avi. Mary Catherine continued. “I’ll understand if you can’t be my advocate,” she said, pathetically, looking at Avi, and then grinning at her sister.
Rosemary knew she didn’t have a choice. Not now. Not if she wanted it all to come out on her own terms. “Fine,” she sighed. Turned to Avi. “I’m sorry. Can I beg you to go with my sister, just for a bit? I’ll come get you and we’ll go get lunch and figure out what to do with you.”
He smiled. Glanced down at her and touched her face. Kissed her on the lips. Pulled her hips just a little closer, as if in invitation for something later. “Certainly, my Shoshana.” Kissed her on the nose.
Mary Catherine looked pointedly at her sister. “You owe me,” she reminded her, and then walked across the bedroom to the adjoining door to her room. “Come, Avi. Let me show you some pictures of when Rosie was little.” Avi walked across the room to join her, looked back at Rosemary, then stepped through the doorway. As Mary Catherine started to close the door behind her, she poked her head back into Rosemary’s room. “Is he circumcised?” she stage-whispered.
Rosemary picked up a stuffed animal and threw it at her sister’s retreating frame. She turned with her back to the outside door, and slumped down on the floor. Twirling the diamond solitaire on her finger. Wanting to fast forward through this next part.
She was bent over the suitcase, looking for a sweater to pull over her camisole, when she felt strong fingers around her waist. She jumped and spun around, covering her mouth and stifling a scream. Avi stood there, his dark eyes flashing, crinkling at the corners. In the midmorning sun, his olive skin glowed, and his dark curls showed dark mahogany highlights. His jeans were a dark faded wash, and his t-shirt clung to his lean, muscular frame. Some random Hebrew lettering on it she couldn’t decipher.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, loudly.
“I told you I had business in Milwaukee. I couldn’t be this close to you and not see you.” His slight accent was musical, made the butterflies in her stomach dance. “Come here, my Shoshana,” he murmured, reaching for her belt loops on her jeans. My Rose. No wonder she couldn’t resist him. For a moment, Rosemary let her body go slack, melt against his body. Feeling the heat from him, feeling him hard in his jeans. He kissed her ears, her neck, whispering Hebrew phrases against her skin. Her hands wound their way involuntarily through his hair, slipping through the big, soft curls, pulling his mouth up to hers. He had a way of kissing her like no other; as if he were breathing her breath, smelling her skin, drinking her essence all at the same time.
A noise in the hallway caught her attention, snapping her back to reality. She quickly disentangled her fingers from his hair, the diamond on her left hand catching his curls. He reached up to grab her hand, freeing his hair, but lingering on the ring. Spinning it around on her finger while he stared intently at her face. She could feel herself flush; she hadn’t finished her discussions with David and her parents didn’t know yet. Probably wouldn’t take the news well at all. She pulled her hand away and turned away from him. “Avi . . .”
He stepped up behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist, kissing her neck, and putting a finger over her mouth. “I am a patient man, my Shoshana. I will wait.”
She could feel her resistance slipping away. Then, the noise again. She pulled away, put some distance between them. Well, as much distance as she could while he still held her fingers tight in his own. “Avi, you shouldn’t be here. How did you even find me? How did you get in?”
He smiled at her. “Google is an amazing thing. And your parents are like every other small town family. No one locks their doors. I knocked; when no one answered, I came around to the back, where you said your old bedroom was. And found you.”
Now she felt self-conscious. Realized he was standing in her old bedroom, with its shabby, patchwork quilt her mother made when she was ten. The high school honor awards. Her confirmation picture. The miniature statue of the Virgin Mary . . .
“Avi, you shouldn’t be here,” she repeated. “My parents are going to be home from mass any minute now. My sister is staying here for the weekend. How am I going to explain you?”
He moved forward to kiss her again. “How about your business colleague that just happened to be in the area?” he whispered, running his fingers up her rib cage and under her breasts, his tongue teasing the corners of her mouth. Hair tickling her face.
She succumbed to one kiss, then pulled away. “Avi, if I never come visit them on business, they’ll never believe you had business in this town. You should have called.”
“I did, my Shoshana. You didn’t answer.”
Rosemary, grimaced, remembering the cell phone reception was sometimes poor out here. At that moment, she heard a car in the driveway. She began to feel panicky, then looked around. “Avi, they can’t find you here. I need you to hide, just ‘til I can figure out how to get you out of the house.” She grabbed his hand. Started to pull him toward the hallway, thinking she would have him sneak out back door and then go meet him.
The door opened before she touched the handle, and her 20-year old sister, Mary Catherine, burst in without knocking. Rosemary backed up, stunned, until she found herself backed up against Avi, still holding his hand.
“Father Paul was asking where you were . . .” Mary Catherine started, but then stopped, noticing the tall, dark-haired stranger in her sister’s room. She glanced down at Rosemary’s hand, still holding Avi’s. Rosemary dropped it, feeling herself flush again. Avi stood his ground. Mary Catherine’s eye narrowed as she processed the scene, then a slow smirk spread across her face. “Well, well, well, Rosie, what do we have here? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Rosemary was completely without words. Avi, however, found the situation amusing. He stepped forward, around Rosemary, extending a hand to Mary Catherine. “Avram Cohen. I work with your sister. Please. Call me Avi.” His slight accent seemed to charm Mary Catherine, and she smiled and batted her lashes.
“Nice to meet you, Avi.” An unnecessary emphasis on his name. “I‘m Rosemary’s sister, Mary Catherine. People just call me MC for short. So you work with Rosemary in Chicago?” An unnecessary emphasis on the word “work”. “Rosie must have forgotten to mention you. She can be sooo forgetful sometimes. Where are you from, Avi?”
Rosemary found her voice. “He’s originally from Isreal, MC. But he’s been living in Chicago for 10 years now. He works in our M&A practice.” She looked her sister in the eye, but couldn‘t hold her gaze.
Mary Catherine proceeded with her questioning, taking obvious pleasure in Rosemary’s discomfort. “So you’re Jewish, Avi?” Emphasis on ‘Jewish’, for Rosemary’s benefit. Mary Catherine reached out to touch the miniature Holy Mother, as if for additional emphasis.
Avi was unshaken. He smiled, and politely said “Yes.”
There was an awkward moment of silence, and Rosemary debated about what to say to her sister. Mary Catherine, however, had decided at this point to take it to a new height of uncomfortableness.
“Father Paul was saying that you and David had postponed your pre-marital counseling three times now. Mother laughed and said it was probably your busy schedule, but I could tell she was worried.” She stared at Rosemary, then turned to look at Avi, over her sister’s shoulder. “David is Rosie’s fiancée.” Heavy emphasis on fiancée. Mary Catherine turned back to look at her sister, pointedly. Avi said nothing, but Rosemary felt his hand come up protectively and rest on her waist. The motion was not lost on Mary Catherine.
This was not a conversation she wanted to have with her sister at this moment. But she didn’t have a choice, really. “MC, you can’t breathe a word of this to Mom or Dad or anyone, until I find a way to tell them. But David and I aren’t going to get married. We just haven’t . . . well, we just haven’t worked out the details, yet.”
Mary Catherine reached forward to grab her sister’s left hand, staring at the large solitaire. “Looks like you have a couple big details to work out,” she commented, lifting the ring for her sister to see, then glancing over Rosemary’s shoulder and staring at Avi. Rosemary glanced back, mortified, but Avi held Mary Catherine’s gaze, even smiling slightly at her.
“I know, MC. I know. Look, I need a huge favor from you. I need you to keep Avi out of Mom’s sight for a few minutes, until I can get out of here with him. I was planning to discuss it with Mom and Dad tonight at dinner, OK? Can you please just hide him in your room until I can make up an excuse to leave? Please MC?” Rosemary felt like a teenager, rather than a successful business woman at this point. What was it about coming home that always made you feel like a kid?
Mary Catherine’s eyes narrowed again. “For a price,” she began. “You will let me stay in your apartment downtown and let me borrow your ID when I feel like hitting Rush Street with my friends from school. Of course, that is, if you don’t have company.” Here, she looked directly at Avi. “And you will let me borrow your clothes. Like those.” Pointing to the little black Italian leather pumps Rosemary had brought back from her trip to Milan. And you’re going to help me convince Mom that the study abroad in Italy program is in my academic best interests.” Which really meant that she’d be closer to Marco, the Italian foreign student she’d met last semester, when he went back home.
“You know Mom won’t be crazy about you going to Italy for a whole semester,” Rosemary reminded her sister. “She’s not going to want to pay that much, and she knows about Marco.”
Mary Catherine pouted a little and said, “Well, at least he’s Catholic.” Emphasis on Catholic. Rosemary cringed, looking apologetically at Avi. Mary Catherine continued. “I’ll understand if you can’t be my advocate,” she said, pathetically, looking at Avi, and then grinning at her sister.
Rosemary knew she didn’t have a choice. Not now. Not if she wanted it all to come out on her own terms. “Fine,” she sighed. Turned to Avi. “I’m sorry. Can I beg you to go with my sister, just for a bit? I’ll come get you and we’ll go get lunch and figure out what to do with you.”
He smiled. Glanced down at her and touched her face. Kissed her on the lips. Pulled her hips just a little closer, as if in invitation for something later. “Certainly, my Shoshana.” Kissed her on the nose.
Mary Catherine looked pointedly at her sister. “You owe me,” she reminded her, and then walked across the bedroom to the adjoining door to her room. “Come, Avi. Let me show you some pictures of when Rosie was little.” Avi walked across the room to join her, looked back at Rosemary, then stepped through the doorway. As Mary Catherine started to close the door behind her, she poked her head back into Rosemary’s room. “Is he circumcised?” she stage-whispered.
Rosemary picked up a stuffed animal and threw it at her sister’s retreating frame. She turned with her back to the outside door, and slumped down on the floor. Twirling the diamond solitaire on her finger. Wanting to fast forward through this next part.
Let There Be Light . . .
A friend of mine had the quote of the day. It was in reference to someone else, but I'm sure I'm guilty plenty of times too.
" . . . well, it's dark with your head up your ass."
Fortunately, for me, today I can see the sun shining. But next time things seem a little dark, I'll make sure I don't just automatically blame the Seattle weather.
Got light?
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
" . . . well, it's dark with your head up your ass."
Fortunately, for me, today I can see the sun shining. But next time things seem a little dark, I'll make sure I don't just automatically blame the Seattle weather.
Got light?
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
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