This Old House…

The following week, a few days after her thirty-eighth birthday, Cindy Prior asked Sara to meet her at the corner of 20th and Cherry, just a few blocks from where Sara worked. They walked together over cracked and buckled sidewalk down a row of distraught houses. When they reached a faded yellow-brown bungalow, Cindy swung open her arms as if to embrace it.

“Ta-da!” Cindy’s enthusiasm only confused Sara until she added, “It’s mine! It’s my house!” She fished a set of keys from her khakis. “We can go inside and everything!”

They entered through the kitchen, which seemed like it had served the previous owner more as a mud room. The refrigerator was avocado green, and the stove the grisly scene of perhaps one aborted attempt at a meal.

“Everything’s original, and there’s a lot of potential,” Cindy said, quoting her real estate agent and friend Jane Hind. Sara heard more of Jane’s euphemistic descriptions — “classy lines,” “unique,” “old Seattle” — as Cindy escorted her through the house. Off the kitchen were two small bedrooms, one putatively the master but by too small a degree to lord over the other. Instead of a showcase interior, the perfect idealized moment in home owning captured for display, the front room looked as if people arguing about money had left suddenly and violently.

“My lease isn’t up at the Wallingford apartment until the end of the year,” Cindy said, “so you don’t have to feel any rush to leave. And, you know, you can always stay here… once it’s ready for me… or us…  to move in. I mean, I know you wanted your own place.”

Sara was only interested in privacy. She’d legally owned two houses with Matt, but she could never maintain a quiet space in either of them.

“Have you had the property inspected?” Sara asked.

“Yeah, Jane has been super helpful. She referred me to a friend of hers who handled it for a fair price.”

“It’s quite a purchase,” Sara said delicately, because the tattered residence was still likely beyond Cindy’s reach, at least on her own.

“My dad loaned me money for the down payment,” she confessed, “… a big part, to be honest… well, all of it, actually. He won’t even consider it a loan. He was so thrilled to help. When I discussed it with him, he just laughed and said, ‘Sure, Captain! You’ve never asked for anything.’”

“You never asked him to stop calling you Captain?” Sara wondered.

“Now you have to see this!” Cindy pushed open the front door, which rattled uneasily on its hinges and revealed a sweeping wraparound porch. “It’s my favorite part of the whole house.” She stopped to look at Sara with consoling eyes. “I’m sorry. This doesn’t bother you, does it?”

Sara cocked her blonde head, considering. “No, I like porches.”

“Oh, I mean, well, your old house had that spectacular porch. I was so peanut butter jealous whenever I came over.” Cindy pulled on her rusty curls like someone trying to straighten lopsided blinds. “But, you know, ‘isn’t that nice?’ jealous not Corinthians jealous.”

“Right,” Sara replied. She had lived in the house on 17th and Prospect for almost a decade, but the day she left, it just felt like checking out of a luxury hotel after a long stay. “I still like porches,” she reassured Cindy.

The swing had left with a past occupant, and orphaned twin chains hung from the ceiling, no longer securing anything. Sara gripped them briefly as if building momentum to propel herself to the knee wall, where she sat and looked out over the faded, ragged lawn.

“So, what do you think?” Cindy zipped and unzipped her down vest as she sat next to Sara. “Do you like the place? Should I keep it?”

Sara frowned. “I thought you’d already bought it.” The closest Sara’s voice came to alarm was when she learned she’d proceeded into a discussion while misunderstanding its key premise.

“Yeah, I have!” Cindy still glowed with the pleasure from her impulsiveness. “But Jane said I have three business days from the closing to kill the deal without penalty.”

Jane usually joked to her clients that this period was the “first trimester of the sale,” but she’d correctly guessed that Cindy wouldn’t appreciate the humor.

“I don’t think my opinion is as relevant as yours,” Sara said.

“Oh, but it is! Maybe even more so. I’m too close to this. It’s like being in love.” Cindy had no personal example to illustrate her point, so instead she said, “When Tim brought home Cyndi, he said he didn’t know how right she was until he saw how much we all loved her. So, you see, it’s really important to me to know how you feel.”

What Sara felt right now was the sudden force of Cindy hurling a decision at her like a medicine ball. She caught her breath and started to speak into her steepled fingers.

“Well,” she said, “this is only my casual observation, but it seems to me the house is in a significant state of disrepair. The exterior paint is peeling and mildewed. The basement is damp. The flooring in the front room will need to be replaced and the sloping addressed. There’s black mold in the bathroom. There’s a steady leak from the roof into the first bedroom. The second has a smell I can’t identify, but it’s possible something died behind one of the walls in the closet.”

“Oh, sure,” Cindy agreed with the trusting reliance of a blind woman being led across a four-lane highway. “But there’s a nice-sized dining room. I could put a real table in there, and I’m already dreaming up all the fun meals I could serve.”

Cindy loved to entertain but it was unrequited. Her apartment was too small; its location not ideal, so she was always a guest and never a hostess. She patted the knee wall, which coughed up dust. “Can’t you imagine sitting out here on a nice day with a beer?” Remembering who she was talking to, she added, “… or a lemonade? Or barbecuing in the backyard?”

“The grass in the backyard is run down and sparse,” Sara noted, “and where there’s no grass, there’s mud and large holes. I think the previous owners had dogs — probably German Shepherds based on the dirt path around the fence.”

Cindy perched her chin on her folded hands. “They’re very happy running in circles, aren’t they?” She spoke as if she saw the former canine tenants romping through the backyard. “Not really going anyplace.”

“I don’t think happiness is what they feel,” Sara said. “They’re just reacting on instinct.”

“Oh, you’re probably right,” Cindy conceded without a struggle, “but I hope that’s not true. Even if they tore up the yard, I’d hate for them to be unhappy.”

“But they’re not unhappy,” Sara stressed, “because they don’t worry about being happy. That’s how they can experience joy.”

Cindy smiled at Sara as though she’d shared something intimate and profound.  “I think this place could be my joy,” she declared, waving her hands in front of the house as if performing an illusion. “It’s like my Charlie Brown tree.”

She’d interpreted Sara’s words as something far different than what was intended, but rather than correct her, Sara chose to bolster her optimism with practicality.

“Most of what I described can be repaired,” Sara said. “It would just take some work.”

“And love!” Cindy added, but Sara, who’d been in love, wasn’t sure how the emotion could combat black mold.

“I think,” Sara said after a moment, “ ‘some work’ might be less accurate than ‘a lot of work.’”

“Well, you probably know more about all this than I do,” Cindy said. “You’ve been through it all before when you moved into… the place on 17th.”

“Not really,” Sara said. “Matt just hired someone. There were always people whose job it was to come to us with options. They never provided clarity, just more choices, which I believe Matt secretly enjoyed — anything to delay an actual decision. I remember all this discussion over the color of an accent wall in the den. It eventually wound up being…” She realized she couldn’t remember. “Blue… I think.” She squinted, as if trying to see the wall in her mind. “Maybe purple.”

“Aubergine,” Cindy said quickly. “I loved how the wall provided contrast but didn’t clash with the purple exterior of the house.”

“I thought the exterior was blue,” Sara said, pausing to process this new fact. Perhaps nothing in her life had ever been blue. “See, I’m obviously of no help to you in that area. But I’m happy to assist with…” She started to say “things that matter” but if accent walls mattered to Cindy, she didn’t want to impose her own views on the subject. She walked over to the swing chains. “You know, I used to build things. When I lived with Adam and Barbara, we mowed our own lawn, cooked our own meals, fixed things around the house — not because we had to, but because we wanted to. It’s so peaceful, in a way, to just focus on a simple task without the distraction of needless complexity.”

Cindy lightly fingered the peeling paint, and flush with excitement, she whispered to Sara, “I’m thinking this would look great as a nice, deep blue gray.”

“OK,” Sara said, smiling. She wasn’t moved by the choice of color, nor did she find it “nautical” and “serene” as Cindy described, but it pleased her that the decision was made quickly and with so little fuss.

“I’m not married to it, of course,” Cindy said, although she’d had her heart set on the color after first seeing the house.

Sara cocked her head again. “Well, I wouldn’t think so. It’s only paint.” Loose, leathery sheets came off with her touch. “When can we start?

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Posted by on November 18, 2015 in The Wrong Questions



The Surprise Party…

Sara sat outside with a just-prepared lunch of grilled cheese, and soon an hour had passed without any reason for her to return to the kitchen. That’s when she felt her phone vibrate against her thigh. She couldn’t ignore the call, because that would imply she was busy or away from the phone, and neither was true.

“Sara! So good to hear your voice.” It was Cindy’s sister, Mindy Gardner. They’d met during Sara’s freshman year of college when Cindy invited her to Thanksgiving with the Priors in Spokane. The then thirteen-year-old Mindy spent the holiday running around shouting the words “Mah-Na Mah-Na” at the top of her lungs. Cindy brought Mindy as her guest to Sara’s wedding in 2005, which probably explained why Mindy returned the favor when she married five years later. They’d exchanged only a few dozen words during that period, but Mindy spoke now as if there was a depth of intimacy between them.

“I’m a bad sister,” she whispered as though expecting Sara to dispense Hail Marys. Mindy had put the call on speaker, and a car horn would blare whenever her drive home from work steered toward the potentially fatal. She was a dentist, like her father, and a good portion of her client base were the children of his patients who’d moved to Portland as adults. “I’ve been planning this big birthday bash for Cindy-bon next Saturday and I’m way behind.”
The next Saturday was August 23, so the timing confused Sara. “Cindy was born on September 1,” she said.
“Yeah, but that’s actually Labor Day weekend. Rick and I are going down to Sunriver with another couple.” Mindy started to hum “Take a Chance on Me.” The impromptu hold music stopped once a thought occurred to her. “It’ll be a surprise party! Won’t that be fun?”
“Does Cindy like surprise parties?”
“Totally! Who doesn’t?”
Sara did not, but Mindy’s question was rhetorical, as evidenced by her moving on to the particulars of the party.
“Hey, so Cindy-bon tells me you’re like a chef at some Capitol Hill gastropub.”
The statement met the requirements of a simile but was otherwise inaccurate, so Sara repeated what she knew Cindy had actually told her sister.
“I work as a cook at a diner in the Central District.”

Mindy continued as though Sara had only confirmed what she’d said. “That’s awesome! Yeah, so you know, we renovated our kitchen last year, but I’m still kinda helpless in it, and my shorter, older sister deserves better than my cereal a la Mindy!”
Sara had lived apart from Matt for a couple months now, and during that time, she’d realized that the frustrating way he had of asking favors was not unique to him.
“Would you like my help with anything?” she asked.
Mindy shouted, “Woo-hoo. You’re a total rock star. When Cindy-bon and I throw parties together, she normally handles all the nuts and bolts: you know, food, prep, clean-up. I’ve got the invitation all saved and everything on Paperless Post, so I just need some help with what’s left.”


“Actually, have you ever used Paperless Post? I’m looking at it now on my iPad…” There was another loud honk. “…and the background design saved great, but the time is AM and not PM. I suppose people would know the difference, but you hate to chance it. Oh, and my address is wrong.”
“If you’d send me the link, I could take a look.” Sara was rushing her responses in order to bring the call to a conclusion, which was one reason why she avoided talking on the phone. It was easier for her to reflect on someone’s words and then prepare the right response over an email or text.
“Oh, you’re a lifesaver!” Mindy’s tires screeched as she suddenly slammed on her brakes. “I’d have my office manager fix it, but she starts getting all Occupy Portland if I even ask her to make me an AeroPress.”

— from “The Wrong Questions”

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Posted by on October 11, 2015 in The Wrong Questions


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Kay’s Burgers and Fries…

It was the fourth of July, and everyone was celebrating elsewhere. Kay’s Burgers and Fries, on Cherry Street in Seattle, was a small brick building between a dumpster and a beauty supply store that was rarely open. The owner of the establishment leaned across the counter from Sara and scanned her application like it was the Sunday crossword. The waitress, who was nine months into her twenties and six months into her first pregnancy, sat with her feet up at a round metal table and stared out the window that looked out onto the dumpster.

“What do you wanna wait tables for, Richter?” Kay called everyone by their last names. It was a habit she’d picked up from her late husband, who’d served in the Marines during Vietnam. A framed Polaroid of him in front of a flat-top grill hung on the wall.

“I don’t,” Sara said, and a frown further creased Kay’s nicotine-etched face. She continued, reassuring Kay that she wasn’t wasting her time. “I’m answering your posting for a cook.”

Sara’s voice was deep and placid, but it rippled slightly when she expressed her need for a job. It was the first time in her thirty-six years that she’d had a definite need for anything.

“Oh, right, I put out something for both. I got two waitresses ready to hatch.” Kay pulled a pencil from behind her ear and started to scribble on the application. “Can you work late afternoons, nights? We close at 11.”

“Yes,” Sara replied, nodding, “I’ll work anytime at all.”

“You’ll work Jewish holidays?” Kay raised her head and looked over Sara. She was tall and blonde with high cheekbones and large blue eyes. “I suppose that won’t affect you, but I just like to be upfront. This is a business: We’re open every day but Christmas.”

“I understand,” Sara said. “I’d actually like to work long hours.”

Kay grabbed Sara’s hands. They were firm, thin, and unmarked, without even the mild irritation from wearing rings.

“Well,” Kay said after a moment’s careful study, “you’ve either never worked a day in your life or you’re pretty good.” She tapped her on the knuckles. “All right, come with me and we’ll sort you out.”

Kay took Sara through a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen. It was clean but cramped with barely enough room for the cook, who Kay introduced as her son Kevin. He quickly straightened himself to match Sara’s height and wobbled slightly on the leg he’d injured in Iraq. The wound was self-inflicted, much like the war itself, but accidental, so there were no medals or honors, just an early release home. When he returned, he started working for his mother. “Just temporary,” he insisted then and even now to Sara. “Until I can find something else…” He gestured grandly at the undefined dreams that lay somewhere over Sara’s shoulder. “You know, with some opportunity.”

“Yeah, good luck,” Kay snapped, and her son slumped back to his normal, unadjusted five feet nine inches. She lamented to Sara with a shrug, “I had him late. I was barely thirty, and I spoiled him, as you can see.”

Kevin insisted he hadn’t been spoiled. He even did his own laundry and cleaned the bathroom twice a month. (Kay, it seemed, was both his employer and roommate.)

Sara raised her hand. “Excuse me. I think you wanted to ‘sort me out’?”

“Right!” Kay snapped her thick fingers. “Show her how we make a burger, honey.”

Kevin, his face reddening, grumbled under his breath in undecipherable protest over Kay’s calling him “honey” in front of another woman, especially one he hoped to impress. Most men either subtly or overtly tried to impress Sara. She’d been the audience for an unending series of auditions ever since she left Pennsylvania eighteen years ago.

“We do just two things here — burgers and fries,” Kay said. “The fries anyone can learn, but if you can’t cook a burger right the first time, there’s no helping you.”

“Eighty-twenty ground chuck,” Kevin said, forming two patties between the palms of his hands. “All our burgers are the same size — no tall, no venti, no grande… just large.” Pleased with his own clevernesses, he offered Sara a smile, which she accepted patiently.

— from The Wrong Questions

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Posted by on October 5, 2015 in The Wrong Questions


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Thanksgiving with the Merricks…

Sara returned from her walk through the Pearl District with her mind cleared of all frustrations from the other day. Perhaps if she’d walked longer and further, she might have realized that she hadn’t achieved clarity so much as she’d managed to tidily sweep up her feelings and put them someplace out of reach. It was like when Matt would agree to get rid of something they no longer used or had any need for, and he’d just move it to the basement or attic.

Back at the penthouse, she pulled off her boots by the front door and took whispered steps into the living room, where she stumbled upon the sepulchral figures of Gina’s in-laws displayed neatly among the furniture: Lillian Merrick was draped across the front of a walnut sofa, like a winter coat someone neglected to hang in the closet, and Doug Merrick sat on the opposite end with his legs parted wide and his stubby arms folded gravely.

 “Why, it’s Sara Richter!” Lillian glanced at her husband. “Did you know she was going to be here?”

 “I do now.” Doug plugged a thick finger into the gray shrubbery growing inside his ear. The only other significant amount of hair on his head was a bushy mustache, which Gina liked to call the “Tyrannosaurus Pornstachus.”

 “How are you?” Sara asked. 

 Doug answered, “Fine!” quickly, dismissively, which was his normal pattern of speech. Lillian’s fingers clicked together like knitting needles.

 “Oh,” she said hesitantly. “You mean today? Right now?” 

 “It ain’t the Daily Double, Lillian.”

“I’m sorry, Sara,” she murmured, punctuating her apology with a gust of laughter conspicuously devoid of joy. “It’s just… my mind… Doug’ll tell you… my mind’s in other places. See, we came over a little early, not to get in the way or anything… Gina has so much to do, not that she needs my help or asked for it… but anyway, I thought we might get some time with Charlie and the girls. We don’t see them as often as we’d like… and I checked with Charlie about what time would be best…”

“Two o’clock!” Doug broke in, his displeasure beating against Lillian like heavy rain. “You’d settled on two o’clock, which is when we got here, and they’re asleep.” He threw up his hands. “Middle of the day. I can understand the kids…”

Sara, who could hear Gina rattling with purpose in the kitchen, offered to ask the younger Mrs. Merrick to rouse her husband and daughters.

 “That’s sweet of you,” Lillian said, “but Charlie works so hard at Microsoft, I hate to disturb him. I know it’s not my place. I’m not his wife. I’m only his mother, but he needs his rest.”

 Doug smirked through his mustache, but he didn’t push the matter. He seemed content to be disappointed.

 “Did you just get back from a walk?” Lillian asked Sara. “I’ve always admired that about you. You’re so active.”

 “You’re wrong there, Lillian,” Doug said decisively. “The best thing about Sara is all up here.” He tapped his bald head. “She’s always been a smart girl, real level-headed. So’s Gina, for that matter.” After a moment’s hesitation, he included his own daughter. “And Teri, of course.”

Sara avoided taking a side in the “mind-body” debate and thanked the Merricks in equal measure for their dueling compliments. She sat in a straight back chair opposite the couple and served herself a healthy piece of the German butter cake laid out on the coffee table. She wanted to join Gina, but she felt committed to the Merricks for at least another few minutes. She’d known Doug and Lillian almost as long as her former in-laws, and although they’d always expressed genuine affection toward her, she felt a stifling tension in their presence from the couple’s tortured efforts to maintain an illusion of marital harmony. 

Doug’s right leg jerked restlessly. At his own home, he was constantly adjusting furniture, clearing shelves, wiping away traces of dust only he could see, but the penthouse was spotless beyond even his militaristic expectations, with everything just right, so he turned his attention to his wife, whose hand had fluttered over to take a tiny sliver of cake.

 “What did we discuss?” His lips drew tight across his face.

“Oh!” She wrapped the stolen slice in a napkin as if hiding evidence of a crime. “I’m just not used to eating Thanksgiving dinner so late in the day.” She gripped the napkin within a clenched fist. “I suppose that’s a regional difference, but we’re all happy to adjust to it for Gina’s sake. And of course the meals are so heavy and rich. It can throw you off your diet.”

Doug’s mustache bristled furiously. “It’s not a diet. It’s common sense. We could skip eating for the rest of the weekend after today’s full-fat fest.”

Lillian sighed, buckling under the weight of her husband’s declaration. “Well, it’s just wonderful to see you,” she said to Sara. “I’m so glad you’re spending Thanksgiving with us. I assume Gina didn’t tell me for a reason.”

“She works for a living,” Doug barked. “She was probably too busy to send you the guest list.”

“I just wish she had,” Lillian said, her sagging eyes still on Sara, “because I would have brought you something. Charlie says you’re practically starting all over, so you might need essentials, you know, like a good vase.”

Doug gestured in disbelief at the empty space beside him. 

“That’s kind of you,” Sara said, taking up another forkful of cake.

“Even when we didn’t have much,” Lillian continued, “I would always set the table with fresh-cut flowers. It can be whatever’s on sale at the supermarket, but it just makes your house feel like a home.” Her hand fell on Sara’s arm like a tissue. “Are your parents still in the same house?”

The question confused Sara, and Lillian explained she meant the same house where Sara grew up.

“No,” she said, pausing to swallow. “We didn’t stay in one place that long. We traveled a lot when I was young.” She mentioned a year spent in Costa Rica and another on a sailboat in the British Virgin Islands.

“I can’t imagine not feeling like you had a home,” Lillian said, shaking her narrow head sadly. “We were determined that Charlie and Teresa would have stability, so no matter the sacrifice, we promised never to move while they were in school. When their father was transferred to Denver in ’89, I stayed here with them, and he rented an apartment in the city.” She smiled slightly at the memory. 

“Sara doesn’t care about that,” Doug broke in sharply. “What have you been doing with yourself?” he demanded

Sara knew Doug Merrick well enough to understand he was only interested in how she earned money, and she answered accordingly.

“Oh, that sounds… different,” Lillian remarked. “Do you say ‘Order up!’? I like when they say ‘Order up!'” Lillian shared her son’s sense of humor but not his freedom to express it.

 “Christ, Lillian, let her get a word in edgewise!” Doug yanked on the ends of his blazer sleeves. “We’ve never spent that much time in restaurants.”

“No, that’s true…”

“Of course, it’s true, why else would I mention it? We never ate out. Now, I did occasionally at business meetings, which were always a waste of time, but we never went to a sit down place and paid for it with my own money until…”

“Charlie introduced us to Gina.” The napkin had shredded in Lillian’s hands and crumbs sprinkled over her shoes. “That would’ve been toward the end of his sophomore year — almost seventeen years!”

“She can remember that but not the exit to our house,” Doug grumbled.
Lillian pressed forward, her fingers weaving together. “I was more than happy to cook a nice meal at home, but Charlie wanted to make a good impression. It was The Metropolitan Grill. It’s probably the Irish in me, but I just find fancy dinners very showy. Anyway, that would have been spring of 1998.” She smiled at Sara. “You hadn’t met Charlie yet, had you?” After a meaningful pause, she added, “What a shame.”

Doug Merrick glared at his wife and, with only slightly less contempt, his watch. “I hope we see these girls before they go to college.”

“I’ve said I was sorry so many times!” Lillian billowed out from the sofa like thin drapes covering an open window during a storm. Her voice, however, never rose above its usual whisper, but that was still the moment when Lillian Merrick’s daughter-in-law appeared from the kitchen — spotless and composed, as if she’d only been calmly watching others at work. 

“I heard people talking out here, so I just assumed Charlie was up,” Gina said, placing a hand on Sara’s shoulder. “Why it’s almost 2:30!” 

Doug nodded while tapping the side of his nose. “Sara’s been entertaining us while we wait for our appointment.”

Gina clucked her tongue. “Why don’t I arrange a trade? I’ll go round up Charlie and the girls, and Sara can come help me dot the ‘i”s and cross the “t” in Thanksgiving.” She reached over to cut off a tiny piece of cake and popped it in her mouth.

— from “The Wrong Questions”

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Posted by on August 28, 2015 in The Wrong Questions


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Hell Now or Hell Forever…

“That’s a lovely dress, Wiggles,” Gina said.

“Thanks!” She ran a hand down the front. “It requires some explanation.”

“Really?” Margaret smiled politely.

The explanation was long and circuitous and ultimately no more interesting than the process anyone went through to select and purchase clothing.

“Then the shop wouldn’t take my credit card,” she continued — well past her story’s natural climax. “I said, ‘The register clearly displays the AmEx logo among the cards you accept.’ The clerk goes, ‘Well, we did, but we don’t anymore, and I guess we never got around to changing it.’ I explained to her that the register’s display was basically a binding agreement. I asked to see the manager, and she went to get her, but by that point, I realized that my Visa was giving double cash back this month, so I just used that.”

Winifred Landman’s argumentative nature had steered her toward a career in law. For many years, she was only conservative regarding Israel, but her politics had taken a hard right turn after a homeless person fell asleep in the backseat of her Honda Civic, which she’d left unlocked before a night of bar hopping in Pioneer Square. Now she was proudly one of the toughest prosecutors in King County.

“So, I’m surprised Sara showed up to a wedding,” Wiggles said, “all things considered.”

“Sara always RSVPs as soon as she receives the invitation,” Gina explained.

“But circumstances have obviously changed,” Pauline noted.

“Maybe she knew Matt wasn’t coming,” Margaret suggested.

Gina shook her head, and blonde waves struck her shoulders. “No, once she commits, she always follows through. Even if Matt had shown up, it wouldn’t have mattered. That’s how she is.”

Now that Wiggles had entered into the subject of Sara’s marriage like a curvy canary in a gossip mine, the other women felt safe to venture further.

“I wonder what Sara told her parents?” asked Pauline, who didn’t buy wallpaper without parental consultation.

“She didn’t say,” Gina replied. She believed it entirely possible that Sara hadn’t mentioned her impending divorce to the Richters, which made the three-week delay before Sara informed Gina slightly more palatable.

“It would devastate Mom and Dad if I walked away from my marriage,” Pauline declared. “I could never do that to them. Even if I wanted to.” She chewed listlessly. “But I obviously don’t want to.”

Brenda Waylen was halfway through her second ginger pear cocktail and had started to become demonstrative. “But if you were unhappy…” she said.

“I’m not,” Pauline insisted as though repeating a mantra: “I have a wonderful marriage.”

“Oh, for sure, but if you were unhappy — and we can only imagine Sara was — all I’m saying is I’m sure your family would understand.”

“I’m sure they understand the Bible,” Pauline replied, her arms folded. “’What God has joined, let no man separate.’”

“Technically, though, Sara separated herself from Matt,” Wiggles pointed out. She added, shrugging, “I’m a lawyer.”

“And Sara’s parents might not see it that way,” Margaret said. “Aren’t they part of some quirky religion?” The word “quirky” was Margaret’s polite euphemism for “liberal.”

“The Religious Society of Friends,” Gina said to blank faces, so she clarified: “Quakers.”

“Oh, like Scientologists?”

“No, Wiggles, this religion wasn’t founded back in the ‘50s in someone’s garage.”

Margaret Ashe examined her teeth in the back of a spoon. Satisfied with her appearance, she tapped the utensil against her thin lips.

“We’re thinking of getting a new car,” she added tangentially.

“What’s wrong with your Outback?” Brenda asked.

“It’s OK… it’s functional. There’s just no joy in it anymore. It’s fine for Dylan to take to work, but we need something new for me. It’ll be good for the kids, too.”

Brenda set down her drink. “Maybe Sara felt that way about Matt.” She dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin. “I thought Matt was a good guy. Still is, I guess. No one’s perfect, of course, and Sara probably knew him best. But he always seemed charming and attentive. Better than a lot of husbands out there.” She picked up her drink again. “I suppose when Sara left Matt, it felt like she was saying we might as well all cut our losses… why bother?”

Everyone was quiet, except for Wiggles who chewed a cookie boisterously, and soon Gina felt obligated to state the obvious: “That’s not what she’s saying, Brenda… or doing, or implying. She’s getting divorced. That’s all. It happens.”

Pauline sniffed. “I don’t know the specifics of Sara’s situation, but I know what Mom always told me: Better to be in hell now than in hell forever.”

Gina recalled spending a weekend with Brenda and Margaret at Pauline’s house when they were in college. Her father had wandered around in a ratty robe and even sat on the sofa with his legs spread at full Basic Instinct. Pauline’s mother must have really feared eternal damnation.

— from “The Wrong Questions”

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Posted by on August 11, 2015 in The Wrong Questions


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Drinks at May’s…

By the end of dinner, Sara was exhausted from a long weekend of socializing, and she wanted nothing more than to retreat to Cindy’s apartment and read. She hadn’t decided what she’d download to her Kindle, but whatever she chose, she looked forward to the still silence of the words. Jane felt like a cocktail and more conversation: “Something cold with someone cool,” she said, directing the force of her smile at Cindy and the force of her words at Chris: “Do you want to drop Sara off at Cindy’s and then swing us over to May’s?”

Nodding pleasantly while paying the check, Chris Beltran accepted his girlfriend’s question as the directive it was. Later, per Jane’s instruction, he waited for Sara to cross the street and safely enter Cindy’s apartment building —  “It’s a little sketchy this close to the 99” — before driving half a mile to their next stop. May’s was a Thai restaurant on 45th designed to resemble an authentic old teak house. Through the lowered car window, Jane told Chris that she’d “Uber it” back to her condo in Belltown and then sent him on his way to Greenlake.

“All Thai restaurants smell like fish,” Jane said as she led Cindy downstairs, “and the food reeks of it, even the stuff with chicken or beef. But the lounge here is poppin.’”

The lounge gleamed red and glittery gold. They eased into a vinyl-lined booth. There were just enough people around to provide the illusion of privacy without the discomfort of true solitude.

“Chris is a doll,” Jane declared, “but a man can really dominate a conversation.” Cindy nodded, but she actually couldn’t recall Chris speaking more than a dozen words all day. He made Sara seem loquacious. “I’m stoked that it’s just you and me now.” Jane rested an arm behind her. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for some time. I’ve said, ‘Cindy Prior, that is a gal I’d like to know better.’ I don’t know why it hasn’t happened.”

“I’m sorry,” Cindy said, finding herself apologizing as if fully to blame, “the summer just got away from me.”

Jane ordered a Garuda’s Perch for herself and a Bubbly Hibiscus for Cindy. “They’re bomb,” she said. Cindy was usually wary of drinks with proper names, but she felt in the mood to escape her current mood.

“You’ve had a houseguest,” Jane noted, although Cindy had stopped thinking of Sara as just a visitor. “I know how it is. That’s why when people come see me, I put them up in a hotel.” She licked the sugar off the rim of her glass. “So, you think Sara will go back?”

“Go back?” Cindy repeated, swinging her crossed leg. “Where?”

“Who,” Jane corrected. “Matt.”

“Why, I don’t know.” Cindy took a quick sip of her drink. “She’s still adjusting.”

“Fair enough.” Jane shrugged. “But I don’t think she’s going back. I have faith in her.”

Cindy bit her lip to hold back a recent memory, and Jane poked her shoulder like she was testing a steak for its doneness.

“You know something I don’t?”

“Me?” Cindy pried her fingers from a thatch of red curls. “No.”

“Good, cause, what I’m saying is I’m happy for her. No else would say it. No one else would admit. But us.” Jane’s words lassoed Cindy and pulled her closer. “You and me. We’re a vanishing breed. We live our own lives.”

“I suppose.”

“Hey, we go home tonight, who’s there? No one we don’t want to be. How many wives can say that?” Jane clinked her glass against Cindy’s. “So, let’s talk about you.”

Cindy felt like a spotlight had been focused on her. She batted her eyes. “Oh, well, honestly, I’d have to say everything is just going great! I’m gonna be an aunt again, you know.” Jane nodded as she played with the zipper at the hem of her jeans. “Jacob’s awesome, but it’ll be so different having a niece. My parents are just thrilled. They’ve already rescheduled the trip to Peru they had planned for Dad’s sixty-fifth birthday so they can be in Portland when Mindy gives birth.”

“Peru, huh? Fancy. Well, vacationing there is. I hear actually living there is a bust.”

“Yeah,” Cindy agreed. “My mom thinks struggling countries are much nicer to Americans. They appreciate all the tourism, I guess. They’ve both really taken to traveling lately, especially overseas. They like America, of course, don’t get me wrong, but neither of them enjoy much of it outside the northwest.” Cindy paused to quickly offer an instinctive, middle-class defense of her parents’ wealth: “They’ve worked so hard over the years.”

“Good for them,” Jane said, adding with a wink, “and you eventually.”

“How’s your family?” Cindy asked, twirling her straw.

“They’re… relatives.” Jane laughed. “No, they’re boss. Barbecues. Holidays. All the stuff you’d expect. My dad retired three years ago: He finally left my mom.” She mimed striking a drum. “Ba-dah-bum! Seriously, though, he’s a great guy. Self-made man.” Jane noticed the palliative effect the subject of family, anyone’s family, had on Cindy, so she leaned back with her drink and continued. “My grandparents never had much money, so they were miserable. My dad always wanted more, but his brother didn’t make waves. You know the sort of kid who’s just as happy with an empty box for Christmas even if everyone else got a toy rifle? By their teens, it was clear their futures weren’t shade-worthy. Now, there was some distant cousin who never had a family of his own and was loaded. My grandparents practically adopted the old coot. They figured if they were nice enough, he’d reward them when the time came. That was also the only reason they ever went to church. Then in ’64, he croaks and leaves everything to my dad.”

“Why just your father?”

“He asked,” Jane answered with a shrug. “His folks danced around it — real poseurs. But Dad cut to the chase. They didn’t care at first. They thought he’d just hand it over and take whatever they felt like giving him back. You pay taxes. You know what that’s like. But they were too thick to see that the money had changed everything. It wasn’t even like they were his parents anymore. I mean, outside of, you know, biology, but in the real world, they were just this sort of pathetic middle-aged couple trying to tell him what to do. And who listens to poor people? So, he took off and enrolled at UC Santa Cruz. He just wanted to keep a solid C average so he could stay out of Vietnam. Or ‘Nam. He always calls it ‘Nam. Even though he never went. His brother go drafted, though, and he came back in a box. There wasn’t even much of a story, like what you see in the movies. He just died. Kids today spend $100,000 to get a degree, and they always feel like they got gypped. But my dad paid $20,000 to stay alive, so he considers it money well spent.”

Cindy stared into her glass and watched the ice cubes melt before pointing out, “But you said he was self-made.”

“Yeah,” Jane confirmed, not seeing any conflict. “He made it all for himself. He saw opportunity and took it. Like he always told me, ‘I never owned a slave or killed an Indian. My money’s as clean as anyone’s.’” She set her drink on the table and conducted her thoughts with heavily ringed hands: “See, what I’m saying is: You have to look out for yourself. Who else is going to do it? Family? Perhaps.” She shook her head. “A man? Perhaps.” She shook her head harder. “You’re the only definite. That’s the truth. God’s honest, gospel truth, and do they want you to embrace it? No, they want you to spend your whole life being afraid of it.” She held a candle below her face and spoke with a creepy intonation, “Don’t. Die. Alone. Let me tell you something, sister: We all do.” She put down the candle and picked up her drink. “No matter the size of your rock — I’ll buy my own, thank you! — or all the kids you wrecked your body having., OKCupid, eHarmony… What are those things? They’re a sand trap… no, they’re symptoms of a disease — people wasting their lives running from the inevitable. And I admire the stuffing out of you for just… standing still. It couldn’t have been easy. But look at you now! You have yourself, and that’s the only thing worth having.”

Cindy peered through her glasses at her almost-thirty-seven-year-old reflection in the mirror behind the bar. This was the first time in a while — if ever — that Cindy had thought of herself as a commodity. She finished her drink.

“Delish, huh? How about a couple more?” Not waiting for an answer, Jane signaled the bartender for another round. “Now, it’s true: I’ve got the word’s hottest man. But this is key: We each have our own places, set up just how we want. No arguments. No tension. No mess… we both have maids. I’ve got a closet full of stuff at his. He’s got a toothbrush at mine. It’s the best of both worlds. He asks me, ‘Should we move in together?’ I say, ‘No way!’ Why? For the same reason I give the middle finger to marriage.” She also physically flipped off the idea of wedlock. “I like my freedom. Why should I give that up?”

Jane’s candor shook Cindy’s propriety and caused her to ask, without her innate Prior filter, “Don’t you want kids?”

“Plenty of time for that!” She dismissed the four years remaining in her thirties with a sweep of light brown hair over her ear. “Besides, kids are an indulgence, not an investment. Look at those old biddies in the nursing homes. A horde of grandchildren among them. Who’s there every day? Their nurses. Clock in. Clock out. It’s all transactional. When they shipped my grandmother to one of those places, everyone she knew before she started forgetting everyone was already burnt toast. What she clung to the most was her home. Why? Because, in the end, how do we define happiness? Security! And that equals freedom, and freedom has a price tag.”

Jane moved closer to Cindy in the booth until her bare shoulder rubbed against Cindy’s fleeced arm.

“I want to show you something. It means a lot to me because I know it’ll mean a lot to you.” She slipped an iPad mini from her bag and opened an app with casual swipes of a pinky. “This is a house. I shouldn’t call it a house. That’s insulting. It’s an opportunity. It’s an experience. It’s under foreclosure, so we should act soon.” She lowered her voice, as if about to share something deeply personal. “Listen closely to what your heart tells you, because I feel like you’re going to fall in love.”

— from The Wrong Questions

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Posted by on August 5, 2015 in The Wrong Questions


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The FOX debate…

FOX has announced the 10 candidates for the GOP nomination who will appear in the first primetime debate.

The first primetime debate of the Republican primary race on Thursday will include ten candidates, according to FOX News: Donald Trump, Jeb Bush, Scott Walker, Mike Huckabee, Ben Carson, Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio, Rand Paul, Chris Christie and John Kasich. 

FOX, which is hosting the debate in Cleveland, Ohio, announced the list of the top 10 candidates based on recent national polling on air at 6pm ET Tuesday. 

Ohio Gov. John Kasich, who earlier last week was at risk of missing the cut for the primetime debate in his home state, made the cut at the 10th spot, edging out former Texas Gov. Rick Perry. 

Candidates that did not make the cut will participate in a separate debate earlier on Thursday. Those Republicans are: Perry, Rick Santorum, Bobby Jindal, Carly Fiorina, Lindsey Graham, Jim Gilmore and George Pataki. 

First off, I think it’s somewhat ridiculous for FOX to enforce an arbitrary cut-off for the debate. This isn’t American Idol. No one has voted yet, and they’ve already set a distinction between major league and minor league candidates, which I think effectively ends the campaigns of everyone in Tier 2. Yeah, they’ll have a “separate debate” earlier in the day, which about as many people will watch as will participate. It’s almost like the singles table at a wedding: “Bobby, I think you and Lindsey will get along smashingly. Yes, you just met a half hour ago but you’re both polling poorly, so you have that in common.”

Let’s also take a moment to consider that four governors (Gilmore, Jindal, Pataki, and Perry), and two senators (Graham and Santorum), who despite what you might think of their politics have some practical experience, won’t be on the same stage in a primetime debate for the GOP presidential nomination with the former star of The Apprentice. That is Trump’s occupation, by the way. That’s why most voters even know his name. It’s not like Steve Jobs is still alive and is running. No one sits down to watch Hulu on their “Trump Tablets.”

And Trump is arguably still the most appealing of the “major league” candidates. I suppose Bush is supposed to get credit for being the only closeted asshole of the bunch.

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Posted by on August 4, 2015 in Political Theatre


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