Jane

The concrete walls of L.A. are closing in on me. It’s the only reasonable excuse I can find for “crossing over to the other side.” This afternoon, I will be joining the Trophy Wives Club at a pedicure party. Someone touching my feet, religious women yapping on and on about how their men are rulers over them. I should just stay home and pull my toenails off for more fun, but here I am in a cab, riding the bumper of a BMW as we make our way downtown.

In Mexico, everyone’s Catholic and I’m used to living around Catholics. I like them. They eat, drink, and they’re merry. Everything’s a familial celebration, and you don’t eat meat on Friday. Those rules, I understand. Clam chowder is soup of the day on Fridays—that I understand. I suppose I don’t understand how a clam isn’t meat, but that’s nitpicking.

The Catholics are reverent when it’s called for: Hail Marys at funerals; black mourning clothes. They’re joyful when necessary: Las Posadas; Dia de los Muertos—which means day of the dead, but it’s really a celebration of life.

In contrast, Lindsay’s brand of religion is all-encompassing. She works out to music about Jesus, talks about everything being a blessing, and seems unable to name her misery. Catholics admit when life is miserable and trust me—it takes a lot more to call something misery in Mexico than it does here. If the 405 is closed for an accident, they call that misery. Not because someone’s hurt, but because they’re stuck in their BMW thirty minutes longer. Their cars are far more luxurious than the nicest homes in the Campeche state.

Lindsay is the needy sort who feeds off others. See, that’s where religion crosses the line for me. It has to be practical. That guilt of hers and wanting to make an offering for everything! No different than the Mayans, really, and she’s made her view of them clear.

I throw the cabbie an extra dollar, and he grunts. Maybe that was exceptionally cheap, I think as he squeals off, but I never have understood why I want to tip someone who puts my life in danger.

My Mexican-made leather sandals squeak as I enter the salon, causing everyone to turn around and stare. People here are so shiny, is it any wonder they think making their feet glisten is a necessity? It’s incredible to me how everyone in this town works to look exactly like one another, yet claims it’s about their individuality.

“Jane!” Lindsay gets up and greets me at the door, pulling me in by the hand. “Girls, this is Jane, Ron’s first wife.” She says it with such enthusiasm, you would think J. Lo herself had just walked in.

Everyone stands and surrounds me. I suddenly feel very old. There’s a woman about my age, but she’s as shiny as the rest of them. “Hello, Jane. I’m Bette,” she says and cups my hand in her own. It’s the first time I’ve felt welcome since I’ve been in the country. I smile and then focus on the gorgeous, young redhead beside her.

“You’re the one studying the Mayans?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, pleased someone knows.

“I’ve heard you named your cat Kulkucan, the plumed serpent. Directly related to the feathered Aztec god, Quetzalcoatl, but of course, Mayan.”

“Yes.”

“An odd name for a cat,” she replies. “Cats have no feathers.”

“No, that’s true,” I say, looking to Lindsay to rescue me.

“This is Helena Brickman. She likes facts,” Lindsay explains.

“I see.” I nod and look to the next trophy wife, wondering why on earth they don’t have enough respect for themselves to come up with a decent name. The Trophy Wives? Ugh. Honestly, they seem smarter than that, and I wasn’t expecting it from the name. “And this is?” She’s a long-haired, brunette beauty.

“Lily Tseng.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“She works with Haley at the agency. And Penny is our young mother. She’ll arrive harried in a few minutes with her twin boys in tow, and Haley will come and disappear with them. They have a mutual love affair going on. Haley would rather push them to the park, and play mommy than get a pedicure. I don’t understand it.”

“That’s because you never had a little boy look at you that way, Lindsay. It’s intoxicating.” I wink at her. “Nothing will melt your heart faster than a little boy looking up at you with those big eyes and that tousled hair that needs a good washing. It makes life worth living.”

“Only her little boy is now my age,” she tells the group.

“But to me, he’s still that little boy. Only now, he looks down at me instead of up.”

Bette nods. “Mine are grown and gone, too, Jane.”

“You have enough children to take care of with all of us,” Lindsay says brightly.

There’s a crash at the door, and we turn around to see a small display of nail polish knocked over, and splatters of pinks, reds and blues on the floor. Above them is the harried mother Lindsay described and two small boys. One reaches down to finger paint with the color when his mother grabs his arm and screeches. The Trophy Wives scatter to help clean up, and at the activity, one of the small boys says, “Uh-oh.”

A waft of pungent nail lacquer hits us squarely. “I’m sorry,” Penny says.

“Our fault. Our fault,” one of the workers says. “We knew you were coming today.” She bends over with some toxic substance and wipes the stains clear away while the Trophy Wife puts what’s left of the nail polish tree back to rights.

“That’s Penny,” Lindsay says, as if there needed to be an introduction. Penny is still too involved in cleanup to notice me, but one of her boys comes up to me. Once a boy mother, always a boy mother. They sense it.

“Hi.”

“Well, hello. Who are you?” I bend over and meet his gorgeous eyes. Children have eyes that melt any mother’s heart. In them, you know that all is not lost in the world. When I start to feel that way, I could always find a child on the street with huge, brown eyes that made me forget all my troubles for a time.

“I’m Micah. That my brother, Jonah.”

“You boys are very handsome.”

“Haley will be here in a few minutes to take you to the park. In the meantime, you two sit on those chairs and don’t touch anything!”

“They’re darling,” I tell Penny.

“They’re their own weather pattern,” she pants. “I wonder what it’s like to go out into the world and not fear every second of it.”

“But you know, these are the best days. Right now, you can hug them, and they’re not the least bit embarrassed. Snuggle into that dirt smell and enjoy, because when they’re gone, you’ll cry for these moments.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

I laugh. “That’s exactly what I would have said. I’m Jane Dawson, and my boy is now thirty-six and stands about five inches taller than me, but he’ll always be this size in my heart.” I pat one of the twins on the head.

“Penny McKenna, and you met Micah, and that’s Jonah,” she looks toward her son, and notices he’s got red running down his leg. “Oh, Jonah!” She goes toward him and sees it’s just collateral damage from the earlier polish crash, not a bloody gash. The same woman who cleaned up the floor comes and kneels before the small boy.

I know it isn’t funny to Penny, but the whole scenario is perfect boy. Bringing them into a nail salon is merely asking for trouble, but I hide my mirth for fear of offending her or making her feel any worse than I’m sure she does. I had many a moment in the grocery store I wish I could take back.

Haley walks into the salon and looks straight at the boys. “Already? I’m only five minutes late.”

Both of them scamper to their feet, Jonah avoiding contact with the cloth that’s washing his leg, and the boys start to jump around Haley’s feet. “Ice cream today!”

Haley looks at their mother and then back at them. “No more ice cream. Your mother says it makes you hyper.”

It must be something else, I think to myself. Like the fact that they’re boys.

The scene leaves me melancholy. How I miss the days when Ronnie would scamper in with some innocent, scaly critter and hold it up to my face proudly, causing me to squeal. Or when he’d play futbol and pass the ball into the goal victoriously and look straight to me for assurance. Jonah and Micah’s dad has evidently played with their innocence by having an affair—that’s what Lindsay said, so as I didn’t think Penny was the only happily married one. I could have been like Penny—shut my mouth and given Ronnie the secure home that Ron offered us—but my pride was far too strong for that. Maybe it wasn’t the life I wanted, but it was the one offered to me. Sometimes, looking a gift horse in the mouth turns into a sorrowful circumstance.

Haley and the twins retreat to a corner table with coloring books, and Penny gives a huge sigh as she settles into the giant massage chair. I am not at all frightened to hike the Copper Canyon alone at dusk, but having my first pedicure at fifty-three with a bevy of experienced fashionistas is enough to strike terror into my heart.

“I just get up here?” I ask, looking at the chair like it’s a rocky crevice—and me without my hiking boots.

“You seem older than Ron was,” Helena says, as I climb up gingerly. I have to laugh at everyone’s gasps. Helena is exactly like the old women in my neighborhood. They wouldn’t think twice of telling me how it is.

“It’s all right, ladies. I’m used to people who speak their mind. I’m fifty-three, Helena.”

“So he went much younger with Lindsay. Interesting.”

“Seventeen years my senior—I’ll save you the math,” Lindsay says.

“A wide spread. If one were to take the median—well, the average alone would be 8.75 years in either direction for his choice of women.”

“Would it? Fascinating,” Lindsay says drily. She looks over at me as if to apologize. But personally? I like Helena. What’s not to appreciate about someone asking the questions everyone wants to ask? People wouldn’t lean in for the answer if they didn’t care to listen, but they all lean in tightly, which says something about polite society. They may not purchase the People magazine for themselves, but they all pick it up when given the opportunity.

“I’ve always liked younger men. They’re the only ones who can keep up with me,” I tell Helena. “You can’t imagine how many men my age are anxious to get married again, if they’ve been left or widowed. If you’ve never felt like the most popular girl in school? Just wait until you’re fifty-five or better. We’re all tens about then, because men can’t stand the thought of dying alone.”

Helena looks at me blinking. “I don’t think anyone likes the idea of dying alone.”

“Well, that’s probably true. I just meant that I think it’s a great and sad truth that men are so desperate to get married as they get older, while they battle it with all their might as young men.” I let out a cautious laugh and finally I get a smile from her.

“You’re talking to the wrong group,” Lily pipes up. “We’ve had no trouble getting married. For us, the problem was staying married.”

“Well, that’s everyone’s problem, isn’t it? Marriage is never easy,” I tell her.

“It’s easier if you marry for love,” Lindsay says dreamily.

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? At eighteen, who knows the difference between love and lust?”

“She’s got a point,” Haley adds from across the room, and here I thought she was so into her coloring book.

“It’s too pessimistic, Jane. I think marriage is a commitment to the institution.”

I shiver. “You’re probably right, Lindsay, and maybe that’s my issue. I never did see the institution as being safe for a woman.”

Everyone looks at me, and I want to slink down into my vibrating chair and take it back. The difference between these women and me? They still have hope. They still believe Prince Charming will be riding in at any moment. I know better.

Haley tries to break up the tension. “Jane, if anyone should feel that way, it would be me. But Hamilton changed that for me. He’s never been married before, and I didn’t think I’d ever marry again, but look at me! I’m marrying a man who writes prenuptial agreements for his vocation. Love obviously gave way to his ideals.”

Yes, I think. Let’s do look at you. You’re a size-two, gorgeous blonde with a willowy figure, and an enormous rack. Is there a man on earth that would pass up the opportunity to show you attention?

“My son hasn’t been married before, and I’m certain if he spent his young life single—which could happen, he’s very committed to teaching”—I say to the other women—“I still think he’d want to be married when he was old and gray.”

“Her son will be married in no time,” Lindsay says. “He’s young, gorgeous, normal, and Christian.” Then she looks at me. “They go quickly.”

The way she speaks of my son both puts me at ease about her interest and frightens me. “He’s met a nice woman. Her name is Kipling,” I tell them with more enthusiasm than I’ve shown my son, but it dawns on me that I’m with the queens of the broken hearts club, and they’re not exactly concerned with my innocent son’s reputation.

“Her son Ronnie is dating a wonderful woman, and you know how men are when they get close to commitment, they always want to make certain she’s the one. So Jane’s just making sure he doesn’t have any questions, but they always have questions. Isn’t that right?”

The women all murmur their approval and I loosen my grip on the armrests.

I open my eyes. “No one is perfect. Lindsay’s made her mistakes; I’ve made mine. That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me, right?” I look to Lindsay, but Helena answers.

“True enough, but Lindsay’s given hers over to the Lord.”

“Has she?” I look to Lindsay, and she doesn’t seem any less burdened than myself. She still pines for her mother’s approval and freedom from her guilt, while I run the risk of my own son not speaking to me once he knows the truth. I’d say Lindsay and I are about even on the redemption scale.

Helena goes onto ramble some more religious ideals at me, but I’m lost in my thoughts—that and the foot massage. Lindsay made better choices than I did. Whether I want to admit it or not, sticking with Ron made her a better person. Running from him made me no stronger. I was never really free from his pull because of Ronnie. It’s with an extreme sadness that I realize I never faced up to anything. I thought I’d been the strong one, but all I’ve really done is run from the issues. I never faced them head-on, like Lindsay did.

“I’m done running,” I say to Lindsay.

“That won’t be easy for you,” she says to me. “When the going gets tough, you seem to take off for long stretches of time.”

“So I’ll find out what happens when I sit still.” But the very thought sends my heart racing.

“I hope you will,” she says warmly. “And maybe I can find out what happens when I move on.”

We stare at each other, trusting a little more, yet not fully. I think the real reason I hated Ronnie seeing something in Lindsay was because I couldn’t stand to think of him seeing something good in me. Not when I’d lied to him for his entire life and robbed him of a father figure. I suppose Lindsay and I have more guilt in common than I’d like to admit. Ronnie deserves better than the likes of us.

“I’m going to tell Ronnie the truth. And you’re going to go see your mother,” I tell her.

“I am?”

“You are, because the fear can’t be worse than avoiding the truth, can it?”

“What if she still hates me?”

“Then it’s her loss, as it has been for the last decade. Any mother that wants to be right more than she wants her daughter in her life—well, the problem lies with her. Do you understand me?” I feel motherly for the first time in many, many years.

Lindsay nods.

“If she turns you away, you know the truth. If my son turns me away, I—”

I don’t even want to think about what could happen. I just know Ronnie will find out the truth someday when I’m gone, and his memories will be tarnished anyway. The thought brings a lump to my throat, but it’s time to tell the truth. To take all power away from his real father.