Something New (5 page)

“Where did you move from?” I ask, my eyes still on the field. Matthew has now gotten to his feet and is attempting to steal the ball from Liam. He doesn’t have a prayer in hell.

“L.A. area,” Ben tells me.

“So, not far.”

“Well, no. But in terms of my job, it’s a lot different down here.”

Talk about a leading statement. I ask the next logical question. “What do you do?”

“I’m a cop,” he says matter-of-factly. “Detective.”

“Wow. Keeping the world safe for humankind, huh?”

He laughs. “I try.”

I process this information, looking at him from a new perspective. He’s like the superhero of dads. His kids probably can’t wait to bring him to Daddy Career Day. (My kids are still confused about what Jonah actually does.) I fleetingly
wonder what it would be like to be married to a cop instead of an office supplier. I mean, Jonah’s work is important (how would people do business if their companies didn’t have the proper equipment?), and sometimes it’s dangerous (he handles a whole line of very sharp letter openers), but let’s face it, we are not talking about someone who is trained to use a gun and probably saves lives on a daily basis.

Ben is talking, so I tune him back in. “My wife, Linda—you’ll meet her—she’s an environmental lawyer. She lowered her caseload when we had the kids, you know, pro bono work mostly, but she just got an offer from a firm down here to go back to work full time. So I put in for a transfer. The timing was good.”

Wow. An environmental lawyer. I’m impressed. She actually does something important, something that makes a difference in the world. (I know, I know, motherhood is supposed to be the most important job, but you can’t really put it on a résumé, now can you?) I suddenly feel inadequate. What have I been doing to make the world a better place? I mean, recycling only goes so far. I still use too much water in the shower, I leave the lights on all the time, and I’ve never donated a single dollar to any “save the wildlife” charity, ever. Bambi would probably take one look at me and pee on my shoes. I tell myself that Linda the Lawyer is probably a lousy cook, and she probably looks like Madeleine Albright on a really bad day, and no matter how immature it sounds, these thoughts make me feel better.

“What?” asks Ben. “You have a funny look on your face.”

“You’ve only just met me,” I say lightly. “Maybe that’s just the way my face is naturally.”

“Oh,” he says skeptically. “Well, you kind of reminded me of the little Tattoo guy from
Fantasy Island
for a minute.”

I am so shocked by his words that I burst into laughter.
Maddy and Tina simultaneously glare at me, most likely annoyed that they are not privy to our amusing repartee. If I were fifteen, I would stick my tongue out at them, but instead I merely smirk.

“You’re saying I look like Hervé Villechaize?” I exclaim.

“No, no,” he says, laughing with me. “It was just the evil grin. You’re a lot better looking than Hervé Villechaize.”

“Wow,” I say. “Thanks so much.”

Both of us still smiling, our eyes meet. And for an instant, I cannot feel any of my limbs, cannot detect my heartbeat, cannot draw in a breath. I am certain that Ben is not experiencing the same set of bizarre symptoms I am, but that fact does not diminish the effect his direct gaze is having on me. I quickly make a show of glancing at my watch and see that practice is due to conclude in two minutes. I stand up suddenly, almost lose my balance, barely avoid tumbling down the bleachers (firmly dispelling the myth that Matthew gets his klutziness from his dad), and feel Ben’s firm grip on my forearm, steadying me. In that split second, I notice that his fingers are long and hairless and his nails are clipped short.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush. “I’ve got to get moving. Still three more extracurricular activities to get to.”

He releases his hold on my arm. “Three more?” he asks with surprise. “Today?”

“Three kids, twelve thousand activities,” I joke, and he smiles.

“Wow. I’m glad I stopped at two kids.”

I feel that I should say something other than
See you around
or
Welcome to the area
, but I can’t think of anything pithy or humorous, so I just give him a little halfhearted wave as I climb down the bleachers. I pass Maddy and Tina and feel their speculative stares boring into the back of my head as I clamber over to the field to collect my son. Matthew
is talking to Liam about something of apparent grave importance, gesticulating madly, and as they approach, I catch the word
Transformer
. Liam’s big brown eyes are wide as Matthew explains something to him about regeneration or transmutation or whatever it is that Transformers do. I call to Matthew, trying to hustle him along, and receive a furrowed-brow look that tells me he’s in the middle of a very important discussion that cannot be rushed. I check my watch again, then put a hand to my hip.

“Matthew.
Now.
”

“Looks like Liam and Matthew are already thick as thieves.”

I turn to Ben, who is suddenly standing next to me. I nod. “Yeah. Transformers.”

“Maybe we can get them together for, you know, a play date or something.”

I glance at him and unsuccessfully suppress a grin. “They’re ten. You don’t call them play dates at ten.”

He shrugs in a self-deprecating fashion. “What do you call them, then? I mean, I should probably get familiar with the current lingo.”

“Just ‘hanging out’ is sufficient.”

“I’ll remember that. I don’t want to be the uncool dad.”

As if
that
would ever be possible.

“Matthew,” I say again with a fraction more urgency in my tone. Ben comes to my assistance and calls to Liam, who immediately obeys and marches over to his dad. Matthew follows. Introductions are made all around, and I’m impressed by Liam’s manners as he politely puts his hand out to shake mine and tells me that it’s very nice to meet me. (I am happy if my kids manage to utter
Hi
instead of just grunting self-consciously when meeting new people.) I compliment Liam on his soccer skills and earn a toothy, sideways smile.
Ben affectionately ruffles Liam’s hair, and we all move toward the parking lot, the boys shuffling ahead and resuming their debate about which is the most awesome Transformer.

We reach my Flex, and Matthew and Liam do a quick knuckle bump before Matthew jumps into the backseat.

“Good luck with the rest of your day,” Ben calls to me, then shifts his attention to his son. I get behind the wheel and start the car, watching through the windshield as father and son head for their own car. I think of Ben Campbell’s hand on my arm. Those strong, lean fingers. I shake my head as if to clear it, take a deep breath, then peel out of the parking lot as the next phase of Operation: Thursday Afternoon gets underway.

O
n
“Mad Dash” evenings, Jonah has the good grace to alleviate me of dinner duty, picking up takeout on the way home. Tonight he has opted for Dragon King, the local Chinese place that makes the best scallion pancakes within a hundred miles. Usually, I lay waste to at least four of the eight pancakes, but tonight, the first one I pull from the carton sits uneaten on my plate. I am currently trying to estimate the amount of calories and saturated fat contained in a single wedge of the deep-fried disk. My kids happily munch on their egg rolls (at their age, fat and calorie counting is an alien concept), and I have to remind them, for the four-thousandth time, to chew with their mouths closed. Jonah has reached his scallion pancake quota and is now shoveling chicken lo mein onto his plate with enthusiasm. He offers me the ravaged carton and I shake my head, garnering a look of puzzlement.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod and smile reassuringly. “I grabbed a snack at the Y,” I lie.

I am not in the habit of deceiving my husband, but a little fib like this seems harmless. It goes to the greater good. In marriages—mine, anyway—I have found that it is problematic for one party to engage in self-improvement tactics when the other is not. It shifts the balance of power too much. Like the time Jonah did Atkins. I was so envious of his sudden fitness that I consciously whipped up his favorite carb-rich dishes at dinner just to punish him. Or the time I joined a yoga studio at Jill’s insistence and started going to classes before breakfast. Suddenly, Jonah was besieged with early-morning client meetings and vendor emergencies that had to be solved at the crack of dawn, so that I could barely make it to half the weekly sessions. Ultimately, I had to let my membership lapse. I will admit that I was secretly relieved to have an excuse to give up yoga, as the only position I truly enjoyed making—and was moderately successful at—was Corpse. But still.

“You forgot to eat lunch, didn’t you?”

I nod and smile again, thinking of the Pop-Tarts. For some reason, I have gotten back on track with my whole resolution, reclaiming-my-former-babe-status thing. The Pop-Tart transgression was merely a setback. (And if I do the treadmill after dinner, I can erase those two or three hundred calories in forty minutes.) For the rest of the day I only chose healthy fuel for my body—a salad at lunch and a protein bar in the late afternoon to keep me from turning into Low-Blood-Sugar Monster Mom. I am now opting for the tofu with mixed vegetables instead of the lo mein and scallion pancakes.

At this time, I am not drawing a correlation between my renewed desire to lose weight and my acquaintance with Ben
Campbell. He hasn’t entered my mind at all over the past few hours. Really, he hasn’t. Okay, this isn’t quite true. He has. But only his hands, which have intermittently come to mind since our bleacher encounter. I tell myself that it is only natural to revisit the touch of a man other than your husband, regardless of how inconsequential or innocent said touch was. I am certainly not thinking of Ben sexually—this is the truth. I can appreciate his good looks, in the same way that I appreciate, say, Brad Pitt’s appeal. And Ben is definitely one of those all-around great guys to whom women can’t help but be attracted. But he is also, clearly, happily married, with a terrific family life. And so am I. So am I.

However, tonight, I find myself looking at Jonah more critically than usual. The way his blue-gray eyes—which are beautiful and expressive—disappear when he smiles. Normally, I find this endearing, but tonight it inexplicably irks me. And the way he purposely lets a noodle hang down over his chin so that he can noisily slurp it into his mouth for the amusement of our children. I always laugh along with the kids, but tonight, this humorous display disgusts me. And how he sniffs at the wine in his glass before he takes a sip, as though his nose will reveal to him a bounty of secrets about the Beaujolais he is about to imbibe. Tonight, this action seems as pretentious as it is absurd. Jonah guzzles any and all kinds of wine set before him, including ones that taste like jet fuel.

Still, when he slides his hand across the table and intertwines his fingers with mine, I don’t think of Ben Campbell. I think of Jonah. My husband. With whom I have spent the last fourteen plus years of my life, and with whom I will spend the next forty or so. He is as solid a man as they come. His family comes first and without exception. He is a true “the glass is half full” kind of guy, always looking on the
bright side of things (sometimes to the degree that I want to smack him). He may not be the best listener in the world—his eyes start to glaze over whenever I get philosophical, or when one of the kids takes too long telling a story—but he is always there for us. And he never complains when I ask him to pick up tampons on his way home.

I give his fingers a squeeze, then make a point of planting a kiss on his cheek before I get up to clear the paper plates from the table. Sally, our lab mix, eyes me from her dog bed just inside the kitchen. When I say
lab mix
I am only referring to what the gal from the shelter wrote on the adoption form when we brought her home. I’m certain she does have some lab in her. Along with a bit of every breed of dog known to man. Perhaps some noncanine breeds as well—when she rolls around in the mud in our backyard, she often closely resembles a shaggy elephant seal. She is large and hairy, and she has a tail that could bring down a pillar of solid stone when she gets excited. (I have the bruised calves to prove it.) Her eyes are brown and look like they have been tattooed with eyeliner, her ears flop like a bloodhound on steroids, and when she shakes herself dry, she hurls wads of saliva, dousing any and all innocent bystanders with a veritable geyser of dog slobber. But she is sweet tempered and affectionate, although not the most efficient home protector. In fact, as a guard dog, she stinks. When the doorbell rings, she races up the stairs and tries to bury all ninety-eight pounds of herself in the six-inch crawl space under Jessie’s canopy bed, probably hoping against hope that my eight-year-old daughter will protect
her
.

Surreptitiously, I bend over and place the scallion pancake just in front of Sally’s nose. She sniffs it once, then rolls over and shows me her belly, as if to say,
I’m watching my weight, too
. But the second I turn away from her, I hear a slurp of
epic proportions, and when I turn back around, the pancake has vanished.

Now that we’ve finished dinner, there is no longer anything to keep my children’s mouths busy, thus the pre-dessert conversation begins. While I clean up, Jessie regales her brothers and her father with her exploits at rehearsal, gesturing wildly for dramatic effect as she talks about one particular Oompa-Loompa who doesn’t know his right foot from his left and cannot,
just cannot
, learn the steps for their first big number. Jessie, who excels at ballet and is an avid fan of the Wii dancing game, is intolerant of such incompetence. I almost expect her to stand up and shout, “I cannot
vork
under zese conditions!” She does stand up, without any exclamations, and proceeds to perform the Oompa-Loompa dance number without making a single mistake. My husband and Matthew applaud her, causing her to beam with pride, but Connor just rolls his eyes.