Today Will Be Different(12)

The previous guy I’d dated was still hung up on his ex. The one before him was fifteen days sober. If the worst Joe could say about himself was there’d be unspecified wall-punching in the future, sign me up! (And even that didn’t materialize! Twenty years and nary a call to the drywall guy.) More than anything, Joe is ethical. I once pointed out the irony of him constantly railing against the Catholic Church when he is in fact a walking advertisement for the decency and honesty they preach. (“When they’re not pumping you with lies and self-hatred,” he’d retorted.) No way could he be cheating on me.

On the other hand, I wasn’t giving him enough sex. I had to get on that.


I poked my head into the dressing room. Timby was trying on corduroy shorts and a T-shirt of a corgi playing drums. Timby’s roll of dimpled, paper-white belly fat popped out over the waistband.

“Do you think they have kneesocks?” he asked.

Not in the boys’ section! I knew not to say.

And then I remembered. This morning. Joe facedown at the table, forehead on the newspaper. Perhaps he’d seen something in it…

“I’m running across the street to Barnes and Noble just for a sec.”

“Wait,” Timby said. “You’re leaving me here alone?”

Before I could fumble for an answer, he said, “Can I pick out something else?” The kid had a gambler’s instinct for knowing when to press.

“One thing.”

I shot to the bookstore, bought a Seattle Times, and hustled outside. In the few minutes that took, a stack of wooden barricades had appeared on the sidewalk. Seattle was breaking out in a rash of police blue.

Did I fail to mention that the Pope was coming to town? Oh yeah. For something called World Youth Day. (Does that not sound like a bogus event the Joker would dream up to ensnare Robin?) His Holiness was scheduled to perform Mass at the Mariners stadium on Saturday.

I thumbed through the newspaper. Seahawks, Seahawks, Seahawks. Pope, Pope, Pope. A lady was setting out food for crows, and her neighbors were pissed. Any of these could have driven Joe to despair. Or none.

What a royal frustration! Of course I hadn’t pushed it this morning with Joe. Isn’t that one of the benefits of plodding through so many years of marriage? You get to take things at face value? None of that “You look upset,” “I’m not upset,” “Please talk to me,” “I am talking to you,” “Is it me?,” “I told you I’m fine,” “It is me.” Oy, just thinking about it takes me back to Friday nights spent weeping through step class.


By the time I got back to the Gap, Timby had pulled a Supermarket Sweep. A girl with a headset was ringing up a haystack of clothes.

Between scanner beeps, Timby whispered, “Hurry, hurry.”

“Don’t think you got away with this,” I said, coming up behind him. “I know you tricked me.”

“Will you be using your Gap card today?” the girl asked.

“No, and I don’t want one,” I said. “We’re never coming back.”

“You ruin everything,” Timby said.

“No, you ruin everything.”

The salesgirl’s smile didn’t falter, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t wait to get home and tell her roommate.


It was 11:45 and still no word from Sydney. Out on the street, a white police bus had parked across Sixth Avenue, blocking traffic. I dialed Sydney’s number. As it rang, I pointed to the bus.

“Look,” I said to Timby. “The Pope must be staying at the Sheraton. That’s what you get when you call yourself the People’s Pope. You have to stay at a dump.”

“I wish I could stay at the Sheraton.”

Voice mail again. “Sydney? It’s Eleanor. Please call me. I don’t want you showing up at lunch and I’m not there. Or maybe I should go. I don’t know.” I hung up. “See, this is why I can’t stand Sydney Madsen.”

“I thought she was your friend.”

“It’s a grown-up thing.” I pulled the newspaper from under my arm and pointed to the date. “Read that to me.”

Timby did.

I handed him my date book. “Look up today. Thursday, October eighth. Tell me what it says.”

“Spencer Martell.”

“Give me that.” I yanked away the book. In my own hand: SPENCER MARTELL.

“Who’s Spencer Martell?” Timby asked.

“I can’t imagine.”

Spencer Martell. Whoever it was, I had made a lunch date with… him? Her?

“Who’s Spencer Martell?” Timby asked again.

“Do I look like I know?”

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said. “You did it on accident.”

“It’s ‘by accident.’ Who’s teaching you to speak?”

I took out my phone and searched Spencer Martell. One e-mail came up from a month ago.

From: Spencer Martell

To: Eleanor Flood

Re: Long time no see!

By any chance are you free for lunch on October 8? I’d love to catch up.





xS



I scrolled down and found my response. A twelve o’clock reservation at Mamnoon.

It was now ten of.

“Maybe he’s related to Sydney Madsen,” Timby offered. “He could be her brother.”