I wrangled the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter as the phone rang, leaving the back door to the house open.
“Lightly residence,” I answered.
“It's your mother.”
“Hi, mom,” I rolled my eyes as I wiped sweaty hair off my brow. “How are you?”
“Okay, sweetie. How are you? I heard the heatwave is still going strong over there.”
“Yep. Hotter than ever. I can barely even get a wink.”
“Why doesn't Rory just get an air conditioner already?”
I leaned against the wall supporting the phone. “He thinks they make you weak. And he wants to save for a bigger house and put all our money in that. I could either have a car or the air conditioning. It makes no sense, but Rory does what he does. If this summer doesn't convince him, I don't think it ever will. He promises to get it with the new house though.”
“You need babies for that bigger house.”
“Yes, mom. We're working on it—How's dad?” I tensely raveled and unraveled the phone cord around my index finger.
“Well, he's the way he always is, but going strong.” My father had a stroke months ago, which left him in a wheelchair with severe speech impairments. My sister in Portland volunteered to have them move into her guest house so she could keep an eye on them. It left me with little responsibility pertaining to them, except for the almost-daily phone calls to keep my mother company.
The screen door slammed behind me.
“Lilly! It's me, Barbie!”
I was grateful for the company and I quickly ended the call with my mother.
“Hey Barbie,” I said, turning to face the tall, rail-thin blonde, her hair perfectly pinned up. Even she had gone easy on the makeup this week however, as everything seemed to melt off within minutes of being outdoors.
“How about this heat, doll?” she asked, lighting the fresh cigarette that rested on her lips before taking a seat at the white Formica table that sat at the center of my kitchen.
“You have no idea. At least Stan got you an air conditioner for the bedroom. I have to sleep in this.”
“Ugh.” Barbie sympathized. “We have to use it sparingly anyway. The utility bill is through the roof with that thing.”
“Lemonade?” I offered.
“Please! You know I only visit for your special lemonade.” She gave me a sly wink.
I dipped my face into the cool fridge for an extra second before I brought out the ice-cold pitcher and poured us both tall glasses. Barbie opened her purse and pulled out a small glass bottle of vodka.
“It's too early.” I waved off the bottle.
“In this weather, there's no such thing. We need to take the edge off.”
“Well, fine.”
She poured some in both of our glasses as I grabbed a long spoon to stir.
I sipped out of my glass and winced. “Dear lord, how much did you put in?”
“Oh Lilly, quit it! Drink up. You'll thank me in a few minutes.” She leaned back, with the glass in one hand, cigarette in another. The long trail of ash was something she had mastered. I used to hassle her about using the ash tray before it fell on my floors or table, but she had a way of knowing exactly when to tap the cigarette and free it of its burden. Her little cigarette butts had her signature pink lipstick rimming them. Rory and I didn't smoke, so the one ash tray I had only had little butts with little pink kisses circling them.
She was right, after a few sips, I felt looser. I felt like talking.
“What are your plans for today?” Barbie asked.
“I don't know. I got the groceries out of the way before it got too hot. Do some cleaning. I might go to the pool. You?”
“I have a meeting this afternoon to plan for the twins’ annual church outing. Then I'll have to grab them from school. Stan promised to take them out for custard at Kopp's after dinner, so they are just tickled.”
“That's nice.” I said through a tired smile.
“How's Rory?” Barbie asked, whispering like he was a secret. She lived about five houses down the road, and we had formed a friendship when she moved here a little over a year ago with Stan. In many ways, Barbie was like everyone else, but she had a little extra flavor to her. A little bit more tang, like the lemonade she so loved. We weren't best friends, but I had grown to trust her with tidbits of the issues I was having with Rory.
“Same old. He wants to take me out to dinner.” For some reason, even with Barbie, I sugarcoated the issues.
“Well, that's great!” She finally flicked her cigarette at the ash tray before resting it on my hand sympathetically.
“He still won't let me get a job though.”
“That I will never understand.” She darted the two fingers supporting the cigarette in my direction. “That's a good thing.”
“But Barbie, you have the twins. I just want to have something more.”
“You're gonna make a family! I told you about my friend back in Skokie who took years and then it just happened! She has three now! The less you worry about it, I promise, it will happen.”
I nodded my head. I had heard all the unwelcome wives’ tales and stories about miracle pregnancies. What I should rub on my stomach, all the positions I should contort into post-coitus to ensure a rapid pregnancy. I had even tried some, but had grown tired of trying to make magic happen. And worrying less, ignoring it, whatever that meant, had gotten me and Rory where we were now: not talking about much of anything.
“Anyway, is Stan going to be traveling soon? Rory's got a lot on his plate.”
“Yeah, he'll be gone for a week or two later this month. These salesmen,” she complained as she rolled her eyes. “By the way, have you gotten the new Sears catalog yet?” she asked, with the enthusiasm of a kid who had just walked into a candy factory.
Just then, my doorbell rang. Not expecting any visitors, I perked up. “Speaking of salesmen,” I snickered, rolling my eyes as I grabbed my spiked lemonade for the trip.
I walked through the kitchen and to my living room, attempting to make out the shape through the sheers. The generous amount of liquor mixed with the heat and lack of breakfast had me feeling a little airy.
All I saw was the shadow of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, the shape of a bag slung over his shoulder. Salesmen came in all shapes and sizes, but this one was different, that was certain.
I crept the door open, and when I laid my eyes on the person in front of me, I gasped. Those light brown eyes, like the honey my grandmother used to bottle, framed by an intense, flirty glare. No matter how serious he was, it always hinted at playfulness, carelessness. A jawline that had gotten more pronounced since the last time I saw it. Wavy light-brown hair, long enough to form careless waves and licks along his neck, and face full of stubble—that was new.
“Bobby?” I asked, as the sweaty glass of lemonade slipped out of my hand and shattered on the floor.
“Lilly? Lilly?” Barbie pranced into the living room in her kitten heels. “Oh,” she muttered as she came upon the scene.
“Hi,” Bobby waved at Barbie, flashing that glowing smile.
“Hello . . .” she said tentatively.
“I, uh . . . we all thought you were dead,” was all I could produce.
Bobby shook his head. “I'm not dead, Lil.”
The emotions came in waves so rapid, each one took less than a second to breach. First, confusion. How could he be here? He had been gone for years without a trace and we all had come to terms with that. Next, disbelief. Was I going crazy? Hallucinating from the lack of sleep? Then, relief. Bobby was alive. He looked healthy, albeit scruffy compared to the perfectly-groomed men who lived in our suburb.