Laughing Through My Tears, Page 2

  He walks up all gorgeous and smiles not even noticing the goggling women around him. When you’re that smoking, after awhile, the attention must get pretty mundane.

  “Ready gorgeous?”

  I’m stretching my calves as he approaches. “I am. Let’s do this. The short route. I have to get home.”

  “What happened?” His smile fades as he reaches out to touch my eye. I can only imagine it’s starting to look very domestic abuse like. I can’t see through it very well anymore.

  “Don’t ask. A warning, cooking can be a full contact career.” I start out, leaving him behind momentarily to wonder about the state of my face. I love our runs. They are methodical and calming. It’s during this time in my day that I don’t mind being here. I love running the bay, when it doesn’t stink to high heaven because the tide is out. I love the blue skies and even the sweltering heat. I wasn’t a runner before life hit me square in the chest. Then one day I woke up. I was sick of the extra twenty pounds I was carrying around. I was divorced at the pitiful age of thirty three, and I decided to do something about it.

  Camilo has been inspiration because he runs out of love. I run out of duty. Together we make the perfect team. We turn and are back at my starting point before I’m ready for it to end. Still, I have to go so I slow down and stop. Camilo always keeps going when we do this route, but today he stops with me.

  “Why are you sneaking away?” He is standing much closer than necessary as I stretch lightly. His hand is on the small of my back as I bend over to feel the pull along the length my legs. The runner’s high is new to me. It’s as close as I’ve ever come to being an exercise nut. Still, considering I plan on going home and having vodka and Cheez Its for dinner, I wouldn’t say I’m any kind of health guru.

  My hands are on my hips as I wonder about this touchy, touchy, Camilo. He isn’t the type. If he wants it, he takes it, in his rico suave way, of course. He has a look in his eyes that says he wouldn’t mind a repeat of that one perfect afternoon. I’m all about letting that day go down as legend in both of our minds.

  “I have things to do.” I say trying to avoid that smoldering look. Tide is in and a few manatees are surfacing. People are already gathering to point and marvel at the phenomena. It’s a peaceful thing to watch the gentle beasts.

  “Let’s do them together,” he is smiling.

  “Not those kind of things.”

  He sighs, “Well, gorgeous, I’ll see you later?”

  I smile with a nod, “Maybe Monday.” I never run on the weekends. It’s the first rule of the church of Margo.

  He smiles again as he walks over to me and cups my face up to his. I guess shock and want hold me rooted in that position as people jog, roller blade, bike by. Curious eyes are taking in the super hot blond man with the bitter divorcée. He kisses my bruised eye so gently it makes me almost consider taking him up on his offer. Two memories of world rocking sex would be even better than one on those long, sad nights. Still, I can’t.

  “Bye,” I say. My face is tilted up to his, and I can see his disappointment flash. It is a wordless nod before he breaks into full run without as much as another look. When I turn, a group of suburban ladies are ogling me. They are even worse than Chevastic women because they really think they’re continental and sophisticated. They shuffle their eyes as I approach to cross the street with them. They are blonde and manufactured, and I’m brown and disheveled. I’ve spent way to long trying to fit in with their kind. As we wait, they give me curious sidelong glances. My guess is they’re wondering about my eye. I let them wonder until the light changes.

  “He’s one hell of a ride ladies – just don’t upset him.” I jog off to my car not caring to hear their reaction.

  Chapter 2

  Cosmo to the Rescue

  1 small shot glass of Vodka

  1 small shot glass of Cointreau

  ¼ shot glass of lime juice

  1/8t of superfine sugar

  ½ shot glass of grenadine/cranberry/other juice

  Ice

  Chill your glass in the freezer as you make the drink! It keeps this lovely lady cool and delicious as you enjoy. Mix the ingredients in a shaker, fill with ice and shake until the shaker is cold in your hand. Get that chilled glass and either rim it with some more sugar (wet a finger run it around the rim and dip in sugar) or pour directly in. Make a few and chill the rest. Drink making gets tricky once the alcohol sets in…Enjoy!

  I drive the short distance to my mom’s home in Palma Bonita. The door beeps as I enter. My mom is slowly going crazy. Don’t get me wrong it is a prerequisite for my family that you are at least a little bit nuts, but she’s taking it to the extreme. Every opening in her house beeps when opened. I don’t know who she thinks is coming in to get her, but I can pretty much assure her they’ll bring her back after about an hour.

  She has my mail piled on the table by the door. I still get mail at her house. Usually it’s a whole bunch of junk addressed to Margo Hunter. Hunter, that’s the second best thing I got out of my marriage. It is leaps and bounds over the impossible Spanish name I had before hand. It feeds my insecurity and desire not to be as weird or as ethnic as I am. The best thing to come out of my eight year union with my ex (five in cohabitation, three in the actually legal deal) is running around the corner right now.

  “Mama ma ma ma.” He has that smile on his face that tells me he doesn’t know a bad thing in life. He’s clinging to me right now and patting my back and humming.

  “Ohhh, good afternoon hugs are the best hugs.” He hugs me a little tighter. He’s just at that age where these kinds of rituals are remembered from time before last. I scoop him up. This was much easier not so long ago. At nineteen months he’s not a baby anymore. And on those sad nights, it gets added to the list of things to cry about.

  “Hey Mom, how’s it going?” I call as I walk into her kitchen. She’s in there getting dinner. I can see she’s flustered.

  “I don’ know what to do ‘bout dat chile.” She still has a pretty thick Caribbean accent even after forty years in this country. “He won’ sleep.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I take a handful of grapes and survey the stove.

  “Ho, Ho,” Sam says. My son is obsessed with stoves. I guess because I’m a cook. Although the only person I cook for when I’m at home is him. Either way, he sees a stove and starts saying, hot, hot.

  “Yes, baby, it’s hot.” I’m picking up the lids to what looks like coconut dinner. It’s a rich island dish of conch, root vegetables and coconut milk. I’ve never liked it. I take that back. I like the fried platanos that are usually served with it, but that’s about it. Mom’s fluttering around like a parrot getting a bath.

  “Aunt Sadie comin’ over wit’ Sheila. I got to get Aunt Cynthia because Bonnie won’ be back until late.”

  “You’re having guests?”

  “Well, I told Aunt Sadie I’d make her some tapada. And I finally got around to it. Den Aunt Ida called dis afternoon, and we had to run over dere to help her iron table cloths for de twins first communion on Saturday. You goin’ right?” I have a million aunts and cousins, and when my mom tries to tell a story it usually gets mucked down in about ten stories.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were having company? I wouldn’t have gone running.” She’d rather not tell me and then bitch to anyone that will listen how irresponsible I am. She’s free day care so I can’t exactly walk away from it, but dealing with her is never easy.

  “Well, you never gave me a chance,” she argues.

  “What do you mean? When we hung up you were gossiping about Jan.”

  “I wasn’t gossiping.” This is true. In her mind it isn’t gossip.

  “Anyway, I’m heading home.” I’m in no mood to deal with a bunch of people tonight.

  “You are?” She seems disappointed. “I tol’ dem de little man would be here.” Sam has a million nicknames. He’s named after his father and his grandfather. I know, real original. It happened at a time when
we were all about middle class pretensions and overall perceptions. And I was supposed to get the next name. We never got that far.

  “I’m tired, and I still have to clean,” I say. “Maybe next time.” Staying means lots of questions about my divorce and then a bunch of gossiping after I leave. I’ll let them get a head start on the gossiping part. I’m going home. When I finally turn, mom gasps.

  “What happened to your eye?!” It must look pretty bad given that reaction.

  “This,” I point at my eye, “is why I quit Marsha. Her psycho husband attacked me.”

  “Marga!” She is at the freezer pulling out one of her frozen packs. She keeps a million of them for her aching joints. I hold it on my eye for a minute and then drop it.

  “Leave it on.” She looks at me worried. I can tell she feels bad about her earlier commentary.

  “I’m going Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow.” We see each other every day. Explain that if you’re good. “I can’t do the communion. I have to cook for the Daveys.”

  She just nods. She’s worried about me. Since the divorce she doesn’t know what to say to me. I don’t know what to say to me. I can’t help anyone else until I figure it out for myself. It’s almost a year. I’m looking for a moment of enlightenment real soon because I can’t feel this empty forever.

  “Will you be ok?”

  “Yeah Mom, I’m fine. Say, bye, bye, Mimi,” I tell Sam. He’s been listening intently from my arms. I know he’s listening because if not then he’s always, always, the noisiest person in the room.

  “Buh, byeeee,” he says, and then he blows a kiss. It’s adorable. I’m a sucker for my kid’s cutisms.

  “Oh, bye, bye Tookie.” Don’t ask me where that nickname comes from. She’s hugging him again. She loves my son, unconditionally.

  ***

  We head to Island Way Condos which are apartments in drag. It’s gated fabulosity and one of many poor investment decisions my ex and I made when first moving down from New York. The market was booming. Builders were building like drunken sailors. People were buying like they were The Donald. Then the market busted and it turned out Tampa’s economy really wasn’t any more than it had been before the boom: some low end businesses, a string of strip joints and multiple loosing sports franchises. Huh. Joke was on us. I’ve been trying to sell this thing for about the three and a half years that we’ve owned it. I got it in the settlement. Time and again I think about burning it down, but it says in the by laws that you have to rebuild. Plus, it seems quite a few people have had the same idea and insurance agents are on the look out. It’s just another mistake in a lifetime filled with them.

  I’m un-strapping Sam from the car when Mario pulls up. I wave, and he waves back. I don’t know who was happier when I got divorced, Mario or me. I take that back. I know who was happier, and it was definitely Mario. He’s a strapping Italian here on military post at MacDill air force base. He has three kids, and he says he’s divorced, but I highly doubt that. I’ve finally gotten his libido in check. He knows we are on a movie and popcorn because we’re two lonely adults basis and nothing else. It’s taken a couple of slaps, but he’s finally decided movies are better than nothing.

  “Hello.” He’s got a great accent too, not as good as Camilo’s, but pretty great. “Long time no see.” His look changes to shock as he points at his eye wondering about mine.

  “Don’t ask,” I say, and then add, “Been sky diving?” His blue eyes light up. “Oh yeah, where at?!”

  “Hiiiii,” Sam chimes in with a wave and smile.

  “Hi there, mister.” Mario is good with kids. “Show me your muscles!”

  It’s Sam’s favorite trick. He flexes and turns bright red as he tries to appear strong. None of us know where he learned this, but it’s hysterical.

  “Ohh, so strong.” Mario flexes his muscles, and Sam laughs out loud. It’s that care free joyous laughter of youth. We live caddy corner to each other on the second floor. “What you doing tonight?”

  “Going to sleep tonight, Mario.” His eyes light up again. “Alone, Mario.”

  Sam is pointing at the early moon and screaming, “mo, mo.” We read Goodnight Moon every night. He loves the moon, almost as much as airplanes and helicopters.

  “Unless, mystery man stops by.” Mario doesn’t miss anything. I smile. He’s right. If mystery man shows up, at least part of my night will not be spent alone.

  “Tomorrow night?” He looks hopeful.

  “Yeah sure. You got anything new?” Mario is a Netflix junkie. He holds up an envelope, and I smile. “Well, surprise me. See you tomorrow.”

  Sam and I are home. Funny but it isn’t until the weekend that I feel the truth of my divorce. My ex is a consultant. He was never home during the week. On Friday nights, though, when I was still married I’d unload the nightly duties to Dada. Tomorrow and Sunday, his father gets him. Tonight he’s mine. I rarely have Sam on the weekends anymore. It wasn’t until I got this freedom, a freedom I couldn’t wait to take advantage of, that I realized how much I need him to make my life normal now. Sam is it, and when he’s gone, I’m kind of floundering.

  Sam’s happy to be home. He’s running around looking at his things and talking to himself. I check voice mail and email. Then it’s bath time. It’s a nightly fight. Really, everything is a fight with Sam. He’s a sweet kid with a strong personality. I foresee a long hard road for us. He’s too much like me, and I feel for him already.

  Bath is over, and he’s watching Baby Einstein on the only TV in the house. His dad got the big TV, and I never watch TV. So I went to one of those discount warehouses and bought a small one for Sam I Am. I’m back at the computer surfing the gossip sites. It’s my one guilty pleasure. I don’t watch TV. I cook. I take care of a one year old. That’s all I have time to do these days. After the show, it’s bedtime. Everything is a routine when you have a one year old. I don’t know about three year olds, check back in a couple of years if you’re still interested. At one, though, routines are key. Schedules equal sanity.

  “Come on Sam,” I say as I pick him up. “Bedtime.” We brush his teeth, read a book, and say some prayers. “Ok, give me a hug.” He does. It’s a full body, back patting, happy humming one. “Ohhh, goodnight hugs are the best hugs of the day.” He hugs me a little harder. “Hug you, hug you, kiss you kiss you, until tomorrow I’ll miss you, miss you.”

  He gives me one more squeeze. He blows me a kiss from his crib, and I blow him one. He blows me another kiss, and I blow another one. I leave or this will go on for the rest of the night. As I’m leaving he calls to me.

  “Bu-byyyyyye,” he says in his soft whisper voice. I hear him blow me another kiss. He goes down easy, which is great. It’s the only easy thing he does when it comes to sleep because he doesn’t nap, and he’s up by six, every day, no matter what.

  Tonight’s a Cosmo kind of night. I don’t have cranberry, but I have Juicy Juice, and I always have vodka, Cointreau and lime juice. It’s not the first time I’ve had to improvise. Welches 100% makes a good one too. I talk a big game, but my definition of getting drunk is two cosmos and bed by ten.

  I’ve no more than finished the last swallow of my second drink and the tears start. They’re starting early tonight. Usually, I can hold it together until I’m in bed because that’s where I cry. I don’t need sad music. By the time I’ve given myself permission to cry, sad music is just sequins on top of lace, way too much. As I stumble to bed and get between my sheets, the crying really starts. It’s the ugly, face crinkled, bloodshot eyes kind of crying. I can’t stop it. Tomorrow I won’t cry. It takes a pretty momentous event to take a sad night into a sad day. I can usually hold it together long enough to get back into bed. But you get to cry on your wedding anniversary, especially if you’re divorced.

  At ten thirty, the phone rings. My first thought is that it’s my mom checking in. She does that. She calls to make sure I’m in safely with the doors locked. It used to be she called during the week when my ex was on t
he road. Now she calls every night. I look at caller id, and it is mystery man. Mystery man is pure romance novel - painfully gorgeous, highly intriguing and unexpectedly necessary.

  “Hi,” I say trying not to sound like I’m crying.

  “It’s a sad night?” He’s on his bike. I can hear it. He has one of those high tech helmets with blue tooth. He’s also got some kind of radar on my tears. The first time he did this it surprised me. After awhile I realized this ability was stemming from our still-popping mystery. When the mystery is gone, the magic perception will also be gone.

  “Yeah,” I say as the tears start again. He knows my tears. They’re how we met. I was driving home from signing my divorce papers. The ink was still wet. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t. But this damn Avril Lavigne song came on, ‘When You’re Gone’. Any other day, I hate Avril Lavigne. The day I signed my divorce papers, well, I guess it just touched a spot. I had to pull over into the Daily Diner parking lot. I was crying, nighttime crying, ugly-face crying. Then I heard a tap on my window, and there he was. He was holding up an official looking badge and looking concerned.

  “Are you ok m’am?” Those all American good looks were blinding my grief. In another lifetime, he would have been right up my alley. In this lifetime, I had just divorced him, only maybe without the rocking body. It’s funny what you notice, in spite of the moment. I looked away to compose myself before finally rolling the window down. It took me a minute, but I did it.

  “I’m fine.” It was all I could get out. The tears started again. She was singing about clothes lying on the floor. What does she know about this? Isn’t she like ten or something?

  “Are you sure?” He was smiling gently, and I wanted to slap the charitable concern right off of his face.