Chuck and I met at the green picnic table for date night. When I pulled up in Sharkie, I saw that he had covered our N + C engraving with a patterned plastic tablecloth And, as I walked toward the table—where was Chuck?—I saw he’d set a bouquet of peach-colored roses between our Costco meals. Oh, Chuck. He’d chosen a chicken bake for himself (of course) and a Caesar salad for me (of course), and he’d neatly arranged the plastic cutlery on napkins I recognized as being the ones from the dispensers in the Costco food court. The tablecloth was patterned in schools of orange fish swimming in a navy blue sea, and Chuck had smartly added beach rocks to the corners so it wouldn’t blow away. Its hanging edges made crumpling sounds in the breeze.
“Nance!” Chuck called, emerging from the bathroom. He did a funny little twirl, which at first I thought was part of a grand hello until I saw his elbow jerk and realized that no, he had turned away from me to zip his fly.
We sat the same way we had sat last time, with Chuck facing the mountain and me facing the sea. I had trouble prying the plastic casing off my salad.
“Here,” Chuck said, “let me get that for you,” and yanked it apart.
I speared my romaine leaves. The salad was good, same as it always was. I wondered how many Costco Caesar salads I had eaten in my life.
“How many chicken bakes do you think you’ve eaten in your life?” I asked Chuck.
“In total?” He wiped his mouth. “Well, I usually have one a week. We’ll say two, though, because in the beginning, I had three or four a week. So two times a week for fifteen years. Fifty-two weeks in a year times two is one-oh-four times fifteen is about fifteen hundred.” A look of disbelief. “Wow.”
“Wow.” I changed the subject. “How was pool? You played late last night.”
“I’m getting better.” He raised his eyebrows. “A lot better.”
“Well”—I speared—“you should invite me to one of your games so I can see you play.”
After a moment of hesitation, and a quick glance at the nearest palm tree, Chuck cautiously said, “Yeah.”
“You don’t sound very excited about me coming, hon.”
“No, I’m sorry, I just didn’t think you’d want to come. But you should come, you should come.” He took a sharp inhale, as if resetting himself. “So,” he said, “what did you do today?”
I passed out sandwiches to people on the street and brought three hitchhikers to their destinations and Ana gave me this necklace you haven’t noticed.
I still planned to tell Chuck all of this later, but for now I was enjoying my secret life, and I thought I deserved it, too. Especially since he was being so weird about me coming to his pool games.
“Not much,” I said. “I took it easy.”
“A relaxing day,” he said. “I like your necklace, is it new?”
And then I was annoyed he had noticed. What was wrong with me? “It is,” I said. “Ana gave it to me. It’s a friendship necklace.” I held out the black apostrophe. “She has the other half.”
He squinted at it. “So Ana was part of your relaxing day?”
“On-a.”
“You two are spending a lot of time together. She must be a great person.” Chuck peeled more tinfoil off his chicken bake. “I’d love to meet her sometime.”
I glanced at the palm tree. “Yeah,” I said. And then, noticing the hesitation in my voice, I really committed to the next part. “I would love for you to meet her, Chuck.”
17
But Chuck did not invite me to watch him play pool, and I did not invite him to meet Ana. It rained for a week straight. Ana canceled class. Our targets were nowhere to be found because they’d gone inside to find shelter. Ana said, “It’s time to switch it up anyway. That’s probably why it’s raining. Celia is telling us it’s time to switch it up. So tell me what you think of this plan, Nan. Ha. I just rhymed. Okay, on Sunday, we’ll set up a stand at the farmers’ market. Free tarot! You can be my first client.”
“What if it’s still raining?”
Ana shrugged. “I’ll bring a tarp.”
On Sunday it was still raining, but less. I told Chuck I was going to the farmers’ market with Ana and that I might be a while. I left the house before the boys woke up. Their game was canceled because of the rain, and we had no family plans today. The last thing I said to Chuck on my way out was “This can be father-son bonding time.” “Mmm-hmm,” he had said, his mouth full of Rice Krispies.
I walked up and down the aisles of the farmers’ market looking for her. “Green bean lady!” my familiar vendor exclaimed. “Hello!” I waved. I realized then that I didn’t know her name either. Where was Ana? I decided to call her, and that’s when I realized I’d left my phone at home. “Damn,” I said, searching my purse again anyway, my open umbrella awkwardly propped on top of my head.
And then I heard her voice. “Nan!” It took a second “Nan!” for me to register that she was the blond woman I’d walked by several times. She was under the massage tent spreading one of her afghans over a foldable table, and she was wearing a short red dress with large billowing sleeves.
“You like it? This is my Marilyn.” She broke out into Marilyn’s signature wind-blowing-up-the-dress pose and puckered her lips. I saw that she’d adhered some little jewels to her face. Silver studs above her eyebrows, echoing their arches, and a larger red jewel in the center, right above her nose. She was stunning.
“Ana!” I shook out my umbrella and joined her under the tent. “You need to tell me when you change characters.”
“No way, the surprise is the fun part,” she said, and puckered again, looking down at her lips. “Man, I need to get my lips done again. They need to be refilled. So. Badly.”
Ana’s lips didn’t look “done” to me. “Refilled with what?”
“Restylane.” She winked. “It’s the best, but I can’t afford it right now.” She straightened out the afghan, her billowing sleeves trailing her movements. Just behind the table were three massage chairs, all still empty because the market hadn’t officially opened yet. One masseur stood among them. He was Japanese, maybe, and rubbing oil into his hands.
“The massage people are letting us squat. Great, right? Because I brought a tarp but nothing to hang it on.”
“That’s good luck,” I said, and smiled at the masseur, who didn’t notice. He was using the oil to coif his short hair now and yawning at the rain.
“Good luck?” Ana scoffed. “Try good karma, Nan.” She unfolded the chairs she had brought. One for the client, one for her, and one for me, which she put in the corner and adjusted so it was facing the massage chairs. “This way you can pretend like you’re not listening, but you will be.”
I put my bag and umbrella by my chair. Ana put her deck of cards on the table. “Look.” She held a few up. “They have my face on them.”
Yes, there was Ana’s face in an antique-looking oval, wearing the penetrating expression of a fortune-teller from an infomercial. Portico was coiled between the fingers of one hand, which she held up close to her neck, and her hair was long and dark, same as mine.
“Is this your real hair?”
“Yes.” She frowned. Then quickly, as if she had no choice, Ana’s hand went to her stomach. “No.” Her hand clutched. Her face tightened in pain.
“Are you okay?” I said, tightening my face, too.
She closed her eyes, inhaled and exhaled deeply three full times, and then the pain seemed to subside and she said, “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” She pressed the big red jewel into her forehead.