Chapter 3 #2
I swallow. I can see why Barb Peachy was so excited. The Schultz family could fund a new arena if they wanted.
Geraldine leads us into a living room, where there’s a fire burning and a white-haired woman in an orange pantsuit and hot pink blouse sitting in a high-backed armchair. She’s fast asleep.
Marjorie! Marjorie! Geraldine calls out loudly. Your dinner guests are finally here!
Mats double-checks his watch, but we’re on time. My grandfather used to pull shit like this, trying to start you off on the wrong foot.
I march over and try once again. Hello, I’m Cleo Nelson, captain of the Monarch women’s hockey team. Thank you so much for inviting me into your lovely home.
Marjorie blinks her pale blue eyes at me blankly, like I’m speaking Martian. Maybe she’s hard of hearing? I repeat my introduction in a louder voice, and she finally nods at me.
Nice to meet you, Cleo. And who is your handsome friend?
Please, he is neither handsome nor my friend.
This is Roy Matsumoto. He’s on the men’s team—but not the captain or anything.
Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have added that last part, but since Mats is going to outshine me in every other way tonight, I need an edge.
Also, Barb should have chosen the captain of the men’s team.
Vik Zelenko is even more sophisticated than Mats, and a lot more likeable.
A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Schultz. Mats shakes her hand and flashes his perfect smile. Seriously, how can a real hockey player have teeth like that?
You can’t call me Mrs. Schultz because I’m not married, she declares.
So, Miss Schultz, then? I ask.
Well, properly speaking, it should be Ms.—like the magazine. I once met Gloria Steinem, you know.
I feel a need to grab my phone and search out the meaning of half of her sentence, but instead I smile and nod.
But I know how informal young people today are, so you can call me Marjorie.
Marjorie, you can call me Mats, my so-called partner offers.
Mats? Is that your hockey nickname? she asks.
Yes. But it’s also what I prefer to be called.
I make a mental note to call him Roy as much as possible.
Do you have a hockey nickname, Cleo? she asks.
I speak loudly and clearly. I have a ton of them. Nellie, Motormouth, and Clutch. You can call me whatever you want, just don’t call me late for dinner.
Marjorie laughs at that old joke, which makes up for Mats staring at me like I’m some new species of cockroach.
I understand the first two nicknames, but how did you get the third one? Marjorie asks.
Great, I’ve been here five minutes and she already knows how much I talk. It’s the way I play hockey; I come through in the clutch. If you need a big goal, I’m your girl, I boast.
Mats winces slightly, like he can’t believe how enormous my ego is.
Do you have something to add, Roy? I ask.
He smiles blandly and shakes his head.
Then Geraldine rolls in an honest-to-god drinks cart loaded with crystal decanters and appies.
Sherry? Or scotch? she offers.
I prefer rum-based cocktails, but since they’re not on offer, I settle for what Marjorie is having. Sherry, please.
Mats asks for water, which earns him a scornful look from Geraldine.
Then she passes around the appies, which consist of Ritz crackers with cream cheese and olives.
They look more like Frankenstein eyeballs than food.
I see Mats take one and put it down on a napkin without taking a bite.
Hmmm, isn’t he one of those clean-eating fanatics?
That’s not going to go down well with Geraldine, who obviously spent hours over a cold cutting board.
I eat two to show my dining superiority. They’re not terrible.
Barb Peachy might not be able to come to dinner, I explain loudly.
Marjorie nods. Yes, poor thing. She called to let us know. Hockey can be a dangerous sport.
I’ve never been injured, I boast.
Perhaps the women’s game isn’t as tough, she replies.
I inhale sharply. Before I completely lose my cool and yell at a little old lady, Mats jumps in. The women’s game is as intense and hard-fought as men’s hockey. They have lots of injuries too; Cleo’s just been lucky.
Contrarily, even though everything he’s said is true, I resent him for saying it. It takes more than luck to dodge a big defender trying to separate me from the puck as well as my jill.
Are you a senior, Mats? You look quite mature, Marjorie asks.
I’m a sophomore, actually. But I’m twenty-one years old, he says.
Oh, failed a few grades, did you? she asks, and I almost spew my drink.
He remains unruffled. Not at all. Colleges prefer older players. I played junior hockey back in Canada before I came here.
Oh, a Canadian. What about you, Cleo?
I’m a junior; Minnesotan born and bred, I brag. I’m sure this will gain me points with Marjorie. I’m going to win her over, leave Mats in the dirt, and snag the whole donation for the women’s program. Okay, I may be a leetle competitive.
A gong sounds down the hallway, and I startle. What’s that?
Dinner, announces Marjorie. She rises from her chair and leads us down another hallway until we arrive at a dining room with striped wallpaper and more wood panelling.
There’s an enormous chandelier that’s sparkly and ancient.
I hope it doesn’t crash down on us during dinner.
Correction: I hope it doesn’t crash down on Marjorie or me.
The polished table could easily seat a dozen people, but we’re all at one end, with Marjorie at the head and Mats and I flanking her. There’s a lace tablecloth and, just as I feared, a serious amount of cutlery. No fish forks though, which I looked up last night.
Geraldine places a bowl on its own plate in front of us. It’s soup, and I dip in. Then I notice that Mats is waiting for Marjorie to eat first. Shit. At our house, it was snooze-and-lose when it came to food. But I can’t spit out my soup, so I hold it in my mouth until Marjorie takes a spoonful.
The soup tastes a lot like Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom to me. Maybe fancy suppers aren’t so different.
At first, the conversation is a little stiff, but Marjorie turns out to be a pretty spirited old lady.
I like her. She tells us about her years managing the family business.
She wasn’t the president, but it sounds like she should have been.
Mats keeps asking about the business stuff, like the bore he is.
The meal turns out to be pretty normal: pot roast, boiled potatoes, and a green bean casserole. No special cutlery needed.
After dinner, we stay at the table. Marjorie is in a relaxed mood, so I dive into her personal life.
It’s a bit unusual that you never got married, right? My grandmother told me that there was a lot of pressure on young women back then. Of course, my grandmother didn’t really like my grandfather, so being single was her escapist fantasy.
Damn straight. My parents trotted out a series of eligible bachelors for me, and I rejected every one of them. Whenever Marjorie swears, I make sure to smirk at Mats. Maybe less profanity, my ass.
So, no romance for you? I ask loudly.
Oh, I didn’t say that. I was fortunate enough to come of age when the birth control pill first became available.
That was the great liberator for women, not having to worry about unwanted pregnancies.
But I’ve always appreciated a good-looking man.
At that, Marjorie gives Mats a significant look.
He turns pink, and I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing.
I think she needs her glasses, I murmur to Mats in a voice too soft for Marjorie to hear. He flushes even more.
But I never found a man I could live with, she continues. They always wanted to change something about me: quit my job, change my fashion sense, make fewer charitable donations. Take me as I am, or take off.
Marjorie could rule social media with her advice. She’s more to the point than all that if you can’t handle me at my worst crap.
Amen, Marjorie. I’ve dated guys who tell me that I’m too much—too much woman for you, maybe.
She chortles at that. The corner of Mats’s mouth twitches as he struggles to maintain his perfect control.
Does it hurt, keeping your opinion to yourself, Roy? I murmur across the table in a low voice. It’s fun having this dual dialogue going on. Not as much fun as if Mats reacted, but this evening is more entertaining than I expected.
You have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince, Marjorie declares.
Not to brag, but I’ll bet I’ve kissed more frogs than you, I say.
She cackles loudly. I’ve had decades of dating, though. Shall we go head-to-head?
Bring it on, Marjorie. I’ve crammed a lot of bad dates into my short dating life, I declare.
She smiles. My first boyfriend, Andrew, came from a good family. His father and mine were best friends. But he was dreadfully boring. Poor boy couldn’t talk about anything other than philately.
Whatever that may be. My first boyfriend was dating two of us at the same time. And it took me a month to catch on. Ugh, even hearing the name Tyler still makes me feel dumb.
Many men suffer from insecurity, Marjorie decrees. I’m familiar with the type. My having an executive position was enough to discourage many of my escorts.
Um, we don’t call them escorts anymore, I correct politely. That makes it sound like you paid them to go out with you.
She giggles girlishly. Oh, you mean gigolos. Naturally, a woman of means gets approached by that kind of man all too frequently. Especially on the continent. But I’m able to spot them easily.
Guess I’m lucky that I have no money, then. Although I dated this one guy, Austin, who always forgot his wallet when we went out. I paid for all our dates. I make a face. It’s not like I had money to throw around. It’s fine if a guy doesn’t have money, but just be honest, right?
Did Mats just nod at that? Why? Money is not a problem for him.
Marjorie sniffs. Even in the time of women’s liberation, there were men who expected me to quit my job once I married them. Ridiculous, especially since my income was much higher than theirs.
Yeah, I get that. I once dated this guy, Josh. He assumed I would skip my hockey game because his band was in some battle of the bands competition. Dude, hockey is more important to me than you.
She chuckles. My, you have had a lot of bad experiences. There are at least some gentlemen that I remember fondly.
Have you ever tried online dating?
She shakes her head. I didn’t think she had, but you never know.
Well, it sucks. They see my photos and like me. But when we meet in person, suddenly it’s rejection city. This one guy, Arthur? We met for coffee, and when I took my coat off, he takes one look and says, ‘I don’t date women with bigger biceps than me,’ and takes off.
There’s a throat-clearing sound from the other side of the table. Mats is watching me with a curled lip. Of course, he’s judging me.
Don’t worry, I hiss at him. It’s physically impossible for that to happen to you. Even through his thick sweater, anyone can tell that Mats’s arms are jacked.
I continue, A lot of guys say I’m not ladylike enough for them.
After a few dates, it’s like they see me for the very first time and, shocker: this is how I dress.
Nothing skimpy or sexy. I give my head a disgruntled shake.
Really, it’s once we’ve had sex that guys start to see all my flaws.
Before that, they have their horny goggles on.
But sharing details of my sex life seems like too much information, even for the forthright Marjorie.
Mats is frowning. No doubt he prefers the perfect Barbie styling of women like Lana.
Men like that are no loss at all, Marjorie declares.
Geraldine whisks the dishes away and announces that it’s time for us to leave. It’s just after seven, but apparently Marjorie has an early bedtime. We thank them both for the meal and head out.
Once we’re in the car, I announce, If this was a competition, it’s pretty clear that I won. Marjorie likes me better.
Mats, as usual, says nothing. But I’m surprised to see a faint smile on his face.