Throwing Like a Girl

By Robin Bourjaily

Throwing Like a Girl is an ensemble novel—an arc of deeply intertwined stories about a group of women, friends since college. It’s eighteen years later and their lives have taken predictable paths. To marry Al and raise a family, Beth gave up her urban planning career. Recently separated from her husband with three young children, she falls down the stairs in her house and dislocates her shoulder. Beth turns to her best friend Ellen for rescue, and Ellen leaves her own family, traveling to maintain Beth’s household for a few days. The book opens to find Ellen, out after dark running an errand. On the streets of Bethesda, MD, she is just realizing the unusual freedom of being alone, away from the responsibilities of home, and out at night, when she encounters a trio of men who frighten her.

The incident and the subsequent interaction with one of the men in the aftermath force Ellen to admit to herself that she’s got questions about where she is in her life, questions that are, it turns out, on the minds of each of her friends for very different reasons. Adrienne, who has not told her friends her husband Nik has left her, at forty is trying to conceive a child, even though she has no idea how she’ll manage as a single parent. Mimi, Adrienne’s TA in marine biology, seeks a way to keep her family together in spite of a lasting riff with her husband. Tanya, Beth’s older half-sister, and her husband Jeremy discover they’ve been living a destructive life of financial infidelity.

The last of the original six, Andi, lives and works in Philadelphia. Her story reaches her friends across the miles, as she struggles to care for an ailing parent. Two new friends bring fresh perspective to the group—Beth’s next-door neighbor, Lori, a single lobbyist, and happily married Sheila, a dark-haired beauty who gets swept into the social moments in the book and turns out to have a story of her own.

Ellen stays at Beth’s from Monday through Saturday. Needing a respite from the tedium of childcare and housework and hoping to lift her friend’s spirits, Ellen plans a girls only dinner party. After a week of work and challenges, a surprise kiss, an even more surprised electrician, a beer-soaked bartender, a spectacular fire, and finding the meaning of life at a car wash, the women come together to blow off steam. As they enjoy wine and chocolate cake, the conversation turns to secrets, doubts and fears and their common questions emerge. Throwing Like a Girl aims to address the inner strength women have to seek new opportunities, staying vibrant and creative in spite of the dirty gray dishwater that daily wrinkles their skin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin Bourjaily
• Release date: Feb 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311325426

Robin Bourjaily

Robin Bourjaily writes in Des Moines, IA, where she teaches yoga and Poses & Prose workshops. A graduate of the University of Iowa master’s degree program in creative nonfiction, Robin is surprised and delighted to find herself writing fiction. Information about yoga and workshops with Robin may be discovered at http://www.posesandprose.com. Throwing Like a Girl is her first novel.

Book preview

Throwing Like a Girl

Six Days. Eight Women. Twelve Stories

By

Robin Bourjaily

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Robin Bourjaily

Cover design LeaAnn Henry

Author photo Susan Austin

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailor and purchase your own copy. Thank you.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidence.

For Annemarie, who has been helping me to realize the meaning of life since that day in junior high when we mowed her parents’ lawn for money to go see a movie.

Contents

1. Out after Dark

2. Redbirds

3. Same Shit, Different Day

4. A Philadelphia Story

5. Combinations and Permutations

6. Out of the Picture

7. Other Women

8. Open Spaces

9. Choices

10. D-I-Y

11. Throwing Like a Girl

12. Rhythm and Blues

Gratitude

About Robin Bourjaily

1. Out after Dark

Ellen marveled at the freedom of walking alone. For years there had been a stroller or a trike to push. More recently the small hands that had firmly held hers had been pulling away, especially if friends were likely to pass by. Still, she was vigilant, walking with her children. And yet here she was, by herself in a soft April night, back in the city she used to love.

She slowed her pace and swung her shopping bag a little. Tampons, Epsom salts, Motrin and a heating pad for Beth, boxes of raisins for Beth’s children’s lunch boxes, juice bags for snack time, and blueberry muffins for the morning. All necessities; nothing fun. It wasn’t so late, she thought, and she considered stopping. But for what? Ice cream? Without the children, she didn’t feel like she had the excuse. A drink at a bar? Ellen tried to think when she might have had a drink by herself at a bar. She couldn’t remember a time and wondered if the prospect appealed to her now. She supposed that she could find a coffee house, but Ellen was not a coffee drinker and it seemed phony to her to go in just to be somewhere. Ice cream, then, she decided. It was what she really wanted anyway. And she could take some back to Beth. In fact, alone or not, that’s really what she should do. She should go buy some ice cream in a pint and hurry home. Beth’s children were exhausted from their afternoon outing to the zoo and likely to stay sound asleep, but Ellen was there to take care of them so Beth could rest; she really ought to get back.

She looked ahead. Was this the street down which she had come? She thought the ice cream store would be at the opposite end and quickened her pace. She wondered if she should be alarmed, not knowing precisely where she was. It seemed familiar, but it also seemed a little too dark, a side street when she meant to be on the main road. Not wanting to stop and look completely unsure, Ellen kept walking. She heard voices. Three men had turned into the street after her, laughing, joking. She glanced back quickly; should she run? They were shoving each other. One was rolling a skateboard, hopping on and then off, sending it smashing into the ankles of his companions. They tried to leap out of the way and howled when it hit. Harmless, weren’t they? Surely she was just letting her aloneness get the best of her thoughts? She scanned ahead, trying to remember if the ice cream store was just around the corner. She could only hope. Cars passed at the end of the block and Ellen knew the downtown area lay in front of her. The men’s voices got closer, louder.

Ray, what are you doing?

Aw, Ray, get the fuck outta the garbage.

But, see what I found? He dropped the lid of the dumpster with a crash and hurled a tin can at his friend’s head. It bounced near his foot. A sharp kick sent the can scuttling up the street toward Ellen. She tensed at the commotion. Hey, lookout. Did he mean her? I got it, I got it, and the can went crashing back in the other direction. Watch it, wise guy. Another kick. Another scooting noise mixed with the sound of the skateboard wheels hard against the street.

Ellen couldn’t walk much faster without running, her loose loafers and straight denim skirt impediments to moving quickly. She hoped she didn’t look as spooked as she felt. She knew she should have run away up the street when the skateboarder rode up close to her side and then the can came shooting forward. Whoa, there. He stopped the board right in front of her, hopped off and kicked the can. She couldn’t help but turn. She was looking up at the tallest of the three men who stood directly behind her.

Evenin’, he bowed slightly. How you doing pretty lady?

You gotta new girlfriend, Charley? She doesn’t look very happy to see you.

Drinking, thought Ellen. These jerks are nearly my age and they’re acting like teenagers. But she was nervous. Don’t respond, she told herself. Don’t respond. She clutched her purse and spun forward. There was no clear path.

The man on the skateboard flipped his board into his hand and started back toward her, his free arm outstretched. What’samatter, can’t speak? The men laughed. Monkey in the middle, the man from behind the one called Charley yelled, and kicked the can right past Ellen to his friend in front. Charley stepped off to the side, Hey guys, be cool.

The skateboard rider kicked the can over to Charley, C’mon old man, show us whatcha got, and then dropped his board back to the street, one foot on it, the other propelling him closer. He whizzed right in front of Ellen. Kick it back, man. This way. Charley sent the can flying backwards, Paul. The skateboard scooted back past Ellen. Did he lunge at her? A few feet ahead he again stopped and flipped the board, catching it with a grunt. Give it to me, he called, his eyes appraised Ellen’s figure, I like it hard. A swift kick from Paul sent the can to him. Ellen was rigid, wondering if she should scream or run, or both.

Back to me, Ray, Paul called jogging up from behind her. Ray had picked up the can, Watch this. He dropped the skateboard and hopped on, rolling straight toward her, his lips parted, tongue flickering. Ray … Charley warned, but Ray tossed the can in an arc, skating under it, aiming to bat it to Paul with his raised hand. Arms up, he lost his balance and scrambled to stay standing, shiiiiiiit. He caught himself on Paul, who mocked, whoopsie daisy. The skateboard scooted out from under him, tipped up and crashed into Ellen. She stumbled, fell to one knee and lost her grip on the shopping bag. It broke and the contents rolled onto the street. The men laughed. Ellen was furious. The tall one bent over her. To help? To hurt further?

Goddamnit, she yelled holding up her hand, you stay away from me.

Whoa, Charley, she’s mad now. Run for it. And they did. Ray recovering his skateboard and pushing away down the street, the other two following at a slow, unconcerned jog, leaving Ellen gingerly righting herself, bag wrecked, her purchases strewn at her feet. The tall one, Charley, turned, jogging backwards, as if to apologize, but he simply shrugged. Then he and his friends got to the end of the street and disappeared inside a door at the corner.

The juice bags weren’t all smashed, but the Epsom salts were pouring into the street. The other boxes were dented from their fall. Ellen gathered everything up as best as she could and wrapped the broken shopping bag around them. Clutching the bag she stormed up the street and into what turned out to be a bar. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. Smoke filled her nostrils and added to her anger. She saw two of the men at bar stools, fresh beers in front of them, their backs to her. The skateboard passed back and forth between their feet. Ellen walked over, slammed her package on the bar, picked up the beer, and poured it on the one called Charley.

Hey, he yelped as he leapt off his barstool. He turned around to see Ellen glaring at him. The man next to him, it was Ray, picked up his own beer and scuttled down the bar, laughing.

Ellen glared. What, that was just some fun for you?

You poured my beer on me.

That’s all you can say? You just assaulted me on the street and you’re upset about a beer?

Awww, c’mon. We didn’t assault you. We were just having a little fun.

Well, your fun cost me my good mood, took up my free time, and kept me from getting ice cream for my friend and her kids. Ellen was still angry, but she wasn’t scared anymore. Pouring the beer on this tall man had made her feel better—she couldn’t say why. He looked pathetic dripping wet.

Yeah, lady, whatever. Hey, Charley threw his keys to the bartender, lock up for me, will ya? I’ve gotta go home and take a shower.

You work here? Ellen was astounded.

I own the place.

Good, then you know the neighborhood. And you’re not going anywhere except to walk me home. Ellen wondered if she was crazy.

His look told her she was.

I’m here, ah, visiting, and I’m not sure how to get back to my friend’s house. It’s not far, but clearly the streets aren’t safe here with aging hooligans running around. You’re going to carry those things, she pointed to her shopping now spread out on the counter, and escort me safely home.

Charley stood up slowly. He was quite a bit taller than Ellen, but he turned toward the counter and said, Paul, do we have a bag back there. Ellen turned and realized the bartender was the third man from the alley. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and her heart pounding less, she looked around. There were just a few occupied tables in the bar and there was a pool game going on, but the place was mostly empty. The music was low, bluesy, and the establishment looked more like the pubs she remembered in the British countryside than an American bar. Paul produced a pair of bags and Charley, without flinching at the intimate nature of the items or remarking on the damage, tied the Epsom salts container with its few remaining contents into one and placed it, along with the rest of the shopping, into the other bag. He accepted a damp bar rag from Paul and mopped the beer out of his hair and off of his face.

Let’s go.

Ellen hesitated. She reached for her bag. Um. No. I was angry. On second thought, I think I’ll just go outside and get a cab. It doesn’t seem right to walk home with a stranger.

Charley held out his hand. Charley Hall, he said. Retired hooligan, bar owner, escort extraordinaire. I swear, he looked boyish, crossing his heart, I will walk you home, stand at the sidewalk like a gentleman while you go to the door, and take myself promptly home for a shower. I won’t even talk, if you don’t want me to. He turned a key at his lips and threw it over his shoulder, watching it, then turned back toward her, his eyes sparkling.

Ellen drew herself up, picked up her package with what she hoped was a dismissive look, and turned to leave. Charley took the bag gently from her arm and reached around her to hold the door. Together, they walked back out into the night.

After a few steps in silence, Charley tried, Where’re we going?

Ellen didn’t respond. She felt only by staying silent did she have any control over the situation at all. She looked straight ahead. She was completely turned around and she really didn’t know how to get back to the house. She was going to have to ask. Still, she didn’t want to give in and let Charley help. She couldn’t be sure about him—she wasn’t scared any more, but she felt awkward around this man. She found herself wondering how long it had been since she was alone with a man other than her husband. What could they talk about anyway? Suddenly, she wished she were wearing more than an old sweatshirt thrown over an even older skirt. She shook the thought out of her head, ignoring the loose curls that escaped her hairclip and looked determinedly ahead. This was, she was reasonably sure, the right direction—a gas station was in view that she was certain she had passed on the way out—so she elected to say nothing and not to look at Charley directly as they walked.

After a few more steps, he tried again, You picked a beautiful time of year to visit the area. Ellen considered her surroundings. Hardly a visit, she thought. Can it ever be a visit when you return to somewhere you once lived? More like walking backwards. Was it a myth that dodo birds did precisely that? She opened her mouth to ask Charley and then remembered her resolve to stay quiet. He saw her stop herself and smiled. Maybe it was all those years tending bar, but when he wasn’t listening, his style was to ramble, so he did.

You know, people come into the bar, tourists, staying at the hotel down the street, and they talk all about the sights they’ve seen and the experiences they’ve had visiting the city. They sit on my bar stools and tell me about these wonders as if I couldn’t possibly have ever been these places myself, like I don’t have nephews who come in the summer and drag me from museum to museum. As if I didn’t grow up here going on field trips with my class or downtown with my family. Like I couldn’t possibly ever come out from behind the bar. They never imagine that this is my city, too. That I’ve seen presidents with their whole administrations sweep in and go home after four or eight years. That I’ve watched my neighborhood evolve from a tiny bedroom community to a sprawling suburb. That I went to school and college and even made a fool-hardy attempt at grad school here, never venturing far from the family homestead. They were stopped, waiting for the light to turn across a busy intersection. By now there was little traffic, but it was Ellen’s habit to wait until the little white man told her to cross with her children.

Straight ahead?

Huh? Ellen jumped. The light had changed and she was standing still. She looked across the street, squinting to read the sign, indicated that they should cross and started over. Was this the right way? The right street? One block ahead she saw a street that was still more mainly and she felt better—surely she would recognize a landmark there. Charley was still talking about something—she hadn’t been listening—but now she tuned back to what he was saying.

So I guess I’m a rarity here, a real native. Maybe I should give tours or something. But then I’d have to put up with all of the tourists and wanna-be Georgetown students.

What’s wrong with Georgetown students? Ellen realized too late she had spoken. She was sure Charley smirked, but he didn’t point it out. Instead, he carried forward with the conversation.

Nothing, really. It’s just … well, last month a couple came into my bar. They had fake IDs and when I took them away and offered them Cokes, they treated me like I was this bad guy. The entitlement they seem to feel, wearing their designer labels, going to a bar underage and expecting to be served, then being pissed when I wouldn’t give them back their fakes. It just got to me.

Not all GU students feel that sense of entitlement. Some work very hard to be there.

Oh yeah? And just how would you know? Someone you know go there?

I did, said Ellen, wishing she hadn’t revealed herself.

Me too, said Charley, business school, undergrad, finally got through in ‘91.

College, ’87. Seems like we just missed each other.

You’re 40? Charley looked surprised.

Ellen didn’t know how to react to that question. She was still contemplating 40. In a couple of months. You’re awfully fast at math.

Addition, subtraction, stuff like that. It helps with the business.

So that’s what you did with your $40,000 business degree, opened a bar? She winced, not meaning to sound dismissive.

When I was in high school I wanted to work in international business. Then I found out what I really wanted to do was play percussion in a band. We rehearsed so much that I fell way behind. I failed my first semester, sophomore year, lost my scholarship, and my parents told me they wouldn’t pay for any more screw ups.

So what did you do?

I dropped out.

No wonder you dislike GU students.

Charley grunted and fell silent for the first time. They walked on, their steps in sync in spite of their exaggerated height difference. Ellen wondered if she should say something. She wished Charley hadn’t stopped talking—she found his ramble engaging, comforting, appealing.

What happened next? Ellen felt shy asking. You want to tell me?

Charley shrugged again: Hollywood ending.

She couldn’t be sure if he was pulling her leg. Tell me, Ellen smiled and held up her hand. She had taught at the community college enough years to guess what happened next. Or, wait, let me tell you.

Shoot.

"You played around for a while, didn’t like your options, pulled yourself up by the bootstraps, enrolled in the local community college, got great grades, and graduated from the state