The Perils of Pauline Read online

  “The red squirrels are back.” He holds a bundle of rags aloft. “And this is a smoke bomb.”

  “But that didn’t work the last time.”

  “But this one is better. Bernie gave me the good stuff. It’ll work.” Donald stares into the hole with the eyes of a madman. “Little bastards,” he’s muttering as he shoves his anti-squirrel kit into the hole. A grin is spreading across his face.

  “Be careful.”

  I don’t want to watch the show. It occurs to me as I walk toward the door that I may not have to pack any boxes after all because Donald is probably about to burn the house down. As I reach for the doorknob, all I can think is that I have quite the choice: it’s fairly evenly divided between a Mama’s boy and a crazy man.

  Throwing open the door, I’m greeted by Jack and Olympia. “Mom! Mom! Lewis said we can keep them!”

  Tumbling across the living room floor to meet me are eight ecstatic puppies that look remarkably like George Bush. All barking.

  CHAPTER 17

  Threat Warning

  Threat Warning: The urgent communication and acknowledgement of time-critical information essential for the preservation of life and/or vital resources.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  Monday morning and I’m still sizzling. It’s even dangerous to take a shower as the hot water pouring down my hips and thighs makes me think of Michael. Everything makes me think of Michael.

  Downstairs, the sight of the mess the puppies made in their makeshift cardboard pen overnight fails to distract my thoughts. Even the puppy poo mounds all over make me think of Michael and his lovely warm brown eyes. While scooping up soggy newspapers into a garbage bag, and handing out fresh bowls of water and chow, my mind keeps spinning through the details of my weekend.

  My belly button itches. Despite two showers since I got home, I still have sand tamped in all my crevices from playing slick otters in heat on the beach. A deep excavation of my navel is arrested by the sight of a pup squirming its fat form over the side of the pen. I block him with my foot and plop him back in with his littermates. The pup looks up at me, barks, and tries to climb back out again, while the rest of the pups nose around. It’s only a matter of time until the rest are over the wall too. On today’s agenda is to either find homes for them or devise a better way to corral them. Jack slips down from eating his breakfast at the counter and comes over to stand beside me.

  “Please, can’t we keep one?” he says picking up the smart-aleckey one who figured out how to escape. “His name is Rocket.”

  “Na-ah,” shrieks Olympia, leaping down from her stool. “We’re keeping this one.” She grabs another wriggling body from the fray. “Her name is Holly Berry.”

  Jack and Olympia love the puppies; they want to keep all of them.

  “Don’t give them names. We can’t keep any of them. They need good homes with responsible, caring owners and quiet, patient handling.”

  We can’t provide anything like that.

  Jack sets Rocket down outside the pen. Rocket sniffs at the floor and squats. I scoop him back up, mid-squirt and tuck him back into the pen.

  “What are you two still doing here anyway; you’re going to be late for school. Put Holly Berry down. Go.” I say. “Wait, where’s Serenity. Is she up yet?”

  “Don’t know,” they shout as they grab their lunches and backpacks and race out the door.

  Serenity’s bed is empty. She must’ve set out for school early today. Maybe she’s finally pulling it together? How wonderful that would be if it were true. But I can’t help but feel that it’ll be a miracle if she stays in school this term let alone attend classes on time.

  The phone rings a minute later. It’s Mackie. I know she wants another debriefing. “Is the coast clear? Can you talk?” she asks breathlessly.

  “Yes. No one’s home.”

  “So? What’re you going to do?”

  “Cut the lawn maybe. Hey, would you like a puppy?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject. What’re you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Do you think Donald suspects?”

  “Hope not.”

  “When are you going to see Michael again?”

  “Wednesday morning. We’re meeting for coffee.”

  “Mom! You said I could borrow your car on Wednesday morning.”

  I whirl around to see Serenity bent over the pen, her long blonde hair swinging across her face as she plays with the pups. Where did she come from? She’s still wearing her pajama bottoms and her favorite nightshirt. She must’ve slept in the basement rec room in front of the television again. More importantly though: how long has she been in the room listening?

  “Mac, I gotta go.”

  I face my eldest, born of my starter marriage to a sergeant from an infantry unit. Which, if you know anything about army guys, says it all. She inherited his wide dove eyes, the mow ‘em down flat approach and his forward operating base attitude.

  “When did I say you could borrow my car? Last time you ran it bone dry.”

  “Did not. It was empty when you loaned it to me.” She puts her hands on her hips. “I’ll give you $20 of my own scrilla to cover the gas then.”

  “Where did you get $20?”

  “From Donald. For babysitting on the weekend. Saturday night.”

  Odd. Donald never mentioned to me that he went out while I was away over the weekend. Of course he never tells me anything about where he’s going these days.

  “Donald went out Saturday night? Where?”

  “I don’t know. What about the car? Can I have it?”

  “I need my car Wednesday morning.”

  “Why? Who are you meeting for coffee?”

  “A friend. From school. Why do you need to know?”

  Serenity glares at me. I better be careful. She also inherited my mother’s ability to read minds. A wormhole begins to form in my forehead as Serenity bores her eyes straight into my brain to suck out all my secrets like a Jack Russell Terrier skinning down a hole after a ferret. Fortunately the phone rings, saving me.

  It’s Mom. If she worms into my forehead, I’m done for. She lives miles away but she still knows more about what’s going on at my house than I do some days.

  “Pauline,” she says, “I’ve been thinking about your financial situation lately and I’ve decided to give you some of the proceeds from your father’s estate. He’s appalled to see how you’re living these days.”

  I sure as hell hope Dad can’t see me from his gunnery station up in heaven. If he knew what I was up to lately, he’d load my butt full of shrapnel in a barrage of artillery fire from above.

  “Cut it out, Mom. Dad’s dead. He can’t see anything. And what do you mean how I’m living these days?”

  “Your house for starters. It’s practically … ruined.”

  She’s right about that. Donald and the red squirrels made a mess of the siding at the top of the house, and George has been chewing on the bottom half. He’s still prone to digging holes in the back yard. And now we have his eight fat pups.

  I don’t want to accept money from Mom. However, Donald says Mom’s loaded with cash plus she has a diversified raft of stocks, bonds, options, annuities, the works. On the other hand, she already gave me the Caddy, and Serenity, Jack, and Olympia have all his medals, mugs, plaques, sashes, and swords.

  Of course, unless I find a job, I can’t afford to keep the Caddy anymore. It’s been parked in the garage for months. Mom says, “I want to help you kids get back on your feet. You told me you were thinking of starting a business. Have you given any more thought to that?”

  I had forgotten all about that plan. Suddenly, thanks to Mom, I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to go into business for myself. Screw rubber resistors and screw going back to school. This is a sign. And with this thought, the tight feeling across the back of my shoulders loosens, and my feet suddenly feel light as if I have sprouted fluttering golden
wings from my scapulas.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you, for saving me from the National Semi-Conductor Convention. I love you forever. But let’s set it up as a loan. I’ll pay you back. With interest.”

  “We’ll talk about it. Your father says we would’ve lost half our savings in the recession if it weren’t for Donald. Your Dad wants to help you kids now. Do I hear barking? Did you take one of your neighbor’s puppies?”

  “Yes. I mean no. We have the puppies here. Lewis dropped them off yesterday. He says they’re our responsibility since George is the father.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re having that dog neutered.”

  “I am?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I … well … okay, yes, I’ll make an appointment with the vet today.”

  At last, I manage to escape all barking puppies, my first-born, my mother and my best old army buddy by going outside and firing up the lawn mower. I can use this time to think about what kind of business I want to start with the loan from Mom. Cutting the grass makes me think of Michael: the powerful hum of the motor is vibrating through every fiber of my being. The prospect of a becoming a powerful business mogul barely captures my attention when I’m imagining that the mower is Michael and I’m a lush lawn submitting to his powerful blades.

  By lunchtime, all lusty thoughts are rudely swept aside when my imagination serves up the elephant that has been firmly locked out of the room. The door splinters down and in roars the pachyderm of my forsaken principles, brandishing a rifle in its curled trunk. Donald enters astride, in full silk regalia, looking every bit the imperial sultan, and he looks pissed. His hand rests lightly on the hilt of his jeweled sword and his dark eyes flash down at me.

  “Pauline, what have you been up to?”

  “I might ask that same question of you, m’Lord.”

  Donald crosses his arms. “I admit to nothing.”

  But I can hear a sound like an emissary from the lickable lips of Lindsay Bambraugh outside the door. Her mirth enters the room on a warmish breeze that spreads through the air like an elephant fart.

  All I can think to do is buy myself an elephant gun and a peasant style dress with an easy-rip bodice.

  I wake up in the middle of the night, in a dead panic. Bolting into the den, I close the door and scan the calendar. I check the dates once, then twice, count, and then recount the days. Thirteen days have passed since my last period. My calculations quickly confirm: Days Nine, Ten and Eleven of my cycle were Michael Days. I might be in big trouble. Heaven knows, it’s possible to ovulate super early in one’s cycle. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been blessed with Olympia.

  No wonder our weekend was so luscious—ovulation time is always my most horny time of the month too—my ovaries were no doubt spitting out eggs like a carp. Mother Nature is no fool. But—she wouldn’t be so cruel—would she?

  After all, we were careful to use protection every time. Except for that one incomplete touchdown in the shower, but surely nothing could come of that. After all, Donald and I have practiced withdrawal for years. In more ways than one.

  It’s time to get my tubes tied. Hope it’s not too late.

  Arghh. For days I’ve been obsessed with the appalling thought that I could be pregnant. I better stifle this negativity: after all, there’s no way to know for sure until I actually miss my period, which isn’t due for at least another week. No more agonizing. I won’t allow my fears to ruin my coffee date with Michael this afternoon. It’s a beautiful September day outside, so warm and sunny there’s no need to bring a jacket or, hopefully, underwear.

  I arrive at the Dingy Cup at the same time as Michael: we are so in sync. We sit in our usual corner for a few minutes staring at each other across the table. Awkward. Michael interlaces his fingers behind his head. He stretches his long legs out under the table and leans back in his chair. I glance around the room. The place is crowded with noisy freshmen, excited about their first day of classes. I feel a bit out of place now that I’ve decided not to return to school. Michael seems a bit disappointed, too, when I explain about my plan to start a new business. “What kind of business?” he asks.

  “Dunno yet. Did you want to order a coffee or something?”

  “No.”

  Michael leans forward. “Let’s get out of here. It’s too nice out to stay inside. Do you want to go for a ride?”

  Of course.

  We head out to the countryside. The road is familiar and I lean into the curves with him, my cheek pressed to his back and my hands tucked into his jacket pockets. When we come to a stone bridge over a narrow river, Michael pulls over and removes his helmet.

  “This is where we saw that Great Blue Heron last spring,” he said pointing down the embankment.

  I nod. I’m touched that Michael remembers this small detail from that day back in May when he rescued me from the side of the road. We didn’t even know each other’s names then.

  We descend to the riverside and walk until we find a quiet spot around a small bend. We spread a picnic blanket on the grassy banks and flop down to relax. Michael opens his saddlebag, which is stuffed with baguettes, Brie, grapes, pomegranate juice, and a bottle of cold champagne. The pomegranate cocktails look delicious but I remember my maybe-delicate condition in time to occasionally tip the glass into the grass behind Michael’s back. Just in case.

  Soon Michael leans me back onto the blanket with that look in his eye, and delivers a lengthy kiss. I can taste the champagne on his lips. Without taking his lips off mine, Michael fumbles for a condom and manages to drop it into the sand.

  “Oh no. That was the last one,” he says trying to brush off the dirt.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’m safe right now anyway.”

  Well, why not? I’m totally done for already.

  Another sleepless night. Am I pregnant or not? I can’t wait another minute let alone a whole week to find out. Nowadays, test kits are sensitive enough to pick up a pregnancy even before missing a period.

  Yesterday, I sneaked into a drugstore way across town to buy a home test kit. I spent half an hour examining my choices: would I prefer to see a heart shaped icon turn pink or watch a blue dot form in the navel of a teddy-bear? Why can’t they design one that shows a dead duck shape or a red line forming across the image of a carefree skipping-along woman?

  I finally selected a simple looking kit with two complete tests in case the first trial gets botched or is inconclusive.

  At dawn I tiptoe toward the bathroom to perform the secret test. The instructions say it’s best to use a morning urine sample when the pregnancy hormone, HCG (human chorionic gonadotrophin—try saying that fast first thing in the morning with a smile on your face), is at its highest concentration.

  As I reach the bathroom door, Serenity emerges from her bedroom at the other end of the hall. Her face twists with irritation. I tell her I’m in a hurry, so go use the bathroom downstairs, please. Serenity glowers at me, and retreats back into her bedroom. What is a teenager doing up at this hour anyway? A rueful thought strikes me that it’s been almost eighteen years since I’ve been permitted to go into a bathroom first without enduring someone’s baleful looks. Please, please, may the test results show that I’m not about to a sign on for another eighteen.

  I retrieve the test kit, cunningly concealed within a large box of premium name-brand tampons. I was planning to treat myself this month. At least there’s no chance the tampons will spoil. Serenity can always use them up. Lucky her, being a lesbian. Certainly she’ll never face the specter of an unwanted pregnancy. Her children, if she ever decides to have any, will be coaxed to conception with the aid of a turkey baster no doubt. I wish I were an unfettered lesbian at this moment. It’s possibly too late to change over now.

  The stupid test kit must have been designed by a man. I don’t want to pee on a stick. It’s much easier for men to perform peeing-on-stick maneuvers. Where’s the woman-friendly pregnancy test kit? They could at least p
ut in a few grocery coupons and a chocolate bar to eat while waiting for the result.

  An alternate method is to pee in a cup, then dip the stick. But Serenity is bound to take over the bathroom if I go off in search of a cup. I can’t risk it. Besides, I have to pee now. I seize Donald’s toothbrush cup, and rinse it out.

  Olympia is now twisting the door handle and scrabbling at the door.

  “I gotta poo now.”

  “Hang on,” I yell. I check my watch. In five short minutes I could be toast.

  Olympia is now frantic, and howling, “The poo is coming out.”

  I better let her in. I stuff the whole assembly into the cabinet behind the plumbing under the sink and stash the remaining test kit back in the tampon box.

  I open the door to admit Olympia. Fine. I’ll go downstairs and plug in the coffee maker. Two minutes later, I race back upstairs only to find Olympia is out of bathroom and Serenity is now in.

  I rap on the door again. “Hurry up in there.”

  Jack appears beside me, and starts frantically hammering on the door too.

  Serenity yells, “Hold on, I’ll be done in a sec.”

  Since Jack is making such a fuss to go next, I might as well go back downstairs for my mug of coffee. Next pregnancy scare, I will use the downstairs toilet.

  Ten minutes later, I race upstairs to the bathroom only to find the door locked again. Behind the door, I can hear familiar sounds of splashing, rumbling and snorting, like a bull walrus is rolling around in our tub. Damn that Donald; my whole future is hanging by a thread in there and he’s lolling in the bath. I can’t stand this waiting any longer. How do I get him out?

  “Donald? I need … a tampon.” I congratulate myself on such quick and clever thinking.

  “Hold on, I’ll grab you one,” he shouts back through the door.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Whatever possessed me to say that? The extra test kit is hidden in the tampon box.

  I feel faint as I listen to the sounds of Donald rifling through the cabinets. Soon, he bellows out, “Where on earth do you keep them?”