The Perils of Pauline Page 17

  Apparently I’m in a restricted zone. I point across the lot at the Porta-Potty and make pleading hand gestures. And I run.

  I leap inside and secure the latch while trying not to think about the fact that none of the hundreds of construction workers who use this facility ever bother to wash their hands after handling their dankest parts. As I yank down my jeans I wonder: how will I ever get out without touching that latch again?

  I can see that more than one man has already missed the hole and ruined the seat. A few weeks ago, Shae explained to me how to pee standing up at a urinal. She said all the women in Texas learn to do this at an early age. Apparently any worthy cowgirl can aim her stream through her open zipper and accomplish the task without a dribble or drip. It’s all got to do with proper manipulation of the labia with the fingers positioned in a tight V and then emptying with force. I was planning to practice the trick in the shower but never got around to it yet.

  Since I remain uninitiated in the Texan Finger-Assist Method, I have no choice but to hover over the hole while clutching my purse against my chest.

  There’s no toilet paper. I hate that wet feeling. I squirm back into my jeans. Standing up, I can see a trail of dribbles and drips across the legs of my jeans. These are the unhappy consequences of neglecting my kegels.

  I emerge from the Porta-Potty blinking in the sunlight and gasping for fresh air. Airport security is waiting for me. He’s a young guy; I can handle him.

  “I realize I’m out of bounds here, but you see I was …”

  The guard opens the rear door of a vehicle that has a whirring flashing light on the top.

  “Get in,” he says without a hint of sympathy.

  “Look, I don’t think this is necessary.”

  “I said GET. IN.”

  As I climb into the back of the security guard’s vehicle, all I can think is that my right hand touched that latch. Twice. My nose itches but I can’t scratch it with my right hand. I hope they let detainees wash their hands. Maybe the guard has some hand sanitizer. I lean forward and tap on the partition.

  “Excuse me. Where are you taking me? I need to get to International Departures to meet my husband. He has a ticket to Calgary. Canada. He works for Double’s Group Financial. He’s going on a business trip. Take me there and I can prove it.”

  Silence.

  “This is crazy. You’re making such a big deal. What’s your name? I’m going to be filing a complaint if you don’t let me go this second. I’m calling my husband. I have a right to make one phone call.”

  I puff out my chest and play my best card: “Did you even look at my ID? I am a United States veteran.”

  “Put that phone away, Ma’am.”

  “Why?”

  “I said put it away.”

  “Fine. Do you have any hand sanitizer?”

  An hour later, after a detour through the underground security halls of the airport where menacing photos of known and suspected terrorists are pasted on the walls, the security guy escorts me to the doors of the Departures terminal. Apparently my hand gestures to the man with the yellow hard hat were regarded as a potential terrorist communication. What with the homeland team being distracted by my Porta-Potty plotting, no doubt some real perp has slipped right through their fingers. Donald’s plane is probably about to be hijacked because of me.

  I race to the check-in desk. The agent informs me that Donald’s plane pushed off a few minutes ago.

  “Are you Pauline Parril? Your husband left this for you.” She hands me an envelope with my name on it. Inside I find the car keys and a scrawled note:

  Pauline: I’ll call you as soon as I get to Calgary. Donald. PS. Try not to worry about Serenity. We’ll get her through this.

  We’ll get her through this. We’ll get her through this. We? Are we still a we? I’m so confused.

  One thing’s certain. And I gasp with the revelation as it drops with a plop deep into my consciousness: Serenity is pregnant and I am going to be a grandmother. For real.

  I can do this. I know I can. I want to raise my fist a la Scarlet O’Hara and shout (except I’m standing in the middle of Terminal Three): As God is my witness, I am going to be a good grandmother! I am going to be a fantastic grandmother. And Donald will be a reasonably competent grandfather. We know all kinds of stuff about raising kids. It took us awhile to figure it all out but we could survive as grandparents, I’m sure of it. We still have our teeth and hair so we won’t be too scary looking at any rate.

  I remain all misty-eyed until I realize my magnificent grandfather-to-be husband hasn’t mentioned where he parked the car. I’m shaking my fist at the sky again. Dammit, Donald, there are six levels of parking here.

  The car turns out to be on level five at the far end. By the time I unlock the door, I’m parched with the heat and dust. My water bottles are all empty. I still haven’t had a chance to cleanse my hands.

  I can’t go back into the terminal to find a bathroom with that security guy hanging around me. I’ll stop somewhere on the way home. If I don’t get going, I’ll be late picking the kids up. The security guy follows me all the way to the on-ramp, and then spins away back to the terminal after making a quick u-turn.

  I wonder if my photo was secretly captured and is already hanging on that wall with all the others? Every one of them had black caterpillars for eyebrows and unruly facial hair. Even the women. I quickly glance into the rearview mirror: have I plucked my eyebrows lately? What about those darkish hairs I found growing above my lip the other day? Did I get them all with my tweezers? I wouldn’t want to be displayed with unkempt eyebrows and a scraggly mustache. Maybe it’s time for a proper waxing. I could book an appointment for tomorrow morning. I could get a little Brazilian job while I’m at it and surprise Michael.

  Oh no!—Michael! I was supposed to call him this morning. Snatching up my cell, I turn it on and check my messages. There are five, all from Michael. He wants to say good morning darling, where am I, what I am doing, why am I not answering messages, and am I okay?

  I text him back one word: Brazil! A little mystery for him to figure out. By the time I see him, I will be shaking my maracas at him and offering him a little salsa dip.

  The trial week without Donald is almost over. I’ve barely noticed he’s gone. Of course, the kids have been in school all week, and Serenity and Shae disappeared off on a road trip for a few days. I’ve had the house to myself and I’ve put it to good use.

  Michael came over three times. I drew the line at romping in the conjugal bed but that didn’t stop us from having a go in the shower, the den, and the basement rec room.

  Michael wanted to come back today but I begged off. Too much sex is too much sex. My Brazilian wax job is used up. Not to mention that the waxing has caused an itchy, spreading rash. I’m going to apply some calamine lotion and give it a rest.

  Plus I’m getting a little paranoid about getting caught. Someone knocked on the side door while we were in the basement yesterday and then we heard the squeak of a door hinge. It was Bibienne; I heard her voice calling for me. We tried to be quiet, but Michael kept tickling me and making me giggle. After a moment, I heard the door snap shut. Rather abruptly I thought.

  Michael’s sneakers were on the mat beside the door. Bibienne won’t blow my cover but still. Maybe I’ve gone too far.

  Of course, every time I get to feeling on the wrong side of the law I remember that Lindsay is off on this little Calgary junket with Donald. Not that I can pin anything on the two of them, but what if he isn’t having an affair with Lindsay? I won’t think about it. It’s early days after all. Every time the guilt rises, Michael slaps it back down with a grin and a well-aimed nuzzle.

  I won’t let any of this bother me today. Everyone comes trooping back tomorrow and I have one last glorious day to myself. I’m using it to research my bookstore-buying plan. Donald isn’t crazy about the idea but he says if that’s what I want, I should at least take the time to research it. And prepare a business p
lan. So Jennifer and I are having a business lunch.

  “Donald!” I cry as soon as he gets off the airport shuttle. “Guess what? You’re looking at the new owner of Brick Books! I can’t believe my luck! Jennifer is letting me take over the business with just a tiny down payment. She’s going to teach me the ropes and I can start next week.”

  Donald heaves his suitcase into the trunk and turns to stare at me. “You don’t know a thing about book retailing.”

  “But I love books! Isn’t that all I need? Passion?”

  Donald climbs into the passenger seat and leans his head against the headrest, closing his eyes. I jump into the driver’s seat.

  “Tell me about Calgary. How was your trip?”

  Donald opens his eyes again and lifts his head off the headrest. “Great. But there’s a load of work to be done and they want me back on site as soon as possible. The field manager is up to his armpits.”

  “How soon?”

  “Monday?”

  That’s soon. I sag in my seat. For once in my life I can’t think of anything to say. Weird thing is, I feel like I’m going to miss Donald. Like I don’t know if I can handle the whole hot dog cart without him. Like maybe this is the end. Like it’s finally final. And maybe I don’t want it to be.

  Donald glances at my face. “If you need me to postpone I can.”

  “I’ll be alright.”

  Donald spent most of the weekend packing for Calgary. His bags are stuffed and his closet is empty.

  Neither of us have much to say as I take him back to the shuttle. I wonder what Donald is thinking? For once, he isn’t absorbed with his Blackberry. He stares ahead into the traffic.

  Is he thinking what I’m thinking? Is this the end?

  Is his chest as tight as mine?

  As we pull into the parking lot, I spy Lindsay climbing out of a cab. She’s smartly dressed with a short skirt and spikey heels.

  “Lindsay is going out to Calgary with you again?”

  “She’s the project manager.” Donald’s eyes meet mine but I can’t read his expression. Is it deliberately neutral and composed?

  “What? Is something wrong?”

  “I thought you were the project manager. You told me Lindsay wasn’t part of this arrangement.”

  “We are both project managers. It’s complicated. I thought I told you Doubles decided to … Look, I have a plane to catch. Can we talk about this later?”

  “Whatever.”

  He transfers his bags to the shuttle, and turns to say goodbye. What do we do here? Shake hands? Suddenly he has me in his arms, hugging me. It’s been a long time since I pressed my cheek into the familiar crook of his shoulder. Donald kisses the top of my head and holds me rather tightly. Eyes burning, I pull away from his embrace. I refuse to cry in front of him, and I sure as hell won’t cry in front of Lindsay.

  As he climbs aboard, he glances back at me, and waves a quick wave. I can’t decide if his expression is rueful, guilty or sad. Then he disappears onto the shuttle.

  With Lindsay.

  Maybe I do want it to be the end.

  “The word torrid springs to mind.”

  I whirl my head around to see Bibienne standing inside the back door. She has a large bowl of garden tomatoes in her hands and her Mona Lisa smile on her face.

  “Oh God. Is it that obvious?”

  “I’ve known you since forever,” she says handing me the bowl and settling into the wingchair in the living room.

  “Nice tomatoes. Wow, they’re still warm.”

  “Big sneakers. I’m thinking size 15?”

  “I was going to tell you, honestly.”

  “No worries.”

  “So that was you at the door the other day?”

  Bibienne cocks her head at me. “Uh huh.”

  “Don’t uh huh me. I’m not a kid. I know all about that uh huh trick.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Fine. His name is Michael and I met him at Dingwall. He’s my Modern American Poetry prof. I mean he was my prof. Nothing happened until after. He’s one of the most beautiful and sexy men I’ve ever met. He thinks I’m beautiful and sexy. And he’s only a 14.”

  Bibienne lifts one eyebrow. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Bibienne stares me down. “What about Donald?”

  “He’s a 12. Regular.”

  Bibienne snorts. “So it’s out with the old, in with the new?”

  “Not exactly. The old has gone out west to live. And Lindsay is out there with him.”

  “You found out for sure Donald is with her? Like, they’re together?”

  “No, not for sure. This isn’t about revenge anyway. It’s about me.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. Just be careful.”

  “Thanks for the lovely tomatoes.”

  “I have plenty more if you want them. Stupid Bernie went gaga and planted a million billion plants.” She lets out a sigh. “Size 14 huh?”

  “We’re talking extra wide.”

  “Ouch ouch baby,” she says. She’s smiling but I can see a touch of the old green sap rising in her eyes.

  Despite her jealous pique, I know my secret is safe with Bibi. Her lips are glued shut. After all, she once bragged to me that Bernie practically wears clown shoes.

  CHAPTER 19

  Homeland Defense

  Homeland Defense: The protection of United States sovereignty, territory, domestic population, and critical defense infrastructure against external threats and aggression or other threats as directed by the President.

  —Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  I’m all pumped up. Today’s my first day working at the bookstore under Jennifer’s guidance. I’ve just jumped into the shower and lathered my head with my new peppermint shampoo, designed to invigorate the scalp, when I hear Jack downstairs screaming, “Daddy.” Throwing my bathrobe around me, I run downstairs leaving a trail of peppermint foam blobs to find Jack in the downstairs bathroom, still screaming his head off. I crack open the door and call in, “What’s the matter? Why are you screaming for Daddy?”

  “I need toilet paper.”

  “Daddy is in Canada, remember?” My scalp is starting to invigorate in a most unpleasant fashion.

  “I need toilet paper.”

  “There’s some on the shelf beside you.”

  “No there isn’t.”

  “Look up higher.” I need to rinse my hair before my scalp burns off.

  “Oh yeah.”

  Yesterday at dinner Olympia asked me where Donald was. A week ago, before he left, Donald and I called a major family conference and explained the situation in detail. “Daddy is going to work in a city far away. For a long time. Any questions?”

  They said, “Nope. Can we go now?”

  I jump back in the shower to rinse the peppermint shampoo out of my hair hoping the stinging will subside soon.

  I waylay the kids at the breakfast table. “Hey, you two. I need you both to try to grasp the fact that Daddy has gone out west to work. He’ll be coming back home but not for a long time.”

  I think.

  “How long?” asks Olympia.

  “Many, many sleeps. But he’ll come home and visit us.”

  She holds up her hand and spreads out her fingers. “More than 5 sleeps?”

  Yes, I nod. Olympia bursts into tears. “I miss Daddy.”

  I kneel beside her chair and take her dear little hands in mine. “Oh, honey, I know. Daddy misses you too. But you can call him on the phone every day. And you can write him letters too.”

  Olympia’s face brightens up. “Can I have a kitten then?”

  “A kitten?”

  “Yeah, because I miss Daddy so much and the kitten will help me feel better.”

  Jack yells, “No fair. If Olympia gets a kitten then I want an iguana.”

  “We aren’t getting any new pets. We already have a dog, two cats and a fish.”

  They start bickering with each oth
er over which kind of new pet we will be getting. I have to yell over their raised voices to get their attention: “No, we aren’t getting an iguana or a kitten.”

  Jack scowls. “Can I have a turtle then?”

  “Mommy, Jack is squeezing my arm.”

  “Jack, let go of her arm. Both of you, go get ready for school. Now. I have to start at the store this morning and I can’t be late.”

  Jack releases Olympia’s arm to ask, “What store?”

  When I arrive at the store at 8:15, Jennifer shakes her head at me. “You’ll need to get here well before 7 to set up for the morning coffee crowd.” She hands me a stack of catalogs. “When you have a chance you need to look through these. The Christmas order should be in by the end of the week. But don’t worry, I’ll help you with that.” Then she points at a knee-deep pile of books on the floor: “First I’ll show you how to do returns.”

  Three hours later I’m still sitting at a desk with books piled up around my ears searching through endless packing slips, and crossing off titles as they go into a box postmarked for return to one publisher or another. I pause to read the dust jacket of a novel by someone I’ve never heard of. I would love to stop and read a few pages but my stomach is growling and I need to fill at least two more boxes before I can knock off for lunch. I’ll add the title to my list.

  “You must read so many wonderful books,” I say to Jennifer as she grabs a yogurt from the fridge.

  “Me? I wish. I don’t have much time for reading,” she replies with a shrug. “Or eating.” She cracks open the yogurt container hurriedly as she turns back to the phone.

  Jennifer is buried, too. Yesterday’s delivery still needs to be entered on the computer and shelved. She’s been on and off the phone all morning arguing with a distributor who invoiced her for 32 copies of a book on model trains she never ordered.

  “Good thing the store has been so quiet this morning. We’d never get it all done,” I say when she pauses by my table to check my progress.

  Jennifer winces, saying, “A slow morning is never a good thing.”