The Perils of Pauline Page 24

  Jennifer said the top rule of bookselling is extra long hours during the run-up to Christmas. Recently she dropped in to the store to re-warn me: “If you don’t bury your nuts now, you’ll be sunk.” And today is the ugliest of long days: a December Saturday. People are increasingly frantic to finish their shopping and all proprieties of manners have been trampled into the ankle-deep slush of the sidewalks outside.

  As I approach the store I’m relieved to see that Ghostly Garth is nowhere to be seen. Garth has taken to showing up to help me open in the mornings. I would love a whole day without Garth or Johnny Rotten dropping by to talk about poltergeists or tear apart the children’s section. I’m beginning to loathe most of my customers. Like the lady who always shows up on a full moon to stroke the spines of the books. She always breaks down in huge sobs in the romance section. Or the scary man last week who, upon being told his book order wasn’t in yet, shouted as he stormed out of the store, “That pisses me off.”

  Now all Jude has to do to crack Serenity up—usually when she’s serving a touchy customer—is stand behind the customer in Serenity’s line of sight and sign his pitch-perfect Crazy Man impression by pounding the air with his fist and mouth-yelling, “That pisses me off.”

  At the threshold I see that someone has thrown up all over my Holly Berries planter—the vomit is no doubt compliments of one of last night’s holiday revelers from the pub three doors down. It’s frozen solid in mid-drip from the red berries and I knock a few pukesicles off with my mitten. Someone obviously consumed a few too many beers plus a chicken pita. Looks like the ranch dressing. Serves them right for buying anything from the Pita Gnat across the street.

  As I switch on the register, Shae bashes open the door. “Did you see the puke?” she yells. “Disgusting. Why does everybody always get the ranch dressing?”

  In the middle of a selling scrum, Michael texts to remind me of our lunch date. Oops. I forgot. I hate to blow him off just when we have managed to patch things up from the silent retreat over a series of apologetic emails. Now he wants to see me. But Yard is here dressed as a reedy Santa Claus, definitely a Nightmare Before Christmas version; Wendy is handing out treat bags; and Johnny Rotten has three or four candy canes in various stages of meltdown in each fist. I have to get that child out of the store before the oncoming blood sugar shockwave. Plus Serenity looks pale, like she needs to sit down and rest. Her bump seems to get bigger by the minute.

  It’s nuts in here. I’m completely swamped, I text to Michael in between hand signals to let Jude know that a lineup is forming at the register. I’m going to grab something to-go at the pub.

  Ten minutes later, my favorite book rep, Kevin, wanders into the store. I also forgot I agreed to meet with him today. “I’m starved,” I say to him, “How about a sandwich in the pub and we can go over the catalogs while we eat?”

  In Hollywood movies, everyone knows this is a stupid and ill-fated move. I’m obviously starring, because Michael shows up as we sit down with our pints and hot beef dips. I might as well have had a Pita Gnat Special with ranch dressing. His look of betrayal and pain makes my stomach grind. I excuse myself from Kevin and hurry over to Michael. He’s standing at the checkout picking up a takeout order for one. He turns to me, unsmiling.

  “Michael, it’s a business lunch. That guy is a sales rep. I forgot to—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

  “I know, but I didn’t want you to think I’m lying to you.”

  “No. You would never do that.” Michael’s voice is clipped.

  Our eyes meet. Me? Lie?

  As Michael turns away and heads for the door, my thoroughly deceived husband appears in the scene, figuratively of course. He’s the cuckold leaping like a lord in the tight white leotards. Or is he the sneaky fellow with the long twirly mustache? Or the hot cowboy in the leather chaps? Central casting keeps changing things up on me. So, which is he? All I know is, in my next big Hollywood role, I want to be the good guy.

  After lunch, I return to the store to find Serenity and Jude standing shoulder to shoulder at the cash register. They’re grinning and making faces behind the back of a woman dressed entirely, from head to foot, in red and green. Even her purse and boots match.

  Jude slides a pink sticky note over to Serenity. On it he has written, “She could use more green.” Serenity snorts and bends over the note to add her reply.

  “Woman in trench coat at 4 o’clock: WTF is up with that hair?”

  I always have to warn them about passing notes. If the customers only knew. There’s a drawer under the counter overflowing with color-coded stickies. Pink for fashion violations. Orange for weirdos. If they totally hate a customer they yank out the yellow pad. A yellow slip that says “skanky biatch” is currently on top of the pile. It went to the lady who came in yesterday looking for a travel guide to Costa Rica. She held up her wristwatch and said to Serenity: “You have four minutes.”

  Mid-afternoon, there’s a lull: here’s a chance to meet Michael for a quick coffee. Why not? Wendy and Jude are handling things. I can tell Serenity I have to go do some shopping.

  Michael agrees to meet me at the Dingy. Trouble is, my cold has settled throughout my sinuses, and I have to keep wiping my nose so it doesn’t drip into my latte.

  “I’m sorry about the way I acted in the pub. I felt uncomfortable seeing you in the corner having lunch with that guy,” Michael says.

  “I told you already, he’s a sales rep. That’s it.” I tilt my head and look earnestly into his eyes.

  “I know.” Michael leans forward. “Do you have time to come back to the res with me? I want to make love to you.”

  My ear lobes start tingling but I should get back to the store. The yellow stickies are really piling up and a last minute order is due to arrive. I don’t want Serenity lifting boxes of books. Jude has to go to an audition and Shae is going for a road test for her Class D license. If she passes, she could be clearing the town’s streets of snow as early as next week. Then she’ll probably be making more money than me.

  Michael’s lip pouts out slightly. I don’t want to get into yet another tiff so I reluctantly say yes. Wendy is at the store; she can lift the boxes. Serenity can go home and rest, order in some pizza for Jack and Olympia.

  Michael immediately wants to know if my hockey gear is in the trunk of the car. He doesn’t have to explain. I know that deep down he has been fantasizing about me dressed in naught but a hockey jersey and maybe a pair of high heels. Men just have a thing about doing it with a woman wearing a good set of knee pads. It’s all Janet Jones Gretzsky’s fault for posing in Sports Illustrated with her little blonde braids and gartered hockey socks. The idea is intriguing though. I suppose the pads will protect my patellas if we do it doggy style.

  We drag the hockey bag up to his place and I slip into the bathroom to don my gear. I figure it will be more fun for him if I put on all the equipment; that’ll make the strip tease last longer. I strap on the Jill and pull on the body armour, socks and jersey. My hockey equipment doesn’t smell so fresh. I hope Michael won’t notice.

  At the last minute I decide to leave off the helmet for fear of helmet hair. And the mouth guard doesn’t exactly say kiss me.

  I’m not sure if he wants the skates or not. Janet had the skates. And I like the thought of skates in bed. There’s something deeply kinky about dangerously sharp blades on waving feet. I could take his ears off if I get too carried away. I lace up and stand to survey myself in the mirror. This settles it. Male fetishes are plain weird. All I need is a mullet and I will look exactly like Wayne Gretzky.

  Because of the shoulder pads, I have to turn sideways to get through the narrow door. Michael is waiting for me at the end of the hall. My nose starts running faster than ever as I clump toward him in the skates. I try to wipe it on my hockey glove. Michael blinks at me a couple of times and then he makes a half-snort, half-laugh sound through his nose.

  “You didn’t need to put e
verything on.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Michael grins. “Holy shit, your head looks … so tiny. And you have no neck.”

  “It’s the shoulder pads, you jerk,” I say as I whirl back into the bathroom. “Forget it, this was a dumbass idea.”

  I smack the door shut, lock it and yank at the skate laces in a fury. Right away, Michael taps on the door. “Please come out. You’re right—it was a dumb idea. My dumb idea.”

  “Go away.”

  I peel all the equipment off and shove it back into the bag. Then I fill the tub with hot water. Climbing in, I prop my legs up on the wall and, as I watch the steam rise into the air, my aching sinuses begin to unclog. Lovely. Michael can stew in his own smelly locker room fantasy juices for a while.

  I let him stew for a long time before I emerge, dressed in my jeans and t-shirt again, sinuses nicely clear and a towel wrapped around my wet hair. Michael is sitting in a chair reading a book. He immediately jumps up and, taking my hand, leads me into the bedroom. There’s a wooden tray with a pot of tea and a plate of chocolate cookies laid on the bed. And a bowl of oranges. I know what he means by the tea and oranges. They’re from “Suzanne”, his favorite love poem, by Leonard Cohen. They mean love and beauty and sadness and longing. I forgive him.

  I sit cross-legged on the bed sipping my tea and peeling oranges. Michael drapes himself across the bed in front of me and watches me chew. “I love watching you. Even the way you eat oranges is sexy.”

  I lean in close and treat him to a citrus kiss. Michael sits up, takes the teacup from my hands and gently pushes me back against the pillows. He’s all quiet, tender, and sweet, and afterwards we lie on our sides facing each other and do the stare into each other’s eyes thing that is always the best part with Michael.

  Michael’s face turns serious. “Suzanne was married to someone else you know, when Cohen wrote that poem about her.”

  “Does that really matter now?”

  “No. But I think it made him want her more. She was so unavailable to him.”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  “I want you to ask Donald for a divorce.”

  There it is.

  “I know.”

  Less than a week to go before Christmas and the race is on: I unlock the doors extra early, instruct Serenity to start the coffee machines and Jude to open the till, then I speed to my office at the back of the store hoping no customer will pounce on me. The phone on my desk is blinking and there’s a raft of emails, including one from Michael that I will have to save for later. Last night, I kissed Michael goodbye and hurried away with a promise to give him an answer soon. I don’t know when I will get a chance to think though.

  Minutes later, Serenity pokes her head into the room and extends her arm: in her hand is a large mug of coffee. I leap straight for it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Where is Wendy?”

  “On the way. She stopped to try to help Yard fix his bike chain again.”

  “How does he ever pedal that wreck through the snow anyway?”

  “Dunno. He wipes out a lot. Wendy’s afraid he’s going to get hit by a car one of these days.”

  I start sorting through the tower of paperwork on and beside my desk. It looks like there’s more paper in my piles of paperwork than in the books out on the shelves. In one pile I find Jack’s Christmas wish list: his top entry is a the new Twisted Hilt video game but every store clerk in town says they’ve been sold out of those for weeks. Then they usually chortle at me: Good luck with that one, Mom. I stayed up until 2 a.m. last night, scouring the Internet and making last minute rush orders. Four hours’ sleep and it was a race back to the store to work on the rest of the town’s blinking wish list all day long.

  I know what’s on top of Michael’s list: a final decision from me. This item is way out of Santa’s league. One thing’s for sure: I’m perched at the top of Santa’s naughty list so I better watch my step or I might get pulped with sticks by some gang of stern punishing elves in a back alley.

  No matter what, I always seem to be on the naughty list. I’m a bad boss. I haven’t organized Christmas presents for the store staff yet or even treated them to a party. I am a bad mother. I haven’t conjured up a Magician’s Kit. I am a bad wife and a bad daughter. And I am a bad mistress: I didn’t tell Michael I am going to Calgary for New Year’s. I lay my head on the desk. Bad, bad, bad and nothing I can do about it.

  Wait. There is one thing I can do. Jumping up from my chair, I grab my purse and coat. As I pass the cash register, I snatch up a handful of tens and twenties and stuff them in a red and green striped stocking from the window display. Shoving the stocking into my coat pocket, I yell, “Serenity, I have to go out.”

  I stop at the florist, the dry cleaner’s and the print shop. The printer says I better drop by Bonnie’s Café. Bonnie sends me to the hardware store. Everyone knows Yard and wants to contribute. It doesn’t take long to fill my stocking with cash. My last stop is the local bike shop. “I want a decent quality street bike. With saddlebags and winter tires and, you know, the works. For a tall guy.”

  The bike shop guy nods and points at a red hybrid, “I know what Yard would like. He’s in here all the time looking around. I’m throwing in a top-of-the-line gelfoam saddle for free.”

  Best bit of fun I’ve had all year.

  Christmas Eve: I’m so burnt out. And very, very ticked. Everyone took off around noon leaving me to fend off the last minute shoppers all by myself. Serenity said she had to finish her Christmas shopping, Jude begged off with a headache, and Wendy didn’t show up at all. Shae must be at work although we haven’t had snow for days.

  I tried to close the store at noon but customers kept arriving in a steady stream. Many of them were hoping to snag one of Serenity’s specialty pre-stuffed stockings: the one for baby comes with powder and lotion, board books and waterproof bath books, and the one for Mom is filled with bath soaps, scented tealights, chocolates and a couple of the season’s hot reads. Once the word got around town, all the stockings sold out quickly including all of the Haunted Stockings she made up to please Garth.

  This final week before Christmas has been crazy. I haven’t had a minute to myself. I bought a tree last week but it remains frozen on the front porch awaiting its decorations in vain. The presents for under the tree are still under my bed, and the baking is on my to-do list.

  Donald obviously had some extra time on his hands as a huge gift-filled box from him arrived last night by overnight courier. Serenity stacked all the pretty packages in the corner of the living room, and warned us to keep our paws off them until Christmas morning. I can’t wait to open my gifts, which are a confection of tissue and gold stickers. Obviously Calgarian shoppers have way better gift-wrapping services than we do. I’m feeling terribly bitter now. Of course one of my gifts came in a tiny jewelry-box-sized package. Bless those new-money oil patch barons.

  Of course, this all reminds me that I haven’t managed to wrap a single gift yet.

  Last night on the phone I prevaricated, “It’s been so crazy, I didn’t get over to the post office yet.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to get me anything. You’re doing everything at home. I know you have no time.”

  Now I feel terrible. The truth is I haven’t even shopped for him yet. My plan was to bring him something when I surprise him on New Year’s Eve.

  At 4:00 p.m. I look outside. It’s starting to snow, which is good news as the crowds will thin now.

  Finally at 4:20, I usher the last customer outside, lock the door, turn the sign to closed, and duck down to hide behind the counter as I count the day’s receipts. Within minutes I hear knocking. I risk a peek. It’s Michael. I run to let him in.

  We sit in the office and look at each other in silence. We haven’t seen each other since our tea and oranges afternoon. Michael still doesn’t know I’m planning to go to Calgary for New Year’s. I’m tempted to forget to mention it at all. I hate to see him pout. He�
��s right about one thing though. I have to make up my mind.

  It’s difficult. Funny but I never realized that I would miss Donald as much as I do.

  “I have to go soon but I wanted to give you this.” Michael hands me a red and gold box with a dragon motif on the lid.

  “I didn’t think you celebrated Christmas anymore.”

  “I don’t. But I wanted to surprise you.”

  I lift the lid. Nestled in soft rice paper is a beautiful copper bowl finely etched with symbols around the rim.

  “It’s a Tibetan singing bowl.”

  “Thank you. It’s lovely.” I run my finger over a conch shell, a knot and a wheel.

  “Those are the Eight Auspicious Signs of the Ashtamangala.” He points at a symbol of two intertwined fish. “The fish represent fearlessness as they swim without danger of drowning in samsara, or suffering.”

  “I didn’t get you anything.”

  “I don’t expect anything.”

  My pretty Buddhist bowl is overflowing with guilt. I’m afraid I’m about to drown in an ocean of samsara. “Michael, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  As expected, the samsara response comes quickly. I’m up to my neck in samsara. Once I finish confessing my plan, Michael shakes his head and stands up to leave.

  “Wait Michael, please try to understand. I can’t explain why I’m going to Calgary to see Donald but I need to go. I don’t understand it myself. I’m not ready to walk away from my marriage yet.”

  “Yet? Do you think you will, ever? Do you even have a marriage?”

  I put my hand on his. “I don’t know anymore. I just need a little more time.”

  Michael pulls away. “I can’t do this anymore. You have to decide.”

  “I know.”

  Michael tugs his coat on. “I have to go now.”

  He walks away down the street without looking back.

  I sit in my office, turning the empty bowl on the desk in front of me, the eight auspicious symbols endlessly circling the rim. The lotus flower symbol is etched on the bottom of the bowl as well as on the rim. Michael said lotus flowers represent purity. The lotus is pure because it floats on the water above it all, free from desire and attachment. It is the symbol of letting go.