The Perils of Pauline Page 6

  Harold’s mother is barely speaking to me since she caught Jack downloading a list of cuss words onto Harold’s laptop. As if Jack is responsible for expanding his bratty friend’s vocabulary—three weeks ago I overheard Harold explaining to Olympia what WTF and CU Next Tuesday means.

  If Harold catches Jack’s cold, she’ll never speak to me again, but the opportunity to offload Jack for the day is much too attractive. If the house is quiet, Olympia might even take a nap.

  I hustle Olympia into her playclothes. Jack’s swim trunks are still wet from yesterday. I roll them in a fresh towel and hand them over anyway. Releasing Jack onto Harold’s doorstep, I wave to Harold’s mother in a breezy fashion and then I drive away hurriedly. Speeding to the grocery store, I scour my memory to recall the items on my shopping list, still magnetized to the refrigerator door. Home again. I put away the groceries and head back to the books. Olympia, bored with TV, roller-skates through the den with my hockey stick, showing off her slashing and high-sticking skills. “Go play an away game in the hall,” I say, at which she bonks into the doorframe, collapses on the floor and bursts into tears. Producing paper and markers, I say, “Here. Draw a picture for me.”

  My throat feels sore. No doubt I’m getting the kids’ cold.

  “Mommy, look.” Olympia holds up a drawing of two kids with green ears watching an enormous purple TV. A big smiling yellow sun shines grandly over the scene. I’m relieved there’s no blood, gore, flamethrowers, automatic weapons, etc. The drawing will make a creative—and easy—cover page for my poetry essay.

  Olympia miraculously agrees to go for a nap. Back in the den, I’m bored to the bone with Organizational Behavior. But I press on. Maybe I’ll find some tips in here on how to achieve order in the midst of milk spills, runny noses, and MIA husbands.

  By evening, I’m felled by the kids’ rotten cold. Bibienne suggests a scotch cure, her top remedy for colds, depression, broken bones, stubbed toes, chipped nail polish, etc. She says, “I’ll bring you a slurp of Lagavulin—it’s the best brand for sore throats.”

  The Lagavulin is soothing, my head clears, and my sense of smell returns. “See what a mess this place is? It stinks. My whole life stinks.”

  “You sound depressed.”

  “You think?”

  “For starters, you lost your job recently. And your Dad died. Both of those are way up there on the Stink Scale.”

  “True. And there’s Donald. All he thinks about is his job. He’s hardly ever home. And who knows what he’s doing on these conferences. It’s like he’s turned into my ex. The kids and house are all my department.”

  “Do you still think he’s having an affair?”

  “I don’t know. We hardly ever have sex anymore. After the last time … well, if I find out Leggy had a yeast infection recently …”

  “No way, a yeast infection? On top of everything else?”

  I nod my head sadly.

  Bibi lifts my chin gently and looks deep into my eyes: “Say, ‘I hate my life.’”

  “I hate my life.”

  “Now make a fist and pound on this cushion here as you say it. Get it out—say it again—louder.”

  “I hate my life, I hate my life, I hate my life.” Pound, pound, pound.

  “See, doesn’t that feel better now? It’s a healing mantra.”

  I drain my glass. Bibienne looks so beautiful. I could hug her.

  “Marry me, Bib.”

  I love my life.

  CHAPTER 6

  Friendly

  Friendly: A contact positively identified as friendly.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  I’ve volunteered to help with the end-of-year school costume carnival. I’m dressing up as a non-traditional clown. Donald pops his head around the bathroom door to observe the installation of bright blue hair extensions and Lady Gaga-style fake eyelashes. He surveys my costume, borrowed from Bibienne: a purple striped bodysuit, red patent miniskirt and tarty little white boots. He glances at the glass of wine on the counter beside me and smirks: “Boozo the slut-clown. That’s hot.”

  I tell him that, seeing as he’s such a comedian, he can wear the clown costume and take Olympia and Jack to the Fun Fair himself.

  Donald offers to drive us over to the school. Before entering the cafeteria, I beg Olympia to demonstrate self-control at the refreshment table.

  “I threw up on a princess last year, didn’t I?” recalls Olympia.

  “Yes. Yes, you did.”

  She threw up on the pinkest, bitchiest princess ever. I nod with what I hope is an adequate measure of regret and disapproval to cover up my proud smirk.

  Olympia and Jack disappear into the fray as I report to the volunteer booth. I am assigned to hand out drinks at the refreshments table. I step forward and somebody’s brat dressed in a vampire costume and wearing roller blades runs over my foot. I wonder who brought this bloodsucking monster on wheels? They should teach their kid some manners.

  The refreshments table is covered with orange cake crumbs and sticky purple punch spills and, soon enough, so am I. Removing my black bowler, I slump against the wall. This is going to be a long night.

  “Hi there.” A man dressed in a sheriff’s costume salutes me with a tip of his wide-brimmed hat.

  Who’s this? Tall handsome lawman. Motorcycle. Dingwall. What’s my poetry prof doing here?

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “Of course I know who you are. Professor Fortune. Poetry class.”

  “That’s okay. We’re both just parents here. Call me Michael.”

  “Okay. Michael. I didn’t know your kids go to this school.”

  “I just have one kid, a boy. He’s over there, the one in the vampire costume.”

  “Oh … he’s so cute!”

  “These two are mine.” I point at Olympia and Jack who are busy guzzling punch beside me.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me.”

  “It took me a moment. You have a hat. And it’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. I’ve missed a few of your classes.”

  “Quite a few, actually. I thought maybe you dropped the course.”

  “No. My kids were sick with colds, is all. I’ll be there next week for sure.”

  “Careful,” I say to Michael. “The purple punch is gross.” I hold up my cup, wincing.

  Michael says, “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” A few minutes later he returns carrying two opaque plastic cups and hands me one. It’s filled with … beer!

  “Cheers,” I say, tipping my cup. “How are you managing this?”

  “I’m a volunteer, on the organizing committee. A few of us Dads have a stash out back.”

  “Nice.” I take a swig.

  “Just between you and me, okay?” He zips his index finger across his mouth, sealing a pair of nicely formed lips. We lean against the wall and sip together in a quiet alliance.

  After a few minutes, he straightens. “I better get back to work.”

  He moves away into the crowd. I watch him circle about the room, picking up empty cups, helping a lost child find a parent, and retying the laces of a green frog.

  Michael comes back after awhile and points at my cup. “Another one?”

  “Please.”

  He returns with a refill and heads back into the throng. As the crowd thins, he comes over and relaxes against the wall next to me. The wall shifts behind my back, and the room tilts a little.

  Michael raises his cup to me with a grin. “Having fun?”

  “Now I am.”

  “I still can’t believe you didn’t recognize me. I thought I might have made more of an impression. Especially after I rescued you from the roadside and all.”

  “No, really, I was very impressed with you. I mean, thanks for helping me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Not living it down, am I?”

  Michael shakes his head. “Afraid not.”

  “I thought you had to
work?”

  “Nope.” He leans against the wall so close to me that I can smell that lemony aftershave again. “I have everything under control.” He smiles. “Now this outfit,” he says, turning toward me, leaning in closer and pointing at my bodysuit, “is very, very nice.”

  “How many beers have you had? You realize you’re flirting with a clown?”

  Michael pulls back and draws a straight face. “No, I’m not.”

  “Admit it. You’re into clowns.”

  Michael leans in toward me again, bumping against my hip with his holster. “Only the kind of clowns that wear short leather skirts.”

  I push him away using my index finger in the middle of the star on his chest. “Easy there, deputy. So what’s in the holster? Can I see your gun?”

  “Sure. Would you like to hold it?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “But if you start clowning around with it I’ll have to cuff you.”

  Michael takes me by the wrist; Olympia tugs on my other arm: “Mommmmmm, I feel sick.”

  Time to go. I say goodbye, quickly, and turn away but not before catching a vibe from Michael that makes me feel kind of shiny, like I am the brightest star in the sky and he is making a wish on me.

  Walking home along the sidewalk with Jack and Olympia, I can still feel Michael’s fingers circling my wrist. But I am a married clown. Of course, Donald might be performing his own little circus act with Lindsay. I wish I knew for sure. I need a detective, not a tipsy professor wearing a tin star on his chest.

  Beer joy turns to beer gloom as I recall that Donald is going away on a two-day business trip to New York city next week. Again. With Lindsay. Nothing much has changed and it’s not funny anymore. I could use a good cry. I guess that’s what they mean by a sad clown.

  But I’m not a clown. I’m a soldier. And a good soldier never cries.

  When I walked into class today, Michael barely glanced up from his desk where he was sorting papers. I said “Hi,” and all I got was a distracted nod in return. He’s probably embarrassed about drinking so much beer and flirting with me. He needn’t worry; I’m a big girl. I know it meant nothing.

  At the end of his lecture he reminded us about the essay submission deadline: we only have two more weeks before it’s due. I have twenty-two pages of notes but no thesis. Hmmph. Suddenly, Michael Fortune’s not as cute as when he wore a six gun and siphoned beer into me.

  CHAPTER 7

  Engage

  Engage: In air defense, a fire control order used to direct or authorize units and/or weapon systems to fire on a designated target.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  Since Donald, his mother, and I all have our birthdays in July, we usually celebrate together over the Fourth of July weekend. Donald’s parents flew in last night from Montreal laden with toys for Jack and Olympia. Upon sight of his mother, Donald morphs into a Birthday Boy: he flops full length on the couch in front of the TV and falls asleep minutes after cramming his stomach with corn chips, jalapeno dip, and beer. Meanwhile, I’m trapped in the kitchen making my own birthday dinner. A battalion’s worth of potatoes need peeling. Over the past week, I cleaned the house, laid in groceries, shopped for gifts for Donald and his mother, and wrapped them, all while I went to school and kept the kids entertained. Meanwhile, Donald worked overtime every night and played golf all last weekend in Lindsay’s amazing charity tournament held, of course, at a five-star resort.

  Bitter? Me?

  Donald’s mother offers to help, but while chopping garlic for the salad dressing, she manages to slice her thumb. Now she’s bleeding on my diced shallots. Guess I can add making the dressing back on my list. The bitter gets the better of me. I trundle into the den and poke Donald’s arm.

  “I could use some help in the kitchen.”

  Donald’s mother rushes in behind me, sucking her thumb, her free hand raised in a stop gesture toward Donald. “Don’t get up. There’s nothing to do.”

  “Maybe Donald could help with the stuffed peppers?” I clip my eyes at Donald, hold up a red pepper and add, “Like, stuff it.”

  Donald’s mother says, “I don’t mind. I can do it.”

  She hurries away to bandage her thumb. I trudge back to kitchen patrol. At least the kids aren’t in my way. They’re too busy smashing their new breakable toys with old unbreakable ones.

  Back in the kitchen with a bandaged thumb, Donald’s mother sits at the table to watch me heave a tray of marinated t-bone steaks out of the fridge. She wants to know how poor Donald is making out with his wife away at university all day.

  “Same as always.”

  “Who gets the children off to school?”

  “I do, usually. He goes in early most of the time.”

  “I suppose if he goes in so early he must be having to make his breakfast?” She obviously doubts my capacity to rise before noon.

  Time for a little white lie, to avoid the sad hand-wringing over poor Donald’s fate to cope with an indolent wife. “Of course not. Donald loves his bacon and eggs every morning.”

  Donald’s mother frowns. “That’s not heart smart.”

  I don’t say that I suspect Donald goes in extra early to avoid the wild joys of organizing the children off to school. I also suppress the urge to remark that Donald is probably making out very well with the generous and big-hearted Lindsay Bambraugh on his frequent late nights at the office, probably pumping her pert bottom to a wet pulp on top of the file cabinets.

  At dinner, Donald’s mother tells us all about Donald’s sister’s children. Evan is reading at a grade ten level and he’s only in grade 5. Jordana is studying four languages: French, Spanish, Mandarin, and Arabic. I think she also translated the Dead Sea Scrolls recently, but I stopped paying attention so I could focus on fluffing up my hips with extra potato salad. I won’t mention that Serenity’s standout talent is erotic lesbian spoken word poetry, Olympia is still working on two plus two, and Jack can do a rolling ollie on his skateboard now.

  Donald and I bunk down in the spare room on the bed with the rock hard mattress. I slide under the covers, grateful for my pillow, exhausted. Donald slips his hand under my nightgown. What? Birthday sex on a slab with a gut full of steak and potato salad, and the in-laws in the next room? Donald, you’re a fool.

  After the in-laws head home to Montreal, we all pile into Donald’s car to go across town to Mom’s for a birthday lunch. Donald is grumbling. “Can’t this wait? Our birthdays don’t actually happen until next week.”

  I try to explain: “She wants to give us our birthday presents early since she’s going away, plus she baked us a cake.”

  “We just had cake last night.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know. It really sucks to have to eat cake two days in a row.”

  Donald glares at me and then frowns when he sees George lunging into the back seat with the kids. Olympia has a lollipop in her mouth and Jack is busy munching his way through a bag of popcorn. Serenity and Shae borrowed my Jeep to go who knows where. Donald hates it when his unspoiled car gets spammed with dog hair and snack wrappers. He pauses in the driveway, saying, “I’m tired. Do you think you could drive?”

  As soon as I back onto the road, Donald pulls out his Blackberry and checks his messages.

  “I can imagine you must be totally worn out after two days of sitting out on the patio stuffing your face with steak sandwiches and chicken wings. I’d be weary too.”

  Donald glances up. “What do you mean?”

  “I just spent two solid days in the kitchen with your mother. Chopping vegetables and making spinach dip.”

  “I tried to help. She wouldn’t let me.”

  “That must’ve been terribly hard on you. Tell me, do you even remember what I bought to give to your mother for her birthday this year?”

  Donald presses his mouth into a tight line. What did Donald give me for my birthday? A garage door opener.

  “I bet you wouldn’t buy Lindsay a garage
door opener.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, I don’t. Let’s not do this now.”

  “When then? Can I make an appointment to talk to you? Sometime when you aren’t working late or having sleepovers with Lindsay?”

  Donald says nothing and stares out the passenger window.

  “Who’s Lindsay?” asks Olympia.

  “Daddy’s little friend at work.”

  Jack soon interrupts the stony silence portion of the quarrel to inquire if we will be getting a divorce and, if so, right on, since all the coolest kids come from broken homes plus they all get twice as much awesome stuff at Christmas and birthdays.

  “You want your father and me to get a divorce?”

  “No. I guess not. But Serenity always gets presents from her Dad and you guys and her Florida Nana too.”

  Olympia says, “The Florida Nana gave Serenity a purple cell phone.”

  We arrive in Mom’s driveway and the kids race ahead to her door. Donald and I remain in the car a moment to compose ourselves. Turning to him, I twist the corners of my lips up, and hiss through clenched teeth: “Smile and pretend, okay?”

  In the foyer, Donald maintains a wide bubble of space between us. I feel like popping him with a pointy stick. “Excuse me, honey,” I say as I step past him into the living room, while tossing him an unhoneyed glance.

  Mom’s eyebrows rise. Somehow, we’re already busted, but she says nothing.

  We follow Mom outside to sit on her back deck and open our presents. Donald receives a silk tie. I’m excited about a large box tagged with my name. I tear off the wrapping with great expectations only to discover an electric grill that looks like a giant clam. Just what I wanted: a waffle iron for meat. It looks like the same one I gave Mom for Christmas last year.