Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (16 page)

Desperate times call for desperate measures, even if that means
carpooling with the neighborhood outcasts. I fully realize that this thing can break one of two ways: either kisses and giggles, or farts and
merde
.

I’m not making book on either.

When you place a low-priced national chain restaurant at a busy exit off one of America’s superhighways, it shouldn’t surprise you that its patrons look as if they’d be at home inside the
Star Wars
bar. I’m just saying that there is no genteel way to wolf down a tall stack of Butterscotch Rocks pancakes with a chaser of link sausages, is all.

We find our party in an alcove booth. Both men are studying large, glossy menus, as opposed to conversing or making eye contact. They view us warily, and immediately Harry does the ultimate ’chismo move: you know, the glad-hand-and-backslap, which is accompanied by a far-too-cheery “Coach! Cal! Been too long! Great to see you again!”

To men, is insincerity the sincerest form of flattery? Hey, I know we women fall for it, but guys do too? Go figure.

Or maybe the goal of the flatterer is to put the flatteree off his game. Pete shuffles to his feet and grumbles something that sounds like a cross between “Good morning” and “Don’t get the eggs here, they are too runny,” while Cal swallows a whole wedge of toast, as if stashing away evidence before the breakfast police come to haul him away. Unfortunately, he doesn’t take the time to wipe his greased fingers before Harry pumps what little life there is from them.

The look of doom on Harry’s face is priceless.

The waitress is hovering the second we sit down. She has us pegged as the biggest tippers in the group. I guess that’s because Pete has only ordered tea, and Cal refuses to take the bait and stare at her breasts. Since now Harry expects me to order the Swedish pancakes, I do, along with coffee and a side of bacon, under the assumption that I’ll seem more like one of the boys.

That illusion is blown to smithereens when Harry orders a typical
Master of the Universe breakfast: a bowl of fruit.

That’s it.

Oh yeah, and an ice water.

Great. Now with my “hearty breakfast,”
I
feel like a refugee from the palace of Jabba the Hutt, particularly with Calvin, he of the amazing toast-vanishing act, sitting at my side.

The men sit in silence for almost five minutes before Pete finally breaks the ice. “So, when is Jake coming back to the team?” Obviously, he is not one for beating around the bush.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Harry stares into his glass of water as if searching for the answer in the sole crystalline ice cube floating in it. “Truth is, I didn’t know he was skipping practices.”

“Since that game with Bohemian Grove, in fact,” Pete murmurs absentmindedly.

Harry is staring at Pete, but it’s so hostile that it stops the waitress from refilling our blueberry syrup pitcher. That’s okay. I’m not a fan of the blue stuff anyway. “I don’t get it. You’re his coach! Why didn’t you just pick up the phone and call me?”

Pete glares back. “I did call. I called the only number I had.
Your wife’s cell.
”

Harry closes his eyes in dread. I know what he is thinking: that this is just one more thing DeeDee can use against him in court.

This is not going at all like I’d planned. Sure, I expected some male posturing, but nothing like this. I use a tried-and-true trick learned in my years of mothering three competitive siblings:

Focus all parties on a joint goal.

“You see? This is just what I’m talking about:
communication.
I’ll just bet that, among the four of us, we can come up with a way to ensure the safety of Jake and all of our kids.” I look helplessly at Calvin.

He blinks twice, then takes a deep breath and goes for it. “You know, it’s simpler than one might think: satellite surveillance for the whole neighborhood.”

That catches Pete’s attention. “How would that work?”

“It would take some doing, but that’s just a matter of plotting coordinates and syncing them to video satellites already in use.”

Harry looks up, impressed. “How do you know all this?”

Calvin studies his eggs modestly. “I’ve consulted with the Feds on satellite security issues. I’m retired now. Ideally, we’d create a secure zone through and around Paradise Heights; you know, so that we can stop break-ins and the like before they happen.” He looks over at Harry. “Or help our kids, before they get into trouble.”

Harry downs his water in one gulp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying, we can’t be everywhere we need to be all the time. And . . . well, my son, Duke, gets picked on a lot. If he gets in trouble, this is one way I can be of some help.”

Harry fidgets with his fork. He’s now well aware of Jake’s new form of acting out. I can just imagine him wondering,
Is he talking about Jake?

Calvin turns and stares at a guy who’s just poured a whole pitcher of syrup over his French toast. “In fact, I suggested to the Paradise Heights Women’s League board that they introduce a measure to the city council so that this surveillance system can be added as an amenity for the town. The price is negligible, really, when compared with the security benefits. But those women didn’t think it was important enough.”

“Really?” I put down my coffee cup. “Because, personally, this is something I would have supported, and I’m on the board. Who turned it down, exactly?”

Cal shrugs. “The bitchy one.”

Harry laughs. “Well, that could be any one of them. Oh, um, present company excluded.” He winks at me.

“No, not the catty one. And not the schizoid, either. And not the one who thinks she’s hot shit on the tennis court but can never make her first serve. And the one who still breast-feeds, she’s harmless, anyone
can see that. It was the
really, really
bitchy one.”

“Margot,” Pete and Harry say in unison. They look at each other and snicker in solidarity. Suddenly they are long-lost brothers.

And Cal—well, he’s the strange cousin with a few screws loose. But family is family, right?

Especially when you’ve all been abandoned in one fashion or another by the women in your lives.

Pete looks at Cal, as if seeing him for the very first time. Which, I’m guessing, is not far from being the case, since his son isn’t on Pete’s team. “Hey, so this SATCOM thing. How long would it take before it was up and running?”

Cal thinks for a moment. “Maybe a week. That includes the beta testing period, of course. But the whole ’hood would be covered, from every angle. And its zoom capability would be awesome! Seriously, the system can pick a gnat off an elephant’s ass.” Cal is enjoying the admiration of his new BFFs.

I know this should spook me, but instead I’m elated. It’s the answer to every tween parent’s dream. I think of all the times I’ve called Tanner to ask what he’s up to and gotten a mumbled “nothing” through the wail of sirens.

I turn to Calvin. “I’m still trying to figure out why the league was so against it. Are there any legal issues with personal privacy?”

“There aren’t any,” says Harry. “Surveillance via webcams is used in both public and private buildings, and in communities all over the country. Not to mention on public streets. This just takes it to another level.”

“Man, I could get behind that!” Pete beams, just thinking of the possibilities for his neighborhood watch program. “No more dealing with volunteers who flake, or who fall asleep on the job. Too bad that idiotic city council is a social club. Just a bunch of hobbyist deadbeats who kowtow to that pack of witches—”

“Why is the league board’s approval necessary, anyway?” Harry’s question stops the other guys dead in their tracks.

“It’s a symbiotic relationship, sort of like the alligator and the scorpion,” I explain. “The board lobbies for the changes it sees fit to support, but the council has to vote them into law. And because it’s easier to just put up and shut up than to have the board make your life miserable—”

“By dissing you at all the town’s social functions,” says Cal.

“Or spreading rumors about you and your wife.” Pete slams down his tea mug. “Do you know how often my wife has cried herself to sleep because of those women?”

Having sat there as the board ground Masha Shriver’s reputation into coarse gossip grist, I can only imagine.

Suddenly it hits me that I never stood up for her. Or any of their other targets, for that matter.

Instead, I nodded, or giggled, or simply kept my mouth shut.

And certainly I never challenged them, because that would have been social suicide.

That would have enticed them to talk about Ted and me.

As if they don’t already. . . . 

Pete shakes his head in wonder. “It’s a shame it got voted down, for sure. But I’m not opposed to making a case for it in the
Bugle.
”

The men seal their newfound friendship by turning seamlessly to the universal language of sports.

The waitress finally appears and slides my fully loaded plate in front of me. But by now, I’m no longer hungry. Thinking about Margot’s power over our lives will do that to me.

Harry, on the other hand, must have found his appetite, because he reaches over and snatches up one of my pieces of bacon and devours it with gusto. Never realizing that what’s stuck in my throat is the crow I’m eating, he waves the waitress back over and happily announces, “Hey, I’ll have what she’s having!”

“The ‘Wedding March’ always reminds me of the
music played when soldiers go into battle.”

—Heinrich Heine

Wednesday, 20 Nov., 9:07 a.m.

The crash of trash cans out back means one of two things: either Harvey, our perpetually ravenous Lab, has a hankering for last night’s leftover lasagna, or the family of raccoons that once lived under our house is back and has brought a few cousins along. I grab my tennis racket as backup, and pray it’s one of those scenarios or the other, but not both, since I don’t have time to squeeze a trip to the vet in between Olivia’s ballet and Mickey’s piano lesson—

That’s when I see the Wilders’ dog, Lucky, gnawing on the puppy version of an after-dinner mint: one hundred twenty-eight dollars’ worth of vintage red leather boots, girl’s size one.

I wasn’t pleased when Ted brought them home for Olivia, who had been begging for a pair for a week. “Hey, it’s only money” was his excuse.

“But these are Romagnolis! They’re vintage leather! Trust me, Ted, she won’t appreciate them!”

“She’s my baby. Let me indulge her.”

“But I could have gotten the Disney princess boots at Payless for a fifth of the price—”

“You’re just jealous.”

As my daughter danced an ecstatic jig in her new boots, I wondered if maybe he was right about that. I couldn’t remember the last time Ted had bought me a gift that wasn’t a cooking or cleaning gadget, let alone a simple bouquet of flowers.

In three weeks’ time, the boots were so last week. Caked in playground mud, they’ve sat on the back stoop. Until now, when one is getting a second life as Lucky’s new chew toy.

Nope, not going to happen. Not as long as children go barefoot in Africa. It’s the principle of the thing.

“Out again? You’re a regular Houdini, aren’t you? Lucky,
come
—” I fall to my hands and knees and inch closer to him. My game plan is to distract him so that I can snatch the boot away. But no, Lucky takes this as a sign that I want to play with him and his new little toy. Immediately he crouches low too, taunting me to grab it out from under his nose. Instead, I pause. Then, very slowly, I lift one hand into the air, far away from him. While his eyes follow it, the fingers on my other hand crawl within inches of the boot—

Only to be nipped before he grabs it with his teeth. “Damn it, dog! Give me that!”

As if. Instead, he prances away, teasing me as he tosses his head from side to side.

Show-off.
“So, you want to play tug-of-war, eh?”

I grab hold of the toe and pull with all my might. But his teeth, the end result of several millennia of wolves-mate-dogs, aren’t going anywhere.

If I let go, he wins. Well, sorry, I’m not going to let that happen. There is a reason why we humans don’t walk on all fours: unlike the rest of the animal kingdom, we’ve got to be able to open refrigerator doors.

I shake my head at him, then turn and walk away slowly. He stops, perplexed, then follows me into the kitchen, the boot clamped in his jaws. But before he gets there, I’ve already grabbed a leftover chicken breast from the fridge. “Yummy! Want a treat?” I crouch
down, placing it right in front of me . . .

And wait for the trade-off: Olivia’s muddy boot for cold KFC Original Recipe.

As the jaws of strife open to take the bait, I make my move with the kind of speed possessed only by a mom whose toddler has waddled onto a four-lane highway.

It’s the kind of sleight-of-hand motion that David Copperfield would appreciate. But I don’t have time to pat myself on the back, because I have to give Lucky the Heimlich maneuver instead. Chicken bones are certainly tastier than vintage leather but, as it turns out, more dangerous, too.

9:21 a.m.

Lucky’s escape was no feat of derring-do, just a matter of one of the kids leaving the back gate open. . . .

Or not. Yes, the gate is open, but whoever opened it is still in the house.

DeeDee.

At first she doesn’t see Lucky and me because her arms are piled high with clothes, knickknacks, and file folders. She maneuvers her Christian Louboutin booties around a floor strewn with toys, sneakers, and dirty laundry, trying not to trip over the flotsam and jetsam left in the wake of a single dad raising two kids on his own.

I know that this is one of the rare days on which Harry has gone into his office in the city. Apparently she does too, and is taking advantage of his absence. I’m so angry that I forget my pledge to myself not to get involved. “Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

Just as I say that, Lucky leaps out of my arms and runs over to her. He’s pawing her legs so hard that she can’t help but drop the boxes. “Damn it, Lucky!” She pretends to be mad at him, but it’s me she’s glaring at.