Sharks & Boys (4 page)

I feel as though I’ve been led to these papers by a higher source. It’s like the story of Moses being found in the bulrushes, or swamp, or wherever. Just like the woman who was guided to find the baby in the basket and save his life, I’ve been led to find these pieces of paper in this basket and save my relationship with Wick. I feel a deep gratitude for both MapQuest and the Bible classes my grandmother took me to as a child.

As I lift the pages out of the basket, I look back at Landon. His comforter rises and falls. He’s sleeping. He won’t know that I’ve taken them. Careful to avoid making any noise, I slowly fold the papers into a square and stick them inside my back pocket. With my breath held, I back out of Landon’s doorway, and cautiously close the door as I go.

Walking past the kitchen, I unfortunately see my father. He’s at the table by himself, drinking coffee. I quicken my pace. Currently, I’m avoiding him. This is due to reasons that I have yet to disclose to anyone, because they reflect poorly on me as a human being. I guess it’s safe to say that my father is not the only one living down a mistake.

“Enid?” he says.

I basically run to the bathroom and lock the door. I hear him walking down the hallway. I turn the shower on full blast. He knocks. His thuds sound urgent.

“We’re going to have to talk about this sooner or later,” he says.

Um, if that’s a choice, I select later. He knocks again. Even his knocking sounds disappointed with me. And that’s not fair. Because what right does he have to be disappointed with me? He’s the one who set everything in motion. He made the storm. All I’m trying to do now is weather the sea. Given all the drama he’s introduced to my life, I’m bound to make a few mistakes. I close the toilet and sit on the lid.

“There’s better ways to handle this,” he says. “Calling her and saying those things doesn’t solve anything. This isn’t her fault.”

He didn’t need to tell me that. I know the phone call wasn’t a solution. There is no solution to this problem. Plus, I’m one of those people who’s always in touch with her failings. I pick up a shampoo bottle and try to read the ingredients. It’s not much of a distraction, but I need something. First I lose Wick. Then the llama dies. And now my father is trying to force a confrontation with me about a situation that I have no desire to discuss. I toss the shampoo bottle into the tub. Then I press down on the handle and flush the toilet.

“I’m late for work. Honey, we’ll talk tonight,” he says.

I don’t say anything. I mean, whatever. Who works on a Saturday? And why is he calling me honey? He hasn’t earned that. Don’t you have to forgive somebody before they can start referring to you by pet names? Isn’t this a rule that’s well documented in etiquette columns across nearly all civilizations? I hear the front door slam shut. Rather than turn off the shower, I decide to take one.

Naked and lonely, I step into the warm flood of water. As much as I want to, I don’t think I can abandon my mother and run off to Maryland to stop this stupid party. The reasons are infinite. I don’t have a car. I’m somewhat of a coward. The wedding is big. I’m responsible. I love my mother, and the event isn’t something she can handle alone. And how does one go about stopping a party anyway?

“Lift
with your knees,” my mother says.

“Don’t you mean your legs? How do you lift with your knees?” I ask.

Gary, one of the groomsmen, has offered to help us haul in all five tiers of the cake. My mother is instructing him on the proper way to carry it. I feel itchy. Eager to improve my mood, my mother suggested that I wear a skirt while we were getting ready this morning. Normally I wear black pants to help her set up for receptions. The skirt is like nothing I would ever wear; it’s white. And embossed with a countless number of fleurs-de-lis. I look like a fancy handkerchief. I miss my pants, which I surrendered way too easily on the heels of the following conversation:

Which is how I ended up in this itchy, man-catching getup. That’s one of the strange things about my mother. Because she’s saddled to a bad one, she resents men, yet she deeply believes that every woman needs one to be complete. I think my mother might actually be a misogynist.

I watch Gary steady the lowest and biggest tier of the cake on the bumper of my mother’s new Subaru. The frosting is so close to the ridge of the trunk that it will almost inevitably get smeared and need a touch-up. I look at my mother. She isn’t breathing. I look back to Gary. He has a goatee and is an awkward guy, not the kind of person you can totally trust with a wedding cake. Had we been characters in a situation comedy, Gary would have already stumbled over his patent leather shoes and planted his face in the cake’s perfect center.

“Have you got it?” my mother asks.

“All set,” he says.

He hefts it up over his head like a waiter lifts a tray, and walks into the reception hall.

“Gary is going to give me a stroke,” my mother says.

“I’ll take the fourth tier. You take the third. We’ll beat him back here and take the second and first ourselves,” I say. “That way we take Gary out of the picture.”

My mother smiles. “Good.”

Usually I like carrying cake. It smells good and requires your full attention. The cake is at your mercy. You’ve got to stay balanced and focused and aware of its delicately iced boundaries. But carrying cake today makes me feel like a drag. I’m boring. Even Gary doesn’t seem interested in me. And I look incredible today; he should totally be interested in me. But he’s not. Also, it’s no fun carrying cake while wearing uncomfortable heels.

After dropping off our tiers, my mother and I manage to beat Gary back to the car.

“I bet there are guys more suited for you inside,” my mom says.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t
need
a guy.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Isn’t the ratio in Canada better? If I ever get desperate, shouldn’t I hightail it north?” I ask.

We hear a shuffling sound, and both jump, fearing Gary’s return. But it’s a gray squirrel.

“When Gary touches the cake, I can sense its demise,” my mother says. “Here’s an idea. You take the top. And bring in the marzipan.”

We’ve already unloaded everything else: the lace doilies, the water fountain, the napkins, etcetera. Landon and the guys left for the party two hours ago. The directions are in my purse. I know I can’t go, but my urge to follow them to Ocean City hasn’t subsided. The idea of Wick hooking up with Simone makes my vision blur.

I can’t believe Landon was honest with me about that possibility. Doesn’t he know that’s the sort of thing I’m prone to obsess over? Does he have no twin connection with my sensibilities whatsoever? Why couldn’t he have been a decent brother and lied?

Gary comes and stands beside me. I can feel his warmth, and smell his musky cologne. Why make a product designed to mimic the scent of an herbivorous furry land mammal that seldom bathes?

“You need help?” he asks. “I’ve got arms.”

“I’m good,” I say.

He takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over his shoulder, revealing his round belly.

“My brother is the groom,” he says.

“Neat,” I say, sounding way more enthusiastic than a normal person. I don’t want to say anything offensive to the relative of a customer. When we get any sort of complaint on the comment cards, my mother freaks.

“At first they were going to go to the Bahamas for their honeymoon, but now they’re headed to Virginia Beach. Financial limitations.”

I stop unloading the cake and force myself to have a conversation with Gary-the-groomsman.

“I’ve heard good things about Virginia Beach,” I say. I have never heard anything about Virginia Beach.

“Because of the storm they might delay it,” Gary says. “They’ve got fluid arrangements with their hotel.”

“That’s the way to go,” I say. If my future husband suggested taking me to Virginia Beach for our honeymoon with “fluid arrangements” for our hotel, I would ditch him at the altar. My parents honeymooned in Hawaii. Their photo album is packed with snapshots of them in swimsuits, standing next to palm trees, sipping on tall drinks decorated with colorful paper umbrellas and pineapple chunks. My mother said it was one of the best times of their marriage.

Gary winks at me. I guess he is interested in hitting on me after all. I bet it’s the skirt. “You must love cake,” he says. “Or are you around it so much that you hate it?”

“I like it.”

“I could never be a baker. I’m a security guard. I guess we’re all built with different engines.” He points to his chest and makes a grinding noise. “I like risk.”

I smile, and surrender the top tier of cake to him. “Cool.”

“Everything okay?” my mother calls. I glance up the cement walkway to see her standing in the door.

“We’re good,” I say.

She’s only a few car lengths away, but she looks so small. And worried.

“We should hurry,” I say. “I’ll get the marzipan.”

Gary carefully slides his hand underneath the stiff cardboard rounder and balances the cake in the palm of his hand.

“Marzipan. So what’s that stuff made out of? Paper pulp?”

I ignore him.

“Plaster of Paris? Eggs?”

“Nuts, Gary.”

“Nuts?”

“Nuts,” I repeat.

“Nice.”

I offer no facial reaction.

“So, do you like to bowl?”

“Bowl?”

“Yeah, you do it with a ball. And your hand.” Gary holds up his hand and stretches out his fingers.

“No,” I say. “I have delicate hands.” Two days ago getting asked out by Gary would have been an impossibility. I had a boyfriend. Now I’m an available person, and it’s like he can smell it.

“They seem to get the job done,” he says, pointing to the cake.

I swallow hard and look up into the sky. I have such little patience for polite chat. Everyone else in my family is great at it. My mother can converse about anything with anyone. Landon likes to pepper people with questions about their interests. And my father—well, he seems good at creating friends and lovers everywhere he goes. My father. I don’t want to think about my father. I dread our upcoming conversation. There’s got to be a way I can avoid it.

“How expensive would it be to rent a week in a youth hostel and just disappear for a while?”

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. I was thinking out loud.”

“If you want to talk hostels, I’ve crashed in a lot of them. Find me inside. I’ll give you the scoop,” he says, winking at me again.

Gary walks off, and I study his vanishing figure. What are the chances that I’ll end up with somebody like him? At first I think I’m asking myself a casual question. But the idea sticks. I watch the front door smack Gary on his butt as he kicks the rock we’d been using to prop open the main entrance. As he maneuvers himself inside, his jacket slides off his shoulder and gets caught in the door. Gary keeps going, leaving his suit jacket partway inside and partway outside. It’s like his own clothing is trying to escape the fate of being worn by him.

I wonder how many types of men there are in the world. What happens if I let Wick go? What happens if I end up with a type Gary, a man who clocks in to his rent-a-cop job with soulful satisfaction?

I’m overreacting. I know that. There are more than two types of guys in the world. For instance, my father is nothing like Gary or Wick. He’s gregarious and smart and athletic. If I could excise his impulse to carouse, he’d be almost perfect. I think back to when I was young and my father was actually perfect in my mind, before I knew the things I didn’t want to know. Now he is a basement dweller. I think of his face. His voice. “Honey, we’ll talk tonight.”

I grab the box of marzipan from the back of the Subaru. I set it on the curb with such force that the cardboard flaps fly open. The wedding couple are wrapped in plastic and situated on the top. They have faces now, bright smiling, happy faces. Before I can think it through, I’m unwrapping them. What am I doing? Then it happens. Not because I want it to and not because I planned for it, but because sometimes things in life just happen.

I bite the shoes off the groom. It only takes one snap of my jaw, and I’ve got a wad of almond paste in my mouth. I chew it like I’ve been poisoned, and marzipan tuxedo shoes are the only antidote. At his pant cuffs I can see my smooth teeth marks.

Then I lift the bride to my mouth. I’m careful to take just her shoes and leave her delicate ankles intact. As I chew the marzipan, I try to swallow it fast. I want to digest it. I want it to become a part of me. I look at the de-footed bride. If you focus on her head, she doesn’t really seem that different. But if you zero in on her ankles, she looks like she’s been in some sort of unfortunate accident with a butter knife. I run my tongue along my teeth and smile. Take that, I think to the unnamed hordes of people out there who think I’m boring. I just did something crazy. I just did something stupid for no good reason at all. And I’m not finished either.

I don’t try to mask my bite marks. I wrap the couple back up in the plastic and stick them in the box. Then I slam the trunk. The entranceway is empty. Everybody, including my mother, is tucked neatly inside the Sheraton. Now is my chance.

I pull the directions out of the purse. Ocean City is over 500 miles away. It would be insane to do this. I put the directions back inside my purse. But my life already feels insane. I pull the directions back out. I’m ready to do something outside of what’s expected of me. And I want to do this. Because I have a great reason. I love Wick Jarboe, and I can stop him from making the worst mistake of his life. I throw open the car door and get inside. The keys are still in the ignition. If I wasn’t supposed to do this, the keys wouldn’t be here. That’s the rationale I use. All of the pieces have fallen into place. It’s destiny.