The Perils of Pauline (11 page)

“Pick up that mess,” I say, “and go play down in the rec room.” This was a bad directive as they soon commence a musical interlude using Donald’s ancient amp, an electric guitar, keyboard, and my bongos.

Back in the den, I attempt to put the finishing touches on my final poetry essay about Emily Dickenson, due tomorrow. Essay writing has become tinged with eroticism. Knowing that Michael will be reading my naked prose makes my fingers tingle as they type. I want to drape myself across the page, and let his eyes advance slowly across my silky sentences, stripping off all my punctuation and splitting my infinitives. I want to use words like squeeze, tickle, and press, and I want to end up quivering in a puddle of soft consonants, ooo’s, and aaaa’s, after arching my vowels under his poetic gaze.

This is going to be a long night.

Go No-Go: The condition or state of operability of a component or system: “go,” functioning properly; or “no-go,” not functioning properly. Alternatively, a critical point at which a decision to proceed or not must be made.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

With classes done, final essays handed in, and exams written, I no longer know what to do with myself. I sit at the kitchen table and recheck my agenda: nothing but a blank page. It’s a glorious late August morning: warm, dry and, I can’t help but think, picture perfect for a picnic lunch or a bicycle ride with Michael. Trouble is, I decided to let Jack and Olympia stay home with me today, to take a break from day camp.

Serenity comes into the kitchen in her pajamas, and slumps into the chair across from me. Her eyes are red and puffy.

“Do you want some tea? Are you hungry? Here, I’ll make you some honey toast.” Jumping up, I slip two slices of bread into the toaster.

Serenity sniffs and shrugs. Shae and Serenity’s latest reconciliation ended with a bang late last night when Shae gunned it out of the driveway in her truck, backfiring as always. Shae’s toolbox has disappeared from the corner beside the door. George is lying under the kitchen table with his head tucked between his paws.

Serenity sees my glance at George and sniffs again. “Don’t worry. Shae says she’ll come back later and collect George.”

Oh no. I was kind of getting used to having George around. “I’m sorry honey,” I say and pat Serenity’s shoulder.

Unfortunately, my mood isn’t much better. What if I blew my finals? Guess I need to start looking for work again. Or register for more classes. I can’t decide. Or maybe I should hang the wallpaper today. The rolls I bought weeks ago are tucked behind the couch. I pull one out to examine it. Donald’s eyes bugged right out when he saw the receipt. I’d return the rolls except now the living room walls are stripped bare. If we end up splitting up we’ll probably have to sell the house. I’ll have to stage the living room. Guess I’ll hang the wallpaper today and hang myself out to dry on the job market tomorrow. Or, since it’s a nice day out, a better plan would be to weed the flowerbeds, neglected all summer long.

I throw on my clothes and am about to go in search of my gardening gloves when my phone beeps. It’s a text from Michael!
What are you doing today? I’m at the park with Nick.

Forget the wallpaper, forget the flowerbeds. I’m going to the park with Jack and Olympia.

Soon Michael and I are relaxing under a shady tree in the park with two tall iced cappuccinos. What extraordinary good luck—I waxed my legs last night, and I’m wearing my sexy gardening shorts. As Jack, Olympia and Nick are occupied on the jungle gym, Michael is free to tease me by twirling grass across my silky smooth shins. After a while, he whispers in my ear that he’s glad he can no longer be fired from his job for imagining me naked. “When can I see you alone?” he asks.

Michael has a suggestion—perhaps we might wish to go for a ride on his motorcycle, say, tomorrow? Tomorrow is Friday. What do I have on?

“Perfect. I already have Serenity lined up to babysit. I have a job interview downtown. Maybe we could meet after lunch?”

“What’s the job?”

“The company sells electrical equipment. They need someone to head up the size #2 rubber resisters. If I am good I can move up to
thermal capacitators and they might even send me to the national convention on semi-conductors in Omaha next year.

Michael makes a face. “That sounds awful.”

What else can I do? There’s one good part: I can justify a pre-interview haircut appointment at that fabulous new salon in town that Bibienne keeps raving about. And now, after the interview, I’m going out with Michael!

I direct the kids to clear away the breakfast dishes while I get dressed and go over my plan. First, the salon appointment. I can go straight from there to my interview. Then, meet with Michael. I wonder if I can get away with a casual Friday outfit for a Friday interview? Well, why not? I couldn’t care less about this job anyway. It’s bound to be a pathetic joke like all the rest; why do I even bother?

Checking my watch, I see that I’m running out of racetrack to get to my hair appointment on time. Arggh. I can’t find my favorite lipstick. I rummage through the bathroom cabinets and vanity drawers while ignoring the sounds of a loud argument in the kitchen: Jack and Olympia are fighting over who should clear the last glass from the table. I hear a glass shatter, then a brief silence, and then a fresh eruption over whose fault it was.

“Jack, I hate you, you shittybutthead.”

“Don’t say ‘shittybutthead.’ Mom, Lumpy’s saying swear words again.”

I run downstairs to break up the fight and clear away the broken glass. Jamming the shards into the overflowing pail, I attempt to tie off the garbage bag at which one of the shards rips through the plastic and jabs straight into my wrist.

Jack and Olympia stop fighting to watch their mother trying not to faint at the sight of blood spurting all over the cuff of her favorite casual day blouse. Shit, shit, shit. Now I’ll have to find something else to wear. Oh God, the blood is going everywhere. Except to my legs. I better lean over the sink. I wonder how long it takes to bleed to death? Need doctor. Now.

I feel woozy: maybe it’s too late for the doctor? How many klutzes like me slash their wrists by accident and in so doing deprive their heirs of the pots of insurance money? No underwriter could doubt my motivation given my crumbling house, joblessness, roving husband, etc. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Mommy, don’t say ‘shit’,” says Olympia.

“Olympia said ‘shit’,” says Jack. “Put her in a timeout.”

“Never mind that. Jack, where’s Serenity?”

“I dunno. I think she went out.”

Wrapping my wrist in towels, I leave Jack in charge of Olympia and drive myself to the ER.

I’m in agony. Four stitches were required to close my wrist wound. I’m now incapable of lifting heavy objects like dishcloths and cupfuls of laundry soap and the like.

The job interview was a complete disaster. My hair was a rat’s nest because of missing the salon appointment, and I was hours late because of lineups at the hospital ER where, when my turn came around the nurse, knitting her brows over my slashed wrist, called in a social worker, who wanted to ask me if I have enough support at home and if I have ever thought about getting help, and then she put her hand on my shoulder and said that the next time I feel like giving up, I need to tell myself that I can hold off for just one more day, hour, minute—whatever I can manage.

After, I flew home to change out of my blood-soaked outfit. I could find nothing else interview-worthy to wear but my winter-weight wool suit, the skirt-half of which I located under the cat in a heap on the floor at the back of my closet.

I was the last applicant to be interviewed. While waiting my turn I, very regretfully, texted my apologies to Michael, picked the cat hair from my skirt with my good hand and told myself to try to hold off for at least one more hour.

Then I had to face down a forbidding panel of seven interviewers. Seven. For me. I’ll be wanting a cushy job in upper management in
my next life, yes, please, and thank you very much. Everyone looked knowingly at the bulky cotton dressing on my wrist while I, slowly boiling to mush in my winter-weight suit, used it to mop my red, dripping face. When they asked me about my salary expectations I lost my head, and snortily told them of course I expected a salary, and a damn good one too.

After the interview debacle, Donald received the news with a concerned shrug and then smirked. “Most people slash their wrists
after
having a bad day.”

Damn. Damn. Damn. Last week’s flummoxed job interview has produced a serious offer. They’re giving me a couple of weeks to think it over. It’s a sweet deal with a fat pay scale, decent benefits plan and possible occasional travel. I picture myself touching up my nail polish and relaxing on a comfy hotel room bed while coolly parenting long distance over the phone like those neatly tucked in business women on television ads: I’d work for free if they’d guarantee the travel. Jack hopes I’ll go for it since he wants a wave pool for his birthday.

I describe the job offer to Donald when he arrives home from work. He shrugs and says, “It’s a solid company. And a good benefits package. Are you going to take it?”

“I guess I should.”

“You don’t sound very excited.”

I shrug. What does he want me to say? That I’m dying to go into rubber resistor sales?

“What do you really want to do?”

“I’d like to finish my degree this fall. If I go full time, I’ll be done by Christmas.”

“Fine. Finish your degree then.”

“But what about us? I mean, the sooner I go back to work, the sooner we can move on. What do you want me to do?”

I’ve got him cornered. Our eyes meet. His turn slate grey and angry. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

Then he storms off to the den and shuts the door.

I sit in the wingchair to think. Is Donald angry because he wants me to take the job so he can be free of me? If he wants out so badly, why is he urging me to finish my degree? Does he even know what he wants?

Do I know what I want? Working means never having a minute to myself again. Back to cranky bosses and office politics. Back to terrible overhead lighting that gives me headaches and makes my skin look pasty.

Going back to work means making a final decision about Donald and me.

Going back to school this fall means staying seated on my comfortable wingchair-shaped fence, taking time to think.

Going back to school means coffee dates with Michael at the Dingy. Well, shouldn’t I finish what I’ve started?

Command Post Exercise: an exercise in which the forces are simulated, involving the commander, the staff, and communications within and between headquarters.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

If only George would stop barking at every tiny little thing, the house would be quiet and peaceful tonight. This morning Donald flew off to Calgary with the Doubles prospecting team—a team that includes good old Lindsay—to assess possibilities for a new Canadian branch. Yesterday I put Serenity on a bus to go visit her Dad for a few days, and Olympia and Jack are both at friends’ houses for sleepovers. Cool.

I pour myself a glass of wine and lie on the couch with my laptop. Michael is online. I message him:
I’m alone. I have the house all to myself
.

Almost immediately, my cell phone rings. Furious, George leaps off the couch to bark at the door, his fur rising in a sharp ridge across his back. Jumping up, I grab his collar and try to shush him while answering: it’s Michael.

“What’s all that barking about?”

“George thinks he’s a tough dog. He’s making me nervous; there’ve been a lot of break-ins in the neighborhood recently. I wish you were here.”

“I wish I could be there too. Carmen’s gone out but I’ve got Nick tonight.”

“Oh.”

“He’s asleep, though. We can talk. Hang on a sec.”

A minute later he comes back on the phone. “I want to share something with you,” he says. “It’s a poem I wrote.”

The poem is about a couple. They’re paddling together across a pretty hidden lake. The woman reclines, trails the tips of her fingers in the water and then runs them across her throat letting the droplets trickle down.

Michael pauses to say, “Go ahead, trail your fingers in the water too.”

“My fingers are already dripping.”

I like where this is going. Michael sure knows how to make a woman want to get naked in a canoe.

I don’t think Michael actually used the word throbbing but that’s what everything in the lake is doing. Frogs dart their long licking tongues in a frenzy of tasting, touching, and teasing while dragonflies flirt around stands of cattails. The man continues paddling across the lake with slow intention and purpose. He dips his big, thick, sopping wet oar, plunging it, deeper, harder as the cattails sway, undulate and moan, and the rippling waves swell.

By the end of the poem, I’ve sunk to the carpet, throbbing too, all hot and sloppy with desire.

“Now you have to come over and mop me off the floor.”

“You know I’d love to.”

Michael wishes me a good night. Oh well. Maybe there’s a good show on. I scan the channels while George patrols the perimeter. At the back door he stops to growl deep in his throat; this time I, too, hear a noise: a muffled thump on the back deck. What could it be? A cat? A skunk? A raccoon? A ruthless, throat-slashing woman-raping killer?

It’s just the cat. After double-checking all the door locks, I turn off my phone and lie down on the couch with the television remote. George jumps onto the couch with me and settles down, his huge
bony head resting on my feet. I’m glad Shae didn’t come back to get him after all. Serenity says she took off up north to plant trees. For good.

I’m fast asleep when George suddenly flies off the couch to hurl himself at the front door in a barking frenzy. This time he refuses to shut up. Peeking through my blinds I see, parked in front of my house, a police cruiser with all of its lights flashing. Two officers are ushering a man into the back seat. Stepping out onto the porch, I spy Lewis standing on his front lawn, arms folded across his chest.

“What’s going on?” I say to Lewis.

“That sneaky SOB was sitting in his car with the lights off, right over there in front of your house. Casing out the neighborhood.”

As the cruiser pulls away from the curb, I spot Michael’s car parked across the street.

I hurry down to the station, aim my voice into the microphone in front of a plate glass window and explain the situation to the officer in charge. The OC turns to his computer, types in my name, address, and phone number and points me at a chair in a long hallway.

I sit and stare at a rack of pamphlets with titles like So You’ve Been Charged With An Offense while hoping the officer didn’t smell wine on my breath. It’s been hours since I had a sip but that’s enough to pretty a picture up nicely. My hair is uncombed and there’s cat hair on my sweater from lolling around on the carpet pretending I’m a water nymph. Yes, I am the real deal of a reliable witness, sitting in a police station in the middle of the night with stringy hair and booze on my breath. In fact, I might well be harmful to Michael’s case.

An hour passes. An angry-looking woman shows up to collect her son, picked up earlier for underage drinking. The kid is still unsteady on his feet and the woman hauls him away, her eyes beveled with cut-glass ire.

I go back to watching the officer in charge ruffle through papers on his desk. He refuses to make eye contact with me. Every time the phone rings he yawns, stretches, and answers in a bored voice.
More time passes. Finally Michael emerges and the officer buzzes him out to the hall. Michael isn’t smiling.

“I’m free to go,” he says to the wall above my head.

“Do you want a ride home?”

“It’s probably better if I grab a cab.”

He turns and heads for the door with a rapid stride. I follow him outside onto the stairs where he lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag. As an afterthought he offers me a puff but I shake my head, no. I wait but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he intently watches the smoke trails as he blows them, one after another, straight up to the night sky. There is the faintest tinge of dawn on the horizon.

I can’t stand it anymore. “What happened?”

“I was sitting in my car trying to text you when those bozos showed up and dragged me down here. They said there was a robbery in the neighborhood earlier tonight, and I fit the description of the guy. I’ve been discharged as a case of unfounded arrest.”

“That’s a relief.”

Michael doesn’t look relieved. He looks like the angry mother.

“There’s an incident report with my name on it in their files. Forever.
Forever.
It says suspected robber. In block lettering.”

“The file is closed now. And those files are confidential.”

Michael’s voice goes wry and incredulous, and he says, as if to himself, “I’ve never been a person of interest before.” And shakes his head, sadly.

Then he looks at me as if he’s reflecting on the progress of his life since he met me. I feel like that edgy girl who gets everyone else to smoke in the schoolyard.

He turns his head away. His jaw tightens and he says, “They wouldn’t let me see what else they wrote on the file.”

“I’m sure it’s okay. Try not to worry.”

Michael takes another deep drag off his cigarette.

“Carmen came home just after we talked. I told her I was going out to a spoken word thing. I should’ve been home hours ago. I guess it’s the great big dog house for me.”

He yanks out his phone and checks the screen. “They wouldn’t even give me my one call.”

A taxicab pulls up to the curb. I watch him climb into the back seat and lean forward to give the driver his address.
Just after the park, the big doghouse on the left.
Before closing the cab door, he leans out slightly and says, distractedly, “I’ll call you. Wait, maybe you should call me. I don’t know.”

“Take care,” I offer as the window goes up. He slumps back in the seat and the cab pulls away.