The Perils of Pauline (12 page)

CONPLAN: In the context of joint operation planning, level 3 planning detail, an operation plan in an abbreviated format that may require considerable expansion or alteration to convert it into a complete operation plan or operation order.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

“I have news.” Donald rolls in the door, off his flight from Calgary, wearing an intense expression on his face. “Doubles is offering me a sweet deal. They need a top gun out in Calgary to set up the new branch office. Eight months out west and I’ll get a promotion. They’re promising me a directorship. And a big increase plus living expenses.”

Calgary? Calgary is way out west. And way up north in Canada where it’s bitterly cold. The west is full of cows. They have stampedes up there. And gas and oil wells all over the place. And snow. Lots of snow. My mind races on past a vision of an endless line of oilrigs propped in snowbanks to a string of questions: does Donald want us to move west with him? And what about Lindsay? Lindsay is up for a directorship, too. And she’s been with Doubles longer. She’s next in line. What are they doing with her?

As if reading my mind, Donald says, “Lindsay Bambraugh is working on the international development portfolio a lot these days. She’s not that interested in staying in New England.”

These days, decision-making discussions between Donald and me are all too often as intricate and choreographed as a rare bird-mating dance on a late-night wildlife documentary. Donald hasn’t spoken to me this solicitously in months. He really wants this promotion.

I begin with a show of ruffled feathers: “You want to move to Canada? For eight months? What about the kids?”

Donald opens his beak slightly as he realizes that I’m deftly serving the first volley of the Mating Dance Game of Convincing Me to Stay Home With the Kids While He Flits About Freely Out West (leaving me to my own free-flitting agenda). Your move, Donald.

“I can’t see all of us going. I don’t know how that will work out for the kids’ schooling,” he frowns, as if Jack and Olympia might be irreparably harmed by the sight of a Calgarian classroom, no doubt a cheap thin prefab, listing precariously under the harsh prairie winds. Of course, Jack and Olympia are being schooled in a crumbling building that saw the Kennedy administration come and go, but what of that?

I frown and nod too, and then adopt a look of innocent thoughtfulness. “We’d have to rent the house. I don’t know what sort of people might want to rent a house for only eight months though.”

We pause to shiver at the thought of our basement becoming the hub of a grow-op or a terrorist cell or, worse, a frat boy hangout.

It’s critical to be the one to come up with the last objection so the other one will have to offer up the alternative arrangement. We furrow our brows as we try to think of more compelling objections. Donald isn’t giving in too quickly.

“And then there’s Serenity,” he says.

“Yes, Serenity. And of course there’s work, what will I do for work?” I add, cleverly ignoring the part that I’m unemployed and doing absolutely nothing.

Donald gives in first. He squints at me and pops the question:

“Do you think you would be up to holding down the fort here at home?”

Eight months on my own with the kids here at home. And Donald might never come back. The pain. Eight months on my own with Michael. The pleasure. Oh my.

Donald tucks his wings under and cocks his head as he waits for my reaction while I tilt my head upwards in a thoughtful angle. He adds, “It will also give us time to think.”

“Yes. We do need time to think.”

It’s as easy as two birds falling off a wire.

“As far as marital policy goes, do you think I should be letting Donald run wild and free in Canada for the next eight months?” I ask Bibienne as I stretch my arms up over my head and lean back further in my chaise lounge.

There’s nothing better than relaxing in Bibienne’s backyard drinking pink lemonade spiked with vodka and watching the kids filling the pool with grass. Bernie hates grass in his pool but he isn’t here and Bibienne just waves at them benignly once in a while. As long as they don’t bother us and don’t get grass in her drink, they can do whatever they want.

Bibienne says, “Marital policy? I don’t get it. I thought you two were splitting up?”

“Call it a trial separation.”

Bibienne shrugs. “If he keeps sending back the child support, it would work for me.”

I stare down at my toenails. Ugh. Time to book a pedicure.

“He’s going to send support payments right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

I wish I could tell Bibienne about Michael but I’m afraid she’ll disapprove. He’s the reason I’m cool with the Calgary plan. I’m not so cool with the thought that Lindsay is, perhaps, a key player in this whole arrangement and, if so, this clearly means she’s winning in the Donald department. If that’s the case, am I willing to forfeit?

“You think you can handle everything on your own?”

“Plenty of women do.”

“Not without a decent cleaning service, they don’t. Better get some help.”

“Good plan.”

Which is about all the planning I’ve done so far.

My final Grade Report has arrived in my inbox. I scan the marks: B+ in Modern American Poetry. No more, no less, than deserved. I scored top marks in drumming, and Donald will never believe that I aced both Financial Management and Organizational Behavior.

Funny, but I haven’t heard from Michael for days now, ever since he got picked up by the cops. Is he angry with me? Or is he finished with me? Is it possible Michael is one of those serial profs who take advantage of female students? Was I nothing but the freshman flavor of the year?

Should I go back to school or work? I have the weekend to decide: if it’s school, next Tuesday will my first day back at Dingwall. Do I withdraw and go into rubber resistors? With all the stress, this morning I got on the scales to find I’ve gained five pounds in two weeks. I need to take action. But what should I do? Take the job offer or finish my degree? But how can I return to Dingwall while Michael is roving the campus, preying on innocent female hearts? How can I diet when everyone knows diets don’t work?

A dark pit of gloom opens wide across my solar plexus. I’m sorely in need of some energy work but the last time my chakras were exposed to healing influences, I ran out and spent $200 on recordings of the kind of music you would hear if you were stuck in an elevator in the middle of a forest.

I’d even call Mom to confide in her, but she’s back with Brian and they’ve gone off to Vegas for a wedding-free honeymoon. She’s got herself a fancy new camera so she can upload daily snaps to her blog. I can see from today’s pic that she’s bought herself a snazzy outfit. Camel toes visits the Hoover Dam. Brian is beaming with pride. He’s a good guy. I’m happy that she’s happy.

Of course, I’m unhappy that I’m unhappy. The best thing to do is find a quiet place to be alone, think, clear my head. I grab my keys,
drive to the Clearview Conservation Park and lurch off down a hiking trail.

I press on down the path until I’m panting and out of breath. Slowing down into a steady pace, I begin to notice birdsong and the sound of the wind rustling the leaves of the trees. I reach the pond lookout where I stand in silence and watch dragonflies darting over the water. The peaceful scene reminds me of the day I first met Michael, when he showed me the Great Blue Heron. I remember holding on to him, tightly, on the back of his motorcycle as we leaned through the curves together on a sunlit ribbon of a back road.

Why do I need Michael to show me the Great Blue Herons of the world? Do I need men in my life at all? Now there’s a thought. Without men balling up my life, I can walk my own path and open my mind to the majesties of the natural world, unencumbered. Clearly it’s time I loosen myself from the sucking mud of relationships. Yes. From now on, I walk alone but free. Invigorated with strength from my newly forged inner direction, I continue walking at a brisk pace along the path.

Walking alone is lonely.

I yank my phone out of my pocket. That’s it. I have to know. Now. I text Michael: “I need to talk to you.”

Within minutes, I receive a text back from Michael: “Meet me at the Dingy.”

Half an hour later, we are tucked into our corner. Michael holds my hand underneath the table and stares into my eyes. He seems to have forgotten the incident report. I won’t remind him.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I needed time. To think. I went up to the cottage.”

“You have a cottage?”

“Up in Vermont. It’s basic. It’s just a cabin beside a lake. I wished you were there the whole time.”

“I would’ve liked to have been there.”

He looks at me as if he’s in a confessional. “You didn’t call me. I thought you were upset.”

“What?”

“For showing up at your house like that.”

“Why would I be upset? Besides, I did try to call you at work. I left a voice mail. And you didn’t answer your cell.”

“There’s no cell access at the cottage. And I told you my office is closed for the last week of summer.”

Right again. Where are my brains?

“You don’t listen, do you?”

He says this teasingly as if this is one of my most endearing qualities and he’d like to kiss me all over because I’m so adorably cute. I can’t help but think of how Donald says I don’t listen but in a much different tone of voice.

Then Michael leans in and says, “I’m going back up to the cottage. This weekend. Will you come with me?”

“Yes.”

I drive home slowly, park my car in the driveway and hesitate before going into the house. I stare at my hands, still clutching the steering wheel. What am I doing? Did I just agree to a weekend alone with Michael?

My phone rings: maybe Michael is having second thoughts too?

It’s Mackie, home from a weeklong training exercise.

“How was it?”

“Terrible. I need the name of that lawyer you had when you got your divorce. You did alright out of that.”

“You think? Half of nothing is still nothing.”

“You got custody of Serenity.”

True.

“What’s going on?”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. Can we have a girls’ night out? Meet me at the Legion.”

Mackie picks a booth directly across from the bar. She orders wings and a pitcher of beer, and starts downing glassfuls at an impressive rate. I sip from my glass and look around the room. Two guys made of granite ripples are standing by the bar, eyeing us. They couldn’t be more than 25 years old. I avert my eyes quickly.

“Drink up girl. You’re letting the team down.”

Mackie says this to me while batting her eyes at the guys by the bar.

“Why do you want my lawyer’s number? What happened with you and Thad?”

She digs in her bag and pulls out a tube of lip gloss. “The usual crap. I went on an exercise. He got busy.”

“Are those false eyelashes?”

“Yep.” She dabs her lips with the gloss, and then trails her fingertips across her cleavage. The two guys at the bar visibly startle. If they were in uniform, now’s the moment they would straighten their ties.

Mackie leans in to me. “Those guys? Both vets. The cute one with the mustache? He’s going on his third tour soon. I saw him first.”

“Cut it out, Mac,” I hiss. “This girls’ night out isn’t going to be like back in the day.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“God, how long have you been married? Don’t tell me you don’t, you know, take the long way home, once in a while?”

I take a gulp of beer.

“No.”

“So you and Donald are still in lurrve?” She bugs out her eyes and sticks out her tongue.

I make a face and shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know anymore.”

“Spill.”

“Spill what?”

“I know that look. Don’t be lyin’ to me now. What’s going on?”

I take another gulp of beer.

Guess it’s time to cut the crap. I give her the whole scoop on Donald and Lindsay, and Donald moving to Calgary. Then I tell her about Michael, knowing that my secret is safe. Mackie knows stuff about national security that would curl Mustache’s sideburns up over his ears. I know stuff too. Tradition. Respect. Honor. It’s the army way.

Mackie is so in.

“Okay,” she says, passing me a napkin and fishing a pen from her bag. “Remember your basic mission planning. First—what’s your mission?”

I write down: bivouac in the field (cottage) overnight with friendly troops (Michael) while remaining undiscovered and unsuspected by the enemy.

“What’s your terrain like?”

“Secure. Michael has a cottage in Vermont.”

“Acknowledged. Troops?”

“Troops?”

“Basic mission planning. You have to define your troops, remember? Obviously you and Michael are the friendlies.”

“You know, in some countries we could be beheaded for having a conversation like this.”

“God bless America.” Mackie raises her glass. “What are your primary objectives?”

The usual military objective is to engage and kill, or at least capture the enemy; however, in this case, Mackie and I feel it’s advisable to simply disperse the enemy during the period of operations. Top-drawer tactical planners call this calculated approach Hi Diddle Diddle, Up the Middle.

Mackie continues. “I would say your primary objective is horizontal envelopment between friendly troops.”

I make a note: horizontal envelopment. Sounds good. I can’t wait for the envelopment to begin.

“Of course you’ll need a Diversion Plan for the unfriendly troops. And a detailed Plan of Engagement.”

“That’s what I was thinking. I’m going to need a lot more napkins.”

Next morning I pull a thick wad of napkins out of my purse. Once Mackie and I had the Basic Mission Planning in place, it was simple to prepare a five-pronged Plan of Engagement. Michael and I will deploy in a surprise retreat maneuver and bunker down in the field of operations. Therefore we have code named the Plan of Engagement
Over the Moon
. My operative code name is Dish, and Michael is Spoon.

To set the first prong in place, I waylay Donald in the kitchen: “I’ve signed up for a hockey skills weekend.” I pause, and then toss in the kicker, “It’s this weekend.” I add, with a straight face, “I need to practice my stick handling.”

He receives this bogus intelligence with barely concealed fury.