What Happens in Suburbia… (Red Dress Ink Novels)

by Wendy Markham

Where the hell is Jack? Why is he not here to deal with this?

  “How can the couch not fit out the door? How do you think we got it in the door? It’s not like it was a kit we assembled in our living room.” I am indignant, and naturally neglect to mention that, all right, some of our furniture might have been a kit. And made of cardboard. But we got rid of that the other day.

  The couch—which, you recall, is new, and nice, and custom upholstered—is one of the few “real” pieces of furniture we own.

  The burly mover, whom I will now be calling B.M. for short, shrugs. “I don’t know how you got it in. All I know is that we can’t get it out. We’ve been twisting it and turning it every which way and we can’t afford to waste any more time. We need a saw. You can pop the leg back on later.”

  Is he nuts? He makes it sound like Lego.

  “I need to call my husband,” I inform him, pulling my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans. “Give me a second.”

  B.M. reluctantly leaves the room.

  Naturally, Jack’s cell phone rings right into voice mail. Maybe he’s on the subway.

  More likely, he’s still at work, since lunchtime rolls around late in the day, if at all, at Blair Barnett. I dial his line there.

  “Jack Candell’s office.”

  “Sally, it’s Tracey. I need to talk to him. Is he there?”

  Wouldn’t it be great if she said he’s already on his way home?

  It would be, but great just isn’t in the cards today.

  “He’s here, but he just went into another meeting.”

  My heart sinks. Just went into? That means he won’t be coming home any time soon. “Can you please let him know I need to talk to him? It’s really important.”

  “It’s a big meeting, Tracey. The whole department. Something’s up. I can’t interrupt unless it’s life or death. Is it life or death?” she adds hopefully.

  My turn to hesitate.

  No, I don’t suppose mangling a couch qualifies as a death. More like an amputation.

  I tell Sally to please have Jack call me the second he’s available, hang up and call Buckley. Out of everyone I know besides Jack, he’s the most reliable voice of reason in my life. Buckley has come running to my rescue more times in the past than I care to count.

  He’s seen me at my absolute worst: in my fat jeans, crying, drunk, naked, with puke in my hair. Not all of those things at once—not as far as I recall, anyway.

  The point is, nothing throws Buckley—at least, not where I’m concerned—and I’m sure he’ll come running over here.

  It occurs to me, as the phone rings on the other end, that this is probably the last time I’ll ever be able to count on Buckley to save me in a pinch. Tomorrow, I’ll be living forty-some miles away, and in a few weeks, he’ll be living on the opposite coast.

  What am I going to do without him?

  I guess I’m about to find out, because I get his voice mail. Figures. He’s probably power lunching at Michael’s with Steven Spielberg.

  Now what?

  I consider calling Latisha and Raphael, but they’ll both be at work and distracted.

  Dialing Kate’s number, I hope she’s home.

  But when she answers on the second ring, I wonder why I called her, of all people. Her life is a wreck. She doesn’t need one more thing to worry about.

  Not that I can imagine Kate stressing, for very long, about my legless couch. In her world, when a B.M. saws a leg off your couch, you buy a new couch.

  In her world, actually, I’d be willing to bet no one threatens to saw legs off couches in the first place.

  In fact, things like this only seem to happen in my world.

  “Hey—what’s up? I thought you were moving today,” Kate says.

  “I am. I mean, I’m about to. But the movers said they need a saw to cut the leg off the couch because they can’t get it through the door.”

  “Of the new house?”

  “Of the old apartment. Which we got it into.”

  “What the hay-ell? How can that be?”

  “I have no idea. Kate, what should I do?”

  “I’ll call Billy and ask him,” says Kate, an old-fashioned Southern belle who leaves the big decisions to the lying, cheating man in her life.

  “No, that’s okay. Don’t bother Billy with it.”

  “What does Jack think?”

  “Jack isn’t here,” I tell her, feeling exasperated and overwhelmed and helpless on the verge of tears.

  Come on. Get a grip.

  That, of course, is Inner Tracey, disgusted.

  You’re a strong, independent woman, aren’t you? Can’t you figure this out on your own?

  “Where’s Jack?” Kate is asking. “Why are you moving all by yourself?”

  “Jack’s at work.”

  Pause. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” Sigh.

  Did I mention that Kate now believes all married men are lying, cheating bastards?

  “Listen, Kate, I’m sorry I bothered you…I’ll call you from the new place over the weekend and make plans for you to visit as soon as we get the guest bedroom set up. You can be the inaugural houseguest.”

  “Really, Tracey? It would do us a world of good to get out of the city. Maybe Billy can take a long weekend in June.”

  Billy? I guess I assumed he wouldn’t be coming. He’s the last inaugural houseguest I want in our brand-new home.

  But apparently, he and Kate are still a package deal, so I assure her they’re welcome anytime, along with the Screaming Jesus, of course.

  Then I tell her I’ve got to go deal with the couch thing, because I am strong and independent and I can do this on my own.

  Feeling a little like a Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, I gather up my skirts and march off to the new frontier.

  (Okay, the living room, and I’m not really wearing skirts. I just threw that in for effect.)

  The two B.M.s are sitting on the couch with their feet up on boxes, taking a breather. Both barely out of their teens, in smudged T-shirts, with bulging tattooed biceps and five-o’clock shadow, they seem a little—well, threatening isn’t the right word. More like intimidating.

  But I’m Dr. Quinn, and they can’t scare me. B.M. #1, who asked for the saw, straightens a little but keeps his feet on the box and asks, “Well?”

  “I checked with my husband. We don’t have a saw.”

  “No?”

  “No. Guess you’ll just have to try to get it out in one piece.” Which, pardon me if I’m wrong, is the whole point. I mean, isn’t this why we hired professionals? Anyone can just show up, hack things into little pieces and carry them out, right?

  B.M. #1 looks at B.M. #2. They both look down at the couch, then over at the door.

  “Ain’t gonna happen,” B.M. #2 says flatly. B.M. #1 nods and shrugs. “You’re gonna hafta go borrow a saw. Or buy one.”

  There are so many things wrong with this scenario that I’m speechless.

  But what can I do?

  I can A) tell the B.M.s to get lost and wait for Jack to get home before figuring out our next steps…

  Or I can B) grab my purse and march down to the closest hardware store—not that I have any idea where one even is—and borrow or buy a saw.

  A is tempting. But we told the super we’d be out of here by tonight. By the time Jack actually gets here, and we figure out our next steps, which will either involve hiring new movers or renting a van and doing it ourselves, we’ll find ourselves camping out in the lobby—prime Mad Crapper territory—overnight.

  I have to choose B by default.

  I can’t reach the super to see if I can borrow his saw, and wouldn’t you know the doorman doesn’t have one handy.

  While marching to the hardware store, I try Jack’s cell again. Then his office. Then Buckley.

  No luck.

  But I guess this is good practice for when I’m on my own in the wilds of suburbia. Did I mention I’m no longer convinced this move is the right thing to do
?

  “What kind of saw do you need?” asks the hardware-store guy.

  “I don’t know…I guess just a regular old saw to cut the legs off a couch.”

  “You’re going to cut the legs off your couch?”

  “No. My moving men are.”

  “What kind of moving men cut the legs off a couch?”

  Wouldn’t we all like to know.

  I buy the damn saw and book it back home, where the B.M.s have finished emptying the apartment of everything but the couch.

  “Here’s the saw.” I hand it over and retreat to the bedroom like my friend Lori did during her son’s bris. I just can’t bear to watch.

  After closing the door to block out the sound, I dial Jack’s cell phone again.

  Miracle of miracles, he picks up.

  “Where have you been?” I ask.

  “In a meeting, and it was—”

  “Listen, Jack, things are crazy here,” I cut in. “Where are you?”

  “On my way to the subway. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “The movers are at this very moment cutting at least one leg off our new couch, that’s what’s wrong.”

  “What!”

  “They said it won’t fit through the door, so they have to saw the leg off.”

  “Please say you’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “They brought a saw?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d they get a saw?”

  “It’s ours.”

  “We don’t have a saw.”

  “We do now,” I say reluctantly.

  There’s a moment of silence. Then Jack says evenly, “Tracey, listen to me. You need to stop them. Now.”

  “They can’t get the couch out if they don’t saw off the leg.” I’m on the verge of tears.

  “We got it in with four legs.”

  “I know, but they said—”

  “Just tell them to stop!”

  I throw open the door, all set to shout, “Halt!”

  Too late.

  The movers—and the couch—have disappeared, leaving only a forlorn wooden stump and some sawdust behind.

  “They already did it,” I tell Jack miserably. “What are we going to do?”

  He doesn’t say anything, and if I didn’t hear the background noise of the street on the other end of the line, I’d think he’d hung up on me for the first time in our relationship.

  When he does speak, he says, “Listen, we have some stuff to talk about.”

  His tone is so deadly serious that my first thought is he’s leaving me. He’s leaving me because I let the movers cut the leg off our couch.

  “Jack,” I say, and swallow hard. “Are you—?”

  “I’m talking about our jobs. I was about to tell you when you brought up the couch.”

  So it’s our jobs, and not our marriage, that are at stake here. I start to heave a sigh of relief, then remember the damn mortgage.

  “What about our jobs?” I ask Jack in dread.

  “For starters, the agency lost the McMurray-White account.”

  “What? No!”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to lose our jobs, aren’t we?”

  Long pause.

  “You are,” Jack says. “There are massive layoffs happening right now. It’s a bloodbath up there, Tracey.”

  “Did they fire you?”

  Another long pause.

  I wait, standing in our barren apartment, holding my breath and wondering how, in the grand scheme of life, we can possibly find ourselves unemployed on the very day we’re moving into our new house. I mean, what kind of cruel twist of fate is this?

  Then Jack says, “No, they didn’t fire me. Our department is spinning off into a new company. Fresh Media. I just got promoted to vice president and group director.”

  I’m floored. So floored that I sink to…the floor, since there’s no where else to sit.

  “Tracey? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” I say, my thoughts reeling. “So…let me get this straight. You got promoted, and I’m about to get laid off?”

  “I think so. Maybe not.”

  “I am too, Jack!” I say a little shrilly. “What are we going to do now?”

  “Just promise me you won’t obsess about losing your job all weekend. We have enough going on.”

  “You think?” I ask, and tuck the hacked-off couch leg into my pocket.

  CHAPTER 11

  At dusk, standing on our very own rocking-chair porch—void of rocking chairs—Jack and I watch the moving van drive away through the rain.

  About eight hours ago, we said goodbye to our old apartment and followed the moving van up to Westchester in the new—well, used with low mileage—car we bought a few weeks ago. There was plenty of Memorial Day weekend traffic, and it’s taken hours for the B.M.s to unload the van.

  Jack and I tried to organize the boxes and furniture as it all came in the door, but the last thing I knew, several cartons containing our clothes were in the basement, and the pots and pans were in one of the bathrooms.

  The beautiful couch is in the living room, listing to one corner like a sinking raft.

  That’s not why I suddenly find myself crying, though.

  At least, I don’t think it is.

  Maybe it’s cumulative, who knows?

  All I know is that, standing here on the rocking-chairless porch of my new—well, used—Sears Catalog House, I am not quietly weeping.

  No, I am loudly and abruptly bawling, like a toddler who’s just slammed her tender noggin on the edge of the coffee table.

  Jack, standing beside me in ancient jeans and a faded Yankees T-shirt and a backward baseball cap, looks alarmed.

  “What?” he asks, clutching my upper arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Calm down…is it the job thing?”

  “No.” If anything, now that it’s sunk in, I’m kind of relieved that I’ll probably be getting fired when I go in on Tuesday. Jack got a raise with the promotion. It doesn’t make up for my salary, but it is a good chunk of it.

  “Why are you crying, Trace?”

  “Because I’m homesick,” I wail as the truth hits me.

  Here is the best thing about my husband: he does not slap me across the face and tell me to snap out of it like Cher in Moonstruck.

  Not Jack. He just shrugs, used to me by now.

  “Yeah,” he says, and puts an arm around me, “you’ll get over it. Hey, look—there’s a family of deer!”

  I turn to see Bambi and a couple of fawns gently nuzzling the blossoming rhododendron beside the porch. I instantly feel better. It’s as if they’ve come to welcome us—though they’re not paying any attention to us whatsoever. I walk all the way to the edge of the porch and lean over the railing, mere feet from them.

  “Hi, guys. Aren’t you beautiful?”

  I swear I could pet them and they wouldn’t flinch.

  “I can’t believe they’re so tame,” I tell Jack, still sniffling a little. “It’s like we’re living on our own private wildlife sanctuary, isn’t it?”

  The biggest deer takes a huge bite of rhododendron blossom.

  “Jack?” I say, eyeing the ravaged branch. “Do you see this? These deer are eating the flowers.”

  “Yeah. They’re herbivores.”

  “What about my garden? Are they going to eat that when I plant it?”

  Jack just shrugs. “Come on, we have a lot to do.”

  I follow Jack into the house, wiping my nose on the shoulder of my T-shirt. I know, but I have no idea where the tissues are. I have no idea where anything is.

  The minute we set foot into the house, my misgivings flood back.

  I have no idea what we’re doing here, in an unfamiliar, empty (aside from a trillion boxes, a legless couch and some measly sticks of cheap furniture that look out of place), echoey house that smells of strangers and stale cigarette smoke.

  Particularly depressing,
for some reason, are the nail holes and unfaded paint rectangles on walls where a lifetime of another family’s portraits once hung. Hank and Marge’s family portraits.

  Right. Because this is Hank and Marge’s house; not ours.

  Except that it isn’t.

  It’s our house.

  Hank and Marge are no doubt settling into their cushy, newly built condo in Putnam County, and their bank is cashing the biggest check anyone has ever written.

  Okay, maybe that’s a tiny exaggeration, but that’s certainly how it felt when we were writing it.

  And all those other checks. And signing our names over and over again, on contracts requiring us to pay an astronomical amount of money every month for the rest of our lives.

  Okay, maybe that’s another tiny exaggeration. We’ll be paying off the house for the next thirty years. Which feels like the rest of our lives because from there, it’s basically just a downhill slide to death.

  I know. See? I told you I was depressed.

  “Do you realize that we won’t have a month without a mortgage payment until we’re sixty?” I ask Jack as our footsteps echo across the scuffed linoleum in the kitchen. “We’ll be old coots by then. I can’t stand thinking about it.”

  “I’ll be sixty. You won’t,” he says with reasonable Jackness, stepping around a big cardboard carton marked FRAGILE—PLATES AND GLASSES. He feels around for a switch and turns on a light, banishing some—but not all—of the late-day gloom. “You’ll only be fifty-nine. That’s not an old coot.”

  Wondering what a coot is, anyway, I tell Jack, “Fifty-nine is definitely in the old-coot realm.”

  “Not to someone who’s sixty. You’ll just be a spring chicken compared to me.”

  “Speaking of chicken, I’m starving.” I open the fridge, not sure why I’m bothering, since it will of course contain nothing other than strangers’ old food smells.

  Wrong.

  “Oh, ick,” I say wearily—and with some surprise, because the house, despite being well worn and lived in, was left pretty much spotless. “Hank and Marge didn’t clean out the fridge before they left.”

  Staring at the plastic-covered plates on the top shelf, I feel as if I’m going to cry again. What is wrong with me?

  I guess it’s just exhaustion, hunger and emotional upheaval taking their toll. That, and my inexplicable, be-careful-what-you-wish-for post-move homesickness. Throw in worry about my mother’s weird fatigue, my looming unemployment and impending old cootdom, and is it any wonder I’m not crumpled on the floor?