If You Were Here

by Jen Lancaster

  You know what? I’m just going to mow the lawn myself.

  I change into old sneakers, cutoff sweatpants, and an ancient sorority T-shirt, stick in my earbuds, and select my sounds-of-the-nineties playlist as I plod down to the garage. I glower at the lantern and it’s all I can do not to throw a couple of landscaping rocks at it.

  We inherited a lawn mower with the house, and like everything else here, it’s completely antiquated. Mac cleaned the blade and filled it with gas and he says it works, but considering it looks like a prop from the movie Road Warrior, I’m a bit skeptical. I wheel it down the driveway and let myself into the gated part of the yard.

  I bend across the rusty motor and give the toggle dealie a tentative yank. I don’t want to pull too hard, because I feel like the rope will break. Nothing happens, so I pull harder. The engine sputters to life and then dies, so I probably have no choice but to tug harder. I yank the toggle with all my might and the mower roars to life. And I do mean roar. Even with my iPod up full blast, I can’t make out a single word Alanis Morissette is singing, so I turn it off. I don’t need to hear her to understand exactly how ironic this whole situation is. I do leave the earbuds in to protect my hearing.

  Cutting the grass isn’t as hard as I anticipated, because this mower surprisingly has one of the self-propelling features. I thought I’d have to push this aging bucket of bolts like Sisyphus and his boulder, but really it’s more a matter of steering. What’s frustrating is that the grass is so long that I have to empty the bag every five minutes.

  Also, apparently since we no longer have landscapers, we no longer have people who are paid to pick up dog crap. I retrieve what I can see, but due to the height of the grass, most of those treasures are hidden. Every time I run over poop, the pile explodes into tiny shards that spray me in the legs. I figure the tetanus shot I had last month will protect me from any doody-borne pathogens, so I keep going.

  By the time I complete this chore, I’ve filled six brown paper landscaping bags, and now I have to haul them all the way up to the curb for pickup.

  I’d ask for Mac’s help, but he’s taken off for the Depot again. I’d simply leave the bags for him, but since I want this done now,147 I’m stuck humping everything a tenth of a mile down the drive. The gravel grates so hard against the bottom when I drag them that a couple of the bags burst and then I have to rake up all the clippings and shards o’ crap before it occurs to me to use the wheelbarrow.

  By the time I finish the job, I stink and I’m itchy and I’m coated with sweat and grass clippings and dog poop, plus I’m pretty much dyed green from the knees down. I put everything away in the garage and find myself entertaining very unhappy thoughts every time I glance at the dead light fixture.

  Then, like Wile E. Coyote or Elmer Fudd, I get a lightbulb of an idea.

  I dash back to the house, grab a cheap floodlight bulb, and hoof it back to the garage. I gingerly set the ladder against the garage and, with much trepidation, begin to climb. I’ve nestled the bulb in my cleavage for safekeeping. Once I’m at the top, I unscrew the fixture, take out the new bulb, and screw in the one from my shirt.

  I scurry back down the ladder and hit the switch and ... in the words of Clark W. Griswold . . . Hallelujah!

  Initially I’m thrilled the lamp finally works, but then I add up the expense and opportunity costs we racked up because Mac wouldn’t listen to me and I begin to seethe.

  I’m still standing in front of the garage when Mac pulls up. “Hey, I fixed it! It’s working! I guess the wires righted themselves somehow.”

  I pull the forty-five-dollar bulb out of my shirt and silently point to it.

  “So the bulb was the problem from the get-go? Huh. Well, hand it over. I’m going to take it back to Home Depot and give them a piece of my mind,” Mac huffs.

  Then I take the pricey bulb and fling it against the closed garage door with all of my time-wasted, fecal-matter-splattered might. Because of its odd construction, I don’t get the same satisfaction of shattering, say, a fluorescent bulb, but it fractures enough to truly be good and broken.

  “There,” I say. “Saved you a trip.”

  Okay, Mia, focus. You can do this.

  I look down at my hands hovering over my keyboard and I will them to move.

  Nothing.

  No response.

  My fingers are as immobile as a couple of teamsters on a coffee break.

  I wonder if writer’s block used to feel more devastating back when people wrote on typewriters. A blinking cursor on an empty Word document is bad enough, but then I imagine how much worse it would be to have a whole empty sheet of paper in front of me, with a ream of pristine pages sitting undisturbed in a box on my desk, taunting me with the sheer volume of incomplete work. I bet there’d be something satisfying about a wire trash can full of balledup pages, though. At least then I’d have a visual measure of having tried. Right now all I have is a blank screen.

  I’m desperate to get this damn novel finished. I’m so close, but I can’t pull it all together because my ending feels forced and false. I want to wrap this manuscript up in a big, happy bow but I’m not feeling it.

  Part of it stems from the whole Amos-and-Miriam thing. I can barely (figuratively) look them in the eye. Even though their sex scene wasn’t for public consumption, I feel ashamed that I sold out their innocence for the dream of granite countertops and indoor flush toilets and cabinets actually attached to the walls.

  And now I don’t even have any of those things, and I’m too embarrassed to carry on their story line.

  I so want to be done with this, yet I lack the inspiration to get there.

  Maybe the problem is that I tend to draw for inspiration on my relationship with Mac, and right now, that’s not terribly inspiring. The strain of living in this shell of a house is starting to show. We’re both stressed out and anxious, and he blames me for talking him into this place, and I blame him for not having the DIY competence he’s always claimed. We’re at a stalemate. A subfloor-covered, barewalled-having stalemate.

  I don’t even know where he is right now. He stormed off earlier after I may or may not have gotten a bit shrieky about our credit card statement. But he spent eight thousand dollars this month at Home Depot in readying his workshop for our renovations, and all we have to show for it is one flushing toilet. We don’t even have a functional shower yet. Last night we struggled so long and hard to install a kitchen cabinet that when we finally gave up, I was covered with sweat and filth. It was too late to hit the gym, so I took my towel and a little plastic caddy full of shampoo and soap down to the lake to bathe.

  There’s something particularly shameful about being a thirtysomething adult with no choice but to wash my own ass outdoors.

  My point is, if I’d known we had eight thousand dollars to throw around, I’d have spent that on a rental house with a fully functional bathroom.

  Anyway, it’s probably best he’s not here. I’m in no mood for conversation. I just need to concentrate and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get through this.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  What is that noise? I look up from my manuscript and glance over at the dogs. Is Duckie scratching or something? Nope, he and Daisy are both out cold on their doggy beds. Weird.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Okay, that’s annoying.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  And it needs to stop.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  No, really, what is that?

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Is someone at the door?

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  A very annoying someone?

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Why don’t they ring the bell?

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  I get up from my desk and pound down the stairs. God help them if they’re a Jehovah’
s Witness. Although given my current mood, I might not even be nice to cookie-peddling Girl Scouts.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  “I’m coming, goddamn it!” I shout.

  When I haul the front door open, I don’t see anyone on or near my porch or retreating up the winding driveway. Argh.

  I head to the kitchen to grab a banana. Not long after I get back up the stairs, I hear it again.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  This time I peer out the window. I don’t spot anything at first, but then I hear the tock-tock-tocking and I catch a flash of red coming from the tree across from me. I look closer and see the downy, light gray feathery belly of a woodpecker.

  Well, this is just what I need.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  I whip open the window and try to shoo the bird. He pauses briefly to give me what I swear is a haughty look and then continues on his merry way.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  I spin around and grab the first item I can find—a half-full paper Starbucks cup. Without even thinking, I chuck it directly at the bird and then I instantly feel bad. I don’t want to hurt him—I just want him to go away.

  The good news is, I don’t have Vienna’s prowess when it comes to pitching and I miss him by a mile.

  The bad news is, I do not, however, miss the UPS man, who’s here to deliver a load of drawer pulls.

  After I help towel all the Cinnamon Dolce latte off his uniform and write what seems like an unnaturally large check for dry cleaning,148 I return to my desk.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  I holler at the bird some more, hoping that I’ll scare him off. No such luck. Then I throw my banana peel at him—not to hit him, but to let him know that he’s treading on my turf and he needs to “tock” it the hell off.

  Can birds be smug? Because this little asshole looks mighty smug as he continues to bore into my tree.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Clearly I need to alter my approach. I’m getting upset, and that’s not doing anything for my writer’s block. I need to find a way to unwind and just ignore the bird. I always find that a nice, hot bath soothes me, but that’s not really an option, now, is it?

  Maybe I need a drink. Yes. That’s the ticket—a drink! A quick cocktail will calm me down and maybe open up my chi or something. I don’t really even know what my chi is, but it’s best to—

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  —err on the side of caution.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  I grit my teeth and square my shoulders. I am not about to be bested by one pound of beak and feathers.

  So I’m just going to have one quick drink and that should solve everything.

  Fruuuuiiiittty deeelish vodka ’n’ Hawaiiiiiian Punch!

  Om nom nom!

  I wake up late afternoon and hear the tock-tock-tock again. I’m about to start shouting when I realize it’s just the pounding of my head. In retrospect, I should have realized that vodka has a higher alcohol content than, say, Baileys Irish Cream. Let’s file that under “lessons learned,” shall we?

  I poke around the house but Mac’s not here. Looks like he might have stopped in for lunch, judging from the empty McDonald’s cup, but he’s not around now. Whatever. I’m still mad at him, especially as I could have used his help with the woodpecker today.

  When I glance out the front door, I see a pile of objects ranging from books to CDs to notepads to blank-faced Amish dolls to Barbies. Pretty much everything I could have thrown in the woodpecker’s direction, I did. Somehow this must have all made a great deal of sense in my drunken stupor.

  And this? Right here? Is why I never drink Stoli.

  I go outside and begin to pick the objects up one by one, but I get dizzy every time I bend over. I come back inside and grab the shovel we’d used to scoop up piles of lath and plaster and decide I’m just going to dump everything in a bucket and deal with putting it away later.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Oh, goddamn it, he’s back.

  “Stop it! I hate you! You’re making me crazy! Go away!” I bellow, shaking my shovel at the sky.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  With my shovel in one hand, I try to scale the tree with the other, thinking that maybe I can scare the bird away with a combination of yelling and shovel shaking. But I quickly learn that I do not, in fact, have the dexterity or upper-body strength of a monkey, and I slide down the tree and into the dirt, slamming the bejesus out of my tailbone. The string of profanity that escapes my lips surprises even me.

  I’m just gathering up my shovel—loudly—when behind me I hear, “For the love of all that is holy, would you please shut up?”

  I spin around and come face-to-bicycle-shorts with Lululemon. I guess we’re cross-training today.

  She continues her tirade while I attempt to stand up. “Do you hate children? Is that your problem? Did you move here with the sole purpose of disturbing and traumatizing my babies? Is that your endgame? Do you realize they still ask me about the crazy old naked lady on the beach? They won’t even set foot on the sand anymore! I have to take them to the pool to swim!”

  I say nothing, instead opting to simply stare at her through my haze of alcohol and throbbing butt pain.

  She moves in closer to me. “Well, say something, you moron.”

  I begin to inch back toward my house, and that’s when it happens and I prove that clichés do, in fact, have a basis in reality. My heel connects with the banana peel I’d tossed hours earlier and, in overcorrecting my balance, I lurch forward toward Lululemon with my shovel. The scoop connects with where the tops of her sneakers would have been if she hadn’t hopped right before I hit the dirt.

  From my spot splayed on the ground I see her beating a hasty retreat down the drive. “You attacked me! You’re going to pay for this. I mean it!”

  For the record?

  The drunk tank in the Abington Cambs police headquarters is more luxurious than most Holiday Inns, with its fluffy duvet covers, soft sheets, cheerily painted walls, and nice, hot showers. Better yet, the officers allow me a pad of paper and a pen and I’m finally able to get some writing done in peace.149

  Mac was cleared to pick me up first thing this morning, but I asked him to wait until noon, because I want to take another shower and they’re serving fried chicken for lunch.

  Because the officers couldn’t prove I’d committed any real crime, the charges were dropped and I’m back in my office typing up my notes from yesterday.

  Mac is none too pleased with me, but I don’t care. If he’d actually been here yesterday instead of pouting at the movie theater, this whole incident could have been avoided. He’s at the gym right now and that’s fine. I didn’t join him because I already bathed today. In jail.

  I figured the best way to resolve the whole Miriam/Amos plotline was to—okay, this is cheap and sensational and not at all how I normally do things—trap them in a well together. By the time the next book rolls around, I’ll know what to do with them, but for now, they’re out of sight and off my plate. Hopefully fans will actually enjoy having a bit of a cliff-hanger.

  I’ve got to plow through the final chapter and then I’m officially done, at least with the book. Then I have an entire house to rebuild on a nonexistent budget and . . . Okay, if I start thinking about it I’ll get all stressy and won’t be able to concentrate.

  All righty, let’s do this. I’m immersing myself in this book. I’m not in this enormous, drafty construction site that I hate with every fiber of my being. Instead, I’m strolling the verdant green hills of Nappanee, Indiana.

  Is it hilly there? I should probably check.

  Scratch that; I’m strolling the ver
dant green fields of Nappanee, Indiana. I’m engaging all my senses now so I can experience the scene. The air is warm but not sticky, and I feel the sunlight on my face over the brim of my bonnet. I smell the rich, damp earth and I lightly trail my fingers across the scratchy wooden posts of the cattle fence as I walk by. Later, after I’ve done my chores, I’ll feast on hot baked biscuits topped with honey and freshly churned butter. In the distance I hear the wind ruffling the trees and the gentle trickle of the creek. The bell on our old milking cow Bessie tinkles and—

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Son of a bitch.

  Ignore it. You’re so close, Mia. Just put in the earplugs Mac bought you. You can do it.

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  Ahem, green fields, trickling stream, nice cow—

  Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

  You know what? I need to think more like the Amish. I’ve got to get inside their heads. How would they deal with this? WWMD?150

  And then it comes to me. My plain-talking, straight-shooting characters wouldn’t mess around with the symptoms—they’d directly address the cause.

  I head down to Mac’s workshop and grab some protective goggles and his good shootin’ gloves. And then I pick up the chain saw and march back to the house.

  That tree is going down.

  “All rise.”

  We rise.

  “You may be seated.”

  We sit. Then I rise again when my attorney pokes me, because everyone’s supposed to sit but me.

  The judge begins to speak. “This is Mia MacNamara, case number 0360144237. Good afternoon, Ms. MacNamara. I understand you want to plead guilty to the charge of an unlawful discharge of a firearm, code 13-3107.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge glances up from his files to take his first look at me. He peers long and hard over his half-glasses.