Bubbles All The Way

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  “It started a few years ago, when Martin and I decided to have a baby. He was all gung-ho and I, you know, wasn’t.”

  I’d always suspected this, but hadn’t said as much. It was the neat freak in her. Anyone who had a nervous breakdown over the unavoidable dust bunny wasn’t ready to procreate.

  “Women are miserable when they’re pregnant, and unhappy when they’re not,” Mama said from the sewing machine, where she was adding the final trim on a shepherd’s outfit for her senior citizen Christmas pageant Friday.

  “I thought you wanted to get pregnant,” Jane said. She was supposed to be studying calculus, but I noticed she kept putting down her pencil and listening. I considered this another sign of recovery, the fact that she was back to hanging out with us and being part of the family, so I didn’t nudge her to get back to work. Jason had called twice and she’d made a lame excuse each time to call him back.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m dying to be a mother now.” Sandy’s eyes welled up. “And I’d probably be one, too, if I hadn’t put it off so long.”

  I handed her a tissue and she blew her nose loudly. “You’re not that old, Sandy. You’ll get pregnant. Look at Mama. She was something like fifty when she had me.”

  Mama tossed a pin cushion at my head.

  Sandy wiped her eyes. “No, I won’t become pregnant because Martin will never sleep with me again.”

  Mama leaned over and slapped her hands over Jane’s ears. Jane batted her off.

  “Yes, he will. He’ll understand,” I said.

  “But I took birth control pills secretly for years. For years, Bubbles.”

  “So what? It’s your body, isn’t it? If you weren’t ready to have children, that was that. Okay, so maybe you should have discussed it with him first, but for some reason you didn’t. Martin will deal.”

  “I sprinkled arsenic in my second husband’s morning coffee for three years and he never blamed me,” Genevieve said.

  Mama finished off a hem. “He didn’t have a chance since it killed him.”

  “I was trying to build up his immunity for when the commies came and poisoned us all, thank you very much.” Genevieve huffed and went back to sticking price tags on the commemorative snow globes featuring miniature senior citizens dressed as Mary and Joseph.

  “What I don’t get,” Jane said, “is why you had to run away. Why do the police even care that you took birth control pills? It’s not like it’s any of their business.”

  Sandy and I regarded each other. Well, this was the moment of truth, wasn’t it? Did Debbie know that Sandy had been taking birth control pills? Had she threatened to blackmail Sandy by threatening to tell Martin?

  “Actually, Jane, it is the police’s business.” Sandy put down her coffee and sighed. “Someone had called in a tip to the police—likely the same SOB who tipped them off that Debbie had been poisoned—and told them that I had murdered Debbie because she’d threatened to tell my husband that I was taking birth control.”

  “Murdered over birth control pills?” Jane tossed her pencil into the air. “That is so bogus.”

  I held my breath, dying to know what Sandy thought of that.

  Unfortunately, the phone rang, right when we were getting to the good part.

  “I’ll get it,” Jane announced, hopping up from the kitchen table. “Probably Jason again. Oh, I have really got to break up with him. He is such a pest.”

  I crossed my fingers.

  “I didn’t kill her,” Sandy whispered to me, when Jane got on the phone. “I would never have killed Debbie, even if she had been blackmailing me, which she hadn’t been.”

  “I know that,” I whispered back. “The question is, who did? And who is calling in these bogus tips?”

  “Mom, it’s for you.” Jane covered the receiver and mouthed, It’s the cops!

  Sandy went rigid. “Don’t tell them I’m here. Please. I want to go to your bachelorette party tomorrow. I don’t want to spend the night in jail.”

  Bachelorette party. The farthest thing from my mind. I took a minute to compose myself and then got on. “Hello?”

  “Seems like you’re having quite a shindig over there.” It was Mickey Sinkler, a poor excuse for a cop if there ever was one.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Lots of commotion in the background.”

  I motioned for Mama to step on the pedal of her sewing machine. “Getting ready for the big senior citizen Christmas pageant.”

  “Right. I forgot about that.”

  Excellent defense, I thought. Man, you’re good, Bubbles. “You calling for a particular reason?”

  “Yeah. Wanted to know if you’d had a surprise visit lately from anyone we know?”

  I glanced over at Sandy, who was scraping the last bit of ice cream off her plate. “If you’re talking about that one-hundred-dollar Waterford goblet on my wedding registry you’re supposed to be sending me, no. It hasn’t arrived.”

  “That’s because my money’s on you bailing out of your upcoming nuptials. There’s a pool going on down at the station. The odds happen to be in my favor.”

  “I’ll tell Dan.” I paused. “Anything else?”

  “You remember that license plate you wanted me to trace on the Lincoln, the one belonging to an alleged Marguerite who allegedly was after Debbie Shatsky’s husband?”

  Finally, I get a break. “And?”

  “Nothing. The license is held by a Mark Knoffler. And because I am a detective with a well-honed budinsky streak in me, I checked him out thoroughly. He’s unmarried, and as far as I can tell, there is no Marguerite at that address. He’s thirty-two and an architect, which might explain why his license plate spells out brick house.”

  I weighed my options. “I’ll be needing the address anyway.”

  “What for?”

  “Let’s pretend there was a for-sale sign on his car. Let’s pretend I’m interested.”

  Mickey grumbled. “Goddamn it, Bubbles. You are such a pain. Okay, I’ll give it to you against my better judgment and only because you’ll spare me no relief if I don’t. Though I’ll tell you this much. You’re wasting your time. Plus, you might piss this guy off.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but it’s a really nice car. And you know me, Mickey. I’m always looking to upgrade.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I arrived at Dr. Caswell’s office the next morning tired and slightly put out. Jane and I had had a fight. A huge fight over whether she should keep her standing Thursday-morning appointment. She didn’t want to. I wanted her to. She refused to see it my way. These were the joys of raising a teenager.

  “This is not optional,” I told her as she massaged blue gel into her hair. “Dr. Caswell insists that missing even one session could set you back.”

  “Dr. Caswell is a moneygrubbing fraud who is stoking my fears instead of encouraging me to find my inner courage.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I figured it out for myself.”

  “How?”

  “Because, despite the low opinion with which you and Dad regard me these days, I do happen to have a brain, you know. A pretty good brain. And when an absolute moron like Dr. Caswell says to me in a baby voice that I should try out for cheerleading because it’s quote unquote wholesome and it will build my confidence, I’m smart enough to know it’s time to blow.”

  So that was what had happened. The cheerleading. “Guess tryouts didn’t go so hot, say?”

  She slammed the brush down and stared at herself in the mirror. “They sucked. Lissy Clarke and her ilk are nasty, stupid sluts and I can’t believe I let myself humiliate myself in front of them. Cheerleading is pure bullshit.”

  “I’m sorry.” I tried to be sincere, but it was hard subduing my absolute delight.

  “And that athletic argument is a crock, too. You’re in a short skirt. You’re upside down. You do the math. Sure, right, it’s a sport. A sport for pervs who get off seeing teenage girls flash their butts.”
<
br />   I said nothing. Better to let her rant.

  Her cell phone blared “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Jane snatched it up and read the number. “Ugh, Jason. We are sooo over. I wish he’d stop calling and give me my space!”

  Yes, I decided, there would be no need for further sessions with Dr. Caswell.

  As for being tired, that was purely Sandy’s fault. You really don’t know someone, even a best friend, until you lie awake at night listening to them grind their teeth, snore, flail as if they’re on fire and moan about inventory.

  “More blue rinse. More bleach. Is the shampoo low?”

  The words replayed in my brain like a bad Billy Joel song.

  Of course, it didn’t help that I had my own love inventory—or lack thereof—to toss and turn over. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw Sabina tiptoeing behind Stiletto and him spinning her around and kissing her. I saw them together in his bed, warm and breathless from passionate lovemaking. I saw Stiletto presenting her with the sapphire ring on a brilliant white Grecian beach.

  My life. I really needed to take out a low-interest loan and buy a new one.

  To top it off, there was my bachelorette party tonight. As Sandy rightly observed, Lorena had gone to a lot of trouble making the arrangements, and backing out now would have been just plain rude.

  This might explain why I’d chosen to wear all black today: a black wool dress with a gold belt. Black knee-high leather boots and onyxish earrings. I was in a funereal mood.

  Dr. Caswell’s door was open when I arrived. There was no sign of Dan in the waiting room, and for a minute there, I was hopeful his bad back had kept him in bed.

  But I was wrong. As is my fate, I am wrong about a lot.

  They were waiting for me, Dr. Caswell and Dan. Caswell looked exceptionally prudish, even for her, in a high-necked military green sweater and similarly colored corduroy slacks. She had on her dark, mean glasses and her hair was in a sloppy bun.

  Dan was in his standard business suit. He was holding a set of white papers. Unfortunately, it appeared that the Tylenol with codeine had worn off. He was slightly bent and scowling. Man, I missed that Tylenol with codeine.

  “Where’s Jane?” he asked.

  “And good morning to you, too,” I said. “Hello, Dr. Caswell.”

  Dr. Caswell didn’t say hello.

  Okay, there were plenty of reasons for Dan to be upset with me. But what had I done to Dr. Caswell, aside from acquiesce to her every admonition and agree with her every instruction?

  I told them that Jane could not make it and that, for the record, she wouldn’t be attending any further sessions.

  Dan flashed Dr. Caswell an unveiled I-told-you-so look.

  “Jane can’t be done with me,” Caswell said sharply. “I’m not through with her.”

  I shrugged. “Too bad. She’s through with you.”

  Dan launched the accusations. “How long did it take you and your whacky mother to work on her? What did you threaten her with? No food? No TV? No phone?”

  I pressed my lips together. Clearly, I’d walked into some sort of trap. “I don’t have to put up with this. Jane is doing just fine. So you know what? I guess I’m done with Dr. Caswell, too.”

  “Show her,” Dr. Caswell hissed.

  Dan thrust out the papers he’d been clutching in his fat, sweaty hands. “You’re not done. This is only the beginning. Consider yourself served.”

  The papers had been typed and prepared impeccably by Dan’s secretary, the bimbo he was sleeping with. It made me curious. I wondered if she’d bothered to ask herself why she was sleeping with a man who was demanding TEMPORARY AND EMERGENCY CUSTODY OF A MINOR CHILD from his ex-wife, the same woman he was supposed to remarry in two days.

  “Give it up, Dan,” I said, handing the papers back to him.

  He backed away. “Those aren’t mine. Those are yours. And there’s another set I’m filing when the court opens in an hour.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “The hell I’m not. You have proven repeatedly to be a neglectful mother, Bubbles, and this latest development of Jane dropping out of counseling is just further evidence.”

  “You didn’t even bother to read my affidavit,” Dr. Caswell said, “did you?” She snorted in disgust.

  Okay, maybe that was a rhetorical question. Still working on that.

  “When the judge reads Lori’s affidavit and your track record, let me assure you, my dear ex-wife, that Jane will not be spending Christmas in the Yablonsky household. By the way, the only judge on the bench in family court this week is Judge Roy Hopkinton. Everyone else is already on Christmas vacation.”

  Hopkinton. No way! Hopkinton was as corrupt as they came. Plus, he was Dan’s best friend, a regular golf partner and investor in some shady real-estate dealings.

  “Don’t forget,” Dan added, “that Roy is a silent partner in that Pocono resort I bought last year. The last thing he wants is a coinvestor who’s so distraught over his daughter’s mental health that he pulls out all his equity. Especially a coinvestor who contributed thousands of dollars under the table to his reelection campaign.”

  I gave the papers another look. I was screwed and my fresh understanding of this was clear to Dan. I could sense him gloating, smirking. I wanted to cry, but that would only have added to his pleasure.

  “Is this all because I canceled the wedding?”

  “Put it this way. Had you not called me at home yesterday and taken advantage of the fact that I was loopy on pain medication, we’d be having a nice chat about wrapping up these counseling sessions.”

  I looked at Dr. Caswell, who quickly checked her desk as if she just realized that perhaps she’d gone too far. Maybe it was what Dan had said about Hopkinton. Judges and lawyers investing in real estate together can add up to some hefty jail time. Throw in a psychologist who testifies often on behalf of said lawyer and you’ve got yourself a tidy federal investigation.

  Too bad Dan was the father of my child. I’d have loved nothing more than to spit and roast him on page one.

  “And if I say I’ll marry you now?”

  Dan clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Then there will be no need to remove Jane from your household because it will be our household.”

  My hands were shaking. I couldn’t stop them. It’s only for a few months, less than a year. Then Jane will be eighteen and can choose for herself. Say no!

  But it was such an important year. It was the year she would graduate from high school, pick a college. I couldn’t miss that. Not after all we’d worked so hard to achieve. We were a pair, Jane and I. She was my family and I, hers.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” I said. “Why do you want to marry me, anyway? I mean, we don’t get along. We don’t even like each other.”

  Dan rubbed his brows as if we’d been over this and over this. “I thought that was clear. We’re getting married for Jane’s sake.” He waved to Dr. Caswell for back up. “Right, doctor?”

  This time, Dr. Caswell did not share in his conspiracy, but kept riffling through her papers in a rather annoying way. What was she getting out of this? Like Vern, the clerk in the courthouse said, people look out for themselves. Which brought me back to Dan. Why was he so determined to be legally wed to me, a woman he often publicly introduced as Queen of the Dumb?

  I knew this much about my slime ball of an ex-husband. He wouldn’t be exerting all this effort—roping in Dr. Caswell and paying full boat for this wedding—if money weren’t involved. Big money, too.

  “Next year,” I said, tossing the papers onto Dr. Caswell’s desk. “We’ll get married in January when I’m not so rushed by the holidays.”

  Dan balked. “You can’t do that! I’ve got everything paid for. The caterer, the wedding planner, the band, the—”

  “Judge.”

  We faced each other for several minutes, neither of us willing to speak or give in.

  I was startled when Dr. Caswell said
in a quiet tone, “I’m sorry, Bubbles. I’ve searched through various remedies and there’s no easy out for you. He holds all the cards.”

  She was tortured. She understood that she had made a very, very bad mistake aligning her star with Dan. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t know it would turn out like this. I’m afraid that for everyone’s sake the best choice is to marry him until Jane turns eighteen.”

  She was right. I knew it. And Dan, smirking like the brute who’d sucker punched the math geek, knew I knew it, too.

  “Fine,” I said, getting my purse. “We’ll be married for a year. And then Jane will turn eighteen and I’ll go to that Guam you’re so fond of and divorce you like that!”

  Dan bowed, far from perturbed as I would have predicted. “As you will” was all he said. Then he picked up the papers I’d tossed and ripped them into shreds.

  Whatever scheme he had going, surely it was motivated by pure evil.

  I was deflated, as if I were merely going through the motions as I headed to the swanky north side to track down Mark Knoffler. Stiletto would be off to Greece, Dan had me cornered and Marguerite didn’t exist.

  If only I hadn’t gotten my hopes up about Stiletto and me. I mean, what had I expected? Stiletto’s not the kind of doormat to lie around, allowing women to walk over him. I’d turned down his marriage proposal for a man I clearly despised. That’s gotta drain the testosterone out of a guy.

  Unless he bounces right back and starts sleeping with the Lehigh Valley’s most beautiful celebrity, who jets off with him to Lesbos for the holidays.

  Hot damn.

  I took Illick’s Mill Road to the Main Street extension and followed the tree-lined street as it narrowed, dipping into the valley of the Monocacy Creek. The bare branches of the large oaks bent so low they practically touched the roof of my Camaro. This was my favorite part of town. Quiet. Stately. Private.

  Mark Knoffler’s house was of the old Pennsylvania stone variety. It was up a slight driveway to the left, perched at the edge of a ravine. A Lincoln was in the driveway. I bet he was one of those architects who worked from home. Lucky stiff.