This Is How It Happened (not a love story)

by Jo Barrett

  “Surprise,” I say.

  Carlton stares at the notebook. “You put my name first,” he says.

  “Alphabetical,” I shrug.

  Carlton grabs the notebook out of my hand and lifts me in the air again. He throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carries me into the bedroom. He topples me onto the bed, unzips his jeans, and crawls on top. I can feel his hot breath against my neck as he whispers in my ear.

  “My little Einstein is about to get poked,” he says. He’s rough and crude and the zipper on his jeans scratches my leg, but I can’t help myself.

  I love every minute of it.

  Chapter 13

  Carbon monoxide, I think. That’s the easy way to go.

  I pick up the phone and dial my best friend. Heather picks up on the first ring. She’s a housewife so she can get to the phone that fast.

  “What do you know about carbon monoxide poisoning?” I ask.

  I know it’s not good to have all these witnesses. But I introduced Heather to her husband. So I figure the least she can do is lie for me on the stand.

  “Carbon monoxide? I think it’s fatal,” Heather says. (She’s really helpful, my friend.)

  “Why? Is your stove out again?” she presses. “I told you to get it fixed, Maddy. Your old gas stove could be leaking and you’d never know until it was too late.”

  “You’re going to make a great mom,” I say. Heather is five months pregnant, but she’s still a goddamn size 2.

  “Thanks!” she says, with utter earnestness. “So, it’s Friday night. What cha up to?”

  “I’ve got a date with Matthew McConnaughey.”

  “Gag me,” Heather says.

  “C’mon. He’s not that bad,” I say, because I don’t want to knock a fellow Texan. Especially a guy who went to my same Alma Mater.

  “Be sure to bring the body condom,” Heather says and giggles into the phone. Heather, by the way, is a real girly girl. In college, she was even president of her sorority. Tri-Delt, I think.

  “I’ve actually got an exciting evening planned at a lovely place called Blockbuster,” I say. “I swear the video guy’s seen me so many times, he’s starting to recommend movies. Last night he suggested a documentary about some guy who gets eaten by bears.”

  “I hate it when they do that,” Heather says. I think she’s talking about the video guy recommending bad movies, but she’s actually talking about the bears.

  “You know, people think bears are friendly,” she informs me, “but they’re really quite dangerous.”

  “God, if it’s not leaky gas stoves, its killer bears. When will the madness ever end,” I say.

  Heather ignores me. “Why don’t you come over for dinner?” she says. “Michael and I are doing Shabbat.” She sighs into the phone. “Oy Vay. I’ve got a lot of cooking to do.”

  “Did you just say, ‘oy vay’?’”

  “Why, do I sound stupid?”

  It surprises me to hear Heather talk like this, especially considering she’s not Jewish. But her husband, Michael, is. So Heather, bless her heart, is in the process of converting. The problem is, she doesn’t have the Jewish thing down quite right. The religion, the culture, the tradition, the language—are all far beyond her grasp. As much as she tries, Heather can’t seem to shed her Tri-Delt self.

  She took Yiddish classes and spent a summer in Israel doing a Kibbutz. But still, it’s as if becoming a Jew is beyond her conditioning.

  Heather’s husband, on the other hand, could pass for a Bible-belt Baptist if he wanted to. Michael is a rising star trial lawyer in South Texas. The type of guy who argues the plight of the common man against the large, faceless corporate monster. So, he’s tailored his accent, a deep Southern drawl, and his image—jeans and cowboy boots—to appeal to the South Texas courtroom.

  “To the fine men and women on the jury who prefer the Southern sensibility,” he likes to say. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Mr. Wasserstein rode to the courthouse each morning on a horse.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting at Heather’s kitchen table. She’s made me a cup of Earl Grey tea. And she’s rustling around the kitchen. Getting everything in order. Michael swings in the front door, and drops his briefcase.

  “I’d sue my own wife if she weren’t so darned beautiful,” he says, in his pitch perfect Southern drawl. The drawl he’s perfected for the jury. Michael never goes out of character. Even at home.

  He bounds into the kitchen, grabs Heather, kisses her on the forehead, and puts his arms around her waist.

  Michael is a bundle of raw energy. We call him “Mr. Fun.”

  “How’s my little Super-Jew?” he teases, squeezing Heather’s waist.

  She smiles broadly, her clear blue eyes gleaming. “You’re my-sugar-na,” she says.

  “Mishugina,” Michael corrects her. “It means ‘nuts.’”

  “You’re nuts,” Heather repeats.

  He rubs her belly. “And how’s Baby Wasserstein today?” he says, putting his ear against her stomach.

  Heather giggles like a schoolgirl.

  Michael pretends to listen to his baby. He nods his head against Heather’s belly and says, “Your mom is gonna be mad, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Our son wants whiskey,” he says.

  “Stop it!” Heather shrieks and slaps Michael playfully on the arm. He smacks her on the bottom and pours himself a small glass of Jack Daniels.

  It’s painful for me to watch them like this. And I see how perfectly comfortable they are. Heather’s hair is greasy and she’s got yellow stains on her shirt. Michael is sporting day-old stubble.

  Carlton and I were never this real.

  “How was work, Michael? Did you dazzle them with your Texas twang, today?” I ask.

  “Sheee-it,” Michael says, taking a swig of his cocktail. “I’ll be anyone that jury wants me to be. I’ll wear a cross on my suit like Johnny Coch-RAIN if it helps me win a case,” he drawls.

  “I saw your picture in the paper. The Top Fifty Trial Lawyers in Texas. Pretty impressive,” I say. “So I guess you’re famous.”

  “I’m sign-in’ autographs after dinner.” Michael chuckles at himself and smiles his clever cat smile.

  “So I hear your wife is going to be a Jew,” I say. Sometimes I like to stir the pot. And I know Michael likes it, too.

  “We both want the baby to be Jewish,” Heather explains. “Under traditional Jewish law, the mother should be Jewish,” she explains.

  “I don’t know if you can shed the South Carolina in you,” I say, making a face.

  “She ain’t sheddin’ nothin’. She’s augmentin’,” Michael says.

  This is how we always are, Michael and I. We always butt heads and Heather is the middleman. But Michael loves the tête-à-têtes. And so do I. Sometimes we argue about the Middle East and I stick up for the Palestinians. Just to play Devil’s Advocate. It really gets Michael riled up. His face turns beet red and he starts sweating buckets. Heather’s afraid it’ll give him a heart attack. But I’ve known Michael longer than she has. He loves to debate. I mean, he really lives for this shit.

  “Can’t you bring up your child in the Jewish faith without actually converting?” I ask.

  Heather is standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. “I want to convert,” she says, wiping her hand against her pants.

  “Deep down, she’s one of the tribe,” Michael says.

  “Yes. Deep, deep down,” I say, and we all laugh.

  If you saw Heather, you’d know she was white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. She’s got all the WASP features. Blue eyes, pale skin, and blond hair cut in a cute bob at her shoulders. She seems almost Norwegian, with her long, straight nose.

  Heather grew up Methodist. Her maiden name is Smith. And she looks like she used to be both the head cheerleader and the prom queen, which she was. She bakes low-fat oatmeal cookies. She eats salad like it’s a meal. She pays retail for her clothes. She drives a S
aab. I mean, she’s from Charleston, South Carolina, for chrissakes.

  As much as she tries to observe Jewish laws and customs, she can’t seem to get it quite right.

  “What are you cooking?” I say.

  “My new specialty,” Heather says. “I call it: Lotsa-Matzoh Ball Spaghetti.”

  I break out into a smile.

  Michael shoots me a look, puts his fingers to his lips and shakes his head no.

  I get the message. We’re not supposed to poke fun at Heather. At least she’s trying. The little pregnant Size 2 WASP is trying.

  Before dinner, we stand around the table. Michael pours kosher wine.

  “It’s the good one,” Heather assures me. “Not the icky, grape-juicy one,” she says. Always the terrific hostess, my girlfriend. Michael cuts the challah bread and chants a prayer in Hebrew or Yiddish, or something.

  We sit down. Michael and I go to town on the food. Heather nibbles here and there. She’s eating for two, which means Michael and I must be eating for four. I say something about the Gaza Strip and send Michael into an hour-long rant.

  We hold our wineglasses in the air and toast the baby, Heather becoming a Jew, and Michael’s picture in the paper. Finally, we toast our friendship. All in all, it’s the best night I’ve had in a very long time.

  Chapter 14

  Carlton is adamant about not introducing me as his fiancée. We’ve gotta keep it “under wraps,” he says. And I respect his wishes. After all, I don’t want his family to think I’m simply a rebound girl. So, to his friends and family, we remain boyfriend, girlfriend. A typical live-in couple, just out of grad school, and trying to make ends meet. But to strangers, Carlton always introduces me as his fiancée.

  “Meet my fiancée,” he’d say, looping his arm over my shoulders. It was at those moments I felt the proudest.

  I should’ve paid more attention when Carlton’s old school friends, David and Elizabeth, paid us a visit.

  “Watch out for ol’ Carlton,” Elizabeth said, in her rolling drawl. “He loves bein’ in love.”

  At the time, I’d taken it as a compliment. Carlton loved me, after all. I was his Juliet. I never realized what she meant—until it was too late.

  What Carlton loved—was beginnings. The honeymoon phase, as they say. When we first started dating, he brought me flowers every night. But when he moved in with me, things started to slip. The flowers tapered off. I figured this was normal. He was no longer trying to seduce me. He’d captured his prize. Flowers would come on birthdays and anniversaries, and what was so wrong with that?

  But there was more to it.

  It was when things started to “get real” that Carlton panicked.

  “I’m going to the drugstore,” Carlton had said once. “Need anything?”

  “Toothpaste,” I’d said. “Oh, and some tampons if you don’t mind.”

  He’d cringed. Visibly cringed. And I immediately regretted my mistake.

  “Just kidding, babe,” I’d said, quickly. But the damage had been done. I remember walking up to him and stroking my fingers through the back of his hair. And it could’ve been my imagination, but I think he pulled away. Slightly.

  After that, I tried my best to keep reality out of our tiny house. I didn’t want to spoil his image of me as a sexy minx—a woman he desired. So, even though my townhouse had only one small bathroom, I waited until Carlton was gone to floss my teeth, or use the toilet in any major way.

  I became obsessive about keeping the cold, grim facts of my womanhood away from Carlton. I wrapped my used tampons in enough toilet paper to embalm a mummy. I threw them in the outside garbage, so he’d never see them in the bathroom trash bin. Each month during my period, I hand-washed my stained panties, but I never let them dry in the shower. I put them in the dryer—shrinking them a size too small.

  I never burped, passed gas, or left smelly socks on the floor. I showered immediately after the gym. I shaved my legs and armpits religiously, kept my hair washed, wore makeup on Saturday mornings, and spent every other week with Maria—my Mexican bikini waxing Senorita—who was painfully kind.

  I plucked errant hairs from my eyebrows and once in a while, my neck. I relentlessly accessorized. Matching my belts to my purses to my shoes. I wore jewelry and uncomfortably tight jeans. Because once he’d said, “Hot jeans.”

  I wore high heels that gave me blisters. Once a month, I bought a new piece of lingerie—either a red thong or black lace teddy—to surprise him with.

  One thing I did not do, however, was diet. I was happy with my body. Sure, I was short. Five foot three, to be exact. I had average breasts and a size 6 figure. I could’ve gone to a size 4, which would have better suited my height, but hey, weren’t women supposed to have hips? Thighs? An ass?

  Stick figures were for doodling, in my opinion. And besides, I was Italian. I loved to eat. And I ate with gusto. None of this dainty, set the fork down after each small, mousy bite for me, thank you very much. When I dug in, I literally dug in.

  I could wolf down a hotdog in less time than a grizzly bear at a campground. And I didn’t see anything wrong with it.

  Food, after all, was meant to be eaten.

  One night, I fix Carlton a light, Mediterranean-inspired supper. Roasted chicken, hummus, tabouli, grape leaves, and cucumber salad. It’s Greek night. Just call me Athena. Goddess of Pita.

  Carlton and I have eaten so much take-out lately, the restaurants are on my speed-dial. Plus, I’m getting sick of the same ol’, same ol’. Pizza, Chinese food, and cold Subway sandwiches. So tonight, I’m splurging. I’ve even bought a bottle of genuine Napa Valley Cabernet. Not the cheaper stuff from Chile.

  I set the “dining room” table—the card table—uncorked the wine to let it breathe, and waited for Carlton to show up. His Honda has broken down again so he’s on the bike. It’ll take an extra half hour for him to ride home but he loves the wind in his hair after a long day at the warehouse.

  Ever since Carlton signed off on my business plan idea, my schedule, thus far, has moved with warp speed. I work night and day, seven days a week. I drink coffee by the bucket, type on my computer keyboard until my wrists ache, and smack my own cheeks to keep from dozing off at my desk.

  Carlton and I are starting a brand new company. And my life has never been more exciting. We’re using the name I came up with: ORGANICS 4 KIDS. And it’s up to us to get it off the ground.

  Carlton’s got two more classes until he “officially” finishes grad school but he’s still working at his dad’s warehouse. He’s enrolled in two evening classes, which conflict with his work schedule, but I happily accept the extra study load. Because it comes easier for me than it does for Carlton. And besides, he’s helping me pay the utility and cable bills I used to pay myself.

  Carlton says he needs an MBA if he’s going to be a CEO. It helps with his credibility. Especially with new investors.

  I say, “Why don’t I be CEO?” and watch as Carlton’s face changes color. He quickly nixes the idea, tout de suite.

  “My dad will never agree to that,” he says. “And besides, Maddy, you’re the secret weapon.”

  So the secret weapon stands in her kitchen and crumbles feta cheese over a cucumber and tomato salad. Squeeze a lemon, twist some fresh cracked pepper over the whole deal, and voila! It’s like the Mediterranean in June.

  Carlton bursts in the door. He’s holding his biking helmet in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He drops the helmet and it bangs against the floor. With one arm, he whisks a bottle of wine from the bag and says, “Time to celebrate, Maddy!”

  I mosey on over to the man of the hour and give him a nice wet kiss on the lips. I can smell the woodsy scent of his cologne mixed with sweat from the bike ride. It’s a really good smell. Masculine and musky.

  “What’s the occasion?” I say, in my huskiest bedroom voice.

  “We got the meeting, sweetie! My dad set the whole thing up. It’s gonna be him and like five other investors. It’s next Tu
esday. In Houston. So we’ve gotta be prepared.”

  I cup my hand against my mouth to keep from screaming. “You’re kidding!”

  Carlton plunks his biking helmet on the counter. “Nope. And if they think our idea is as promising as we think it is, we’ll be in business. My dad says we can get three million to start.”

  “You mean a bunch of complete strangers are going to give us three million bucks?” I ask, incredulously. “For our company?”

  “Ooh. I love it when you talk dirty,” Carlton says. He sets the wine bottle down, tackles me onto the kitchen floor, and unzips his pants.

  Carlton pushes up my skirt and rubs inside my thighs. He does this little trick of his, where he pulls my panties down with his teeth. I stare up at the ceiling and the tile feels cold and hard under my skin. But when in Rome—

  Chapter 15

  So, how to create a fatal carbon monoxide poisoning? A good death, if you ask me. There’s no struggling, no pain, no fear. You just fall unconscious, right? And what’s so wrong with that?

  I grab a broom and swat my carbon monoxide detector until it falls to the kitchen floor. Picking it off the tile, I check the instructions.

  Hmm. No instructions. I pull the plastic cover off and look inside, at the guts of the machine.

  A tiny red sticker says, “WARNING! DETECTOR WILL NOT BEEP IF BATTERY IS REMOVED.” I bet it’s pretty easy to dismantle one of these. Not like a nuclear warhead. Here, you just slip out the battery and stick it back up on the ceiling. Then start a slow leak in a leaky gas stove and boom! You’ve got your man.

  I think back to the brownie incident—my glamorous night of hurl—and wonder if I could accidentally carbon monoxide myself.

  I know it’s some kind of gas. But where does it come from? Like, originally?

  I pad into my living room, drop down in front of my laptop, and Google it. I can do this sort of thing now. Now that I’ve got so much free time on my hands.