“You know,” he said, “it will really piss off the How-boy. This could be a good thing.”
“Yeah, or it could be a bad thing,” I replied, thinking that good or bad, I didn’t need Howard’s permission to invite anyone to stay at my house.
“What the heck,” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “Everything’s bad these days, anyway.” And with that, Colt moved in. Holy cow.
Colt had visited us in our White Willow house once before—he had visited two years earlier when he came to DC for some private investigators’ conference something or other. Remembering the way now, he went straight to the guest room and then returned downstairs in a minute’s time, unencumbered by his travel gear. He quickly made himself at home by looking for something to eat in the kitchen, while the girls circled around him asking questions and acting very girly. All girls loved Colt, no matter the age. He had actually bought them “I LOVE L.A.” t-shirts at the airport before getting on the plane. I smiled while I sipped tea at the kitchen table and watched. Then, when the sky turned very dark, I rounded the girls up to get them to showers and baths and bed.
“Let’s go, girls,” I said, sad to be breaking up their fun. “Tomorrow is a school day.” They responded with the usual “Do we have to?” and “Just five more minutes!” Since I was actually looking forward to some grown-up talk with my old friend, I remained firm.
“Nope, let’s get a move-on. Colt will be here tomorrow.” They grudgingly slumped their disappointed way upstairs.
“The remote for the TV is in a basket next to the couch,” I reminded Colt. “We keep beer in the basement fridge. Help yourself. I’ll be back down after I get the girls to bed.”
“I can’t wait.” He smiled.
The bedtime routine was rather long, with hair brushing, book reading, and kiss giving, so I didn’t make it downstairs again for a good hour or more. I went to the family room first, expecting to find Colt drinking a beer and watching football, but no such luck. I called out his name.
“Colt?”
“I’m here!” His voice came from the bathroom. “I’m fixing your toilet.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said as I rounded the hallway to peek in. Stopping suddenly, I caught my breath and cringed. Oops. The spectacle was too comical for words. It could best be described as a He-man Stand-off. Evidently, while I was upstairs, Howard had come into the house and unexpectedly discovered Colt involved in a handyman activity. Colt and Howard were now faced-off, head to head, mano a mano, over my guest-bath toilet. The top was off, the seat was up. Howard gripped a plunger in his hands with purposeful intensity. Colt had a wrench in one hand and something that appeared to be the guts of my toilet in the other. I didn’t know if my toilet was being repaired, or sacrificed to the great God of Macho. My first instinct was to laugh. My second instinct was to run. Howard looked ready to kill.
“What’s going on?” I finally asked, deciding not to laugh or run.
“Your toilet was running, so I decided to help you out and fix it,” Colt said, staring Howard down.
“OUR toilet doesn’t run. YOU must have done something to it,” Howard countered, teeth clenched, brow furrowed.
“Um,” I interjected with a hesitant wince, “actually, Howard, it has been running for a few days now. I have to keep jiggling the handle to get it to stop.” I made a tiny little jiggling motion with my hand, pinching my fingers together and smiling sweetly, hoping the obvious cuteness of my action would temper his temper. Howard’s eyes turned toward me ever so slowly. My sweet smile was not reciprocated. In fact, he was looking a little like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Thank goodness he didn’t have an axe. Cute, it seemed, wasn’t getting me very far.
Colt grinned. “See, Howie, ol’ man? If you’d stick around, like a good husband, you’d know a thing or two about your own house.”
Ouch! Boy, things were going from bad to really, really, really bad. Howard was not the hitting sort, but I would have bet big Las Vegas dollars that Colt was about to take one across the kisser with that plunger.
Howard focused a nasty stare on Colt. Silence. Staring. Silence. More staring. Only the tick, tick, ticking of the kitchen clock through the thick, masculine air proved that time was not in fact, standing still. My heart raced, awaiting some sort of resolution to this testosterone-charged dilemma. I decided to back my way out altogether, figuring it best to just let boys be boys, but Howard had different plans.
He spoke choppy and staccato, like Captain Kirk having a bad day. “Can - I - talk - to - you? Please? Upstairs?” Then he turned to Colt and with emphasis, said, “IN OUR BEDROOM?” I didn’t have a choice, really, because he grabbed me by the elbow and guided me, not so gently, down the hall and up the stairs.
Colt called after us, “Don’t worry about me! I’ll just be fixing your toilet!”
Howard closed the bedroom door and sat down on the bed. He was taking deep breaths with his eyes closed, his head in his hands. I felt bad for him, although I didn’t know why. I should have felt good that he felt bad. Hadn’t he been jerking me around for the last week? But still, something down deep told me something more was going on. I sat down next to him and put my hand on his leg for comfort.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No. I’m sorry. This is my fault. I guess,” he said. A few more deep breaths.
“Truth?” I said. “There’s no guessing about it. It is your fault.” It felt good, at least to get that off my chest. He looked like a sad puppy dog—the creep.
“Why is he here?” He knew how to get to a girl with those sad eyes.
“It’s sort of a . . . well, it’s really a long story. It’s not what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“I suppose you think I’m trying to get back at you by asking him here.”
“That’s what I think. Why didn’t you tell me the toilet was running?”
“Didn’t think of it,” I said. “It’s not really something that’s weighing on my mind right now, you know?”
He nodded in an understanding sort of way. We were both quiet for a moment. He looked at me and now his sad puppy dog eyes had turned dark and dreamy. I was melting. He leaned in and kissed me softly on the lips. It was the kiss that had won me over on our first date, and again when we’d met years later at the wedding. Soft. Long. Sweet. He pulled back. We looked at each other for what seemed like hours. Part of me wanted another kiss. The other part of me wanted to grab his cheating little neck and choke the life right out of him. He finally broke the silence. “What do you mean, ‘it’s a long story’?” he asked.
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What?”
“You come in here, act all mad, then you go all puppy-dog sad, then you kiss me, THEN you want to interrogate me?!” I was on a rampage.
“Well, you bring HIM into our house for some reason that is a ‘long story’ and you don’t think I have a right to ask?” He was shouting now as well. So much for soft, sweet kisses. “And I wasn’t interrogating! Trust me, you don’t want to see me interrogating!” We both stopped shouting and blinked at each other for a second. That was a strange thing to say.
“What did you say?”
“What?” He shrugged. He was playing stupid and I snapped.
“Get out!” I shouted.
“What?”
“Get out! I’m sick of this. Either poop or get off the pot, Mister! Why did you come by, anyway? You move out for God knows what reason, but you keep coming around.” My arms were flying every which way and my face was red hot.
“It’s my house, too. I wanted to see the girls.”
“I don’t care. You chose to leave with your little two-second, half-baked ‘I need space’ explanation. Give me a break. We all know what that means. Listen up, and listen good: don’t come around here anymore until you decide what it is you want. Well, except maybe could you come mow the lawn and rake the leaves tomorrow? It needs it bad.”<
br />
“No!”
“No?”
“No!”
“Fine!” I said, “Then I’ll just ask Colt to do it!”
“Fine!” and he stomped out.
“Fine!” I shouted down the hall. “Fine!” I almost started crying until I remembered I wasn’t supposed to do that anymore. I stopped myself mid-sniffle. Thankfully, most of the shouting had occurred in our bedroom, so hopefully we hadn’t awakened Bethany or Amber. I was sure Callie was probably still awake, which meant she’d probably heard it—I would have to deal with that later.
My marriage appeared to be flatlining with the introduction of the Colt complication. Life was just peachy. I made it downstairs just in time to hear Howard slamming the front door. I found Colt in the family room sitting on the couch, as I had expected earlier, drinking a beer and watching football. He looked up when I walked in. “That went well,” he said.
“Oh, shut up. This is all your fault,” I said.
He covered his heart with his hand. “I’m hurt! After I came all this way to fix your toilet and everything! So ungrateful.” He was shaking his head in mock sadness.
“Okay, you’re right. It’s not your fault. It’s . . . it’s just crummy. Plain crummy. And I’m not going to cry!” I shook my finger at him to make my point.
“That’s good, because I don’t want you to cry. Do you want a hug anyway?” he asked.
“Sure.” And we sat on my couch and I cuddled him like he was a big, comfortable teddy bear. That’s how I fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, the sun was up and the kitchen was apparently ablaze with activity. Pans were clanging, dishes were banging and girls were giggling. I was covered with the big blue down comforter from my bed and my pillow was under my head. For the first time in days, I felt almost well-rested. Finally, a decent night’s sleep. I got up and padded my way to the kitchen to see what all the ruckus was about. Colt was bouncing around with a spatula and a spoon, conjuring some creation at the stove. The girls were all dressed for school and setting the table. Wow. Things were never this organized in the morning when I ran the show. I always seemed to be two steps behind where I should have been and yelling for everyone to move faster.
“Mornin’, Curly!” Colt said when he saw me. “Primo java for the sleepy one.” And he handed me a jumbo mug of hot coffee. “Cream and sugar, just the way you like it,” he said, with a bow. Boy, was he pouring on the schmaltz. I smiled anyway. What woman doesn’t like to be treated like royalty?
“Sit down, Mommy!” said Bethany. “We made breakfast for you! Your favorite—banana and chocolate chip pancakes!” Bethany pulled out a chair for me as Amber wobbled over with a platter of pancakes so big she could barely see over them. I held my breath, sure she was going to tumble right over, pancakes, platter and all. Callie swooped in at the last minute and helped her lower the platter onto the table gracefully.
“This is so wonderful!” I cried, rubbing my hands together in anticipation of a yummy breakfast. It had been a long time since anyone had fixed ME breakfast. Especially banana and chocolate chip pancakes. I was pretty sure Howard didn’t even know how to use a pan, much less whip up my favorite breakfast in one.
We all ate joyfully and then the girls, all on their very own, trekked off at their various times to the bus stop—Callie first, since her bus came earlier, then Bethany and Amber a little while later. When the house was quiet again, Colt and I sat in silence at the table, enjoying more coffee and some reflection time. After many quiet sips, Colt spoke up.
“Sorry about last night—that thing with Howie,” he said. “Wish I knew what’s up with that dude.”
“You and me both,” I sighed.
“He’s being a real asshole.”
“Yeah, well, he’s my asshole. We’ll work it out. I guess.” I didn’t sound convincing, even to myself.
“Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Shoot.”
He leaned a bit over the table. “Have you two been having problems for a long time?”
“I didn’t even know we were having problems! Honest.” I put my hand up as if taking an oath. “This came out of the blue. One day he says he’s moving out and BOOM—he’s gone.”
Colt contemplated my answer for a moment, while rubbing his chin, then asked, “How was the sex?”
“Okay—that’s too personal.”
“Well, you know, these things are important to a man . . .”
“The sex was FINE.”
“You know, we like it pretty often . . .”
“Three times a week good enough for you?” He was getting my goat. And I might have been exaggerating about the three times a week. Just a little.
“That’s a start . . .”
“I’m telling you that the sex was GREAT and we seemed happy as clams, and the next day he says he needs space and he moves out. Got it?” While I considered Colt a very good friend, the topic of sex was a little too friendly.
“Got it. You want me to talk to him for you?” he asked.
“No. That would definitely make things worse.”
We sat in silence again, contemplating my sad marital state.
“So,” Colt finally said, changing the subject, “contrary to popular belief, I did not come here to assist you in your plumbing needs. I’m here to talk you out of this cockamamie scheme of yours. Possibly we can find you another hobby. Scrapbooking, perhaps? Or how about curling. I mean, the Canadians love it and they’re pretty cool, so it must be good.”
I crunched my brow and crossed my arms. “Scrapbooking?”
“Don’t forget the curling. Another attractive option.”
Sighing, I fiddled with a fork on the table. “Actually,” I smiled, “I have started working on a website—remember the movie review website I talked about a few years ago?”
He snapped his fingers trying to remember. “FlickChick . . . FilmChick . . . TicTac . . .”
“ChickAtTheFlix.”
“Dot com. Right.” He sat up straight in his chair. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Great idea, lots of potential. Here, I’ll go get my computer and you can show me.”
“But,” I said, stopping him, “I’m still doing this.”
“By this, you mean the house, the monkeys . . .”
I nodded.
“I can’t talk you out of it? There’s always archery. You could pretend the target was Howard. The bull’s eye could be his balls.”
While that was an interesting option, I still shook my head.
Colt stood up. “Well then,” he said, “we have some work to do today. Do you have your list?”
“You’re really going to help me?” I asked.
“You think I’m going to let you have all the fun? I’m nice, but I’m not THAT nice.”
“Yes! You’re wonderful!” I stood up to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m going to take a shower and get dressed. Then we can get started.”
“You in the shower. I like that image.”
“Stop that now,” I said, shaking my finger at him.
He put his hands innocently in the air. “Hey, I have an active imagination, what can I say? Remember, I HAVE seen you naked before.”
“You’d better go take a cold shower, buddy. Besides, it’s been twenty-five years since you’ve seen this body naked. Things are drooping that I didn’t know could droop. Put that in your active imagination,” I said, walking off toward my bedroom. Once I arrived, I locked the door behind me. Colt, in a playful mood, was capable of just about anything. And quite frankly, the way I was feeling, I didn’t know if I was capable of resisting a playful Colt.
After showering, it took me longer than usual to dress. I wanted to look good, but not too good. Of course, I didn’t want to LOOK like I was trying to look good, but not too good. I didn’t want to dress down, either. Because I did want to look good. I finally decided on jeans—not the baggy ones, but the Calvins that fit just right. I added a long-sleeved tee that hugged my curves
rather nicely, if I do say so myself, and went down just low enough, but not too low. And it was a simple green, which did bring out my eyes, but wasn’t dressy enough to look like I’d picked it out on purpose. It was a tightly choreographed outfit that didn’t look planned at all. At least, that’s what I hoped.
Then there was the makeup—just a bit. A little mascara, because I looked like the walking dead without it. Some foundation under the eyes to hide the circles still hanging around from many sleepless nights. A tad bit of rouge to wake up my face. Some clear gloss on the lips. There. Beautiful, but not obviously so. Man. Being a woman was a lot of work.
I finally made it downstairs at about 9:30. Colt was at my front door, talking to some woman that I didn’t recognize. The layout of our neighborhood—no sidewalks and houses set far apart on large lots—wasn’t naturally inviting to door-to-door sales, so I wasn’t accustomed to strangers knocking on my door. My suspicion antennae went up.
Colt stepped back when he saw me come downstairs.
“Hey, Curly, this nice woman just came by to talk with you.” He was acting a little strange, even for Colt, and I swear he tried to wink at me when he had his back to her.
“To me?” I said.
“Yes,” said the stern looking lady. She was strikingly tall—nearly six feet. Dark hair pulled back tight against her head. No makeup. She wore black jeans, black hiking boots and a purple fleece vest over a black turtleneck. Her demeanor was all business, although I hadn’t figured out what business that might be. She didn’t have a Bible in her hand, so I was ruling out any saving of my soul. She extended her rough, worn hand for a shake and introduction.
“My name is Patricia Webber,” she said. “I’d like to speak with you if you don’t mind.”
“Well,” I hesitated. “I guess that depends on what you want to speak about.”
1 Take the Monkeys and Run Page 8