Well, the first has already happened, and so the necessary corollary, it seems, is that the second is about to follow.
I didn’t gag when I reread it, which, considering there was no denying it was first-person confessional in the light of day, was pretty good. I resisted tinkering, sent it to Charlotte, and went to wake the kids.
20
Bermuda Triangle
I left Harmonye to sleep, dropped the kids at school, and then, after a quick head swivel to make sure there was no one I knew around—the priest from the Episcopal church we’d stopped going to, one of the kid’s teachers—I tore into the Rite Aid on Montague Street, where I skulked to the back and grabbed four pregnancy tests (some for me, some for Harmonye). I didn’t want to make the same mistake as yesterday and not have anything on hand to verify questionable results.
Maybe they’d offer me a bulk discount. I circled back and grabbed one more—for Randy, sort of a good-luck charm. I hunched over to hide them from whoever might be passing by and slouched up to the prescription counter at the back, dumped them on the counter, and, with my hands my in my pockets, sort of opened my arms to create a coat-shield between my back and the rest of the world.
I was just congratulating myself that I wasn’t half bad at the covert purchase these days when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was a twentyish-looking guy, wearing iPod headphones and carrying a travel toothbush holder. My heart rate decelerated, although I was wondering if I was destined to a lifetime of random drugstore encounters. He pointed to the ten-dollar bill that had clearly fallen out of my pocket while I’d been flapping my coat like bat wings.
“Thank you so much.” I bent to retrieve it.
“Cassie! I see we had the same idea.”
I stood slowly to see Sue behind the young guy, beaming and waving a tube of Colgate Total.
“I always pay at the back it’s so much faster don’t you—” I saw her line of vision move to the counter a split second before her voice trailed off. I had the flashing thought that now I’d have to make sure not to mention pregnancy fears in the blog because it would up the likelihood of someone identifying me.
Sue was grinning. “Have you and Rick had a fond reunion in between trips?”
“It’s—they’re not for me. They’re, um, for a friend.” I, of course, realized how ridiculous that sounded. “Friends, I mean.”
Her eyebrow went up. “How unusual. Anyone I know?”
“I don’t think so.” I handed my credit card to the cashier.
“Are you guys spending Christmas on Nantucket again this year?” Sue asked.
“We haven’t—”
“Your card’s declined,” the cashier said.
My pulse leaped. “What?” I couldn’t decide if I wished the floor would open up and swallow me or if I felt like it was about to.
“Declined. Turned down. Not accepted.” She probably wasn’t used to having AmEx Black cards turned down for seventy-dollar charges.
Actually, it was a little surprising that with their much-vaunted customer service benefits (in exchange for my annual $2,500 fee) they’d turn down such a small charge even if the bill was a little overdue. “There must be a mistake,” I said. “Could you try again?”
She shrugged and swiped again.
I turned and smiled at Sue. “Those machines,” I said gaily.
“Oh, tell me about it. If more than a week goes by where I’m not on the phone arguing with one of the banks about something ridiculous, I’m surprised.”
“Declined again,” the cashier said loudly.
I felt a rush of relief as I remembered that the AmEx statements went to Rick’s office (his business spending was the only way we were in the Black bracket) and so might have gone unpaid for a long time. “Here.” I pulled a Platinum MasterCard out of my wallet and handed it to her.
She looked sulky at having to do it again.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the guy and his toothbrush case.
“No problem.” I could tell he felt sorry for me.
“Declined.”
Shit. How could that be? The blood burned into my face, pounding against the backs of my eyes. Why, oh why, did Sue Moriarty have to witness this?
The clerk handed me back my card and leaned on the register. “Do you have cash, lady? It’s obvious none of your cards are going to work.”
I glared at her, stuffed the card back in my wallet, and reached in for cash, only to find the lone ten-dollar bill I’d scooped off the floor. “Er—”
“I’ll have to call a manager to void this.” She glared at me.
“I have an idea,” Sue said from behind me. “How about if you ring my toothpaste in with her stuff and I pay for it all?”
“Oh, Sue, I can’t let—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cassie. Of course you can. Besides”— she smiled—“I know where you live.”
In a flash her card was swiped and all was signed for and we were walking out together with our bags. Sue waved away my apologies. “Forget it. These things happen. Just pay me the next time you see me.”
I sincerely hoped I’d be able to.
“I mean it’s not like you’re in a position like Nancy Bosworth, coasting along pretending she can afford this life, when really she can’t.” Sue shook her head. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that Dave’s not keeping up with his support payments and she’s behind with her tuition. She should just accept that she needs to move somewhere that the kids can go to public school.”
“I don’t know,” I ventured. “It’s not her fault Dave’s not making his payments, and it seems kind of harsh to force a move and a new school on the kids so soon after everything they’ve been through with the divorce and the half-sibling.”
“Don’t you think people get what they ask for to some degree? She did after all make the choice to marry a man irresponsible enough to have had a child with another woman while married to her.”
“I’m guessing she didn’t think so at the time.”
Sue shrugged. “There are always signs. When you met Rick—”
It’s not that often I’m grateful for my cell phone, but I had to admit it was the perfect moment for Charlotte to interrupt. “Hi. Are you alone?”
“No.” I smiled blandly at Sue, who didn’t seem to be taking the interruption as a cue to leave. My heart was thudding. On the heels of the humiliating credit card disaster, all I needed to hear was that Charlotte hated it.
“I’ll talk then, just listen.” I nodded, like she could see. “I liked it a lot. It was breezy and funny and not too navel gazing, also, no heinous grammatical errors. I’m going to shorten it a little, but could you add a paragraph or two about who you are?”
“I thought that’s what I wasn’t supposed to do.”
“Think oblique. Write oblique.”
I glanced at Sue. She seemed absorbed in reading something on her phone. “I have sort of a full day, it might not be before tonight.”
“Prioritize it. Hey, you know what you need?”
“The list is pretty much endless.”
“A BlackBerry!”
I hung up. Sue looked up from her phone and smiled. “What I meant was, you had enough sense to pick a man you knew would never—”
To be fair, she couldn’t have a clue how deeply her words cut. “Thanks a ton for the bailout, Sue,” I said as I turned on Pierre-pont Street, ignoring her surprised expression. She had been midsentence, after all. “You’re a lifesaver.” Also an unempathetic judgmental bitch. Had I been like that?
As soon as she was out of earshot, I dialed Rick’s office to ask Paulette if I could get reimbursed on any of those expenses. I assumed she’d been reassigned to someone else when Rick had left, so I called the main switchboard and asked to be put through to her. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message.
I so desperately needed to pee when I walked into the apartment (possibly on account of the Starbucks bucket-sized latte I.I. had made me by mistake when I’d orde
red a tall) that it was a no-brainer whether to do the pregnancy test or figure out the credit situation. I grabbed an EPT and was headed toward the bathroom when Maria came bearing down on me, white-faced.
“Hi.” I smiled at her. I don’t know why. I certainly didn’t feel like it.
She smacked something down on the hall table and put her hands on her hips.
I really was starting to need reading glasses—oops. Cyndi does Cinci, etc. She began a convoluted story about Samantha (the feng shui consultant) showing up because she’d had an inspiration about the clarity of the study (interesting, since the study had been a zone of decided unclearness to me last night) relating to clutter in the southeastern corner and come in to re-think it. While there, she had recruited Maria to help her move the desk. They had started emptying out the drawers, and voilà.
Maria looked at me, the pregnancy tests, the DVD, Cad. She drew breath.
I held mine. Yes, yes, please, make her quit.
“This household is…disgusting, the things that go on. I won’t clean in there any more.”
“Maria,” I said, “you never did. And you’re fired.”
When we were done negotiating her severance (which included the kitchen television and me assuming responsibility for her cable bills until the year 3090), I figured I’d have to get a jump on listing Rick’s stuff on eBay. Some things, however, are worth every penny. After I’d packed Maria and the TV and the severance check (which should have weighed about fifty pounds) into a taxi, I came back up to the apartment and noticed that Cyndi Does Cinci and Lesbo Gangbang were both gone. Hmmm.
The pregnancy test was negative. So were the results on the credit cards. Each and every single one had been canceled and, as they were either joint cards or in his name, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to get them reinstated. Fuck.
I called Janice Streitmeier, reiterated the urgency of the situation and my willingness to take less than market for Nantucket. She was thrilled—even with a reduction, she’d make a huge commission. I hoped desperately that I wasn’t going to need Rick’s signature on anything.
Then I debated, gynecologist before or after waxing? Which was pointless because, as it turned out when I called and cried on the phone to the gynecologist’s office, they couldn’t fit me in until after. I banged out more blog.
www.carpoolconfidential.blogspot.com
A friend suggested I start this out by explaining straight up that I’m a dumped for Barry Manilow, broke, single, menopausal mother of two. But those things are so…labelly. What do they really tell you?
Maybe it’s more accurate to say, I could be pretty much anyone. Your friend. Your neighbor. The cochair of the Christmas Crafts Fair. Your child’s playdate’s mother. Someone you used to work with.
Certainly a couple of months ago it was pretty simple. I was you, or your wife, or the woman next to you at the PTA meeting or yoga class or in line at Whole Foods. I had two children whose kindergarten tuition at a New York private school cost more than my freshman year of college, a loving and devoted lawyer husband, four thousand square feet of prime New York real estate, and a seriously overcoddled dog. I also had a Volvo SUV, a housekeeper, two personal trainers (one Pilates and one cardio), an interior decorator, and sometimes a feng shui consultant.
I still have the children, the SUV, the tuitions, the dog, and the real estate. In fact, I’m forever tied to the real estate, which, it just so happens, I can no longer afford now that I’m minus the loving and devoted lawyer husband (and most of our money, which seems to have, oops, accidentally slipped into his pocket on his way out).
I will also say, it never occurred to me that I’d end up single. For over a decade I’ve been, or at least believed myself to have been, as firmly coupled as it’s possible to be. The thing is I sort of turned out to be wrong about that. Really wrong. Wrong about my marriage, wrong about my husband, wrong about pretty much everything. And now I’m starting all over again.
You’d never know it, though. I’m keeping up appearances so well, you’d never guess my change in circumstances unless I chose to tell you, which I won’t. Except here of course. Here it’s single-parenting, sex, dating, finances, restarting a nonexistent career, waxing. You name it, I’m letting it all out.
So for now I’m still the woman next to you at the PTA meeting or yoga class or Whole Foods. Or just maybe your friend, your neighbor, the cochair of the Christmas Crafts Fair, your child’s playdate’s mother, or someone you used to work with.
There was something to be said for writing something you were too busy to read. I attached it to an email telling Charlotte to edit to her heart’s content, sent it, threw myself in the shower, and was about to head out when Harmonye came wandering into the kitchen.
“Hey.” I buttoned my coat. “How are you feeling?”
“OK.”
While I waited for her to say more, I glanced out the window. The glory of the view seemed to have lost some of its hold on me. It looked a lot like just a city. Hot in summer, frigid in winter, crowded, noisy, and dirty. It’s that time of day, I told myself, where the flaws are stark. “I’m going into the doctor this afternoon, should I make an appointment for you, or is there someone you usually see when you’re home that you’d prefer?”
“Yeah,” she said vaguely. “I’ll give them a call later.”
I understood all too well that this was going to be an unpleasant reality to face head-on, but I couldn’t let her just drift—amazing how much easier it was to see that in someone else’s life. “You really need to do that today, OK? Do you want something to eat?”
She yawned and stretched, revealing smooth, teenaged stomach between the top of her flannel pj bottoms and cropped Foo Fighters T-shirt. I couldn’t help wondering how thrilled she’d be with stretch marks. “Just coffee.”
I opened my mouth to say something about nutrition and pregnancy, then shut it. “OK,” I said. “Beans are in the silver canister. How’s your tongue?”
“Still sore, but better, thanks.”
I started searching for my left glove, which seemed to have left the premises, simultaneously running through, in my mind, all the stuff I needed Maria to pick up when I remembered that Maria was no longer employed by me. I looked at Harmonye. “Do you think if I left you a list and some money you could run up to the store for me?”
She looked sulky. “I guess. And do you think you could remember to call me Mary Alice? I hate Harmonye. I’m never answering to that again.”
In the cold light of day my houseguest was looking less sweetly charming. “Sure.” I smiled at her; maybe positive reinforcement would defeat the surliness.
“Is that like the price for me staying here? I get to be the slave errand girl?”
“Yes,” I said sweetly. And then I remembered. “Hey, guess what.”
“What?”
“You’re not going to believe this one. Grandma and Grandpa are going to marriage counseling.”
She frowned. “They’re like both getting married? To who?”
I did not say, “Don’t you mean, To whom”? Just, “Each other, apparently.” Figuring I wasn’t going to get a better parting line than that, I grabbed my stuff, left her a list, and took off.
www.carpoolconfidential.blogspot.com
“Your”—Ingrid, the waxer, shoots a glance at my left hand— “husband, he will love it. It’s a surprise?”
“No husband,” I stare at the ceiling. “Ignore the rings.”
She laughs in a girlfriendy kind of way. “Boyfriend then, he will love it.”
“No boyfriend.” I decide that if this is what the single life has in store for me—lying naked and spread-eagled on paper-covered tables while a woman who is part personal trainer, part beautician, part gynecologist, and part serious pervert prepares to work me over painfully—my husband, Will, deserves some really awful fate while I move on gracefully, finding fame, fortune, professional success, a place in my children’s future therapy as The Good Parent, and
a really fabulous single guy who does not require any special brands of sparkling water or someone to personally deliver his shirts for hand ironing ninety-four blocks (including avenues) from my home.
*By the way: Names, occupations and some identifying details are changed so there’s no use trying to figure out if anyone knows of a corporate lawyer named Will who’s fussy about his sparkling water and shirts and just quit his job.
My cell rings. Ingrid doesn’t look happy. “We ask that you turn those off in here. You are supposed to relax.” She dusts places I didn’t even know I had with talcum powder. Relax. That’s a good one.
I mutter something about children and emergencies as I hop off the table and grab the phone out of my bag. It’s Trudy Bonham, someone Very Big in the PTA at my children’s school.
“Delphine, how are you?”
“Good, thanks, Trudy. And you?” I climb back on the table.
“Oh, you know. Not great.”
I’m pretty sure I could tell Trudy a thing or two about not great. Ingrid is looking at my pubic hair through a magnifying glass to “determine texture.”
“Listen”—Trudy drops her voice “—the crisis has blown up in a major way. It’s very bad. Can you be at the school in ten minutes?”
The last time Trudy cried emergency, it turned out that there was hydrogenated oil in the cookies being served at snack. The school listed organic graham crackers on Wednesday but was really serving generic brand animal crackers. She wanted us to make a statement by setting the boxes on fire and dumping them in New York Harbor.
“Not too coarse,” Ingrid decides.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Trudy, “I can’t.”
“But it’s an emergency.”
Ingrid gives a sadistic grin and starts stirring a vat of liquid that, judging by the steam, is slightly hotter than what erupted on Pompeii.
I’m going to need a lie here and I need something big because Trudy didn’t get to be Someone Very Big in the PTA by taking no for an answer. “I’m sorry, Trudy, I can’t. I’m in Manhattan because I’m…sick. Really sick. It came on suddenly and no one knows for sure what it is. A strep mutation or something. I’m on my way to an infectious disease specialist as we speak.” (And no, that’s not really the excuse I used.)
Carpool Confidential Page 19