The Perils of Pauline

by Collette Yvonne

  The mature maples lining our street are the best feature of this old sprawling suburb with big front porches and quiet cul-de-sacs. Lewis chopped down all his trees last year, citing the aggravation of leaves choking his gutters.

  Our grass is admittedly scruffy but that’s because last month Donald spot-sprayed it with a home-brew of salt and vinegar to kill the crabgrass and clover, and ended up pickling the grass instead. He dug out the worst scorched areas and laid pieces of new sod, so now the lawn has bright green patches interspersed with the weedy yellow parts and the dead brown bits. Now all the neighborhood kids like to come over to play The Floor is Lava on our front lawn. The green bits are safe. Step outside them, you die.

  I hurry down the sidewalk to Bibienne’s where boring lawns go to die and reincarnate as boisterous perennial gardens full of day lilies, climbing honeysuckle, and chrysanthemums. Hummingbirds chase butterflies through pink and purple peonies as I go around the side to her garden doors only to find an abandoned wheelbarrow. Odd. Usually Bibienne is outside pruning her roses on a day like this.

  One of the doors is ajar so I rap on the frame and step inside. I love Bibienne’s roomy kitchen: an inspired mix of antique cabinets fitted with granite countertops. A cook’s dream but nothing’s cooking here. Beyond the kitchen, in the family room, I spy Bibienne reclined on the couch watching TV, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles on the oversized ottoman in front of her. Without taking her eyes from the screen, she frowns at me while laying her palm on top of her head, as if to hold down her thick auburn hair, which is gathered away from her face in a hasty French twist. She raises a warning finger to her lips. Camilo Villegas and Adam Scott are playing so I know enough to remain silent until the next commercial break, when she turns her cool green eyes on me. I’ve interrupted men’s tennis so this better be good.

  “I’ve been fired. My assistant, Daria, stole my job.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She gets up from the couch and pats my shoulder. “I’ll make you a drink.”

  I nod and follow her to the kitchen. I’m safe. I can stick around and watch tennis with her as long as I don’t make too much noise.

  “I have ChocoLee chocolates, too.” She drops ice cubes into tall glasses and fills them with red wine and lime soda. What luck. Bibienne always drinks Spanish wine cocktails and breaks out the chocolate when Villegas is winning.

  Bibienne watches the end of the match with her lips parted and her hand across her heart. After the final point, she turns off the TV, fans her cheeks and sighs. “Él está bueno. Oh well, come see my new laptop. You can try it out while I top us off.”

  The connection is lightning fast. I wish I had ripped-speed access to the Internet. Bibienne sets my glass at my elbow and peers over my shoulder. “Career Search Australia?”

  “Yeah. Look. They need a snake wrangler in Canberra. Wait a minute, there’s an opening at the Bikini Car Wash.”

  I click around. There are a zillion postings for jobs all around the world, from San Francisco to Shanghai. Even Kalamazoo has a raft of listings. Here, in the greater suburbs of the Boston Commonwealth, not so much. Unless I want to commute all the way into the city, like Donald does when he isn’t at the branch office here in town. Since Doubles got so busy, he has to go into the city more often than not these days.

  Forget job searching for now. Bibi has a collection of fun apps on her desktop. I click on a Tarot icon. “Is this site any good?”

  “Yes, it’s one of the best,” she says. “If you want a quick reading, try the Celtic Cross spread.”

  Bibienne knows a lot about tarot. She’s so sharp and perceptive, her massage therapy clients are always asking her to read their cards for them.

  I type in my question: What does the future hold for me?

  The results show the Queen of Cups, seated in the auspicious Position One, which represents the “Questioner in Her Present Situation.”

  “The Queen of Cups is the good woman card,” says Bibienne. “She’s loving and kind. A bit of a dreamer, distracted. But see? She sits on a throne, which means she wields power and makes the rules. The suit of cups represents emotions. Overflowing emotions, hidden emotions, secrets maybe. Who knows what’s in her cup?”

  “Bra cups, cups of laundry detergent, cups of wine.”

  Bibienne points to my glass. “Your cup of wine is empty.”

  Position Two shows the Three of Swords: a lowly card suggestive of trickery and betrayal. “That would be Daria and WiFi-Robes,” I say as Bibienne refills my glass and sits beside me.

  “Could be.” She examines the spread. “The Three of Swords usually represents sudden heartbreak or betrayal. But look over here. Your Three is countered by the Two of Swords, which means difficult decisions may need to be made. That’s a double whammy. See the blindfold on the woman in the picture? She can’t see her way. She may not want to see, in fact, she may be in denial.”

  It all makes sense. I’ve been betrayed, lost my job, and now I have to make choices about what to do next, right? More curious though is the appearance of the powerful and authoritative Emperor standing in opposition to my Queen. Donald perhaps? But, if the Emperor is my husband, who is the Knight of Cups occupying the near future position? The Knight of Cups is a man of high romance, poetry, and passion. Here, Donald doesn’t spring to mind. How intriguing: the card drawn for the position representing Final Outcomes turns out to be The Lovers. As I wander back home I can’t help but note that two cups makes a couple.

  In the kitchen, the answering machine is blinking. I press play: Donald is going out with some work buddies for drinks.

  What? He’s still in the city? Again? If this is anything like last time, he might as well have added, don’t wait up. He better not miss his train this time.

  My shoulders are sore this morning from falling asleep on the couch in front of the television. I woke up in the middle of the night and went up to bed to find Donald, naked and snoring on top of the covers with the lights on. Throwing a blanket over him, I snapped off the lights and climbed under the covers. Donald rolled away in the blanket, to his side of the bed.

  “Why didn’t you wake me when you came in last night?” I ask when he comes down for breakfast, still in his robe, rubbing his eyes. He’s unshaven and his eyes are lined.

  “It was late. You were sound asleep. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “It must’ve been pretty late. I stayed up past midnight.” I pour water into the coffee maker. “I tried to call you a bunch of times. You forgot to turn on your cell.”

  “Did I?”

  I turn to face him. The lump pops up in my throat again and I shove it down. “I wanted to tell you something. I got a pink slip yesterday.”

  “I knew it. Those idiots have been running in the red for a long time.”

  Tenacity. Mental toughness.

  “I lose my job and that’s all you can say?”

  Donald leans back in his chair. “You were sick of that job anyway. Go find another one.”

  Donald has always had that Canadian stoicism that’s comforting and infuriating at the same time.

  “Just like that?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about the budget?”

  “Didn’t you get a severance package?”

  “Yes. But no one is hiring now, so close to summer.”

  “Take some time off then, do something with the kids.”

  Donald’s right. I was fed up with that job. Now I have freedom to do whatever I want, right?

  Donald says, “Why not take some time to think about what you want to do next? Maybe you could go into business for yourself?”

  “What kind of business?”

  Donald shrugs.

  “But … to start my own business, I’ll need to do market research, put together funding proposals, write my business plan. In a few weeks, summer starts. How will I ever do all that with the kids underfoot?”

  There’s the snag: We can’t afford day camp blessings on a sla
shed budget. The reality is that if I don’t find something to do very soon, I’m about to be saddled with full-time responsibility for my little darlings.

  Maybe Mom will agree to take Jack and Olympia for a week or two over the summer. She might like to have the kids’ company; she’s been awfully lonely since Dad died. Now all she does is watch golf on ESPN because she likes Phil Mickelson. She talks about Phil all the time. She’s even visited his website to check out all the photos. “He’s so handsome,” she says, over and over. “He looks like your father did when he was younger.”

  Mom answers the phone, sounding breathless.

  “Were you outside in the garden?”

  “No.”

  I tell her I lost my job. There’s a silence, and then I hear what sounds like muffled giggling.

  “What’s so funny? Mom, are you there?”

  “Sorry, what did you say about your job?”

  “I was let go. Downsized. I was hoping you might be able to help me out with the kids this summer while I look for a new job.”

  “I’d love to help out. But I’m going away. I’ve decided to do some traveling. Like that Julia Roberts girl in Eat, Pray, Love. But don’t you worry, everything will be fine. You’ll find a better job.”

  “Where are you going? Julia Roberts went to an ashram in India. Don’t tell me you’re going to an ashram in India?”

  “Maybe. Sky’s the limit, right? I can’t talk now, Brian is here.”

  “Brian?”

  “Brian from the golf club. We’re partnering today, with another couple. A foursome.”

  “I’ll call you tonight then.”

  “I won’t be in till late. Call me tomorrow. You know, he kind of looks like Phil Mickelson.”

  Her voice trails off. I can hear sounds of more muffled giggling.

  “Mom? Are you there?”

  Then, a disgusting sucking, slurping, slobbery noise.

  “Yes, well—later.”

  Moments after I hang up, the phone rings again.

  It’s a collect call from Serenity, my oldest daughter, who decided last week she hated her high school and wanted to go live with her Dad in Fort Drum. Reluctantly I gave her a bus ticket and helped her pack her suitcase thinking maybe my ex could take a turn at trying to propel her back to school again.

  “Guess what, Mom? I got a ride all the way to Flushing.”

  “Flushing? You’re supposed to be in Fort Drum. With your Dad. Where’s your father? What kind of ride? What happened to your bus ticket?”

  “We decided to save some scrilla and hitchhike. We’re going to the Electric Daisy Carnival.”

  “We? What do you mean hitchhike? What are you thinking? Why aren’t you calling from your cell?”

  “I lost it. Don’t worry. I’m still gonna stop in to see Dad.”

  Her father, my ex, is a Mountain Infantryman stationed in Fort Drum. He fights insurgents for a living. This is almost funny. No army base in the world can protect him from Serenity.

  “But where are you staying?”

  “We have a tent. Gotta go now, talk later.”

  She’s gone. Hanging up the phone, I feel panicky at the thought of my 16-year-old daughter hitchhiking across the nation. Should I call the police? Try to track her down? There’s nothing in Dr. Spock for this. Where are the useful references on raising extreme, no fear, generation Y-not teens?

  Monday morning, Jack emerges from his bedroom, still wearing his pajama bottoms. He scowls. “I hate school. I’m not going.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “School can get pretty boring. You can stay home and help me wash windows.” An empty threat, as I have no intention of wasting the holiest of holy opportunities, a kid-free day, doing housework.

  Jack stomps back into his room. Where’s Olympia? There she is, coming down the hall, wearing one of Jack’s ratty old t-shirts.

  Jack reappears, dressed in shorts. It’s a damp overcast day so I hand him his rain jacket. “Sit nicely with your sister on the bus today. No spitting, yelling, kicking, or cussing. Got it?”

  A scuffle breaks out in the hall: Jack, enraged at the sight of Olympia wearing his stuff, is attempting to strip her down. “Jack, leave your sister alone. Put your jacket on.”

  I pause in front of the hall mirror: a few unruly curls float around my head but I don’t have time to tie them back. I’m wearing shorts and my favorite sandals, the cute strappy ones with the wedge heels, topped off with my hockey hoodie. Bibienne would say the outfit is a little on the hot mess side, but it’ll have to do.

  I hustle the kids out the door. There’s just enough time to walk them to their bus, which pushes off in less than two minutes.

  Halfway down the street, Jack stops pounding on Olympia long enough to say, “I forgot my lunch.”

  I race home to retrieve his backpack. But, of course, now we’ve missed the bus.

  I pause in the driveway with Jack’s backpack in my hand. I cancelled the insurance yesterday but the Caddy is still covered until the end of the month. Lifting the garage door, I beckon the kids. “We’re taking Grandpa’s car.”

  Jack and Olympia shout with glee. They love going for rides in Grandpa’s big old shiny Cadillac. So do I. We’re already singing If You’re Happy and You Know It as we back out of the driveway. The engine hums in happy unison all the way to the school.

  As I wheel out of the parking lot, the sun peeks from behind a bank of clouds. I flip the signal to turn left instead of right. Why not take the long way home? There’s a pretty river road where I could take Dad’s car for a good run, get the lead out and clear my head a bit. I roll the window down, turn the dial to a good station and prop my elbow out the window like Dad used to do.

  The Caddy quits about ten miles into the middle of nowhere.

  I’m stuck on the side of a deserted road while, of course, my phone is at home on the kitchen counter. Failed again. Stepping out of the car, I pop the hood and glower at the engine. I poke and prod at various greasy wires and belts while fighting an urge to hurl myself onto my knees to pound my fists into the gravel.

  Turning my back on the engine, I lean against the bumper and fold my arms against the morning chill. The road is deserted. What feels like months go by on the muddy shoulder. A raincloud passes overhead. At last, a leather-jacketed motorcyclist pulls over, unbuckles his helmet, leans back on his seat and grins. “Need a hand?”

  “Sure do.”

  The man hops off the bike and removes his helmet, revealing dark curls that graze his collar. He has dark eyes that meet mine in a forthright and open way. Like he somehow knows me. I suddenly feel safe and reassured. I draw in a quick sip of breath, and brush my windswept curls away from my eyes, and back behind my ears. He comes over to stand beside me in front of the open hood.

  “Will it turn over?”

  “Yes, but it won’t kick in.”

  “The Furies. All Out, All Game, All Season,” he says, reading the slogan written under the crossed hockey sticks on the sleeve of my hoodie. “You play hockey?”

  “I’m in a fun league with a bunch of my girlfriends. I play defense.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “I can score goals.”

  “Hmm. I used to play hockey, back in college. Junior varsity. Then I wrecked my knee.”

  He turns to examine the engine, a good thing, as I’m sure my pupils just expanded three sizes. The man is as hot as a Latin cowboy with those dark romantic eyes, the Byronic kind that inspire lust-laced poetry in college girls. He’s wearing tight blue jeans that show off a pair of lean legs, lovely long lean legs that could efficiently straddle a bawling calf and rope it tight. I feel a warning stanza coming on: Good girls don’t make passes / at strangers with long lashes.

  He leans in deeper to test a belt.

  Or at strangers with sensational asses.

  While he fiddles with the lucky little engine parts, I surreptitiously try to pick away the grease on my thumb. The man calls out from under the hood: “Are
you sure there’s gas in it?”

  “Oh no.” I say, suddenly remembering. “The gas gauge sticks sometimes. I’ve been meaning to get that fixed.”

  The man offers to go down the road for a can of gas. After kick-starting his bike—always so damn sexy to watch this maneuver—he points at a spare helmet lashed to the rear rack and says, “Want to come for the ride?”

  The last rain-cloud vanishes as the sun floods the sky with brilliance. I’m astride the bike in a flash. Immediately, the regrets flood in: What do I do with my arms? Where do I hold on? Would it be improper to hug the driver, a stranger? As the bike leaps forward, I almost fall off. Losing all my inhibitions, I hold on tight, my nose pressed up against the soft hide of his jacket. The jacket and its owner smell wonderful: a mixture of sun-warmed leather, Ivory soap, and a lemony aftershave lotion.

  What a thrill! I’m perched on the back of a magnificent motorcycle feeling the cool wind in my face. The bike is all shining chrome and soft leather seats, its dashing owner all mirrored sunglasses, clean denim, and polished leather boots.

  At the gas station, I realize I’ve forgotten my bag on the seat of the Caddy. “Don’t worry about it,” the man says as he pays for the gas and lashes the container to the back of the bike.

  The ride back out of town is even more glorious as I got the hang of leaning into the curves. In the straight parts the man lets out the throttle, turning the sun-dappled woods beside us into a green and gold blur. We slow down as we cross a bridge over the river, and he reaches back, taps me gently on the leg and points down the embankment. Standing motionless in the shallows at the edge of the water is a Great Blue Heron. He stops the bike on the shoulder and pulls out his camera to take a shot. We walk back onto the bridge and stand side by side together in a contented silence for a few minutes, leaning on the rail watching the river flow under us. For some reason this seems like a perfectly normal and natural thing to do with a stranger in the middle of nowhere.