The Perils of Pauline

by Collette Yvonne

  Turning six also means Olympia’s character is, according to the childrearing manuals, almost fully set. I’m terrified that this may be true. Last night at bedtime, Olympia announced firmly, “I don’t believe in God.” That’s ten perfectly respectable commandments gone right out the window. I pity her teachers. They don’t have a prayer.

  CHAPTER 4

  Chaff

  Chaff: Radar confusion reflectors, consisting of thin, narrow metallic strips of various lengths and frequency responses, which are used to reflect echoes for confusion purposes. Causes enemy radar guided missiles to lock on to it instead of the real aircraft, ship, or other platform.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  The alarm didn’t go off. Now I have to leap around like a demented squirrel to get ready for my first day of school. I arrive downstairs as Jack howls, “You shut up, loser,” and picks up a fork in an attempt to threaten Serenity.

  “Don’t cry, it only makes me stronger,” she taunts, laughing, at which he stabs her in the forearm with the fork.

  Serenity lunges for Jack while I throw my body between the two and yell, “What’s going on here?”

  Olympia pipes up from the sidelines: “Serenity and Shae ate all the Honeycomb in Serenity’s room last night.”

  “What? The jumbo box I bought yesterday?” I’d like to jab Serenity with a fork myself.

  I send Jack to his room while Serenity stomps off to find a bandage. Olympia is winding up to tears over the loss of sugary cereal. I make Olympia a plate of toast and hand it to her. So much for last year’s course in handling sibling rivalry. I learned all about acknowledging their anger and describing the problem respectfully while Jack clobbered Olympia, Olympia bit Serenity, and Serenity creamed both of them.

  I run down to the basement to search for a clean shirt. There are easily ten loads of laundry piled in front of the machine plus the contents of the hampers upstairs. I feel a strong urge to cut classes on my first day.

  Jack appears beside me. “Where’re my gym shoes?”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “Dunno.”

  I ship Jack off with clean underwear and call upstairs to summon Donald. No answer. Where is he? We set a schedule and he promised; today was his turn to get the kids organized for school. He’s a Certified Financial Planner with an MBA from Harvard. He can create a complex financial spreadsheet, but has no idea how to operate a household. It’s time he learned some basic domestic management skills like how to fix the washing machine, which is suddenly refusing to start.

  Remembering my race against the clock, I sort everything into piles for later and iron my blouse in record time. I run upstairs. Olympia is watching television in the family room, still wearing her pajamas. I yell for Donald again.

  Serenity pops her head up from the couch. “Oh yeah. Donald left. He said to tell you he had an early meeting.”

  Arriving on campus, I stop to double-check my timetable: I have five minutes to get to the Administrative Studies Building for my first class, Organizational Behavior.

  Congratulating myself for being exactly on time, I select a seat near the front of the lecture hall. I’m fully armed to take exceptional notes with my fine tipped roller ball pens and notebook, neatly dated and operationally ready on the desk before me.

  Scanning the room, I can see that none of the students are prepared like me to take proper notes, and all of them look decades younger than me. A girl sitting in the next row is wearing silver knee high gladiator sandals. She has a matching silver bag. Worse, there’s a woman standing near the door wearing bright yellow crocs and white capris. She looks like a kindergarten teacher. Thankfully, I’m wearing my favorite buckled slides, reliable yet saucy. They work anywhere.

  The woman with the bright yellow crocs walks over to the lectern and clears her throat into the microphone. She wants to know if everyone has downloaded a course outline. Everyone in the room has their own laptop on the desk in front of them. No one told me to download a course outline or bring a laptop to class. The prof is giving us instructions on how to link to a website for information on something called restriction enzymes. Then she wants us to go to a departmental webpage that has a set of links to the labs we need to download.

  Labs? Wait a minute. There’s something hinky going on here. Why does she keep talking about genomes and recombinant DNA technology? I take a peek at the laptop on the desk beside me. The heading on top of the screen says Course Outline: Cell and Molecular Biology.

  I step on a few Crocs in my haste to exit.

  As I enter the right lecture hall, in the next building, Professor Greshen looks up from his lectern. He glares at me with bulgy eyes, and pauses to remind the class that lateness is disrespectful and we should all try to be on time for lecture in the future.

  All the seats are taken. Now I have to slouch at the back of the room and hang my head in shame with all the other rude latecomers.

  At lunch, I review the course syllabus for my Modern American Poetry class. I’m required to attend one lecture plus one tutorial per week, and I have to read sixteen million poems, write two essays, and undergo one midterm and one final examination. Holy crap. The proposal for our first essay is due next week already.

  According to my schedule, I’m assigned to a class led by a Prof. M. Fortune. Entering the lecture room, I spy a man sitting at the desk in front of the room, shuffling through papers. He looks familiar. Where have I met him? I scrutinize Fortune as he closes the classroom door: neat denims, blue shirt and tie, leather jacket. Nice pouty lips. On the chair beside his desk, I spy a motorcycle helmet.

  Help. It’s the lean-legged Latin cowboy motorcycle guy. I hope he doesn’t remember me stranded on the roadside in my scruffy hockey hoodie. Probably not, since today I’m superbly pulled together with glazed hair and wicked new colored jeans, unlike the windswept mess I was two weeks ago.

  Fortune leans on the edge of his desk to deliver his opening lecture on the birth of modern American poetry. I like the way he cradles a small and tattered book of poetry in his large hands. He sets the book carefully on the desk and recites Whitman’s Leaves of Grass from memory, and his voice sounds deep and soulful as if he means it. All the women in the class lean forward, sighing, captivated. Listening to Fortune recite is like a spa day for our parched womanly souls, complete with plush robes and scented steam.

  At the end of class, Fortune stands beside the door, letting the students go out first. As I pass him, he grins at me and fakes a wrist shot, saying, “She shoots, she scores. And the crowd goes wild!”

  Blushing, I step past quickly and hurry to the parking lot. My first day of school is finally over. Two long intro lectures plus hours of standing in lineups at the bookstore and traipsing from one end of the campus and back again several times with a heavy backpack means I’m going straight home, ordering takeout and spending the night curled up in a blanket on the couch. I better get to bed early as my first class in Financial Management starts at 8 a.m. tomorrow.

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from Bibienne: “Don’t forget—we got ice time tonight.”

  I almost forgot. My tiredness vanishes: I’m signed up for the summer pick-up hockey league. Time to dig out my lucky dog tags. I’m so down with that: the crunch of bodies against the boards, passing the puck down the ice to victory, the beer celebration in the locker room. So what if my joints can’t take it anymore? Even though Bibi and I are the most senior players on the bench, Bibi is still the best goalie in the league and I can still clean out the corners for them.

  I glide around the ice, flexing my wrists and whipping pucks into the glass above the boards. In the corner, pitching pucks to us is our team captain, Mackie. As I skate by she yells, “Hey, Parril, get the lead out, we’re taking out those pussies from Poughkeepsie tonight.”

  Good old Mackie’s coming off her third tour of active duty. She and I go back a long way. She yanked me out of the mud in basic and re-upped after I left. One
round was enough for me. Since then she’s seen it all, from the Gulf to the scorching desert of Al Anbar and, to no one’s surprise, always comes home without a scratch.

  I pick up the pace. I’ve got my high sticking groove on now. Huh. That little left-winger over there thinks she knows how to play hockey? We’ll show these kittens what it’s all about.

  CHAPTER 5

  Hazard

  Hazard: A condition with the potential to cause injury, illness, or death of personnel; damage to or loss of equipment or property; or mission degradation.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  I hate being late. The parking lots are jammed so I have to park in the back of beyond and run for class through a cloudburst. As I arrive inside and hurtle around the corner, I spot Fortune ahead, also running late. He waits for me at the door, holding it open with a smile. The rain makes his hair curl up at the ends. I want to run my finger through one of the dark rings on his neck.

  Fortune hands our essay proposals back. As I scan the pages, I can feel my mouth go all baggy: the top of the page is marked with a C+ and a scrawled comment: A good start on a thorny topic, but not much more than a start. If you wish to try to improve your grade, you may take one week to rewrite and resubmit your work.—M. Fortune

  I’d like to stab a sharp stick through one of those scraggly curls. Rewrite my proposal? Fortune must have made a mistake. At the end of class, I wait behind to protest my mark.

  Fortune glances over my paper for a minute, and says, “I can’t increase your grade as things stand. In fact, I may have been too generous.”

  My face feels hot. “What do I need to do to improve it then?”

  “I have time now to go over your proposal if you like, in my office. Or we could go to the Dingy Cup. I could use a coffee.”

  Dingwall’s campus pub is packed but we manage to snag a tiny table at the back. Fortune begins: “Your ideas have potential but you need to think them through. Do you like to read?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Who are you reading right now?”

  I can’t possibly tell him that waiting on my bed stand is the latest Stephenie Meyer novel. What have I read lately that isn’t on the assigned reading list? What’s underneath Meyer? “Beloved! Toni Morrison!” I say.

  “Excellent,” he says. “You need to read as widely as possible. Don’t be afraid to read poetry as well as prose.”

  Taking a pen and paper, he jots down titles of books and papers that he wants me to read. Squeezed into the corner with Michael, shoulder-to-shoulder, poring over a growing list that contains names like Maya Angelou, Allen Ginsberg, and Robert Pinsky, I remember our motorcycle ride and the warm spring breeze in our faces. Now we’re having iced coffees and talking rhyme, free verse, ballads, and couplets. I feel like I’m coming awake after a long and dreamless sleep.

  What a boring way to spend a Saturday night: my butt is sore from sitting in front of the computer for hours, writing. I’ll show that Michael Fortune how to revise an essay proposal.

  The phone rings: it’s Mom. She has a new boyfriend. “Ted’s a stockbroker and he looked over my portfolio. He says Donald’s a genius. I’m set for life.”

  Mom has been Donald’s biggest fan ever since she and Dad went to Doubles for financial advice. They instantly fell for the down-to-earth style of their new fresh-faced young advisor from Montreal. Mom said, “He’s smart as a whip,” and added the information—so many times I wanted to scream—“He’s so handsome. He won a scholarship to Harvard, you know. You have to meet him.”

  That was a dozen years ago. Now, a less than fresh-faced whip is snoring on the couch in the living room.

  “Whatever happened to Brian? I thought you really liked him?”

  “I do. We’re still friends. I’m not about to make a commitment. Not after being tied down with one man for thirty-seven years. Good Lord. You have no idea how dull that can get.”

  In my head I multiply ten years by three and add seven. The result is a vision of Donald stretched out on the couch, still snoring, still clutching the remote. His hair is totally grey. Worse, we still have the same couch.

  Where does the time go? I’m already three weeks into my courses and I’ve homework piled up to my ears.

  The kids have taken turns being sick with colds for the past week, causing me to miss classes and get further behind in all my courses. Both Olympia and Jack are home from school today, sore throated and feverish, but still upright and combat ready. I spent the whole morning at the doctor’s office and the drug store. Now the afternoon will be devoted to holding the line at home.

  After constructing a giant fort with the entire household supply of cushions, pillows, and comforters in the middle of the living room, Jack teases Olympia by singing over and over, “Elmo’s dead, Elmo’s dead” until she screams and punches him. His nosebleed creates convincing evidence of a massacre in the fort. I’ll clean up later. Right now I need a sandwich and a cup of tea. As I sit down at the kitchen table, Donald walks through the door, carrying a new golf bag.

  The bag looks expensive and has the Doubles logo on it.

  “All the advisors got one,” says Donald who goes on to extol the virtues of the amazing Lindsay Bambraugh, who is currently donating her personal time to set up a Doubles charity golf tournament. The proceeds will go to the Boston Children’s Hospital. According to Donald, Lindsay is “a big-hearted and generous woman,” not to mention “a visionary who knows how to do business.”

  I can feel my toes curling up inside my shoes at the thought of Donald and Lindsay teeing off together at the golf tournement. I break into Donald’s admiration fest. “I didn’t know you were coming home for lunch today.”

  “I’m not home for lunch. I came home to get ready for the conference, pack my things.”

  “Conference?”

  “The annual conference. That one I go to every year in June?”

  “I thought you already had it? A couple of weekends ago? When you went to Chicago?”

  “That was the divisional. This one is the main one, the national.”

  “You could’ve reminded me.”

  “It’s on the calendar.”

  “Sorry. My bad. I forgot to check.”

  Google calendar is our main artery of planning and communication. I haven’t checked it for weeks. Since losing my job, I’ve fallen right out of sync.

  “How’re the kids doing?” He peeks into the living room where Jack and Olympia are eating tuna sandwiches in their fort. “You’re letting them eat in the living room? I thought we made a rule about that.”

  “They both have colds. I decided to let the living room rule slide for today. Since they’re sick. They wanted to have a picnic. How am I? I’m exhausted, thank you for asking.”

  Donald glares at me and I glare back at him. “I was about to ask how you are. What’s wrong?”

  “The sitter called and she can’t babysit tonight so there goes my hockey game.”

  “Can’t you find anyone else?”

  “Are you kidding? On a Friday night?”

  “What about Serenity?”

  “She and Shae have concert tickets. Forget about it. I probably wouldn’t go anyway, with the kids sick.”

  An hour later Donald comes downstairs, carrying his bags and smelling of fresh aftershave. He stands in front of the hall mirror to adjust his tie.

  “Can you do the park n’ fly thing this time?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered. I have a ride. Lindsay offered to pick me up.”

  “Oh. That’s nice of her.” His eyes flick sideways to meet mine ever so briefly, and then he bends down to poke around in his briefcase. I stare at the back of his head. Did he just gauge my reaction? Why the shifty eye contact? Was that shifty eye contact?

  “Have a good weekend,” I say with a half-smile, trying to keep the sarcastic tone out of my voice. Donald glances up at me. For a brief moment our eyes meet again in an all-in, Texas Hold-’em
moment. Trouble is, I’m the big blind and I can’t force his hand.

  I sit down at the kitchen table and hoist my slippers up on the chair opposite me. Donald comes over to kiss the top of my forehead. “Thanks for handling everything.”

  Five minutes later, Lindsay pulls into the driveway and toots the horn. She waits behind the tinted windows of a sporty silver car with doublewide tires. Donald grabs his suitcase and, after running through the living room to peck the kids’ cheeks, opens the door, then doubles back to collect his briefcase from the counter, kisses me on the cheek and rushes out.

  I stare into my teacup, wondering if this is a fair game. If he’s messing around on me, how do I find out for sure? He’s always had a good poker face. Weeks have passed since the day I found the XO’d card and the troubling question remains: Has Donald been letting the rules slide?

  It takes hours but, at last, the kids are tucked into bed. I phone the convention center number to give Donald an update but there’s no answer in his room. His cell goes straight to voicemail. It’s 11 p.m. I send him a text to say goodnight. Nothing comes back. A few minutes later, while channel surfing from the comfort of the cleanest section of the kids’ fort, I succumb to garrison mentality, and fortify my defenses with a substantial shot of brandy.

  The explosions and screaming from a cartoon soundtrack at top volume began at dawn, and the kids are still coughing.

  Today, I have to cram for my Organizational Behavior exam, work on my poetry essay and decipher an impossible chapter in my brutal finance textbook. Yesterday’s shorts will have to do. I pour cereal into bowls. Then I sit at the desk in the den and open my textbook, which causes Jack to burst into the room: “I’m invited to play at Harold’s house. Can I go?”