I open my eyes. The air is filled with smoke. I glance down below—I’ve heard of things like this but never before believed it possible. Wait a minute … holy smokes, my kitten isn’t on fire. My house is! Snatching myself up from the carpet, I scramble to the hall to see thick plumes of blue smoke and fiery balls rocketing out of the closet, down the hall and into the kitchen where they explode into hundreds of brilliantly colored stars and streaks.
Grabbing my phone, I duck my head, and run outside with Michael, while calling the fire department. A throng of neighborhood residents and passers-by scramble to watch the pyrotechnic display. Every few seconds another explosive round of crackers or out-of-control pinwheels comes careening out the side door, making the crowd shout “ooh” and “ahh” appreciatively. The unpredictable rockets slow the progress of the volunteer firefighters as they run more hoses and foam. They manage to extinguish the fire, which the Fire Chief pronounces to have begun somehow in my hall closet where, by the way, a large number of fireworks were improperly stored; fortunately they were able to contain the fire. I tell the Fire Chief I’m mystified as to how the fire could’ve been started.
I’m lucky to have a home left according to the Chief. Not to mention that I should also be thankful for the safe deliverance of all my cherished household pets now furiously barking and hissing and squabbling in the back seat of the Jeep. The closet side of my house is shredded as is, I fear, my newborn relationship with Michael given the pained expression on his face as he inspected the charred remains of his leather coat before heading home. As he climbed onto his motorcycle, he handed me his card saying, “Here’s my number. Send me a text tonight. Just so I know you’re okay.”
I step back in the house to find everything dripping wet. The walls are black and the floors, ruined. Serenity’s smokes are still lying on the kitchen counter. Perhaps some nicotine will soothe away the tension.
As I draw a smoke out of the pack, I remember the butt hastily shoved in my jacket pocket earlier—but I won’t volunteer this clue to anyone, especially to the insurance adjuster who has been called and is on his way over here along with Donald. I go back outside to stand beside the car in the driveway, and light up quickly, closing my eyes and sucking deeply, another pea-brained mistake as Donald pulls in at the same moment.
We meet with the adjuster who says the smoke and water damage extends throughout much of the house; however, he promises to send in a crew and compensate for all affected areas. I’m doubtful, unless there’s a deductible for the memory of Michael’s hand brushing my neck, the most affected area of all.
Serenity came home from the arts festival without Shae. Apparently Shae shook her sugar a little too close to a belly dance instructor. Serenity locked herself in her bedroom and now she refuses to come out. I volunteered to move back into the house, explaining to Donald that support and supervision of Serenity is essential. Meanwhile, he and the kids are staying at a local motel. This is pure bliss: even Jasper and the cats are safely kenneled out of harm’s way while a team of fire-cleaning specialists work their magic. Not only that but the insurance payout means Faded French Vanilla Merlot shag carpeting.
I should try to burn my house down more often.
Second thoughts are as persistent as the smell of smoke in the house. What might’ve happened if not for the fire? While emptying drawers and closets of reeking clothing for the cleaners, everything comes clear: Saturday’s study date with Michael was a close call. I better not let my guard down again.
After all, the state of my underwear is truly shocking. A review of my dresser drawers reveal that my entire supply of bras is in tatters and most are at least a cup size too small. I have to avoid all possibility of further close encounters with Michael until I’ve had an opportunity to replace my greying and shabby stock of bras and panties.
After class today, Michael, unsmiling, suggested we grab a coffee in the Dingy Cup. At last: a chance to talk to him since the afternoon of our fateful smoking hot kiss. We automatically head for “our” table in the back and sit facing one another.
“Sorry about your jacket,” I venture. “But the insurance is going to…”
“Forget the jacket. I can’t stop thinking about what happened last weekend. I was way out of line. I apologize. It will never happen again. I’m going to find someone to take over teaching the class.”
“Michael, you don’t have to apologize. I’m as much to blame. Please don’t give up your course. You love teaching poetry. I’ll drop the class.”
Michael leans back in his seat and folds his arms against my idea. “No. That’s not fair. It’s too late for you to drop out anyway. You’d have to take an academic penalty.”
I prop my chin on my hand to think. What to do? Then I wonder: why do we need to do anything? This is between Michael and me. We can straighten up and march on.
I lift my chin and square my forearms on the table. “Then how about we act like mature adults, forget what happened, and move on? It’s only a few weeks till the course is over. Let’s just say Saturday afternoon never happened.”
“I don’t know.”
“We can start now. There’s nothing going on here, we’re just two friends having a coffee, okay?”
Michael stares into his mug, and shakes his head. I lean toward him and tilt my head, “Is it okay to be friends? I can go now if you want me to.”
“Yes. No, I mean, don’t go. Having coffee and being friends on campus, it’s not a big deal. And I could use a friend to talk to right now.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I just found out Carmen’s been taking Nick’s Ritalin.”
“Are you sure?”
“I confronted her last night. She confessed. It all makes sense now. She knows she’s too thin but she won’t eat, just drinks coffee all day. Then she stays up all night working. We haven’t had sex for months.”
I do a quick mental calculation. Who has been in a sexless marriage the longest? Donald started sleeping in the spare room weeks ago, but I can’t even remember the last time we had sex before that, so it’s been months for us too.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. She needs help. But she doesn’t think it’s a big deal.”
I make the mistake of placing my hand on Michael’s forearm in a comforting gesture. Of course, I might as well have dragged him under the table and licked his nipples clean off. The unintentional side effect of hand contact causes our eyes to lock. His eyes are saying, “Okay, I just told you I haven’t had sex in six months, right? Your hand is making this very hard for me … don’t move a muscle.”
My eyes are saying, “Help. My hand has fallen on your arm and it can’t get up.”
CHAPTER 11
Warning Order
Warning Order: A preliminary notice of an order or action that is to follow.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
The frickin’ cleaners have worked so rapidly and efficiently that the house is once again fit to receive Donald and the kids. They troop in marveling at the gleaming walls and floors. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it?”
Donald nods but says nothing. The house has never looked so immaculate. He looks away quickly but I’m sure I spotted tears in his eyes.
In the living room, Donald glances down at the new carpet. “Orange? Isn’t that kind of seventies?”
“It’s not orange. It’s Faded French Vanilla Merlot.”
“Okay, then. It’s … different.”
“You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that. Maybe it’s the curtains. Pink and orange don’t go together.”
“The drapes aren’t pink. They’re terracotta.”
“Only if terracotta is the same color as that stuff you take for diarrhea.”
Serenity’s cat, Scratches, comes into the room and rubs up against my leg, purring. Isn’t that sweet? She missed me. Then Donald and I watch as she discovers the carpet and buries her claws deep int
o the shag.
“Out,” I cry.
Wait. One annoying pet is missing. “Donald, did you forget to pick up Jasper at the kennel?”
“Not exactly. I thought maybe we could keep him there till your Mom gets back. It’s a first-rate kennel with a vet and everything.”
“I agree. Excellent idea.”
I’m overjoyed with Donald’s arrangements. Shae is gone along with George: that means no dogs in the house! Oh my! I’m in danger of falling back in love with my clever husband.
“For what they charge, Jasper better be fine. Uh, we don’t have to say anything to your Mom?”
“Cross my heart.”
Donald picks up his bag and says, “Where would you like me to put this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on. How long are you going to keep this nonsense up?”
My cheeks grow hot. “Nonsense? That’s all our issues are to you? An inconvenient passing phase and all you have to do is wait it out?”
Donald’s jaw clenches with rage. “You know what? Never mind. I’m done with waiting. Forget I asked, okay?”
I’m still not speaking to Donald but it looks like Serenity and Shae, at least, patched things up last night. Serenity’s bedroom door is firmly closed with a leather tie draped over the doorknob. There’s been no actual visual of Shae yet but the sight of her pickup truck parked back in the driveway and George Bush parked back on my bed with wet, muddy paws, is enough confirmation for me.
It’s not always possible to keep up a campaign of not speaking. When Donald walked in from work tonight I had to know: “The vet called today. He wants to know when you’re planning to pick up the cremains.”
“The cremains?”
“Yes, from Jasper.”
“Jasper is dead?”
“Yes—the vet said you told them to have him put to sleep.”
Donald’s face balls up in a huge grimace and then he face-palms himself several times, so hard I can hear slapping sounds. “I told those idiots I’d like to have the dog put down, not for them to actually do it.”
“My mother is going to flip.”
“Shhhhhiiiittt.”
“When you go to pick up the ashes, maybe you could take the new television back so we can pay off the vet bill.”
Mom’s on the phone. She’s relaxing in her suite and wants to speak to Jasper: “Put the phone up to his widdle ear so I can tell him how much I miss my sweet widdle poopy-pup.”
At least the loss of Jasper has brought Donald and me back together a little, if only to the point of talking cordially again. Donald and I decided to put off telling Mom about Jasper for now. Why ruin her vacation? Covering the receiver with my hand, I hand the phone to Donald. “Hey poopy-pup, come over here and pant for my mother.” I hold the phone up to Donald’s ear while Donald pretends to slobber on the receiver. Best part of my day.
CHAPTER 12
R&R
R&R: The withdrawal of individuals from combat or duty in a combat area for short periods of rest and recuperation.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
Michael just texted me some promo on a spoken word event he’s emceeing at the Dingy tonight. He added a personal message: Hope you can make it. He posted the invitation on the class board too, so it’s innocent, not like a date or anything. I have to say no because I have a hockey game. Immediately I get another text: What about after the game?
I text him back to explain: after the game Mackie is throwing a party for the whole team at her house. The theme is Hawaiian Cruise. Bibienne and I are hard at work in her basement making coconut shell bras.
Bibienne finishes adjusting the leather straps on her creation and looks up at me as I sample the crantinis once again before putting the jug back in the freezer: “Go easy on the vodka, we have a game tonight, remember?”
My bra is ready to try on. I tuck the girls into their shells in front of the mirror and admire the results. Those Hawaiian lovelies sure know what they’re doing. Nothing beats a coconut shell for providing trustworthy support and cleavage.
The Devilicious are the toughest team in the loop but we squashed them for once, winning the game 1–0 mostly thanks to Bibienne, who rocked her net tonight. Decker, that rotten pest of a dirty left-winger, took it out on Mackie who is now sitting in a corner nursing a rum drink and a groin pull.
Michael just texted me again, wondering how my party is going.
Too bad he can’t see me in my Hawaiian outfit. I bet Michael would love the coconut bra. And now we’re texting each other right? Why not share? I snap a selfie with my phone and flip it over to him.
Nothing gets past Bibienne. “Who’re you sending that to?”
“Facebook,” I say and immediately regret it. Now I have to post this stupid pic.
It’s tempting to tell Bibi about Michael. But I know she’ll only tell me to go easy on the vodka.
Mom just got home, and is on the phone asking for Jasper. She’s wondering why Donald sent her a giant arrangement of flowers. That coward. Guess it’s up to me to break the news to her gently. “Mom, when you’re talking to Dad, do you sense anyone else there with him?”
While sitting in Financial Management class, I get a text from Bibienne: “Whup ass time!”
Tonight’s the night. The season finale: it’s ours to win or lose. The whole team has been texting pregame trash twitters every few minutes, all day long. “The Devilicious are dead meat.” “The Furies are coming.” “I can’t wait to wipe their boats!” Game on.
I play better when I have extra carbs laid on. As I hand out plates of spaghetti, Donald comes in the door from work and spies my hockey bag on the hall bench. “You have a game tonight?”
“It’s only been on the calendar for weeks.”
He sighs heavily, glances at his watch and gives me his distressed face. “I have to go back to the office tonight.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s your night to watch the kids. Serenity just took off somewhere.”
“I know, but they’re all going insane in there with that pension disaster thing. I’m sick of it.”
“But we agreed: tonight is my night out and I can’t miss this game.”
Jack breaks in. “Daddy, can we go see Mom play hockey? Please?”
Donald looks at Jack and his expression relaxes. “Sure. Why not?”
In the dressing room, Coach is getting worried. “Listen up everyone. This isn’t going to be a grudge match. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Coach is wrong. This most definitely is a grudge match. Mackie is looking for blood tonight after being handed her ass in our last game with the Devilicious. They hate us because they think we hate them for being younger than us. We don’t exactly hate them, but those college girls are total posers. They think they’re so tough.
Mackie tightens her skate laces with a vicious tug. “Don’t worry Coach. We won’t get hurt. We’re putting all the hurt on the baby pukes.”
One of the forwards looks up from shaping a huge tape ball on the butt end of her stick. “Yeah, they’re going to be puking their baby food all over the ice.”
Everyone guffaws. Coach sighs. “I’m warning you all. Don’t let them suck you into the penalty box. That especially means you, Mackie.”
Mackie chirps back immediately: “Okay. No sucking allowed.”
Ferris holds up her stick. “Except for their goalie. She can suck on this.”
As we straggle out onto the ice, the Devilicious are circling their end. They show off by flicking pucks high at the glass and performing a complicated choreography of fancy warm-up exercises. Meanwhile their goalie flops around in her net with her feet dancing above her ears and her legs splitting wide sideways across the crease.
Our goalie is late. “Where the hell is Bibi?” everyone is saying.
Where’s our captain, Mackie? Shouldn’t she be jacking us through our warm-up moves? There she is, slapping puck missiles from the blue line, smiling an
d nodding See you real soon at the Devilicious goalie while staring down the defense line. Mackie has the best hockey glare in town. After ten years of playing, I’ve seen all the tricks. It’s mostly a mind game. Outsmart the opposition. Mind your position. Play a clean and sober defense.
Wait. OMG. I’ve just spotted Michael in the stands. Of all nights to pick to come see one of my games, he had to pick this night. I speed up to show off. Scanning the seats, I spot the kids and Donald, seated several rows below Michael. They’re waving at me and yelling, “Go Mom,” as I glide past. I do a fancy stop, carving an ice rooster with my blades, and wave back at them with my stick. Michael waves too.
Mackie skates past and checks me with her shoulder, knocking me off balance, “Why are you standing around? Move your arse, Parril.”
Bibi arrives in the nick of time. She inspects her net and the puck is dropped. The fight is on within a few plays as the Devilicious quickly get steamed with Ferris for crowding their goalie. Mackie whispers to me between whistles, “Keep Decker over there out of the crease. She’s trying to rattle the Bib.”
I know the one: the ratty left-winger, the one who handed Mackie the groin pull. Decker and Bibi have been ramping it up all summer. No one can unnerve the Bib, but the pest keeps on trying. “No problem. Decker is toast,” I cry as the puck is dropped in our zone.
The Devilicious captain knocks it into the corner and races in after it. I fly straight down the boards after her, elbows poised and at the ready. Mackie is cruising in on my wing.
They don’t call me Elbows for nothing. That’s because I know how to make it all look unintentional, innocent, an accident. Their captain soon goes down with the puck somewhere underneath her. Not my fault, she tripped over her own feet. As Mackie and I dig for the puck, I can hear Decker piling in on us from behind. She’s screaming, “Get off the ice, cougar tits. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”
The Perils of Pauline Page 10