That’s it. I’ve had it with that kid and her endless chirping all season long. You do what you have to do. I spin around fast. Decker’s grin is wrapped tight around her mouthguard. Bracing myself to take the hit, an instant later her stick slams into my chest and I crumple backwards on top of the captain who takes the opportunity to start punching at my helmet.
A whistle blows, hard. The ref pulls me up by the front of my jersey and drags me off the captain who is swearing like a hardrock miner. The ref looks cross. Good, I hope both of them get a penalty. But the ref hangs onto my arm and points me toward the box. An elbowing penalty? What? You call that an elbow? “Come on, ref. She cross-checked me,” In protest, I pound my stick on the ice. “COME ON.”
The ref shakes her head warningly and checks the back of my jersey for my number before showing me off the ice. There goes my penalty-free season. As I slump into the box, the whole bench starts screaming insults at Decker and the Devilicious’s captain who are cackling in triumph and high fiving with their goalie. I look up into the stands to see Donald hand Olympia his camera so she can snap a few pics of Mom in the box.
Mackie is chest to chest with the ref, screaming. The ref dumps her into the box beside me. Up in the stands Shae and Serenity are on their feet whistling and shouting. They showed up at the end of the second period. Donald stayed anyway. He is grinning. Even Jack looks impressed. I can’t read the expression on Michael’s face. He’s sitting too far back.
Because of Mackie and me, the Devilicious now have a two-woman advantage. Bibienne is soon whirling around in the net. Decker is getting more brazen by the second, jabbing at Bibi with her stick every time the ref looks away. Decker then turns and backs tight into the crease to wait for a pass. Bibi shoves her back out of the crease a couple of times and finally jabs her stick into the unprotected backstretch of Decker’s calf. Decker flops down, moaning and clutching her leg, like the big faker she is, while Bibi stands there shrugging and grinning. The ref blows the whistle and Decker is helped off the ice, her limp large and heavily embellished. Ferris joins us in the box to serve out Bibi’s slashing penalty.
After one scrimmage, where no one can see what’s happening as there are so many enemy shirts charging our net, the whistle blows and Bibi is lying facedown on the ice. Where’s the puck? Slowly she gets up, takes off her catcher, reaches into her bra and scoops out the puck. The crowd goes wild.
Mackie is fuming beside me, planning a bloodbath. “You take the high road, and I’ll take the low,” she shrieks as the penalty clock ticks to zero. She throws her legs over the boards and lands, feet splayed wide, like a furious wildcat off a rocky ledge.
A cool move, the leap over the boards. I try to follow suit but wind up tangled up in my stick and I plunge over the boards instead, belly flopping onto the ice with a sickening ouff, looking, no doubt, more like a dead possum plopping out of a tree than a wild anything. A titter runs through the crowd as I cross the ice, winded and limping, to the bench.
Everyone is grumbling that the ref’s cousin plays for the Devilicious. Coach says, “Don’t give her any excuses then.” We all watch as Chainsaw, miraculously limp-free, hooks Mackie’s skate and Mackie goes down. Ferris skates past the ref, lips a-flapping. Seconds later the whistle blows. Ferris is back in the box with a penalty for mouthing off the ref.
Coach sends me back in. We kill off the penalty, Mackie scores a shorthanded goal and rolls out her rub-it-in dance all around their net. As we face off, I make sucking noises at Decker, while pretending to put the thumb of my glove in my mouth. The puck drops and Ferris slaps it into their zone and we all tear after it. Mackie gets there first. Decker plows her into the boards from behind.
Mackie loses her mind. She jumps up, throws her gloves off and tackles Decker. Decker tosses her gloves, grabs Mackie by the front of the jersey with one hand and chainsaws her with her other fist. The whistle blows. An angry Devilicious player skates past me and hooks my skate, sending me sprawling on the ice. Quickly, I jump up to settle the score. Ferris leaps in to help me.
After all the sticks and gloves are cleared from the ice, Mackie and Decker have been exiled to the dressing room. The rest of us get warnings. Back on the bench, Coach reams us out until, subdued, we hang our heads in shame. The game ends in a tie. No one wins.
By the time I shuffle out of the dressing room, Michael is nowhere to be seen. Shae claps me on the back. She wants to join the Furies. “That was kick-ass,” she keeps saying over and over.
Donald is waiting in the lobby. He grins at me. “When did you turn into such a dirty player?”
“I’m not a dirty player. No more than anyone else.”
Donald raises his elbows and flaps them in the air.
“Shut up.”
One more weekend left to hit the books and I’m done with all my courses. As I stare out the window of the den, the phone on my desk rings. I hope it isn’t Mom. She calls me every day to talk about whether she should stay with Ted or go back to Brian. I pick up at the same time as Serenity. It’s Shae.
Before I can hang up my end, Serenity shrieks straight into my ear: “Stop calling me, bitch. And I’m keeping George Bush.
Serenity has been in a complete snit all morning as Shae stormed out last night yelling, “Don’t be such a whiny vagina.” Those two are constantly fighting and reconciling. Shae will probably be back in time for supper.
I close the door to the den but I can still hear Serenity screaming at the receiver in the kitchen. Soon Jack starts in, whining at Serenity to get off the landline already. Olympia is yelling at them to shut up because she can’t hear the television. Donald is, of course, long gone to his office, far from the keening and crying of his offspring. Tonight he’s going out with friends. Who knows who or where? I won’t wait up.
I hear cupboard doors slam, more shouting, and then a crash and a thud. Abandoning my textbook, I head to the kitchen to mediate the uproar. Jack is lying on the floor, howling, and Serenity is standing over him, arms akimbo.
“What was that crashing sound? What’s going on?”
“Jack threw the popcorn maker at me.”
“Serenity hurt my toe.”
“He tried to kick me and hit the cupboard instead.”
I glance at the cupboard door. There’s a large crack running down the middle of the panel. Jack says, “It’s okay, it didn’t break.”
Serenity storms out of the house. While I make sandwiches for lunch, Jack hangs around to discuss lizards. He wants an iguana. Apparently life isn’t worth living without a lizard companion.
“Rather than hassling me for an iguana, how about inviting a friend over to play?” Just in time, I stop myself from saying, “Maybe that one who looks like an iguana?”
I go back to the den. Jack promptly calls three buddies and Olympia, two, before I catch on. I confiscate the phone and put an end to the free for all, but it’s too late to cancel the impending invasion by neighborhood kids: their ecstatic parents are, no doubt, in blistering fast transit by now.
It isn’t long before Jack and three friends are hunkered down in front of the television with video games, cans of soda pop, and a large bag of mini chocolate bars. I step into the room as Jack flips a candy wrapper aside and says to his friends, “You can throw them on the floor, my Mom will pick them up.”
“Pick up that mess,” I say, “and go play down in the rec room.” This was a bad directive as they soon commence a musical interlude using Donald’s ancient amp, an electric guitar, keyboard, and my bongos.
Back in the den, I attempt to put the finishing touches on my final poetry essay about Emily Dickenson, due tomorrow. Essay writing has become tinged with eroticism. Knowing that Michael will be reading my naked prose makes my fingers tingle as they type. I want to drape myself across the page, and let his eyes advance slowly across my silky sentences, stripping off all my punctuation and splitting my infinitives. I want to use words like squeeze, tickle, and press, and I want to end up quivering in
a puddle of soft consonants, ooo’s, and aaaa’s, after arching my vowels under his poetic gaze.
This is going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 13
Go No-Go
Go No-Go: The condition or state of operability of a component or system: “go,” functioning properly; or “no-go,” not functioning properly. Alternatively, a critical point at which a decision to proceed or not must be made.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
With classes done, final essays handed in, and exams written, I no longer know what to do with myself. I sit at the kitchen table and recheck my agenda: nothing but a blank page. It’s a glorious late August morning: warm, dry and, I can’t help but think, picture perfect for a picnic lunch or a bicycle ride with Michael. Trouble is, I decided to let Jack and Olympia stay home with me today, to take a break from day camp.
Serenity comes into the kitchen in her pajamas, and slumps into the chair across from me. Her eyes are red and puffy.
“Do you want some tea? Are you hungry? Here, I’ll make you some honey toast.” Jumping up, I slip two slices of bread into the toaster.
Serenity sniffs and shrugs. Shae and Serenity’s latest reconciliation ended with a bang late last night when Shae gunned it out of the driveway in her truck, backfiring as always. Shae’s toolbox has disappeared from the corner beside the door. George is lying under the kitchen table with his head tucked between his paws.
Serenity sees my glance at George and sniffs again. “Don’t worry. Shae says she’ll come back later and collect George.”
Oh no. I was kind of getting used to having George around. “I’m sorry honey,” I say and pat Serenity’s shoulder.
Unfortunately, my mood isn’t much better. What if I blew my finals? Guess I need to start looking for work again. Or register for more classes. I can’t decide. Or maybe I should hang the wallpaper today. The rolls I bought weeks ago are tucked behind the couch. I pull one out to examine it. Donald’s eyes bugged right out when he saw the receipt. I’d return the rolls except now the living room walls are stripped bare. If we end up splitting up we’ll probably have to sell the house. I’ll have to stage the living room. Guess I’ll hang the wallpaper today and hang myself out to dry on the job market tomorrow. Or, since it’s a nice day out, a better plan would be to weed the flowerbeds, neglected all summer long.
I throw on my clothes and am about to go in search of my gardening gloves when my phone beeps. It’s a text from Michael! What are you doing today? I’m at the park with Nick.
Forget the wallpaper, forget the flowerbeds. I’m going to the park with Jack and Olympia.
Soon Michael and I are relaxing under a shady tree in the park with two tall iced cappuccinos. What extraordinary good luck—I waxed my legs last night, and I’m wearing my sexy gardening shorts. As Jack, Olympia and Nick are occupied on the jungle gym, Michael is free to tease me by twirling grass across my silky smooth shins. After a while, he whispers in my ear that he’s glad he can no longer be fired from his job for imagining me naked. “When can I see you alone?” he asks.
Michael has a suggestion—perhaps we might wish to go for a ride on his motorcycle, say, tomorrow? Tomorrow is Friday. What do I have on?
“Perfect. I already have Serenity lined up to babysit. I have a job interview downtown. Maybe we could meet after lunch?”
“What’s the job?”
“The company sells electrical equipment. They need someone to head up the size #2 rubber resisters. If I am good I can move up to thermal capacitators and they might even send me to the national convention on semi-conductors in Omaha next year.
Michael makes a face. “That sounds awful.”
What else can I do? There’s one good part: I can justify a pre-interview haircut appointment at that fabulous new salon in town that Bibienne keeps raving about. And now, after the interview, I’m going out with Michael!
I direct the kids to clear away the breakfast dishes while I get dressed and go over my plan. First, the salon appointment. I can go straight from there to my interview. Then, meet with Michael. I wonder if I can get away with a casual Friday outfit for a Friday interview? Well, why not? I couldn’t care less about this job anyway. It’s bound to be a pathetic joke like all the rest; why do I even bother?
Checking my watch, I see that I’m running out of racetrack to get to my hair appointment on time. Arggh. I can’t find my favorite lipstick. I rummage through the bathroom cabinets and vanity drawers while ignoring the sounds of a loud argument in the kitchen: Jack and Olympia are fighting over who should clear the last glass from the table. I hear a glass shatter, then a brief silence, and then a fresh eruption over whose fault it was.
“Jack, I hate you, you shittybutthead.”
“Don’t say ‘shittybutthead.’ Mom, Lumpy’s saying swear words again.”
I run downstairs to break up the fight and clear away the broken glass. Jamming the shards into the overflowing pail, I attempt to tie off the garbage bag at which one of the shards rips through the plastic and jabs straight into my wrist.
Jack and Olympia stop fighting to watch their mother trying not to faint at the sight of blood spurting all over the cuff of her favorite casual day blouse. Shit, shit, shit. Now I’ll have to find something else to wear. Oh God, the blood is going everywhere. Except to my legs. I better lean over the sink. I wonder how long it takes to bleed to death? Need doctor. Now.
I feel woozy: maybe it’s too late for the doctor? How many klutzes like me slash their wrists by accident and in so doing deprive their heirs of the pots of insurance money? No underwriter could doubt my motivation given my crumbling house, joblessness, roving husband, etc. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Mommy, don’t say ‘shit’,” says Olympia.
“Olympia said ‘shit’,” says Jack. “Put her in a timeout.”
“Never mind that. Jack, where’s Serenity?”
“I dunno. I think she went out.”
Wrapping my wrist in towels, I leave Jack in charge of Olympia and drive myself to the ER.
I’m in agony. Four stitches were required to close my wrist wound. I’m now incapable of lifting heavy objects like dishcloths and cupfuls of laundry soap and the like.
The job interview was a complete disaster. My hair was a rat’s nest because of missing the salon appointment, and I was hours late because of lineups at the hospital ER where, when my turn came around the nurse, knitting her brows over my slashed wrist, called in a social worker, who wanted to ask me if I have enough support at home and if I have ever thought about getting help, and then she put her hand on my shoulder and said that the next time I feel like giving up, I need to tell myself that I can hold off for just one more day, hour, minute—whatever I can manage.
After, I flew home to change out of my blood-soaked outfit. I could find nothing else interview-worthy to wear but my winter-weight wool suit, the skirt-half of which I located under the cat in a heap on the floor at the back of my closet.
I was the last applicant to be interviewed. While waiting my turn I, very regretfully, texted my apologies to Michael, picked the cat hair from my skirt with my good hand and told myself to try to hold off for at least one more hour.
Then I had to face down a forbidding panel of seven interviewers. Seven. For me. I’ll be wanting a cushy job in upper management in my next life, yes, please, and thank you very much. Everyone looked knowingly at the bulky cotton dressing on my wrist while I, slowly boiling to mush in my winter-weight suit, used it to mop my red, dripping face. When they asked me about my salary expectations I lost my head, and snortily told them of course I expected a salary, and a damn good one too.
After the interview debacle, Donald received the news with a concerned shrug and then smirked. “Most people slash their wrists after having a bad day.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. Last week’s flummoxed job interview has produced a serious offer. They’re giving me a couple of weeks to think it over. It’s a sweet deal with a fat pay
scale, decent benefits plan and possible occasional travel. I picture myself touching up my nail polish and relaxing on a comfy hotel room bed while coolly parenting long distance over the phone like those neatly tucked in business women on television ads: I’d work for free if they’d guarantee the travel. Jack hopes I’ll go for it since he wants a wave pool for his birthday.
I describe the job offer to Donald when he arrives home from work. He shrugs and says, “It’s a solid company. And a good benefits package. Are you going to take it?”
“I guess I should.”
“You don’t sound very excited.”
I shrug. What does he want me to say? That I’m dying to go into rubber resistor sales?
“What do you really want to do?”
“I’d like to finish my degree this fall. If I go full time, I’ll be done by Christmas.”
“Fine. Finish your degree then.”
“But what about us? I mean, the sooner I go back to work, the sooner we can move on. What do you want me to do?”
I’ve got him cornered. Our eyes meet. His turn slate grey and angry. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Then he storms off to the den and shuts the door.
I sit in the wingchair to think. Is Donald angry because he wants me to take the job so he can be free of me? If he wants out so badly, why is he urging me to finish my degree? Does he even know what he wants?
Do I know what I want? Working means never having a minute to myself again. Back to cranky bosses and office politics. Back to terrible overhead lighting that gives me headaches and makes my skin look pasty.
Going back to work means making a final decision about Donald and me.
Going back to school this fall means staying seated on my comfortable wingchair-shaped fence, taking time to think.
The Perils of Pauline Page 11