Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married

by Heather McElhatton

  I open a little bottle of something called Nipplewhipped. It’s bright pink and tastes like bitter bubblegum, but it goes down fast and warms my stomach. Next I try a little bottle of Urinal Cake, which is bright blue and tastes just like a . . . urinal cake. Sweet, though. He’s right, they really do taste like candy. Finally I down a bottle of Screw the Poodle, which tastes remarkably like sweet felt.

  By the time we pull up in front of Keller’s, I’m a bit tipsy. Nick parks by a glass window display showcasing a whole wall of those obnoxious blue and white Angel Bears. Hundreds and hundreds of them. They’re holding up some glittery letters that say ALWAYS BE AN ANGEL & SAY I LOVE YOU THE KELLER’S WAY! “I’ll be right back,” I tell Nick. “I’m just going to tell my husband we’re here.”

  Nick helps me out of the car and I nearly slip on the ice.

  “You should wear boots,” he says. “Those shoes are dumb.”

  “They cost more than your hearse,” I say.

  “Then they’re Goddamned idiotic,” he answers. I flip up my collar against the biting cold and zip across the sidewalk to the cold frosted glass doors, my breath short puffs of smoke, my fingers shivering. You really can get cold in between the car and the door. I swipe my executive ID card on the brass panel beside the door, and the little green light goes on. I push the doors open. Inside, it’s dark. The store is closed. It’s eerie being there all alone with no other people; all the red exit signs are lit up like creatures watching me from the trees. The elevators take me up to Brad’s floor, which is also dark and empty. I crack the door to his office open and freeze. I peer into the darkness. I can hear something. “Brad?” I whisper into the darkness. “Brad?”

  Silence.

  I hear something crash onto the floor. I step back, suddenly trembling. What am I doing in an empty building downtown at night? What if that’s not Brad? What if it’s a . . . department store killer? What if he wants to you-know-what me? Why didn’t I listen to my mother and carry around a cup of hot coffee? My eyes suddenly focus and land on two shadowy figures on the desk. I hear . . . grunting noises. Images of the sex club in Saint John flash through my head. Two people are having sex on my husband’s desk. They don’t hear me. I’m too far away. I stop breathing. Stay frozen like a statue. Then it occurs to me like a fist to the gut . . . that one of them is my husband.

  At this moment, many people might investigate further. They might fling the door open, turn on the lights, and point an accusing finger, demanding an explanation. Maybe they’d wait in the dark to see who came out of the office. Not me. I turn and run.

  I never look back.

  I just flee, punching the elevator button seventy-two thousand times, and when it doesn’t come quickly enough, I bang down the escalators, my heart twisting into painful knots. I can’t breathe. Oxygen unavailable. I sprint down the escalators, rushing past floor after floor of silent mannequins, all dressed up in ribbon and lacy lingerie. Perfect women. No mouth, no brain, no blood. No voice at all.

  Hot tears burn my eyes as I hit the lobby. Charging toward the exit, I see the reflection of hundreds of Angel Bears in the window. I hate those stupid bears. I stare at them, rage pooling in my stomach. I’ve got to get ahold of myself! Maybe it wasn’t even Brad in the office. Maybe it was the janitor or a . . . I cruise past the perfume counter and it hits me. I smelled Brad’s cologne. In his office just now.

  The distinct aroma of musky vanilla.

  He was in there, all right.

  With somebody.

  Anger churns and rises, then surges forward. Always be an angel . . . my ass! Next thing I know, I’m standing inside a Keller’s store window, knocking over the Angel Bear display that Christopher and his Gay Bee Brigade just finished putting up. I’m going crazy, knocking everything over. What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m running on pure madness and adrenaline. I step back, panting. I’ve rearranged the teddy bears.

  Before I got here they said:

  ALWAYS BE AN ANGEL & SAY I LOVE YOU THE KELLER’S WAY!

  Now they say:

  WE’LL KILL YOU ALL!

  Then I hear something tapping on the glass behind me. A group of people have gathered outside, standing by the widow pointing and laughing. A camera flash blinds me. Then I hear honking and see Nick through the window, waving and shouting.

  “Yo! Let’s go,” he says. “Time to go!”

  Squad-car cherry lights reflect off the snow and I scramble quickly out of the window, cameras still flashing. I dash outside, sucking in the sharp air, and the hearse’s passenger door is wide open. I dive into the backseat just as the squad car pulls up alongside. The cherry lights are flashing. Oh my God. I’m going to be arrested. My heart hammers, cold panic rising. I can see tomorrow’s papers: WOULD-BE KELLER’S QUEEN ARRESTED FOR STORE-WINDOW SICKERY AND TEDDY BEAR MOLESTING . . .

  Nick sits calmly at the wheel. “Quiet now,” he says without looking at me. “Stay still.”

  I do. I stay perfectly still, crouched down on the floor.

  “Easy now,” he whispers.

  Then he shouts at the officers. “Hey, fellas! Mind if I get out? I gotta pick up my fare!” Next thing I know we’re rolling forward, nosing around the squad car.

  We turn the corner and Nick says, “All right, chief, the coast is clear.”

  He doesn’t ask me what happened or why I was in a store window trashing the Angel Bear display. He just asks me where I want to go next. I wipe away my tears and tell him to take me to Hillcrest. “Looks like I’ll be spending Valentine’s Day alone,” I tell him.

  He says, “Well, not quite alone. You got me, chief.”

  We pull into the snowy circular drive of Hillcrest Country Club and there’s a long line of cars ahead of us, waiting for the valet. Over the club entrance is a big silver banner that says SWEETHEART BALL and is covered with big red and pink hearts. I slump back in my seat as we wait in line. Finally I sit up and tell Nick to pull around the cars. I don’t want to go to the dance anymore. He nods in the rearview mirror and says, “It’s a fair request.”

  When we pull out onto the snowy road, he asks me where I want to go. I have no idea what to tell him, so I tell him the truth. “I don’t know where to go. I don’t want to go home.” I wipe away a bleary tear and try to laugh. “I don’t even know where home is anymore.”

  “I know a place,” he says. “Real quiet.”

  He takes me to the banks of the Mississippi River. I stare skeptically at the stairs, which trail off at a steep incline into a thick swatch of black trees. Beyond them I can see the river, a winding band of swiftly moving dark water.

  “We’re going out there?” I ask nervously.

  “Sure.” He shrugs. “I live down there.”

  “In what? A cardboard box?”

  “No, a metal box. I renovated an old barge.”

  “A barge?” I raise an eyebrow. “Like a barge barge, that brings big mountains of coal down the Mississippi?”

  “Exactly. Only she’s got no coal, but she does have an espresso machine.”

  I stare at him.

  “Also it has a massage chair,” he says.

  “Right. This sounds so To Catch a Predator, it’s not funny. Is there an ice cream maker and lots of toys too?”

  “Actually,” he says, “yes.”

  Certain of my impending death, I still want to see it.

  “First let’s get you a coat and some boots,” he says. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, wearing those damn shoes.” I look down at my frozen feet and for the first time realize they’re blue. I wait in the backseat while Nick digs out a pair of big black hunting boots and another big safety-orange parka from the front seat.

  “Here,” he says. “Put these on.”

  I do as I’m told and feel much, much warmer. I follow Nick down the stairway slowly, stopping every other minute. “Wait! Stop, I can’t see anything! Where’s the railing? Why wouldn’t you put up a railing? Do you know how much this dress cost? Did I
rip it? Why are there no lights? Or railings?” Finally Nick turns around, grabs me by the waist, and carries me over one shoulder. Just like that, as though I’m lighter than a sack of cotton balls. It makes me feel so tiny and dainty and quaint . . . I love it. I holler at him the whole way down though, despite that fact. I protest his technique and the odds we’ll survive it. I say this is the worst idea anyone’s ever had. I don’t want him to know I’m thrilled.

  One wants to appear to be a lady.

  The trees thin out and we arrive at a moonlit riverbank. Nick takes my hand and leads me across the frozen ground. The wind picks up and the moon casts a bright blue light across the glistening snowbanks, so they look like sheets of waving diamonds. Along the riverbank is a collection of houseboats all lit up with cheerful orange windows and tied to rickety wooden docks. “People live down here?” I ask Nick.

  “Only the brave ones stay year-round.”

  “Brave?”

  He takes me to the last boat in the lineup, which is a small barge with iron sides and coal beds. The coal beds have been emptied out and remodeled into big studios. Now they have hardwood floors, built-in bookcases, and solar glass ceilings.

  “You live here?” I marvel.

  “Best part is she’s seaworthy. I can take the SS Nevertheless anywhere.”

  “That’s the barge’s name? SS Nevertheless?”

  “Yep. I got the name from that old movie with Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn . . .”

  “The African Queen!”

  “You know it?”

  “Do I know it? Are you kidding? It’s only like my most . . . um, yeah. I like it. It’s okay.”

  “I wanna show you something else. Come on up here.” He takes me up on deck, to the butt end of the boat, which he calls “aft.” He really does not like it when I say “butt end.” There, behind the old wheelhouse, is an igloo. He built it right on deck, with big chunky frozen bricks of snow. It’s nearly six feet tall and gleams like an ice-blue dome of light under the moon.

  “Can we go in?” I ask.

  He nods and says, “Wait here. I’ll grab some whiskey.”

  We have to kneel down and crawl through the igloo’s narrow entrance, but once inside it’s roomy. There’s a small wood-burning stove at the center of the igloo, packed in a big block of snow so it doesn’t melt the inside. Around the perimeter is a bench made of snow, and several niches cut into the wall have small oil lamps in them, which he lights.

  Soon the cheerful little igloo is as toasty as a tiny baker’s kitchen. Nick pours us plastic thermos cups full of whiskey. “I mostly come out here to watch the stars,” he says, and points up to the ceiling, where a hole is cut. The metal stovepipe runs out through part of it, but through the other part, you can see the stars up above burning brightly.

  “Bet you bring a lot of girls out here, don’t you.”

  “In all honesty, I’m already in a relationship.”

  “Oh?” I say sadly, all the ugliness of the evening returning. “Committed relationship?”

  “Yep. She lives here with me. A gorgeous blonde named Tandy. You might meet her.”

  “Nice,” I say, and shift uneasily. “You know, it’s getting late.”

  “Really?” he says. “Time to go already?”

  “Probably should.” I sip my whiskey. “I do have to . . . pee, though. Any chance this rig has indoor plumbing?” I tell him I prefer indoor plumbing when wearing Valentino. He tells me not to worry. “Don’t get your Valentino in a bunch,” he says. “Hold on a second. We got indoor plumbing . . . it’s indoors.” He puts out the lamps and the woodstove, then leads me back to the metal door of the cabin. Inside the warm hallway, we’re greeted by a friendly golden retriever. The dog nearly knocks me over trying to kiss me. “Jennifer,” Nick says, “meet Tandy.”

  I look at him suspiciously. “This is Tandy?”

  “She’s the love of my life . . . sadly. Hey, Tandy girl!”

  The barge is filled with old vintage furniture and black and white photographs from Nick’s travels. In his messy office, crammed with books, there’s a large map on the wall covered with red thumbtacks, marking all the places he’s been. It’s impressive.

  “You’ve been to Kuala Lumpur?” I ask him.

  “Yep. Shot monkeys at the Batu Caves.”

  “You . . . shot them?”

  “Not with a gun. With a camera. I take pictures for assignments. Got a freelance gig with the Nature Conservancy.”

  “Do you travel a lot?”

  “Not too much. Some. Enough to keep me driving a hearse for money.”

  “What are all those clocks?” I point to the other side of the office, which is covered with all these different clocks. Chrome clocks, cuckoo clocks, old clocks, new clocks. None of them is ticking and they’re all set to different times.

  “Those?” Nick says. “Those are for all the different moments in my life that I want to remember. That one there is set to the exact time my mom died: two forty-two. Over there, that one is set for five forty-three; that’s when I first reached the summit of Mount McKinley. Little hobby.”

  “Wow,” I tell him. “Pretty . . . cool hobby.”

  “Didn’t you say you had to pee?”

  I use the bathroom, which has a solar-powered toilet and is uncharacteristically clean for a bachelor pad. I wash my hands. Tucked into the mirror is a creased photograph of an old woman smiling and blowing out a birthday cake. His mother, I think. I dry my hands and notice a small blue glass vase filled with dried seahorses on the shelf next to the sink. Perfectly preserved, all standing together, as if they were riding in a subway car and waiting for the next stop.

  I come out of the bathroom and Nick’s made coffee. Espresso, on his shiny little machine. “Wait a minute . . .” I say, pointing at him. “I know why you’re familiar!”

  “Don’t tell me that you saw me in your dreams,” he says. “That’s what women always say.”

  “No! I saw you at that Mexican restaurant. Last year!”

  “El Salsaria?”

  “Yes! Yes! Oh my God! You were standing outside when my husband and I were . . . fighting. Arguing. Having a discussion.”

  Nick tilts his head and nods slightly. “Oh yeah . . . I think I remember that. You were yelling at him . . . for not killing spiders.”

  “That’s right! That was us! I remember you. I remember your orange parka! I kept thinking, Why is this creepy guy watching us?”

  “Frankly,” Nick says, “I was a little worried about the guy. I thought you might choke him. Didn’t he order some video online? I remember you yelling at him about some video he bought called Grannies Who Chug Cock.” Nick snorts. “You married that guy?”

  “That was not our . . . best moment.”

  “I remember that fight pretty clearly now. You said he was cheating on you.”

  “Did I?”

  “Well, was he? Cheating on you?”

  “No! No. Of course not. I was . . . insecure at the time. Speaking of time, it’s late. We should really . . .” My cell phone suddenly rings and I dig it out of my cleavage. “Hello?”

  It’s Hailey.

  She’s out of breath, talking so fast I can’t understand her.

  I say, “Hailey, slow down. What happened?”

  She takes a deep breath and repeats herself. She says it’s Dad. He’s in the emergency room, he collapsed an hour ago. I have to get to the emergency room quick. They don’t know how long he’ll hang in there. I get off the phone, stunned. My heart has no beat. I blink and look at Nick. “It’s my dad . . .” I tell him. “He’s had a heart attack.”

  Nick drives me there on two wheels.

  I sprint through the glass emergency room doors, my breath in short sharp bursts. I nearly crash into a woman leaving the hospital with a bright bouquet of sunflowers; they seem wrong and grossly inappropriate. I have to wait in line for what seems like an hour but is probably five minutes. I regret telling Nick to go. He tried to stay but I told him
I’d be fine.

  Which I’m not.

  How can you be expected to ask about your critically unwell family member without crying? Or shouting? I never find out. The intake nurse herds me to a private room, separate from the main lobby and its lost ocean of empty blue chairs. There, my family is waiting.

  “My God,” I say, staring at Hailey’s belly. “You’re huge.”

  “Thanks,” she snarls. “You’re dressed like an idiot.”

  She’s right. I am dressed like an idiot. I’m wearing a five-thousand-dollar dress, a safety-orange parka, and huge black hunting boots. I forgot to give them back.

  I sit down on the peach-colored couch. My mom tells me they arrived twenty-eight minutes ago. The doctors are still running tests and assessing his condition.

  “Why’d we get a private room to wait in?” I ask.

  Hailey shrugs. “The nurse just said it was more comfortable.”

  More comfortable? Why do they want us to be comfortable? My heart begins to hammer. We sit on the scratchy apricot couches, staring into space. I become focused on a rage-inducing pastel print hanging on the wall, a starfish lying on a beach; beneath him it says LOVE LAUGHS WITH NATURE. I don’t get it and I hate it. Lenny arrives with coffee. I dial Brad for the millionth time and leave another message. He’s nowhere to be found. Then the waiting room door opens and we all sit up.

  Blood roars through my head like a rushing ocean and splotches of the room turn gauzy, filmy white. Am I having a stroke? I think I’m having a stroke. I will have my stroke quietly so I don’t distract the doctors. The air is cold like stone. My fingers worry the scratchy peach fabric. The sand-colored walls press in around me. No, you must tune in to what’s happening, Jennifer. Tune in! I catch words. Condition . . . critical . . . ICU . . . still testing . . .

  I focus harder. I breathe.

  Whatever it is, you can handle it. What can they do? Can they kill you? So they kill you. Imagine all the frustration you’ll avoid. No more pantyhose. No more parking at grocery stores in subzero weather. I breathe slower.

  I tune in.

  Dad’s condition is not good, but it’s stable. Stable is good. Stable means he’s not getting worse. They have him up in the ICU. We collect our things and troop to the elevators. We see him in his room for the first time, so thin and frail under white sheets. My heart clutches, and I feel silently hysterical. The nurses take us to the ICU waiting room.