Trouble Won't Wait

by Autumn Piper

  I called my ob-gyn this morning and had her phone in a prescription for me, for the Pill. Now I’m thankful I don’t use the family doctor for female needs anymore. It might seem fishy to him and raise questions, since he did Mike’s vasectomy.

  As I clomp past Adam’s back fence, a very wet snowball clobbers the back of my head. I react in time to see a second tightly packed missile heading at my chest, and move aside without a moment to spare. Adam thinks he has an advantage hiding behind his fence, but he doesn’t expect me to charge straight for him and run through the gate so he can face me like a man. In his yard, we wage silent war for several minutes. The only audible evidence of the battle is the splatting of snowballs exploding on impact, and an occasional grunt as we bend our old bodies over to form our weapons.

  I’ve been stockpiling mine, awaiting opportunity. Which just arrived. He’s bent over, packing and rounding a huge ball. He must think there’s some Snowball Fight Code of Ethics, and I won’t attack if he’s unarmed.

  He’s sadly mistaken. I launch my stash in quick succession, until his entire backside is white. He waves his snow-whitened glove in the air, begging, “Truce, truce!”

  “You started it, troublemaker!” I cautiously approach, making sure he’s going to abide by his truce and it’s not an ambush. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright.

  “I see the wheels turning, tell me what you’re thinking,” he prods softly.

  “How lucky I am that I met you at just the right time.”

  “You’re tryin’ to kill me, aren’t you?”

  It makes me giggle, while he hugs me hard against him. With all our outerwear, it’s more of a big squeeze than a hug. I can see Rascal trying to scratch at the glass on the back door. Adam lets him out to gingerly stick his little paw in the snow. He’s more interested in batting at the falling flakes. Once his nose gets smacked by a big wet one, Rascal decides snow sucks and scampers back inside.

  It’s time for me to go, and as I back out the gate, Adam says, “I’m crazy for you, remember.”

  I answer with, “Me, too. Bonkers. Nutso.” I turn and run, before he tries to catch me for a kiss.

  * * * *

  I know I’m still grinning like a fool when I get home. Mike is there, home early to avoid being stormed in at Aspen. A box of fine chocolates sits on the counter. I groan aloud. Is he at it again?

  He comes to the kitchen and explains, “It’s just an apology. I’m not expecting anything for it.” He looks me up and down. I’m basically soaked from head to toe. “You fall down out there, or what?”

  Or what. I smile as I’m quickly turning my back.

  “We have an appointment with Baldwin tomorrow at nine,” he tells me.

  Jesus, that guy again? Whatever. I’m mostly in it for comic relief now. There has to be a way I can use him as a character in one of my books. What would he do if I showed up for our session with my own little notebook, scribbling notes about him? I laugh out loud at the thought, making Mike look at me funny.

  “All right,” I sing back at him, on the way to shower.

  * * * *

  Baldwin’s deadline for fixing our marriage is looming. I can say in all honesty, that even if I’d wanted his help, he’d have failed miserably. Today he asks us to speak “candidly” about the current state of our physical relationship. I believe this is territory we’ve covered, Dr. Bangs.

  For most of the session, I’m thinking of websites where I might find him some roach clips, like the ones girls wore in their hair in the eighties. I’d like to buy him some. His bangs are thin and limp, and the clips would hold them back just fine. Maybe some with pink and purple feathers.

  Mike talks up a storm, mostly hooey as far as I can tell. He’s managed to tell Baldwin about my “spiteful” episode with the showerhead, but conveniently left out the tale of him nearly forcing himself on me only three nights ago. If this were real therapy, I’d even the playing field, but why bother upsetting myself by reliving that night?

  When Mike keeps blathering about how much my rejections hurt him, I am sorely tempted to tell him I spent Saturday night on the phone with my soon-to-be lover, dishing up phone sex like a pro. I’d like to see his jaw drop upon hearing it. But then, he’d probably accuse me of making it up.

  Baldwin’s dress code has gradually deteriorated since our first visit, when he wore a suit. The day he came on to me, he had on khakis and a pull-over shirt with a peace sign. Today he’s sporting some type of slacks, and an untucked dress shirt he’s tie-dyed.

  Oops. He just asked me a question, and now I need him to repeat it.

  “What if we were to dispense with this archaic European concept of monogamy, and focus on the love between you?”

  I have to look at Mike to see if he finds this idea as ridiculous as I do. His apologetic expression says he does.

  If I closed my eyes and counted to ten, would my response be kinder? Who cares? “Monogamy’s not a concept, Baldwin. It’s a commitment. It was a promise! Have you ever had someone break a promise to you? A lifelong promise?”

  He squirms some, and looks away.

  “You’ve never been married.” An educated guess on my part. “Have you ever had a girlfriend, or a partner cheat on you?” I say “partner” because he could be gay. Again, no answer. Jesus, the guy is such a flake, I doubt he’s had a serious girlfriend. Now I remember he wanted me, so I guess he’s not completely gay.

  Because I’m cranky, and I’d like to get out of here early, I ask, “Have you ever had a relationship with a girl that lasted after the weed wore off?” Mike’s elbow nudges my ribs before I rise. “Then, Baldwin, you have no concept of our love, and what it means to us, or why we chose, together, to enter into a vow of monogamy. The love between us was irreparably harmed by the breaking of that vow. And unless you can empathize with my feelings of betrayal, you can’t help me.”

  As I march out of there, I give thanks to God above for the fifteen minutes I salvaged by leaving early.

  * * * *

  Today is lunch with big brother, Mark. During Mark’s five years of college, he went through nine majors, including pre-med and law. His last month of school, he met the owner of a plumbing supply company while bartending, and landed a job as a rep, making more money than most of the doctors around here do.

  Mark’s happily married and has twin daughters and a son, Jake. Jake is Rachel’s age, and he usually spends a lot of time at our house. Come to think of it, he hasn’t been around much lately. I’ll have to ask Mark why.

  Everybody knows Mark, and pretty much all of them like him in spite of his endless supply of politically incorrect jokes. I don’t personally believe he’s prejudiced against every minority, gays, churches and atheists, democrats and republicans, communists, illegals, blondes, cheerleaders, and women, but a person didn’t know him and listened to him talk, would. Mark knows more jokes than Rodney Dangerfield, I swear.

  As I sit in the Mexican restaurant waiting for him, I wonder why the heck I haven’t confided in him before. He always has something to say to make me laugh.

  Here he comes in the door now, flirting with the hostess, though she’s a minority, a woman, and probably Catholic. Mark is a big, strapping guy. He has a body built for physical labor. In days of yore he would have been a blacksmith or a log-tosser at the lumber mill. If he’d been an outlaw, he would have kicked every ass in town. Instead, I got him as a big brother, and I’m sorry to admit, he kicked a lot of little boy butt at my request. Anybody crossed me at school or on the bus home, Big Mark was comin’ at ’em.

  I earned my rights to protection, though, because he lived to tickle me when our parents were around, and torture me horribly when they weren’t. His favorite trick was to hang me by my belt loops from a huge old rusty spike driven high up in the trunk of a backyard tree. As soon as Mom and Dad pulled out of the driveway and left Marky in charge, that’s just where he’d stick me, until he heard their car coming back over the hill. Unless it was storming outs
ide. It’s not like he was a tyrant, or anything.

  Every time I see him, I make him apologize for being so mean.

  “Marker!” I greet him. I know, childish, but it’s what I’ve called him since I was a child. Sometimes it’s “Marks-a-Lot,” with or without a “Sir” at the beginning. It was the only thing I could do to torment such a giant of a brother.

  I stand to hug him, and he lifts me from my feet just to remind me he can, making sure to grab the back belt loop. He knows I’ll have a wedgie I’ll have to either live with, or pick out in the middle of the lunch-crowded restaurant. Yes, we behave in a very juvenile manner in my family, but at least we get along, unlike some families.

  Pretending to enjoy the snuggie, I smile sweetly at him as we sit. “It feels like old times, hangin’ for hours in the elm tree,” I say, sighing. My missile hits its mark.

  He cringes. “I was the world’s worst babysitter. Sorry.” He’d go ballistic on his son for torturing one of the girls like that.

  The server brings us chips and salsa, and gets our drinks. Mark’s a teetotaler, paranoid about getting out of control when he’s drunk like he used to in college. I, however, go for a margarita with my lunch.

  We exchange small talk, he tells me some silly story about Jake and his little dirt bike, and we order our food. Mark gets two entrees–two!–and I know he’ll eat whatever I don’t suck up quick from my own plate. His poor wife doubles all her recipes, just to make sure she has enough for him at every meal.

  “How come Jake hasn’t been around this month?” It’s unusual, and I can’t recall being mean to the kid.

  Mark looks across the table at me, his eyebrows stretching up a bit closer to his receding hairline, and I have a feeling young Ben has been confiding in his cousin. Naturally, Jake would have repeated his concerns to his dad. Naturally.

  “What do you know?” All I can do is shake my head in resignation.

  “That you haven’t slept in the same room with Mike since Thanksgiving, and he’s been showerin’ you with presents the whole time. Been usin’ his dipstick to check somebody else’s oil, huh?”

  Must’ve been easy to deduce. After all, I’ve never been cross with Mike for more than a few hours before this. I nod, rolling my eyes at Mark’s silly way of describing The Indiscretion.

  “Want me to kick his ass?”

  Hey…cool. I hadn’t thought of that before.

  “Watcha gonna do about it?”

  Same old question, but at least I have an answer. “Nothing ’til after Christmas. I agreed to go to counseling for a month. But it’s over. Know a good divorce lawyer?” Oops, I left him wide open to tell a lawyer joke. Never mind that he once wanted to be one. Now he acts like they’re all bad.

  “Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, an honest lawyer and an old drunk are all walking down the street when they spot a hundred dollar bill on the ground. Who gets it?” He barely pauses. “The old drunk, because all the rest are mythological.”

  Mark waits for me to smile, then gives me the name of a guy he knows who is an effective lawyer.

  “You tell Mom yet?” He’s looking at me the same way he did when I brought home Mom’s Buick with a big ding in the fender. His eyes say what his mouth mercifully doesn’t: “Bummer, Mand. But better you than me.”

  “I wasn’t really planning to tell anybody until after the holidays.”

  “Kenna and I were afraid you were thinkin’ of lettin’ Mikey slide.”

  “I did consider it, for a while.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?” Mark doesn’t get angry often, but he’s pretty irritated right now. Usually Irritated Mark is scary enough to make people comply with his wishes.

  I’ll push the envelope though, knowing he’s soft inside. “It’s my life, Mark. And it’s my right to decide who to forgive, and for what.”

  He looks at me like I’m stupid. The glasses he put on when the server took our menus are coming off. Mark can’t see with glasses. He takes them off to drive. He takes them off to read. He doesn’t actually need them. I know this because one of my best friends works at the optometrist’s office, and she told me Mark pestered the doctor–an old friend of his–to give him a prescription, so they got him the lowest one available. Mark has a bit of a complex about people thinking he’s dumb because he’s big. Wearing glasses makes him look smart, and he looks good in them too.

  But now they’re off, and he’s focusing on me, eyes narrowed in either a squint or more profound irritation than before. “That’s just plain stupid, Mandy.” Easy for him, open and shut case, right? Watch me turn the tables.

  “So if Kenna cheated, only once, just a big screw-up–pardon the pun–it would be ‘Sayonara, baby’?”

  “It’s not an accident when somebody screws around, Man. It’s not like the guy fell down and his pecker poked her by mistake.” He still thinks I’m a moron.

  “You’re missing the point, smart-ass. You don’t think you’d forgive Kenna, or at least try? Wouldn’t you consider forgiving her as opposed to losing her for good?”

  A shadow falls over big Mark’s face at the thought of life without his pretty wife, his soul mate.

  “Okay. But you decided not to. That’s good. Dumb and Dumber will be glad to hear there’s some fresh tail on the market.”

  Dumb and Dumber are his friends, Dave and Danny. One lives next door to Mark, the other across the street. I used to give Mark all kinds of shit about his friends from high school buying houses so close to his, but I do think it’s cute that they’re all buddies and stick together. And do they ever!

  Every weekend they all hang out in Mark’s garage, watching the sports package on his big flat TV. Dave and Danny have both divorced since they’ve lived in Mark’s neighborhood, and poor Kenna ends up feeding them every weekend, in addition to my Paul Bunyan of a brother.

  “I thought your days of torturing me were over. You’d really set me up with one of them?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. I know how those two think. They’ll be glad you’re on the market, but I’ll kick their asses if they come near you.” That’s more like my big brother. “Just Halloween, I almost knocked their heads together for makin’ lewd comments about you.”

  Mike and I had dressed as Fred and Wilma Flintstone for Halloween. I guess I was showing more leg, or something, than I thought I was. I’ve lost another fifteen pounds since then, so the costume probably wouldn’t even fit now. I like that Dave and Danny appreciated what they saw. I used to worship them when I was a teenager and they ran around with Mark. It’s tempting to tell my brother I’m not planning to be “on the market” at all, that I already have designs on another guy.

  But what would he think?

  “I’ll get somebody suitable lined up for ya by New Year’s.” Now he thinks he’s going to choose my next man?

  I shake my head.

  “You need somethin’ sooner than that? I’ll see what I can drum up.”

  “Mark! I’m still living with my husband, for God’s sake. I’ve got a daughter to set an example for!”

  He shrugs nonchalantly. “Just don’t go ridin’ a stranger’s stick horse when she’s around. Mom’s comin’ to get the kids the twenty-sixth, by the way.”

  “You told her?”

  “No. I told her the kids wanted to go see her, but you can’t get away. Sheesh, you think I’m some kinda nark or what?”

  “Oh. Thanks.” What a relief. “Sorry. Anyway, I just have to tell you about this freak counselor Mike has us seeing.”

  Mark laughs so hard he’s in tears by the time we’re done eating.

  On the way out to our vehicles, I ask him, “Hey, you know any of those guys with the gas company Mom and Dad sell to?”

  He nods. Mark knows everybody, like I said.

  “How about one named Kraft, Adam Kraft?”

  He looks thoughtfully at the snow-covered mountains to the south, and nods. “Yeah. Think he used to wrestle for Aspen.”

  Mark was a high sc
hool wrestler because he could always win. Since his opponents were chosen based on weight class, he’d usually end up with a short fat guy he could easily wrap himself around in ten seconds flat.

  “No, this guy came here from Texas.”

  He looks at me like I’m a blonde in one of his jokes. “Same guy from wrestling, just moved back here, and he’s a honcho with the gas outfit.” His words come out slower now, carefully enunciated to make sure his simpleton sister understands what he’s saying. His look says, “Duh!” but he keeps that part unspoken. Now he narrows his eyes on me again. “You wrestlin’ him?”

  I slug his naturally bulky arm hard, leaving my hand regretting my move. “Mark!” Just my luck, his name comes out a squeal, giving me away. “No. I met him when I was out walking. He has a house by the cemetery, and I’ve talked to him some.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll have a little talk with him, myself.” He’s chuckling as he enters his over-sized, heavy-duty truck, making it seem like a little Toyota inside.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  He was kidding. I hope.

  * * * *

  I’m walking the loop and freezing my tail off. It’s frigid out today. I don’t think it’s been above zero, a real good day to be inside by a fire. Still, the sun is out and I’m in high spirits after lunch with Mark. A thin layer of sweat keeps trying to come out along my spine, but just as it breaks, the freezing wind finds a way past my layers of clothing, blasting over my moistened skin. My poor ears are nearly numb, even with a headband over them. Yeah, I’m probably a lunatic. But I know at the end of my walk is a reward that will make me all warm and toasty, and tide me over until tomorrow.

  When Adam comes out his back door, he looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles. He refuses to stay outdoors while we talk, so I gratefully follow him in. I peel off my gloves and scarf, followed by headband and jacket, making a messy heap of fluffy red fleece on his counter.

  I turn back to face him.

  He’s tossed his coat across his couch and stares at my stack of outerwear.

  With a wave in front of his eyes, I ask, “Hello? Anybody in there?”