“What did you say, Mom?”
“I just said, do you love him?”
“Yes. I do. I think. No, I do. It’s all so confusing.” I lay down now, and the cats curl up beside me. Blue licks my ear and nuzzles into the nook between my face and the couch cushion, while Jewel nestles herself between my ankles.
“If you love him, it’s all worth it. And if you are going to live in his house, it will become your home, too. You don’t have to tell him it’s haunted. Just be honest about your feelings. And calm down. I feel like my blood pressure is up just from sensing your tension through the phone. And just so you know, I adore your father, but men have limitations. You can’t expect them to be perfect. Sometimes you have to find ways to be happy with what you have, and make a life.”
I sigh and sit up, dislodging my feline comfort team. “I’ll try, Mom. I’m taking the plunge, but I need a life vest. Speaking of which, my friend Claire…”
On the way to The Midnight Cowgirl, my mother and I chat about other, less stressful areas of my life, and she offers opinions. On Claire and her water mishap—“that girl has a loose screw,” Steve’s upcoming surprise fiftieth birthday party—“pleaaase don’t wait until the last minute and give people stale chips and gross dip that looks like someone threw up in the plate,” and my weight—“I’m not saying you’re fat, Dear, but baked goods are never a girl’s best friend.” Not surprisingly, none of this sterling advice has dislodged visions of spirits with unfinished agendas hovering around the perimeter of our…
“Hello! Earth to Rebecca!” Gina is doing her country line dancing moves at our table, while trying to alert me to something happening by the…oh, there’s Steve. And Tony.
“I’m sorry, I was just thinking…never mind. I presume the guys cut bowling short because they can’t be away from us for a second.” I smile and grab my fruity drink. I’m not sure what’s in it, but it’s called a “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.” A margarita of some sort? Actually with the names of some of these line dances, it seems like everything here has a sexual theme. Apparently the one they just finished is called the Sleazy Slide, and now they are channeling their BDSM side with Slappin’ Leather.
“Hello, Love. Have you been dancing?” Steve kisses me sweetly and wraps me up in a big hug.
“I try, but you know how I am. I can’t get into the music, but,” and I whisper, “I am secretly a little jealous. Look at Diane and Gina go.” We both turn to watch their perfectly choreographed moves as Tony jumps in beside them, and starts gyrating and stomping with the rest of the horny middle-aged country crowd.
“At least they both can dance.” Steve nods towards Tony and Gina, and I’m sure he is already on to their shaky start.
Steve sits beside me on the couch and puts his arm around my neck. I settle into the soft cushion (which I appreciate more than ever now that I sit on slippery and scratchy boards at home), and nestle my head in the nook below his neck, feeling his broad shoulder support my weary head.
We talk about our work days, and plans for the logistics of my move on Saturday. I have my brand new storage unit, thanks to Mabel. We aren’t going to bring too much there on Saturday, though. I need more time to go through my stuff and if I am being honest, get the nerve to actually dismantle my home. As long I have a bed set up there I have an emergency place to hide if things get bad at Steve’s.
I am well aware that I am being ridiculous and paranoid, and I should grow up. But I also think that most of the people who hold that opinion don’t live in a house with their partner’s dead spouse staring at them everywhere they go. I swear there are even pictures in the bathroom. I was organizing my makeup in my new linen closet and found a picture collage from a vacation to some island taped to the inside of the door. Who does things like that? I can probably safely take those down. Steve has informed me that he never goes in that bathroom. Throwing out her hairspray and deodorant is one of the first things on my list. See, I am not kidding at the severity of this situation.
As I take in deep breaths and listen to Steve tell me about how we’re going to introduce my cats and Elsa (fun never ends), I see a hot guy out of the corner of my eye who looks a lot like Luke. I steal a glance at Steve’s watch (yes, he STILL wears a watch), and see that it is late enough for the evening news to be over. Luke likes country music less than I do. What is he doing here?
I jerk myself up to a sitting position and straighten my top.
“What’s wrong, Sweetie? Do you want another drink?” He gestures towards the bar and I touch his leg. He has already met Luke, so it’s silly for me to be flustered, but Steve doesn’t know that Luke has been to my house or that I agreed to help him with his project. I would rather not add to my stress level with the move coming up.
“No, I’m just going to try this dance with the girls. I feel like I’m going to be labeled a boring old married lady soon.” I catch myself and feel the heat rising on my face. “Not that I’m getting married.” Obviously he knows that, Rebecca. “You know what I mean. It’s a singles’ group.” I give him a quick kiss as I eyeball the area for Luke.
I sneak onto the dance floor next to Gina and pray I can follow her steps at least enough to maintain some dignity. Most of these people look like they could be professional dancers on Nashville Tonight. I just made that up, but it could be a thing.
This dance is called the “Tush Push” (the word tush is one of the silliest in the English language—I can’t say it without rolling my eyes), and the song is something about that Chatanoochi, hoochi, goochie…The singer is one of the most twangy ones. Good voice, but I can’t make myself get into this, and as I said earlier I suck at choreographed moves. Gina grew up listening to R&B and hip hop in New Jersey, but for some reason if she hears any type of music she immediately knows how to dance to it. It’s a gift.
I am keeping up slightly, but then there’s a part with a leg kick I just don’t get, and now they’re turning and I just walked into the little cowgirl next to me, who is super serious.
As this song comes to a merciful end, I grab Gina and Diane and drag them to the other side of the dance floor. Chris is off sucking face with some cowboy in honor of her birthday. I guess I should be thankful we aren’t wearing penis hats, like the girls with the bachelorette party. Wait…oh my God…never mind, Claire would never wear a penis on her head.
“That was so much fun. You’re starting to get the steps, Rebecca. You should come to country line dancing lessons. I give them every other Thursday.” Diane stops talking as she follows my eyes around the room. “You dated that hot Luke, didn’t you?” She is clearly enjoying this girls’ conspiracy she has been pulled into.
Gina chimes in. “Yep, she did. Something else, huh?” She turns to me. “Are you hiding from him?” Her eyes widen. “What did you do?” Diane is salivating for gossip, and I almost feel bad that I don’t have any.
I explain that Steve and Luke did meet, but due to some minor omissions and duplicity on my part, I would rather they don’t meet up tonight.
“Maybe we could hide over there behind the fake cactus and tractor?” I point over to the themed decorative seating area, where a lot of the younger crowd are gathered.
As I lead them in that direction, Gina is still doing the moves to the song playing now. “You know, this isn’t country ‘hide and seek.’ Cover your eyes, count to ten, step to the right, kick, turn, and hide behind the cactus.” They both crack up at Gina’s antics, some of which has been powered by dirty named country cocktails.
“Uh oh, I think your stress and our slightly tipsy status may have caused an error in judgment.” Diane wags her finger through the crowd. We all step forward and turn in unison, providing a clear view of the couch I deserted. And Steve. Talking to Luke. Fuck.
“Why didn’t I take Steve with me? I have no idea how to be devious. If I was put in charge of a sneak attack in a war, the whole kingdom would topple in a heartbeat.”
“You’re just watching too much Game of
Thrones. You better ‘tush push’ your ass over there and find out what they’re talking about. I doubt they’re trading recipes.” More giggles.
Tony approaches our trio. “Where have you girls been? We’re trying to get Chris to come over to the table for the birthday cake.” He puts his arm around Gina and she leans on him like she’s relieved she doesn’t have the responsibility of keeping herself upright anymore.
Gina giggles into Tony’s neck. “Someone is hiding from her boyfriend,” she hiccups, “and her ex-boyfriend.”
Tony smirks at me and drags Gina and Diane away in search of Chris, who is probably riding a bronco by now. And by bronco, I mean guy in a cowboy hat.
Tony nudges the women forward while looking back and mouthing the words “call me,” making the international “telephone to the ear” gesture, even though no one uses a phone that looks like that anymore.
I never did call him after I confided in him at bowling. I always wonder what he might be telling Steve, but for God’s sake, someone has to tell Steve something someday. It dawns on me that Steve and I don’t really talk. We do things together, eat meals, have sex, he rubs my head, we watch Game of Thrones and Vikings, and chick movies to balance out the horror. But we don’t really talk. Not about real things. Real horror. And now I’m moving into his house.
My stride becomes purposeful and my smile bigger as I march over to Steve and Luke. I have a feeling all the cats are coming out of the bag, not just the ones I am transporting in the carriers on Saturday.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
“Elsa, the kitties really aren’t mean.” I bend down to peek under the dining room table at a big, fluffy white baby. She whines and lays her head down. Meanwhile Jewel and Blue circle the table like sharks. Idiots.
“What do you think they’re going to do to you, Elsa? And stop hissing, you little brats.” I shoo both of them outside to the sunporch, which needs major work. Apparently Noreen sat out here smoking pot and grading her students’ papers. It looks like a set on an episode of the Walking Dead.
I learned more about Noreen yesterday than I ever wanted to know. The move itself went smoothly. We rented a small U-Haul truck, and brought all of my personal belongings here, as well as a few pictures and knick-knacks. And of course the feline prince and princess. I told Steve we should leave my furniture where it is right now because I haven’t decided what I want to keep. Of course the truth is I am leaving my escape hatch open.
Back in the dining room, I coax Elsa out from under the table. I have never had a dog and I am worried that we are going to need a pet psychiatrist to help everyone get along. Hopefully Blue and Jewel will adjust. They’re fine outside on the porch, and they will venture into the yard, but they are not outdoor cats. Their spoiled asses are going to want to be in this house with me. Steve slept with them when he used to come to my house, so he knows that if he wants to ever get any sleep he has to snuggle up to the kitties again. However, if Elsa becomes freaked out sleeping with cats in the room, I am going to a hotel. How do people manage all of this crap? And have kids on top of it?
I pet Elsa to comfort her. “I know they’re not being very nice, I’m sorry.” I sit on the floor next to the table and Elsa comes out and lays her head in my lap. She is milking this trauma for maximum dramatic affect. She’s probably angling for a chicken or at least some cheese.
As I lean back against the chair legs and sigh, I stare up at the china, which is one of the most insane eyesores in the house. I was going to bring it up yesterday, but I had to tell Steve that I need to clean Noreen’s stuff out of the bathroom (he couldn’t understand why it was weird that he still had her toiletries and cosmetics—“I never go in there”).
The cats hissed and Elsa barked, and I swear she started molting when they arched their backs and showed their claws. After vacuuming up copious amounts of dog hair and trying to pacify my two unhappy transplants, I was too tired to complain about anything else. I figured it was only day one and I better pace myself. Steve hung a few pictures for me, and helped me dust and organize the kitchen (I insisted upon bringing my own cookware). He was cheerful all day, but I felt like I was in Crazyville.
“Elsa, I think we both need to get tougher.” I would almost rather hide under the dining room table until Steve comes home than be alone in this house. I didn’t think this through. He has a new Saturday morning study group for his master’s level students (apparently bug study continues in the summer), and since he had to miss it yesterday they rescheduled the meeting for today. So I am alone in this spooky dwelling on Sunday. With Elsa. And the two assholes on the porch. And Noreen.
Before I sound totally bonkers, I know she’s not actually here. At least I’m pretty sure, but now the reality of actually living here is setting in.
Nothing makes any sense. She cleaned all the time, almost compulsively, but yet there is so much clutter everywhere. Usually really clean people are very neat people, with sparse decorating. My house was never very clean or neat, but at least everything made sense. Bugs were out in the yard, and dishes were free of insect cadavers.
Elsa and I wander to the side of the house with our bedroom. Noreen’s office is on that side, too. The bedrooms on the other side of the house were used as a guest room and Megan’s room. I glanced into the guest room once a couple of weeks ago, and it was barren and not very inviting for company to visit. I guess they didn’t have out of town guests very often.
Steve said we can clean out Noreen’s office if I want to use it. Now that he knows I used to paint, he’s anxious for me to have a space to create. That’s sweet of him, but apparently her office is also where she painted, making it a very personal space. I poked my head in there and the weirdness factor rivals anything I’ve seen in the rest of the house. There’s so much shit in there, you can barely open the door. And my favorite item is the microscope with the dead bug pinned under it. It was like entering some kind of torture chamber.
I wanted to ask why he didn’t ask her mother, his sister, someone, to help him with all of this, but I am still crafting my speech about why all of this needs to be addressed.
I open Steve’s, I mean our, bedroom door and begin changing the sheets on the bed. I hate king size beds because they are so hard to make. Every time I get one corner set, I reach over and pull hard enough that the sheet snaps off the opposite corner.
“Elsa, you are no help at all.” She rolls over and shows her belly. “No, it’s not belly rubbing time.” As I run back and forth from side to side, and finally attempt to reach my body across the bed to keep everything in place, I give up and collapse on the unmade mattress.
I sit up abruptly and sigh. I’ll wait for Steve to come home to help me. I’ll take Elsa for a walk. It’s a beautiful day and the “ghost to people ratio” is lower outside. I can let the cats in while we’re out, and they can have some time to get used to the new space without feeling threatened by the canine queen. The royal hierarchy of animals is complex and delicate.
“Elsa, I have a great idea. Let’s see if Claire can meet us at the dog park. You will like Dixie.” Actually she’s probably just another mean little animal to scare the bejesus out of her. I hope Megan is visiting soon. On second thought, Elsa would benefit, but I’m not ready to meet little Noreen.
I call Claire and she loves the idea of getting together with the dogs. There’s a dog park about midway between our houses, so we agree to meet up in about half an hour.
I change into a pair of loose black shorts and a hot pink scoop neck t-shirt. I pull my mane back into a sloppy pony tail and smear some gloss on my lips and swipe my lashes with a little mascara. Good enough for the Sunday dog park crowd. I shoot Steve a quick text telling him my plans, in case he comes home and thinks I have run screaming out of the building.
I load Elsa into the car, and her tail is wagging rapidly, smacking the car door repeatedly. Luckily she is one of those dogs who loves the car. I rub her head as I reach for my seatbelt. “Do you think you’re going h
ome, sweet girl? I bet you wish you could.” I silently wish for the same thing for myself.
This week was such a flurry of activity getting ready for this move, I’ve barely thought about Luke. He has called a few times and said he has something he wants to discuss, but I told him it’s a bad time and I will have to get back to him.
The other night at The Midnight Cowgirl, Steve and Luke were indeed engaged in a lively discussion when I approached, after my failed hide and seek game. Luke was telling Steve about being on TV, and Steve was telling him stories about his students. They both beamed at me as I approached, and apparently Luke did not mention anything about coming to my house, meeting me for a drink, or anything else I was hoping to keep under wraps. I was relieved, but in a way it made me trust him even less. If we’re not doing anything wrong, why hide anything, but perhaps it just didn’t come up. And what the hell does he want now? I told him I would read his stupid screenplay.
Watching Luke for the remainder of the night, dancing with various women, laughing, drinking, and smiling with all those perfect white teeth, just made me long for a simpler time. My stomach hurts when my mind goes down this path because I do love Steve. But Luke is so simple. He has no baggage, and if he did acquire any, he would just toss it and start over. He exudes youth, confidence and a carefree life. Steve is carrying a heavy weight, and I am about to drop more boulders on him.
We arrive at the Woof Woof Acres dog park, which is located in a larger county park. I spot Claire holding a jumpy Dixie, just like a baby. No, that dog isn’t going to feel displaced by a human baby. Never. I shake my head and have to smile as I see her animatedly talking to her furry child and kissing her head before gently placing her on the ground. Now Dixie is pulling on her leash, willing Mommy to run to the fun and all her little friends.
Afraid of Her Shadow Page 21