Good Luck (3 page)

“It’s definitely something we should talk about,” he’d said, folding me into his arms. Despite being thin, Elliott was a world-class cuddler. He was the human equivalent of a cozy sweater. “Not right now, of course, not while I’m still getting my business up and running.” Elliott had recently left the large realty group he’d worked at for the past seven years to start up his own office. “But soon. Very, very soon.” And then he’d leaned back and smiled playfully at me. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll be a holly jolly Christmas this year.”

“Do you think Santa will bring me something sparkly?” I’d asked, playing along.

“Maybe…” Elliott said, raising his eyebrows knowingly. Then he kissed me in a way that I thought sealed the deal.

I hadn’t told Maisie about any of this. Any mention of Elliott and the cautious approach he took toward marriage always caused her to roll her eyes and mutter under her breath about commitment-phobic bastards and how I should get the hell out of it before it was too late.

I privately thought that in order to maintain her grudge against him, Maisie was deliberately ignoring all of the wonderful things Elliott had done over the years. Like when I had my tonsils out and he’d filled the freezer with ice cream and brought over his blender to make milk shakes for me. And then there was the time he surprised me by waiting in line at the bookstore on the night the last Harry Potter book came out, so when I woke up it was waiting for me on my nightstand. He had some issues, sure, but who didn’t, especially by the time they reached their thirties? And I knew Elliott. At his core, he was a really good guy in all the ways that mattered.

And yet…I wasn’t at all sure how he would react to the news that I was, in all likelihood, about to be insolvent and unemployable. Of course we were in a committed relationship, especially now that he had finally rented out his condo and moved in with me. But the new living arrangement was taking some getting used to, and I’d thought Elliott had been a bit distant lately. It was probably just nerves, I knew, but I also wasn’t thrilled at the idea of adding more stress to our relationship.

I hadn’t shared any of this with Maisie, not wanting her already low opinion of him to sink even further. So now I just said, “Hmmm, yeah, good thing.”

Maisie gave me a sharp look, but I was saved from prosecutorial interrogation by the sudden and uproarious entrance of Gus and Leo. They came hurtling into the kitchen like twin rockets. Gus was wearing a red superhero cape, and Leo had on a quiver of foam arrows and a toy bow slung over one shoulder.

“You two look like you’re expecting trouble,” I said.

They giggled in response, and then Leo whispered something in Gus’s ear. Gus, always the more vocal of the two, said, “Mama, can we have juice boxes? And crackers?”

“Already? You just finished breakfast ten minutes ago,” Maisie said. She shook her head at me. “These two are like bottomless pits. Do you know our grocery bill has tripled since they started on solids? Not doubled.
Tripled
. I can’t imagine what our food budget is going to look like when they’re teenagers.”

“Goldfish crackers, please!” Leo piped up. He waved his bow around. I privately questioned the decision-making that had gone into arming the boys, even with something as seemingly benign as a plastic bow and foam arrows.

“And juice boxes!” Gus chimed in, quickly adding, “Please!”

“Okay, okay,” Maisie said. She stood up, grabbed a giant carton of Goldfish out of the cupboard, and began dispensing the crackers into two green plastic bowls.

I got up too and fetched the promised juice boxes out of the fridge. “Apple or fruit punch?” I asked the boys.

“Punch!” Leo yelled.

“Apple!” shouted Gus.

I distributed the juice boxes, only to have the boys thrust them back at me with orders to unwrap the attached straws for them. It was only when they’d run back out of the kitchen, snacks in hand and making more noise than seemed possible, that I noticed the lottery ticket stuck to the refrigerator door with a plastic banana-shaped magnet.

“A lottery ticket?” I turned around to look at Maisie, my eyebrows arched.

“What?” she asked, trying to sound blasé, although the effect was ruined when she flushed a dark red.

“You’ve always said the lottery is a tax on stupid people.”

“Well, the jackpot is really high this week. Eighty-seven million dollars,” Maisie said defensively. “I told you our grocery bill is out of control.”

“Eighty-seven million would certainly buy a lot of juice boxes,” I said.

“Tell me about it. I don’t normally play, and I know you have a better chance of getting struck by lightning than winning the lottery.”

“Especially in this state,” I said. Late-afternoon thunderstorms were commonplace in south Florida.

“But when the jackpot gets this high…Well, I figured why not.” Maisie shrugged and refilled her coffee mug from the glass carafe. “I picked the twins’ birthday and Joe’s and my wedding anniversary as my numbers. I thought they might carry some good juju.”

“You’re not supposed to play dates,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because everyone plays meaningful dates, which means that there are a disproportionate number of tickets sold where all the numbers are thirty-one or lower.”

Bruce Greene, the algebra teacher at Andrews Prep, had once told me this over lunch in the teachers’ lounge. Bruce was full of fun facts. He’d also told me that, over a lifetime, the average person swallows eight spiders in their sleep.

“So?”

“So it means there’s a higher probability that someone else will pick the same numbers. And then you’ll have to share the money with them,” I explained.

Maisie snorted. “Half of eighty-seven million dollars? I think I can live with that.”

“No kidding. Can you imagine having that kind of money?”

“Yes, I can. We could pay off the house, the credit cards, my student loans, and put aside money for the twins’ school tuition. And after all of that, we might just have enough left over to splurge on a few cheeseburgers,” Maisie joked.

“Surely things aren’t that bad.”

“Well, maybe we could afford a couple of steaks instead of the cheeseburgers.”

She said this lightly, but I knew Maisie and Joe had been having financial trouble for a while. It started when they hadn’t been able to conceive. Maisie’s health insurance didn’t cover consultations with the fertility specialist, and then it took three rounds of in vitro fertilization before she got pregnant. They’d spent upward of fifty thousand dollars by the time the twins were born, and she and Joe had taken out a second mortgage on their house to pay for it. And then Maisie had opted to stay home with the boys, reasoning that by the time she paid the double childcare costs, her state attorney’s salary wouldn’t go very far. So now she was a fulltime stay-at-home mom, and they were managing on Joe’s earnings from the landscape nursery he owned. At least, I’d thought they were managing.

“Maisie,” I began, but before I could ask her if their financial troubles were more serious than I’d thought, the twins had stormed the kitchen yet again, roaring for more Goldfish crackers.

“More?” Maisie asked, her face screwed up in comical disbelief. “You ate all of those crackers already? I don’t believe it!”

“We did! We ate the crackers!” Leo said, delighted with himself.

Max grinned and nodded. “We did, Mama, we did!”

“Are there holes in your tummies?” Maisie asked teasingly. She picked Leo up and nimbly turned him over, so that his T-shirt fell open, exposing a pale, rounded belly. He laughed uproariously and kicked his legs, while Maisie tickled his stomach and asked, “Is there a hole in there, Mr. Belly Button?”

“Pick me up, Mama, pick me up!” Gus begged, and Maisie set Leo down and swooped Gus up and repeated the gag with him.

And now that the kitchen was full of light and laughter and the screeches of childish pleasure, I didn’t have the heart to drag Maisie back to the depressing reality of her financial troubles. Besides, I had my own, more pressing problems to deal with. And remembering this—my sudden unemployment, the accusations that had been made against me, the uncertainty of where I’d go from here—it all hit me anew. There was no escaping the truth: I was in major trouble.

Two

         
I STAYED FOR LUNCH WITH MAISIE AND THE BOYS
—grilled cheese sandwiches with charred crusts and canned tomato soup. When Leo started to yawn and Gus burst into tears when Maisie told him he couldn’t have another cookie, Maisie announced it was time for their nap.

“I should get going anyway,” I said.

“You don’t have to leave,” Maisie protested, following me to the front hall, where I gathered up my bag.

“No, I should go. I have to…” Then I stopped, because there was nothing I had to do. By all rights, I should still be at work. I glanced at my watch. It was just after one. Sixth period. My ninth-grade class. We were near the end of the
Romeo and Juliet
unit, and last week I’d broken the class up into pairs and assigned each to memorize one of the scenes from the play. They’d been rehearsing ever since, and today the first few teams were going to present their scenes to the class. It was always a fun project, one the kids really got into. Some even wore costumes and brought props.

I was going to miss it. This realization caused a small stab of pain to puncture my heart. I wondered who was going to sub in for me. Then I remembered that no one would be subbing for
me
. It wasn’t my class anymore. Someone else would soon have my job. And the pain I felt at this wasn’t at all small; it was more along the lines of an anvil being dropped off a cliff and landing on my head.

“Lucy?” Maisie asked.

I started, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t finished my sentence. I was so traumatized and so frightened, I didn’t even have the ability to carry on a simple conversation.

“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t remember what I was saying. I think I’m going to go home and lie down.”

“Why don’t you stay here? You can nap in our room. The boys will sleep for hours, so they won’t bother you,” Maisie offered.

“No, thanks. I want to go home,” I said. I leaned forward and hugged her. “Thanks for putting up with me today. The company helped.”

“Anytime,” Maisie said. She leaned back and looked at me, a small frown pulling down at her lips. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

“I’m unemployed, not drunk,” I said.

“Call me later,” Maisie said.

“I will,” I promised.

But once I was in my car, headed toward home, I couldn’t remember why I’d been in such a hurry to leave the warm, raucous atmosphere of Maisie’s house. The loneliness of my predicament was suddenly unbearable.

But I was saved from having to contemplate it further. My Volvo coughed once and then, with an offensive lack of drama, died and rolled to a stop right in the middle of the street. The drivers of the cars behind me immediately began to register their displeasure. One honked, then another, and then several at once. And all the while I desperately turned the key, praying for something, anything to happen. A flicker of lights, a rumble of engine. Anything.

But nothing happened. I had no idea what was wrong. I had just filled up the tank that morning on my way in to work. Or, to be more accurate, on my way in to be fired. If it wasn’t gas, what could it be? What would cause a car to suddenly stop working? And what had I been thinking when I took home ec instead of auto shop back in high school? Surely the knowledge of what to do in these situations would have been a more valuable skill set to acquire than learning how to whip up canvas tote bags on a sewing machine.

Honk,
went the drivers.
Honk, honk. Honk
.

It was then that I burst into tears. I just sat there, clutching the steering wheel in the ten-and-two position, and sobbed, body-racking sobs, the kind that start in your lungs but spasm outward until your entire body is shaking. I sobbed, I howled, I wailed. I completely and totally lost it.

There was a sharp rap on my window. I started, and looked up. A police officer passing by had stopped and approached my car without my noticing. He was now standing at my window, peering in at me. The officer was overweight, his stomach pushing out against the unrelenting polyester of his uniform, and he had short hair that stood on end like the bristles of a brush. He was wearing the sort of reflective sunglasses I’d always loathed. Seeing myself now reflected in them and being confronted with a distorted view of my red, puffy, tear-streaked face did nothing to change my opinion.

The police officer made a
roll-down-your-window
gesture. I complied.

“What’s the problem here?” he asked gruffly.

For a wild moment I wondered if he somehow knew I’d been accused of propositioning a minor, and terror seized me. What if he arrested me? Put me in jail? What if I had to spend the rest of my life trapped behind bars, wearing an orange jumpsuit and being tortured by my fellow prisoners, who would all somehow know—they always did in the movies—what I’d been convicted of?

But, no. Dr. Johnson had told me that Matt’s parents had decided to let the matter drop if the school agreed to terminate my employment. And the officer, who had clearly decided that he was dealing with a crazy lady, confirmed this by taking on what he probably thought was a kinder, gentler tone.

“Are you having car trouble, ma’am?” he asked.

“Wha-what?” I hiccupped. “Oh. Um. Yes. I mean, I think so. My car just stopped suddenly. I was hoping it was just taking a moment.”

“Taking a moment?” the officer repeated.

“Yes. I thought maybe it just needed to rest a bit. Then it would get over it and start up again,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” the officer said.

“I’m not crazy,” I said defensively. “I just have a very temperamental car.”

“Ma’am, please step out of your vehicle,” the officer said. He opened the door for me, which I first thought was gallantry and then decided was more likely a concern that I was so deranged, I’d lock myself inside and start waving a gun around at passersby.

I sighed—deeply, unhappily, resignedly—and climbed slowly out of my car.

Forty-five minutes later, my Volvo was hooked up to the back of a tow truck, on its temperamental way to the auto shop, and I was walking home. Officer Drurry, who had turned out to be quite nice and had even thrown a few hard looks at the irate drivers he’d waved around my stalled car while we waited for the tow to arrive, had offered to give me a ride. I’d declined. I was less than a mile from home, and I thought the walk might clear my head.

And it worked. It felt like a big empty bubble had swollen up in my brain, pushing out the sinkhole of worry and anxiety that had been swirling around in there. Maybe it was some sort of post-traumatic stress response. Or maybe something inside me had broken down with my car. Either way, as I trudged along I was able to keep my focus on putting one foot in front of the other and vaguely wondering if the distant hazy grayness meant that it was going to rain later. It was while I was looking up at the darkening sky that I noticed the sign for the local Quik-Rite.

Water,
I thought.
That’s what I need—a nice, cold bottle of water.

I headed into the store, grabbed a bottle of spring water from the cooler, and took it to the cash register. The blonde behind the counter looked like she was in her fifties, but maybe she was a decade younger and had just lived a hard life. Her skin certainly had the sort of raw, unhealthy pallor that suggested a diet rich in cigarettes and cheap liquor. It didn’t help that all of the color had been peroxided out of her hair, save for two inches of mouse-brown roots. She was wearing a faded peach tank top over sagging breasts, and there was a black and blue tattoo of a unicorn on her shoulder. She lit a cigarette, took a long drag on it, and looked at me with bored indifference.

I set the water down on the counter.

“That all?” she asked.

It was then that I noticed the lit-up display advertising the Florida Lottery. Flashing lights blinked: $87 M
ILLION
!!!!!! P
LAY NOW
!!!!

“And a lottery ticket,” I said impulsively.

“One?”

“Yes.”

“Quick pick?”

“What? Um, just the regular lottery, please. The one with the eighty-seven-million-dollar jackpot,” I said.

The clerk sighed, as though I were the most annoying customer she had ever had to deal with. As she exhaled, two streams of smoke escaped out her nose, making her look like a dragon. A really mean dragon with a bad dye job. “You know what numbers you want to play, or you want the machine to pick ’em?”

“Oh. Um, I guess it can pick the numbers for me,” I said. She moved toward the machine. But suddenly remembering the conversation I’d had with Maisie, I said, “Wait. I want to pick my numbers.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “I already pressed the quick-pick ticket,” she complained. “If you want to pick your numbers, you’ll have to buy another ticket.”

“Okay,” I said. “That’s fine.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So what will your numbers be?” she asked, in a way that made it clear she wouldn’t be at all unhappy if a car suddenly burst through the Quik-Rite window and ran me over, killing me instantly. She nodded at a stack of cards standing upright in a Plexiglas box. “You fill in your numbers on a card, and then I put it into the machine here.”

“Oh…okay,” I said. I took a card and a stubby golf pencil. The card had the numbers 1 through 53 printed on it, each in the middle of a little bubble. To select a number, you had to pencil in the bubble. It reminded me suddenly, painfully, of the grading cards the students at Andrews Prep used for multiple-choice tests.

I shook my head, willing away all thoughts of school, and instead tried to focus on which numbers I should pick. Should I play Elliott’s and my birthdays? No. I’d just told Maisie that playing dates put you at a statistical disadvantage. Plus, considering how crappily my life was currently going, there was no way my date of birth would be chock full of good luck.

“Ma’am, there are customers waiting,” the cashier snapped.

I looked up and glanced wildly around. There were two men standing behind me, both wearing work uniforms with their names embroidered over their left nipples; one of them held a case of beer. They were both giving me hard stares.

“Oh…sorry,” I said. They didn’t respond. I had the feeling they, too, wouldn’t be upset to see a runaway car take me out. I quickly filled in the bubbles for 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, and 53—and instantly regretted it. What were the chances that six sequential numbers would be picked? And the last six numbers at that? But before I could change my mind, the cashier whipped the card out of my hand and stuck it into the machine.

“That’ll be three seventy-two,” she said.

I paid, took my tickets and my bottle of water, and left.

“Sorry about the wait,” I heard the cashier say loudly to the workmen, just as the door closed behind me.

Elliott’s car, an entry-level BMW he leased, was parked in the driveway. He claimed that it was important to “look successful to be successful.” A silver Mercedes SUV was parked behind it. I groaned. That meant Elliott had a client over again, probably to look at listings online or to review a contract. He had a home office set up for client meetings, but I wasn’t in the mood for it right now. I wanted to be able to walk into my house—our house, I quickly corrected myself—and change into sweats and veg out on the sofa with a pint of chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream. Or maybe a bottle of wine. Or both. Now I’d have to tiptoe around my own house, staying in the bedroom and discreetly out of view.

But then I remembered: I was out of work, so the success of Elliott’s fledgling business was all the more crucial. I’d just have to suck it up and be invisible.

I unlocked the front door, which opened directly into the living room. My French bulldog, Harper Lee, was nowhere to be seen. Elliott had probably closed her up in the kitchen, I thought, which was confirmed a moment later when I heard her high-pitched yip coming from that direction. I decided to change before I went in to greet her.

The bedrooms were off a hallway to the left of the living room. I set my bag down, kicked off my shoes, and padded down the hall. I didn’t hear any voices as I passed by the office, but the door was closed, and like many older homes, the walls were fairly thick. The bedroom door was closed too. I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

I was still holding on to the doorknob when I saw them. She was lying on the bed, stark naked except for her jewelry, of which there was quite a bit. Gold, mostly. Heavy chains of it roped around her neck and encircled her wrists. Her breasts were large and, from the way they were standing straight up off her chest, defying all laws of gravity, augmented with implants. The nipples were large too, and very dark. Her hair had been artfully highlighted with streaks of golden blond that perfectly complimented her lightly tanned skin. She didn’t have any tan lines.

Elliott was naked too. However, he was standing up. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, and he was holding on to her thighs as he rhythmically rocked his hips into her. He was very thin—too thin, really, with hip bones that jutted out sharply under his skin—and much paler than she was. I’d always thought that Elliott’s face was more interesting than it was handsome—the high clear brow, the long nose, the thin lips, the brown hair that flopped appealingly down on his forehead. His eyes were closed, and he started to groan, his breath escaping in small gasping puffs, the way he always did right when he was about to reach orgasm.