Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (18 page)

“No worries,” Cinnabon girl says. “I let my best customers use our employee bathroom. It's in the back.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, starting to push the swinging door open.

“Not so fast.” She stops me. “I said my
best
customers.” She smiles and taps the Cinners Club sign on the swinging door.

I look at her in horror. “Seriously? That's where you were going?”

She smiles at me unkindly. “I think we both know where I was going. I get a commission for every new membership I sell.”

“Fine, I will, right after I . . . I just need to . . .” I try to push my way past her, but she holds the swinging door shut. Evil witch. She makes me fish out my credit card and hand it to her before she lets me in. I dash past her and into the back room, where I use the smallest, dirtiest employee bathroom I've ever seen. When I come out, the Cinnabon girl hands me a membership card and a copy of
Cinn and Bon, the Cinner's Club Monthly Newsletter.
I snatch them up and march onward . . . then stop short. “Nice try,” I say.

She looks up at me. “Forget something?”

“No, not me . . .
you did.
Give it.”

“Give . . .” She looks around quizzically. “Oh! Of course. Sorry.” She digs under the counter and tosses me a Cinnabon scratch-n-sniff key chain. I snap it up like a shark on a hunk of plastic scratch-n-sniff steak. “Sorry!” she says again as I start to leave.

I look back at her and shrug. “Aren't we all?”

14

Queen of Hearts

L
ast year on Valentine's Day, both my sister and my ex-boyfriend got married. I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't to each other. This year will be different. The whole thing's scheduled. While Brad spends the day at the office, I'll spend the whole day at the spa getting primped, plumped, plucked, and prepared. Then I'll go home and put on my perfect Valentine's Day dress, a red Valentino that Addi found for me at a New York fashion show. Then Brad will come home and we'll take a limo to the annual Hillcrest Valentine's Day Sweetheart Ball.

It will be perfect
or
I will kill myself.

Everything goes according to plan; there are no mishaps at the spa, no unfortunate waxing incidents or anal bleaching burns, no getting locked inside the sauna for six hours. On the way home my mother calls to wish me a happy Valentine's Day. “So, hon,” she says. “I just wanna make sure you're wearing your big boots tonight.”

“Um . . . I wasn't planning on it.”

“Honey, I'm serious. You have to stay warm. It's two degrees below zero.”

“I know, that's why I rented a limousine. So we'd stay warm.”

“But, honey, you still have to get from the car to the door.”

“And I'll get frostbite during that time?”

“You could slip.”

“I won't slip.”

“You can't go out in this weather without boots on, hon.”

“Mom, I'm wearing a five-thousand-dollar Valentino gown. I'm
not
wearing boots.”

“Well, there was a story on the news last night about this poor girl whose car broke down near Brainerd and she walked for miles and miles to find help, but she went the wrong way and she wasn't wearing boots. She
froze
to death, so . . .”

I wait for her to continue. She doesn't. “So
what,
Mom?”

“So bring your cell phone and a map.”

“A
map
?”

“Oh! And there was a woman who got attacked by some guy who tried to
you-know-what
her, but she got away. She threw a hot cup of coffee in his face. That's smart thinking.”

“Okay, Mom.” I sigh. “I'll carry around a hot cup of coffee with me tonight, and a cell phone and a map. Anything else?”

“Oh, you shouldn't drink coffee anymore. The beans are picked by children.”

Later that night, I give Ace his Valentine's Day gift, a big rawhide and a postcard of a sexy poodle taped over his water bowl. Then I give Valentine presents to the Fang Gang. A fluffy pink robe for Bi'ch, a red beanbag chair for Pho and his study cubby, and a big box of chocolates for Star Fan. Pac Man gets a $500 gift card to Toys “R” Us.

I go up to the refrigerator and say, “Ice Empress?”

She appears with a big blue gangsta do-rag on her head and says, “S'up, baby?”

“Um . . . is the champagne chilled?”

She winks and says, “Shit yes, bitch! Check this out . . . I iced your shit up good!”

I go get Pho's Valentine's Day card and add to it:

 

Pho, please deghetto the Ice Empress. It's going to upset Mr. B. Just class her up or something.

 

Love, Auntie J

 

Upstairs, I fling rose petals all over the bedroom and strategically hang my complicated lingerie in the closet, for maximum speed putting it on. I just have to remember the fishnets go
over
the super-elastic girdle snaps. Get it wrong and there could be a wardrobe malfunction.

I slip into my silk, oxblood-red Valentino dress, with coquettish fluted skirt and fitted empire waist, and a matching pair of oxblood-red shoes, and grab my oxblood-red sequined clutch purse. The outfit is stunning. Even better, my Wonderbra hikes up my breasts so much, it provides ample room in my cleavage to tuck my cell phone.

I dawdle and dabble with finishing touches, tweaking and tweezing until I realize it's late. Brad should be home by now. I call him at the office and his secretary puts me on hold. Then Brad gets on and says he's sorry, but he has to work late tonight. He'll meet me at the club later on. “But what about your tuxedo?” I ask him, and he says he'll just come in his suit.

Drat.

How boring. I wanted to pull up at the club in a limo together. Then it occurs to me that the romantic move here would be to take the limo downtown and wait for Brad outside. Dutiful and dressed in haute couture. What a lucky devil. Fifteen minutes later I pour myself a to-go cup of pink champagne and head for the gleaming stretch limo waiting in the driveway. Only, it's not waiting in the driveway. I call the limo service. The line is busy. A prerecorded voice says due to increased Valentine's Day call volume, I should leave a message and someone will get back to me on Monday.
Monday?
I panic. I should've booked a backup limo.

I call Addi and Ellie. No answer. I start to call Christopher and remember we're not speaking. Finally I call Hailey. “It's an emergency,” I tell her. “Does Lenny know anyone who drives a car? I need a limo in like . . . fifteen minutes.”

“Oh really?” she says. “That's so sweet! And here I thought you'd
forgotten
it was our one-year anniversary!”

“Oh. Right. Um . . . happy anniversary.”

“You forgot that we're throwing an anniversary party tonight, didn't you.”

“No. No! I just . . . Yes. I did. Okay? I have a life too. Can you just ask Lenny?”

She screams for Lenny and I tell her that can't be good for the babies, they'll be born deaf. She says with an aunt like me, they'll thank her. Lenny gets on the phone and says he has a buddy. He'll call me back. Five minutes later the phone rings and Lenny says everything's set. His buddy'll pick me up in twenty-five minutes. I thank him, hang up the phone, and go pour myself a vodka tonic as big as my head.

Twenty-two minutes later, a car pulls up in the driveway. A
hearse.
A hearse converted into a stretch limo. The driver gets out wearing a bright safety-orange poncho with a fur collar and he grins at me, like this must be the greatest moment on earth. My abject horror over the vehicle is temporarily clouded by an abject confusion over his
face.
I know this guy. I squint hard at him. “
Nick?
”

“Um . . . yeah?”

“It's me, Jennifer Keller.”

“Who?” He frowns.

“
Jennifer Keller?
” I step closer. “We've met a couple of times? At the vet, and at my brother-in-law's house?”

“Oh. Who's your brother-in-law?”

“Lenny? The guy who asked you to come over here?”

“
Lenny?
” He smacks his knee. “That fat bastard is your brother-in-law? Man! Was I drunk at that guy's wedding! Got a black eye that night, can't remember how. Wound up going home with one of the bridesmaids, can't remember which one. Might explain the black eye. Man, was that a good time!”

I put a hand on my hip; I'm getting seriously annoyed now. “I was
in
that wedding,” I say flatly. “I was a bridesmaid.”

“Oh. You were? I didn't . . . go home with
you,
did I?”

“Are you serious? Oh my God. No. You didn't.”

“Whew! I didn't think so. That woulda been weird. She stole my wallet too.”

Unbelievable. We stand there outside, in the cold, staring at each other, as slow snowflakes drift by. Finally he cracks a huge grin and slaps his knee. “Ah heck, Jen! Come on, I'm foolin' you! I know who you are, I knew before I got over here! I knew when Lenny gave me the address!”

I'm not amused. Not tonight. “You know, I'm actually late,” I tell him. “Can we please go?” He tips his flap-eared aviator hat at me and opens the back door.

I sulk in the cavernous backseat. A freaking hearse on Valentine's Day. I never should've trusted Lenny. I can feel my blood pressure getting higher and my mind starting to whirl with disaster scenarios until I'm ready to spin out of control and we haven't even left the driveway yet.
Okay. Stop.
Just relax. Breathe. I can do this.

Don't be a flaw junkie. Don't Godzillafy.

Find the beauty in this moment. There's beauty in every weird, crappy, suck-storm moment.
I ask Nick if this limo is his and he says it is. He bought it last year and fixed it up. Just a part-time thing, for when he's in town. He travels a lot. Takes photographs or something. “There isn't a bar in here, is there?” I ask hopefully, and he smiles at me in the rearview mirror.

“Your wish is my command, chief!” Then he hits a button and an old Art Deco bar appears, with mirrored panels and chrome railings. The bar has a wide array of liquor options, all mini-bottles, and many have strange names like Sex on Helium; Burn, Hobo, Burn!; Screaming Tarantula; and Dirty Little Girl Scout.

“I'm a whiskey man myself,” Nick tells me, “but the kids love weird-ass drinks that taste like candy. Try one!”

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 . . .