Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (26 page)

He looks at me sideways. “I ain't here to impress you,” he snaps. “I ain't here to get your vote. Why wouldn't I be here? I got the diabetes, don't I? And that dumb-ass juice bar throws away shitloads a
fruit
!”

“I don't understand why you'd pretend to be a physical trainer.”

“What the hell's that?”

“A physical trainer, someone who coaches you, gets you to work out.”

“Ain't that a thing! I'm a physical trainer!”

“No, you were pretending to be one.”

“Pretend? Pretend, my sweet ass! I coached the hell outta you. I got you off your ass, every time you come around. That ain't no small thing. You lazy as hell!”

“You should've told me who you really were.”

“Who I was? You shoulda tole me who
you
was. You rude, you know that? You lazy and rude. I was set right there minding my own business, getting my oranges, when you come up going all firecracker in my face, talking 'bout
your big butt
and how
I'm
supposed to do something about it. Then we off running around the city like crazy people. I almost turned you in at the police station. I thought you was an escaped crazy person.”

“B-but . . . Big D,” I stutter. “I . . . I mean, Mr. Bee, didn't you wonder why I was telling you all that stuff, everything about myself?”

“Hell
yes
I wondered. Shit! You talk the ear off a dead man, woman. I didn't understand a damn word you said. Something 'bout what-all and who-knows. White-girl problems. One thing got clear quick, though. You was in over yo head and didn't have the sense of a betsy bug. You afraid of yo own shadow. Felt sorry for ya. I got a daughter. She don't talk as much, though.”

My mind is reeling. “So you just . . .”

“I just
what
? I just ran your ass off so you could fit into them skinny jeans!”

I have no idea what to say. So I just shrug and say, “Same time next week?”

“You bet, girl. Bring me a chicken sandwich too.” He clamps his headphones on and starts singing the Isley Brothers' “It's Your Thing.”
“It's your thing! Do what you wanna do! I can't tell you who to sock it to . . . Ow!”

My cell phone rings. It's Hailey.

“Can you pick up the twins?” she asks, out of breath.

“Sure. Where are they?”

“Lenny took them down for a catalog shoot. Christmas angels, I think. Then some unexpected delivery turned up at the dock, a refrigerated shipment scheduled for next week. I'm stuck at the doctor's office, and the twins are probably stuck to the hood of his forklift with duct tape. I need them home in an hour so I can feed them. Can you get them home by then? You can take the car seats out of Lenny's truck.”

“You bet I can. I'm on my way.”

When I get to the shoot, they're just finishing the last shot and the twins are dressed as shepherds herding small stuffed sheep. They look ridiculous. These big beefy babies wearing white robes and glue-on beards. Billy keeps chewing on the sheep they gave him. It's practically soaked. That's when I have a funny feeling in my stomach and I ask someone where the sheep came from.

Nobody knows.

I run around until I find the boxes in the loading dock. There they are, all stacked up and pretty as you please, with a CLOG Industries symbol stamped surreptitiously behind the shipping label on each box. I freak out. Brad swore he'd never use those Jesus thugs again. He lied to me. The sheep could be stuffed with anything—cancerous fiber, crushed coca leaves, pulverized plutonium. I wouldn't put anything past them. I ignored the fact we are selling bizarrely dangerous crap to the public; now it isn't me paying, it's my newborn nephew. “Lenny!” I shout at him as he rounds the corner driving his forklift full-tilt.

“Hey!” he shouts. “What's up, peanut butter cup? Got the boys okay?”

“Lenny, listen to me, I
have
to find the ship's manifest for the CLOG sheep shipment, okay? It's critical. I don't care if we have to drive to Duluth or Chicago or wherever, we need to find the ship's manifest now. It's a matter of life and possibly death, God help me. So, get on the phone, get your jacket on . . . do whatever you need to do and find out where the
fuck
it is!”

“Sure,” he says, grabbing a clipboard off the wall next to him. “It's right here.”

“What?”

“Yep.” He hands the clipboard over. It's the ship's manifest.

“Lenny, I
asked
you how to find these months ago and you said you didn't know!”

“No, you asked me how to find
cargo ships
months ago and I'll be damned if I know where any motherfuckin' cargo ships are. We keep all the manifests on this wall. Help yourself . . . Gotta go.”

I take the manifest for the CLOG sheep shipment, and I fax it over to Greta at the animal hospital. I ask her to look it over and tell me if there is anything poisonous or harmful to humans on it. There isn't, thank God.

Not this time. But there will be a next time and a time after that, if I don't do something. I find CLOG truck deliveries scheduled clear into the new year. Brad has no intention of discontinuing CLOG's products. Hell, he'd even give them to his own family. It's high time that Rome started burning. The empire needs to come down.

All I need . . . is a match.

19

The Ice Empress

O
ur one-year anniversary finally arrives.

It took a Herculean effort, but when the big day finally comes, everything's ready. Our glorious moment will be celebrated at Keller's Department Store. Where else? Mother Keller arranged everything months ago, taking control of the event and citing my near-lethal investor dinner and my recent giant cross burning as proof I cannot be trusted.

I sort of had to agree.

Mother Keller decided to combine our anniversary celebration with Ed's official announcement that Brad is to become the new Keller's president. She thinks it's an ideal day to showcase family values and moral correctness, since the Minnesota senate is voting on the hideous Family Equity Act the same afternoon. Mother Keller can't resist flaunting her thoughts on the severe consequences of passing such a law, a law that flies in the face of matrimony, Christianity, and all heterosexuals' God-given right to monopolize legal unions.

Before the press conference, there'll be a celebratory champagne brunch at Hillcrest Country Club. Everyone will meet there to welcome the new president with toasts and melon. Afterward we'll all take a limousine to the store, where we'll park in the underground VIP parking lot so we can enter without crossing any nasty antigay picket lines outside.

There are always nasty antigay picket lines outside.

After Ed gives a speech introducing the world to his chosen one, he'll mention it's also his son's one-year wedding anniversary. Brad and I are scheduled to kiss as a banner unfurls behind us that says
HAPPY FIRST ANNIVERSARY!
Then doves will be released. Doves are the symbol of love and peace, and an ominous reminder of Noah's ark and the flood and what happens to godless nations who allow gays to run around all married and free.

Then we'll eat cupcakes.

The whole thing is captured on video, thanks to Pho, who works hard to install cameras all along our journey. He edits all the footage himself. I'll see the final video almost a hundred times, and I'll never get tired of watching it. It will become one of my favorite possessions. If there was a fire, I would run through open flames to retrieve it.

The video starts with Pho filming me in the kitchen.

“So today's the big day, huh?” he asks me.

I nod and ask the Ice Empress for some chipped ice. She flickers onto the screen and smiles at me.
“Naniga hoshiino!”
she says cheerfully. “
Moshi moshi,
Jen Aho-Onna!”

“Can I get some ice, please?”

“
Hai!
” she says. “Ice!
Pinpooooon!
”

A landslide of ice shoots through the dispenser and rattles into my empty glass.

Pho and I start to giggle.

We can't help ourselves. The Ice Empress just said, “What the fuck do you want? Oh, hi, Jen, you dumb bitch! Ice? Sure, have some ice! Yay!”

The Ice Empress rocks. I can't believe I ever wanted to shut her up.

Soon Brad bellows that it's time to go and Pho follows us out to the car. It's stifling hot outside and even though I'm wearing my yellow Chanel suit, which is too warm for the day, I'm still cool as a cucumber. I am the Ice Empress.

“Bye, Mr. B!” Pho waves. “Bye, Mrs. J!”

The Audi pulls away and Brad blasts the air conditioner. On the way over to the country club he lectures me. “I need you on your game today, Jen. You've been acting weird lately.”

I tuck my hair behind one ear. “Have I, dear?”

“No strange behavior today, right?”

“Of course not. Why're you so nervous?”

“Oh, I don't know!” he barks at me. “Maybe because it's a pretty big day? You know?”

“Well, you've gotten through far bigger days than this, darling.” I give his knee a little pat. “This is nothing! I mean, what could happen? All you have to do is give a little speech and accept the presidency. That's it. The odds of you getting a spontaneous nosebleed or having a stroke are so unlikely . . . they're almost insignificant.”

“Why would I get a spontaneous nosebleed or have a stroke, for God's sake?”

“Well, you wouldn't! People do get them every day. Every minute of every day, technically speaking. I saw a TV anchor have a grand mal seizure on live TV once. It was awful. Her body went all rigid and her mouth was stuck in the letter O. She started drooling and foaming. She'd never had a seizure before; it just hit her out of the blue. I guess that's how it happens.
Wham!
They think it was the lights that did it. So just don't look into the lights. There's nothing to worry about. Don't worry about nosebleeds or seizures or falling. But you know . . . don't look at the lights.”

When we arrive at Hillcrest, Brad gets out of the car and nearly falls flat on his face.

“Jesus!” he shouts.

“Honey, are you okay?” I help dust off his jacket. “Honestly.” I smile. “You're so klutzy sometimes!”

The Kellers are already in the dining room and at the table. They brought Trevor with them and he comes running up to me shouting, “Auntie Jen!” He hugs my knees. It's a good thing he's there. He's the only one who is happy to see me.

“Hello,
Jennifer,
” Mother Keller says with a tight smile. She's wearing an impossibly flouncy, gauzy dress, which is the exact color of putty, or a Band-Aid.

“Hello.” I smile pleasantly. “You look . . . lovely today. Very frilly.”

“It's chiffon,” she sniffs.

“Quite flammable,” I say. “Stay away from the candles.”

“Yes, well.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “You'd know.”

“Auntie Jen!” Trevor tugs on my yellow jacket. “Can I sit next to you?”

“Of course you can, buddy!”

“Mommy's home crying,” he says, and Mother Keller pats his head to shush him. She says Sarah wasn't feeling that well this morning and decided to stay home. Bill decided to stay home too. “Must be something going around,” she says, inspecting a nail.

“My, yes.” I nod. “There is definitely something going around.”

We take our seats at the head table. Waiters whisk in glasses of orange juice and plates of dry scrambled eggs as the even drier speeches begin. It's as boring as waiting for water to boil, but halfway through the sliced-melon course, things perk up a bit when Trevor gets a gushing nosebleed.

“I'm bleeding!” he shouts. “Auntie Jen, I'm bleeding!”

The whole room looks over at us.

Mother Keller rolls her eyes and I push my chair back, hurrying Trevor off to the bathroom. There I try to rinse out the bright red stains on his white oxford shirt. Fifteen minutes later Mother Keller bangs in through the swinging door, exasperated.

“Wonderful!” she says, shaking her head. “Just wonderful.”

“Gramma, I got Pop Rocks!”

She shushes him. “What on earth are we going to do?” she asks me. “There'll be press at the store and there's the big family photograph later. I guess we can rush him up to the boys' department and grab him a new shirt.”

“It's not a problem,” I say, and turn off the water. “I'll just run him home and grab another one.” Mother Keller looks unsure. I tell her I'll just take Brad's car and he can ride with them to the store. “We'll just meet there.” I shrug. “No problem.”

She shakes her head and sighs. “I suppose that'll have to do. Look at that shirt. Ruined.”

“Gramma, want some Pop Rocks?”

I catch him before he falls off the sink. “Grandma doesn't want any Pop Rocks, Trevor. Come on, let me wash your hands.”

“All right, you two.” Mother Keller looks at her watch. “I'll see you down at the store . . . but, Jennifer, do put him in something decent. Not any of those garish colors he likes.”

“Pink!” Trevor claps.

“No pink, young man. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Gramma.”

“Honestly. See if you can find his blue pinstripe, Jennifer.” She sighs and smooths down her diaphanous putty-colored skirt. “Oh, and best not to disturb Sarah. She's in a bit of a mood today.”
A bit of a mood?
I bet she is. I bet she's in more than that. I bet she's in a bit of a
planning to sue you all
mood. Trevor and I leave the club as Ed takes the stage. I check my watch. If everything goes according to plan, I have exactly an hour.

“Come on,” I say. “Pick it up, Trev. We gotta keep moving.”

He changes shirts and I buckle him into the backseat.

“Okay, buddy, you remember our plan?”

“Yep!”

“Good. Hey, you were a regular stuntman back there. You know? Everybody thought it was real blood.”

“Want some Pop Rocks?” he asks, offering to pour some bright red powder into my palm.

“No thanks, buddy. Let's do this.”

“Yeah.” He nods and puts on his pink Barbie sunglasses. “Let's
do
this.”

We drive on and emerge from Hillcrest's wrought iron gates, turning the corner. I pull up to the hearse parked on the street in the shade and roll down my window.

“Ready?” I ask.

The hearse's window rolls down. Nick grins at me from the front seat. “Ready, chief.”

“So whatever you do, keep them occupied until noon.”

“Got it. Hey, Trev, how'd you do back there?”

“I'm a regular stuntman!” Trevor shouts.

“Excellent.”

“All right then.” I take a deep breath. “See you soon. Better wish me luck.”

“You don't need any luck, chief. You're making your own.”

Trevor and I drive downtown and park in the store's public lot. We hurry up to the fourth floor by the girls' department and Kjersten is waiting for us right where I said her perky little nose should be. “Kjersten here is going to watch you for an hour or so,” I tell Trevor. “Okay?” He nods.

“I told her about our deal. You get to buy
anything
you want today.”

“Anything? Even pink Barbie doll roller skates?”

“
Especially
pink Barbie doll roller skates, buddy. Today we let the freak flag fly.”

“Yay!” he shouts. “Freak flag!”

I thank Kjersten again and hurry off to find Christopher. I phone Pho on the way. “How's the elevator going?” I ask him, and he says good. “And . . . how was the drive over?”

“Awesome,” he says. “That car is fierce! She even let me drive it.”

“Wow. That's pretty . . . um, can you put her on, please?”

She takes the phone and I say, “Hey, Satan.”

“Hey,” she says.

“Car running good?”

“You know. Like liquid sex on quicksilver dreams.”

“Right. You were just supposed to drive him
here
. Not let him
drive
it.”

“Well, he was awesome. We just did some loops around the parking lot.”

“Well. Don't let him do it again. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“The last thing I need is Brad seeing his green Lamborghini out there whipping around the parking lot being driven by a fourteen-year-old, you know?”

“Totally get it.”

“You're going to let him drive it again, aren't you.”

“Definitely.”

“Okay, but you better get over to the country club.”

“No worries. On my way. That car is fast. It can outrun trains, planes, and cop cars . . . and I'm speaking from personal experience.”

“You worry me. I'll see you guys . . . soon.”

“Yep. Bye.”

I go find Christopher, who's in the VIP lounge surrounded by the Gay Bee Brigade, who buzz about with extra energy today. Christopher's so nervous, his hands are trembling. “Just hang in there,” I tell him, “and wait for my cue.” He hugs me with tears in his eyes and says he's sorry for anything bad he ever said to my face or behind my back. He says I'm the best friend a gay bee could ever have. I kiss him on the hands and go downstairs. The lobby is filling up with reporters and cameras.

 

Watching the video, back at the country club we see the Kellers just leaving. “Where did Jen run off to now?” Brad says as Mother Keller straightens his tie.

“I told you, she went to get Trevor another shirt. She'll meet us at the store.”

Brad uses a finger to loosen his collar. “Whatever,” he says. “Might be better if she doesn't show up at all.”

“Now, darling.” Mother Keller smiles at him. “It's your wedding anniversary.”

“Right,” Brad snorts while fixing his tie. “Don't remind me.”

“Where's the damned limo?” Ed says. “It's getting late.”

Todd gets out his cell phone. “I'll call the service.”

“Wait.” Mother Keller peers down the drive. “Here it comes.”

The hearse pulls into view and Ed pulls a face. “What the hell is this?” he barks. “They sent a hearse? Why the hell did they send a hearse?”

Mother Keller sighs and pats her husband's arm. “Now, dear,” she says. “Let's not overreact.” Nick rolls up and gets out of the limo in his brown suit.

“I'm here for the Keller party?” he says, smiling. Ed starts to grumble and Mother Keller hushes him. “Just get in, darling,” she says. “Let's just get there. We don't want to be late, do we?” Nick holds the door open for her and Mother Keller slips into the backseat. Ed follows unhappily behind her and the board members all get in after him.

“Almost there, buddy!” Todd thumps Brad on the shoulder and Brad shakes his head.

“Not soon enough for me,” he says, and they both chuckle as they get into the hearse and slam the door shut. Inside the hearse Pho hid the ashtray spy cam in the backseat on top of the bar. It provides a fine view of the group as they get settled. Nick pulls out and ambles down the leafy drive. Then we switch to an exterior camera that shows the hearse leaving Hillcrest Country Club. We see the long black hearse exiting through the wrought iron gates. Nick carefully turns the corner and then . . .