The Perils of Pauline (10 page)

We meet with the adjuster who says the smoke and water damage extends throughout much of the house; however, he promises to send in a crew and compensate for all affected areas. I’m doubtful, unless there’s a deductible for the memory of Michael’s hand brushing my neck, the most affected area of all.

Serenity came home from the arts festival without Shae. Apparently Shae shook her sugar a little too close to a belly dance instructor. Serenity locked herself in her bedroom and now she refuses to come out. I volunteered to move back into the house, explaining to Donald that support and supervision of Serenity is essential. Meanwhile, he and the kids are staying at a local motel. This is pure bliss: even Jasper and the cats are safely kenneled out of harm’s way while a team of fire-cleaning specialists work their magic. Not only that but the insurance payout means Faded French Vanilla Merlot shag carpeting.

I should try to burn my house down more often.

Second thoughts are as persistent as the smell of smoke in the house. What might’ve happened if not for the fire? While emptying drawers and closets of reeking clothing for the cleaners, everything comes clear: Saturday’s study date with Michael was a close call. I better not let my guard down again.

After all, the state of my underwear is truly shocking. A review of my dresser drawers reveal that my entire supply of bras is in tatters
and most are at least a cup size too small. I have to avoid all possibility of further close encounters with Michael until I’ve had an opportunity to replace my greying and shabby stock of bras and panties.

After class today, Michael, unsmiling, suggested we grab a coffee in the Dingy Cup. At last: a chance to talk to him since the afternoon of our fateful smoking hot kiss. We automatically head for “our” table in the back and sit facing one another.

“Sorry about your jacket,” I venture. “But the insurance is going to…”

“Forget the jacket. I can’t stop thinking about what happened last weekend. I was way out of line. I apologize. It will never happen again. I’m going to find someone to take over teaching the class.”

“Michael, you don’t have to apologize. I’m as much to blame. Please don’t give up your course. You love teaching poetry. I’ll drop the class.”

Michael leans back in his seat and folds his arms against my idea. “No. That’s not fair. It’s too late for you to drop out anyway. You’d have to take an academic penalty.”

I prop my chin on my hand to think. What to do? Then I wonder: why do we need to do anything? This is between Michael and me. We can straighten up and march on.

I lift my chin and square my forearms on the table. “Then how about we act like mature adults, forget what happened, and move on? It’s only a few weeks till the course is over. Let’s just say Saturday afternoon never happened.”

“I don’t know.”

“We can start now. There’s nothing going on here, we’re just two friends having a coffee, okay?”

Michael stares into his mug, and shakes his head. I lean toward him and tilt my head, “Is it okay to be friends? I can go now if you want me to.”

“Yes. No, I mean, don’t go. Having coffee and being friends on campus, it’s not a big deal. And I could use a friend to talk to right now.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I just found out Carmen’s been taking Nick’s Ritalin.”

“Are you sure?”

“I confronted her last night. She confessed. It all makes sense now. She knows she’s too thin but she won’t eat, just drinks coffee all day. Then she stays up all night working. We haven’t had sex for months.”

I do a quick mental calculation. Who has been in a sexless marriage the longest? Donald started sleeping in the spare room weeks ago, but I can’t even remember the last time we had sex before that, so it’s been months for us too.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. She needs help. But she doesn’t think it’s a big deal.”

I make the mistake of placing my hand on Michael’s forearm in a comforting gesture. Of course, I might as well have dragged him under the table and licked his nipples clean off. The unintentional side effect of hand contact causes our eyes to lock. His eyes are saying, “Okay, I just told you I haven’t had sex in six months, right? Your hand is making this very hard for me … don’t move a muscle.”

My eyes are saying, “Help. My hand has fallen on your arm and it can’t get up.”

Warning Order: A preliminary notice of an order or action that is to follow.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

The frickin’ cleaners have worked so rapidly and efficiently that the house is once again fit to receive Donald and the kids. They troop in marveling at the gleaming walls and floors. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it?”

Donald nods but says nothing. The house has never looked so immaculate. He looks away quickly but I’m sure I spotted tears in his eyes.

In the living room, Donald glances down at the new carpet. “Orange? Isn’t that kind of seventies?”

“It’s not orange. It’s Faded French Vanilla Merlot.”

“Okay, then. It’s … different.”

“You don’t like it.”

“I didn’t say that. Maybe it’s the curtains. Pink and orange don’t go together.”

“The drapes aren’t pink. They’re terracotta.”

“Only if terracotta is the same color as that stuff you take for diarrhea.”

Serenity’s cat, Scratches, comes into the room and rubs up against my leg, purring. Isn’t that sweet? She missed me. Then Donald and I watch as she discovers the carpet and buries her claws deep into the shag.

“Out,” I cry.

Wait. One annoying pet is missing. “Donald, did you forget to pick up Jasper at the kennel?”

“Not exactly. I thought maybe we could keep him there till your Mom gets back. It’s a first-rate kennel with a vet and everything.”

“I agree. Excellent idea.”

I’m overjoyed with Donald’s arrangements. Shae is gone along with George: that means no dogs in the house! Oh my! I’m in danger of falling back in love with my clever husband.

“For what they charge, Jasper better be fine. Uh, we don’t have to say anything to your Mom?”

“Cross my heart.”

Donald picks up his bag and says, “Where would you like me to put this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. How long are you going to keep this nonsense up?”

My cheeks grow hot. “Nonsense? That’s all our issues are to you? An inconvenient passing phase and all you have to do is wait it out?”

Donald’s jaw clenches with rage. “You know what? Never mind. I’m done with waiting. Forget I asked, okay?”

I’m still not speaking to Donald but it looks like Serenity and Shae, at least, patched things up last night. Serenity’s bedroom door is firmly closed with a leather tie draped over the doorknob. There’s been no actual visual of Shae yet but the sight of her pickup truck parked back in the driveway and George Bush parked back on my bed with wet, muddy paws, is enough confirmation for me.

It’s not always possible to keep up a campaign of not speaking. When Donald walked in from work tonight I had to know: “The vet called today. He wants to know when you’re planning to pick up the cremains.”

“The cremains?”

“Yes, from Jasper.”

“Jasper is dead?”

“Yes—the vet said you told them to have him put to sleep.”

Donald’s face balls up in a huge grimace and then he face-palms himself several times, so hard I can hear slapping sounds. “I told those idiots I’d like to have the dog put down, not for them to actually do it.”

“My mother is going to flip.”

“Shhhhhiiiittt.”

“When you go to pick up the ashes, maybe you could take the new television back so we can pay off the vet bill.”

Mom’s on the phone. She’s relaxing in her suite and wants to speak to Jasper: “Put the phone up to his widdle ear so I can tell him how much I miss my sweet widdle poopy-pup.”

At least the loss of Jasper has brought Donald and me back together a little, if only to the point of talking cordially again. Donald and I decided to put off telling Mom about Jasper for now. Why ruin her vacation? Covering the receiver with my hand, I hand the phone to Donald. “Hey poopy-pup, come over here and pant for my mother.” I hold the phone up to Donald’s ear while Donald pretends to slobber on the receiver. Best part of my day.

R&R: The withdrawal of individuals from combat or duty in a combat area for short periods of rest and recuperation.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

Michael just texted me some promo on a spoken word event he’s emceeing at the Dingy tonight. He added a personal message:
Hope you can make it.
He posted the invitation on the class board too, so it’s innocent, not like a date or anything. I have to say no because I have a hockey game. Immediately I get another text:
What about after the game?

I text him back to explain: after the game Mackie is throwing a party for the whole team at her house. The theme is Hawaiian Cruise. Bibienne and I are hard at work in her basement making coconut shell bras.

Bibienne finishes adjusting the leather straps on her creation and looks up at me as I sample the crantinis once again before putting the jug back in the freezer: “Go easy on the vodka, we have a game tonight, remember?”

My bra is ready to try on. I tuck the girls into their shells in front of the mirror and admire the results. Those Hawaiian lovelies sure know what they’re doing. Nothing beats a coconut shell for providing trustworthy support and cleavage.

The Devilicious are the toughest team in the loop but we squashed them for once, winning the game 1–0 mostly thanks to Bibienne, who rocked her net tonight. Decker, that rotten pest of a dirty left-winger, took it out on Mackie who is now sitting in a corner nursing a rum drink and a groin pull.

Michael just texted me again, wondering how my party is going.

Too bad he can’t see me in my Hawaiian outfit. I bet Michael would love the coconut bra. And now we’re texting each other right? Why not share? I snap a selfie with my phone and flip it over to him.

Nothing gets past Bibienne. “Who’re you sending that to?”

“Facebook,” I say and immediately regret it. Now I have to post this stupid pic.

It’s tempting to tell Bibi about Michael. But I know she’ll only tell me to go easy on the vodka.

Mom just got home, and is on the phone asking for Jasper. She’s wondering why Donald sent her a giant arrangement of flowers. That coward. Guess it’s up to me to break the news to her gently. “Mom, when you’re talking to Dad, do you sense anyone else there with him?”

While sitting in Financial Management class, I get a text from Bibienne: “Whup ass time!”

Tonight’s the night. The season finale: it’s ours to win or lose. The whole team has been texting pregame trash twitters every few minutes, all day long. “The Devilicious are dead meat.” “The Furies are coming.” “I can’t wait to wipe their boats!” Game on.

I play better when I have extra carbs laid on. As I hand out plates of spaghetti, Donald comes in the door from work and spies my hockey bag on the hall bench. “You have a game tonight?”

“It’s only been on the calendar for weeks.”

He sighs heavily, glances at his watch and gives me his distressed face. “I have to go back to the office tonight.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s your night to watch the kids. Serenity just took off somewhere.”

“I know, but they’re all going insane in there with that pension disaster thing. I’m sick of it.”

“But we agreed: tonight is my night out and I can’t miss this game.”

Jack breaks in. “Daddy, can we go see Mom play hockey? Please?”

Donald looks at Jack and his expression relaxes. “Sure. Why not?”

In the dressing room, Coach is getting worried. “Listen up everyone. This isn’t going to be a grudge match. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

Coach is wrong. This most definitely is a grudge match. Mackie is looking for blood tonight after being handed her ass in our last game with the Devilicious. They hate us because they think we hate them for being younger than us. We don’t exactly hate them, but those college girls are total posers. They think they’re so tough.

Mackie tightens her skate laces with a vicious tug. “Don’t worry Coach. We won’t get hurt. We’re putting all the hurt on the baby pukes.”

One of the forwards looks up from shaping a huge tape ball on the butt end of her stick. “Yeah, they’re going to be puking their baby food all over the ice.”

Everyone guffaws. Coach sighs. “I’m warning you all. Don’t let them suck you into the penalty box. That especially means you, Mackie.”

Mackie chirps back immediately: “Okay. No sucking allowed.”

Ferris holds up her stick. “Except for their goalie. She can suck on this.”

As we straggle out onto the ice, the Devilicious are circling their end. They show off by flicking pucks high at the glass and performing a complicated choreography of fancy warm-up exercises. Meanwhile their goalie flops around in her net with her feet dancing above her ears and her legs splitting wide sideways across the crease.

Our goalie is late. “Where the hell is Bibi?” everyone is saying.

Where’s our captain, Mackie? Shouldn’t she be jacking us through our warm-up moves? There she is, slapping puck missiles from the blue line, smiling and nodding
See you real soon
at the Devilicious goalie while staring down the defense line. Mackie has the best hockey glare in town. After ten years of playing, I’ve seen all the tricks. It’s mostly a mind game. Outsmart the opposition. Mind your position. Play a clean and sober defense.

Wait. OMG. I’ve just spotted Michael in the stands. Of all nights to pick to come see one of my games, he had to pick this night. I speed up to show off. Scanning the seats, I spot the kids and Donald, seated several rows below Michael. They’re waving at me and yelling, “Go Mom,” as I glide past. I do a fancy stop, carving an ice rooster with my blades, and wave back at them with my stick. Michael waves too.

Mackie skates past and checks me with her shoulder, knocking me off balance, “Why are you standing around? Move your arse, Parril.”

Bibi arrives in the nick of time. She inspects her net and the puck is dropped. The fight is on within a few plays as the Devilicious quickly get steamed with Ferris for crowding their goalie. Mackie whispers to me between whistles, “Keep Decker over there out of the crease. She’s trying to rattle the Bib.”

I know the one: the ratty left-winger, the one who handed Mackie the groin pull. Decker and Bibi have been ramping it up all summer. No one can unnerve the Bib, but the pest keeps on trying. “No problem. Decker is toast,” I cry as the puck is dropped in our zone.

The Devilicious captain knocks it into the corner and races in after it. I fly straight down the boards after her, elbows poised and at the ready. Mackie is cruising in on my wing.

They don’t call me Elbows for nothing. That’s because I know how to make it all look unintentional, innocent, an accident. Their captain
soon goes down with the puck somewhere underneath her. Not my fault, she tripped over her own feet. As Mackie and I dig for the puck, I can hear Decker piling in on us from behind. She’s screaming, “Get off the ice, cougar tits. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

That’s it. I’ve had it with that kid and her endless chirping all season long. You do what you have to do. I spin around fast. Decker’s grin is wrapped tight around her mouthguard. Bracing myself to take the hit, an instant later her stick slams into my chest and I crumple backwards on top of the captain who takes the opportunity to start punching at my helmet.

A whistle blows, hard. The ref pulls me up by the front of my jersey and drags me off the captain who is swearing like a hardrock miner. The ref looks cross. Good, I hope both of them get a penalty. But the ref hangs onto my arm and points me toward the box. An elbowing penalty? What? You call that an elbow? “Come on, ref. She cross-checked me,” In protest, I pound my stick on the ice. “COME ON.”

The ref shakes her head warningly and checks the back of my jersey for my number before showing me off the ice. There goes my penalty-free season. As I slump into the box, the whole bench starts screaming insults at Decker and the Devilicious’s captain who are cackling in triumph and high fiving with their goalie. I look up into the stands to see Donald hand Olympia his camera so she can snap a few pics of Mom in the box.

Mackie is chest to chest with the ref, screaming. The ref dumps her into the box beside me. Up in the stands Shae and Serenity are on their feet whistling and shouting. They showed up at the end of the second period. Donald stayed anyway. He is grinning. Even Jack looks impressed. I can’t read the expression on Michael’s face. He’s sitting too far back.

Because of Mackie and me, the Devilicious now have a two-woman advantage. Bibienne is soon whirling around in the net. Decker is getting more brazen by the second, jabbing at Bibi with her stick every time the ref looks away. Decker then turns and backs tight into the crease to wait for a pass. Bibi shoves her back out of the crease a couple of times and finally jabs her stick into the unprotected backstretch of Decker’s calf. Decker flops down, moaning and clutching
her leg, like the big faker she is, while Bibi stands there shrugging and grinning. The ref blows the whistle and Decker is helped off the ice, her limp large and heavily embellished. Ferris joins us in the box to serve out Bibi’s slashing penalty.

After one scrimmage, where no one can see what’s happening as there are so many enemy shirts charging our net, the whistle blows and Bibi is lying facedown on the ice. Where’s the puck? Slowly she gets up, takes off her catcher, reaches into her bra and scoops out the puck. The crowd goes wild.

Mackie is fuming beside me, planning a bloodbath. “You take the high road, and I’ll take the low,” she shrieks as the penalty clock ticks to zero. She throws her legs over the boards and lands, feet splayed wide, like a furious wildcat off a rocky ledge.

A cool move, the leap over the boards. I try to follow suit but wind up tangled up in my stick and I plunge over the boards instead, belly flopping onto the ice with a sickening ouff, looking, no doubt, more like a dead possum plopping out of a tree than a wild anything. A titter runs through the crowd as I cross the ice, winded and limping, to the bench.

Everyone is grumbling that the ref’s cousin plays for the Devilicious. Coach says, “Don’t give her any excuses then.” We all watch as Chainsaw, miraculously limp-free, hooks Mackie’s skate and Mackie goes down. Ferris skates past the ref, lips a-flapping. Seconds later the whistle blows. Ferris is back in the box with a penalty for mouthing off the ref.

Coach sends me back in. We kill off the penalty, Mackie scores a shorthanded goal and rolls out her rub-it-in dance all around their net. As we face off, I make sucking noises at Decker, while pretending to put the thumb of my glove in my mouth. The puck drops and Ferris slaps it into their zone and we all tear after it. Mackie gets there first. Decker plows her into the boards from behind.

Mackie loses her mind. She jumps up, throws her gloves off and tackles Decker. Decker tosses her gloves, grabs Mackie by the front of the jersey with one hand and chainsaws her with her other fist. The whistle blows. An angry Devilicious player skates past me and hooks my skate, sending me sprawling on the ice. Quickly, I jump up to settle the score. Ferris leaps in to help me.

After all the sticks and gloves are cleared from the ice, Mackie and Decker have been exiled to the dressing room. The rest of us get warnings. Back on the bench, Coach reams us out until, subdued, we hang our heads in shame. The game ends in a tie. No one wins.

By the time I shuffle out of the dressing room, Michael is nowhere to be seen. Shae claps me on the back. She wants to join the Furies. “That was kick-ass,” she keeps saying over and over.

Donald is waiting in the lobby. He grins at me. “When did you turn into such a dirty player?”

“I’m not a dirty player. No more than anyone else.”

Donald raises his elbows and flaps them in the air.

“Shut up.”

One more weekend left to hit the books and I’m done with all my courses. As I stare out the window of the den, the phone on my desk rings. I hope it isn’t Mom. She calls me every day to talk about whether she should stay with Ted or go back to Brian. I pick up at the same time as Serenity. It’s Shae.

Before I can hang up my end, Serenity shrieks straight into my ear: “Stop calling me, bitch. And I’m keeping George Bush.

Serenity has been in a complete snit all morning as Shae stormed out last night yelling, “Don’t be such a whiny vagina.” Those two are constantly fighting and reconciling. Shae will probably be back in time for supper.

I close the door to the den but I can still hear Serenity screaming at the receiver in the kitchen. Soon Jack starts in, whining at Serenity to get off the landline already. Olympia is yelling at them to shut up because she can’t hear the television. Donald is, of course, long gone to his office, far from the keening and crying of his offspring. Tonight he’s going out with friends. Who knows who or where? I won’t wait up.

I hear cupboard doors slam, more shouting, and then a crash and a thud. Abandoning my textbook, I head to the kitchen to mediate the uproar. Jack is lying on the floor, howling, and Serenity is standing over him, arms akimbo.

“What was that crashing sound? What’s going on?”

“Jack threw the popcorn maker at me.”

“Serenity hurt my toe.”

“He tried to kick me and hit the cupboard instead.”

I glance at the cupboard door. There’s a large crack running down the middle of the panel. Jack says, “It’s okay, it didn’t break.”

Serenity storms out of the house. While I make sandwiches for lunch, Jack hangs around to discuss lizards. He wants an iguana. Apparently life isn’t worth living without a lizard companion.

“Rather than hassling me for an iguana, how about inviting a friend over to play?” Just in time, I stop myself from saying, “Maybe that one who looks like an iguana?”

I go back to the den. Jack promptly calls three buddies and Olympia, two, before I catch on. I confiscate the phone and put an end to the free for all, but it’s too late to cancel the impending invasion by neighborhood kids: their ecstatic parents are, no doubt, in blistering fast transit by now.

It isn’t long before Jack and three friends are hunkered down in front of the television with video games, cans of soda pop, and a large bag of mini chocolate bars. I step into the room as Jack flips a candy wrapper aside and says to his friends, “You can throw them on the floor, my Mom will pick them up.”