The Perils of Pauline (17 page)

I can see that more than one man has already missed the hole and ruined the seat. A few weeks ago, Shae explained to me how to pee standing up at a urinal. She said all the women in Texas learn to do this at an early age. Apparently any worthy cowgirl can aim her stream through her open zipper and accomplish the task without a dribble or drip. It’s all got to do with proper manipulation of the labia with the fingers positioned in a tight V and then emptying with force. I was planning to practice the trick in the shower but never got around to it yet.

Since I remain uninitiated in the Texan Finger-Assist Method, I have no choice but to hover over the hole while clutching my purse against my chest.

There’s no toilet paper. I hate that wet feeling. I squirm back into my jeans. Standing up, I can see a trail of dribbles and drips across the legs of my jeans. These are the unhappy consequences of neglecting my kegels.

I emerge from the Porta-Potty blinking in the sunlight and gasping for fresh air. Airport security is waiting for me. He’s a young guy; I can handle him.

“I realize I’m out of bounds here, but you see I was …”

The guard opens the rear door of a vehicle that has a whirring flashing light on the top.

“Get in,” he says without a hint of sympathy.

“Look, I don’t think this is necessary.”

“I said GET. IN.”

As I climb into the back of the security guard’s vehicle, all I can think is that my right hand touched that latch. Twice. My nose itches but I can’t scratch it with my right hand. I hope they let detainees wash their hands. Maybe the guard has some hand sanitizer. I lean forward and tap on the partition.

“Excuse me. Where are you taking me? I need to get to International Departures to meet my husband. He has a ticket to Calgary. Canada. He works for Double’s Group Financial. He’s going on a business trip. Take me there and I can prove it.”

Silence.

“This is crazy. You’re making such a big deal. What’s your name? I’m going to be filing a complaint if you don’t let me go this second. I’m calling my husband. I have a right to make one phone call.”

I puff out my chest and play my best card: “Did you even look at my ID? I am a United States veteran.”

“Put that phone away, Ma’am.”

“Why?”

“I said put it away.”

“Fine. Do you have any hand sanitizer?”

An hour later, after a detour through the underground security halls of the airport where menacing photos of known and suspected terrorists are pasted on the walls, the security guy escorts me to the doors of the Departures terminal. Apparently my hand gestures to the man with the yellow hard hat were regarded as a potential terrorist communication. What with the homeland team being distracted by my Porta-Potty plotting, no doubt some real perp has slipped right through their fingers. Donald’s plane is probably about to be hijacked because of me.

I race to the check-in desk. The agent informs me that Donald’s plane pushed off a few minutes ago.

“Are you Pauline Parril? Your husband left this for you.” She hands me an envelope with my name on it. Inside I find the car keys and a scrawled note:

Pauline: I’ll call you as soon as I get to Calgary. Donald. PS. Try not to worry about Serenity. We’ll get her through this.

We’ll get her through this.
We’ll
get her through this.
We?
Are we still a we? I’m so confused.

One thing’s certain. And I gasp with the revelation as it drops with a plop deep into my consciousness: Serenity is pregnant and I am going to be a grandmother. For real.

I can do this. I know I can. I want to raise my fist a la Scarlet O’Hara and shout (except I’m standing in the middle of Terminal Three): As God is my witness, I am going to be a good grandmother! I am going to be a fantastic grandmother. And Donald will be a reasonably competent grandfather. We know all kinds of stuff about raising kids. It took us awhile to figure it all out but we could survive as grandparents, I’m sure of it. We still have our teeth and hair so we won’t be too scary looking at any rate.

I remain all misty-eyed until I realize my magnificent grandfather-to-be husband hasn’t mentioned where he parked the car. I’m shaking my fist at the sky again. Dammit, Donald, there are six levels of parking here.

The car turns out to be on level five at the far end. By the time I unlock the door, I’m parched with the heat and dust. My water bottles are all empty. I still haven’t had a chance to cleanse my hands.

I can’t go back into the terminal to find a bathroom with that security guy hanging around me. I’ll stop somewhere on the way home. If I don’t get going, I’ll be late picking the kids up. The security guy follows me all the way to the on-ramp, and then spins away back to the terminal after making a quick u-turn.

I wonder if my photo was secretly captured and is already hanging on that wall with all the others? Every one of them had black caterpillars for eyebrows and unruly facial hair. Even the women. I quickly glance into the rearview mirror: have I plucked my eyebrows lately? What about those darkish hairs I found growing above my lip the other day? Did I
get them all with my tweezers? I wouldn’t want to be displayed with unkempt eyebrows and a scraggly mustache. Maybe it’s time for a proper waxing. I could book an appointment for tomorrow morning. I could get a little Brazilian job while I’m at it and surprise Michael.

Oh no!—Michael! I was supposed to call him this morning. Snatching up my cell, I turn it on and check my messages. There are five, all from Michael. He wants to say good morning darling, where am I, what I am doing, why am I not answering messages, and am I okay?

I text him back one word: Brazil! A little mystery for him to figure out. By the time I see him, I will be shaking my maracas at him and offering him a little salsa dip.

The trial week without Donald is almost over. I’ve barely noticed he’s gone. Of course, the kids have been in school all week, and Serenity and Shae disappeared off on a road trip for a few days. I’ve had the house to myself and I’ve put it to good use.

Michael came over three times. I drew the line at romping in the conjugal bed but that didn’t stop us from having a go in the shower, the den, and the basement rec room.

Michael wanted to come back today but I begged off. Too much sex is too much sex. My Brazilian wax job is used up. Not to mention that the waxing has caused an itchy, spreading rash. I’m going to apply some calamine lotion and give it a rest.

Plus I’m getting a little paranoid about getting caught. Someone knocked on the side door while we were in the basement yesterday and then we heard the squeak of a door hinge. It was Bibienne; I heard her voice calling for me. We tried to be quiet, but Michael kept tickling me and making me giggle. After a moment, I heard the door snap shut. Rather abruptly I thought.

Michael’s sneakers were on the mat beside the door. Bibienne won’t blow my cover but still. Maybe I’ve gone too far.

Of course, every time I get to feeling on the wrong side of the law I remember that Lindsay is off on this little Calgary junket with Donald. Not that I can pin anything on the two of them, but what if
he isn’t having an affair with Lindsay? I won’t think about it. It’s early days after all. Every time the guilt rises, Michael slaps it back down with a grin and a well-aimed nuzzle.

I won’t let any of this bother me today. Everyone comes trooping back tomorrow and I have one last glorious day to myself. I’m using it to research my bookstore-buying plan. Donald isn’t crazy about the idea but he says if that’s what I want, I should at least take the time to research it. And prepare a business plan. So Jennifer and I are having a business lunch.

“Donald!” I cry as soon as he gets off the airport shuttle. “Guess what? You’re looking at the new owner of Brick Books! I can’t believe my luck! Jennifer is letting me take over the business with just a tiny down payment. She’s going to teach me the ropes and I can start next week.”

Donald heaves his suitcase into the trunk and turns to stare at me. “You don’t know a thing about book retailing.”

“But I love books! Isn’t that all I need? Passion?”

Donald climbs into the passenger seat and leans his head against the headrest, closing his eyes. I jump into the driver’s seat.

“Tell me about Calgary. How was your trip?”

Donald opens his eyes again and lifts his head off the headrest. “Great. But there’s a load of work to be done and they want me back on site as soon as possible. The field manager is up to his armpits.”

“How soon?”

“Monday?”

That’s soon. I sag in my seat. For once in my life I can’t think of anything to say. Weird thing is, I feel like I’m going to miss Donald. Like I don’t know if I can handle the whole hot dog cart without him. Like maybe this is the end. Like it’s finally final. And maybe I don’t want it to be.

Donald glances at my face. “If you need me to postpone I can.”

“I’ll be alright.”

Donald spent most of the weekend packing for Calgary. His bags are stuffed and his closet is empty.

Neither of us have much to say as I take him back to the shuttle. I wonder what Donald is thinking? For once, he isn’t absorbed with his Blackberry. He stares ahead into the traffic.

Is he thinking what I’m thinking? Is this the end?

Is his chest as tight as mine?

As we pull into the parking lot, I spy Lindsay climbing out of a cab. She’s smartly dressed with a short skirt and spikey heels.

“Lindsay is going out to Calgary with you again?”

“She’s the project manager.” Donald’s eyes meet mine but I can’t read his expression. Is it deliberately neutral and composed?

“What? Is something wrong?”

“I thought you were the project manager. You told me Lindsay wasn’t part of this arrangement.”

“We are both project managers. It’s complicated. I thought I told you Doubles decided to … Look, I have a plane to catch. Can we talk about this later?”

“Whatever.”

He transfers his bags to the shuttle, and turns to say goodbye. What do we do here? Shake hands? Suddenly he has me in his arms, hugging me. It’s been a long time since I pressed my cheek into the familiar crook of his shoulder. Donald kisses the top of my head and holds me rather tightly. Eyes burning, I pull away from his embrace. I refuse to cry in front of him, and I sure as hell won’t cry in front of Lindsay.

As he climbs aboard, he glances back at me, and waves a quick wave. I can’t decide if his expression is rueful, guilty or sad. Then he disappears onto the shuttle.

With Lindsay.

Maybe I do want it to be the end.

“The word torrid springs to mind.”

I whirl my head around to see Bibienne standing inside the back
door. She has a large bowl of garden tomatoes in her hands and her Mona Lisa smile on her face.

“Oh God. Is it that obvious?”

“I’ve known you since forever,” she says handing me the bowl and settling into the wingchair in the living room.

“Nice tomatoes. Wow, they’re still warm.”

“Big sneakers. I’m thinking size 15?”

“I was going to tell you, honestly.”

“No worries.”

“So that was you at the door the other day?”

Bibienne cocks her head at me. “Uh huh.”

“Don’t uh huh me. I’m not a kid. I know all about that uh huh trick.”

“Uh huh.”

“Fine. His name is Michael and I met him at Dingwall. He’s my Modern American Poetry prof. I mean he was my prof. Nothing happened until after. He’s one of the most beautiful and sexy men I’ve ever met. He thinks I’m beautiful and sexy. And he’s only a 14.”

Bibienne lifts one eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Bibienne stares me down. “What about Donald?”

“He’s a 12. Regular.”

Bibienne snorts. “So it’s out with the old, in with the new?”

“Not exactly. The old has gone out west to live. And Lindsay is out there with him.”

“You found out for sure Donald is with her? Like, they’re together?”

“No, not for sure. This isn’t about revenge anyway. It’s about me.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Just be careful.”

“Thanks for the lovely tomatoes.”

“I have plenty more if you want them. Stupid Bernie went gaga and planted a million billion plants.” She lets out a sigh. “Size 14 huh?”

“We’re talking extra wide.”

“Ouch ouch baby,” she says. She’s smiling but I can see a touch of the old green sap rising in her eyes.

Despite her jealous pique, I know my secret is safe with Bibi. Her lips are glued shut. After all, she once bragged to me that Bernie practically wears clown shoes.

Homeland Defense: The protection of United States sovereignty, territory, domestic population, and critical defense infrastructure against external threats and aggression or other threats as directed by the President.

—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

I’m all pumped up. Today’s my first day working at the bookstore under Jennifer’s guidance. I’ve just jumped into the shower and lathered my head with my new peppermint shampoo, designed to invigorate the scalp, when I hear Jack downstairs screaming, “Daddy.” Throwing my bathrobe around me, I run downstairs leaving a trail of peppermint foam blobs to find Jack in the downstairs bathroom, still screaming his head off. I crack open the door and call in, “What’s the matter? Why are you screaming for Daddy?”

“I need toilet paper.”

“Daddy is in Canada, remember?” My scalp is starting to invigorate in a most unpleasant fashion.

“I need toilet paper.”

“There’s some on the shelf beside you.”

“No there isn’t.”

“Look up higher.” I need to rinse my hair before my scalp burns off.

“Oh yeah.”

Yesterday at dinner Olympia asked me where Donald was. A week ago, before he left, Donald and I called a major family conference and
explained the situation in detail. “Daddy is going to work in a city far away. For a long time. Any questions?”

They said, “Nope. Can we go now?”

I jump back in the shower to rinse the peppermint shampoo out of my hair hoping the stinging will subside soon.

I waylay the kids at the breakfast table. “Hey, you two. I need you both to try to grasp the fact that Daddy has gone out west to work. He’ll be coming back home but not for a long time.”

I think.

“How long?” asks Olympia.

“Many, many sleeps. But he’ll come home and visit us.”

She holds up her hand and spreads out her fingers. “More than 5 sleeps?”

Yes, I nod. Olympia bursts into tears. “I miss Daddy.”

I kneel beside her chair and take her dear little hands in mine. “Oh, honey, I know. Daddy misses you too. But you can call him on the phone every day. And you can write him letters too.”

Olympia’s face brightens up. “Can I have a kitten then?”

“A kitten?”

“Yeah, because I miss Daddy so much and the kitten will help me feel better.”

Jack yells, “No fair. If Olympia gets a kitten then I want an iguana.”

“We aren’t getting any new pets. We already have a dog, two cats and a fish.”

They start bickering with each other over which kind of new pet we will be getting. I have to yell over their raised voices to get their attention: “No, we aren’t getting an iguana or a kitten.”

Jack scowls. “Can I have a turtle then?”

“Mommy, Jack is squeezing my arm.”

“Jack, let go of her arm. Both of you, go get ready for school. Now. I have to start at the store this morning and I can’t be late.”

Jack releases Olympia’s arm to ask, “What store?”

When I arrive at the store at 8:15, Jennifer shakes her head at me. “You’ll need to get here well before 7 to set up for the morning coffee crowd.” She hands me a stack of catalogs. “When you have a chance
you need to look through these. The Christmas order should be in by the end of the week. But don’t worry, I’ll help you with that.” Then she points at a knee-deep pile of books on the floor: “First I’ll show you how to do returns.”

Three hours later I’m still sitting at a desk with books piled up around my ears searching through endless packing slips, and crossing off titles as they go into a box postmarked for return to one publisher or another. I pause to read the dust jacket of a novel by someone I’ve never heard of. I would love to stop and read a few pages but my stomach is growling and I need to fill at least two more boxes before I can knock off for lunch. I’ll add the title to my list.

“You must read so many wonderful books,” I say to Jennifer as she grabs a yogurt from the fridge.

“Me? I wish. I don’t have much time for reading,” she replies with a shrug. “Or eating.” She cracks open the yogurt container hurriedly as she turns back to the phone.

Jennifer is buried, too. Yesterday’s delivery still needs to be entered on the computer and shelved. She’s been on and off the phone all morning arguing with a distributor who invoiced her for 32 copies of a book on model trains she never ordered.

“Good thing the store has been so quiet this morning. We’d never get it all done,” I say when she pauses by my table to check my progress.

Jennifer winces, saying, “A slow morning is never a good thing.”

In the afternoon, business picks up. Whenever a customer comes through the door, Jennifer stops shelving. “Sorry, it’s not out in softcover yet,” I hear her apologizing to a woman who is tsk-tsking over the price of the latest crime thriller. Half an hour later, the woman leaves without buying anything, after saying, “I’m sure Bookmonster has it.”

As the door closes behind her, Jennifer says, “I hate Bookmonster.”

An elderly woman with a cane comes bustling through the door. “I’ll get this one,” I mouth to Jennifer who is back on the phone again to the distributor and I turn with a bright welcoming smile to my very first customer. “May I help you?”

She wants the latest novel by someone named Brenda. “The last name begins with a ‘T,” she says. She can’t remember the title of the book. I turn to the computer to run a search on Brenda’s. “No, that’s not it,” she keeps saying as I call out names. I try several spelling variations but still no hits. “Wait, the name is Barbara.” I type in more queries. The woman is jingling her car keys with impatience. “It has a blue cover.”

Jennifer interrupts us. “Are you thinking of Deanna Gabson’s latest novel?” She produces a volume with a large breasted woman on a cover with lots of red. A man with no shirt and a loosened kilt is lying across a bearskin rug in the background. The woman brightens. “Yes, that’s the one! Do you have it in large print?”

“I can order it in,” Jennifer offers as the phone begins ringing again.

“Never mind. Bookmonster probably has it,” the old woman says as she stomps out the door.

Jennifer leans over and whispers, “Deanna Gabson writes nothing but smut. That old lady comes in here every week looking for the dirtiest novels I can lay my hands on. She only comes here ‘cause her daughter-in-law works at Bookmonster.”

I must look completely dumbfounded as Jennifer adds, as she turns away to answer the phone again, “You have no idea, do you?”

A full week as a Brick Books trainee, and I’m stumbling with exhaustion. I make it to after-school care in the nick of time to pick up the kids. Jack says, “How come we’re always the last ones to be picked up?”

“Sorry, guys, I was held up at the store again.”

“Did you remember to bring me the Gobstopper book?”

Too late, I remember a blurty promise. Now I get why the cobbler’s kids are shoeless. No wonder. I can’t afford to buy the kids so much as a comic given the poor receipts from this week. Sales were dead slow. We will all be shoeless if I don’t figure out the bookselling business quickly. I’m tempted to stop at Bookmonster and grab them something slashed in the discounted section.

I hustle over to the nearest drive-through lane and tell them to order whatever they want. I’m not hungry even though I haven’t eaten all day. My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with paper. The smell of books sticks in my hair and nostrils. I used to love the smell of a bookstore. Now the smell gives me a headache.

My phone beeps at me. I haven’t had time to check my messages all day. It’s a text message from Michael.
U and me tonite?

I want to answer:
Forget it, chum. It’s Friday night and I’m going home to crawl into a hot bath.

Michael is overjoyed that Donald has gone to Calgary. He’s been a bit of a nuisance all week. He knows I’m desperate to get up to speed at the store but he still keeps bugging me. He wants to come over to the house all the time now but I told him we still have to be discreet. I ignore the text. I will meet him for coffee next week for sure.

The phone beeps again. Another message from Michael:
need to talk to u asap.

Sigh. I text back:
My house. Deck. 10 p.m.

After supper, I read bedtime stories until Jack drifts off to sleep but Olympia remains owl eyed. She agrees to turn out the light right after
Days With Frog and Toad
. I turn to the first story in the book, called
Tomorrow
.

“Toad woke up. ‘Drat!’ he said. ‘This house is a mess. I have so much work to do.’”

Ha! Toad should see my messy house. Someone spilled a puddle of shampoo on the bathroom floor a couple of days ago and didn’t bother to wipe it up. There’s a ripe smell emanating from Jack’s closet and last night I caught Bitesalot sleeping in my basket of clean folded laundry so now my folding is all covered with cat hair and possibly fleas and worms as he’s overdue for his flea and worm pills. I’ll have to rewash that load which reminds me: the washing machine quit this morning halfway through the wash cycle and now there’s a full load of darks still sitting in filthy cold water in the machine. First thing in the morning I better call someone to come look at the pump.

Olympia pokes me. “You stopped reading,” she complains.

Right.

“‘Blah,’ said Toad. ‘I feel down in the dumps.’ ‘Why?’ asked Frog. ‘I am thinking about tomorrow,’ said Toad. ‘I am thinking about all of the many things I will have to do.’”

No kidding. I know exactly how Toad feels. Tomorrow I have to meet with Kevin, the pushiest sales rep in the business according to Jennifer who, by the way, is only going to be able to help me out for a few more days. Then I will be on my own. After Kevin I have to interview for replacement sales staff as Jennifer’s right hand, Dwayne, is leaving to go travel around Europe. Then I need to meet with the bookkeeper and get up to speed on payroll and taxes. I haven’t finished my book returns yet and the storefront window display still needs to be revamped with an autumnal look. Olympia jabs me with her elbow deep in my ribs, shrieking: “Mommy! You stopped reading again.”

Right.

“‘Yes,’ said Frog, ‘tomorrow will be a very hard day for you.’”

I know. Poor old Toad. Tears are forming in my eyes.

Olympia says, “Did you put Squish in the freezer, Mommy?”

Squish? In the freezer?

“My fish.” Olympia jabs me again.

Right. All her pet fish in the past year have been called Squish. Her latest Squish was found floating this morning. I couldn’t flush him down the toilet in front of Olympia. I stuck the body in the freezer as I didn’t have time to deal with a backyard burial. There’s a backlog of dead goldfish stacked in a baggie in there now ever since the first Squish died in January. I better remember to inter the lot of them properly before the snow flies again. Meanwhile Olympia wants a new Squish. I pledge a visit to the pet store tomorrow and kiss her goodnight. Meanwhile my Squish is probably waiting for me on the back deck. I would like to put another Squish on ice right about now.

At last Olympia drops off to sleep. And, sure enough, I find Michael sitting in the dark on the deck, leaning forward with hunched shoulders, legs straddling the deck recliner. Smoking. His lighter is lying beside him so I pick it up and use it to light the tiki torches by the steps. “Hey,” he says. “Come here.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting on the chair in front of him. In the flickering light I can see his face looks drawn, haggard. It looks like he hasn’t shaved today. “Oh my God, Michael, you look terrible.”

He shakes his head. “I feel terrible.”

“Why? What happened? Is it your thesis? Didn’t your advisor like it?”

“I haven’t submitted it yet.”

“Wasn’t it due last week?”

“I’m still working on it.”

Michael leans back and clasps his hands behind his head. His eyes are shiny in the dark. “Let’s not talk about that now. I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“Carmen and I are filing for a divorce.”

“Blah,” said Toad.

Michael continues: “I moved into an apartment at Dingwall today.”

“No wonder you look so exhausted.” I reach out and brush the stubble on his cheeks with my fingertips.

Michael takes my hand and holds it against his cheek. He peers into my face. “You look pretty exhausted yourself.”

“I am,” I admit. “But never mind; I’m worried about you.”

Michael touches my lips with his finger and whispers, “Shhhh.” He lies back on the lounge chair pulling me down on top of him. I stuff my face into his chest while he rubs the back of my neck. We’re taking a chance nuzzling on the back deck like this but Jack and Olympia are asleep in bed, and Serenity and Shae have gone out.

Soon Michael’s nuzzles turn into a long and urgent kiss. It would be too risky to make love out here on the deck but, as long as we keep our clothes on, we can visit with each other. Michael puts his hand up under my t-shirt and starts comparing my nipples to tight little rosebuds. “One lick,” he says.

I suppose I could let him have one lick. I lift my shirt and Michael undoes my bra. Might as well take it off. I tuck the bra under the lounger seat cushion and slip my shirt back on leaving it strategically raised for rosebud maintenance.

“Why not take off your underwear the same way?”

I slip out of my shorts, remove my underwear and then slip the shorts back on. I sit back on his lap. Michael immediately parks his hand down the front of my shorts and continues nipping at my rosebuds. After a minute he pulls me back down on top of him.

“Shhhh, Michael, you’re making the lounger squeak.”

“Could we be discreet underneath the trampoline?”

The trampoline is tucked in the darkest corner of the yard, beside the fence. We’d be well concealed. But, before I can summon a response, I hear a car pulling into the driveway. Serenity and Shae must be home. They are early for a Friday night. I forgot: now that Serenity is pregnant, she gets tired easily and goes to bed early. I look at Michael in a panic. How will I explain the presence of a male stranger who is chatting with me in the dark on the back deck?

The approaching voices grow louder as the pair enters the house through the side door. There’s no time to douse the torches. They’ve spotted us. And out they come staring with curiosity at Michael.

“This is Michael, a friend from Dingwall. He’s a doctoral candidate.” I make my introduction with the most casual of airs, as if all married women have attractive doctoral candidates reclining on their back porches at 10 p.m. Serenity shoots me the stinkeye. Say it ain’t so, Ma. To avoid further eye contact, I lower my gaze. I am a rotten mother. On the way to the floor, my eyes light onto Serenity’s waistline. I think I can detect a thickening. She’s starting to show. Correction. I am a rotten grandmother.