The Perils of Pauline (24 page)

“How do I do that?”

“With patience.”

Yeah, right, patience.

“You have doubts. This is fine. Doubts, they come and go. All things come and go. Try to let go of all these attachments Let go of these doubts. Let go and watch. This is the way to wisdom.”

Now my shoulder feels itchy. I leave, scratching thoughtfully.

On the way home, Michael says he feels breached: “I’m not mad. I’m disappointed. I’d hoped you would stick this out.”

“Aren’t you being a bit rigid?”

“It’s my fault. I encouraged you to come. Maybe you weren’t ready for a silent retreat.”

“Oh, I get it now. You’re better than me. So much more spiritual and ready.”

“No. You made a vow and then you ignored it. It was important to me to keep silence but you ignored that, too.”

“I was excited about the lecture. Why is it such a big deal?”

“No big deal. It is what it is.”

It is what it is.
Ah. The nicey-nice zen way of dismissing someone. He might as well have said, “Fuck off.” But he’s right. And, yet, I’m right too. We are both right. He’s so inflexible he can’t see both points of view. I am so flexible, I could argue both sides. So flexible, I can’t keep my vows.

Vows. I look down at my hand, at my empty ring finger. Ever since I stripped the wallpaper, my wedding rings have remained abandoned in my jewelry box. My walls remain unpapered. My marriage remains bare and abandoned too. Now I am ripping at my relationship with Michael. Is it because I am afraid of making a commitment? I wrench my eyes away to stare out the window.

For the rest of the way home, we have unwordable words. As in, we aren’t speaking to each other anymore.

Decision Point: A point in space and time when the commander or staff anticipates making a key decision concerning a specific course of action.

—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

Donald is on the phone to wish us all a Happy Thanksgiving. “Sorry, I couldn’t make it home. It’s nuts here, with the opening coming up next week. And I might as well warn you now, I don’t have much time off at Christmas.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can get a flight home on the 24th but I have to fly back on the 26
^th
as I have to meet with the lawyers on the 27th and 28th. I can get a couple days off for New Year’s and that’s about it.”

“You have major meetings scheduled between Christmas and New Year’s?”

“Out of my hands; the dates were set up by head office. It’s all the lawyers had available, and if we don’t take them, we have to push everything off until the New Year, which I would love to do but the finals have to be signed off by December 31 or we’re snookered at tax time. They’re bending over backwards for us.”

I can’t think of a thing to say. I can feel my jaw tightening and my cheeks getting hot.

Donald says, after a minute, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I wanted to come home for Christmas.”

“You mean to say you’re not coming at all? The kids are going to be very disappointed.”

“I could if you want me to. For the two days. If I can even get the flights booked now. It might be hard to get a flip on Christmas Eve though and it’ll be expensive. Do you think it’s worth it for just two days?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Fine, then, I’ll book the flights. I’ll be happy to do that.” His voice sounds tense rather than happy.

“Forget it, Donald, you’re right, it’s not worth it. Too much money and too much stress. We’ll manage.”

“I’m sorry, really I am.”

“Look, I’ve gotta go. We’ll talk later.”

I hang up and clasp my hands under my chin. What the hell was that? We’ll manage? Not sure how but I will have to now. Thanksgiving is here, and I still haven’t done a speck of Christmas shopping. Maybe this is a good thing. Having Donald home for Christmas creates more stress. This way I won’t have to buy him any presents.

I should send him a lump of coal. Hell. Maybe I should just fly out there and deliver it in person.

Then I get an idea. A very good, very bad, and very twisted idea. Maybe we could all fly out there and surprise-visit him? The kids and me. We’ve never been to Calgary.

Or. Maybe just me. I can move much faster alone. We need time to talk, face to face. We have to make a decision. Better to work it out without the kids.

I could go for New Year’s Eve. Donald’s meetings will be over so he should be in sharp trim by then. The kids will be so submerged in candy and Santa swag they won’t even notice me gone. I could ask Mom to come stay with them for a few days. Maybe she’ll even come spend Christmas with us this year. Last year I invited her but she refused even though it was our first Christmas without Dad. She said she wanted to sing with her choir on Christmas Day. I guess she thought having Christmas at our house would make it final, like Dad’s really gone. It’s easier for me; I can imagine him at home with
Mom, setting up the tree and hanging the star, crookedly, as always. I pick up the phone to call her.

Why does the busiest shopping season of the year have to be held during the winter when an arctic squall accompanies every visitor into the bookstore? As a result, I have a miserable cold. Nonetheless this morning I was forced to crawl from my warm duvet and lumber outside to scrape ice off the windshield of the car, so I could open the coffee bar on time. Donald always scraped the ice off my car when he did his own. These early morning Saturdays are a solid bummer compared to my pre-store weekend mornings where all I had to do was leave some bananas out on the coffee table for the kids before going to bed and then listen for the TV being turned on around dawn.

The snowplow guy filled in the bottom of the driveway again. I gun the car in reverse through the drift, fishtailing onto the road. I’ll tackle the driveway later when I get home. Of course I won’t be home until well after dark.

Jennifer said the top rule of bookselling is extra long hours during the run-up to Christmas. Recently she dropped in to the store to re-warn me: “If you don’t bury your nuts now, you’ll be sunk.” And today is the ugliest of long days: a December Saturday. People are increasingly frantic to finish their shopping and all proprieties of manners have been trampled into the ankle-deep slush of the sidewalks outside.

As I approach the store I’m relieved to see that Ghostly Garth is nowhere to be seen. Garth has taken to showing up to help me open in the mornings. I would love a whole day without Garth or Johnny Rotten dropping by to talk about poltergeists or tear apart the children’s section. I’m beginning to loathe most of my customers. Like the lady who always shows up on a full moon to stroke the spines of the books. She always breaks down in huge sobs in the romance section. Or the scary man last week who, upon being told his book order wasn’t in yet, shouted as he stormed out of the store, “That pisses me off.”

Now all Jude has to do to crack Serenity up—usually when she’s serving a touchy customer—is stand behind the customer in Serenity’s line of sight and sign his pitch-perfect Crazy Man impression by pounding the air with his fist and mouth-yelling, “That pisses me off.”

At the threshold I see that someone has thrown up all over my Holly Berries planter—the vomit is no doubt compliments of one of last night’s holiday revelers from the pub three doors down. It’s frozen solid in mid-drip from the red berries and I knock a few pukesicles off with my mitten. Someone obviously consumed a few too many beers plus a chicken pita. Looks like the ranch dressing. Serves them right for buying anything from the Pita Gnat across the street.

As I switch on the register, Shae bashes open the door. “Did you see the puke?” she yells. “Disgusting. Why does everybody always get the ranch dressing?”

In the middle of a selling scrum, Michael texts to remind me of our lunch date. Oops. I forgot. I hate to blow him off just when we have managed to patch things up from the silent retreat over a series of apologetic emails. Now he wants to see me. But Yard is here dressed as a reedy Santa Claus, definitely a Nightmare Before Christmas version; Wendy is handing out treat bags; and Johnny Rotten has three or four candy canes in various stages of meltdown in each fist. I have to get that child out of the store before the oncoming blood sugar shockwave. Plus Serenity looks pale, like she needs to sit down and rest. Her bump seems to get bigger by the minute.

It’s nuts in here. I’m completely swamped
, I text to Michael in between hand signals to let Jude know that a lineup is forming at the register.
I’m going to grab something to-go at the pub.

Ten minutes later, my favorite book rep, Kevin, wanders into the store. I also forgot I agreed to meet with him today. “I’m starved,” I say to him, “How about a sandwich in the pub and we can go over the catalogs while we eat?”

In Hollywood movies, everyone knows this is a stupid and ill-fated move. I’m obviously starring, because Michael shows up as we
sit down with our pints and hot beef dips. I might as well have had a Pita Gnat Special with ranch dressing. His look of betrayal and pain makes my stomach grind. I excuse myself from Kevin and hurry over to Michael. He’s standing at the checkout picking up a takeout order for one. He turns to me, unsmiling.

“Michael, it’s a business lunch. That guy is a sales rep. I forgot to—”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“I know, but I didn’t want you to think I’m lying to you.”

“No. You would never do that.” Michael’s voice is clipped.

Our eyes meet. Me? Lie?

As Michael turns away and heads for the door, my thoroughly deceived husband appears in the scene, figuratively of course. He’s the cuckold leaping like a lord in the tight white leotards. Or is he the sneaky fellow with the long twirly mustache? Or the hot cowboy in the leather chaps? Central casting keeps changing things up on me. So, which is he? All I know is, in my next big Hollywood role, I want to be the good guy.

After lunch, I return to the store to find Serenity and Jude standing shoulder to shoulder at the cash register. They’re grinning and making faces behind the back of a woman dressed entirely, from head to foot, in red and green. Even her purse and boots match.

Jude slides a pink sticky note over to Serenity. On it he has written, “She could use more green.” Serenity snorts and bends over the note to add her reply.

“Woman in trench coat at 4 o’clock: WTF is up with that hair?”

I always have to warn them about passing notes. If the customers only knew. There’s a drawer under the counter overflowing with color-coded stickies. Pink for fashion violations. Orange for weirdos. If they totally hate a customer they yank out the yellow pad. A yellow slip that says “skanky biatch” is currently on top of the pile. It went to the lady who came in yesterday looking for a travel guide to Costa Rica. She held up her wristwatch and said to Serenity: “You have four minutes.”

Mid-afternoon, there’s a lull: here’s a chance to meet Michael for a quick coffee. Why not? Wendy and Jude are handling things. I can tell Serenity I have to go do some shopping.

Michael agrees to meet me at the Dingy. Trouble is, my cold has settled throughout my sinuses, and I have to keep wiping my nose so it doesn’t drip into my latte.

“I’m sorry about the way I acted in the pub. I felt uncomfortable seeing you in the corner having lunch with that guy,” Michael says.

“I told you already, he’s a sales rep. That’s it.” I tilt my head and look earnestly into his eyes.

“I know.” Michael leans forward. “Do you have time to come back to the res with me? I want to make love to you.”

My ear lobes start tingling but I should get back to the store. The yellow stickies are really piling up and a last minute order is due to arrive. I don’t want Serenity lifting boxes of books. Jude has to go to an audition and Shae is going for a road test for her Class D license. If she passes, she could be clearing the town’s streets of snow as early as next week. Then she’ll probably be making more money than me.

Michael’s lip pouts out slightly. I don’t want to get into yet another tiff so I reluctantly say yes. Wendy is at the store; she can lift the boxes. Serenity can go home and rest, order in some pizza for Jack and Olympia.

Michael immediately wants to know if my hockey gear is in the trunk of the car. He doesn’t have to explain. I know that deep down he has been fantasizing about me dressed in naught but a hockey jersey and maybe a pair of high heels. Men just have a thing about doing it with a woman wearing a good set of knee pads. It’s all Janet Jones Gretzsky’s fault for posing in Sports Illustrated with her little blonde braids and gartered hockey socks. The idea is intriguing though. I suppose the pads will protect my patellas if we do it doggy style.

We drag the hockey bag up to his place and I slip into the bathroom to don my gear. I figure it will be more fun for him if I put on all the equipment; that’ll make the strip tease last longer. I strap on
the Jill and pull on the body armour, socks and jersey. My hockey equipment doesn’t smell so fresh. I hope Michael won’t notice.

At the last minute I decide to leave off the helmet for fear of helmet hair. And the mouth guard doesn’t exactly say kiss me.

I’m not sure if he wants the skates or not. Janet had the skates. And I like the thought of skates in bed. There’s something deeply kinky about dangerously sharp blades on waving feet. I could take his ears off if I get too carried away. I lace up and stand to survey myself in the mirror. This settles it. Male fetishes are plain weird. All I need is a mullet and I will look exactly like Wayne Gretzky.

Because of the shoulder pads, I have to turn sideways to get through the narrow door. Michael is waiting for me at the end of the hall. My nose starts running faster than ever as I clump toward him in the skates. I try to wipe it on my hockey glove. Michael blinks at me a couple of times and then he makes a half-snort, half-laugh sound through his nose.

“You didn’t need to put everything on.”

“I didn’t.”

Michael grins. “Holy shit, your head looks … so tiny. And you have no neck.”

“It’s the shoulder pads, you jerk,” I say as I whirl back into the bathroom. “Forget it, this was a dumbass idea.”

I smack the door shut, lock it and yank at the skate laces in a fury. Right away, Michael taps on the door. “Please come out. You’re right—it was a dumb idea.
My
dumb idea.”

“Go away.”

I peel all the equipment off and shove it back into the bag. Then I fill the tub with hot water. Climbing in, I prop my legs up on the wall and, as I watch the steam rise into the air, my aching sinuses begin to unclog. Lovely. Michael can stew in his own smelly locker room fantasy juices for a while.

I let him stew for a long time before I emerge, dressed in my jeans and t-shirt again, sinuses nicely clear and a towel wrapped around my wet hair. Michael is sitting in a chair reading a book. He immediately jumps up and, taking my hand, leads me into the bedroom. There’s
a wooden tray with a pot of tea and a plate of chocolate cookies laid on the bed. And a bowl of oranges. I know what he means by the tea and oranges. They’re from “Suzanne”, his favorite love poem, by Leonard Cohen. They mean love and beauty and sadness and longing. I forgive him.

I sit cross-legged on the bed sipping my tea and peeling oranges. Michael drapes himself across the bed in front of me and watches me chew. “I love watching you. Even the way you eat oranges is sexy.”

I lean in close and treat him to a citrus kiss. Michael sits up, takes the teacup from my hands and gently pushes me back against the pillows. He’s all quiet, tender, and sweet, and afterwards we lie on our sides facing each other and do the stare into each other’s eyes thing that is always the best part with Michael.

Michael’s face turns serious. “Suzanne was married to someone else you know, when Cohen wrote that poem about her.”

“Does that really matter now?”

“No. But I think it made him want her more. She was so unavailable to him.”