The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (8 page)

“Hello?”

“This is Marilyn Chow calling from the principal’s office at
Rosedale Elementary.”

This was not what I had in mind. “Yes… hello.”

“Mr. Dennison asked me to call. He’d like to discuss some
important issues with you, in person, and was wondering if you could come in
for a few minutes this afternoon?”

The principal wanted to meet with me? In person? To discuss
important issues? Oh God! But somehow, I remained composed. “Certainly. I could
come in just before 3:00?”

“Excellent. I’ll put you in his diary.”

I cleared my throat. “And what might this be regarding?” As
if I didn’t know. Spencer had obviously informed his teacher about how much he
enjoyed touching his butt hole. Or possibly, that his fondest wish was to have
a diarrhea fountain in his front yard. On the other hand, this could be about
Chloe. Perhaps she had been sneaking miniscule T-shirts to school in her pants
pocket, and changing into them after I’d dropped her off. This meeting could be
to discuss her parading around the classroom dressed like some chick in a
Whitesnake video.

“Mr. Dennison didn’t give me any specifics. We’ll see you
this afternoon.”

Three hours later, I was sitting in one of the hard, wooden
chairs lining the wall in the school office’s reception area. I felt just like
I did in ninth grade, when I got caught stealing Sandy Moresso’s bra out of her
gym locker and hanging it from the basketball hoop during the boy’s gym class.
It served her right for having such enormous boobs, when some of us barely—”

A door opened and Mr. Dennison, a tall, fortyish man with an
extremely obvious dye job, walked briskly toward me. “Paige Atwell. Nice to see
you.”

“And you,” I said, shaking the hand he proffered in
greeting.

“Let’s step into my office so we can talk in private.”

Obediently, I limped along behind him, my heart thudding
loudly in my chest. When I was seated in the cramped, airless office, facing
Mr. Dennison across his large oak desk, I took a deep breath. “I think I know
what this is about,” I said.

“You do?”

“Yes, and I agree that it’s a problem, but I’m at my wit’s
end. I’ve tried, on numerous occasions, to talk to Spencer about his language.
I’ve told him that there are parts of the body that are private, and also, the
things that come out of those private parts, are a natural part of the body’s
functioning, and they are not funny, or shocking, but also private, and not to
be discussed, especially at school. But it’s like an obsession with him.”

Mr. Dennison looked puzzled and mildly amused. “Actually, I
called you in today to talk about Chloe.”

“Oh.”

“But we can talk about Spencer’s issue too, if you like?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, Ms. Blackmore and I are concerned about Chloe.”

I was not about to jump in with my theories this time.
“Yes?”

“We suspect she may have some problems with her vision.”

“Her vision?” Was it wrong to be relieved?

“Yes. Ms. Blackmore has noticed her squinting at the
chalkboard, and she had to move Chloe’s desk closer to the front. I don’t know
if you’ve noticed any strange facial movements or expressions at home?”

Other than constant sneers of disdain.... “Not really.”

“We’ve noticed some in class, which are most likely caused
by the tension of eye strain. We recommend she see an optometrist for a vision
test. She’ll probably need some glasses.”

“Certainly, I’ll make her an appointment right away,” I
replied cheerfully. It wasn’t like I was
happy
that Chloe needed
glasses, but the problem was so wonderfully cut-and-dried. Daughter has bad
vision: see optometrist, get glasses.

“This can be a tricky subject to broach with girls Chloe’s
age. They’re just becoming aware of their looks, of fashion… That’s why I
wanted to meet with you in person—to make sure you felt equipped to bring this
up with Chloe on your own.”

What a thoughtful man. I was lucky to have such a caring
principal at my children’s school. Not many men would be as sensitive to the
issues facing young girls today. I smiled at him. Really, other than the
blackish-red hair dye, he was not a bad-looking guy. If he let his natural hair
color return and bought a better suit, Mr. Dennison would be almost attractive.
And his hands… they looked quite strong and masculine, despite his desk job.
Maybe he did carpentry on the weekends? I had always had a thing for manly
hands. By looking at a man’s hands, it was almost like I could feel them—”

“So… do you feel comfortable talking to Chloe?”

“I think so,” I said, smiling at him. “I may need to call on
you for backup, though, if things get difficult. Would that be okay?” My tone
was sweet, almost cloying. What was I doing? Was I flirting? Oh God! Sure, I
felt bored and lonely, but dye-job Dennison? Come on!

“Of course. I’m here if you need me.”

“I feel so much better knowing that.” Ewww! It was like I
couldn’t stop!

When I had collected my children, I drove
home on autopilot, lost in my own disturbing thoughts. I was perplexed by my
earlier behaviour. Never before had I considered Mr. Dennison even remotely
attractive. Besides the bad hair and clothes, he was also married, the father
of four, and my children’s grade school principal. And there I was, so syrupy
sweet:
I might need to call on you for backup
. God! I was sick.

Surely, this must be the kind of attitude
that prefaces an affair. The lonely housewife starts to see extra-marital
relationship potential in everyone. I would have to stay in my house lest I
start something up with the pimply faced check-out boy at Safeway, or the hairy
old Greek man who owned the gas station at the entrance to Aberdeen Mists. What
if I had to go to the dentist? Dr. Gillespie actually was quite good looking!
I’d have to find a new, female dentist immediately.

I pulled into our driveway and parked the
SUV, standing patiently on the pavement as my children scrambled to grab their
backpacks, discarded coats and other school paraphernalia. Our mailman, Leon,
was across the road, finishing his rounds. I returned his friendly wave. Gee, I
had never noticed how muscular Leon’s calves were. All that walking must really—I
stopped myself short. “Hurry up kids,” I barked. “I don’t want to stand out
here all day.”

I would phone Paul. Hearing my husband’s
voice would have a calming effect on my horny, adulterous imagination. This
time, I would insist that we resexualize our marriage. There would be no more
pushing it aside for work obligations or dinner guests. I was careening, out of
control, into dangerous territory. I was terrified that I would destroy my
marriage, my family, out of sheer loneliness and desperation. Something had to
be done to stop me. Just as I reached for the phone, it rang.

“Hello?”

Jane’s voice on the other end of the line
was shaky. “Paige. Thank God you’re home.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It—it’s Karen.” Jane seemed to be crying.

Oh no. Doug must have found out about the
affair and kicked Karen out. Oh shit! I hoped I hadn’t given it away last
night. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?” My voice was thin with panic.

“Oh God, Paige, no, no she’s not.”

“What happened?”

“Oh God! Oh God! I can’t believe I have to
tell you this.”

“What? What!”

“Karen’s dead.”

Karen couldn’t be dead, she just couldn’t.
She was too young, too pretty, too full of life… And she lived in Aberdeen
Mists for Christ’s sake. People did not just up and die in Aberdeen Mists! But
Jane assured me that it was the awful truth. She had first hand knowledge.
Apparently, Daniel had decided to come home from work early to give Jane a
little ‘afternoon delight’. As he drove past Karen and Doug’s house, he noticed
an ambulance and two police cars out front. When he arrived home, he notified
Jane, who raced to the scene.

“When I got there, she was already gone,”
she said, in a voice gone nasal from crying.

“Gone?” I was having trouble comprehending.
“Gone where? Gone how?”

“Dead, Paige.” She snapped. “She was
already dead. The coroner said it was a head injury, probably caused by a fall.
And Doug… Oh God, poor Doug…” She began to cry again.

“Doug was there?”

“H-he found her… lying in the attached
garage. He’s absolutely devastated. He’d been in Chicago on business, but Karen
called him and said she needed to talk to him when he got home. Something in
her tone made him decide to catch an earlier flight. When he first arrived, he
thought she wasn’t at home, but then he went into the garage and . . . and
there she was!” Jane’s voice dissolved into sobs.

I should have been crying, too. Why wasn’t
I? I loved Karen, would miss her terribly, but I felt numb, shocked, incapable
of emotion. My thoughts were racing, madly. Doug had found her, just lying
there, dead in the attached garage? While this was an entirely plausible
scenario in my own chaotic garage, I knew Doug kept his in pristine condition.
Did Karen just fall over and crack her skull? It was too weird, too bizarre…
especially with what I knew about Karen’s secret love affair. “I have to go,” I
said blandly.

“Are you okay?” Jane asked, composing
herself. “You don’t sound like you’re okay.”

“No, I’m not. But I… I just…”

“You’re in shock, hon. Let me come over.”

“I’m okay, Jane. I just need some time to
come to terms with this.”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.

“I-I’ll call Paul.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind coming
over. I know Paul’s very busy.”

Yes, Paul was very busy, but these were
extreme circumstances. Of course he’d be there for me, wouldn’t he? After all
these months of physical and emotional unavailability, if Paul didn’t grant me
this request I’d… I’d… Well, I didn’t know what I’d do. But it would be
something radical, insane even—like, running outside and licking Leon’s
muscular calves. “He’ll come home,” I said. “He has to.”

When I hung up from Jane, I took the
cordless phone to the formal living room and closed the French doors behind me.
The children were preoccupied with a Jimmy Neutron cartoon, but I didn’t want
them to see me in this state. I still hadn’t broken down, emotionally, but I
wasn’t myself. Perched on the antique sofa, I stared at the curtained front
window. If I were to walk over there and draw back the drapes, I’d be able to
see Karen’s house. Was Doug still there? Was someone with him? Or was he at the
hospital? Or the (ugh) morgue? But I couldn’t do it. My legs would not carry me
to the window to look. It was too devastating, too unfathomable. I dialed
Paul’s office.

“Paul Atwell,” he answered, tap, tap,
tapping on his computer.

“You have to come home,” I said, my voice
devoid of emotion.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Karen’s dead.”

“What the fuck? Oh my God! What happened?
Are you okay? Jesus Christ!” Paul tended to expletives when he was upset.

“I need you to come home and be with the
kids. I-I can’t…”

“Yeah, okay, honey. Look… hang in there for
an hour. I’ll wrap up a few loose ends and head home.”

“’Kay,” I said, weakly.

“I don’t want you to be alone. Can one of
the girls come over? Jane? Or Carly?”

Oh my God, Carly! Carly was all alone. Did
she know? Had she seen the police cars and ambulances? She worked from home so
she probably had. They must have come while I was off flirting with my
children’s principal, or I would have been alerted to the commotion myself.
Poor Carly—she could be cowering in a corner, weeping hysterically at this very
moment. She and Karen were so close. She had no one… “Come home as soon as you
can,” I said, and hung up.

I would go to Carly: I had to. She only lived
two doors down, and Chloe was responsible enough to look after her brother for
a few minutes, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving them alone. Karen could
have been knocked on the head by some crazed psychopath who was still roaming
the neighbourhood. Deep down, I knew this was not the case, but better safe
than sorry. I called Mrs. Williams, an elderly lady at the end of the block,
who sometimes babysat for us. Chloe would be pissed off, of course. She didn’t
feel she needed a babysitter anymore… or a mother for that matter. But I’d
rather my daughter be pissed off than attacked by some head-bashing maniac.

When I explained the gravity of the
situation to Mrs. Williams, she promised to rush right over. I grabbed my coat
from the front closet, and then went to the family room to address my children.
“I’ve got to go over to Carly’s for a little while,” I said, zipping up my
jacket.

Jimmy Neutron held their attention.
Eventually, Chloe murmured an acknowledgment.

“Mrs. Williams is going to stay with you.”

Chloe’s head snapped in my direction.
“What? Why?”

“I’ve asked her to come over for a little
while. End of discussion.”

“That’s so like, totally stupid!” My
daughter continued. “You can’t leave me in charge for like, ten minutes? You’re
only going to be fifty feet away!”

“Fifty
yards
away.”

“Whatever. I can’t believe this. Why do you
always do this?