How Best to Avoid Dying (12 page)

A week after their anniversary Paula had begun the Hot Springs Low Carbohydrates Diet. No alcohol at all. Sex became a blue moon event.

Stanley now suspected that he had grown to prefer masturbation to lovemaking. More than once during his infrequent marital duties he found himself fantasizing that his wife were not below him and instead he was alone with Lord Baxtor. He found it amusing, and a little disturbing, that as a teenager he had often pleasured himself while imaging he was making love to a woman, and, now, as an adult, he made love to a woman while imaging he was pleasuring himself.

“Don't pout, Baxtor.”

“Please, don't give me a second thought.”

Paula was sipping the coffee. It was incredibly strong. She could hear the shower running, but there was not enough hot water in the world to clean Stanley. Not if he was scrubbed down. Not if a thousand nurses with sponges and soap helped. Nurses scrubbing with hot, steaming water till their little uniforms were all soaked through, all wet, all soapy. She better call Melissa.

“I'm sorry, I won't be in today. My husband is sick.” The truth of the statement almost had Paula smiling.

“No problem, Mrs. Poppen,” replied the toasty voice of Melissa. Paula missed toast.

“Could you cancel my one o'clock for me? And we still need that fax from district, Melissa.”

“Yes, Mrs. Poppen.”

“Okay, then,” Paula said. “I guess I'll see you later then.”

“Yes, Mrs. Poppen.”

“So, Melissa, what are you wearing?”

“Excuse me?'

“For casual day, today. I'm just curious, you know, not being there and all.” There was a knot in Paula's stomach.

“Um, I'm wearing some baggy blue jeans and a sweatshirt, that one with the rabbits on it.”

Paula felt strangely relieved.

“But later I'm going jogging, so I brought my shorts.”

Oh, God, Paula's legs twitched. “Where will you change?” Paula asked.

“Oh, I guess, maybe your office, since no one's here.”

Paula grabbed the kitchen counter. She heard the shower turn off.

“Okay then, just remember that district file, goodbye.” Paula took a gulp of her coffee and set to preparing herself some bacon. No toast. No juice. Just bacon. Paula enjoyed the strict regulations of the diet. She found the discipline invigorating.

Paula had grown up in a non-believing Baptist family. They had relinquished all the comforts of faith, but retained the restrictions. They didn't go to church, but they didn't go dancing either. One of the reasons she had allowed herself to be wooed by Stanley was that he threatened none of her “morals.” Not out of morality, but out of dullness. A dull man is often a moral man.

The afternoon was tense. Stanley did some yard work. Paula shuffled papers. Neither said much of anything to the other.

She watched through a window as Stanley raked dead leaves. Did she love him? She would say yes. But only because the word
love
has no clear definition.
Love
is not a word used to describe facts. As a lawyer, Paula simultaneously enjoyed and feared the ambiguity of such words. In a law case they could be a help or a hindrance, depending on how they were used. But they were never certain. Never stone. Like Stanley himself, these vague terms served a purpose, but it would be foolish to build a case on them.

Paula stood in the kitchen nibbling on beef jerky. This house bored her. This man. This body. She wanted a potato. She was restless.

“I'm going to the office. I'll be back by dinner.”

“She's gone,” Lord Baxtor observed from Stanley's shorts.

“I gave my word.”

“I wasn't suggesting anything. Just remarking on the fact that she is not here.”

“It doesn't matter where she is.” The rake rumpled the leaves. “A promise is a promise.”

“Oh, of course. Like ‘I promise to have and to hold.' But you haven't had her or held her in quite some time. So you turn to me. I imagine she's found release as well.”

“Paula would never touch herself.”

“I didn't say that.”

“What are you implying?”

“Had to run off to the office, did she? Back by dinner? I imagine she'll have developed a ravenous appetite.”

Paula sped toward downtown as the sun set behind her, painting the waters of Lady Bird Lake. The first of the post-work joggers circled the lake with bouncing strides. Soon Melissa would be joining them. Probably just now changing in Paula's office, removing her tight blue denim and slipping her long legs into her scanty red shorts. Lean on the desk to support yourself. You're all alone in there. All alone in your boss's office. Who's naughty? Who's a naughty one? Paula accelerated. She decided not to call ahead. No need. She'll walk right in. It's her office. Yes, it is, you naughty girl.

By the time she had arrived, most of the lawyers had left for the day and her footsteps echoed through the quiet lobby. The elevator lumbered up slowly. Paula tried to calm herself by humming along to the Muzak, but when the doors finally opened to the sixth floor, she nearly sprinted toward her office.
Melissa's purse was still on her little assistant's desk just outside the door. She must still be here. Changing. Knock? Hell no, it's her office, she's the boss, she's in charge. Just like it's her bedroom. She can open the door anytime she wants and if she sees something it's their fault, not hers. No crime in opening your own door. She pushed the door open, eyes wide, and saw nothing. Nothing but her office.

Stanley was at home trying to read a magazine. It was his wife's magazine. Oprah was on the cover. She was on the beach smiling up at Stanley. Stanley smiled back.

He was just relaxing. No problem. Doing a little reading before the wife gets home. A frozen lasagna is in the oven for him. A pork chop thawing for her. Nice, no stress.

“Stanley…” He looked down at Oprah, but it wasn't her. The voice came from under the magazine.

“Oh, Stanley.”

He could handle temptation. He could handle anything. He had been through basic training. He was trained to kill. Of course, he would never kill. Road kill filled him with guilt. Even road kill he didn't hit himself. He felt guilty for driving. He had only joined the Army to pay for college. But it had been much worse than he had imagined.

“Stanley…down here.”

Still, he had endured. He did his two years of Reservist weekends, crawled in the mud, shot rifles. Pretended it didn't scare the shit out of him each time a mortar exploded.

“Stanley, let a friend see the light of day.”

“It's already dark.”

“Dark? And she's not home?”

“Quiet.” He flipped a few pages of the magazine. Oprah on a tennis court.

Stanley knew if he ever had to fight in a real war that he would die immediately. Maybe before the battle. He would be an accidental death, some dumb-ass mistake like getting a grenade pin caught in his zipper.

“Still at work with all those fine upstanding men?” Baxtor asked.

“I'm not listening.” Another page. Oprah in a hot tub.

“Smart men. Employed men.”

“Lord Baxtor, please.”

“All I'm saying, Stanley, is that she's indulging, so why not us? You, me, Oprah.”

“She wouldn't.”

“Come now, Stanley. Read me my horoscope.”

Beep.

“Hello Melissa's machine ha ha. This is Paula, that is Poppen. Mrs. Poppen. I'm at the office and you've left your purse. I'm not sure if you want it but it's here and so am I and I'll be here another hour or so or I could drop by your place, if you want because that Mexican man who cleans…” Beep.

She dialed again.

“Sorry about that. Ran out of time. Not that I don't trust people from Mexico. I took four years of Spanish and I love Cancun. But I would hate for something to happen to your purse or something. So feel free to call. Yeah. You better call. Bye bye.”

Paula placed the phone down and waited.

“Stanley, let's not be rash,” Lord Baxtor said.

“I'm just going to visit my wife, the women who is married to me, at her place of work. Nothing strange in that,” Stanley said, swerving around a slow moving Buick.

“You could have just called her.”

“Oh sure, warn her. Did she call me?”

“You know, Stanley, fear isn't the same as love.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fear. Fear they'll leave. And relief when they stay. That's not love.”

“Fear has nothing to do with this.”

For a while they drove on and neither said a word.

“It's rather dark on this highway, isn't it?” said Lord Baxtor.

“Not now, Baxtor. I'm driving.”

“Never stopped you before.”

Paula waited and waited. She sat at her desk and stared at Melissa's purse. Maybe she should just take a peek, make sure it was really Melissa's purse, just in case. Paula allowed her fingers to unclasp the latch and—door!

But it was not Melissa. It was Juan the janitor. He looked surprised to see her.

“Working late?” he said. “I can come clean later?”

“No, no, go about your business,” she said.

Juan pulled in his cart of cleaning supplies and closed the door behind him. He looked around. A little uncomfortable, Paula thought. And he should be, alone with such a successful, powerful woman. She shuffled some papers, rearranged some pens, doodled on a notepad. Should she be nervous? The door
was closed. Could he mean her harm? He was short, but strong. He looked very strong, all those tattoos too, so he wasn't a cowardly man. Stanley was afraid to get a flu shot.

“All done,” he said, after emptying the half filled trashcan. “Don't work too late.”

He closed the door and Paula was alone again. She swiveled in her chair and looked out upon the dark downtown. All these buildings, like castle towers, tall, thick, empty all night long. She swiveled back and returned to the purse, the gaping pocket tempting her with its secrets. Eyeliner, a little mirror, Life Savers (Paula really missed Life Savers), some loose change, and a lipstick case, shiny, plastic shell, so smooth. Paula let the closed case wander about her mouth, slowly, just a little fun. Then she circled the case around her chin all the time picturing how close Melissa's lips had been to this very object. Then, almost absentmindedly, she swerved the lipstick case down her neck. She let the case run over breasts. To her surprise she found that her free hand had hiked her skirt above her knees. The lipstick case ran along her new, Hot Spring Low Carbohydrates, nearly svelte thighs. Under the skirt. Toward the warmth. What's this place? Keep exploring. Where'd the lipstick go? Hiding away. What a wonderful name, lipstick, yes, who's dirty? Who's dirty? Door! Door handle turning!

Paula panicked. Her fingers lost the lipstick case as her muscles, her other muscles, clinched around it. She ducked under her desk. From there she could see the door open and the smooth, muscular ankles of Melissa enter the room. The door closed again. The ankles made their way to the desk. Paula heard Melissa hum questionably. She must have seen the purse.
Then the ankles turned back to the door. A backpack dropped on the floor. Off came a running shoe, then another. Oh God. A sports bra fell to the floor, so close Paula could smell the sweat. Then a tiny pair of red shorts slinked their way down, followed by a stringy piece of pink undergarments, which twined around her ankles like an emaciated lizard before being flicked away. Paula could feel sweat bead up on her flushed face. Her body twisted the lipstick.

Paula expected the ankles to cover themselves with blue jeans, but no. They remained bare. She could hear Melissa sigh. The ankles walked to where Paula knew a large window overlooked downtown. Paula risked just a stretch of her head, and ankle was joined by calf, magical thigh, and just the hint of more above. Oh, sweet Lord in sweet heaven above above above. The legs turned and made a graceful little leap like a ballerina.

The door again. Paula could see the wobbly wheels of the cleaning cart enter the room. She was ready for a cry from Melissa, and prepared to spring to her protection, but instead Melissa stepped back and leaned against the desk. Melissa's two ankles now framed Paula's view.

“What took you so long?” Melissa asked.

“Mrs. Poppen is gone?” Juan asked.

“We're alone.”

“Mi Bonita.” The door closed and the scuffed black shoes pounced directly to the center of the two ankles. The ankles then disappeared upward, like some kind of leg rapture. There were moans, groans, Spanish, English, and something in between, some language Paula had never spoken, never heard, a wet, sloppy vocabulary with breathy syllables and grunts. Paula
had no idea her desk could squeak. What were they doing to her office, for God's sake…a stapler tumbled to the floor… bad Melissa. Bad, bad, Melissa. Tomorrow she would have to go. This was…they moved to the window…too much. Paula couldn't allow…they're really going at it. They're going to break the glass…not professional, not at…where's her other leg? Oh, my. She'll just watch for now, but tomorrow she'll…my God, they're on the couch. That's a Corinthian leather couch. Don't get it dirty, dirty…door!