The Housewife Assassin's Handbook (8 page)

I catch Mary’s glance in the rear view mirror. The pain I see there is reflected in my own, I’m sure. Since Aunt Phyllis’s reality check, Mary has resented the fact that I can’t give up Carl’s ghost. But when it comes to bitches like Penelope, we show a united front, which is why Mary puts on a sweet smile and murmurs, “What do you mean, Mrs. Bing? Who says I’m not going?” 

Penelope glares down at her little spy, Cheever, who shrugs at this new turn of events. “Hmmm. Then we’ll be looking forward to seeing Carl. Finally.” Her tone says it all: Mary is as big a liar as her mother.

Her frozen smile solidifies all doubts Mary had that the world sees her as a loser.

Like an alien tractor beam seeking its next probe victim, Penelope shifts her glacial grin in my direction. “Remember, Donna: everyone on the dance decorating committee must be in the gym at nine in the morning, on Friday. No excuses! And don’t forget to pick up the cupcakes. We’ll need twelve dozen. Tiffy has them on order, at Beyond Heavenly Bakery. If you forget them—well, I’d hate to think what a disaster that will be!”

I wince at her implication, that any screw-up will be proof positive that I’m what they’ve suspected all along:

A bad mommy.

If only she knew just how bad.

I’d signed up for this PTA task at the first of the school year, figuring that a few hours of party planning would be easier than nine months of some heavier parent penance: SCRIP management, lunchroom duty, whatever. 

And I also thought it might be (dare I say it?) fun, too.

It’s been tortuous hell. Because Penelope has conquered it as yet another fiefdom, all my creative ideas have been totally ignored. I take little solace that this has also been the case for the other four women on the committee who aren’t part of that bitchy triumvirate.

I peel away from the curb, wishing for once that my hybrid emitted enough carbon monoxide to take Penelope Bing out, once and for all. Would anyone blame me if I accidentally backed over her, just this once?

Okay, twice. But that’s just to make sure that the job was done right.

“Let’s have a show of hands! Who wants a yummy Sundae Cone?” I ask, as I circumnavigate Hilldale Park in search of the Good Humor truck. Trisha’s hand shoots straight up, and I reach back to give her leg a pat. I can always count on her for support–or more specifically, I can count on her sweet tooth. It’s a shame that Acme’s health benefits don’t include dental. In my job, sugar is an occupational hazard.

“Maybe,” says Jeff, warily. “Do you think he’ll have any A&W Swirls?” Cheever’s loss yesterday means he can forgive me for forgetting to pack his athletic cup.

Wish I could say the same about Mary. Her silence speaks volumes. She has just been pegged as a delusional nut like her mother, and she’s not too happy about that. Well, at least she’s not begging me to go straight home, so the idea of frozen comfort food must appeal to her too.

“It will be a quick stop, I promise,” I reassure her. Mary’s answer is a shrug. 

“There’s the ice cream man, over there, by the swings.” Jeff points to the colorful truck emitting a tinny music box rendition of “The Farmer in the Dell” from its overhead speaker.

I park right behind it. Jeff and Lassie bolt before I’ve unbuckled Trisha from her car seat. “Go ahead and get in line,” I say as I yank at her harness. ”We’ll be right behind you.”

The letterbox I use to receive my mission directives is Hilldale’s Good Humor Man, a Sikh named Abu. Some parents may find the sight of his long beard and turban above that legendary white uniform a bit disconcerting, and perhaps the neighborhood kids stare the first time they see him. Still, if you like the message (in this case, chocolate-dipped, on a stick), then you’re less inclined to shoot, let alone question, the messenger. In effect, Abu hides in plain sight as we conduct our business. 

However, today there is an undercurrent of anxiety rippling through his usual Zen-like calm. It heightens visibly as the neighborhood bully, eleven-year-old Billy Earhardt, shoves Trisha aside in order to be next in line.

In true Stone form, Trisha shoves back. “It’s my turn, bad boy!”

But Billy’s not buying it. “Ya snooze, ya lose, kid.”

He’s fully aware that Jeff is bristling at Trisha’s slight, but I shake my head at our little knight in shining armor. There is no time for retaliation, not with seven other kids behind me impatient for their sugar fixes.

Does this matter to Billy? Hardly. He makes us all cool our heels while he considers the merits of the Chocolate Éclair cone against those of the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup bar. “Hey, how ’bout some samples?” says Billy, fully enjoying his role as spoiler.

His indecision is making Abu a little hot under the collar. After all, his real purpose here is to pass me my orders. 

“What, do I look like Ben or Jerry to you?” Abu’s eyes have shrunk into angry slits. 

“You know what? Why don’t I treat Billy?” I murmur reassuringly, as Abu slips me a Tamarind Chili ice tube. In this neighborhood, it is an odd flavor, something no one else likes, which is the whole point. 

“What’s that?” Billy eyes my treat suspiciously. “It looks good! Hey, I want one, too!”

“There’s only one,” Abu growls, “and it’s hers.”

“But that’s not fair! She said she’d buy me whatever I want!”

Abu and I look at each other. This is no ordinary ice pop, and we both know it. Encrypted on the inside of the wrapper are my mission orders.

Nevertheless, I grace Billy with a smile. “Sure, it’s yours if you want it. My, you’re a brave boy! Not many kids love ice cream spiced with tamarind.”

“What? What the heck is that?”

“A Thai spice. They use it a lot in Mexico, too. To make chili. See? This has chili in it.” I point to the wrapper, where both ingredients are listed in big curvy letters.

He wavers for just a moment, then says, “Forget that crap! I’ll take the Reese’s. And remember, it’s on her.” He grabs his bar and saunters off.

“Brat.” Abu shakes his head sadly. “When I signed up for this gig, I thought it meant encryptions, translations. You know, the usual desk jockey stuff. Instead I find myself in this monkey suit. Sheez, what I won't do for my country! Hanging around all this ice cream, too. Want to take a guess at my last cholesterol count?”

I nod sympathetically but take care to hold the ice cream tube away from my slacks. It’s hot out here, and it’s leaking. “You're telling me! I've put on five pounds since they've come up with this cockamamie mission retrieval system.”

“Yeah, well, if it weren't for the extra cash flow–”

“Wait … you mean to tell me that they actually let you keep what you make?”

I’m still steaming over Abu’s nice little bonus when Lassie, always on the lookout for a treat, snatches the Tamarind Spice tube out of my hand, and runs off with it into the bushes. 

I chase after her, but no amount of begging or threats can loosen the tube from her slobbering mouth. In one noisy gulp, the who/what/where/when of my mission has been swallowed whole. 

Is it worth waiting to see if what comes out the other end can be decoded? In a word, no. I’ve already taken a lot of crap for my country, figuratively. I refuse to do so literally, too.

Always empathetic, Abu rolls his eyes. “Look, I’ve got to go finish my rounds first, but I’ll tell Boss Man about your little problem. Try a Google search in a half-hour, okay?”

Acme has an emergency back-up system: in dire emergencies, the encrypted message is uploaded online. But unfortunately when it’s done that way, they make the encryption harder to break. Still, it beats the alternative: explaining to Ryan that the dog ate my mission.

Mary is pounding on the car horn. “Mom! Mom! Can we go home now?”

Holding Trisha’s sticky hand, I head toward the car and try to figure out what phrase to use while searching for Ryan’s alternate message: Tamarind Chili Cone? F. Scott Fitzgerald? Mommy Dearest?

Whatever it is, it will have to wait until after Mary and I have our long-needed chat.

I have come to the very important decision: Mary will finally get what she so desperately wants:

I’m laying Carl to rest. Tonight. Once and for all.

Something is different in our house. I can just feel it. 

Whatever it is, the kids are oblivious to it. Jeff, figuring that my talk with Mary will keep me too busy to notice, runs up to his room to sneak in a half hour of Call of Duty: Black Ops before I remind him that homework comes first. Sensing a serious showdown, Trisha follows him upstairs, knowing full well she can tune us out in the perfect Barbie universe waiting for her in her room. 

“Mary, I’m sorry that Mrs. Bing was such–such a–”

“Bitch.” Mary folds her arms at her waist, waiting to see which way the wind blows.

“You know I don’t like you to use that word. But yes, you’re right. There was no reason for her to behave that way.” Mary relaxes somewhat. Still, my voice is quivering, and I can’t stop it. “I just wish you hadn’t lied because–well, I’m a perfect example of how some of the things we say can come back to haunt us. Which brings me to another topic: I think you’re right about something else, too. I mean, about your father–”

“Mom–” Jeffrey is standing at the door, an ashen look on his face. 

I sigh, and shake my head. “Not now, sweetie. Mary and I are–”

“But Mom, someone is here!” Jeff’s eyes are open wide in fear. 

“What? Where, at the front door?”

“No. He’s in … your bedroom.”

“My—my bedroom? Oh my God! Where’s your little sister?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice as I hurry toward the stairs. Mary and Jeff are right on my heels.

Too late. I see Trisha standing on the threshold of my bedroom door. She hovers there, as if deciding whether or not to go in.

The rest of us freeze, hearing what has drawn her to the door: running water.

Coming from the shower. No, wait: whomever is there has just turned it off.

I make it to Trisha in time to see the master bathroom’s door open slowly. I turn around and thrust my baby girl into Mary’s arms, who is close on my heels. But before I have time to whisper frantically for them to run back down the stairs and out the door, he is standing there, in front of us.

Although I have my back to him, I know this because I see it on my children’s faces: fear, anger—

Hope.

Slowly I turn around and see him:

He is tall, handsome, and humming off-key. One hand holds the towel wrapped around his taut middle. The other is wiping down his broad, muscled chest as he saunters over to us.

Over to me.

A wisp of shaving cream still clings to the dimple in his jaw. His dark hair has coiled into a bed of damp curls. His seductive grin is totally captivating.

And boy, does he know it. 

“Honey, I’m home,” he murmurs casually, as if we’d seen each other just this morning.

Is this a dream? How could this be?

What the hell is happening here?

Before I have a chance to catch my breath, he is standing next to the children. “Ah, so this is Trisha! My God, you’re the sweetest littlest princess in the world! Give me a big, big hug… Yes, that’s my girl! And Jeff! Wow, boy, how about a shake, huh? You’re quite a bruiser, eh, kid?”

Their wariness melts away under his awed, approving gaze.

And now it’s Mary’s turn:

Mary, the most jaded—and yes, the most traumatized of all my children. He seems to know this instinctively, which is why he does all the right things: the tantalizing smile, the warm hug, and the gentle pat, as if she is a fragile piece of china that might break if he’s not careful…

“Ah, Mary,” he murmurs softly, gently. “You beautiful little heartbreaker, you–”

But none of this takes her in. Instead, she looks over to indicate that she’ll take her cue from me.

It’s my call. 

So, what do I do now? Embrace him with open arms, or put him on the spot in front of the ones whose approval counts the most: my children?

Then, before I know it, he has me in his arms. I feel his lips gently brush over mine, too quick to resist–

The kiss is sweet … deep … tempting…

Perfect.

Jeff and Trisha, their emotional radar always in tune, seem to pick up on this and shove us all, including Mary, into a group hug. They too are confused; but thrilled nonetheless.