The Perils of Pauline (6 page)

Friendly: A contact positively identified as friendly.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

I’ve volunteered to help with the end-of-year school costume carnival. I’m dressing up as a non-traditional clown. Donald pops his head around the bathroom door to observe the installation of bright blue hair extensions and Lady Gaga-style fake eyelashes. He surveys my costume, borrowed from Bibienne: a purple striped bodysuit, red patent miniskirt and tarty little white boots. He glances at the glass of wine on the counter beside me and smirks: “Boozo the slut-clown. That’s hot.”

I tell him that, seeing as he’s such a comedian, he can wear the clown costume and take Olympia and Jack to the Fun Fair himself.

Donald offers to drive us over to the school. Before entering the cafeteria, I beg Olympia to demonstrate self-control at the refreshment table.

“I threw up on a princess last year, didn’t I?” recalls Olympia.

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

She threw up on the pinkest, bitchiest princess ever. I nod with what I hope is an adequate measure of regret and disapproval to cover up my proud smirk.

Olympia and Jack disappear into the fray as I report to the volunteer booth. I am assigned to hand out drinks at the refreshments table. I step forward and somebody’s brat dressed in a vampire costume
and wearing roller blades runs over my foot. I wonder who brought this bloodsucking monster on wheels? They should teach their kid some manners.

The refreshments table is covered with orange cake crumbs and sticky purple punch spills and, soon enough, so am I. Removing my black bowler, I slump against the wall. This is going to be a long night.

“Hi there.” A man dressed in a sheriff’s costume salutes me with a tip of his wide-brimmed hat.

Who’s this? Tall handsome lawman. Motorcycle. Dingwall. What’s my poetry prof doing here?

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Of course I know who you are. Professor Fortune. Poetry class.”

“That’s okay. We’re both just parents here. Call me Michael.”

“Okay. Michael. I didn’t know your kids go to this school.”

“I just have one kid, a boy. He’s over there, the one in the vampire costume.”

“Oh … he’s so cute!”

“These two are mine.” I point at Olympia and Jack who are busy guzzling punch beside me.

“I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me.”

“It took me a moment. You have a hat. And it’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. I’ve missed a few of your classes.”

“Quite a few, actually. I thought maybe you dropped the course.”

“No. My kids were sick with colds, is all. I’ll be there next week for sure.”

“Careful,” I say to Michael. “The purple punch is gross.” I hold up my cup, wincing.

Michael says, “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” A few minutes later he returns carrying two opaque plastic cups and hands me one. It’s filled with … beer!

“Cheers,” I say, tipping my cup. “How are you managing this?”

“I’m a volunteer, on the organizing committee. A few of us Dads have a stash out back.”

“Nice.” I take a swig.

“Just between you and me, okay?” He zips his index finger across his mouth, sealing a pair of nicely formed lips. We lean against the wall and sip together in a quiet alliance.

After a few minutes, he straightens. “I better get back to work.”

He moves away into the crowd. I watch him circle about the room, picking up empty cups, helping a lost child find a parent, and retying the laces of a green frog.

Michael comes back after awhile and points at my cup. “Another one?”

“Please.”

He returns with a refill and heads back into the throng. As the crowd thins, he comes over and relaxes against the wall next to me. The wall shifts behind my back, and the room tilts a little.

Michael raises his cup to me with a grin. “Having fun?”

“Now I am.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t recognize me. I thought I might have made more of an impression. Especially after I rescued you from the roadside and all.”

“No, really, I was very impressed with you. I mean, thanks for helping me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Not living it down, am I?”

Michael shakes his head. “Afraid not.”

“I thought you had to work?”

“Nope.” He leans against the wall so close to me that I can smell that lemony aftershave again. “I have everything under control.” He smiles. “Now this outfit,” he says, turning toward me, leaning in closer and pointing at my bodysuit, “is very, very nice.”

“How many beers have you had? You realize you’re flirting with a clown?”

Michael pulls back and draws a straight face. “No, I’m not.”

“Admit it. You’re into clowns.”

Michael leans in toward me again, bumping against my hip with his holster. “Only the kind of clowns that wear short leather skirts.”

I push him away using my index finger in the middle of the star on his chest. “Easy there, deputy. So what’s in the holster? Can I see your gun?”

“Sure. Would you like to hold it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“But if you start clowning around with it I’ll have to cuff you.”

Michael takes me by the wrist; Olympia tugs on my other arm: “Mommmmmm, I feel sick.”

Time to go. I say goodbye, quickly, and turn away but not before catching a vibe from Michael that makes me feel kind of shiny, like I am the brightest star in the sky and he is making a wish on me.

Walking home along the sidewalk with Jack and Olympia, I can still feel Michael’s fingers circling my wrist. But I am a married clown. Of course, Donald might be performing his own little circus act with Lindsay. I wish I knew for sure. I need a detective, not a tipsy professor wearing a tin star on his chest.

Beer joy turns to beer gloom as I recall that Donald is going away on a two-day business trip to New York city next week. Again. With Lindsay. Nothing much has changed and it’s not funny anymore. I could use a good cry. I guess that’s what they mean by a sad clown.

But I’m not a clown. I’m a soldier. And a good soldier never cries.

When I walked into class today, Michael barely glanced up from his desk where he was sorting papers. I said “Hi,” and all I got was a distracted nod in return. He’s probably embarrassed about drinking so much beer and flirting with me. He needn’t worry; I’m a big girl. I know it meant nothing.

At the end of his lecture he reminded us about the essay submission deadline: we only have two more weeks before it’s due. I have twenty-two pages of notes but no thesis. Hmmph. Suddenly, Michael Fortune’s not as cute as when he wore a six gun and siphoned beer into me.

Engage: In air defense, a fire control order used to direct or authorize units and/or weapon systems to fire on a designated target.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

Since Donald, his mother, and I all have our birthdays in July, we usually celebrate together over the Fourth of July weekend. Donald’s parents flew in last night from Montreal laden with toys for Jack and Olympia. Upon sight of his mother, Donald morphs into a Birthday Boy: he flops full length on the couch in front of the TV and falls asleep minutes after cramming his stomach with corn chips, jalapeno dip, and beer. Meanwhile, I’m trapped in the kitchen making my own birthday dinner. A battalion’s worth of potatoes need peeling. Over the past week, I cleaned the house, laid in groceries, shopped for gifts for Donald and his mother, and wrapped them, all while I went to school and kept the kids entertained. Meanwhile, Donald worked overtime every night and played golf all last weekend in Lindsay’s amazing charity tournament held, of course, at a five-star resort.

Bitter? Me?

Donald’s mother offers to help, but while chopping garlic for the salad dressing, she manages to slice her thumb. Now she’s bleeding on my diced shallots. Guess I can add making the dressing back on my list. The bitter gets the better of me. I trundle into the den and poke Donald’s arm.

“I could use some help in the kitchen.”

Donald’s mother rushes in behind me, sucking her thumb, her free hand raised in a stop gesture toward Donald. “Don’t get up. There’s nothing to do.”

“Maybe Donald could help with the stuffed peppers?” I clip my eyes at Donald, hold up a red pepper and add, “Like, stuff it.”

Donald’s mother says, “I don’t mind. I can do it.”

She hurries away to bandage her thumb. I trudge back to kitchen patrol. At least the kids aren’t in my way. They’re too busy smashing their new breakable toys with old unbreakable ones.

Back in the kitchen with a bandaged thumb, Donald’s mother sits at the table to watch me heave a tray of marinated t-bone steaks out of the fridge. She wants to know how poor Donald is making out with his wife away at university all day.

“Same as always.”

“Who gets the children off to school?”

“I do, usually. He goes in early most of the time.”

“I suppose if he goes in so early he must be having to make his breakfast?” She obviously doubts my capacity to rise before noon.

Time for a little white lie, to avoid the sad hand-wringing over poor Donald’s fate to cope with an indolent wife. “Of course not. Donald loves his bacon and eggs every morning.”

Donald’s mother frowns. “That’s not heart smart.”

I don’t say that I suspect Donald goes in extra early to avoid the wild joys of organizing the children off to school. I also suppress the urge to remark that Donald is probably making out very well with the generous and big-hearted Lindsay Bambraugh on his frequent late nights at the office, probably pumping her pert bottom to a wet pulp on top of the file cabinets.

At dinner, Donald’s mother tells us all about Donald’s sister’s children. Evan is reading at a grade ten level and he’s only in grade 5. Jordana is studying four languages: French, Spanish, Mandarin, and Arabic. I think she also translated the Dead Sea Scrolls recently, but I stopped paying attention so I could focus on fluffing up my hips with extra potato salad. I won’t mention that Serenity’s
standout talent is erotic lesbian spoken word poetry, Olympia is still working on two plus two, and Jack can do a rolling ollie on his skateboard now.

Donald and I bunk down in the spare room on the bed with the rock hard mattress. I slide under the covers, grateful for my pillow, exhausted. Donald slips his hand under my nightgown. What? Birthday sex on a slab with a gut full of steak and potato salad, and the in-laws in the next room? Donald, you’re a fool.

After the in-laws head home to Montreal, we all pile into Donald’s car to go across town to Mom’s for a birthday lunch. Donald is grumbling. “Can’t this wait? Our birthdays don’t actually happen until next week.”

I try to explain: “She wants to give us our birthday presents early since she’s going away, plus she baked us a cake.”

“We just had cake last night.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know. It really sucks to have to eat cake two days in a row.”

Donald glares at me and then frowns when he sees George lunging into the back seat with the kids. Olympia has a lollipop in her mouth and Jack is busy munching his way through a bag of popcorn. Serenity and Shae borrowed my Jeep to go who knows where. Donald hates it when his unspoiled car gets spammed with dog hair and snack wrappers. He pauses in the driveway, saying, “I’m tired. Do you think you could drive?”

As soon as I back onto the road, Donald pulls out his Blackberry and checks his messages.

“I can imagine you must be totally worn out after two days of sitting out on the patio stuffing your face with steak sandwiches and chicken wings. I’d be weary too.”

Donald glances up. “What do you mean?”

“I just spent two solid days in the kitchen with your mother. Chopping vegetables and making spinach dip.”

“I tried to help. She wouldn’t let me.”

“That must’ve been terribly hard on you. Tell me, do you even remember what I bought to give to your mother for her birthday this year?”

Donald presses his mouth into a tight line. What did Donald give me for my birthday? A garage door opener.

“I bet you wouldn’t buy Lindsay a garage door opener.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t. Let’s not do this now.”

“When then? Can I make an appointment to talk to you? Sometime when you aren’t working late or having sleepovers with Lindsay?”

Donald says nothing and stares out the passenger window.

“Who’s Lindsay?” asks Olympia.

“Daddy’s little friend at work.”

Jack soon interrupts the stony silence portion of the quarrel to inquire if we will be getting a divorce and, if so, right on, since all the coolest kids come from broken homes plus they all get twice as much awesome stuff at Christmas and birthdays.

“You want your father and me to get a divorce?”

“No. I guess not. But Serenity always gets presents from her Dad and you guys and her Florida Nana too.”

Olympia says, “The Florida Nana gave Serenity a purple cell phone.”

We arrive in Mom’s driveway and the kids race ahead to her door. Donald and I remain in the car a moment to compose ourselves. Turning to him, I twist the corners of my lips up, and hiss through clenched teeth: “Smile and pretend, okay?”

In the foyer, Donald maintains a wide bubble of space between us. I feel like popping him with a pointy stick. “Excuse me, honey,” I say as I step past him into the living room, while tossing him an unhoneyed glance.

Mom’s eyebrows rise. Somehow, we’re already busted, but she says nothing.

We follow Mom outside to sit on her back deck and open our presents. Donald receives a silk tie. I’m excited about a large box tagged with my name. I tear off the wrapping with great expectations only to discover an electric grill that looks like a giant clam. Just what I wanted: a waffle iron for meat. It looks like the same one I gave Mom for Christmas last year.

How touching. My own mother has re-gifted me.

As usual Mom is armed with highly unsuitable gifts for the kids: for Olympia, a marionette with a million billion strings that tangle as soon as you look at them, and for Jack, a giant box of fireworks: Li’l Red Devils, screamers, rockets, Roman candles and giant Mexican sparklers. Jack is jumping up and down: “I can get $15 apiece for the screamers at school.”

Olympia immediately shrieks, “If Jack gets to take his screamers to school, I wanna take some too.”

Good thing school has let out for the summer. I warn both of them that under no circumstance are any fireworks to be taken to school or anyplace else for that matter, nor are they to be used without proper adult supervision. No one is to touch them until after dark tonight when we can have a backyard show.

I look over at Donald who steadfastly refuses to make eye contact with me. A little relaxed family fun and togetherness sure wouldn’t hurt right now.

Mom wants to go over her itinerary: she’s dividing her summer vacation between Brian and Ted. Brian will accompany her on her cruise through the Greek Islands and then she wants to play golf in Pebble Beach with Ted “because Phil might be there” and she “misses him.”

She leans down to pet Jasper, her aging, cranky, and incontinent Schnauzer, who crouches under the table, growling and baring his teeth at Donald every time he shifts position.

“I was hoping you would take Jasper while I’m gone. I couldn’t bear to place him in a kennel.

Donald’s head snaps up. Now he wants to make eye contact. He looks me in the eye in a way that says he is not on board with taking
the dog. I stare back at him in a way that says:
Nice, Donald. And here Mom is your big fan, too.
Donald says:
Seriously, no.
I glare back at him:
Be supportive. Mom didn’t want to do anything much after Dad died. Now she’s just trying to get out and enjoy herself.
Like Jasper, I want to lie under the table and growl and bare my teeth at him, too. I smile at Mom and say, “Sure. Of course.”

Home at last. Jack and Olympia run ahead into the house with Jasper and George. Donald’s face goes all pissy when he surveys the state of his car. Jasper is a big shedder. George likes to press his nose against the windows. Olympia dribbled a trail of purple fruit punch clear across the back seat. In a fit of temper, Donald flings the offending juice box onto the front lawn.

“Who is supposed to pick that up?” I ask.

Donald ignores me and tosses Jasper’s dog blanket on top of the juice box.

“You’re acting like the mess is somehow my fault.”

“You gave Olympia the juice box.”

“She was thirsty. How come your car is off limits? You don’t mind when my car gets trashed. You seem to think you are exempt from all this parenting stuff.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, I’m sick of this. Give
me
a break. You conduct your life as if you live in a hotel room with maid service. You come and go as you please and, when family stuff intrudes and I’m not on it, boy, someone’s head’s got to roll.”

“What do you want from me?”

Donald furiously scrubs at the juicebox stain with George’s blanket.

“We could start communicating for a change.”

“That’s rich. Communicate? You didn’t bother to ask me whether I wanted to look after your mother’s dog.”

“I will take care of the dog, okay? Don’t worry. You won’t have to lift a finger. It’s not like you are around here to help much anyway.”

Donald flings the dog blanket onto the ground and turns to me, his jaw clenched with rage. “You want me to leave? Give me five minutes, I’ll pack my bags.”

“Fine!” I shout. “Why don’t you go move in with your big-hearted girlfriend?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean. Are you sleeping with her?”

“Who?”

“Lindsay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Donald turns his back to me and yanks Jack’s box of fireworks from the trunk, setting them on the ground. “I’ll go to a motel.”

“That sounds like a fair and affordable plan. You walk away and leave me holding the bag. What about the kids? What do I tell them?”

“What do you want me to do?”

I snatch up Jasper’s bag plus the box of fireworks and head into the house, pausing on the doorstep to watch Donald shake out George’s dog blanket. I shout, “How about go sleep in the spare room?”

“You got it,” Donald yells. Dropping George’s blanket, he jumps behind the wheel of his car, and guns it out of the driveway. Is he going for a drive to cool off? His office? Lindsay’s apartment? Who knows.

I go inside to stand in the foyer, and try to slow my breathing. I still have Jack’s box of fireworks in my hands. There won’t be any fun family fireworks party in the backyard tonight that’s for sure. We just had our big show in the driveway. I stub my toes kicking the front door closed and shove the box into the back of the hall closet.

After days of silence, looks like Donald is making a bid to come out of the spare room tonight. He’s offering to take me out to dinner at a classy restaurant in the city. No kids. He says he wants to talk. I
accept his invitation, as I can’t recall the last time we visited a dining establishment that doesn’t boast a drive-thru window.

The waiter brings us a bottle of cold Chablis and a basket of warm rolls. Evidently, Donald knows a thing or two about fine wines and Boston’s coziest bistros. I wonder how he knows about this place? But who cares: I’m starving. There’s no need for him to whisper herbed garlic nothings in my ear—all he needs is a pat of pesto butter and he’ll have me licking his hand. Looking around, I realize that he’s the tastiest-looking man in the room. Maybe a romantic night on the town is just what we needed.

Alas, between scarfing down all the rolls and digging into my Chef’s Special Antipasto Platter, I can’t remember the last time we made dinner table conversation without extensive interference from the kids. I wish Donald would spill my drink or at least yell, “Yuck, I’m not eating this crap.”

We can’t continue staring at each other over an expanse of linen, crystal and candlelight forever.

Here goes: “So? How was your day?”

Donald: “Terrible.”

Me, with real concern: “What happened?”

Donald: “Nothing. The usual pricks.”

The usual pricks? No, Donald must be mistaken; the usual pricks work in the parking lot at Dingwall. I launch into a tirade about the guys who ticketed me twice last week when I was only five minutes late for the meter, and they saw me coming. Somehow this cheers Donald up.

By dessert, Donald has warmed up past monosyllabic communication and, changing the topic, utters a complete sentence: “I bought a new TV today.”

Me, swallowing hard: “What?”

“It’s huge. The definition is unbelievable and it has the fastest refresh rate on the market.”

“But we don’t need another gigantic television. I thought we agreed to repaint the front porch …”

“You agreed we were repainting the front porch.”

I am suddenly furious. Donald is going out buying himself new toys as if nothing’s wrong. “When do I ever get to agree with you on anything anyway? You’re hardly ever home.”