The Perils of Pauline (7 page)

Donald’s jaw goes rigid. “What do you want me to do? Quit my job?”

“Stop saying that. Of course I don’t want you to quit your job. You could start by talking to me once in a while.”

Donald leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Here I am. What do you want to talk about?”

“Forget the porch. Maybe we need to figure out why we aren’t getting along. I think we need to get into counseling.”

“Forget it. I’m not going to talk to some ooogie-woogie whackjob about our personal business.”

A vision of Lindsay swarms into my head. “Then maybe you would prefer to talk about our problems with a lawyer?”

“If that’s what you want, fine by me.”

Donald grabs for his suit jacket. I snatch up my purse. Neither of us speaks all the way home. Upon arrival home, Donald stamps upstairs and slams the door on his way into the spare room.

Bona Fides: In personnel recovery, the use of verbal or visual communication by individuals who are unknown to one another, to establish their authenticity, sincerity, honesty, and truthfulness. See also evasion; recovery; recovery operations.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

Monday morning, 3 a.m., I fall into bed, exhausted, essay at last completed. My eyes won’t close. I mash the pillow about, get up and take some aspirin, then lie back down. What’s wrong? Should I run another spellcheck on my essay, due today? How do I check that it makes sense? My neck feels like a tangle of ropes. Nope. There’s something more going on here. Maybe it’s because my car needs new tires? Without a regular paycheck, my bank account is emptying rapidly. Is that it? Tires and money and my poetry essay? All things I can handle. What else is wrong? Thunder rumbles in the distance. Ah.

My mind sets the way-back machine to the early days after my deployment to Afghanistan. Sleep and normalcy were impossible after months of brutal heat, rumbling in convoys up and down steeply winding rock-strewn roads. Every so often, we stopped to wait for an All Clear, passed around cheap Pakistani cigarettes in the shade of the trucks with the bab-bap-bap sound of mortar fire in the distance, the smell of burning phosphorus in our noses. Afterwards, all too often,
I saw the blood-soaked uniforms piled up for cleaning in the supply depot. Everywhere I saw dusty faces, always the dusty faces. Back at home, Serenity, barely 4 years old, clung to me constantly, for fear I might disappear again. My ex, a veteran himself, drank himself to sleep every night and punched holes in the walls. I asked the dentist for a mouth-guard to keep me from grinding my teeth. I chewed several packs of gum every day. Then I asked for a divorce.

A few months after my divorce, I met Donald. A few more months went by, and he started staying late every weekend night, slipping away before Serenity woke up. One night, I had one of my episodes in the middle of the night:
boom, boom, boom, the ground shakes beneath me. An RPG blast. That was close, really close. Serenity needs her blue blanket. We have to bug out but I’ve lost it somewhere, I can’t find it. I scrabble around in the dark. It must be in my kit bag. Where’s my barracks box? I have to find it. There’s sand and razor wire everywhere. Here’s the blanket but it is torn and dirty, tangled up in all the wire. My throat is raw, there’s that smell of burning phosphorus, the insurgents are here. It’s time to go. I choke, my throat fills with sharp grit, as my weapon sinks into the sand, disappears. I fall on my knees in the sand to dig. Without my weapon, I can’t protect my baby girl. I dig and dig. My hands come up empty, the sand pours away between my fingers. I cry out her name. Serenity.

A pair of strong arms circled my waist and held me tight. A calm voice whispered into my ear, “It’s just a little thunder, it’s okay, you’re safe, it’s okay.” I cried, “No, no, you don’t understand. Please, help me, I don’t know where Serenity is and I have to find her, she’s lost in the desert.”

“No, Serenity is fine, she’s asleep in her room, and you’re at home, you’re safe with me. At home.”

He scooped me gently from the bed and set me on my feet. Taking me by the hand, he led me down the hall to Serenity’s room. “She’s right in there. Go see for yourself.”

In the faint glow of the nightlight, Serenity’s face was soft with sleep, her chubby little hands clutching her blue blanket to her cheek. I dropped to my knees beside the bed and watched her breathe.
Serenity’s eyes opened and she immediately wrapped her arms around my neck. “Mommy, you stay with me.”

I glanced back at Donald hesitating by the door. I didn’t know what to do. Donald whispered, “I’ll go. She needs you.”

“Please don’t go,” I said. “Stay with us.” I picked Serenity up and carried her back to my room, and we snuggled in with her. It felt just right, nestled between Serenity and Donald, the three of us together, safe and warm. With my arms wrapped around Serenity, and Donald’s arms wrapped around us, we slept, a family.

In the morning, I woke up, alone in the bed. I found Serenity downstairs, seated at the breakfast table, eating pancakes decorated with chocolate chip smiley faces. Donald, shaved and dressed for the day, kissed me good morning and handed me a cup of coffee, fixed just the way I like it.

Now he’s slumbering in the next room. I can hear him snoring through the wall. So near but so far. We’re still barely talking since our dinner out. I don’t know if he called his lawyer or if he was just posturing.

All he ever worries about is his career. I wonder what he dreams about? Lindsay, maybe? The ropes in my neck loop into a tight noose.

My list of worries just got much too long. Time to stop obsessing and get some sleep. Tomorrow I have to get up earlier than usual to get the kids ready for their day camp. As the Jeep is going in for brake realigning today, I’ll have to ask Donald to help. He can drive the kids to camp while I can take the bus. I find my earplugs in the bedside drawer and close my eyes tight to wait for a sleepy feeling which fails to arrive.

At the beginning of class, I hand in my essay. Michael quickly launches into a long lecture on critical theories addressing the linguistics of visionary imagery vis-à-vis the inherent abstractions within pre-postmodern syntactical structure. Or something like that. After an hour of verbal gymnastics, he pauses to ask if anyone has questions. One student wants to know if early modern ambiguous
linguistic theory will be on the midterm. Michael laughs and says, “Maybe, maybe not.”

He goes back to lecturing on Ezra Pound and imagism. I want to lay my head on my arms and take a nap.

Finally, class is over and we are free to go. It’s baking hot out here. I sleepily trudge around the parking lot until I am practically dripping with sweat. Where on earth did I park the Jeep?

Michael pulls up alongside me in his car, and rolls down his window. “Everything okay?”

Suddenly, I remember about the brakes. “Fine. I’m, uh, looking for the bus stop.”

“It’s back that way.” Oh God, I hope he didn’t see me zigzagging around the lot, stupidly searching for the Jeep.

“Can I give you a lift?”

“Yes, that would be awesome.” As I run around to the passenger side, I swipe the perspiration from my face with the back of my hand.

Michael tosses his briefcase from the passenger seat into the back seat on top of a huge jumble of books and boxes. “Sorry. Research papers. For my doctoral dissertation,” he says, as I climb in.

More books are scattered on the floor of the passenger seat. I pick them up and hold them carefully on my lap, relishing the blast of cold air from Michael’s air conditioning.

“You can toss those books in the back with the rest.”

There’s a silence as he winds his way from the parking lot and eases into the traffic lanes outside the campus gates. Sitting next to me in the cool car, Michael smells nice, a mixture of leather and citrus, the same aftershave he wore the day he rescued me from the roadside on his motorcycle. I remember leaning into the curves with him and gripping the bike with my thighs. I feel a blush of warmth coming straight up from my core heater. No air conditioning in the world can help me now.

Michael finally speaks up. “So, what other courses are you taking at Dingwall?”

“Financial Management and Organizational Behavior. I’m a business major. Your course is my liberal arts elective.”

“What did you do before?”

“I was a Consultant for Wifi-Robes. Before that I was in the army for seven years.”

Michael’s eyes widen. Either he’s impressed or he thinks I’m crazy. “The army? Why did you join the army?”

“Everyone asks me that. Most people say they joined up because of the challenge. I just didn’t have a better plan when I finished high school. Mostly it was because of my Dad. He encouraged me. And it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“And was it? A good idea?”

“I don’t regret it. Everyone talks about doing their time, you know, like it’s prison, but I’ve never met anyone who truly regretted it in the end.”

“Except maybe the ones who don’t make it home.”

“Yeah, maybe some of them. And some of the ones who get hurt.”

Michael snaps his head to stare at me. “Some?”

Judging by Michael’s reaction, I can tell he doesn’t get it. Civilians rarely do. Maybe that’s why veterans don’t talk about their experiences much. Even if you get hurt, it was a choice you made and you don’t regret it. On the contrary, you feel a sense of pride.

Softly, I say, “It’s hard to describe. You get caught up in the life and the army becomes like family. You’re part of a team, and you believe in what you are doing. It’s about fighting for freedom right? I know that sounds corny but it’s true. It’s a totally different way of life. I mean, you do get to see the world.” I laugh and add, “But not necessarily a part of the world you’d want to see.”

Michael gives me a quizzical look.

“I did a tour in Afghanistan.”

“Ah.”

“The Middle East is beautiful but you can’t go out walking around. Because of the mines. Most of the time it was a ton of hard work. I was a supply tech. We slept in plywood huts and ate a lot of bad pizza in the mess hall. I had a daughter at home. At the end of my deployment, my time was up. So, I got out.”

“So what’s next? After you get your degree?”

“I don’t know yet. I was thinking maybe I’d start my own business. Or become a self-made billionaire. Whichever comes first.”

Michael laughs, showing a set of attractive crinkles around his eyes.

“What are you going to do after you get your doctorate? Go for tenure track?”

“I guess that would be next.” Michael looks less than excited by the thought.

“If you could do anything you wanted, what would you do?

He gets a faraway look in his eyes. Then he says, “Travel. Sail around the world, maybe. What about you?”

Briefly I picture myself splashing into the sunset on gold-tipped waves, and hoisting the jib sail with a handsome sailor who has attractive crinkles around his eyes. “I agree. I think I’d go sailing too.”

As we near home, Michael points out his street. Oh. My. I had no idea we lived so close together. So close I could easily ride my bike over to his house. I wonder if Michael owns a bicycle? We might bump into each other while pedaling in that quiet part of the park near the river. “Mind if I turn up the AC?” I yelp.

When Michael pulls in to the driveway, he says, “We live so close we could carpool.” He turns his head to look at me. “Are you taking the second half of my course in the fall? Modern American Poetry II? It’s for advanced students. I think you’d enjoy it.”

I’m disarmed by a pair of deep brown eyes. “Sure. That sounds great,” I manage to say, weakly, while gathering up my bag and books. “Thanks for the ride.”

Oh no. Why did I say that? If I find a job, I won’t be coming back in the fall. Now if I return, I’ll have to write another poetry essay next term. Feeling wobbly, I try not to trip over my feet as I climb out of his car.

I have to take a written midterm exam in poetry class today. Michael isn’t exactly making this course into a sweet summer breeze. But the good news is today marks the midpoint of the term. I have one more essay and one more in-class final exam left to write and I’m free. I walk into class chewing my lip with anxiety. Who cares about midterms? Michael wants to carpool with me.

I find a seat and try to focus on the exam questions. The thing is, do I want to return to school for the fall term? And, if so, do I want to carpool with Michael? The thought makes me twitch all over. I’d have to be on time without fail, and keep the Jeep clear of banana peels and dog snot. And I’d have to stop putting on my lipstick and mascara at red lights.

At the end of class, Michael hands back my essay. He makes no mention of any ride-sharing plan. I feel deflated but only until I see that Michael has granted me a B+. A scrawled note at the bottom of my paper is especially gratifying:
Pauline, I found this essay interesting and insightful. Keep up the fine effort.—M.

To celebrate the halfway mark, everyone is meeting at the Dingy Cup for pizza and beers. Inside the pub, it’s standing room only and we crowd around a long table out on the patio. There’s a live band playing rock covers and the music is so loud the umbrellas are reverberating. One of the female students asks Michael to dance and suddenly half our table is up dancing. I sit back in my seat and observe. Michael is a good dancer.

A couple of guys from the next table begin to arm wrestle for beers. One shouts above the din, “Any of you ladies want to try?”

Total amateurs.

I used to be a crook at arm wrestling. When your Dad was a Master Sergeant you learn tricks like the Tippy Tap Top Roll and the Skyfinger Grip. Dad even gave me a hand gripper for Christmas one year so I could develop my finger strength.

“I’ll try. But you have to beat me within 20 seconds or I win.”

Guys always fall for this. I move over to their table, wedge in tight, and set my right foot forward. If you can achieve body position and leverage, you don’t need to be as strong as your opponent.
Dad taught me how to set my wrist correctly, wrap the thumb, and move quickly to get high on your opponent’s hand. A good finger squeeze technique will cramp your opponent’s wrist strength. Throw your back and shoulders into the game, make eye contact and the contest will soon be over.

Within no time, I have won three beers. I look up and realize Michael is looking on.

Then it’s game over. I can feel Michael’s eyes on my failing grip as I’m taken down by a skinny kid who actually knows what he’s doing. Skinny Kid has my wrist and arm open in seconds, and I’m pinned. I push one of the beers across the table toward him, and offer the extra one to Michael.

We sip as we watch Skinny Kid win a few more beers in quick succession. Then Michael sets his glass down on the table, and says, “Would you like to dance?”

I would.

We weave our way to the crowded floor. As we begin to dance, pushed close together in the crush of people, I think of how fun it would be to be pinned by Michael.

The pub crowd is thinning. Most of our group left over an hour ago but a few stragglers hung on to share a platter of nachos. When the last two students get up to leave, Michael says to me, “I’m going to grab a coffee. Want one too?”