There's a (Slight) Chance I Might Be Going to Hell - v4 (15 page)

“I don’t know how to say this,” her husband said, shaking his head. “I’ve held off telling you for as long as possible, hoping I could get out of it. But I can’t. I can’t. It’s important that you know I tried. Because I did. But I can’t get out of it. I’m sorry.”

What could it possibly be? she thought. Are there people buried in our backyard? The appearance of a love child from Charlie’s forgotten past with an Eastern European maidservant? How bad could it be? “Well, what is it?” Maye asked. “I’m sure it can’t be that big of a deal.”

“We have to go to Dean Spaulding’s for a holiday party,” he blurted out so quickly it sounded like Morse code.

If Maye had an eighth of an ounce more of Lifetime Television for Women tendencies mixed into her DNA, she would have crumpled into a heap on the floor and immediately lapsed into a bad habit, like a cocaine addiction, become a high-class but self-loathing call girl, started a baby-stealing ring involving the Russian mob, or had a love child of her own, preferably not with an Eastern European maidservant.

But she didn’t. However, a thought flickered across her mind, that she should claim that at the last faculty party, the woman they saw grunting and nearly nude doing a Cameroonian fertility dance in the Spauldings’ dining room had been her evil and exhibitionist twin, Faye, while Maye was trying to escape from a PODS storage unit where Faye had imprisoned her after the surprising, yet if you really think about it, expected, kidnapping.

“Charlie,” Maye said slowly. “I will let you touch every pipe in the house if I don’t have to go. And then I’ll let you tinker with the sprinkler system.”

“I’m sorry, Maye,” he replied woefully. “Dean Spaulding mentioned you specifically.”

“Of course he did!” Maye shouted. “I’m cheap entertainment! I was the party stripper and I only cost him a gin and tonic! I didn’t even get to eat after my show! You can’t hire a homeless clown or one with felonies for as cheap as he got me. Please, Charlie. Please don’t make me go.”

“I told you I tried to get out of it,” Charlie replied. “I even told him you were going to be in Phoenix, and he said he wanted to see the plane ticket!”

“Then I’ll buy one,” Maye said defiantly as she marched from the kitchen into her office and sat down at her Mac. “When is this party?” Charlie stood silently as Maye typed in the address of a travel website. “Well?” Maye asked, ready to punch in the date. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow,” Charlie said, wincing.

“Charlie Roberts, I should have killed you when I had the chance!” Maye shrieked. “If I even got a flight out, it would be a thousand dollars, at least!”

He looked puzzled. “When did you have the chance to kill me?” he asked.

“Every time you have a screwdriver in your hands and I make you put on rubber-soled shoes, that’s when!” Maye cried. “It’s just a matter of time before you fall into a toaster or an electrical outlet! Tomorrow! Oh, Charlie, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Maybe I was afraid you wouldn’t take it well,” he offered. “But I want you to be positive about this, okay? Think of this party as a second chance. Think of it as an opportunity to show them that Maye Roberts can keep her clothes on at a party and still have a good time. I’m sorry. But I really, really,
really
need you to go.”

Then Maye, wicked, wicked Maye, in a move that was more characteristic of evil twin Faye, had a brilliant, exquisite, radiant, and surprising (but when you really thought about it, unsurprising) idea. And she borrowed a tip from her new mentor, Cynthia.

“I’ll tell you what, Charlie,” Maye said, pretending she had jet-black hair, brushed back and flipped at the ends, wore sunglasses and a leather jacket, and spoke in an English accent. “I’ll trade you for it. Fair is fair, isn’t it, darling?”

“What?” he asked. “How much salt did you eat today?”

“Let’s trade. I’ll go to your party,” Maye clarified, “if you let me do one thing.”

And that was how Charlie—well, he didn’t really agree, but he didn’t have as much veto power as he would have liked in a situation in which his wife had just told him she was planning to overthrow the town by staging a coup to its throne and making her royal subjects befriend her in the spirit of Queen Elizabeth I.

And it wasn’t even her evil twin talking.

Maye was wearing the ugliest sweater she could possibly find at the mall, and that included scouring both of the shopping center’s medieval stores. What she found was pure gold; it was kelly green and boasted not one badly knitted reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh but a pair of them, complete with real live bells on what was probably meant to be their harness but resembled more of a rope, suggesting the reindeer had escaped from their own lynching amid snowflakes the size of hubcaps, proportionately speaking. Reindeer number one particularly was in grave danger, as a boulder-sized chunk of hail was virtually an inch from crushing his little holiday skull. It was a wretched, horrible thing, fit a bit too tightly, the sort of sweater a mother-in-law gives to her son’s wife when she thinks he has married poorly.

Initially, Maye had pulled out her best dress and planned on wearing that, but she’d changed her mind when she realized that anything she wore would be nothing but ammunition to the awful woman who fancied herself a sweater expert. Maye didn’t know if that woman would be at the party, but one thing was for sure: if she was going to be mocked for her apparel, it was going to be apparel worth mocking.

Despite the fact that she had little warning about the get-together, Maye was determined to make the best of it, and she realized Charlie was right. If she shied away from faculty gatherings from now on, Maye’s Nearly Nude Fat Dance was all they would ever remember her for. She had a chance to set the record straight and to show Charlie’s peers that she was more than the party stripper, although the sweater sort of reinforced the lack-of-decorum aspect. And she was looking forward to getting to know the dean’s wife a little better—if there was any upside in going to the party, that was it. Maye thought they most likely had a lot in common, and she thanked the universe that Mrs. Spaulding had not witnessed the spectacle with the rest of the guests. Still, if Maye could have wiggled out of the occasion, she would have taken the chance in a heartbeat, although she also knew that if she didn’t show the faculty set that she had a good sense of humor about herself, then no one else would see it in that light, either. And last but not least, she had a mission—a score to settle with one amazingly rude woman.

Maye held tight to that determination to go in with her head held high and her sweater staying down. She held tight when she pulled the jolly holiday sweater over her head, and it clung to her torso like moss on a log. She held tight when she got into the car for the drive over to the Spauldings’ and she was still holding tight as they drove up the curvy driveway to the dean’s estate, the gift of a poinsettia on her lap.

And Maye kept that sense of humor strong, healthy, and dominant until the shiny black front door opened and there she stood, the Wicked Witch of Spaulding herself, fresh from dodging a falling house. Maye had not expected to see her nemesis on the other side of the door; she had expected to see a cheery, delightful Mrs. Spaulding who would immediately put her insecurities and fears at ease like the good hostess that she was. Maye also thought it typical of Rowena’s rude behavior to take it upon herself to answer someone else’s front door. If she had that much nerve, she was starting out strong, which meant it was going to be a long, tedious night.

“Hello,” Rowena said with scowling, judging eyes.

“Hello, happy holidays,” Charlie said diplomatically.

“Hi,” Maye said, her blood pressure shooting up so high she nearly crushed the poinsettia she held in her arm. She put her other hand on her hip and swiveled from side to side, giving Rowena a grand, full view of her disgusting sweater.

Rowena said nothing as Charlie grabbed Maye’s arm and pulled her inside, walking past the old wreck, who was dressed impeccably in a crimson, well-fit matching jacket and skirt.

Chh chh chh.

“Uh!” Maye whispered. “I hate this entryway!”

Again, Dean Spaulding was the first one to spot them as they entered the library, and he came over immediately to greet them.

“How are you, how are you?” he said, taking Maye’s free hand. “Thank you so much for coming. Maye, I’m so glad you pushed back your trip after all so you could attend our celebration!”

Then he winked.

“I am, too,” Maye said, smiling, and winked back. “This is for you and Mrs. Spaulding. I didn’t see her when I came in, so—”

“Oh, she’s right there,” Dean Spaulding said, pointing behind Maye, but as she turned around to greet the pleasant young woman, she saw only the craggy face that belonged to Professor Brooks’s significant other, and thought jokingly to herself that Rowena had probably just eaten her, but no one could tell because Rowena, the professor of Old English, Middle English, or Old Hags, take your pick, was already awash in the color of blood.

“I’m sorry, where?” Maye asked.

“Oh, right there.” Dean Spaulding pointed again, and before Maye could take another look in that direction, he laughed and called, “Look, Charlie and Maye have brought us a lovely poinsettia, Rowena. Wasn’t that nice?”

Maye thought for a moment that perhaps she had misunderstood or hadn’t made herself clear, realized perhaps Rowena was indeed Mrs. Spaulding, but in the form of Dean Spaulding’s mother. Why would he call her Rowena instead of Mother? An old, wrinkled stepmother? That would certainly fit the bill.

“I’m sorry. I meant the other Mrs. Spaulding, the one I met at the last party,” Maye said, suddenly feeling ridiculous that she had to explain to the dean which wife she meant, trying hard to push down the words “You know, your young, pretty wife!”

“She answered the door,” Charlie added, trying to clarify the puzzle.

Even Dean Spaulding looked confused, and then after a moment or two, he began to laugh. “Oh, I see,” he said, nodding. “I understand now.”

Maye felt a wave of relief and was about to fake-wipe her brow with the back of her hand and sigh “Whew!” when her left side suddenly went cold and she turned to see Rowena standing next to her.

“That was my assistant,” Rowena said dryly, sucking every ounce of heat out of the room like a demon. “She was at the party to answer the door and take drink orders. I am Rowena Spaulding, the dean’s wife. Our next anniversary will be our golden one. And your sweater tonight is every bit as lovely as the last one you wore here, my dear.”

Maye felt as if she had just stuck her head into a beehive. Her face stung, grew flushed, her ears rang, and she felt dizzy. No, no, no. How could it be true? she thought to herself. How could that nice, charming, friendly man be married to such a gorgon? How could that ave even happened? He must drink a lot, Maye decided; that man must sleep at night curled up at the bottom of a bottle of Night Train.

The buzz in Maye’s head only stopped when she felt a sharp pain on her thigh. Her first thought was that Rowena had speared her with an arsenic-laden dart that she probably had hidden behind a jowl for such an occasion, but then she quickly realized it was Charlie pinching her to tell her to get the horrified look off her face. Stat.

“I hope you like the poinsettia,” Maye quickly offered with her best smile.

“There’s nothing like some pretty poison during the holidays,” Rowena said, smiling, and then swept into the hallway with the plant in her hands.

Before Maye could make a break for the door and spend the next six days running and screaming down the long, winding driveway, the only person she still remembered both the name and the face of walked over and began a conversation with her as her husband talked with Charlie.

“That’s a great sweater,” Melissabeth said. “Rabbits pulling sleighs are so cute, and it’s unique how the Santa has no eyes. Was it knit by a special-needs person?”

“Oh, I think he does have eyes,” Maye replied. “They’re just behind the gargantuan snowflake that has suctioned itself to his face like a giant squid.”

“Do you play cards, by any chance?” Melissabeth said without breaking so much as a smile. “My husband, Stuart, and I are always looking for another couple to play cards with.”

“Oh, I’m not much of a card player, but I do love to play hearts,” Maye offered. “Charlie’s really the card shark. He loves rummy and poker. He even had a standing poker night with his friends in Phoenix.”

“I love hearts!” cried Melissabeth, narrowly missing squealing by a note. “I haven’t played hearts in years! We should get together and play! Stuart knows how to play. Does Charlie?”

“It’s easy enough to pick up. He has a knack for things as long as they don’t involve tools or moving parts,” Maye replied.

“All righty then!” Melissabeth responded. “What are you doing on Wednesday night?”

“Oh,” Maye said, a little surprised at the nearness of the date. “Wednesday is bad; we have dog school on Wednesdays. In fact, our dog is graduating from obedience school that night.”

“How about Thursday?” Melissabeth offered. “Will that work?”

“Charlie has a late seminar on Thursday,” Maye explained. “But we’re free Friday or Saturday.”

“Oooooooh,” Melissabeth said in a pitying tone as she cocked her head to the side. “We should really start out on a weeknight and work our way up, don’t you think? We like to reserve our weekend nights for real friends.”

Maye’s jaw dropped as if she had just injected an Orange County–sized dose of Botox into her face and was no longer able to control the physical workings of it.

She really had no comeback for Melissabeth, and realized that if the woman didn’t understand that she had the manners of Joseph Goebbels, then it probably wouldn’t bother her if Maye flatly turned and walked away.

At what point did I step into another dimension? Maye wondered as she did just that and headed straight for the bar. Is the
chh chh chh
hallway a portal to the David Lynch version of a work party? Is there a bottle that someone is passing around labeled “Drink me?” Where are the midgets? If she had passed into an alternate universe, there ought to be midgets, goddamn it, dressed as cops, pirates, and little maids. The Spaulding living room is a Salvador Dalí painting, she decided, and I must be a melting clock wearing a sweater depicting a Santa with no eyes in a sleigh pulled by rabbits. One thing was for sure—should any rabbit materialize before her eyes, she would sure as shit follow it down any hole to get out of there, she told herself.