The Perils of Pauline (16 page)

We arrive home and, as I enter the house, my ears are assaulted by an awful screeching noise coming from the den. I poke my head in to see Donald, red-faced, blowing into a saxophone.

“Look what I got,” he yells upon seeing me. “It’s a vintage Selmer. Check it out—it’s engraved and has mother-of-pearl touch points and the Zagar mouthpiece and everything.” He blasts off a loud honk and says, “It’s amazing how much I still remember.”

Donald can’t sit still when he takes a vacation. He’s been shopping online all week, buying all kinds of toys. Last week he found a coffee bean roaster and yesterday he ordered a giant trampoline.

At least he’s relaxing and enjoying himself. I can’t possibly prick his bubble by imparting Serenity’s news right now.

Serenity’s been on the phone talking nonstop to her friends ever since the doctor’s visit, two days ago now. You’d think her positive result was a full scholarship to Harvard or the equivalent. Instead of being upset, she’s delighted. Her dyke friends are all thrilled too. Not many baby showers happen in that circle. They’ve all pledged pregnancy and labor support, free babysitting, one girl has already lined up a crib and high chair; this baby will be a group project like they did together in high school but “way better.” Jude is coming over tomorrow to meet us. He says he wants joint custody. I wonder if he’d like to take on a puppy or two as well?

Serenity’s condition has given me an evil blinding headache. Wish it were a deafening headache as I just spied Donald walking by, heading for the den again with his saxophone. Despite all the clear evidence—for starters, Serenity has been lying around on the living room couch for days on end with two sets of headphones, one for her head and one clamped around her belly—Donald still hasn’t caught on. He never will. I realized that the day I went into labor with Jack, and Donald actually thought we could use the short term parking at the hospital.

I poke my head into the living room first where Serenity is painting her toenails a bright blue.

“Do you want to tell Donald or shall I share your news with him myself?”

“I already told Dad so it’s cool with me if you tell Donald,” she says.

“What did your father say?”

“He was being a real jerk. I think he was drunk. He kept laughing and saying that kids are a self-inflicted wound. He asked how you are. He was laughing so much I couldn’t hear what he was saying after that so I hung up on him.”

Now I can’t wait to phone up my ex and tell him he’s going to be a grandfather. Bet that detail hasn’t occurred to him yet. One last laugh coming right up.

But first I have to tell Donald that he’s going to be a step-grandfather. Too late. I hear the first blaring sounds coming from the den. Maybe I’ll wait and shout it out when he’s practicing somersaults on his trampoline.

Enter Jude. Stage left. Jude just clinched an audition with Queer Park Productions.

Jude has long silky hair and huge brown eyes fringed with gorgeous lashes. I can totally see why Serenity made a gay pride exception in his case. He’s a darling. I wanted to sit him on my lap and play butterfly lashes with him. I couldn’t though because I was too
busy shoveling pizzas out onto the patio table. Of course Serenity neglected to mention that she was throwing a party so all her friends could meet all of Jude’s friends.

Bibienne came over with a six-pack of vodka coolers and we stood in the kitchen sipping and looking through the window at Jude sitting out on the deck, his long legs propped up on the deck rail. After a few minutes, she looked at me as if she wanted to say something but was thinking better of it.

“He’s 20 so we’re allowed to be cougars,” I said.

All she could say was, “Mmmm, lanky.”

We’ve never had so much fun at a party: Jude & Company have solved all our troubles including problem skin and hair style while the girls climbed up on the roof with flashlights and fixed the leak.

Bibienne cracked open her third cooler and, after tossing half of it down her throat, finally said, “See? These kids are yet another reminder of just how useless our husbands are.”

After I went to bed, the kids stayed on to run around the neighborhood playing tag until 3 a.m. Meanwhile Donald missed the whole thing because he went fishing with Bernie.

The best part is that all the pups are taken, adopted by Serenity’s friends.

Shae is back. She heard the news and rushed back from Maine to see Serenity. She’s been up north fighting forest fires since the big breakup. Serenity was transported with delight to see her. Now Shae the Lumberjack is bonding with Donald over the Red Sox while drinking beer on the living room couch with her steeltoed boots hiked up on my coffee table. How do you like that, sports fans?

The blinds are closed and the television screen is so dusty I don’t know how Donald and Shae can watch the ballgame. Chip bags and soda cans litter the floor around them.

Maybe I’m not pregnant after all but my disgusting house cries out for a woman with a serious nesting urge. I call everyone into the kitchen to make an announcement: “I’m delighted to see you’re all
enjoying a relaxing weekend. However, I regret to inform you that there’s no maid service at this resort. Everyone has to do their share. Therefore, I want one hour of solid effort from each of you. Jack can vacuum, Olympia dust, Serenity and Shae wash windows, I’ll do the bathrooms and, Donald, you could start with changing the burnt out bulbs in the ceiling fixture in the kitchen.”

Olympia needs to know how to dust. I can explain:

“First, take everything off the top of the piano, wipe off all the dust, and then put everything back.”

Olympia looks puzzled. I have to show her how. I spend twenty minutes demonstrating the procedure to Olympia and then I tell her to go dust the TV. I look around: there are no vacuuming sounds, and Serenity and Shae have disappeared. Donald is teetering on a kitchen chair grimacing at a broken bulb stuck in the light fixture, a box of light bulbs tucked under his arm.

“Stupid thing broke when I tried to twist it out,” he grumbles.

Where’s Jack? I find him behind the shed in the back yard playing with his army action figures. I reel him back inside to commence his vacuuming. As I go by, I spy Serenity and Shae washing Shae’s truck in the driveway.

“What about my windows?”

“Later.”

Olympia’s sidetracked too: she stopped to watch TV while dusting.

“You’re supposed to be helping,” I say as I switch off the set. “Go dust the bookshelves in the den. Now.”

From the kitchen, I hear the sound of several light bulbs shattering on the kitchen floor, then Donald cursing. Jack walks by hauling the vacuum cleaner, I tell him he might as well start in the kitchen. I will start on the bathrooms now.

The upstairs bathroom is a disaster. Seizing a can of cleansing powder, I shake it liberally over all surfaces. I begin polishing the sink with a rag and notice my new silver earrings, a gift from Michael, lying beside the sink, I better put them away before … one earring flies from my wet fingers straight down the drain. I spend the next
half hour with a bucket and wrench, cleaning out the trap under the sink, and finally retrieve my earring, which is now coated in slimy brown gunk.

As I stick my head back under the sink to restore the plumbing, the lights go out. I bonk my head in an effort to stand up. I smell smoke. Something’s burning. I run down to the kitchen to find the power shut off, the vacuum cleaner abandoned, glass shards still all over the floor and burnt electrical wires hanging from a blackened ceiling.

“The damn thing shorted out when I tried to remove the busted bulb.” Donald drops what’s left of the ceiling fixture into a cardboard box. “I have to go to the store and buy a new one.”

My shining hour is up: Shae’s truck is gone, Jack is nowhere to be seen, my kitchen is destroyed and, in the den, every book has been removed from the bookshelves and several hundred are now piled up helter skelter in the middle of the room.

“I’m finished dusting the shelves,” says Olympia. “Can I go now?”

“Go,” I say wearily as I survey the mess. A copy of
What Americans Think
is on top of the pile. Curious, I scan the contents. Am I normal? Or way beyond the pale?

Interesting. According to the book, only 12% of Americans are having or have had an affair while married to their current partner. Guess that means I am some kind of bad. I would’ve thought the numbers were much higher. What’s the matter with us? If you believe Jilly Cooper or any other informed British writer, the Brits are way ahead of us in this kind of thing. At least half, probably more, have recently been or are currently messing around. All the fault of the royals no doubt, who have more like a 95% rate of adultery going on.

Maybe the truth is that Americans are big fat liars. After all, if some Nosy-Parker-Pollster called me up this minute and demanded to know, have you had or are you currently having an affair? I would, naturally, lie.

No doubt Mr. Nosy calls at the supper hour when the spouse is in the room listening. Who is going to own up under those circumstances?

Snapping the volume shut, I set to the task of picking up the heaped jumble of books. Might as well organize the collection properly for once. But how? By genre? By author? By Library of Congress number? By spine color?

Between Donald and me, we own a gazillion books. They’ve been all mixed together ever since we shared our first shelf. If we split up, it will be a devil to sort out the yours, mine and no-longer-ours. My misting eyes fall upon the giant dictionary resting on its own little table. A prize indeed. It belonged to Donald, originally. How will I ever gain custody of that worthy tome without a damn good lawyer? I fell in love with Donald because of that thing. That man had the biggest dictionary I’d ever seen.

Michael has a respectable dictionary, too. But is it truly comparable to Donald’s?

Operationally Ready: A unit, ship, or weapon system capable of performing the missions or functions for which organized or designed.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

A week of unfounded eating for two plus another couple weeks of emotional eating on Serenity’s behalf, and I’m well on the way toward a brand new set of stretch marks. I set my alarm extra-early so I can fit in my exercise plan. If I run for 30 minutes at the first streak of dawn every morning, I will be in tip-top shape for single parenting when Donald is gone to Calgary only a couple of days from now. Plus, of course, my toned runner’s ass will make Michael pant for it.

Dawn is a perfect time for running. Jogging past Bibienne’s house, I wonder if she’s even out of bed yet. Probably not, lazy girl. Most of the homes on my street look quiet and sleepy. These people are sleeping their lives away. What a waste. Meanwhile, here I am, my body moving cleanly, my lungs expanding in the fresh air, the steady beat of my footfalls, one, two, one, two, my head opening to the rush of adrenaline as I get into the zone. Gorgeous.

I’m sure Michael would be impressed if he were to see me. I’m wearing my short-shorts and I have George with me. He loves the running plan too, and is being a well-behaved dog for once by running nicely and evenly beside me on his leash.

We hit the park where we let it out. Two men pass me on the path and I earn a view of their running shorts. They’ve been making outstanding progress on their glute components. How come I’ve never caught on to the running scene before? I try to keep up with the gluteus twins but it’s no use. They’re out of sight in no time and my lungs are on fire with the effort.

I stop to check my cool new runner’s watch that features a built-in heart rate monitor. My heart rate must be powered up now since I can barely breathe and certainly wouldn’t be able to carry on a conversation. According to all the running magazines, I’m overexerting myself if I’m breathless or can’t talk during my workout.

According to the monitor, however, I am lying on the couch eating cupcakes. This can’t be. I’m not even close to target. How do you raise your heart rate to the target zone while still being able to breathe and hold a conversation? Maybe the monitor thingy is broken. I’ll do five more minutes in the cupcake zone and then I’m heading home.

As I jog into the driveway, I see that one of the kids left a bicycle lying on the asphalt behind Donald’s car. Good thing I discovered this in time as Donald would no doubt back over it without even noticing.

The garage door is locked. Tying George to the garage door handle, I walk the bicycle around to the side door, let myself in and flip the light switch. No wonder Jack left his bike in the driveway. The garage is a giant tilting mess. The Caddy, covered with a tarp, takes up more than half the space. There’s an open paint can on the workbench, which reminds me that the bathroom is way overdue for a fresh coat of paint. Painting might actually be a good idea for this week as I have nothing much planned and the kids are back to school.

Ramping up the mental checklist, I poke around in the corners looking for the paint trays, brushes, and drop sheets. There must be fifteen cans of old paint here. I should go through all of this clutter and toss the stuff that’s no longer usable. There are loads of mysterious substances in cans and bottles lurking in every corner. I better add a run to the toxic waste disposal to today’s to-do list. I have to get started on baby-proofing this dump sometime. Serenity’s kid is bound to be a real handful.

That reminds me: there’s a sweet old cradle stored up in the rafters. I could haul it down and clean it up, give it fresh coat of paint while I’m wielding the brushes. It’s dark and gloomy up there though. Brown recluse territory. Black widows. Daddy long-legs.

Some sunlight will help keep the spiders at bay. I flick the switch to the garage door opener. Where’s the ladder? I turn around just in time to see George’s leash, still attached to the garage door handle, drawing upwards.

In two bounds, I reach the dog and attempt to disconnect the leash from his collar. The clip is being pulled tighter and tighter by the steadily rising door. So is his collar. Quickly, I heave George to the height of my waist, while still attempting to disconnect the clip with one hand. As the door continues to rise, I have to hoist the dog ever higher, to my shoulders and then my head to keep him safe. The door finally reaches its zenith and the whir of the motor dies away. My nose is now at the level of George’s privates. They’re wet. With any luck, that’s morning dew. George is able to breathe as long as I hold him aloft with his testicles pressed against my cheek. He weighs a ton. I need both of my aching arms to keep him tucked up high in the air. Reaching up one hand to pull the door down again is out of the question. If I let go of him, he’ll be in big trouble. All I can do is stand there with a dog drooling all over my head and my nose full of smelly wet fur until someone comes along to rescue us.

The first person along is, of course, Lewis. I know because I can hear his distinctive chuckling sneer. I don’t even have to be able to see him to know he’s standing at the end of my driveway with his hands on his hips, debating whether or not to help me. He hates George and me enough to walk away but his sense of decency finally kicks in. He undoes George’s collar and I drop the dog from my burning arms.

“Thank you very much, Lewis,” I say with all due sincerity.

He grunts at me and stalks away.

I go back in the house where I find Donald sitting with his coffee at the kitchen table, one eye on the stock market ticker tape scrolling across his iPad and the other scanning the morning paper. Obviously he walked past that bicycle to get to his sports news.

Donald snorts. “You have grass bits in your hair.”

“So when, exactly, do you leave for Calgary?” I ask.

Running every morning is getting in the way of sleeping in. And, since I just heard on the news that French women don’t exercise, I guess I don’t have to either. But they do drink beaucoup de water. Therefore I’m starting my water-drinking project today.

Twelve bottles will be sluiced down my throat every day from now on. I figure I need to down one every 80 minutes starting at 7 a.m. Since I got up late this morning, I’m already behind so I have to drink two at once to catch up. Best to guzzle it down like a college boy.

I still need my morning coffee. My stomach is gurgling. Surely this gets easier.

Donald is freaking out. “The shuttle leaves in 20 minutes.”

“You don’t have to yell, I’m coming.”

I need to pee but I better hurry. He’s going to Calgary for a few days to hunt for an apartment and do some fact-finding for the new job. He’ll come home again for two weeks and then he’ll be gone again, for the duration.

I run out to the car and hop behind the wheel. Perfect. The trip to the shuttle gives me a chance to update him on Serenity. As soon as we turn onto the highway, I seize my opportunity: “Donald, I have something to tell you.”

Donald is pecking away at his phone.

“Hmmm?”

“Serenity’s pregnant.”

No answer.

“I’m thinking about selling the house on eBay while you’re in Calgary.”

“Uh huh.”

“Donald!”

He startles. “What was that about the house?”

“You might as well stick April 20th in your phone.”

“April 20th?”

“Serenity’s due date.”

I have Donald’s undivided attention now.

“But I … How?”

I explain about Jude and the revenge trip. Donald might be going into hypertensive shock. He’s all red in the face and his neck veins are bulging. He whips his phone, hard, onto the console. “Oh, I get it. She’s playing a game! It’s like a little racing game! Will she get her high school diploma first or a baby?”

“You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”

“Shit, she’s only 16 years old.”

“She’ll be 17 in a few weeks.”

“Oh, well, it’s all good then.”

“Don’t talk to me like that. I wish I hadn’t said anything.”

“Talk to you like what? What in the world did you expect me to say?”

“Something supportive, maybe?”

Donald throws his hands in the air. “Give me a minute here while I think of something.”

This isn’t going well. I mean, the water drinking is getting to me. I’ve got to go. Now. I pull into a Dunkin’ Donuts and sprint across the parking lot.

Back in the car I pass Donald a large coffee and a box of Munchkins. I wheel back onto the road and watch Donald out of the corner of my eye. He’s sipping his coffee in silence and staring straight ahead at the traffic. I crack the lid of my own coffee and gulp some down. I check my watch and realize it’s past time for another bottle. No matter what, I have to drink if I want the benefits of exceptional hydration. Those French women must have camel bladders. The traffic is heavy today; the flight is, hopefully, running late, too.

It isn’t. The shuttle has pushed off and there won’t be another one for hours. Donald opens his palms skyward.

“Now what?”

“Don’t panic. I’ll drive you to Logan.”

By the time we hit the highway I have to pee again.

Donald speaks again, this time with a softer voice. He wants to know what Serenity is planning to do. Is she keeping the baby? Who is going to raise the baby? What about Jude? What about support?

“Yes,” I tell Donald, “Serenity is going to keep her baby.”

Beyond that, I wish I knew. But I know one thing for sure: I certainly don’t want to change any more diapers. Ten to twelve diapers a day times three kids times an average of two and a half years in diapers each, means I’ve changed roughly 30,000 smelly diapers, at least half of them cloth, for crying out loud. Which means I’ve washed something in the neighborhood of 15,000 diapers. That’s 700 wash-loads all faithfully performed in the interest of befriending the environment. No wonder my machine is making that weird cranking sound.

I wonder if Serenity will be crunchy enough to want to wring a poo-smeared square of pre-folded cotton in the toilet with her bare hands several times a day? I doubt it. Knowing her, she will use her crushing powers of guilt-induction to corner me into doing it. I should buy one of those hand-saver ducks this time out. Bibienne had one. It hung by her toilet for years. I wonder if she still has it?

It’s high time to change the subject. I have a plan that I keep meaning to mention to Donald.

“I know what I want to do with the money from my Mom.”

Donald slides his eyes sideways at me. He’s afraid to make solid eye contact. Last week’s plan to open a cafe and roast my own free trade coffee beans didn’t exactly impress him. “People like to drink coffee in the morning,” he pointed out. “You don’t, er, manage well in the morning, remember?”

Too true. For a few days I toyed with the thought that maybe it could be an Irish Coffee kind of place, leaning to evening hours and spoken word events and cool jazz musicians playing in the corner. Trouble is, all day breakfast joints are the only economically feasible restaurants in America. I can’t stand bacon and I have expensive leftist leanings on fresh-squeezed juice and free-range eggs. So now I have decided that I want to open my own bookstore.

“Brick Books is up for sale,” I say with energy and enthusiasm.

“What?”

“That cute little bookstore downtown. You know, that one that used be a curio shop, and then when it became a bookstore, the owners couldn’t afford a new sign? They just changed Bric-a-Brac into Brick Books.”

“I thought it was a junk store with a crappy sign.”

“No, Donald, it’s been a bookstore for years. Everyone knows that. That old sign is part of its charm.”

Donald’s features are frozen with doubt so I go on to explain that Brick Books is a darling little store, full of wonderful new and used books and Jennifer, the owner, is always having visiting authors and special events and she even has a sweet little coffee bar.

“Nobody ever goes in there,” he gasps. Donald looks even more horrified at this than with Serenity’s news.

It’s true that ever since the big box discount place and the chain bookstore in the mall opened, the store’s been having trouble. But Jennifer says the right person could get it going again and even make a decent living. “Someone with a little energy and enthusiasm,” she said, adding that it’s time for her to move on to something new. “I’ve always wanted to try running an all-day breakfast place,” she added.

The highway is backed up at the airport turn-off. I’m desperate. I can’t wait to find a restroom. I’m curling my toes up inside my shoes. The urge is unbelievably strong. Every bump in the road is torture. I undo the top button of my jeans and try to breathe only at the top of my lungs.

Thank god, there’s the sign for Departures. The traffic has come to a full stop. A police cruiser races by us on the shoulder, sirens blaring. Probably an accident ahead. This can’t be happening. I can’t wait. I can’t wait. The terminal is just around the corner but at this rate we’ll never get there. I can’t wait. I can’t. Several more minutes pass and we aren’t moving at all. Throwing the Jeep into park and grabbing my purse, I leap out and yell to Donald to deal with parking and meet me at the baggage counter. I can get there faster on foot.

I jog along the side of the road while all the drivers and passengers idling across three lanes of backed-up traffic watch me go by. A plane takes off low overhead and I can feel all eyes on the ground and up in the air staring at me as I step up the pace. My bladder is about to
explode in front of an entire international assembly. I round the corner only to find a longer line-up of cars and I realize the terminal is still a fair distance off. Now I can see the difficulty: there’s construction ahead and a guy with a stop sign is holding back the line so a crane can drop some girders. Where there’s construction, there has to be a Porta-Potty. Sure enough, I can see one: it’s just a short dash beyond a couple of trailers and across a parking lot full of tractors. I have to climb over a few concrete barriers and side-step rolls of wire and other construction debris. A man in a yellow hard hat is yelling at me.

Apparently I’m in a restricted zone. I point across the lot at the Porta-Potty and make pleading hand gestures. And I run.

I leap inside and secure the latch while trying not to think about the fact that none of the hundreds of construction workers who use this facility ever bother to wash their hands after handling their dankest parts. As I yank down my jeans I wonder: how will I ever get out without touching that latch again?