The Universe is a Very Big Place (8 page)

Lanie inhaled a deep lungful of nicotine and held it for five seconds, pretending that she was hitting a bong. The first puff was always the most delicious. It sent tentacles of pleasure coursing through her body, snaking down her torso, spreading into her limbs, fingers, and finally toes. The Surgeon General had gotten it all wrong. Tobacco wasn’t bad for you. The Indians smoked it and they were as healthy as the horses they chased the white men on. What was bad for you was the pesticides they put on vegetables. The produce company was using cigarettes as a smokescreen...so to speak. Lanie laughed out loud and took another drag.

Where was she? Vegetables. Potatoes. Oh, back to Sam. The man changed religions as often as most people washed their underwear. A little over eight months ago he had converted to Islam. Now he ran around in baggy pajamas and prayed all the time. Before that he had been a Jehovah’s Witness. Luckily he stopped that nonsense when he realized he didn’t get birthday presents. And before that he had dabbled in Buddhism. Lanie thought he was going to keep trying until he eventually found one that would allow him into heaven.
 

"Why in heaven’s name are you with him?" Lanie had asked Spring one day while they were out shopping for potatoes. Not only did he look like a potato but he ate them by the bushel, an act that no one found ironic but Lanie.

"After Trevor left I was a mess, remember mother?" Spring answered. "Sam was there for me. And it’s nice to feel normal for once."

Lanie huffed. Just because Spring was pushing 30 with two kids didn’t mean she had to settle for fall-out boy. As for Sam being normal, well if he was normal then she was Judy Garland. Besides, who in their right mind actually wanted to be normal? While most people spent their lives trying to carve out some kind of individual niche for themselves, Spring preferred to be one of the nameless masses. Poopy.

Lanie inhaled the last wisp of her Winston. The sky was beginning to darken and she couldn’t wait for the night to release her from this heat. She'd read somewhere that there were places where night could last for days. Maybe she should move to one of those locations. It might help with the hot flashes. If she ever got a car. She shifted in her chair, lifting a breast to scratch beneath it. A mosquito must have taken a nibble while she had been smoking. A quick movement caught her eye, distracting her from the itch. Across the backyard and over the five-foot wooden fence that separated Spring’s home from those behind her, Lanie was pretty sure she caught a human head staring at her.
Why, I’ll be,
Lanie thought.
A peeper!
Lanie smiled. It had been a long time since she had been peeped.

Lanie dropped the cigarette onto the ground and watched the ember fade away. It was a struggle to extricate herself from the chair but at last she made it, her voluptuous bottom jouncing as she rose. She stood on tip-toes, craning her neck to see over the top of the fence. The peeper was nowhere to be seen. “He’ll be back,” she said and fanned herself as she swayed seductively into the house. “They always come back to mama."

Lanie stood beneath the living room ceiling fan, letting the cool air blast over her body. Parts of her wiggled and jiggled, still reacting to the sudden rousting. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway sent her scurrying back into her house dress. "Fuck!" she said, looking around the living room. "Where the hell’s my underwear?"

Five

2005

Spring barely had the chance to open the door before Debbie handed her a sticky note. Kimberly Welz, the head of the communications department, had summoned Spring into her office. "Good luck," said Debbie. Kimberly was new to management and had already earned a reputation as a pain in the ass. Last week an unsuspecting Fed Ex delivery man had gone in and no one had ever seen him come out. Spring was half-tempted to check the broom closet for bodies, but hadn’t gotten up the nerve.

Kimberly’s office sat by itself at the end of a long corridor, past the janitor’s closet, the copy room, and the family restroom. A world unto its own. Here Kimberly reigned, monarch of none so far. But that was about to change. As Spring crept down the dark hallway she wondered if her insurance covered beheadings.

"Spring, good to see you." Kimberly said, running her fingers through her glistening black hair. Jane had ordered the entire building feng shui’d over the weekend and there were now mirrors everywhere and Kimberly was taking advantage of the opportunity to preen. With the new, energy-efficient, fluorescent bulbs installed, and the walls now pasted with mirrors,
Teens in Trouble
reminded Spring of a carnival fun house, the one attraction she was always afraid of during her youth.

"Yeah, good seeing you again, too," Spring lied. She and Kimberly had started at
Teens in Trouble
on the same day three years ago. In that time Kimberly had been promoted twice.
The quickest rising star in the company
, Jane had quoted in the annual newsletter. During that time, Spring had only managed to bumble from one cubicle by the water cooler to one closer to the main entrance, a godsend on those days she flew in late.

"Sit down, please." Kimberly plopped into her leather office chair and motioned Spring towards an uncomfortable wooden chair on the other side of the desk. Between the women sat a flat-screen monitor and an army of porcelain cats arranged in a neat line, their feline faces turned smugly upwards. "I wanted to talk to you about your marketing plan," said Kimberly, pushing her monitor aside. The cats looked at her expectantly.

"My marketing plan?" Spring was confused. This was the first she had heard of a marketing plan.

"I need you to put together a list of places where you and Casey will be doing community outreach. Churches. Schools. Parades. That sort of thing."

"But I thought you were in charge of that."

Kimberly laughed. "Me? Oh God, no. I’ve got real work to do. You came up with the mascot idea. You come up with the marketing for it. It’s bad enough I have to babysit you."

"What about Meg? Isn’t she going to help with this?" Spring began to panic. It was bad enough she would be escorting the condom. She wanted no part in figuring out where to escort him to.

"Budget won’t allow for much more with the PR people. Besides, Jane and Meg aren‘t speaking right now. Lover’s quarrel, you know?" Kimberly sighed, twirling the ends of her hair around her fingers.
 

Despite Spring‘s dislike of Kimberly, she felt a tremendous urge to touch her hair. It was the most magnificent hair Spring had ever seen––shiny, lustrous, a black-widow’s blue. Spring was sure she didn’t use store brand shampoo on her hair. Nothing but salon quality for that bob. Probably no home haircuts either.
 

"You can get Sarah to help," Kimberly added. "I’m sure she has some ideas."

Spring pursed her lips in agitation. Sarah was the most uninspired person in the company. She could be the spokeswoman for apathy...if she cared enough. Spring sat for a moment, her hands folded in her lap. "You know, Kimberly, I’m, well, happy you all thought of me for this. But...I just...I’ve been working with the girls now in a support role, and I think I’m doing some good there." Spring closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"First off," Kimberly corrected her. "...I didn’t think of you for this. I don’t think of you ever. Got that? Secondly, I can’t handle you moping around this department. Kimberly-land is happy-land. So take your sad little face and spray-paint a smile onto it if you have to. I won’t have Jane thinking it’s a torture chamber down here." Kimberly turned her chair away from Spring, towards the large window behind her. "The marketing plan could be fun for you. For once, you get to be the master of your fate. You are being
proactive
rather than
reactive
." Kimberly swiveled to stare at a motivational poster on the wall; a picture of a tree with the words
Give Them Roots
written prettily on the bottom. "I didn’t want you here either, my dear. But my hands are tied. This is coming straight from Jane. We have to make it work." Kimberly spun her chair towards Spring and gave her a full once over.

"While we’re here, I might as well bring this up." Kimberly stood, moving towards her to inspect her more carefully. "I’ve been watching you in meetings. We need to do something about your clothes. I know in the counseling department they are a lot more lax about dress style, but here in the
communications department
you have to dress like a professional. You can’t wear those rags to work anymore."

Spring looked down at her flowered skirt and brown peasant shirt. "These are not rags!"

"That’s debatable."

"What would I wear, then?” Spring saw nothing wrong with the skirt and, in fact, had three more identical to this one. True, the flowers were faded and there was a hole or two where a hungry moth had once fed. But she loved them.

"That’s your problem." Kimberly tilted her head and a curtain of hair fell across her eyes, a signal that this conversation was about to end. "And I expect you to have it figured out by the beginning of next week, but here are a few tips. Stop shopping at K-mart. Don’t sew your own clothes. And take someone with actual taste with you when you pick things out." Kimberly sat back in her chair, crossed her legs at the ankles, and began typing. "We’re done."

"Bitch." Spring muttered as she closed the door behind her.

"No tears?" Debbie asked as Spring re-entered the lobby. The sun shone through the windows, catching itself on the various mirrors and bouncing around in a prism-like fashion. Spring squinted to avoid blindness.

"More like seething hatred. But she hasn’t broke me yet."

"That’s good. We can’t afford another casualty." Debbie pointed to a handmade sign tacked to a bulletin board behind her.
Kimberly Casualties This Week: 2.

Spring laughed and felt a wave of affection for the woman. Debbie dared to poke the bear everyone else threw honeycombs at. "They are going to make you take that down."

"That’s fine. But I will have my laughs till they do, right?" Debbie turned towards the sign and put an x through the number 2 and drew in a large red 3. "For comedic effect," she explained, turning back. "Not that anyone here appreciates good comedy." Debbie capped the marker and jotted down something in her day planner. "Hey, since we’re both engaged I thought maybe we could get together soon and talk about weddings and such. Have a girl’s night, you know?"

"I’m not engaged."

"How old are you again?" Debbie asked, seemingly mystified.

"Thirty."

"Oh," Debbie said. "Sorry to hear that."

Six

John stood in front of his pickup truck, all his earthly belongings tied up in the truck bed under an old tarp. Before him stood his family and friends––the majority of the community––all of whom had come to say goodbye and to wish him luck in his new life.

"I can’t believe you’re going," said his mother, grabbing hold of him, her press-on nails digging into his back. Tears ran down her cheeks, etching rivers through her pancake makeup. Standing there before him John realized what a tiny woman she was and he was surprised he had never noticed. She always seemed so big, strong and capable, but as he hugged her goodbye he realized she wasn’t Superwoman after all.

"It’s not forever, Mom," he said, standing back to look at her. He could see the roots of her hair, grey with the beginnings of grow-out. She spent two Fridays a month at the Samson Beauty Parlor to maintain her natural color, but time was winning the war on her head and it would have horrified her to know.

"I got you a present," his mom whispered in his ear. She presented him with a package wrapped in pink and purple paper, probably left over from his niece’s birthday party last week. His mom, a proud Scotch-Irish woman, wasted nothing. No wrapping paper, bow, or even tape was discarded. Each was placed in an old shoe box ready to serve again at a moment’s notice. His family had been recycling long before it was fashionable.

"Open it now," his auntie called out from somewhere in the crowd, and his brothers elbowed each other good-naturedly. They were obviously privy to the contents of the package. John smiled and nodded, turning his head away from the sun.

"Ah, thanks, Mom. I can never have too many pairs of underwear." John waved the stack of white Fruit-of-the-Looms in the air, bringing laughter from younger members of the crowd and nods of approval from the elders. His mother squeezed his arm.

"That’s so in case you get in a car wreck you will always have clean underpants. Read them," she instructed, hiding her mouth behind her hand so that John wouldn’t notice her bottom lip tremble. John flipped the pair on top. On the back were the words
John Smith
delicately embroidered in cursive scrawl. "Me-ma did those for you last week," said his mother, nodding to his grandmother in the front row. "Even though she has the arthritis."