The Perils of Pauline (13 page)

“This weekend?” He juts out his chin. “You didn’t write it on the calendar.”

“I only just heard about it. A whole bunch of women on the team are going. It’s in Rochester. New York.”

This is actually true. Ferris and Coach are going and if I weren’t signing on for Michael, I’d be headed for Rochester too.

Donald blinks and runs his hand across his forehead as if he’s experiencing the light flashes that signal the onset of a migraine but that might be because Jack has turned the television volume up to a million in the family room. Donald stomps down the hall, pokes his head into the family room and bellows at Jack, “Turn that down.”

I follow him down the hall. “Why are you angry? What’s the big deal? You don’t have any plans for the weekend. And you’ve gone on two missions already this spring. I’d like some time away before you leave for Calgary.”

“Missions?”

“Um, you know, weekends.” I quickly throw in a snappy salute. “Sir, yes, sir.” I grin, showing my teeth, to let him know I’m making a little joke.

Donald gives me an odd look.

Then he says, “You seem to be under a lot of stress lately. I guess it’s okay with me. Go. Have fun.”

D-Day: I wake up at 5 a.m. and can’t get back to sleep. Propped up on my pillow, I stare out the window until the first hint of sunrise tinges the horizon. Down the hall, someone is showering, probably Donald getting ready for work.

Back in the early days, we would rise before dawn to shower together, before the kids woke up. We found ways to connect when it wasn’t easy. What happened that we stopped doing that? Did our lives become too fast, too frantic?

It’s not too late to call Michael and cancel.

Dressing quickly, I go downstairs to make coffee. When Donald comes down, I offer him a cup.

“No,” he says, checking his watch. “No time. I’m going into the city today.” Then he hurries out the door, closing it firmly behind him without saying goodbye. In the silence of the kitchen, I sit and watch the sun rise all the way to the top of the cherry tree in the back yard.

I wake the kids up and drive them to school. Slowly, I head back to the house to pack my overnight bag and tuck it, along with my hockey gear, into the trunk of the Jeep, feeling as if I’m floating outside my body. It’s not too late to call Michael and cancel, but instead, I float back into the house, jump into the shower stall and, closing my eyes, lift my face to the steaming hot water.

Mission: The task, together with the purpose, that clearly indicates the action to be taken and the reason therefore.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

I call Michael on his cell. “Flight Plan is operational. ETA ontime ring location, 1300 hours.”

“1300 hours. What time is that really?”

“1 p.m.”

There’s a silence. God. Civilians.

“I’ll meet you at the donut place at 1 p.m.”

“Right.”

“I hope you remembered to bring the battle jackets.”

“The what?”

“Battle Jackets. Condoms.”

“Yes. I mean, check. Uh, I know you’re having fun and all, but can we quit with the military terminology now?”

The Flight Plan is faultlessly executed, and we soon arrive at the cottage. I explore the waterfront while Michael waves the key with a grin and opens the cottage to air. Sitting on the sandy beach, I hug my knees and stare across the lake. The breeze coming across the water feels too chilly for early September.

My brain goes haywire and produces crazy visions: the image of Donald toiling in his office, and then Jack and Olympia and Serenity bent over their lessons at school—well, perhaps that’s going a bit far—especially as Serenity is probably, at this moment, speeding her way to the nearest women’s festival—but still, what about all the good, hardworking teachers tending to the education and well-being of my younger children? What about the cadre of support workers, principal administrators, social workers, librarians, secretaries, Indeed, all of society is involved when one thinks about it: fire fighters, police officers, doctors, nurses, farmers and so on, all of them trusting that I, too, will be conscientiously engaged in an honest day’s work, in some way, great or small, working for the betterment of society, for a finer future for all our children Meanwhile, I am racing headlong into the arms of a man, a man who isn’t my lawfully wedded husband—a husband to whom I promised fidelity, honesty, love and commitment. Maybe Donald broke his promises but does that make it okay for me to break mine?

I hear Michael’s footstep behind me and freeze: I will tell him quickly and get it over with: I can’t go through with this underhanded business after all.

Michael kneels beside me and, as I open my mouth to deliver the news—be brave my darling—he reaches out his hand and gently brushes a strand of hair from my cheek.

“Hi Dish,” breathes Michael into my ear.

“Hi Spoon!”

I wake up to the smell of coffee brewing. From the loft where I’m lying, I can see Michael downstairs in the galley kitchen opening and shutting cabinets. Sitting up, I spy a sheet of birch bark lying on the pillow next to mine. On it, Michael has drawn a series of pictures of a man embracing a woman. The man is sprouting wings on his back. I feel a pair of wings sprout on my heart. I’m lifted to the ceiling where I swoop in circles around the room.

Michael comes in with steaming mugs and a bowl of strawberries. We sit naked and cross-legged, facing one another, sipping and smiling and dropping berries into each other’s mouths. Because it was chilly last night, we gathered up every pillow and blanket in the cottage and piled them into the loft. Now we have a lovely warm nest. I never want this to end.

Michael is staring into my eyes and I stare back into his.

“You have flecks of gold in your irises,” Michael says, softly.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Me neither.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Me neither.”

Michael looks relieved when I say this.

I sit up straighter. “What, you think I do this sort of thing regularly?”

“No. But you seem so comfortable with … this.”

“I’m comfortable with you.”

He smiles.

“But I know what you mean.”

“Donald and Carmen?”

“Donald and Carmen.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Next week.”

We fall into silence for a moment.

Michael reaches around me with his arms, pulls my hips toward him and leans in closer to me. My hips, plus everything in between, burst into flames.

Michael says, “C’mon. Let’s take the canoe out for a paddle. I know of an island with a sweet lookout point.”

It’s long past time to part company. But we do, with promises and lingering kisses before settling into our cars. As I drive along the highway, my mind keeps returning to this romantic detail and that: how we deflowered the lookout point twice and then canoed back to the cottage and napped all afternoon, arms and legs entwined with our heads at the foot of the bed because that’s where we happened to be when we fell asleep. And how we skinny dipped at midnight, and then humped around on the beach like young otters in heat. And how Michael kept saying, with wide eyes: “Let’s do it again.”

He even kissed me while I was peeing on the toilet, which proves he loves me.

What would it be like to be with Michael all the time? I guess the first thing is I’d have to ask Donald for a divorce. Then we’d have to break it to the kids. And then we’d have to divide up all our stuff and sell the house. Moving, even under peaceful conditions, is ridiculously stressful. Moving because of a split up must be way, way up there on the scale. And Donald probably wouldn’t lift a finger. The thought of sorting and packing the clutter in the basement makes my shoulders head straight for my ears.

Plus Michael mentioned his mother a couple of times. That’s an ominous sign. I’d have to break in a third mother-in-law, despite the fact that my first two ex-mothers-in-law are still around to purse their lips over every move I make. If only Michael were an orphan.

I can see the back of Michael’s head in the car ahead of me. Come to think of it, Michael paid a lot of attention to my nipples. What do they call those kinds of guys?

Mama’s boys.

My nipples tingle at the thought of Michael nibbling on them. I already want to go back to the cottage. What am I going to do? What would Bibienne do?

How I would love to call her and talk it all over. But, despite the fact that Bibienne is my best friend, I can’t grant her the security clearance. Loose lips sink ships and I’ve already created a potential leak in the form of Mackie.

I was supposed to call her. She made me promise to give her a thorough debriefing. I dial. “It was amazing. Michael is amazing. Best weekend of my life.”

“So now what? Are you going to ask Donald for a divorce?”

“Geez, Mac. Let’s not get too hasty.”

“What’s the hitch? I thought you said ‘best weekend of your life’?”

“Yes, but I don’t know. I need time to think. Michael’s mother is still living you know.”

I can actually hear Mackie shuddering through the phone.

“Well then, what’s your re-entry plan?”

Good question.

First, I better try to stop thinking about Michael. Donald might notice if I’m glowing from head to foot—it’s too dangerous to roll into the house all white hot and steaming like a stream of molten lava. It’s even more dangerous to think about Donald though.

Donald.

My mind’s eye pastes up unwelcome visions. Donald with a sad face. Donald with an angry face. A long corridor, dimly lit. Donald in a suit being pulled by a hand on his tie into a room. A door squeaks open and bangs shut again. Lindsay tiptoes by in a short silk teddy. Michael scurries across the hall at the far end. Michael’s wife, Carmen, is lurking here somewhere.

Or was Lindsay only my imagination? Did I just slam the door on my marriage? This isn’t a French farce. What now?

One thing’s certain. I’ve stepped over a threshold and there’s no backing out now. I have to see this through. But now is not the time to make major decisions. I need time to think. And right now, the part I want to think about is the fact that Michael is the most romantic lover on the planet.

He even wrote a poem about us while I was sleeping. All about how two people can be drawn together like two incomplete chemistry sets, melding element to element to create a whole and perfect mix. My gold completes his gold, his silver completes mine. His iron is penetrating deep into my cobalt. I’m like a rare earth magnet in the periodic table of love. Or something like that.

Donald never wrote a poem about us. But then, he has some sterling qualities too. He can make me laugh like no one else can. He’s smart. Handsome. A good listener. And we made gold together: Jack and Olympia. Plus there’s that throw-down factor. Donald has so much throw-down that women like Lindsay can smell it. And then they chase him.

If Donald let her catch him, we are even. If she caught him.

But what if he’s innocent?

And the bigger question: if he’s guilty, what’s the point of turning the situation into an entrenched war game of getting even? Basic training says there’s an enemy out there, so you shoot to kill, ask questions later. It’s like I’ve pulled the pin from a hand grenade and I can’t decide what to do with it.

I switch on the radio. Maybe there’s a good talk show on. Anything. Even the news. Better find out what the rest of the world has been doing all weekend. It’s hard to stop thinking though. The big news flash for me is that I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

I can hardly blame my behavior on the army, my chemistry teacher, or that all too often I forget to take my calcium supplements. I’m a tarnished woman.

But. There’s plenty of time to beat myself up later. For now I’m still enjoying the glow of mixing all my elemental properties with Michael’s. Feelings of guilt and remorse could scotch everything. I won’t permit it, not while I’m still enjoying the basking away part. I’m sure I can repent later, although memories of this weekend could keep me in a bask-like pose for the next seven hundred years.

Pulling into the driveway, I spy Donald standing at the top of a ladder, which is propped up against the house. The bottom of the ladder is planted squarely in my dahlias. Donald has a saw in his hand. He’s busy carving away at a gaping hole in the siding at the peak of the roof. I can smell smoke. “Hi,” I say. “Is something burning?”

Donald stops sawing at the hole for a minute, glances down and sees me. “Probably the hotdogs. Would you mind going and checking the barbecue? I asked Serenity to keep an eye on things but …
oh, I guess I should ask you, how was your weekend? A successful mission was it?”

I stare up at him. Was that the tiniest hint of sarcasm in his voice? He’s the one perched on a ladder but I’m the unbalanced one about to topple to the ground. I rub the back of my neck where there might actually be a hickey in full bloom. I suppose I can say my neck guard was rubbing me a little hard there.

“Not bad. But what’s going on here? What’s that in your hand?”

“The red squirrels are back.” He holds a bundle of rags aloft. “And this is a smoke bomb.”

“But that didn’t work the last time.”

“But this one is better. Bernie gave me the good stuff. It’ll work.” Donald stares into the hole with the eyes of a madman. “Little bastards,” he’s muttering as he shoves his anti-squirrel kit into the hole. A grin is spreading across his face.

“Be careful.”

I don’t want to watch the show. It occurs to me as I walk toward the door that I may not have to pack any boxes after all because Donald is probably about to burn the house down. As I reach for the doorknob, all I can think is that I have quite the choice: it’s fairly evenly divided between a Mama’s boy and a crazy man.

Throwing open the door, I’m greeted by Jack and Olympia. “Mom! Mom! Lewis said we can keep them!”

Tumbling across the living room floor to meet me are eight ecstatic puppies that look remarkably like George Bush. All barking.