The Perils of Pauline (8 page)

Good idea. We find a spot to sit inside the pub. While Michael goes up to the bar to order, I check my pocket for my car keys and phone. I should be getting home. I’ve downed a little too much beer. I better call a cab.

We happen to be seated at the same cozy table Michael and I shared the last time, when we talked about books. Oh, what’s the rush? Serenity is babysitting for me tonight as Donald is working late. I call home and Serenity answers. While we chat, Michael returns with our coffees and sits in the chair opposite me.

“Thanks,” I mime, pointing to the coffee.

I tell Serenity I’ll be home soon and put the phone back in my pocket.

“I was checking in with my kids.”

Michael looks perplexed.

“My oldest is still up cause she’s a teenager.”

“How many kids have you got?”

“Three.”

We dig into bag and wallet to exchange the photos. Michael admits that his son Nick is a handful. Carmen, his wife, took Nick to the doctor recently, and he upped his Ritalin. Michael shakes his head, and leans on his elbows over his mug, staring into his coffee as if he’s hoping to see an answer bobbing there. “I don’t know if that’s the best approach.”

He remains silent for a moment and glances up at me. “How long have you been married?”

“Ten years.”

Michael looks confused. “But, you have a teenager?”

“I had a starter marriage.”

“Ah. Now you have a second chance,” he says in a faraway voice. “Are you happy now?”

Michael has caught me off guard. I don’t know what to say. So much for second chances? Do I tell the truth? That my husband is never home anymore and I think he might be having an affair? Possibly right at this moment?

Before I can open my mouth to answer, Michael cuts me off. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Ten years.”

Michael looks worried. I cock my head. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly and says, “My wife is … constantly exhausted. She works 12-hour days and sometimes weekends. She collapsed in her office a couple of weeks ago and had to be rushed to the hospital. The doctor said it’s stress.”

“What does she do?”

“Investment banking.”

“My husband is a financial planner. It’s the times, Michael. Everyone in that business is stressed.”

“Yeah, I guess. But not everyone who is stressed runs out and buys $15,000 worth of Prada luggage.”

I’m warming to Michael’s wife. She obviously has excellent taste, and she certainly knows a good investment when she sees one.

Michael continues. “It’s her money. But she won’t ever use the luggage. She’s too afraid the airlines will lose it. Why bother?”

I keep my own counsel on this. The airlines lose everything. No sensible woman lets Prada out of her sight. I wonder if she has any Ferragamo belts? How can I wrangle a tour of her closets?

As if he can read my mind, Michael adds, “There’s no room left in any of our closets.”

Of course all she needs is a better system of organization, a little professional help. A good wardrobe editor could set her straight in a flash.

Michael looks uncomfortable as if he’s thinking he shouldn’t be sharing this with me, a student he hardly knows.

I nod my head in sympathy. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. All marriages have their ups and downs.”

Michael’s face suggests that there are a lot of downs right now and few ups.

“Carmen and I will have to work through this I guess.” He drains his coffee. “Want to share a cab home?”

I catch myself humming as I empty the dishwasher of breakfast dishes and refill it with supper dishes. Last night was so much fun. Michael asked me to dance twice. And I can’t help but wonder … is it possible Michael likes me?

What am I thinking? I’m delusional. He likes all his students. He’s married. Okay, he asked me to dance two times but then he danced with all the females from class. Who’s counting? Everyone was dancing.

I close the dishwasher door and lean on the counter. Suddenly my good cheer vanishes and I want to lie on the couch. The thrill of my brief dances with Michael last night rushes through me: I thought the beer caused me to want to lock my legs around his waist. What’s this? Good grief. I have developed a crush on Michael. I better not sign up for his advanced poetry course this fall after all. No more classes with Michael would be for the best. I wouldn’t want to allow a baby crush to balloon out of proportion. A little time will let the air out of any puffy attraction.

I check my phone again. Donald isn’t home yet. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. Last night he missed the last train and grabbed a hotel room. He said he ran into late meetings. Serenity said he came home this morning and went right out again.

I texted him three times in the past hour to remind him I have a hockey game. No response. I’m about to try again when he pulls in the driveway. Bibienne pulls in behind him.

As he squeezes past me in the hall, I notice he smells like he’s fresh out of the shower. “I went to the gym. I had a squash game,” he says when he sees my unsmiling face.

“Never mind.”

George is lying across my hockey bag. I shove him off and shoulder my equipment. Donald says, “What? Are you mad at me? Is this about last night?”

I shoulder my gear and reach for the door knob. “Don’t worry about it. I have to go, I have a game.”

“I was working late. That’s it.”

“Whatever.”

George starts barking and whining as I yank open the door. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Could you please feed George? I don’t know where Serenity is.”

Donald looks at me as if to say when do I ever know where she is but thinks better of his timing.

I race out the door, stuff my equipment into the back of Bibienne’s van and jump in.

“What’s up? You seem pissed.”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“Donald. He didn’t make it home last night. Again.”

“Are you still doing separate bedrooms?

I nod yes.

“Just how separated are you guys? Is Donald dating?”

“Not as far as I know. He won’t talk to me.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“Yesterday I went to a website that says the top sign that your husband is having an affair is that you’re having to ask the question.”

“Then you just proved it. You’re asking the question. Donald is having an affair. How long are you going to obsess about this? What are you going to do?”

“Don’t I need proof first, before I call a lawyer?”

“Proof helps. But if you don’t trust him anymore, you don’t trust him, am I right?”

I’m thinking about Michael and me. Together. Drinking late night coffees at the Dingy Cup.

The thing I don’t say to Bibienne is: I don’t trust me anymore.

After the game, Bibi and I head over to the Puck Stop Lounge with the team.

At the bar, Mackie pulls out her wallet and motions me to put mine away. “That was sick,” she says to me, with a huge grin. “You owned that winger, Parril.”

I don’t tell Mackie that it’s because I have a new technique. Every time an opposing player got a piece of the puck, I pictured Donald playing squash with Lindsay.

Adversary: A party acknowledged as potentially hostile to a friendly party and against which the use of force may be envisaged.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

Holy crap. George escaped from the back yard one too many times and now the Morriston’s poodle is the proud Mom to a litter of seven pups. This morning Lewis’s lawyer served us with notice that we’re being sued for $25,000 for loss of breeding opportunity, veterinary services including examinations, tests, inoculations, whelping fees, etc. I’ll have to make Donald sit down in the living room when I show him this so when he grabs for his chest, he can expire in the comfort of his favorite armchair.

For once, Donald arrives home from work early. He comes into the kitchen, where I’m rinsing lettuce leaves in the sink, and drapes his suit jacket over the back of a chair. I hand him the notice. He scans it, crumples it and tosses it into the garbage can.

“You don’t think he’ll follow through?”

“Nope. He’s just posturing.” Donald sits on the kitchen chair watching me spin the leaves in the salad spinner.

“You’re home early.”

“Yeah, I felt like getting out of there. Do you want some help?”

What’s this? Donald’s offering to help me make dinner? I wave my hand at the fridge. “Sure. You could chop some ginger for the dressing.”

He rummages in the spice drawer and holds up a small jar. “Is this what you wanted?”

“You can’t chop powdered ginger. The fresh ginger is in the top crisper.”

Donald crouches down to dig through the drawers at the bottom of the fridge. “Do you have anything going on Saturday?”

“Don’t think so.”

“It’s the annual company barbecue. Would you like to come?”

Now I need to grab for my chest. Go out to a company barbecue with Donald? Will Lindsay be there? Probably. I set the salad spinner down on the counter feeling like my head was spinning.

“Why?”

“I just thought you and the kids might like to go.”

Donald shoves his arm blindly toward the back of the fridge and a bottle of soy sauce tips forward. I leap to catch it before it falls to the floor. “I said the ginger is in the
top
crisper.”

He yanks open the crisper drawer and fishes out the ginger root while I stare at the back of his head. Slowly I say, “I thought we were separated. That means I don’t have to go out to your company shindigs. If you want to take the kids, go ahead.”

He whirls at me with steely eyes. “Just thought I’d ask. You don’t have to come.”

He whips the ginger root at the sink, hard, and snatches up his suit jacket.

“Hang on.” I say. “Wait a minute. I don’t think you ‘just thought you’d ask me’ at all. You want me to play the wife. So you’ll look good in front of the CEO. You don’t get to have it both ways, you know.”

He rushes out of the house. I hear his car lurch out of the driveway.

I stalk into the living room to sit in the wingback chair. The couch is strewn with Olympia’s coloring books and crayons. Getting up, I gather all the books into a pile on the coffee table. I crawl around on the floor on my hands and knees to gather up stray crayons. I hate this old carpet. All of a sudden I hate the whole room. Everything needs to be redone, especially the ugly pesto-colored wallpaper, leftover from the previous owners.

The paper is lifting in places beside the fireplace. I finger the curling paper edge. Seizing the edge firmly, I tear off a long length, leaving a jagged white strip of bare wall. No turning back now. I rip off another piece.

Within twenty minutes, the walls are shredded, and my fingernails are torn and bleeding. In many places, the paper stuck fast. I need buckets of water, drop sheets, scraping tools.

I need to follow through. Yes. I need to change everything.

Bibienne has volunteered to help me shop for wallpaper. On the way to the mall, she asks, “How’s it going with you and Donald?”

“He isn’t around much lately. We just go our separate ways as much as possible and try to be civil with each other.”

I don’t mention our fight over the company picnic. Donald took the kids, and I stayed home to finish stripping the wallpaper. Since he moved into the spare room, he gets up at 5 a.m. and leaves hurriedly before anyone is out of bed. Most days he works past dinnertime, comes home and flops in front of the television with a sandwich. Now we communicate mostly by text and email to negotiate who does what with household chores and who is on deck with the kids. Basically he takes his turns with the kid’s baths and bedtime, cuts the grass and takes out the garbage, and I do everything else.”

“Do you have a separation agreement?”

“Donald says we don’t need a legal separation agreement to be separated. Anyway you cut it, the arrangement is still clunky.”

I glance down at my ring finger. When I stripped the walls, just before dunking my hands into the bucket of warm water, I removed my wedding rings and tucked them in my jewelry box for safekeeping. I forgot to put them back on. Now I’m not sure I want to.

“What do the kids think?”

“Serenity thinks we’re idiots. Jack and Olympia are clueless. I mean, it’s not like we’re screaming and throwing plates or anything like that.”

“That’s trendy nowadays. Being separated under one roof.”

“Donald’s not trendy. He’s too busy running his career to file for a divorce. Plus, he’s worried about the optics. It’s the family guys who get promotions in the financial sector. Divorced guys look too unstable. Plus in our own financial sector, we can’t afford two roofs. And then there’re the kids. Neither of us wants to rock that boat. It seems easier to just co-exist.”

“Do you want a divorce?”

I sigh. “I don’t know. Donald and I agreed to wait until I’ve finished my term at Dingwall and I find another job. Then we’ll figure out the next step.”

I’m tempted to tell her about Michael. As I prepare to open my mouth again, Bibienne says, “One of my clients almost divorced her husband over toothpaste scum.”

“Huh?”

“The guy never rinsed his toothbrush. He’d stick his brush back in the cup all covered with gunk. She asked him to stop and he couldn’t be bothered. Finally she decided he didn’t care about her needs. She asked for a divorce.”

“Just because he wouldn’t rinse his toothbrush?”

“Not just because. Think about it. It didn’t bother him. So it wasn’t important. But it bothered her. She had to look at his gross sticky saliva running down his toothbrush handle every day and decided it was all too much to bear. Plus he left his whiskers in the sink.”

“Ewww.”

We sit in silence and digest this for a moment.

“So then they got a divorce?”

“She kicked him out of the ensuite. He built himself a bathroom of his own in the basement.”

“So now she has a bathroom all to herself?”

“You got it.” Bibienne stares ahead into traffic. I know what she’s thinking. Get out the blueprints and floor plans. There’s got to be a way to get a bathroom of one’s own.

I jump out of bed at 5:30 and run out to the driveway to catch Donald, before he has a chance to get out the door to work. I have an urgent face-to-face request.

It rained last night. Donald is gingerly picking up orange peels and a mess of soggy newspapers that are strewn all across the front lawn. Looks like a neighborhood dog—most likely our very own neighborhood dog, George—raided the garbage cans again last night. Before Donald put the garbage out I texted him to suggest he wait until morning as all too often we wake up to a mess. He ignored me.

I struggle to keep from snorting and rolling my eyes to the sky, where fat drops of rain drain down from a mountain of grey clouds.

Donald glares at me. “What do you want?”

“I want to spend the weekend at Mom’s house. Alone. I need to catch up on my courses. I’m behind.”

Nestled in my purse are the keys to my mother’s house. She asked me to check on the house and water the plants while she’s off pretending to be Julia Roberts. Donald’s eyes shift over to land on Jasper who is sniffing at George’s bottom as he poops out a large brown mound on the grass beside me.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take the dogs with me. Serenity said she’d help out here.”

The benefit of Serenity’s helping hand doesn’t add much to my case but I’m grasping here. And, of course, there’s the unspoken part: with me gone, Donald can’t stay over in the city tonight.

“Do whatever you want.” Donald turns away and bends down to pick up an onion bag.

Mom’s bed is magical, all pillow topped and feathered and fluffed. How does she ever get up in the morning? The house is a wonderland of silence: no sounds of Jack and Olympia quarrelling, Donald yelling at them to pipe down, and Serenity and Shae attempting to drown everyone out with what sounds like a test-punk-rap-fist-fusion meltdown. The setting is ideal for studying, and I certainly intend to
get cracking on that right away … right after I borrow one of Mom’s terry cloth robes and slip out to the hot tub.

In Mom’s closet, I’m taken aback to find a wealth of lingerie from Victoria’s Secret, all lace and underwires, frills and satin bows, in a rainbow of colors. It’s more of a riddle to explain the presence of a red-and-black lacy bra with peek-a-boo cutouts and matching crotchless panties. Trying them on, I find they’re a perfect fit. Surely I’m not the same size as my mother? I paw through mounds of silky nothings frantically. If I don’t find an ugly, shapeless, moth-eaten granny gown soon, I’m going to need some powerful mood benders.

Who needs a robe? I’ll run for it. The hot tub is out in the screened porch. I slip on Mom’s pink Victoria’s Secret movie starlet heels and dash across the porch to submerge myself in steaming hot water.

Bliss. I relax deeper into the water and close my eyes. Michael floats in on the mist, reciting poetry. I like the way he sits on the edge of his desk while he reads out loud to the class, his lean legs stretched in front of him, his long fingers gently pressing the spine of the book in his hands.

I could use a long-fingered spinal pressing right about now. There are a variety of nozzles in this tub, including a pulsating jet that offers real possibilities. Well, why not? Spreading my legs, I advance toward the spray. Trouble is, the jets aren’t strategically positioned. The smooth sides of the tub keep me at bay.

Despite many attempts to take the tub firmly in hand, I can’t quite shimmy into the sweet spot. Tremendous flexibility, like that of a tree frog, is required for a touchdown. I should never have quit that yoga class.

With a tendon-stretching shove that will cowboy my gait for days, I manage to pinch in close enough. I close my eyes. Hot mist envelops us as Michael tosses aside the book of poems to recite me instead.

Turns out, Michael is worthy of all the jets.

Afterwards, I step from the tub slowly, so as to stay in the present moment of utter relaxation. Every pore on my body is wide open, pumping out loads of toxins and stress. My skin will be amazing for weeks.

I pile my books on Mom’s dining room table and try to study, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Michael: What was it about the way he glanced at me last week, over the top edge of a book of poetry, while he read out loud to the class?

I have to stop thinking about that man.

Holy smokes. The baby crush has turned into a monster crush. It makes no sense. His disarming brown—or are they green?—well, so what—his dreamy blue eyes bob in front of the page when I try to read.

Help me, I’m drowning. I can’t wait to see him again.

I am such an idiot: I stepped through the classroom door today and, instead of ecstatic leaping toward me as if we were in a field of daisies, Michael acted perfectly normal. Of course.

What in the world did I expect? Now I can see, with the sickening thump of a reality check, that to him, I’m merely a student he sees once a week. Of course he has no feelings toward me. From now on, Michael is banned from my thoughts.