The Perils of Pauline (9 page)

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I twisted and turned restlessly all night. The result is a nasty kink in my neck. I can barely move my head. I tiptoe, wincing, to the bathroom and rifle the medicine cabinet for muscle relaxers and painkillers. I take two of each while wondering why I am such a wreck today?

As if I don’t already know the answer. It’s because I have the house all to myself on a Saturday. Serenity and Shae have gone off to a Queer Arts Film Festival and it’s Donald’s weekend to look after Jack and Olympia. He’s taking them to the Museum of Science in the city.

And, yesterday, Michael offered to meet with students at the Dingy Cup to help us prepare for finals. When I was the only one to sign up for extra help, he said, “Carpool?”

I said, “Why drive all the way to the university?”

Now Michael is coming here, to the house. What if I make a fool of myself? What if Michael were to fall on his knees before me and declare his passion? What would I do? What if I happened to be wearing my sexy navy sweater with the zippered front? Or, better yet, the
blue chambray dress with the pearl buttons that go all the way down? Best sleepless night I’ve ever had.

Despite the debilitating kink in my neck, I help Donald pack up the kids for their excursion. As they troop out the door, my stomach does a little flip flop. Should I have mentioned my study plan to Donald? Am I futzing with the rules by inviting Michael here, into the private recesses of Donald’s own scruffy castle? But, this is innocent, right? I’ve no plan to actually seduce Michael. My intentions are honorable: to enlist academic assistance from my teacher. Guilt is for actual wrongdoers. I’ve done nothing wrong. Michael will help me prepare for the exam. Then he’ll go home. End of story. This will be nothing but a friendly cram session.

Thoughts of friendly cramming with Michael are causing a racing pulse, shaky hands, and lightheadedness. I spy a pack of Serenity’s smokes lying on the kitchen counter. A little nicotine might help. One cigarette won’t kill me. Maybe I’ll have just one puff, to take the edge off. It’s not like I’m going back to smoking again.

It’s cool and damp out this morning. Pulling on my windbreaker, I step out onto the back deck to light up. With one deep inhale, the top of my head lifts off. All the jitters and guilty feelings float away on the exhale. I might as well enjoy a few more puffs.

I hear the sound of a loud motor coming from the driveway. Sounds like Donald’s car needs a new muffler. I’ll never hear the end of it if he catches me smoking. Panicking, I stub out my cigarette, and hide the butt in my windbreaker pocket.

I race back inside to assume an innocent pose with my textbook. The doorbell rings. Wait a sec—Donald wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell. What the …? Oh my God, it must be Michael. Jumping up, I hurry to the door and invite him in with racing pulse, shaky hands, and lightheadedness.

Michael steps over the threshold with his motorcycle helmet under his arm, saying, “I’m early, hope that’s okay. Were you on your way out?”

What? Right. I’m still wearing my jacket. Confused, I bob my head, yes, yes, and no, no, like a deranged bobblehead doll.

Michael shrugs off his leather coat. I take off my own jacket feeling that removing any article of clothing in front of Michael is too suggestive and, possibly, slightly indecent. A shortage of hangers means I have to hang our jackets wrapped together on one in the hall closet: I’m enraptured at the sight of his jacket hugging mine.

Michael examines the bookshelves in the living room while I make the coffee and lay mugs of cream and sugar on the coffee table. I sit on the edge of the wingback chair. “I guess we could start with reviewing notes and then move onto sample exam questions,” I stammer to the back of Michael’s head.

Michael turns from the bookshelves, and glances at me with that look again. The room is becoming unbearably hot and cold at the same time. With any luck, he won’t notice my red, flushed face. To avoid eye contact, I bend my head down over my books and flip through my binder, pretending to be searching for pertinent study notes. He says nothing, and turns back to the bookshelves. The silence in the room makes the rustle of the turning pages excruciatingly loud.

He lingers in the poetry corner for a long time, leafing through the odd volume. Then he asks, “Who are your favorite poets?”

“Yeats, I guess. Mary Oliver. Robert Pinsky. And the lyrical poets, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen.”

“Leonard Cohen? Interesting. He’s one of my favorites too.”

In a flash, half the afternoon has passed by in conversation about poetry, novels, movies, restaurants, food, and travel. Amazing. For the past hour now, I’ve been sitting beside Michael, cross-legged on the floor, our backs leaning against the couch, one thrilled knee twitching against his.

Michael is telling me all about his work-study term in India, back in the days when he was still an undergraduate; he spent a year traveling, writing poetry, and reading the mystic poets. Michael’s been studying meditation for years. He has his own guru and everything. He’s even writing a dissertation on mysticism.

“I’ve always wanted to go to India and learn how to meditate.”

“Really? It’s easy. You don’t need to go to an ashram. I can show you how, right here.”

Michael sits up straighter. “You can try the half lotus position, like this. Set your hands comfortably on your knees, like this.”

I set my hands palms up on my knees in the position of openness to the forces of the universe. Michael nods, that’s it.

“You can either close your eyes or half-gaze at a spot on the floor in front of you. Now try to clear the mind and focus on the breath. Don’t try to force it or anything, just breathe and feel the air as it moves in and out of your chest.”

I can’t help but focus on the fact that if I were to accidentally shift my hand over two inches, my fingertips would be brushing against Michael’s thigh. Thinking about touching Michael causes my neck to kink up more. Michael looks at me and says, “Try to relax your muscles. You seem tense.”

Me? Tense? No, not at all. Tense? No, not me.

“I’m fine. I have a sore neck. I probably slept on it wrong, that’s all.”

Michael reaches over and places his hand on the back of my neck and squeezes. “Your neck muscles are in knots on the right side. Do you want me to try some Abhyanga? It’s an Ayurvedic massage technique I studied in India.”

With the touch of his fingers, a surge of electricity bolts down my spine and burns holes through the soles of my feet. My eyes zoom in and out of focus, so I close them. My heart is racing. Is it wrong to be alone with a captivating man who is running his fingers up and down the nape of my neck? Probably.

Okay, first I need to get a grip. This is just a friendly massage. And it’s from India, a very spiritual place. Bibienne recently showed me how to do similar massage techniques. No serious line of propriety is crossed. Leaning forward, I tuck my chin onto my chest to offer Michael better access to my neck. I wonder if offering to remove my blouse to facilitate the massage might be interpreted as sending out signals. What am I thinking? Maybe it’s high time I say thanks, and put a stop to this.

I open my mouth to speak but no words come out, a good thing, as I would probably start moaning uncontrollably: “Give me the Mumbai Woody Massage, baby.”

Abhyanga is phenomenal: all my soreness has magically vanished, but Michael says I’m still in knots and, slipping behind me, proceeds to vibrate my shoulders.

The shoulder vibrating produces incredible tingly reactions in all zones. Michael’s warm breath tickles my cheek as he leans closer and gently brushes my hair aside to whisper in my ear, “Would you like me to do your back too? I can work your doshas and marmas, the pressure points, that can release stuck energy.”

My doshas and marmas start screaming yes, yes, yes!

Something tells me that perhaps Michael is sending out signals. At a critical time like this I had always thought that I would probably balk. I ought to balk. I ought to at least consider balking. To facilitate the back massage, it would be helpful if I stretched out on the floor. I dive for the carpet, landing face down, panting slightly and getting dog hairs on my tongue and up my nose in the process.

Michael places his hands on my back, and begins a lovely stroking motion but I’m distracted by the mouthful of dog hair. I attempt to spit the hairs out, surreptitiously.

Abruptly, Michael removes his hands. I snap my head around and stare as Michael stands up slowly and sighs. “I better go.”

I jump up from the floor. “Why?”

Michael rubs his forehead. “This is wrong. All I can think about is kissing you. I should go.”

I step close enough to smell his citrus aftershave. I place my hands on his shoulders. Then I tilt my chin up and offer him my lips.

A wonderful, long, standing-up kiss ensues. A voice shouts from the front parlor of my head,
What do you think you’re doing?

I yank the parlor curtains closed, and urge the voice to go out in the yard:
Get some fresh air, why don’t ya? This is private business here.

My lips want Michael’s lips, and they want them now.

Stop. Married. Wrong
. The voice commands me to cut it out, now.

It’s a kiss. No big deal. I can handle it, okay?
I reply.

I shove the voice outside, firmly, and lock the door as my knees turn to mush. I better do something before they buckle out from under me.

It’s too late. So long, knees. The wonderful, long, standing-up kiss has somehow turned into a wonderful, long, lying down, rolling-around-beneath-the-coffee-table kiss. The parlor is in danger of becoming a boudoir. Good thing that busybody voice is outside. Wait, no, it’s running all around the perimeter of the house peeking in the windows, yelling and rapping its knuckles on the panes.

My lips scream:
Hey everybody, why don’t you all shut up, relax and enjoy the ride?
Okay. Michael’s mouth is soft like a poem, like a sonnet, like free verse, like rhyming couplets, like … the voice slides back in the front door.
What NOW?
Lips and I scream.

What if Donald were to walk in on this charming little scene?

Meh. I can explain. It’s only an ayurvedic massage. And you’re just trying to rule me with fear.

You should be afraid when you play vengeful games like this.

Revenge? Is that what you think this is about?

Lips chime in to yell:
No fear, no fear! This kiss is an act of courage and rebellion! Rise up! Besides, this guy’s lips are dynamite. They really know what they’re doing.

Voice and I stand back as Lips take charge of the rebel forces. That’s all we needed, a little leadership. Where were we? Oh yes, rhyming couplets.

Voice begins to whine again:
Don’t you think this floor is uncomfortable?

It’ll do. Go back outside
, I say.

The carpet smells like smoke
.

Fine. I’ll rent a steam cleaner, tomorrow, just shut up.

Maybe it’s time to buy a new carpet? How about that Faded French Vanilla Merlot color? It’s fabulous.

Go away. I know what you’re doing. You’re just trying to distract me with domestic stuff.

The voice goes silent as Michael slides his hands further underneath my blouse. Better yet, he’s deploying an exciting nuzzling
tongue technique across the side of my neck just below my ear. I can’t recall Bibienne ever doing a nuzzling tongue when she massaged my back.

My ears ring as if a siren is sounding off inside my head. My eyes are stinging. Michael abruptly stops running his hands up my back. Lips, the voice, and I are all about to protest when we realize the siren sound is the smoke alarm going off in the hall.

I open my eyes. The air is filled with smoke. I glance down below—I’ve heard of things like this but never before believed it possible. Wait a minute … holy smokes, my kitten isn’t on fire. My house is! Snatching myself up from the carpet, I scramble to the hall to see thick plumes of blue smoke and fiery balls rocketing out of the closet, down the hall and into the kitchen where they explode into hundreds of brilliantly colored stars and streaks.

Grabbing my phone, I duck my head, and run outside with Michael, while calling the fire department. A throng of neighborhood residents and passers-by scramble to watch the pyrotechnic display. Every few seconds another explosive round of crackers or out-of-control pinwheels comes careening out the side door, making the crowd shout “ooh” and “ahh” appreciatively. The unpredictable rockets slow the progress of the volunteer firefighters as they run more hoses and foam. They manage to extinguish the fire, which the Fire Chief pronounces to have begun somehow in my hall closet where, by the way, a large number of fireworks were improperly stored; fortunately they were able to contain the fire. I tell the Fire Chief I’m mystified as to how the fire could’ve been started.

I’m lucky to have a home left according to the Chief. Not to mention that I should also be thankful for the safe deliverance of all my cherished household pets now furiously barking and hissing and squabbling in the back seat of the Jeep. The closet side of my house is shredded as is, I fear, my newborn relationship with Michael given the pained expression on his face as he inspected the charred remains of his leather coat before heading home. As he climbed onto his motorcycle, he handed me his card saying, “Here’s my number. Send me a text tonight. Just so I know you’re okay.”

I step back in the house to find everything dripping wet. The walls are black and the floors, ruined. Serenity’s smokes are still lying on the kitchen counter. Perhaps some nicotine will soothe away the tension.

As I draw a smoke out of the pack, I remember the butt hastily shoved in my jacket pocket earlier—but I won’t volunteer this clue to anyone, especially to the insurance adjuster who has been called and is on his way over here along with Donald. I go back outside to stand beside the car in the driveway, and light up quickly, closing my eyes and sucking deeply, another pea-brained mistake as Donald pulls in at the same moment.