This Is How It Happened (6 page)

Carlton is adamant about not introducing me as his fiancée. We’ve gotta keep it “under wraps,” he says. And I respect his wishes. After all, I don’t want his family to think I’m simply a rebound girl. So, to his friends and family, we remain boyfriend, girlfriend. A typical live-in couple, just out of grad school, and trying to make ends meet. But to strangers, Carlton always introduces me as his fiancée.

“Meet my fiancée,” he’d say, looping his arm over my shoulders. It was at those moments I felt the proudest.

I should’ve paid more attention when Carlton’s old school friends, David and Elizabeth, paid us a visit.

“Watch out for ol’ Carlton,” Elizabeth said, in her rolling drawl. “He loves bein’ in love.”

At the time, I’d taken it as a compliment. Carlton loved me, after all. I was his Juliet. I never realized what she meant—until it was too late.

What Carlton loved—was beginnings. The honeymoon phase, as they say. When we first started dating, he brought me flowers every night. But when he moved in with me, things started to slip. The flowers tapered off. I figured this was normal. He was no longer trying to seduce me. He’d captured his prize. Flowers would come on birthdays and anniversaries, and what was so wrong with that?

But there was more to it.

It was when things started to “get real” that Carlton panicked.

“I’m going to the drugstore,” Carlton had said once. “Need anything?”

“Toothpaste,” I’d said. “Oh, and some tampons if you don’t mind.”

He’d cringed. Visibly cringed. And I immediately regretted my mistake.

“Just kidding, babe,” I’d said, quickly. But the damage had been done. I remember walking up to him and stroking my fingers through the back of his hair. And it could’ve been my imagination, but I think he pulled away. Slightly.

After that, I tried my best to keep reality out of our tiny house. I didn’t want to spoil his image of me as a sexy minx—a woman he desired. So, even though my townhouse had only one small bathroom, I waited until Carlton was gone to floss my teeth, or use the toilet in any major way.

I became obsessive about keeping the cold, grim facts of my womanhood away from Carlton. I wrapped my used tampons in enough toilet paper to embalm a mummy. I threw them in the outside garbage, so he’d never see them in the bathroom trash bin. Each month during my period, I hand-washed my stained panties, but I never let them dry in the shower. I put them in the dryer—shrinking them a size too small.

I never burped, passed gas, or left smelly socks on the floor. I showered immediately after the gym. I shaved my legs and armpits religiously, kept my hair washed, wore makeup on Saturday mornings, and spent every other week with Maria—my Mexican bikini waxing Senorita—who was painfully kind.

I plucked errant hairs from my eyebrows and once in a while, my neck. I relentlessly accessorized. Matching my belts to my purses to my shoes. I wore jewelry and uncomfortably tight jeans. Because once he’d said, “Hot jeans.”

I wore high heels that gave me blisters. Once a month, I bought a new piece of lingerie—either a red thong or black lace teddy—to surprise him with.

One thing I did not do, however, was diet. I was happy with my body. Sure, I was short. Five foot three, to be exact. I had average breasts and a size 6 figure. I could’ve gone to a size 4, which would have better suited my height, but hey, weren’t women supposed to have hips? Thighs? An ass?

Stick figures were for doodling, in my opinion. And besides, I was Italian. I loved to eat. And I ate with gusto. None of this dainty, set the fork down after each small, mousy bite for me, thank you very much. When I dug in, I literally
dug in
.

I could wolf down a hotdog in less time than a grizzly bear at a campground. And I didn’t see anything wrong with it.

Food, after all, was meant to be eaten.

One night, I fix Carlton a light, Mediterranean-inspired supper. Roasted chicken, hummus, tabouli, grape leaves, and cucumber salad. It’s Greek night. Just call me Athena. Goddess of Pita.

Carlton and I have eaten so much take-out lately, the restaurants are on my speed-dial. Plus, I’m getting sick of the same ol’, same ol’. Pizza, Chinese food, and cold Subway sandwiches. So tonight, I’m splurging. I’ve even bought a bottle of genuine Napa Valley Cabernet. Not the cheaper stuff from Chile.

I set the “dining room” table—the card table—uncorked the wine to let it breathe, and waited for Carlton to show up. His Honda has broken down again so he’s on the bike. It’ll take an extra half hour for him to ride home but he loves the wind in his hair after a long day at the warehouse.

Ever since Carlton signed off on my business plan idea, my schedule, thus far, has moved with warp speed. I work night and day, seven days a week. I drink coffee by the bucket, type on my computer keyboard until my wrists ache, and smack my own cheeks to keep from dozing off at my desk.

Carlton and I are starting a brand new company. And my life has never been more exciting. We’re using the name I came up with: ORGANICS 4 KIDS. And it’s up to us to get it off the ground.

Carlton’s got two more classes until he “officially” finishes grad school but he’s still working at his dad’s warehouse. He’s enrolled in two evening classes, which conflict with his work schedule, but I happily accept the extra study load. Because it comes easier for me than it does for Carlton. And besides, he’s helping me pay the utility and cable bills I used to pay myself.

Carlton says he needs an MBA if he’s going to be a CEO. It helps with his credibility. Especially with new investors.

I say, “Why don’t I be CEO?” and watch as Carlton’s face changes color. He quickly nixes the idea, tout de suite.

“My dad will never agree to that,” he says. “And besides, Maddy, you’re the secret weapon.”

So the secret weapon stands in her kitchen and crumbles feta cheese over a cucumber and tomato salad. Squeeze a lemon, twist some fresh cracked pepper over the whole deal, and voila! It’s like the Mediterranean in June.

Carlton bursts in the door. He’s holding his biking helmet in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He drops the helmet and it bangs against the floor. With one arm, he whisks a bottle of wine from the bag and says, “Time to celebrate, Maddy!”

I mosey on over to the man of the hour and give him a nice wet kiss on the lips. I can smell the woodsy scent of his cologne mixed with sweat from the bike ride. It’s a really good smell. Masculine and musky.

“What’s the occasion?” I say, in my huskiest bedroom voice.

“We got the meeting, sweetie! My dad set the whole thing up. It’s gonna be him and like five other investors. It’s next Tuesday. In Houston. So we’ve gotta be prepared.”

I cup my hand against my mouth to keep from screaming. “You’re kidding!”

Carlton plunks his biking helmet on the counter. “Nope. And if they think our idea is as promising as we think it is, we’ll be in business. My dad says we can get three million to start.”

“You mean a bunch of complete strangers are going to give us three million bucks?” I ask, incredulously. “For our company?”

“Ooh. I love it when you talk dirty,” Carlton says. He sets the wine bottle down, tackles me onto the kitchen floor, and unzips his pants.

Carlton pushes up my skirt and rubs inside my thighs. He does this little trick of his, where he pulls my panties down with his teeth. I stare up at the ceiling and the tile feels cold and hard under my skin. But when in Rome—

So, how to create a fatal carbon monoxide poisoning? A good death, if you ask me. There’s no struggling, no pain, no fear. You just fall unconscious, right? And what’s so wrong with that?

I grab a broom and swat my carbon monoxide detector until it falls to the kitchen floor. Picking it off the tile, I check the instructions.

Hmm. No instructions. I pull the plastic cover off and look inside, at the guts of the machine.

A tiny red sticker says, “WARNING! DETECTOR WILL NOT BEEP IF BATTERY IS REMOVED.” I bet it’s pretty easy to dismantle one of these. Not like a nuclear warhead. Here, you just slip out the battery and stick it back up on the ceiling. Then start a slow leak in a leaky gas stove and boom! You’ve got your man.

I think back to the brownie incident—my glamorous night of hurl—and wonder if I could accidentally carbon monoxide myself.

I know it’s some kind of gas. But where does it come from? Like, originally?

I pad into my living room, drop down in front of my laptop, and Google it. I can do this sort of thing now. Now that I’ve got so much free time on my hands.

I type in carbon monoxide poisoning. There are 1.6 million sites so I’m guessing I’m not the first person who’s thought about this.

I choose a website called Fatal Carbon Monoxide Poisoning.

I rub my palms together. Like a praying mantis or one of those evil villains you see in the movies.

Now we’re talking,
I think.

Carbon monoxide is a colorless, odorless, and extremely deadly gas—

Hmm. How can something be
extremely
deadly? I mean, are there degrees of deadliness? If it’s deadly, it’s deadly, right? Ain’t no
extreme
about it folks. Extremely deadly is extremely redundant in my humble opinion. But I guess I’m nit-picking.

Gas appliances should have a blue flame, not an orange one, it says.

I plod over to my kitchen stove. Turn the burner on. The flame shoots up and it’s blue.

The likelihood of Carlton’s new fancy-schmancy townhouse having a faulty appliance is pretty slim. Even if I knew how to block the ventilation, the guy never cooks for himself. I’d be lucky if he turned on the stove once a year to fry an egg.

I read further.

Fireplaces!

Terrific. I know Carlton has one. It’s not as if I’ve been doing late-night drive-by’s like a stalker, but I’ve been doing late-night drive-by’s like a stalker.

A fireplace where the flue is blocked is especially dangerous. If the flue is clear, the deadly gases will escape. But with insufficient ventilation, the gases enter the room. Even a bird’s nest blocking a chimney can pose a significant risk. A person who is asleep can die within several hours of exposure.

Okay. So all I’ve gotta do for this carbon monoxide thing to work is climb into Carlton’s chimney, a la Santa Claus, stuff it with a bird’s nest, and hope that Carlton builds himself a nice brisk fire. In the middle of summer. In Texas. And that he’ll fall asleep in front of the fireplace, on that ridiculous bear rug of his.

Carlton Connors, my sleeping beauty.

I think back to the bear rug. Complete with a bear head at the top and bear claws at the bottom. Carlton shot it with his father on a weekend hunting trip in Minnesota. Then he had a rug made out of the poor gal. (It was a female bear, go figure.)

At the time, he told me it was a clean shot, but I know Carlton didn’t have that kind of concentration. If anything, he probably took her down with a club and an Uzi for all I know.

I hated the rug, but Carlton loved it. So I made do, and placed the rug right in front of the fireplace.

One night, when we first started our company, Carlton came home late. I was waiting for him. Stark naked on the bear rug. Feeling sassy. I’d just hired a graphic artist, and together we’d designed a hot new company logo. Organics 4 Kids in rainbow colors. The 4 turned around in the opposite direction. Like a kid drew it.

I took the new logo to a local tattoo artist and had him draw it as a temporary henna tattoo across my bottom. Then I propped my buck-naked self on the rug and waited.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Carlton had said, coming in the doorway. Dropping his briefcase.

“I wanted to show you our new logo,” I said, quietly. Then I turned over. Flashed him my bare bottom. “How do you like it?” I asked, in a sultry voice. I had candles burning, the lights low, the whole shebang.

“I need to take a closer look,” he’d said.

And we did it like animals on the awful bear rug. Afterward, I told him it was the best sex I’d ever had. The sad part is…

It was true.

I sit quietly at the laptop and breathe in and out. The house feels quiet and I can hear my own heart beating.

I hate that.

I decide to get some air.

I mean, why should I sit around and mope?

I hop in my car. Drive around aimlessly. I head toward an area of town that’s considered a hot spot. An “action” area. There’s a bookstore, a coffee shop, a spa. The usual suspects.

I park my car and stroll into the spa.

The woman at the counter looks up at me, and I must look a wreck, because she breaks out into a polite smile. The kind of smile you give to a disabled person when they roll by you in a wheelchair.

“Can I help you?” she asks, raising a pencil-thin eyebrow. She reminds me of Cruella Deville—or Sharon Stone. She’s got that cool, cold, polished look.

“I’d like a facial,” I say. And then I add, “Or something.”

Cruella looks me up and down. Sizes me up. I’m clad in jeans and Nikes, no less. But at least they’re my good Nikes. And not the muddy ones.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Ah, I see how this works. They’re going to hit me with a technicality.

“No.” I shove my hands in my pockets and rock back and forth on the balls of my feet.

Cruella shakes her head. Flips through her appointment book. “We don’t take walk-ins,” she says, crisply. “But I can fit you in next Thursday. Say seven o’clock?”

“That’s all right,” I say. I turn and push the door open. A little bell tinkles. Cinderella has left the building.

I plod through the parking lot.

Now what
? I wonder. I was going to turn this into a Day of Maddy. Get a facial. Maybe even a massage. But somehow, Cruella managed to cock-block me.

“Miss—MISS!”

I turn around and well, well, well. Speak of the Devil. Cruella Deville is racing toward me, her Chanel heels clomping hard against the asphalt. “Miss!” she yells. She’s got her arm in the air like she’s hailing a cab.

I turn around and go, “Ye-ss?”

“We just had a cancellation. We can take you now,” she says, breathlessly, her face cracking into a smile.

“I’d recommend our most popular treatment. The rainforest facial,” she says. I turn and walk with her back into the building.

“You’ve got a wonderful olive skin tone,” she says. She’s fawning over me now. Kissing my size 6 ass.

“I’m Italian,” I reply.

Cruella looks at me and flutters her eyelashes in a buttery sweet way. So I cut her a break. I reach the door and hold it open for her.

“After you,” I say.

Twenty minutes later, I’m lying on my back in a soft, white terrycloth robe. The aesthetician is exfoliating my nose with a coarse scrubbing pad.

“So why is it called the rainforest facial? Does this mud actually come from the rainforest?” I ask, as she packs this funky-smelling green clay on my face.

“Not exactly,” she says. “But the product line was ‘inspired’ by the rainforest.”

“So none of this mud actually
came
from the rainforest?”

“That’s right. But it’s got rainforest names. Like this mask is called the Costa Rican Howler Monkey Mud Mask.”

“Huh. So where’s this stuff actually made?”

She looks at one of the bottles. “Looks like New Jersey,” she says.

“What a scam,” I say.

She plops two cucumbers on my eyelids. I guess to shut me up.

But, oh well. I pay twenty bucks more than a regular facial and get to enjoy the background sounds of howler monkeys and toucans. From the rainforest “inspired” CD.

All in all, it’s a pretty good hour. An indulgent hour, but I figure I owe myself. And afterward, as I’m milling around the relaxation room, I feel shiny and gleaming, but still an interloper among the glossy women breezing by.

Like a used car in a new-car lot.

Cruella sees me and claps her hands together once. “Well don’t you look refreshed,” she croons, handing me a small bottle of Evian.

She heads to the cash register and taps her long, blood-red talon fingernails on the countertop.

Yes, this woman is definitely channeling Sharon Stone. And not the young, sexy Sharon. The older, scary Sharon.

“So is this going to be cash or credit?” she asks.

“Credit,” I say. “Always credit.”

“Tell me about it, hon,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m a bank’s wet dream.”

And that’s when I decide I like this woman. I like her very much.