Triangles (33 page)

PLAN IS TO STOP BY ON MARISSA’S

BIRTHDAY. ANYTHING SPECIAL

IN THE WORKS? LOVE, M.

Someone should do something

special for Missy’s birthday,

that’s for sure. Maybe hire

an assassin? Okay, maybe not.

I answer:

NOTHING SPECIAL PLANNED

YET. LET ME THINK ABOUT IT.

And now, even though Miss

specifically told me not to,

I spill the whole lurid tale

of spousal deceit. When I finish,

I consider the delete button.

But I don’t use it. Maybe Mom

can talk some sense into my sister.

Mother to daughter, from someone

who’s tripped in those sandals.

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I’ll get an earful from Missy,

or maybe the silent treatment.

But at this point, I think she needs solid, emotion-free advice.

I MEANDER OVER

To Facebook, where I find

two new friend requests.

The first is from Brianna:

HARLEY GAVE ME YOUR

FB ADDY. FRIEND ME, PLEASE.

DO YOU PLAY FARMVILLE?

A quick check of Harley’s page

shows three friends: Mikayla,

Trace, and Brianna. I make four.

The second request is from Vern.

NEW TO THIS FACEBOOK

THING. I NEED ALL THE FRIENDS

I CAN GET. HELP ME OUT?

Looks like he’s got plenty already, many of whom work at the DMV.

Wonder if they Facebook there.

I go ahead and accept. Why not?

There is also one new message.

From Robin.

THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE

A GOOD WAY TO STAY

CONNECTED. LET’S BE FRIENDS.

WHY HAVEN’T I HEARD FROM YOU?

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Piss-poor timing. I don’t

send him a friend request,

but I do return a message:

DIDN’T YOUR GIRLFRIEND

TELL YOU I CALLED?

DEFINITELY TIME

To get out of here for a few hours

of personal mother-daughter bonding.

“Harley,” I call. “Put on some shorts and tennies. We’re going for a ride.” The south shore Tahoe bike trails

are lovely this time of year—snaking through thick tracts of old-growth

evergreens, not far off the water’s edge. Harley and I have ridden them once or twice annually since she still pedaled a bike with training wheels.

Even in the heat of summer, altitude plus shade plus lake cooling mitigate heat, make the sugar pine–infused cruise pleasant.

It’s a short drive from the south end of Carson, maybe a half hour. Harley remains fairly quiet for the few miles up the mountain, past Cave Rock and Glenbrook, then through downtown South Shore, where 646/881

three blocks of casinos remind us we are still in Nevada until an unnoticeable state line crosses us into California. Snared by my own musings, I don’t think much about the dearth of chattiness until we reach the Y where Highway 50 goes east, while 89

turns west. As I choose the latter, it comes to me. “You’re awfully quiet.” The remark draws a huge sigh and I know whatever’s bothering her is big.
What if someone
tells you a secret, and you promise not
to tell anyone else, but it’s the kind of secret
somebody else really needs to know?

Is she psychic or something? “Well …

sometimes you do have to break a trust, if not telling means a person’s welfare might be in jeopardy.” Physical or mental.

Okay.
That’s all she says for the moment.

I expect more. But I give her the space she needs to make that decision

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without encouragement from me.

I SQUEEZE INTO

A crowded turnout. Other bikers

and hikers are already out on the trail.

We unload our bikes, check the tires for air, start on our way, Harley still silent. We pass Pope Beach. I can’t not think about that day here with

Robin, and I tumble into a regular funk, so I pedal faster, hoping to outpace the vacuum trying to suck me in.

Harley has no problem keeping up.

Her coltish legs are stronger than

mine. A mile or so on, out of breath, I pull to the side of the bike path where a little bridge crosses Taylor Creek. Harley and I watch the water for a few minutes. Finally, she decides to spill.
I promised I wouldn’t
tell, but I have to, even if Bri
gets mad at me. She heard Mikayla
on the phone, talking to Dylan.

Mikayla’s pregnant. She’s trying
to figure out what to do. She doesn’t
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want her parents to know, but I
think they have to, don’t you?

Not just big. A whopper.

SPILLING A SECRET

Whatever its size,

will have varying

consequences. It’s not

possible to predict

what will happen

if you

open the gunnysack,

let the cat escape.

A liberated feline

might purr on your lap,

or it might scratch

your eyes out. You can’t

tell

until you loosen the knot.

Do you chance losing

a friendship, if that

friend’s well-being

will

only be preserved

by betraying sworn-to-

silence trust? Once

the seam is ripped, can

it be

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mended again?

And if that proves

impossible, will you be

okay

when it all falls to pieces?

Holly

FALLING TO PIECES

That’s how my life feels. Fractured.

Crushed. Disintegrating. And the weird thing is, it’s all because of that stupid little word: love. I’ve fallen in love with Bryan, and it’s tinting everything normal about me with shades of insanity.

I’d have to be crazy to walk away

from nineteen years of marriage. Crazy to rattle the lives of my three children.

Crazy to break up the home I’ve so

carefully crafted. Find a way to support myself, when Jace takes great care of me.

And even if I decided to do all that, Bryan is married too. He’s made it clear he’s staying with his wife, no matter what.

A very big part of the “what” is

he swears he’s in love with me too.

He even wrote a poem for me. For me!

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I’ve read it a dozen times, almost have it memorized. I fold the paper, tuck it into my journal. Dedicated to Holly:
DRY SPELL

You are like rain, forecasted

to quench a summer’s thirsting,

thirst grown beyond easy need, to life or death.

I watch the clouds

approaching windward mountains, slate

bruising black beneath expectation.

The western window

darkens as, laden, the curtain falls,

descends to veil peaks and rifts, draws nearer.

Is it thunder that I hear?

Or is the sudden rumble but the flurry

of hurried birds, on wing against unceasing drought?

One warm, wet spatter

stings the dust, stamps its ragged mark,

imprints a welt of hope upon the arid parchment.

Promise sizzles in the air,

wrapped in threads of ozone, electric

with desire so bold it borders ecstasy.

Claim this vacant sky.

Cast your shadow, speak to me in thunder,

throb against thirsting skin and flesh grown fallow.

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Oh, give me rain!

Gift me with downpour, fill this empty well,

the reservoir drained to grit by lingering dry spell.

THE LAST STANZA

Gives me chills. Being with Bryan

is like walking in a downpour, thunder booming in the distance, the electric smell of ozone hanging in the air. He captured us perfectly. Thinking about him gets me up in the morning. Walks me through the day. Makes me smile, when nothing else can. It’s all wrong, and I know it. But what else can I do but steal as much time with him as possible? One very big

problem now is having sex with Jace.

I really don’t want him to touch me.

And he’s starting to notice. I’ve been trying to sneak into bed after he’s asleep.

That’s easy enough on weeknights, when he has to be up early the next day.

But on Fridays and Saturdays he stays up later. The last time I claimed a migraine he said,
Another headache? Funny,
you never used to be prone to them.

Better get in and see your doctor
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before I have to whack off so hard
my pecker gets blisters.
He smiled, but I don’t think he was being funny.

WONDER WHAT HE’D THINK

About the Holly who

flashed her boobs

for a free drink before

offering herself up like

a sacrificial piece of ass

at a club called the Topaz.

I worried about that girl

for years in the back of

my mind, though I didn’t

know why until the night

I first saw her in action.

Okay, I realize she’s always

been stashed inside of me,

and if she’d had an earlier

opportunity to reveal

herself, I would have

found that Holly sooner.

Marriage is a cover.

A safe place to stash

those unseemly desires

society doesn’t sanction.

Asylum. Not
for
the insane.

The kind that actually makes

you go just a little crazy.

I went a little crazy

that night. And it felt

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great. And now I’m afraid

I’ll want to do it again.

Remembering it almost

makes me horny enough

to go find my husband.

ALMOST, BUT NOT QUITE

I start to send Bryan a text. Reconsider.

His wife is on vacation this week,

so they’re spending it together in

San Francisco. Beautiful there, late August. Wish I were with him, riding cable cars and maybe taking in a Giants game at AT&T Park. And I hope

that’s all they do. Can’t stand the thought of the two of them sharing a bed

at the Fairmont. That should be me!

Does Bryan ever get jealous, thinking about Jace and me together? Does

he simply expect that’s what I’d do?

This territory is all so new. How can I be jealous of him with his wife,

when seeing him actually having

sex with Lorraine didn’t bother

me at all? Oh, I know. It’s that damn little word again, only in a whole

other context. Does he love his wife?

God, it’s just all so confusing, and I’m totally straight. Maybe that’s what I need.

A late-morning Bloody Mary, to help 661/881

put it all in perspective. Perfect. Why not turn into an alcoholic too?

I’VE JUST ABOUT SOLD MYSELF

On doing exactly that, when the phone rings. Home phone, not cell. Can’t be Bryan, not that I’m obsessing about him or anything. Nope. Andrea. “Hey, girl.” Long pause. Deep sigh. Then,

Holly, I probably have no business
telling you this, and in fact, I’ve
debated whether or not to keep

quiet for a few days now. Harley
told me something that Brianna

confided in her. Something you

really need to know. I only hope
my waiting so long didn’t allow
Mikayla to make a bad decision.

“Mikayla?” What is she talking

about? Another long pause, and

finally she says,
Mikayla’s pregnant.

Brianna overheard her discussing
the problem with Dylan on the phone.

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She’s considering her options.

IMPOSSIBLE!

That’s my first thought. Mikki has

been grounded all summer. But, no.

Not quite all summer. And then

there were those nights she went

out her bedroom window. Those

early mornings we caught her

sneaking in. I realize Andrea is

waiting for my response. “I … uh …

Are you …?” But no, she can’t be